yourfavtangerine

[yourfavtangerine]

Fated to be - chapter 7

Pairing : alpha!ot7 x omega!reader

Soulmates/fated mates, omegaverse, angst, fluff, smut

Wc : ~4.9k

Series warnings : mdni!! abuse (not by them), degrading behavior, hurt/comfort, scenting, marking, fated mates, smut, MF, MM (and potential more), cursing, threats, p in v, oral both receiving, knot, heat/rut, (the warnings will be updated with every new chapter)

Masterlist Chapter 1

You wake up to the sound of laughter coming from the hallway, warm and familiar. It’s the kind of laughter that makes the walls feel alive, that makes the house be a den, your den, your pack’s den. For a moment you lie still in bed, blinking against the morning light that comes in through the curtains. You can already smell breakfast; toasted bread, eggs, something sweet, and coffee.

It’s enough to draw you out of the blankets. You pad softly down the hall, tugging at the hem of your oversized sleep shirt, one you stole from Namjoon, and as soon as you step into the kitchen, seven pairs of eyes turn toward you.

"Morning" Namjoon says, his voice soft but steady, already sliding a plate toward the empty chair that’s always yours. He’s neat as always, his hair already brushed, his shirt tucked in like he’s been up for hours.

Jin looks up from where he’s stirring something on the stove, giving you a grin. "You’re late" he teases, but there’s no edge in his tone. Just warmth. The kind that always makes you feel safe. Yoongi raises an eyebrow over his mug of tea, his expression half amused, half unimpressed. As you walk past him, you kiss the top of his head "I'm happy your rut is finally finished." He smiles back but doesn't answer.

Jimin waves with a mouth already full of food, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. Taehyung smacks the back of his head lightly, muttering something about manners, but his own smile gives him away.

Jungkook leans over the table, his hair a little messy, always the most carefree of the group. "Come sit before everything’s gone" he says, piling more food onto his own plate as if to prove his point.

And then there’s Hoseok.

He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, his hair catching the light. He’s been watching you since you walked in, a smile spreading across his face.

"Morning, sweetheart" he says, voice smooth, playful. The word makes your stomach flutter, though it’s not the first time he’s called you that. It never fails to feel like he’s saying something more.

You take your seat, the plate Namjoon prepared already waiting for you, piled with eggs, toast, and fruit. It’s always like this, the pack taking care of you in little ways, making sure you eat, making sure you’re safe. You try not to think about how much it means to you, how much it fills the hollow places inside your chest.

The chatter at the table picks up again as everyone digs in. Jimin tells a dramatic story about chasing something in the woods the night before, his hands waving in wild gestures, while Taehyung rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck that way. Namjoon quietly reminds Jin not to burn the bacon he’s distractedly left on the stove, and Jin curses under his breath, rushing to save it.

It’s loud, it’s messy, it’s imperfect. But it’s home. Your mates.

And then Hoseok clears his throat. The sound cuts through the noise, not harsh, just deliberate. When you glance at him, he’s still smiling at you, that same easy smile that always looks like he’s up to something.

"So" he says, his voice carrying over the chatter. "I think today’s my turn."

The table stills, just for a beat, before the energy shifts. You feel six pairs of eyes flicker between the two of you, though none of them speak yet.

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. "Your turn?" you echo, unsure if you heard him right.

Hoseok leans forward a little, resting his elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours. "My turn to court you" he says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His smile deepens, playful but sincere. "I’m taking you out today."

The words make your heart stutter. Court you. You always wait for those moments. "So today it's you?"

"That’s right. We’ve all been waiting our turns, haven’t we?" He glances briefly at the others, and though none of them deny it, none of them speak up either. He turns back to you, eyes sparkling. "And today’s mine."

Your cheeks heat under his gaze. The room feels warmer, heavier, like the air itself is charged.

"Better wear something cute" he adds, his tone light but his eyes still steady on you. "Guess you better get ready, huh? Big day ahead."

Jimin wiggles his eyebrows, which makes you want to sink into the floor. Namjoon, ever calm, sips his coffee before speaking. "Don’t tease too much" he says mildly. "It’s her choice."

And maybe it is. But the way Hoseok is looking at you, like he’s already claimed the day, makes it hard to imagine saying no. Your stomach twists, not unpleasantly, just nervously. "And if I don’t have anything cute?" you try, your voice coming out more tentative than you’d like.

Hoseok chuckles, low and warm. "Then I’ll pick something for you." The table erupts again, laughter and teasing bouncing back and forth, but you hardly hear it. You’re too focused on the way your heart won’t calm down, the way the word court echoes in your mind, the way Hoseok hasn’t stopped smiling at you like you’re the only person in the room.

Breakfast carries on around you, messy and loud as always. Jimin knocks over his juice, Jin and Yoongi argue over whether the bacon is salvageable, Taehyung tries to keep Jungkook from stealing food off his plate, and Namjoon reminds everyone not to forget the plans for later in the week.

But through it all, Hoseok’s gaze lingers, steady and sure, as if he’s already decided how the rest of your day will go.

Back in your room, the door closed softly behind you, you lean against it for a moment, pressing your palms to the wood as if to steady yourself.

Court you.

The words have been looping in your head since breakfast. Ever since Namjoon told you about it and everytime one of them takes part in the courting, it's been sending butterflies in your stomach.

Now, alone, you try to breathe. Your room looks the same as always, the bed unmade, your favorite blanket half sliding onto the floor, the little dresser lined with trinkets and clothes folded in imperfect stacks. But today it feels like everything is staring back at you, demanding you figure out what "something cute" is supposed to mean.

You cross the room slowly, fingers trailing over the edge of your dresser before tugging open the first drawer. Shirts. Too plain. You shut it, try the second. Sweaters. Too heavy, it’s not even cold outside. Third drawer. Dresses.

You pause. Your heart skips. When was the last time you wore one of these? Usually you’re content with your comfortable clothes, things that don’t draw attention, things that let you blend in when the pack is out together. But Hoseok’s words echo again, better wear something cute. You decide to lay them all on your bed to choose the best one.

There’s a soft dress in pale blue, one Jimin offered you but you never found the occasion to wear it. Too delicate, maybe. Next to it, a darker one with a simple cut, more practical but not particularly exciting. Then a floral one, bright and cheerful, quite fitting for going out with Hoseok.

You flop onto the mattress beside them, staring up at the ceiling. Why does this feel so complicated? It’s just Hoseok. Just one of your mates. And yet now, with one smile and one sentence, he’s managed to shake up everything inside you.

There’s a knock on your door. "Need help?" Jin’s voice. He doesn’t wait before cracking the door open, slipping his head inside. When he sees the scattered clothes on your bed, he grins. "Ah, thought so."

You groan, pulling a pillow over your face. "It’s hopeless."

Jin chuckles, coming fully inside, shutting the door behind him. "Not hopeless. Just overwhelmed." He crosses the room, lifts one of the dresses, and holds it up against you with a tilt of his head. "Cute" he declares, then tosses it aside to try another. "Cuter. Hmm. This one… might actually make Hobi combust."

"Stop" you mumble, though laughter sneaks into your voice.

"I’m serious" he says, though his grin betrays him. "Don't worry, whatever you wear he'll love it."

Before you can protest further, another head appears at the door. Jimin this time, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, dressing up? Can I vote too?"

"Out!" you say quickly, sitting up with your arms outstretched as if you can physically push them both away.

Jin just laughs harder, retreating with his hands raised. "Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. Hobi’s pacing outside already."

The image makes your stomach flip.

Once they’re gone, you drag yourself back to the mirror. You settle on the pale blue dress in the end, soft, simple, but not too much. Cute enough, you hope. You smooth it down over your thighs, turning side to side to study the reflection. You don’t look like someone new, exactly, but you look… brighter.

You fuss with your hair next, brushing it out until it falls the way you like. You debate tying it, then leaving it down, then tying it back again. Eventually you leave it loose, simple, natural.

When you step back from the mirror, you feel your chest tighten. Nerves, excitement, something you don’t quite have words for.

When you finally step out of your room, your palms still a little damp from nerves, the house is strangely quiet. No clattering dishes, no overlapping voices, no one blocking the hallway like usual. You wonder for a second if everyone’s disappeared just to make this worse.

But then you spot movement through the window by the front door. Hoseok. He’s leaning casually against the side of the car parked in the driveway, hands tucked in his pockets. His head is tilted back toward the sky, the sunlight catching in his hair, and for a moment you just stand there, watching him from behind the glass, your heart beating too fast.

When you push the door open, his head turns immediately, eyes finding yours like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Which, you realize, he probably was.

"Look at you" he says, his smile spreading slow and sure, like sunrise. His gaze lingers just long enough to make your cheeks burn.

You try not to fidget under the weight of it. "It’s just a dress."

He shakes his head, pushing himself off the car. "Not just. It’s perfect."

The words send warmth crawling up your neck, but before you can respond, the sound of muffled laughter erupts from behind the curtains inside the house. You glance back just in time to see Jimin’s face pressed to the window, Taehyung swatting him away, Jin failing miserably to hide his grin.

"Don’t mind them" Hoseok murmurs, leaning closer so only you hear. The scent of him, citrusy, wraps around you, and suddenly the whole world feels too small. "Let’s get out of here before they start throwing commentary."

He opens the passenger door for you, a small but deliberate gesture that makes your stomach flutter, and once you’re inside, he rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life and Hoseok starts driving.

The road stretches ahead, quiet at first, the trees on either side flashing past in green. Hossok drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp on the road. "You nervous?" he asks after a few minutes, glancing at you with that knowing smile, like he can read every thought passing through your head.

You hesitate. "Maybe. I'm always nervous when you all court me."

"Don’t be." He answers. "It’s just us. A little market, a little food, a little walking around. Nothing scary about that."

The drive doesn’t take long. Soon the road opens into a busier part of town, where rows of stalls line the street, colorful awnings flapping in the breeze. The market buzzes with life: the calls of vendors, the chatter of families, the scents of spices and sweet bread drifting on the air.

Ho parks just on the edge, killing the engine before leaning back in his seat. For a second he just looks at you again, the way he did this morning, like he’s memorizing the sight. "You're ready?" he asks, voice softer now.

You nod, though your heart hammers. He grins, climbing out of the car and circling around to your side. Again, he opens your door for you, offering his hand like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. When you take it, his grip is warm, steady, grounding.The moment your feet hit the ground, the noise of the place swallows you whole: hawkers calling out deals, children weaving through the crowd, the rustle of fabric and the clang of pans being set on tables. It should be overwhelming, as loud noises are always to omegas, but with Hoseok’s hand lingering at the small of your back, guiding you forward, it feels manageable.

"Stay close" he murmurs in your ear, his breath tickling your skin. "Don’t want to lose you in the crowd." As if you could ever get lost with him beside you.

You stay close to Hoseok like he told you to, not because you’re afraid of getting lost but because the press of the crowd is easier to manage with him beside you. His presence feels like a barrier, like no one could bump into you too hard or pull you too far because he’d never let it happen.

The first stall you stop at is covered in fruit. Bright oranges stacked in pyramids, baskets of apples, clusters of grapes. The air smells sweet, sun-warmed and fresh.

Hoseok picks up an apple, rolling it in his palm like he’s weighing it. "What do you think?" he asks, glancing at you with that lazy grin. You shrug, reaching for a grape on a "free to test' tray instead. You pop it into your mouth before you can second guess yourself, and your eyes widen at the burst of flavor. "Sweet" you mumble around it.

Hoseok’s smile widens. "Then we’re getting them." He buys a whole bag of grapes, slipping them into the basket he picked up at the entrance, like he came here with a plan all along.

You move on together, drifting from stall to stall. At one, you stop for peaches. At another, you point out strawberries, and Hoseok immediately adds a box to the basket without hesitation. Every time you show even the slightest bit of interest in something, he picks it up, as if the market exists purely to spoil you.

"You don’t have to get everything I look at" you murmur after the third stall.

Hoseok tilts his head, expression amused. "Sure I do. That’s the point."

"The point of what?"

"Courting" he says simply, like it should be obvious. And maybe it is. Your chest feels too full, so you let the conversation drop, trailing after him as he leads you toward the butcher’s stall.

Here, the air smells heavier, iron, spice, smoke. Cuts of meat hang on hooks, laid out on trays, wrapped in parchment. Hoseok speaks to the butcher easily, his voice steady, casual, like they’ve known each other for years. You watch him from the side, the way his shoulders relax, the way his confidence seems to fill the space.

When the butcher hands over a package of wrapped cuts, he takes it with a nod and tucks it into the basket, now half full with fruit. He catches you looking and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing" you say quickly, but your cheeks warm. "You come here often?"

"With a whole pack to feed, we need a lot of food so yeah, we come here often."

The next stall smells of bread and cheese. Round wheels stacked in neat piles, loaves lined up in baskets, golden crusts catching the light. Your stomach rumbles at the sight, and Hoseok’s gaze flicks down at you immediately, catching the sound.

"Hungry?" he asks, his smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You want to deny it, but the truth is too obvious. "A little."

He turns to the vendor without hesitation, buying a loaf of bread still warm from the oven and a small wheel of soft cheese. He passes the bag to you this time, letting you hold it. "We’ll snack later" he says. "Something to keep you from starving before lunch."

You roll your eyes, but the gesture warms you all the same.

The two of you walk deeper into the market, where the stalls are more chaotic, jars of honey, spices piled in colorful pyramids, flowers in tiny buckets. Hoseok doesn’t rush. He moves at a steady pace, letting you look as long as you want, sometimes stopping without a word just because he sees your gaze lingering.

The market keeps spinning around you, but it feels like the two of you are moving in your own bubble. Vendors smile when they see you together, old women glance knowingly, children dart past laughing. You wonder if you look like a couple to the strangers passing by, if they see the way his hand keeps brushing your back to guide you, the way his body leans toward yours without thinking.

When you pause at a stall selling jars of jam, Hoseok finally breaks the silence. "You’re quieter than usual" he says, tilting his head to look at you. "Thinking hard about something?"

You chew on your lip. "Just… trying to figure out what this is supposed to feel like."

He chuckles. "Supposed to feel like?"

"Yeah. I don’t know. Courting. Dates. Whatever this is. Having mates, a pack. A family"

Hoseok considers that for a moment, picking up a jar of strawberry jam and setting it back down again. Then he looks at you fully, his smile softer this time, stripped of its usual teasing. "It’s supposed to feel like this" he says. "Easy. Comfortable. A little exciting. You don’t need to overthink it. Just feel and trust us."

You swallow, looking away quickly. "Easy for you to say. You're part of the pack. Me not yet."

"Not easy" he corrects gently. “It wasn't easy for me at first. But worth it."

The words sink into you, heavy but warm, and you find yourself nodding without meaning to.

The flower stand is impossible to miss. It’s brighter than anything else in the market, a whole rainbow. Reds, yellows, purples, soft whites, the air around it is smelling heavenly good, a sharp contrast to the smoky scent of the butcher stalls you passed earlier.

You slow without realizing it, your eyes catching on the colors. Daisies, sunflowers, roses, little wildflowers you can’t even name. The stand feels alive, buzzing with bees, the vendor swatting them away with practiced ease.

Hoseok notices immediately. Of course he does. He’s been watching you all morning, reading every little pause, every glance. He stops at your side, following your gaze toward the buckets of flowers.

"You like them" he says. Not a question.

You hesitate. "They’re pretty."

His lips curve into that knowing smile, the one that always makes it feel like he’s three steps ahead of you. He takes a step closer to the stand. "Which ones?"

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"Which ones do you want?" His tone is light, but there’s no teasing in it this time, just certainty. Like he’s already decided.

You shake your head quickly. "I don’t need flowers."

Hoseok’s eyes flick back to you, glinting with amusement. "I didn’t ask if you needed them."

Before you can protest again, he crouches slightly, scanning the buckets. His hand hovers over roses, moves past lilies, lingers over sunflowers. Then, without hesitation, he plucks a bouquet of mixed blooms from the vendor’s display. Soft cream roses, pale pink carnations, sprigs of lavender tucked between them.

The vendor wraps them quickly in brown paper, tying the bottom with a string, and Hoseok presses a few bills into his hand before you can even open your mouth.

"Ho-"

"Shh." He turns back to you, bouquet in hand, his grin softening into something quieter. "Here."

When he offers them, you hesitate again, but not because you don’t want them. Your chest feels too tight, your throat too warm. Slowly, you take the bouquet from him, the paper wrinkling under your fingers.

The scent hits you immediately, sweet, fresh, with a hint of sharp lavender. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you can’t help leaning in a little closer. "They smell…" You trail off, trying to find the right word.

"Good?" He offers, eyebrow raised.

You laugh, soft and breathless. "Yeah. Really good."

He watches you with that same expression he’s had all morning: amused, a little smug, but also something deeper. Something softer. It makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t know how to name.

"You should carry them" he says, nodding toward the flowers.

You glance down at the bouquet in your arms, awkward. "I feel silly."

"You don’t look silly." He leans closer, voice dipping low like he’s telling you a secret. "You look like someone who deserves to be spoiled."

Your heart stutters. The market noise fades for a moment.

"Hoseok…"

He straightens up before you can say more, shifting the basket of groceries to his other arm. "Come on. We’ve still got more to see. Don’t want the others whining that we didn’t bring back enough."

And just like that, he starts walking again, weaving easily through the crowd. You follow after him, clutching the bouquet to your chest, the scent wrapping around you.

The flowers in your arms feel heavier than they should, not in weight but in meaning. Every few steps, you lift them slightly, inhaling the scent again. Sweet, calming, grounding. It makes you think of something safe, something gentle. Something you didn’t know you’d wanted until it was already in your hands.By the time the two of you circle back toward the quieter end of the market, your nerves have settled. Not gone completely, but eased by the flowers, by Hoseok’s presence, by the way the day seems to be unfolding naturally around you.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you and Hoseok wander to the quieter edge of the market. The crowds thin out here: fewer voices, fewer vendors shouting about prices. Instead, the stalls are smaller, more specialized. Wooden tables covered in jars, bundles of dried leaves hanging overhead, baskets full of roots and herbs you don’t recognize.

You almost walk past them, but he slows at the first one, his hand brushing your arm to stop you.

"Wait" he murmurs. His voice has changed. "This is the good part."

You glance up at him, curious, but his gaze is already on the table spread with herbs. He leans forward, studying the bundles like someone reading a familiar book.

"These" he says, pointing to a pile of small, green leaves bundled with twine "are peppermint. Good for stomach aches, or headaches if you crush them and breathe in the steam."

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. "Do you… use that often?"

Hoseok nods, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "Jimin gets stomach aches when he eats too fast. Tae won’t admit it, but he does too."

He moves down the table, gesturing to the next bundle. "Chamomile. Good for sleep. Calms the nerves. I put it in tea for Namjoon when he’s restless."

Your eyes widen. "Na gets restless?"

Ho chuckles softly. "He hides it well. But I can tell. He has a lot of pressure as the pack alpha."

He points again, this time to thin stalks with little yellow flowers. "Yarrow. If you mash the leaves into a paste, it slows bleeding. Works fast."

You feel your chest tighten at that, the reminder of danger, of wounds that bleed. You don’t like thinking about the pack hurt, but you know it happens. Training accidents, hunts gone wrong, fights none of you can always avoid.

Ho notices your silence. His smile fades into something gentler, more serious. "That’s why I carry it. Always."

You watch him for a moment, the weight of his words settling in. He doesn’t just know these plants because he’s curious. He knows them because he needs to. Because he’s the one who makes sure the pack stands up again after falling.

He keeps walking, stopping at another stall where the air smells earthy. He picks up a jar, turning it in his hand. "Honey mixed with garlic" he says, offering it to you. "Good for coughs. Fights infections."

You wrinkle your nose a little, and he laughs, the sound low and warm. "Doesn’t taste as bad as it sounds. Jungkook swears by it when his throat gets sore from shouting."

You move from stall to stall like this, and each time, he tells you something new. How ginger root helps nausea. How thyme tea can ease a fever. How crushed calendula petals soothe burns. It’s like a map unfolding in front of you, knowledge hidden in plain sight, carried in the leaves and roots and flowers you might have walked past without a second glance.

At one point, he picks up a bundle of dried lavender, pressing it gently into your hand.

"This one you already know" he says softly.

You bring it closer, inhaling. The scent is calming, familiar, reminding you of the bouquet he bought earlier.

"Good for sleep" he continues, "but also… for peace. For calming the heart. I keep it around for everyone. But mostly..." He pauses, then smiles faintly. "Mostly for you. After all you went through with your family, I thought it'd be good for you."

Your throat feels too tight to answer. You walk on in silence for a few steps, the lavender still in your hands, the bouquet of flowers tucked carefully under your arm. Finally, you glance at him. "How do you know all of this? I mean, you sound like you’ve studied for years."

He exhales, gaze flicking toward the stalls ahead, though his voice stays low. "Because it’s my role. I’m the healer alpha. It’s what I do. What I’ve always done."

You blink, taken aback. You’ve always known Hoseok was steady, reliable, the one who shows up when you’re hurt or sick. But you never knew it was more than that.

"My father was the same" he continues, voice thoughtful now, distant. "He taught me when I was younger. How to recognize the plants. How to use them. How to listen when the pack doesn’t say out loud what’s wrong."

He pauses at a stall selling jars of salve, dipping his head slightly toward the vendor in greeting. Then his gaze shifts back to you. "It’s not just about wounds. Anyone can bind a cut or splint a broken arm if they try. It’s about… keeping everyone steady. Seeing where the cracks are before they break. Making sure no one falls apart, even when they want to."

You swallow, the weight of his words pressing into you. "That sounds… heavy."

"It is" he admits, but his smile returns, softer this time. "But it’s worth it. They’re worth it. All of you."

Your chest aches, warmth blooming under your ribs.

He notices your silence, and his expression shifts, gentler still. "Don’t look so worried. I’m not telling you this to make you sad. I just want you to understand. When I say I’ll take care of you, it’s not just words. It’s who I am."

You clutch the lavender a little tighter in your hand, the scent filling the air around you. "You really do, don’t you? Take care of everyone."

"Someone has to" he says simply. "And I don’t mind being that someone. I like it. Even if in reality we all take care of each other in our own way."

The last stall you pass is filled with little jars of dried herbs, neatly labeled. Ho buys two without hesitation: comfrey leaves and calendula, tucking them into the basket alongside the fruit and bread. He doesn’t explain this time, but you know he will later, when you ask.

By the time the two of you turn back toward the path out of the market, your arms are full of flowers and herbs, and your mind feels full too. Not just of the plants and their uses, but of Hoseok’s voice, steady and patient, of the quiet pride he takes in caring for the pack.

And for you.

As you walk, he brushes his hand against yours lightly, deliberately. Not quite holding it, but not far from it either.

"One day" he says casually "I’ll teach you all of it. If you want."

You glance at him, your heart skipping. "You’d teach me?"

"Of course" he replies. His smile deepens, that same curve that always seems to undo you. (And the others)

"Knowledge like this shouldn’t stay with just one person. And… it would mean a lot. Sharing it with you."

You look down at the bouquet in your arms, the lavender still tucked close, and you know without saying that you’ll say yes.

The taglist is open !!

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[yourfavtangerine]

Important announcement!!

Hi !!

I write this to update you on the upcoming fics and the updates schedule.

I will keep posting a chapter of Fated to be per week. I'll also finish Drift (maybe 1 chapter every two weeks). I'm writing Your Ring and will post it in 2/3 weeks.

I also have a Seventeen fanfic Percy Jackson au that I will write when Your ring and Drift are finished, I'll give you more informations about that later.

When Drift and Your ring will be done, I think I'll focus on Fated to be and the Seventeen fanfic but mostly, I'll make the requests so don't hesitate to do requests!!

Request rules below!!

Fandoms :

I mostly write for bts, skz, svt, txt and enha but I can write for any group

! I won't write for underage idols !

Length :

Please precise the number of words you want in your request!! If you don't, they will be 1k-3k words long depending on my inspiration!!

My no's :

I'm pretty comfortable with most of things but sometimes it'll be too much for me!

I won't write: scat, watersports, underage character, non-con, heavy BDSM, wounds, hitting ect...

Au :

If you want a specific au just write it! I think I'm fine with any au.

[yourfavtangerine]

Important announcement!!

Hi !!

I write this to update you on the upcoming fics and the updates schedule.

I will keep posting a chapter of Fated to be per week. I'll also finish Drift (maybe 1 chapter every two weeks). I'm writing Your Ring and will post it in 2/3 weeks.

I also have a Seventeen fanfic Percy Jackson au that I will write when Your ring and Drift are finished, I'll give you more informations about that later.

When Drift and Your ring will be done, I think I'll focus on Fated to be and the Seventeen fanfic but mostly, I'll make the requests so don't hesitate to do requests!!

Request rules below!!

Fandoms :

I mostly write for bts, skz, svt, txt and enha but I can write for any group

! I won't write for underage idols !

Length :

Please precise the number of words you want in your request!! If you don't, they will be 1k-3k words long depending on my inspiration!!

My no's :

I'm pretty comfortable with most of things but sometimes it'll be too much for me!

I won't write: scat, watersports, underage character, non-con, heavy BDSM, wounds, hitting ect...

Au :

If you want a specific au just write it! I think I'm fine with any au.

[yourfavtangerine]

Drift - part 1 - A win for a kiss

Street racer!Yeonjun x flag girl!reader

He’s a street racer. You’re the flag girl. One bet, one kiss, now you’re both in deeper than you ever planned.

Genre: mini serie

Wc: ~4.6k

Warnings: smut, p in v, illegal car races, gambling, alcohol, oral, fingering, makeout, smoking (the warnings will be updated!)

Masterlist

The air was electric. Not the kind of electricity you get from a streetlamp humming overhead, but the kind that crept into your bones, made the hair rise on your arms. It was a quarter past midnight, and the city’s life had shifted, away from its business-suit rhythm of the day and into something raw, wild, and reckless.

The streets were empty in the way only illegal business could make them. The usual stream of commuters, taxis, and late-night wanderers had been swept away by an unspoken rule: tonight, this part of the city belonged to the racers.

Down on Harbor Street, where the air still smelled faintly of the ocean, the underground scene was already in full swing. Modified cars lined near the start like, each one painted in neon stripes, candy gloss, or matte black. Every machine hummed, ticked, or roared as engines were tuned and nitrous tanks were checked.

Some owners leaned against their rides like royalty on a throne, watching the crowd with lazy confidence. Others were buried under hoods, arms smeared with grease, cursing at some stubborn bolt.

The glow of streetlights wasn’t enough to cut through the darkness here, most of the light came from headlights and the faint red glow of neons. Somewhere, bass-heavy music came from a portable speaker. People gathered in clusters, talking low or laughing too loud, exchanging wads of cash with gamblers who’d bet too much to care about the risk anymore.

The air smelled of oil, tire rubber, and cigarette smoke, with a faint trace of salty wind drifting in from the nearby sea. Every now and then, the sound of a turbo in the distance cut through the chatter, a signal that another contender was arriving.

And then there was the strip. Two perfect, white spray-painted lines, side by side, stretched across the road at the far end of the block. That part of road, just under a mile, was the stage. At the far end, where the road disapeared darkness, another pair of lines marked the finish. In between, the road looked smooth, but everyone here knew about the dips, the uneven patches, the faint curves and holes that could ruin a perfect run.

Standing near the start line was the one person who wasn’t covered in grease, sitting on a chair and having a cigarette. You, the flag girl.

Everyone in the underground knew the flag girl wasn’t just a role, it was a symbol. You were the one who called the shots, the one who dropped you hand and started the race. Your name wasn’t shouted often, but it was murmured plenty, in tones both respectful and lustful. You had almost as much authority as the the race organizers.

Tonight, you stood under the orange halo of a streetlight, wearing black jeans, a cropped jacket and boots. A bandana was tied loosely around your wrist: the chosen flag for the night. Your hair caught the red neon glow, moving with the breeze.

The crowd kept a subtle distance from you, like you were both untouchable and attractive. You had that calm look of someone who’d seen a hundred races and still found something to love in each one, maybe the danger, maybe the speed, maybe the way the pilots fought so hard to be the winner.

The sound of an engine pulled everyone’s attention.

From the far end of the street, a car rolled in like it owned the place. Matte silver paint, blacked-out windows, and red logo on the car hood. A fox.

The car drove slowly, pulling everyone's attention before stopping in front of the start line.

The driver’s door swung open and stepped out someone the underground scene had been whispering about for months. Nobody knew his name, just his nickname: the Fox.

He was tall, lean, and had his hair died a red as deep as wine. His leather jacket was adorned by patches that made it unique. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he glanced toward the strip, the streetlight lit up his face.

He didn’t speak at first, just walked straight to the start line, scanning it. Only then did his gaze slide to you. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to disapear, like everyone was waiting to see what would happen.

You met his stare without blinking.

"You’re late" you said, your voice carrying just enough to be heard over the low hum of engines.

He smirked, just a little. "Had to make sure everyone would notice my entry."

The crowd laughed. In the underground, showing up fashionably late was one thing. Showing up late and still owning the scene was another.

Five other racers were already at the line, their cars gleaming under the streetlight, their faces hard. They didn’t look happy about his arrival, he's always unpredictable on the track.

One of them spat on the ground in his direction.

"I think everyone's here" you said, stepping back just enough to let the racers go to their cars. "Make it worth my time."

That was the thing about nights like this. Nobody came just to watch cars go fast. They came for the gamble, the noise, the adrenaline spike that came when the flag dropped and the cars' tires screeched against the ground.

Conversations died out as more people moved toward the strip, their attention narrowing to that stretch of asphalt where reputations were built or shattered in seconds.

You lifted the bandana, holding it high in one hand, making it move just enough to catch the eye.

Somewhere behind the crowd, a siren wailed in the distance, but no one flinched. Everyone knew the police kept their distance from Harbor Street on race nights. Too many fast cars, too many witnesses willing to scatter like roaches at the first sign of flashing blue lights.

For now, the night belonged to the racers.

The engines’ noises intensified. The smell of gasoline and rubber made the air feel thick, heavy. Your eyes swept across the line: six cars, six egos, six pilots waiting to prove their worth.

When your arm would drop, the street would erupt. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun wasn’t just here to race. He was here to leave a mark.

The first time Yeonjun touched a steering wheel, he was twelve and the car wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, a ‘89 Nissan Skyline, paint faded to a dull blue. His father had left it sitting in the driveway for months after the engine gave out, saying he’d fix it "someday." Yet this day never came.

But one rainy afternoon, Yeonjun slipped behind the wheel while his dad was asleep inside the house, and let his small hands rest on the leather wrap that was worn smooth by time.

He didn’t turn the key that day. Didn’t even try. He knew it wouldn't work. But in that moment, staring over the dashboard at the street, he felt something click in his chest. A promise, unspoken and unformed, that one day he’d make the road his own. He would become a pilot.

His father, a man who worked double shifts at the docks, wasn’t much for gentle life lessons. But he did believe in two things: working with your hands and knowing how to handle a car.

By the time Yeonjun was fifteen, his father had taught him how to strip an engine down to its bones and put it back together without losing a single bolt. He learned about compression ratios, torque curves and the tricky science of getting a carburetor to hum just right.

What he didn’t learn from his father, he picked up from the streets. His neighborhood was a mix of cracked sidewalks, graffiti-tagged brick walls, and dim alleys that smelled of fried food and sweat. Nights there weren’t quiet. Guys would gather at corners, bragging about who could hit the straightaway fastest, swapping out mufflers in the dark. Older kids would lean against their beat-up Hondas, engines humming low.

Yeonjun started small, fixing bikes for spare cash, running errands for the older drivers, changing tires for beer he wasn’t even allowed to drink. But the first time someone let him behind the wheel, he knew. The rush didn’t come from winning. It came from the feeling of absolute control in chaos, how the world blurred and moved but the car stayed under his hands, sharp and controled.

By seventeen, he’d earned a spot in small races. By nineteen, he had his first car, an old, dented Toyota Supra that he rebuilt from the chassis up in a friend’s garage. Every paycheck from his part-time job at a body shop went into that car. Better brakes. Better suspension. A turbo that thrummed.

And then he got his nickname, the Fox. He didn’t choose the name. Someone in the crowd called him that one night after he cut through traffic so fast they swore he vanished. It stuck.

But Yeonjun wasn’t just chasing speed for the thrill of it.

Three years ago, his father was killed in a shipping yard accident. The payout from the company was a joke, a small settlement that barely covered the funeral. He had to sell the Skyline, his father’s car, to cover debts. That loss burned deeper than he ever admitted. The Skyline wasn’t just a car, it was the symbol of everything his father had taught him, the dream they’d built together.

The underground scene gave him a way to take something back.

The races paid, sometimes enough to cover bills, sometimes more. But for him, every run, every win, was another step toward a bigger goal: buying back that Skyline. He knew where it was, a collector uptown who treated it like a display piece, all shine and no heart. One day, he’d come up with cash in hand and take it home. Not because it was worth much to anyone else, but because it was worth everything to him. The legacy of his father.

Until then, he was building a reputation. A name that made other racers think twice before stepping up. He ran clean, but he ran hard, taking risks others wouldn’t. And though he’d been called reckless more times than he could count, Yeonjun knew the truth: every move he made was calculated. Every turn, every press on the gas pedal was all part of the plan.

Which brought him to Harbor Street tonight.

This wasn’t just any run. Word on the street was that one of the racers here, a guy named Rivas, was backed by serious money. Big-time sponsors didn’t show up at Harbor Street without a reason, and if Yeonjun could take him down in front of this crowd, the sponsors would change favourite.

As he leaned against his silver car, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred but he was looking for one in particular.bThe flag girl. You weren't just there to wave the start, you were the unspoken authority. Racers deferred to you, crowds respected your space.

Tonight, when you had told him he was late, there’d been no bite to your words, just a spark. A challenge. He liked challenges.

A sudden honk snapped him out of his thoughts. The other five racers for the night were already at the line, engines thruming.

Yeonjun took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and buckled his belt. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the leather grip.

He glanced at you one last time. Under the flicker of the streetlight, your eyes met his. His fingers tightened on the wheel. The night was his. He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

You stepped forward now, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Your jacket shifted with the wind, the bandana tied around your wrist fluttering. The crowd’s murmurs dipped in volume as you approached; like always, you pulled focus without asking for it.

"You six ready?" You called, your voice sharp and clear above the growls of the engines.

Yeonjun just smirked. "Ready enough" he said, his voice carrying across the line.

You arched an eyebrow at him, your lips curving slightly. "Ready enough? That’s not exactly confidence."

"Oh, I’ve got confidence" Yeonjun replied, leaning slightly out the open driver’s side window. "Question is, do you?"

That earned him a few raised brows in the crowd, a couple of muffled chuckles. You tilted you head, giving him that assessing look. "Me?" You said. "I’m not the one racing."

"No" he said slowly, his smirk deepening "but you’re the one I’m betting with."

That got the crowd’s full attention. A ripple of excitement moved through them, bets between racers and flag girls weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. And never in front of this many witnesses.

You crossed your arms. "Betting with me? And what exactly do you think I’d be betting on?"

Yeonjun's eyes didn’t leave yours. "On me. On whether I win this race."

You gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. "You think I’m gonna put my money down on you just because you showed up late with a shiny car and a cocky grin?"

"Not money" he said, his tone mischievous. "If I win, I get a kiss."

The silence after that was thick enough to cut.

The crowd reacted a half-second later: cheers, whistles, a few shouted "Ohhh!"s like kids in a schoolyard fight. Even the other pilots shaked their heads like Yeonjun had just signed his own humiliation papers.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You just stared at him, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. "A kiss" you repeated, flat, like you were testing the weight of the word.

Yeonjun shrugged lightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Just one. Right here at the line, in front of everyone."

Your gaze lingered on him, then slid briefly to the other five racers, then back again. The corner of your mouth curved up. "And what happens if you lose?"

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. "You tell me."

You stepped closer to his car now. You leaned down just enough so your eyes were level with his, the crowd going dead quiet again in anticipation.

"If you lose" you said slowly "you’re banned from my line for a month. No racing where I wave the flag. You can hit every other street, but not mine."

It was a harsh punishment, Harbor Street had some of the biggest races in the underground. Missing a month here would hurt his reputation. But his expression didn’t falter. "Deal" he said, without a blink.

You straightened up, one brow arched, a tiny shake of your head like you couldn’t decide if he was reckless or just insane. "Alright then, Fox. Win your kiss, if you can."

The crowd erupted at that, voices rising, people pulling out phones to record. The atmosphere shifted from tense anticipation to something almost electric. Now it wasn’t just a race. It was a spectacle, an entertainment, no matter how it ended.

This wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about proving something, to you, to the crowd, and maybe to himself.

You stepped back toward the center of the strip, raising the bandana high in one hand. The racers fell silent, engines rumbling low. The streetlight above them flickered, casting everything into brief darkness before returning to its orange glare.

Yeonjun wrapped his hands tighter around the wheel. His pulse slowed to that same steady rhythm he’d trained for, the calm before the chaos. He wasn’t thinking about the kiss anymore, or the risk of the ban, or even about the other racers' stupid grins.

You glanced at each driver in turn, your gaze sharp and assessing. You gave no sign of favoritism, no wink, no nod, just the impartial, commanding presence you were known for. And yet, when your eyes met Yeonjun's for that split second before the drop, there was something there. Not quite approval. Not quite doubt. But something.

The bandana twitched in the air. The engines roared higher, each driver holding their breath. The crowd’s noise built into a wall of sound, but inside Yeonjun's head there was only the hum of the machine and the steady thud of his own heartbeat.

When your arm came down, the world would explode. And if Yeonjun had his way, it would end with your lips on his.

The bandana dropped.

Yeonjun's surged forward, the turbo spooling in a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar.

First gear, Ghost held it just long enough for the revs to crest, then slammed the clutch, shifted, and felt the pull intensify. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the strip opened up ahead.

Launch was good. The first concurent is close. A second falling back. Focus.

The first hundred meters vanished under his wheels. The wind shoved against his face through the open window, carrying the hot tang of burning rubber.

The sponsors' favourite was only few meters from him. The man was quick, Yeonjun had expected that, but he was also aggressive.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch. He held the inside line, knowing the curve was coming up fast, a subtle bend in the asphalt that looked harmless but could bleed speed from anyone careless enough to take it wide.

They hit the curve almost neck-and-neck. Yeonjun downshifted, feeling the chassis bite into the turn, the tires screeching against the road. He hugged the inside, just close enough to the curb that he could feel the ripple of uneven pavement under the tires.

Two hundred meters.

The finish line markers glowed faintly ahead. The crowd at that end of the strip was already leaning forward, phones out, ready to record the moment.

His oponent made his move. He cut into Yeonjun's lane, forcing him toward the edge of the asphalt where it dipped into uneven gravel. A rookie might have flinched. Yeonjun didn't. He kept his foot planted, steering with small, sharp inputs, the car skirting the edge of the road. The uneven ground spat pebbles up against his undercarriage, the sound sharp like snapping bones, but the car held.

One hundred meters.

For a heartbeat, three cars were aligned, filling the width of the strip like a wall of noise and speed. Yeonjun's chest tightened, adrenaline flooding every nerve. This was the moment. The one every racer lived for, the chaos, the uncertainty, the knife’s edge between victory and loss.

He dropped the hammer. His oponents hesitated just a fraction, and in that fraction, Ghost pulled ahead.

Fifty meters.

The finish line was just ahead, the painted white marks glowing like a beacon. The noise was deafening now, engine scream, wind roar, crowd shouting, but in Yeonjun's head it was all a muted hum under the pounding of his heartbeat.

Twenty meters.

He finally passed the finish line, first.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, whistles, and shouted disbelief. He let the car roll to a stop near the end of the strip, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. His hands stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, feeling the heat in the leather, the vibration still running through his fingers.

Then he smiled. The kiss was his. And something told him you were going to make him work for it, even now.

Yeonjun sat back in the seat, letting the adrenaline pulse through him. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, thick. Tires hissed as they cooled, and sparks from minor friction flickered briefly in the streetlights’ glow.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, cheers, whistles, and shouts crashing over the strip. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the moment. Some of the onlookers jumped onto the low walls that lined the street to get a better view. The energy was infectious, electric enough to make your hair stand on end and your heart race. He felt it in every nerve.

The sponsors' favourite slammed the door with a thud that resonated. He stalked toward the crowd, voice raised in frustration "You got lucky!" But no one listened. The cheers had already shifted entirely toward the victor.

You stepped toward him. Your arms crossed at first, lips pressed in a straight line, bandana still in hand, but your eyes betrayed you amusement. They flicked over Yeonjun, measuring him again. He had that look, a mix of cocky satisfaction and restrained energy that suggested he wasn’t just pleased with winning. He was savoring it.

You took a step closer. "So… you actually won...I would've never believed it" you said, your voice carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of challenge in your tone. "I guess that means…"

Yeonjun pushed himself off the car smoothly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and walked toward you. He let his smirk stretch across his face, the kind that teased without giving anything away. "Guess it does."

The crowd stepped back slightly, sensing the tension between them. A collective hush fell over the assembly, the air thick with expectation. Some of the racers’ friends nudged each other, some laughed nervously, and a few young fans practically bounced in place, unable to contain their excitement.

Yeonjun stopped in front of you, close enough that you would smell his cologne. He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with those teasing eyes.

"You know" he murmured, almost inaudible to anyone but you "I could’ve let you off the hook. Made it quick. But where’s the fun in that?"

Your lips twitched, almost a smile, almost irritation, but you didn’t back down. You raised the bandana slightly, a subtle signal that you were still in control of this game. "Oh, so this is fun for you, huh?"

"Very" Yeonjun said, his smirk widening as he leaned just a fraction closer. "But only if you make it worth it"

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around them. The crowd’s noise dimmed in the background, the hum of tires and engines fading behind the rush of tension. He could see the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your jaw tensed before relaxing slightly and the subtle shift in your stance that suggested you weren't going to flinch.

Then, slowly, you let the bandana drop from your hand and tilted your head just enough to meet his smirk with your own. The gesture wasn’t submissive, it was deliberate, challenging, teasing back in its own way.

Yeonjun leaned in closer, and the crowd collectively leaned forward with him, like magnets being drawn to the inevitable. The street was lined with eager faces, flashlights, phone screens and neon reflections dancing across the asphalt. Every detail, the hum of cooling engines, the faint smell of fuel, the distant city traffic, faded away.

And then, finally, your lips met. It was brief, deliberate, but still he brushed his tongue against your lips, just enough to confirm the bet had been fulfilled. Yeonjun pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, smirk never leaving. The kind of smirk that said I know, I won, and I’m enjoying every second of making you acknowledge it.

You blinked once, then twice, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, but there was still fire in your gaze. You stepped back, crossing your arms again, but Yeonjun could see the faint blush creeping on your cheeks.The crowd erupted anew. Whistles, cheers, and laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street. Some of the racers’ friends hooted, others groaned in mock envy, and a few of the younger fans cheered wildly. The energy was euphoric, chaotic, and perfectly alive.

Yeonjun leaned casually against the car again, still smirking, voice low and teasing. "See? Not so bad."

You shot him a glare, though the curve of your lips betrayed a trace of amusement. "Don’t let it get to your head" you warned.

"Too late" he replied lightly, shrugging with mock innocence. "Already in my head."

There was a pause as the two of you regarded each other, the aftershocks of the race lingering in every corner of the street. It wasn’t just the victory or the kiss, it was the electricity between you, the thrill of risk and tease intertwined.

Yeonjun finally stepped back fully, still grinning. "I’ll let you keep your pride… for now. I know how big it is for you to have a reputation."

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t reply. The tension between you hung like a charged wire, buzzing in the night air.

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Yeonjun whispered to you "Not bad for a first race with me on your strip" he said casually, his tone teasing but confident, letting his smirk linger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. "You’re unbelievable" you muttered, though there was no real bite in your words.

"Maybe" he admitted. "But you liked it."

Your gaze flicked away briefly, toward the cooling crowd, then back to him. "Maybe" you said.

He stepped closer, letting the distance shrink just enough for the tension to go up. "Look" he began, voice low "I know I might’ve been… a little distracting earlier." The smirk returned, teasing, not arrogant but deliberate. "So, I thought I’d make it easy for you. No games. Just one thing before we call it a night."

You raised a brow, skeptical but curious. "One thing?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, slightly worn paper. He handed it to you with a casual flourish, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every reaction. "My number. Text me. Call me. Or, if you prefer, I’ll wait for the next race."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the card, a slight spark, tiny, almost imperceptible, flickering in that contact. You examined it quickly, the handwriting on it clean but personal.

"I don’t know" you said, letting a teasing smile play at your lips. "You’re a little… much."

"Good" he said, voice softening just enough to feel intimate without breaking the playful edge. "At least I'm not boring"

You glanced down at the paper again, then back up. There was still fire there, a spark that hadn’t died in the chaos of the race or the teasing of the kiss.

"Maybe" you said again, softer this time.

Yeonjun grinned, that same smirk that had driven you half-mad earlier, but now tempered with a hint of warmth. "That’s all I need. Maybe." He stepped back just a fraction, giving you space, letting the moment linger. The crowd was gone now, a few stragglers drifting off with murmurs of the night’s excitement, leaving the two of you in a bubble of quiet anticipation.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the road.

"I’ll hold you to that" you said finally, slipping the card into your pocket. Your fingers lingered on it just a moment longer, as if weighing the decision, teasing him back without a word.

"You better" Yeonjun replied, straightening up, the smirk never leaving, but now carrying a promise rather than just teasing.

You exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement, challenge and… something else that made him grin even wider. "Alright" you said, finally turning to leave. "See you… maybe."

"Maybe" He echoed "by the way, my real name is Yeonjun"

"Yeonjun? Nice name"

With that you walked away, leaving him alone near his car.

The taglist is open!!

Taglist: @yeonggum @tttubatttu @skyearby @frvnbeom @luxynjun @beaabz @starsmew

[yourfavtangerine]

Drift - part 1 - A win for a kiss

Street racer!Yeonjun x flag girl!reader

He’s a street racer. You’re the flag girl. One bet, one kiss, now you’re both in deeper than you ever planned.

Genre: mini serie

Wc: ~4.6k

Warnings: smut, p in v, illegal car races, gambling, alcohol, oral, fingering, makeout, smoking (the warnings will be updated!)

Masterlist

The air was electric. Not the kind of electricity you get from a streetlamp humming overhead, but the kind that crept into your bones, made the hair rise on your arms. It was a quarter past midnight, and the city’s life had shifted, away from its business-suit rhythm of the day and into something raw, wild, and reckless.

The streets were empty in the way only illegal business could make them. The usual stream of commuters, taxis, and late-night wanderers had been swept away by an unspoken rule: tonight, this part of the city belonged to the racers.

Down on Harbor Street, where the air still smelled faintly of the ocean, the underground scene was already in full swing. Modified cars lined near the start like, each one painted in neon stripes, candy gloss, or matte black. Every machine hummed, ticked, or roared as engines were tuned and nitrous tanks were checked.

Some owners leaned against their rides like royalty on a throne, watching the crowd with lazy confidence. Others were buried under hoods, arms smeared with grease, cursing at some stubborn bolt.

The glow of streetlights wasn’t enough to cut through the darkness here, most of the light came from headlights and the faint red glow of neons. Somewhere, bass-heavy music came from a portable speaker. People gathered in clusters, talking low or laughing too loud, exchanging wads of cash with gamblers who’d bet too much to care about the risk anymore.

The air smelled of oil, tire rubber, and cigarette smoke, with a faint trace of salty wind drifting in from the nearby sea. Every now and then, the sound of a turbo in the distance cut through the chatter, a signal that another contender was arriving.

And then there was the strip. Two perfect, white spray-painted lines, side by side, stretched across the road at the far end of the block. That part of road, just under a mile, was the stage. At the far end, where the road disapeared darkness, another pair of lines marked the finish. In between, the road looked smooth, but everyone here knew about the dips, the uneven patches, the faint curves and holes that could ruin a perfect run.

Standing near the start line was the one person who wasn’t covered in grease, sitting on a chair and having a cigarette. You, the flag girl.

Everyone in the underground knew the flag girl wasn’t just a role, it was a symbol. You were the one who called the shots, the one who dropped you hand and started the race. Your name wasn’t shouted often, but it was murmured plenty, in tones both respectful and lustful. You had almost as much authority as the the race organizers.

Tonight, you stood under the orange halo of a streetlight, wearing black jeans, a cropped jacket and boots. A bandana was tied loosely around your wrist: the chosen flag for the night. Your hair caught the red neon glow, moving with the breeze.

The crowd kept a subtle distance from you, like you were both untouchable and attractive. You had that calm look of someone who’d seen a hundred races and still found something to love in each one, maybe the danger, maybe the speed, maybe the way the pilots fought so hard to be the winner.

The sound of an engine pulled everyone’s attention.

From the far end of the street, a car rolled in like it owned the place. Matte silver paint, blacked-out windows, and red logo on the car hood. A fox.

The car drove slowly, pulling everyone's attention before stopping in front of the start line.

The driver’s door swung open and stepped out someone the underground scene had been whispering about for months. Nobody knew his name, just his nickname: the Fox.

He was tall, lean, and had his hair died a red as deep as wine. His leather jacket was adorned by patches that made it unique. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he glanced toward the strip, the streetlight lit up his face.

He didn’t speak at first, just walked straight to the start line, scanning it. Only then did his gaze slide to you. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to disapear, like everyone was waiting to see what would happen.

You met his stare without blinking.

"You’re late" you said, your voice carrying just enough to be heard over the low hum of engines.

He smirked, just a little. "Had to make sure everyone would notice my entry."

The crowd laughed. In the underground, showing up fashionably late was one thing. Showing up late and still owning the scene was another.

Five other racers were already at the line, their cars gleaming under the streetlight, their faces hard. They didn’t look happy about his arrival, he's always unpredictable on the track.

One of them spat on the ground in his direction.

"I think everyone's here" you said, stepping back just enough to let the racers go to their cars. "Make it worth my time."

That was the thing about nights like this. Nobody came just to watch cars go fast. They came for the gamble, the noise, the adrenaline spike that came when the flag dropped and the cars' tires screeched against the ground.

Conversations died out as more people moved toward the strip, their attention narrowing to that stretch of asphalt where reputations were built or shattered in seconds.

You lifted the bandana, holding it high in one hand, making it move just enough to catch the eye.

Somewhere behind the crowd, a siren wailed in the distance, but no one flinched. Everyone knew the police kept their distance from Harbor Street on race nights. Too many fast cars, too many witnesses willing to scatter like roaches at the first sign of flashing blue lights.

For now, the night belonged to the racers.

The engines’ noises intensified. The smell of gasoline and rubber made the air feel thick, heavy. Your eyes swept across the line: six cars, six egos, six pilots waiting to prove their worth.

When your arm would drop, the street would erupt. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun wasn’t just here to race. He was here to leave a mark.

The first time Yeonjun touched a steering wheel, he was twelve and the car wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, a ‘89 Nissan Skyline, paint faded to a dull blue. His father had left it sitting in the driveway for months after the engine gave out, saying he’d fix it "someday." Yet this day never came.

But one rainy afternoon, Yeonjun slipped behind the wheel while his dad was asleep inside the house, and let his small hands rest on the leather wrap that was worn smooth by time.

He didn’t turn the key that day. Didn’t even try. He knew it wouldn't work. But in that moment, staring over the dashboard at the street, he felt something click in his chest. A promise, unspoken and unformed, that one day he’d make the road his own. He would become a pilot.

His father, a man who worked double shifts at the docks, wasn’t much for gentle life lessons. But he did believe in two things: working with your hands and knowing how to handle a car.

By the time Yeonjun was fifteen, his father had taught him how to strip an engine down to its bones and put it back together without losing a single bolt. He learned about compression ratios, torque curves and the tricky science of getting a carburetor to hum just right.

What he didn’t learn from his father, he picked up from the streets. His neighborhood was a mix of cracked sidewalks, graffiti-tagged brick walls, and dim alleys that smelled of fried food and sweat. Nights there weren’t quiet. Guys would gather at corners, bragging about who could hit the straightaway fastest, swapping out mufflers in the dark. Older kids would lean against their beat-up Hondas, engines humming low.

Yeonjun started small, fixing bikes for spare cash, running errands for the older drivers, changing tires for beer he wasn’t even allowed to drink. But the first time someone let him behind the wheel, he knew. The rush didn’t come from winning. It came from the feeling of absolute control in chaos, how the world blurred and moved but the car stayed under his hands, sharp and controled.

By seventeen, he’d earned a spot in small races. By nineteen, he had his first car, an old, dented Toyota Supra that he rebuilt from the chassis up in a friend’s garage. Every paycheck from his part-time job at a body shop went into that car. Better brakes. Better suspension. A turbo that thrummed.

And then he got his nickname, the Fox. He didn’t choose the name. Someone in the crowd called him that one night after he cut through traffic so fast they swore he vanished. It stuck.

But Yeonjun wasn’t just chasing speed for the thrill of it.

Three years ago, his father was killed in a shipping yard accident. The payout from the company was a joke, a small settlement that barely covered the funeral. He had to sell the Skyline, his father’s car, to cover debts. That loss burned deeper than he ever admitted. The Skyline wasn’t just a car, it was the symbol of everything his father had taught him, the dream they’d built together.

The underground scene gave him a way to take something back.

The races paid, sometimes enough to cover bills, sometimes more. But for him, every run, every win, was another step toward a bigger goal: buying back that Skyline. He knew where it was, a collector uptown who treated it like a display piece, all shine and no heart. One day, he’d come up with cash in hand and take it home. Not because it was worth much to anyone else, but because it was worth everything to him. The legacy of his father.

Until then, he was building a reputation. A name that made other racers think twice before stepping up. He ran clean, but he ran hard, taking risks others wouldn’t. And though he’d been called reckless more times than he could count, Yeonjun knew the truth: every move he made was calculated. Every turn, every press on the gas pedal was all part of the plan.

Which brought him to Harbor Street tonight.

This wasn’t just any run. Word on the street was that one of the racers here, a guy named Rivas, was backed by serious money. Big-time sponsors didn’t show up at Harbor Street without a reason, and if Yeonjun could take him down in front of this crowd, the sponsors would change favourite.

As he leaned against his silver car, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred but he was looking for one in particular.bThe flag girl. You weren't just there to wave the start, you were the unspoken authority. Racers deferred to you, crowds respected your space.

Tonight, when you had told him he was late, there’d been no bite to your words, just a spark. A challenge. He liked challenges.

A sudden honk snapped him out of his thoughts. The other five racers for the night were already at the line, engines thruming.

Yeonjun took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and buckled his belt. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the leather grip.

He glanced at you one last time. Under the flicker of the streetlight, your eyes met his. His fingers tightened on the wheel. The night was his. He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

You stepped forward now, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Your jacket shifted with the wind, the bandana tied around your wrist fluttering. The crowd’s murmurs dipped in volume as you approached; like always, you pulled focus without asking for it.

"You six ready?" You called, your voice sharp and clear above the growls of the engines.

Yeonjun just smirked. "Ready enough" he said, his voice carrying across the line.

You arched an eyebrow at him, your lips curving slightly. "Ready enough? That’s not exactly confidence."

"Oh, I’ve got confidence" Yeonjun replied, leaning slightly out the open driver’s side window. "Question is, do you?"

That earned him a few raised brows in the crowd, a couple of muffled chuckles. You tilted you head, giving him that assessing look. "Me?" You said. "I’m not the one racing."

"No" he said slowly, his smirk deepening "but you’re the one I’m betting with."

That got the crowd’s full attention. A ripple of excitement moved through them, bets between racers and flag girls weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. And never in front of this many witnesses.

You crossed your arms. "Betting with me? And what exactly do you think I’d be betting on?"

Yeonjun's eyes didn’t leave yours. "On me. On whether I win this race."

You gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. "You think I’m gonna put my money down on you just because you showed up late with a shiny car and a cocky grin?"

"Not money" he said, his tone mischievous. "If I win, I get a kiss."

The silence after that was thick enough to cut.

The crowd reacted a half-second later: cheers, whistles, a few shouted "Ohhh!"s like kids in a schoolyard fight. Even the other pilots shaked their heads like Yeonjun had just signed his own humiliation papers.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You just stared at him, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. "A kiss" you repeated, flat, like you were testing the weight of the word.

Yeonjun shrugged lightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Just one. Right here at the line, in front of everyone."

Your gaze lingered on him, then slid briefly to the other five racers, then back again. The corner of your mouth curved up. "And what happens if you lose?"

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. "You tell me."

You stepped closer to his car now. You leaned down just enough so your eyes were level with his, the crowd going dead quiet again in anticipation.

"If you lose" you said slowly "you’re banned from my line for a month. No racing where I wave the flag. You can hit every other street, but not mine."

It was a harsh punishment, Harbor Street had some of the biggest races in the underground. Missing a month here would hurt his reputation. But his expression didn’t falter. "Deal" he said, without a blink.

You straightened up, one brow arched, a tiny shake of your head like you couldn’t decide if he was reckless or just insane. "Alright then, Fox. Win your kiss, if you can."

The crowd erupted at that, voices rising, people pulling out phones to record. The atmosphere shifted from tense anticipation to something almost electric. Now it wasn’t just a race. It was a spectacle, an entertainment, no matter how it ended.

This wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about proving something, to you, to the crowd, and maybe to himself.

You stepped back toward the center of the strip, raising the bandana high in one hand. The racers fell silent, engines rumbling low. The streetlight above them flickered, casting everything into brief darkness before returning to its orange glare.

Yeonjun wrapped his hands tighter around the wheel. His pulse slowed to that same steady rhythm he’d trained for, the calm before the chaos. He wasn’t thinking about the kiss anymore, or the risk of the ban, or even about the other racers' stupid grins.

You glanced at each driver in turn, your gaze sharp and assessing. You gave no sign of favoritism, no wink, no nod, just the impartial, commanding presence you were known for. And yet, when your eyes met Yeonjun's for that split second before the drop, there was something there. Not quite approval. Not quite doubt. But something.

The bandana twitched in the air. The engines roared higher, each driver holding their breath. The crowd’s noise built into a wall of sound, but inside Yeonjun's head there was only the hum of the machine and the steady thud of his own heartbeat.

When your arm came down, the world would explode. And if Yeonjun had his way, it would end with your lips on his.

The bandana dropped.

Yeonjun's surged forward, the turbo spooling in a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar.

First gear, Ghost held it just long enough for the revs to crest, then slammed the clutch, shifted, and felt the pull intensify. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the strip opened up ahead.

Launch was good. The first concurent is close. A second falling back. Focus.

The first hundred meters vanished under his wheels. The wind shoved against his face through the open window, carrying the hot tang of burning rubber.

The sponsors' favourite was only few meters from him. The man was quick, Yeonjun had expected that, but he was also aggressive.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch. He held the inside line, knowing the curve was coming up fast, a subtle bend in the asphalt that looked harmless but could bleed speed from anyone careless enough to take it wide.

They hit the curve almost neck-and-neck. Yeonjun downshifted, feeling the chassis bite into the turn, the tires screeching against the road. He hugged the inside, just close enough to the curb that he could feel the ripple of uneven pavement under the tires.

Two hundred meters.

The finish line markers glowed faintly ahead. The crowd at that end of the strip was already leaning forward, phones out, ready to record the moment.

His oponent made his move. He cut into Yeonjun's lane, forcing him toward the edge of the asphalt where it dipped into uneven gravel. A rookie might have flinched. Yeonjun didn't. He kept his foot planted, steering with small, sharp inputs, the car skirting the edge of the road. The uneven ground spat pebbles up against his undercarriage, the sound sharp like snapping bones, but the car held.

One hundred meters.

For a heartbeat, three cars were aligned, filling the width of the strip like a wall of noise and speed. Yeonjun's chest tightened, adrenaline flooding every nerve. This was the moment. The one every racer lived for, the chaos, the uncertainty, the knife’s edge between victory and loss.

He dropped the hammer. His oponents hesitated just a fraction, and in that fraction, Ghost pulled ahead.

Fifty meters.

The finish line was just ahead, the painted white marks glowing like a beacon. The noise was deafening now, engine scream, wind roar, crowd shouting, but in Yeonjun's head it was all a muted hum under the pounding of his heartbeat.

Twenty meters.

He finally passed the finish line, first.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, whistles, and shouted disbelief. He let the car roll to a stop near the end of the strip, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. His hands stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, feeling the heat in the leather, the vibration still running through his fingers.

Then he smiled. The kiss was his. And something told him you were going to make him work for it, even now.

Yeonjun sat back in the seat, letting the adrenaline pulse through him. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, thick. Tires hissed as they cooled, and sparks from minor friction flickered briefly in the streetlights’ glow.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, cheers, whistles, and shouts crashing over the strip. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the moment. Some of the onlookers jumped onto the low walls that lined the street to get a better view. The energy was infectious, electric enough to make your hair stand on end and your heart race. He felt it in every nerve.

The sponsors' favourite slammed the door with a thud that resonated. He stalked toward the crowd, voice raised in frustration "You got lucky!" But no one listened. The cheers had already shifted entirely toward the victor.

You stepped toward him. Your arms crossed at first, lips pressed in a straight line, bandana still in hand, but your eyes betrayed you amusement. They flicked over Yeonjun, measuring him again. He had that look, a mix of cocky satisfaction and restrained energy that suggested he wasn’t just pleased with winning. He was savoring it.

You took a step closer. "So… you actually won...I would've never believed it" you said, your voice carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of challenge in your tone. "I guess that means…"

Yeonjun pushed himself off the car smoothly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and walked toward you. He let his smirk stretch across his face, the kind that teased without giving anything away. "Guess it does."

The crowd stepped back slightly, sensing the tension between them. A collective hush fell over the assembly, the air thick with expectation. Some of the racers’ friends nudged each other, some laughed nervously, and a few young fans practically bounced in place, unable to contain their excitement.

Yeonjun stopped in front of you, close enough that you would smell his cologne. He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with those teasing eyes.

"You know" he murmured, almost inaudible to anyone but you "I could’ve let you off the hook. Made it quick. But where’s the fun in that?"

Your lips twitched, almost a smile, almost irritation, but you didn’t back down. You raised the bandana slightly, a subtle signal that you were still in control of this game. "Oh, so this is fun for you, huh?"

"Very" Yeonjun said, his smirk widening as he leaned just a fraction closer. "But only if you make it worth it"

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around them. The crowd’s noise dimmed in the background, the hum of tires and engines fading behind the rush of tension. He could see the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your jaw tensed before relaxing slightly and the subtle shift in your stance that suggested you weren't going to flinch.

Then, slowly, you let the bandana drop from your hand and tilted your head just enough to meet his smirk with your own. The gesture wasn’t submissive, it was deliberate, challenging, teasing back in its own way.

Yeonjun leaned in closer, and the crowd collectively leaned forward with him, like magnets being drawn to the inevitable. The street was lined with eager faces, flashlights, phone screens and neon reflections dancing across the asphalt. Every detail, the hum of cooling engines, the faint smell of fuel, the distant city traffic, faded away.

And then, finally, your lips met. It was brief, deliberate, but still he brushed his tongue against your lips, just enough to confirm the bet had been fulfilled. Yeonjun pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, smirk never leaving. The kind of smirk that said I know, I won, and I’m enjoying every second of making you acknowledge it.

You blinked once, then twice, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, but there was still fire in your gaze. You stepped back, crossing your arms again, but Yeonjun could see the faint blush creeping on your cheeks.The crowd erupted anew. Whistles, cheers, and laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street. Some of the racers’ friends hooted, others groaned in mock envy, and a few of the younger fans cheered wildly. The energy was euphoric, chaotic, and perfectly alive.

Yeonjun leaned casually against the car again, still smirking, voice low and teasing. "See? Not so bad."

You shot him a glare, though the curve of your lips betrayed a trace of amusement. "Don’t let it get to your head" you warned.

"Too late" he replied lightly, shrugging with mock innocence. "Already in my head."

There was a pause as the two of you regarded each other, the aftershocks of the race lingering in every corner of the street. It wasn’t just the victory or the kiss, it was the electricity between you, the thrill of risk and tease intertwined.

Yeonjun finally stepped back fully, still grinning. "I’ll let you keep your pride… for now. I know how big it is for you to have a reputation."

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t reply. The tension between you hung like a charged wire, buzzing in the night air.

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Yeonjun whispered to you "Not bad for a first race with me on your strip" he said casually, his tone teasing but confident, letting his smirk linger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. "You’re unbelievable" you muttered, though there was no real bite in your words.

"Maybe" he admitted. "But you liked it."

Your gaze flicked away briefly, toward the cooling crowd, then back to him. "Maybe" you said.

He stepped closer, letting the distance shrink just enough for the tension to go up. "Look" he began, voice low "I know I might’ve been… a little distracting earlier." The smirk returned, teasing, not arrogant but deliberate. "So, I thought I’d make it easy for you. No games. Just one thing before we call it a night."

You raised a brow, skeptical but curious. "One thing?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, slightly worn paper. He handed it to you with a casual flourish, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every reaction. "My number. Text me. Call me. Or, if you prefer, I’ll wait for the next race."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the card, a slight spark, tiny, almost imperceptible, flickering in that contact. You examined it quickly, the handwriting on it clean but personal.

"I don’t know" you said, letting a teasing smile play at your lips. "You’re a little… much."

"Good" he said, voice softening just enough to feel intimate without breaking the playful edge. "At least I'm not boring"

You glanced down at the paper again, then back up. There was still fire there, a spark that hadn’t died in the chaos of the race or the teasing of the kiss.

"Maybe" you said again, softer this time.

Yeonjun grinned, that same smirk that had driven you half-mad earlier, but now tempered with a hint of warmth. "That’s all I need. Maybe." He stepped back just a fraction, giving you space, letting the moment linger. The crowd was gone now, a few stragglers drifting off with murmurs of the night’s excitement, leaving the two of you in a bubble of quiet anticipation.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the road.

"I’ll hold you to that" you said finally, slipping the card into your pocket. Your fingers lingered on it just a moment longer, as if weighing the decision, teasing him back without a word.

"You better" Yeonjun replied, straightening up, the smirk never leaving, but now carrying a promise rather than just teasing.

You exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement, challenge and… something else that made him grin even wider. "Alright" you said, finally turning to leave. "See you… maybe."

"Maybe" He echoed "by the way, my real name is Yeonjun"

"Yeonjun? Nice name"

With that you walked away, leaving him alone near his car.

The taglist is open!!

Taglist: @yeonggum @tttubatttu @skyearby @frvnbeom @luxynjun @beaabz @starsmew

[yourfavtangerine]

Fated to be - Masterlist

Alpha!OT7 x omega!reader

Genre : soulmates, omegaverse, fluff, angst, smut

Summary : never in your life you thought you'd finally find them, your mates

Warnings : mdni!! abuse (not by them), fated mates, smut, MF, MM (and potential more), cursing, threats, marks, p in v, knotting, oral (the warnings will be updated)

The chapters are posted on fridays!!

A/N : i won't put a lot of pressure on myself so the length of the chapters can change a lot depending on my inspiration.

A/N 2 : this fic is inspired by a fic called "finding my pack" where only one chapter is disponible on Tumblr and the rest is $5 on patreon so i chose to write and imagine the other chapters myself!!

Don't hesitate to give me feedbacks !!

Characters moodboards

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7 soon

[yourfavtangerine]

Drift - part 1 - A win for a kiss

Street racer!Yeonjun x flag girl!reader

He’s a street racer. You’re the flag girl. One bet, one kiss, now you’re both in deeper than you ever planned.

Genre: mini serie

Wc: ~4.6k

Warnings: smut, p in v, illegal car races, gambling, alcohol, oral, fingering, makeout, smoking (the warnings will be updated!)

Masterlist

The air was electric. Not the kind of electricity you get from a streetlamp humming overhead, but the kind that crept into your bones, made the hair rise on your arms. It was a quarter past midnight, and the city’s life had shifted, away from its business-suit rhythm of the day and into something raw, wild, and reckless.

The streets were empty in the way only illegal business could make them. The usual stream of commuters, taxis, and late-night wanderers had been swept away by an unspoken rule: tonight, this part of the city belonged to the racers.

Down on Harbor Street, where the air still smelled faintly of the ocean, the underground scene was already in full swing. Modified cars lined near the start like, each one painted in neon stripes, candy gloss, or matte black. Every machine hummed, ticked, or roared as engines were tuned and nitrous tanks were checked.

Some owners leaned against their rides like royalty on a throne, watching the crowd with lazy confidence. Others were buried under hoods, arms smeared with grease, cursing at some stubborn bolt.

The glow of streetlights wasn’t enough to cut through the darkness here, most of the light came from headlights and the faint red glow of neons. Somewhere, bass-heavy music came from a portable speaker. People gathered in clusters, talking low or laughing too loud, exchanging wads of cash with gamblers who’d bet too much to care about the risk anymore.

The air smelled of oil, tire rubber, and cigarette smoke, with a faint trace of salty wind drifting in from the nearby sea. Every now and then, the sound of a turbo in the distance cut through the chatter, a signal that another contender was arriving.

And then there was the strip. Two perfect, white spray-painted lines, side by side, stretched across the road at the far end of the block. That part of road, just under a mile, was the stage. At the far end, where the road disapeared darkness, another pair of lines marked the finish. In between, the road looked smooth, but everyone here knew about the dips, the uneven patches, the faint curves and holes that could ruin a perfect run.

Standing near the start line was the one person who wasn’t covered in grease, sitting on a chair and having a cigarette. You, the flag girl.

Everyone in the underground knew the flag girl wasn’t just a role, it was a symbol. You were the one who called the shots, the one who dropped you hand and started the race. Your name wasn’t shouted often, but it was murmured plenty, in tones both respectful and lustful. You had almost as much authority as the the race organizers.

Tonight, you stood under the orange halo of a streetlight, wearing black jeans, a cropped jacket and boots. A bandana was tied loosely around your wrist: the chosen flag for the night. Your hair caught the red neon glow, moving with the breeze.

The crowd kept a subtle distance from you, like you were both untouchable and attractive. You had that calm look of someone who’d seen a hundred races and still found something to love in each one, maybe the danger, maybe the speed, maybe the way the pilots fought so hard to be the winner.

The sound of an engine pulled everyone’s attention.

From the far end of the street, a car rolled in like it owned the place. Matte silver paint, blacked-out windows, and red logo on the car hood. A fox.

The car drove slowly, pulling everyone's attention before stopping in front of the start line.

The driver’s door swung open and stepped out someone the underground scene had been whispering about for months. Nobody knew his name, just his nickname: the Fox.

He was tall, lean, and had his hair died a red as deep as wine. His leather jacket was adorned by patches that made it unique. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he glanced toward the strip, the streetlight lit up his face.

He didn’t speak at first, just walked straight to the start line, scanning it. Only then did his gaze slide to you. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to disapear, like everyone was waiting to see what would happen.

You met his stare without blinking.

"You’re late" you said, your voice carrying just enough to be heard over the low hum of engines.

He smirked, just a little. "Had to make sure everyone would notice my entry."

The crowd laughed. In the underground, showing up fashionably late was one thing. Showing up late and still owning the scene was another.

Five other racers were already at the line, their cars gleaming under the streetlight, their faces hard. They didn’t look happy about his arrival, he's always unpredictable on the track.

One of them spat on the ground in his direction.

"I think everyone's here" you said, stepping back just enough to let the racers go to their cars. "Make it worth my time."

That was the thing about nights like this. Nobody came just to watch cars go fast. They came for the gamble, the noise, the adrenaline spike that came when the flag dropped and the cars' tires screeched against the ground.

Conversations died out as more people moved toward the strip, their attention narrowing to that stretch of asphalt where reputations were built or shattered in seconds.

You lifted the bandana, holding it high in one hand, making it move just enough to catch the eye.

Somewhere behind the crowd, a siren wailed in the distance, but no one flinched. Everyone knew the police kept their distance from Harbor Street on race nights. Too many fast cars, too many witnesses willing to scatter like roaches at the first sign of flashing blue lights.

For now, the night belonged to the racers.

The engines’ noises intensified. The smell of gasoline and rubber made the air feel thick, heavy. Your eyes swept across the line: six cars, six egos, six pilots waiting to prove their worth.

When your arm would drop, the street would erupt. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun wasn’t just here to race. He was here to leave a mark.

The first time Yeonjun touched a steering wheel, he was twelve and the car wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, a ‘89 Nissan Skyline, paint faded to a dull blue. His father had left it sitting in the driveway for months after the engine gave out, saying he’d fix it "someday." Yet this day never came.

But one rainy afternoon, Yeonjun slipped behind the wheel while his dad was asleep inside the house, and let his small hands rest on the leather wrap that was worn smooth by time.

He didn’t turn the key that day. Didn’t even try. He knew it wouldn't work. But in that moment, staring over the dashboard at the street, he felt something click in his chest. A promise, unspoken and unformed, that one day he’d make the road his own. He would become a pilot.

His father, a man who worked double shifts at the docks, wasn’t much for gentle life lessons. But he did believe in two things: working with your hands and knowing how to handle a car.

By the time Yeonjun was fifteen, his father had taught him how to strip an engine down to its bones and put it back together without losing a single bolt. He learned about compression ratios, torque curves and the tricky science of getting a carburetor to hum just right.

What he didn’t learn from his father, he picked up from the streets. His neighborhood was a mix of cracked sidewalks, graffiti-tagged brick walls, and dim alleys that smelled of fried food and sweat. Nights there weren’t quiet. Guys would gather at corners, bragging about who could hit the straightaway fastest, swapping out mufflers in the dark. Older kids would lean against their beat-up Hondas, engines humming low.

Yeonjun started small, fixing bikes for spare cash, running errands for the older drivers, changing tires for beer he wasn’t even allowed to drink. But the first time someone let him behind the wheel, he knew. The rush didn’t come from winning. It came from the feeling of absolute control in chaos, how the world blurred and moved but the car stayed under his hands, sharp and controled.

By seventeen, he’d earned a spot in small races. By nineteen, he had his first car, an old, dented Toyota Supra that he rebuilt from the chassis up in a friend’s garage. Every paycheck from his part-time job at a body shop went into that car. Better brakes. Better suspension. A turbo that thrummed.

And then he got his nickname, the Fox. He didn’t choose the name. Someone in the crowd called him that one night after he cut through traffic so fast they swore he vanished. It stuck.

But Yeonjun wasn’t just chasing speed for the thrill of it.

Three years ago, his father was killed in a shipping yard accident. The payout from the company was a joke, a small settlement that barely covered the funeral. He had to sell the Skyline, his father’s car, to cover debts. That loss burned deeper than he ever admitted. The Skyline wasn’t just a car, it was the symbol of everything his father had taught him, the dream they’d built together.

The underground scene gave him a way to take something back.

The races paid, sometimes enough to cover bills, sometimes more. But for him, every run, every win, was another step toward a bigger goal: buying back that Skyline. He knew where it was, a collector uptown who treated it like a display piece, all shine and no heart. One day, he’d come up with cash in hand and take it home. Not because it was worth much to anyone else, but because it was worth everything to him. The legacy of his father.

Until then, he was building a reputation. A name that made other racers think twice before stepping up. He ran clean, but he ran hard, taking risks others wouldn’t. And though he’d been called reckless more times than he could count, Yeonjun knew the truth: every move he made was calculated. Every turn, every press on the gas pedal was all part of the plan.

Which brought him to Harbor Street tonight.

This wasn’t just any run. Word on the street was that one of the racers here, a guy named Rivas, was backed by serious money. Big-time sponsors didn’t show up at Harbor Street without a reason, and if Yeonjun could take him down in front of this crowd, the sponsors would change favourite.

As he leaned against his silver car, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred but he was looking for one in particular.bThe flag girl. You weren't just there to wave the start, you were the unspoken authority. Racers deferred to you, crowds respected your space.

Tonight, when you had told him he was late, there’d been no bite to your words, just a spark. A challenge. He liked challenges.

A sudden honk snapped him out of his thoughts. The other five racers for the night were already at the line, engines thruming.

Yeonjun took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and buckled his belt. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the leather grip.

He glanced at you one last time. Under the flicker of the streetlight, your eyes met his. His fingers tightened on the wheel. The night was his. He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

You stepped forward now, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Your jacket shifted with the wind, the bandana tied around your wrist fluttering. The crowd’s murmurs dipped in volume as you approached; like always, you pulled focus without asking for it.

"You six ready?" You called, your voice sharp and clear above the growls of the engines.

Yeonjun just smirked. "Ready enough" he said, his voice carrying across the line.

You arched an eyebrow at him, your lips curving slightly. "Ready enough? That’s not exactly confidence."

"Oh, I’ve got confidence" Yeonjun replied, leaning slightly out the open driver’s side window. "Question is, do you?"

That earned him a few raised brows in the crowd, a couple of muffled chuckles. You tilted you head, giving him that assessing look. "Me?" You said. "I’m not the one racing."

"No" he said slowly, his smirk deepening "but you’re the one I’m betting with."

That got the crowd’s full attention. A ripple of excitement moved through them, bets between racers and flag girls weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. And never in front of this many witnesses.

You crossed your arms. "Betting with me? And what exactly do you think I’d be betting on?"

Yeonjun's eyes didn’t leave yours. "On me. On whether I win this race."

You gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. "You think I’m gonna put my money down on you just because you showed up late with a shiny car and a cocky grin?"

"Not money" he said, his tone mischievous. "If I win, I get a kiss."

The silence after that was thick enough to cut.

The crowd reacted a half-second later: cheers, whistles, a few shouted "Ohhh!"s like kids in a schoolyard fight. Even the other pilots shaked their heads like Yeonjun had just signed his own humiliation papers.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You just stared at him, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. "A kiss" you repeated, flat, like you were testing the weight of the word.

Yeonjun shrugged lightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Just one. Right here at the line, in front of everyone."

Your gaze lingered on him, then slid briefly to the other five racers, then back again. The corner of your mouth curved up. "And what happens if you lose?"

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. "You tell me."

You stepped closer to his car now. You leaned down just enough so your eyes were level with his, the crowd going dead quiet again in anticipation.

"If you lose" you said slowly "you’re banned from my line for a month. No racing where I wave the flag. You can hit every other street, but not mine."

It was a harsh punishment, Harbor Street had some of the biggest races in the underground. Missing a month here would hurt his reputation. But his expression didn’t falter. "Deal" he said, without a blink.

You straightened up, one brow arched, a tiny shake of your head like you couldn’t decide if he was reckless or just insane. "Alright then, Fox. Win your kiss, if you can."

The crowd erupted at that, voices rising, people pulling out phones to record. The atmosphere shifted from tense anticipation to something almost electric. Now it wasn’t just a race. It was a spectacle, an entertainment, no matter how it ended.

This wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about proving something, to you, to the crowd, and maybe to himself.

You stepped back toward the center of the strip, raising the bandana high in one hand. The racers fell silent, engines rumbling low. The streetlight above them flickered, casting everything into brief darkness before returning to its orange glare.

Yeonjun wrapped his hands tighter around the wheel. His pulse slowed to that same steady rhythm he’d trained for, the calm before the chaos. He wasn’t thinking about the kiss anymore, or the risk of the ban, or even about the other racers' stupid grins.

You glanced at each driver in turn, your gaze sharp and assessing. You gave no sign of favoritism, no wink, no nod, just the impartial, commanding presence you were known for. And yet, when your eyes met Yeonjun's for that split second before the drop, there was something there. Not quite approval. Not quite doubt. But something.

The bandana twitched in the air. The engines roared higher, each driver holding their breath. The crowd’s noise built into a wall of sound, but inside Yeonjun's head there was only the hum of the machine and the steady thud of his own heartbeat.

When your arm came down, the world would explode. And if Yeonjun had his way, it would end with your lips on his.

The bandana dropped.

Yeonjun's surged forward, the turbo spooling in a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar.

First gear, Ghost held it just long enough for the revs to crest, then slammed the clutch, shifted, and felt the pull intensify. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the strip opened up ahead.

Launch was good. The first concurent is close. A second falling back. Focus.

The first hundred meters vanished under his wheels. The wind shoved against his face through the open window, carrying the hot tang of burning rubber.

The sponsors' favourite was only few meters from him. The man was quick, Yeonjun had expected that, but he was also aggressive.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch. He held the inside line, knowing the curve was coming up fast, a subtle bend in the asphalt that looked harmless but could bleed speed from anyone careless enough to take it wide.

They hit the curve almost neck-and-neck. Yeonjun downshifted, feeling the chassis bite into the turn, the tires screeching against the road. He hugged the inside, just close enough to the curb that he could feel the ripple of uneven pavement under the tires.

Two hundred meters.

The finish line markers glowed faintly ahead. The crowd at that end of the strip was already leaning forward, phones out, ready to record the moment.

His oponent made his move. He cut into Yeonjun's lane, forcing him toward the edge of the asphalt where it dipped into uneven gravel. A rookie might have flinched. Yeonjun didn't. He kept his foot planted, steering with small, sharp inputs, the car skirting the edge of the road. The uneven ground spat pebbles up against his undercarriage, the sound sharp like snapping bones, but the car held.

One hundred meters.

For a heartbeat, three cars were aligned, filling the width of the strip like a wall of noise and speed. Yeonjun's chest tightened, adrenaline flooding every nerve. This was the moment. The one every racer lived for, the chaos, the uncertainty, the knife’s edge between victory and loss.

He dropped the hammer. His oponents hesitated just a fraction, and in that fraction, Ghost pulled ahead.

Fifty meters.

The finish line was just ahead, the painted white marks glowing like a beacon. The noise was deafening now, engine scream, wind roar, crowd shouting, but in Yeonjun's head it was all a muted hum under the pounding of his heartbeat.

Twenty meters.

He finally passed the finish line, first.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, whistles, and shouted disbelief. He let the car roll to a stop near the end of the strip, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. His hands stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, feeling the heat in the leather, the vibration still running through his fingers.

Then he smiled. The kiss was his. And something told him you were going to make him work for it, even now.

Yeonjun sat back in the seat, letting the adrenaline pulse through him. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, thick. Tires hissed as they cooled, and sparks from minor friction flickered briefly in the streetlights’ glow.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, cheers, whistles, and shouts crashing over the strip. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the moment. Some of the onlookers jumped onto the low walls that lined the street to get a better view. The energy was infectious, electric enough to make your hair stand on end and your heart race. He felt it in every nerve.

The sponsors' favourite slammed the door with a thud that resonated. He stalked toward the crowd, voice raised in frustration "You got lucky!" But no one listened. The cheers had already shifted entirely toward the victor.

You stepped toward him. Your arms crossed at first, lips pressed in a straight line, bandana still in hand, but your eyes betrayed you amusement. They flicked over Yeonjun, measuring him again. He had that look, a mix of cocky satisfaction and restrained energy that suggested he wasn’t just pleased with winning. He was savoring it.

You took a step closer. "So… you actually won...I would've never believed it" you said, your voice carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of challenge in your tone. "I guess that means…"

Yeonjun pushed himself off the car smoothly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and walked toward you. He let his smirk stretch across his face, the kind that teased without giving anything away. "Guess it does."

The crowd stepped back slightly, sensing the tension between them. A collective hush fell over the assembly, the air thick with expectation. Some of the racers’ friends nudged each other, some laughed nervously, and a few young fans practically bounced in place, unable to contain their excitement.

Yeonjun stopped in front of you, close enough that you would smell his cologne. He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with those teasing eyes.

"You know" he murmured, almost inaudible to anyone but you "I could’ve let you off the hook. Made it quick. But where’s the fun in that?"

Your lips twitched, almost a smile, almost irritation, but you didn’t back down. You raised the bandana slightly, a subtle signal that you were still in control of this game. "Oh, so this is fun for you, huh?"

"Very" Yeonjun said, his smirk widening as he leaned just a fraction closer. "But only if you make it worth it"

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around them. The crowd’s noise dimmed in the background, the hum of tires and engines fading behind the rush of tension. He could see the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your jaw tensed before relaxing slightly and the subtle shift in your stance that suggested you weren't going to flinch.

Then, slowly, you let the bandana drop from your hand and tilted your head just enough to meet his smirk with your own. The gesture wasn’t submissive, it was deliberate, challenging, teasing back in its own way.

Yeonjun leaned in closer, and the crowd collectively leaned forward with him, like magnets being drawn to the inevitable. The street was lined with eager faces, flashlights, phone screens and neon reflections dancing across the asphalt. Every detail, the hum of cooling engines, the faint smell of fuel, the distant city traffic, faded away.

And then, finally, your lips met. It was brief, deliberate, but still he brushed his tongue against your lips, just enough to confirm the bet had been fulfilled. Yeonjun pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, smirk never leaving. The kind of smirk that said I know, I won, and I’m enjoying every second of making you acknowledge it.

You blinked once, then twice, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, but there was still fire in your gaze. You stepped back, crossing your arms again, but Yeonjun could see the faint blush creeping on your cheeks.The crowd erupted anew. Whistles, cheers, and laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street. Some of the racers’ friends hooted, others groaned in mock envy, and a few of the younger fans cheered wildly. The energy was euphoric, chaotic, and perfectly alive.

Yeonjun leaned casually against the car again, still smirking, voice low and teasing. "See? Not so bad."

You shot him a glare, though the curve of your lips betrayed a trace of amusement. "Don’t let it get to your head" you warned.

"Too late" he replied lightly, shrugging with mock innocence. "Already in my head."

There was a pause as the two of you regarded each other, the aftershocks of the race lingering in every corner of the street. It wasn’t just the victory or the kiss, it was the electricity between you, the thrill of risk and tease intertwined.

Yeonjun finally stepped back fully, still grinning. "I’ll let you keep your pride… for now. I know how big it is for you to have a reputation."

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t reply. The tension between you hung like a charged wire, buzzing in the night air.

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Yeonjun whispered to you "Not bad for a first race with me on your strip" he said casually, his tone teasing but confident, letting his smirk linger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. "You’re unbelievable" you muttered, though there was no real bite in your words.

"Maybe" he admitted. "But you liked it."

Your gaze flicked away briefly, toward the cooling crowd, then back to him. "Maybe" you said.

He stepped closer, letting the distance shrink just enough for the tension to go up. "Look" he began, voice low "I know I might’ve been… a little distracting earlier." The smirk returned, teasing, not arrogant but deliberate. "So, I thought I’d make it easy for you. No games. Just one thing before we call it a night."

You raised a brow, skeptical but curious. "One thing?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, slightly worn paper. He handed it to you with a casual flourish, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every reaction. "My number. Text me. Call me. Or, if you prefer, I’ll wait for the next race."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the card, a slight spark, tiny, almost imperceptible, flickering in that contact. You examined it quickly, the handwriting on it clean but personal.

"I don’t know" you said, letting a teasing smile play at your lips. "You’re a little… much."

"Good" he said, voice softening just enough to feel intimate without breaking the playful edge. "At least I'm not boring"

You glanced down at the paper again, then back up. There was still fire there, a spark that hadn’t died in the chaos of the race or the teasing of the kiss.

"Maybe" you said again, softer this time.

Yeonjun grinned, that same smirk that had driven you half-mad earlier, but now tempered with a hint of warmth. "That’s all I need. Maybe." He stepped back just a fraction, giving you space, letting the moment linger. The crowd was gone now, a few stragglers drifting off with murmurs of the night’s excitement, leaving the two of you in a bubble of quiet anticipation.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the road.

"I’ll hold you to that" you said finally, slipping the card into your pocket. Your fingers lingered on it just a moment longer, as if weighing the decision, teasing him back without a word.

"You better" Yeonjun replied, straightening up, the smirk never leaving, but now carrying a promise rather than just teasing.

You exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement, challenge and… something else that made him grin even wider. "Alright" you said, finally turning to leave. "See you… maybe."

"Maybe" He echoed "by the way, my real name is Yeonjun"

"Yeonjun? Nice name"

With that you walked away, leaving him alone near his car.

The taglist is open!!

Taglist: @yeonggum @tttubatttu @skyearby @frvnbeom @luxynjun @beaabz @starsmew

[yourfavtangerine]

Red Lights ~ part 2

Pairing : Bang Chan x reader x Hyunjin

Wc : ~3.7k

Genre : smut, threesome, established relationship, idol AU

Warnings : smut, threesome, light BDSM, blindfold, bondage, sensation play (feather, chopsticks), orgasm denial, double penetration, unprotected sex, anal

Summary : After last time, Chan and you decide to explore even more the possibilities bringing Hyunjin in your bed can offer.

If you didn't read part one it's here !

A/N : Finally finishing it! It took me so much time but at least it's finished now. There won't be a part 3 because i don't have inspiration anymore.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about it. The way Hyunjin’s voice had dipped when he whispered orders against your throat. The way Chan had watched, possessive but proud, before finally joining, smirking as you came undone between them. You hadn’t stopped replaying it in your head, in the shower, in bed, even when you were supposed to be working. And judging by the way Chan had been watching you lately, hungry, knowing, you weren’t the only one stuck in the memory.

It was four days later when it happened again. It started quietly. A lazy evening at Chan’s apartment, curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, legs across his lap. He was scrolling through something on his phone, a new song probably, while his other hand rubbed soft circles against your inner thigh. It should’ve been casual. Comfortable. But the look in his eyes wasn’t casual at all.

"Hyunjin’s stopping by" he said, voice low, like he wasn’t just making small talk. Your pulse jumped. You glanced at him. "Oh?"

Chan didn’t look up from his phone, but you could see the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "He said he left his sunglasses here last time. Figured we’d invite him for dinner. Catch up." Catch up. You swallowed. "Dinner, huh?" Now he looked at you, fully. "Unless you want something else." Your mouth went dry. He was teasing you, testing if you'd ask for it or not.

Chan's hand slid a little higher under the blanket, fingertips grazing the bare skin beneath. His voice dropped. "Unless you’ve been thinking about it too." You didn’t answer, not with words. Just met his gaze and held it, a gaze full of hunger. That was enough. He leaned in, brushing his mouth over yours. "Use your words, baby."

You exhaled shakily. "I want him. I want to do it again"

"I know. I want it too." Chan’s kiss deepened, then pulled back, leaving you dizzy with need. He ran his thumb over your lips, almost possessive. "But I want you first just to myself."

And that's how you ended up fucking on the couch for 30 minutes. He first made you cum on his mouth until you begged him to let you rest and then pounded you so good that you squirted all over him.

By the time Hyunjin arrived, the tension in the apartment was thick enough to choke on. You had changed into something subtle but deliberate, just a black ribbed tank and soft cotton shorts. Not lingerie. Not obvious. But you knew what it did to both of them. You knew exactly what kind of attention it invited.

Hyunjin noticed the second he stepped in. "Really?" he said to Chan, raising an eyebrow. "You invite me over while she’s dressed like that?"

Chan smirked, shutting the door behind him. "It's no big deal."

"Bullshit." He looked at you next, slower, darker. "Hi."

Your breath caught. "Hi."

They both moved casually, but you could see it in the way they looked at you, barely contained heat under a cool front. A few beers were opened. Dinner ordered. Small talk made. But it was all foreplay, just a masquerade to build up the tension and need.

You were sitting on the floor now, between them. Chan behind you on the couch, his legs spread so you could rest against his chest. Hyunjin across from you on the rug, leaning back on one arm, his eyes never leaving yours. Chan’s hands were on your thighs, his voice low in your ear. "Still want this?" You nodded, but he tsked softly. "Words." "Yes i need it. Please."

Hyunjin’s tongue wet his bottom lip. "Safe word?"

"Yellow" you murmured. "Red if I want everything to stop."

"Good girl" Chan said, sliding his hands up slowly beneath your shirt. Hyunjin sat forward, kneeling now, his eyes flicking to Chan. "You want to start her off?"

Chan nodded. "I want to watch first."

They worked in sync, again. Chan peeled your shirt over your head while Hyunjin tugged your shorts down slow, teasing, lips brushing your knees. You were bare in seconds, breath shaky, skin prickling with anticipation as they laid you back against the couch cushions.

Hyunjin reached into the nearby bag he’d brought and pulled out a soft silk blindfold.

"Trust me?" he asked.

You nodded. "You already asked that last time"

He wrapped it gently around your eyes, blocking out the room, and the loss of vision made every sound louder, every brush of air against your skin sharper.

You felt their hands next. One on your ankle. One on your ribs. You didn’t know whose was whose.

A soft drag of something feathery down your stomach. A warm mouth on your inner thigh.You arched instinctively.

"Stay still" Chan said, voice low and commanding near your ear. "We haven’t even started yet."

The blindfold shifted gently against your skin, every subtle movement sharpening your awareness. You could no longer see their faces, but you could feel them. Warm breath, a subtle touch of fingertips, the dip in the couch cushion beside you when one of them moved closer.

Someone’s mouth closed around your nipple. Your lips parted in a gasp, body jerking upward instinctively, but hands steadied you fast.

"Easy, baby" Chan’s voice warned, firm and smooth. "Stay where we put you."

Feathers traced your inner thigh again. It felt maddening. Light. Teasing. You tried to chase the sensation, hips shifting, but that only earned you a quiet chuckle from Hyunjin.

"Already squirming" he murmured, voice lower now. "You missed me."

You heard the slick slide of something unspooling, a rope, maybe? And then the soft press of silk around your wrists.

"Tie her up?" Hyunjin asked.

Chan hummed. "She likes it. Don’t you, baby?"

You nodded, barely managing the words. "Yes."

"Color?"

"Green."

Chan pressed a kiss to your temple as Hyunjin guided your wrists gently above your head. The silk wasn’t tight, just enough to restrain, to remind you who was in control. You tugged once, breath catching when they held fast. God, you were already dripping.

"You look so pretty like this" Hyunjin whispered, brushing his knuckles down your ribcage. "Can’t see us. Can’t touch us. Just waiting for what we give you."

You whimpered when something, cool, smooth, dragged up your thigh.Not a feather this time.Metal. Chopsticks. You arched, thighs clenching, and Chan’s hand slid beneath your back to hold you down.

"So responsive" he murmured.

"She’s soaked." Hyunjin groaned softly. "She gonna come before we even fuck her?"

"No" Chan said, and you felt his smirk, you knew he was smirking. "Not until we allow her to. She’s gonna beg."

Your legs were spread, thighs trembling, and still they hadn’t even touched your core.

The chopsticks danced across your lower stomach, across your chest, and back again. A warm mouth sucked marks into your inner thigh, Hyunjin’s, you guessed, by the feeling of his tongue and Chan’s voice soothed you above it all, low and calm yet cruel.

"You’re doing so well, baby. Taking it all. Just like I knew you would."

Then finally, finally, fingers grazed your folds. You moaned loud, head tipping back, wrists pulling against the silk. The friction was maddening.

"You want more?" Hyunjin asked.

"Yes" you breathed.

"How much more?"

"All of it. Please..."

That was all it took.

Two mouths, two sets of hands, working in sync, teasing and tasting and slipping inside. You lost track of who was doing what. A tongue licked up your slit. A hand held your jaw and tilted your face for a kiss you couldn’t see coming. Someone bit your neck, while another dragged a finger along your entrance, slow and slick.

You were unraveling. Crying out. Grinding helplessly against every sensation they gave you. And just when your body began to tighten, breath catching in your chest, everything stopped. You whined, frustrated and aching.

"No, please..."

Chan’s voice again, smooth and calm. "Not yet."

Hyunjin kissed your stomach. "You’ll come when we say."

"Good girl. Let’s see how long that lasts." You hear a soft laugh. Then hands, Hyunjin’s, you were sure, brushed up your ankles. You shifted slightly, feeling the soft sheets beneath you, cool against heated skin.

"She remembers the rules" Chn said.

Hyunjin leaned closer, his breath on your thigh. "Say them."

You swallowed, already trembling. "I don’t cum without permission. I don’t touch myself. I say stop if I need to."

Chan's hand cupped your chin. "And you trust us?"

"Yes" you breathed.

"Then relax." The words settled into you like a switch flipping. A low hum of anticipation began to build in your chest. You surrendered.

The blindfold remained and with it, the loss of sight turned every sound, every touch, into its own kind of pleasure. Hyunjin was the first to move again. His fingers brushed along your calves, then higher, featherlight. You gasped as they danced along the insides of your thighs. Just enough to make you ache, but not enough to satisfy.

Then he stopped.

A moment passed. Another.

You whimpered. "Please…"

Chan's voice came closer. "Already begging?"

You nodded, helplessly. "Can’t help it."

The mattress dipped as he climbed onto it, settling beside you. His lips grazed your cheek, then your jaw. He bit, gently, tugging before soothing the spot with his tongue. His fingers found your nipple, circling, teasing. Not enough pressure to be kind. Just enough to drive you mad.

Then Hyunjin returned with something soft. The feather again. You let out a strangled sigh as the silk strands brushed your stomach. They danced in spirals across your hips, then lower, closer, without ever quite reaching your core. Your body arched involuntarily, a pulse of need in your belly. Chan kissed you slowly, keeping you grounded while Hyunjin traced maddening patterns along the inside of your thighs.

You were already shaking, breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

"She’s wet already" Hyunjin said, his voice pleased.

"Dripping." Chan chuckled. "She wants it too much. She’ll need to earn it."

Then he took your nipple between his fingers and pinched, just hard enough to make you cry out and gasp again when he released.

"Color, baby?" he asked softly, voice near your ear.

"Green" you whispered. Still aching. Still wanting.

The feather disappeared, and fingers replaced it. Hyunjin's fingers, firm and slow, parting you, circling your clit with infuriating lightness. Not even pressure, just suggestion.

You whined in frustration.

"Not enough?" he teased.

"No. Please…"

Chan's hand moved to your throat, not squeezing, just resting. Reminding you who owned your pleasure.

"You’ll get more when we say."

You nodded, pressing into his hand. Hyunjin leaned up and whispered against your stomach. "She’s going to beg so pretty tonight."

Then everything stopped.

No fingers. No mouths. No feather. Just silence.

You twisted slightly, trying to follow them by sound, but the silence was thick.

Then you felt something new, cool against your lips.

"Open" Chan said. You parted your mouth. It was his fingers, slick with lube, slowly pushing past your lips. You sucked obediently, coating them while your breath quickened.

"You’re doing so well" he murmured. The fingers slid free, and you were left aching for more.

Then he removed the blindfold. You blinked, vision adjusting to the soft light. Chan was kneeling beside you, shirtless, dark eyes burning with desire. Hyunjin stood at the foot of the bed, bare-chested, holding something between his fingers: a slim vibrating wand.

Your pulse jumped.

"We’re not going to fuck you yet" Chan said, brushing hair from your face. "Not until you’re desperate. Not until your body’s screaming for it."

Hyunjin smiled. "We want to watch you break first."

You nodded, breathless. "Please…"

Chan leaned in, whispering into your ear. "Good. Because we’re just getting started."

The wand buzzed softly in Hyunjin's hand, an insistent, low hum that made your stomach flutter just hearing it. Chan brushed the last bit of hair from your face and kissed your forehead, then your lips. "Remember your safe word?"

You nodded. "Yes. Red."

His voice softened, low and controlled. "Good. Use it if you need. Otherwise, you’re ours."

Your breath hitched. Heat coiled low in your belly. Hyunjin climbed onto the bed at your feet, slipping between your legs. He moved slowly, no rush, just certainty. The kind of calm that drove you wild, because he knew how to unravel you.

Chan stayed beside your head, leaning back on one arm. He watched you, fingers stroking absently along your throat, your chest, down between your breasts.

Then the wand touched your thigh. You jolted. The sensation was sudden but brief. Hyunjin grinned, dragging the toy upward in slow, torturous circles. Never where you needed it. Just close enough to make your legs twitch.

Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "You don’t get to cum. But we’re going to make you want to so badly you’ll cry for it."

And they did. Hyunjin placed the wand flat against your clit for one sharp, humming second, just enough to make you gasp, then pulled it away.

You arched. "Fuck, please more..."

Chan's hand closed gently around your throat again, grounding you. "What do you say?"

"Please… please let me cum…"

Hyunjin smirked. "Not yet."

He lowered the wand again, holding it this time, firm, steady, while his other hand teased along your entrance, slipping two fingers inside with ease. Your entire body jerked. The sensation, pressure inside, vibration outside, sent a tidal wave of pleasure rushing up your spine. You whimpered, already close, hips trying to chase the rhythm.

Chan kissed you again, soft, slow, like he wasn’t about to break you apart. You sobbed into his mouth "Please, I’m gonna...Chris, I..."

"Don’t" he said sharply. "You’ll hold it."

Your body trembled violently. Hyunjin pulled the wand away just in time. His fingers left you empty and aching. You let out a cry, more frustration than anything. He climbed up your body and kissed your lips, still damp with your own desire. "You’re doing so well" he whispered. "But we’re not done with your mouth."

Before you could fully catch your breath, Chan shifted onto his knees beside your head, pants undone. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately. Hyunjin guided you up into a seated position, pulling you between them.

"You want to be used, baby?" Chan asked.

You nodded quickly. "Yes. I want it."

Hyunjin slipped behind you, his chest pressed to your back, lips at your neck. His hands cupped your breasts from behind, thumbs flicking your nipples.

Chan gripped your chin. "Then show us, baby"

You opened your mouth willingly. He slid into you slowly, groaning as your lips closed around him. Hyunjin held you up as you sucked, deep, eager, desperate to please. His fingers teased your nipples, your stomach, then lower, spreading your legs again so he could touch you, slow and slick and deliberate.

Chan's hand rested lightly on your head, guiding your movements while his eyes burned into yours. "You’re perfect like this" he groaned. "On your knees, mouth full, dripping down your thighs."

Hyunjin whispered filth into your ear, fingers rubbing your clit in slow, tight circles, making your legs tremble as you sucked harder, tears forming in the corners of your eyes from effort and overstimulation.

Just as you neared the edge again, Hyunjin stopped. "No, no, please..." you gasped, letting Chan slip from your mouth as your body shook.

Hyunjin kissed the spot beneath your ear. "You don’t cum until we say, sweetheart."

Chan wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. "You can take more. One more round of denial."

He kissed you then, deep and messy, filled with possessive heat and love. Then Hyunjin laid you back again, this time on your side, leg bent and lifted by a pillow. He lay behind you, spooning close, pressing kisses along your spine. Chan kneeled in front of you, watching.

"You ready to be filled, baby?" Hyunjin whispered, the tip of his cock sliding teasingly between your folds.

"Yes" you breathed. "I need it."

Chan's hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. "Then tell us who owns your body."

"You do" you said, eyes locked on his. "Both of you."

Hyunjin slid in slowly, inch by inch, groaning against your skin. You gasped at the stretch, at the way your body welcomed him with ease, already soaked from all their teasing. Chan kissed you as Hyunjin started to move, slow and deep. His rhythm was steady, hips flush against your ass with each thrust.

Then Chan slid two fingers into your mouth again. You sucked without hesitation, coating them, moaning around them as Hyunjin fucked you from behind.

When he pulled his fingers free, he rubbed gentle circles against your clit again.Your whole body tightened.

"You’re gonna cum" Chan whispered. "But not until I’m inside you too."

Your eyes went wide. Your breath caught. Hyunjin's rhythm slowed as Chan moved, positioning himself in front of you. "Deep breaths, baby"

Hyunjin murmured. "Let go. Let us in."

And you did.

The heat in the room thickened, charged with a delicious tension that wrapped around you like a second skin. You were stretched perfectly between them, two sets of hands and mouths worshipping your body in harmony, driving you to the edge you’d been denied for so long.

Hyunjin's hips pressed into yours from behind, steady and sure, each thrust deep and measured, sliding inside you with a delicious fullness. His fingers curled around your hip, nails digging lightly, grounding you in this moment.

Chan moved in front, his warm breath tickling your neck as he kissed along your collarbone, trailing down to your shoulder. His hand settled on your other hip, thumb tracing lazy circles that set your nerves in fire. When he positioned himself at your entrance, warm and hard, you felt every nerve in your body flare.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Chan pushed inside you. The stretch was exquisite, intense, overwhelming, but utterly right. Your body trembled under their weight, every muscle stretching and tightening as they filled you completely. The sensations swirled through you: the slick heat of Hyunjin behind, the solid warmth of Chan in front, the steady pressure of their hands holding you exactly where they wanted.

You gasped, your fingers curling into the sheets as the world narrowed to the feeling of being utterly consumed.

Hyunjin's hips began to move, slow and powerful. Each thrust pressed you forward, pressing you into Chan's cock, who responded by pulling back just enough to build tension between each movement. Their rhythm was a perfect dance, two bodies moving in sync to consume you.

Chan's lips found your ear, his voice low and fierce. "You’re mine" he growled. "Every inch, every sound."

Hyunjin whispered against your neck, teeth grazing your skin in featherlight bites. "So tight, so perfect. You belong to us."

Your body arched involuntarily, every nerve ending alight as their words washed over you. The combined sensations of deep penetration, steady rhythm, and their heat against your skin created a storm of pleasure you couldn’t contain.

Chan's hand moved from your hip to cup your breast, kneading gently while his thumb brushed over your nipple. The contrast between firm pressure and delicate teasing made your breath hitch.

Hyunjin's hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. He rubbed slow, precise circles, sending sharp waves of sensation that made your legs tremble. You were trembling now, on the edge, caught between overwhelming pleasure and desperate need. Your chest heaved as shallow, ragged breaths escaped your lips.

Chan's voice softened, but there was an edge of command still in it. "You’re going to cum for us. When we say."

Hyunjin increased the pressure on your clit, hips pistoning harder, and Chan's strokes deepened, sliding in and out with a slow, deliberate pace.

Your hands gripped the sheets tighter, nails digging into the fabric as the pleasure built to an unbearable crescendo.

"I’m close" you gasped. "Please...Chan...please let me cum…"

He kissed your lips, muffling your words. "Hold it. Just a little longer."

Hyunjin's fingers quickened their rhythm, his mouth moving to your shoulder, biting and sucking the sensitive skin there. You cried out, trembling, muscles clenched around both of them, desperate to surrender to the release you’d been denied so long.

Chan's hand left your breast, sliding down your stomach, tracing the curve of your hip as he pressed firmly into your side, grounding you. "Come for us, baby" he whispered, voice thick with need.

With one final, shuddering gasp, your body broke, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, trembling hands releasing the sheets as you clenched around them. Your cries were muffled against Chan's mouth as he kissed you fiercely, his thrusts becoming urgent.

Hyunjin groaned, his hips slamming forward hard as he spilled inside you with a guttural shout. Chan followed seconds later, releasing himself deep within you as he held you tight.

For a moment, the world stopped, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the beating of three hearts joined in the aftermath of passion.

Chan rolled you gently onto your side, cradling you against his chest. Hyunjin curled behind you, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other stroking your hair softly.

You were trembling still, your skin slick with sweat, your mind spinning. Chan pressed kisses to your temple, his voice soft. "You were incredible, my love."

Hyunjin's lips brushed your shoulder. "So beautiful. So perfect."

Your eyelids fluttered closed as their warmth surrounded you. After the intensity, this quiet closeness felt like a balm.

Chan reached for a warm cloth, wiping the sweat and slick from your body with slow, careful strokes. They dressed you in Chan's oversized shirt, soft against your skin, and helped you settle between them on the bed.

Chan's hand traced lazy circles along your back while Hyunjin played with your hair, fingers threading through the strands.

"You’ve been perfect" Chan murmured. "And I love you" Your heart swelled, and you smiled sleepily. The warmth of their bodies, the depth of their care, the way they made you feel cherished and desired, it was overwhelming.

"Thank you" you whispered.

As you drifted toward sleep, wrapped in their arms, you felt a deep, abiding love for your boyfriend and a hunger for the next time, when you’d surrender to them again.

Taglist : @minniesverse @asahisimpnation @yaorzu-blog @gaymushroomfrogs @tsunderelino @n14mh-star @notbaldy420 @hwangjoanna @hvlplvss @bitchyprincesscollector @gracefulsakura98 @loonybunny1 @anisahfalcon @krayzieestay @cherie31 @jellyfishmushroom @dragon03138

[yourfavtangerine]

Red lights ~

Pairing : Bang Chan x reader x Hyunjin

Wc : ~5.5k

Genre : smut with plot, idol AU, threesome, established relationship, BDSM

Warnings : MDNI !! threesome, mmf, sub/dom dynamics, temperature play, light BDSM, power dynamics, bondage, unprotected sex, oral m receiving

Summary : when your boyfriend propose to explore sexual possibilities with a third person you're not sure. But you trust him so you give it a try, and it end up being the best decision of your life.

A/N: finally i finished this fic! I started it like 2 weeks ago and wrote so many other stuff in the meantime. Finally i got the motivation to write the end! I got this idea while watching the Red Lights mv (obviously) and just wanted to make a fic out of it!

The red lights were always his idea.

Not just the dim glow from the LED strip along the ceiling, though that alone gave the room an infinity of aesthetic possibilities. No, it was everything about them. The atmosphere, the color, the meaning of each color.

Red meant control. Red meant sex, hard sex. Red meant desire, both yours and his, entwined like your bodies.

You were wrapped in it now, tangled in silk sheets, wrists still faintly red from the last session an hour ago? Two? You’d lost track. You always lost track of time under Chan’s hands.

He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweaty skin glowing a deep wine red in the low light. His back faced you as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced together.

Something was wrong, he looked thoughtful, pensive.

You shifted under the covers. "That was good" you said softly, throat still sore from all your moans. "You okay? You seem...worried"

Chan glanced back over his shoulder, a soft smile on his lips, but not quite real. "Yeah. Just thinking."

You knew him too well to believe that answer. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t new. You’d noticed it more often than not in the past few weeks. Not in how he touched you, if anything, he had grown more intense, more commanding, more needy and desperate.

But afterward…he always pulled away slightly. Like he was holding something back, keeping something to himself.

"About what?" you asked, sitting up and letting the sheet fall, pooling around your waist, your perky nipples on display just for him. His eyes dropped down, darkened with instinct, but he didn’t move, didn't give in.

"…Us" he said eventually. "The way things have been."

You tilted your head, unsure, doubt creeping up in your mind. "You’re not bored, are you?" you ask, scared.

Chan’s head whipped around at that. "God, no. Never. I'll never get bored of you. That’s the problem, actually."

You blinked twice. "…What?"

He turned toward you fully now, his expression unreadable even for you, like he was weighing something impossible to say, something forbidden. "I think about you constantly. I get jealous when guys look at you, even if it’s just for a second. I dream about tying you up in front of mirrors, making you climax until you pass out and so much other things. I want more. I want to go further in our relationship, in our sexual journey. But I’ve hit a wall."

You swallowed. Your body responded to the heat in his voice even if your mind was still trying to catch up. "What kind of wall are you talking about ?"

Chan hesitated. Then his voice dropped. "I’ve been having… thoughts. Fantasies. About someone else in the room with us. Watching. Maybe touching. Maybe participating"

Your breath caught in your throat. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again. "Not because I’m not enough for you. Not because you’re not enough for me. None of that. But because I want to see you. See what you look like when someone else makes you fall apart. With my permission. Under my rules and yours."

The silence that followed was loud, deafening. You stared at him with wide eyes. "You want to watch me with someone else? You who are so easily jealous ?"

He nodded slowly. "Just one person. Someone I trust. Someone who knows me, knows us. Someone I know won’t cross boundaries. Someone trustworthy."

"And who do you have in mind?"

Chan looked up at you then. No hesitation in his eyes."Hyunjin."

You exhaled, pulse skipping. You’d noticed the way Hyunjin looked at you sometimes. Not hungry, just… curious. Lingering. Like he was memorising the way your lips moved, the way you leaned into Chan when you thought no one else saw. And now you knew he wasn’t the only one watching.

"I didn’t want to bring it up," Chan said. "But I can’t stop thinking about it. Not just you with him. Us. The three of us. Together. Exploring, discovering, experiencing. Safe in our bed and finding new ways to feel pleasure."

Your skin prickled with goosebumps. Presented this way, the idea seemed so appealing. "…What would it be like?"

Chan smirked. The real kind of smiles. The one he wore when he cuffed you to the bedframe or tied a blindfold on your eyes. "I’d have you tied. Maybe blindfolded. All nice and ready for us. He’d get to touch, taste, but only where I allow, when i allow. Maybe I’d guide his hands myself, show him what you like. Maybe I’d make you beg before you get anything. I don’t know yet. But i promise it will be so good your thighs will shake"

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, reacting to his words. He noticed. Of course he did, he always noticed everything about you. "I don’t want to scare you" he added. "If you say no, it ends here. Fantasy only, just a kink in my head. But I had to tell you, because i've been thinking about it a lot lately and i needed you to know."

Your throat felt dry. You reached for the water bottle on the nightstand but your hand trembled slightly so he gave it to you himself. "…And he’d say yes?" you whisper, not knowing if you want the answer to be yes or no.

Chan’s voice was low, confident. "If I asked? I think so."

You didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was: the idea didn’t disgust you. It thrilled you. Not because you didn’t love Chan. You did, deeply, more than you've ever loved anyone else. But because you trusted him completely. And if this was what he wanted, what he needed, then maybe it could be what you wanted to try too.

Your voice was quiet when you finally spoke. "Then ask him."

Chan’s eyes darkened like a flame catching oxygen. "Are you sure? I don't want to force you into anything."

You gave him a smile you knew drove him crazy. " We promised to always give a try, remember?"

He leaned in, one hand already reaching for your jaw, not tight, just a warm pressure, possessive and proud. "Oh, baby" he whispered. "You have no idea what you’ve just agreed to, but I'm so happy."

Hyunjin didn’t know why Chan asked to meet at his studio so late but something in his tone over the phone told him not to say no. It was nearly midnight now, the city shinning through the glass wall of the practice room. They were alone, Chan had made sure of it, choosing an hour where nobody's around.

Hyunjin leaned against the wall, hair damp from his last dance practice, chest rising and falling. He's wearing a sleeveless tee and black sweatpants.

Chan stood a few feet away, pacing, hands on his hips like he was preparing to make a confession or a mistake. Or both.

"You’re not dying, right?" Hyunjin finally asked, tone playful but still focused on the situation.

Chan stopped pacing and gave a short laugh. "No. Not dying."

"Then what the hell is going on? You’ve been tense for weeks. Everybody noticed it. You've been distracted."

There was a long pause. Then Chan met his eyes and said it, just like that, without beating around the bush "I want you to fuck my girlfriend."

Hyunjin blinked, once, twice. There was a beat of silence. "...excuse me, what?" he said, slowly, cautiously, as if unsure he had heard right.

Chan ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to stay grounded. "I mean it. I’ve talked to her. We’ve talked about boundaries. We’re solid as a couple. But I’ve been fantasizing about it, about bringing someone in. And when I imagined it, it was you. Only you. I think you fit as this third person."

Hyunjin stared, mouth parting slightly, trying to process the words. "You’re serious." he said in disbelief.

Chan nodded once. Hyunjin exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the wall. "Well… fuck."

Chan didn’t speak, couldn't. He let the silence stretch. Hyunjin’s mind raced. He thought about you, about the way you smiled at him during game nights at Felix's, how you always reached for Chan first, but your gaze would linger on him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

He’d thought about it before. Too many times. But he buried it deep down, thinking it was a line he’d never be allowed to cross. And now Chan was proposing him a threesome.

"Why me?" Hyunjin asked.

Chan’s expression softened. "Because you know me. You know how much I love her. You’d never push her. You’d respect the boundaries, and I trust you completely. That kind of thing...you don’t do it with strangers."

Hyunjin laughed once, low and short. "You really want to see it? See me touching her?"

"I want to orchestrate it" Chan said, stepping closer. "I want to guide it. Control it. Maybe even let go for once. I’ve always been the one in control with her. I want to see what happens when I pass this control to someone I trust."

The room felt heavy now, charged. "What does she think?" Hyunjin asked, voice quieter now.

"She said yes."

Hyunjin’s tongue darted across his lower lip. "Fuck, this is a bad idea"

"Look, if it’s weird, or if you’re not comfortable we can always forget this conversation ever happened..."

"I didn’t say no." Hyunjin cuts him.

Chan froze. Hyunjin tilted his head. "I’ve imagined it too. Her. You. The dynamic between you two, it’s magnetic. Like gravity. You're soulmates it's obvious, you're made for each other. Sometimes it’s hard not to get caught in it, not to hope having a love like that one day."

Chan didn’t expect the confession, and it showed on his face. His eyes wide open and mouth o shaped.

"But" Hyunjin added, "I don’t want to be the thing that messes you up. This only works if you stay solid. I'm not a couple breaker"

"We are" Chan said firmly. "We know our rules, our limits. Full honesty. Safe words. Aftercare. The whole thing, we're used to it. You’re not coming in to take anything away. You’re coming in to add to it, to be a plus to spice up things"

Hyunjin ran both hands through his hair now, looking somewhere between overwhelmed and overthinking "Fuck me." he muttered. "This is actually happening, i can't believe it"

"Only if you say yes."

"I want details" Hyunjin said. "Limits. What’s allowed. What’s not. I want everything clear. I don't want to cross lines"

Chan’s chest relaxed a little. This was exactly why he asked him, because Hyunjin is trustworthy and will always care about others and limits.

"Yeah. Absolutely. I’ll send you a message with everything tomorrow. Nothing happens until everyone’s on the same page and sure to do it."

Hyunjin looked at him, eyes still unreadable. "She trusts me that much?"

Chan smiled slightly. "No, she trusts me. And I trust you. That’s how this works."

Hyunjin chuckled, then nodded. "Alright" he said. "Let’s see what it leads us to."

It was only drinks.

That’s what you told yourself when you picked out your outfit for the night. Something casual, nice, but dangerously tempting. You were gonna be with Chan after all. And he had seen whole of you, naked, dressed, from sexy lingerie to giraffe onesie, he finds you beautiful anyway.

Your lips were glossed and red, but not too bold. You chose a light and floral perfume. The one Chan always said made him lose control.

Tonight, he wasn’t the only one who’d be paying attention. When Hyunjin knocked on the door, you felt your pulse racing. Chan answered it with a grin that hid all his excitement for the incoming night.

"Right on time."

"Wouldn’t miss it." Hyunjin replied smoothly, stepping inside the appartment. He smelled like musk and expensive cologne. His hair was slightly damp, combed back. He wore black, ripped jeans and a fitted shirt that left little to the imagination.

He wasn’t looking at Chan, he was looking at you. And not just with curiosity this time, with hunger. You swallowed hard.

"Hey" you said softly, trying to keep your tone easy but unable to hide your blushing.

"Hey." His gaze dipped once to your neck, collarbone, waist, hips, before it returned to your eyes. "You look…stunning"

Chan cleared his throat behind him. Hyunjin smiled mischievously. "Really, you're beautiful."

Chan raised an eyebrow. "We haven’t even poured drinks yet."

You chuckled, easing into the moment. The tension was there, electric, consuming, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not yet.

Chan moved to the kitchen island, pulling out glasses and openo a bottle of wine.

"So" Hyunjin said as he sat down beside you on the couch, "how real is all of this?"

You tilted your head. "It’s very real. This proposition is serious"

Chan handed you your glass, then Hyunjin’s, and took his own place on the other side of you. His thigh touching yours as a silent reassurance and promise of support.

"We’ve talked" you said. "A lot. This isn’t something we’re rushing into."

Hyunjin looked between you both. "You trust me that much?"

Chan nodded. "Enough to put her in your hands. Literally and figuratively."

Hyunjin’s eyes didn’t leave yours. "And you?" he asked you directly. "Do you trust me?"

The question landed somewhere deep in your stomach. His voice wasn’t flirtatious, there was no smirk this time. He needed to hear you say it.

"I trust Chan. And he trusts you." you said without hesitation.

A flicker of something passed over his face. Relief? Gratitude? Desire? He himself doesn't know.

He raised his glass, and you did the same.

"To this promising night" he said.

"To trust" Chan added.

You smiled. "And to experimenting in bed."

The glasses clinked.

The conversation drifted. Safe topics. Music, old stories, tour nightmares. But beneath every word was hidding the sexual tension. The way Chan’s hand rested on your thigh and slid higher when Hyunjin leaned in to tell a story. The way Hyunjin’s gaze lingered when you laughed and licked wine from your lip. The casual way his fingers brushed yours when reaching for the bottle, acting like it wasn't on purpose.

At one point, you excused yourself to the bathroom just to breathe. You looked at yourself in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed. You were burning, but not from nerves. From anticipation.

When you returned, the music had changed, slower now, moodier. Something of Chan’s private playlist, of his bedroom playlist. You recognized it instantly. Red Lights. The air felt heavier.

"Everything okay?" Chan asked, eyes scanning you as you sat back down on his lap.

"Yeah" you breathed. "More than okay."

Hyunjin watched the way you melted into Chan’s chest, but he didn’t look jealous. You were Chan's after all, and you've always been.

Chan tilted your chin toward him, kissing you once, slow, deliberate, claiming, to start softly. When he pulled away, he looked over your shoulder at Hyunjin. "Still with us?"

Hyunjin’s voice was lower now. "Very."

You reached for your glass again, but Chan caught your wrist. "Baby, you're already tipsy." He said kissing your neck.

Hyunjin’s breath hitched audibly at the display of dominance. Chan smirked. The look Hyunjin gave him then was the kind you didn’t forget: dark, respectful but hungry.

"You two are dangerous, too teasing, too tempting" he said, finishing his drink in one.

Chan shrugged. "You walked in willingly, you knew what would happen."

Hyunjin stood, walking to the door, then paused. He turned back to you. "Whatever this thing between us becomes..." he said carefully "just know I’m not here to break anything between you. Only to add to it."

You nodded. "We know."

His eyes flicked to Chan. "You’ll tell me when?"

"Soon" Chan promised. "Very soon. We’re almost ready."

Hyunjin nodded once. "I’ll wait for the right time"

And then he left. The moment the door clicked shut, Chan pulled you into his lap, his mouth already at your throat, his hand gripping your thigh tight.

"You liked that" he whispered against your skin.

You gasped. "Yes."

His fingers slid higher. "He looked at you like he already owns you."

"He doesn’t" you whispered back. "I'm only yours"

"I know. But I might let him think he does. For a night."

You moaned, arching into him. He bit your shoulder. Not hard, just just enough to mark.

"Next time he sees you..." he murmured, "you’ll be tied up. Naked. Blindfolded. And I’ll ask him where he wants to start."

Your breath stuttered. You were already soaked from his dirty talk and small ministrations only.

"Do you know how perfect you’re going to look between us?"

You whimpered. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, like he had to reclaim you before the real stuff even began.

You were already trembling before Hyunjin even arrived. Your wrists were tied behind your back by a soft red rope, Chan’s signature one, his favourite. You sat on your knees at the foot of the bed, blindfolded, wearing nothing but a thin lace bra and matching panties. Chills ran down your spine and it had nothing to do with the AC Chan turned on.

"Color?" Chan whispered behind you, his fingers brushing your shoulder in reassurance.

"Green" you breathed. "So green."

You felt his smile before you heard the door unlock. Footsteps, then a pause. A slow exhale from someone who definitely wasn’t your boyfriend. Hyunjin.

"Fuck" Hyunjin muttered. "She’s…"

"She’s perfect Chan finished for him, his voice filled with pride and possessiveness. "And she’s ours tonight."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"She can’t see you" Chan added. "But she can hear every word. Every breath."

A moment passed, quiet. Then Hyunjin spoke, voice low and reverent. "You’ve been like this… waiting?"

"Yes. For you." you whispered. "For both of you."

Chan chuckled. "She’s been squirming for the last fifteen minutes."

You felt the bed dip slightly, a hand ghosting over your knee, but not really touching you. Just the heat of Hyunjin's palm, just close enough to make you yearn for him.

"Can I?" Hyunjin asked, still not touching.

"She's mine, don't forget that." Chan said simply. "But tonight, I’m letting you borrow her. So yes. But you ask. You wait. You obey."

"Yes."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily. Hyunjin’s fingers finally made contact with your skin, trailing up your thigh, slow and deliberate. You gasped.

"So sensitive" he murmured.

"She gets needy when she’s tied up. It’s like her body forgets anything but touch" Chan said, stepping around to face you. "But she’s patient when she wants to be. Aren’t you, baby?"

"Yes, Chan" you whimpered.

Hyunjin’s hand paused. "Can I hear her say my name?"

Chan smirked. "Beg for it, baby. Show him how much you want him"

You licked your lips. "Please… Hyunjin…" He groaned. "I want to feel your hands" you added, voice trembling. "I want you to..."

Chan cut you off with a hand in your hair, gently tugging your head back. “You’ll take what we give you, not what you ask for.”

"Yes, sir" you whispered.

Then came the blindfold shift. Light peeked in as Chan pulled it up—just enough to expose your eyes. You blinked, and there he was. Hyunjin, kneeling before you, shirt already gone, black pants low on his hips, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"You’ve been holding back" you said, voice shaky.

"So have you." he replied, eyes dark and wide.

Chan stepped behind you and undid the knots on your wrists. Giving you a bit of freedom but not control. You knew that. During scenes he's always the one in control.

"Lie back, baby" he instructed. "Hands above your head."

You obeyed instantly, lying across the sheets. The red light of the LED bathed the room, painting Hyunjin’s skin a deep red. Chan re-bound your wrists to the headboard, his knots swift, practiced, experienced. Then came the blindfold again. Everything black, everything silent for a second.

Then you felt it: cold. A cube of ice dragged down your neck, across your chest. So that's what Chan chose for this night, temperature play.

You gasped, arching. A warm mouth followed the ice cube. A hot tongue replacing the chill. Hyunjin. You could tell by the sound he made, like he couldn’t believe how you tasted. His mouth closed over your nipple, sucking softly while the ice trailed lower. Chan again, working in tandem, teasing heat and cold in maddening contrast. He knew you liked it, it's not your first try of temperature play.

"She’s shaking" Hyunjin murmured, pulling back. "She’s so responsive." he stared at you in wonder.

"Wait until she starts begging" Chan replied smoothly. "She gets loud, so loud."

Your hips lifted helplessly. The ice cube dragged along your inner thigh.

"Please" you gasped. "Please, Chan... Something, anything..."

"I’ll give her one finger" Hyunjin asked. "Just one?"

"She gets two" Chan said. "And make her feel every inch. I want her moaning"

A hand slid beneath the waistband of your panties. Hyunjin’s, larger, more exploratory. You whimpered at the touch. Then he pressed two fingers slowly, slipping them inside. Curling. Searching. Finding your spot too fast, like he’d studied you, like he already knows everything about you.

"Fuck. She’s clenching already" Hyunjin groaned.

"She likes when she’s watched" Chan said.

Hyunjin’s rhythm was slow and relentless. You tried to rock into it, but Chan’s hand pinned your hips down. "Stay still" he commanded. "Or I stop it all."

You froze, panting. "Please no, donc stop."

The blindfold slipped again, just a crack, and you saw Hyunjin hovering over your cunt, his fingers deep inside, his eyes on your face like a man starving.

"Can I taste her?" he asked.

Chan stepped back. "Make her come first. Then you can clean up the mess she will have made"

You nearly sobbed from the promise. Hyunjin leaned in again, his thumb circling your clit, his fingers curling perfectly, and your breath stuttered as heat coiled deep in your stomach before snapping.

"Now" Chan whispered.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, like a wave crashing through you, your body tensing against the restraints, eyes rolling back, lips parting in a loud cry.

"Fuck! Hyunjin!"

He didn’t stop. His mouth replaced his fingers, tongue licking every drop of your release until you were sobbing, sensitive and wrecked.

Then he kissed his way up your stomach, stopping just beneath your breast.

"She’s unreal, like a goddess" he breathed.

Chan pulled him back. "You’ve had your taste." He untied your wrists, flipped you gently, and bent you over the edge of the bed.

He pressed against your back, whispering into your ear. "You want more, my love?"

"Yes." you whine

"You want to feel both of us?"

"Please, Channie."

"I’ll guide you." You were pliant in their hands, totally pliable. Hyunjin’s mouth trailing kisses down your spine while Chan spread you open, teasing your entrance with his cock before pushing in a slow thrust. You could feel every veins and his oh so perfect shape rubbing against your walls.

You moaned into the mattress, already overwhelmed by their touches, the pressure in your belly making you go crazy. Hyunjin stroked your hair, kissed your shoulder, praised you endlessly.

"So good" he whispered. "So fucking good like this."

Chan fucked you slow, deep, possessive, every thrust purposeful and made to bring you the most pleasure possible. At the same time, Hyunjin brought two fingers to your clit, watching you crumble and become a moaning mess that made it even more intense.

Then Chan’s voice broke through the haze "Tell me whose you are, baby."

"Yours" you cried. "Yours, always yours"

"Say what you want, beg for it."

"Both of you. Please, I want both of you to come. I want to feel it. I want..."

Hyunjin kissed you again, then moved to kneel in front of you. You opened your mouth instinctively, and he slid inside, groaning at the feeling of your mouth around him.

Chan fucked you harder. Hyunjin moved slower, letting you suck, moan, take what you could as your body was pulled deeper and deeper into an unbearable pleasure. The second orgasm hit as Hyunjin came in your mouth, the vibration of your own moans sending him over the edge.

Then Chan came as well, gripping your hips so tightly you knew it would bruise. He came deep inside you with a grunt so raw it made you shudder around him.

Then the time stopped. Silence. Breaths. Heat. He collapsed next to you onto the sheets, body spent. Your blindfold half-hanging, limbs trembling. Hands touched you, Chan's, wiping you down, untangling ropes, kissing your skin softly.

"Color?" Chan whispered as he cradled you.

"Green" you murmured. "Green, green, green, a whole forest."

Hyunjin lay beside you, hair messy, lips swollen. "You okay?" he asked, his voice soft.

You turned your head, smiling. "Perfect."

The red light still glowed faintly on the ceiling, but everything was quiet. Your skin was slick with sweat, your muscles limp and spent, your body still humming with the memory of every touch, every sound, every command.

But in the silence that followed the scene, it wasn’t the intensity you remembered first, it was the warmth and safety. Chan had wrapped you in a soft towel, helped you into a loose tee from his drawer, the oversized one he always gave you after intense moments.

Now you were curled against his chest, breathing in his scent while his hand rubbed soft circles into your back comfortingly. One of your legs was draped over his thigh, your fingers still twitching from how tightly they’d been bound earlier.

Across the room, Hyunjin returned from the kitchen with a glass of water. His steps were careful, his gaze flicking to yours as if checking that he was still welcome in the space. You reached for the water instinctively, and he smiled, small, but real.

"Here" he said, crouching beside the bed. "Drink slowly."

You obeyed and as the cool liquid slid down your throat, you became aware of how dry your lips were, how shaky your hands still felt. Hyunjin took the glass when you were done and set it aside on the bedside table before brushing a thumb over your cheek.

"You okay?" You nodded but Chan answered for you. "She’s more than okay."

"I am" you murmured. "Really."

Hyunjin slowly climbed onto the bed again, settling beside you on your other side. The mattress dipped, and you were suddenly cocooned in warmth, Chan at your front, Hyunjin at your back, both of them close, like they were waiting for you to speak first.

You stared at the ceiling, blinking slowly. Then you smoke "That was…"

"Intense?" Hyunjin offered.

"A dream" you said, voice light and happy.

Chan chuckled softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Told you. I knew you were gonna like it. I just had to bring it up"

"Was it too much?" Hyunjin asked, more serious now.

You shook your head. "No. Never. With Chan we've tried a lot of things"

There was a pause. The kind that wasn't awkward, just full. Then Hyunjin whispered, "You let me touch you like that. I don’t take that lightly."

You turned to him, gaze soft. "You didn’t take anything. Chan gave it to you. I did too."

"I know" he said. "But I still want you to know I don’t think this was casual. Not for me."

Chan’s hand stilled on your back. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for Hyunjin’s hand and laced your fingers through his.

"It wasn’t casual for us either." Chan leaned in, kissing your shoulder.

"I’ve never seen you like that." You spoke. "You weren’t jealous?"

"Oh, I was" he said, amused. "But not in the bad way. It made me want to keep you more, not push you away."

You exhaled. "I didn’t expect it to feel so… safe. So intimate."

Hyunjin shifted closer, your joined hands resting on your stomach now. "I think that’s what surprised me too" he admitted. "How much it felt like something we already knew how to do. Like we’ve been circling this forever."

You looked between them. "Do we do it again?"

Chan tilted his head. "Do you want to?"

"Yes."

Hyunjin didn’t hesitate either. "I do."

"But" Chan added "not now, a next time. Today was enough for a first time. We can explore more later."

"Agreed" Hyunjin said.

You bit your lip. "So what does this make us?"

Chan smiled. "A little dangerous."

Hyunjin laughed under his breath. "A little obsessed."

"Definitely insatiable" you muttered.

Chan looked at you with fire in his eyes. "You’ll need recovery time. But when you’re ready…"

"I’ll let you know" you said, voice playful, fingers tracing Hyunjin’s forearm. He raised an eyebrow. "And you think we’ll be the ones teasing you next time?" Chan grinned. "Oh, she likes being put in her place. She just likes to pretend she doesn’t."

You laughed, breathless. "I think you know how to handle me now." you said to Hyunjin

Chan leaned in. "We’re just getting started."

You melted between them, held, wanted, claimed, and safe.

After about half an hour, Hyunjin leaves the bed to get back dressed "It was a pleasure. I'm already exited thinking about next time"

He then leaves the appartment and you fall asleep in Chan's arms.

The morning was quiet in the way only deep satisfaction could bring.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains, golden. The heat and need from the night before replaced by the gentle warmth of Bang Chan’s arms, wrapped securely around you under the covers. His hand rested on your stomach, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles.

You felt his breath first, steady, warm against your neck and then the soft press of his lips there. "Awake?" he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

"Barely" you whispered.

You felt his smile against your skin. "Good. Stay here with me a little longer."

You didn’t move. Couldn’t have, even if you wanted to. Every part of you ached in the most delicious way, thighs sore, neck kissed raw, wrists still tingling with memory. You felt used in the way only a scene could. But more than that, you felt cared for. Held. Safe, the way you always were with him.

Chan shifted slightly behind you, pulling you closer, like even the inch of space between your bodies was too much. "Are you okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah."

"Too sore?"

"Just sore enough to remember last night." you said with a sleepy smile. "You were… intense."

He chuckled softly. "We were intense. You let me do that, let me bring Hyunjin in our bed. That wasn’t just me."

There was a pause, a warmth in it, not hesitation. "I meant what I said last night" Chan said, voice softer now. "I wanted to give you something different. Something deeper, exploratory."

"You did." He kissed your shoulder, once, then again. "I watched you fall apart so beautifully. And then put yourself back together like it was nothing."

"I had help."

"You always have help" he whispered. "As long as it’s me."

Your eyes fluttered shut. God, you loved this man. Not just because of the way he touched you. But because of the way he saw you. The silence between you stretched out again, not uncomfortable, just full.

After a few minutes, Chan shifted behind you and sat up slowly, groaning as he stretched his arms over his head. His hair was a mess. His back, marked lightly with nail scratches you barely remembered giving him.

"Shower?" he offered. "Or coffee first?"

You thought about it. "Both."

He leaned down and kissed your temple. "I’ll start the coffee. Shower’s warming up."

You watched him pad to the bathroom, bare and unbothered, humming under his breath. The domesticity of it all, after everything that had happened almost made you laugh.

Ten hours ago, he had tied you down and made you cry with overstimulation. Now he was making your favorite coffee and warming a towel for you.

He came back a few minutes later, holding out a mug, still shirtless.

You sat up, wincing a little, and took the cup with both hands. "You're spoiling me."

"I plan on keeping doing it."

You smiled into your drink. "So… last night." Chan raised a brow, sliding back into bed beside you. "Yeah?"

"Was that a one-time thing? Or…" He tilted his head, studying your face.

"You want the honest answer?"

"Always."

"I don’t know yet." He reached out, brushing his fingers along your thigh. "I liked seeing you with Hyunjin. A lot more than I expected. But also…" He hesitated. "I like this. Just us. You in my bed. My shirt. My coffee in your hands."

Part 2

Hey! I have to admit I still have a lot of ideas for maybe a part 2 so if you'd be interested just comment or message me!

Taglist for part 2

[yourfavtangerine]

Drift - part 1 - A win for a kiss

Street racer!Yeonjun x flag girl!reader

He’s a street racer. You’re the flag girl. One bet, one kiss, now you’re both in deeper than you ever planned.

Genre: mini serie

Wc: ~4.6k

Warnings: smut, p in v, illegal car races, gambling, alcohol, oral, fingering, makeout, smoking (the warnings will be updated!)

Masterlist

The air was electric. Not the kind of electricity you get from a streetlamp humming overhead, but the kind that crept into your bones, made the hair rise on your arms. It was a quarter past midnight, and the city’s life had shifted, away from its business-suit rhythm of the day and into something raw, wild, and reckless.

The streets were empty in the way only illegal business could make them. The usual stream of commuters, taxis, and late-night wanderers had been swept away by an unspoken rule: tonight, this part of the city belonged to the racers.

Down on Harbor Street, where the air still smelled faintly of the ocean, the underground scene was already in full swing. Modified cars lined near the start like, each one painted in neon stripes, candy gloss, or matte black. Every machine hummed, ticked, or roared as engines were tuned and nitrous tanks were checked.

Some owners leaned against their rides like royalty on a throne, watching the crowd with lazy confidence. Others were buried under hoods, arms smeared with grease, cursing at some stubborn bolt.

The glow of streetlights wasn’t enough to cut through the darkness here, most of the light came from headlights and the faint red glow of neons. Somewhere, bass-heavy music came from a portable speaker. People gathered in clusters, talking low or laughing too loud, exchanging wads of cash with gamblers who’d bet too much to care about the risk anymore.

The air smelled of oil, tire rubber, and cigarette smoke, with a faint trace of salty wind drifting in from the nearby sea. Every now and then, the sound of a turbo in the distance cut through the chatter, a signal that another contender was arriving.

And then there was the strip. Two perfect, white spray-painted lines, side by side, stretched across the road at the far end of the block. That part of road, just under a mile, was the stage. At the far end, where the road disapeared darkness, another pair of lines marked the finish. In between, the road looked smooth, but everyone here knew about the dips, the uneven patches, the faint curves and holes that could ruin a perfect run.

Standing near the start line was the one person who wasn’t covered in grease, sitting on a chair and having a cigarette. You, the flag girl.

Everyone in the underground knew the flag girl wasn’t just a role, it was a symbol. You were the one who called the shots, the one who dropped you hand and started the race. Your name wasn’t shouted often, but it was murmured plenty, in tones both respectful and lustful. You had almost as much authority as the the race organizers.

Tonight, you stood under the orange halo of a streetlight, wearing black jeans, a cropped jacket and boots. A bandana was tied loosely around your wrist: the chosen flag for the night. Your hair caught the red neon glow, moving with the breeze.

The crowd kept a subtle distance from you, like you were both untouchable and attractive. You had that calm look of someone who’d seen a hundred races and still found something to love in each one, maybe the danger, maybe the speed, maybe the way the pilots fought so hard to be the winner.

The sound of an engine pulled everyone’s attention.

From the far end of the street, a car rolled in like it owned the place. Matte silver paint, blacked-out windows, and red logo on the car hood. A fox.

The car drove slowly, pulling everyone's attention before stopping in front of the start line.

The driver’s door swung open and stepped out someone the underground scene had been whispering about for months. Nobody knew his name, just his nickname: the Fox.

He was tall, lean, and had his hair died a red as deep as wine. His leather jacket was adorned by patches that made it unique. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he glanced toward the strip, the streetlight lit up his face.

He didn’t speak at first, just walked straight to the start line, scanning it. Only then did his gaze slide to you. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to disapear, like everyone was waiting to see what would happen.

You met his stare without blinking.

"You’re late" you said, your voice carrying just enough to be heard over the low hum of engines.

He smirked, just a little. "Had to make sure everyone would notice my entry."

The crowd laughed. In the underground, showing up fashionably late was one thing. Showing up late and still owning the scene was another.

Five other racers were already at the line, their cars gleaming under the streetlight, their faces hard. They didn’t look happy about his arrival, he's always unpredictable on the track.

One of them spat on the ground in his direction.

"I think everyone's here" you said, stepping back just enough to let the racers go to their cars. "Make it worth my time."

That was the thing about nights like this. Nobody came just to watch cars go fast. They came for the gamble, the noise, the adrenaline spike that came when the flag dropped and the cars' tires screeched against the ground.

Conversations died out as more people moved toward the strip, their attention narrowing to that stretch of asphalt where reputations were built or shattered in seconds.

You lifted the bandana, holding it high in one hand, making it move just enough to catch the eye.

Somewhere behind the crowd, a siren wailed in the distance, but no one flinched. Everyone knew the police kept their distance from Harbor Street on race nights. Too many fast cars, too many witnesses willing to scatter like roaches at the first sign of flashing blue lights.

For now, the night belonged to the racers.

The engines’ noises intensified. The smell of gasoline and rubber made the air feel thick, heavy. Your eyes swept across the line: six cars, six egos, six pilots waiting to prove their worth.

When your arm would drop, the street would erupt. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun wasn’t just here to race. He was here to leave a mark.

The first time Yeonjun touched a steering wheel, he was twelve and the car wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, a ‘89 Nissan Skyline, paint faded to a dull blue. His father had left it sitting in the driveway for months after the engine gave out, saying he’d fix it "someday." Yet this day never came.

But one rainy afternoon, Yeonjun slipped behind the wheel while his dad was asleep inside the house, and let his small hands rest on the leather wrap that was worn smooth by time.

He didn’t turn the key that day. Didn’t even try. He knew it wouldn't work. But in that moment, staring over the dashboard at the street, he felt something click in his chest. A promise, unspoken and unformed, that one day he’d make the road his own. He would become a pilot.

His father, a man who worked double shifts at the docks, wasn’t much for gentle life lessons. But he did believe in two things: working with your hands and knowing how to handle a car.

By the time Yeonjun was fifteen, his father had taught him how to strip an engine down to its bones and put it back together without losing a single bolt. He learned about compression ratios, torque curves and the tricky science of getting a carburetor to hum just right.

What he didn’t learn from his father, he picked up from the streets. His neighborhood was a mix of cracked sidewalks, graffiti-tagged brick walls, and dim alleys that smelled of fried food and sweat. Nights there weren’t quiet. Guys would gather at corners, bragging about who could hit the straightaway fastest, swapping out mufflers in the dark. Older kids would lean against their beat-up Hondas, engines humming low.

Yeonjun started small, fixing bikes for spare cash, running errands for the older drivers, changing tires for beer he wasn’t even allowed to drink. But the first time someone let him behind the wheel, he knew. The rush didn’t come from winning. It came from the feeling of absolute control in chaos, how the world blurred and moved but the car stayed under his hands, sharp and controled.

By seventeen, he’d earned a spot in small races. By nineteen, he had his first car, an old, dented Toyota Supra that he rebuilt from the chassis up in a friend’s garage. Every paycheck from his part-time job at a body shop went into that car. Better brakes. Better suspension. A turbo that thrummed.

And then he got his nickname, the Fox. He didn’t choose the name. Someone in the crowd called him that one night after he cut through traffic so fast they swore he vanished. It stuck.

But Yeonjun wasn’t just chasing speed for the thrill of it.

Three years ago, his father was killed in a shipping yard accident. The payout from the company was a joke, a small settlement that barely covered the funeral. He had to sell the Skyline, his father’s car, to cover debts. That loss burned deeper than he ever admitted. The Skyline wasn’t just a car, it was the symbol of everything his father had taught him, the dream they’d built together.

The underground scene gave him a way to take something back.

The races paid, sometimes enough to cover bills, sometimes more. But for him, every run, every win, was another step toward a bigger goal: buying back that Skyline. He knew where it was, a collector uptown who treated it like a display piece, all shine and no heart. One day, he’d come up with cash in hand and take it home. Not because it was worth much to anyone else, but because it was worth everything to him. The legacy of his father.

Until then, he was building a reputation. A name that made other racers think twice before stepping up. He ran clean, but he ran hard, taking risks others wouldn’t. And though he’d been called reckless more times than he could count, Yeonjun knew the truth: every move he made was calculated. Every turn, every press on the gas pedal was all part of the plan.

Which brought him to Harbor Street tonight.

This wasn’t just any run. Word on the street was that one of the racers here, a guy named Rivas, was backed by serious money. Big-time sponsors didn’t show up at Harbor Street without a reason, and if Yeonjun could take him down in front of this crowd, the sponsors would change favourite.

As he leaned against his silver car, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred but he was looking for one in particular.bThe flag girl. You weren't just there to wave the start, you were the unspoken authority. Racers deferred to you, crowds respected your space.

Tonight, when you had told him he was late, there’d been no bite to your words, just a spark. A challenge. He liked challenges.

A sudden honk snapped him out of his thoughts. The other five racers for the night were already at the line, engines thruming.

Yeonjun took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and buckled his belt. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the leather grip.

He glanced at you one last time. Under the flicker of the streetlight, your eyes met his. His fingers tightened on the wheel. The night was his. He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

You stepped forward now, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Your jacket shifted with the wind, the bandana tied around your wrist fluttering. The crowd’s murmurs dipped in volume as you approached; like always, you pulled focus without asking for it.

"You six ready?" You called, your voice sharp and clear above the growls of the engines.

Yeonjun just smirked. "Ready enough" he said, his voice carrying across the line.

You arched an eyebrow at him, your lips curving slightly. "Ready enough? That’s not exactly confidence."

"Oh, I’ve got confidence" Yeonjun replied, leaning slightly out the open driver’s side window. "Question is, do you?"

That earned him a few raised brows in the crowd, a couple of muffled chuckles. You tilted you head, giving him that assessing look. "Me?" You said. "I’m not the one racing."

"No" he said slowly, his smirk deepening "but you’re the one I’m betting with."

That got the crowd’s full attention. A ripple of excitement moved through them, bets between racers and flag girls weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. And never in front of this many witnesses.

You crossed your arms. "Betting with me? And what exactly do you think I’d be betting on?"

Yeonjun's eyes didn’t leave yours. "On me. On whether I win this race."

You gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. "You think I’m gonna put my money down on you just because you showed up late with a shiny car and a cocky grin?"

"Not money" he said, his tone mischievous. "If I win, I get a kiss."

The silence after that was thick enough to cut.

The crowd reacted a half-second later: cheers, whistles, a few shouted "Ohhh!"s like kids in a schoolyard fight. Even the other pilots shaked their heads like Yeonjun had just signed his own humiliation papers.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You just stared at him, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. "A kiss" you repeated, flat, like you were testing the weight of the word.

Yeonjun shrugged lightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Just one. Right here at the line, in front of everyone."

Your gaze lingered on him, then slid briefly to the other five racers, then back again. The corner of your mouth curved up. "And what happens if you lose?"

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. "You tell me."

You stepped closer to his car now. You leaned down just enough so your eyes were level with his, the crowd going dead quiet again in anticipation.

"If you lose" you said slowly "you’re banned from my line for a month. No racing where I wave the flag. You can hit every other street, but not mine."

It was a harsh punishment, Harbor Street had some of the biggest races in the underground. Missing a month here would hurt his reputation. But his expression didn’t falter. "Deal" he said, without a blink.

You straightened up, one brow arched, a tiny shake of your head like you couldn’t decide if he was reckless or just insane. "Alright then, Fox. Win your kiss, if you can."

The crowd erupted at that, voices rising, people pulling out phones to record. The atmosphere shifted from tense anticipation to something almost electric. Now it wasn’t just a race. It was a spectacle, an entertainment, no matter how it ended.

This wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about proving something, to you, to the crowd, and maybe to himself.

You stepped back toward the center of the strip, raising the bandana high in one hand. The racers fell silent, engines rumbling low. The streetlight above them flickered, casting everything into brief darkness before returning to its orange glare.

Yeonjun wrapped his hands tighter around the wheel. His pulse slowed to that same steady rhythm he’d trained for, the calm before the chaos. He wasn’t thinking about the kiss anymore, or the risk of the ban, or even about the other racers' stupid grins.

You glanced at each driver in turn, your gaze sharp and assessing. You gave no sign of favoritism, no wink, no nod, just the impartial, commanding presence you were known for. And yet, when your eyes met Yeonjun's for that split second before the drop, there was something there. Not quite approval. Not quite doubt. But something.

The bandana twitched in the air. The engines roared higher, each driver holding their breath. The crowd’s noise built into a wall of sound, but inside Yeonjun's head there was only the hum of the machine and the steady thud of his own heartbeat.

When your arm came down, the world would explode. And if Yeonjun had his way, it would end with your lips on his.

The bandana dropped.

Yeonjun's surged forward, the turbo spooling in a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar.

First gear, Ghost held it just long enough for the revs to crest, then slammed the clutch, shifted, and felt the pull intensify. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the strip opened up ahead.

Launch was good. The first concurent is close. A second falling back. Focus.

The first hundred meters vanished under his wheels. The wind shoved against his face through the open window, carrying the hot tang of burning rubber.

The sponsors' favourite was only few meters from him. The man was quick, Yeonjun had expected that, but he was also aggressive.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch. He held the inside line, knowing the curve was coming up fast, a subtle bend in the asphalt that looked harmless but could bleed speed from anyone careless enough to take it wide.

They hit the curve almost neck-and-neck. Yeonjun downshifted, feeling the chassis bite into the turn, the tires screeching against the road. He hugged the inside, just close enough to the curb that he could feel the ripple of uneven pavement under the tires.

Two hundred meters.

The finish line markers glowed faintly ahead. The crowd at that end of the strip was already leaning forward, phones out, ready to record the moment.

His oponent made his move. He cut into Yeonjun's lane, forcing him toward the edge of the asphalt where it dipped into uneven gravel. A rookie might have flinched. Yeonjun didn't. He kept his foot planted, steering with small, sharp inputs, the car skirting the edge of the road. The uneven ground spat pebbles up against his undercarriage, the sound sharp like snapping bones, but the car held.

One hundred meters.

For a heartbeat, three cars were aligned, filling the width of the strip like a wall of noise and speed. Yeonjun's chest tightened, adrenaline flooding every nerve. This was the moment. The one every racer lived for, the chaos, the uncertainty, the knife’s edge between victory and loss.

He dropped the hammer. His oponents hesitated just a fraction, and in that fraction, Ghost pulled ahead.

Fifty meters.

The finish line was just ahead, the painted white marks glowing like a beacon. The noise was deafening now, engine scream, wind roar, crowd shouting, but in Yeonjun's head it was all a muted hum under the pounding of his heartbeat.

Twenty meters.

He finally passed the finish line, first.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, whistles, and shouted disbelief. He let the car roll to a stop near the end of the strip, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. His hands stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, feeling the heat in the leather, the vibration still running through his fingers.

Then he smiled. The kiss was his. And something told him you were going to make him work for it, even now.

Yeonjun sat back in the seat, letting the adrenaline pulse through him. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, thick. Tires hissed as they cooled, and sparks from minor friction flickered briefly in the streetlights’ glow.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, cheers, whistles, and shouts crashing over the strip. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the moment. Some of the onlookers jumped onto the low walls that lined the street to get a better view. The energy was infectious, electric enough to make your hair stand on end and your heart race. He felt it in every nerve.

The sponsors' favourite slammed the door with a thud that resonated. He stalked toward the crowd, voice raised in frustration "You got lucky!" But no one listened. The cheers had already shifted entirely toward the victor.

You stepped toward him. Your arms crossed at first, lips pressed in a straight line, bandana still in hand, but your eyes betrayed you amusement. They flicked over Yeonjun, measuring him again. He had that look, a mix of cocky satisfaction and restrained energy that suggested he wasn’t just pleased with winning. He was savoring it.

You took a step closer. "So… you actually won...I would've never believed it" you said, your voice carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of challenge in your tone. "I guess that means…"

Yeonjun pushed himself off the car smoothly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and walked toward you. He let his smirk stretch across his face, the kind that teased without giving anything away. "Guess it does."

The crowd stepped back slightly, sensing the tension between them. A collective hush fell over the assembly, the air thick with expectation. Some of the racers’ friends nudged each other, some laughed nervously, and a few young fans practically bounced in place, unable to contain their excitement.

Yeonjun stopped in front of you, close enough that you would smell his cologne. He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with those teasing eyes.

"You know" he murmured, almost inaudible to anyone but you "I could’ve let you off the hook. Made it quick. But where’s the fun in that?"

Your lips twitched, almost a smile, almost irritation, but you didn’t back down. You raised the bandana slightly, a subtle signal that you were still in control of this game. "Oh, so this is fun for you, huh?"

"Very" Yeonjun said, his smirk widening as he leaned just a fraction closer. "But only if you make it worth it"

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around them. The crowd’s noise dimmed in the background, the hum of tires and engines fading behind the rush of tension. He could see the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your jaw tensed before relaxing slightly and the subtle shift in your stance that suggested you weren't going to flinch.

Then, slowly, you let the bandana drop from your hand and tilted your head just enough to meet his smirk with your own. The gesture wasn’t submissive, it was deliberate, challenging, teasing back in its own way.

Yeonjun leaned in closer, and the crowd collectively leaned forward with him, like magnets being drawn to the inevitable. The street was lined with eager faces, flashlights, phone screens and neon reflections dancing across the asphalt. Every detail, the hum of cooling engines, the faint smell of fuel, the distant city traffic, faded away.

And then, finally, your lips met. It was brief, deliberate, but still he brushed his tongue against your lips, just enough to confirm the bet had been fulfilled. Yeonjun pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, smirk never leaving. The kind of smirk that said I know, I won, and I’m enjoying every second of making you acknowledge it.

You blinked once, then twice, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, but there was still fire in your gaze. You stepped back, crossing your arms again, but Yeonjun could see the faint blush creeping on your cheeks.The crowd erupted anew. Whistles, cheers, and laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street. Some of the racers’ friends hooted, others groaned in mock envy, and a few of the younger fans cheered wildly. The energy was euphoric, chaotic, and perfectly alive.

Yeonjun leaned casually against the car again, still smirking, voice low and teasing. "See? Not so bad."

You shot him a glare, though the curve of your lips betrayed a trace of amusement. "Don’t let it get to your head" you warned.

"Too late" he replied lightly, shrugging with mock innocence. "Already in my head."

There was a pause as the two of you regarded each other, the aftershocks of the race lingering in every corner of the street. It wasn’t just the victory or the kiss, it was the electricity between you, the thrill of risk and tease intertwined.

Yeonjun finally stepped back fully, still grinning. "I’ll let you keep your pride… for now. I know how big it is for you to have a reputation."

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t reply. The tension between you hung like a charged wire, buzzing in the night air.

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Yeonjun whispered to you "Not bad for a first race with me on your strip" he said casually, his tone teasing but confident, letting his smirk linger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. "You’re unbelievable" you muttered, though there was no real bite in your words.

"Maybe" he admitted. "But you liked it."

Your gaze flicked away briefly, toward the cooling crowd, then back to him. "Maybe" you said.

He stepped closer, letting the distance shrink just enough for the tension to go up. "Look" he began, voice low "I know I might’ve been… a little distracting earlier." The smirk returned, teasing, not arrogant but deliberate. "So, I thought I’d make it easy for you. No games. Just one thing before we call it a night."

You raised a brow, skeptical but curious. "One thing?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, slightly worn paper. He handed it to you with a casual flourish, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every reaction. "My number. Text me. Call me. Or, if you prefer, I’ll wait for the next race."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the card, a slight spark, tiny, almost imperceptible, flickering in that contact. You examined it quickly, the handwriting on it clean but personal.

"I don’t know" you said, letting a teasing smile play at your lips. "You’re a little… much."

"Good" he said, voice softening just enough to feel intimate without breaking the playful edge. "At least I'm not boring"

You glanced down at the paper again, then back up. There was still fire there, a spark that hadn’t died in the chaos of the race or the teasing of the kiss.

"Maybe" you said again, softer this time.

Yeonjun grinned, that same smirk that had driven you half-mad earlier, but now tempered with a hint of warmth. "That’s all I need. Maybe." He stepped back just a fraction, giving you space, letting the moment linger. The crowd was gone now, a few stragglers drifting off with murmurs of the night’s excitement, leaving the two of you in a bubble of quiet anticipation.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the road.

"I’ll hold you to that" you said finally, slipping the card into your pocket. Your fingers lingered on it just a moment longer, as if weighing the decision, teasing him back without a word.

"You better" Yeonjun replied, straightening up, the smirk never leaving, but now carrying a promise rather than just teasing.

You exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement, challenge and… something else that made him grin even wider. "Alright" you said, finally turning to leave. "See you… maybe."

"Maybe" He echoed "by the way, my real name is Yeonjun"

"Yeonjun? Nice name"

With that you walked away, leaving him alone near his car.

The taglist is open!!

Taglist: @yeonggum @tttubatttu @skyearby @frvnbeom @luxynjun @beaabz @starsmew

[yourfavtangerine]

Drift - part 1 - A win for a kiss

Street racer!Yeonjun x flag girl!reader

He’s a street racer. You’re the flag girl. One bet, one kiss, now you’re both in deeper than you ever planned.

Genre: mini serie

Wc: ~4.6k

Warnings: smut, p in v, illegal car races, gambling, alcohol, oral, fingering, makeout, smoking (the warnings will be updated!)

Masterlist

The air was electric. Not the kind of electricity you get from a streetlamp humming overhead, but the kind that crept into your bones, made the hair rise on your arms. It was a quarter past midnight, and the city’s life had shifted, away from its business-suit rhythm of the day and into something raw, wild, and reckless.

The streets were empty in the way only illegal business could make them. The usual stream of commuters, taxis, and late-night wanderers had been swept away by an unspoken rule: tonight, this part of the city belonged to the racers.

Down on Harbor Street, where the air still smelled faintly of the ocean, the underground scene was already in full swing. Modified cars lined near the start like, each one painted in neon stripes, candy gloss, or matte black. Every machine hummed, ticked, or roared as engines were tuned and nitrous tanks were checked.

Some owners leaned against their rides like royalty on a throne, watching the crowd with lazy confidence. Others were buried under hoods, arms smeared with grease, cursing at some stubborn bolt.

The glow of streetlights wasn’t enough to cut through the darkness here, most of the light came from headlights and the faint red glow of neons. Somewhere, bass-heavy music came from a portable speaker. People gathered in clusters, talking low or laughing too loud, exchanging wads of cash with gamblers who’d bet too much to care about the risk anymore.

The air smelled of oil, tire rubber, and cigarette smoke, with a faint trace of salty wind drifting in from the nearby sea. Every now and then, the sound of a turbo in the distance cut through the chatter, a signal that another contender was arriving.

And then there was the strip. Two perfect, white spray-painted lines, side by side, stretched across the road at the far end of the block. That part of road, just under a mile, was the stage. At the far end, where the road disapeared darkness, another pair of lines marked the finish. In between, the road looked smooth, but everyone here knew about the dips, the uneven patches, the faint curves and holes that could ruin a perfect run.

Standing near the start line was the one person who wasn’t covered in grease, sitting on a chair and having a cigarette. You, the flag girl.

Everyone in the underground knew the flag girl wasn’t just a role, it was a symbol. You were the one who called the shots, the one who dropped you hand and started the race. Your name wasn’t shouted often, but it was murmured plenty, in tones both respectful and lustful. You had almost as much authority as the the race organizers.

Tonight, you stood under the orange halo of a streetlight, wearing black jeans, a cropped jacket and boots. A bandana was tied loosely around your wrist: the chosen flag for the night. Your hair caught the red neon glow, moving with the breeze.

The crowd kept a subtle distance from you, like you were both untouchable and attractive. You had that calm look of someone who’d seen a hundred races and still found something to love in each one, maybe the danger, maybe the speed, maybe the way the pilots fought so hard to be the winner.

The sound of an engine pulled everyone’s attention.

From the far end of the street, a car rolled in like it owned the place. Matte silver paint, blacked-out windows, and red logo on the car hood. A fox.

The car drove slowly, pulling everyone's attention before stopping in front of the start line.

The driver’s door swung open and stepped out someone the underground scene had been whispering about for months. Nobody knew his name, just his nickname: the Fox.

He was tall, lean, and had his hair died a red as deep as wine. His leather jacket was adorned by patches that made it unique. His face was shadowed by his cap, but when he glanced toward the strip, the streetlight lit up his face.

He didn’t speak at first, just walked straight to the start line, scanning it. Only then did his gaze slide to you. For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to disapear, like everyone was waiting to see what would happen.

You met his stare without blinking.

"You’re late" you said, your voice carrying just enough to be heard over the low hum of engines.

He smirked, just a little. "Had to make sure everyone would notice my entry."

The crowd laughed. In the underground, showing up fashionably late was one thing. Showing up late and still owning the scene was another.

Five other racers were already at the line, their cars gleaming under the streetlight, their faces hard. They didn’t look happy about his arrival, he's always unpredictable on the track.

One of them spat on the ground in his direction.

"I think everyone's here" you said, stepping back just enough to let the racers go to their cars. "Make it worth my time."

That was the thing about nights like this. Nobody came just to watch cars go fast. They came for the gamble, the noise, the adrenaline spike that came when the flag dropped and the cars' tires screeched against the ground.

Conversations died out as more people moved toward the strip, their attention narrowing to that stretch of asphalt where reputations were built or shattered in seconds.

You lifted the bandana, holding it high in one hand, making it move just enough to catch the eye.

Somewhere behind the crowd, a siren wailed in the distance, but no one flinched. Everyone knew the police kept their distance from Harbor Street on race nights. Too many fast cars, too many witnesses willing to scatter like roaches at the first sign of flashing blue lights.

For now, the night belonged to the racers.

The engines’ noises intensified. The smell of gasoline and rubber made the air feel thick, heavy. Your eyes swept across the line: six cars, six egos, six pilots waiting to prove their worth.

When your arm would drop, the street would erupt. And somewhere in that moment, Yeonjun wasn’t just here to race. He was here to leave a mark.

The first time Yeonjun touched a steering wheel, he was twelve and the car wasn’t his. It belonged to his father, a ‘89 Nissan Skyline, paint faded to a dull blue. His father had left it sitting in the driveway for months after the engine gave out, saying he’d fix it "someday." Yet this day never came.

But one rainy afternoon, Yeonjun slipped behind the wheel while his dad was asleep inside the house, and let his small hands rest on the leather wrap that was worn smooth by time.

He didn’t turn the key that day. Didn’t even try. He knew it wouldn't work. But in that moment, staring over the dashboard at the street, he felt something click in his chest. A promise, unspoken and unformed, that one day he’d make the road his own. He would become a pilot.

His father, a man who worked double shifts at the docks, wasn’t much for gentle life lessons. But he did believe in two things: working with your hands and knowing how to handle a car.

By the time Yeonjun was fifteen, his father had taught him how to strip an engine down to its bones and put it back together without losing a single bolt. He learned about compression ratios, torque curves and the tricky science of getting a carburetor to hum just right.

What he didn’t learn from his father, he picked up from the streets. His neighborhood was a mix of cracked sidewalks, graffiti-tagged brick walls, and dim alleys that smelled of fried food and sweat. Nights there weren’t quiet. Guys would gather at corners, bragging about who could hit the straightaway fastest, swapping out mufflers in the dark. Older kids would lean against their beat-up Hondas, engines humming low.

Yeonjun started small, fixing bikes for spare cash, running errands for the older drivers, changing tires for beer he wasn’t even allowed to drink. But the first time someone let him behind the wheel, he knew. The rush didn’t come from winning. It came from the feeling of absolute control in chaos, how the world blurred and moved but the car stayed under his hands, sharp and controled.

By seventeen, he’d earned a spot in small races. By nineteen, he had his first car, an old, dented Toyota Supra that he rebuilt from the chassis up in a friend’s garage. Every paycheck from his part-time job at a body shop went into that car. Better brakes. Better suspension. A turbo that thrummed.

And then he got his nickname, the Fox. He didn’t choose the name. Someone in the crowd called him that one night after he cut through traffic so fast they swore he vanished. It stuck.

But Yeonjun wasn’t just chasing speed for the thrill of it.

Three years ago, his father was killed in a shipping yard accident. The payout from the company was a joke, a small settlement that barely covered the funeral. He had to sell the Skyline, his father’s car, to cover debts. That loss burned deeper than he ever admitted. The Skyline wasn’t just a car, it was the symbol of everything his father had taught him, the dream they’d built together.

The underground scene gave him a way to take something back.

The races paid, sometimes enough to cover bills, sometimes more. But for him, every run, every win, was another step toward a bigger goal: buying back that Skyline. He knew where it was, a collector uptown who treated it like a display piece, all shine and no heart. One day, he’d come up with cash in hand and take it home. Not because it was worth much to anyone else, but because it was worth everything to him. The legacy of his father.

Until then, he was building a reputation. A name that made other racers think twice before stepping up. He ran clean, but he ran hard, taking risks others wouldn’t. And though he’d been called reckless more times than he could count, Yeonjun knew the truth: every move he made was calculated. Every turn, every press on the gas pedal was all part of the plan.

Which brought him to Harbor Street tonight.

This wasn’t just any run. Word on the street was that one of the racers here, a guy named Rivas, was backed by serious money. Big-time sponsors didn’t show up at Harbor Street without a reason, and if Yeonjun could take him down in front of this crowd, the sponsors would change favourite.

As he leaned against his silver car, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred but he was looking for one in particular.bThe flag girl. You weren't just there to wave the start, you were the unspoken authority. Racers deferred to you, crowds respected your space.

Tonight, when you had told him he was late, there’d been no bite to your words, just a spark. A challenge. He liked challenges.

A sudden honk snapped him out of his thoughts. The other five racers for the night were already at the line, engines thruming.

Yeonjun took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and buckled his belt. He ran his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the leather grip.

He glanced at you one last time. Under the flicker of the streetlight, your eyes met his. His fingers tightened on the wheel. The night was his. He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

You stepped forward now, boots clicking softly on the pavement. Your jacket shifted with the wind, the bandana tied around your wrist fluttering. The crowd’s murmurs dipped in volume as you approached; like always, you pulled focus without asking for it.

"You six ready?" You called, your voice sharp and clear above the growls of the engines.

Yeonjun just smirked. "Ready enough" he said, his voice carrying across the line.

You arched an eyebrow at him, your lips curving slightly. "Ready enough? That’s not exactly confidence."

"Oh, I’ve got confidence" Yeonjun replied, leaning slightly out the open driver’s side window. "Question is, do you?"

That earned him a few raised brows in the crowd, a couple of muffled chuckles. You tilted you head, giving him that assessing look. "Me?" You said. "I’m not the one racing."

"No" he said slowly, his smirk deepening "but you’re the one I’m betting with."

That got the crowd’s full attention. A ripple of excitement moved through them, bets between racers and flag girls weren’t unheard of, but they weren’t common either. And never in front of this many witnesses.

You crossed your arms. "Betting with me? And what exactly do you think I’d be betting on?"

Yeonjun's eyes didn’t leave yours. "On me. On whether I win this race."

You gave a short, almost disbelieving laugh. "You think I’m gonna put my money down on you just because you showed up late with a shiny car and a cocky grin?"

"Not money" he said, his tone mischievous. "If I win, I get a kiss."

The silence after that was thick enough to cut.

The crowd reacted a half-second later: cheers, whistles, a few shouted "Ohhh!"s like kids in a schoolyard fight. Even the other pilots shaked their heads like Yeonjun had just signed his own humiliation papers.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. You just stared at him, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. "A kiss" you repeated, flat, like you were testing the weight of the word.

Yeonjun shrugged lightly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Yeah. Just one. Right here at the line, in front of everyone."

Your gaze lingered on him, then slid briefly to the other five racers, then back again. The corner of your mouth curved up. "And what happens if you lose?"

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. "You tell me."

You stepped closer to his car now. You leaned down just enough so your eyes were level with his, the crowd going dead quiet again in anticipation.

"If you lose" you said slowly "you’re banned from my line for a month. No racing where I wave the flag. You can hit every other street, but not mine."

It was a harsh punishment, Harbor Street had some of the biggest races in the underground. Missing a month here would hurt his reputation. But his expression didn’t falter. "Deal" he said, without a blink.

You straightened up, one brow arched, a tiny shake of your head like you couldn’t decide if he was reckless or just insane. "Alright then, Fox. Win your kiss, if you can."

The crowd erupted at that, voices rising, people pulling out phones to record. The atmosphere shifted from tense anticipation to something almost electric. Now it wasn’t just a race. It was a spectacle, an entertainment, no matter how it ended.

This wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about proving something, to you, to the crowd, and maybe to himself.

You stepped back toward the center of the strip, raising the bandana high in one hand. The racers fell silent, engines rumbling low. The streetlight above them flickered, casting everything into brief darkness before returning to its orange glare.

Yeonjun wrapped his hands tighter around the wheel. His pulse slowed to that same steady rhythm he’d trained for, the calm before the chaos. He wasn’t thinking about the kiss anymore, or the risk of the ban, or even about the other racers' stupid grins.

You glanced at each driver in turn, your gaze sharp and assessing. You gave no sign of favoritism, no wink, no nod, just the impartial, commanding presence you were known for. And yet, when your eyes met Yeonjun's for that split second before the drop, there was something there. Not quite approval. Not quite doubt. But something.

The bandana twitched in the air. The engines roared higher, each driver holding their breath. The crowd’s noise built into a wall of sound, but inside Yeonjun's head there was only the hum of the machine and the steady thud of his own heartbeat.

When your arm came down, the world would explode. And if Yeonjun had his way, it would end with your lips on his.

The bandana dropped.

Yeonjun's surged forward, the turbo spooling in a high-pitched whine that cut through the roar.

First gear, Ghost held it just long enough for the revs to crest, then slammed the clutch, shifted, and felt the pull intensify. The streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow as the strip opened up ahead.

Launch was good. The first concurent is close. A second falling back. Focus.

The first hundred meters vanished under his wheels. The wind shoved against his face through the open window, carrying the hot tang of burning rubber.

The sponsors' favourite was only few meters from him. The man was quick, Yeonjun had expected that, but he was also aggressive.

Yeonjun didn’t flinch. He held the inside line, knowing the curve was coming up fast, a subtle bend in the asphalt that looked harmless but could bleed speed from anyone careless enough to take it wide.

They hit the curve almost neck-and-neck. Yeonjun downshifted, feeling the chassis bite into the turn, the tires screeching against the road. He hugged the inside, just close enough to the curb that he could feel the ripple of uneven pavement under the tires.

Two hundred meters.

The finish line markers glowed faintly ahead. The crowd at that end of the strip was already leaning forward, phones out, ready to record the moment.

His oponent made his move. He cut into Yeonjun's lane, forcing him toward the edge of the asphalt where it dipped into uneven gravel. A rookie might have flinched. Yeonjun didn't. He kept his foot planted, steering with small, sharp inputs, the car skirting the edge of the road. The uneven ground spat pebbles up against his undercarriage, the sound sharp like snapping bones, but the car held.

One hundred meters.

For a heartbeat, three cars were aligned, filling the width of the strip like a wall of noise and speed. Yeonjun's chest tightened, adrenaline flooding every nerve. This was the moment. The one every racer lived for, the chaos, the uncertainty, the knife’s edge between victory and loss.

He dropped the hammer. His oponents hesitated just a fraction, and in that fraction, Ghost pulled ahead.

Fifty meters.

The finish line was just ahead, the painted white marks glowing like a beacon. The noise was deafening now, engine scream, wind roar, crowd shouting, but in Yeonjun's head it was all a muted hum under the pounding of his heartbeat.

Twenty meters.

He finally passed the finish line, first.

The crowd erupted, a mix of cheers, whistles, and shouted disbelief. He let the car roll to a stop near the end of the strip, his chest heaving with controlled breaths. His hands stayed on the wheel for a moment longer, feeling the heat in the leather, the vibration still running through his fingers.

Then he smiled. The kiss was his. And something told him you were going to make him work for it, even now.

Yeonjun sat back in the seat, letting the adrenaline pulse through him. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air, thick. Tires hissed as they cooled, and sparks from minor friction flickered briefly in the streetlights’ glow.

The crowd erupted like a tidal wave, cheers, whistles, and shouts crashing over the strip. Phones were raised everywhere, capturing the moment. Some of the onlookers jumped onto the low walls that lined the street to get a better view. The energy was infectious, electric enough to make your hair stand on end and your heart race. He felt it in every nerve.

The sponsors' favourite slammed the door with a thud that resonated. He stalked toward the crowd, voice raised in frustration "You got lucky!" But no one listened. The cheers had already shifted entirely toward the victor.

You stepped toward him. Your arms crossed at first, lips pressed in a straight line, bandana still in hand, but your eyes betrayed you amusement. They flicked over Yeonjun, measuring him again. He had that look, a mix of cocky satisfaction and restrained energy that suggested he wasn’t just pleased with winning. He was savoring it.

You took a step closer. "So… you actually won...I would've never believed it" you said, your voice carefully neutral, though there was a flicker of challenge in your tone. "I guess that means…"

Yeonjun pushed himself off the car smoothly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, and walked toward you. He let his smirk stretch across his face, the kind that teased without giving anything away. "Guess it does."

The crowd stepped back slightly, sensing the tension between them. A collective hush fell over the assembly, the air thick with expectation. Some of the racers’ friends nudged each other, some laughed nervously, and a few young fans practically bounced in place, unable to contain their excitement.

Yeonjun stopped in front of you, close enough that you would smell his cologne. He tilted his head slightly, watching your reaction with those teasing eyes.

"You know" he murmured, almost inaudible to anyone but you "I could’ve let you off the hook. Made it quick. But where’s the fun in that?"

Your lips twitched, almost a smile, almost irritation, but you didn’t back down. You raised the bandana slightly, a subtle signal that you were still in control of this game. "Oh, so this is fun for you, huh?"

"Very" Yeonjun said, his smirk widening as he leaned just a fraction closer. "But only if you make it worth it"

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink around them. The crowd’s noise dimmed in the background, the hum of tires and engines fading behind the rush of tension. He could see the flicker of surprise in your eyes, the way your jaw tensed before relaxing slightly and the subtle shift in your stance that suggested you weren't going to flinch.

Then, slowly, you let the bandana drop from your hand and tilted your head just enough to meet his smirk with your own. The gesture wasn’t submissive, it was deliberate, challenging, teasing back in its own way.

Yeonjun leaned in closer, and the crowd collectively leaned forward with him, like magnets being drawn to the inevitable. The street was lined with eager faces, flashlights, phone screens and neon reflections dancing across the asphalt. Every detail, the hum of cooling engines, the faint smell of fuel, the distant city traffic, faded away.

And then, finally, your lips met. It was brief, deliberate, but still he brushed his tongue against your lips, just enough to confirm the bet had been fulfilled. Yeonjun pulled back slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, smirk never leaving. The kind of smirk that said I know, I won, and I’m enjoying every second of making you acknowledge it.

You blinked once, then twice, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly, but there was still fire in your gaze. You stepped back, crossing your arms again, but Yeonjun could see the faint blush creeping on your cheeks.The crowd erupted anew. Whistles, cheers, and laughter bounced off the buildings lining the street. Some of the racers’ friends hooted, others groaned in mock envy, and a few of the younger fans cheered wildly. The energy was euphoric, chaotic, and perfectly alive.

Yeonjun leaned casually against the car again, still smirking, voice low and teasing. "See? Not so bad."

You shot him a glare, though the curve of your lips betrayed a trace of amusement. "Don’t let it get to your head" you warned.

"Too late" he replied lightly, shrugging with mock innocence. "Already in my head."

There was a pause as the two of you regarded each other, the aftershocks of the race lingering in every corner of the street. It wasn’t just the victory or the kiss, it was the electricity between you, the thrill of risk and tease intertwined.

Yeonjun finally stepped back fully, still grinning. "I’ll let you keep your pride… for now. I know how big it is for you to have a reputation."

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t reply. The tension between you hung like a charged wire, buzzing in the night air.

The crowd was slowly dispersing. Yeonjun whispered to you "Not bad for a first race with me on your strip" he said casually, his tone teasing but confident, letting his smirk linger.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched upward. "You’re unbelievable" you muttered, though there was no real bite in your words.

"Maybe" he admitted. "But you liked it."

Your gaze flicked away briefly, toward the cooling crowd, then back to him. "Maybe" you said.

He stepped closer, letting the distance shrink just enough for the tension to go up. "Look" he began, voice low "I know I might’ve been… a little distracting earlier." The smirk returned, teasing, not arrogant but deliberate. "So, I thought I’d make it easy for you. No games. Just one thing before we call it a night."

You raised a brow, skeptical but curious. "One thing?"

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, slightly worn paper. He handed it to you with a casual flourish, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every reaction. "My number. Text me. Call me. Or, if you prefer, I’ll wait for the next race."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the card, a slight spark, tiny, almost imperceptible, flickering in that contact. You examined it quickly, the handwriting on it clean but personal.

"I don’t know" you said, letting a teasing smile play at your lips. "You’re a little… much."

"Good" he said, voice softening just enough to feel intimate without breaking the playful edge. "At least I'm not boring"

You glanced down at the paper again, then back up. There was still fire there, a spark that hadn’t died in the chaos of the race or the teasing of the kiss.

"Maybe" you said again, softer this time.

Yeonjun grinned, that same smirk that had driven you half-mad earlier, but now tempered with a hint of warmth. "That’s all I need. Maybe." He stepped back just a fraction, giving you space, letting the moment linger. The crowd was gone now, a few stragglers drifting off with murmurs of the night’s excitement, leaving the two of you in a bubble of quiet anticipation.

The streetlights cast long shadows over the road.

"I’ll hold you to that" you said finally, slipping the card into your pocket. Your fingers lingered on it just a moment longer, as if weighing the decision, teasing him back without a word.

"You better" Yeonjun replied, straightening up, the smirk never leaving, but now carrying a promise rather than just teasing.

You exhaled softly, a mixture of amusement, challenge and… something else that made him grin even wider. "Alright" you said, finally turning to leave. "See you… maybe."

"Maybe" He echoed "by the way, my real name is Yeonjun"

"Yeonjun? Nice name"

With that you walked away, leaving him alone near his car.

The taglist is open!!

Taglist: @yeonggum @tttubatttu @skyearby @frvnbeom @luxynjun @beaabz @starsmew

[yourfavtangerine]

OMG !!!! It happened !!

Thank you so much for liking my fic!!

My Favorite A/B/O Fanfiction (Part 6)

bite 

@sailorsoons

Seungcheol x Jeongha x Soonyoung x Seokmin x Vernon x Chan x Reader, omegaverse au, werewolf au, royalty au, Omega Reader, Princess Reader, prisoner of war Reader, enemies to lovers, soulmates au, multiple character deaths

An alpha steps toward you, slow and sure, his gaze sweeping over the fallen bodies scattered around you before landing on your blood-soaked figure. He’s dressed in black armor, battered and worn, though a single red scarf is tied at his belt like a brand. No sigil. No crest. But you know without question he belongs to the Divine. 

He’s handsome. It’s an afterthought, but an observation nonetheless. He has a sharp jaw and his plush lips are downturned in a frown, thick brows pinched together as he tries to puzzle you out. 

He just stares at you, something on his face akin to horror lurking beneath the surface. You’re not sure what he sees that leaves him stricken, but his game eventually flicks to the mausoleum entrance behind you. Then back to you.  “Alright then,” he murmurs, voice soft and deep. “Go ahead.”

Your heart begins to pound. He isn’t attacking and he hasn’t moved. He’s seemingly letting you go.

It doesn’t make sense. This is the kind of alpha who should strike you down immediately, who should already have you on your knees.  “You’re going to die today,” you murmur, voice raw. 

He takes a step back from you. “I’m offering you a chance to live. Whatever tunnel that is, I suggest you use it.” You take another step toward him and his eyes dip to the necklace at your throat, the crest of Valen. His eyes dilate. “Princess.”

Where You Belong

@sweetvoidstuff

Jungkook x Reader, omegaverse au, Alpha Jungkook, Omega Reader, Half-werewolf Reader, bullying, fighting, emotional abuse, daredevil Reader, soulmates au, possessive Jungkook

A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Waiting After the Rain

@softjeekies

Stray Kids x Reader, omegaverse au, Omega Reader, Pregnant Reader, Stray Kid pack, strangers to lovers au, trauma, abuse (sexual, physical, and verbal), family neglect

An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Fated to be

@yourfavtangerine

BTS x Reader, omegaverse au, soulmates au, Omega Reader, BTS pack, polyamory, familial abuse

You freeze "you smell so good...like pine and brown sugar...you're the first alpha who ever smelled good..."

"yes, i'm your mate. Come here" he opens his arms to invite you.

You don't hesitate and rush to him. You burry your face in his neck to inhale more of his sweet scent. Finally you feel safety and comfort, not the scent of wrong that comes from your brothers and father. It feels right to be in his arms.

"Jungkook the scent is stronger he-" Yoongi arrives "is that..."

"yes, the 8th mate. Our omega"

Omega of the Pack

@queenofhalloween94

Stray Kids x Reader, omegaverse au, soulmate au, idol au, Alpha SKZ, SKZ pack, Omega Reader

The stadium was alive. Vibrating, humming with energy as the bass dropped into “MEGAVERSE”, the heavy beat shaking your bones. Thousands of bodies surrounded you, screaming, cheering—but you felt the thrum beneath it all. Something older. Primal.

Eight alphas. You didn’t need to see them to feel them.

You weren’t naïve. You knew their pack had been without an omega for years. Everyone in the A/B/O communities whispered about it — eight unmated alphas at the top of the idol world, managing perfect balance for so long. But instinct wasn’t something that could be repressed forever. And from the minute you’d entered the arena, you felt it like a magnetic current humming under your skin. They were looking.

his predestined mate

@iridescentxstars

Bang Chan x Reader, omegaverse au, soulmate au, angst, enemies to lovers, Alpha Chan, human Reader, toxic exes

“Welcome to Everything Nice!” A soft and sweet voice calls to him when he enters the bakery, the bell ringing above the door almost unheard as he looks over in her direction briefly before he looks back at the other items in his path, half listening to what she’s saying. Something about deals. Chris hums, more to himself than anything, looking over the pastries and grabbing a few extra items since he knows that the boys will complain about him not bringing them back as much as he can carry.

Who said he was a bad Alpha? Like fuck he is.

When he finally reaches the counter, placing all the bags on the glass bench, he watches as the woman’s eyes widen, her mouth slightly parting in shock and it takes everything in him to refrain from sighing as she openly checks him out. Honestly, it’s not unusual for him to gain this type of reaction from women and it’s usually followed by some type of hair twirl and batting of the eyelashes. In the past, he would have engaged, flirted with them, and gotten their number but today – he doesn’t care… oh?

Wolfgang

@scarsnfevers

Stray Kids x Reader, omegaverse au, werewolf au, Stray Kids Pack, Alpha Reader, strangers to lovers, recluse Reader

burned out by the constant pressure of city life and overwhelmed by the presence of too many wolves, you—a lone Alpha—left Seattle behind in search of peace. Trading noise for silence, you bought a secluded cabin deep in the woods, hoping to start over far from the chaos of pack dynamics. For the first time in years, you felt calm, grounded, and finally able to breathe. But after a week of solitude, everything shifted the night a pizza was delivered to your door. In a place where wolves lived hidden among trees and old magic lingered in the air, your past—and your true self—began to catch up with you.

Masterlist

[yourfavtangerine]

So....the first part of Drift is finished, finally. I'll post it tomorrow. I've cut a big part that was really anoying so it'll be shorter.

I cooked on this one, it's probably the most elaborated fic I've written (thanks google translate)

[yourfavtangerine]

250816 bts on v’s instagram

[yourfavtangerine]

Clem's fics recs - 1

The great upheavals aka the 10k+ words fanfics that altered my brain chemistry

(only oneshots. Maybe I'll do one for the series)

Here are some of my favourite oneshots ever, the ones that really are hella good.

Multi fandoms: bts, skz, svt, txt, enha

Angel by @sailoryooons 15.5k

Mafia!Yoongi x Sex worker! F. reader, Semi-established relationship, mafia, smut, a lot of fluff

One of my first long ff and it's seriously soooo good. The perfect balance of fluff, smut and angst!!

Cherrybomb by @daechwitatamic 19.5k

Seungcheol/S.coups x reader, pacific rim au, fluff, angst, smut

Wasn't familiar at all with the pacific rim universe but I've been surprised. Everything is explained and it's such an original au. I loved it!!

The scientist by @dawngyu 21k

popular hueningkai x deaf fem!reader, a lot of angst, hurt and comfort, smut

This fanfic is really something. It matches his vibe so well! A lot of angst but it just makes the fluff better!! I think I could reread it 1000 times.

Antithesis by @anyamaris 18.7k

Serial Killer!Hoseok x F!Reader, dystopian/horror au, smut, angst !very dark topics, read the warnings!

Not at all my usual style but this one was so well-written I loved it. It's a vibe. If I'm not mistaken it's a bit inspired by his song Arson.

Break by @sailorsoons 18k

Witch!Joshua x Cursed!Reader, Magic/Witches, Modern Fantasy au, Friends to Lovers, Doomed Lovers, Heavy Angst, Smut

I missed a tag when I started reading it and it ended up with my heart shattered. Yet it was very good and I loved the writing!

The lighthouse by @faeyun 25.6k

Lighthouse keeper!Sunghoon x mermaid!reader, love at first sight, fluff smut

I'm such a big fan of mermaid au and this one is one of my favourite ever it's just so perfect. I love it so much!!

Insane in the brain by @1nthedarknessofthenight 17.1k

ghostface!seungmin & ghostface!jeongin x f!reader, horror au, threesome

The tension omg !! As expected, a good old ghostface fic. Really good.

Something about you by @joonsytip 11.5k

Lawyer!Woozi x Event Coordinator!Reader, Selective Amnesia au, Secret Relationship au, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Ansty yet so sweet! So well, written! The plot is very original. My first long woozi fic that I finally found again after losing my first account.

Maybe I'll do a part 2

[yourfavtangerine]

The current wordcount for the party 1 of Drift. (Not finished)

Guys I'm cooking for this one, it'll be a masterpiece but it's so long!! I feel like I'm never gonna reach the end of it 🥲. It's only the fast writing (so it'll be modified after to make it better).

Thanks google translate because I'm so creative in french but sometimes I just don't know how to write it in english. Google translate is my bestie in those moments.

It's gonna be a work of art but it's so hard...

Please save me from myself

[yourfavtangerine]

Under the sun

Pairing: Surfer!Taehyung x reader Strangers to lovers to strangers, one night stand, smut

Wc: ~3.4k

Warnings: makeout, fingering, unprotected sex

Summary: You came at the beach to relax and take a break from your tiring work. Your plan? Spending the day doing nothing. But it changes when you meet him, a sexy surfer named Taehyung.

The sun rests on your skin warm, steady, impossible to ignore. You’re lying on your towel, legs stretched out, sunglasses perched just enough to keep your eyes hidden but still allow you to watch the waves if you want to. You haven’t moved in nearly thirty minutes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, that feels like an accomplishment.

Vacation. No emails. No work. No infuriating boss. No alarm ringing at six am. Just waves, breeze, and the distant clink of bottles from the beach bar behind you. Somewhere, someone’s playing guitar badly. Somewhere else, a seagull screams like it owns the place. You let it all wash over you. You’re not trying to meet anyone. Not here. Not now. You didn’t come for that, you just wanted vacations and peace.

So when a shadow slides across your sun, large and unmoving, you frown, just a little. "Sorry" a voice says, low and far too amused. "Didn’t mean to block your light. Or your peace."

You peek over the rim of your sunglasses, prepared to give some generic, polite brush-off. Then you see him. He’s tall, lean, tanned. Shirtless, too, which might be rude if he weren’t clearly fresh from the water. His board is tucked under one arm, drops of seawater still tracking down the lines of his chest. His hair, dark, pushed back, water drips against his temples. And he’s smiling. Like he knows exactly how he looks standing there, casting a shadow over your towel, cutting you from the warth of the sun.

"You're planning to stand there all day?" you ask, arching a brow. He shifts his weight, grinning wider. "Only if you tell me that’s your polite way of asking me to stay."

You scoff, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "That line usually work?"

"Only when they laugh after" he says, eyes shining. You don’t laugh. Not out loud, anyway. But the corner of your mouth gives you away, and his grin softens into something slightly more genuine.

"I’m Tae" he offers, nodding toward the ocean behind him. "I was just finishing up."

You glance toward the water. The waves are small today, gentle, rolling, glittering under the sun. A few surfers still linger but most are packing up.

You turn back to him "You always hit on women while dripping saltwater on their beach towels?" you ask, folding your arms lightly across your chest.

"Only the ones who look like they’re trying very hard not to be impressed."

You raise a brow.

"And clearly failing" he adds with a wink. Cocky.

"I'm not impressed" You should roll your eyes. You should lie back down, turn your music up, let the moment pass like a warm breeze. But instead, you sit up fully, brushing a bit of sand from your thigh, and give him a measured glare. Up close, he’s even more distracting. Late twenties, maybe. Defined, but not in a gym-rat way, more in a I live outside and throw myself into the ocean for fun kind of way. Tanned, but not burnt. Relaxed, but not lazy. And his eyes, they’re dark, but they shine. Like he’s halfway between joking and genuinely curious about what you’ll say next.

You reach for your water bottle and sip slowly. "Let me guess. You offer surf lessons, and drinks after?"

"Only if you fall in love with me first." You do laugh this time, just a short, surprised breath. "You’re shameless."

"I’ve been called worse" he says easily. "But look, no pressure. I just figured, gorgeous woman, sunshine, good timing. Would’ve been criminal not to introduce myself."

You pause, weighing him. Weighing yourself. You’re not the type to flirt with strangers. You’ve built your life on calendars and self-control. But something about this place, the heat, the way your chest unclenched the moment your feet hit sand, it’s doing something to you. Loosening edges. Untying knots. Maybe it’s okay to be someone else for a day, for a night. You glance at him. "You're always this persistent?"

"No" he says, smile dipping into something a little more real. "Just when I want to see someone smile again."

You look away, the breeze brushing your hair over your shoulder. You hate how easily he read that in you. Hate how right he might be. But when you look back, he’s still standing there. Not smug now. Just steady. Waiting to see your answer.

The air between you stretches, warm, expectant. Finally, you slide your sunglasses back into your beach bag. "Well" you say, standing slowly, brushing the sand from your legs. "If I let you buy me a drink, are you going to keep talking like you’re in a movie script?"

He picks up his board and slings it under one arm. "Only if you keep playing the lead."

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. "Lead the way, ocean boy."

The bar feels like it belongs to another world. Somewhere slower, saltier, softer. The wood is sun-bleached, the kind of place that’s never seen a schedule or a dress code. You sip your drink, cold, sweet, a little too easy, and let yourself lean into the moment.

Tae lounges across from you like he’s got nowhere to be, and somehow that makes him even more dangerous. The way his fingers tap on the side of his glass, the way his smile curves like he knows things you don’t, the way his eyes keep finding yours, and lingering. It’s not practiced. It’s not forced. It’s just him, and that might be the most disarming part of all.

"You're always this charming or am I just catching you on a good wave?" you ask

He grins around the rim of his drink. "Depends. You're always this hard to impress?"

"I’m not hard to impress" you reply, tilting your head. "I just don’t like giving it away for free. Especially to beach flirters"

Taehyung chuckles low in his throat. "Fair. But I’m not trying to earn anything."

"No?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Nah. I just like the way you look when you’re trying not to laugh."

You weren’t trying to laugh, not exactly, but now you are. And it bubbles up easier than you expect, light and sudden, and he watches you like that reaction is a gift. You glance away, cheeks warm, pretending to study the beach through the open railing beside your table. The sun has dipped lower in the sky now, streaking it with orange and pink. The ocean reflects it all back. You've always loved sunsets.

You hear music playing somewhere behind the bar, something slow, guitar-heavy, half in Spanish. Tae nudges your elbow lightly. "You okay?"

You nod. "Yeah. Just...forgot what quiet feels like."

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more. Just sips his drink and waits, like he knows you’ll keep going if you want to. And maybe that’s what does it, what loosens your chest and makes you exhale something real.

"I’ve been running on empty for so long, I don’t even know what I’d do with full." You say it without meaning to, and the moment it’s out, you regret giving it words. But Taehyung doesn’t blink.

"Maybe you don’t need to fill the tank" he says softly. "Maybe you just need to stop driving for a while."

You turn back to him.

That’s when you realize he’s not flirting anymore. Not exactly. He’s looking at you like he sees the version of you you haven’t met yet. The one who isn’t always tired. The one who laughs easily. The one who breathes. "You're better at metaphores than i thought."

The air shifts. He leans closer across the small table, and this time when his leg brushes yours, there’s no mistaking it. His voice drops just enough to make your pulse stir. "Can I tell you something?" You nod. "When I saw you on the beach I thought: she’s here to forget." He pauses. "But now I think maybe you’re here to remember."

Your throat goes dry. You don’t respond right away. His eyes are dark and steady on yours, and there’s something in them that’s both calm and reckless, like the sea before a storm. You push your empty glass forward. "That's the kind of line you practice for your weekly hookups ?"

He smiles. Not the cocky kind. Something slower. "No. If I were trying to seduce you, I’d ask you back to my place." You let the silence stretch between you, charged and heavy.

Then you whisper "What if I say yes?"

His smile fades into something more serious. More intimate. "Then I’ll take you."

You meet his gaze, heart knocking once, hard, before you stand. "Let’s go" you say. Tae doesn’t say anything. He just grabs his board, tosses some bills on the table, and falls into step bedside you.

Taehyung’s place is a short walk from the bar, but the silence between you stretches longer than the distance. It’s not awkward, just heavy. Thick with awareness, with everything unsaid. He walks beside you with easy confidence, his surfboard tucked under one arm, free hand brushing his hair back from his face as the breeze rises.

The neighborhood is quiet, small bungalows, blooming hibiscus, salt air in every corner. You pass under palms, your sandals crunching lightly on the gravel road, and you feel the first flutter of nerves in your chest. You glance at him. He catches it. "Nervous?" he asks, soft, like he’s asking about the weather.

You shrug, keeping your voice steady. "Just thinking." Tae glances down at you, eyes unreadable. "You can still change your mind."

You stop walking for half a second, just enough to consider that you could. But you don’t want to. Not really. "I don’t want to" you say. He watches you, still. Then nods once and leads you the rest of the way. His house is modest, low-built, with a slanted roof and a wide porch cluttered with potted plants and two surfboards leaning lazily against the wall. He unlocks the door and gestures you in.

Inside, it smells like cedarwood and sea salt. The windows are open, letting in the ocean breeze. There are traces of him everywhere, board wax on the counter, a faded photo of him and a grinning friend pinned to the fridge, a bookshelf half-stacked with paperbacks and sand. You toe off your sandals as he sets his board down. He turns to you, hands in his pockets, not assuming, not rushing. Just waiting. Watching.

"You okay?" he asks again, voice low.

You step closer. "I’m tired of thinking" you murmur. And then you kiss him. It’s not delicate. It’s not hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss that answers everything unspoken, the quiet want that’s been building since the beach, the way his gaze lingered at the bar, the way your legs brushed under the table and neither of you moved.

His hands find your hips, and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet sound at the back of his throat. You taste lime and salt and something unmistakably him. He’s warm and solid, his skin still sun-heated under your palms. You slide your hands up his chest, feel the definition there, the steady thump of his heartbeat. He breaks the kiss only long enough to whisper "Come here" before backing toward the bedroom.

You follow without hesitation. The bedroom is simple, a low bed, rumpled sheets, soft light slipping in through the slatted window blinds. The sound of the ocean is louder now, a quiet noise that fills the room like breath.

He turns to you, slower this time. Lets his fingers trail from your shoulder down your arm, watching you like he’s memorizing each reaction. "Still okay?" he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, throat dry. "More than okay."

He kisses you again, slower now. Exploratory. His hands slide under the hem of your dress, fingers teasing the skin of your thighs before hooking into the fabric, dragging it upward. You raise your arms, and the dress slips over your head, pooling silently on the floor.

His eyes rake over you, appreciative and warm. "You’re...yeah" he breathes. "Just...yeah."

You smile. "You’re not bad yourself, ocean boy." He chuckles, shaking his head, before pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. The sight of him knocks something loose in your chest. Broad shoulders, toned from the sea, a light trail of sun-bleached hair down his stomach. Nothing you hadn't already seen earlier on the beach and yet it seemed even more sexy now.

You run your hands over his skin, feeling the warmth, the give of muscle, the tension coiling just beneath it. He lays you back on the bed like you’re something precious, not rushed or careless, just reverent. His lips follow the curve of your collarbone, then lower, mouth exploring with heat and patience.

Every touch of him feels like something you forgot you needed, soft and certain, the weight of his body pressing against yours just enough to make you want more. You arch into him, your breath hitching as his hands explore, one on your waist, the other sliding down, under the fabric of your underwear. His fingers find your clit easily, confidently, drawing a gasp from your lips.

"God" you breathe. "Tae…" His name falls from your mouth like something fragile, and he pauses, lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

"I got you" he whispers. And you believe him.

What follows isn’t fast, but it’s intense, like a slow tide pulling you under. As he enters you, he whispers sweet words in your ear. His body moves against yours in waves, a rhythm you find without trying. Every kiss is deeper, every touch more deliberate. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his back as he presses into you, filling you in a way that’s almost overwhelming. You haven't felt so good in a very long time.

There’s heat, friction, skin on skin and the sound of breathless moans tangled between kisses. The room feels like it’s spinning, or maybe it’s you. Maybe this whole thing is releasing something inside you you didn’t know was locked down. A new sense of freedom.

And when you come, body arched, voice caught in your throat, it’s not just physical. It feels like a release of something heavier, something buried deeper. And he holds you through it, mouth at your ear, fingers woven through yours, staying with you in every pulse, every tremor as you're unraveling under him, all the pent up tension leaving your body, being replaced by pleasure. Only his touch.

You lose track of time.

Afterward, you lie tangled in the sheets, your leg thrown over his, your cheek against his chest. He’s stroking lazy circles into your back, his breath slow and even, grounding you. You could stay like this forever. And for a while, you do. "I don’t usually do this" you say finally, the words muffled against his skin.

He hums. "Neither do I."

You glance up, skeptical. "You live in a beach town, surf and roam shirtless. I find that hard to believe."

He smiles, but it’s soft. "I meet people. But I don’t…keep them."

You exhale, nodding. You understand that. More than you want to admit. You press your ear back to his chest, listening to the ocean again, this time filtered through the open window and the steady beat of his heart. He speaks again, quieter. "You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?"

You nod. "I have to." A pause. "But I don’t want to." Another pause.

Then he answers "I know." Neither of you says anything more for a long time. The silence is comfortable, even if it’s lined with something bittersweet. You don’t talk about the future. You don’t make promises. But you also don’t pull away.

Eventually, he props himself up on one elbow and brushes a strand of hair from your face. "I’ll teach you to surf tomorrow" he says.

You laugh quietly. "I’ll fall. A lot."

"I’ll catch you" he replies, then adds with a wink "Or just enjoy the view."

You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers. You don’t know what happens after this week. You don’t know what waits back home. But tonight, in this room, wrapped in his arms and salt and quiet, none of that matters.

You close your eyes and let yourself rest. For the first time in a long time… you let go.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the window like a lazy caress across your bare back. You stretch slowly, sheets tangled around your legs, limbs sore in that way that feels like a secret. The sound of waves filters in through the open window, steady and calming. The breeze smells like salt and summer.

Taehyung’s arm is slung across your waist. He’s still asleep, chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. There’s something disarming about seeing him like this, quiet, unguarded. No flirtation in his smile, no teasing in his voice. Just warmth. You stay like that for a while, listening to the waves and his breathing, letting the moment sink into your bones. You don’t want to move. You don’t want to ruin it by remembering what day it is.

But eventually, he stirs. His voice is rough with sleep. "You’re still here."

You tilt your head to look at him. "You sound surprised."

"I’m not" he says, then grins. "Okay, maybe a little. Most people are halfway to the airport by now."

You laugh softly. "Don’t tempt me. The airport feels like another planet."

He rolls onto his back and stretches with a quiet groan, then turns to you again, brushing hair away from your face. "So. We surfing today?" he asks.

You pause. "What if I said I’m terrible in the water?"

"I’d say I already guessed that" he replies easily. "Still worth it."

You snort. "You’re not even pretending anymore."

He leans in, kisses your shoulder. "Why pretend?"

You shift onto your side to face him. The mood lightens with the banter, but you both know it’s temporary. It hovers between you, the inevitable truth. Your suitcase back at the rental. Your return flight, whether you’ve looked at the time or not. He sees it in your eyes. Doesn’t push. "You leaving today?" he asks.

You nod. "Evening flight."

You expect disappointment, maybe a sigh. Instead, he just studies your face for a long moment, then nods too. Like he understands. And somehow, that makes it harder. "I don’t know what I expected coming here" you say, voice low. "Not this."

"Me neither" he replies. There’s a pause. Something stretches between you, not regret, not exactly. Just the ache of something fleeting. Something good.

He leans in and kisses you again, this time slower, more lingering. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just there. Like he wants to remember the shape of your mouth, the softness of your breath. Like he’s holding the moment the way he held you last night.

When you finally pull apart, your voice is barely a whisper. "I could stay another day."

Taehyung’s fingers trail along your hip. "You could."

"But I won’t."

He nods again. Doesn’t try to convince you.

You exhale, burying your face in his neck for a second, memorizing the way he smells, sun, skin, a hint of salt. You want to take it with you. You want to leave it behind. Both things can be true.You get up slowly, pulling your dress over your head again, watching him watch you from the bed. He props himself up on one elbow, quiet.

As you reach the doorway, he speaks. "I meant what I said."

You glance back. "About surfing?" He smiles faintly.

"About catching you."

You hold his gaze, your chest tightening. "Maybe next time" you say.

"Maybe" he replies.

You step outside into the morning sun, the air warm against your skin, and start the walk back to your rental. The day feels still, unreal. Like something paused just long enough to let you slip through. You know you’ll go back. To the city. To your job. To whatever version of your life you’d been living before this.

But something’s shifted. You don’t feel like the same woman who lay on the beach yesterday, trying to tan away her burnout. You feel…awake. Just a little more like yourself.

Maybe, you think, that’s what he gave you. Not just a night. But a reminder of who you are when you let yourself breathe. And maybe that’s enough. For now.

Until next time you come to the beach.