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flowersforbucky · 7 months ago

Text

sweetener

bucky barnes x reader

summary: when the vacation that you've been planning for months gets canceled due to a last minute mission, you can't help but feel bummed - the bright side is that you're being sent on a mission with bucky.

word count: 5.3k - my masterlist

warnings/tags: canon level violence, descriptions of injuries, mention of blood, almost drowning, hospital setting, bad guys getting killed (not descriptive), non-sexual nudity, hurt/comfort trope, avenger!reader, friends to lovers, fluff, language, reader pov, no use of y/n, fem reader, bucky being super soft, not explicit but mdni please

when life deals us cards

make everything taste like it is salt

then you come through like the sweetener you are

to bring the bitter taste to a halt

Hand warmers. Flashlight and extra batteries. Can opener. Matches. First aid kit –

You glance down the handwritten list for the dozenth time that morning, checking and rechecking that you aren't forgetting anything obvious.

Your eyes flicker between the ridiculous amount of supplies scattered across your bed and the three large duffle bags on your floor that you're determined to pack it all into. You know that you are most likely being excessive, but you'd much rather be too thorough than not thorough enough when you're about to be miles deep in the Appalachian wilderness.

Sure, you'd be staying at a relatively civilized campground with restrooms and showers, but this is the first time that you've been camping in years, and your first time ever going camping alone.

A two day road trip there, then six days in the Great Smoky Mountains, and then another two day road trip back to upstate New York.

A much needed ten days of time spent by yourself, seeing as how you haven't gone on anything resembling a vacation in over two years. The last couple years have been nonstop work with very little time for relaxation.

To say that you're excited would be an understatement. Although you find immense fulfillment in the work that you do with the Avengers and can't see yourself doing anything else, you're ready to sit by a warm fire and sleep under the stars without a care in the world.

Just as you've finished packing the second bag and are about to begin on the third, the Bluetooth speaker that your cell phone is paired to begins blasting your ringtone, cutting off the music that you'd been listening to while you pack.

When you grab the phone off of your nightstand and see the name Nick Fury displayed across the screen, a ball of unease immediately forms in the pit of your stomach.

Nick Fury isn't the type to call and chit chat about how your day is going or what shows you've been binge watching. He's the type to call when he wants something done, and wants it done now.

“Hey, Fury,” you greet in a neutral tone as you perch on the edge of your bed. With the phone still connected to your speaker, you place it back down on the nightstand so that you are free to wring your hands together.

“Agent,” Fury's voice booms throughout your room. “I hope I've caught you before you've left the state of New York.”

Godfuckingdammit.

“Uh - yep. I'm still here. Packing up for my trip right now,” you answer, trying your hardest to conceal the irritation in your voice. There's a small voice in the back of your head telling you that you should just lie and say you are already on the road, but you're not stupid enough to lie to Nick Fury.

There's a second, louder voice in the back of your mind screaming at you that you shouldn’t have even answered the phone.

“You know I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm going to suggest you pack a tactical suit and weapon of choice instead of hiking boots and a sleeping bag. We just got word that a vibranium weapons dealer we've been tracking will be receiving a large shipment at a port in Destin tomorrow night. Need you and Barnes on a flight to Florida this afternoon.”

“Florida?” you repeat, unable to hide the shock and disappointment in your tone. “I can't go to Florida right now. I've been planning this trip for months. I put in the notice for my leave–”

“I realize that this is unfortunate timing but I'm afraid that this is non-negotiable, Agent,” he interrupts you in a tone of finality. “If we don't intercept this shipment then these weapons fall into very dangerous hands. With Romanoff and Rogers still in San Antonio until next week, I have no choice but to ask you and Barnes to handle it.”

You exhale an audible, frustrated breath and massage the heels of your palms into your eye sockets. You don't know why you're surprised. It's not like illegal arms dealers take your vacation time into consideration when they plot their dealings.

“Is that understood, Agent?” he asks when you don't respond.

“Yes,” you say as you dig your nails into the flesh of your palm to hold back any further argument. “Yes, I understand.”

“Great. The jet leaves in three hours.”

The line cuts off before you can get another word out.

You groan out loud. Three hours. That doesn't even leave you enough time to feel sorry for yourself.

You look around at the chaotic state of your room before your gaze lands on the already packed duffle bags filled with camping supplies.

You're too annoyed and short on time to care right now, so you empty the contents of both bags back onto your bed and tell yourself that you'll deal with the mess when you get back home. For now, you need to focus on packing the appropriate items for taking down a vibranium arms dealer in hotass Florida.

Beneath all of the disappointment and frustration, there's a glimmer of relief that at the very least it's Bucky who you're being sent on this unexpected mission with. You may not be fond of hot weather, but you are quite fond of him.

••••••

Just as Fury said, the jet departs from the compound at exactly three o'clock. You sit in the aircraft's cabin, reading through a thick file containing all of the information that SHIELD has compiled on Dmitri Petrov's crime empire, ranging from drug smuggling to illegal arms deals.

You are only a few pages into the report and it's abundantly clear why this mission was non-negotiable. Petrov has been getting away unscatched for years - tomorrow night will be the first clear opportunity for a take down since getting on SHIELD's radar.

“Coffee?” A voice snaps you back to reality, making you realize that you're reading the same sentence for the dozenth time. “Three creams, two sugars.”

You look up to find a vibranium hand holding out a disposable cup to you. If the fact that he's committed the way you take your coffee to memory isn't enough to increase your heart rate, his smirk and the crinkles around his blue eyes do the trick.

“Thank you,” you tell him, snapping the folder shut on the table in front of you. “My eyes are on the verge of bleeding.” You take a sip of the coffee - indeed, three creams and two sugars.

He takes the seat directly across from you, spinning the folder around for him to flip through himself.

“We land in less than half an hour and you've been reading this the entire flight,” he says teasingly as he thumbs through the pages. “I think it's safe to say you're prepared.”

“Just trying to get myself in the right headspace. I didn't know anything about this operation until a few hours ago, you know.”

Not one to complain, you had yet to bring up the fact that your trip had been postponed in order for you to be here. You had talked about the trip on several occasions with Bucky, but you didn't expect him to remember the exact dates that you were supposed to be gone.

Sure - if he was going to be away for over a week, you'd be hyper aware of it until he returned - but you weren't naive enough to think that he would know the exact dates of your comings and goings.

He places the file back down, returning his attention to you.

“I know,” he sighs, a sympathetic look on his face. “I was on my way to tell you to have a good trip and to be safe when I got the call from Fury this morning.”

Oh. Your cheeks heat at the casual admission from him.

“I'm sorry about your trip. I know you were really looking forward to it,” he adds sincerely. “I'm going to find extra enjoyment in putting Dmitri Petrov behind bars for causing it to get canceled.”

“You and me both,” you chuckle. “Really though, it's okay. I was bummed, but it's not the end of the world. It can easily be rescheduled once this guy is locked up and we're back home.”

You don't add the fact that you find yourself caring less and less about the canceled trip the longer that you sit here with him.

“There is at least one silver lining to this, you know,” he chimes, leaning forward with his elbows on the table between you. You instinctively lean in closer too, causing the side of your leg to brush against his beneath the table. You wait to see if he'll pull away, and when he doesn't, you leave the side of your thigh resting against his.

“Oh, yeah? And what's that?”

“Petrov’s shipment isn't set to arrive until tomorrow night, and they've sent us down here the day prior. It's not like we have to stay holed up in our hotel room for the next twenty-four hours, right?”

••••••

Bucky's right - there's no sense in locking yourselves inside the hotel room until the time of the weapons deal tomorrow evening, but when you see the hotel room that you'll be spending the next couple nights in, you think you would also be okay with staying inside if you had to.

It's not a five star resort by any means, but in comparison to the dingy roadside motels that you're normally stuck in for missions? This place might as well be a Four Seasons.

It's relatively small, but there's more than enough space for the two of you. There's one full size bed, plus a couch that converts to a futon mattress - the latter of which Bucky insists on taking, giving you the bed. The bathroom is nearly as big as the main room, with a jacuzzi tub that's bigger than three standard bathtubs put together.

And the best part of it? When you open the curtains to the sliding glass door on the backside of the room, there's a clear view of turquoise water and white sand.

“I guess Fury felt a little bad about springing this on me at the last minute, after all,” you sigh as you pull the door open, letting the light breeze pull the smell of saltwater into the room. “Can't say that I’ve been given a beachfront room for a mission before.”

Bucky walks up to stand beside you, leaning against the doorframe and staring out to the ocean.

“It's definitely a step up from the rat and roach infested Motel 6 that Sam and I had to spend three nights in when we were sent to Atlanta for recon last month.”

You shake your head, both cringing and laughing at the memory of him ranting about the motel room as soon as he saw you after returning home.

“It was the size of a fucking capybara. Why are you laughing? I opened the bathroom door and it charged at me–”

A sudden deep rumbling noise snaps you out of the memory and you glance down at your stomach in surprise. You suppose it makes sense that your body is screaming at you to eat - you had such little time to pack for Destin before your flight left that you hadn't even bothered with lunch today.

“How does pizza sound?” Bucky asks with a knowing smirk. “I saw a pizza place just down the street on the way here.”

“Anything sounds good right now,” you sigh, both starving and exhausted from your day of packing, unpacking, re-packing and traveling.

“I'll go grab one for us,” he tells you, pulling the keys to the rental car out of his pocket. “Just stay here and get settled in.”

You don't object, itching to change into comfier, more weather appropriate clothes. When you left the state of New York just a few hours ago, it was chilly outside. Now that you are in eighty plus degree Destin, the sweater and boots that you're wearing have got to go.

You unpack your bag, thankful that you had brought a pair of casual drawstring shorts. You throw them on, along with a tank top. You decide to go ahead and convert the futon from a sofa into a bed, and then search through the hotel room's small linen closet for a set of sheets and a quilt. If Bucky insists on you taking the comfier sleeping option and going to get food for the two of you, you figure the least you can do is make his bed for him.

When he returns, he not only has a large cardboard box containing the pizza, but a plastic bag hanging from his vibranium arm as well.

“Grab a towel and follow me,” he tells you before he's even closed the door behind him.

“Follow you?” You laugh, taken aback by the instructions. “Where are we going?”

You hop up from where you'd been mindlessly scrolling on your phone on the bed, doing as he asked and grabbing one of the complementary beach towels from the bathroom closet.

“Not staying holed up in our hotel room. Remember?”

And with that he pulls the sliding glass door open with his empty hand and exits the room, heading towards the beach that sits directly in the backyard. You don't even take the time to throw on a pair of tennis shoes before practically running after him through the sand.

He comes to a stop when he's a few yards away from where the waves wash up against shore and turns back to look at you. You take it as your cue to spread the towel across the sand at your feet.

He sits down and you follow, the cardboard box nestled between you. He opens it, revealing a pizza that is split down the middle - half your favorite, half his favorite.

“I know it's not a campfire in the Great Smoky Mountains,” he smirks. He digs into the plastic bag and pulls out a drink for each of you, along with some napkins. “But it's the best I could do in our current situation.”

The sentiment leaves you momentarily speechless. You know it isn't a grand declaration of love, and it might not mean as much to some people as it does to you - but you can't remember the last time someone went out of their way just to improve your day in such a simple yet thoughtful way.

Between the pizza, the vibrant pink and purple sky as the sun sinks beyond the ocean's horizon, the sound of the waves and him beside you, you wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now.

“No,” you murmur. “It's not. But it's perfect.”

••••••

The next day, you manage to forget that you're actually on a super important mission taking down a dangerous illegal arms dealer.

The first half of the day feels like an actual vacation - the closest thing you've had to a vacation in a long time, anyway. You sleep in until nearly ten o'clock in the morning - which may not be considered sleeping in for some people, but in this line of work, you've overslept if you're still in bed at eight am.

After waking up thoroughly rested and refreshed, the two of you get brunch and then spend the early hours of the afternoon leisurely strolling at the boardwalk just a short drive from your hotel.

You and Bucky are sitting on a bench eating ice cream when you check your phone for the first time in hours and realize how quickly the day has gone. It's already four o'clock - you're due to be on lookout at the pier where Petrov's exchange will occur soon.

“What's wrong?” Bucky asks when you huff under your breath as you stick your phone back into your pocket. “Nervous about tonight?”

You're not nervous, truthfully. You're fully confident that you and Bucky will be able to handle the job. You've been on countless missions less straight forward than this before, and so has he.

“No,” you shake your head as you take another bite of your ice cream cone. “It's… silly,” you say, waving your hand in dismissal.

“I'm sure it's not silly,” he assures you gently.

You pause, staring at a couple holding hands in the distance as you contemplate your words.

Bucky seems to follow your gaze.

“Today has just been really nice,” you shrug with a small smile. “I almost don't want to go back home.”

From your peripheral vision, you see his face shift to look at you. You continue to eat your ice cream, pretending that his stare doesn't warm you more than the Florida sun.

“We're on the same page then, doll.”

••••••

A few hours later, a feeder ship pulls up to the pier just after dusk.

“We've got eyes on three men,” you say lowly into your communication device. “They're guarding the pier. No sign of Petrov yet.”

“He'll show,” Fury's voice echoes in your ear. “Keep watch until then. Backup is on standby to take him in.” The comm clicks off before you can respond.

“I know there's a lot riding on this going smoothly,” you grumble as you bring your binoculars back up to your eyes. “But sometimes I think he just really needs to get laid.”

You and Bucky are across the road from the pier, concealed by large shrubs and the darkness of the night sky. You've been sitting here as still and silently as possible for well over an hour, before Petrov's men had even arrived to stand guard at the dock.

You really fucking have to pee.

Headlights begin to approach from down the street, and as the vehicle gets closer you're able to see that it's a large, black van.

Totally not suspicious at all.

It comes to a stop close to the boat dock, and a second later Petrov hops out of the driver's seat. You recognize him right away by his shrimpy build and receding hairline.

“I should just take them all out from here and be done with this,” Bucky grumbles from beside you.

“I agree,” you sigh. “But Fury's adamant that Petrov be brought in alive if possible. He’s got an empire behind him that we need to find out as much as possible about. His men, however..” you trail off.

Bucky looks through the scope of his gun, zeroing in on one of the guards.

“Blow a tire on the van first,” you murmur. “So Petrov can't flee.”

“I'll take out these three guards, and then I'll get Petrov and call for back-up. You worry about getting to that ship and taking out anyone inside. Sound like a plan?”

“Easy peasy,” you agree.

Less than thirty seconds later, all three guards have dropped dead and Petrov is frantically running to his van, unaware that Bucky had shot the back tire after killing his guards. You and Bucky emerge from the shrubs, sprinting across the road. He dashes towards Petrov, who freezes and begins shouting curses in Russian when he sees what is running towards him.

Bucky lands a punch to Petrov's jaw as you're running past them, only slowing down enough to not trip over the guard’s dead bodies that are littered across the dock.

You're only a few yards away from the ship when you hear Bucky screech your name. You immediately come to a halt, turning back to see why he could be calling for you.

You see a tall, burly man - someone that you and Bucky hadn't noticed before - sprinting down the dock after you. He raises his arm above his head, his hand holding a rocklike object that he sends barreling in your direction.

It's the last thing you see before everything fades to black.

••••••

The shrill, repetitive beeping of a monitor pulls you out of limbo and back to earth.

You're met with painfully bright, fluorescent lighting that has you squinting your eyes shut before you can make sense of your surroundings.

“Bucky,” you attempt to call out but it sounds like the croak of a lifelong smoker. Your eyes begin to adjust to the harsh lighting, allowing you to see that you're alone in a hospital room. You raise your fingertips to where it feels as if your brain is pulsing through your skull. There's a thick, defined knot on the top of your head that's sensitive to the touch.

Panic starts to take over you. Bits and pieces of the mission start to flash through your mind. Bucky shooting the guards, you running towards the feeder ship when you heard Bucky yell your name and then turning to see –

“Bucky!” You call out louder, your voice still hoarse. You sit up, not hesitating to carelessly yank an IV out of your arm. You're vaguely aware of the fact that you're in only a hospital gown and that blood is now trickling down your left arm, but you don't care.

You throw your legs over the side of the bed, standing up far too quickly. Your vision fades to a fuzzy gray and you're overcome with an intense wave of vertigo as the room spins around you. You grab onto the metal side railing of the hospital bed to keep yourself upright, desperately trying to focus your eyes enough to find the nurse's call button.

“Hi! I'll be to your room in just a moment–” An overly cheerful, feminine voice pours from the speaker a moment after pressing the button.

“What happened? How long have I been here? Where is my–”

The door to your room opens, and you immediately breathe an audible sigh of relief as your last question is answered. He looks as though he could use a good night's sleep, but he is okay.

“What the fuck happened?” Bucky exclaims as he rushes over to where you're still clutching the hospital bed railing for support. You follow his gaze to your arm, seeing that there's now blood all over your gown as well as the white floor around your feet.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you mumble, embarrassed by your current state. He guides you back to the edge of the mattress before walking away to get a towel from the bathroom. “I was worried something happened to you,” you add weakly.

He wipes the blood trail on your skin before using the hand towel to apply pressure to the puncture in the bend of your arm.

“I'm okay,” he assures you delicately. “I had just gone to get some coffee.” He glances at the styrofoam to-go cup that you hadn't even noticed him place on the bedside table when he entered the room.

“How long was I asleep?” You ask, noticing that it's still pitch dark outside. You also notice that he's no longer in the clothes that he wore on the mission - now wearing a pair of loose fitting black sweatpants and a matching hoodie. “What happened?”

“There was another guy in the back of Petrov’s van,” Bucky tenses, still holding the towel to your arm for you. “We were both distracted and he snuck up on you. He hit you over the head with a piece of vibranium and threw you into the water.” His jaw clenches as he recounts what happened, meeting your gaze with a pained look.

“But you saved me,” you finish for him.

“Yes,” he gulps. “I did. But I was almost too late. By the time I knocked out Petrov and killed the man who hit you.. it felt like it took forever to find you in the water. You almost drown–”

He cuts himself off, unable to force the last word out. A nurse enters the room as you open your mouth to offer him reassurance. Bucky holds your gaze for a split-second longer before reluctantly dropping his hold on your arm and turning to take a seat in the room's singular guest chair.

The nurse informs you that they did a CT scan while you were unconscious, and that while you don't have any swelling or bleeding on your brain from the blow, the doctor believes you to have a concussion and tells you that she will need to do an exam now that you are awake before they feel comfortable discharging you.

Judging by the high-pitched ringing that you've heard in your ears since you woke up and the way that you feel dizzy when you even think about trying to stand up, you don't doubt that you're concussed.

An hour later, you've been thoroughly examined and it is confirmed that yes - you are indeed concussed. The doctor discharges you under the condition that you don't drive and that someone keeps a close eye on you for the next twenty-four hours.

“Don't worry,” you hear Bucky tell her when you step into the bathroom to throw on a pair of dry sweatpants, a t-shirt, and cheap shower slides that the hospital had given you to wear back to the hotel, seeing as how your tactical suit and boots are still sopping wet with ocean water. “I'm not letting her out of my sight.”

The nurse who helps you dress gives you a small smirk at his words.

“You're a lucky woman,” she tells you quietly. “He was worried sick until you woke up.”

You avoid her gaze, your cheeks heating. You busy yourself by tightening the drawstrings to the gray sweatpants.

“I am lucky,” you agree. “He's a great partner.”

She raises an eyebrow at the word partner, but doesn't make any further comment.

By the time that you and Bucky make it back to your hotel room, the sun has started to rise.

Bucky all but carries you inside, only letting go of you when you're perched on the edge of the mattress. Your head is still throbbing despite the extra strength ibuprofen that you'd taken before leaving the hospital, and you still can't walk without stumbling from dizziness, but at least the intense ringing in your ears has begun to subside.

You feel tired down to your very bones, but you have no doubt that Bucky is even more exhausted. You'd been unconscious for nearly eight hours during the night, whereas he had been awake the entire time sitting by your bedside.

“You get some rest,” you tell him. You brace your hands against the mattress, preparing to attempt to stand back up. “I smell like a mixture of sweat and fish from being in the ocean, so I'm going to shower off.”

You push yourself off of the bed, and as quickly as you stand, you're sitting back down. The room immediately begins spinning in circles around you, sending a wave of nausea through the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, not likely,” Bucky huffs lightly. “You can't stand up, and the shower doesn't have a seat. How about we compromise on a bath?”

You give a weak nod, too tired to protest. A warm bath sounds incredible right now.

Bucky retreats to the bathroom, where he turns on the water to fill the tub before returning to help you get up from the bed without toppling over. He secures his flesh arm around your waist and guides you to the closed toilet, where you carefully sit down.

“Do you.. need help undressing? Or..?” He asks hesitantly.

“No,” you breathe with an awkward laugh. “I think I've got it.”

He gives you a quick nod, looking away to give you the privacy to shed your clothes. You carefully tug the oversized t-shirt the hospital had given you over your head, wincing when it brushes against the swollen knot on the side of your scalp. You rise off the lid of the toilet just enough to push your sweatpants down to your ankles.

“Okay,” you murmur, letting him know that you're ready to step into the tub.

He grabs one of your hands in his, and places his metal hand on the small of your back as you step over the side of the large jacuzzi tub and into the water.

You're aware of the intimacy of the scenario, but you can't find it in yourself to feel insecure or embarrassed right now - you're sure that's largely due to the concussion, but you think it's also simply because of who you're with.

If it were Sam, or Steve, or anyone else, you know you'd be mortified to be utterly exposed as they help you take a bath. If it were anyone else you wouldn't be taking a bath right now - you would have just gone to sleep and waited until you could fully do it yourself instead of putting yourself in such a vulnerable position.

Not that you don't trust your other teammates. But with Bucky, it doesn't feel vulnerable.

He lowers you into the water, your entire body instantly relaxing at the warmth. You glance to his face, noticing a faint purple bruise along his cheekbone.

“I'm going to leave the door cracked. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just let me know when you're ready to get out, okay?”

You don't respond, instead reaching up to his face, where you run your finger along the outline of the bruise. He freezes beneath your touch, his eyes meeting yours.

“Don't worry,” he assures you softly. “It was a lot worse when it first happened. It's already almost gone.”

“I'm sorry,” you whisper. “It happened because of me. I wasn't paying attention as well as I should have been. Should have heard that guy coming.”

“Don't say that.” He places his flesh hand on top of where yours still rests against his cheek and then brings it in front of his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. “You're okay, and that's the only thing that matters now.”

“Mmm,” you hum, staring at his lips that are no more than an inch away from your hand.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice patient and curious.

You hesitate for a brief moment before leaning forward and pressing your lips to the bruise in a featherlight kiss. You pull back, once more resting your back against the tub and giving him a small shrug.

“Just thinking that I wanted to do that. Have for a while.”

He grins, a faint blush taking over the apples of his cheeks.

“Yeah, I'd say you're definitely concussed.”

You chuckle, your smile matching his. “I am,” you agree. “But the concussion will go away soon, and I'll still want to kiss you then, too.”

He then presses his lips to the side of your hand, causing goosebumps to form across your skin despite the warm water that you sit in.

“I hope that you will do just that.”

••••••

One month later

You wake up to the smell of campfire smoke that creeps through the crack in the partially zipped tent.

Despite a thick sleeping bag, multiple blankets, and the plush sweater that you wear, you can't help but shiver.

Something is missing.

You look around the tent, your eyes adjusting to the early morning daylight that filters into the tent.

Someone is missing.

You reluctantly exit your cozy sleeping bag, shoving your wool sock covered feet into your boots and crawling out of the tent.

Bucky is facing away from you, cracking an egg into a pan that is positioned over the fire.

“Good morning,” you murmur as you creep up behind him, wrapping an arm around his midsection. He wraps his own arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against him and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Morning, sleepy head,” he teases softly. “What's on the agenda today?”

“Maybe some hiking, maybe some biking,” you shrug into him. “Maybe a little bit of you keeping me warm in that tent.”

He laughs, more carefree than you've ever seen him before.

“See? It's a good thing that your trip got postponed. What if I wasn't here to keep you warm?”

You raise up to capture his lips in yours, the taste of fresh brewed French press coffee on his breath.

“Remind me to thank Fury for that when we get back.”

thank you so much for reading 💕🫶🏻 comments and reblogs are infinitely appreciated!!

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orangameelectronics · 1 year ago

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Bluetooth Speaker Portable LED Digital Display Alarm Clock Bt Speaker FM Radio

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studioeisa · 6 months ago

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hello! can i request woozi with jealous prompt 'what? me? jealous? never'? thank youuuu ><

ⵌ jihoon x gose director!reader. ⵌ word count: 1k ⵌ notes: i can't stop writing about jihoon,, 🧎

Jihoon has long since accepted that he can be a jealous man when it matters.

He considers it harmless because it gets him moving. Jealous of a different group's success? He works doubly harder to make good music. Envious of someone else's build? He puts in more hours at the gym.

Jealousy is Jihoon's friend. At least, that's what he keeps on telling himself as you praise Soonyoung for his 'initiative'.

Another day, another filming for Going Seventeen. Today's concept is Christmas-themed: A Secret Santa shopping trip with a negligible budget per person. Jihoon knows he should be focused on getting something halfway decent for Chan— the member he had randomly picked earlier in the day— but he keeps getting distracted.

Soonyoung is looking just a little too pleased, a little too smug at your doting. Jihoon can practically hear the way his best friend is preening as he announces, "It's nothing, really. Just a little idea I had."

Jihoon doesn't even know what the two of you are talking about. He does know, though, that he's not going to hear the end of it from the rest.

It's an open secret, after all, that Jihoon has a crush on you.

He's always found it a bit inconvenient, really. He never thought he'd be the type to catch feelings for a staff member, but forced proximity and your undeniable charm have left him helpless.

It's just a crush, Jihoon has told anyone and everyone who teases him about it. I'll get over it.

Except it's been maybe a year and Jihoon is decisively not over it. He's preparing to deliver some variation of the same denial as Wonwoo sidles up to him, the latter grinning in an infuriating way.

"Don't start with me," Jihoon grumbles, his fingers tightening around the extension arm of his designated GoPro.

Wonwoo raises his shoulders in a shrug. "I'm not saying anything," he says in a tone that very much indicates his plans to say something.

A beat. And then, Wonwoo prompts, "Jealous?"

A derisive snort of laughter escapes Jihoon. He could lie, say something along the lines of What? Me? Jealous. Never, in an attempt to get his friends off his back. But they'd see through him anyway, so what was the point?

"Maybe," Jihoon answers. When Wonwoo only stares at him, Jihoon amends, "A little."

Wonwoo laughs at Jihoon's easy acceptance. The older man throws an arm around Jihoon's shoulders, the force of it almost sending the latter faceplanting into a shelf of keychains.

Jihoon is in the middle of biting out an annoyed "Could you not?!" when Wonwoo stage-whispers to him, "Don't worry. The director has a favorite, and it's not Mr. Steal-Your-Girl over there."

Before Jihoon can even question the taunt, Wonwoo is already peeling off to accomplish his task. The words echo a bit in Jihoon's mind. A favorite. Your favorite.

He wonders, briefly, what it would be like— to have that privilege.

He shakes his head, as if to empty his head of the thought. Wonwoo was just teasing, and Jihoon still has to find a gift for Chan. He spends the next thirty or so minutes wandering the department store, internally debating what to get the group's maknae.

Jihoon is weighing the merits of a Bluetooth shower speaker when he next hears from you.

"You know," you say from behind him. "Those have terrible sound quality."

It's only through years of conditioning that Jihoon doesn't jump, but he can't help the way his heart rate picks up ever so slightly. Still, he manages to keep his expression perfectly calm as he glances over his shoulder.

You look every bit like you always do. Clipboard in your hands; headphones hanging around your neck. An easy grin. The picture of the director who has robbed Jihoon of all his rational thought time and time again.

"Well, you didn't give us much to work with," he answers dryly.

"That's the challenge," you tease. "A low-budget exchange gift."

Jihoon sets down the speaker before turning to fully face you. "What would you suggest, then, if this is a bad gift?"

Your gaze flicks down to the GoPro. You didn't typically converse with the boys while they were shooting; if you did, the content was typically cut.

Something compels Jihoon to hit the 'pause' button on his device. "Off the record," he insists, a corner of his lip tugging up in the ghost of a smirk.

There's something unmistakably fond in the way you laugh, in how you choose to indulge Jihoon instead of insisting that he should keep filming.

"You got Chan, right?" You tilt your head to one side as if you're mulling it over. "I saw him fawning over the tealight candles earlier. If you're in the mood to be a menace, though, he thought the beanie hats were deplorable."

Jihoon lets out a chuckle of his own. "Got it," he says. "Candle, hat. Thanks for the intel, director."

It should end there. He should walk away, should turn the GoPro back on and film the rest of the show.

But Jihoon has never been very good at doing what he should, and his mind keeps replaying Wonwoo's earlier words.

And so, he finds himself asking, "What about you?"

Your eyebrows raise. "Me?"

"What would you like for Christmas?"

You look thrown off. Understandably so. "Oh," you say, your tone just a little softer. "That's not—"

Necessary, you're probably going to say. Jihoon cuts you off with a small shake of his head.

"We could have a little exchange gift of our own," he goes on. Jihoon has no idea where this is all coming from. The confidence in his flirtation. The smoothness of his words. It's a rare thing, but he's not going to let it go now that it's here. "I'll get you something if you get me something."

You laugh again, and then you give Jihoon the perfect opening. "What would you even want for Christmas, Jihoon-ah?"

Jealous has always been Jihoon's friend. It gets him moving.

It gets him to admit, "Easy. I'd want you."

୨ৎ * GAME, SET, PLAY ! ( JEALOUSY ) DRABBLE GAME.

#jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #jihoon imagines #woozi imagines #jihoon drabble #woozi drabble #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #( smooth jihoon. save me smooth jihoon )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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ofstarsandvibranium · 2 months ago

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Joaquin is gone when you wake up. It’s not uncommon. He often likes to get a morning run or workout before spending the rest of his morning with you.

So you feel no concern when you wake up alone this morning.

You decide to take a morning shower to further wake yourself up.

You connect your phone to the Bluetooth speaker in your bathroom. The sound of pop music fills the room as steam from the water curls around you.

You step into the shower, letting the warmth and water encase you. You sing along to the music as scrub your body clean.

Due to the volume of the music, you’re completely unaware that Joaquin is back from his morning run.

You’re shampooing your hair, singing along to the music when he wraps his arms around you from behind. The sudden contact makes you squeal in surprise and you hear his deep laugh in your ear.

“Sorry, baby,” he kisses your cheek.

“It’s okay,” you turn around to face him, “Morning,” and you peck his lips.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and when he pulls away he grins, “Now it’s a very good morning.”

You chuckle and boop his nose. The both of you helping each other shower, freshening up for the day.

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres #Joaquin Torres imagine

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enimsiyobeht · 2 months ago

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perfect (x2). jlix long drabble.

mdni 🍰🐥 !! boypussy han & felix x amab reader. implied ot8 harem (from my AO3 roots). implied older, 9th member reader. use of pussy, hole, cunt as both felix's & han's gential. 3some, double oral (you receiving), doggy (felix), cowgirl (han), unprotected sex (istg wrap that shit up), not rough but not exactly vanilla (pure filth imo).

You were half-asleep, sprawled on your dorm bed in a loose tee and sweatpants, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. The dorm was unusually quiet for once—no yelling from the living room, no chaotic laughter from the kitchen. Just soft music playing from your Bluetooth speaker, and the warm pull of sleep on your limbs.

Then your door creaked.

You glanced up, expecting maybe Chan or Seungmin coming to ask about dinner—but it wasn’t just one person.

It was Felix and Han.

And they looked up to something.

Felix padded in first, hair still slightly damp from a shower, oversized hoodie swallowing his frame. Han trailed behind, dressed similarly, but his eyes were sharper, glittering with mischief. Neither of them said anything at first. Just exchanged a glance, then shut the door behind them.

You sat up. “Uh… everything okay?”

Felix smiled sweetly. “Mhm. We were just talking about you.”

Han nodded, hands clasped behind his back like he was trying really hard to look innocent. “And we thought it wasn’t fair.”

“Wasn’t fair…?”

“That you’ve been working so hard and haven’t gotten to relax properly.”

Before you could ask more, Felix crawled up onto the bed. Smooth. Silent. He settled beside you with all the grace of a cat, curling against your arm. Han joined a second later, sliding up on your other side, knee brushing yours.

Your heart skipped.

“What are you two doing?”

“Letting you relax,” Han said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Like we planned.”

Felix's hand moved first—slowly dragging up under your shirt, fingertips brushing over your stomach. "Just let us take care of you tonight, okay?"

You blinked, caught between arousal and disbelief. “You two plotted this?”

Felix giggled. Han shrugged. “Maybe.”

And then Felix leaned in and kissed you—soft, warm, coaxing your mouth open with his, one hand braced on your thigh, the other sliding lower. Han kissed your neck at the same time, lips teasing the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Fuck,” you breathed. “You’re both serious?”

“Oh yeah,” Han said, nibbling softly at your skin. “We’ve been talking about this for weeks.”

Felix’s hand had already dipped beneath your waistband, palming you through your boxers with delicate, eager fingers. He whimpered against your lips when he felt how hard you already were.

“You always take care of us,” he whispered. “Let us take care of you.”

You groaned, head falling back against the pillow as the two of them shifted lower, tugging your sweats and boxers down in one slow motion. Your cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and Felix made the softest, most needy sound as he leaned in to kiss the head.

“Fuck, baby,” you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. “Don’t tease. I want both of you.”

Han joined him between your thighs, both of them on their knees now, eyes glazed with hunger. Felix licked a stripe up the underside while Han mouthed at your tip, tongue flicking over your slit before taking just the head into his mouth.

“Shit—just like that—”

They worked you together like they’d practiced. Felix sucking the base while Han took the top, both of them moaning against your cock, clearly getting off on how much you loved it. Your hands threaded through their hair, gentle but firm, guiding them between shallow thrusts.

Felix pulled back to catch his breath, lips shiny. “Want you to fuck me first,” he whispered. “While Ji’s watching.”

Han whined softly at that, face flushed. “Wanna ride you after. Let you fill me up, too.”

You could’ve come from that alone.

“Get on the bed,” you told them, voice low. “Both of you. I want to see everything.”

They obeyed instantly.

Felix stripped first, hoodie tossed off to reveal a slim body and flushed thighs already wet between them. His pussy was swollen and slick, twitching slightly as he knelt on all fours, looking back at you with blown-out eyes.

You slid behind him, cock throbbing, one hand steadying him while the other guided yourself to his hole. He was soaked—eager and ready, just for you. You pushed in slowly, groaning as he clenched tight around you.

“Fuck, baby. You’re dripping for me already?”

Felix moaned, burying his face in a pillow. “W-wanted it all day…”

Han sat nearby, legs folded beneath him, stroking himself lazily as he watched you slide into Felix all the way. His own pussy was wet, making a mess of his boxers, the waistband pushed down just enough to expose the slick, needy mess between his thighs.

“Can’t wait for it to be me,” he breathed, voice trembling.

You started thrusting slow, deep, fucking Felix open with steady rolls of your hips. Your hands gripped his waist, guiding him back onto you with every stroke. He was whining into the sheets, hole fluttering around your cock, and every now and then, he’d look back at you—eyes dazed, lips parted, begging silently for more.

“Look at Ji,” you whispered, voice dark. “Show him how pretty you take it.”

Felix turned his head, moaning loud as you slammed into him just right—and Han shuddered, fingers twitching between his legs as he watched you ruin his best friend.

You didn’t last long. Not with Felix squeezing down on you, slick squelching with every thrust. You slammed deep one last time, cock buried to the hilt, and came hard—hips jerking as you filled him up, cum spilling warm and thick inside.

Felix collapsed forward, whimpering into the sheets, hole twitching around your cock as you gently pulled out. You stroked his back, murmured a quiet, “Good boy,” and kissed his shoulder as he melted into the mattress, cum already beginning to leak from his stretched hole.

But when you looked over—Han was trembling.

He was kneeling nearby, completely naked now, hands clenched into the sheets. His pretty pussy was glistening, lips slick and puffy, thighs pressed together like he didn’t trust himself not to cum from just watching.

“Come here, baby,” you said, pulling him into your lap. “Your turn.”

He moved fast, straddling your lap in seconds, already grinding his dripping pussy against your cock to slick it up. You held his hips steady, looked up into his flushed, needy face.

“Y-you’re still hard?” he gasped.

“You want it?”

Han nodded, breath shaky. “Please… wanna feel you inside. Wanna ride you until I’m full.”

You guided your cock to his cunt, watching him as he lined himself up—and then slowly, so slowly, sank down.

“Fuck,” he choked out, nails digging into your shoulders. “So big—feels so deep already—”

You groaned low, gripping his waist. “You’re so fucking tight, Ji. So warm for me…”

He whimpered as he bottomed out, thighs trembling against your hips, his pussy pulsing greedily around your cock. You kissed his chest, his throat, whispered little praises as he adjusted to the stretch.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first—tiny rocks of his hips, grinding down against the base of your cock with soft, broken moans. But soon, he found his rhythm, riding you with messy, desperate thrusts, your hands helping him bounce in your lap.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. His flushed cheeks, his parted lips, the way he clenched every time your cock brushed just right. His pussy was soaked, squelching obscenely with every movement, drenching your thighs as he rode you harder.

“Feels so good—fuck—feels so fucking good,” he cried out, body jerking.

You cupped his face, made him look at you. “You’re taking me so well, Ji. Just like that, ride me. You’re perfect.”

His moans turned high and frantic. “W-want you to cum in me too—please—fill me up like Lix—”

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. “Then cum for me first, baby. Let me feel you.”

That was all it took.

Han broke apart in your arms, pussy clenching down tight as he came with a loud, wrecked moan—thighs shaking, body twitching, hole spasming around your cock in wet, desperate pulses. You held him through it, thrusting up into him only a little, enough to keep the pressure just right.

And when you couldn’t hold back any longer—you spilled into him, cock throbbing as you filled him up deep, hips pressed flush as you buried yourself to the hilt. Your cum mixed with his, leaking out around your cock while he whimpered, burying his face in your neck.

You rocked with him gently, cock still inside, his hips twitching every time you moved.

“You did so good,” you whispered, stroking his back. “Took all of me, pretty boy.”

Felix curled in beside you, lazy and glowing, fingers stroking Han’s thigh. “He looked so hot… fuck, I wanna kiss both of you forever.”

You wrapped your arms around him. Felix crawled in close, kissing your shoulder, nuzzling against your side.

The bed was messy. Your thighs were sticky. But the warmth between the three of you?

Perfect.

(honorable mention of the series)

#works 🐥 theboyismine !!#top male reader #bottom character #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz x male reader #stray kids x male reader #lee felix x male reader #lee felix smut #felix smut #felix hard thoughts #han jisung x male reader #han jisung smut #han smut #han hard thoughts

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rootedinrevisions · 7 months ago

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Need a Little Help

PROMPT: "Don't act innocent. We both know what you were doing two minutes ago.

KINK: Masturbation

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. SMUT (masturbation, showering together)

WORD COUNT: 2.8k

TAG LIST: SEE COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists or be tagged for a specific character please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added!

You closed the bathroom door behind you with a soft click, the sounds of Tyler settling into the room filtering through the thin wall. You stood there for a moment, your hands resting on the edge of the sink as you looked at your reflection. The exhaustion of the day was evident in the lines of your face, but more than that, there was something else—a lingering frustration that had been gnawing at you for weeks.

You sighed, pushing your hair away from your face as you began to undress. Your fingers fumbled with the hem of your shirt, your mind wandering as you slipped out of your clothes. Tyler. His name snuck into your mind like an unwanted guest. He was always there, always steady, always… more.

At least you wished he was more. Lately, it had become impossible to separate the idea of Tyler as your best friend and coworker from the Tyler your body seemed to crave when you weren’t paying attention.

You let the thought slip away as you stepped out of your jeans, your skin prickling in the cool air. He was just your friend, you reminded yourself. Your friend. Your coworker. Your boss in a way. But even as you thought it, your mind betrayed you, thinking of him from earlier in the day—the way his shirt had clung to his body in the rain.

Stop it, you chastised yourself. You couldn’t think about him… like that.

You turned on the shower, the rush of water filling the small space with a soothing hum. You reached for your Bluetooth speaker, the one you always traveled with, and connected it to your phone. A playlist you had on shuffle came to life, filling the room with music.

That should do it, you thought. If nothing else, the sound of the water and the music would drown out any noises you didn’t want Tyler to hear. The last thing you needed was for him to figure out what was really going on behind the bathroom door.

You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over your body. It was a welcome relief after the day’s chaos, the steam rising against the cool tiles. Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to let the tension melt away. But no matter how hard you tried to relax, that familiar frustration was still there, gnawing at you.

It had been so long since you’d felt satisfied—truly satisfied. It was hard trying to maintain any semblance of a dating life when you were always on the road, and the few dates you had managed to go on either fizzled out or turned into disasters. You’d become used to disappointment.

But tonight… tonight you were too worked up to just let it go. Your body was aching for release, your nerves raw from too many long days on the road and too many nights of pretending you didn’t want more.

Your hand drifted lower, your fingers trailing across your stomach as your thoughts wandered again—back to Tyler. What would it feel like if it was his hands instead of yours? The thought made your pulse quicken, your breathing grow shallow as you closed your eyes tighter. You could imagine it so clearly—the roughness of his calloused palms against your skin, the way his fingers would somehow know exactly where to touch, how to pull you apart. He always had this way of reading you, of knowing what you needed before you even realized it yourself. Your breath hitched, your fingers moving more purposefully now as you lost yourself in the fantasy. In your mind, it was Tyler who was touching you, Tyler who was behind you, pressing his body against yours, his lips tracing the curve of your neck.

You could feel the heat building inside of you, the tension winding tighter and tighter until you could barely stand it.

A soft moan escaped your lips, barely audible over the sound of the water and the music.

Tyler sat on the edge of the bed, his phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly through the weather reports for tomorrow’s chase. The hum of the bathroom fan droned in the background, the sound blending into the rhythm of the water cascading from the shower.

He wasn’t really paying attention to the screen—his mind kept drifting back to you. You had seemed quieter than usual today, more withdrawn, and despite your usual banter, something felt off. But it wasn’t his place to pry. He sighed, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. Maybe it was just the exhaustion of the road catching up with you, or maybe—

A soft sound broke through the background noise. His brows furrowed as he looked toward the bathroom door, the faintest trace of a moan filtering through the thin wall. He froze, his heart skipping a beat. Had he imagined that?

He shook his head, trying to refocus on the weather report he had been looking at. You were probably just getting comfortable after a long day; it didn’t mean anything. He was just…overthinking things. Right?

But then he heard it again—clearer this time, and unmistakable.

A moan. His name, falling from your lips.

His breath caught in his throat.

No. That had to be some mistake. Maybe he’d misheard, or maybe…

But as the sound echoed again, this time accompanied by the subtle shift of your voice, it was unmistakable. His name, laced with a soft, needy tone that sent a jolt of heat straight through him.

Tyler sat completely still, unsure if he should move. His pulse quickened, blood roaring in his ears as he stared at the closed bathroom door. His mind raced, a flood of thoughts crashing into him all at once. What the hell was happening? Did you mean to…? Was this real?

He swallowed hard, his hand running through his hair in a futile attempt to steady himself. The rational part of his brain told him to leave it alone, give you your space—hell, maybe you hadn’t meant to say his name, maybe you were dreaming or just—

But then another soft moan cut through his thoughts, and he couldn’t deny it anymore. The sound of his name on your lips was real, and it was doing things to him that he hadn’t anticipated.

He shifted, his body suddenly too warm in the stale hotel room air. His mind raced back to earlier today—how you had smiled at him, how your laughter had filled the quiet moments between the chase, and the way your eyes lingered on him just a second longer than they used to. Had he been reading things wrong this whole time? Or was this the confirmation of something that had always been lingering between you two, unspoken but palpable?

Tyler’s mouth went dry, desire clashing with hesitation. His pulse quickened, thoughts swirling in chaotic loops. He had to know—had to see if you…felt the same way. But at the same time, the weight of your friendship pressed down on him, keeping him rooted to the bed.

What if you didn’t mean for him to hear? What if this was just some fleeting, temporary thing, a moment you would regret the second you stepped out of that bathroom?

But the sound of his name whispered like that, was all the permission his body needed.

Before he knew it, Tyler found himself standing, his feet carrying him closer to the door. He hesitated, his hand hovering just above the handle, heart thudding in his chest. He could hear the faint melody of the music you’d turned on, the water splashing softly behind it.

He closed his eyes for a second, drawing in a shaky breath. This was dangerous. He was teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t take back.

Another moan.

His resolve snapped.

Tyler’s hand hovered over the door for a moment before he let it fall against the wood with a soft knock.

The sound barely carried over the shower and music, but it was enough to snap you out of your heated reverie. You froze, the water cascading down your back as your heart leaped into your throat.

Had he heard? God, what if he had?

“Hey,” Tyler’s voice came from the other side, quiet but unmistakable.

You scrambled to pull yourself together, yanking the shower curtain back slightly, just enough to peek out. There he was, standing just inside the door, the dim light from the vanity casting shadows over his features. His expression was hard to read—part uncertainty, part something else you couldn’t quite name.

“Tyler?” Your voice came out shaky, a little too high-pitched. You could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “Do you…need something?”

His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a moment, he just stood there, his tongue running along his bottom lip as if he were gathering his thoughts. But then he tilted his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, it sounded like you might have a little…problem in here,” he said, his tone casual but with a distinct edge to it, the kind that made your heart race even faster.

You felt the blood rush to your face, mortification washing over you in waves as you quickly tried to backtrack. “What? No, I—” you stammered, shifting nervously, “I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

Tyler’s smile grew, his eyes darkening slightly as he stepped closer, the confidence in his movements unmistakable.

“Don’t act innocent,” he said softly, his voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down your spine. “We both know what you were doing two minutes ago.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse roaring in your ears. You wanted to say something, anything to regain control of the situation, but your words had vanished, leaving only the heavy thrum of your heartbeat in their place.

His eyes held yours, and you couldn’t look away, not even when he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming in the small bathroom.

“Need a little help?” he offered, his voice soft but the suggestion behind it crystal clear.

You couldn’t meet his gaze, your eyes darting to the floor as your embarrassment threatened to swallow you whole. You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out, your throat too tight, your mind spinning.

Tyler sighed lightly, the sound laced with amusement, but it wasn’t mocking. No, it was more like he understood. He moved toward you, his footsteps slow and deliberate, stopping just at the edge of the shower.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand slipping under your chin, gently lifting your face to meet his eyes. “Look at me,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your jaw in a way that made your breath catch.

Your eyes finally met his, and the intensity there stole the air from your lungs. His expression had softened, but there was no mistaking the heat in his gaze, the unspoken desire that simmered between you.

“Do you want help, sweetheart?” His voice was barely above a whisper now, but it carried so much weight, so much meaning.

You swallowed again, your heart pounding as you gave the slightest nod, unable to form words but knowing, deep down, that this was exactly what you wanted.

A slow smile spread across Tyler’s face, one that was both tender and teasing. “Good girl.”

Without another word, he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight of him, the muscles of his chest and arms rippling in the low light. He tossed the shirt aside, then made quick work of his jeans, stripping down to nothing in seconds.

Before you could even process the full reality of the moment, Tyler had stepped into the shower with you, the steam rising around his body as the water ran over his skin. His gaze met yours, dark and intense, as his thumb brushed along your jawline.

“Are you going to keep playing innocent?” he asked, his voice low, teasing. He knew exactly what game you were playing, and yet he loved to see you squirm under his scrutiny.

Your cheeks flushed with heat, the embarrassment from earlier still lingering. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out, just a soft sound of uncertainty. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look into his eyes, but you couldn’t hold his gaze for long. The intensity made your stomach flutter, and your eyes flicked downward, unsure if you could handle the way he was looking at you, like you were his to unravel.

“You can’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he murmured, that familiar hint of dominance lacing his words. “We both know what you were thinking about in here.”

His hands found your waist, pulling you gently against him, the heat of his body mixing with the heat of the water in a way that made your head spin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands slid lower, skimming over the curve of your hips, and you could feel the electricity crackling between you, the tension that had been building for weeks finally breaking loose.

His lips found your neck, kissing and sucking exactly where you had imagined them earlier, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as his hands roamed, exploring, teasing. Every touch ignited something inside of you, every kiss pushing you closer to the edge.

“Tyler…” you breathed, your voice barely audible over the rush of the water, but he heard you.

You gasped, your fingers clutching at his arms for balance as your knees threatened to buckle. The feeling was electric, shooting through you and pooling low in your stomach. You whimpered softly, still unable to meet his eyes, the embarrassment now mingling with a desperate kind of need. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying every second of it.

“Don’t be shy now,” he whispered against your skin, his voice sending another jolt of pleasure through you. “Tell me what you need.”

You bit your lip, your body trembling under the assault of sensations, unsure how to ask for what you craved. The confidence you had earlier was gone, replaced with a needy vulnerability that only Tyler could pull out of you.

His hand slid up your spine, fingers tracing each bump of your vertebrae, until he reached the back of your neck, gripping it lightly. His thumb brushed along your jawline again, coaxing your face back to his.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

You lifted your gaze, your breath shaky as you met his eyes. The intensity in them made your pulse quicken, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. His hand trailed back down to your waist, pulling you tighter against him. “Now, tell me what you want. Do you want me to touch you?” His voice was a mix of tenderness and dominance, his tone daring you to give in, to let him have control.

You nodded your voice barely a whisper. “Yes…”

His smile grew, and he let out a low, satisfied hum before his hand slipped lower, his fingers finally finding the place you needed him most.

He teased you at first, his touch light and playful, watching as you squirmed against him, your body desperate for more. You moaned, your hands clutching at his back, your nails digging into his skin as the pleasure built inside you. He was torturously slow, dragging it out, watching you unravel beneath his touch.

“Tyler…” you whimpered, your voice shaking as the tension coiled tighter and tighter within you.

His breath was hot against your ear, his voice low and rough. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let go.”

And with one last teasing brush of his fingers, he pushed you over the edge. You gasped, your body shuddering against his as the pleasure crashed over you in waves. Tyler’s arms wrapped around you, holding you steady as you trembled in his grasp, his lips pressing gentle kisses along your neck as you came down from the high.

He didn’t let go, not even when your breathing began to steady, his touch still gentle but firm, grounding you in the aftermath of the intensity. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours as the sound of the water cascaded around you both, the steam curling in the air like a blanket wrapping around you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice tender now, the earlier teasing gone, replaced with something softer, something almost reverent.

You nodded, your body still weak, but safe in his arms. And in that moment, you knew, as much as you wanted to keep denying it, that Tyler was more than just your friend.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction #Tyler Owens Smut

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ms-sasa · 1 month ago

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Random HC for domestic 141 x reader

Reader got that random high motivation for deep cleaning the house when they come home.

No its not proof read, ne English is not my first language, yes it was a spontaneous idea

Yes i have to deep clean the house because we are getting guests....

Price

-would come home expecting his partner to run to the door greeting him but nooo not today...

Today the reader got really pissed off by a coworker/friend/stranger and had to get that angry energy out off their system.

So what would be better than going for an angry cleaning free...

Reader would curse and throw around the laundry while sorting it in the right baskets, slamming the door of the washing machine shut and pressing the few dress shirts he had like they are burning their enemies with the hot iron.

Price decided that it would be the best to retreat to his office and wait for the storm to pass by...

Later that evening he heard a soft knock on his door and a calm and tired reader entered.

"better luv..?'

"hmhm..." They walked over to him hugging him

"welcome home..."

"thanks... Do you want takeout and tell me what happened?"

"yea... And cuddles"

Simon

Simon would come home to open his flats door just to be blocked halfway through. Some furniture was standing in front of the door

Reader had noticed the sand in the hallway when they walked around barefoot. And boy no way that was acceptable... How often did they tell simon to put his damn boots off at the door.

So what started as a quick vacuum of the hallway ended in lifting the shoe rag , rolling up the carpets and dusting off the Skirting boards.

Hence why Simon was now blinking confused why the fucking dresser was standing in the hallway.. in front of the entrance.

"luv'...?"

"si! Good you are home!! I need your help.."

The dresser is moved and he was pulled inside. After a quick kiss on the lips and a warning to take his fucking boots off at the door he was ordered to move the couch....

That's how he ended up seated on the disassembled couch waiting for his love to finish with the living room, ranting about the sand that was just EVERYWHERE. Simon made a mental note to make sure to take off his boots at the front door from now on....

Johnny

Johnny was glad to be home again. The mission was okay and he even got to shower at base before coming home but still...

It was good that he showed at base because when he unlocked the door he was greeted by the smell of cleaning supplies and something that looked like his bathroom had thrown up all the little pots and bottles into the hallway.

"lass... What...?" He walked into the flat peeking into the bathroom and grined.

Reader was wearing shorts, a tank top and cleaning gloves. Added to that was a pair of Bluetooth headphones and they were dancing around and singing (badly) to some 90's pop song.

So it was obvious what he was gonna do next .. right strip down to his boxers, connecting the phone to the home speaker blasting the pop songs on them and joining the cleaning party.

"johnny!!! What are you doing??"

"helping yer lass now move over and give me that sponge"

They ended up with a beautiful clean bathroom, a good hot shower together and a noise complaint from the neighbors.

Kyle

Kyle was hungry when he came back from work this time. Hungry and tired but when he enters the flat and hears the clutter of pans and pots on the floor he knows dinner had to wait.

"babe?" He rounded the corner and almost tripped over a stack of plates "what in the..."

"oh hey love.. uhm we are gonna need to order food..."

Kyle looked around at the completely empty kitchen. Every pot, glass, plate or knife they owned was spread somewhere in the living room. The cabinets empty and even the pantry was bare of everything that wasn't canned or otherwise securely closed.

"babe.. why??" Then something flew past him and he noticed it in an instant groaning. food moths...

"yea... Sorry love." The reader got up and got over to him kissing him hello "how about you go and get some new essentials and some takeaway for dinner? I'll finish here"

Kyle sighed and nodded... No home cooked goods for him tonight

#cod headcanons #soap cod #ghost cod #cod price #cod kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #soap x reader #price x reader #simon ghost x reader #johnny mactavish #john soap mactavish #john price #captain john price #simon riley #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #domestic 141

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motorsportbarbie13 · 7 months ago

Text

Forbidden - Part 4

In which your heart shatters into a million pieces.

Warnings: swearing, descriptions of a panic attack, charles being a dick.

Pairing: Max Verstappen x LeClercSister!Reader word count: 2.3k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Master List

Summer break. Four blissful weeks of no racing talk, no work for Max, and nothing to do but spend the day in bed. Of course, you had work to do but considering half of Europe was also on summer holiday at the moment, your inbox was fairly empty and you didn’t have much going on. The first week of the summer vacation passed with you spending nearly all your time with Max, holed up in either your new apartment that you finally found and rented four weeks ago or in his apartment across town. The uninterrupted time you had spent with him so far had been one of the best weeks of your entire life.

And Max felt the same way. It was so nice being out of the spotlight for a while, able to hide away and focus solely on you. Things between the two of you were becoming…serious, he supposed. It was still a secret from everyone and Max was beginning to chafe under that shroud of secrecy. You were still insistent on keeping it private, still confident that Charles would have an absolute fit if he found out.

But you also were wary of what the media and fans would do if they found out. Just a few weeks ago, there had been a rumor about Oscar’s girlfriend Lily being pregnant and Oscar had been accused of hiding her pregnancy to save his career. It was all false, of course. You had seen Lily with your own eyes the other night when you ran into her and Oscar while you were at dinner with your mother and Charlie and she was very not pregnant. But you could see the toll it had taken on the both of them. The way Lily looked a little more on edge than normal, and Oscar a little more distant than usual had you nervous of what would happen if Max and you ever decided to go public.

For now though, you were content setting up house and pretending the outside world didn’t exist. In another week, you would go on a trip with your family to Croatia for a week, spending time on a yacht Charlie had rented to island hop. While you didn’t want to leave Max, who would be leaving to spend some time with his family first in Belgium, where his mother was from and then in Italy. You hated how much your heart hurt when you thought about how much you’d miss him while he was gone for the two weeks, but the first race back would be Max’s home race in the Netherlands which would be such a good weekend.

You were in the shower that morning when everything crashed and burned. Your phone had been set to Do Not Disturb for various reasons, so you missed the warning signs. Max was in your kitchen, the picture of domestic bliss, as he flipped pancake after pancake, wanting to surprise you with breakfast after you had finished getting cleaned up from this mornings romp in the sheets with him. His shirt was off as he stood barefoot in only a pair of running shorts in front of the stove, whistling along to the upbeat jazz that floated out from the speakers connected to the bluetooth on his phone.

The smell of the freshly made pancakes, sticky with syrup, wafted through the small apartment, drawing you out of your bathroom in only one of Max’s shirts. “Something smells good.” You crooned, padding into the kitchen in bare feet, hair still damp from your shower.

Max hums in response, pointing to the pile of pancakes waiting for you on the counter. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you rest your head on his shoulder, pressing your lips to the bare skin there. He always tasted so good, you could never resist the chance to taste him.

“There’s fruit on the table, juice in the fridge. You really need to go to the grocery store, liefje.”

Your heart fluttered at the new pet name he’d begun to call you in the last few weeks. You hadn’t known what it meant and when you asked Max, he shyly told you it was Dutch for ‘baby’ or ‘love’. You had always been a sucker for pet names but pet names in a different language than your native French and English? That did something extra to your heart.

“I know, I know. I can’t help it if there’s a hot Formula 1 driver that refuses to let me out of bed for longer than a few moments though, can I?”

Max raps you on the ass with the spatula as you scamper away, giggling at the grin he tosses over his shoulder at you.

“What the actual FUCK am I looking at right now?”

You spin around, the bowl of fruit in your hands clattering to the ground at the sound of your brother’s voice.

Oh fuck.

Your eyes bounce from your brother’s face, a mask of rage to Max’s horrified expression.

“And here we thought you were hurt or something, but no!” Charles stalks towards you, the key to your apartment dangling from his fingertip. “No, you’re just playing house with my biggest fucking rival! Of all the people you could choose to fuck, it had to be HIM?”

“Charlie.” You whisper, tears burning the back of your eyes at the look of pure anger and more horrifying, sadness, etched on your brother’s face. “It’s not what you think. This isn’t…”

“Save it. I don’t want to hear you justify whoring yourself out to fucking Max Verstappen.”

“Do not speak to my girlfriend like that, Charles.” Max grits out, the muscles in his jaw twitching from how tightly he’s grinding his molars together.

You turn slowly, along with Charles, at his words and blink at him. Girlfriend?

Max ignores the look of panic on your face and continues, voice measured and deathly calm. “I know this might be,” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Upsetting and a surprise but this is not a fling, I swear.”

If it had been any other time, you would have melted at his words. And you were still reeling from Max calling you his girlfriend. But you had bigger things to focus on. Charles practically shook with anger as he tore his gaze away from Max, fury fully settling on you now. “How long? How long have you been lying to me? To everyone? You’ve been traveling with us under the guise of spending more time with me, living in Monaco to be closer to the family but all this time, you’ve been with him?”

The disgust in your brother’s voice turns your stomach, acid creeping it’s way up your throat. “Since Austria.” You whisper, wincing when Charles throws your key across the room in a fit of rage.

“I fucking knew it. I knew something was up when you suddenly had that migraine in Belgium but didn’t answer your door when I came to check on you after dinner. You lied to me! You never lie to me. We never keep secrets and this is the first one you choose to keep from me? My sister fucking the man that has taken everything from me my entire career? What kind of fucking joke it this?”

“It’s not a joke, Charles.” Max murmurs from where he now stands beside you, fingers laced tightly with yours. Maybe if he showed your brother that this wasn’t some random fling, he’s calm down.

“Shut your fucking mouth Verstappen.” He growls, furious gaze swinging back to you. “This obviously can’t continue.”

“Wh-what?” You stutter, absolutely floored that your bother would think that he could make you choose.

“You left the family for six god damned years because you couldn’t handle being the sister of someone famous! What do you think it’s going to be like as Max Verstappen’s fucking girlfriend! You’re not strong enough.”

Pain lances through your entire body at the venom in your brother’s voice. “Charlie.” You choke, unable to believe that your best friend, your twin, just said something that awful to you.

“Enough.” Max shouts, stepping in between the pair of you, shielding you from Charles’ view. “You need to leave, right fucking now.”

Charles scoffs, still completely floored by what he walked in on. “You know what, you two deserve each other. Both fucking liars. Don’t bother worrying about coming to Croatia with us, you’re not wanted there anymore. I’m sure you’d have more fun with your new boy toy anyway.”

Charles turns on his heel and stalks out of your apartment, slamming the door shut behind him so hard you flinch. A haunted silence falls over you and Max, panic and anguish flooding your body as you begin to tremble from the scene that just unfolded before you.

“Fuck.” Max breaths, turning to you. “I’m so sorry liefje.” He reaches out to take you into his arms but to his surprise, you step out of his reach. Panic shoots through him, you’ve never turned down affection from him, especially when you’re upset. He’s been the one you go to for comfort for months now and not being able to do anything about how distraught you are sets his teeth on edge. “Liefje?”

“He’s right, you know.” You whisper, not sure if you’re talking to yourself of Max.

“What?” All Max wants to do is hold you, to get his arms wrapped around you and stop your shaking.

Tears stream down your face as your brother’s words echo in your head. How you weren’t strong enough. You were whoring yourself out. The vile words repeated over and over until the buzz of his venom was all you could hear. Your breath comes quicker, panic squeezing itself around your heart as you fight for a breath that just won’t come. You know what’s coming and are helpless to fend it off. Having Max see you so weak sends you even further down the road towards the panic attack you can’t keep at bay.

“You need to leave.” You choke out, desperately needing to be alone to work this out by yourself. It’s how you’ve always done it, gathered yourself together on your own without anyone else seeing you so weak. You couldn’t let Max see you like this. How could you when the only other person you’ve ever allowed in just threw everything in your face. No, you couldn’t stand if Max turned on you too.

Max comes to stand beside you, concern etched on his handsome face. “What? No, schatje absolutely not. I can’t. Leave you right now, you need me. You can’t be alone now.”

“That’s exactly what I need. Charles was right, I’m not strong enough to be your girlfriend.” You choke on the word, having wanted to be claimed by him for months now and when you finally get what you want, it hurts too much to even enjoy it.

His arms reach out to circle your waist, pulling you to him. Strength completely depleted, you allow him to crush you to his chest, the heat of his skin like a warm blanket settling over you. “Baby, I can’t do that. I just can’t.”

“You have to. Charlie was right.” You repeat again, still listening to his words on a loop in your head. “I need some time to process what just happened and I need to do it alone. Please, Max.” He winces, you never call him just ‘Max’.

His arms drop away from you then and despite your begging him to leave, you instantly miss his warmth. “Is this the end?” Emotion claws at his throat, unable to process what is happening. You’re simply the best thing that’s ever happened to him and now? Now you’re pushing him away.

“I don’t know.” You choke out on a sob.

“Fine. I’ll go but I don’t want to. You call me the moment you change your mind, okay? And this isn’t over, not for me. It won’t ever be over for me, liefje.”

Max retreats to the bedroom for a moment, leaving you standing cold and alone in the kitchen. When he returns, he’s got a shirt on. He doesn’t have his bag that he brought with him though, he refuses to bring it with him. It’s too final, taking that bag out of the house. He wants, no needs, an excuse to come back and he wants you to know that he’s not leaving without a fight. He’ll respect your wishes for now because he knows you think you need the space but if he knows you, and he’s betting everything that he does, you won’t run away from what the two of you have.

You’re balled up on the couch, faraway gaze staring at nothing when he comes to stand in front of you. “I’m going now but if you need me, you can call me. Any time of day, no matter what.” He crouches down in front of you, fingers snagging your chin so you’re forced to look at him instead of at some unknown point over his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you, liefje. So fucking much.”

The sob that escapes your throat shatters his heart in a million pieces. He doesn’t know if that was the right thing to do, to tell you what’s bene on his mind for weeks now. It was the truth though. He’d been fighting it for what felt like forever now, terrified to scare you off with those words that felt like they were coming too early but now? Now it was different. He needed you to know that he wasn’t going to give up this easily. He needed you to know that he had fallen head over heels for you and that he’d never leave, no matter how hard you pushed him away.

Your silence ripped him even further in two but he accepted it, knowing that there was too much emotion swirling around in that head of yours to properly respond. Maybe that made him selfish, taking this time to tell you how he felt but he needed you to know.

Dropping a kiss on your head, Max stands and does the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. He walks out of your apartment not knowing when he’ll see you again.

Tag List: @shelbyteller, @formulaal, @martygraciesversion381, @longhairkoo

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #angst

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yvaineseleneposts · 5 days ago

Text

The way it was before you

A/N: This is written after my siblings, their girlfriend, and boyfriend, and I shared embarrassing stories about us. And my sister thought her boyfriend might feel left out because he hasn't been in our family long.

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 1.5k

Warning(s): mentions of alcohol

It was just a backyard birthday party—nothing crazy. Balloons were tied haphazardly to the fence, the grill was smoking slightly too much, and music from an old Bluetooth speaker fought to be heard over laughter and the occasional "Do you remember when…?"

You sat with your younger brother and sister at the patio table, plastic cups in hand, the remnants of cake still on your plate. Jack, your boyfriend of six months, was sitting beside you, one arm slung casually along the back of your chair, smiling quietly as the three of you dove deep into childhood stories.

“I swear,” your brother said between wheezing laughter, “you tried to microwave a Pop-Tart in the foil wrapper—like, who does that?”

Your sister pointed at you, cackling. “And then blamed the fire on me! I was in the shower!”

You groaned. “Okay, okay, in my defence, I was twelve and no one told me foil couldn’t go in the microwave.”

Your siblings kept laughing, voices overlapping, memories bubbling up with ease—late-night sneak-outs, the haunted attic incident, your infamous prank war that once ended in a shampoo bottle filled with mayo.

You noticed Jack hadn’t said much, just sipping his drink, eyes flicking between each of you like he was watching his favourite movie. You touched his knee under the table.

“Sorry,” you murmured, just for him. “You okay? I know we’re kind of taking a trip down memory lane without a map.”

Jack turned to you with that soft half-smile that still made your chest flutter. “I’m good,” he said, voice low and sincere. “I like hearing about you before me.”

You blinked, touched by the quiet honesty in his tone. He glanced at your siblings, who were now trying to recall the year your sister shaved half your eyebrow in your sleep. “You guys are close. It’s cool. Makes me wish I had more siblings sometimes. Or at least ones that filled shampoo bottles with condiments.”

You laughed, and your sister leaned in conspiratorially. “You sure about that, Jack? Because I’ve got ideas.”

Your brother added, “If you're dating our sibling, you’re basically inducted. We prank in this family.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Bring it on. I’ve got two brothers—I’ve survived worse.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, heart full. “I’m warning you, Hughes. They don’t fight fair.”

“Neither do I,” he grinned.

The sun had dipped lower, leaving a gold-tinted haze over the backyard. The grill was finally off, the last hot dog long claimed, and the vibe had mellowed into that sweet spot of full stomachs and shared nostalgia.

You, your brother, and sister were leaning back in your chairs, that perfect kind of tired you only get from being full, happy, and slightly sunburnt. Jack still sat quietly beside you, sipping his drink and watching with that soft smile that made your heart squeeze.

“Okay, but someone please tell me why you thought it was a good idea to drunk-text your ex and their mom?” your sister said, side-eyeing you with a knowing grin.

Your brother nearly spit out his soda. “Wait—what? I don’t even remember this one.”

You groaned, slumping forward. “It was one time. And I was two margaritas and half a tequila sunrise deep. I thought I was texting my ex... to say sorry for ghosting them in college.”

Jack leaned in. “What did you say?”

You squinted. “Something like, ‘Sorry I never returned your sweater. Tell your mom I miss her lasagna.’”

Your brother lost it, nearly choking from laughing so hard. Your sister high-fived you. “And then the mom replied like, ‘It’s okay sweetie. Come by anytime.’”

You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “I wanted the earth to swallow me.”

Jack leaned closer, whispering, “I wish I had that lasagna now, honestly.”

You looked at him and laughed. “Don’t encourage me.”

But the embarrassment didn’t stop there.

“Remember your 22nd birthday?” your sister asked, eyes lighting up. “The house party where you did the worm in the hallway and knocked over like... three people?”

“That was ICONIC,” your brother added. “And then you tried to breakdance in socks on the hardwood floor.”

“I had blisters for a week,” you muttered.

“Oh, and the Cha Cha Slide night,” your sister said, eyes gleaming. “Where you were too drunk to follow the directions so you just started yelling, ‘WHO EVEN IS CHARLIE BROWN?’ and flopped on the floor like a fish.”

Jack was full-on laughing now. You turned to him with mock accusation. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He shrugged, chuckling. “I’m learning a lot about you.”

“Oh please,” your sister said, pointing at Jack. “Don’t let that innocent face fool you. I’ve seen the way he dances at games. You two are a match made in coordination hell.”

“I am extremely coordinated on ice,” Jack argued, pretending to be offended. “It’s just land that’s the problem.”

Your brother raised a hand. “Alright, next party, dance-off. You vs. our sibling. No hockey skates. No injuries.”

Jack held out a hand toward you. “Deal?”

You rolled your eyes and shook it. “Fine. But if you pull a hamstring trying to do the worm, I’m not taking you to the ER.”

“Deal,” he said again, still smiling like this was his favourite moment of the night.

Because it kind of was. Watching you in your element—laughing too loud, cringing at stories, swatting your sister for bringing up that one drunk karaoke night where you screamed Beyoncé’s Single Ladies into a ladle—Jack didn’t feel out of place.

He felt in place.

He didn’t have your history, but he had something better now—your present. And maybe, just maybe, your future embarrassing stories would have him in them too.

The night wound down slowly, like the last few flickers of a candle’s flame.

Your brother was passed out half on, half off the couch with an empty Solo cup resting on his chest. Your sister had claimed the recliner, wrapped in a blanket, muttering about her feet hurting from dancing barefoot on the patio. The Bluetooth speaker had long gone silent.

You and Jack were in the kitchen, surrounded by dirty plates, sticky countertops, and a few mystery stains you decided to ignore until tomorrow. You passed him a dish towel and gave him a look. “Team effort?”

He grinned, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s do it.”

The two of you moved in sync—rinsing, drying, stacking, dodging each other in the tight space of your parents’ kitchen like it was some kind of choreographed dance. You bumped hips once, accidentally. He did it again, very much on purpose.

You gave him a playful glare. “Don’t start.”

Jack laughed, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. He was quiet for a beat as he watched you scrub the frosting off a plate, your hair pulled messily back, cheeks still flushed from the day.

Then, softly, he said, “You’re really something when you’re with them.”

You glanced up. “What do you mean?”

He leaned against the counter, his eyes steady and warm. “Just... watching you with your brother and sister today—it was like seeing you lit up from the inside. You’re already amazing, but with them, it’s like... I don’t know, I get to see all the layers. The chaotic, loud, embarrassing dance-move layer. The ‘microwave foil’ disaster layer.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “You mean the 'walking hazard' layer.”

He smiled. “Exactly. But it’s all so you. And I love it. I love seeing where you come from—who you are with them.”

You stopped mid-scrub, heart thudding a little harder in your chest.

“And I think,” he added, stepping closer, voice quieter now, “seeing you like that makes me love you more.”

You looked up, stunned.

“Jack…”

He set the dish towel down and cupped your jaw, gently brushing a thumb over your cheek. “You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted you to know. You—all of you—are everything.”

That was it.

You kissed him.

Not a soft, tentative kiss. No. This was the kind of kiss that tasted like a full day of laughter, like cake crumbs and tequila still on your breath, like heat and heartache and deep affection rolled into one.

You gripped the front of his shirt and backed him into the counter, and he kissed you like he’d been waiting all night for this moment—hands framing your waist, mouth moving with slow, deliberate hunger. He pulled you closer like he needed to feel every inch of you.

The kitchen light buzzed overhead. A pan clattered off the dish rack unnoticed.

Your back hit the edge of the counter, and he kissed down your jaw, murmuring, “I meant it. I love you.”

You caught his face in your hands and whispered against his lips, “I love you too, Jack.”

And just like that, the chaos of the day melted into this quiet, perfect moment—your bodies pressed close in a messy kitchen, dishes half-done, the rest of the world blissfully asleep.

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bettelaboure · 4 days ago

Text

⊹Backstage⊹ | Choi Seung-Hyun

⊹Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x The Reader

⊹Summary: amid the chaotic final show of a world tour, a stylist and K-pop idol finally surrender to the slow-burning desire that’s been simmering between them for months, caught between professionalism and passion

⊹Warnings: sexual tension, emotionally charged interactions, and adult themes involving consensual but suggestive physical intimacy in a professional setting

⊹Author's note: hello, i'm alive <3 it's gonna be a 3 part short series that i hope you'll like

⊹⊹⊹⊹⊹

The dressing room is alive with its usual controlled chaos. Makeup cases, racks of glittering outfits, half-finished iced americanos, and a Bluetooth speaker blasting something vintage and funky — probably picked by Daesung. You're weaving between scattered costume bags, a hair curler in one hand and a lint roller in the other, trying to find the godforsaken studded jacket Young-bae insisted he needed before soundcheck.

From across the room, loud laughter erupts — unmistakably Seung-Hyun’s rich, bassy voice, deep and unrestrained. You look up just in time to see a shirtless Young-bae scream something in Korean before hurling a towel at Seung-Hyun, who is cackling like the devil himself. Of course, he’s pulled another prank — probably turned off the hot water mid-shower again.

You sigh. “You’re incorrigible,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“I’m what?” Seung-Hyun calls out, eyes gleaming like a misbehaving cat who’s proud of the destruction he’s caused.

“In-cor-ri-gi-ble,” you say louder, enunciating each syllable. “Look it up.”

“Oh, I will.” He winks. “I always like learning new words from my favorite firecracker.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “If I’m a firecracker, then you’re a Roman candle—loud, obnoxious, and you burn out fast.”

He places a hand on his chest in mock offense, sauntering over dramatically. “Ouch. And here I was, just admiring how fierce you look today. That ponytail’s doing dangerous things to my heart.”

You blink up at him, heat crawling up your neck before you can stop it. “You're full of it, Choi.”

He smirks. “Full of charm. Admit it.”

“Full of crap,” you retort, poking a finger at his bare chest. You’re painfully aware of the way your finger bounces off taut skin. God help you, he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he leans down, bringing his face comically close to yours.

“You know what else you’re full of?” he whispers with that deep timbre that always gives you goosebumps.

You lift a brow, refusing to back down. “Enlighten me.”

“Full-sized attitude, fun-sized frame.”

You swat at him, and he jumps back, laughing. “You’re not still on that?”

“You know I can’t help it. You’re the only person here who can glare up at me and still make me nervous.”

“I’m not short,” you reply automatically, hands on your hips. “I’m concentrated awesome.”

“And I keep telling you—” He points at you, eyes twinkling. “Fun size. Like those candies that pretend to be small, but one bite and your whole day’s wrecked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re charming.”

“I know I’m charming.” He grins. “You keep me around for that and the wardrobe critiques.”

You snort and turn your attention back to the garment rack, brushing past him. But he follows, of course. You can feel his presence behind you, warm and teasing. He’s always like this — like gravity. You’re used to his orbit by now.

“I saw how you fixed my collar during rehearsal,” he says, voice lower now, like it’s not meant for the room full of people. “You always get this little crease between your brows when you’re focused.”

You pause. “Observant today, are we?”

He leans in, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “Always observant when it comes to you.”

Your breath catches. This isn’t part of the usual banter.

“You flirt like it’s a competitive sport,” you murmur, trying to play it off, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“And you sass like it’s your survival instinct,” he replies, eyes not leaving yours. “But I see you.”

The chaos of the dressing room fades, somehow. Young-bae is grumbling to Daesung about shampoo, and Jiyong is yelling about someone stealing his eyeliner — but none of that matters. Not when Seung-Hyun is looking at you like that.

Like you're not just the stylist. Like you're something... more.

You break eye contact, your voice a whisper now. “Don’t look at me like that, Choi.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

He steps in closer. You don’t step back.

“What if I do?”

You blink up at him. That damn height difference again. His tone is playful, but the look in his eyes—steady, serious, almost reverent—tells another story.

“You always joke,” you say. “I never know when you’re actually being real.”

He reaches out, fingertips grazing your wrist. “Then let me make it real.”

Your heart is doing cartwheels, and your brain is throwing red flags, but your body’s betraying you—leaning ever so slightly toward him.

“I don’t date idols,” you say, voice trembling.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to date an idol. I’m asking you to take a chance on the guy who’s been looking at you like you hung the moon since Tokyo.”

You stare at him, stunned into silence. He’s never said that. Not once.

“What about the others?” you manage.

He chuckles. “They already think we’re secretly in love. Have you seen the way Jiyong watches us? That boy’s practically writing fanfiction.”

You laugh, the tension easing slightly, but your heart still pounds like a drum.

“Okay,” you say finally, letting out a breath. “One coffee. After the show. That’s all.”

His grin is slow and bright and full of triumph. “Make it two, and I’ll let you win the next height joke battle.”

“You’ll let me win?” you scoff.

“Let you think you won,” he corrects with a wink. “There’s a difference.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfect.”

You don’t answer that. But the flush in your cheeks and the tiny smile you can’t quite hide?

That’s answer enough.

The show ends in a blur of lights, sweat, and thunderous applause. You barely remember how you got backstage — one moment you’re zipping up a pair of black leather pants on a frantic Daesung, the next, you’re dodging a shirt Young-bae throws at you with a wink and a “Noona, tell me I was sexy!”

And then there’s him.

Seung-Hyun.

Leaning against the wall by the mini fridge, a towel draped around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges. He’s watching you.

Not obviously — that’s never his style — but in that quiet, sideways way he always does. You’ve learned to recognize the weight of it. The warmth of it.

He takes his time strolling over, every step somehow deliberate, but casual. Like he has nowhere better to be. Like you’re exactly where he wants to end up.

“Guess I owe you that coffee,” he says, voice low, smooth. A thread of mischief still tucked in there somewhere.

You glance up. “Technically, you owe me a jacket first. I nearly froze to death during that encore outfit change.”

He grins, tugging the towel off his shoulders and tossing it at you. It smells like shampoo and cologne and sweat and him. “There. Vintage Seung-Hyun. Limited edition.”

You wrinkle your nose but don’t throw it back. “Gross.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly lowering himself onto the couch beside you, “you’re still holding it.”

“Only because it’s warmer than your personality.”

“See? There she is.” He nudges your knee with his. “Concentrated awesome, in all her post-show glory.”

You can’t help the small smile that curves your lips. He has that effect on you — like he knows exactly where to poke to pull out a grin, a groan, a glare. And somehow, it always feels like flirting, even when it shouldn’t.

“You’re unusually calm tonight,” you note, sipping your coffee. “No water bombs. No fake spiders. No traumatizing the staff.”

“I used all my pranks on Young-bae,” he says. “I’m rationing my chaos now. Becoming mature. Sophisticated.”

“Choi Seung-Hyun? Sophisticated?” you say, feigning disbelief. “What’s next? Emotional vulnerability?”

He hums, quiet for a moment, like the joke didn’t quite land. Or maybe it did — too well.

Then, with a small shrug, he says, “I’m saving that for someone worth it.”

You freeze.

Not obviously. You keep your posture relaxed, eyes on your cup. But your pulse kicks just slightly.

You glance sideways at him. “Are we still joking?”

He meets your eyes — not smiling now. Just... watching.

“Depends,” he says softly. “Are you still deflecting?”

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the air between you both feels heavier than it should.

“I’m not deflecting,” you say after a beat, your voice quieter. “I just know how this goes. Idol flirts with stylist. Stylist doesn’t take the bait. Life moves on.”

“Except I’m not trying to bait you.”

“No?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Then what are you doing?”

He exhales a laugh, almost sheepish, and looks down at his hands for a moment. He taps a rhythm on his coffee lid. When he looks back up, his voice is careful — not hesitant, just... intentional.

“Trying to have a real conversation with the only person on this tour who actually talks to me like I’m a human and not a brand.”

That hits harder than it should.

You study him — really study him. The slight slump in his shoulders now that the performance is over. The raw edge still left in his voice. The way his walls are down, but only just.

It strikes you how much effort it must take for him to always be “T.O.P.” out there, when all he wants in here is to be Seung-Hyun.

“You have a way of surprising me,” you say finally.

He turns to you, lips quirking. “Good surprises or bad ones?”

You hesitate.

“Confusing ones,” you admit. “You throw out all this charm, all these lines, but then you say things like that and... it feels different.”

He nods, slowly. “It is different.”

You glance down, then back up, your voice careful. “I don’t know what to do with different.”

He smiles again — not teasing this time, but gentle. Understanding.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “Not yet.”

The word yet lingers in the space between you like a dare, soft and waiting.

You nod once, more to yourself than to him.

He leans back on the couch, stretching, his arm brushing behind you without actually touching. His fingers hover just a little too close to your shoulder. And you feel it — that tension. That humming buzz of something just barely held back.

But neither of you cross it.

Not tonight.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” he murmurs suddenly, “that in rooms full of thousands, some people still make you feel the most seen?”

You glance over. He’s not looking at you now, but you know the words are meant for you.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice a little rough. “I think about that a lot.”

And even though the room is still buzzing around you — voices, movement, life — you both sit in that silence, in that almost-touch, in that slow-burn space where something real is beginning to smolder.

Another night, the bass from the stage still pulses through the walls like a second heartbeat. The lights back here are dimmer, buzzing faintly above you, casting long, narrow shadows. The energy after a performance is always strange — raw and electric — but tonight, it’s different. He’s different.

You’re crouched near a rack of performance coats, checking for a loose button on Daesung’s backup jacket when you feel him before you hear him.

Seung-Hyun.

He doesn’t walk so much as glide — lazy, quiet steps in those custom boots that cost more than your entire wardrobe. His shirt’s half-unbuttoned, collarbone damp from sweat, and his hair’s messy in that deliberate, sinfully sexy way that makes him look like he just walked off a runway and into your peripheral vision like a problem you didn’t ask for.

“Need a hand?” he asks, voice like velvet and cigarette smoke, low enough that it’s meant for your ears only.

You don’t look up right away. “Only if your hands come with a tailoring certification.”

He crouches beside you anyway, far too close for backstage propriety. His knee presses against yours — casual, unbothered — but it steals your breath just the same.

“You always get like this after shows?” he asks, watching you work. “All focused and bossy?”

You finally meet his eyes. They’re dark with something that flickers between curiosity and something else. Something thicker.

You smirk. “Someone’s got to keep you boys from looking like bedazzled clowns.”

“Is that what I am?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “A clown in your hands?”

Your breath hitches.

“No,” you say, voice lower now, the energy shifting between you. “You’re a problem.”

“And you like problems.”

“I like solving problems.”

His eyes drop to your mouth, linger, then flick back up.

“So solve me.”

There it is — the moment. The flick of the switch.

You should laugh. You should deflect. But you don’t.

Instead, you lean just slightly closer, fingers pausing on the jacket’s seam. You speak barely above a whisper. “You really think I haven’t already figured you out?”

His gaze sharpens, playful, but taut — like a wire pulled tight.

“I think you’re still trying,” he says, his hand brushing yours — just a graze, but deliberate. “And I think... you want to keep trying.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, and you’re suddenly painfully aware of how narrow the space is between the two of you. The hallway is empty. The others are still changing, laughing somewhere down the corridor.

It’s just the two of you here.

Breath and heat and too many things left unsaid.

He shifts slightly, not closer — just enough that you feel the pull, the gravitational tug of his presence.

You narrow your eyes. “You think you can flirt your way into getting your jacket fixed faster?”

“I think I could flirt my way into worse decisions,” he says, his voice a rasp now.

“Like what?” you challenge.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“Like kissing you in this hallway and not caring who walks by.”

The silence cracks between you.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The tension coils tight — breath, heartbeat, heat — until it’s almost unbearable.

Then he leans in, so close his mouth is a ghost along your ear, and whispers:

“But not tonight.”

You swallow, hard.

He pulls back slowly, eyes lingering on you like he’s memorizing every piece, every flicker of restraint.

Then he stands, adjusts his shirt, and offers a hand — not teasing this time, just there, solid.

You take it. Of course you do.

And when you rise, brushing imaginary dust off your thighs to avoid meeting his eyes, he smirks — that slow, dangerous kind.

“Soon, though,” he murmurs. “Very soon.”

Then he walks away, leaving you there — pulse racing, knees weak, and absolutely ruined for anything else.

Final night, the corridors hum with energy, staff and crew zipping past in a controlled frenzy. It’s the final show — Seoul — the one that means everything. Emotions are high. Nerves tighter than usual. Your clipboard is tucked under your arm, headset pulled off one ear as you pace the hallway with practiced focus. That is, until a hand grabs your wrist.

A familiar hand.

Before you can protest, you're tugged through a door and pulled into a private dressing room — his dressing room. The door shuts behind you with a decisive click. You barely have time to breathe before you're pressed gently but firmly back against it.

Seung-Hyun stands in front of you, tall and radiating heat, his stage outfit half-on — jacket unzipped, black shirt clinging to his chest, jaw sharp and set. His eyes are molten.

"We need to talk," he says.

Your brows shoot up. "Now? You go on in twenty."

He leans in, close enough that his scent — leather, musk, and something inherently him — curls around your senses. "Exactly. Twenty minutes, and then I’m on stage pretending I’m not losing my mind thinking about you."

You laugh, breathless. "You’ve been dramatic since Tokyo."

His lips brush your ear. "And you’ve been running since Berlin."

The room is too quiet. The air between you is charged, hot. He doesn’t touch you — not really — but the space between your bodies is thin enough to feel the burn.

You meet his eyes. “So what, this is your grand confession?”

“No,” he says, voice low. “This is me losing patience.”

He leans in — not kissing, not touching — just hovering. The tip of his nose brushes yours. His breath is warm on your mouth.

“I think about you every night,” he murmurs. “I hear your voice when I’m alone. I taste your name every time I’m quiet too long.”

Your pulse slams against your ribs. “Seung-Hyun—”

He groans your name like it’s already been sinfully whispered in his bed. His hand lifts, fingers tracing your jaw, soft and slow. He’s still not kissing you. And somehow, it’s worse.

You breathe out. “Do it, or let me go.”

His eyes flash, that dangerous, beautiful glint. “You think I won’t?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think you will. And I think I’ll like it too much.”

His lips press just below your jaw, a kiss so soft it barely registers — but it unravels everything. Your hands fist the front of his jacket, tugging him closer without meaning to. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I want you,” he says. “But not in a way I can rush. Not like a backstage fling.”

You blink, breath catching.

“I want to know what makes you lose control,” he says. “What makes you loud. What makes you shake.”

You exhale, shaky. “We’re running out of time.”

He smirks. “Then you’d better tell me what to do. Or walk away now.”

You don’t walk away.

Instead, you push off the door and into him, your mouth barely brushing his. He growls low, hands gripping your waist, body tight with restraint. You can feel it in him — the tension, the way he’s holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

His mouth finds yours. At first tentative, then deeper — hungry, warm, desperate. You gasp against his lips, and he takes the sound into him like a man starved. His hands skim down your back, pulling you flush against him.

Every inch of your body buzzes. Your hands are in his hair, tugging, needing. He presses you harder into the wall, mouth hot at your throat, teeth grazing just enough to make your knees wobble.

"You drive me insane," he murmurs. "Every look, every smart little comment. You know exactly what you do to me."

You whisper his name like a plea.

His hands are everywhere — at your waist, your hips, your thighs. He lifts you slightly, your back thudding softly against the door, his mouth tracing fire down your neck.

"Tell me to stop," he pants against your skin.

You don’t.

Instead, you kiss him again — deep, open-mouthed, messy — and he groans into it, his restraint starting to fray. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other still gripping your hip, grounding you both.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

"If we start this," he breathes, "I won’t stop until I know everything. How you taste. How you sound. How you fall apart."

Your answer is simple.

You pull him back in.

And then — a knock. A voice. “Hyung! Two minutes!”

This time, he doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls against yours, rapid.

"Damn it," he mutters.

You close your eyes. You’re both trembling slightly.

He finally pulls back, smoothing your hair, brushing a kiss to your temple. "This isn't over. It never was."

You nod, lips swollen, breath shaky.

He smiles — dark and promising — then turns and disappears down the hall, toward the stage.

You let the door close, your back against it again, heart thudding. Tonight might be the final show.

But something between you and Seung-Hyun is just beginning.

And it’s not waiting much longer.

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#fanfic #bigbang #big bang #choi seunghyun #choi seunghyun scenario #t.o.p bigbang #choi seunghyun x reader #top x reader

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