ciao, my butterflies !! mylee. eighteen. she/her. infp-t -> isfj-a. libra. american. po5, mv1, op81. i only write sfw. requests are open! uploads on wednesdays.
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paring carson hocevar x reader summary you’re the ceo of a sport’s magazine with a tough athlete who won’t cooperate for the few pages of the magazine he’s going to appear in word count 637 author’s note petition to make rock you like a hurricane to be carson’s song requests open masterlist
it was only strictly supposed to be two days.
separated with a few hours each, an hour-long interview, and a photoshoot that would wind up in your magazine pages. odd magazine.
your magazine that started as a visionary dream created by you cooped up in your bedroom. you didn’t wish to be on the front cover, just the co-chairwoman and successful journalist. building the concept, brand, vision, and website in your bedroom. it was filled with motorsports, sports, cars, and fashion. it became an overnight sensation after the first official issue.
you’ve covered many athletes over time in various fields. nfl, nba mvp’s, tennis, olympians, motocross, formula one…etc. you’d finally be extending out to nascar. typically the athletes would be polite, not give you a hard time. interview and photoshoot within two days, simple and easy. yet, this certain athlete lived up to his nickname because he was anything but easy, hurricane.
he had barely given you anything to work with, not an issue worth. all his answers had been short and infuriating. a string of, “yeah.” “sure.” “maybe,”. his team had offered a deal—to shadow him through a race weekend. full access to the garage, pit lane, his hotel, everything—but no scripted questions. he only agreed smugly to annoy you, but you both lived to regret it. or, quite the opposite.
annoying. reckless. impossible.
three words you’ve described him in your notes since the start of qualifying yesterday.
“okay, and—“ you had glanced at your notes for a brief second, reading off one of the questions you had lined up. by the time you looked up, he was gone. instead of standing in front of you with his arms crossed, he was across the concrete towards the team’s golf cart. he had left you behind. “what are you doing?”
“i told you no scripted questions, boss.”
you groaned internally before chasing after him.
when panic hits, you freeze up. especially, what you did when he drove recklessly back to his rv. stop. stop. stop. your hand extended out to his on the wheel from your frozen state to ensure he doesn’t tip over the golf cart. a correction. only easing off the gas once he feels your touch, one hand off the wheel like the mere touch had burned him.
you finally settled back on your side of the bench seat, “you’re lucky i don’t choke you.”
“like you did last night?” he asked, earning a side-eye from you. he laughed, like genuinely, and your heart sped up. oh, you hated how your heart was affected by his stupid laugh.
it had been silent for the rest of the brief ride, until a fan had passed by. one that carson had stopped for, taking the time to sign fan autographs. was he actually being nice for once? usually, a sight filled with things you weren’t used to seeing. you hadn’t meant to stare.
“yeah, she’s my shadow for the weekend.” you blinked, finally grounding back to earth. your eyebrows furrowed, had he said that to the fan proudly?
his eyes skimmed the words typed on your laptop. there was room on the couch, but you refused to sit down next to him that close. instead, you’re wrapped up in his hoodie pacing back and forth in front of him. you didn’t know when or how, you didn’t question it when you woke up with his hoodie covering you this morning.
he spoke, “you don't get to put all that in there."
you stopped pacing, eyebrows furrowed. almost offended that he claimed that you put private things into the draft article when he had given you all that information himself, personally. "you gave me access."
paring gregory bridgerton x fem!boxer!reader not proofread word count almost 1k masterlist
promenading at hyde park with a bridgerton probably wasn’t the greatest idea. it drew more suitors eyes on you. which isn’t what you want, one mistake could get you out of the ton’s good graces. you wanted no one to know what you do when london isn’t looking.
a man stopped in his tracks, one you’ve probably seen amongst the sea of people that was betting against you. one that you opted to not remember. his gaze darted all across you’re face. “have we met before?”
“i am afraid not.” you smiled sweetly. the man had tipped his hat, apologized for mistaking you before continuing on his cane.
gregory pipped up beside of you. “what was that about?”
“oh, i am certain it was nothing. the man merely got confused.” your hands clasp behind your back in faux innocence, before you continue walking.
in the ring you are named sir henry, hair shaved close to the scalp having used botanical mixtures and sunlight to lighten your hair and sporting the same sleeveless shirt that hides just enough that you’re truly a lady. to the ton, you’re the diamond of the season always adored in jewel colored dresses and extravagant wigs. the broad difference between you and the allise you box under.
later that night underneath dim light. bare knuckles rhythmically hitting the sheen of sweat on your opponent’s skin. a chuck of skin torn from your hand after a sharp hit. fresh bruises blooming on cheek.
the man was good—a offense with a sharp right hook. another round started, you defended blows before a sharp and impactful fist of yours hit his face. underground boxing as no rules. you only stepped back when the referee said you won. whistles and disappointment from the sea of english men watching, silenced into your ringing ears.
you didn’t leave until night fell, bruised and sweaty. hands still bleeding, but you didn’t take a second to address the wounds. just pushing past the heavy crowd, cap low.
“you done well.” the voice popped up behind you, familiar and definitely a bridgerton. daphne. you only spared a glance underneath your hat. her eyes filled with recognition. simon behind her waiting for the carriage. “y/n?”
the first words from you tumbled out, “kill the urge to tell your brother.”
dapahne’s eyes glowed like she couldn’t understand why you would keep this a secret from gregory. “he would be fascinated.”
“i do not wish for him to know that he is engaged to anyone besides a proper lady.”
two days had passed and daphne kept her word. not a muttered word to her brother about the harboring secret. the early sunlight bled into the morning room of the bridgerton’s estate.
“sir henry won again?” anthony echoed from the newspaper, seating on his piece of the settee.
“it’s quite an accomplishment,” daphne pipped up from her macaroon. “apparently it’s never been won like that before.”
“i like to attend at least one.” hyacinth sulked, slumping farther down the settee she shared with eloise.
“do not associate yourself with that kind of person, it’s not a place for a proper lady.” violet’s arm curled around her stomach like she couldn’t bare the thought, pacing by the windowsill.
“lady whistledown.” a handmaid disrupted the bridgerton’s swaying conversation, the latest lady whistledown on a platter.
you question to no one in particular, “has anyone discovered who this new lady whistledown is?”
“no.” eloise shut her book, being the first one to pluck a piece from the tray. she started reading out loud, causing a few groans amongst the bridgerton’s.
“can you not keep it to yourself?” gregory complained, right before eloise froze.
“you’re sir henry?”
eloise’s eyes met yours from across the room, right before the rest of the bridgerton’s stared at you. you snatched lady whistledown’s paper from her hands, eyes skimming it quickly. the diamond of the season is shining more brightly than just one way this season. the soon-to-be bridgerton is hiding a striking secret. she is not as much of a proper lady than she is sir henry, the boxer who has won another match.
“this is…” false. “true. i run under a allise.”
it was pure silence. five seconds felt like a lifetime under the microscope. violet exhaled sharply, anthony blinked like he couldn’t believe it.
“at least your kids will be successful.” hyacinth pipped up, which caused a wave of laughter.
gregory’s eyebrows furrowed, his hand grazing the bare skin of your arm. “you believed that i would be upset with you?”
“gregory, i doubt this is a proper conversation in front—“ violet started.
“we shall marry sooner, that shall overweigh this rumor. together, we could convince the ton that this new lady whistledown is untruthful.” gregory’s voice cut through, more determined than you’ve heard.
you questioned, “you truly believe this will work?”
“i am certain it will.”
hyacinth jumped up from the settee, circling your arm with you. “very well then, my future sister-in-law. we shall get you fitted for a dress while mama plans the wedding.”
your gaze met his while you was being dragged away by the youngest bridgerton sibling, gushing about truly being sisters. there was certainly going to be a white wedding.
paring connor zilisch x reader summary the nation knows you as a fashion icon, you take matters into your own hands when your bf only wears red bull shirts word count 313 requests open masterlist
❝ if you became a fashion icon, i'm going to kill myself, ❞
everyone knew you—your persona plastered on magazine covers and fashion week.
it came as a surprise that after meeting the sarcastic charmer that you ended up back at his place.
it came as a surprise that you, a vintage and chic fashion icon, that you wound up with someone always dressed down. another white t-shirt and wearing red bull like it was his personal identity. you swore you believed he had nothing else in his closet. this is what you think is the third time you’ve seen him in a plain white tee and red bull athlete cap. he’s been dressing like a walking sponsorship deal. predictable. clean.
you had been leaning against the doorway, dramatically waiting for your whole life.
“you’re wearing that?” you asked, flat. he was in the same white shirt and shorts.
he looks down at himself. “what’s wrong with this?”
you stepped inside, holding up a garment bag by the hanger. unzipping the bag, a black short-sleeve polo sweater paired with black tailored trousers. not loud and not branded. simple.
“hello? i have taste.” before tossing it towards him. “take off your clothes.”
“you want to wear nothing?” a small smile tugged on his lips.
your tone deadly, “connor.”
“i’m just asking.” he shrugged his shoulders, lifting his hands up in defense. you noticed how he catches the reflection in the mirror and studies himself like he’s trying to understand what you did.
“you know,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets of the pants you brought, “i thought you were just dramatic.”
“i am.” you deadpanned before you stepped back, studying him. “but…yeah,” you quietly hummed.
he looks down at himself, then back at you. “yeah?”
“you like it.”
he paused before saying honestly, “yeah.”
“good.”
he smirks smugly, “what’s next? you pick out my race suit too?”
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paring carson hocevar x reader word count 390 author’s note thank you @haleysteed for the comment! masterlist
white flag. number 45 had been right behind you, waiting for a brief mistake to have a chance of passing you into first place. you and your teammate were door-to-door before he closed the gap. his tire was bumping into yours as he aggressively bumped you into dirty air. your hands lifted off the wheel, not even trying to save it as the car flew up towards the wall, your own tires screeching and leaving a mark on the asphalt. you held your breath until the moment you felt the impact.
the team had retired the car behind the wall and you from the next race weekend. you weren’t cleared by the medics to run one of your favorite tracks. talladega.
“i cannot reschedule again, carson.” you’ve rescheduled once already with your physical therapist to drive a few hours away to pick up a decoration piece he had to have for your shared apartment from a fan on the marketplace. “i refuse to.”
“okay, yeah. fine, i understand,” he muttered, grabbing an energy drink from the fridge. your body leaned against the kitchen counter to keep pressure off the bandage on your ankle. you could hear the disappointment, despite the kiss on the top of your head as he passed.
carson hadn’t been sulking as anyone expected, just telling everyone on his team “yeah, they couldn’t make it this weekend.” he acted normal and focused like every race weekend. yet, he’d check his phone more often for when you would text, reply, or even have a brief phone call. answering the second it rang as if he was staring at his phone all-day awaiting just for that moment.
his team gave him sympathy pats on his back in passing when you went mia for a few hours. you had told nobody that you decided to call your pilot at the last minute after your session ended earlier than expected.
he froze up briefly because he genuinely wasn’t expecting to see you here. “what are you doing here?”
he smiled without even realizing, “you actually came.”
he hovers around you closer than he normally does and walks next to you for the next few hours before the driver’s introduction. everyone notices that he’s closer than normal, your shoulder bumping into him like a rhythm.
paring gregory bridgerton x fem!reader word count 385 masterlist
the sun beamed down at aubrey hall, your back against the rough bark. the thick branches offered a hand of shade to conceal the sun rays.
though, the sauntering heat did not concern the youngest boy bridgerton. while you indulged in a traded book from eloise, his eyes were on you. his head propped up in his palm, looking in awe. his elbow was resting against the blanket fabric beneath both of you.
this moment was rooted in when he had forgotten his pocket watch, which his eldest bridgerton brother had given him in your morning room.
“i’m afraid that’s all the time you will have today, mr.bridgerton.”
your ladies’ maid spoke sweetly from the doorframe. you had suitors lined up against the wall in the hallway since early light. you had been nearly burnt out, ready to play pall mall in the gardens and horse-riding into the country estate. until, gregory. he shined the brightest out of all of the odd suitors. he returned from eton to step into society and was ready to marry you. hyacinth’s dearest friend.
“it has been lovely to see you.” he rose from the settee, bowing his head a little as a small goodbye. until later. secretly, slipping his pocket watch out from its resting place in his vest. his fingers grazed over the dessert table as he left the ticking clock at your estate in london. you had realized it, when you no longer heard the light clanking when he walked away. he had left it purposely to have a reason to come back tomorrow morning.
he did come back, the earliest it was acceptable for a suitor to show up for something he had ‘forgotten’.
“did you just—“
“leave my pocket watch on purpose? yes, i am guilty of it,” he admitted, hands clasped behind his back. his cheeks had warmed only slightly, though he seemed fairly confident.
“very well, then,” you nodded your head, delicately moving a linen from its plate imported from france and wrapping a handful of green macaroons in the cloth. “for your ride back.”
his lips had met the back of your hand, this time for a goodbye. delicate and light. your heart had jumped at the contact, a brief shared look with your maid. this proposal was acceptable.
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thank you @taurusgale, @haleysteed, and @ryanthedemiguy for the comments! my comments don’t work right, so i can’t respond or like them. any comments are so appreciated, ty again 🫶🏻🫶🏻
summary bf!cortis hyung line green flags word count 183 masterlist
제임스, james
greengreen, “i saw something that reminded me of you and spent three hours learning about it" type.
greengreen, he remembers your interests and researches them just to talk with you.
greengreen, he doesn’t like to argue with you. he wants to keep peace. which leads to him fairly and willing to hear your side during disagreements and appreciates your opinions even when he disagrees.
greengreen, he actually gives good advice.
주훈, juhoon
greengreen, he’s the "i packed snacks, a blanket, and your favorite drink" type.
greengreen, shows love through actions more than words. often opting for experiences over gestures.
greengreen, he’s patient when teaching you something.
greengreen, notices what makes you comfortable and adjusts accordingly.
마틴, martin
greengreen, he stay on the phone with you until you fall asleep type.
greengreen, a gentle giant with you. he seems to tower everyone, including you. his affectionate with you in a softer, gentle way.
greengreen, he supports you unconditionally about everything. he has enough belief in you for the both of you.
greengreen, he’d write songs inspired by you for other hybe groups.
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paring connor zilisch x fem!reader summary you and connor being the most supportive wag/hab ever word count 571 masterlist
scene one
“vegas sucks because we aren’t allowed to do anything,” you told the camera as you pack your birkin—jane style, filled to the brim with necessities transferred from your suitcase for the paddock.
it was difficult to keep your marriage a secret, especially with the drive to survive crew in your hotel. the one that you share. fans and media knew you were married, but didn’t know who your husband was. it was painfully obvious when you showed up with an engagement ring on your finger at a grand prix, then six months later a bigger ring matching. fans with podcasts had guessed, but never came close enough. who is your husband?
you sported his trackhouse red bull hat, being both red bull athletes it was allowed. “how’s being a hab?”
“it’s decent.” he shrugged, earning him a look. you know he was downplaying it just for the cameras.
“dude, i thought you would say cool. it’s, like, your favorite word ever.”
“don’t call me dude, i’m your husband.”
“oh, whatever.”
scene two
connor questioned out of the fame despite being seated next to you, “nervous?”
“no, not at all. just want to preform well. you know?”
one of the executives asked behind the camera, “what are you wearing?”
his red bull hoodie—you refused to cheat on your team and prada sweat pants. hood up to gain some privacy from the non-tinted team car windows. “it’s my comfy fit. got nobody to impress.”
“i like cooler weather,” you said, nodding your head as you glanced out of the window. las vegas—filled with flashing neon lights and cheap weddings. venues we weren’t allowed in or carpet to walk on. you glanced briefly over at him. “how long do you think it would take to adjust to this type of circuit?”
“a couple of races, at least.” he passed off your team-branded tumblr.
“really? it took two laps for me.”
he joked, doubling down. “one lap.”
you laughed, hand with a glinting wedding ring covering your face in false disappointment. “that was so stupid.”
smiling, he replied. “i know.”
scene three
champagne-soaked celebration on the top step. you were far enough ahead in the points, that it was certain you would win your second championship in abu dhabi. his last name was finally sewen onto your race suit.
a promised dinner and a brief celebration with the team in front of the garage. the flash of the camera and you darted from the sticky celebration as far as you could with a laugh, only to still get your fireproofs soaked in champagne from the excited team.
your flushed cheeks were tired from the smiling and strings of “thank you”, from people passing by or the team congratulating you.
you walked behind him bouncing on your toes with your hands on his shoulders like a short train, squeezing them occasionally. the drive to survive crew right behind you, filming as you two led the way back to your driver’s room. chocolate cake and a bouquet sitting on the massage table waiting for you to be surprised.
“this is nice,” you muttered, quiet enough for only him to hear. you licked the fudge off your middle finger, rosing from your spot on the small leather futon.
you ushered the crew out of your driver’s room with your hand, lightly joking. “m’kay, i’m kicking you out now.”
“so you can celebrate properly?” one of the crew members tease behind the camera.
“hell yeah.”
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