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aureatelys · 5 months ago

Note

hotch being super touchy with bau!reader during a night out with the team and like cannot wait until they’re home or something ? (idk if this helps!!)

citrus

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c. 1.5k c.w.: fluff!! suggestive content, established relationship, mentions of alcohol, needy touchy hotch <3

a/n: thank you so much for the request! i realize now while typing this that you may have been asking for horny hotch but instead i give you needy hotch with a touch of horny. not my best work but i hope you like it <33

You first start to suspect something’s wrong when Hotch sits next to you on the jet.

Not that Hotch sitting next to you was an abnormal occurrence, however ever since you two came clean about your relationship with the rest of the team, both of you made the effort to maintain as professional as possible. Which meant not sharing hotel rooms even though you’re sure the budget manager wouldn’t complain, no favoritism, and no PDA.

The no PDA rule was particularly difficult for you because, how could you not touch him?

The team had just finished up a kidnapping case in Florida. Nearly two weeks of suffocating in the humidity and dealing with swarms of mosquitos every time you stepped outside of the precinct. The relief from being in a familiar setting and the working AC is tangible when you plop down into a window seat facing the front of the cabin.

When you notice Hotch approaching you and taking the seat next to yours, you barely hide the surprise on your face. Hotch just merely raises an eyebrow at you before he jumps into debriefing.

Afterwards, when everyone has either fallen asleep or victim to playing chess with Spencer, Hotch knocks his knee against yours.

You look up from your book, a question forming on the tip of your tongue, when you notice Hotch hunched over his files and eyebrows creased in concentration.

It must have been an accident, you think. Except he does it again.

“You okay?” you ask, placing your bookmark and setting your book aside. It’s not like you were paying attention anyway, having had read the page at least two times by now.

“Fine,” he mutters, not unkindly, before scribbling something at the bottom of a file and moving onto the next one.

The past two weeks had been difficult for everyone, and the week before wasn’t any easier. You assume that Hotch was just itching to go back to your shared apartment to check on Jack before passing out in your bed.

And then he bumps against your knee again.

You don’t say anything this time, instead picking up your book and hitting your knee back against his. You just barely catch the corners of his mouth quirking up.

You could’ve sworn Hotch was going to decline tagging along with you when you decided to go out to O’Keefe’s with the rest of the team as soon as you landed. You were even expecting a glare, silently telling you that everyone needs to go home to get some rest and that he is driving you two back to the apartment whether you like it or not.

You start to think Hotch is really up to something now when he shrugs and agrees to tag along with you, promising just one drink.

And then, Hotch rests his arm on the console while driving, his hand worryingly close to your thigh despite Reid and JJ sitting in the backseat. Then, he’s placing a large hand on the small of your back when you’re walking into the bar, causing a shiver to run up your spine despite the warm evening air. Then, he sidles up next to you in the booth, thighs pressing against each other and his wide shoulder brushing against yours. It’s a lot of touching, which you’re clearly fine with, but touching from Hotch, at work, several times in the span of 30 minutes?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, having to lean in to be heard over the music even with his good ear.

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you over his drink. “I told you, I’m fine.”

And it’s like you’re able to see the idea form in his head, having spent so much time with him on and off the clock that you’ve luckily gotten better at reading him.

You still nearly jump out of your seat when Aaron places his warm hand on your thigh, underneath the table where nobody else was able to see.

You’ve gotten used to how touchy Aaron can be behind closed doors. At home, he’s constantly touching you—an arm around your waist, a finger tracing the curve of your jaw, or a kiss pressed at the crown of your head.

But this? A hand on your thigh at a bar in front of your coworkers?

You can feel the heat of his palm seep through your pants, annoyingly close to where you really want him the most. Is that what this is about?

“You two lovebirds alright over there?” Emily calls from the other side of the table, looking spectacularly sober despite you witnessing her downing shot after shot.

The sudden weight of 7 different pairs of eyes on you has you even more frazzled because Aaron’s hand only squeezes the flesh of your thigh while he glances at you casually, his free hand wrapped around an old-fashioned.

“Just talking about how I need another drink,” you say, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as strained to them as it does to you. And technically it is true as you shake your glass to emphasize the ice cubes clinking around with no fruity drink accompanying it.

When you notice Garcia’s mouth open to volunteer to come with you, you scramble up out of the booth, glad that you chose the outside spot, and weave your way through the crowd to the bar. You try to ignore the way the right side of your body suddenly feels colder without Hotch’s body pressed up against yours.

You’re waiting for your drink when you feel a hand snake around your waist. The only thing keeping you from spinning around to maybe unethically flash your badge is the familiar weight of Hotch’s palm pressed against your hip and the citrusy smell of whiskey on his breath against your ear.

A giggle bubbles out of you, instinctively leaning back against his chest. You’re secretly glad that he left his suit jacket in the car, leaving you to ogle the way the crisp white dress shirt stretches over his shoulders. “Seriously, what is with you today?”

His lips ghost over your ear, the low tone of his voice making your knees weak. “I’m not allowed to touch my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that.

You lean even harder into him, one of your hands coming down to grab at his toned forearm as you reach for your finished drink. “Of course you can. I just can’t remember the last time you’ve been this touchy in front of everyone, or ever really.”

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

“I might start if you don’t kiss me.” And it’s mostly to just poke fun at him because Hotch hasn’t even held hands with you in front of the team, much less kiss you in a crowded bar with them undoubtedly watching and whispering amongst themselves.

You’re expecting Hotch to huff a laugh against your ear, letting go and stepping away from you. Maybe even him holding your hand while he leads you through the dance floor and back to your booth to humor you.

You don’t expect Hotch’s free hand to come up and cradle your chin, tilting your face towards his almost uncomfortably to press his lips against yours. It’s soft, chaste even, but the fact that he’s kissing you in front of your colleagues and strangers, in a crowded bar with the loud music nearly thrumming through your veins, makes you feel hot all over.

His arm tightens around you, spinning you around until you’re facing him, and he swallows the gasp you unintentionally let out as he deepens the kiss, your mouth instinctively parting. You’ve been dating for months but kissing him still feels like that very first time in his office, the hard edge of his desk digging into your hip and the glow of the sunset highlighting the clear affection in his eyes.

When you pull back, you notice a pink tinge high on his cheeks and the way his tongue peeks out to lick his lips, as if chasing the taste of your fruity cocktail. “What was that for?”

“Just letting you know that I can’t wait to take you home,” he says, pulling you until the entire line of your body is pressed against his. Your hand unconsciously comes to rest on his chest and you’re not sure if you can feel the bass line for the song playing or the thudding of his heart.

His hands start trailing down to your ass and you seriously wonder how touchier he can get.

But, like you realized earlier, it’s been weeks since you’ve had alone time with Hotch. So, you untangle yourself from him despite his protests and slip your hand in his pocket to retrieve the car keys. You grin when it’s Hotch’s turn to jump.

“I’ll meet you at the car?”

“I already said bye to them for us, let’s go.”

And then he’s pulling you towards the exit with his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. You barely have the chance to peer over the moving crowd to see the rest of your team waving at you, wearing shit-eating grins.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #mine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader fluff

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dakusan · 22 days ago

Text

BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren��t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #filthy friday #skz smut #황현진

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cheapshrimpysheep · 9 months ago

Text

Yuutsum 1

SUMMARY: What if you also have a Tsum? Then your Tsum and the Tsum of the person you like keep giving signs that they like each other?

CHARACTERS: Twisted Tsumderland 1 Tsumsitters (Riddle; Cater; Leona; Jack; Floyd; Epel; Sebek)

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader

WARNING: Spoilers for the Twisted Tsumderland Event and the Tsumsitter cards Vignettes.

WORD COUNT: An average of 600 words per character.

COMMENTS: This was originally a request from @taruruchi for my 1k celebration. Which you can read here. And since so many readers liked it, I decided to do what I normally do when this happens: Do this for ALL the characters! Grouped by event in this case.

The beginning of the Riddle's part is the same as in the request, but I added a little bit more scenario after that.

I hope you enjoy 😉

Yuutsum 2 (Deuce; Azul; Jade; Kalim; Rook; Ortho; Lilia)

Yuutsum 3 (Ace; Trey; Ruggie; Jamil; Vil; Idia; Malleus; Silver)

With your Tsum in your arms, you find Ace and Deuce, leaning over with their hands on their knees as if they were catching their breath after a run. They look at you first, but quickly the cute little creature you hold in your arms catches their attention. They both have that look on their faces like they think it's the cutest and most beautiful little thing in the world but don't want to admit it.

They say that Riddle also has one of those and it was the one they were chasing and trying to catch, but they lost it. The moment they said Riddle’s name, you felt your Tsum move enthusiastically for a moment.

They hear something, when they look they see Riddle-tsum in the distance and run towards it, starting the chase again. Your Tsum jumps out of your arms and runs with them, which makes you run after them too.

Your Tsum passes Ace and Deuce, which surprises them because they were so fast, and throws itself at Riddle-tsum, rolling together for a few seconds until they both stop. When this happened, Riddle-tsum didn't run away again, and the two were rubbing each other's cheeks happily.

Ace grabbed Riddle-tsum while it was distracted. It seemed upset about being caught. But the moment Deuce grabbed your Tsum that upsetness turn into anger. Riddle-tsum jumped out of Ace's arms, hits him in the face and threw itself right in Deuce's face to make him release your Tsum. Once back on the ground, Riddle-tsum positioned itself between your Tsum and those two, glaring threateningly at Ace and Deuce.

Once again, it doesn't run away. You finally get close to them and approach the tsums. When Riddle-tsum sees you it relaxes again and looks at you with admiration. As if looking at a royalty.

Ace and Deuce suggest that you try taking them both to Heartslabyul, as Riddle-tsum doesn't seem to like either of them. They were small enough for you to be able to carry them both in your arms without any problems.

You take them both in your arms and Riddle-tsum immediately turns red. It looked like a tomato in white clothes, and it writhed as if it wanted to hide in your arms in embarrassment. When you arrive at Heartslabyul, Riddle-tsum's blush had already subsided.

“Ah, prefect.” Riddle says when he sees you, Ace and Deuce arriving. “I see you were the one who managed to catch...” He looks at your arms to see his tsum, but his gaze automatically goes to your tsum instead. “Oh, there is one similar to you too. It looks... as charming as you.” he blushes just a little.

After explaining how you three caught Riddle-tsum, Ace suggests that they leave you and your Tsum with Riddle-tsum to prevent it from escaping again or causing trouble. Or hurt someone else. Riddle hesitates at first, as he is the one responsible for taking care of his tsum, but soon after, Riddle-tsum hits a student for breaking some rule and Riddle starts arguing with it so he stops attacking others.

You place a hand on Riddle's shoulder to try to calm him down a little and at that moment both of your attention went to your tsums. Your Tsum was between you and Riddle-tsum.

“You know, they remind me of the hedgehogs in a way.” Riddle says “And now they are reminding me of when they come closer to smell each other or to rub each other's noses. I can't deny that I find it quite cute whenever they do it.”

And then your Tsum starts rubbing its little round nose against Riddle-tsum's and caressing it to calm it down. And it works. It returns the affection by staying very close to your Tsum.

Riddle blushes a little again, and says that, reconsidering Ace's suggestion and if you want, you could take care of your tsums together.

You were walking with your Tsum in your arms when you saw Cater and his Tsum on Main Street. Cater-tsum seemed to be curled defensively around something Cater was trying to retrieve.

“Look, you can't have it, okay?!” You hear Carter say to his Tsum as you get close to them.

You greet him by asking what they are doing. Cater gives you a quick glance before turning his attention back to Cater-tsum, as if he's afraid that if he looks away it'll escape.

“Hey, (Y/N)-chan! I'm trying to get my-” He quickly looks back at you, more specifically at the adorable little thing you have in your arms. “Oh!... My!... Great Seven!” He turns his body towards you, his gaze so fixed on your Tsum that he doesn't even blink. “YOU HAVE A TSUMMY TOO! And it's the most adorable little thing I've ever seen in my life!”

Suddenly you both got jumpscared as something jumps towards you. It was Cater-tsum jumping into your arms! Despite the scare, you manage to catch it and it starts to nestle into your arms and cuddle your Tsum. Cater looks at the floor where Tsum was and sees his cell phone left behind. He retrieves it.

“We HAVE to take a pic of them!” Cater says excitedly “No! We have to do a whole photoshoot! Here! It's a great place to start.”

If you like taking pictures, your Tsum will be very excited. If you are shy, your Tsum will turn around to hide its face in your arms.

“Awwwww~ That’s even more adorable! Pwease! I beg you~" He says to your Tsum. Cater-tsum will also make pleading eyes at your Tsum.

The four of you spend a lot of time taking pictures in different places. Both pictures of the Tsums and of you with Cater. Until Cater and his Tsum have enough pictures to finally let you and your Tsum rest.

You sit on a bench, you with your Tsum on your lap and Cater with his Tsum on his lap, both of them editing photos on his cell phone. However, you feel your Tsum move and leave your lap to headbutt Cater's hand that was holding the cell phone, making it fall against his belly. After that, your tsum just stands there looking at Cater-tsum with a slightly annoyed look. Cater-tsum smiles with its tiny eyes and jumps against your tsum so they can cuddle each other.

Cater looks at the Tsums protecting the cell phone against his chest, watches them for a moment and then looks at you.

“Hey, if you want to do the same, just need to ask, you know~?” Cater says and winks at you.

If you accept, he'll put an arm around your shoulders and edit the photos with you, while your two Tsums cuddle on your laps.

Your Tsum was restless, impatient. It really wanted to go somewhere. So you pick it up and walk around campus trying to understand where it wants to go. Fortunately you don't need to walk far, as the botanical garden is one of the closest points to Ramshackle Dorm.

As soon as you enter, your tsum jumps out of your arms and starts jumping (its way of running) somewhere in the middle of some bushes. And you know that spot well. As soon as you stop seeing it, you hear a patient growl.

“Another one?” You hear Leona's voice. “Hey! What do you think you're doing?!” You follow the voice, pass through the bushes and see Leona lying down with two tsums on top of his torso. Your Tsum and Leona-tsum, cuddled up like two cats sleeping with each other.

“Herbivore, get your stuffie thing out of here and take the one that looks like me with you too. I'm not a nest to have two pesky armadillos sleeping on top of me!”

You kneel down next to him, looking at Leona-tsum with that “HE’S SO CUTE!” twinkle in your eyes. Leona-tsum looks at you and its sleepy eyes suddenly open, almost bulging. And it jumps onto your chest, knowing you would catch it.

“You got one.” Leona said. “Just one more to-” He interrupted himself, looking at his chest and seeing your tsum rising until it approached his face.

If you look at his face, you will see Leona's pupils dilating. And your tsum snuggling against his chest. You comment that you don't think your tsum will want to leave his side.

“Why don't you walk away with that one and see what happens? Maybe yours will follow.”

You are also curious to know what would happen. Leona-tsum was already sleeping in your arms.

You walk away with it, towards the exit of the botanical garden. Halfway there it wakes up and you feel it move in your arms. You stop and look at it. It seemed to have an annoyed look on its face, very similar to what Leona does when things aren't going according to his plans. You open your mouth to say or ask something, but it's Leona's voice that can be heard throughout the botanical garden.

“OI!” You hear Leona growl in annoyance. “Who do you think you are demanding anythin’ from me?!” And then you hear him roar.

You come back with Leona-tsum in your arms, and you find your tsum pulling one of Leona's braids towards you as if it wanted to force him to come to you.

“This thing really takes after you.” he comments, in a tone reminiscent of a father irritated with a child he deep down loves.

Leona-tsum jumps out of your arms and lazily approaches your tsum. Your tsum lets go of Leona's braid.

You both see Leona-tsum rubbing its cheek on your Tsum's cheek, and making a movement as if it was licking your Tsum's face. After calming your tsum down, the two of them curl up to sleep together.

“Well, at least they're not bothering me anymore.” Leona says. He closes his eyes, but right after, he opens one of them again to look at you. “If you're also going to stay here with your stuffie thing, at least be useful. This floor isn't the best pillow, you know?” He makes that gesture for you to come closer with his index finger.

And if you let him use your lap to lie down, he will fall asleep in 3 seconds, just like his Tsum did.

You were in the Ramshackle Dorm Lounge with your Tsum and Grim was in your bedroom, probably taking a nap after eating too much, when you hear someone knocking at the door. You go open the door, leaving your Tsum on the couch. You do it and see Jack.

“Hi (Y/N). Sorry to bother you, but this Tsum-” Before Jack could finish his sentence, you saw something near your feet come barreling through the door. You look back in time to see Jack-tsum turn to enter the Lounge. “Ah! Sorry. It won't sit still. Let's catch it before it does any damage.”

The two of you go to the lounge and stop right at the entrance. Jack-tsum was on the couch with your Tsum. Jack-tsum was jumping around your Tsum, its little tail wagging like crazy, and its eyes shining while also rubbing its face against your Tsum’s as if licking it. It was just like a puppy wanting to play.

“OI!” Jack shouted “Don't mess up (Y/N)'s couch!”

Jack-tsum sulked and your Tsum jumped from the couch to the floor. Jack-tsum followed it. Your Tsum approached Jack and smiled at him with its eyes, as if it were greeting him.

“Hum?” Jack’s ears pricked up as he looked down. “You also have a Tsum similar to you.” He didn't realize his tail had started wagging.

Jack-tsum followed your Tsum and you felt the need to bend down to see Jack-tsum up close. It looked at you with big bright eyes and its tail wagging wildly. You comment on how cute it is and reach out to pet it.

“Be careful.” Jack warns you “It doesn't let anyone...” You start to pet its head as it leans in your hand. “... touch it... What's the deal with this thing? Whenever anyone approached it would either move away or growl at them. How did you do that? I can't even catch it to take it to Savanaclaw.”

You say you don't know what you did either, if anything special. And you comment that it seems to like you. This makes Jack blush slightly.

“How would it not?” he says softly, and without meaning to. He clears his throat. “Um, do you mind if we stay here for a while? It seems to have finally settle down a bit.”

Your tsum goes to Jack-tsum's side and they both look at you as if begging you to say yes. You agree and the two Tsums bounce happily for a moment before they start running around the lounge together.

“OI! You two be careful!” Jack warns “Don't break or mess anything up, you hear?!”

You laugh and comment on how much you think Jack and his Tsum look alike.

“It's just the hair and the outfit.” he says a little embarrassed “Do I look round and soft?!”

“Round maybe not but soft...” You laugh and he blushes.

Before he could open his mouth to try to respond to that, the tsums started running towards you and ended up bump into you as they passed, which made you lose your balance. Jack catches you.

“What did I say?” he shouts to the tsums. He looks at you. "Are you okay?" in his arms, and he releases you, blushing a little. “Sorry about that.” he rubs the back of his neck. “It had never done this.”

“Maybe it was a bad influence.” you say and look at the Tsums. From the looks on their faces, especially your Tsum’s, it wasn't an accident.

You were walking down the Main Street with your Tsum in your arms when you hear footsteps running behind you, approaching quickly. You turn around in shock and see a very tall figure right in front of you. Then you realize it's Floyd.

“Boo~” Floyd smiles at you with something writhing violently in his arms. You look and see his Tsum trying to get free. You also notice, by the way he is holding Floyd-tsum, that he is using a lot of force. “Hi Koebi-chan~. Whatcha doin'~?” He sees something in your arms and looks to find your Tsum. “Woo! You have one too! And it looks so small and weak like you, how cute! He he.”

(What you don't know is that what really happened was that Floyd-tsum was loose and took off running when it saw you. The footsteps you heard were Floyd running to catch it before Floyd-tsum caught you first.)

Your Tsum made a sulky face, while Floyd-tsum continued to struggle in Floyd's arms. You say Floyd-tsum is also very cute, it stops and looks at you with smiling little eyes.

“Do you wanna play with it?” Floyd asks and you say yes. “Sure, but careful how you handle it. It’s easy to set this guy-” The moment he let his arms go slack for a second, Floyd-tsum jumped into your arms.

With difficulty, but you managed to catch it without letting your tsum fall. Now you had them both in your arms. You saw it squeezing your tsum while it snuggled into your arms. However, your tsum didn't seem uncomfortable, quite the opposite, it felt like a passionate everyday hug.

Between letting Floyd-tsum jump out of his arms, until realizing that it wouldn't hurt you, Floyd stared at his Tsum with that serious face that all students who know him the least bit fear.

“Aw~ Aren't they cute together?” he says with his usual relaxed expression. He sees that you are having difficulty holding both tsums. “Let them go. They can walk on their own. Or hop, I guess.”

You do so. The two Tsums land on the ground and Floyd-tsum jumps up to continue hugging your Tsum. But before it can, Floyd quickly picks up your Tsum in his arms and starts squeezing it too.

“MY TURN!” Floyd says to his Tsum.

This one sulks, looks at you and jumps back towards you. You catch it and it hugs your forearm. You and Floyd laugh, until the pressure in your arm starts to increase to the point where it starts to hurt. The moment you grimace, Floyd's expression changes, he lets go of your tsum and rips his off your arm.

“I warned you.” he says to his tsum, with the same face he uses to threaten students who don't pay Azul. “Someone is not keeping their side of the deal.”

Floyd-tsum manages to escape and hugs your tsum again, but without hurting it. Floyd looks at you, who looks slightly sad, and sees you rubbing the forearm that Tsum was squeezing. He holds your wrist to see better. There is a slight reddish mark. He lets go of your wrist, turns to the Tsums and lifts his foot as if to step on his tsum. Before you could stop him, your tsum does it, getting out of Floyd-tsum's embrace and positioning itself between it and Floyd's sole when he was about to hit his Tsum. He looks at your tsum's fearless face for a moment and laughs heartily.

“HA HA HA HA! It also takes after you, Koebi-chan~” He puts his foot back on the ground and turns back to you. “We were going to Mostro Lounge. Do you want to come?”

With your Tsum in your arms, you were walking down Main Street when you heard a scream. It sounded like someone was being attacked by a dog or something. You follow the sound and see Epel, another Pomefiore student, and an Epel-tsum attacking this student while Epel tries to stop it.

Your tsum jumps out of your arms and runs (or hops) towards them until it stops between Epel-tsum and the student, preventing the tsum from attacking him again. And then, your tsum headbutted Epel-tsum so hard that it even knocked it upside down for a moment. Enough time for Epel to catch it. The other student runs away and Epel-tsum begins to struggle in Epel's arms.

“Stop it!” Epel complained “Ya can't go aroun´ attackin´ students!”

You approach them asking if everything is okay and if he needs help. Epel-tsum stops and looks at you. You smile when you see that Epel also has a tsum and comment on how cute it is (like any tsum).

“No! Don't call it that!” The Tsum manages to jump out of Epel's arms and towards you.

He panics, but instead of the Tsum hitting you, it lands in your arms and just looks at you with a sulky face. You say it's still being cute, and once again, instead of it attacking you, its little face turns red with blush.

Epel freezes, completely confused for a moment until he thinks about what could be the possible reason for you being the only person who called the Tsum cute and it didn't attack. And when he thinks of the most likely reason, he also blushes.

Your tsum also jumped into Epel's arms, surprising him. It smiles at him with its cute little eyes and his blush deepens. Your voice is the only thing that makes Epel look away from your Tsum, asking if you could accompany him and his Tsum if they were going to Pomefiore.

In his dorm, needless to say, Rook wasted no time praising the Tsums, both Epel's and yours. But since Epel's Tsum didn't seem to appreciate the comments very much, especially if they focused on the fact that it was cute, Rook ended up turning his attention to your Tsum, which ended up bothering Epel's Tsum even more.

“It looks like someone is jaloux.” Rook says smiling amused.

That was the only thing that made Epel-tsum throw itself at him, to attack. Rook dodged it like a bullfighter with the grace of someone who was expecting it. Epel panicked and quickly picked up his tsum and apologized to Rook.

“There is no reason to apologize, Monsieur Pommette.” Rook says, loving the situation more than he should. “Truly. I must confess that my provocation was premeditated. C'est tellement beau to see your true feelings and emotions through your Tsum's lack of filter.”

“WHA-?! WHAT IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!”

Rook just laughs, winks at Epel and starts walking towards the door. Halfway there he passes you, leans over and whispers in your ear: “Could you tame the little beast for us, Trickster?” and leaves.

Epel's Tsum struggled in his arms, angry... with jealousy.

Your Tsum was restless, impatient. It really wanted to go somewhere. So you pick it up and walk around campus trying to understand where it wants to go. You leave Ramshackle Dorm, pass the Botanical Garden and the Alchemy Workshop and arrive at the Hall of Mirrors.

As soon as you enter, your Tsum escapes from your arms and quickly jumps until it enters the mirror to Diasmonia. You follow it, but you realize that you lost sight of it the moment it passed through the mirror.

“Good afternoon, (Y/N)!” Lilia is the first to come and greet you. “To what do we owe such a wonderful surprise visit?”

You tell him about your tsum.

“Ah yes! Sebek also has a cute little lookalike. I can't wait to see yours. Although if it's as adorable or even more adorable than you, we're going to have a cuteness overdose problem in this dorm. Khe he. Well, from what I understand, and despite Sebek denying it, the personality of these tsums is very similar to the personality of those they physically resemble. So if your tsum wanted to come here, where do you think it would have gone? Where would you want to go?”

You don't think about a ‘where’ but rather a ‘who’ and that may have shown on your face, beacuse Lilia laughs amusedly.

“So maybe your tsum went to meet someone? Maybe a fellow tsum? Khe he he. I suggest we look for Malleus. Wherever he is, Sebek and Silver will be there too.”

The two of you head to the lounge, but before you get there you can already hear all the commotion. Aka: Sebek’s thunderous voice.

“Don't look at me like that! No matter who your looks resemble, you're bothering Malleus-sama and meddling in our, I mean my guard duties!”

“Actually,” You hear Malleus's patient voice say. “I am quite enjoying this little one's presence. It's as pleasant as (Y/N)'s own presence. Wouldn't you agree, Sebek?”

“HM?! Yes! Of course sir! Please forgive me for implying that this Tsum's presence was inconvenient.”

You and Lilia arrive at the lounge and approach those two. Sebek, as expected, was standing very straight next to Malleus, who was sitting in one of the sofas. Coming closer, you see that both your Tsum and Sebek's Tsum are in Malleus' lap. And Sebek-tsum looked like it was... about to cry?

“AWW~ Look at you.” Lilia said, your Tsum turned to him. “You are even cuter than I imagined. *sigh* What an unfair competition.”

The moment Sebek-tsum sees you is when it finally starts crying.

“HUM?! What is wrong with you?” Sebek inquires. “You are such a strange creature.”

“I think it's too much emotion to see so many people it likes together.” Lilia says with a smirk.

“W-Well, regardless, it should learn to control itself!”

You come closer, worried about Sebek-tsum, and ask if it would like a hug to feel better. It looks at you, then at Malleus, back at you, Malleus, you, Malleus, and on until it almost gets dizzy and the indecision seems to make it more sad.

“I think I have an idea.” Malleus says. “(Y/N), would you like to sit next to me?”

You sit down, he asks you to come closer until your thighs touch, so he can place Sebek-tsum on both of your laps at the same time. It, still in tears, seemed to be thanking Malleus with his eyes and head.

“How intelligent and generous, my liege!” Even Sebek himself had a tear in the corner of his eye.

He was about to continue his praise when your Tsum jumped from Malleus' lap into Sebek's hands. He caught it as if he was saving it from a fall. It looked at him and smiled with its eyes.

“How precious.” He said with a tender smile, as he was still emotional about Malleus's act. Then he realized what he had just said and blushed in embarrassment. But he didn't stop holding your Tsum.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

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starmaidengarden · 29 days ago

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Hiii!! May I request housewarden finding out their insomniac s/o easily falls asleep when he hugs them, rubs their back or hears his voice? The activities he does its up to you, no need to be what i list, thank youu >v<

— housewarden x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers: uzmacchiato.

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

When you admit that you’ve been struggling with insomnia—but mysteriously fall asleep whenever you’re in his arms or hear his voice—Riddle stares at you, wide-eyed. He takes a moment to process what you’ve said. Then he remembers the times you dozed off in the middle of his lengthy rule explanations or the way you clung to him for comfort during naps, finally finding some peace.

His face turns bright red. “If it helps… I suppose I can make an exception,” he replies, flustered yet secretly pleased by the idea. That night, he sits by your bed with a book in hand, reading aloud from a magical theory textbook in his softest voice. You curl into his arms, your breathing gradually evening out with each page turn. He finds himself gently rubbing calming circles on your back, whispering, “Sleep well, my rose…”

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

The first time he discovers it is by accident. You're lying beside him in the botanical gardens, tossing and turning. But the moment he wraps an arm around your waist, and mutters, “Just go to sleep already,” you go still—and then he hears your soft, steady breathing. Leona blinks, confused. “Oi… did you just fall asleep?” He scoffs, but a quiet smirk plays on his lips.

He pretends it’s a hassle. “You’re so needy, herbivore,” he grumbles as he stretches out and makes room for you in his bed later that night. But truthfully, he finds it comforting. He starts wrapping his arms around you instinctively, drawing lazy circles on your back with his finger, his deep, gravelly voice mumbling stories from the Sunset Savanna or simply humming against your ear.

Azul Ashengrotto ༉⋆｡˚

Azul is flustered beyond belief. He fidgets with his glasses, his face a bright red. “My… voice?” he repeats. His insecurities bubble up instantly. Is it pity? Some trick? But when he sees how sincere—and embarrassed—you are, his heart softens.

It’s awkward at first. He’s never seen himself as someone comforting, but he begins tentatively offering to stay while you fall asleep. One evening, you ask him to talk about his latest Mostro Lounge plans, and he starts rambling—only for you to fall asleep against his shoulder. After that, he makes it a nightly habit lying beside you, stroking your back gently, talking about everything from business to the sea.

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

Kalim lights up. “Really?! Just me hugging you or talking can help you sleep?!” He’s genuinely thrilled. No hesitation. “Then I’ll do it every night!” He starts treating it like a sacred duty. Every night, He’ll drag you to his room with a pile of pillows and blankets, enthusiastically throwing himself into bed next to you, wrapping you up in his arms like a burrito, telling you silly stories about his childhood, humming little desert lullabies, or rubbing your back with his hands as he wishes you the sweetest dreams.

If you're anxious or restless, he’ll rub your back in soothing circles and tell stories about his travels until your eyelids droop. When you fall asleep mid-sentence or smile sleepily as you curl into him, Kalim whispers, “Sleep well, sunshine,” and holds you close, absolutely glowing from understanding that his love helps you rest.

Vil Schoenheit ༉⋆｡˚

When Vil first discovers that your insomnia disappears only when you’re being touched, he pauses mid-movement. You immediately started to fall asleep while he tried a new skincare mask on you. When you quietly confess your insomnia and how only his presence or voice soothes you, he gazes at you with something unreadable—then lets out a slow sigh. “Of all the things to be dependent on…” he mutters, brushing a hand through your hair, “...you choose me.” It sounds haughty, but there's a quiet vulnerability underneath.

He takes it seriously, creating a serene nighttime atmosphere for you. Lavender oil diffusing, silk sheets, his gentle voice discussing skincare or reciting poetry—Vil makes sure your nights are beautiful and restful. He won’t say it aloud, but knowing he brings you peace moves him.

Idia Shroud ༉⋆｡˚

Idia nearly malfunctions the first time he realizes you only fall asleep when he’s talking. You’re lying on his bed, surrounded by neon screens, and he’s nervously explaining the backstory of some obscure anime villain when you fall asleep—while he’s still talking. “D-did I bore you to sleep?!” he frets. But then he sees your peaceful expression.

You later tell him that it’s not boredom—it’s comfort. He blushes harder than he ever has in his life. After that, Idia gets weirdly good at helping you sleep. He sets up mood lighting, plays soft lo-fi playlists, and starts recording rambling voice memos about his favorite games and theories.

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

Malleus is incredibly moved. “My presence soothes your mind?” he asks, awed. To be your sanctuary is something that touches his heart deeply. He holds you with reverence, humming ancient lullabies from Briar Valley or simply speaking of his day. The fact that you relax in his arms, trusting him completely, is a treasure he guards fiercely. He’ll be there each night without fail—your guardian in both dreams and wakefulness.

If you're tossing and turning, he wraps you in his arms and gently rubs your back. He’ll speak slowly—each word a gentle stone building your pathway to sleep. He looks down at you, sleeping peacefully in his arms, and whispers to the stars above, “Even in your dreams, you trust me.” He begins taking your rest as a personal responsibility. He will hold you each night, humming low melodies from his homeland, ancient lullabies in a language only the fae know. His voice is deep and resonant—just enough to calm your restless thoughts.

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teaboot · 9 months ago

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I've never had a cat before and I'm hoping to get one soon. Do you have any advice?

Treat a new cat as you would a new roommate. Give them space and time to settle, establish a pattern and a rhythm, and in time they may choose to become friends and spend time with you. Dont force a friendship.

Use simple words and repetition to establish communication. Words like breakfast, treat, snack, lunch, supper, dinner, food, and eat all basically mean, "I am feeding you; expect to be fed", but it's a lot for a little guy to remember. I just say "Dinner" when I mean "cat food is coming", and so my boy knows exactly what I mean when I say it. As a plus, using only one word for snack time means he has no idea what the other words mean, so I can talk about food in front of him without ruling him up.

Pay attention to body language. Cats all have different personalities, and you'll learn their likes, dislikes, and messages over time this way. Son boy here loves anything with plumbing but dislikes getting wet- his favourite blanket to chew and snuggle goes on his favourite chair, and he gives me a specific gesture when he wants me to kneel down so he can jump onto my shoulder.

Read into problematic behaviour. Cats pee in weird places when they're hurting, in distress, or have insufficient of unclean litter box space. Biting, attacking feet , and knocking things off tables often means they're understimulated and need you to play with them, or at least need some kind of enrichment or puzzle to tackle. Tail flicking can be frustration or irritation. Purring is usually good, but may also be self-soothing behaviour to alleviate pain, encourage healing, and relieve anxiety, like over-grooming.

Like children, "bad" behaviour isn't malicious- it usually means there's something you aren't seeing.

Learn how your cat expresses love. Loads of people think cats are uncaring, cruel, and indifferent, but the truth is, they're just not dogs. Spending time near you, showing an interest in tools you're using or projects you're working on, sitting the way you sit, laying on their back, rubbing on your legs, wiping their face on your shoes when you get home- these are signs that your cat is enamored with you. You're their family, they feel safe and protected around you, they're curious about things you enjoy and want everyone to know you're family.

Set reasonable expectations. Again, cats are not dogs.We bred dogs to desire our approval- cats walked into our lives themselves. They have no human-programmed need to fulfill a duty or perform a task to your standards.

Training cats to do tricks isn't as hard as people say, but the willingness or interest in doing the trick is more heavily reliant on personality and mood. Some cats will refuse all but the most basic requests- I'm lucky in that Ollie understands and is willing to do several, provided I don't abuse his trust and he's not crowded or overwhelmed or just bored of doing it over and over in a short period.

Ollie, for example, knows Up to stand on his back legs and hold my hand, Down to get to a surface I indicate, Out to emerge from a closed space, Come to find me where I am, Help? when I'm offering to let him use me as an elevator, Dinner when I understand he's hungry and am getting food, and when I put on his collar he knows to climb into his carrier 'cause we're going somewhere. And he'll do any of these about 90% of the time, either ignoring me or phoning it in when there's something interesting somewhere else, or if he's feeling anxious.

Lead by example. If you dread taking them to the vet, they'll see the anxiety in your body language and behaviour and likely learn to hate it, too. Again using my guy an example, I starred taking him on walks long before his first vet appointment, just to get used to his carrier and leash. Then his first checkup was relaxed and informal, with plenty of treats, and I let him explore the examination room with permission from the tech. Now he loves going, so I'm not stressed about taking him, so I don't stress him out in turn, and the vest doesn't have to deal with a stressed out cat slowing things down and fighting with them.

Make sure your sources are good ones, and also good ones for you. I will recommend Jackson Galaxy's YouTube channel for cat advice because a lot of what he does matches up with what I've learned and know to be true. I don't personally recommend Ceasar Milan because I personally find his methods distressing to recreate regardless of efficacy, so even if that advice was useful, *I'd* be miserable, and it'd just be trading one issue for another.

Have a person who can help. You never know when you might end up out of town overnight unexpectedly, or when your place may need serviced or fumigated, or if you may be called out of town. Before getting a cat, research reliable pet sitters, house sitters, pet daycares, whatever, just in case.

Consider pet insurance. No long spiel here, just think about it. Especially if you don't know your cats ancestry or potenyial health risks. An on top of that, fucking vaccinate them.

Dont let them free roam. At all.

I grew up on a farm with free-roaming barn cats. Do you know how many times child-me cried over having to bury them? Illness, disease, pregnancy, vehicles, other territorial cats, ticks, fleas, litter, poisoned prey, malicious humans, local wildlife, predatory birds, scrap metal, extreme heat, freezing temperatures, tainted water sources, poisonous or venomous critters, getting stuck in small or high places, tapeworms, loose nails, old equipment, falling branches...

I've seen some truly body-horror slasher-movie shit- just truly nauseating visual fuckery- and I'm telling you not to let your cat free-roam.

Leash training isn't hard. Supervised walks aren't hard. Even keeping your cat physically fit and entertained indoors isn't an impossible feat. Don't let your fucking cat fucking free-roam. Fuck

Also read up on foods and plants cats can't do, like every houseplant in existence is toxic it's insane

Anyhow yeah that's like. A couple things I guess

Here, have an Ollie Pic

#Cats #Ollieposting #Another perfect photo of the most beautiful baby boy

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satellite-evans · 3 months ago

Text

his person

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: you are lando’s person <3

Word count: 2.3k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

If you asked anyone — anyone who’d known Lando even half as well as the world thought it did — who his best friend was, the answer came easy, automatic, like muscle memory.

Max Fewtrell.

It was almost too obvious. They’d been inseparable since their karting days — the kind of friendship that was stitched together with inside jokes, shared playlists, matching scars from dumb teenage stunts, and years of standing side by side through wins and wipeouts. They were co-founders of Quadrant, partners in crime both on and off the track, the human embodiment of controlled chaos whenever a Twitch stream went live or an Instagram story popped up. If you ever bet on who knew Lando best — who could read him like a page out of his own life — your money was safe on Max.

But if you asked Lando — really asked him — his answer wouldn’t even take a breath.

“It’s her,” he’d say, soft but steady. Certain.

“It’s always her.”

You.

The girl who had known him before the podiums, before the fame, before the world chanted his name like a stadium-wide heartbeat. The one who saw through the swagger and the quick wit, the one who called him out when his ego got a little too comfortable, and who held him up when the weight of expectation became too much for one pair of shoulders to carry alone. His girlfriend, yes. But more than that. His person. His safe place. His best friend in every sense of the word.

And God, Lando could never seem to shut up about you.

It was an unspoken rule among his circle — one that started as eye-rolls and playful jabs but eventually softened into quiet acceptance. Your name had a habit of slipping into conversations without warning, as if his mind couldn't help but orbit around you even when you weren’t there. His engineers learned to expect it, Max would mock him with exaggerated groans, but none of it ever stopped him.

“Mate, we asked about tire strategy, not your girlfriend,” his race engineer would tease over the radio mid-practice, when his focus momentarily drifted.

And Lando, without missing a beat, would just laugh — the kind of laugh that sounded like pure ease, like home.

“Same thing, really,” he’d reply, grinning under the helmet. “She keeps me grounded. Technically part of the setup.”

On race weekends, it didn’t matter how chaotic the paddock got, how many fans called his name, or how tightly his schedule was packed. His eyes would always search the crowd — cutting through the noise, the flashing cameras, the blur of faces — until they landed on you. Like some unspoken radar tuned to a single frequency.

“There you are,” he’d mumble every single time, pulling you into his arms, cameras be damned. “Took me forever to find you.”

“You walked straight toward me, Lando,” you’d laugh against his chest, your voice the one sound that always, always managed to quiet his racing thoughts.

“Still felt too long,” he’d whisper, pressing his lips to your hair like that simple touch could steady the adrenaline still roaring through his veins.

You weren’t just the girl he loved. You were his favorite adventure. His co-op player. His partner in every messy, beautiful, unfiltered part of his life. Nights were spent tangled together on the couch, feet tucked under each other, controllers in hand, or phones abandoned on the table as you scrolled through old memes, trading soft jokes and lazy kisses. But the best part was always the silence. The ease of it. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling, because being with you — just being — felt like the world had finally clicked into place.

And when the world outside got too loud — when the weight of expectation grew heavier than a leaden race suit, and headlines tried to script his story before he even had a chance to live it — it was always you he turned to.

“Do you think I’m doing enough?” he asked one night, voice quieter than the hum of the television, exhaustion settling deep into his bones after another long, hard-fought weekend. His head rested on your lap, and your fingers moved through his curls with slow, absent strokes — the kind that said I’m here, without needing the words.

“You’ve always been enough,” you answered, not even hesitating. “Wins don’t make you, Lando. You do.”

And something in his chest softened — like your words had reached places even his own self-belief couldn’t always touch. He looked up at you then, eyes warm, like he was trying to memorize the exact way you said it, the exact way it felt to be loved by you.

“See, this is why you’re my best friend.”

You smirked, playful but sincere. “Oh, I thought it was because I make better toast than Max.”

“That too,” he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that reached his eyes — the real one, the one that didn’t need cameras or podiums. “But mostly because you’re the only person who makes this whole crazy life make sense.”

And you always would.

Because even on the days when the world felt like it was spinning too fast, when the pressure of living under a microscope crept too close, you were there. Not with solutions or speeches — just you. Existing. Holding space for him the way only you could.

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your fingers slow and familiar. “You know,” you murmured, “I don’t think anyone will ever understand you the way I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else to,” Lando replied, quiet but sure. “They’d get it all wrong.”

There was a pause, but the comfortable kind — the kind that wrapped around you both like a blanket, no need for more words. His hand found yours, thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your skin, the rhythm steady, grounding.

“You’re stuck with me, you know,” you teased, squeezing his fingers gently. “For life.”

His lips quirked, soft and lopsided. “Good,” he whispered. “That’s exactly the plan.”

Race weekends always had a way of making that feeling even stronger — like the noise and the speed and the stakes only sharpened the way Lando looked at you, like the world could be spinning at 300 kilometers an hour and still, his attention would only ever settle on you.

You stood by the garage, tucked slightly out of the way, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment cases as the paddock moved around you in its usual, barely controlled frenzy. Journalists darted between interviews, chasing headlines with mics stretched out like fishing rods. Cameras tracked every flicker of expression on every driver’s face, lenses hungry for a story in a single glance. Engineers, crew members, mechanics — they weaved through the maze of people like clockwork, hands full of telemetry sheets and radios, their minds a million miles away, deep in calculations and split-second decisions.

And then, there was Lando.

The second his eyes found you through the blur of it all — the sponsors, the fans, the pre-race nerves knotted beneath his skin — everything else seemed to fall away. His entire posture shifted, tension melting from his shoulders as that unmistakable, boyish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. The smile that wasn’t for the cameras, or the sponsors, or the sea of people waiting for autographs — the one that was just for you.

Like clockwork, he jogged toward you, cutting through the paddock like gravity had decided to rewrite the rules, yanking him toward the only place he ever really wanted to be.

“There’s my good luck charm,” he greeted, voice bright but edged with exhaustion and adrenaline — the kind that no amount of coffee or sleep could fully shake before a race. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek, the contact lingering longer than it probably should have given the dozens of eyes watching, but Lando had never cared much about timing when it came to you.

“You should probably be focusing on the race,” you teased, fingers finding the zipper of his suit, giving it the lightest of tugs, grounding him even as the rest of the world tried to pull him in a hundred different directions.

“I am,” he replied, tilting his head slightly, those warm eyes locking onto yours like they always did. “You’re the best part of it.”

And the way he said it — soft, steady, without even a hint of his usual playful sarcasm — left no room for superstition or charm. Just the truth, plain and simple.

You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his balaclava, adjusting it slightly before your thumb traced the sharp line of his jaw, a familiar and quiet ritual between the two of you — like you were handing him the last piece of calm before the chaos.

“Go win,” you murmured, your voice low but sure. “I’ll be right here.”

“You better be,” he said, stepping backward, reluctant but smiling, his eyes still drinking you in like he could store the moment away for later. His race engineer’s voice crackled over the comms, pulling him back to reality, but even as he turned to go, he glanced back — once, twice — like the distance between you was the only thing that ever felt wrong.

And when he finally climbed into the car, helmet on, gloves tightened, visor down — the world might have narrowed to tire temperatures and corner speeds, but you were still there. A fixed point. The face he’d always find, whether he crossed the finish line first or not.

Later that night, long after the champagne had dried on his race suit and the headlines had already written their version of the day, you and Lando found yourselves right where you always seemed to end up — curled up on the hotel balcony, wrapped up in a blanket you’d stolen from the foot of the bed, legs tangled together like the world didn’t exist beyond that little pocket of quiet.

The city stretched out below you, lights blinking lazily in the distance, but neither of you paid them much attention. His hand rested on your knee, your feet propped comfortably in his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle — like his body hadn’t quite figured out how to sit still, even if his mind finally had.

For a while, you both just sat there, letting the silence settle. It wasn’t awkward or heavy — just easy. The kind of quiet that only ever existed between two people who didn’t need words to fill the gaps.

But of course, Lando couldn’t resist breaking it.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice light but thoughtful, “it’s kinda ridiculous, isn’t it?”

You turned your head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “What is?”

He let out a soft, amused huff, like the thought had been bouncing around his head for hours. “I spend all day surrounded by thousands of people — cameras, fans, the whole circus — but the second I step out of the car, the only face I ever want to find is yours. Like some lovesick golden retriever.”

You snorted, nudging him with your elbow. “You? A golden retriever? Please. More like a raccoon hyped up on energy drinks.”

He laughed, head tipping back slightly, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair, but still. You’re basically my human GPS at this point. Doesn’t matter how big the crowd is, somehow I always spot you first.”

You tilted your head, playful but sincere. “Maybe I’ve just trained you well.”

“Oh, definitely. Pavlov would be proud.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Guess that makes two of us, though. I could be anywhere — grandstands, the grid, the middle of a fan mob — and my brain’s only ever tuned into you.”

He grinned at that, the kind of grin that was all soft cheeks and crinkled eyes, and for a second the teasing dropped away, leaving only something honest and quiet between you.

“God, look at us,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Disgustingly sappy.”

“Max would be physically ill if he heard this conversation.”

“Max would disown me,” Lando agreed, lips quirking. “But he already knows I’m screwed when it comes to you. No point in pretending.”

You stretched your legs out, nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’ve been screwed since the moment I stole your fries that one time, haven’t you?”

He chuckled, shaking his head like the memory was still fresh. “That was the moment. I knew I was done for. Anyone who can steal the last fry and not feel guilty? Dangerous.”

You grinned, leaning your head back against his shoulder, your voice soft but full of playful affection. “And you let me do it anyway.”

“Let you?” he scoffed. “I offered. You just didn’t hear me over the sound of your victory.”

You both sat there for a second, wrapped up in that perfect kind of comfort that came from knowing — truly knowing — you belonged exactly where you were.

Then, without looking away from the view, you murmured, “You’re my person, you know.”

He glanced down at you, his hand finding yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours with a quiet certainty. “You’re mine too. Always have been.”

You turned your head, catching the soft, lopsided smile on his face — the one that always gave him away no matter how hard he tried to act cool. “I hope you know I’m keeping that in writing. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice lower, softer now. “Because I wouldn’t know how to be me without you.”

You leaned into him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, and let the moment stretch. No flashbulbs. No roaring engines. Just the two of you.

And it hit you all over again, the same simple truth that always seemed to sit quietly at the center of everything: You weren’t just his girlfriend. And he wasn’t just your boyfriend.

You were each other’s person. The constant in the chaos. The soft place to land. And the best part of every single day.

Always.

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