#prying in the patterns

[living-entity-spotted]

Correspondence

Hello Ms. Swonharth,

You are correct in your assessment that my superiors are adamant about send me there.

 However, last I heard the mountains are quite pretty this time of year. I’m look forward to seeing the flowers blooming against snowcapped peaks and the green growths reach for the warm sun. I’m look forward to meeting this Emi you speak off. I look forward to speaking to you in person. Believe me when I say my only intention is to have an amicable stay and a story to show my superiors. I hope this soothes your worries about my presents.

I have a warning to share however. My travels have been prone to turbulence and 3 days ago my carriage was attacked by, what I presume to be, fey. A man, I did not know him well, was taken and while I am confident that I may barter something for his well being, it would be disingenuous not to inform you that fey folk have been spotted in the area. Do with this information what you well. 

In addition, should anything untimely happen to my person, please inform the necessary people. The way my employers view the fey is unbecoming and I wish to deescalate the situation rather than enflame it. But if after two weeks I do not reply, the situation has become more dangerous.

To your safety and mine, Deniel Chartward

[w1f1n1ghtm4r3]

rewatched last life yesterday and was having some fun ideas about the direction i wanted to go with the designs for it so. have some critters

individual pieces because i spent way too long on pearls wings to have them mostly hidden

[middle-earth-marauder]

Sonadow!Silver from Ain’t that a Kick in the Head + Dad Sonadow

The prickle fam from the one-shot series that was never meant to be a series- but it’s too good and now I have to. LOOK AT THE BABY HOW CAN I NOT? Still debating origins, but a slightly fucked up “I’m retiring leave me alone here look a science baby for you to raise, keep you occupied” from Eggman is where I’m leaning. Feels like his flavor. The current one-shot (linked above) explains why Shadow has the fern scars over his face, so if you’re curious give it a read. I’ll have some more up shortly, and maybe a mini chapter fic with Silver’s arc.

How did Silver end up 200 years in the future? Why is he called Silver now? What was his name before? Why did he turn silver, anyway? What’s Eggy up to in retirement? Who knows! Least of all me, let’s find out together lol

[bluedalahorse]

Periodically I wonder what Young Royals fandom could have been if bad faith anon discourse about so many characters and plot points hadn’t been so Everywhere during the fandom’s heyday.

[itskaist]

Vibrating over that crossed out handler. Does Ortega remind him of his Farm handler or was his handler another person that was deeply important to him?

Cross-out? What cross-out? ;)

Haha, good spot! Referencing some easter eggs over here. And thank you for asking! <33

Again, got long. I simply cannot shut up about My Favourite Fucked Up Guy.

Yeahhhh, so. Josiah is very emotionally un-self-aware. Emotions, patterns of behaviour, cycles of abuse, he wasn't ever taught any of this. Even after he escaped, his priority was survival, his priority was not getting caught again; learning how to hide; learning how to function like a human being on a very 'make money, buy stuff, eat, make decisions, talk to people' level. And he's still very much stuck in this survival mode. This intense of a trauma will do that to you. Especially if he never talked about it to anybody, there never was anybody who would take him by the hand and say 'hey, what happened to you? that's not normal. that was fucked up and no one should have ever behaved towards you like that.' So to him, the Farm is the baseline Normal, and anything new he learns gets added on top of that. Even with his time as Sidestep, and then returning as a villain, foundations might have been shaken but not yet cracked.

With all this in mind, the patterns of life at the Farm are very much burned deeply into him. They are the earliest foundations of his reality, what he studied and replicated as he came into his own personhood. That includes patterns of relationships. Since he was a cuckoo, I don't think he was able to socialize much with other Regenes; especially adding the still-kind-of-uncertain Sidestep's special status there. Doubly so because of the cuckoo's education in blending in with human culture, I imagine that extra efforts would be extended that they do not internalize those lessons and try to replicate them in the Farm's social context. Isolating them more than others. Being trained by handlers and having to rely solely on them. Remember your place as only Tool, not Person.

And so that, that is Josiah's most formative relationship. In the psychodynamic branch of psychology, there is what's fancily called 'object relations theory' or more precisely, the theory of relationship to the Object. 'Object' specifically being the Mother, and how the relationship to one's mother (or any other primary caretaker) in the earliest days and years of life, and the type of attachment style developed towards her, will determine or at least heavily influence any future attachment styles to all other people in one's life. Whoof! That's a lot of fancy words to simply say that you replicate in your life what you've learned the earliest, and the earlier you learned something the harder it is to change later; because everything that you built atop it would have to be disrupted as well - and that, you know, is what builds up your entire identity as a person.

So. Josiah's earliest relationships, really the only relationships that he had, were with handlers. And that duology is what is very much burned into his brain. There is Person, and there is Tool. Master and slave. The one being provided for, and the one providing. Even after he escaped, all of his later relationships would follow this pattern to some extent, almost always with him falling back into the role of the Tool. Be useful, be needed, prove your worth, provide. If you're needed, you can't be rejected. If you provide, you will be rewarded (with affection, resources, safety). Not anything that would be in any way conscious, mind you. That was simply the only thing he knew. He latched onto the Rangers because that was the easiest group that he could offer something of himself to. He latched onto Ortega because he was the leader, and he dealt out assignments, and judged worth. So it was a priority to be judged by him, accepted by him. Even as they got closer as friends and then question-mark-something-more, Josiah was still very much stuck in the mode of providing, and unfortunately, that was also what held him back from commiting, from trying. Because he didn't believe that in that sort of a relationship, he would be able to provide much of anything at all. And Ortega would be disappointed, and grow bored with him, and their friendship would suffer from it too, and as such his position among the Rangers, and--

…Yeahhh. In his role as the villain, this time, Josiah positions himself as the Person. As the Master. He's the one giving out orders and making decisions now. And it is so empowering, and so thrilling, and-- if he ever realized that he is becoming a handler himself, he would shut down. Just like he does when he realizes that he's hurt the Puppet same as Shroud had hurt her, that he hadn't left his learned Regene patterns at all.

Whoof. Yeah. A lot, a lot of learning still ahead of him. A lot of terrifying realizations, a lot of having to question the reality you took for granted and a restructuring of identity. I'm curious who he will be on the other side of that.

[kingofthewilderwest]

As much as certain typing styles make me squirm, I acknowledge I type like a Millennial and am proud if I make others squirm. mwahahaha ;) ^.^ XD deal with it >:D rotflhhh

[spotaus]

Ec-4o.verse redesign moment???

Cross, Fresh (Trech), and Ink got hit with the I've Improved and Ur Designs Were Lame beam tonight :) Fresh got colors (because I only meant to do him) but Ink and Cross just got outfit updates and a few body differences.

[living-entity-spotted]

Inked discouragement

Pen on paper, the clink of the fountain pen on the glass, more smooth strokes, a quiet mummer of a woman choosing her words, the living room was peaceful save these things, which happened quickly and anxiously. 

Dear Mr. Chartward, 

I have come to understand that you wish to visit me and my mother. You may have my assurances that this will not be worth your time. Her memory of that time has not improved. Whoever decided to sent you will be sorely disappointed.  If you must have a story she has taken to painting in her past time. Beautiful murals that capture the imagination in vibrate colors and patterns. A girl from the village, Emi, has been studying under her and has dreams of attending the Cinthia University of mages and arts. Emi is young talented and a storying waiting to be told.  I know there is no dissuading you from coming and intruding on our lives. You are not the first and won’t be the last. I only ask that you accept that no matter what people wish to believe, my mother does not have the answers you seek. For your luck and mine, I hope you cancel your trip.

Kindest regards, Elisabeth Swonharth

[bam-monsterhospital]

i'm sorry to all my followers/people stopping by who don't care for sweetheart robots with identity issues gaslighting themselves into thinking they're not the biggest softies for miles, but the nick valentine train is still going and is gonna be going for a while.

i've been in a bit of a mood lately.

[perfectmissus]

mj and gwen are so polar opposite in households where mj grew up in a toxic household where she essentially did anything under the sun to be away from her home because of the abuse whereas gwen did everything possible to remain home and be with her father who was her protector in every way possible.

[snail-day]

Satoru doesn't do well with the idea of leaving you. Never has. Probably never will.

Even the short missions are enough to make him sulky, but the long ones? The ones where he’ll be away for days, maybe weeks? He turns into a whining mess. You wonder if he's always been like this, just never voiced it aloud to anyone before.

Packing takes three times longer than it should. Every time he tries to fold a shirt or zip his carry on, he ends up abandoning the task halfway through just to wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into the crook of your neck with a pitiful little whine.

"I don't wanna go," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, maybe saying it enough times might make the whole thing mission disappear. "You’re my little Pokémon, y'know? I should be able to just catch you in a ball and bring you with me."

You laugh, warm and breathless, reaching up behind you to card your fingers through his snowy hair. "You could try," you tease, and he groans dramatically, squeezing you tighter.

It’s not just joking, though. When you offer to come with him, he always gets a little quiet. A little stuck in his mind. Turning you around and pulling back just enough to look at you, and the way his bright blue eyes shimmer... God, it breaks your heart a little. He wants to say yes. You can see it in the way his hand trembles against your side. The way his pretty eyes scan your face. It's on the tip of his tongue.

But instead, he just shakes his head slowly, a wobbly little smile on his lips.

Because the thought of something happening to you, curse or no curse, makes his heart ache. Makes his mind wander a little too far for his liking.

What if he’s in the middle of a fight and someone targets you?

What if he’s too far away to reach you in time?

What if...?

"Can’t risk it," he finally says softly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hip, memorizing the feel of your soft skin. Maybe your scent will eventually be engrained in his mind. "You're... you’re everything, baby."

Already pulling you against his lean chest again, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, mumbling "I love you" over and over against the crown of your head. His palm rubbing up and down your back in loose patterns. You almost think he's tearing up.

"I love you. I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?" he murmurs between kisses to the top of your head. "Be safe. Call me if you even think something’s weird, kay? I’ll come running, promise."

You have to physically pry him off you just to get him to finish packing. And even then, he keeps glancing back at you every five seconds. Begging for one more hug. One more kiss. One more chance to touch you before he has to drag himself to the door.

By the time he actually gets to the door, he’s somehow hugging you again, despite your giggling protests, rocking you gently side to side in his arms, mumbling about how he’s going to miss you so bad he might just quit being a sorcerer and become your full-time house husband. (He’s only half joking.)

Finally, after a hundred kisses and whispered I love yous, he leans down one last time, nose brushing against yours, voice soft and almost trembling: "Be here when I get back, 'kay? I don’t wanna come home to a world without you."

But then, quieter, so quiet you nearly miss it he adds: "...And don’t... don’t forget about me either, yeah? Don’t find someone normal while I'm gone. Someone who doesn't leave. Someone who can give you the kind of life you deserve."

It’s said with a half-laugh, light and teasing, like he’s trying to play it off, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his voice wavers. That tiny, hidden crack in the foundation of Satoru Gojo: The fear that being the strongest might mean ending up the loneliest too.

And even as he finally forces himself to step away, flashing you that big, blinding smile. You catch the flicker of sadness he tries so desperately to hide. Because no matter how strong he is, when it comes to you, Satoru’s always afraid that someday you’ll realize you deserve more than a man who keeps having to leave.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── PAY NO MIND ♥︎

...or rafe bothering your reading time.

♥︎ pairing .ᐟ mean!rafe x stepsis!reader

♥︎ summary .ᐟ you’re trying to read, but your stepbrother has another idea as to how you should be spending your time.

♥︎ warnings / tags .ᐟ smut, MDNI! unprotected piv, slight degradation, stepcest. wc: 1.3k

♥︎ author's note .ᐟ never let a man bother you while reading!

STEPSIS MASTERLIST ♥︎ 3K MASTERLIST ♥︎ RAFE MASTERLIST

you were lying on your stomach on the living room couch, your feet up in the air and swinging as you kept reading one of the romance novels you'd bought earlier that day, sabrina carpenter's juno playing in your headphones. you were so immersed in the book, right in the middle of a scene that was turning spicy that you hadn't noticed the figure looming in the doorway.

rafe stood there, his head cocked to the side as he leaned on the doorway, a smug grin on his face, watching you rub your knee-socked feet together. you were wearing an oversized hoodie that had ridden up to show the shorts that clung to the curve of your ass.

he pushed himself away from the doorway and started walking towards you in short strides; rafe could hear the song that you were listening to as it leaked through your headphones. he let out a low chuckle once he finally reached the couch; he thought you were so adorable when you were utterly oblivious about the fact that he was standing there.

when his calloused finger met the back of your thigh, you let out a startled gasp, your eyes widening as you turned his way. rafe simply grinned down at you, his brows raised in feigned confusion. you pressed your hand to your chest and took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment before looking at him. "what are you doing, rafe?" you sighed, putting your bookmark at the spot you were at and taking your headphones off, putting them aside.

"just keep reading, pretty girl." rafe chuckled softly as his hand got closer to your inner thigh. "you look so cute when you read, your brows all furrowed 'n your tongue sticking out..." he cooed, his fingers drawing small patterns on your soft skin, creating goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

"i can't read when you're touching m-"

"keep reading, cutie." rafe said sternly, and when you looked back at him, his smile had disappeared, his mouth now in a straight line, even if his fingers kept drawing patterns on your thigh and his voice was still smooth and sweet, "or i'm gonna stop touching you."

you took in a deep breath as you opened your book once again to the page you'd left off on, and even though you tried to keep reading, your concentration was now entirely on the tiny sparks you felt in your lower abdomen the closer rafe got to the hem of your shorts. his fingers trailed over your ass, snapping the waistband of your shorts.

he tugged down your panties along with your shorts, delivering a sharp smack to your ass, the surprise along with the slight sting causing you to let out a gasp. you could hear the clink of his belt as rafe unbuckled it, peeking at him out of the corner of your eye.

"eyes on your book." rafe tsked and shook his head. you let out an exasperated sigh, turning back to the book and trying to focus on it. you felt his finger run a trail up your slit. "damn, you're so wet." he let out a rumble of a laughter, causing a shiver to run up your spine. rafe settled his body over yours, and you could feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, making you hold your breath in anticipation.

and then you felt him.

he teased your entrance with the head of his throbbing cock, making sure to smear your obvious arousal all over your hole teasingly, you let out a slight whine, so desperate from some friction that you were trying to wiggle your hips in a way that made the bastard laugh.

"so fucking desperate…" rafe mumbled against the back of your neck, kissing the sensitive skin. "y’gotta part your legs a bit more…" the boy guided his hand to the back of your thigh, gently prying it away from the other one, and you could feel the smile gracing his lips against your skin.

rafe gripped the base of his cock, watching satisfiedly as you clenched around nothing. letting out a tsk, he started pushing his cock into you, letting a groan when he felt your cunt envelope the head of his cock, a small whine leaving your lips at the stretch of him pushing in deeper.

you couldn't help but close your eyes, listening to rafe's ragged breathing as one of your hands gripped the pillow tightly, only for rafe to pull out of you completely, a needy whine leaving your lips, "rafeee..."

"read." he said in a low, rough tone, making it clear that it wasn't a question, but an order.. you frowned, peeking through your eyelids, rafe thrusting his entire cock into you, making you let out a squeal, feeling his head greet your cervix, "s'good... keep reading, baby..."

rafe kept thrusting in and out of you, the tears that started to gather in your eyes making the pages of the book so blurry you were barely able to read a few words per minute, your grip on the pillow tightening.

"feel s'good around me..." rafe murmured into your ear, suckling on your earlobe, "think that's enough reading." he chuckled darkly into your ear, taking your book and throwing it onto the floor; and if you didn't feel so good, you'd admonish him, but your mind was flooded with nothing but rafe; the way he felt, the way he tasted, the way he pulled out of you, flipping you over onto your back on the couch with ease.

rafe moved your legs to rest on his shoulders, giving him more access as he continued pounding into you, the room filled with grunts and the plap! plap! plap! of his cock diving in and out of your wet heat.

arching your back off the couch, you brought one of your hands to your chest, rolling one of your nipples around with your index finger and thumb, thrusting your hips into his.

"nghh, rafe..." you mumbled as you felt yourself getting closer, the boy letting out a chuckle on top of you as he sped up his thrusts, holding onto one of your thighs with his hand, digging into them.

"yeah?" he tsked, "what's the matter, huh? can't take it?" his mocking tone made you whine, "gonna come 'n my cock like a desperate slut?"

you nodded your head, closing your eyes, "y-yeah..." you mumbled, rafe letting out a breathy laugh on top of you, "alright, come for me, pretty girl. make a little mess of yourself on my cock, yeah?"

and when you felt all of the pressure inside of you leave and your walls started clenching around rafe, he let out a grunt, still continuing to thrust, his cock throbbing inside of you as the tip of it pressed repeated kisses against the spongy spot inside of you.

"'s tight..." rafe grunted, and once you stopped fluttering around him, rafe took his cock out of you, continuing to stroke himself, throwing his head back. pretty groans left his lips when spurts of cum left the pink tip of his cock, the boy aiming so it landed onto your pussy. you looked down, feeling as some of it leaking down your slit.

rafe gathered his cum off your slit with the tip of his cock, a shit-eating grin on his face as he pushed it back inside of you, a gasp leaving your lips.

"can't let it go to waste, can we, baby?"

[vivimura]

titty obsessed riki ─ nsfw, nudity, 0.853 k wc (bye this is so lazy), nipple piercings, big chested reader, requested, hope u like it tho :(

riki inhaled sharply as you removed your tee, those perfect tits bouncing slightly with the motion. 

he stared at you silently, your piercings glinting in the light, those perfect peaks with pretty barbell piercings through them so close to his face he could lean forward and capture one into his mouth.

“pretty..” his voice was pure gravel, and his eyes were hungry. he slowly brought one hand up to trace the outline of one pierced nipple, making you shiver "god, these are hot as fuck..."

he slowly raised his other hand to cup both your tits carefully. soft. goddamn, they were so soft. he slowly ran his thumbs back and forth over your hardened nipples and piercings.

giggling softly at how utterly infatuated he seemed with your chest, you cricled your arms around his neck and dug your fingers into his hair, as if to motivate him to keep going.

he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, his tongue playing with the barbell. his other hand kneaded the neglected gently.

you sighed, your face contorted into one of pleasure. the tension in your shoulders drooping, the subconscious frown on your forehead disappearing, instead being replaced by bliss. the soft hair of his bangs tickling against your chest and his clothed torso against your bare one felt so weirdly good.

riki tilted his head up at you through his long lashes, gauging your reaction. he watched your body carefully, noting how your back was slightly arched and your chest was pushed out towards him, as if you were offering yourself to him.

his hands began exploring the patterns of your ribcage, the soft skin of your stomach. he wrapped his lips around the cool metal and sucked gently, tugging on the piercing. 

you let out a small hiss, followed by a breathy moan at his sudden action. your fingers dug into his hair further, guiding his mouth. “gently,” you quietly whined out.

his dick throbbed and twitched at your breathy moan. he softened his touch at your whimper and chuckled, lapping gently at the sensitive bud instead of pulling.

he gazed up at you with hooded eyes filled with a strange mix of lust and adoration, a smirk playing on his lips. "sensitive, baby?" he murmured against your chest, voice vibrating deliciously against your nipple.

“mhm..” you chuckled and rolled your eyes playfully at his teasing. just as you were about to speak, he pulled back slightly with a wet pop, blowing cool air over your wet, hardened nipple.

the action and cold sensation made you inhale sharply and exhale in the form of a whimper. your back began to arch further making your tits push further into his face, thighs subconsciously clamping in arousal.

riki noticed your reaction and a grin spread across his face. the fact that he could get you to be so reactive to his touches fueled his ego and desire to please you.

he leaned in and wrapped his lips around the other side, sucking gently at the bud and swirling his tongue around the metal bar. he pressed his thigh between your legs, applying gentle pressure.

his thigh pressing to your clothed heat relieved some of your arousal, but on the flip side, it made your craving for his touch maddeningly increase.

your nails slightly scraped into his scalp. his stimulation on your chest felt so damn good, not to mention his large hands caressing the soft skin of your sides and abdomen.

he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you from squirming too much, and pulled away to bury his face right between your chest. he playfully licked your sternum and inhaled your scent deeply, pushing his face into your pillowy chest, making you chuckle.

at the sound of your chuckle, he pressed his thigh harder against your clothed pussy, the friction making you squirm and whimper. you tugged at his hair, trying to pry his face away from your chest.

“riki, enough..”

he pulled back slightly to look at you, watching your breasts heave from arousal. he chuckled deeply and grinned. "enough what?" he asked softly, teasingly.

sighing a little out of impatience, you awkwardly mumbled out, "e-enough of... this," too shy to directly express your needs to take things further. you nibble on your lower lip and slightly ground on his thigh, hoping he’d catch the hint.

he chuckled at your shy attempt to get his attention, his eyes sparkling with amusement and desire. he leaned in and captured your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

riki decided to take matters into his own hands, literally. as he kissed you, he wrapped his arms around your thighs and made you wrap your legs around his waist. with ease, he picked you up and kept you pressed against him, making you feel how is cock twitched in his pants.

he broke the kiss to look into your eyes with hunger and affection, keeping your chest pressed firmly against his as he walked towards the bedroom door, your hearts racing in sync from anticipation.

mlist comment, reblog & follow!

[norrisradio]

ONLY EXCEPTION

♡ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ♡ WC: 3.0K ♡ GENRE: tooth-aching fluff♡ INCOMING RADIO: OSCAR PIASTRI MAIDEN POLE TO THIRD WIN YOU ARE MY GOAT!!!!!!!! THE PERFECT WEEKEND, A PERFECT DRIVER! ♡ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: only exception, paramore ● you are in love, taylor swift ● tsunami, niki ● lover, taylor swift ● fallingforyou, the 1975 ● slow dancing in a burning room, john mayer Read my co-driver's (@tsunodaradio) companion fic HERE <3

♡ SUMMARY: Oscar likes following the rules. But all rules have an exception.

Oscar Piastri doesn’t wear jewelry. Never has, never will. It’s a rule, unwritten but absolute, like the geometry of a perfect racing line, like the way his hands find the wheel before anything else. Rings, bracelets, watches—he’s never liked the feeling of something clinging to him, something that isn’t his fireproofs or the familiar weight of a steering wheel in his hands. Metal is for the car, not for him.  

But tonight, in a hotel room in Baku still thick with the scent of champagne and victory, he watches a thin silver ring glint between your fingers, and suddenly, he isn’t so sure.  

"You got this where?" His voice is edged with amusement, but his eyes don’t leave the ring.  

"Some shop in an alley in the Old City," you say, grinning. "Bit sketchy, but I think it suits you."  

It doesn’t, not really. The silver is slightly tarnished, the engraving uneven, a whisper of a pattern he can’t quite decipher in the low light. It’s not the kind of thing a man like him wears—not polished, not pristine. And yet, when you hold it out to him, something tugs at his ribs, an instinct deeper than logic.  

"You won," you remind him, quieter now. "Thought you deserved something to remember it by."  

As if he could forget. As if the day’s triumph wasn’t still humming through his bones, a quiet, electric thing. He should laugh it off, tell you it’s too much, too sentimental. Instead, he picks it up carefully, rolling it between his fingers. The metal is cool, lighter than he expected.  

He tries it on for you, because he knows you’re waiting for it—knows it’ll make you smile. It slips over his knuckle easily enough, but when he flexes his fingers, it spins too loosely, like it doesn’t quite belong.  

"Too big," he murmurs. A strange relief unfurls in his chest, something he doesn’t examine too closely.  

You watch him, eyes unreadable, and then, without a word, you pull at the thin chain around your neck. The one he’s seen you wear a thousand times, barely there against your skin. You unclasp it, thread the ring onto it, and press it into his palm.  

"Problem solved," you say, simple as anything.  

Oscar stares.  

The chain pools like liquid silver in his hand, the ring now nestled in its center. His first instinct is to refuse—he doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t wear reminders of things, doesn’t hold onto symbols when the feeling itself is already enough.  

And yet.  

The clasp is small, fiddly between his fingers, but he gets it, slipping the chain over his head, letting it settle against his collarbones. The weight is barely there, but he feels it all the same. He catches your expression—soft, almost knowing—and something inside him tightens.  

"You’re ridiculous," he says, voice lighter than he means it to be.  

"You like it," you counter, the corner of your mouth twitching.  

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The ring is warm now, pressed against his skin, right over his heart.

Oscar doesn’t like public displays of affection. Cameras, prying eyes, the weight of expectation—he’s always been careful. Calculated. A hand stayed firmly by his side, a step measured just so, never giving more than necessary. Affection, in his world, is something to be rationed, held close, not paraded for the world to see.  

But then there’s you.  

You, tugging him close with a laugh, fingers curling around the fabric of his race suit like you have every right to hold him there. You, leaning in without a second thought, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek when you think no one’s looking. The touch barely lingers, a whisper of warmth against his skin, but it stays with him longer than it should.  

At first, his body resists, muscles tensing out of habit. A lifetime of discipline, of knowing exactly when and where to let himself feel, doesn’t just fade overnight. But then he catches the way you glance up at him after, like you’re testing the waters, waiting for his reaction. Your eyes, bright and teasing, searching for the line he’ll draw between what is allowed and what isn’t.  

And maybe, just maybe, he leans into it.  

Not much. Just a fraction of a second longer when your lips brush his skin, the way his hand lingers at the small of your back in a crowd. The way his fingers twitch at his side before finally—hesitantly—finding yours. It’s subtle, barely there, but he knows you notice. Knows it in the way your grip tightens, in the way your body slots just a little closer to his like it was always meant to be there.  

The cameras still flash. People still look. He still tells himself he’s careful. But later, much later, when the noise has faded and it’s just the two of you in the quiet of his hotel room, your head resting against his shoulder, he breathes you in and wonders why he ever thought love was something to keep hidden.  

Because here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, with the ring on its chain warm against his chest and your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along his forearm, it feels so easy. Natural. Like maybe, after all this time, he’s allowed to have something for himself.

Oscar doesn’t dance. His body is made for precision, for the sharp control of a steering wheel, for knowing exactly when to push and when to hold back. Dancing—real dancing, the kind that isn’t just nodding along at a team party—is messy. Unpracticed. A loss of control he’s never been entirely comfortable with.

But then there’s you.

You, standing in the kitchen, with the fridge still open behind you, its soft light spilling across the tile. One sock on, one sock missing, your phone’s speaker crackling out a half-forgotten song that sounds like it’s from another time, another place. You, with that grin—bright and teasing—already reaching for him, your fingers curling around his wrist like you’ve already decided.

At first, he resists, just for a moment, because that’s what he does. It’s instinct, a reflex to keep everything in its place, to maintain a sense of control. But you don’t let go. You tug, and your smile is too wide, too persistent, and suddenly, his socked feet are sliding across the cold kitchen tile, the sound of his hesitation lost beneath the crackling beat from your phone.

"Come on," you say, already swaying. "Just one song."

It isn’t a song meant for dancing. The rhythm is too slow, the melody fraying at the edges, but none of that seems to matter to you. You step in closer, fitting yourself against him with easy warmth, guiding him side to side like you’ve already decided he’ll follow. And—God help him—he does.

At first, he moves like he’s thinking too much, like his body is trying to find the right sequence, the right formula for something that was never meant to be calculated. But then you twirl under his arm, laughing when you almost misstep, and something in his chest pulls loose.

He lets himself laugh when you trip over his foot. Lets himself steady you by the waist, thumbs pressing against soft fabric. Lets himself breathe you in, warm and close and here.

The song shifts, bleeding into another, and you don’t stop moving. Neither does he. He tells himself he’s just humoring you, just giving you this moment, but then your hand finds the nape of his neck, your fingers threading lazily through his hair, and—

Maybe, just maybe, he holds you a little closer.

Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

Never has. He doesn’t see the point. His life moves too quickly, each city blurring into the next, each hotel room as impersonal as the one before. What use does he have for things that only serve as reminders of places he’s already left behind? He’s never understood people who collect scraps of the past—ticket stubs, postcards, little trinkets that gather dust in bedside drawers.

If something matters, he reasons, it should stay in your head. You shouldn’t need an object to prove it was real.

But then there’s a ring around his neck.

It started as a joke. A cheap little thing you picked up in the back-alleys of Baku, pressed into his palm with a grin. For your first win here, you’d said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it was, the way you said it—like he was always going to win, like you had no doubt. He remembers how it felt when you watched him slide it on, laughing when you realized it was just a touch too big. He could’ve left it in his hotel room, could’ve let it sit on his nightstand and forgotten it there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let you loop it onto a chain (your chain), let the cool metal settle against his collarbone. Told himself it was practical—rings can fall off, after all—but that didn’t explain the way his fingers found it absentmindedly, rolling it between his fingertips when he was thinking of you.

Then there’s the polaroid.

The edges are soft now, frayed at the corners from being handled too many times. He doesn’t remember when exactly it was taken—only that Lando had slipped it to him with that sly, knowing smile a few nights after you’d gone home. He’s seen it enough times to know every detail: you, on his lap, laughing with the kind of brightness that makes everything feel lighter, and him, arms looped around your waist, looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky.

He catches glimpses of it whenever he opens his wallet. A flash of you, so full of life, the image almost too real for a photo, like he could reach out and hear your laughter again, feel the warmth of your presence just beyond the edges of the frame. He should take it out—he tells himself this every time he sees it. It’s just a photo, just a slip of paper, already starting to fade with time. But then he thinks about what it would feel like to throw it away, and somehow, inexplicably, that feels worse.

So he leaves it there, pressed between the folds of the leather, a small piece of you he keeps close.

And then there’s the hoodie.

It isn’t his. The sleeves are too long, the fabric too soft, smelling faintly of you—of home. He doesn’t know how it ended up in his suitcase. Maybe you left it there by accident, or maybe you knew, in that way you always seem to, that there would be nights when he’d need it. He tells himself he’ll give it back the next time he sees you, but then it’s the middle of the night in some hotel halfway across the world, and the air conditioning is too cold, and he’s pulling it over his head before he can even think about it.

So, no. Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

But then there’s you, slipping into his life in ways he never saw coming. In rings and photographs and sweaters that smell like home. In moments he can hold onto, in pieces of you he carries with him without even realizing.

And suddenly—maybe he does.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

He never has. He doesn’t see the point. Things are just things—objects with no real weight beyond what people choose to give them. He’s never been the type to care about unwrapping presents or fussing over sentimental trinkets. He’d rather give you his time, his presence, the weight of his hand in yours. A quiet dinner over some half-forgotten movie, a lazy afternoon drive with no real destination, the simple certainty of being there. That, to him, has always meant more than anything that could be bought or wrapped in a ribbon.

But then there’s you.

You, with your eyes bright with mischief, pressing a poorly wrapped box into his hands like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The paper is creased at the edges, tape barely holding it together, and you’re grinning like you already know he’s going to protest.

"I don’t need—" he starts, but you cut him off with a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Just open it, Piastri."

And because it’s you, because he can never quite find it in himself to say no, he does.

The gift is small, unassuming. Nothing extravagant, nothing flashy. Maybe it’s a keychain from a city you visited without him, something to keep in his pocket when you’re apart. Maybe it’s a notebook filled with little notes, inside jokes scribbled in the margins, your handwriting familiar and warm. Maybe it’s a shirt you swear would look good on him, one you know he’d never buy for himself.

It’s simple. Thoughtful. Undeniably you.

And maybe, against all logic, he feels something lodge itself in his chest—something warm, something soft, something dangerously close to forever.

He’s never been good at receiving things. Compliments, gifts, affection—he’s always been wary of taking too much, of letting himself rely on things he can’t control. But when he looks up at you, waiting expectantly, he realizes that this isn’t about the gift itself. It’s about the way you give it, the way you always give—without hesitation, without expecting anything in return.

So maybe, for the first time, he doesn’t argue.

Maybe he just shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, and mutters, "You’re impossible," even as he tucks the gift away somewhere safe.

And suddenly, gifts aren’t just things.

They’re memories. A tangible piece of you, something to hold onto when you’re miles apart. A reminder that someone, somewhere, is always thinking of him.

Now, Oscar finds himself standing in an airport souvenir shop, staring at the rows of tacky trinkets that all look the same. 

It’s early morning, the kind of grey light that seeps through terminal windows, and Oscar’s tired from the flight, his mind already on the next race. But something about the soft hum of the airport, the chaotic lull of travelers rushing by, makes him pause. He catches sight of a little shop in the corner, tucked between a coffee stand and a news kiosk, and for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, he steps inside.

The shelves are cluttered with the usual assortment of useless things—fridge magnets, postcards, poorly made scarves in neon colors. But then, nestled in the corner, he spots something that pulls at him.

It’s a small, delicate necklace, the pendant a faded shade of turquoise, shaped like a star. Nothing special in the grand scheme of things, but something about it catches the light in a way that makes it glow.

He knows it’s not your usual taste, not the kind of jewelry you’d ever ask for. But he also knows you—knows how your eyes light up when you see something small and beautiful, how you always see things that others might overlook. And somehow, despite himself, he reaches for it.

He buys it without hesitation, not because it’s expensive or because it’s some grand gesture. But because he knows that when you see it, when your fingers graze the smooth surface of the pendant, you’ll smile. He’ll see it in the curve of your lips, in the light in your eyes, and he’ll know that, for just a moment, he’s given you something that makes your world a little brighter.

When he hands it to you a few weeks later, your reaction is everything he expected. Your hands flutter to your chest, your eyes wide with surprise and something softer, something warm. And for once, it’s not the gift itself that matters, but the simple fact that he thought of you, in the middle of a busy airport, surrounded by a thousand distractions.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

But maybe, for you, he does.

Oscar doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

He’s learned, over the years, that words can be fragile things. Promises—those quiet, heavy assurances that hang between people—are often broken, twisted, or misunderstood. He’s been careful, always careful, not to say what he can’t follow through on. In his world, where nothing is ever certain and everything is fleeting, he’s made it a habit to remain grounded, to offer only what he’s certain he can give.

But then there’s you.

You, with your voice low and sleepy, the sound of it curling around the edges of the quiet room, the kind of voice that feels like comfort and calm all at once.

"You’ll always come back to me, right?"

It’s a soft question, one that you barely say out loud, as if the weight of it is more than you’re willing to admit. Your face is pressed into the pillow, your eyes closed in that delicate, half-dreaming state. There’s a vulnerability in your tone that makes his chest tighten, a crack in the armor he’s built around himself.

And before he can stop it, his lips find yours. A lazy, soft press that speaks of something far more permanent than he’s ever said aloud. Your lips are warm, gentle, and for a moment, time feels like it slows. He can taste you—something sweet, something real—and, somewhere in the quiet space between breaths, he’s pretty sure he tastes forever against your smile.

"Always," he whispers, the word slipping effortlessly from him.

It’s simple, easy, almost too easy. But it feels real in a way that’s new, something deeper than the usual assurances he’s offered, the ones that come with a hesitation in his voice, the ones that come with the understanding that promises are temporary things. This one, though—it’s a certainty that settles into his bones, a truth he knows he will carry with him.

And maybe, for the first time, he believes it.

Maybe, for the first time, he can give something that feels as unshakable as the way you trust him, the way you lean into him without hesitation. Because in your eyes, there’s no doubt—just faith, just the unspoken certainty that he will always be there, always find his way back to you, no matter where the road takes him.

And in that quiet, half-lit space between wakefulness and sleep, he knows something has shifted.

Oscar doesn’t make promises lightly. 

But this one—this one he gives you without fear, without reservation, because somehow, in the silence of your room and in the rhythm of your breaths, he knows it’s the truest thing he can say.

[jebunkle]

sleepy time with chrysos heirs heh, gn!reader, written before finishing 3.0 ahaaa

imagine aglaea sitting on her velvet sofa, threading her nimble fingers through your scalp, combing through your hair. her loving gaze is locked on your restful face, a look of pure admiration. she lifts one of her hands to slide over your cheek, circling the pad of her thumb over your soft skin.

as you slowly stir from her gentle caresses, she whispers a soft command to you. “my dear,” she looks into your barely opened eyes, “return to your slumber. i am right here.” her sultry voice flows through your ears, placing what seems to be a sleepy spell over you. your hand reaches up to graze aglaea's, her jade colored eyes soften at your tired touch.

think of the airy chuckle that phainon emits after accidentally waking you up for the third time. he can't help how ethereally peaceful you look while asleep, he can't help the way his hands automatically drift to cup your face, and he can't help how his stomach does flips by just looking at you. the early dawn shines through the curtains of you and phainon's abode, signaling that it was now morning and there was work to be completed;

despite this, phainon didn't have the heart to shake you awake. he knew that there were duties for both you and him to carry out, but isn't it so much nicer to lay at home with his sweetheart? “go back to sleep, love.”

mydei's typical intense gaze is abnormally gentle as he stares at you. the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest against his torso is practically a lullaby to him, yet he can't fall into slumber, due to the fact that he'd rather die again then pry his eyes from your tranquil form.

why can't he seem to rest normally when with you?

instead of his answer coming as he ponders, he hears the slightest mumble from you. mydei immediately glares at your face, searching for a hint of awakeness, but finds himself to be oddly relieved when he sums it up as sleep talking. hesitantly, he brings his hand to your back, massaging soft patterns into the skin. “what're you doing to me?” he mutters in a false annoyance.

thank u @/enchanthings-a & @/hyuneskkami for the dividers :p

if you enjoyed this, like/reblog so i know if i should make more!!! experimenting rn

[linoxpudding]

Morning Cuddles - Lee Know

*gif credit to owner mentioned*

summary: a short fic consisting of sweet start of the day with your clingy boyfriend

pairing: lee know x reader

genre: fluff, established relationship

word count: 252 words

a/n: this gif basically inspired this writing, he looks so cuddly and soft, I couldn't resist

-

morning cuddles series:

Chan Changbin Hyunjin Jisung Felix Seungmin I.N

Masterlist

~°~

You were barely awake when you felt something—or rather, someone—clinging to you like a koala.

"Stay," Minho mumbled against your shoulder, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin.

"Min, I have to get up," you murmured, running your fingers through his soft hair in an attempt to gently pry him off.

"No," he protested, squeezing you tighter. "You’re mine. You can’t leave."

You chuckled at his sleepy possessiveness. It wasn’t uncommon for him to get clingy, especially when he was extra tired or just feeling particularly soft.

"Baby, I need to make breakfast."

"Order delivery."

"I have work—"

"Call in sick. You caught a serious case of boyfriend-needs-cuddles syndrome."

You giggled, attempting to shift, but Minho let out a dramatic whine, making you freeze. "Min…"

"Shhh. Sleep," he mumbled, voice still laced with sleep. His fingers lazily traced patterns on your back, and you could feel him smiling against your skin. "Stay with me a little longer, just a little."

How could you say no to that?

Sighing in defeat, you let yourself relax against him. His grip loosened just slightly, as if he knew he had won.

"You're impossible," you whispered.

"I'm adorable," he corrected, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder. "And you love me."

You smiled, heart full. "Yeah, I do."

Minho hummed in satisfaction, nuzzling closer. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go anytime soon."

And honestly? You didn’t mind one bit.