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heartyluv · 2 days ago

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Note: This quite literally came to me in a dream. Like…I WAS THERE. I HAD TO WRITE IT. Genuinely, I am in love with this. No need for me to yap. I hope you enjoy. Love you, beauties!

Warning: Smut, Sylus talks about killing while he’s in you, he pours syrup on them 🍒 and licks it off, he has battle scars, very brief mention of him wanting to claim you in blood (IT’S NOT CRAZY WHEN YOU READ IT, PROMISE!!!), slight breeding kink

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: The Empire’s beloved gladiator has had another day of monumental success and wants you as his victory night cap.

Gladiator!Sylus/Reader

When your name is spoken, your skin prickles with goosebumps from anticipation. After every arena held, this is what you always looked forward to.

“He has called for you.”

You look up from the book you’ve been reading, briefly scanning the dining hall that you were sitting in with several other women and feeling their gaze bore into you. Once you give your attention back to the guard who was usually the one to bring you to your champion, you nod and stand.

“Again?” one scoffs, seemingly believing she’s doing so silently enough for you not to hear.

“Out of all the women in the Empire, of all the women here,” another whispers. “He continues to choose—“

“Mind your tongue, new blood,” her maybe friend interrupts. “Have you gone mad? Should she tell him of your venomous and foolish words, you will suffer the consequences. He’s proven so before.”

The golden jewelry decorating your body clinks and jingles with each movement as you slide on your simple sandals to protect your feet from the dirt and stone floor. All eyes are on you when you make your way out the door, silently following behind the large man who was no feat compared to the one whose bed you’d warm tonight.

Everyone within and out of your grandiose town treated you with respect, even the ones who harbored jealousy for you or for the man your soul belonged to. They had no choice if they valued their life and if they didn’t know better, they were always soon made aware.

So in your short journey to the extravagant halls in which your warrior rested after his wins, each individual along your path nodded their heads or turned away out of respect. None were to even speak to you if it wasn’t by his order.

Your Sylus.

The gladiator who’s never lost a fight. One who is so victorious that he’s not just a staple in your town and several others, but in the entire Empire.

A man whom has never been conquered. At least, not physically.

No, the only thing of his that has been claimed and owned by another was his heart. And it was yours.

“Good night, miss.” The guard offered his farewell once you were right outside the giant wooden doors that led to your beloved beast.

After he has fully departed, you softly knock twice to alert Sylus of your arrival.

“Come in, kitten.” He’s memorized everything that is you. How you talk, smell, walk, knock, breathe—it’s all information and knowledge he has safely tucked in his mind. Even if he hadn’t called for you, he would’ve known those gentle raps against his door to be his lover.

Once you enter, the large warm candlelit room was perfectly illuminated to grant you the glorious sight of a nearly nude Sylus, a thin ivory sheet laying across his hips being the only thing separating your eyes from his thick cock that makes an impressive tent beneath.

“Beautiful,” he grins as he takes you in, one strong muscled arm flexing while he rests a hand behind his neck. The white-silver hair atop his head matches the patch beneath his armpit and the trail that sneaks below his bellybutton and beneath the duvet. His hard and large body is adorned with dozens of scars with stories to tell—most old, a few new.

“Congratulations on your success today, my love,”you note after shutting the door, bowing in the way you’ve seen so many do to him before. “I watched it all.”

“I know you did.” He holds a hand out to you. “And I’ve told you, no need for the formalities. Come. I’ve missed my woman.”

“Have you now?” you tease, kicking off your shoes. “It’s only been a few days.”

“A second without you is a poor existence. Tell me, have you not ached for me to the same degree, sweetie?”

“Perhaps once I’m sitting on your cock, you can let me know if you can feel how badly I’ve craved you.”

His dick throbs at your words, his body shifting as if it would relieve any of the pressure. Beginning to walk barefoot toward him, he puts up a hand to halt you, grinning at the way you meet his gaze head on.

“Get undressed for me. Show me my prize.”

You lick your lips, staring into his mesmerizing rubies as you tug the thin material of your dress down your shoulders. Quickly does it pool at your feel, leaving you in nothing but all your bangles and necklaces that he has gifted you.

He likes when you wear the things he buys you, so you don’t work to remove any of the expensive gold.

Once you’re at the side of his bed, he quickly pulls you in by the waist with strength seemingly inhumane, placing you on top of him. The only thing keeping him from slipping inside of you right now is the dreaded blanket, but you can feel his dick trying to nestle between your pussy lips, making you shiver.

He kisses all over your tits, sucking and nipping at your flesh to mark you in ways only he can. Your hand tangles in his hair as the soft crackle of the fireplace behind you sets the romantic atmosphere.

“I see they’ve fed you well,” you smile, looking at the assortment of fruits, cheese, sweets, and syrups he has on his bedside.

“This was intended to be my dessert after the feast they granted me.” He takes your nipple into his mouth, pulling a sexy moan from you. “But I had a different one in mind. A better one. My only one.”

Your hips try to rock in an effort to feel him more, but he holds you still by your waist. “Don’t rush this, kitten. Let me take my time with you. I like to savor my rewards.”

“Some rewards need to be claimed faster than others.”

“Indeed they do,” he grins into your neck as he peppers kisses down the kiss of your throat. “But greed…it’s a slippery slope. Grab the syrup, since you’re so eager.”

You’re not confused at all by his intentions. In fact, the mere thought of what he’s getting ready to do makes you clench around nothing.

Once you grab the small dish of berry syrup, he takes two generous handfuls of your ass, tilting his head lightly. “Pour some on yourself.”

“You’ll clean me?” you grin, using your other hand to take hold of his throat gently. He looks up at you with need, groaning when you lick his lips.

“Do what I say and we’ll find out, won’t we?”

You two stare into one another’s eyes as you tilt the bowl to let the sweetness stick to your tits. Immediately, Sylus’s hot tongue laps it up. The wet muscle licks down the valley of your breast before he alternates between two of his favorite things to give each of them the attention they deserve.

Your cunt throbs and your whines grow louder the harder he sucks.

“Yes…F—fuck, your mouth…” you cry, pouring more of the delicacy when he runs out. You go until the thing is empty and he’s running on lust and a sugar rush.

The soft pops his mouth sounds when he makes contact with your hot body is enough to have you completely soaked. He can feel your juices wetting the sheet, letting his cock know as it soaks it up, how badly you need him.

“Be good,” he mumbles breathlessly, unable to stop lathering you in kisses. “And let me in.”

Eagerly, you reach behind you to pull the fabric away, hissing when it grazes your clit. His cock sits between you once revealed, waiting for you to put him where he’d get on his knees and beg you to be. Sitting on your knees, Sylus kisses your lips tenderly as you start to sit down on his length, needing nothing but your bodies to guide him to your tight hole.

“Sylus…” you call his name once you’re filled with him. It’s a relic on your tongue, enchanting him how the two syllable spill out of you. You don’t wait for long, letting his strong hands explore your plush body as he guides you up and down his cock.

“I’ve killed men for you,” he declares, your breasts pressing against his hard chest only surging him on. You hold him closely, like he could snake out of your hold at any given moment.

“I’ve felt their blood mark my skin after I cut them down for the taunting words they’d spew in the arena.”

It was rare for anyone to not know that you and Sylus owned each other. It was even more rare for anyone to not know that should they utter your name with anything negative to follow it, Sylus would make them an example. His attentiveness to that has made it so he hasn’t had to make many.

The sound of slapping skin echos in the room, announcing the beauty of your lovemaking. “Their lives were already mine the moment they decided to go against me, but their fates were eternally sealed when your precious name was used in vain of their idiotic words. And you know what?”

“W—what?” You’re nearly drooling as his length moves within you, your wetness and his precum making a delicious mess along your gummy walls.

“I imagined me claiming you in their blood. Letting everyone watch as I show them how mad I can be for you. Would you let me, kitten?”

“Without hesitation…” you answer immediately, clenching tightly around him when you feel his dick pulse like it’s proud of you. Each dribble of his impending load leaking into your womb makes your mind grow infinitely more foggy with bliss.

“You like when I kill for you. I can feel how much harder you squeeze me.” He smirks cockily, but he’s right. He’s so fucking right and you don’t even care.

“I’m going to put my baby in your womb and the ring you deserve on your delicate finger.” His words hold so much promise.

“Please,” you beg. “Give it to m—me…Fuck, Sy…” Your thighs and legs burn, but you won’t stop. You refuse to—not when both of you are so close.

“My cum will take root,” he kisses down your shoulder. “And when you’re barefoot and pregnant with my seed, I’ll kill a thousand more in honor of the both of you.”

You slam your lips onto him, your tongue and his battling for control as you taste him. Naturally he wins, but you like to let him. You like being owned, protected, and loved by him. No matter how much you could hold your own, he has come into your life to show you that he can and will wield all of it so that you don’t have to.

His hands caress your back and you two fit together like perfect puzzle pieces, coming together at the same time. Your moans and mewls are pouring into his mouth just as his cum does inside of your pussy. He holds you down and close, doing everything in his power to make sure not a drop is wasted.

Your needy sounds curate the perfect symphony alongside his manly grunts and shuddering breath.

With the little bit of energy you have left, you grind against him to overstimulate your aching clit. When you can’t take anymore, you rest your chin on him and trace the scars along his arms in comfortable silence. You kiss each one your puffy mouth can reach, cleansing him with your affection.

“I’ll clean you before I have you again.” You giggle at how he says it so matter-of-factly.

“Good.” You pull back, sighing in contentment as he fondly kisses on your breasts once more. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mhm,” he continues to indulge. “You aren’t.”

A/N: Guys. What are we thinking? Me? Like I said—I LOVE THIS SO FREAKING MUCH!!! Like lowkey Camboy!Caleb level love. I started writing this last night before I fell asleep, and when I woke up this morning, it was like the little story never stopped. My fingers were just flyinggg (pause). LOLLLL!!

Creds to @/strangergraphics for the dividers!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deespace smut #love and deepspace sylus #sylus smut #sylus x you #sylus x reader #lads smut #lads x you #lads sylus #l&ds #l&ds sylus #sylus qin

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zyafics · 2 days ago

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MAKE RAFE GREAT AGAIN | Campaign

OBJECTIVE: In response to the rise of violent misogynistic, manospheric, red-pill and incel (romantic) characterization of Rafe Cameron, I decided to create a campaign for writers to join me to combat it.

RULES: Simply, write a fic about Rafe and Reader where Rafe (a) doesn't act like those terms above, or (b) if he does, where Reader doesn't tolerate that behavior and calls him out on it. You can create a mean/bitchy Reader if you want, but it's not required. All this campaign aims to do is bring together more writers and readers who want to see less of those misogynistic fics and more nuanced takes.

INTERACTIONS: I will be reblogging all those who join this campaign. I want to help facilitate and build up the community. To do so, either drop your link in my inbox, and/or use the tag #zyafics-mrgacampaign. Also, I will be adding the work to this post for a curated list.

ADDITIONAL NOTES: (Optional) If you want to follow the theme of this post, you absolutely can! The hex codes I used for this post are: FCDD00 - E62601 - 28282B, and the divider I created myself, so feel free to use them!

TO CLARIFY: In this campaign, you can also go the DDDNE route! You can create a misogynistic, incelic, or manospheric character of Rafe. But the objective is to not romanticize it. Address it. Inform your audience narratively, lyrically, or thematically that the context is harmful. That's all I ask.

DATES: 06/24/2025 – Present

#00 EXCERPT

@zyafics ⋆˙⟡ RIVAL!BIKER!MAYBANK!READER

#01 RICH GIRL

@promiscuousg1rl ㅤ⋆˙⟡ KOOK!READER

#02 OLD HABITS

@mrsbarnesblog ⋆˙⟡ GF!READER

#03 TEACHING WINNIE TO DRIVE

@rafesteddy ⋆˙⟡ DAD!RAFE

#04 BABES, BUMS, AND BITCH SLAPS

@rafeslovey ˙⟡ GF!POGUE!READER

#05 INTRODUCING BITCHY!PRINCESS!READER

@tinythebunni ˙⟡ PATHETIC!RAFE

#06 POOR ETIQUETTE

@cherrygirlfriend ˙⟡ HOUSEWIFE!READER X CEO!RAFE

#07 CAVEMAN

@sarahroutldge ˙⟡ OVERPROTECTIVE!BF!RAFE

#08 MAKE THIS PLACE YOUR HOME

@whytheylosttheirminds ˙⟡ MAYBANK!READER

#09 GETAWAY CAR (SMAU)

@zyafics ˙⟡ HE RUNS READER OVER W/ A CAR

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enhani-ki · 3 days ago

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my biggest opp - reader x ni-ki part ii

warnings: smut, power play, cursing, etc.

read part one

you assumed that after having sex with ni-ki, your biggest opp, it would be awkward and uncomfortable…

but never this empty.

you arrive at your office monday morning to find your inbox startlingly free of his scathing one-liners. there's no "nice dress. shame about the brain." no "can you actually type without making typos?"

his favorite mockery is gone, somehow leaving you strangely bereft.

you tapped your pen against the wooden surface of your desk, scanning for any hint of his sabotages. the folder you thought you'd need for the managerial position, his file on your "possible fraudulent activities" are also nowhere to be found.

because according to him, you fucked him so good that he destroyed every single thing he had that could ruin you.

relief flares that he stopped, of course. but unlike him, you still do your best to make his life miserable, leaving yourself doused in guilt — feeling like an asshole.

an entire weekend passed. you swore you weren't dying for his banter, and yet whenever your phone buzzes, you leap out of your skin.

nishimura riki: stop messing with my report. are you fucking insane?

minutes passed.

nishimura riki: you must be missing me.

your lips twitched into a smirk. hell if you know how to respond.

i didn't do it, dumbass.

really? that's the reply? he'd know you were lying (or worse, honest). the cursor kept blinking in your reply box, taunting you. you typed, erase, typed again, erase — you racked your brain, thinking of a good comeback.

you: you're so stupid. also, my life has been so peaceful without you. please stay right where you are.

nishimura riki: i can come by your house and make your life hell again. if you want.

of course you want it. you'd kill him… or you'd kill for him to come over right now but shit, even the line between those urges were already starting to blur.

you spent your lunchtime writing a status report. your fingers snapping across the keys but your mind drifts to that shameless first night with him.

the night where you wrestled with him for that fraud file of yours. the heat of his breath when you kissed him, when it finally landed on your skin…

you remember all of it. every time you lean over to pull a document from the printer, you imagine the wide arc of ni-ki's arms behind you, the precise angle of his jaw, his thick lips devouring you while telling you how much he hated you for existing…

it's all fucking there.

and as if reading your thoughts, your phone lit up again.

nishimura riki: i want to see what i'm missing.

you: fuck you. you literally work five feet from me.

nishimura riki: and new skirt? goddamn

your stomach clenched. so he… noticed? he noticed your above the knee with the slit at the side that shows just enough thigh to be questionable but still professional according to the office dress code new skirt?

you: your point?

nishimura riki: you look good and i want to see it up close.

a shiver runs down your spine. ni-ki's words became so direct, so suggestive, you can't help but to swallow hard and bite your lip. you sighed, immediately closing the report window before anyone could see you blush.

you check your company messenger during break. you noticed nishimura riki's presence: his avatar pops into view with the status "ready to crush it."

how fucking pretentious.

you just hoped ni-ki would do something back so you could stop feeling guilty whenever you sabotage him, then it would all go back to hell. the hell you not-so-secretly love. the hell he seemed to have loved before — and now forgotten.

@you @ni-ki i expect great results from the two of you. focus on the work, not drama.

you sat on your couch, sipping a cup of lukewarm green tea when your phone buzzes.

nishimura riki: we're stuck together for the next couple days.

you smirked when you realized how he can't stop texting you. you plop your head back against the cushion, totally interested.

you: yeah. happy?

nishimura riki: ecstatic.

ni-ki signs off with a kiss emoji, making you scowl in disgust and throw your phone onto the cushion. he'll see how you haven't responded and he'll definitely laugh about it tomorrow.

you came into the office projecting confidence the next morning. ni-ki is already there, beating you in punctuality. he's leaning back in his chair, scrolling through his phone but smiled immediately when your eyes met.

"you're late," he drawls.

"shut up," you fired back, tossing your bag under the table. you saw another folder you've been dreading. ni-ki's opened it already— hands off, though.

"fuck... i couldn't sleep," he said, casually looking at your eyes.

who asked? is what you would've said but instead, it's: "why's that?" you leaned in, "last i heard, sleeping without protection was your specialty."

he nodded slowly. his urge of choking you to death using his necktie suddenly crossed his mind, like it always does whenever you talk back.

he never followed through, of course. because every time he pictures it, the ending is him fucking you instead. he saw you submitting not because of trust, but because you can't help it.

ni-ki sighed and quickly pulls your chair close to him, making your pulse quicken. "hmm, what do you mean 'heard'? we both know you know that for a fact," he teased, his hand trailing up to squeeze your thigh. "also, did i ever told you how bad you needed practice?"

heat blooms across your cheeks. didn't he say you fucked him good? this fucking guy keeps challenging you — mentally and sexually.

you scoffed and opened your mouth to retort but your boss already knocked on the door, barging in to start the meeting.

the day isn't even done, yet you and ni-ki have exchanged more messages than you have with anyone else all week:

nishimura riki: did you catch the way that idiot glanced at your legs during the meeting? that mf is gonna keel over later once you unplug your laptop.

that 'idiot' is notoriously stiff when it comes to 'office decorum.' the thought of him being flustered at your skirt is thrilling, but:

you: you know i'd rather see how you react when i ask you to take off my skirt.

nishimura riki: come to my office then, i'll show you.

you stood up as soon as everyone's too busy to notice your absence. you opened ni-ki's door without so much as a knock. the tall guy is leaning against the edge of his desk, shirt already untucked, tie loose — completely losing his patience.

you walk towards him. he traces a finger along your jaw, tilting your face up, brushing his thumb over your sexy lips.

"show me," you whispered, sliding both hands flat against his chest.

ni-ki leaned in. "hmm, watch me," he replied, turning you gently by the hips, pulling your ass against his crotch — where you can feel the rigid outline of his cock through his trousers. you pressed yourself back, grinding on him as his hand tightens on your hip.

"we have a meeting at six, right?" he murmurs in your ear. "let's get you naked under this skirt."

"i already am…"

unbelievable.

"you really are a fucking tease, huh?"

your breath hitched when you feel his tip nudging against your folds. ni-ki slowly slid inside your welcoming heat — his cock was so big and hard, making your knees buckle as you can practically feel him rearranging your guts without even moving.

ni-ki moaned, "oh, y/n—" biting his lower lip before pressing one more searing kiss to your neck. "i could stay like this all day," he said.

you let out a shaky gasp, head dropping forward with a whimper. your fingers reached back, grabbing his hands — his big, warm hands that are locked around your hips. "ni-ki…"

"let's not sin so much today," he groaned softly, hips giving one teasing rock that makes your whole body jolt before he pulls his cock out. he stepped back and adjusted your skirt like a gentleman — making you feel full and hollow in the same instant.

that same afternoon, you decided to head to the break room for water. you stop short when you saw ni-ki with the boss' niece, who came to visit the office.

she's laughing, batting her eyelashes at him while grinning so hard. you didn't mean to eavesdrop, but she mentioned something about wanting him to show her around — and that guy just casually folds his arm around her shoulders.

"look at you, you social climber," you interrupted, clapping your hands slowly, it echoed like a gunshot.

ni-ki glances at you lazily over the girl's shoulder. the niece looks startled, she gave you both a sheepish laugh before excusing herself.

"how long have you two been planning world domination?"

"are you jealous?" he asked, chuckling as he drags out a chair for himself. "'cause i'm telling you that's pathetic."

"wha—?"

"don't worry, y/n. it's just been few days, i'll make sure to find some time for my favorite brat."

you scoffed, grabbing your water a little too aggressive. "wow... you sound so proud of being passed around like a party favor."

"passed around?" he repeated, raising a brow. "jealousy already doesn't suit you and now you're possessive too?"

you shot him a sharp glare but he just leans back in his chair, spreading his legs like he's offering you a seat.

ni-ki sighed, "fine, i'll come over tonight," he declared so casually, it made your jaw drop.

"excuse me?"

"you heard me." he stretched and yawned. "you don't have to agree. i've already made up my mind."

"you're crazy."

he stands up, brushing past you as he grabs a protein bar "leave the door unlocked for me, okay?" he whispered, leaning in to give your cheek a quick kiss.

the sound of your skins slapping were obscene. ni-ki's breaths were heavy, his muscles tensed doing his best holding back from losing control. his necklace kept bouncing against his chest every time he slid in and out of your wet cunt. he hit it deep and slow, making your toes curl.

you looked down and watched at where your bodies met.

"oh, my–" he groaned when he felt your walls flutter around his cock. "this feels so fucking insane right now."

your arms tightened around his shoulders. "you haven't fucked me in days," you breathed out, looking up at him, admitting, "i was so stressed out."

"yeah, i know," he replied, "and look how mean you've gotten."

"kiss me..." you asked shyly — too quiet for ni-ki who was busy thrusting, far gone in the rhythm he was chasing to even hear it.

frustrated, you reached up and grabbed his hair — hard. your fingers got tangled so deep in the roots of his bleached strands, yanking him down without warning so you could force his mouth closer.

"ah—f-fuck—!" ni-ki hissed, jolting from the sharp tug. his hips slowed down for a second.

his palm slapped your arm away, the sound echoed a little loud in the room. it wasn't as harsh as what you did, but it was firm because he was hurt. a very clear response to pain.

your eyes slightly widened when he snatched your wrist, flipping you like you're a dead weight. one second you were just looking up at him — now, your face was pressed into the pillow, ass up. ni-ki's hand stayed flat on your lower back, keeping you in place.

his fingers dove straight into your hair, fisting it tight, pulling your head up until your back arched and your spine hit his chest. it forced a cry out of your throat, you quickly hold on to the headboard for your own control.

"it hurts, right?" he muttered, brows furrowed. his voice sounded pissed. "you dumbass."

your mouth parted to argue but you were too breathless and stunned at how fast he turned the tables on you.

ni-ki let go of your hair roughly. your cheek sank back into the pillow. his hands slid down to your hips, spreading you wider. it was careless and he moved confident as he positioned you just how he wanted.

your moans started crumbling into soft sobs — not from pain but from realizing how you weren't too used to getting caught off guard, let alone losing control.

your thighs started shaking, your breath had gone shallow, and ni-ki noticed it right away.

"shit—" he cursed under his breath, the movement of his hips started faltering before slowly pulling out from your pussy. he leaned down to kiss the back of your neck gently. "can you sit up?"

you nodded weakly. he helped you, pulling you gently onto his lap, seating you over one of his thighs while holding you carefully. "did i scare you?" he asked, worried and cautious.

"no...not at all." you replied, shaking your head in assurance.

ni-ki sighed, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. he place a long kiss your temple, "i'm sorry, y/n." he continued, "do you want to stop?"

you sniffled and pulled back to look him in the eye like you're a little offended, "hell no."

a small grin broke across his face. he's amused, relieved, but mostly turned on all over again. ni-ki buried his face into your neck, laughing softly. "good," he murmured, lips dragging across your skin.

"ride me."

each movement felt better than the last. his cock dragged against the deepest part of you, his blunt tip kept hitting your cervix, making you gasp in pleasure.

ni-ki sat back against your headboard, his thighs spread wide, letting you straddle him fully. his hands never stopped moving – gripping your waist or holding your nape, the other catching the bounce of your breast. his thumb grazes over your nipple, and sometimes, he'd lean in to suck it, groaning at the way your pussy clenched in response.

his hair was messy. he was so loud – groaning through his gritted teeth – that goddamn chrome necklace catching the low light as he tip back his head to moan.

you can't stop staring. you can't stop running your fingers through his hair, brushing the strands back, or cupping his jaw just to see his face better.

"ni-ki..." you whispered.

his eyes blinked open, resting his forehead against yours.

you were moving fast and steady, sinking down on his dick over and over again while your bodies stayed too close — noses brushing, stealing each other's air.

"you– you're so handsome," you breathed out, barely even realizing you said it.

"me?"

"yes," you whispered. "you."

he grinned and leaned forward after hearing that double down. ni-ki gave you a messy, open-mouthed kiss, your fingers threading through his hair again as your hips rocked in desperate circles.

you pulled back to suck on his jaw next, under his ear, then down to his neck — biting softly, marking him. you wanted to leave something there. something that would remind him how much you wanted to do this over and over again.

now, you're sitting in the center of your mattress, blinking stupidly slow as you try to process just how many times he made you cum. "g– god," you mumbled, "i think my spine broke."

ni-ki huffs a soft laugh, still catching his breath too, resting his head on his arm while his other hand would caress your stomach or squeeze your boobs. "you're fine... it's hurting because you are still talking too much."

"o– ow..."

ni-ki sat up and hugged you. placing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, and then to your temple. "fine, let's have it checked later. just lay down with me for now."

you nodded, laying down, pressing your back against his chest. you felt his smile against your skin, smug and fond. ni-ki palmed your breasts again... he can't stop touching you even if he wanted to.

"mm, you're such a baby," he murmurs against your hair, "what happened to the terrifying monster who's always mean and yells at me in meetings?"

"dead," you replied quietly, leaning against him. "she died."

ni-ki chuckled again after seeing you blush. he grinned before peppering kisses on your cheek again and he doesn't say it but he adores this messy, clingy, soft version of you.

the one only he ironically gets to see.

you sniffled, pressing your face to his neck. "ni-ki..."

"what?"

"i wanna see bisco."

"oh..."

"i– i wanna see your dog," you sniffled again, voice sleepy and soft. "even if he hates me…"

ni-ki smiled and whispered, "okay, baby." brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead, "i'll take you to see bisco as soon as he gets home."

later after a doctor's consultation, the dog-sitter also dropped off bisco. you're already in his apartment, in his shirt he basically forced you into wearing.

"wait–!" ni-ki reached out to get bisco but it ran towards to where you were. "bisco!" you gasped, eyes lighting up as you rushed toward the tiny white ball of fur that sprinted right away from you.

"bisco, come on! we brought you snacks!" you tried coaxing, crawling on your knees to look under the couch, but the little thing lunged out and bit your wrist – not hard but more of a warning chomp – "fuck– ow!"

ni-ki leaned against the wall, arms crossed and smiling like a proud dad watching the chaos unfold. "i told you he's dramatic."

you didn't care. you kept following bisco around the room, letting him bite, bark while you giggled and chased him with unearned affection... which ni-ki found strange because before, you probably would've fought with that small dog, until it fears you for rejecting you.

finally, bisco ran out of energy and jogged towards his bed, completely ignoring you like a diva.

you pouted and walked back to ni-ki, dragging your feet like you'd just been dumped. "why is it sweet to everyone but me, huh?" you mumbled, melting into his waiting arms.

ni-ki laughed and tugged you in, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead. "i don't think he hates you, y/n," he murmured, voice soft as his hand roamed slowly down your ass. "give it some time."

"or he knows you've been giving someone else all your attention." you added, rolling your eyes. "right? i knew it, he's jealous."

his lips found yours. "no," kiss. "he's not," kiss. "jealous," kiss. the kisses are so different from before. no clashing of teeth, no busting a lip open, or bruising... it feels like forgiving each other.

and usually, this groping and kissing would spiral into sex, but today, you both weren't even thinking about it. there's just the need to be close, not just to get off.

ni-ki was so distracted by you that he doesn't even know when did he stopped trying to win in everything.

he had plans too, you know? he thought about getting his lick back but whenever you come around, the noises in his head disappears, the urge to get even fades, and suddenly, there's nothing even left to fight for.

he pulls back just enough to see your face. you blinked up at him, tired and sleepy, your lips were still swollen from all the nonstop kissing.

but still, you're so goddamn kissable.

you gave ni-ki a kiss again when you saw him staring – once, twice – "i gotta go," you whispered eventually.

"this early?"

"yeah, i'm getting hungry."

"we can cook–"

"stop–"

"–y/n..." he interrupted, cutting you off. ni-ki opened his mouth then closed it before clearing his throat. "no. nothing. just…" he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. his eyes kept darting down to the floor like he couldn't believe he was about to say it. "just take care, okay?"

you tilted your head, "t–thanks…"

what the hell?

you're still mean and you still drive him insane, ni-ki took a deep breath – he swore he hates being this kind of guy but fuck it.

now or never.

"do you wanna have dinner with me?" he asked. he said it a little too fast, it's obvious that he was shy. "outside."

"huh?" you blinked. "you mean like–"

"yeah," he said, pressing his lips together, swallowing thickly. "like a–"

"...like a date."

ni-ki braces himself for the teasing and for your usual sharp reply. he knows you'll probably laugh in a few seconds but right now, you're just staring at him, eyes wide in surprise and that alone slightly gave him a little hope.

and he thinks, if this is how he loses, then fine.

let's let it be you.

a/n: my biggest opp 3k notes special! thank you so much for all the love and good comments. the first part came out on march 1 so it's been three months... there's so much (an understatement lmao) drafts for this and lots of scenes did not make it. as you can see, it's not so much focused on the smut and i honestly don't know if anyone will see this or if this part two this is good enough.

i teared up writing this T_T burning blue - mariah the scientist

tagging: @asaheyow @n4mh0pe @sunghoonsarmpit

604 notes · View notes

dakusan · 2 days ago

Text

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #lee know #lee know x reader #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho skz #tethered tuesday

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lymtw · 2 days ago

Note

hi!! i love your fics theyre highkey my fav rereads🤭idk if youre taking requests but if you were, could you possibly do a hurt/comfort fic with toji and shy reader where shes mad/upset with him? hope youre having a great day btw!

A/N: Five years later... 🫩👍 I'm sorry this took so long. I really, really appreciate your support 🫶 I hope this turned out at least okay, it's been a minute since i've finished any writing 🥲 Anyway, I hope you're having an amazing day :))

Thank you for sending in this request 💙

Toji and His Shy Girl

It's been a week since you and Toji have spoken, not for lack of effort or opportunities, but because the one sided attempts are not corresponded. It's hard to think about him, it's hard to read his words through your screen and see his name flash briefly, before your phone does its job of sending him to voicemail.

'Maybe we shouldn't be together, Toji. If me simply trying to talk to you is such a burden... I don't know if I should keep trying.'

You said this to him a week ago. You clicked the door shut and he sped off in his car, bleary-eyed, brimming with rage and regret the whole way home. He couldn't get the sound of your voice out of his head—the cracks, the occasional sharp inhales that came with your suppressed emotions. Even in the moment, he knew it was so, so wrong for you to be looking the way you did.

The instant he got home, all hell broke loose. His fists were clenched as he treaded towards his bedroom, and as if possessed by the force of a natural disaster, he tore apart his room—demolished it—throwing things blindly, uncaring if they broke beyond repair. The picture he keeps on his nightstand of the two of you was not safe. The encased memory was thrown with all the strength he has, at the wall, the frame instantly falling apart and the glass shattering to pieces.

He couldn't stop, it all hurt so much. His chest burned, his head was pounding, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and once there was nothing left to throw, nothing left to break, he finally broke down—wholly. Harsh, uncontrollable sobs racked his entire body as he sat there in the debris—the aftermath of losing his mind over you. Barely any sound came of it, his voice was shot, courtesy of the tormented screams that accompanied his meltdown.

This all happened a week ago. You won't talk to him and these days have been hell without your company. You won't respond to his good morning messages, and if he asks to meet up, you always have something to do. He calls you whenever he can, but you don't pick up. You're avoiding him like it's your job.

Everything feels pointless without you around, his little sunshine, the reason he wakes up motivated every morning, the light of his life. His routine has been altered in the worst way. It's work, home, work, home, and he absolutely detests it because if it weren't for that damned day, he would be with you, smothering you with the borderline overwhelming love he holds for you, making you laugh and watching you get flustered over the words he whispers in your ear. He wants it back—all of it. He can't let you go, it would break him entirely.

You don't want to let go of this love you have for Toji, either. You miss being in the warmth of his embrace, and you miss the sound of his voice, and the way he calls you 'sweetheart' when you're not focusing on him. You see every single one of the messages he sends you and the phone calls.

Good morning, baby.

Morning, sweetheart. Make sure to eat breakfast and lunch. One meal isn't enough.

Saw those fields of flowers you point at all the time on my way home. I miss you.

Baby, will you talk to me, please?

[Missed Call]

And you cry, because all you want to do is respond to every one of those messages and hear his voice again, but something always stops you. The memory of when he snapped at you. The sound of his voice—cutting and utterly spirit crushing. The furrow of his eyebrows that made you feel like everything you did was wrong. It hurts to think about the whole situation, and all these notifications only serve as reminders. Reminders of the way you immediately wilted when the door shut, chest heaving as you cried your way to bed and then to sleep, wondering what you did to deserve being lashed out at.

You're lying in bed, scrolling through your phone when he calls again. The instant you see his contact picture, your heart plummets to your stomach, but an irrepressible giggle escapes you. The picture on your screen... it's kind of blurry because he was chasing you and you were laughing so hard that you couldn't hold the phone steady, but you love it. You love the man in the picture, you love that he can make you smile through memories, even during tough times.

"Baby?" You hear through the speakers of your phone. A lump immediately forms in your throat and you painfully swallow. "Baby, can you hear me?" He tries again.

"Yeah, I'm here," you respond, quietly.

"Holy fuck, doll. Can I... Are you busy? Are you doing anything right now?"

"No, i'm home," you mumble.

"Can I come see you?"

"Toji..." you start, your tone conveying what you haven't even said yet. Your uncertainty.

"Baby, we have to talk. It's been a week and-- This can't be it. Please, just... just five minutes. Five minutes and i'll go."

You know it won't be five minutes. You can't force a solution out in five minutes—not a sincere one at least. Some part of you is soothed by the sound of his voice, regardless of how frantic and desperate he sounds. That's your love right there, and no matter how much hurt lingers from this whole dilemma, there's nothing you can do about your heart's response to him. So you open a door for him.

"Okay, Toji. I'll be here waiting for you."

"Thank you, pretty girl. I'll be there in a few. Love you."

There's a heavy, tense pause. Neither of you has hung up the phone, because something hasn't been done yet and he knows you know what he wants to hear. It would be enough for him to believe that you haven't forfeited. It would make him feel even the slightest bit of relief if you said those words he's been aching for.

"I love you, too, Toji," you utter, hanging up a couple seconds after.

Toji would be bouncing off the walls if he wasn't in such a hurry to get to you. He's been deprived of any form of love from you for a week and he was starting to go crazy, but hearing you say those words was all he needed for now.

Twenty something minutes later, you get a text from him, letting you know that he's outside. Your heart is in your throat, your stomach keeps flipping, and yet you use all the strength you have to get out of bed to meet him. Though you decide to take your time to get to your front door, you find that you're still there too soon, no time left to mentally prepare yourself for what is about to happen. With a final deep breath, you turn the lock, twist the doorknob, and open the door.

There Toji stands, hand suspended in the air with your spare key pinched between his thumb and forefinger. He steps back instinctively when you step aside from behind the door.

"I uh... I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with me using it, but you were taking a bit, so I thought maybe you'd want me to come in and we can talk inside or... I don't know."

He's rambling, there's a light stubble on his face, he's smiling at you like he always does—like you're his everything. Him being there doesn't actually process in your mind until he speaks up again.

"Hi, baby," he says, softly, observing you like you're some majestic painting hung up in a museum. Your eyes well up and it feels like there's a red-hot metal sphere lodged in your throat. "You're a saint for letting me come here and see you, you know that?"

Out of habit, you nod and mumble out a small, "yeah."

"I'm sorry, doll," he says, reaching for your hands to hold them. He barely manages to grab them, get a feel for your soft skin after so long, before you're pulling them away from him. "No, come on," he pleads, grasping your hands again. "Please? Please, look at me."

"You can't talk to me like that, Toji," you utter, voice unsteady because you're not used to having to stand up for yourself against the one who loves you like it's his life source.

"I know. I know that, baby, and I'm so fucking sorry," he says, nearly tripping over his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of the shit I said. I was having a bad day, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I don't know what the hell got into me, but please..." he mumbles, bringing your hands up to his lips, pressing weightless kisses on your fingers and knuckles. "Please, I love you, you have to believe me."

"You said..." you inhale sharply, doing all you can to get through this without choking on your emotions. "...you said you didn't have time to listen to me talk about nonsense, and that you wanted peace and quiet for once. Isn't... Isn't that all you get from me?"

"No tears," he says, warm palms moving up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the crystals that glide down them. "No tears," he repeats, softer this time. "This is gonna get worked out, my sweet girl. I swear."

"I don't know how you want me to be," you admit, your voice wavering. "And I don't have the ability to read minds. You acted like everything was fine when you texted me, and then when you got here..." You let out a shaky breath, your hold on your emotions slipping. "I don't want to be upset with you, anymore, but i-i'm trying... It's not right."

It's as if someone is jabbing at his chest over and over again, relentlessly, even when his skin starts to bruise and little pinpricks of blood begin to appear. He hates seeing you this way, especially when he knows he's the reason for why you're hurt this bad. He wants it to stop and for this enormous raincloud above both of you to just dissipate.

"Come here," he says, low, almost inaudible. His hands lower, arms making contact with your sides. It's been too long since he's held you, yet, pulling you in feels as natural as breathing.

Your hands come up to rest on his abdomen, keeping him at a distance. It feels unnatural, because you're so used to letting him handle you like you're a stuffed animal, pulling you around when you're adventuring together and picking you up just because he feels like it. Your mind immediately clouds with guilt at your denial of his embrace, you can't even meet his eyes, opting to look down at where your hands are.

"Please don't," he says, his voice so soft that it makes your chest feel tight again. He grabs ahold of your wrists, just to have some sort of contact with you. His grip is almost entirely loose and you're in control, he won't move until you pull your hands away. "I'm not gonna hurt you like that again."

You love him and you know he needs this—holding you in his arms, your confirmation that it's all going to be okay. You've said it before and the words have become one of his greatest comforts. What could be so bad when you tell him that it'll all turn out just fine?

"We've been apart for too long. A week shouldn't have gone by like this... and, fuck, I know it's my fault. I don't blame you for not wanting to see me, but... please, baby." His thumbs brush the insides of your wrists, eyes never leaving the sadness of your face, regardless of whether you look at him or not. He'll take this over not getting to see you at all, any day.

"Sweetheart."

You sniff, unmoving for a few more seconds. Your heartbeat is thrumming wildly in your ears, almost suffocating you with its relentlessness. It's all you hear, words lost in a spiral of ongoing silence. You still don't look at him when you finally pull your hands away, but you can feel his heavy, unwavering attention on you.

You're glad he doesn't wait for you to give him the green light to pull you in, because you have nothing to say at the moment, and it would be another test of patience. Instead, the second your hands are balled up at your sides, he moves at the speed of a lightning strike, your body colliding with his in an almost aggressive manner—there's an audible thump. His body heat mingles with the cologne on his shirt, the smell coiling around you and rushing through your nose with every breath you take. The feeling is familiar—love, safety, comfort—a second home, all wrapped up in your favorite person.

His hands scrunch up the back of your shirt like he's afraid you'll push him away again. "Baby," he mumbles, his voice almost inaudible. "Don't disappear like that again." A soft breath is expelled from his chest, riddled with the genuine fear he felt that he would never get to see you again.

"I know it's unfair of me to say this. I was an asshole and you were hurt, but, doll... I thought you were leaving me." There's a pause. Toji stares at the ground behind you, his hands deepening the creases he made on your shirt due to his unfaltering grip. "I don't want that."

"I'm not," you respond, heart shaking. "That day... it felt like you didn't even want to see me and you only came over because I asked not because you wanted to." The familiar ache in your chest stirs slightly, but you give it your all to get everything out in a steady and clear manner. "You can tell me you're tired, Toji. That you want to rest in the comfort of your own home, and I'll understand. I don't want to be another cause of stress for you."

It pains him to hear that because you're the one who keeps him sane, the one he thinks about when he settles into bed but can't get to sleep, the first person to know that he's still alive in morning, the one who has made him feel so safe, that he feels no shame when he occasionally calls to confirm that he's still loved by you.

"You're not," he simply murmurs. "It's not true."

"You don't have to worry about protecting my feelings."

His arms loosen around you, the back of your shirt wrinkled but freed from his clutches. Your heart is beating too fast, attempting to leave your chest. Now you're standing up straight, doing your best to not avert your gaze from the man before you.

"You're not a burden to me. Okay?" He says, and you want to believe him because of the way he's looking at you, like he's searching your eyes for even the smallest bit of confidence from you about the fact. "Say it."

The words are stuck, it's visible. Your lips twitch, but your voice doesn't progress. You just look at him, feeling the sadness seep into every part of you.

"You're not a burden to me. I need you to get that through your pretty head, right now," he says, only to feel his own heart skip a beat at your reaction.

"Sorry," you mumble, unable to instantly straighten out the curl of your lips.

In this moment, Toji knows that everything is going to be okay. He hasn't heard you laugh in a week, and though it was only a small, congested giggle, he savors it along with your inability to regain your bearing, like it's his last sip of water while he's stranded in the desert.

"Gets you every time, huh?" He says, his own faint smile emerging.

'Right now', a habitual phrase of his that is meant to comfort you. You've told him before that not everything can be fixed or healed in an instant—things don't work that way—but he never backs down. You've translated it into something akin to a bandage—the words are meant to cover you while you take the time to fully and properly heal. The joy you find in hearing them is a small beginning.

"It's funny," you respond, taking in his amused little grin. God, you missed his handsome face and the way he looks at you like everything about you makes perfect sense to him.

"My impatience is funny to you?" He teases, loving the way you press your lips together before proceeding to nod. He can't even be playfully offended, too entranced by the way you're actually smiling at him. He sighs through his nose and just watches you—admires you for a couple seconds, and when you start nervously shifting on your feet, he pulls you closer to him, his hands on your lower back as your body presses against his once more.

"Can you just say it, please? For me?" He murmurs, recognizing every one of the stars in your eyes. Though he thinks it's a tragedy to have gone a week without this view, he'll make up for lost time by creating new constellations.

"I don't know," you say, softly—filler words, your brain short circuits whenever he looks at you like that.

"For me, baby," he pleads once more. "Just wanna hear you say it."

You hum, unsure of whether you can say something you don't entirely believe. You want to make him happy, you want things to be better, you want to believe what he said—what he wants you to repeat to him, but it's hard. Damage is easy to inflict and hard to heal. It won't go away immediately, no matter how much you love the person who is trying to fix their mistake.

"I don't know-"

"Please?" he blurts.

"Toji, I don't-"

"Pretty please?" he cuts again, seeing the way your seriousness falters like before. Your laugh finds his ears once more, a sound he just wants to keep hearing. The sound embraces him. "With a cherry on top?" he adds, a sly little grin on his lips.

It's getting harder and harder to turn him down. He's precious, he's trying, and you cherish his effort. It's not going to kill you to just say it.

You sigh, "I'm not a burden."

"To who?" He questions, seeking elaboration from you.

"To you."

"Damn right," he says, proud. "We'll get you there. I'm not gonna leave you like this, alright?"

"Okay," you confirm, nodding slightly.

"Can I get a kiss?"

Again, you nod, expecting a quick peck—maybe a few quick pecks, but no, he goes on to kiss you like its been months since he last saw you, not a week. He's desperately chasing after your lips, seeking more and more of what he's been deprived of for too long. In his mind, he says 'never again, never again, never again', because he can't imagine going so long without your sweetness again. Without the softness of your lips against his, without those pretty smiles and laughs being thrown at him. It sounds like hell 2.0. when he thinks about losing it all over again.

"Fuck, I missed this," he murmurs, still just a breath away from your lips.

"Yeah," you respond, eyeing the short little pins of hair that sprinkle over his jaw and upper lip area. It makes you smile, you don't always get to see his face when it's not clean shaven.

"I was in a rush," he explains, unnecessarily, following the way your eyes trace his face.

"Mm," you hum, smiling. "Can I shave your face?"

"You wanna clean me up?" he asks, almost as if he's surprised.

"Only if you want me to. It was just an idea," you say, smiling sheepishly.

To that, he chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach flip and your cheeks feel warmer.

"Oh, I want you to," he says, leaning forward to peck your lips, luring quiet giggles from you when he doesn't want to pull away.

Now, you sit on the counter of your bathroom sink, with Toji standing between your legs. There's a slight tremble in your hand, spurred on by his hands resting on your hips and the way he watches you with so much focus, trusting you enough to let you do this without a word from him. You drag the razor carefully along his cheek, making sure not to move too fast or use too much pressure.

Toji waits until you're cleaning off the blade to make his move of leaning in to press kisses to your face. Small peaks of foam are left behind on your skin, wiped away by gentle strokes of his thumb.

"I'm about to start again," you say through a laugh, leaning away to avoid ridding his face of all the protective spume on it. The razor remains beside you until he finally behaves himself. He huffs like you've been rejecting his affection the whole time, but nonetheless stands up straight and as still as a statue.

After some time, longer than it would have taken him alone—longer than it would have taken you if he didn't smother you every time you paused to clean the razor—you got it done. You brought back the smoothness of his skin.

"Am I pretty again?" he jests, drying his face with one of your towels.

"Stunning," you quip in response, shifting on the counter to signal that you're going to hop off.

"You're stunning," he says, low, unmoving from where he stands between your legs. "My gorgeous, gorgeous girl," he adds, seeking more of that feeling the flustered smile on your face gives him. "Missed you lots, you know that?" You just laugh and shake your head, like you're silently calling him crazy. "What? I'm serious," he says in response, a soft grin on his face. "Did you miss me? Even a little bit?"

A single second passes by. You can't lie to him and say you didn't. You missed him every single day, through the hurt. Your chest ached and your heart dropped every time you remembered the incident, but your love for him never wavered. You couldn't stop thinking about him, and with how often he tried to reach you, it was nearly impossible not to have him on your mind.

"Of course I did. I took the time I needed, but that doesn't mean I wanted it."

"I know, baby. And I would never hold it against you. I'm just... glad I can see you again, is all."

You smile. The gleam and sincerity in his eyes is a wonder to witness and well worth the butterflies that overly crowd your stomach.

"I really did miss you," you mumble.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Mhm," you hum, nodding. "'Lots.'"

A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, then he leans in close for nth time, peppering kisses across your cheek until he reaches your lips. He can feel you smiling into the kisses, a sensation he yearned for with every fiber of his being for the past week. One of his hands rests on your thigh, caressing the inner part of it, while the other slides up your shirt and settles on your waist. The lip-lock steals your breath away, but even then, you challenge your lungs for your lover's sake, only pulling away when you're a panting mess and Toji's breathing is more audible.

The tension is palpable, the silence loud as you look at one another like you're still taking in the fact that you can be loving towards each other again, in a manner that doesn't derive from guilt for the time that you didn't get to demonstrate how much you truly love each other. Enough to not be able to leave a fresh wound alone, enough to forgive while outwardly expressing that you have not healed but are patient enough to work towards regaining that strength.

"I don't wanna go home," he murmurs, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips before focusing on solely your eyes.

"You don't have to," you respond. "Stay as long as you'd like."

"And if I said I wanted to spend a week here with you? Would you hate it?"

You shake your head. "No, but I think you'd get tired of seeing me all the time."

"You're wrong, pretty girl. Is this your subtle way of saying you're tired of looking at my mug, already?" He asks, lips curling with amusement at your giggle.

"No, I want you to stay," you say, honest.

"Promise?"

You nod, followed by an affirmative hum.

"Say it again," he requests, heart thudding just a little faster when you smile.

"I want you to stay, Toji," you repeat, his name on your tongue causing your cheeks to warm up.

"Again." His hands mold around your hips—squeezing, loving.

"Stay," you say, softer.

He sighs, heavy, an enamored look in his eyes that you have never been able to comprehend. Those dark, viridescent eyes, have a brilliance to them as he looks at you like you're the last good thing he'll ever be able to call his. You're good for him, you're good to him, and there is nothing in the world that he wouldn't do for you because you gave him your heart.

"Yeah... you're stuck with me here for a week and you're come with me to pick some stuff up from my place, tomorrow. Okay? Okay."

"Okay," you respond, with a laugh.

"Now, we get you off this counter," he says, lifting you like you're a teddy bear that he carries around for protection. He doesn't miss the way you gasp at the suddenness. "Hold me tight, baby," he says, allowing you to wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist before moving anywhere. A kiss is planted on your shoulder as he turns around to exit the bathroom.

"And now you let me show you some love," he says, low, carrying you to your bedroom.

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rafescherie · 1 day ago

Text

✮⋆˙ rafe stalking pogue!reader’s instagram and getting off to her pictures.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. instagram stalking, enemies (rafe x pogue!reader). male masturbation, slight degradation. rafe lowkey being a perv.

cherie’s note — i’m writing this half-asleep + my phone being on 4%, but i absolutely needed to get this out for you guys. c: no idea if this makes any sense i’ve been consuming cleaning chemicals all day LOL.

he tells himself he’s just checking up. that it’s strategic — practical, necessary — to keep tabs on the people who hang out on the wrong side of the island. that’s all you are — just another loud-mouthed pogue girl from the cut who didn’t know her place.

he spat the words like venom, made it clear he couldn’t stand you. said it to anyone who mentioned your name — he hated you.

but rafe’s lying to himself. and he knows it.

because every time your posts slide across his screen, it starts the same way. just a peek. just a scroll. and then suddenly, he’s got his cock in his hand and that skimpy bikini picture posted on your instagram pulled up like it’s fucking porn.

it’s pathetic. he knows that, too.

he groans, thumb dragging slow over the screen while the other hand pumps his cock with rough, desperate strokes. he’s already leaking at the sight — already imagining you moaning his name, begging him to fill the same pretty little hole you use to run your mouth with.

at least then that smug pogue mouth of yours would finally be good for something.

“fuckin’ pogue bitch,” he mutters, stomach tight, eyes glued to the screen. “bet you’d let me ruin you in two seconds.”

his mind spirals.

you, on your knees in that pathetic excuse of a swimsuit, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, while he fists your hair and shoves his cock down your throat. you, messy and whining, pretending you don’t want it just as bad.

“you’d let me,” he pants, thumb flicking to another picture — smaller bikini, lower angle, tighter smile. “you fuckin’ would. talk all that shit, then let me bend you over and make you cry.”

he sees it clear — you in that tight bikini, ass up in the sand, voice shaking while you beg him not to cum inside. him groaning about how tight your little pogue cunt is, about how it doesn’t matter what you say — he’s gonna take what he wants.

“i’d ruin you,” he growls. “turn you into a cock-hungry little mess. cry to your friends about how much you hate me — then sneak off just to let me fuck you again.”

he cums with a broken grunt — hot, fast, messy. fucks into his fist like he wishes it was you. thick streaks spill over his stomach, his knuckles, his fucking phone.

your face is still smiling up at him. happy. untouched.

he stares at it for a second, jaw clenched, chest still rising and falling. then he grabs the phone and hurls it across the bed, jaw tight.

“fuckin’ hate her,” he mutters, like saying it out loud might finally make it true.

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cameronsbabydoll · 1 day ago

Text

BASIC TRAINING — CHAPTER THREE

WARNINGS — invasion of privacy, diary-reading without consent, possessive male POV, inner obsession, implied virginity, age gap dynamics, inappropriate fantasies, minor delusion/grooming-adjacent thoughts, manipulation (anything italicized is what’s written in the diary!)

You didn’t even realize you’d dropped it.

That’s the funniest part. Funniest to him, at least.

You were walking too fast across the courtyard. Flustered again. Maybe it was because Rafe had called you sweetheart with that slow drawl, lingering on the “s,” right in front of three privates. You stammered through a hello, eyes darting everywhere but him, clutching your bag like a shield.

He watched you walk off.

And then he saw it — a slim pink notebook, barely thicker than a pamphlet, slipped from your tote and dropped behind you like a breadcrumb.

You didn’t hear it. Didn’t turn around.

Just kept walking.

So now it’s his.

He finds it ten seconds later, thumb brushing the soft cover like it might burn. You’d doodled a little sun in the corner. One of the loops is dotted with a heart. The name you wrote inside?

First name only. Bubbly handwriting. Like a schoolgirl.

He flips to the first page and grins.

“Summer Goals ☀️💕”

— swim more

— read 5 books

— learn how to french braid my hair

— kiss someone (REAL kiss!)

— fall in love

— try wine or beer!

— say no without feeling bad

— be brave

Rafe lets out a low breath. One part humor. One part something else.

God, you’re even softer than he thought.

You want to fall in love. Kiss someone. Try wine or beer.

He wonders if you think all those things will happen in one night. If you still believe in movie endings and fireworks and a guy showing up with flowers.

You’re doomed.

He flips further.

You’ve used it like a diary. You don’t date the pages. Just talk to yourself. Or maybe talk to someone. The kind of someone you wish existed. The kind of man who listens. The kind of man who stays.

“Saw him again today.

He called me sweetheart. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

He looks at me like he knows things I don’t. It makes me feel dumb. But also kind of… not dumb? Like I want to know what he knows?”

Rafe shifts on the bench.

His grip tightens.

You’re writing about him.

Not a crush. Not a passing observation. You feel something. He’s getting in your head already and you don’t even know it.

You’re still so fucking clueless.

He turns the page.

“My dad would kill me. If he knew what I was thinking…

It’s not even bad! I just. I don’t know.

I want someone to touch me.

Not like that!! I mean. Okay maybe like that. But not gross. Like… soft. Gentle.

I want to know what it feels like to be wanted.”

He leans back against the wall. The notebook drops into his lap.

It takes a full sixty seconds before he even breathes.

You’ve never even been touched. Not really.

You’re writing about your own fantasies like they’re foreign concepts. You don’t even know how it works. You’re scared of it. Confused. Hoping someone will take the guesswork out of it.

And Rafe? He’d do it without a fucking second thought.

But not soft. Not gentle.

He wants you ruined.

Wants you to forget every boy you ever dreamed about because he made you come harder than any of them ever could.

He wants to be your first. And only.

The next page pushes it further.

“I think he’s older. He must be. He looks like he’s seen a lot.

But I like that. I think I want that. Someone who can take care of me. Who already knows what he’s doing.

Someone who knows how to tell me what to do.”

He closes the notebook, fast. Like it’ll melt his palms if he doesn’t.

This isn’t about teasing anymore.

This isn’t even about baiting you.

This is about possession.

You already want the thing he planned to take.

He slides the book into his pocket. He’ll return it. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe after he reads it again.

Maybe after he’s jacked off to the words “tell me what to do” while moaning your name into his fist.

You knock on his office door the next morning.

He’s not surprised. You’re flustered. Lip bitten. Crimson on your cheeks.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, opening the door wider. “You look like you lost a puppy.”

You blink up at him, embarrassed. “I—I think I dropped my notebook yesterday. I was just wondering if…”

“Notebook, huh?”

He moves slowly to the desk. Opens a drawer.

Pulls it out with a casual shrug.

“This one?”

Your eyes light up. You nod, stepping forward to take it—but he doesn’t let go.

He watches you.

Tilts his head. Then slowly, very deliberately, presses it into your hands. His fingers brush your wrists.

“You should be more careful with your private thoughts, sweetheart,” he says low. “Never know who might be reading.”

You freeze.

He smiles.

And then he walks away.

You flip through it later. Nothing’s changed. Nothing missing.

But somehow… something feels different.

You can’t explain it.

The pages feel heavier. The air between your fingers charged. You catch yourself wondering—just for a second—if he meant something else. If he read—

No. No, he wouldn’t.

Would he?

That night, Rafe sits outside on the barrack steps.

His boots are dusty. His knuckles bruised. He smells like gasoline and aftershave and heat.

And he’s smiling.

Because you’re so, so clueless.

And he’s so, so patient.

But not for much longer.

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snapscube · 1 day ago

Note

I'd love to hear more about your thought process regarding the lyrics to your Deltarune song! Was it written with a specific POV in mind, or was it more so about the general theme/vibes of the newest chapters?

sure! i love talking about this stuff hehe. you could probably surmise from the font and left-aligned all-caps format of the lyrics that i was specifically trying to adapt the message from Gaster at the end of chapter 4 into lyrics while also mixing a bit of my general sentiment towards the overall story in there for flavor. so going line by line:

HOW MANY YEARS HAVE I SPENT ANTICIPATING THIS NEW CONNECTION

Very much the most "from Gaster POV" the song gets. literally just a direct adaption of Gaster messages like these

ALL OF US MARCHING ALONG YET STILL IN WAITING

I really wanted to include the recurring mention of how something or something within Deltarune as a whole has been "WAITING". We keep hearing this specific word and it really scratches my brain. DELTARUNE IS WAITING. It's so cool to me. Also the "marching along" being a reference to the beads at the hospital. Everyone walks along this path of prophecy and fate but in spite of the progress they make.... IT IS STILL WAITING.

YOUR OWN REFLECTION GAZES IN TURN AS YOU FACE THE LEGEND'S BENDING

The reflection line being meant to both capture the imagery of the reflection in the mirror in Kris's house AS WELL AS the running theory that the "Angel" from the prophecy is supposed to represent the player, which is why their image in the prophecy is blank. So as to reflect your own face onto the black screen in its place. Which I think is SUPER cool and compelling if true.

And then the line about the "legend's bending" being a reference to how in spite of everyone's appeal to prophecy... certain key factors of that prophecy seem to already be wildly out of line. It is bending, it's seemingly changing.

THE SHATTERED GLASS AND

"The shattered glass" once again being a reference to direct rejection of prophecy and what MUST be. The way that Susie punches through the glass of the final prophecy.

PARTS OF YOUR DREAMS THAT YOU WISH COULD BECOME ENDINGS

And my personal favorite line, the one literally being the reason I wrote and recorded this whole thing. I was humming to myself while listening to Neverending Night and the line "All of your dreams that you wish could become endings" entered my brain and became super sticky cause, to me, that's been the most compelling part of Deltarune to me for a long while. The idea that as far as we've heard Deltarune's ending is the driving force behind why it exists in the first place. The one that came from a fever dream so vivid that someone could dedicate their whole life to making it a reality. I love that kind of thing so much and it really strikes my heart.

ARE WITH YOU IN THE

Finishing the sentence about dreams with a reference to the recurring "with you in the dark" motif of Deltarune, butttttt cutting it off right at the final word to capture the nature of Deltarune currently being an incomplete story with room for our expectations and certainties to be challenged.

hope this was fun to read! :) it was fun to write. i'd love to do more if the inspiration strikes.

#deltarune #deltarune spoilers

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anglbunny · 2 days ago

Text

RIDING NERD!GOJO'S FACE

smut mdni, nerd!gojo, kinda long, face riding, cheetah!reader

He looked so cute like this—spread out on his twin bed, books shoved off to one side, mouth slightly open as he blinked up at you from behind thick-rimmed glasses.

“S-So, um…” Gojo licked his lips, clearly flustered as you straddled his chest. “You sure about this? I-I’ve never really—well, I mean, I have, technically, just not with someone on me, you know? On my—uh—face. Your fac-” You grinned.

“Relax, genius. You said you wanted to help me de-stress before finals, right?”

“Yeah, but I thought you meant like… a back massage,” he squeaked, then immediately clamped his mouth shut when you started shimmying out of your shorts.

“Does this look like I want a massage, Gojo?”

His throat bobbed in a swallow. “No! Definitely not.”

He was still wearing that stupid sweater vest, his tie a little crooked, his pale cheeks flushed like he was running a fever—and yet his hands instinctively gripped your thighs as you crawled up, settling above his mouth like it was your throne.

He whimpered. Actually whimpered.

“You’re not gonna, like… suffocate me, right?”

You smirked. “Only if it's bad.”

The second you lowered yourself onto his mouth, everything shy about him evaporated. One long, slow lick had your hips twitching. He moaned under you like your taste was better than any cheat code, hands tightening on your thighs as his tongue flicked and circled your clit with shocking precision.

"F-fuck, Gojo—where'd you learn that?" you gasped, grinding against his face.

His glasses were already fogging, nose pressed deep between your folds, his tongue doing filthy things that made your head spin.

He pulled back just long enough to pant, breathless, “I, uh—read some stuff. Research. Y’know. For science.”

You laughed—until he sucked your clit between his lips and you choked on a moan.

That tongue of his? A little awkward at first, but the man was a fast learner. Every whimper you made, every time your thighs clenched around his head, he adjusted—flicking faster, licking deeper, humming like a damn vibrator until your hips were jerking and you were close. “Just like that, nerd boy,” you panted, one hand gripping his messy white hair. “Don’t stop.”

He couldn’t stop. He was drunk on it—tongue gliding through your slick folds, nose bumping your clit, mouth soaking, desperate to make you come on his face like a star student.

You rode his tongue shamelessly now, using him like a toy, grinding your pussy into that flushed, eager face with no hesitation. He looked so wrecked. Glasses tilted. Lips shiny. Whimpering beneath you.

“Gonna come,” you moaned, hips stuttering. “Satoru—shit—fuck—”

And when it hit, it hit hard. You cried out, riding the waves of pleasure as his mouth kept moving, overstimulating you, tongue greedy and starving for more. He only stopped when you collapsed forward, trembling, thighs slick against his flushed cheeks.

You looked down.

His lips were glossy, his chin wet, glasses askew.

“…You okay?” you asked. lifting yourself off just enough for him to breathe.

He blinked, voice cracking adorably. “Y-Yeah. Just, um… when can we do that again?”

"christ, satoru.." you huffed, laughing but your legs were still trembling

TL: @samm1e13 @syleepy @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @yanderebluelockfan @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @valexqpt @snowsilver2000 @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @ravenbc @mihyas-dieehefrau @laslowchan

A/N: idk what this is. also i dont write about him enough

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

Masterlist

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lazysoulwriter · 2 days ago

Text

just let me help - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: smut, blowjob (f!giving), dom-sub tones (soft), stress relief, emotional vulnerability.

He comes home quiet. That’s how you know it’s bad.

No usual whistle, no shoes kicked off with a sigh, no teasing little “m’home, baby!” He just walks in, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, brows furrowed so deep it looks like he’s still arguing with whoever pissed him off hours ago.

You barely get a “hi” before he’s collapsing onto the couch, head back, eyes closed, one hand rubbing at his temple.

You sit beside him, slow, gentle. “Bad day?”

He just grunts.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

You lean in and kiss his cheek. “Wanna not talk about it?”

That makes his lip twitch. “Maybe.”

You slide your hand up his thigh.

“Wanna let me take care of you?”

His eyes finally open. They meet yours — tired, glassy, aching.

You don’t wait for permission. You just kiss his neck, his jaw, his lips soft and slow until he exhales that breath he’s been holding all day. Then you sink to your knees in front of him, between his legs, hands moving to undo his belt with practiced care.

“Baby…” he warns, voice already cracking. “You don’t have to—”

You look up. “I want to.”

And he’s gone.

You free him from his boxers and he’s already hard, thick and heavy in your hand, pulsing with need. You stroke him slowly at first, watching the way his shoulders drop, the way his head tips back, that first low groan slipping from his throat like it’s relief.

“Fuuuck—”

You take him into your mouth, slowly, deeply, tongue dragging along the underside like you know exactly what he needs. (You do. You always do.)

His hand finds your hair immediately. Not rough — grateful. Desperate. Fingers curling as he gasps your name.

You set a rhythm, wet and warm, sucking him deeper with each pass, letting your spit drip down your chin, letting him see how much you want to help. You look up again and he groans louder.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me—” His hips twitch. “God, that mouth—”

You moan around him and that’s it. He loses it.

“Please don’t stop—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t.

You take him deep, his thighs trembling, his voice wrecked, hand gripping your hair as he finally lets go — groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth, panting like he just survived a war.

You swallow, kiss the tip, wipe your mouth. Climb back up into his lap.

He’s wrecked.

Eyes glassy. Hair messy. Chest heaving.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, pulling you into him, arms tight around your waist. “You’re unreal.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his sweaty temple.

“Better?”

“Baby,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder. “You fixed me.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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cheftsunoda · 3 days ago

Note

HIII omg i love your work!! you lwk made me an alex albon stan (i alr love lily, she’s so iconic) with the wag x 3 fic.

i was wondering if you could please write a poly!fic but with isack hadjar and oscar piastri? i know it’s a weird pairing but they’re two of my faves. it’s ok if not!! 💗💗

mentor or more? — op81 + ih6

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x reader x isack hadjar

they were the couple no one saw coming. yn—loud, radiant, effortlessly magnetic. a globally adored model with a laugh that turned heads and a presence that owned every room she walked into. and then there was oscar—quiet, sharp, always a little awkward in interviews but impossibly endearing. somehow, the two of them just worked. they were happy. solid. untouchable. until the new season arrived—and with it, isack hadjar. fresh faced and full of ambition, isack comes looking for guidance, and oscar—ever the reluctant mentor—takes him under his wing. it is harmless. friendly. until isack discovers feelings for oscar and then lays eyes on yn and finds himself completely undone.

there’s only one problem— they only just belong to each other…right?

fc : isabelle mathers

(a/n) : omg hiiii. glad i could help bc everyone needs to be an alex albon stan. thank you for the love and i am sorry this took so long- i am behind on requests and i had to be real creative with this pairing- but i do not mind!! i like to be challenged. hope u love!! loveuuu

—

yourusername

france📍

liked by oscarpiastri, lando, hattiepiastri and 5,010,553 others.

yourusername : paris + cannes w my man before the season begins 💋

tagged : oscarpiastri

—

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charles_leclerc : the city of love looks great on you both! (pls stop making the rest of us look bad)

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

olliebearman : when i grow up i want to be just like oscar.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : only 4 years older than you mate.

↳ olliebearman : still old.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

georgerussell63 : give us a travel vlog or we riot

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : was oscars mukbang with french pastries i sent not enough???

liked by georgerussell63, oscarpiastri and carmenmmundt

↳ georgerussell63 : the audience has spoken and they want MORE.

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hattiepiastri : you are sooooo hot and then there is oscar.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : can't even argue. she is stunning.

liked by yourusername and hattiepiastri

↳ yoursername : my hattie 🥹 my oscy 🥹

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lando : that is the face of a man who knows he is winning in life 😏

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

nicolepiastri : since oscar is about to go into full race mode and ignore me...weekly pilates where we gossip about him?

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↳ yourusername : weekly pilates AND i will get him to call you at least once a week.

liked by nicolepiastri and oscarpiastri

↳ nicolepiastri : my god, i love you. i always wanted a daughter in law who keeps my son in line and wants to be my best friend 😘

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ hattiepiastri : one thing oscar did right

liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri and oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : yet again, surprisingly not insulted. it's true.

↳ username000 : god yn's relationship with oscar's family is the cutest.

↳ username0 : did you see the video from the race where nicole hugged yn before she hugged oscar???

↳ oscarpiastri : i tend to lack importance with my family when yn is around.

liked by yourusername, hattiepiastri, username0 and nicolepiastri

—

The first Monaco morning after the off-season always hits different. The windows are cracked open, letting in the early sun and the sounds of the port—distant engines humming, boats clinking in the water, birds that clearly didn’t get the memo about your need to sleep in. But you don’t mind. Not when you’re wrapped up in his bed, limbs tangled with Oscar’s, skin still warm from sleep. He’s curled around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go—one arm under your head, the other draped lazily across your waist, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip under the blanket.

"You awake?" he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

"Mmm. Kind of." You stretch against him, pressing a sleepy kiss to the underside of his jaw. "We should stay here forever."

Oscar laughs, low and soft. "Tempting. Very tempting. But I did promise I’d meet up with a new rookie today. Isack. Doing some training together—get him settled in, you know."

You blink up at him, amused. "Oscar Piastri willingly doing social interaction? Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?"

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a grin. "I can be social. When absolutely necessary."

"Right. You just happen to prefer doing it in gym clothes and under the guise of cardio."

"Exactly."

You trace little circles on his chest with your finger, pretending not to notice how he shivers slightly at your touch. "Isack… that’s the...French one? Racing Bulls? Almost ran someone over with a scooter?"

Oscar chuckles. "Yep. That’s him. Kid’s fast though. And a bit chaotic, but in a good way. I think he’ll be fun to have around."

You hum in response, already picturing Oscar trying to wrangle a hyper rookie while also trying to pretend he’s not as soft as he actually is.

"What about you?" he asks, shifting so your faces are closer, nose brushing your cheek. "What’s on your Monaco agenda today?"

You grin. "Brunch with some of the girls. Carmen, Lily, maybe Kika. Haven’t seen them in ages. And we’re probably doing a little shopping after—someone said new collections dropped in that tiny boutique on Rue Grimaldi."

Oscar groans dramatically. "So I’ll come home to you with ten new bags and an ‘oops’ face."

"Exactly. Consider it my version of training for the season."

He leans in and kisses you—slow and sleepy and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. “Just don’t fall in love with a handbag while I’m out bonding with the rookie.”

You smile against his lips. “Could never love something more than you.”

“Good. That's what I like to hear.”

You giggle and pull the covers tighter around both of you for just a few more minutes of quiet before the season chaos begins.

—

You sip your oat milk latte as you walk down Rue Grimaldi, arms linked with Carmen and Lily, the three of you gliding past boutique windows like you own the place. Your sunglasses are oversized, your sneakers are overpriced, and the breeze smells like sea salt and money. Monaco in pre-season is the calm before the storm, and you’re soaking up every second of it.

“I’m just saying,” Carmen starts, pointing at a display window, “if you wear that to the paddock, Alex is going to crash into the pit wall.”

Lily snorts beside you. “He is going to crash anyway, but sure. Let’s blame the dress.”

You laugh, taking another sip of your coffee. “You two are menaces.”

“And yet,” Carmen says sweetly, “you are friends with us.”

You chuckle and the three of you walk into the boutique. Inside, the boutique smells like fresh leather and delicate perfume. You let your fingers skim over silk dresses and tweed jackets, the kind of pieces that look like they belong in a Vogue editorial—not an F1 paddock. But Carmen’s already in the back holding up shoes that could kill a man, and Lily’s trying on sunglasses in the mirror like she’s about to walk a red carpet.

You snap a few mirror selfies, mostly for yourself, but you know Instagram will get them later. The three of you float from rack to rack, gossiping, laughing, indulging. It feels easy. Familiar. Normal in the way your life never used to be, and yet somehow is now. There’s brunch after, on a little terrace tucked away from the main street. You order fruit and flaky croissants and something bubbly. Lily tells a story that has Carmen spitting orange juice, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in sunlight and friendship. You’re happy. Settled. Loved. What you don’t know—what you can’t know—is that across the city, your boyfriend is meeting someone who’s about to turn all of that upside down.

—

third person pov

Oscar had almost forgotten how loud training facilities could be when rookies were involved. He spotted Isack immediately—chatting animatedly with one of the trainers, all restless energy and too big ambition packed into a very fast, young driver.

“Piastri!” Isack called the second he noticed him, practically jogging over. “Hey, man. Thanks for doing this.”

Oscar raised a brow, amused. “Didn’t know I had a choice.”

Isack laughed, and Oscar noted the nervous edge to it. The kid was eager—not in a bad way. Just... hungry. The kind of energy Oscar remembered having himself not too long ago.

“Seriously, I appreciate it,” Isack continued. “It’s been... a bit overwhelming. Everyone’s either too busy or too intimidating.”

Oscar handed him a water bottle. “You’ll get used to it. The key is pretending like you belong until you actually do.”

“Fake it till you make it?”

“Exactly. And don’t crash. That helps too.”

Isack laughed again, this time looser. “Noted.”

They began the session with light drills, a bit of cardio, some quick coordination work. Isack was fast, sharp, and relentlessly chatty, peppering Oscar with questions about car setups, simulator quirks, and pre-race routines. Eventually, during a break, Oscar leaned back against a bench and took a sip of water.

“So,” Isack said, stretching his arms behind his head. “You live in Monaco with your girlfriend, right?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Isack gave him a look that was half curiosity, half admiration. “She’s the model, right? YN?”

Oscar smirked. “That’s her.”

Isack let out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Damn. She’s... she’s amazing.”

Oscar chuckled, not unkindly. “Yeah. She is.”

And that was it—just a comment. Harmless. But something flickered behind Isack’s eyes. Something curious. Something that hadn’t quite formed yet, but would. And Oscar—cool, composed, always two steps ahead—missed it completely.

—

your pov (2nd)

By the time you get back to the apartment, the sun has dipped low enough that the buildings outside are tinted pink and gold, and your heels are in your hand because you gave up on the idea of suffering five minutes ago. You open the door with your hip, already smiling.

“Oscar?” you call out, voice echoing softly down the hallway.

“In the kitchen!” comes the reply, muffled, cheerful, followed by the sound of cabinets opening and closing in that way he insists is not chaotic.

You kick off your shoes fully, drop your bags in the entryway, and pad in barefoot, finding him exactly as expected-in a McLaren hoodie, socks half off his feet, hair slightly messy from wherever he flopped earlier. He’s standing in front of the fridge like he’s forgotten why he opened it. He turns when he sees you, face brightening instantly.

“There’s my favorite person.”

“You say that,” you grin, walking over to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “but you haven’t even asked about my day yet.”

“I’m just assuming it was amazing because you were in it,” he says, smug, before wrapping his arms lazily around your waist. “Was it?”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Carmen and Lily are a terrible influence. I bought a pair of shoes that might require their own seat on the flight to Australia.”

He laughs, pulling back slightly to look at you. “How much damage did you do?”

“Enough to boost the economy.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Sounds necessary,” you shoot back.

You move over to sit on the couch as he grabs two glasses of water, joining you a moment later and kicking his legs up beside you like he hasn’t trained all afternoon. You take one look at him and raise an eyebrow.

“You look like someone who ran five miles and answered rookie questions for three hours straight.”

Oscar groans. “Pretty much. He is quite special.”

Your interest immediately piques. “Oh?”

He nods, passing you the glass. “Kid’s fast. Like… Max-level fast. And talks more than Lando after too many Monsters. But he’s cool. I think he’s nervous, but in a charming, I have no filter way.”

You take a sip, smirking. “You made a new friend.”

Oscar frowns dramatically. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

He nudges your knee with his. “He asked about you, by the way.”

You glance over, surprised. “Me?”

Oscar shrugs, casual. “Yeah. Just asked if you were the model. I said yeah, that’s her. He looked kind of stunned.”

You laugh softly. “Well, that’s flattering.”

Oscar grins, leaning back. “Yeah, enjoy it now. Wait until he sees you in person. He might short circuit.”

You roll your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “I’m just preparing myself for the moment my girlfriend becomes a rookie’s emotional support fantasy.”

You chuckle, eyes fluttering shut. “If he’s anything like you were your rookie year, he’ll be too busy trying not to throw up before races to flirt with anyone.”

Oscar hums thoughtfully. “Fair point.”

You both fall into a quiet, comfortable silence after that. Outside, Monaco glows. Inside, it’s just the two of you—legs tangled, matching heartbeats, the season creeping closer by the minute. And somewhere in the distance, fate takes one small step forward.

—

several weeks later...aus gp...rewriting history bc in my mind osc won his home race (im delulu)

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, isackhadjar and 7,001,008 others.

yourusername : oscar doubted me when i told him that i bought new heels bc the universe said he was gonna win his home race if i bought them...he made fun of me...but he won and i looked great in the heels. never underestimate the power of a good shoe. also i love australia.

tagged : nicolepiastri, oscarpiastri and lando

—

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oscarpiastri : okay fine. i’ll never question the shoe gods again.

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : mhm mhm that's what i thought piastri.

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : how about i buy you 5 new pairs to make up for it?

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : deal.

nicolepiastri : australia LOVES you. i missed you so much, my pretty girl.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : love you moreeee

lando : can you tell the shoe gods that lando needs help too?

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↳ yourusername : shoe gods say no...unless you buy me a pair.

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↳ lando : ...what size are you?

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franciscagomes : goddess. kiss me.

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↳ yourusername : on my way!!

liked by franciscagomes

hattiepiastri : the way that oscar literally did nothing to deserve your level of beauty is insane. so fun to see you sista:)

liked by yourusername, nicolepiastri and oscarpiastri

↳ yourusername : love you to the moon and back hattieeeee

isackhadjar : it is insane how beautiful you are in person. so nice to meet you, yn!

liked by oscarpiastri and yourusername

↳ yourusername : haha thank youuu. it was nice to finally meet the man who has been stealing my bf from me;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

third person pov

The hospitality suite buzzed with the usual pre-session tension, engineers huddled over screens, press staff darting between schedules. Outside, the sun was bright but not yet cruel, and the paddock was alive with noise—fans cheering just beyond the fences, radio chatter filling the air, tires squealing softly as cars rolled out of garages. Oscar and Isack were tucked away on a low couch in a shaded corner near the back, both of them in their race suits, helmets resting on the floor like sleeping animals. They had been hanging out a lot lately. More than Oscar probably realized. Training sessions, video games back at the hotel, quiet dinners when everyone else scattered after briefings. It had started as a mentor-rookie thing. Now, it was something else—something easier. Something closer. And yet, for the past few days, Isack had felt… off. He couldn’t quite name it. Not out loud.

Oscar nudged him with a water bottle. “You look like you’re buffering.”

Isack blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve just been staring at the garage for like two minutes,” Oscar said, smiling faintly. “You okay?”

“Oh—yeah. Just zoned out.”

He wasn’t lying, not really. He had zoned out, mostly because Oscar was leaning back against the wall, hair still slightly messy from his helmet fitting, eyes bright and full of that quiet determination Isack was beginning to know all too well. And that was the problem. Because lately, when Oscar smiled at him like that, Isack felt his chest tighten. Not in the normal, adrenaline fueled way. In the oh shit I’m not supposed to think that way.

Desperate to shake it off, he cleared his throat. “Where’s YN? Looking forward to meeting her.”

Oscar glanced up from the schedule in his hand. “Pilates class with my mum,” he said, voice casual. “Something about grounding her nervous system before the season starts.”

Isack blinked. “With your mum?”

Oscar laughed. “Yeah, they’re close. She loves YN more than me, I think. You’ll see her tomorrow. She’s coming with mum and my sisters.”

“Oh.” Isack looked away quickly, a little too quickly. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

Oscar reached down to grab his gloves, then looked over again, brow furrowed slightly. “You sure you’re good?”

Isack nodded quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just hungry, probably.”

Oscar didn’t push. Just stood and offered a hand to pull him up, his grip firm, warm, grounding. The kind of touch that made Isack’s heart stutter a little too sharply in his chest. He let go as fast as he could without it looking weird. Oscar slung his towel over his shoulder and started toward the garage, talking about the car setup, something about corner exit speeds and throttle response. Isack heard every word—and none of them.

His brain was stuck on one thing- YN. And Oscar. And them.

He’d barely met her, had only seen her on Oscar’s phone screen. But she was magnetic—gorgeous, smart, somehow both intimidating and welcoming all at once. And now she was in Pilates with Oscar’s mum, like it was the most natural thing in the world. They weren’t just dating. They were entwined. And he liked them both. Not just liked—he felt something. The kind of something that made his chest ache and his thoughts scatter. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Oscar turned back, grinning, the sun hitting his cheek just right. “Come on, rookie. Try not to crash into the wall this time.”

Isack forced a laugh and jogged to catch up. “No promises.”

But as they disappeared down the paddock tunnel together, something in his chest twisted—equal parts awe and confusion, affection and panic. Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a crush. It was two.

—

2nd pov

You arrive with the sun at your back and Oscar’s sisters clinging to both arms, talking a mile a minute about anything that comes to their minds. Nicole walks ahead with purpose, sunglasses on, carrying a huge cardboard cutout of Oscar's face, her protective energy leading the way through the paddock like she’s still half in mum mode, half in PR mode. You love being here—at the first race, in Oscar’s home country, surrounded by the buzz of something about to begin. The nerves haven’t hit yet, not properly. For now, there’s just warmth and momentum. You adjust your sunglasses and exhale, soft and content. And then you see him. Isack.

He’s standing just outside the McLaren garage next to Oscar, shorter frame half casual in his suit, towel slung over one shoulder. He looks distracted at first—until Oscar nudges him and the two of them begin walking toward you. You’ve seen photos. Heard stories. Watched him ramble his way through press duties with a charm that’s either accidental or scarily calculated. But in person, he’s different. Softer. Quieter in the face. There’s something curious in the way he looks at the world. In the way he looks at you.

Oscar grins and slides a hand around your waist without even thinking. “YN, this is Isack. Rookie. Bit of a menace. You’ll like him.”

You step forward slightly and offer him a smile, already amused by the boyish hesitation flickering behind his eyes.

“Nice to finally meet you, Isack,” you say, your voice warmer than you intend. “Oscar’s told me a lot.”

He stares for half a second too long before blinking out of it. “Only the good stuff, I hope?”

You drop your sunglasses just enough to meet his eyes. They’re brighter than you expected—like he hasn’t quite learned how to hide what he’s feeling.

You smile, slow and honest. “The very good stuff.”

Oscar gives your hip a gentle squeeze, grounding you. And still—still—you feel Isack’s gaze lingering.

It’s not creepy. Not even bold. It’s quiet, observant, almost reverent in a way you’re not used to. You’ve been around drivers for years—used to cockiness, confidence, bravado. Isack is none of that. Or maybe he is, just not with you. And that unsettles you more than it should. Oscar’s joking again—something about Isack being a fanboy—and you laugh, leaning into him, chin on his shoulder for a second. But you feel it. That tension in the air. That something.

And when you glance back toward Isack, you catch him looking again. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Like he knows he shouldn't be thinking what he’s thinking. And, god, part of you is thinking it too. Just for a second. You shake it off. Smile wider. Turn back to the girls and let Oscar lead you toward the garage. But the impression lingers. Like the heat of someone else’s stare clinging to your skin.

—

You’re wandering. Oscar’s still caught in media debriefs, and you’re killing time before dinner, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, sneakers scuffing along the pavement as the sun starts to dip behind the paddock buildings. The air smells like rubber and champagne residue, like adrenaline that hasn’t quite settled. And then you hear it—footsteps behind you, a shuffle, a clearing throat. You glance back. It’s him. Isack.

He’s changed out of his suit, hair still damp from the shower, black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, backpack half-zipped over one side. He looks surprised to see you—but not in a bad way. Just caught off guard.

“Hey,” he says. “Didn’t think I’d bump into you.”

You smile, casually slowing your pace so he can fall into step beside you. “Oscar’s still stuck with media. I’m avoiding fluorescent lighting until absolutely necessary.”

He laughs softly, glancing sideways. “You look different out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “I mean—not in the paddock. Less cameras. More… real?”

“Is that your polite way of saying I looked intimidating earlier?”

“No,” he says quickly, then grins. “Okay—yeah. A little. You walked in like you owned the place.”

“I walk like that everywhere,” you tease.

And he looks at you again—really looks. Like he's searching for something beneath the joke. There’s a pause, too long to be friendly, too quiet to be normal.

“Isack,” you say, breaking the silence, “are you always this intense with people you’ve known for two days?”

He flushes, just slightly. “Not usually.”

You don’t know what possesses you to say it, but you do—soft, playful, and just a little dangerous.

“Must be something in the air, then.”

Another pause. Another look. And then—

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” he says, quiet, like it’s a secret he didn’t mean to tell out loud.

You stop walking. Just for a beat. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how genuine it sounds. Like he doesn’t even want anything from you. Like he’s just saying it.

You meet his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” he replies, steady now. Bolder.

The tension curls between you like a wire pulled taut. And somewhere deep in your chest, you feel the twist of it, the ache of curiosity you’re trying hard to ignore. But it’s there. And it’s growing.

You break the moment with a smile—cool, composed, the way you’ve trained yourself to be. “You’re trouble, Hadjar.”

He shrugs, smirking faintly. “Only on weekends.”

You walk away before either of you can say anything else. But you feel him behind you. Still watching. Still wondering. And the worst part? You are too.

—

You’ve been flying for two hours, and Oscar is asleep. Not just half-asleep, either—fully knocked out, mouth slightly open, arms crossed like he’s trying to convince himself he didn’t lose consciousness mid-movie. You glance over your shoulder from your seat, already biting back a grin. The in flight light above him glows soft against the corner of his jaw, casting him in a kind of peaceful shadow. You’ll tease him about this later. You always do.

Isack chuckles from the seat across the aisle. “Out cold?”

You nod. “He made it exactly 27 minutes into Heat before he gave up. Record breaking, honestly.”

You turn back around, letting your head fall gently against the plush leather of the seat. Your legs are tucked beneath you, one of Oscar’s hoodies drowning your frame, headphones still tangled in your lap even though your playlist ended twenty minutes ago. Across from you, Isack shifts. Not fidgety—just restless in the way of buzzing with energy and nowhere to put it. He has one AirPod in, but you’re pretty sure he hasn’t played anything for a while either. He’s been stealing glances at you ever since Oscar fell asleep. And you haven’t stopped noticing.

It’s not weird. Not really. You’ve spent the past month getting closer. Training days. Dinners. Stolen jokes in the paddock while Oscar gave interviews. You three have become a unit—something unspoken and unlabelled. Something tight-knit. But it’s also not not weird. Because sometimes, Isack looks at you like he’s trying to commit you to memory. And other times, you catch yourself looking back. Right now is one of those times.

“You ever get tired of traveling?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

You blink yourself out of the haze. “Of planes or of never really being anywhere?”

“Both,” he says, eyes soft but serious.

You think about it. “Sometimes. It feels like living in between places, you know? Like you’re always packing a suitcase, but never fully unpacking one.”

Isack nods slowly. “Exactly.”

You shift a little in your seat, pulling your knees closer to your chest. “But then… there are moments like this. Where it’s quiet. Where everything slows down.”

He’s looking at you again. Like you’re saying something important even if you’re not.

“You make the in between feel kind of… okay,” he says quietly.

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s the kind of thing you should laugh off. The kind of thing that should sound like a compliment and nothing more. But it lands heavier than that. Like he meant it more than you were supposed to hear. You glance back toward Oscar. Still asleep. Still peaceful.

And then—“You’ve gotten close to him lately,” you murmur, eyes on Isack now.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”

You raise an eyebrow, inviting more. You’re not sure why.

“He’s... calm,” Isack says. “In a way that makes you want to be better. Not louder. Just… better.”

You nod, understanding in your chest like a pulse. “Yeah. He does that.”

Silence settles again. But this time it’s not awkward. It’s charged. And when you meet his eyes again, something shifts. There’s something fragile and curious hanging between the two of you, held together by the sound of the engines and the soft rhythm of Oscar’s breathing. Not quite guilt. Not quite tension. Something else. Something like possibility. You’re the one who breaks the stare first, heart hammering a little too loud in your chest. You tug your hoodie sleeve over your fingers and look down at your hands.

“We’re landing in about an hour,” you say.

Isack doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything right away. And then—

“Okay,” he says. But it’s not just an answer. It’s full of things unspoken.

Things that won’t stay quiet for much longer.

—

yourusername

liked by isackhadjar, oscarpiastri, lando and 9,997,005 others.

yourusername : spain just got an oscar piastri masterclass

tagged : oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

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username000 : everyone say thank you, oscar. and also… hello, isack?

oscarpiastri : the pre-race kisses from someone as beautiful as you really tends to help

liked by yourusername

↳ lando : kissing is banned from the garage. oscar cannot win anymore.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

↳ lando : did you even talk to the shoe gods after i bought you those manolos???

↳ yourusername : you won monaco, did you not?

liked by lando

↳ lando : good point. ok. proceed. not in front of me tho.

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

nicolepiastri : my favorite chaos. my babies

liked by yourusername and oscarpiastri

isackhadjar : photo credits for the boat pics??

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↳ yourusername : oh yes my b. isack is now my professional photographer everyone ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and isackhadjar

—

Oscar’s still flushed from the podium. Gold champagne dried into his collarbones, hair messy from the cap, medal still in his backpack. You barely made it through the hotel room door before he had his hands on you. Before he kissed you like the win still hadn’t fully hit him — like he needed you to ground it. To feel it. To come down from it. His mouth is on your neck now, slow and warm. His hands memorizing your waist like he hasn’t touched you a thousand times before. Your shirt is somewhere on the floor. His is tugged up and bunched under your palms, and the laugh that leaves his mouth when you whisper something smug. You pull him down on top of you, tangled in the hotel sheets, everything a blur of skin and warmth and wanting. It’s not rushed. It’s crackling. That kind of need that comes after months of tension and three back-to-back podiums and one long plane ride where you didn’t touch once. Oscar kisses you like he’s starving. You’re about to slip your hands into his waistband when the door opens. Not knocked. Not warned. Just… opened. You don’t register it at first. You think it’s room service. Or housekeeping. Or maybe your head’s just too foggy to care. But Oscar freezes. You glance over your shoulder. Isack.

He’s standing in the doorway, a bottle of champagne in one hand, wide-eyed, stunned, and completely silent. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something—anything—but he doesn’t. He just stares. At Oscar’s hand on your hip. At your lips, kiss-bruised and parted. At the space between your bodies — charged, half-naked, completely unbothered. You should panic. But you don’t. You just stare back. And something about the way he doesn’t look away — something in the way he’s still there, not leaving — twists deep in your stomach. Oscar looks at you, then at Isack, then back at you again. Waiting. Reading. Wanting. You reach down slowly, tracing your fingers up Oscar’s chest, your gaze still locked on the boy in the doorway.

“Are you just going to stand there,” you ask softly, voice like velvet, “or are you going to come in?”

Isack doesn’t move. Not at first. But then— He does. One step inside. Then another. The door doesn’t close. Oscar’s hand finds your thigh again. Yours slides to the waistband of his sweatpants. Isack lingers at the edge of the room, like if he breathes too loud he’ll wake up from something. You sit up slightly, hair falling down your back, pulse hammering behind your ribs.

“You don’t have to,” you say gently. “But if you want to…”

Isack’s eyes flick from your mouth to your hands to Oscar, who is watching him now with a look that borders on something between challenge and invitation.

“I—” he starts.

Then stops.

You tilt your head. “You trust us, don’t you?”

His breath catches. “Yeah.”

Oscar nods once, his voice calm but electric. “Then come here.”

And just like that, the space between you vanishes. Not hesitation. Not shame. Just three people— buzzing with want, burning with something unspoken, and no longer pretending it isn’t there.

—

The first light of dawn slips through the curtains, casting gentle gold stripes across the room. You stir awake to the steady rhythm of two sets of breathing—Oscar’s arm draped protectively around you, and Isack lying just a little apart, eyes closed but peaceful. The quiet morning feels like a warm, soft blanket after the intensity of last night. Careful not to wake Oscar, you slip out of his embrace and move toward Isack. His eyes open the moment you settle beside him.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He blinks, shyly smiling. “Morning, YN.”

For a long moment, you both sit in silence, the comfort of each other’s presence filling the space. Then he speaks, voice low and sincere.

“I wasn’t sure how to say it last night,” Isack admits, eyes searching yours with nervous honesty. “But... I think I’ve been feeling this way for a while. About you.”

Your chest tightens with warmth.

“It’s not just the moment, or the surprise of last night,” he continues steadily. “It’s you. The way you laugh, the way you care. I’ve admired you from afar, but being here... like this... it feels right.”

You reach out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Isack... that means more than you know.”

He swallows and smiles, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. “I was scared I’d mess it up, or that it was just a fantasy. But now... I want to see where this goes. With you. With Oscar too.”

Your heart swells at his honesty. This isn’t just a fleeting moment—it’s real. Messy, complicated, but beautiful. Oscar stirs then, rubbing his eyes, his gaze falling on you both. His smile is soft and knowing. “Morning, loves.”

You lean back between them, feeling the steady warmth of two people who fit perfectly with you.

“Good morning,” you say softly, wrapping your arms around them both. “Let’s figure this out together.”

Oscar stretches and grins. “So… I take it last night wasn’t just about the champagne and celebration?”

Isack chuckles nervously. “Definitely not.”

You smile, warmth spreading inside you. “We all surprised each other, didn’t we?”

Oscar’s gaze turns gentle but serious. “I want to be sure this is what we all want. It’s new for me, but I’m willing to try if you both are.”

Isack reaches out, taking Oscar’s hand. “I’m in. I don’t want to lose what we started.”

You squeeze both their hands. “Me too. I think this could be something really special.”

Oscar leans in, forehead resting against yours. “We’ll take it one day at a time. No rush, no pressure. Just us.”

You close your eyes, breathing in the moment and the quiet promise of something real and new. “One day at a time sounds perfect.”

Isack’s smile brightens. “This might just be the best race I’ve ever been part of.”

The three of you laugh softly, a laughter full of hope and tenderness. Together, in the soft morning light, you begin writing the first chapter of your story.

—

It wasn’t planned—none of this ever really was. But somehow, that made it better. Oscar had mentioned it offhand, leaning over the kitchen counter that morning with his hair still wet from the shower. “There’s this island off the coast. McLaren used it once for a shoot. Barely anyone knows about it. We could go.”

You’d looked at Isack, who was already perking up. “A secret island?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “You’re joking.”

Oscar grinned. “Completely serious. Private beach. No media. Just us.”

And just like that, you were packing sunscreen and a couple of towels, grabbing whatever food you could find and piling into a small rented boat. The sea was glassy and blue, the sun already high, and Isack leaned against you the whole ride, humming softly to the playlist Oscar had thrown on.

The moment your feet hit the sand, it felt like another world. The island was wild and quiet—nothing but dunes, stone, and open sky. Oscar dropped the bags onto the beach with a satisfied sigh.

“Told you it was real,” he said, casting you both a smug look.

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. You win.”

Isack was already barefoot, running up the slope toward the ruins like a kid. “This place looks like something out of a dream,” he called over his shoulder.

You spent the day tangled up in each other. Exploring barefoot along the cliffs, your hand in Oscar’s while Isack lagged behind, taking photos of the way your fingers fit so easily together. He caught up to you eventually, sliding his arm around your waist as you both leaned into Oscar’s side, three shadows falling across the rocks in the warm afternoon light. At one point, you all ended up lying on a blanket that Oscar had miraculously remembered to bring. Isack was curled against your side, his head on your stomach, while Oscar laid beside you, feeding you grapes.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, laughing as he popped another one into your mouth.

He grinned. “Say that again after I feed you strawberries later.”

Isack groaned. “God, I’m third wheeling the softest couple.”

You looked down at him with a teasing smile. “You’re literally cuddling us, Isack."

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, grinning up at you, “that doesn’t mean I’m not dramatic.”

When the sun began to dip low, painting the sea in orange and gold, you all swam in the shallows—laughing, shouting, splashing each other until your cheeks ached. Oscar launched Isack into the water at least three times- you tried to help him retaliate, only to be swept up in the chaos, soaked and breathless. By the time the sky faded into pink, the three of you were wrapped in oversized towels, perched against the old stone wall of the villa ruins. Your legs tangled with theirs. Oscar’s fingers laced through yours. Isack nestled on Oscar’s lap, absently drawing circles on your knee.

“This is the happiest I’ve been in a really long time,” Isack said quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind.

You glanced at him, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Me too.”

Oscar rested his chin on your shoulder. “I wish we could freeze this moment.”

You smiled. “Who says we can’t come back?”

Isack tilted his head, giving you a sleepy, sun-warmed smile. “Yeah... we should make it our spot.”

“Our island,” Oscar added.

“Ours,” you echoed.

And in that soft hush of a Spanish sunset, with the waves below and the warmth of their bodies around you, you felt something settle—something whole and terrifying and beautiful. Whatever this was, it was real. And it was yours.

—

oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri : my girlfriend and i found a boyfriend:)

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permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 · 1 day ago

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this. this. yes, it's the state of fandom and fanfiction in general, now. there's no real way of telling whether or not it will change. but my gosh is it ever disheartening, and honestly terribly sad to see that this is the way it will continue to go, if things remain the same as they are, right now.

now, before anyone comes at me with them, I've heard the myriad of reasons why a person might choose not to comment or leave kudos. they're shy. they forget. they don't want to leave a "footprint" on this wild little place known as the internet. they fear retaliation and hostility from authors who misinterpret comments left in good faith, and any number of other reasons, as well. and I want to make it abundantly clear that this is by no means an attempt on my part to dismiss or invalidate those reasons. at the end of the day, if someone doesn't want to interact with a given work, they won't, and as much as that may sadden me, I fully respect it as their choice. a comment that comes organically, because someone feels moved to leave it is far better than one that is forced or pressured in any way, and that is a hill I will die on.

that said, though, we will continue to lose people who are willing to share their works with us, if this trend continues. it's just a fact. while I make no attempt to speak for all of us, there are so, so many people I know that write for themselves, sure, but they share their work in the hopes that at least one (1) other person out there will be moved by what they've created. they share in the hopes that said other person will maybe want to interact with them because of it. whether the interaction leads to an unexpected friendship and mutual discussion of fic plots and characters and new releases of our favorite series, or not, the hope for it is there. the heartbreak is there, too, when we, as creators, post something we're particularly proud of, and receive nothing but silence in response. it's there when we try to make sure we present a face that is receptive to feedback and interaction. when we encourage comments, and ask questions of our readers, and yet still...silence. sure, if we're passionate about what we're creating, and/or the themes/ideas we're trying to convey, we can push on. we should push on, because I, for one, am so beyond tired of a world that tries to stifle people, and drown their voices out because they don't "fit the mold" of normal that is determined by some nameless, faceless majority. but to continue doing so, and to continue to receive silence in response? to be called 'entitled' by some readers, because we dare to ask for something...anything...other than crickets, and the sensation that we're shouting into the void?

it's really no wonder that some may choose to move on to other things.

while I've never experienced what OP's friend has with Discord, I can only imagine that such a situation only makes what I've already mentioned above so much more discouraging. it must make those it has happened to wonder what on earth is the point? if everyone is too busy sharing their reactions in their isolated little groups without ever deigning to let the creator know their feelings, or just mass-consuming it and moving on to the next thing ten seconds later, as if the first thing that caught their attention never even existed, why are we even bothering to do this at all? again, I do not speak for everyone, but I daresay the majority of us are not trying to be the next big name author. we're not trying to 'make it big' at all. this is a hobby, that we do for free, in our (mostly) limited free time, and anymore, we largely receive absolutely nothing in return. we pour pieces of ourselves out there into the world, completely free of charge. we make ourselves vulnerable in ways that are often ugly. real. to many, silence in the face of that vulnerability is exactly the same as the dismissiveness and invalidation we've already received when we're that 'real' anywhere else in our lives. it drives home the thought that our voices do not matter, and thus we should not bother speaking. and no, society and our readers at large are not responsible for our vulnerability and our emotions and our traumas that we sometimes place upon our characters as a means of processing them. but even if we aren't opening ourselves up to our readers, if it's genuinely all in "good fun", we can't legally monetize it, interaction is our form of 'earnings' from this, and by and large that sort of thing is rare, and has been for quite a while. and sure. people can read and abandon fics at will, with or without leaving some trace of their presence along the way. that is well within their right. but I have also seen these same individuals go on to harrass the creators of works that have been abandoned or deleted for doing so, despite never once trying to show any form of appreciation at all. and then they have the nerve to call us entitled for wanting that appreciation in the first place.

the fact that the "social media-ification" of fanfiction (it is not Instagram, no matter how so many may treat it as such) and the quite honestly despicable behavior from a loud minority of touchy authors who have now effectively ruined commenting for so many of the rest of us has made fanfiction what it is today is just...heartbreaking. it really, really is. and while I personally plan to stick around and do my best to fight the demons in my mind that tell me no interaction means that no one cares about my stories so I should just stop writing them, not everyone will. we're all incredibly foolish if we believe otherwise, and honestly, as awful as I feel saying it "out loud"?

if fandom culture doesn't see a change soon, and more and more talented authors continue dropping like flies?

we'll deserve it.

tl;dr? creators are not robots, people. we aren't content-mills, put on this earth specifically to serve the bidding of consumers, on their timeline, and not our own. but what do I know, right?

I'm just a so-called "entitled" author who thinks interaction with our work, no matter how small, shouldn't be a thing that we have to try to pull from behind stubbornly gritted teeth.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

#fanfiction #fanfic #writer stuff #ao3 #on writing #oops the pigeon just climbed on another soapbox #apparently i am in something of a 'mood' today folks don't mind me #pigeon rambles

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