#funny stories with and from friends are everything

[f1withespresso]

everything you ever wanted | pt. 17

✎ — oscar piastri x fem!teammate!reader

✎ — summary: They were teammates. Friends. Maybe lovers. But McLaren lets their drivers race, and as the championship slips into chaos, ambition corrodes everything. Two rising stars, one world title, and a rivalry so personal it bleeds. Love isn’t gone. It’s just buried under throttle, heartbreak, and the will to win.

✎ — chapter word count: +5.1k

✎ — radio: i love this chapter so much and i hope you do too! also let me know what you think of switching up the story telling, like including a dts-episode in this one? I think it's kinda fun! Playlist is at the bottom, have a pleasant day <3 also happy Carlos-Day to all the Williams fans who celebrate!

series masterlist

The episode of „Drive to Survive“ opens with a shaky frame: a wide shot of Singapore’s skyline, aglow in gold haze and humidity. A sharp cut brings it to the revolving glass doors outside of the hotel. The camera catches the glint of your sunglasses before you reach up to slide them off, face half-shadowed in the midday light. Your voice comes from behind the lens. “Hello Netflix and dear world. Okay, welcome to chaos,” you say brightly.

„This is all a bit rough here, I’m sorry. I’m not perfect. Now it’s out on display for everyone to see.“ You are referring to your hotel room. The suitcase has exploded across the bed — clothes, socks, compression sleeves, protein bars, your laptop charger tangled with a sports bra. You point at the mess. “I swear it’s organised disaster,” you say with a dry grin. “We’re working with layers here: travel chaos, emotional chaos, championship chaos. Triple threat, you know. Never let them know your next move.” You plop onto the bed, legs crossed, still in the hoodie you wore for the plane ride, and toss a glance to the camera. “This is what peak performance looks like. From what I’ve seen every driver’s hotel room looks like that. Well probably not every driver’s. I bet Georg hangs all of his clothes. Or like Gabriel. He also looks like the kinda guy who knows what hangers are for. His momma raised him well, probably.” It’s funny. You’re funny. And relaxed. But there’s something practiced in it — the kind of charm that runs on muscle memory.

Thursday, 3:42 p.m. – Hotel Gym The camera shifts now to a low angle shot as you push open the glass door into the gym. You’re in sleek black leggings, hair locked into a pony tail, water bottle in hand. You hold the phone they gave you in your hand, the camera fixed on your face as you try to enter — but freezes for a beat. Oscar’s there. Drenched in sweat, towel slung around his neck. He doesn’t smile, but he nods. You nod back. It’s polite. Civil. Too quiet. He walks past you, barely brushing shoulders. You don’t look back. You still hold the camera to your face, a beat later. You glance towards it, expression unreadable. You raise your brows. Deadpan: “Well. That was awkward.” You slide onto the treadmill, start your warm-up. The next two minutes are filmed in silence — you stretch, lift, breathe. Muscles straining. Shoulders squared. It’s clear: you’re not just training your body. You’re burning the "ahead of the race"-anxiety out of your bloodstream.

Friday, 6:45 p.m. – Rooftop Pool A wide drone shot pans across the rooftop of the Hilton — neon lights from the city glimmering in the water. You, Kimi, and Ollie float in the pool, shoulders beneath the surface. The moment feels cinematic. You're the only one not talking. Ollie cannonballs back in from the rim. Kimi splashes him like an annoyed brother. You laugh into the camera — a real, teeth-baring, head-thrown-back laugh — and then it cuts sharply into the silence of the night. You tip your head back, letting the water lap against your chin. For a second, the camera lingers on your profile — moonlight, droplets on your cheekbones, your eyes closed. When you speak again, it’s to the boys: “If I qualify P10 tomorrow because I'm tired, I’m blaming you guys.” “Blame Ollie,” Kimi says quickly. “Blame Kimi,” Ollie says louder. You shake your head and your eyes snatch towards the camera. “Fucking children, I’m telling y’all.” But your smile stays soft.

Friday, 8:01 p.m. – Dinner at a Streetside Hawker Market No makeup. Loose hair. The camera is low across the table as you fork into some dish and immediately wince. “That is so damn spicy. My mouth is fighting back.” Kimi slides over a different dish. Ollie tries to steal your dumpling. You slap his hand away. “Do I look like I’m running a charity?” you say, half-laughing. “Eat your own stupid food, baby driver.” They both look at you, open-mouthed. You point a chopstick at Ollie. “Or I will sabotage your car,” you tease. But there's a comfort in the way you say it — your role in their dynamic has shifted. Not just another rookie (well ex-rookie). You’re more like a big sister now. Trusted. Respected. Loved. No Oscar in sight. He hasn’t been in frame once since that little moment at the gym.

 Friday, 9:30 p.m. – Hotel Room, Post-Dinner Close-up of your face in the mirror, half-lit by the bathroom vanity. You’re toweling off your hair. There’s sweat still at your temples, because even at night it's unbearably hot in Singapore. You’re not looking at the camera. But your voice comes in as narration: “Singapore is fucking brutal, let me tell you. This race eats us drivers alive. Like it’s super hot and it’s loud, but also the track is stupid complicated. And crazy thing about it is, it’s exactly where I want to be.” You smile tiredly at the camera. 

You sit cross-legged on the bed, the suit case chaos has now been moved to the floor of the hotel room, hair still wet at the edges around your face from where you did your skin care, pajamas wrinkled. The camera focuses in on your eyes — tired but bright. “I don’t think people realise how lonely this sometimes gets. Like the traveling around the world every other week part. It’s the best job in the world, yeah. But some days it’s just you, the track, and the noise in your head.” There’s a long pause. Then you flash a smile. Half real, half survival instinct.

“Well, Anyway. It’s a big race weekend. I’m ready.” The vlog cuts to black. Text appears across the screen: "Singapore Grand Prix “ And over the credits, your laugh echoes from the rooftop pool.

username1 she’s training like the championship depends on it (bc it does) 🥵 username3 cut the cameras deadass 😭😭 the “that was awkward” with oscar… NETFLIX GIVE US THE RAW FOOTAGE username4 if loving her is wrong then i never wanna be right 💅💅 username6 this is why DTS is ruining F1 🙄 just race and stop the drama edits username9 no cause her avoiding oscar like the plague is SO girlcoded username10 the dts editor watching that “that was awkward” clip: 📁 > season finale

The heat sits on your chest like a boulder as you go into Qualifying on Saturday. Even in the dark, Singapore is glowing — too much light, not enough air. The halo hums with fluorescent reflections. The crowd roars past the tight walls of the circuit, but everything sounds distant, muffled. You blink. Sweat collects at your brow, your jaw, behind your ears. The visors are anti-fog, and yet… You can’t see clearly. Not tonight. “Radio check,” you murmur, rolling out of the garage in Q1. “Loud and clear. Let’s build gently. Track temp’s still dropping — watch rear deg. You’ve got this.” But the heat isn’t just in the track. It’s inside your helmet, pooling behind your knees, slipping down your spine. You try to shake it off — reset. One breath. Then another. You swing through Sector 1 like you always do — smooth, tidy, no excess motion. The car responds, but your mind doesn’t. Something lags. By Q3, the streetlights blur. Yellow bleeds into orange, red into violet. The whole world looks like soup. “I can’t see,” you say on the radio, voice sharp, but not panicked. “Everything’s glowing. I feel like I’m driving through the hyperspace in Star Wars.” A pause. Then your engineer: “Copy. You’re doing great, [Y/N]. Eyes forward — reset brake bias, Mode 6. Just do your lap.” You grit your teeth. Throttle down. Sector two comes alive beneath your tires — you attack the apex, carve the chicanes, fly under the hotel. But when you cross the line, it’s not enough. P4. Strong. Controlled. But not the razor-sharp precision of the last few weeks. Not like Silverstone or Monza. Not like a championship leader. You peel off the gloves slowly in the pit lane behind the other cars. Your hands are drenched, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’ve been holding the wheel. The helmet comes off last. Your hair clings to your forehead. The lights burn your eyes. Ten meters in front of you, Oscar climbs out of his McLaren. Helmet raised. Arms wide. The engineers swarm him with claps and cheers. Pole position. His first since Hungary. It should sting more than it does — but mostly, you’re just… tired.

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The air in Singapore is thick and shimmering under the lights, the Marina Bay Street circuit radiating heat long after the cars have gone silent. The Sky Sports F1 team stands just off the pit lane, the sound of cooldown laps and hurried mechanics fading into the background as the broadcast kicks off. David Croft adjusts his earpiece, eyes flicking between the timing screens and the paddock chaos behind him. “Well, well, well — Oscar Piastri puts himself back on top tonight with a stellar lap under the lights,” he says, voice sharp with excitement. “That’s a big statement in this title fight.” Naomi Schiff doesn’t look away from the monitor, arms folded across her chest. “And look, he’s been under the microscope lately — the media fallout, the teammate drama, everything — this was a statement of intent. That lap was beautiful. Just flawless.” Nico Rosberg tilts his head, almost like he’s still processing the shift in dynamic. “[Y/N] down in P4… not what we’re used to seeing from her,” he says, a faint edge of surprise in his tone. “She’s been in god-mode these past races, but I think tonight we’re just seeing… she’s human.” Karun Chandhok nods along, tapping a finger against the barrier. “Absolutely. The radio told us a lot. She sounded disoriented — not in the car sense, but sensory overload. Singapore does that. The lights, the heat, it’s oppressive. The margins are so fine.” Croft glances back at the screen as a replay of her final sector plays in slow motion. “You could hear it in her voice — she’s still pushing, still professional, but that doesn’t sound like a driver at 100%. And yet, P4. That tells you everything about her base level.” The camera lingers on the McLaren garage in the distance. One side erupts in quiet celebration. The other… not so much.

username1 oscar gets one pole after five mid races and suddenly we’re in his racing god arc?? You lot called [Y/N] “overrated” after one P5. Be serious username2 Piastri drove a perfect final lap. Clean, technical, pressure-proof. Championship material. No notes username3 Oscar didn’t “return to form” — the track suited him. [Y/N] has been consistently adapting to all kinds of circuits. But go off I guess username4 Imagine watching [Y/N] carry an entire constructor’s title and still saying Oscar is “the true racer.” Some of y’all are so unserious username5 To be fair… [Y/N] did look kinda rattled today. Haven’t seen her that sweaty since Spa. Oscar might actually have a shot at this if she keeps slipping username8 mclaren stans when Oscar spirals: “he needs support, he’s under pressure 🥺 McLaren stans when [Y/N] struggles: “she’s slipping, must be her contract distractions” okay misogyny username9 Oscar wins pole: “mental resilience, true champion” [Y/N] wins pole: “she got lucky with the setup” Tell me you’re threatened by competent women without telling me username11 Not me seeing the same people who cried about Oscar’s meltdown after Monza now stanning him for being “cool and calm” because he nailed a quali lap 😭 be so fr

Your engineer meets you in the garage with a bottle of cold water and a hand on your shoulder. “You did well. That was a brutal session, and you brought it home clean. No mistakes. Let’s recover and go again tomorrow.” You nod, eyes closed for a moment, just letting the cold bottle press to your forehead. You want to be disappointed. You should be. But you’re too exhausted to be anything except present. Breathing. Standing. Alive. Oscar’s laughter drifts from the other side of the garage wall. It’s a rare sound. Full-throated. Light. You smile grimly to yourself. Let him have it. Let him celebrate. Tomorrow, the lights go out. And you’ll be ready. Even if the whole world still looks like soup.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The media pen is lined with light panels and microphones — artificial brightness cutting through the already blinding haze of the Marina Bay night. Your fireproofs are sticking to your back, the collar damp, sweat pooling at the small of your back. The air smells like burnt rubber and exhaustion. You blink against the flashes as the first microphone is pushed forward. A Sky Sports mic. "Tough session tonight, [Y/N]. Can you walk us through what made it so difficult?“ You take a breath. Not too long — if you hesitate, they’ll write it as a crack. “It’s Singapore,” you say, voice measured. “The lights, the heat, the corners coming at you like punches — there’s no margin for error. I'd rather start P4 than end up in the wall. It’s as simple as that.” A few nods from reporters. One of them raises a hand again. "Was it the car, or… maybe something mental? There’s been a lot of noise about Red Bull, Oscar, contracts—„ Your jaw tics, but you keep the smile on. “I’ve driven harder with the car in worse conditions,” you reply. “The car was fine. The track was just… intense tonight. And I expect it to be intense tomorrow as well. But I’m fine, tough. I’ve managed worse.” They take it as a win — another soundbite. You glance sideways and catch a glimpse of Oscar a few feet down the pen, fielding questions of his own. "Oscar — pole tonight after a pretty rough few weeks. How’s it feel to be back up there?“ He exhales through his nose, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His race suit looks stiff with dried sweat. “Yeah, it’s nice to be back in control,” he says. “It’s been a tough stretch. But this track rewards precision, and tonight we nailed it. Hopefully I stay there tomorrow.” "What changed between last weekend and now?“ “Maybe I stopped overthinking. Maybe the car just finally listened,” he says with a small smirk. “Maybe both.” There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes, but it’s not relief. It’s a glint. Maybe even something close to hunger. You look away just as your own mic is lifted again. "And Oscar’s pole — any thoughts on his return to form? How does that affect the title fight?“ You keep your expression steady. “He drove well,” you say simply. “We both want this title. That’s always been clear. But I’m in a good leading position in terms of the championship, so I’m not worrying too much about Oscar right now.” And with that, you're done. You step away from the pen. Behind you, Oscar is still talking. And this time, the media listens. Not to your composure, not to your clean answers or quiet excellence — but to the man who fell, and might now be rising again. Just for tonight.

The Race – Piastri's Pole: A Statement or a Spark? After weeks of underwhelming results and growing speculation, Oscar Piastri returns to the front row with a scorching lap under the Marina Bay lights. “We’ve seen Oscar on the back foot lately, but tonight reminded everyone why he’s in this fight,” says Jolyon Palmer. Meanwhile, teammate [Y/N][Y/LN] looked drained in a rare dip of form — P4, and visibly spent. The championship leader isn’t slipping, but for the first time in weeks, she looked human.

formula1.com – Oscar Piastri Storms to Singapore Pole as [Y/N][Y/LN] Battles Brutal Conditions It was the perfect night for Oscar Piastri and a punishing one for his title rival and teammate. While Piastri nailed Q3 and closed strong to secure pole, [Y/N][Y/LN] struggled with heat and visibility, settling for P4. “I’d rather be safe and P4 than start from the pit lane,” [Y/LN] said after the session, choosing control over heroics. McLaren leaves Saturday with one driver on top and the other under the microscope — for now.

Autosport – Has the Championship Momentum Shifted Again? It’s been [Y/N][Y/LN]’s story since Monza — dominance, upgrades, grace under pressure. But tonight, the tide turned. “Piastri’s performance was surgical,” says former champion Nico Rosberg. “And when one teammate stumbles, the other must capitalize. That’s what Oscar did.” There’s no drama in the McLaren garage… yet. But the paddock is watching.

The heat inside the cockpit on race day is relentless once again, pressing down on you like a vise. Your breath hitches with every sharp turn; sweat streams under your helmet, mixing with the grit on your skin. Your hands grip the wheel tight enough to bruise, knuckles white with strain. Each lap is a tunnel of noise—tires screeching, engines roaring, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. “[Y/N], your brake temps are climbing, we can't have that” your engineer’s calm voice cuts through the chaos. You adjust, legs trembling as you trailblaze through the tight Singapore street circuit. The radio buzzes again. “Gap to P3 is two seconds. You can catch Russell.” Your heart spikes. You push harder, muscles screaming, vision narrowing to the apex of the next corner. Your mind flashes back to the overtake—how you squeezed through with millimeters to spare, the car sliding just enough before biting back on the throttle. “Good move, [Y/N]. That was great.” A rush of adrenaline, but the fight isn’t over. You feel every shard of exhaustion setting into your bones. From the commentary booth, the voice crackles through the broadcast. “An incredible display of precision from [Y/LN]—that move for P3 was something else. You can see the strain, but she’s fighting through every ounce of it.”

The laps crawl by. Up ahead, Oscar is flawless—no mistakes, no mercy. Verstappen stays glued to his tailpipe, pressure mounting in the championship race. Finally, the checkered flag waves. “P3,” you hear from the pit. “Outstanding job today—well deserved.” Oscar crosses before cleanly, a flawless victory. Verstappen slots in behind him, tightening the points gap just a little more. You coast into the cool-down room, muscles twitching, lungs burning. The screens flicker to life with race highlights—the moment of your overtake glows larger than life. “Look at that—you got it there,” Max murmurs nearby. You sink into the chair, every part of you trembling but still awake. The battle was brutal, but you survived.

As you step onto the podium, the roar of the crowd is washing over you like a tidal wave. Oscar’s grin is genuine, pure triumph lighting his features for the first time in ages. Max’s expression is tight but respectful. You wear a tired smile, the pride of having fought back lingering in your bones. The Australian national anthem plays, the three of you soaking in the fleeting moment of victory. For a heartbeat, you forget the distance growing between you and Oscar—the championship, the rivalry, the strain.

Then, sitting side by side with Oscar and Max, the cool air of the press conference room is a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the track. Your posture is controlled but tells its own story—shoulders heavy, eyes tired. “It was a tough race out there,” you say evenly. “Singapore takes everything from you. Finishing P3 after pushing so hard feels like a win in itself.” Oscar nods beside you, calm and centered. “I’m just happy to be back in front. It felt right today.” The questions come fast, but you hold steady, masking the fatigue with professionalism. The slight imbalance between you and Oscar is clear — he’s soaring tonight, and it's you who is trying to survive.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

The lounge at the airport feels like a vacuum. Soundless. Sterile. A liminal space between departure and delay, full of hollow luxury — cool marble floors, designer coffee tables, low golden lighting that softens everything but your thoughts. You sit tucked into a corner chair, knees pulled up, phone untouched in your lap, headphones on. The Singapore Grand Prix still clings to you in invisible ways — in the ache behind your eyes, the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your pulse hasn’t fully slowed down. Your hoodie sleeve is damp at the elbow where your arm rests against your ribs, but you have to keep it one because the A/C is so overpowered in this place. You’ve been sitting like this for twenty minutes. Maybe more. Across the room, Oscar scrolls aimlessly through his phone. He’s changed out of his team kit. White T-shirt. Backpack at his feet. Hair curling effortlessly. You don’t expect him to come over. You haven’t said a word to each other since the press conference — when he answered everything calmly, cleanly, like none of it had ever touched him. But then — footsteps. Hesitant. Slower than they used to be. As if he had heard your thoughts. He stops a few feet away. “Hey.” Your eyes flick up. You nod. “Hey.” Silence. “How are you?” he asks, shifting his weight between his feet, “After the race, I mean.” You shrug lightly. “Hot. Sore. Ready for a week’s worth of sleep, if I’m being honest with you.” Oscar chuckles, the sound tight in his throat, “Yeah. Singapore always feels like racing through a sauna.” You hum in agreement, expecting the conversation to wither there. But he lingers. “I watched your move on George again,” he adds. “Lap 44. Very slick, I must say.” You nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, well. I knew if I didn’t go for it then, I wouldn’t get another chance. And you know what Ayrton Senna said –” "–if you no longer go for a gap that exists, you are no longer a racing driver", he chimes in with you as you quote the legend. It makes the corner of your mouth twitch up. Oscar exhales, then gestures to the seat beside you. “Do you mind if I—?” You shake your head. You are a little uncomfortable, but you don’t let it show. “Go ahead.” He sinks into the chair, awkward in that quiet way people get when they don’t know if they’re allowed to stay. His knee brushes yours — just barely — before he shifts to give you space. But the ghost of that touch lingers. For a while, neither of you says anything. The lounge buzzes with the low hum of the TV in the corner, espresso machines hissing behind the bar, occasional murmurs from passing staff. It’s peaceful. Or it would be, if your chest didn’t feel like it was wrapped in invisible barbed wire. Oscar clears his throat. “Has [Y/S/N] been to any races lately? I don't think I've seen them...” You shake your head. “Not any this season, yet. They say they’ll try for Vegas.” “Good pick,” he says, tone light. “Big show. They're gonna love it. The casinos too, from how I know them.” You glance sideways, smirking at him. “What about your mum? She still threatening to show up and embarrass you in the paddock?” A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “She’s gunning for Brazil, actually. Called me after the race and threatened me.” “Oh?” He chuckles under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah. Congratulated me. Told me I looked happy for once.” You raise a brow. “And?” “She said—” he pauses, a little sheepish, “—that if we didn’t sort our shit out soon, she’d fly to the MTC and slap sense into both of us.” That pulls a laugh out of you. Real, surprised, and quietly aching. “She always was your biggest fan,” you say. He smiles. It softens something in his face — something defensive and tired that finally slips. “She still is,” he says. “Yours too.”

There’s a beat. Then you nudge his knee with yours, just barely.  He looks at you, and for a second, it’s like no time has passed. Just you, him, and the mess between you that never stopped mattering. A breath. Then, lighter now, he leans back slightly, fingers drumming on his thigh. “Do you remember last year? Same flight. Same chairs. Same exhaustion.” You tilt your head, pretending to think. “The one where I—” “—ate that sketchy crab dish from the post-race catering,” he finishes, grinning now. “And spent the entire twelve-hour flight sprinting to the bathroom.” You groan and sink deeper into the chair, buring your reddening face into your knees. “Don’t remind me.” “You made it ten minutes into takeoff before you turned green.” “And you laughed at me.” “And I held your hair,” he says, mock-offended. “Every single time. That deserves some serious recognition.” You roll your eyes, but your smile stays. “Yeah, but you also told the flight attendant I was dying. That woman was stressed because of you.” “She thought you had dengue.” You laugh again — that kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deeper than amusement. It softens the space between you. For a second, you can feel it again. The old ease. The affection that never really disappeared, just got buried beneath all the silence. You don’t say it out loud, but you both remember everything about that flight. How he tucked you into the flatbed seat between runs to the bathroom. How he curled around you after, rubbing your back as the skyline of Singapore disappeared beneath the clouds. How he whispered, almost sleepily, “Still want to do this forever?” and you mumbled „yes“ without even thinking. You were a mess then and thought you couldn’t feel worse. And somehow still you were better then than now. Oscar’s voice pulls you back to the present. “You’ve been incredible this year,” he says. “I know I haven’t said it as much as I should’ve. But I’ve watched every race back. And you’ve… you’ve stepped up. More than anyone.” You exhale, tension rising in your chest again. “I don’t feel incredible.” “You should. You’re still leading the championship.” “By barely 20 points,” you say. “And only because you had such a slump the past races” Oscar shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still leading and rightfully so I'd say. Though never tell anyone I admitted to that.” You glance over. He’s watching you now. Open. Unafraid. It makes you feel naked. “Well you had a good season too, for the most part at least,” you say quietly. “You’ve found your rhythm again. It suits you.” He smiles, but it’s thin around the edges. “Took me long enough.” A pause. Then, softer: “Are you happy?” The question lands harder than it should. Not because of what it asks — but because of who’s asking. You look down at your hands. “I’m leading the championship. I should be, shouldn’t I.” He nods. Swallows hard. The weight of it all settling into his shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about… all of this,” he says after a beat. „It’s all any of us always wanted, right?” You glance at him. „What d’you mean?“, you mumble in confusion. “Since we were kids,” he continues, staring out the window now, “to be here. On this level. Winning races in Formula 1. Fighting for the damn world title. It’s everything all of us dreamed of when we were racing go-karts. Or graduating into F2.” You nod once. “It is.” He swallows. “Then why does it feel like I’m losing something?”

You say nothing. Oscar presses his lips together like he regrets saying it. But then: “I keep thinking about how we got here. All the things we did to get to this moment. All the… sacrifices. The choices.” You know what he means. And what he doesn’t say. He turns his head slowly toward you. “I thought I was doing the right thing all of this season. Focusing. Putting everything else aside. But I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, I think I forgot how to protect the things that mattered.” Your voice is barely a whisper, tears starting to form on your waterline. You fight them. “People aren’t things you put aside, Oscar.” He flinches, just a little. “I know,” he says. “I know that now.” Overhead, the boarding call for your flight cuts clean through the quiet. You rise, slow and deliberate, brushing your palms against your thighs. Oscar stands too, like he wants to hug you. Like friends do, when a guest leaves the house to catch their bus. His eyes search yours, desperate for something to hold onto. You don’t offer him anything. Not yet. But you give him this: “I hope you get everything you ever dreamed of, Oscar.” A beat. His throat bobs as he swallows. “Just…” You pause, letting the words land before you speak. “Maybe next time, try not to hurt the people who care about you the most in the process.” He doesn't answer. Can’t. You pick up your bag. Sling it over your shoulder. You walk away without looking back. The door to the gates slides closed behind you with a soft mechanical sigh. Oscar stands frozen, still watching the space where you were. His hands twitch at his sides. He sinks slowly back into the chair, jaw clenched, eyes glassy with all the things he had no time to say. He wants to chase after you. Say something more. Anything. But he knows — whatever apology he’s just now beginning to find would be too late. You were right. He fought fo everything he thought he wanted. But he wasn’t leading the championship. And he still managed to lose something that mattered even more. For the first time since the season began, he feels it — not anger, not ambition. Regret. Deep. Quiet. Bone-deep. The kind that doesn’t scream. It lingers instead. Long after you’re gone. Something worth keeping. And he let it break him once more.

📍Singapore

liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and 2.803.248 others

yourusername i'm just glad i made it through the weekend without food poisoning 😗

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mclaren A weekend of resilience. We go again in Austin 💪🧡

oscarpiastri would hold your hair again, though, if required ↳ username1 i need the lore on this

maxverstappen1 Still waiting for my dinner invite 🙄

redbullracing Singapore might’ve been humid but that pressure is looking dry 😏

kimi.antonelli You literally yelled at me for suggesting sushi never again!

username2 the actual definition of “soft launch mental breakdown” 😭 someone pls give her a hug

username3 not her and Oscar both going back to being insanely fast the minute the other one wins. Can’t decide if they’re rivals or twin flames

username4 do NOT let this casual food blog energy fool you — she’s still championship leader. Still that girl

username5 Oscar back in the likes and comments on [Y/N]'s posts? Balance restored tbh

username6 her being visibly off her game and still finishing P4 is insane. That’s the worst race of her season?? People are fighting for single-digit points out here

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[angelicbyhoon]

Hyung line: Meeting their family for the first time 

Genre: fluff 

word count: 2474

a/n: ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ་ Hey guys, it’s Halo, this took me a couple of days to write and edit, so I’m sorry for the delays. It’s slightly suggestive in Jake's, but that's about it. My asks are open, so feel free to request :) I’m working on the maknae line now, but I wanted to publish the Hyungs first because I wrote a lot more than I expected to. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐ ་

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Heeseung: You and Heeseung have only been officially dating for three months. His parents live about an hour away from the university, and he usually only sees them on weekends. But recently, both of you have been so busy with uni that neither of you has had the chance to go home. That’s why, when Heeseung’s mom FaceTimes him while he’s at your dorm, she suggests that he bring you along to meet them officially. When you hear this, you nearly fall off the bed—meanwhile, Heeseung smiles and immediately agrees.

Let’s just say, the week leading up to meeting his family, you’re the most anxious you’ve ever been—constantly asking Heeseung about what his parents like and dislike, what to wear, and how to even speak to his brothers. Heeseung is the baby of his family, and they’re protective of him. You’re bouncing off the walls with anxiety. Every time Heeseung can tell you're doubting whether they’ll like you or not, he grabs your waist, pulls you close, kisses you all over your face, and reassures you: “Baby, I love you. That’s enough for them. You don’t have to worry—I swear they’ll love you.”

The drive up to Heeseung’s childhood home is honestly a mix of emotions. You know his parents must be super sweet—after all, they raised someone like Heeseung. From the moment you arrive, all your worries disappear. His mom embraces you in a warm hug, and his dad firmly shakes your hand before patting Heeseung on the back.

You and his mom chat for most of the evening. His siblings keep telling you funny stories about Heeseung and show you embarrassing pictures of him. Every time you laugh, you catch Heeseung’s pout growing.

Later that night, as you’re leaving, Heeseung’s mom pulls you in for a tight hug and tells you that the two of you should meet for coffee sometime. You happily agree.

The car ride back is much calmer—Heeseung’s hand resting on your thigh, Kendrick Lamar playing softly in the background. “I told you they’d love you.” You smile softly. How lucky were you to have such an amazing boyfriend?

Jay

If someone told you a couple of months ago that Park Jongseong was going to be your boyfriend, you would’ve laughed in their face—because no way would someone so perfect like Jay ever date you. But oh, how wrong you were.

You and Jay have now been dating for two months, and everything—and I mean everything—has been perfect. He’s the most respectful man you’ve ever met. He’s everything you could ask for on top of all that. Jay is such a family man, which honestly made you fall for him even more.

Jay and his mom are very close, and, honestly, that terrified you. You’d already met Jay’s dad a couple of weeks ago at a university event. Sadly, his mom couldn’t make it—but his dad was the sweetest man you’d ever met. He made you feel so welcome, and it warmed your heart to see how much genuine love he had for his son.

"Love, what do you think about having my mom over for dinner? I’d love for you two to finally meet—she’s got time off work this weekend." You smiled. "I’d love to meet her. Plus, I could bake for her—just let me know what she likes."

The week leading up to Jay’s mom visiting was spent with you obsessing over perfecting your cherry pie recipe. You wanted everything to be just right for your boyfriend’s mom. Your best friend Vanessa came over, and you spent hours ranting to the poor soul about the perfect outfit and countless pie fillings. (Let’s just say—it’s a good thing she loves you.) You finally settled on a respectful beige dress that said “I’m trying” but not “I’m trying too hard.”

The drive to Jay’s apartment was mostly quiet—mainly because you felt like you’d throw up if you listened to music. The butterflies in your stomach just wouldn’t settle.

You knocked on his door and were greeted by Jay, who pulled you into a warm hug and kissed you. "Here, baby, let me take that," he said, grabbing the pie from your hands and walking toward the kitchen.

As you followed him in, you were greeted by Jay’s mom, who immediately pulled you into an embrace, telling you how her son hadn’t been able to stop talking about you.

You spent the evening drinking wine with her, hearing stories about Jay’s younger years, and looking through some very adorable (and slightly embarrassing) photos. Jay mostly observed from the side, chiming in here and there—but completely content that the two most important women in his life were getting along.

Jake:

Saturdays were your favorite—because it meant waking up like this: with Jake half on top of you, his head buried in your chest. Both of you had hectic schedules as seniors in university, which made it hard to find time for dates or peaceful moments where you weren’t swamped with assignments, exams, or internships.

You tried your best to move without waking him, gently lifting him off and heading to the bathroom to shower and freshen up before starting your weekend tasks. Stepping out of the shower, you heard shuffling around in the bedroom, which you assumed was Jake realizing you were no longer in bed. You were halfway through your skincare routine when you felt his arms drape loosely around your waist.

“Good morning, Jakey,” you smiled. He looked adorable like this, with his tousled black hair and sleepy eyes. God, you were blessed.

“It would have been, if I woke up with you still in bed,” he whined.

“I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?” you giggled, already knowing exactly what he’d say.

“I want a kiss.”

There was no hesitation as you leaned up and kissed him. But a kiss was never just a kiss with Jake—no. His hands tangled in your wet hair, and there were small, breathy sighs between kisses.

“Do you accept my apology?” you asked, slightly out of breath. The air in the bathroom was thick with condensation.

“Hmm, no. Maybe one more kiss.”

Before you could reply, Jake’s mouth was already on yours again, his hand traveling from your face to your neck, down to where your towel was.

“Baby, I just showered,” you tried to protest—really, you did—but it came out weak as he started kissing down your neck, to the valley of your breasts, then lower to your stomach...

And then the doorbell rang.

“Jake, the door.”

“Ignore it. It’s probably Sunghoon trying to get me to help with his English essay,” he mumbled, still kissing you.

The doorbell rang again.

“I’m going to kill him. We’ll continue this later, yeah?”

You nodded, trying to gather yourself before getting dressed.

It sounded like there were more people than just Jake and Sunghoon in the apartment—you swore you heard a dog bark. You made your way out of Jake’s bedroom... only to find Jake’s dad, mom, older brother, and their family dog, Layla, sitting on the couch in the living room.

You froze, not sure what to do. You’d never met his family before—and you didn’t want your first impression to be in sweatpants and their son’s hoodie. This was so embarrassing.

“You must be Jake’s girlfriend! We’ve heard so much about you,” his dad said warmly.

Jake’s mom stood and greeted you. “I’m so sorry we barged in like this. We were nearby and thought we’d drop off some lunch for Jake.” She smiled—and it was such a warm smile, it reminded you of Jake’s.

“It’s so nice to meet you guys. Jake speaks so fondly of all of you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” you replied, smiling despite the initial awkwardness.

Jake emerged from the kitchen, giving you a guilty smile. You shot him back a cheeky one.

“Jake, your brother was just telling me about your high school Halloween incident,” you said with a grin.

Jake turned beet red, glaring at his brother. “Did it have to be that story?”

His brother just shrugged, smirking.

Layla started sniffing you—probably curious about the new scent—but she was the sweetest dog you’d ever met. You spent the rest of the morning eating, chatting with Jake’s family, and playing with Layla.

“Y/N, it was so lovely to meet you,” Jake’s mom said as she hugged you goodbye. “Next time, Jake should bring you home so we can cook you more food!”

You waved them off as they headed to the car.

“They love you, you know,” Jake said, closing the apartment door behind them.

You grinned. “Of course they do. I’m amazing.”

“Maybe I can show you just how amazing you are,” Jake said, grinning—just before he scooped you up and carried you back toward his bedroom. 

Sunghoon

Family was everything to Sunghoon—especially his little sister, Yeji. When you first met Sunghoon’s family, you’d only met his mom and dad. Yeji was always busy with school and tutoring, so the timing never worked out. His parents were the sweetest people you’d ever met. You didn’t have a great relationship with your own family, but Sunghoon’s parents were so welcoming that you cherished them deeply for it.

You and Sunghoon both had a couple of days off work and decided to spend them shopping in Seoul, since he needed to pick something up for his mom from Miu Miu. That’s where you headed first.

“Baby, didn’t your mom say she needed a new wallet? What about this white one? It’s minimalistic but classic—she might like it.”

“It is beautiful, princess. I think she’ll love it—especially because you helped pick it,” he said, continuing to browse.

“Hoon, what if we get something for your sister, too? Didn’t you say she wanted something from here?”

Sunghoon sighed and nodded. “I’ll message her.” The reply came almost instantly. “She wants sunglasses from here.”

You smiled. “Perfect. I’ll ask the sales assistant if she recommends something for 18-year-olds.”

Sunghoon watched you talking animatedly with the clerk, trying on nearly every pair of sunglasses in the store to find the perfect one for Yeji. It was moments like this that reminded him why he loved you so much—how you always thought of others and treated his family like your own, even though you hadn’t even met Yeji yet.

While you were still occupied, he slipped out of the store to call his sister. “Please tell me you end tutoring early today. I want you to meet Y/N,” he said, practically pleading to the universe.

“My art class got canceled so that I can meet you guys in half an hour. I want to meet her too,” Yeji replied.

“Perfect. Let’s have dinner.”

He returned to the store just in time to stop you from paying.

“Baby, let me. I want to,” you told him.

He pretended not to hear you.

You huffed at the stubbornly attractive man you were dating.

“Let’s go, princess. Yeji said her class got canceled, so she can meet us for dinner. Maybe hang out for a little after—I’ll ask my mom if it’s okay.”

You smiled up at him, nerves starting to bubble as you followed him out of the store hand-in-hand.

“I’m so excited to meet her... but is it bad that I’m nervous?”

Sunghoon let out a laugh, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in. “She’ll love you. I know she will. She told me she’s excited to meet you.”

You kissed his cheek, and the two of you headed toward the main street where you planned to meet Yeji. Ten minutes later, his family car pulled up, and you greeted his mom before handing her the Miu Miu bag.

“You didn’t need to buy me anything, Sunghoon. You should be spending your money on your girlfriend,” she scolded him playfully, then smiled at you.

You laughed. “I helped him pick it out. It was so perfect for you. I even tried to pay, but Sunghoon refused to let me use my card.”

His mom smiled warmly. “I love it even more now that I know you helped pick it out.”

She gave you another smile before saying goodbye and telling you she’d see you when she came to pick up Yeji later. You turned around to see Sunghoon and Yeji roasting each other already.

“Yeji, it’s so lovely to finally meet you!” you said warmly, not sure whether to go in for a hug or not. But Yeji didn’t hesitate—she hugged you first.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to meet you,” she grinned.

The two of you instantly clicked, walking side by side toward the restaurant, leaving Sunghoon behind, watching the two giggling girls ahead of him.

Dinner was perfect. You and Sunghoon had booked a Korean barbecue place, wanting to treat Yeji since she’d been studying so hard. The meal was filled with laughter, stories, and light teasing.

“Y/N, I don’t know how you date him. He’s so mean,” Yeji pouted after Sunghoon teased her.

“YA, she dates me because I’m funny and pretty,” he teased, sticking out his tongue.

You giggled. “I don’t know about funny.”

Yeji burst out laughing and high-fived you across the table.

Sunghoon looked dramatically offended, pouting as he grilled meat. “My girlfriend hates me.”

You giggled again, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Sorry, baby.”

After dinner—again, Sunghoon refused to let you pay—you and Yeji insisted on stopping at Olive Young. You spent nearly an hour browsing lip glosses. Yeji found a few she liked, and you told her to throw them in your basket—you were getting them for her.

You, meanwhile, were using Sunghoon’s hand as a tester, swiping shades and asking his opinion between swatches.

“They all look good,” he kept saying, until you found a reddish-pink gloss.

You swore Sunghoon kept glancing at your lips.

“This one. For sure, princess,” he said.

You nodded and headed to the checkout with Yeji, but when Sunghoon reached for his card, you stood your ground.

“No. Sunghoon, you’re going to let me pay. Put that damn card away,” you said, glaring playfully as you handed your card over.

Sunghoon looked extremely unamused, and Yeji was giggling at your dynamic.

Before dropping Yeji off at her mom’s, she turned to you with a smile and a hug.

“Here. I wanted to give you this at dinner.”

It was a drawing—an adorable sketch of you and Sunghoon based on a picture from your Instagram.

“I love it, Yeji. Thank you.” You hugged her again before she got into the car.

“I told you she’d love you,” Sunghoon said smugly as he took your hand and led you toward his car.

You loved your boyfriend—and his family. You were very, very blessed.

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a/n pt2: I went overboard with Sunghoon's, but I was inspired by his vlog. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed reading <3

[saebyeoksleftfoot]

Everything's Temporary.

Pairings. Se-mi x F! Reader

Genre. Drama, Romance (doomed..), Angst

Warnings. Depression, emotional neglect, isolation, ghosting, self worth struggles

Triggers. Emotional trauma & unrequited affection

Summary. You were trapped in quiet loneliness finds unexpected comfort in a new acquaintance, Se-mi, who slowly becomes a source of warmth and hope. Through small moments shared in a cozy café, you begin to feel seen and less alone for the first time in a long while. But as hope grows, so does the fear of loss, and eventually, the fragile connection fades, leaving silence behind once again.

A/N. So... It slowly turned spring in this fic becuz I like spring! I hope it's understandable 😭idk how to explain it but just read the fic 💔

━━━━━━━

There is a kind of silence that isn’t quiet.

It pulses. It screams between the walls, echoing in the corners of your dark room where even light refuses to stay. It’s the kind that makes you stare at the same crack on the ceiling for hours, waiting for it to grow just so you’ll know something is changing.

But it never does.

The days bled into each other like ink on water—soft, slow, but quite impossible to separate. You couldn’t tell when exactly it started, this numbness. Maybe it was after your mom stopped stopped caring about you and focused on your younger brother. Maybe it was when your dad looked at you like a stranger passing through a house that didn’t belong to you anymore.

Maybe it was before all of that. Maybe it was just you. Wrong from the start.

You didn’t fight it. The isolation. You leaned into it, let it bury you. There was a quiet kind of peace in being forgotten.

You still spoke to people, of course. Online. Screens were easier than skin. You knew how to be funny behind a keyboard. You curated emojis like they were armor. You kept your voice soft in calls, always asking about others, always listening. You were the support friend. The late night therapist. The good one. The nicest one.

But none of them really knew you.

Not the way you needed.

They didn’t see the way you flinched when someone said, “You’re always so positive,” as if it were a compliment instead of a lie you’d carved into your personality like a scar.

They didn’t hear the silence between your sentences. The way your hands slightwy tremble after a long call because you’d smiled too hard. Faked too well.

You never asked to be seen.

You just wanted someone to look anyway.

You tried to fill your days with distractions — like playlists, sleep schedules that didn’t really exist. Sometimes you read, sometimes the kind of stories where someone finds pure happiness after suffering for a long time.

You cried during those, once.

But only once. Then you taught yourself not to feel too deeply. It made things worse, wanting.

Wanting was dangerous.

It led to disappointment only.

And disappointment always left a bruise.

Your family didn’t notice the way your voice changed. The way your hoodie sleeves were always tugged down past your knuckles. They didn’t ask about the tear-stained pillowcases or the food left cold on your desk.

You didn’t blame them.

You didn’t really exist here.

You were a ghost of your own making. Haunting yourself.

Sometimes your brother tried to pull you out, inviting you to join him in a video game or for a walk, but you always said no. You preferred the quiet ache of your own company to the effort of pretending. Still, his gentle insistence sometimes lingered in your mind, a faint thread tugging toward something you weren’t sure you wanted.

You thought about going out once or twice, sitting in a café, pretending to be part of the world. But the thought of speaking to strangers, even kind ones, felt like standing bare in a storm. The online world was easier—controlled, safe, quiet.

So you stayed where you were.

One night, you logged into the server that had become your fragile lifeline. A jumble of voices and text, laughter and memes, the kind of noise that kept the silence at bay.

The chat was alive as usual, but you hovered at the edges, watching.

Someone joked about a new episode release. Another shared a meme that made a few people laugh. You sent a well-timed emoji, just to be part of it.

But none of it reached you.

You stared at the screen, the glowing letters blurring. You typed a message, then deleted it. You wanted to say something real, but the words felt useless, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

You closed your eyes and tried to breathe.

The world outside your window was dark, but even inside, you felt cold.

Because everything was temporary.

People came and went.

Connections faded.

Happiness was a ghost.

And you were left alone with your quiet, unchanging ache.

━━━━━━━

You didn’t want to be there.

The café was too loud, the lights too warm. It smelled like vanilla syrup and roasted beans and cinnamon that hurts your head , and everything about it pressed too hard against the fragile bubble you’d built around yourself. Your hoodie sleeves clung to your hands like armor, and you sat hunched in the corner like a shadow that someone forgot to sweep up.

“Just for an hour,”

your brother had said that morning, nudging a flyer across the counter.

“You need to get out. They’ve got books. Coffee. Soft chairs.”

You hadn’t answered. Just stared at your cereal untill the milk turned gray.

But somehow, here you were.

You picked the quietest table, far from the windows. People milled around in soft voices and slower footsteps. Students typing away. Couples murmuring over croissants. The world spun outside the glass like it didn’t notice you at all.

Good.

You didn’t want to be noticed.

You tucked your legs up into the chair, knees to chest, and scrolled through your phone just to stay tethered. Notifications blinked from muted group chats. Someone had posted a meme in the server. You almost smiled. Almost. But it faded too quickly.

There was still a weight behind your ribs.

It hadn’t gone anywhere.

You looked up, mostly just to avoid thinking, and that’s when you saw her.

She stood in line at the counter, tucked into an oversized jacket, fingers quietly tapping as she counted out money to pay for her drink. Her hair was short — cleanly cut, intentional. And her face —

You didn’t mean to stare.

She wasn’t striking, not in the dramatic, cinematic way.

But something about her drew your eyes like damn gravity.

She fumbled her wallet. Apologized. Laughed a little too hard when the barista cracked a joke. The sound carried through the hum of conversation like a bell in the fog.

It was bright. Unfiltered.

Alive.

You dropped your gaze fast. Too fast.

You weren’t supposed to care.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything.

Maybe she felt your gaze because a few minutes later, her tray in hand, she scanned the café for an open seat—and you watched, frozen, as her eyes landed on yours.

And then, unbelievably, she smiled. Pure.

“Do you mind?”

she asked, tilting her head toward the extra chair at your table.

You blinked. Swallowed. Tried to speak.

She sat down before you could answer.

And just like that, spring cracked through your winter.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stirred her drink slowly, glancing out the window as if the silence wasn’t awkward. As if she already knew how to sit beside someone without trying to fill the quiet.

That should’ve made you uneasy. But it didn’t.

You felt… settled. In a way you hadn’t in months.

Her voice broke the stillness eventually, soft as a rain tap.

“I like this place. It smells like comfort.”

You said nothing. Words didn’t come easy when someone looked directly at you like that.

But she didn’t push.

Instead, she asked for your name.

You told her.

And when she repeated it back to you, you almost cried. Because it was the first time in weeks someone had said it like it meant something.

“I’m Se-mi,”

she said.

Se-mi.

It fit her.

Light syllables. Gentle curve. A name that sounded like a melody no one had finished writing yet.

You didn’t say much else that day. But something in you shifted.

Because for the first time in so long, you didn’t feel like a background character in your own scene.

You were there.

And someone had noticed.

━━━━━━━

The next time you saw her, it wasn’t by accident.

She smiled again when she spotted you already at your corner table. This time, she brought you a hot chocolate without asking.

“Just a guess,”

she said.

“You look like you need warmth more than caffeine.”

You hadn’t realized your fingers were that cold until you touched the mug.

She asked what you liked to read and what music you listened to. She told you about her cat, Dubu-puff, saying she chose that name because it was easy to say under her breath. She laughed at her own stories, and you found yourself listening so closely that your tea went cold

You started coming more often after that.

Your brother noticed. Asked if you were feeling better.

You said no. But you were trying.

Because Se-mi was there.

And somehow, that made trying feel less like drowning.

━━━━━━━

One evening, after most of the chairs had emptied and the baristas had stopped wiping the counters, she stayed with you long past closing hours.

The two of you just… sat.

No music. No people. Just the faint hum of the fridge in the back and the soft tapping of her nails against her cup.

“Do you believe in soul weather?”

she asked out of nowhere.

You looked at her.

She smiled, eyes soft.

“Like… some people feel like winter. Some feel like sun. You know?”

You didn’t answer.

But you thought she felt like spring.

Like the world might be able to bloom again.

And that night, for the first time in too long, you slept without crying into your pillow.

━━━━━━━

You didn’t know what she was doing to you.

You didn’t know what you were becoming.

All you knew was—

When she said your name, the void didn’t echo back.

It whispered her voice instead

━━━━━━━

You weren’t used to someone remembering you like this.

Not just your name, not just your favorite drink. But the small things. The way your shoulders curled when you were trying not to be seen. The habit you had of tapping your thumb twice on your cup before taking a sip. The way you listened more than you spoke—not because you didn’t have anything to say, but because you never thought your words would land anywhere safe.

But Se-mi listened.

She noticed things like that.

One afternoon, she brought you a tiny paper crane folded from the corner of a coffee receipt.

“You looked like you needed something to hold,”

she’d said with a smile, nudging it across the table.

You still had it. Crumpled a little now, edges softening. But you kept it tucked in your phone case like a secret.

You started saving the songs she hummed under her breath. You started writing down the books she mentioned. You started wanting to be seen. Just by her.

The thought scared you more than you could admit.

You never told her about the servers. Or the versions of you that only existed through Wi-Fi and usernames. You let those people fade. Let their messages go unanswered. They were too loud now, too far away from this world you’d found with her.

Here, you were quieter. Realer.

And she made it easy to stay.

Some days you barely spoke, but she never made you feel like silence was a burden. Sometimes she drew in her notebook while you read beside her, both of you cocooned in that little corner like the world had agreed to leave you alone.

Once, she handed you a page torn from that notebook. A simple pencil sketch—your hand wrapped around a mug, sleeves hiding your fingers, steam rising in soft lines.

You stared at it longer than you should’ve.

“You always look safest like that,”

she’d said, almost apologetically.

You didn’t tell her that no one had ever made you feel safe before.

And still, you weren’t brave enough to ask what she saw when she looked at you. You were afraid the answer might not be hers to give forever.

But for now—she was here.

And that was enough.

━━━━━━━

⠀

Spring stretched on in quiet ways.

The café became routine. A place your footsteps memorized. The baristas stopped asking for your name. The booth in the corner was quietly understood to be yours—yours and Se-mi’s.

You didn’t talk about feelings. Or labels. Or futures.

She never said she liked you.

But sometimes her knees would bump yours and she wouldn’t move away.

Sometimes she’d rest her head on your shoulder after a long day, breathing so close you could feel the shape of her thoughts.

You let those moments sit between you like bookmarks. Tiny pauses in the story you didn’t dare read aloud.

Once, you brought her a drink first.

She blinked at it, surprised.

“You remembered?”

You nodded, heart thrumming like wings.

She smiled then, small and full.

You thought maybe that was what spring really was—not flowers or sunlight or color returning to the trees. Maybe it was that smile. Maybe it was the way your name sounded in her mouth. Maybe it was the way you started waiting for tomorrow again.

━━━━━━━

And then—one afternoon, as the sun poured pale gold across your table and Se-mi recited a story about how her cat had somehow locked itself in the pantry for three hours—something slipped.

You smiled.

A true smile. Not some fake one.

Just a small one.

Barely there. Lips only curving a little. The kind of smile you weren’t even sure belonged to you anymore.

But Se-mi noticed.

Mid-sentence, her voice faltered. Her eyes locked onto yours, wide, like she’d just witnessed something holy.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Her expression said it all.

Like you’d bloomed.

Like you were the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

You looked away, quickly. Heart pounding. Fingers clutched your mug a little tighter.

But Se-mi kept looking.

As if she didn’t want to forget the way you looked when you finally let the light in.

You didn’t smile again for a while.

But she never forgot.

And neither did you.

━━━━━━━

It started with a smile.

A small one. The kind that barely curled your lips. The kind that slipped past your defenses before you even realized it was there. It happened in the middle of one of her stories—something stupid about her cat dragging a whole bag of flour across the kitchen floor.

You hadn’t meant to laugh. But when she mimicked Dubu-puff's horrified face, hands flailing in the air like bad theater, something in your chest cracked.

And you smiled.

Just a little.

Barely there.

But she saw it.

You caught the way her voice faltered. Just for a second. The way her eyes widened, like she’d stumbled across something fragile and breathtaking. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen.

Her gaze softened—not with pity. Not with surprise. But with awe.

And in that moment, she looked at you as if you were the prettiest thing in the world.

As if you were something worth staying for.

You dropped your eyes immediately, heart pounding. Your fingers curled around your mug like a lifeline. The heat didn’t help. Your skin felt too raw.

“Sorry,"

you muttered, even though you didn’t know what you were apologizing for.

She didn’t laugh.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t say,

“You should smile more,”

the way others had in the past.

Instead, she said—

“Don’t be.”

Just that. Soft. Like a secret meant only for you.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because now she’d seen it. That vulnerable flicker. The part of you that wanted.

And want was dangerous.

Want opened the door to loss.

But she didn’t leave.

Not that day. Not the next.

You kept showing up. So did she.

And maybe—maybe—you started hoping.

━━━━━━━

Somewhere between the third and fourth week of your fragile ritual, she asked if you wanted to visit the art museum.

You hesitated. You always hesitated.

“I don’t really… go places,”

you said.

She didn’t flinch.

“That’s okay. I’ll go slow.”

And she did.

She never walked ahead. Never pulled or pushed. Just stayed beside you. Quiet. Present.

You didn’t remember much of the paintings. Your head buzzed too loud. But you remembered her, standing in the light of a stained-glass window, colors washing over her face. She looked like something out of a story you were too scared to finish reading.

“Do you think art misses its artist?”

she asked suddenly, tracing the edge of a sculpture with her eyes.

You blinked.

“What?”

“When people leave,”

she said,

"do you think the things they made feel abandoned?”

You looked at her. At the way she said it without expecting an answer.

“I think,”

you said slowly,

“some things are made just to be left behind.”

She looked at you then. Really looked. Like she wanted to argue, but didn’t.

“Maybe,”

she whispered.

“But I still think they deserve to be seen.”

━━━━━━━

You didn’t know how to tell her you were one of those things.

Made. Forgotten. Left behind.

And she was looking too closely.

━━━━━━━

You started waiting for her texts. The little check-ins. The café suggestions. The random photos of Dubu-puff perched on top of a laundry basket with the caption:

“He claims this land in the name of fluff.”

It became routine. A soft thread pulling you through the week.

You’d always told yourself people were temporary.

But you started wondering if she might be the exception.

That was your first mistake.

━━━━━━━

Your brother noticed.

“You’ve been… lighter lately,”

he said one night, handing you a bowl of soup.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the steam curling from the bowl.

“She makes you happy?”

Your grip tightened on the spoon.

“I don’t know.”

But you did.

You just couldn’t say it.

━━━━━━━

The night it all started to shift, you were sitting across from her in the café, watching the rain smudge the windows like watercolor tears.

She was telling you about her grandmother’s garden. How they used to grow peonies that bloomed like secrets.

“Maybe next spring, I’ll plant some,”

she said.

“You can come see them, if you want.”

Next spring.

That meant a future.

That meant more.

You swallowed hard, unsure what to do with the hope she kept handing you like it wouldn’t rot in your hands.

But still, you nodded.

“Okay.”

And she smiled.

You didn’t know it then.

Didn’t know that this—this moment—would be the high point.

The crest before the fall.

The last time her gaze felt fully yours.

Because days later, she stopped replying so quickly.

Stopped lingering as long.

Stopped saying your name with the same warmth.

You told yourself she was busy. Tired.

You told yourself not to overthink.

But the silence grew teeth.

And every time your phone buzzed, your heart jumped—only to fall harder when it wasn’t her.

━━━━━━━

You told yourself you’d been wrong to hope.

You always were.

Because hope, for you, had always tasted like betrayal.

Like sunlight that scorched instead of warmed.

Like spring that never stayed long enough.

⠀━━━━━━━

You still went to the café. Still sat in your corner.

Just in case.

But she didn’t show.

And one day—weeks after the last time she touched your hand and smiled like it meant something—

She walked in.

And she wasn’t alone.

A new girl.

Prettier. Brighter. Laughing in that way that belonged to the start of something.

The kind of laugh she once saved for you.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t say a word.

But inside, the smile you’d once given her—

the one she’d called beautiful—

died quietly in your chest.

━━━━━━━

The air in the café was different that day.

Heavier.

Like the walls had absorbed too many quiet goodbyes and were finally letting them settle.

You sat in your usual corner, hood pulled low, pretending you hadn’t noticed the weight in your chest growing with every slow step she took toward the door.

She smiled at the new girl—bright, easy, the kind of smile that didn’t hesitate or falter.

Your throat tightened.

The baristas barely glanced your way anymore. The once-familiar warmth in their eyes had cooled into polite indifference.

You watched them carry her tray over to the window seat, where sunlight spilled like a promise.

You weren’t part of that light.

Not anymore.

You scrolled through your phone, the glow sharp against your skin, a weak shield against the cold inside.

You wanted to text her.

To ask why. To scream at the silence she’d left behind.

To beg for the warmth that had turned icy.

But your fingers wouldn’t move.

You knew the answer before you even typed the first letter.

She was fading.

Just like you always feared.

The messages slowed, then stopped.

Calls went unanswered.

Your name felt like a word from a language she no longer spoke.

You became the ghost you always were, only now the haunting felt like abandonment.

Days blurred. Nights bled into one another.

You kept revisiting the café, hoping for a glimpse.

Hoping for a trace.

But the chair across from you stayed empty.

You held onto memories like a drowning person clutches driftwood—

Her laugh echoing in your mind.

The brush of her fingers against yours.

The way she said your name, like it was a prayer.

And yet, none of it was enough.

Because in the space she left behind, silence grew louder.

It filled the cracks in your soul.

It swallowed your voice.

You whispered into that void, but it never whispered back.

You weren’t sure if you were breaking or already broken.

But you knew you were fading.

And this time, no one was there to notice.

━━━━━━━

You held on until you couldn’t anymore.

The thread stretched taut, fraying with every silent message, every missed call, every absence that grew longer and colder.

Se-mi faded like the last light before midnight — slow at first, almost imperceptible, and then sudden, cruel, as if she was never really there to begin with.

You checked the server. The server was loud, but there was no happiness.

She stopped showing up in voice chats.

Her texts came less, then not at all.

When you reached out, the void responded.

No words.

No answers.

Just silence — vast, suffocating, absolute.

You replayed every memory like a broken record, searching for a sign, any sign, a crack in the facade that might explain the disappearance.

The smile she gave you that one afternoon in the cafe — the one that made your heart tremble like it had found a home — was suddenly unbearable.

Had it ever been real?

Or just a flicker? A temporary light meant to blind you, only to leave you stumbling in the dark?

You remembered how she had looked at you — like you were the most precious thing in the world. How her eyes had crinkled in laughter, how her voice had felt like sunlight breaking through the frost.

And now?

The space where she had been was empty.

Your messages piled up unread, unanswered.

You told yourself it was just life.

People move on. Things change.

But the ache in your chest said otherwise.

You weren’t just a chapter in her story.

You were the whole book — at least, you had been.

You cried in the dark, the sting of abandonment sharper than anything before.

You traced the ghost of her name on your phone screen, wishing you could reach through the distance and pull her back.

But the silence was louder than your hope.

She was gone.

Maybe she never meant to stay.

Maybe everything was just temporary.

And so were you.

You learned the hard way that love could feel infinite — bright and warm and whole — and still vanish, leaving nothing but the cold echo of a name whispered into the void.

You were left holding the pieces, wondering if you had ever been real to her at all.

━━━━━━━

✧- Taglist : @kuinshiyas @lostlikesaebyeok @saebyeokswhitebra @gigisdog @saebyeokbliss @itzzzzzzyyyyydaaaaa @sunshinethatlooksalive

[mandoriana]

Merlin,

Today, the world felt too small for everything you carry inside.

Your mind has always been full of imagination, and I don’t think I could ever truly express how much I admire your ideas.

We arrived in Camelot today. Gwen welcomed us with open arms—I got a kiss, you got two on the cheeks and a hug. I’m not sure if I was more jealous of you for receiving kisses from my queen or of her for receiving such a warm hug from you.

(Elyan was certainly jealous of the kisses and hugs, since he only got a mischievous smile from Gwen.)

But that’s not the point I want to talk about.

Actually, I want to talk about our journey back home.

Gwaine spent the whole way telling jokes, and at some point, you began inventing stories to entertain us.

Some were reused from notes you used to leave inside my books. Others were remade from gossip you and Gwen had heard.

(Though I still don’t know where you two heard about a maiden and seven tiny men.)

Some were funny and silly, others were simply strange—but they lifted my mood, and I needed that.

My mind was still stuck on that woman who almost got sentenced to the pyre a few days ago.

So here is my request for this letter:

Write your stories.

Write about a humble maiden who became a queen.

Write about a boy carved from the wood of a magical tree.

Create tales from everything you’ve seen, heard—or haven’t.

Put your thoughts on paper and let the world hear and read them.

Write without overthinking.

Without correcting mistakes.

Without fear of seeming foolish or illogical.

Write the way you talk when you’re too excited to make sense— and it’s beautiful anyway.

Then, share those stories with others.

Maybe in a tavern, as a wild bit of gossip.

Or during a long trip with strangers.

Or simply fold the paper, tuck it into bottles, and toss it into the sea.

Let the world find your madness on its own.

Maybe a fisherman will read it and believe.

Maybe a child will find it and spend their whole life trying to prove there’s a ghost ship with undead pirates.

Maybe no one will find it.

But that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that something of yours will be out there, traveling and making people smile.

And maybe one day, when you least expect it, one of those silly stories will come back to you.

Because that’s the most incredible gift you have:

the gift of planting smiles and creating stories that make people think.

My fool.

My friend.

My sorcerer.

Keep talking, keep creating, keep making people smile.

Your king (and your number one fan),

Arthur Pendragon

P.S. I heard Mordred murmuring to himself that you must have the most amazing stories about yourself to tell—something about having great prophecies tied to you and your magic.

I hope you can trust me enough to share them one day.

In this life, or the next.

[namelesskn1ght]

Even though it hurts.

TFA Optimus Prime x Reader Content: reader sensitive to loud noises, you watch the fireworks with Optimus.

If I didn’t write a story about my favorite Optimus soon, I was going to explode.

In fact, the agony and suffering I’ve been going through these past few days inspired me to write this. (I’m a VERY sensitive person to loud noises, and for a week where I live, they were setting off fireworks ALL day, EVERY day. Obviously, my ears and my heart weren’t too amused.) Well, I hope you enjoy this. <3

Under the cold blanket of night, his gaze lowers from the sky full of white specks to find Bumblebee and Sari running back and forth, looking away to find Bulkhead who is intently observing the same sky that he himself was observing just a few moments ago, excited for the fireworks that are about to arrive. He can almost feel out of place at times like this, as if everyone belongs there except him.

And he almost regretted coming. Because when he asked Sari if he could come along too, he thought he’d be accompanied for one night and maybe be able to distract himself a little watching the explosions of color. But now he only sees them from a distance, sitting as he waits, with some curious glances on him. If only they were just kind glances or maybe someone was willing to talk to him, but they just look at him as if they know he doesn’t belong there, that he shouldn’t be there and that only distresses him. Suffocated beyond belief, he gets up, moving away from the crowd with the intention of returning to the hangar. His presence is not needed here, he no longer finds any reason to stay here. All around him, as he carefully advances, he can see some humans with their loved ones, laughing and playing, sharing and experiencing the moment before the fireworks, and envy and anguish intertwine like a poorly tied knot. Because even though he has his team and Sari, they always go about their business; they don’t need him.

And the feeling of loneliness clings even tighter to his spark, like an awkward embrace that never seems to end. Will he ever be able to stop feeling this way forever?

Suddenly, his audio receivers pick up an almost violent discussion. Not the happiness he's been hearing since he arrived here. His optics scan the surroundings until he finds them. A small group of humans talking, one of them seemingly bothering another. He shouldn’t butt in where he’s not called, but he still can’t avoid approach for check in to make sure everything’s okay.

· “Give it to me, you know I don’t like these jokes.” You say, your voice rising, distress deepening as you reach for your headphones, but he keeps pulling them away from your cold hands. ‘Stop acting like that, enjoy the party. A little noise and people won’t hurt you.’ He replies in a tone that is anything but kind. ‘You’re overdramatizing.’ Frustrated, you look around, hoping someone or one of your friends is willing to help you put an end to this stupidity, but they just watch. Some even laugh. Why would this be funny? ‘Is everything okay here?’ A friendly voice echoes behind you, almost robotic. When you turn around, you quickly recognize the red and blue pattern. Before you can say anything, you’re pulled away, almost knocked to the ground. ‘Yes, everything’s fine! It’s a great honor to meet you in person.’ And him drop your headphones on the floor, feeling the urge to push him so he swallows grass.

And he feels a small pang of annoyance as he watches that human nearly knock you off your feet when he pushes you away. Why can’t they act normal? His attention shifts to you, noticing how you fade into the distance. When did you go so far away? And without thinking, he pursues you, driven by that need to help that his spark always sings about, even though they rarely hear him, he still keeps trying. Because that’s who he is, always wanting to help.

· As you walk down the road, you hear heavy footsteps behind you, almost shaking the asphalt. Turning around, startled, you find him. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ He apologizes almost guilty, moving your headphones away to rest them on the back of your neck to hear him better, he continues. ‘I saw you walking away quietly and wanted to make sure you were okay.’ Was he worried about you? Why? “That’s very kind of you. I’m fine. I just didn’t feel comfortable being there and wanted to leave.” You explain slowly, as the words begin to flow. “You have nothing to worry about. I’m sure you have much more important things to do than help a stranger.”

· And a small, nervous smile escapes you before you turn around and resume your walk. And the further you walk, you can feel his footsteps behind you, as if he’s not satisfied with your answer. ‘I care about the life on this planet. I want to help those who need it.’ He almost sounds frustrated. ‘And I saw you and thought maybe you needed help.’ Now you’re looking at him, those glowing blue optics meet your eyes, and as if he can’t hold your gaze, he lowers his head, touching the front of his helmet with his servo to hide from your gaze. ‘Sorry, I won’t insist.’ And before you can say anything, a loud explosion startles you, making your heart hammer against your ribs.

And his gaze turns to his side, seeing how various colors momentarily tint the dark sky. Hearing a pitiful sound as several explosions go off at once, he looks towards you and sees you with that strange thing covering your ears, with both of your little hands shaking on either side. And he leans closer to you, bending down until his knee touches the asphalt, and you look in his direction. Your expression shows almost discomfort and something else he can’t decipher. Are you sensitive to loud noises? And he’s almost tempted to hold you with his servos because you seem so scared, he feels the urge to protect you.

And an idea popped into his processor.

· You see him transform into that fire truck shape as he tells you something you can’t quite hear, and the driver’s door opens in invitation. Does he want you to come in? Cautiously, you step inside, and the door closes on its own. The sound of the fireworks isn’t as loud anymore. Cautiously, you take off your headphones. You can still hear them, but it’s not as loud as usual. You let them rest on the back of your neck again while you look out the window at the colorful rain. “Thank you.” You say almost in a whisper, but he hears you. ‘You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.’

You remain silent, staring out the window. He doesn’t say anything; the silence is pleasant. After this, he may never see you again, but he’ll remember this. He wants to remember it. A night where he wasn’t alone, accompanied by a stranger who shared the same feeling of anguish as him, watching the fireworks from a distance.

[bnha-ship-tournaments]

ROUND 2 SIDE A

MATCH 1

Keigo Takami | Hawks/Touya Todoroki | Dabi

HawksDabi

-

it’s about the parallels and shared trauma and opposing values and the way they interact and do i really need to explain

-

Look, I could write a whole essay of 20 pages of why this ship has been wasted in the canon and why they should be together and why are they so gay for each other AND WHY HORIKOSHI?????

But I think I will try to summarize it a minimum for everyone’s sake (including mine) 

Canon wise their backstories were perfect for the parallels and the way that they interact in general had SO MUCH SEXUAL TENSION that it’s not even funny. And their fight? With all the trauma and info dumping? PEAK 

AND THEN ALL WENT WRONG, I'M STILL SO MAD ABOUT IT, because YES, Hawks has sold his body and soul for justice but are you seriously telling me that he is going to back up an abusive father taking into account that his own father was abusive? Maybe BUT we needed more conflict, more acknowledgement, MORE ANYTHING 

AND ARE YOU SERIOUSLY SAYING THAT HAWKS LOST FUCKING EVERYTHING FOR SAVING JAPAN AND I HAVE TO BE OKAY WITH IT????? For me it gets the same feeling like Ekko (Arcane) and I really don’t like it 

ANYWAY, fuck canon (just in general) lets talk about the possibilities and the fics OH. MY GOD THE FICS!! From childhood friends to the Modern Au’s for the toxic yaoi to the fix it’s, they are all incredible and I really think that they explore a lot of what this relationship could have been :D

I truly believe that Dabi had a soft spot for the LOV in general and that Hawks actions would have had consequences in their relationship BUT at the same time Hawks would have had to give up his convictions to be with the man that he truly loves. But they compliment each other so well: they are ready to sacrifice everything to achieve their goal, they would understand each other, they would be stubborn in their beliefs… 

I don’t know if you have seen the official art of Hero Touya but it gives a good perspective of what could have been if ENDEAVOUR HADN’T BEEN A PIECE OF TRASH (Redemption arc my ass!! ARE YOU FOR REAL?? FUCK HIM!!!!!!) 

ANYWAY, I really think that Hot Wings is peak relationship of this series and canon or not they are perfect for each other…

…In every universe <3

-

DabiHawks are perfect parallels and narrative foils, and I firmly believe that in a world with decent story writing where they were given the agency to be characters beyond supplementing Enji’s bullshit, that they would absolutely be the best center of the narrative. They perfectly represent all the themes BNHA should encompass. My favorite corner of the fandom, by far. The only corner of the fandom I want to be in honestly, they just GET IT.

-

Everything that’s not DabiHawks is so cooked. DabiHawks has so much story potential it’s crazy, and the fact that it’s like the 5th biggest ship in the fandom on AO3 while spitting in the face of canon means the fans are a force to be reckoned with. For good reason though- I ain’t never seen a ship with such consistently good fics before, they know how to scrape up every ounce of potential and run with it.

Haimawari Koichi | The Skycrawler/Number Six

Normalest man on earth/a fucked up science experiment trying to kill him and steal his identity. They're the perfect balance of tragic and incredibly funny.

Keigo Takami | Hawks/Touya Todoroki | Dabi: @cheekirin on X

Haimawari Koichi | The Skycrawler/Number Six: Original Source (Manga)

[kikyoupdates]

Leave Your Mark ⭑˚🧪⭑ 𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑜

bnha x f!reader

reverse harem, isekai, my hero academia x fem!reader, slowburn

You didn’t accomplish anything in your previous life. Looking back on it, you feel nothing but regret, and you yearn for the chance to do things differently. As it turns out, your wish is answered, and you are reborn into your favorite fictional world. This time, you resolve to make a change, and you have the means to do it. You won’t be content with just sitting on the sidelines and letting life pass you by. You will live boldly and vibrantly, as if every moment is your last. No matter what it takes, you are going to leave your mark.

previous | story masterlist | next

The bell chimes, and with it, your very first day of school comes to an end.

All in all, you’re feeling pretty good. Meeting Shouto was a welcome surprise, and you can only hope that he’ll open up his heart to you eventually. Until then, you’ll be patient, never get discouraged, and keep doing whatever you can to ease his burden.

All of the kids practically sprint out of the classroom, excited to get back home as quickly as possible. Well, all of the kids except you and Shouto, and as you slip on your cute little backpack, you notice him staring at you with a puzzled expression.

Curious, you stare back.

“What is it?” you ask. “Ah, don’t tell me. Do I have leftover food on my face from lunchtime?”

He shakes his head. “No. But now that you mention it, you’re a pretty messy eater. Maybe you should pack some napkins from now on.”

Duly noted. It seems like being trapped in a child’s body has really rubbed off on you. Even Chisaki always used to comment on your lack of table manners. Then again, he was anal about pretty much everything, though.

“So, what did you want to say?” you ask again.

Shouto tenses up. It seems like he hadn’t gathered his thoughts before, because he’s clearly struggling to find the right words. The way he scrunches up his brow in frustration is ridiculously cute though, so you don’t mind waiting.

Eventually, he lets out a sigh.

“I can’t stop you from trying to get close to me,” he says. “But I’m not the kind of person you want as a friend. You can eat lunch with me as many times as you want, but that will never change. I just thought you should know.”

Aw. He really is adorable, thinking you’ll give up on him. But too bad. There’s no way you can sit idly and let him suffer all on his own, not when you’ve just been given the opportunity of a lifetime.

No matter how much he stubbornly pushes you away, you’ll keep coming back.

“I like you, Shouto,” you smile, and his eyes instinctively widen, almost as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Even though we just met, I want to be friends with you. I don’t care how long it takes. So, whenever you’re ready to call me your friend, I’ll be here.”

You wave goodbye to him, since you can see that some kids from the orphanage have stopped by to pick you up. They greet you happily and pat you on the head, asking how your first day went, to which you reply that it was amazing, of course.

Shouto doesn’t say anything else. He just watches you link arms with one of the other kids, smiling as brightly as always, and slowly but surely, you fade into the distance.

You’re gone now, but the words you just spoke are playing in his head on repeat.

“I like you, Shouto.”

Surely, you don’t mean it. There’s no way you could possibly mean it. Besides, you hardly even know him. You don’t even know anything about him.

And yet, his face feels hot for some reason.

“I want to go see my friends,” you say simply.

The caregiver gives you a funny look. “And where exactly are these friends of yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Um... I don’t know exactly how to describe it. But we went there a little while ago. There was a park close to a neighborhood, and that’s where my friends live.”

“Are you referring to the day when you ran off on your own and got separated from your group?”

“That would be it, yep.”

She exhales loudly. Sometimes you feel a bit sorry for all the people who constantly have to deal with you, because it seems like a tiresome ordeal.

“I’m sorry, [Name], but you’re too young to go off on your own,” she says. “We don’t have any trips planned for a little while, so I’m not sure when the next opportunity would be. Do you have any other way of getting in touch with your friends?”

“No,” you admit. “Actually, calling them friends might be a bit of an overstatement. We’ve only ever met like two times.”

“...”

That probably wasn’t the right thing to say, because she looks even less likely to try and help you out now.

It seems like a lost cause. You’re only ten years old, and since you’re an orphan, you have quite a few restrictions in place to ensure your safety. Granted, you could sneak off and cause a big fuss, but that would probably just end up backfiring in the long run.

You slump your shoulders and let out a sigh, but just as you’re getting ready to give up, someone comes to your rescue.

“I can go with her.”

It’s one of the girls you share a room with. She walks up to you and smiles, then ruffles your hair affectionately.

“I can also grab some of the older kids to come with,” she says. “That way, we’ll all be there to look after [Name] while she hangs out with her friends.”

Oh my god. I always knew being popular would pay off! It’s a good thing I’m the cutest kid in the world.

Still, the caregiver doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “[Name] might run off, and without an adult present, it could be very dangerous. I’m not sure I should put a child’s safety in the hands of other children.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” your roommate insists. “Besides, [Name] might be a kid, but the rest of us are older than her. We know better. Come on. Have we ever once broken the rules or gotten in trouble? We’ll be back way before curfew, so don’t worry. And we can take one of the emergency phones to stay in touch.”

Little by little, the caregiver is getting closer to being won over, and you decide to hammer the final nail in the coffin—by whipping out your puppy eyes, which have yet to let you down.

“Please, please, please can we go?” you beg, clasping your little hands together. “I really want to see my friends! They might not even be there, but I still want to give it a try. I’ve been waiting so long to be able to see them again.”

Your cuteness is a powerful weapon, and you wield it shamelessly, knowing full well what it’s capable of.

The next time the caregiver sighs, it’s a sigh of resignation, and you know you’ve won.

“Fine,” she begrudgingly agrees. “But if something goes even slightly wrong, I’m not going to let you do this again, young lady.”

You let out a squeal of delight, thank her repeatedly, then set off.

It’s a weekend, so even though you don’t know for a fact whether Izuku and Katsuki will be out and about, you’re willing to take a gamble. Granted, it’s entirely possible that this whole trip will be for nothing, but you’re determined to keep trying until you get the chance to see them again. The fact that you crossed paths with them not long ago was no mere coincidence, just like how it was no coincidence that you ended up at the same school as Shouto.

Perhaps it’s because you’re an anomaly in this world, but all these characters keep making their way into your life, and you are certainly not complaining.

“Are we getting close?” one of the teens accompanying you asks.

You nod in agreement. It’s kind of funny having your own little crew of designated bodyguards. It almost makes you feel like some kind of celebrity. Which is dangerous, because your ego probably can’t afford to get much bigger.

Anyways, back to the matter at hand. You’ve definitely reached the right neighborhood, so... the park just be just a bit further up.

Maybe I’m hoping for too much. After all, what are the odds that I would have such perfect timing and run into them again—

“Goddammit, Deku! I said you can’t hang out with us! Get lost, already!”

...nevermind.

“Hooray!” you exclaim, pointing towards the ever-bickering pair. “Those are my friends! The two guys that look like they can’t stand each other’s guts!”

The group of teens proceed to all stare at you in disbelief.

“Um,” one of them says. “Are you sure you should be going over there? It looks like you’ll be caught up in something ugly.”

“Nonsense,” you brush off. “That’s what I’m here for! To make sure they get along. This is my calling, seriously.”

None of them look particularly convinced, but they just shrug, since they volunteered to come along in the first place.

“We’ll be watching from over here,” your roommate says. “Have fun, [Name]. Just let us know when you’re ready to get going.”

“Okie-dokie!”

And so, you make your appearance just as you did last time—by running headfirst into everyone and taking them all by surprise.

“What’s up, dudes?” you grin. “I’m back! Did you miss me?”

You expected as much, but Katsuki and Izuku stop arguing to gape at you in disbelief.

“Oi, Deku,” Katsuki says, swatting his rival on the shoulder. “The crazy chick’s back again. Did you have something to do with this?”

He furiously shakes his head. “N-No! The last time I saw her was when you were here too! I-I didn’t expect her to come back again...”

“But I said I would,” you point out. “I said I’d come back to play with you guys some other time.”

“Well... I guess that’s true,” he acknowledges, timidly averting your gaze. “I-I just didn’t think you actually meant it.”

Unlike Izuku, who mostly appears bashful and lost for words, Katsuki is not impressed with you being here.

“Are you stalking us, or what?” he glares, crossing his arms. “If you are, I swear I’ll kick your ass.”

Ah. There it is. That brash, unpleasant way of speaking that notoriously turns people off, and now you have the pleasure of experiencing it all for yourself! How lucky! 

Needless to say, though, you aren’t terribly intimidated. Especially since he’s only ten, and underneath it all, you’re a teenager with several more years of lived experience than him.

“That’s for me to know,” you wink playfully, “and for you to find out.”

Katsuki takes several steps back and shudders in disgust.

You suppose he didn’t much care for your joke.

“This is all your fault, Deku,” he sneers. “You attract crazy people, like the freak that you are.”

Wow. You’re not sure how he did it, but he managed to blame Izuku for something that has absolutely no correlation to him whatsoever.

Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.

Izuku nervously bites down on his lip. “Um, I really don’t think she came here because of—”

“Are you seriously talking back to me, shitty Deku?”

Katsuki balls his hand into a fist, and of course, Izuku flinches and shrinks away.

You frown. It’s not like you didn’t know that Katsuki was bullying Izuku. It was depicted at great length throughout the series, and their dynamic is arguably the most important one of all.

But seeing it with your own eyes is... different. It doesn’t feel good.

In fact, it pretty much feels like shit.

“Just take the creepy stalker girl with you and get lost,” Katsuki scowls. “You both get on my goddamn nerves.”

For a ten-year-old, he’s sure got a lot of pent-up anger...

Naturally, you don’t get lost. You came all this way, not to mention that you have every intention of becoming close to them, regardless of how difficult the process may be.

“I’m not a creepy stalker,” you insist. Realizing something, you grin and point off into the distance. “Actually, I’m super popular, and even older kids like to hang out with me. See that group over there? They’re my posse. They follow me around because they love me so much.”

You proceed to wave at the other orphan kids, and they smile and wave back at you, completely oblivious to the nonsense that you’re spewing.

Katsuki’s eyes widen in disbelief. “All those teenagers... are your friends?”

“Of course,” you shrug. “Don’t you also have friends that are teenagers? As long as they think you’re cool, it’s really not that hard.”

You are lying as easily as you breathe, but thankfully, Katsuki’s still a kid, which makes him rather gullible.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but with the way that he’s angrily mashing his teeth together, you can tell that he’s a bit jealous.

“So what?” he eventually huffs. “They must be weird, just like you. And why are they staying all the way over there if they like you so much?”

“Because I asked them to give us some space. Duh.”

“They listen to what you say?”

“Obviously. Didn’t I say they always follow me around because they like me so much?”

His face is getting redder by the second, and he obviously feels the need to outdo you in some shape or form. You feel a bit guilty about delighting in teasing a kid so much, but then you remember how rude he was to Izuku, and just like that, the guilt fades away.

Speaking of Izuku, you turn towards the freckled boy and grin widely. “Anyways, I’m glad I got to see you guys again! What sort of games do you usually play? While I’m here, I’d like to join in too, if that’s okay.”

“Don’t ask Deku,” Katsuki snaps, grabbing you by the wrist to make you look his way again. “You should be asking me. I’m in charge.”

“And who exactly are you?” you ask innocently, despite the fact that you already know the answer.

“I’m Bakugou Katsuki,” he declares, and he proceeds to puff out his chest, the little shit. Although you can’t deny that you’ve done that quite a few times yourself. Katsuki then narrows his eyes at you. “Anyways, since I’m in charge, I say that you need to hurry up and get lost. We don’t waste our time playing with girls.”

Your eyes crinkle in amusement.

Aw. Get a load of this little prick.

But fine, you’ll bite.

“Why don’t you play with girls?” you chuckle. “Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of cooties at this age. It’s no wonder you don’t have any teenager friends, if you still believe in silly things like that.”

Unsurprisingly, Katsuki explodes.

And yes, you mean it in the literal sense.

“What the hell did you just say to me?!”

He sparks off explosions in the palms of his hands, and you suppose it was meant to catch you by surprise and intimidate you, but since you’re far too well-versed with his character, it doesn’t do much else besides make you blink.

“Cool Quirk,” you smile evenly. “Now, where do we stand on the topic of cooties?”

Perhaps you’re provoking him a bit too much, but you’re not afraid. After living with Chisaki and knowing what he’s capable of, Katsuki’s anger issues feel like child’s play in comparison. Besides, he just talks a big talk, but when it comes down to it, he’s all bark and no bite. It’s not like he’ll actually hit you.

Huh? Wait. Is it just me, or is his fist getting a little too close to my face...?

Okay, you stand corrected. Katsuki will clearly punch you without hesitation.

Instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut, preparing yourself for what will no doubt be a nasty wave of pain.

But for some reason, the pain never comes. Despite the explosion that very clearly rang out through the air.

When you open your eyes, you quickly realize why.

“Goddammit, Deku!” Katsuki fumes. “Why did you get in my way, you little asshole?! You always... you always pull this shit!”

Sweet, kind-hearted Izuku. Of course he intercepted Katsuki’s punch in order to protect you. He’s trembling, clutching at the sore patch on his arm that’s undoubtedly stinging like a bitch. This is only the third time you’ve ever spoken to Izuku, and yet, he didn’t hesitate before taking on the brunt of Katsuki’s attack for your sake.

He is the very essence of a hero. You always knew this, but witnessing his selfless feats in person is a different feeling entirely.

You know there’s only so much you can do for this boy, and that he’s got a long, painful road ahead of him, but at the very least, he deserves to be acknowledged for his good deeds.

“Y-You really shouldn’t hurt people, Kacchan,” Izuku winces. “No matter how many times you do it... it’ll always be wrong...”

Katsuki grits his teeth. “There you go again, looking down on me.”

“What? I was just—”

“You’re looking down on me, goddammit!”

Katsuki yells out even louder than before, and his palms explode several times, mirroring the flare in his emotions. You frown at him, but don’t say anything, and instead drop to your knees and place a hand against Izuku’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” you ask. “You stepped in so that I wouldn’t get hurt. Thank you, Izuku. You’re really brave to have done that.”

Izuku’s cheeks immediately redden. “H-Huh? Oh, it’s... it’s fine. Anyone else would have done the same...”

No. That’s simply not true. After all, Katsuki’s two lackeys were perfectly content to watch you get hit just then, and you doubt most bystanders would have intervened either.

Speaking of bystanders...

“[Name]!” your roommate calls out. She must have heard the explosion, because she suddenly shot to attention, and so did the rest of the teens. “What’s going on? We can hear a lot of yelling coming from over there. Are you okay?”

Crap. If you tell them what happened, they’ll definitely cut your visit short, and they’ll probably say it’s too dangerous for you to come here anymore.

“I’m fine!” you insist, hugging Izuku close so they can’t see his pained expression. “Everything’s hunky-dory! We're just having a very passionate discussion, that’s all.”

Izuku squeals, mortified from the lack of distance between you—and possibly on the verge of fainting—so you quickly release him once your roommate shrugs and turns back towards the group. It looks like they’re mostly watching videos on their phones, so they probably won’t intervene unless something else happens.

You flash Katsuki a sharp glare. “If you don’t want my teenager friends to come over here and mess you up, you’d better not do that again.”

“So, bring them,” he grits out. “I’m not scared. No matter how many there are, I can take them.”

God. That ego of his is really going strong, huh?

“Just consider this a warning,” you insist, and Katsuki openly scoffs. You can’t tell whether he’s actually a bit intimidated or not. He does a really good job of keeping up the macho act.

“Anyways,” you sigh, “Izuku, are you okay? I’m sorry you got hurt because of me. I shouldn’t have kept teasing Katsuki about cooties or whatever.”

Katsuki continues to shake his fist, visibly seething, but you ignore him and focus on the curly-haired boy who just saved you.

It seems like Izuku isn’t used to this kind of treatment, though. Someone actually taking the time to worry about him. At least, that’s what the wide, disbelieving look in his eyes tells you.

“I-I’m alright,” he stammers shyly. His cheeks are still bright red. Goodness, he’s just the cutest thing ever. “But thank you... for asking me how I was feeling.”

You feel like you’re about to melt. You just want to squeeze him forever and ever, but you can’t do that, because his heart will probably explode. Still. He’s the goodest boy. He’s the goodest boy, and the goodest boy deserves to be happy.

Why, oh why, can’t he just be happy?

“The hell is wrong with you, worrying about a loser like him?” Katsuki grits out. He seems very butthurt about no longer being the center of attention, and the fact that you’re focusing on Izuku, of all people, makes it infinitely worse.

You roll your eyes. “This is why you shouldn’t go around trying to punch people. Believe it or not, people don’t like to get punched. Well, I guess you were aiming for me, but still. Actually, hey! What did I do so wrong that you felt the need to punch me? I was only joking around.”

“You were saying a bunch of stupid shit,” he snaps.

“That’s sort of my thing. Ask anyone. Saying stupid shit is what I excel at.”

Katsuki mutters something about how weird and annoying you are, but you’re still focused almost entirely on Izuku. Thankfully, he didn’t get hurt badly. There’s a welt on his arm from where the explosion connected, and it’ll probably sting for a little while, but otherwise, he should be fine.

You smile and pat Izuku’s back a few times. “I’m glad you’re not in too much pain. And seriously, thanks again for what you did. That was really cool.”

Izuku blushes ten times harder, which isn’t surprising, really. Meanwhile, Katsuki’s expression is gradually twisting in on itself, and it looks like he’s about to start blowing smoke out of his nose.

Well, that part isn’t too surprising either.

“Don’t you know that he’s Quirkless?” Katsuki suddenly blurts. “He's the biggest loser I’ve ever met. Seriously, if you keep hanging around him and feeling sorry for him, everyone will think you’re a loser too.”

Man, really? That’s a low blow.

Unfortunately, it seems like ten-year-old Katsuki is still a massive piece of shit, even though you’d been hoping he wouldn't be so bad yet.

But you aren’t fazed. Despite his cruel words, despite how he pushes Izuku away and shuns him at every turn, you know that eventually, their relationship will change for the better.

And perhaps, with your involvement, the process might even be accelerated.

“So what?” you shrug. “Not having a Quirk doesn’t make him a loser. People are way more than just their Quirks, at the end of the day. Your worth is decided by how you treat others, and the choices you make. Besides... just because his Quirk hasn’t manifested doesn’t mean it never will. We don’t know what’ll happen.”

Izuku’s eyes go glossy and wide, and he stares at you breathlessly, hanging onto every word. Of course, you can’t reveal the details of what the future holds in store for him, but at the very least, you hope he feels a bit more optimistic now.

While Izuku marvels at you, however, Katsuki openly sneers.

“All Quirks manifest by the age of four at the latest,” he says. “Stop talking bullshit. It’s impossible, so don’t give that nerd false hope. If you actually cared about him, you’d be honest instead of feeding him lies.”

“Some things seem impossible, but that doesn’t mean they actually are,” you retort. Then, you turn back towards Izuku and smile again. “Don’t give up, Izuku. When we first met, you mentioned that you wanted to become a hero, right? Just keep trying. I promise it’ll work out for you.”

It’s the truth. A future that is guaranteed to happen. But even if Izuku thinks you’re simply reassuring him, he grins widely nonetheless.

It must be the first time anyone’s ever believed in him, and while you’re happy to be that person, it’s a sad reminder of how much he’s suffered until now.

“Okay!” he chirps. “Th-Thank you! Thank you so much!”

His spirits are soaring high all of a sudden, and to think that all it took was a bit of encouragement. A bit of kindness and empathy.

But it’s okay. There’s more where that came from. You lived a shameful, empty life in the past, but maybe that’s why you were reborn into this world. So that you could make something of yourself and support those in need.

Izuku will be Quirkless for a few more years, but the difference is that this time, in the moments where he feels like giving up most...

He won’t be alone.

“By the way,” you hum, “I’m not sure if you’re interested or not, but would you like to see my Quirk? It's nothing too special, and I’m not the best at using it, but it looks pretty cool, if I say so myself!”

Izuku nods furiously. “Of course! I’d love to!”

You proceed to lift your palm to the sky, and Izuku’s emerald eyes shine in awe as he watches the star fragments materialize. They shimmer and glide between your fingers, every bit as breathtaking as always, and Izuku seems to think so too.

“That’s awesome! It looks so pretty!”

“Hehe, right? I can use them to manipulate objects and stuff too. Here, just look at this.”

You proudly show off your telekinesis, as clumsy as it may be, and Izuku cheers you on the whole while, oohing and awing just every chance he gets.

“There’s nothing special about a Quirk like that,” one of Katsuki’s lackeys shrugs. “It’s just a bit fancy-looking, that’s all.”

Katsuki doesn’t say anything. He’s not really paying attention to your Quirk either. Quite frankly, he could give less of a shit.

For some reason... it bothers him. Watching you and Izuku babble on like happy, carefree idiots.

It’s strange. Here he is, right in front of your eyes, but you would still rather hang out with that goddamn nerd? Seriously? Instead of Bakugou Katsuki, the coolest guy in the entire world?

He doesn’t like what’s going on here.

He doesn’t like it one bit.

More chapters are available on Quotev, Ao3 and Wattpad!

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[baekhyunsbestie]

ok here i go sorry if my thoughts are really scrambled

so im sure a lot of u guys know im going thru a divorce rn, moving cities, adjusting to single motherhood and mourning a fucking life that i had planned, etc.

anywho a few months ago, i was at my god daughter’s first bday party. her mom is my first cousin and her and i ARE SUPER close, we’ll call her ‘j’. so naturally, she’d always integrate me w her friend group and such and her and i are a lot alike so naturally her friends became my friends too. anywho, there was this one friend there that i haven’t met before. let’s call him ‘m’. i was DRUNK as hell and i hardly remember meeting him honestly. he only came up to me cus i was talking to one of our mutual friends, we exchanged like two sentences, and that was that. the next day, i saw i got a follow on ig and when i clicked on the account, we had lots of mutuals, j being one of them. i thought it was kinda strange at first cus im thinking “i literally don’t recall meeting an ‘m’” anywho, i accepted his req and req’d to follow him back. upon him accepting my req, i see his posts n im like “O YEA THE GUY FROM THE PARTY YESTERDAY”

so a few days go by and he’s sliding up on my stories, reacting to them, sending me memes, etc. and in my head i’m thinking this is so weird cus 1. i don’t EVER remember exchanging names w him and 2. how the hell did he even find my ig???? the memes/reels he’s sending are funny and so i send him some back cus i realize we have the same humor. i bring it up to my cousin and tell her that her friend has been in my dms and sending me shit and she says “oh yea he’s like that. super friendly and outgoing and just makes friends that way.” so i’m like COOL this is normal. anywho he and i start talking more regularly and becoming friends.

a couple weeks after the party, where i meet him, and he followed me the next day, was when i like broke the news to everyone that im going to divorce my husband. he’s there for me, super supportive, and really kind.

i find that he and i are A LOT alike and we get like really close really fast. i can tell this dudes liking me more than friends so i straight up tell him like “????? hey so i dont think i could b anything more than friends with u. i’m literally going thru a divorce, navigating single motherhood, and trying to fucking rebuild my life all over again. like don’t expect anything from me!!!!”

mind u he’s like “dude don’t worry about it. i still wanna be here for you as a friend, i stand by that.”

so i’m like “PHEW! thanks for that i just really wanted to be transparent and straight up w u”

he’s all, “yea no i appreciate the honesty. i’m glad we’re on the same page.”

obviously we’re not on the same fucking page cus this dude flirts w me like he can get anywhere w me 😭😭😭😭 like this fool is a LOVEBOMBER!!! just constantly telling me im pretty/attractive/beautiful/etc, how funny i am, how “our connection” just feels so right, how he just wants to sit and stare and adore me all day, how much he likes me, etc.

and i swear to u, ONCE a week, i have that convo w him. im like “dude im going thru a lot rn!!! a new fucking relationship is the last thing on my mind!!!!!! like bro im still legally fucking married!!!!! i just need a fucking friend rn!!!! u kno the one u said you’d be since day fucking one!!!!!!”

so literally three weeks ago, i flaked on hanging out w him cus i was just feeling so emotionally exhausted, not just from him but EVERYTHING. i could tell he was upset about it so give him his space. he texts me this long ass message:

mind u im having drinks w my friends when he texts me all this so i start fuckin crying at the restaurant cus my ex husband/bd was literally yelling at me and calling me “useless” a few hrs before and this happens and im like FUCK i literally can’t fuckin catch a break!!!!! told my friends what happened cus obvi im crying and they read the messages. had to pry my fucking phone outta their hands bc they wanted to tell him off for me. so yea they hate him after that.

i didn’t end up replying. i hate ghosting ppl but at this point i literally didn’t care. two days later, he texts again telling me he was wayyyy outta line and that he made shit about him when he shouldn’t have and he felt so guilty about being an asshole cus he realized how he was just adding onto the stress i’m already going thru. he reiterated that he knows i just need a friend rn and that he’s willing to be that for me.

so my dumbass is like “ok!! apology accepted!!! it’s fine!!!! we all go thru shit and let our emotions take over every now and then.”

I SHOULDVE TOLD HIM TO EAT A SACK OF DICKS INSTEAD!!!! cus he DIDNT STOP FLIRTING AND ACTING LIKE IM HIS GF. fucking sending me flowers and a card to my work, doordashing me food, flirting lovebombing, etc. EVEN WHEN I’D TELL HIM TO STOP.

so im falling back, deciding not to really reply to him anymore. then this past monday, he texts me

LITERALLY TEN FUCKING MIN AFTER THAT FUTURE MEME TEXT, i get a notif in my ig dms that he changed my nickname???? i go to our thread, pull up his acc and he removed me as a follower and unfollowed me. did the same w ALL of his socials. so im like “😀😀😀😀 so u were NEVER really my fucking friend!!!! u just wanted to get in my fucking pants!!!!”

mind u my sons bday was yesterday, friday the 25th. he was saying on monday he didn’t wanna bring all that up cus he knew it was my sons bday coming up and ive been busy. JUST TO DO ALL THAT??????

i just feel like??? i was just a game. like he was never really my fucking friend even tho i felt like he was??? like before he really started showing interest in me, we like trauma dumped, had deep talks, etc.

i called my cousin and told her abt it and she’s fucking embarrassed for him. told me that he actually has a history for being kinda psycho w girls and painting it as if the girls were the ones w the problems and not him :-(

sigh anyway that’s my truth 😭😭😭

ALSO COME TO FIND OUT THAT HE FOUND ME ON IG CUS HE WENT ON MY COUSINS PAGE AMD FOUND A POST SHE MADE FOR ME ON MY BDAY LAST YEAR (2024). GUESS WHAT PHOTOS SHE USED????? ME AT MY WEDDING !!!!!!

oh i also found this screenshot in my photos too lmao

chat can i vent abt a situation that’s been eating at me and can u guys b brutally honest and tell me if im the bad guy or not cus i TRULY dont think i am

[adlibitur]

sometimes i have to stop myself from retelling other peoples funny stories because they live so fondly in my own memory

[starscream-is-my-wife]

The beginnings of Thundercracker learning Skyfires schematics because he’s a magnet for trouble

[harmonysanreads]

Does anyone have any good guesses on how old Mydei actually is (with evidence please)? I keep on seeing "oh Mydei is the baby of the group" jokes but I haven't seen any convincing arguments behind that take.

[numberonetribble]

I have a 3 day weekend coming up next week you know what that means:

[feroluce]

Thinking tonight about Caelus, and the nature of his loss and his grief after the Everything that went down in Penacony during 2.0.

Because Acheron, Black Swan, and Misha kind of knew of Firefly, they at least met her, but they didn't like really know her, and Caelus never even got the chance to introduce her to the rest of the Astral Express Crew. The only person who would have talked to her much was Sparkle, who is. Probably not really someone Caelus is interested in grieving with skznmsks

Anyway, all this to say, I like thinking about how alone poor Caelus is in his grief, because he was the only one who knew Firefly. He's the only one really mourning her. There's no one to talk about her with. There's no stories to trade or memories to reminisce with anyone over. It's not as though he knew her for long, but still. No one else knew her at all.

And I love the thought of all of this coming bubbling up, hot and acidic and bitter, during a conversation with Sampo, who Caelus just so happens to run into in the Golden Hour. Poor Sampo is kinda blindsided, he knew shit was going down in Penacony, but yeesh. And he just. Isn't quite sure what to say about it all, because he's never really encountered this before. His feelings about the Masked Fools are...a mixed bag, but he's been a part of them for a very long time, and when you're with a close organization like that, it's hard to feel alone, in grief or otherwise.

So Sampo sits there on their little bench that the two of them have occupied, and he thinks of his old friend April, how she'd died in his arms cackling and spitting her own blood after a heist gone wrong, and how after he'd dragged himself back to the World's End Tavern they'd all held a Fool's Funeral- which is basically just a big party where everyone gets really really drunk and reminisces and toasts the dead and celebrates their life.

He still thinks about her a lot, and he remembers how the time he'd most keenly felt her absence was on Jarilo-VI, the one place where he couldn't talk about her because he couldn't say anything to give himself away as an alien. The Fools still tell stories about her every time he goes back to the Tavern. His first toast of the night is always in her name. Even now, all these years after she'd died, Sampo is still learning new things about her. He's never had to grieve her alone.

Caelus doesn't have any of that.

He might never have that. As they speak, Caelus has no proof that Firefly was even her real name, or if she dreamt with her true appearance. He might not ever find out who she even was.

And just imagining that kind of loneliness hollows out a strange little pit, right behind his sternum, deep between his ribs.

So Sampo claps Caelus' shoulder and offers him a deal. Come find him outside of the dream. He knows a guy who can get them a lot of beer for really cheap-

("Is that guy you and your five finger discounts?" "Whatever do you mean, dear friend, I don't even know the meaning of the phrase, hehee.")

-and they can hole up in a bar or a hotel room or something, and get completely shitcanned. Tell him all about Firefly, tell him everything, and he'll tell Caelus about April and everyone else he's ever lost. Sampo will carry Caelus' memories of Firefly with him, and at least this way, Caelus will be a little less alone in remembering her. And the next time they cross paths, Sampo will be the one to bring her up, and to tell her stories, and Caelus can get to be the one listening. He won't have to be the only person to talk about her anymore.

Caelus rolls his eyes when Sampo avoids another remark about sticky fingers, but...ok, yeah. That sounds good. Nice, even. Thank you. Caelus bumps his shoulder against Sampo's. Sampo bumps back.

(They find each other again the next day, and true to their word, get themselves completely and utterly shitcanned. Caelus talks more than Sampo has ever heard him; every minute detail, every word choice, Firefly's every odd little mannerism and habit. Because Caelus wants to make sure this will outlive him, that even if the Stellaron dwelling within him finally burns him to a crisp and he really does up and kick the bucket, or even, godforbid, if he forgets, he wants to make sure someone remembers her. She deserved that.)

((And it takes quite a while, after that. Caelus doesn't see Sampo again until after everything has settled down. On his last day in Penacony, he finds the guy slinking out of a seedy back alley and all but runs right into him. Sampo happily leads him to some dive bar in an even seedier back alley that Caelus has never even heard of, and Sampo raises his glass. "To Firefly! Who sounds like she probably would have hated me at first, but I would have liked to have met her anyway."

And Caelus stares at him, almost looking startled, long enough that Sampo worries that he's read him wrong and brought this up too soon. He's halfway into planning how to talk himself out of this situation when Caelus finally throws back his head back and laughs, tells him that yeah, Firefly would have politely called him out on every lie he told, and all their conversations would take twice as long with the way Sampo is so full of shit.

And he can see it, the same way he watches and sees through everyone, that Caelus' eyes have a tightness to them, his knuckles are nearly white around the handle of his mug. But he smiles. He hits his glass against Sampo's far too hard and throws it back and gets foam everywhere like he does every time they drink because the guy's about as elegant as a raging bull, but those things don't lessen the genuineness of his smile.

The grief is there, but so is the elation, and those emotions aren't a sliding scale between one or the other. It is all of both and both at once, and that's what contents Sampo enough to throw his own mug back when Caelus makes a toast of his own, "to April!!".))

[laurellala-comics]

there are two wolves inside of you. One of them is fretting that you went through all the effort of making a new art account just to pigeonhole yourself once more into a specific fandom, which holds you back from exploring original art concepts that you care about. The other one came up with three separate ace attorney comic ideas in the last hour alone and isn't stopping anytime soon

[evenings-at-the-seaofquanta]

Having a moment rn

Also on a more general note:

[vaguebitsofnonsense]

.