#it's Making You Stare @ Her Hours™ again

[gordonsicedcoffee]

JULIE BENZ The Making of The Fatal Five | Saw V Special Feature

[papayainsectorone]

Is It Casual Now?

summary: i have nothing to summarize other then .... spiraling

content: unrequited feelings, emotional neglect, jealousy, emotional intimacy withdrawal, romantic displacement, passive heartbreak, "i’m fine" when they’re clearly not, The Couch™ as emotional purgatory

word count: 4,3k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

a thought: thank you endlessly for all the love on the last part, your comments truly mean the world to me and i’m so so grateful 🫶

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

The afternoon sun slants across the apartment like it’s trying too hard to be gentle. You’re curled up on the couch, blanket still draped around your shoulders even though you aren’t cold anymore, just… thin. Like your skin’s been worn down by too many hours of pretending.

You don’t remember what’s playing on the TV. You’ve been staring at it hours without really seeing it.

Your stomach is mostly settled now. The sickness has faded, leaving just the ghost of it behind, hovering low and sour. But the ache in your chest—the one that started when her laugh had filtered through your bedroom wall—is louder now in the quiet.

You end up on the ocuch all day, curtains drawn just enough to keep the light soft. You lie on your stomach, scrolling. Meaningless stuff, nothing worth remembering.

And then you type her name into the search bar.

Charlotte.

You don’t even know her last name. But somehow you land on someone who might be her. Blonde. Tall. An unmistakable glint of Lando’s jacket in the background of one photo on her story.

Your stomach clenches, betrayal and shame tangled up like wet wires.

You wonder if he kissed her the same way he kissed you. If he tucked her hair behind her ear the way he used to. If he whispered stupid, soft things to her while his hand was on her waist, if she got the good parts of him too.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You don’t want him. That was the whole deal. Casual. Friendly. Disposable.

Except maybe you do. And maybe it isn’t.

You let your phone slip from your fingers to the cushions, the weight of it suddenly too much again.

The door clicks open late that afternoon.

You don’t move. Just stare blankly at the paused Netflix screen, the lingering image of a scene you didn’t absorb.

Lando walks into view, dropping his keys in the dish by the door, holding a bag of groceries in one hand. He looks freshly showered again, cheeks flushed from the wind outside.

“Hey,” he says, voice light. “How you feeling?”

You turn your head, smile a little too tightly. “Better.”

“Color’s back in your face,” he offers, walking into the kitchen. “Figured I’d make you something. You kept anything down?”

You nod. Lie. “Some toast.”

He pokes his head out from behind the fridge door. “Okay, toast and… crisps it is.”

You huff out a dry laugh as he tosses you a bag.

He drops onto the couch beside you, a little too close, thigh brushing yours. Your body tenses before you can hide it.

Lando glances over at you, the crease between his brows twitching just slightly. “Still nauseous?”

You nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”

But it isn’t.

He seems like he knows that too, his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s trying to read between your words. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t say anything. He just nods, barely, and turns his attention back to the muted TV screen.

You don’t curl up against him like you usually do. Don’t toss your legs over his lap or lean into his side the way your body aches to do now. You stay where you are, arms crossed, folded in on yourself like that could protect you from whatever it is you’re not saying out loud.

And Lando… Lando doesn’t push for that either.

That’s what makes it worse, somehow.

He’s being kind. Attentive. Gentle.

And it’s unbearable.

Because now, with all that sudden distance stretched between you, you remember how soft he talked to her in that hallway, how his eyes propably crinkled when she whispered something close to his ear. How his laugh rumbled warm and easy with her body pressed against his. Like it wasn’t just fun. Like she meant something.

He’s being careful with you now. But he was tender with her, too.

And that… that hurts in a way you weren’t ready for.

THREE DAYS LATER

You’re both in the kitchen.

Technically.

In practice, it feels like you’re on separate orbits—same space, different gravity. There’s nothing overtly wrong. No shouting, no slammed doors. Just a stillness that hums under everything. A quiet unfamiliarity in a room that used to be full of rhythm.

Lando’s leaned back against the counter, his phone in one hand, thumb dragging absently across the screen. He’s talking in that fast, half-distracted way he does when he’s running on autopilot. Something about the next race—weather forecasts, new car tweaks, a funny thing one of the engineers texted him.

His voice fills the space, light and easy, like it always does. You smile at the right moments. Nod when he pauses long enough to pretend he’s expecting a response.

You’re at the stove, watching the water in the kettle start to tremble. Your arms are crossed, knotted across your chest like they’re holding something in. The steam curls up in slow spirals. You focus on that. It’s easier than watching him.

This used to be your favorite version of him. Excited, moving from topic to topic without breath, like everything that mattered was right there in his head and he wanted to share it all with you. You used to love how chaotic he got before a trip, how he’d try to pack the morning of and forget half his chargers. You’d steal his hoodie just to slow him down. He’d roll his eyes, pretend to be mad, and then chase you around the living room until you were laughing too hard to breathe.

Now he’s wearing that same hoodie.

The one you used to sleep in.

You think about how you used to wake up in it. How it smelled like him even after the wash. You think, vaguely, that maybe you hate it now.

You pour hot water over a waiting tea bag. Let it steep. But you don’t drink it. Just hold the mug close, letting the heat pool in your palms, like maybe that’s enough to keep you grounded.

Lando’s still talking. You hear the sound of his voice, but not the words. They don’t quite land.

He doesn’t notice you’ve gone quiet.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t ask.

The thing is, you’re not angry. Not really. You just don’t have the energy to reach for something that feels like it’s already slipping away. Something that maybe was never yours to begin with.

He finally checks the time, stretches like he always does before leaving, and grabs his keys from the bowl by the door.

“I’m meeting Charlotte for lunch,” he says casually, like it’s just another item on the to-do list. Like it’s nothing.

You nod. “Have fun.”

He hesitates, just for a beat. Like maybe he senses it, the shift between you. But whatever he might’ve said gets swallowed down. He flashes a brief, familiar smile, and then he’s walking down the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And the quiet rushes in like a wave, swallowing everything whole.

You’re on the couch together.

The room is dim, cast in soft flickers from the TV, some action comedy Lando picked. Something loud and ridiculous. He said it’d be a good distraction. You didn’t argue.

You sit curled into the far corner, legs tucked beneath you, blanket wrapped tight across your lap like it’s shielding you from something neither of you have named. Your side of the couch is colder than it used to be. That space in the middle, the one you used to fill without thinking, now stretches longer than it should.

Lando’s sprawled comfortably on the other end, socked feet propped on the coffee table, fingers resting loosely on a half-finished bottle of water. He laughs—short and easy—at a dumb joke on screen. You try to echo it with a breathy sound. It doesn’t land.

“You’re not even watching,” he says, without looking away from the movie.

You hum. “I am.”

He glances over, catches your profile in the low light. “What’s the main guy’s name then?”

You pause. “Guy McYells?”

Lando snorts. “Okay, maybe you are watching.”

You smile. It's weak, but it's real enough to fool the room.

Then his phone buzzes between you.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He reaches for it without missing a beat, fingers moving fast. The screen lights up and out of the corner of your eye, you catch the name.

Charlotte.

No emojis. No nickname. Just her name. Clean. Definitive.

Still, the smile that breaks across Lando’s face is soft and wide and utterly effortless. It hits like a punch to the chest.

“What’s she saying?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t look up, still typing. “Just something about her trip. She might come up next week.”

You nod slowly. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” He glances at you now, expression unreadable. “You two should hang out. Properly, I mean.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Right, because I’m dying to have girl talk.”

He laughs again, but it’s more of a breath. “Come on, it’s not like that, she´s not like that, I reckon you´d like her just as much as I do”

You turn back to the screen. “Sure.”

A beat.

“Okay, maybe a little less,” he admits, his voice quiet, almost sheepish.

You force a chuckle. “Wow. Big revelation.”

Lando nudges your leg with his foot. “You used to be less mean.”

You glance down at where he touched you, like it matters. “You used to be less predictable.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop.

It hangs in the air—something between you that neither of you dares to name. The familiar rhythm of banter, still there, but thinner. Fragile. Like one wrong word might snap it in half.

He shifts again, settling deeper into the cushions, eyes back on his phone.

The silence between you swells.

“Hey,” Lando says suddenly, voice softer now. “We’re still good, right?”

You look at him. Really look.

His expression is open, brows tilted just enough to show he’s not as sure as he wants to sound. The question hits harder than it should. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s not even close to the one you’ve been asking yourself.

You nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

But something in your chest doesn’t believe it. And maybe he doesn’t either, because he just nods back, like that’s enough to close the subject.

And then he’s gone again, into his phone, into whatever Charlotte’s saying, into a world that no longer includes you in quite the same way.

You stare at the television. Still pretending.

THREE WEEKS LATER

You come home later than usual. Not on purpose, but you didn’t rush either.

The apartment’s quiet when you step inside. Not empty, just quiet in that specific way that tells you someone else is already here. Lights are low. A jacket slung over the arm of the couch. A faint scent of perfume you don’t recognize hangs in the air, something floral and expensive, the kind that comes from a department store tester bottle or a date that went well.

Then you see them.

Her shoes.

They sit just inside the door, neatly side by side like she plans to slip them back on any minute, but you know better.

You freeze for half a second, keys still in hand, breath caught mid-inhale. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag before you force yourself to move again, softer now. Calmer. Like if you go still enough, quiet enough, the ache won’t rise up and drown you again.

You don’t go to your room.

You don’t even look down the hallway.

Because you know.

You know her laughter by now, how it sounds too close to his. You know the creak of his bed when someone rolls too far to the edge. You know the muffled shape of a kiss through drywall, even when it’s gentle. Even when it’s real.

You’re not strong enough for that tonight.

You set your keys on the coffee table as quietly as you can, afraid even the sound of metal might crack the illusion you’re building for yourself.

Then you lie down on the couch.

Curled up small, spine pressing into the cushions, one arm wedged between your cheek and the fabric like that might hold your head still. The blanket’s out of reach, but you don’t grab it. Too far. Too much.

You stare at the ceiling.

You close your eyes.

And you pretend.

Pretend sleep comes easy. Pretend you’re just tired. Pretend your chest doesn’t feel like it’s been hollowed out and left to echo with every laugh, every whisper from the next room. Pretend you don’t feel displaced in your own home. Like you’re the ghost now. The quiet in someone else’s love story.

You tell yourself she’ll leave soon.

But her shoes stay by the door.

And you don’t move.

FOUR WEEKS LATER

You didn’t even want to come.

But staying home felt worse. Like admitting something final.

The bar is too loud, too dark, too full of people you used to feel tethered to. Friends you still technically have, but who feel more like polite acquaintances now. You sit at the edge of the booth, shoulders brushing the wall, knees knocking gently into someone else’s under the table, maybe Grace, maybe Will. You haven’t looked up in a while.

Charlotte is across from you. Right beside Lando, close enough that it matters. She’s laughing at something he said, head tilted just enough to show she’s listening. Really listening. Her smile is soft and bright and infuriatingly genuine.

You want to hate her.

God, you want to hate her so badly.

But she’s… nice.

Too nice.

She’s clever and warm and thoughtful in all the right ways. She compliments your necklace. Orders your favorite food before you even finish glancing at the menu when she stays over. Laughs at your jokes, actually laughs, not the strained kind people give when they’re pretending to like someone for someone else’s sake.

She’s the kind of woman you would’ve wanted your best friend to fall for. If it weren’t your best friend.

If it weren’t him.

Now, she’s just another reminder of how things used to be. How easily you’ve been replaced by someone who never even tried to replace you. Charlotte isn’t taking your place maliciously, she’s just stepping into it naturally, without needing to push. Like the door was always half-open.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was never even near to being closed.

Lando is halfway through another story. Something about last weekend, a dinner you weren’t invited to—of course. You already know who was there. He hasn’t said her name, but she’s in every sentence, tucked into the “we,” ghosting through his memories like she belongs there now.

“She thought it was chicken,” he says, his grin lopsided and familiar. “But it was actually—”

You miss the punchline. You sip your drink, too sweet, too sticky, too something. Vodka cranberry. A drink from a different version of you. One who didn’t feel like a bystander in her own story.

You laugh when everyone else does. Not too late, not too soon. You’ve mastered the timing. Enough to pass.

Someone turns to you and says your name.

You blink. “Hm?”

He repeats the question. Travel plans. Work. Something light.

You nod. Offer a thin smile. “Busy, but good.”

That’s your answer for everything lately.

Busy. But good.

You let the conversation move on without you, words passing over your head like wind through a cracked window. You nod when it seems right, smile faintly when someone laughs, all muscle memory. But your eyes keep drifting. Back to him. Back to Lando.

He’s laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkling in that way that used to make your chest feel full. That laugh used to be yours, a sound you could pull from him like it belonged to you.

Now, he doesn’t look at you once. Not even by accident.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts.

You remember when he used to. All the time. Across rooms. Mid-conversation. Little glances like secrets. The corner of his mouth twitching when you rolled your eyes. That smirk when someone said something dumb and he knew you were thinking it too. The soft look when he caught you looking at him and didn’t look away.

It used to feel like the two of you spoke a language only you knew. A shared, unspoken thread pulled taut between glances.

Now? Now you couldn’t feel further from him if there were an ocean between you.

You press your thumb into the side of your glass, watching the condensation pool around it, gather into droplets that slide down like they’re trying to escape.

There’s a lump rising in your throat, slow and sharp, pressing against your windpipe like it wants out. You swallow hard. Once. Twice. It doesn’t move.

You’re here. In the same room. At the same table. Breathing the same air.

And you’ve never felt more alone. Not even when you were cities apart. Not even when he left you unread. Not even onve in the many years you knew him.

You wonder if he even notices. That you're slipping. That you already have.

And somehow, he still feels miles away.

You smile again when someone cracks another joke. You don’t remember the setup. You don’t care about the punchline.

You're getting really good at pretending.

You excuse yourself with a smile that doesn’t quite stick.

Something about needing another drink. Even though your glass is still half full. Even though no one really noticed you slipping away, not even Lando. Especially not Lando.

You weave through the crowd, past a cluster of people singing along to something too loud, past two girls laughing at the edge of the bar, already flushed with wine. The room is warmer here. Closer. Easier to breathe in, even if only for a moment.

You lean against the bar, shoulder grazing the cold brass rail, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

"Long night?"

The voice is low. Familiar. Smooth in that signature way that always seems half on the edge of teasing.

You glance to your right and find Charles.

His hair is messy, button-down half undone, sleeves rolled, drink in hand. He looks... at ease. In a way most people don’t at these kinds of things. In a way you definitely aren’t.

You offer a tired smile. “Something like that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Something involving Lando?”

Your expression doesn’t change, but your grip on your glass does. He notices. Of course he does.

“You looked uncomfortable back there,” he says gently. Not pushing, just observing. “Not like you.”

You shrug. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Charles huffs out a quiet laugh. “Or maybe you're just stuck sitting across from a guy who doesn’t know what he wants.”

That makes you pause.

You glance sideways.

He’s smirking now, the corner of his mouth tugged upward with a quiet kind of mischief. But it’s the look in his eyes that stills you. Calm. Observant. Too knowing for comfort. Like he’s already unraveled everything you’ve tried so carefully to keep wrapped up.

You blink once, sharply, trying to push back the sudden burn behind your eyes.

Charles doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a breath, then sips his drink.

“I mean,” he starts, voice casual but not careless, “I didn’t want to assume... but it kind of seems like whatever this is”, he gestures loosely back toward the crowded booth, where laughter rises again, louder now, “has been going on for a while.”

You look at him. Don’t answer. Just meet his gaze, even though it feels like something in your chest is pulling tight.

Charles leans back slightly, resting his elbow on the bar. “And I haven’t seen you at races,” he adds, quieter now. “Not really. Not the way you used to be there.”

Still, you don’t say anything. But you don’t look away either.

He watches you a moment longer, then shrugs lightly and takes another sip. And then, because he’s Charles, he smirks even more, a different kind this time, nudging your shoulder with his.

“I kinda missed your moans from his driver room,” he says, tone full of teasing, mouth curving around it like he knows exactly how to pull you back from the edge of whatever you were about to feel.

It works.

You huff out a laugh. “You’re such an ass.”

He shrugs, still grinning. “Maybe. But I’m right.”

It shouldn’t be comforting. But somehow, it is. That someone knows. That someone sees you, what you were, what you are now, and doesn’t make it more dramatic than it already feels in your chest. He just lets it sit there, in the space between drinks and half-smiles.

You exhale, leaning a little heavier against the bar.

“Can we not talk about him right now?”

Charles tilts his head. “Sure. No Lando talk.”

There’s a pause. The good kind. The easy kind.

Then, like a peace offering, he flags the bartender with two fingers. “Let me get you something better than that sugar-water,” he says, nodding at your half-drunk cranberry vodka. “You always drink that when you’re pretending you’re fine.”

You glance at him, surprised. “God, do I have any secrets left?”

He gives you a look, amused and soft all at once. “Not from me.”

And when the new drink arrives, you take it in your hands and let the sharpness of citrus chase away the ache. Even if just for a moment.

For the first time in what feels like weeks, it’s real. Loose and stupid and full of that fizzy kind of joy that only hits after too many drinks and just enough distraction. The music’s thumping, spilling out over the crowd, all bass and beat and sweat-slicked bodies. And you—pressed up against Charles on the dancefloor—are floating somewhere between tipsy and gone, but it feels good. Easy.

His hands rest light on your hips. You’re not even sure who started the dancing. One second you were at the bar still trading lazy banter, the next—this. Heat. Movement. His smile low and crooked as he leaned in to say something you didn’t quite hear but smiled at anyway.

And that’s when you see him.

Lando. Back at the booth. Standing slightly apart now, Charlotte beside him. His hand wrapped loosely in hers. His eyes, though, locked on you.

You freeze for half a second. Just enough to feel the pulse of something cold run beneath your skin.

He’s staring. Face unreadable, but his jaw tight. Eyebrows drawn the way they get when he’s confused. Or pissed. Or both.

Charles just leans in again, mouth near your ear, breath warm as he says, “Keep dancing.”

And you do.

You move again, slower now, but still with that reckless, weightless ease. You let yourself laugh again. Let Charles spin you slightly, his fingers brushing yours. Lando’s still there. Still watching. But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop you.

So you dance.

And when the music gets too loud, and your head starts to spin in that pleasant, end-of-the-night kind of way, the crowd starts to thin.

The booth, you’re no longer part of it, starts breaking apart. Hugs, handshakes, half-shouted goodbyes.

Charlotte finds you just as you’re tipping your head back to finish what’s left in your glass.

“Hey,” she says, her voice warm. “We’re heading out. You coming?”

Her smile is kind. Sincere. Damn her. She’s funny and beautiful and smart and never once made you feel small. And that’s the worst part. Because you want to blame her. You want it to be her fault. But it’s not. It never was.

You open your mouth. Pause.

You are tired. Your feet ache. The room’s spinning just a little.

But you also know exactly what it would feel like to follow them out of this bar. To walk three steps behind as they hold hands to the car. To sit silently beside them on the ride home, pretending not to notice Lando’s arm thrown across the back of her seat, pretending not to feel like a third wheel in your own friendship.

You hesitate.

And then, like he heard the entire conversation in your head, Charles appears beside you.

“Oh, actually—I think we’re fine,” he says casually, slipping an arm lightly around your waist. Not possessive. Just sure.

You glance up at him.

Then, instinctively, you look at Lando.

He’s right there. Just a few feet away. Still holding Charlotte’s hand, but his brow furrowed, like he hasn’t quite figured out what this feeling in his chest is supposed to be called. Like maybe he doesn’t like it.

Your eyes meet. You wait for him to say something.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there.

Charles turns his head slightly toward you, voice quieter now. “You’re coming home with me, right?”

His eyes are steady. No pressure. Just an offer. A way out.

You glance once more between them—Charled, Charlotte, then Lando the night closing in like a held breath.

Then you nod still looking into his eyes.

“Uhm, yeah. I’m actually good,” you say lightly, tugging your phone out of your pocket, pretending to check something. “Don’t wait for me.”

Charlotte smiles, maybe a little surprised, but not unkind. “Okay. Get home safe, yeah?”

And Lando? He doesn’t say anything at all.

He just watches as you turn away.

As Charles takes your hand.

As the music swells and the night swallows you whole.

SURPRISE Charles revivial hehe

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[jambalaya-enthusiast]

Hii!! Can I ask the headcanons how characters from mouthwashing will be jelous?? I really wanna read about Jimmy (SORRY..IM TOO NERVOUS TO POST THIS FROM MY ACCOUNT. And sorry for my English xd)

❥YOU'RE JEALOUS? OH MY!~

♡ Jealous! Mouthwashing Crew [ hcs ]

synopsis: you were talking to a friend,and your partner thought that you both were a bit too into the conversation.

Captain, Curly

Curly is not a jealous man.

he is very secure in the relationship,and trusts you enough to know that being jealous of such trivial situations was just foolish.

he thought being jealous was something beneath him.

But seeing you so intertwined in this little conversation was starting to prick your boyfriend.

He doesn't confront anyone, nor does he make a scene.

He just swiftly comes,puts his hand around your waist,and joins in on the conversation.

"my,what are you guys talking about so intently?".

after the friend is gone,he doesn't really bring it up. just his grasp on you is firm throughout the day.

If it's a colleague from pony express he might speak to the higher ups...who knows...

Jimmy

Jimmy is extremely insecure in the relationship,he is already always on the edge of anyone stealing you away from him.

He just can't help himself, he's lucky enough to have bagged a baddie,so he doesn't intent upon letting anyone ruin the relationship.

so seeing you talking to your friend with such enthusiasm,made him feel as though he was being stabbed with an axe repeatedly.

He was quick to be at your side, literally snatch you by the waist,and just stared intensely at your friend,to the point that they got so uncomfortable that they just said bye and left.

it didn't stop there tho,he kept on pestering you about who that friend was,why were you so close with them and were you planning on leaving him.

says that he doesn't want you speaking to that friend ever again.

"you don't need to go around giving everyone attention".

Anya

Anya is herself a very shy individual,she doesn't really like confronting people about such silly things.

But it doesn't mean that she doesn't get jealous. Because she does. Quite often, actually.

she dislikes seeing you pay too much attention to anyone that isn't her,she knows it's not good or logical to have such thoughts but she just can't help it.

seeing you talk to that friend of yours made her so jealous that she just went silent.

after you finished talking you noticed that your girlfriend seemed more down than usual.

She didn't talk, or even looked at you for that matter.

You quickly realised that had happened and immediately peppered her face with smooches.

"silly girl,you really think I'm ever gonna leave you?". You say to her.

She just blushes and hides her face in your chest.

Swansea

Swansea rarely gets jealous. Emphasis on 'rarely' coz he never does.

he thinks it's literally pointless to get jealous,he's wayy past that age.

but if he ever does,he just asks you.

"aren't ya gettin' a bit too chummy wit that friend of yours?"

once you reassure him,he doesn't really push on after that.

Daisuke

Pouty face™

acts like a 13 year old whenever he gets jealous.

when he sees you talking with your friend, he'll literally just go and hold your hand and stare daggers into the friend.

"Y/N WHO TF IS THIS MANZ??!?!?".

you literally have to spend hours trying to reassure him.

is kind of bratty about it,but you don't mind. :)

[chigiriizz]

PARENT! BLLK WITH A PREGNANT! READER

Yoichi Isagi

Literally Googles “how to be a good dad” the minute you say “I’m pregnant.”

Becomes a doting husband overnight. Massages your feet, makes you snacks, reminds you to hydrate.

Starts journaling every week of the pregnancy, writing notes to “future baby.”

Buys a little Blue Lock onesie and cries when he holds it.

At night, he’ll talk to your belly: “Hey buddy… it’s Dad. I scored a goal today, but hearing your mom laugh was better.”

Overthinks everything: is the crib safe? Is the baby cold? Should we take baby CPR??

Once baby kicks, he fully sobs. Not even ashamed.

Rin Itoshi

Visibly overwhelmed. He panics quietly—but tries to act cool about it.

“We’re… ready for this. Right?” (He says that to himself every day.)

Doesn't know how to comfort you at first, but gets better. Will rub your back when you're sore, even if he’s bad at expressing affection.

Gets unreasonably annoyed at strangers who stare at your belly. “Don’t look at her.”

Picks out a tiny jersey with his number and puts it on your nightstand like it’s nothing. It’s everything.

Reads parenting books late at night when you’re asleep and highlights stuff he doesn’t understand.

Stares at ultrasound pictures like they’re a riddle he’s desperate to solve. He wants to be good at this.

Bachira Meguru

SO excited. Like bouncing-off-walls excited.

Rubs your belly and says, “Hellooooo little monster~”

Wants to paint the nursery himself. “What if it’s like a whole galaxy theme with dancing wolves??”

Tells everyone—even strangers at the store—“I’m gonna be a dad!”

Randomly puts headphones on your belly and plays the baby his music mixes.

Over-prepares: buys 17 onesies, 6 pacifiers, 4 different types of swaddles.

Once he feels a kick, he yells: “That’s my kid!! They’ve got skills!”

Hyoma Chigiri

Protective like crazy. If you sneeze, he’s already Googling symptoms.

Rubs lotion on your stomach to prevent stretch marks—so gentle about it.

Holds your hand constantly, especially when you’re uncomfortable or emotional.

Won’t let you carry anything. Grocery bags? No. Purse? Nope. “I’ve got it.”

Gets teary when he sees the first ultrasound. He’s quiet about it, but his grip tightens around your hand.

Starts running slower during training to be “more careful.” (He says it’s strategy. It’s not.)

Practices braiding your hair in case the baby is a girl and wants pretty hairstyles like Mom.

Nagi Seishiro

First reaction: “Huh… guess we’re leveling up.”

Doesn’t seem hyped… until he starts resting his head on your stomach every day.

Sleeps with his hand on your bump, automatically. If you move it, he grumbles.

Buys a baby monitor and sets it up six months early.

“This kid better be chill,” he mutters. Then falls asleep next to a mountain of baby socks.

Tries to play mobile games with your belly: “If you kick twice, we’ll go left.” He swears the baby “cheats.”

Dead serious about naming the kid something weird like “Cloud” or “Puzzle.” You veto that.

Reo Mikage

Husband of the Year. Millionaire? More like Millionaire Daddy-in-Training™

Buys every fancy pregnancy pillow, stroller, and crib on Earth. “You deserve the best. And so does our baby.”

Attends all the doctor appointments. Asks 50 questions per visit.

Brags about you constantly. “She’s carrying our future. She’s glowing. Isn’t she perfect?”

Spends hours designing the nursery color scheme. “No primary colors. They’ll have taste.”

Cries when he hears the heartbeat. Cries again when he feels a kick. He’s a puddle.

Tells the baby bedtime stories before they’re even born—his voice all soft and rich like velvet.

Ryusei Shidou

“HELL YEAH, I’M GONNA BE A DAD.”

Way too hyped. Will yell it from rooftops if you let him.

Touches your belly constantly. “Yo, did they just kick?! That was a penalty-level punt!”

Wants to name the baby something wild like “Destruction” or “Turbo.” You threaten him.

Brings you weird snacks like pickles and hot sauce. “Pregnant people eat this, right?”

Gets mad at people who bump into you. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, SHE’S CARRYING A FREAKIN’ LEGEND.”

Surprisingly sweet at night. Lays his head on your stomach and says, “Hey... I’m gonna try not to mess this up.”

Sae Itoshi

At first? “...I don’t know if I’ll be good at this.”

He’s terrified of becoming like his own parents. But he wants to try.

Quietly starts rearranging the apartment. Buys a bassinet without telling you.

Puts his hand on your belly when he thinks you’re asleep.

“I don’t say it a lot, but... I’m happy. Really happy.”

Refuses to let you lift a finger. “I’ll cook. You rest.”

Doesn't smile often, but when you show him the sonogram photo? It’s the softest he’s ever looked.

[spookysanta]

Chapter 3: Flowers & Fried Pickles

Ongoing tags:

[Modern Romance] [Slow Burn] to [Fireworks [Black!Reader] [Younger!Reader] [Reader is That Girl] [Obsessed Michael™] [So Much Eye Contact] [Vacation Fling] turns into [Something Real]

Potential TW/CW: [Swearing] [Light Sexual Tension] to [Eventual Smut]

Read Part 1. Part 2.

You couldn’t stop smiling in the elevator.

And it wasn’t even the goofy kind — and it definitely wasn’t something you’d want to admit out loud — but it was the kind of smile that settled behind your ribs, warm and slow, like a secret that hadn’t touched the air yet. The bouquet rested carefully in your arms, the petals brushing your wrist every time you moved.

Michael had kissed your hand before walking off.

Not your cheek. Not your mouth. Just that quiet, old-school press of lips to your knuckles like he had all the time in the world. You stepped into the hallway like you were walking on a cloud.

Then your suite’s door flung open… and of course, your girls were waiting.

Before you could even properly get into the suite, the questions, again, were thrown at you like verbal dodgeballs. Practically shoving through the suite’s common area, you finally made it to your room with a trail of women following behind like moths.

“Okay, spill. What does he smell like?” Tati asked, pacing the room like a detective.

Lex held your dress sleeve between two fingers. “Did he pull out your chair?”

Kris threw herself onto your bed. “Did he look at you or did he see you?”

Nas raised both brows. “And what did you order? Because your appetizer choice tells me everything about your sense of trust.”

You hadn’t even taken your heels off. “Can I sit first?” You sighed.

“NO,” they all said at once.

You laughed. Handed the flowers off to Tati, who gasped like she was being handed a royal decree. “These are fresh,” she whispered.

“They smell expensive.” Nas added.

“Of course they do. HE is expensive,” Lex said. “And he gave you these? I’m sick.”

You slipped your heels off slowly. “So do y’all wanna hear about the food or…”

“Start from the moment he picked you up and do not miss one single word.” Tati said, grabbing a lingering tequila bottle from the hallway and pouring into tiny plastic hotel cups.

The recap took an hour.

And it wasn’t even because the date was super long. It was solely because your friends interrupted constantly. And yet, you made sure to tell them about the restaurant, the music, how Michael asked more questions than he answered. How he made you laugh about something dumb: the fried pickles, how one fell into your drink and you both stared at it like a tragedy. “He’s funny,” you said quietly.

“He’s intentional,” Nas corrected.

“And it sounds like he sees you,” Kris added.

You looked down at your lap, fighting back a smile. “I think he does.”

They passed you two shots like a ceremony — one for clarity, one for courage — then herded you into bed, face washed, hair wrapped, pajamas on. You curled up with your phone under your pillow, the scent of flowers drifting faintly from the bathroom where someone had put them in a rinsed-out champagne bucket.

MBJ: You good?

You: Safe in my hotel room. In bed.

MBJ: Thinking about you.

You: Interesting. That makes one of us.

MBJ: Liar.

Your smile stretched into the dark. Ten minutes later, he called. You answered on the second ring, voice low and laced with sleep. “Hi. I’m here.”

“Didn’t want to end the night without hearing you say that.”

You felt the words settle into your chest like velvet.

“Goodnight, gorgeous.”

“Night, Michael.”

The next day felt like a dream. Sunlight spilled over wide sidewalks and flower stands on Melrose as your friends dragged you through vintage stores and street vendors, then a touristy breakfast spot with patio seating and mimosas served in mason jars.

Kris found a jean jacket that had to come home with her. Tati flirted with a barista who spelled her name with two t’s. And Nas… Nas was being herself, buying everything she saw because “life’s too short”. You bought a record you didn’t need just because the cover made you smile.

It felt good. Full. Balanced. Until your phone buzzed with a text.

MBJ: You free tonight?

You turned away slightly from the group as you walked to the Uber back to the hotel. Pressing “Call” on his contact, he picked up on the first ring. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you answered, voice soft.

“So I assume you saw my text?”

“I did.”

“I was thinking something quiet. Late dinner, maybe a walk after?”

You bit your lip. “Are you always this charming?”

“No,” he said with a smile you could hear through the receiver. “Just when I mean it.”

Your heart stumbled. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll text you when we’re back.”

The second date was slower. Dimmer. Not urgent. Just intentional.

You sat across from each other in a candlelit corner, menus half-forgotten between you. Michael asked about your family. Your work. The last thing you cried over. You told him about a book that gutted you, about your fear of waking up one day and realizing you’d built a life that didn’t feel like yours.

He didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, eyes steady. And when the bill came, he didn’t offer, didn’t ask questions, didn’t nag about 50/50. He just paid.

And when you stood up to leave, he held your hand like he didn’t want to let go.

The drive back to the hotel wasn’t long.

But it felt like it stretched for miles in the best way. Michael’s hand stayed wrapped around yours like he didn’t know how to let go, like his fingers had already learned the exact shape of you.

The street was quiet.

City lights were soft.

Somewhere in the distance, music spilled from a rooftop bar, but it felt far away, like a song you weren’t ready to leave behind yet.

He kept sneaking glances at you. You kept pretending not to notice.

“You always look at people like that?” you finally asked, voice light.

“Only when I’m trying to remember ‘em.”

Your steps slowed.

Your heart didn’t.

At the door to your suite, you hesitated. Your hand on the handle, the glow of the hallway light casting soft shadows across both your faces.

Michael’s voice dropped, rich and steady. “Tonight was really good.”

You nodded. “It was.”

“Can I see you again?”

You looked up at him, eyes searching, heart caught somewhere between yes and wait. “I want to,” you said honestly. “But I don’t want this to take over my trip.”

He nodded. No flinch. Just understanding. “I hear you.”

“I came out here for my girls. For me. I didn’t think—”

“That someone would pull focus?” he offered, gently.

You smiled. “Exactly.”

He stepped closer. Not to crowd, just to be there. “I don’t want to take anything from you. I just want to see where this goes.”

You looked up. He leaned in, slow.

You met him halfway. The kiss was warm. Lingering. Not rushed.

Not possessive. Just full.

You kissed him again, slower this time. And when you finally pulled back to open the door—

He didn’t even blink when it swung wide and four girls screamed.

“Oh my GOD.”

“WE WERE WATCHING THROUGH THE PEEPHOLE THE WHOLE WALK.”

“WHY IS HE SO TALL IN PERSON?”

You froze mid-step. “Y’all—”

Michael grinned, calm as ever.

“Hey, ladies.”

Tati collapsed against the couch. Lex started fanning herself. Nas dropped her phone. Kris just pointed at him and whispered, “You’re not real.”

He didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, eyes never leaving yours. He pecked your cheek gently, mumbling against your skin, “I’ll talk to you soon.”

You nodded, completely speechless, and he turned to walk back down the hall.

And the second the door shut, your friends pounced.

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[whatdoyouwanttocallmefor]

𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙃𝙪𝙧𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝘼𝙧𝙚 𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝘽𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙭 𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Slow Burn Warning: Mentions of emotional pain/heartbreak, Past toxic relationship, Crying scenes, Heavy emotional comfort, Slow healing process, Best friends to lovers trope, Extremely soft Bang Chan (Husband Material™), Domestic fluff & rainy day vibes, One (1) very patient and loving Aussie man, no proofread, etc...

---

It was one of those days where everything felt a little too loud, even in the silence.

The rain outside had been falling since morning, steady and persistent, like the sky had decided to cry on her behalf. Y/N had shown up at Chan’s apartment without warning, soaked through, hair sticking to her cheeks, eyes red and swollen from crying. And Chan… well, he didn’t ask questions.

He just opened the door, pulled her into his arms, and whispered, “I’ve got you.”

That had been hours ago.

Now she sat curled up on his couch, wrapped in his hoodie, the sleeves too long for her hands. His blanket soft and worn from years of use was tucked around her shoulders like a shield. The TV was playing something neither of them were really watching, its colors flickering faintly against the walls. The scent of vanilla and rain filled the air, the kind of quiet that made you feel like time was standing still.

Chan moved around in the kitchen behind her, the clink of a mug and the low hum of the kettle the only indication that he was still close.

She blinked slowly, fighting back another wave of tears.

How did love manage to feel so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?

When he came back, he didn’t say anything at first. He just placed a cup of tea on the table beside her, sat down on the floor in front of the couch, and looked up at her like she was the most fragile thing in the world.

His voice was gentle, the way it always was when he sensed she was barely holding it together.

“Talk to me?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I can’t.”

“Okay.” He nodded, reaching out to lightly rest his hand on her knee. “Then don’t. I’m still here.”

Y/N stared at him, that familiar ache pressing against her ribs. Chan had always been her safe space. Ever since their uni days, when she first met the Aussie with the easy smile and kind eyes, he had been her anchor. But she never thought she’d be here again completely undone in front of him, heart shattered, feeling stupid for believing in someone who treated her like she was replaceable.

“I thought they loved me,” she whispered finally. “I really did.”

Chan’s jaw clenched slightly, but his voice remained soft. “They should’ve. You love with your whole heart. Anyone would be lucky to have that.”

“They said I was too much. Too sensitive. Too emotional. I cared too deeply.” She swallowed hard. “Like it was a flaw.”

Chan shifted slightly so he was fully facing her, resting his arms on the edge of the couch. “It’s not a flaw. It’s a strength. You feel everything so deeply, Y/N. That’s what makes you you.”

Her eyes welled up again, and she blinked fast, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from falling.

“I don’t get it, Chan. I gave them everything. And they just… walked away. Like I was easy to leave.”

Chan exhaled, voice cracking just slightly. “Some people don’t recognize love even when it’s handed to them. That’s not your fault.”

“But it still hurts,” she said brokenly. “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Chan reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with the softest touch. “I know,” he murmured. “I’d do anything to take it away.”

The tears fell then quiet, unrelenting. And Chan didn’t hesitate. He stood, gently easing her up so he could slide onto the couch beside her. She folded into him like she belonged there, head resting against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like a promise.

“You’re not too much,” he whispered into her hair. “You’re not too emotional. You’re not unlovable. You’re human. And you deserve someone who sees all of that and chooses you anyway.”

She let herself cry then not just for the heartbreak, but for the relief of finally being seen.

Minutes passed in silence. Her breathing evened out. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear, grounding her.

“Why are you always here for me?” she asked quietly.

“Because I love you,” he said. No hesitation. No dramatics. Just the truth.

She froze.

“Not just as a friend?” she whispered.

Chan held her a little tighter, like he was afraid to let her slip through his fingers now that the words were out.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he admitted. “But I never said anything because I didn’t want to rush you, or lose you. And then you fell for someone else… and I just wanted you to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me.”

Y/N pulled back slightly to look at him, her heart thudding painfully loud.

“I’m not ready for anything new,” she said honestly. “Not yet.”

“I know,” Chan said, his smile soft and sad but genuine. “I’m not here to ask for anything. Just… don’t push me away. Let me stay. Let me be your comfort, even if I never get to be more.”

She stared at him, really looked at him, and felt something in her chest loosen like a part of her that had been tightly wound had finally exhaled.

“You already are more,” she said softly. “You’re the reason I’m still holding it together.”

Chan’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining. No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

Love had hurt her deeply.

But Chan was here.

And somehow, that made everything feel a little less painful.

---

Healing didn’t happen all at once.

There wasn’t a magical moment when everything stopped hurting, when she suddenly stopped thinking about what went wrong, when her heart stopped aching. No, it happened in pieces quiet, gentle moments stitched together like a patchwork quilt of becoming okay again.

And Chan was in every single piece of it.

He never asked for anything.

Never once brought up his confession again.

He just… stayed.

Stayed when she had nightmares and called him at 2AM. Stayed when she had a panic attack in the middle of a grocery store and couldn’t catch her breath. Stayed when she cried during a movie that wasn’t even sad because her emotions were just too much again.

He’d rub her back, make her tea, wrap her in his hoodie, and sit beside her until she found her way back to herself.

It was a Thursday evening when she realized her feelings had shifted.

Chan was in the kitchen, humming softly while making dinner. She sat on the counter, watching him stir pasta sauce, his hair messy from running his hands through it, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms (which were a problem, let’s be honest). He turned to ask if she wanted more basil, and she found herself smiling.

Not just the small, polite kind.

The kind that tugged at her chest. The kind that whispered, Oh. It’s you. It’s always been you.

That realization scared her more than she expected. Because falling for someone again? After what she’d been through?

But the thing about Chan was… loving him didn’t feel scary. It didn’t feel like a cliff she had to jump off.

It felt like a warm blanket. Like coming home.

It took her months to get the courage to say anything.

She waited until another rainy day, the kind they always seemed to fall into comfort with. They were on his couch, watching the sky drip quietly outside the window. He was beside her, legs stretched out, his head tilted toward hers, sleepy and soft.

“Chan,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He blinked, turning toward her instantly. “Yeah?”

Her hands trembled slightly, but she didn’t back down. Not this time.

“Do you still love me?”

He froze. His brows drew together just a little, concern flickering in his expression. “Yeah. I never stopped. Why?”

She looked at him, really looked at him, the way she always should have.

“Because I think I’m falling in love with you too.”

He didn’t move for a second just stared, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

Then a slow smile bloomed across his face, filled with so much softness she felt her eyes sting.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly, like he didn’t want to scare her.

She nodded.

His kiss was tender, patient, full of all the things he’d been holding back for months. He didn’t rush. He never did. And she kissed him like someone who was finally choosing to believe in love again.

Because with Chan, love didn’t hurt.

It healed.

[fear-is-truth]

Headcanons for the bowers gang helping reader babysit her three younger siblings (preferably two girls one boy) since that's what I have

❛ THE BOWERS GANG . . . HELPING YOU BABYSIT YOUR YOUNGER SIBLINGS ❜

꣑ৎ ‎ :‎ note. ꒱ this was so fun to write, hope u like it !

HENRY BOWERS

begrudgingly involved. he complains about helping the entire time, grumbling under his breath about “not being a fuckin’ daycare,”

complains loudly, swears even louder, and absolutely refuses to admit that he likes how your little brother starts copying him (oh no)

curses constantly. you remind henry again not to say “fuck” in front of the kids and he mutters “fucking fine” in response.

acts like he’s doing you a huge favour, but secretly enjoys being useful around you.

pick up your little brother by one ankle (cue the chris hemsworth meme)

────୨ৎ────

VICTOR CRISS

vic didn’t even wanna come. he only showed up because a.) you asked, and b.) the alternative is henry throwing a fit and patrick emotionally scarring them for life. (of course, vic trusts belch’s babysitting skills but he can’t trust those two idiots™ dealing with little kids.)

so now he’s parked on your couch, with his feet on the coffee table, assuming he can just coast through the next few hours in peace while the other guy wreak havoc in varying degrees of enthusiasm and psychosis.

gives really insightful advice like “careful there—don’t crack your head open.”

one of your sisters has a huge crush on him. (like in an innocent way—you know how little kids idolise this person they deem ‘cool’ and vic gives off this ‘bad boy vibe’)

disappears when one of the kids starts crying.

you find him leaning against the porch, smoking a cigarette and staring up at the sky like he’s watching god die behind the clouds.

────୨ৎ────

PATRICK HOCKSTETTER

should NOT be around children, but here he is.

he sits in the corner, watching the kids like they’re part of a nature documentary.

gives your brother an empty lighter and tells him it’s a spy gadget, then convinces him he’s a secret government agent.

casually says the most horrifying shit. “there’s a parasite that burrows into fish tongues and replaces it.”

will absolutely engage in sibling drama—takes sides during arguments just to stir the pot.

hands your little sister a dead lizard and tells her to ask henry if it’s poisonous.

────୨ৎ────

BELCH HUGGINS

belch is probably the only one of the group who genuinely knows what he’s doing.

absolute natural. grew up with a noisy house and knows how to keep kids entertained without losing his temper.

he’s patient. like, saint-level patient—and doesn’t get flustered when they start crying or fighting. just sits between them and tells them they all have to “take a chill pill,” which somehow works.

makes grilled cheese without being asked and cuts the crusts off.

lets all three of them climb on him like he’s a jungle gym. piggybacks, airplane rides, the whole works.

talks in funny voices, does impressions of cartoon characters, makes them laugh so hard they fall over.

he’s the only one you’d trust to babysit solo next time.

[rosierin]

yer doin' just fine │ atsumu miya

synopsis; at 2am, the world feels slower, quieter. thoughts spill easier, doubts settle deeper. (y/n) wonders if she’s falling behind—if making coffee is all she’ll ever do, if she’s enough. atsumu thinks she is. and he’s never been one to mince his words.

a/n; (y/n) is a barista bc this is so self indulgent loool

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was late. The kind of late where the world outside felt like it had drifted off to sleep. The usual hum of the city had long since quieted, leaving only the faint whirl of distant cars and the occasional murmur of wind against the windows.

Inside, the apartment was warm, steeped in dim, golden light, the glow from the kitchen casting soft, sleepy shadows along the living room walls next door. The fridge hummed quietly in the corner, filling the silence with its steady drone, and every now and then, the faint crinkle of a snack wrapper broke the stillness.

Atsumu sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging slightly, the ceramic of his mug warm against his palms. Steam curled lazily from his hot chocolate, dissolving into the air like a slow exhale. Across from him, (y/n) perched on the opposite counter, mirroring his posture, her fingers idly toying with a marshmallow as she dipped it into her drink and watched it slowly melt.

There was something about this hour, the kind where the world felt drowsy, slow. Where conversations felt heavier, words unspooling without the weight of daylight to hold them back.

“Ever think about how weird it is that we just… exist?” (Y/n) asked suddenly, staring into her mug like it held the answers to all her musings.

Atsumu squinted at her over the rim of his drink. “Are ya startin’ an existential crisis right now?”

She snorted. “No. Just thinking.”

He hummed, taking a slow sip. “Weird thoughts always hit at night, huh?”

She nodded, lazily kicking her feet. “Mhm. Night makes you feel all… deep n’ stuff. That just me?”

Atsumu huffed a quiet laugh. “Damn, didn’t know ya had a poetic side.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and tossed a mini marshmallow at him. He caught it—in his mouth, because of course he did—chewing smugly before shooting her a wink.

“Okay, philosopher,” he said, shifting slightly. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, right now?”

She sighed, resting her chin in her palm. “Just… how crazy it is that we grow up, y’know? One day you’re a kid, playing outside and doing—” she gestured vaguely, searching for the words. Atsumu arched a brow, amused. “Kid things, I guess. And then boom—you're an adult. Paying bills. Applying for jobs—”

“Having an existential crisis in your kitchen at two in the morning,” Atsumu finished.

(Y/n) pointed at him, nodding once. “Exactly.”

An unhurried pause settled between them, the kind that only existed between people who had known each other for years.

Then, Atsumu spoke again, his voice still bright despite the late hour. “Ya ever get scared?”

She looked up, blinking. “Scared of what?”

His fingers traced absently over his mug. “Dunno. Life? The future? Makin’ the wrong choices?”

She stared at him for a moment, surprised by the honesty in his voice. Atsumu had never been the one to entertain these kind of chats. These conversations were more of a 'Suna thing.'

“Yeah,” she admitted. “All the time.”

Atsumu nodded like he’d expected that answer.

She took another sip of her hot chocolate before adding, “But I think that’s normal. We’re all just figuring it out as we go, right?”

Atsumu hummed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Guess so. Still wish life came with a guidebook, though.”

(Y/n) smirked. “You wouldn’t read it.”

Atsumu leaned back on his hands, staring up at the dim kitchen light with a chuckle. “Touché.”

She grinned, squishing a marshmallow between her fingers before tossing it into her mouth. “Everyone knows Atsumu Miya doesn’t read books.”

“You callin’ me dumb?”

“If the shoe fits.”

Atsumu tossed a stray marshmallow at her head. She dodged it with a laugh, stretching her legs out to nudge his knee with her foot.

He nudged her back.

A beat of silence. Just the quiet hum of the fridge, the faint clink of ceramic mugs.

Then, she sighed, watching the steam curl from her drink. “Y’know, I don’t think you’d need that guidebook anyway.”

Atsumu stilled slightly, the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips.

Then—softly, teasing but warm—he murmured, “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Yeah. You’re working really hard on your career; you’re getting recognized, you’re gradually becoming more popular… ” Her eyes lingered on the dregs of her hot chocolate as she swirled it absentmindedly. “I’d say you’re doing really good on your own.”

When she glanced at him, she found Atsumu watching her with a wobbly sort of smile, his honey eyes warm in a way she rarely saw, brimming with affection. He looked like he was about to scoop her into a hug, but held back at the last second.

“Aww, (y/n). Where’d this come from? Yer makin’ me all emotional over 'ere,” he teased, but there was a sincerity to his voice that softened the words.

(Y/n) returned the smile, then shrugged. “I’m just saying. You’ve already got your life pretty much figured out.”

She didn’t mean for the words to sound bitter. She really didn’t. But as soon as they left her mouth, she realized they did.

A small part of her almost envied him. Not because he didn’t deserve his success—he did. It wasn’t like his life had just fallen into place. He’d worked his ass off to get where he was. The endless hours of training, the sacrifices, the sheer grit he put into his craft.

He earned it.

And yet, that selfish part of her still whispered: What about me?

She wasn’t unhappy, but she wasn’t going anywhere either. Atsumu had volleyball, Osamu had his restaurant, Suna also had his steady rise in the professional league. Meanwhile, she was just… making coffees.

Floating.

Existing.

Lost.

She was too caught up in her own thoughts to notice the small frown forming on Atsumu’s face. He hopped off the counter, padding over to her without a sound.

Then, gently, he tapped under her chin, coaxing her to look at him.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter than before. “Ya say that like yer not doin’ just fine yerself.”

Something twisted in her stomach at the way he said it—earnest, direct, like he meant it. She let out a vague hum, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face.

“What’s on yer mind, sweetheart?”

She hesitated, then shrugged listlessly. “Guess I just feel a bit lost sometimes. Like I’m not doing enough, or I’m not doing the right thing. I mean, when I look at you, your brother, Suna—you’re all doing so well. Like, actually getting somewhere in life. Meanwhile, I’m here, just sort of… making coffees and… well, that’s it, really. It’s not exactly a career.”

Atsumu tilted his head, brows pulling together. “S’wrong with that? Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a barista.”

(Y/n) let out a small, humorless chuckle, fingers tightening slightly around her mug. “Because it’s just coffee. It’s not a big girl job, or whatever people call it…”

Atsumu frowned. “Yer bein’ too hard on yerself. Just ‘cause yer job ain't some grand career yet don’t mean yer stuck or failin’.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Yeah, but it’s just frustrating, ‘cause…” She let out a loud sigh, raking a stressed hand through her hair. “Yeah, it’s a job, and yeah, I like it, but it’s not—” She hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “It’s not… something big like what you, Osamu, or Suna have. It’s not a career, like I said. Just doesn’t feel like I’m doing enough.”

Atsumu studied her for a long moment. Then, in that simple, matter-of-fact way of his, he said,

“But ya don’t just make coffee. Yer also really good at makin’ people feel appreciated. Yer good at listenin’—really listenin’. And ya make a damn good cup of coffee on the side, too.”

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “If ya ask me, sounds like yer already doin’ plenty of things that matter.”

(Y/n) blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to believe him, but the self-doubt clung to her, stubborn. “I just… I don’t know. I feel like I should be doing more. Like there’s gotta be more to life than this, and I—” She let out a slow, tired breath, rubbing a hand over her face. “I don’t know.”

Atsumu studied her quietly. Then, instead of teasing or brushing her off like he normally might, he said,

“Yer actin’ like ya gotta have everythin’ figured out right now. News flash—most people don’t.”

(Y/n) let out another short laugh, but it wasn’t amused. “You do.”

Atsumu’s lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but close. “Ya think just ‘cause I play volleyball for a livin’, I don’t freak out about where I’m goin’?” He let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “I still wake up wonderin’ if I’m doin’ enough. If I’m gonna be good enough to keep this up for years.”

(Y/n) lifted her gaze to meet his. He wasn’t looking at her—just staring into his mug, jaw tight, fingers curled loosely around the ceramic.

It took her a second to process his words. “Wait… you?”

Atsumu glanced up then, and there was something different in his expression. Open. Honest.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Me.”

(Y/n) had never thought about it before. Atsumu Miya, with all his confidence and bravado, doubting himself. The idea of it felt… almost foreign.

“I always figured you were just so sure of yourself,” she admitted.

He let out a small, dry laugh. “Nah. I just act like it.” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Guess it’s easier that way.”

(Y/n) frowned. “That’s kinda depressing.”

Atsumu smirked then, some of his usual self returning. “Hey, ain’t that depressin’. I get to do what I love, right?”

She exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah… guess so.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Atsumu nudged her knee with his, voice perkier now.

“Point is, just ‘cause ya don’t have some big plan yet, don’t mean yer lost. Yer workin’ hard. Yer doin’ somethin’ ya care about. Yer loved. And that’s more than enough, alright?”

(Y/n) swallowed. For the first time that night, she felt something loosen in her chest—just a little.

“…Alright.”

Atsumu grinned. “Good. Now, ya wanna bake cookies at three a.m. or what?”

He ruffled her hair to lighten the mood, laughing as (y/n) half-heartedly swatted his hands away.

“God, you’re so random.”

“Nah, I just know sugar makes ya feel better.” He shot her a smirk over his shoulder. “C’mon, chef. Let’s get bakin’.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes, but as she hopped off the counter to follow him, she realized she felt just a little lighter than before.

[lavendermin]

jing yuan praying everyday for a good few months that yanqing will randomly tell him that you got divorced while in class meanwhile you’re wondering why jing yuan started looking so miserable every time he comes to pick yanqing up😭

godddd this poor man someone have mercy on his heart. For like a whole two months straight he’s constantly asking Yanqing about how class went only hoping he’ll get some crumb of information on you and your love life and your very-much-nonexistent baby. That poor 5 year old is an informant without knowing it.

But I mean, theres only so much information he’ll get from a 5 year old.

“How was school?” Jing yuan asks, again. As is routine now. But Yanqing doesn’t really notice the eager way his father listens.

He shrugs, swinging his feet in his little dinner table chair. “I drew an apple house and learned to write some words.”

“How about your teacher? Still sick from her baby?”

Yanqing shrugs.

“Teacher stares at the door for a lot of seconds when you don’t pick me up. Like how you stare at the ceiling sometimes after dinner.” (Also known as Jing Yuan’s sulking hour as he thinks about you and Yearns™)

It’s never enough for him to gauge the situation—no hint of divorce in sight. (You’re not married of course but he doesn’t know that.) And maybe that makes him feel worse. Why is it that the image of you plagues his mind. If he wasn’t media trained for his company to hell and back he would hardly be able to face you when he picks up Yanqing sometimes. It’s becoming more rare, not by choice but by the uptick in the end of quarter work.

Jing Yuan is definitely more curt and polite, a little stiff, now when he picks up Yanqing. And if you notice it you don’t bring it up.

Poor kid hears Jing Yuan mutter something about divorce and the next day in class he flat out asks you what divorce means. The blood drains from your face and your heart sinks thinking maybe his parents are going through divorce right now.

Ah, that would explain his father’s sullen mood, you think. You have no clue he’s a single parent already. Misconstrued views all around and now poor Yanqing thinks these two adults just need to play house and communicate like he does with his classmates during recess.

Maybe you need a little parent-teacher conference soon…

[facewithoutheart]

Five plus One, fic recs

A post is going around about fics you consider classics in the Snowbaz fandom. I’d like to take it a step further by asking …

What are five fics you consider your inspiration/influences for writing, plus one of your fics which you think best represents what you want to bring to the fandom?

5. Hang the Moon by @captain-aralias

@captain-aralias is, to me, the snowbaz fandom fic writer of our time. Her commitment to detail, to nailing Rainbow’s voice, while infusing every fic with a heart and purpose that will leave you changed. Every fic of hers is chef’s-kiss-perfection but I’m highlighting Hang the Moon specifically as a fic I often think about (Baz, wet tennis clothes, helping Simon fight the merwolves), and a fic that was my introduction to what fanfics could be/do. I think I finished this fic and just stared at the wall for an hour because I was just like, oh. Oh.

4. The Pitch by basic-bathsheba

Local Hero is one of my favorite fanfics but I wanted to highlight this fic because it’s just such a powerful and understated story. It’s love in the details. This Simon is the model for all of my Simon’s, just a complete simp for Baz haha but also a man who is comfortable and confident being the man who loves Baz even if he doesn’t get to claim it publicly.

3. Stay Up With Me by @sharkmartini

Not sure what to say about this that hasn’t been said a million times. It’ll break your heart; it’ll put you back together. The concept is brilliant and the exploration of two Simon’s will definitely put your emotions through a wringer. Time travel/what-if fics will always grab my attention but this one in particular makes the same case Rainbow posed in Carry On: what if the villain isn’t the villain? And takes it a step further, because Simon realizes he could be the villain, too. Absolutely beautiful.

2. Can’t Find My Way Home by @carryonsimoncarryonbaz

This is one of those fics that just has so much heart and sweetness. I love a good second chance AU, and this one has such Hallmark vibes in the best way. I just love the slow burn of it, and the amazing ending. A perfect holiday fic to snuggle up with. Reading this feels like being cozy up by the fire with someone you love. Actually writing this makes me wanna reread this so much; now that I live with actual Fall I wanna feel cozy like this again.

1. Basil Pitch’s Diary by @bookish-bogwitch

I know it’s a bit weird to rec a WIP as an influence, especially one that’s being written as we speak, but working with/beta-ing Em’s works have made me a sharper, smarter writer. I know this fic is a classic in the works and it’s something I think about on a weekly basis. The Baz Em gives us, to me, feels like canon Baz taken to the next level. What if Baz was the villain … but only to himself? Em’s writing really is just economical in the best way; every line hits, every paragraph teaches me something. And then the heart. It’s genuinely so hard to do what she does and I’m so lucky to get to see her work in realtime.

+1 This Will All Go Down In Flames

I think, at the end of my fandom career, I want this to be the snowbaz fic people associate with me (Spadey being a close second hahaha). But I do feel like it’s got a lot of fandom in-jokes, humor, and sweetness, plus the fun high-stakes of them being in the spotlight. I got to celebrate the Austin I love and miss, as well as poke fun at my own hipster upbringing. I put a lot of Me™ in this fic and it always feels so lovely when people like it. Besides, I got to work with the amazing @tea-brigade and their art just takes this fic to the next level. A dream collab.

(Throwing in the caveat that I started reading long before I got an ao3 account so it’s very likely I’ve missed some amazing fics from before 2021; I’m so sorry!)

Tagging everyone listed above and six more peeps to start: @cutestkilla, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @larkral, @ileadacharmedlife, @thewholelemon & @aristocratic-otter

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[starryevermore]

the house of snow (13) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. 

chapter summary: coriolanus doesn’t understand why you've shut him out. 

word count: 1,878

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: coryo’s pov, a shorter chapter rip, coriolanus the cat is a menace™, pet name (petal), not proofread

Coriolanus Snow could not even begin to understand you. Where had he gone wrong? In the days leading up to the wedding, you were so affectionate with him. It felt like the difficult part of this was finally over. Sejanus, his only real competition, was long gone. You were finally calling him Coryo. You spent time with him without complaint and, dare he say it, even seemed to enjoy his company. Yet, it all came crashing down so quickly, so suddenly. 

What had happened last night? Coriolanus spent the entire night wracking his brain, going through each part meticulously, trying to determine where he went wrong. Had he missed some sign that you were uncomfortable? Had he unintentionally pressured you? What had he done to deserve the cold look you gave him? For you to accuse him of only caring about himself? Coriolanus couldn’t deny that he could be a selfish man, but for you? Did you not realize the lengths he would go to, to make you happy? 

When morning came, you said hardly a word to him. The most he heard of your voice was when you were speaking to your lady’s maid, telling her of any questions you needed answered about the trip to the cottage. Coriolanus nearly lost his temper then. What had he done that was so wrong, so hurtful, that you were cutting yourself off from him? He had half a mind to bring up the agreement made during your courtship, about how you would behave, but he thought better of it. You never responded well to his attempted pressuring. To do so now might push you away. Might irreparably damage this relationship. 

Now he sat across from you in the carriage, traveling through the countryside, still just as clueless about what he should do. Worse yet, every time he attempted to speak, that damned Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him from its perch on your lap. 

“The cottage has a library,” he tried, hiding his flinch as the cat swatted its paw at him. “Not nearly as impressive as the one in the palace, of course, but I believe it should be satisfactory during our stay.”

Finally, finally, you looked over at him. Your eyes were blank, completely void of emotion. Your voice was the same when you said, “Placating me with a library worked once. I will not allow it to work again.”

Then you turned back to the window, watching as the flat lands of the Capital swooped into rolling hills. Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him again, as if it was in agreement with you. 

“Petal, tell me what I’ve done wrong. I don’t wish for this to be an unhappy marriage. I…” He swallowed thickly. This would pain him far more to say than it would for you to hear. “I would be alright if you never love me the way I love you. But I don’t want you to think that this is a political affair. Or that I care more for Panem or the want of an heir more than I do you.”

You stared at him for a long moment. It almost felt like hours. Coriolanus wanted to say more, but he fought against his instincts. If anything could be repaired from this relationship, he could not force you into it. 

“How long until we arrive at the cottage?”

“Three hours, assuming there are no delays.”

“Very well then.”

You plucked a book from the stack beside you. Coriolanus should have known you wouldn’t want to speak to him when he watched as a half dozen books were placed in the carriage.

You didn’t say anything to him again. 

He should have known that bringing up the possibility of a delay would, in fact, cause a delay to occur. When the dark gray clouds began to dot the sky, Coriolanus had hoped that the storm would pass by. But with each rumble of thunder and flash of lightning, it became more and more obvious that luck was not going to be on his side. Even nature was turning its back on him. Finally, the coachman announced that it would no longer be safe for the horses and that he would be stopping at the next available inn. 

The cat hissed at Coriolanus as if he was the one to cause the storm. 

Coriolanus stepped out of the carriage first, his nose wrinkling as he stepped straight into a mud puddle. Was the entire universe against him now? Could he not even have a nice, clean pair of shoes? He bit back his disgust as he reached for your hand. Admittedly, he was surprised you took it, allowing him to lift you out of the carriage and far away from that damned puddle. 

“Coriolanus hates the rain,” you said, reaching out for the cat. 

“Yes, I do,” he muttered. He took the cat before you could, not wanting you to get scratched up by the beast. Coriolanus pulled back his damp jacket and tucked the cat inside, careful to make sure not a single droplet of water hit it. The cat hissed and clawed still, not impressed by Coriolanus’s attempts to keep it (mostly) dry. Once secured, Coriolanus reached for your hand again. You didn’t shake him off. “Come, let’s get inside before we get sick.”

The innkeeper was already waiting with a bundle of towels when Coriolanus led you inside. Coriolanus passed one to you, before taking another to dry off the hissing beast. The innkeeper flinched, but held his own tongue lest he offend his King or Queen. Coriolanus nearly laughed at the idea of you chewing the man out for offending your precious beast of a baby. Once the cat was bundled and in your arms, Coriolanus took a towel for himself. 

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper began to say, “but there is only one available room left for tonight. Had I known that you would be stopping in, I would have made sure there would be plenty of room for your staff. Unfortunately, all that is left beyond that room is the stables.”

So Coriolanus would be sleeping in the stables tonight. Wonderful. He just hoped you would be gracious enough to wait until after the innkeeper was gone to kick him out of the room and reveal the already apparent marital problems. 

“That will be quite alright,” Coriolanus said. It wasn’t. But part of being King was knowing when to play the part of a courteous monarch. “If you could please show us our room, that would be most appreciated.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper said. Then he turned his gaze to you and bowed his head. “And if I may, congratulations on your nuptials.”

Coriolanus half-expected you to spit in his face for mentioning your marriage. Instead, though, you offered a smile. “Thank you. And thank you for being so accommodating to us.”

“It is my honor, Your Majesty. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

The entire walk up to the room, Coriolanus braced himself to be thrown out. Even as the footman followed behind, carrying a trunk with his belongings, he nearly said to not bother. He was sure that, within a few minutes, you would be demanding a room alone. He could only hope that you would be kind enough to minimize the embarrassment.

Yet, when he found himself alone in the room with you, you did not make any demands, save for asking Coriolanus to help you out of your gown. He undid the fastenings, but turned away when you stepped out of the gown and into a nightdress you plucked from the trunk. 

Fine. If you weren’t going to make the demand yourself, he would go. “I shall see you in the morning, petal,” he said. 

You turned, but where he expected your brows to be furrowed, your face was blank. “You think you are to sleep in the stables?”

What game were you playing? Last night, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough. But today, you are confused as to why he might leave? “After last night, I thought you would want some privacy.”

You looked out the window, at the torrential downpour and at the stables that felt like a million miles away. “I am not cruel, Coryo.”

Not like me, he finished. Instead, he said, “I don’t understand you.”

“I believe part of your agreement was that I refrain from causing any scenes. I can think of no greater scandal than me throwing you out to spend the night with livestock the day after our wedding.”

“There is no one here to spread a scandal.”

You rolled your eyes. “Much of our staff is here, as is the innkeeper. They talk as much as the ton. If I make you sleep in the stables, by the time we return from our honeymoon, the Capital will be in disarray that the seeming lovebirds are already on the outs. Whether they blame you or I, I cannot say for certain. But it would ruin the public perception of us.”

Coriolanus was proud that you had thought these things through, but part of him nonetheless ached over you allowing him into your bed only so as to avoid scandal, not because you enjoyed his presence.

With nothing more to say, you climbed into the bed, laying down as close to the edge as you could manage without falling to the floor. Coriolanus let out a sigh and then, too, got ready for bed. Once dressed in his nightclothes, he crawled into bed. You shuffled even closer to the edge. He worried that you might fall if you moved any further away. 

Was he truly so repulsive that you’d rather risk falling to the floor than share a bed with him? 

And though he knew better, he still reached for you. All he wanted was to hold you. He had been deprived of that last night, deprived of the ability to tell you how wonderful you are, how he enjoyed being your husband. A part of him hoped that the forced proximity might make you more willing to be held. 

You pushed his hand away. “Not tonight, please.”

“Petal…”

“I shall fulfill my duty some other time. Today has been too stressful.”

“You are more than a duty. And I want more from you than that. I want your love, but if you can’t give me that, can’t I at least hold you?”

You started to move, and, for a moment, Coriolanus thought you might burrow yourself in his arms. But instead, you picked up that damned cat from the floor and dropped it between the two of you. “Hold your son.”

Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him. Coriolanus (the human) had half a mind to hiss back. Instead, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to come. 

It never did. 

Not with the beast looking at him like he was a meal. Not with his wife acting like this is all a transactional affair. And certainly not when, some minutes had passed and you allowed yourself to cry, perhaps taking his stillness as a sign he had gone to sleep. 

Oh, where had he gone wrong? 

[nectardaddy]

'88 Ford | Kita Shinsuke

chapter ten | a crime of passion

masterlist

ignore timestamps

track ten. . . beneath oak trees

spinoff -> serendipity , a soon to be collection of random situations and insanity between kitayn because I'm too in love with them to let them go

cw/notes: hurt/comfort (I'm sorry yall I have no excuses anymore but it works), good but intense feelings, kita is the sappiest man alive™, this is the last chapter before the epilogue :'), dylan gossett is carrying this fic I love his music, IT'S HAPPENING IT'S HAPPENING!!!, ignore typos if you see them I was so excited

Dusk was quickly approaching, the sound of crickets being the tell tale sign before the sun dared dip below the horizon. The pair finding themselves within the acres of rice, mud and dead crops crunching underneath each step they took. Walking aimlessly, as it seemed like the right thing to do, side by side; contrary to how the man usually walked behind her.

She felt his fingers brush against her own, calloused and warm, as she walked next to him. The sensation making her feel like a little girl again, nervous and jittery, for once in her life not knowing what to do. Anger couldn't take a foothold here, the interaction making her heart swell instead of burn in fury. A fire that subsided long ago, now left with embers and a swirling stomach - he noticed.

He took her hand. Interlocking their fingers together without a word and a crimson driving to his cheeks he hoped the sunset would hide. A boldness in the motion that almost made him nauseous if he thought about it too long, shoving down the nerves to the very pits of his mind. He was terrified.

"You meant it, right?" She blurted out the question amidst the sound of crickets and evening air, almost breathless as she looked over to him in worry. An anxiety washing over her as she thought back to the interaction only an hour ago; realization of how interrogatory she was hitting her in the chest and shoving her down.

"Lovin' you?" Her question made him falter, stopping his steps to look over to her with a small frown pulling at his lips. There was a gentle pull on her hand, not noticing he had stopped and tried to keep going. Halting when there was tension and looking back at him, taking a small breath when she did. There's no way I deserve a man like this. The handsome man with pretty brown eyes. A golden hue from the sun set cascading down him that made him seem almost ethereal, contrasting his dirt ridden appearance. She felt herself fall in love with the man all over again. "I don't think I've ever been so certain about something in my whole life."

Oh my god. She felt her breath leave her lungs at his words, locking eyes with him without a word and letting the statement process. Letting a moment of development rock her to her core and leave her at a lack of words. All she could do was squeeze his hand, grasping it with all she had in her to fight the lump she felt forming in her throat; her other hand reaching up to cover her mouth. Eyes becoming blurry as she broke eye contact with him, looking to the ground with a shaky breath hidden by her palm.

Dammit, why am I crying? I look fuckin' stupid. She didn't mean for this to happen, to be so overwhelmed by emotion it caused a crack. And a crack is what make dams break. Feeling him squeeze her hand back made the dam completely collapse in on itself. Hot tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared at the ground, if she looked up she would unravel wholeheartedly.

The man didn't say a word to her disposition, knowing full well if he did her anger would take its place. So he stayed silent - she needed this moment. Silent as he squeezed her hand once more for good measure, silent as he gently pulled her towards him. Not a singular word as he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly and promising himself he'd never let go. He couldn't let go if he tried, his heart decided right then and there he didn't care if he lost his job anymore. This was an unmatched feeling he would be chasing for the rest of his days.

"I love you so much." He decided to speak after a brief pause, the evening air filled with her quiet cries. "I realized it when we were in the rain together, but I think I've been in love with you since I met you." Fuck, why would you say that to me?

She grabbed at the fabric of his shirt in desperation, grounding herself as the words made her want to spiral all together. Trying to hide the fact a sob wanted to escape her lips, she furthered herself in his chest and took a deep breath.

"Then why did you avoid me, Shinsuke?" Shakey, murmured words left her throat. The whole interaction left him in awe. "Why did you ignore me even though you love me? Why did you tell me everythin' about me was important to you and run away?" His shoulders slumped and he felt his heart shatter, millions of tiny pieces promoting an onslaught of regret to hit him square in the face.

"Because I'm an idiot," a breathless response, one that was the first thing to come to mind. He sighed. "And I was scared."

"I scare you that much?"

"No." He shook his head and sighed once more, closing his eyes in shame. "I like your righteous anger, it's your dad I was afraid of. 'Thought I'd lose my job."

She loosened her vice like hold on his shirt at his words, his latter statement tying up loose ends of her confusion. Oh, jesus fucking christ, he's serious. There was another pause, crickets chirping louder as the sun began to drift below the horizon - until she laughed. A sad, sorrowful laugh that cut through the tension like a knife. He felt it. Felt her lungs regain air they desperately needed as she took a deep breath, only to laugh again. Lifting her head from his chest to show him tear stained cheeks, a black eye, and a sad grin.

"You are a fuckin' idiot," spoken between giggles that left him confused. Scrunching his brows, dumbfounded, until she opened her eyes to look at him. "My dad knows! He's the one that told me you were in love with me, you moron!" Another laugh, turning into a fit of giggles as she couldn't help herself but to watch his confusion turn to embarrassment.

"What?"

She couldn't contain her amusement, finding herself holding onto him to keep herself upright in fear of toppling over from laughter. "Shinsuke-" she gasped between chuckles, "oh my god y'really are too good for this world! My dad knew the whole time! I told him I loved you and he said he already knew!" More laughter, to which he finally joined in at his own idiocy. Thinking to himself he'd rather laugh than to feel any singular ounce of regret more - this was nice. It was peaceful. Laughing in a field of rice seemed healing almost.

A laughter than died down after a short time, all smiles as she locked eyes with him. "You're so beautiful." A breathless sentence from him with a soft smile, every syllable laced with care and adoration. He looked at her as if she were the only person in the world that mattered, because to him she was.

"Even with a black eye?"

"Even with a black eye." He repeated, "how did you even get one this time?" Cautiously bringing a hand to her face, brushing over the skin of her cheek with warm fingertips. Stopping as his thumb traced over the bruised undertones on her cheekbone. He felt as she smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing as her lips pulled upward. Felt as her cheeks increasingly became warmer from his words and his touch. Felt himself fall deeper and deeper in love with her as every second passed.

"A crime of passion." She rolled her eyes before meeting his once more. Absentmindedly leaning into his touch, making him chuckle. "And y'say 'this time' like a bad thing."

"Never," he shook his head. "They always deserve it."

His hand never left her cheek, to him it felt like a crime to pull away. Vowing right then and there to never, ever pull away from her again as long as he lived - he'd rather die than run away from her again. "You're doing an awful good job of suckin' up to me right now."

"Good. That's what I was goin' for."

Another moment of silence striking them, looking to one another with anticipation. A silly feeling swirling in her stomach as she watched brown eyes flicker in between her own. She couldn't help but let out chuckle. "Just kiss me, you idiot."

"Anything for you." Finally closing the gap between them. She melted right into the palm on his hand.

taglist (open for serendipity! ask to be added)

@wyrcan @chizunata @seroh @chemiru @froyaoya

@h3xi2g0n3 @localgaytrainwreck @mollyrolls @causenessus @diorzs

@rory-cakes @phoenix-eclipses @pattys-got-cakes @girlkissersco

@jaynawayna @aliensstolemyheart @le000xxgrd @cherrypieyourface @theycallmenanamisgirl

@softpia

[reverseexorcist]

Hi! How are you? Can you write some enemies to lovers with Lute if you feel comfortable with that? Like reader is a overlord who likes to fight every extermination day just for fun and Lute sees a worthy rival until they fall in love?

❥ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐧 𝐌𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞 ❥

Oh wow I love her such a normal amount like seriously you could ask me anything about her and I would be the most normal person ever about her. But something about enemies to lover Lute with a sinner reader just hits different-

Someone here was having way more fun with the enemies to lovers aspect of this (and it's not Lute.)

(I am sorry I took so long with this request, but it was just so long and I'm juggling multiple blogs, interests and school-work rn so I'm just happy to get this one out. Thank you for being so patient <3)

➲ Lute + !F!Overlord!Reader

➲ Romantic ☒, Platonic ☐

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 4,532 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Descriptions of gore, descriptions of body shifting/horror, tsundere Lute, lots of fighting between two idiots who are actually trying to murder each other

Three hours before extermination day. Three hours before the exorcists would descend from Heaven like a plaguing swarm to rid Hell of as many demons as they possibly could. Three hours before you could go dance with death like you usually did and scare the living shit out of winners and sinners alike with your almost insane mannerisms.

Because that's what you did for fun, apparently.

However, unlike the countless times before you'd done this, you were feeling just a little tired. Staying up late to binge the new episode of 'MAMMON'S MAGNIFICENT MUSICAL MID-SEASON SPECIAL' mightn've been the best idea you'd ever had, but it was one hundred percent worth it even as you stood proudly, staring up at the pearly gates of Heaven. From where you stood, they still looked rather bare, and so you didn't think a quick nap beforehand would be all that bad, right?

At least, that was the plan. Just a quick nap before the extermination to get your head in the game - Except you'd forgotten to put a damn alarm on and slept right through the beginning ceremony. As the holy trumpets and guitar riffs echoed throughout the scorching pit of eternal suffering, you were snoozing away peacefully in your Evil Overlord Tower™.

Or, at least, you were.

Something didn't feel right, which was odd, because you had one of the most comfortable beds in all of Hell courtesy of the instinctual fear you spread throughout the ring of pride. And when something wasn't right, you sought to make it right because you didn't deal with shit that annoyed you (such, through the power you held).

A light weight rested across you, evenly spread expertly as if whoever was standing above you was trying not to rouse you from your slumber. For a moment, you thought you'd imagined it. There was no movement from above you, and there was a split second where you considered just letting your mind relax and fall asleep again, but such thoughts didn't get you into your current status. Being an overlord meant destruction and paranoia, the two things you strove to embody.

You barely gave whoever was on top of you time to react, moving swiftly enough that for a split second, your entire body shimmered and turned invisible as you slammed your would-be attacker into the floor.

Your hands fumbled, grappling with a sleek, steel pole that you promptly threw outwards, topping the attacker in front of you over. The room around you shook violently, the lights flickering as your brain caught up with your body, trying its hardest to shake the dregs of unconsciousness from your mind.

Bold stripes stared back at you, a sleek mask emblazoned with threads of angelic steel. The sight jogged your still sleep-hazy brain.

'Oh yeah, extermination day' and you gleefully took a swipe at the exterminator in front of you. You'd just fix the damages later.

But she was fast, swift on her wings and on her feet as she ducked and rolled out of the way. You could see she was stumbling, still recovering from the shock of being thrown halfway across the room. But you could still clearly see that she wielded her weapon with pure fury and raw talent, which was certainly something you weren't used to. Other exorcists relied on the fact that normal demons couldn't hurt them, their fighting sloppy and trivial because of it. The one in front of you actually knew what she was doing.

"You're kinda rude, y'know," Rolling your shoulders, a part of you was miffed for being woken up so rudely. Another part of you was grateful for the wake-up call.

She laughed, deep and sharp. The sound made your heart flutter.

"Demon scum like you don't deserve niceties," Her grin grew, sharp edges stretching upwards. You hummed thoughtfully and shrugged your shoulders.

The exorcist charged forward, striking forward with precision startlingly quickly. But you were quicker - Ducking under the point of her spear and tackling her, grappling with her wings as the two of you rolled across the floor in a writhing mass of fury. Holy steel clashing against the might of an overlord. Deep grooves were carved in your floor, yet, as the exorcist managed to tuck her head and roll with the momentum till she was on her feet in one elegant swoop, you couldn't find yourself caring. Adrenaline coursed through your veins, and you almost laughed as she stabbed at you with her spear once more. You parried it almost expertly, cackling before you managed to grab the pole between your palms.

It almost seemed evenly matched between the two of you, an unstoppable force fighting against an immovable object. The poor spear quivered, bending as you both quarrelled over it like young children until it splintered roughly between your palms, crushed beneath the sheer force you exerted. That seemed to get the exorcist's attention.

She stumbled backwards, no doubt thoroughly pissed off at her now shortened weapon - But even that didn't deter the bloodlust in her step. Half of it was thrown away, the broken half that held no pointed end, and chucked it at your face. It missed, and instead, it rattled ominously somewhere behind you in time with the flickering lights, but with your attention split for just a breath, the exorcist lunged forward and scraped a shallow wound in your forearm. It stung, numbly, and the wisk of air as she jumped warned you belatedly. Crimson trickled tantalisingly down your arm as the air between you sizzled, thick and heavy with some undeterminate feeling that made your blood thrum with electricity.

You cackled, grin growing to match the angel's, jaw splitting further than it probably should've as your bones cracked seamlessly, form growing larger as you felt the power of endless stolen souls burning your flesh. Your head brushed against the ceiling, bending to fit in the limited space - You could only relish in the confusion and fear that rolled over the exorcist's face, quickly masked with the solemn, set expression of a battle-seasoned soldier.

However stoic she seemed, you saw your opening and rocketed forward with speed that seemed unsightly for how big you were, pulling yourself against the floor like the demon you were. With the force of a semi-truck, you slammed the exorcist into the wall, fracturing the framework and no doubt rattling her entire being to her very core. You could feel the point of her spear pressed faintly against your chest, a gentle reminder that you quickly snagged and tossed the item far across the room. 

Face to face, almost nose to nose. A twisted scarl danced across her face, pearly white fangs stained with spatters of golden blood. It was almost beautiful with how it shimmered in the darkness, like liquid stardust.

"You better fucking kill me, hell-spawn," She spat in your face, fingernails carving angry crescents in your skin.

You laughed, because her words were rather cliche, after all.

"Y'know," You mused, "maybe knowing I'm down here will make you try harder next time."

That did not ease her scowl, but that didn't really bother you, because you had other places to be right now - You weren't going to waste your entire extermination day on one singular angel after all.

You threw her out of the nearest window.

She would be fine, with her wings and all, but it was still funny watching the momentary panic spread across her face before she realised the same thing you did.

Furiously, she flared out her banded wings, scattering loose a flurry of black and white feathers, specks of gold blood arcing in the crimson sky around her. Dazed as she was, her fierce eyes flickered and spun before honing in on her mobile target, namely, you. A titan of the underworld, an overlord in hell - An ear-piercing, spine-chilling cackle echoing around the eastern side of the Pentagram as you pulled yourself from your tower, monstrous figure all too elegant for how big you were, hauntingly so.

And that just made her blood boil, to see a sinner escape her clutches and laugh like nothing was wrong - Or worse, to laugh and knock down her subordinates straight from the sky like they were nothing more than bugs. As little as she cared about the fledglings on their first escapades, that was her hard work going to waste because the littles had no idea how to use their wings. 

And that just pissed her off all that much more.

The little exorcist you'd hucked from the top floor window was the furthest from your mind as your galavant around hell started again. She was a little spitfire, but nothing you hadn't ground into the dirt before and gotten away with. Even the array of cuts and slashes littering your body, courtesy of her spear, didn't mean anything beyond a harsh sting that would be gone within the next month. Yet nothing she did was permanent, which is why you didn't exactly pay attention to the screeching war cry of rage followed by a sharp twinge between your shoulder blades.

Which irked you, but not that much. You twisted your neck in an unnatural manner, bones creaking as your form bent in on itself, teeth fastening around the stab-happy angel's wing before wrenching her away from you. The machete she'd snagged from elsewhere remained buried just beneath your shoulder, you absentmindedly reminded yourself to remember it after this whole ordeal was over. Angelic steel was no good when left to fester in an open wound.

It could've been the same angel, probably was for all you knew. All their stripes looked the same, and plenty had horns curved back like hers (you had a collection of similar exorcist helmets lining your basement, and you still struggled to tell them apart when not labelled.)

But it was those eyes - They were different, or her mask was at least. You'd never seen obsidian glass carved with an 'x' like that marked over an eye, but there was something about it that was so alluring. It was shiny, unique, and belonged to an especially bloodthirsty angel, and you had what was probably the perfect spot to display it back in your den.

Greed made you strike out, grabbing at her helmet and tussling with the exorcist as the two of you fell to the ground. You may have had the size advantage, much, much larger than the lean figure writhing beneath you, but she was still incredibly strong. Her wings were annoying too, beating and kicking up dust that made your eyes water and ache, battering against your face and drawing a headache up, thrumming against the back of your skull. But you wanted that helmet more than anything, and she seemed extremely determined to keep it on.

The force of it all sent a splintering crack through the surface, shining a brilliant bright white like the threads of angelic steel melted and spilled like blood as one horn snapped clean off beneath your palm.

Those eyes.

They almost made you falter, as gold as angel blood. They were beautiful.

The exorcist, however, was not as thrilled.

She snarled, whipped her head around and sunk her teeth into whatever of your flesh she could reach.

It was more like a hell-kitten nipping at your skin, but you still flinched and let her go, watching as she slumped, cradling a crooked wing. A swelling of a certain emotion welled in your gut, something that made you feel small and achy and you absolutely hated it, but you couldn't do anything. Or, more aptly, you didn't want to do anything as you merely watched the exorcist flare her wings out, still beating strongly despite the fact one of them surely was broken.

The trumpets sounded. She made a rude gesture (many rude gestures, actually) before she grabbed the discarded weapon and the broken curve of her horn before disappearing back into the flock.

It was almost creepy, with the way your eyes watched her without blinking.

"You-"

"You!"

It was that time of year already.

The puffed-up exorcist looked angry, but no more than the last few times you'd seen her. You'd come to associate her venomous scowl, sharp wings and pointed spear as a sort've unique welcome between the two of you, in the same manner that your oversized overlord form bent out of proportion was a gratuity you reserved for your exorcist and your exorcist alone.

Because it was fun, and something you two did together.

"I want to try something," You mused out loud. The angel in front of you didn't respond to your remark, circling you like a severely ticked-off lion. You didn't expect her to, intently watching her as your neck kept twisting and twisting, bending like an owl.

Even with every muscle in her body tensed, she still wasn't prepared for how fast your strikes were. One and two, sharp against her chest as your hulking silhouette snapped and quashed itself into a far more humanoid one, the exorcist's favourite blade now held loosely between your hands. As if it would make her feel better, you kicked a machete, similar to the one she used in your first fight, toward her. Coated in crimson blood of sinners, yet still undoubtedly sharp.

"Here, now it's more of an even fight," You shrugged your shoulders, stancing up.

She scoffed.

"Is that really the best you can do?" She sneered, tapping her foot and folding her wings back high and proud. You quirked your eyebrow.

"Huh?" Your head tilted just a bit too far to be considered 'cute' or 'puppyish'. The exorcist grumbled.

"Your form. It's shit," She motioned with the tip of her blade. "Tuck your arms in, for fucks sake. No wonder your swings are so sloppy."

For once, you seem flustered and tried your hardest to follow her instructions. Heat swelled in her chest, almost like pride. But she would never be proud of someone like you.

"And speaking of, adjust your grip. Move your dominant hand up and your non-dominant hand down - For the love of anything holy, how can you be so shit with the bare basics!"

"Okay! Sorry!" You shifted your weight and tried to do as she told, almost forgetting where exactly you were. The exorcist only felt her grin grow more sadistic, watching how small you suddenly seemed in front of her, and how pathetic you were at actually using a weapon like a somewhat normal person.

It was sad.

(It reminded her of her bright-eyed, curious fledgling classes. All of them eager to learn about how to serve the lord above.)

"Like this?" You question, insane eyes almost reflecting the same eagerness of her students.

It was all wrong, but that was what she wanted.

"Ha. No."

This time she was the one covering the distance between you two with frightening speed, flinging herself forward with the momentum from her wings. The noise you made plucked at her heart, that startled screech clashing with the harsh sound of metal as you brought her own weapon up against her.

It was a brief moment of weakness, one quickly lost as you found your footing and started swinging. For how amateur your swings were, they were more than halfway decent compared to the littles fighting closer to the portal into Heaven. She could work with this, make it feel like you were actually a challenge instead of just another run-of-the-mill sinner.

She could see the way your eyes were glowing, looking all too content with yourself as you somehow matched her footwork and swordsmanship. You were a bit all over the place, but you were also incredibly smart - Picking up on her unique fighting style that not one other exorcist had, and you were doing it fast. Puffing up, almost preening.

"Aha! Now for some witty back-and-forth banter!" You declared out of nowhere, swings much more confident. She narrowed her eyes, infuriated. Just when she thought you were starting to take this whole thing seriously.

The exorcist remained eerily silent, not even puffs of exhausted breath or grunts with each collision of the blades.

"Huh, yeah, not really sure where to go with that?" You shrugged with the brief lull in fighting, darting backwards and sheathing your weapon with just a tad too much confidence for her taste.

Which, every part of this felt like a trap, but she trusted her own skills enough to not fall prey to the like of a sinner. Expertly, more than expertly, she matched those steps as you fell back, advancing, wings arced out as eyes aglow with holy fire.

Only for you to, once again, take her off-guard with your usual tactic. Darting forward, ducking under her blade and kicking her feet out from underneath her. She didn't make a sound but refused to go down with a fight and grabbed at the back of your outfit.

Her vision briefly went dark, the impact of something heavy crashing against her torso and knocking the wind right out of her. Her helmet cracked again, which was par for the course ever since she started brawling with you every extermination.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," Through the new crack in her helmet, she could almost perfectly make out your face. A bit too perfect, and way too close. Close enough to see her pale reflection in the dark of your eyes.

Your, admittedly, pretty eyes.

She felt like carving her own heart out rather than admitting she'd ever thought that in the first place.

"Get. Off. Me." She snarled. Meanwhile, stars practically glowed in your eyes.

"Oh wow! Dropping the 'Hellspawn' and 'Demon-scum'? Could this be love?" You were clearly joking, but her own heart decided to betray her thoughts, flipping in graceful arcs that she'd seen you perform one too many times.

She bit you again.

Five hours.

It had been five hours into the extermination.

With a ranking tally of two hundred and fifty or so demons, the exorcist figured she was fine to have a quick look around.

Because, through all this time, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of you. She didn't want to admit that she'd been loitering around your tower, knowing your tendency to throw yourself into the fray, dancing like you were tempting a lightning storm. She didn't want to admit that she'd been expecting to see your annoying face peering out at her from a nearby rooftop or to descend upon her like a leaping cat, or even to stroll up and start talking to her like the two of you were old friends. None of that happened.

The streets were rather empty, if you didn't take into account the blazing wrecks of cars, broken corpses and puddles of crimson blood puddling around the divets in sulphur roads. There were no moving, 'living' souls scurrying around, and that was what worried her.

Or, no. Not worried. She wasn't at all worried at the thought of you gutted somewhere, dying in a pool of your own blood, banished to the forever void that came after a second death. No, she was pissed at the thought that someone else had managed to kill you after all those years of the same cat-and-mouse dance. Or, more aptly, cat and fox dance. That honour was rightly hers, and she'd smite down any other exorcist that dared to stand in her way.

 In her way of killing you. Yes.

The exorcist pinned back her wings, sheathing her weapon and scuffing her boot against brimstone in annoyance. This was bullshit.

There was no fun in the exterminations without your jeering taunts, or odd remarks, your instance of fighting absolutely everyone you saw. Along with the annoyance of you ditching her mid-battle to rip feathers from one of her cohorts, along with a certain warmth she felt when you came bounding back towards her, bloodlust in your eyes and that same weapon you'd stolen from her all those years back pointed directly at her.

The angel only stopped once her boot stepped in liquid gold. It rippled, her thoughtful reflection mirrored and shimmering on its surface. Amber ichor, melding into the red from a nearby puddle, the mingling of sinner and winner blood alike.

What was the chance? She reasoned. But only one demon so far had managed to draw blood from an exorcist.

With a set snarl, she followed the trail. Her bootsteps were the only sound ricocheting around the dinky alley she found herself tracing.

"Oh, it's you..." She almost jumped out of her boots at the sound of your voice. Although, it didn't sound like you, per se. It was croaky and weak, dull and mild-mannered to put it lightly.

You were resting against a brick wall, clutching your front, eyes dimmed in the bright light. Squinting, as if a headache was plaguing your every thought.

Beside you, one of her cohorts rested too. Not dead, but her mask was all but shattered, one of her wings horribly ripped. She wasn't sure if she'd ever fly properly again.

But, you were not dead! Which was good news, because it meant she would be the one to finally slit your throat and watch the light drain from your eyes. And you knew it too, with the way your head kept tilted in her direction, a thoughtful twinkle in your eye.

"So, how's your day been?" Still playful, still joking. It was definitely you.

She scoffed.

"How's the blood loss?" She quipped back, the first she'd ever done so. Properly, at least. You laughed wetly, gagging on your own blood. Even she couldn't help but chuckle, dragging the tip of her weapon up until it rested gently over your heart.

Your laughter died down. Her hand was shaking.

Everything around you was quiet, like the two of you were submerged in a solid bubble of silence. Your ragged breathing was the only sound above a whisper, wet and ragged.

"Can I see your face?" Your voice was as soft as she'd ever heard it. Genuine.

She hummed, quirking a single brow. Not that you could see, because of her helm.

"Why would I do that?" She'd meant for it to sound more venomous. It didn't. You tried your hardest to shrug your shoulders, wincing in pain.

"Well," You sucked in a pained breath, "if I have to die here, the last thing I'd like to see is your face." Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, smudging the whorls of gold and red blood alike as they dribbled down your cheeks.

Something within her snapped. Dead. Death. A future forever without you. If she'd thought today's extermination had been boring without you, she couldn't even imagine any more.

That's what she told herself, anyway. A future without you was not one she wanted to live, for any reason.

The clank of angelic steel broke the atmosphere, harsh against the bloody floor. Fingers fuzzy and numbed, clasping as the latches that kept her exorcist helmet together. One flick, then another, a sharp snap. Dark obsidian peeled away, horns lifted till a silver-sharp face so out of place in the depths of hell appeared.

"I was right," You croaked. "You are... Pretty woman."

You devolved into another flurry of hacking coughs. The angel felt her feathers flare up, alarmed.

"Yeah, yeah," You waved her off, "don't show weakness or whatever, thanks lieutenant." Your chest crackled painfully as you just regained some unneeded breaths. The angel in front of you stumbled, anxiously padding forward as her boots clacked against the ground.

"Look, I can die happy now. Was fun fighting against you - Really fun, actually. And look! You finally came out on top this time, eh?" You tried to wink, you really did. It just didn't have the same effect when you were bleeding out in front of her. Which made her stomach drop and her adrenaline spike.

'This goes against everything I've ever done' She squinted, furrowing her brow. Gold eyes almost glowed like hot iron, fingers clasped firmly against the hem of her outfit. 'But, y'know, I could always say I was just trying to save my flockmate.'

And she tugged.

Her shirt ripped, the sound harsh against your ears, but it left her with a hefty chunk of fabric that slid against her chainmail gloves. The Lord would smite her down if he ever found out about this, but chances are, in the belly of hell, it would be a secret between only the two of you.

Hours ticked onwards, slipping through her fingers far too quickly. She was just lucky you were as strong as you were, holding on to your consciousness with all your might as she worked her magic. Stuff the wound, stop the bleeding, heal and hope to everything that was holy that angelic magic didn't sear your flesh the same way their steel did.

Of course, you being you, airy quips were thrown around, keeping the air light as your wound slowly healed. It was nasty, there was no doubt about that, your first permanent scar. But at least this way, you'd make it out with your life.

"How did you even let her catch you off guard?" She questioned you after hours of silence.

"I'll be honest, I thought she was you based on her footsteps," You sighed, exhaling softly as she tugged at your makeshift bandages. You got no proper response outside of her light scoff. Somehow, that still made you burn hot with shame.

In perfect unison, the two of you looked out to the horizon. Golden light spilled down from heaven, the portal slowly growing more and more, ripping open a way back to their holy home. Six minutes till the trumpets would sound, if you had to guess. The angel tutted, disapproving of the way time worked. The thought was enough to make you crack a smile.

"I have to go," She seemed hesitant.

"I'll be fine," Even if hoisting yourself to your feet almost made you black out, lugging yourself back to your tower shouldn't have been a big problem when you could literally see one of the back entrances.

That didn't ease her thoughts. She was thinking, mind ticking away as she thought and thought and thought. She kept thinking, until she slowly reached up and snagged a rounded, down-fluff feather from her puffed-up shoulder. Pristine and warm to the touch, it washed away the blood as she carefully placed it into your shaking palm.

No words were shared between you as she rested you against the wall, letting you steady yourself and she hoisted her fellow exorcist onto her shoulders. After helping her shimmy back into her iconic helmet, she glanced backwards at you before stepping toward the light.

"You better not die before I can kill you." Her words were soft, unlike her sharp exterior. You could only match the assumed small, hidden smile. With a hum, you felt only a single name come to mind.

"Yeah, course I won't Lute."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[danika-redgrave124]

The Officially Approved (Somehow) VIP Invitation 1/2

It was near the end of the event, the final desserts were being plated, and Yui—Ramshackle’s event organizer—had finally collapsed into one of the cushioned booths, apron slightly wrinkled, cat ears skewed, and a half-eaten strawberry shortcake parfait in front of her.

Despite Yui’s insistence that she was "just resting her eyes," she was currently curled up in Deuce’s arms, eyes fully closed, cheek pressed against his chest while he rubbed gentle circles along her back.

Deuce held her like she was made of spun sugar and sighs. "I missed you," he whispered into her hair, even though he’d stopped by literally every two hours with snacks, drinks, and stern declarations that she should sit down for five minutes, please. "You were too busy to even kiss me."

Yui mumbled something that sounded like "Whipped cream only on the left side of the cake" and nuzzled closer.

🎃POOF🎃

That’s when a scroll poofed onto the table in a puff of black glitter and pumpkin spice.

Deuce stared at it. "…Yui. Someone just used magic mail. Should I open it?"

Yui lazily opened one eye. "…If it’s another cake order, I’m making it cursed."

Deuce unrolled the scroll.

It read, in overly dramatic, old-fashioned gothic script:

🕯️💀✨

An Unholy & Completely Legitimate Request for Reserved Café Space

Most Adorable Café Overlord (Yui)

I, Skully J. Graves, Lord of Jack-o’-Lanterns, Crowned Pumpkin King, and Temporary Prince of Charisma,

Do hereby request access to one (1) cozy, dimly lit, sugar-drenched Private Tea Date Room, to be shared with the Sweet Server of My Soul: Yuu Kinsley.

Payment to be made in:

600 Gold Pumpkins (transfigurable into currency upon approval)

A Lifetime Coupon of Free Scares (redeemable any Halloween)

A Promise Not to Steal Grim Again™

Enchanted RSVP if:

💀: Yes, but behave yourself.

🎃: Only if you bring your own teacup.

🕸️: No, you tried this last week.

Yours in Pumpkin-Flavored Devotion, Skully J. Graves

Deuce blinked at the scroll, then turned it to show Yui. "…Do we even have a ‘Pumpkin King' guest list?" he asked.

Yui, still nestled against his chest and half-asleep, reached out, took the pumpkin-shaped wax seal sticker at the bottom, and stuck it to her own approval clipboard next to the VIP slots.

With a yawn, she mumbled, "Let him have the last room. He behaves better when he’'s sweet-talking Yuu."

"Seriously?" Deuce asked, though he was already smiling. “You're the softest event planner I've ever met.”

Yui kissed his jaw lightly and muttered, "I'm just tired. And it’s cute. Don't let it go to his head."

Deuce pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair. "Too late. He's probably already writing vows in that room."

The scroll poofed itself away with a smug giggle.

💖💙

@oh-hopeless-heart I didn't know what was Yui’s main ship, but I did see a lot of Deuce x Yui on your blog soooo I went that one and implied my Yuu x Skully ship

[alkeneater]

virtual insanity (E!2080 drabble) 😵

ughhhh wellll just saying ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE and i'm not a good writer so i wrote this because this idea was scratchin my head from inside and i wanted to get rid of it 💙

also this fic is not that angsty as i thought it's going to be, it's KINDA FUNNY TO ME I was laughing my ass off when i translated this shit

okay enjoy if you wanna <3 and yeah Jamiroquai reference 😁

“Are you a loser? A loser that doesn’t have any friends? Your life seems boring and full of disappointments? Not anymore if you purchase a VR-headset by Parallel! The organic design and convenient shape will allow you to spend hours in virtual worlds, and the augmented reality mode will embellish your miserable life!“

“That commercial again…” Joan heard familiar sounds as she walked past the room where Confucius was slowly scrolling through FlipFlop™ on his Holoband™. “Can’t you just block it? Adblock was invented a long time ago. You're into this stuff, aren't you?”

“Joan, you don’t get it!” Confucius jumped up from the sofa and approached the girl. “Thanks to commercials I can easily decide where to spend my money!”

“I wish I had your problems. But your purchases often turn out to be useless.”

“What makes you think that?”

“That laser can opener has been in the closet for a month and no one uses it. We don't even eat canned food!”

“Hey, I saw Gandhi using it!”

“He used this thing to shoot at the drones.”

Confucius thought about it and stared at the floor. Joan was about to go on with her business, but suddenly the guy exclaimed:

“But my next purchase will definitely appeal to everyone! You'll see!”

He did finger guns, expecting support from the girl, but she sighed heavily and went away. 

A couple of days later, a drone with a small box arrives at the door of the house. Confucius quickly runs to take the package.

“Everyone over here! This day has come!!!”

“You bought chips?” Gandhi, smiling broadly, ran to his friend's call. 

“Hollywood's calling me?!” Harriet exclaimed from the kitchen. 

“The shadow government's been destroyed?!” Abe looked out from the second floor.

“You stopped ordering shit from AnyExpress?” Joan crossed her arms and went to the front door.

“Better, better, better! I bought us a VR-headset!” Confucius clutched the box to his chest as if it was his own son, “This thing is going to change our lives!” 

The clones looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. Only Gandhi remained in a good mood, who always liked Confucius's purchases. 

When Confucius quickly adjusted the headset (which did not require much skill and knowledge, the design turned out to be quite simple even for an ordinary user), he started testing it. The others watched the process with interest, except for Joan, who was skeptical about technology, and Topher, who preferred to be away from the whole team. Confucius looked very funny: wearing a glowing blue headset, gloves and anklets, he moved awkwardly around the room and talked to himself. But from his perspective, it looked like an exciting game. After removing this thing from his head, he turned to the clones and exclaimed:

“This is fire! You should all try it!!”

“Can I be next?? Please?!” Gandhi ran up to the device, wanting to try it out as soon as possible. 

Abe and JFK were sitting next to each other on the couch.

“It looks fun, but I'm not sure I'll use it often,” Abe mumbled as he watched Gandhi running around the room with his new toy. 

“You're just a bore, this thing, err-ehh, it looks great. I would love to play some VR games right now!“ Kennedy was already interested and was waiting for his turn.

“That’s right, you can play any game on this baby!” Confucius squeezed in between them, “I'm sure you'll all find a use for it.”

“What use can I find for this thing? I don't really like videogames.”

“That's because, ehhh, he sucks at videogames,” JFK jokingly whispered to Confucius. 

“Well, let's just say this headset is capable of simulating anything, just write a couple of commands. Even the gen Epsilon can do this,” Confucius rolled his eyes and grinned. 

“Actually, we are the gen Epsilon,” Harriet was standing next to him, leaning on the coffee table, “Are you saying it can simulate anything?”

“Anything!”

“Even... hmm... the interior of the palace from the fifth episode of the eighth seas-”

“YEAH!” Confucius did not even listen to the end, being sure that his purchase was capable of anything and even more. 

“I don't know…” Abe looked at the window, “I like our reality too. I have real friends here, a real life. They are much better than this artificial one. Yeah, Gandhi?” he turned towards his friend.

“GUYS, I'M IN OUTER SPACE RIGHT NOW! HOLY SHIT, I'M A DRAGON, RAHH! DON'T DISCONNECT ME, IT'S THE BEST THING EVER!!!”

Abe frowned. Apparently, he is really a bore, since he does not understand the delights of this device. 

***

For the next few days, everything in the shelter-house was the same as always: the clones went outside to look for their friends, sometimes fought with the shadow police and quite often spent time at home in each other's company, enjoying free will. After 16 years of prison-like regime, every hour of free time felt like a two-month vacation in Hawaii. 

One day, after another grueling battle, the “Old School” returned home very battered and tired, and barely dragging their feet, most of them immediately went to bed. However, Abe was the only one who felt uneasy. Even anxious. He really needed someone to talk to and vent his emotions after a brutal fight. But Joan and Cleo were not in the mood for heart-to-heart conversations, Gandhi was sleeping like a log, and JFK was lying next to him. 

“John, are you asleep?” Abe looked into the bedroom on the second floor, which for some reason had a lot of beds. Perhaps the previous owners of the house had many children. 

“Ehh... yes.”

“I just wanted to…”

“Bro, I’ll, err-uhh, die if I don’t sleep!”

“...talk.”

“Later, okay?!” Kennedy growled, and Abe closed the door softly with a guilty expression on his face.

It’s not the first time he’s been left alone with his thoughts.

He trudged into the room, where Confucius was currently playing with his headset. Lincoln plopped down on his favorite blue couch and looked sadly at the window, not noticing his friend. He could still hear his conversations with one ear.

“...You have the wisdom of generations, bro. You're absolutely right, I will do that! See you later!” a smile appeared on Confucius' face and he took off the headset. 

“Who were you talking to?”

“Me? My clonefather, of course!”

Lincoln raised an eyebrow and turned to his friend in disbelief:

“How's that?”

“Dude, did you forget? This thing can do absolutely anything! I was just chatting with my clonefather in virtual reality. However, these technologies are not really new, teenagers were doing something like that 60 years ago.”

“Can I, well... do it too?” Abe’s eyes lit up. 

“Of course! Jump in, I'll introduce you quickly,” he beckoned him closer. 

Abe couldn't help but smile. Can he finally see the one who inspired him all his life? Talk to him, feel his presence? It all sounded like something unreal. 

However, it was unreal.

Abe felt the soft ear pads, the gloves clinging to his palms, and heard the anklets snap on his legs. Everything turned blue in his eyes, only the silhouette of Confucius was visible, he was waving his hands and explaining something. At first, Lincoln felt anxious, but after a short briefing, he got used to the device and finally entered commands so that the image he had wanted to see for so long appeared in front of him. Confucius nodded and left the clone alone with his virtual ancestor.

“Is-Is that you? Mr. President?” 

Abe could see a large empty space in front of his eyes, with a tall figure wearing a top hat. A familiar silhouette came closer: 

“Just call me Lincoln. It's good to see you, son.”

The guy was confused, not knowing what to do next. It wasn't every day that he got to talk to someone whose DNA he inherited. And the man with the thick beard continued to squint his eyes and smile good-naturedly. 

“I, I, I just wanted to talk to you. Can I? I promise I'll be brief.” 

Abraham nodded. The clone looked around and realized that he had forgotten to generate the location, decided not to bother and chose something from the “recommended” section built into the device. The space blinked and after a moment both found themselves in a wooden cabin in the middle of the forest, with some furniture inside and a fireplace burning. 

“Reminds me of the days of my youth... I used to live in a cabin like this,” the man sighed and sat down on a bench near the window.

Abe sat down next to him, still not believing what was happening to him. He has long been used to the weight of the headset on his head, he has stopped feeling the gloves, he has completely immersed himself in this charming virtual world.

“I, I, I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I?” the clone came to his senses.

“I know your name, Abe. You are…”

“I'm your clone. A copy. Genetic or something.” 

“Interesting.”

The guy sighed and still decided to interrupt this awkward conversation to finally get to the point.

“There's so much I'd like to discuss with you, but I don't know where to start.… I'm always so anxious and scared, and I don't even know who to talk to about it. I would like to become a great leader like you. You probably weren't afraid of anything and knew how to do everything. And I'm just... a nobody.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself. I'm sure you'll have a great future.”

Abe looked down at the wooden floor: 

“If that future ever comes at all” 

***

It's been a long time since Lincoln put on the headset. “Old school” had already had time to rest, Harriet and the other girls had watched all sorts of TV shows, and the guys had discussed every topic in the world. Gandhi was eagerly waiting for his turn to play with the headset. Kennedy, who was already beginning to worry about his buddy immersed in virtual reality, was waiting as well. He decided to visit Abe again and went into his room without knocking.

“Are you done? We're already tired of, err-ehh, waiting for you! How long has it been? One hour? Two?”

Abe continued to sit on the floor and mumble something under his breath, clearly talking to someone who was not in this room. JFK was so irritated, his hands involuntarily clenched into fists. 

“I'm, ehh, talking to you!” he raised his voice, causing his friend to flinch. 

“Uh, John? I'm sorry, I just-just a couple more minutes, I need to talk to Abraham Lincoln…” 

“You said the same thing about 30 minutes ago!” 

“The conversation got a little long, that's okay!” 

“You're out of your mind…”

Kennedy sighed so heavily he could be heard on the first floor. He sat down next to Abe on the floor and waited, unwittingly eavesdropping on what the clone was saying.

“Huh, yeah, that sounds so much like me. I worry a lot too...”

“Sometimes I feel lonely…”

“I'll never be like you, I'm just a loser. That's what I've always been told...”

After a couple minutes, John began to realize what Abe was talking to his virtual interlocutor about. He's just sharing his feelings, pouring his heart out. He just needed a little attention. 

“Yeah? Sometimes I feel like no one can really hear me...” 

John placed his palm on Abe's palm, squeezing it a little. He tried to feign indifference, but he barely succeeded in hiding the emotion with which he listened to his friend's voice. The tall guy, on the other hand, barely reacted and continued to talk loudly to the void. What Kennedy wanted more than anything right now was what Abe and his virtual clonefather had. Mutual support. 

“I am so lucky to be able to talk to you right now, I am so honored!”

After sitting like that for a few more minutes, he gently releases his hand and gets back on his feet. 

“Okay, I'm, ehh, gonna go.” 

There was no response. 

Kennedy returned to his friends on the first floor.

“Is he done yet?” Gandhi crossed his arms and frowned. 

“I don't like it,” Joan added, “it's too bad for him.” 

Confucius waved his hand:

“It's perfectly safe! I know you don't like all this innovation, but that's no reason to-”

“You know, let's just leave him alone. Why don't we go to the, ehh, pizzeria? Confucius, it's on you!” JFK feigned indifference, wanting to change the subject as soon as possible.

“Oh yes, let's go!” the others replied almost in unison.

The door slammed, and the house was empty. Only a voice from a room on the second floor broke the silence.

***

It took a few more hours before everyone returned home after a delicious dinner at the pizzeria. John was so engrossed in conversations with his friends and the delicious food that he almost forgot about what was waiting for him at home. 

He was the first one inside, turned on the light and hurried into Abe's room. What he saw made him fearful for a split second: Lincoln was lying on the floor, pale, but still barely audibly talking.

“Yeah... I don't know…”

“Abe?! What the hell?!” Kennedy instantly dropped down beside his friend and lifted his head, “Do you even take breaks from this shit?!” 

“Maybe… Huh…” 

JFK really didn't want to do that, but he slapped Abe’s face. One earpiece shifted and now Abe could clearly hear what was happening in his reality. 

“Ouch. That hurts,” Lincoln rubbed his cheek with the palm and tried to fix his earpiece, “Technical problems, I'll be right back…”

“No, you won’t! Take it off already! Ehhh, come on!” he started pulling the headset off.

“No, WAIT!” Abe began grasping at the device as if his life depended on it, “Please, don’t, I'm not finished! I’m fine, I swear!”

“FINE?!” he pulled it harder in his direction, “I found you on the floor, pale, mumbling something to yourself. You look like a zombie!” 

Abe was already losing his grip, so he put his hands down and let it happen. 

“Goodbye, clonefather. Sorry that…”

The headset finally slips off the clone's soaked head and falls to the floor. John saw Abe’s red eyes, his forehead wet with sweat, his hair messy, his skin paler than usual, dark circles under his eyes. It's a terrible sight.

“…I didn't finish,” Abe said softly.

“Holy shit, you're really, ehh, nuts.”

Lincoln tried to avoid eye contact while JFK stared shocked at his friend. 

“You're crazy, Abe, you're really crazy.” 

“What? Me?” 

“Do you know how long you've been sitting here?!” 

“A c-couple hours?... We just got back from a m-mission?” 

“That was LAST NIGHT!” 

“Last… what?”

Tears welled up in Abe's eyes. Either from the fact that his eyes hurt or from the realization. Or maybe he missed his toy. 

“You know you can always talk to me, right?” Kennedy started shaking him by the shoulders to keep him from passing out right in his arms. 

“But you all were so tired, I didn't want to disturb you…”

“Look, if talking to me saves you from that, uhhh, wire shit, then sleep can wait.” 

“John, it wasn't just wire shit, my clonefather was there... The real one…” 

“He's not real, you stupid! YOU are real and WE are real.” 

Abe lay down on the carpet, JFK sat down next to him and began gently removing his gloves and other stuff. 

“You're such a bore…” Abe smirked tiredly.

Kennedy furrowed his eyebrows, but really couldn't even be mad at him. 

“And you're an idiot.”

Both of them were so nervous they laughed, which made John fall to the floor next to Abe. 

“And you said you wouldn't even use that thing! You're Not So Honest Abe! Haha!”

“Haha, indeed!” 

“Guys,” a familiar voice sounded nearby, “Are you both crazy?” 

Joan, Confucius and Gandhi had been standing in the doorway for the last five minutes and had seen the culmination of everything that had happened. The guys looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. 

“Looks like it! Pure virtual insanity,” Abe chuckled.

“Oh, it's just like that old song!” Confucius said.

John got on his feet and reached out to Abe:

“Come on, ehh, let's talk.”

Abe caught his arm and stood up.

“Maybe next time? I'm really sleepy…” he looked at him guiltily. 

JFK nodded.

“Okay, just don't give me that look. You know I wouldn't trade you for, err-ehh, virtual reality, bro.” 

“I believe you.”