#bread and circuits

[voyant-du-vide]

What a lukewarm take.

1. Is academia destroyed? Idk man, I’m deep in academia right now, getting my mfa in fiction writing and also learning how to teach first year rhetoric and composition classes. I’m writing a paper on AI in college writing classes. There’s an internal discourse war going on at my university because they instituted an official chatgpt tool. Academia is alive and fucking well and doing what it always does: making money and arguing internally. In my corner of academia, the fascists defunding us are a way more immediate threat than AI.

2. People have been cheating their way through college for ages. That’s not new.

3. You saw “I spend so much time on TikTok that my eyes hurt” and you thought the problem was the AI? I’m not even trying to direct the blame onto TikTok or the individual student. This is systemic. What is pushing SO MANY students to dissociate into their phones? Could it be the total fucking chaos bullshitstorm we’re all trapped in? And you want them to write a boring-ass summary of your boring-ass assigned readings? When their new best friend Chat can do that for them without you even noticing? Lol. Lmao even. They’re human adolescents. If you want to teach robots who will listen to you with eagerness and produce neat little summaries for you no matter what you give them, go train AI. That’s paying pretty well these days.

4. There are ways to AI-proof classes, and it’s not by saying “No AI” or using AI detectors. It’s by Engaging Your Students! Make it personal. Have them write the stories only they can tell. Let them learn how to write by telling you all about their undying love of Keyboard Customization or Anime Conventions or Brazil. Make the assignments worth their time and things they will want to do.

5. This will be the most radical thing I have to say, but AI can actually be used to build critical thinking skills. Teach them to question it. You should be teaching them to question what they’re reading! Here’s a tool you can trust to be untrustworthy. Use that. Show them the danger in not questioning, from failing an assignment to electing a fascist. Question it to its “face” and see if it learns. Ask your students to think about how it learns. Ask them to think about how they learn. There has been a HUGE body of writing produced on this subject just in the last 2 or 3 years. If you can’t think of how to teach in an AI age, that is 100% a you problem.

Academia is fine. Professors have been out of touch for too long. AI is just making that more apparent.

Generative AI has destroyed academia.

In the next few decades we’re going to have thousands of people who don’t really know anything, and can’t do any critical thinking.

[bell-swamp-fitzjames]

EVERYONE SHUT UP DAVE K GETTING ME INTO NEW MUSIC WTF https://open.spotify.com/track/6jAkQsRaOrr7lQsM0on8ov?si=e3c61821dc3e4b56

[deaderisbetter13]

I did some ship chart stuff a while ago and I've been sitting on it for too long lmao. So here it is with some bonus colors as well!! Original is by redcrowz here

(Btw this is more my headcanons about the inter-character relationships than my feelings on the ship itself cause I don't care too much about them aside from otps, lol.)

Color-coded versions with more analysis under the cut

I'd like to add that I think all the circuit are their own friend groups except the special circuit because the bruiser bros don't have many friends. I have more friendships as well, but this is meant to be the more important friendships, lol.

Narcis and Dragon + Heike are a bit of a given since they're the youngest boxers in the West coast wvba gang, so they quickly became friends and started hanging out together despite their different skill levels.

Hoy and Gabby are friends mostly because they're the oldest boxers, though Hoy still sees Gabby as a 'kid', much like the rest of his co-workers. Gabby doesn't mind though, he thinks it's funny.

Dragon and Hoy are another pair that sprung up due to coincidence. When Dragon first came to the US, he knew nothing about it and Hoy took him under his wing and kept close watch on him, bonding over shared culture and experiences. Even though they speak different forms of Chinese, they got along really well and still remain close.

Gabby and Joe are in a similar boat. Gabby watched over and befriended Joe when he was younger and they've had a very familial relationship since. Gabby and Joe see each other basically as surrogate brothers and by now nothing can change that.

Joe and Bob are more of a weird pair, bonding over a love of music and singing after having met through Gabby. They chill together when in the same city and Joe sometimes makes guest apperances singing/playing piano for Bob's music.

Clown and Bear are second cousins twice removed via marriage and met at a wedding in Italy. They were overjoyed to see each other in the ring again and have their 'buddy I went on hijinks with at that one wedding' back!

Bear is friends with Sandman and SMM mostly because they're all Jewish and feel a lot of solidarity because of that. They like to have debates about anything and anything they can think of which, though they can get heated, are all in good fun.

Hondo and Carmen are friends through Don and are often seen talking about sailor moon together.

Carmen and Disco meeting was a complete accident as they ran into each other at a salon once and got into a conversation about their hair (And bleaching it). They were both really surprised to meet each other in the wvba building and laughed their asses off at the whole situation.

Disco is friends with Doc exclusively because they both like disco music. Disco adores Doc's leopard print jacket and looks up to him as a boxer as well.

Disco is buddies with Sandman and Soda mostly cause he thinks they're both cool. With Soda especially, they share a very bouncy and positive look on life as well a a sense of humor. Sandman is someone he just really respects and vibes with.

Hippo and SMM are big surfing buddies and hang out mostly because of that. Also Macho really likes Hippo's Hot Wheels collection and has contributed to it many times.

Pretty much everyone dislikes the bruiser bros but I put the especially bad relationships down here.

Sandy doesn't like them especially because, though he tries to be neutral, he gets the worst vibes and especially doesn't like Nick for being such an asshole to Joe.

Hoy... well Nick is just ablest to him, saying that if he needs a staff to get around he's too pathetic to be a boxer.

Nick didn't take his loss to Joe well whatsoever and harassed him for months. It got so bad Joe needed a restraining order. He never told Mr. Dream because he's too scared of what either of the brothers might do as revenge.

Pizza just loathes Clown because he thinks Clown makes their country look like a joke. This is part of the reason why he no longer even watches boxing.

These are guys I just hc as aro so no romance for them. Though Mr. Dream is pretty positive about romance himself, Macho and Hippo are more negative about it and don't want it in their lives.

These are 'other' characters I ship the guys with. Bear and Pizza both have wives they adore and Disco has a boyfriend stuck in another state.

Not pictured: All of Carmen and Don's side-partners.

For Don and Hondo, their relationship is complicated due to them being mutually in love but unable to bring romance into their relationship because Don agreed that Carmen would be his only romantic involvement.

Pizza, Dream, and Doc all fought together back in the day, once close friends, but drifted after Pizza left the boxing world and America itself due to mob threats. Deep down, he still misses them.

This is characters who have a mutual crush, but won't really pursue those relationships.

Aran and Mask really admire each other's cheating but mutually agree that a relationship between them, especially a long-distance one, just wouldn't work. They meet up every once and a while to hang out and mess around, though.

Hondo kinda has a crush on Carmen, and vice versa, but Hondo is scared to pursue anything with her due to the whole thing with Don.

Don is crushing hard on Joe and Joe would happily reciprocate a date, but Don is having a hard enough time dealing with his love for Hondo so he refuses to pursue Joe. Joe meanwhile thinks Don is taken fully and loathes the idea of 'taking' him from Carmen.

Sandy and Joe have a strong mutual crush but are too scared of each other to do anything about it. Joe looks down on himself a lot and thinks Sandy would think he's weird. Sandy meanwhile is scared of hurting Joe and thinks Joe secretly fears him.

These are one-sided crushes, the arrow points to who has a crush on who.

Narcis and Don both really like Wii Aran, but he doesn't feel much the same. Narcis doesn't try to hide his feelings much but Don definitely does. Aran doesn't hate either of them (Okay, he used to hate Narcis because he dislikes British people by default) and might even consider a relationship with either if they brought it up to him. However, he just wouldn't be able to trust them or develop feelings on the same level.

Disco has always had a mild crush on Heike but it's never been reciprocated. Heike is aware of Disco's crush and has put out very gentle hints that he really likes Dragon instead.

Kaiser has always liked Joe a lot, but never dropped hints or let Joe know. Joe's feelings are complex because though he thinks he still likes Kaiser romantically, he doesn't actually love him like that or want them to be anything more than close friends.

Nick has a raging crush on Joe and HATES IT. He hates himself, he hates Joe more, and he's madly obsessed with the guy who beat him. Joe is 100% oblivious. It's chaos.

And now my very weird otps!!!

Joe/Aran (Burnt Bread) is obvious as my fave. I just think that their dynamic is perfect for what the other really wants in life. For Joe, he wants to be bold and brash and embrace his weird side like Aran. For Aran, he wants to be able to accept that he actually has people who care about him and have more stability and trust both in his life and relationships like Joe. Also I like the idea of Joe just becoming so weird because of Aran, it's hilarious. They're perfect for each other.

Don/Carmen (Perfecto) is obviously perfect (Or as close as you can get). It's a long-lasting love from childhood situation with these two, almost like a fairytale. They've loved each other deeply for years and years and had plans for marriage since they were kids. Even while loving other people, they're each other's soulmate. If they were to ever separate, they'd both be devastated. This ship is perfect for angst and drama as they balance their love for each other with their desire for others and deal with all the emotional chaos that can bring.

Kaiser/Tiger (Magic Combat Boots)... Okay, I'll admit, this one is weird. I don't remember what drew me to ship them in the first place- maybe some fanart, maybe the shared 'stache power, idk. But no matter what it was, this relationship is like a marshmallow, sweet, soft, and easy. Tiger and Kaiser come off, to me, as very normal guys who are straightforward and down to earth and are the types who don't need a lot of chaos in their love lives. This ship is 110% fluff and very mellow- no drama, no chaos, just two aro/aspec dudes with great mustaches falling in love. I also like the dynamic of Tiger becoming a parent to Kaiser's adopted boys as well :).

Bull/Soda (Angry and Sweet) is the cat/dog dynamic I have for punch out. Though they don't have opposite personalities, they do contrast a lot and have different ways of approaching life. However, they definitely desire each other for such strong personalities and find a mutual bond in a lot of their traumas and with being gentle to each other. Another fluffy ship, but with a lot more angst potential with how I write their backstories.

Bob/Hurricane (Hurricane Shuffle) this one is another 'opposites attract' type ship. This time however it's an introvert/extrovert pairing. Bob is a huge overwhelming extrovert and Hurricane is a self-conscious introvert. They're the type to not stray form their comfort zones, but with each other's help, they both grow more mature and comfortable with their lives. Though there's definitely drama to be had with them, there isn't much angst and much more fluff.

Heike/Dragon (Mandarin Ducklings) is all about young, inexperienced love. These two are some of the youngest boxers, so it makes sense for their relationship to be kinda clunky and awkward, in a cute way of course. For them, it would be chaotic and strange to deal with since they're each other's first serious relationship. A lot of this ship, imo, is about figuring things out, dealing with common problems, and just navigating through love! Sweet in a super chaotic way.

Narcis/Snes Aran (Prince and the pauper) is an unlikely friends to lovers story. Despite Narcis being kind of a brat, there isn't any initial dislike between him and Snes Aran like I hc with him and Wii Aran. Instead, I think Snes Aran starts hanging with him to satiate his own curiosity, before actually coming to like him a lot, and vice versa. Snes is head over heels for Narcis and ends up following him around as his bestie for a time before Narcis realizes he LIKE likes this un-civil, low-class guy. Snes is Narcis' bro and backs him up whenever and doesn't challenge him very much at all, while Narcis not only doesn't look down on snes but does what he can to make him feel equal. And that's what they want in relationships!

[boybreaded]

ooc: trying to find things out for this meme response and stumbled onto something that was blocked from my memory but for mockingjay promo they used youtubers to promote stuff from the different districts

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hey could you write maybe more of dad carlos maybe drive to survive and little yn steals the show at 3 years old

Drive to Survive the Yn show

Carlos had known from the moment he opened his front door at the crack of dawn that this weekend was going to be a long one. The Drive to Survive crew stood outside, cameras already rolling, lights glaring, and all Carlos could do was stare at them with an unimpressed expression, arms crossed over his chest.

“Good morning, Carlos!” one of the producers greeted him cheerfully.

He sighed, stepping aside to let them in. “Is it?”

The crew laughed, mistaking his sarcasm for good humor. He shuffled towards the kitchen, rubbing his face as he tried to wake up properly. He was used to early mornings, but this? Being filmed first thing in the morning in his own house? This was excessive.

Carlos moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, grabbing eggs, bread, and fresh fruit while the cameras hovered around him. He knew how this worked—every word, every glance could be twisted into a narrative of Netflix’s choosing.

As he cracked eggs into a pan, soft footsteps signaled that Rebecca had woken up. His wife appeared in the doorway, still dressed in pajamas, hair a little messy from sleep. She paused at the sight of the cameras and gave Carlos a knowing look.

“Oh no,” she muttered, making her way over to him. “They caught you before coffee?”

Carlos huffed. “Sí. I think they planned it.”

The crew chuckled again, but Rebecca ignored them as she reached for a cup and poured herself coffee, sighing in satisfaction as she took her first sip. “Well, at least they get to see the real you.”

Carlos smirked. “Which version? Grumpy pre-coffee Carlos or amazing chef Carlos?”

“Both,” she teased, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before hopping onto the counter to watch him cook.

It wasn’t long before more footsteps echoed down the hallway. His parents had arrived. Reyes greeted the cameras with her usual warm smile, unfazed by their presence, while Carlos Sr. simply gave them a polite nod before making a beeline for the coffee machine.

And then, the real star of the morning made her appearance.

Rebecca turned her head as the sound of tiny, tired whimpers came from the staircase. “There she is,” she murmured, shifting off the counter to meet their daughter.

Little Yn, still half-asleep, clung to her mother’s shoulder, her curls a messy halo around her head. She buried her face in Rebecca’s neck, only peeking out when she realized something was different.

The cameras.

Carlos put down the spatula and walked over, effortlessly taking Yn into his arms. “Oh, mi amor, still sleepy?”

Yn made a tiny noise of agreement and nuzzled against his chest. Carlos instinctively cradled her closer, rubbing her back. “It’s okay, go back to sleep, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Rebecca looked at the Netflix crew and smirked. “I think you’ve lost your main character.”

She was right. The cameras were no longer focused on Carlos. They had all shifted to Yn, who was curled up against her father, completely unbothered by the world.

Carlos shook his head. “Figures.”

By the time they arrived at the circuit, Carlos had accepted his fate. This was no longer his documentary episode—this was Yn’s.

The moment their little family stepped out of the car, the fans erupted.

“CARLOS!”

“REBECCA!”

“YN!”

Carlos blinked. He turned to Rebecca, who raised an eyebrow. “She has fans now?”

Rebecca grinned. “Obviously. She’s adorable.”

Yn, meanwhile, was unbothered by the attention, happily munching on a strawberry as they made their way through the paddock. The cameras continued following them, but they seemed less interested in Carlos preparing for his home race and more in his three-year-old daughter discovering the world around her.

At one point, Yn gasped, dropping her strawberry. “¡Mariposa!”

Carlos followed her gaze to see a small yellow butterfly fluttering near the McLaren motorhome. Before he could react, Yn took off running.

Or at least, what counted as running for a three-year-old.

“Dios,” Carlos muttered, already following her. The cameras, of course, were rolling.

Yn giggled as she “chased” the butterfly, tiny legs moving as fast as they could. The butterfly barely even noticed her, lazily floating through the air as if playing a game with her.

“Papá, so fast!” Yn announced proudly.

Carlos snorted. “Yes, super fast, mi vida.”

He caught her just before she could stumble, lifting her into his arms. She giggled, still reaching for the butterfly.

Behind them, Charles appeared, laughing. “She’s faster than you in slow corners, mate.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Not now, Charles.”

Charles grinned at Yn. “You remember Roscoe and Leo, right?”

Yn blinked up at him, thoughtful. “Sí.”

“Well, they remember you too,” Charles assured her.

Carlos snorted. “Charles, they are dogs.”

Charles ignored him. “Do you want to say hi next time I visit?”

Yn nodded excitedly. “Yes! Leo soft.”

“See? She gets it.” Charles ruffled her curls, earning another giggle before he walked off.

The Netflix cameras were still following, capturing every second.

Carlos sighed. “This is not about me anymore.”

Rebecca patted his back. “You’re just realizing that now?”

Between media duties, meetings, and race prep, Carlos kept an eye on his daughter. It was a habit at this point—he could be mid-conversation with his engineers, but a small movement from Yn in the corner of his vision would immediately catch his attention.

At one point, while Carlos, Rebecca, Reyes, and Carlos Sr. sat in the hospitality area drinking coffee, Yn curled up in her grandfather’s lap, yawning.

Carlos Sr. smiled, running a gentle hand through her hair. “She’s tired from all the excitement.”

Rebecca reached over, stroking Yn’s cheek. “It’s been a big morning.”

Yn’s eyelids drooped. “Sleepy,” she murmured.

“Then sleep, mi amor,” her grandfather whispered, adjusting his hold so she was more comfortable.

Yn didn’t need to be told twice. She was asleep within minutes.

Carlos shook his head, watching her. “She can sleep anywhere.”

Reyes smiled. “Like you when you were little.”

The cameras, of course, filmed the whole thing.

Later, Rebecca knelt beside Yn, applying sunscreen to her delicate skin.

Yn wrinkled her nose. “Cold!”

“I know, baby,” Rebecca soothed, rubbing it in.

Yn giggled as the cream was smoothed over her arms and cheeks. She wiggled but let her mother finish, laughing when Rebecca poked her tummy playfully.

Carlos sat beside them, shaking his head with a smile. “You think sunscreen is funny, mi amor?”

Yn nodded enthusiastically. “Tickles!”

The cameras caught the entire moment. Carlos wasn’t sure if Netflix had ever filmed something so far removed from the actual racing season.

By the time the race weekend ended, Carlos wasn’t even sure why Netflix had followed him at all.

They had hours of footage of Yn—running after butterflies, giggling while getting sunscreen, falling asleep in her grandfather’s arms. The clips of him were mostly just him being a protective dad, always watching over her.

On the last day, Carlos looked at the cameras and sighed. “Are you even making a show about Formula 1 anymore?”

One of the producers grinned. “We’re just following the most interesting story of the weekend.”

Carlos groaned.

Rebecca smirked. “Told you, cariño. You’re not the main character anymore.”

Yn, sitting happily in Carlos’ lap, clapped her hands. “Me!”

Carlos sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yes, baby. You.”

And somehow, he didn’t mind at all.

(And when the episode finally aired, the title was: “Carlos Sainz: Family Man.” He never forgave Netflix for that.)

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞! ⊹ ₊

˚ʚY/N told them her ideal type which was the complete opposite of them. ɞ˚

˚ʚNagi Seishiro x Reader, Reo Mikage x Reader (seperate!)ɞ˚

˚ʚpt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt. 5ɞ˚

₊ ⊹𝐍𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 ⊹ ₊

Nagi Seishiro was not a man of effort. He liked things easy, simple, and preferably with minimal movement involved. So, of course, falling in love with Y/Nwas an absolute nightmare.

You we're everything he wasn’t. Full of energy, constantly moving, and always finding new ways to make his life unnecessarily complicated. Like now.

“Come on, Nagi, aren’t you curious?” you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you leaned forward.

Nagi blinked at you, fighting the urge to yawn. “Not really.”

You huffed, but your grin didn’t falter. “Too bad. You asked me something yesterday, so it’s only fair I answer.”

He didn’t actually remember asking you anything, but he nodded anyway. That was easier than arguing.

You clasped your hands together dramatically. “Alright, my type is—” you paused for effect, waiting until you had his full attention. “A guy who’s hardworking, super ambitious, and always pushing himself to be better.”

Nagi’s brain short-circuited.

Hardworking? Ambitious? That was the complete opposite of him. You might as well have described Mikage Reo.

“...Huh,” was all he said, but internally, he was already lying face-down on the floor, mourning his non-existent love life.

You grinned, nudging his foot with yours under the table. “What? Surprised?”

“Not really.” He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth, chewing slower than necessary to mask his disappointment. He should’ve known. You we're always looking for excitement, for someone who would match your energy. Nagi, with his love for naps and bare-minimum effort, didn’t stand a chance.

You watched him, your lips twitching as if you were holding back laughter. “Nagi,” you said slowly, dragging out his name.

“Mm?”

“It was a prank.”

He froze mid-chew.

You snickered. “I just wanted to mess with you. Did you really believe that?”

Nagi swallowed his bread and stared at you. His brain was still rebooting.

You rested your chin on her palm, tilting your head slightly. “I don’t actually care about all that. If I like someone, I like them. Simple.”

Simple? Nothing about this was simple. His heart was beating annoyingly fast, and he was suddenly aware of how warm his face felt. He was too lazy to deal with emotions, especially confusing ones like this.

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

You laughed, and Nagi had to look away before you noticed the way his ears were turning red.

“Dummy,” you said fondly, and he felt like maybe—just maybe—falling in love with you wasn’t such a nightmare after all.

₊ ⊹𝐑𝐞𝐨 𝐌𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞 ⊹ ₊

Reo Mikage prided himself on being composed, confident, and always in control. At least, that’s what he liked to believe—until you came along and threw him off balance without even trying.

You weren't just any girl. You we're his best friend. The one person who could match his wit, challenge his patience, and somehow make his heart race with nothing more than a smile. Not that he’d ever tell her that.

No, Reo Mikage wasn’t about to risk their friendship over some dumb crush.

Except, today was testing him in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

“So, what’s your type?” you asked casually, twirling a strand of hair around your finger as you leaned forward on the table. It was an innocent enough question, one he could dodge if necessary. But before he could turn the conversation back on you, you smirked and added, “I’ll tell you mine first.”

Reo swallowed. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a terrible feeling about this.

“I like guys who are quiet and mysterious. You know, the brooding type. Kind of cold but secretly really soft when you get to know them,” you continued, tapping your chin in thought. “Oh! And he has to be a little clumsy, maybe even bad with money—”

Reo nearly choked on air. “What?”

You nodded as if completely serious. “Yeah! Like the kind of guy who forgets his wallet all the time or gets lost easily.”

He gawked at you. “That’s the opposite of me.”

“I know, right?” you sighed dramatically. “I guess it just can’t be helped.”

Reo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You had to be messing with him. Right? But what if you weren’t? What if you really liked someone who was the complete opposite of him? That was a problem. A big problem.

You took one look at his expression and burst into laughter. “Reo, I was kidding! You should’ve seen your face.”

His jaw tightened. “That wasn’t funny.”

“It was a little funny,” you teased, grinning up at him.

Reo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. He should have known. Of course you we're messing with him. But still, the relief that washed over him was embarrassingly strong.

“You’re such a pain,” he muttered, shaking his head.

You rested her chin on your palm, still smiling. “Why? You worried you didn’t fit my type?”

Reo scoffed, looking away so you wouldn’t see the light dusting of pink creeping onto his ears. “As if I care.”

You hummed, unconvinced. But for now, you let him pretend. Little did Reo know, you had her own little secret—one that involved him and your not-so-fake type after all.

˚ʚhad this on my draft for like weeks and haven't posted it. I'm currently making a Rin and Sae Itoshi one.ɞ˚

[sbcdh]

It is said by those of a mythopoeic hermeneutic that Sofia Xafa began writing Economics of the Unconscious in the shadow of the Parthenon.

One can picture a young and dolorous Xafa, wandering the streets of a postwar Athens, arms stuffed with books on Jungian psychology, Indian anthropology, and handwritten papers baring her frustrations to only herself. Perhaps she finds respite in the shadows of the ancient marble, and in that oasis of antique dark she finds serenity. One can imagine how the sunlight would filter through the weathered attic pillars and come to rest upon a blank page. A clearing in the idealogical woods upon which to build a home.

How can we blame Xafa? Disageeements aside, If the past decades proved anything to her, it was the weakness of democracy's grip on the reigns of history, and long term instabilité (to use her own terminology) of fascism. Her home lie in ruins. Trust in social institutions was routinely betrayed. One could not afford bread.

There is, I think, an empericality to capitalism that attracted Xafa. Not to imply an empirical truth per se, but the mathematics of trade provided to her a quantification to psychology. Yes. I think perhaps Xafa saw herself as a cartographer of the psyche, and the mathematics of gross domestic products and annuities were her compass and rule.

I think Xafa understood that this was a path she must not err from. Analysis of her drafts and unpublished manuscrips reveal a careful and circuitous avoidance of many implied issues with hypnoeconomic theory. She became increasingly frustrated with the ideas which metastisized from the attempted purity of her theories. There is no small amount of private chastisement of what she came to see as foolish and naive points from her earlier work.

By the end of her life she was plagued with a terminal disasstisfaction with Hypnoeconomics. She wrote of her own theories as vestigial, even disgusting. There was a yearning for capital-t Truth, a true and empirical bedrock of analytical tools with which to understand the world. Yet, she repeatedly found them inadequate, and she found that inadequacy disgusting. Her sleep was plagued with nightmares she would not describe.

[ogwintersmind]

Happy Birthday Katsuki.

Today is Katsuki's 22nd birthday and for once in your life you've finally managed to wake up before him. You've spent the entire morning decorating the kitchen with bunches of party decorations—streamers hanging from every corner, orange and black balloons bouncing on the floor and floating near the ceiling, and two big #2-shaped golden balloons in the middle of the kitchen island.

The counter is covered in a cozy spread: fluffy tamagoyaki, miso soup, pancakes and syrup, bacon, and a tiny stack of onigiri shaped like hearts (what a sap). In the center sits a lopsided cake with icing that definitely fought back, not wanting to be spread on the sweet bread you'd made from scratch— the lettering was smudged, layers uneven, but most importantly, tons of love was included.

Katsuki hears the ruckus coming from the kitchen. “The hell is this woman up to now..” he thinks to himself. When Katsuki enters the kitchen, his hair still messy from sleep, he freezes. His expression changes quite a few times— first surprise, then a rare quiet smile. He grumbles something to himself about “All this dman glitter on the floor..” but he can't stop the stupid smile that's plastered along his face as he stares at everything. Especially the cake. “Did you and the cake go to war or something? Looks like Denki made it when he short-circuited.” “oh f you.” you retaliate.

Despite all the teasing you endure the entire morning over the cake, Katsuki is so obviously grateful for the care and effort you put in to celebrate him. He pulls you into a tight hug. “You're a damn dork, but I love you. Thanks.” you look up at him and smile. “Happy Birthday, Katsuki.”

My glorious kings Birthday is today 🤩🥳 (this is a joke.. Gulp)

I hope u enjoyed reading! This is pretty short sorry I rlly have no motivation but wht kind of stan would I be if I didn't write a bday fic for my amazing Katsuki Bakugou?!

THANKS FOR READING!

Requests r open!

(to ANON who requested barbarian king kats I'm working on it my brain is Js very scrambled but its coming!!)

XO- winter 💥🍰

Dividers from: @/Saradika-graphics

[biggianteggplant]

I want to request something where hq boys sees s/o with their father carrying some heavy shit (as the oldest daughter who was treated as a boy I fucking need this honey BECAUSE IM TIRED FROM CARRYING SACKS OF RICE UP AND DOWN THE STAIRS) and like when s/o goes grocery shopping w them and offers to carry a lot they stop her and carry it for them plspslplspspsls swswsw pspspspsps meow.🐈‍⬛😺😻🙀🙀🐈🐈

"BACK OFF, SHE BENCHES TRAUMA."

BOKUTO KOUTARO

You don’t notice the way Bokuto goes dead silent beside you.

You’re too focused on lifting the 50-kg rice sack over your shoulder like it’s a light jacket. Your dad grunts beside you, adjusting the LPG tank he’s carrying, and the two of you march up the stairs like war veterans, bonded by joint pain and hard-earned quad muscles.

But Bokuto? He’s staring like he just witnessed a ghost. A buff ghost. A beautiful, terrifying, rice-carrying ghost.

“…Is that… a sack of rice?” he whispers.

You glance back, a bead of sweat running down your forehead. “Yeah. We need like two for the month.”

He just watches. Blinking. No words. Just pure, unfiltered panic.

His brain short-circuits like a fried toaster. Did you—were you about to carry TWO of those?! Were you doing this every month? Since when?? Since childhood??

You drop the rice in the kitchen like nothing happened and dust your hands off. “Want a snack?”

Bokuto says nothing. He just grabs his phone.

Later that day, you're at the grocery store, casually tossing canned goods into the cart when you reach for a watermelon.

BAD IDEA.

Before your fingers even graze the green surface, Bokuto throws himself across the cart like a bodyguard taking a bullet.

“DON’T TOUCH THAT, BABE.”

You blink. “It’s just fruit.”

He’s standing tall now, chest puffed out, fists on hips like a superhero.

“Your arms are for hugs. Not produce.”

You snort. “That’s dramatic.”

“SO IS YOUR LIFETIME OF BACK TRAUMA.”

You're laughing, until he snatches every bag at checkout like he’s collecting infinity stones. He’s got two on each finger, one in his mouth, three hanging off his neck like a weird meat necklace.

“Let me carry it all. My bones are designed for this.”

“But—”

“NO BUTS. You’ve done enough. You’ve carried too much. Rice sacks. Sibling trauma. Probably unresolved childhood issues. NOT. TODAY.”

At this point, everyone at the grocery is watching you two like it's a live telenovela. You offer to carry just the bread, and Bokuto spins around with the betrayal of a Shakesperean lead.

“No. No. Put it down.” A pause. Softly. “Let me spoil you. For once.”

You put the bread down.

You put down the bread and maybe some baggage you didn’t know you were holding too.

Back at home, you open your bag and find a plush toy inside. A tiny smiley-faced rice sack with blushing cheeks. A gift receipt from a toy store.

There’s a sticky note stuck on it:

“This is the only rice you’re allowed to carry from now on. I love you. – Kou 🖤”

You hug it. You sit on your bed. And you cry a little.

Because for the first time in forever, someone looked at the strong eldest daughter and said, “Let me carry you.”

MIYA ATSUMU

Atsumu thought it was cute at first.

You were walking through the market with your dad—calm, cheerful, chatting about dinner like everything was normal. You’d just picked out some vegetables and waved at an old lady who complimented your hair.

And then you bent down.

And swung a 25-kilo sack of potatoes over your shoulder like it was a scarf.

Atsumu froze. His brain short-circuited.

“BABE?!?” You turned, confused. “WHAT THE HELL?! WHY ARE YOU BUILT LIKE A SHŌNEN PROTAGONIST?!”

You blink. “What, this? It’s just potatoes.”

“JUST?!”

You didn’t know it then, but that was your last time carrying anything ever again.

Next week, you’re grocery shopping together.

You reach for a pack of bottled water and hear the sound of screeching sneakers behind you.

“Don’t. Touch. That.”

You turn and find Atsumu standing there, eyes wide like you just pulled a sword out of your chest. He slowly pries the bottles from your hands like you're defusing a bomb.

“Princess rights,” he says firmly.

“Princess rights?”

“Yeah. You're royalty. Your arms are for being held, not hauling groceries like a tired salaryman.”

You laugh, but he’s already stuffing everything into his arms like a squirrel in winter mode. He’s got five bags dangling from each wrist and a box of eggs clenched between his elbow and torso.

He grins through it all. “Look at me go. Pack mule boyfriend mode: activated.”

That night, you pass by the hallway and hear him on the phone with Osamu.

You stop. You weren’t eavesdropping… exactly. But his voice is soft. Serious.

“…She’s always carrying heavy crap around. Groceries, furniture—probably the weight of the world too, if no one’s lookin’. I just want her to feel soft for once, y’know? Not like she has to prove she’s strong all the damn time.”

You pause. Then quietly walk away before he notices.

When you get home the next day, there’s a heating pad and a neatly folded blanket on your bed. A note’s tucked underneath:

"For your back. Just in case. (But honestly, I got it now.) Love, Your Official Grocery Bearer – Atsumu 🐻"

You smile. You press your face into the blanket. Your spine sighs in relief.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone didn’t just admire your strength— they protected your softness, too.

KUROO TETSURO

Kuroo’s seen a lot in his life.

He’s seen Nekoma fight tooth and nail through tournaments. He’s seen Kenma carry a match on pure spite and Monster energy. He’s even seen Lev try to flirt.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for seeing you, his girlfriend, helping your dad load a full gas tank onto a flatbed truck like it was light furniture.

He was just arriving at your place, bag of snacks in hand, waving like an idiot.

And then there you were—gripping that heavy metal cylinder, lifting with your legs like a pro, exchanging casual small talk with your dad as if your spine weren’t actively doing miracles.

Kuroo stared. Stunned. Silent.

“…Is she dating me or is she part-time Hercules?”

You waved cheerfully. “Hey babe!”

He didn’t respond. He was still trying to process whether he was turned on, impressed, or experiencing a full-blown masculinity crisis.

A few days later, you’re grocery shopping together.

He’s being annoying—walking like a crab, poking you with baguettes, whispering “romantic” things like “If we ever got married, I’d let you name the rice cooker.”

Then, as you're reaching down to grab a heavy basket, he suddenly wraps both arms around your waist from behind.

His voice is low, deadly serious, right next to your ear:

“Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

You freeze. “What?”

“I’ve got you,” he says. “That includes the onions.”

You try to protest, but he's already scooping up everything—grocery bags, bottled water, your dignity—and marching toward the register like the overdramatic mafia husband he is.

At the car, he opens the door for you and tucks the seatbelt across your lap like you’re made of porcelain.

You stare at him, half-offended, half-melting.

“Kuroo, I’m fine. You know I can carry—”

“I know.” He looks at you with a crooked, unreadable smile. “But strong girls need softness too.”

Your brain short-circuits.

You don’t know it, but that night, Kuroo lies in bed scrolling through massage gun reviews, heating pads, and ergonomic chair prices.

Because if you’re going to keep carrying the weight of the world— he’s going to make sure you at least sit on a damn throne while doing it.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

To be fair, Tsukishima always knew you were strong.

Not just the “carrying groceries” kind of strong, but the “eldest daughter who’s been handling adult-level responsibilities since she was ten” kind. The kind of strong that makes him feel like you could survive a zombie apocalypse with a rice cooker and a glare.

Still, nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw one random Sunday.

You were helping your dad reorganize the garage, casual as ever, lifting a sealed box of ceramic dishes like it was full of pillows.

You didn’t grunt. You didn’t even flinch.

Tsukishima blinked.

“Are you… planning to carry the entire kitchen next?” You shrugged, wiping your hands on your jeans. “If I have to.”

He stared at you like you just said you bench press vending machines for fun. “…Okay, The Rock.”

You laughed. He didn’t.

Fast forward to the grocery store.

You’re walking side by side, just finished paying, when you reach out for a bag of vegetables.

Before your fingers even graze the handle, Tsukishima leans over and snatches it with a blank expression.

“Put that down before you make me look useless.”

You raise a brow. “I didn’t realize your pride was so fragile.”

He hands you a single loaf of bread. “Here. This is your limit. One (1) squishy carb.”

You roll your eyes, but secretly, your heart does a little somersault.

The next day, he shows up at your place with a rectangular box.

You open it.

It’s a heated back massager—the good kind. Adjustable straps. Three speed levels. Fancy.

You raise an eyebrow. “...Is this for me?”

He shrugs. “They were on sale. I accidentally bought two.”

You peek inside the bag. There’s only one.

“…You bought this for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Tsukki.”

He adjusts his glasses and looks at literally everything except your face. “It’s just... your back probably hurts. From all that ‘kitchen lifting.’ Or whatever.”

You smile. Quiet. Warm.

Because he’ll never say it directly. But every sarcastic comment is just another way he’s saying: “You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You were just carrying a sack of cat food. That’s it. A harmless, 10-kilo bag.

But to Iwaizumi Hajime?

It might as well have been a cry for help.

He practically materialized next to you like he teleported from the kitchen.

“Hey. No. Stop. Drop it.”

You blinked. “haji, it’s just cat foo—”

“Drop it.”

Your hand stuttered. Your brain did too. He looked so serious. Like you were about to walk into a battlefield instead of refill a litter bin.

You tried again. “But I always help my dad carry the—”

“You’re not with your dad now,” he said, voice firm. “You’re with me.”

Oh. Oh.

You stood there, confused and slightly offended by how fast he swiped the bag from your hands—like your strength was a temporary loan and he was calling in the interest.

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“You’ve done enough,” he muttered. “Let me carry you for a change.”

Cue system error. Brain.exe has stopped working.

Next weekend, you both go grocery shopping.

You instinctively reach for a shopping bag.

Mistake.

Before you can even touch the plastic handle, he’s already juggling every single bag in both arms like a domestic demigod.

He’s holding a pineapple, six cans of tuna, a whole sack of rice and toilet paper, and still manages to open the car door for you—with his elbow.

“Sit. I got this.”

You try to argue.

He gives you The Look.

The “eldest daughters don’t argue, they rest” look. The “you’ve been strong for everyone else, now let me be strong for you” look.

So you sit.

And you hold his pinky as he drives you home one-handed.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like you have to be the strong one.

Just this once, you get to feel small. Safe. Loved.

And Iwaizumi?

He never lets you carry another bag again.

MIYA OSAMU

He catches you outside, casually lugging a 25-kilo sack of flour onto your shoulder like you’re reenacting a scene from Attack on Titan.

For a second, he thinks maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe you’re just carrying... really, really dense pillows.

But no.

That is food-grade flour. On your back. For your dad. And you’re not even breaking a sweat.

“Babe,” he says, stunned into full accent. “What in the hell kind of post-apocalyptic prep are ya doin’ out here?”

You just shrug. “Dad needed it for tomorrow. He asked me to grab it from the truck.”

He squints at you. Then at the sack. Then back at you.

“Ya know, ‘Samu Rice’ sounds good for my shop,” he mutters, walking over to relieve you of the burden, “but not when it’s on my girl’s back.”

Before you can protest, he tucks a warm rice ball into your hand like a bribe. No seaweed wrapper. Your favorite filling.

“Here. You carry the childhood trauma, I carry the bags. Deal?”

You choke on a laugh.

Grocery store, next week:

You try to be helpful. Just a little. You reach for a box of snacks.

“Oi. What did we say?” he calls from behind the cart, half-buried under twelve bags of groceries, including the family-size soy sauce and your mom’s laundry detergent.

You roll your eyes. “You said I carry the trauma.”

“Exactly. Now point to what you want and let me cook, princess.”

You do. You point to everything. The ice cream. The chips. That one weird Japanese candy that comes with a tiny plastic spoon. He grabs it all.

He walks. He shops. He packs. He pays. You? You hold the receipt and vibe.

At home:

You barely make it through the door before he’s motioning you to sit on the couch like a grandma.

Then he sneaks behind you and starts rubbing your shoulders like he’s kneading dough, muttering:

“Lemme unburden that spine you’ve been carryin’ your whole family with.”

You go limp. Like actually go noodle-mode.

And for the first time in years, your body isn’t screaming at you to do more.

Because Osamu? He already did it. Quietly. Lovingly. With soy sauce in one hand and your favorite snack in the other.

KYOTANI KENTARO

He doesn’t even blink when he pulls up to your house and sees you carrying a literal car tire like it’s your personal handbag.

You’re in a t-shirt. Ponytail swinging. Just casually hauling the damn thing from the garage to the driveway like you’re a pit crew in a one-woman F1 team.

Kyotani’s in the passenger seat, sipping canned coffee. He stops mid-sip. Puts it down slowly.

“…What the actual fu—” "OH, HEY, BAAABE!" You yell with a wave, tire still in hand. "CAN YOU HELP MY DAD JACK UP THE CAR?"

Your dad’s in the background waving a wrench like a torch of masculinity. Kyotani just stares at the sky like he’s asking God for strength.

Later, in the car:

You try to pick up the grocery bags from the backseat.

You don’t even get your pinky through the handle before he growls, “Don’t.”

You blink. “What?”

“Put the tire down, babe,” he says dead serious, eyes locked on you. “Metaphorically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Whatever. Just—don’t carry shit like that around me again.”

You snort. “You mean the groceries?”

“I mean everything. Groceries. Tools. Your whole childhood. You’re with me now. I carry the damn bags.”

Then he slams the trunk shut and lifts literally everything like a one-man U-Haul service. Arms full. Veins out. Still manages to hold your drink between his teeth.

At home:

You go to fold laundry. He yanks the basket from your hands like it insulted his ancestors.

“Sit down. Watch TV. Or something.”

You sit, flustered. He starts folding your favorite hoodie like he’s handling museum glass.

And later, while you're chilling with snacks, he flops next to you and mutters under his breath,

“Can’t believe you lifted a fuckin’ tire…”

You: “You fell in love with me that day, didn’t you.”

He blushes. Hard. Grunts. Says nothing. But pulls you into his side with a quiet, “Yeah. Whatever.”

KITA SHINSUKE

The early sun is barely peeking over the rooftops when you come stomping up the hill, lugging a 50-kg sack of rice on your back like some kind of family-debt-carrying demigod. Your dad’s walking beside you, laughing like it’s normal. Because it is. You’ve done this since you were twelve.

What you don’t expect is to see Kita Shinsuke waiting at the gate, holding a basket of eggs and looking like the human embodiment of a calm breeze—until he sees you.

His entire body tenses. His grip tightens. “…Is that rice?”

You nod. “Yeah, we were running low, so I—”

“Why are you carrying it?”

You shrug. “I always carry the sacks.”

Kita stares. Not at the sack, but at you. Like he’s solving a puzzle, or maybe rewriting the Constitution in his head. Then he walks up, lips in a firm line, and gently but firmly takes the sack off your back like you’re handing him a sacred relic.

“You’re not carrying that. Not while I’m here.”

You blink. “But—”

“Nope.” He lifts it onto his shoulder with a calm strength that shouldn't be as attractive as it is and starts walking toward the storage. “You’ve done enough. You’ve always done enough.”

You just stand there, flustered, a little empty-handed, a little warm.

Later that day, you try to sneak the laundry basket to the washroom and he catches you in the act.

“Didn’t I say no lifting?”

“It’s just clothes—”

“Nope. Off limits. I’m serious.” Then he walks up and gently grabs the basket with one hand—and your face with the other. “I’m here to make sure those strong hands finally get to rest.”

You stare at him, heart thumping. He kisses your forehead like a promise, then says:

“You carry your family. Let me carry you.”

And he does.

Groceries? His. Sacks of rice? His. Your emotional baggage? “Hand it over, babe.”

Bonus: He quietly replaces your back pillow with a heated massager. When you confront him, he just mumbles, “Saw it on sale. Your spine deserves luxury.”

And maybe, just maybe, when you fall asleep on his chest one day, worn out from years of being the strong one, you hear him whisper:

“You don’t have to be the pillar all the time. I’ve got you now.”

Yeah, you're doomed. In the sweetest way possible.

(Oml I was tearing up while writing this because as a fellow eldest daughter who’s been hauling car tires and grocery bags bigger than my hopes since I was 13—this hit HARD.)

[hummingbird24220]

Hello hello ^^ if it’s alright, could I request a scenario where reader gets a nosebleed in response to something Sanji does, I think it’d be cute or funny to have him be on the receiving end of it

(Also I rlly love the way you write the straw hats ^^<3)

hehehehe yes, my leggy boy deserves to be simped for in return.

Enjoy!

Crush à la Carte

Sanji x Reader

The galley smelled like heaven — butter sizzling, garlic browning, the faint, toasty undertone of fresh bread in the oven. But none of that compared to him.

Sanji was plating lunch like a magazine cover model had decided to try food styling as a hobby. Shirt sleeves rolled up just past his elbows, tie loosened just a little, blonde hair falling lazily over one eye, cigarette bobbing at the corner of his lips like he didn’t have a care in the world.

You were mid-sentence with Usopp, giggling about something dumb he’d said — when your brain glitched. All focus dropped out of your ears and straight into the black hole of your dumb little crush. And then Sanji did the thing.

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and smiled. Not the wild-eyed, hearts-for-eyes “mademoiselle~!!” routine he usually pulled. No. This was soft, warm. Lazy, like a sunbeam. It hit your soul like a truck.

You short-circuited.

Blood. Nose. Everywhere.

“GAH—!” you gasped, slapping your hands over your face and practically knocking your stool over as you scrambled backward.

“Y/N?!” Sanji turned, alarmed. “Are you okay?!”

“Nope! Fine! Everything’s cool!” you called out in a high-pitched squeak, already spinning on your heel and sprinting out of the galley like it was on fire. “NOSE JUST DECIDED TO DO A THING, DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!”

You could feel his footsteps behind you. That man was fast when worried.

“Wait—! Did you get hurt?! Did something hit you?!”

Yeah, your face hit the full force of his raw, untamed attractiveness.

You dove behind a stack of folded deck chairs on the upper deck, holding your face with both hands, praying your nose would stop bleeding before he found you.

Footsteps slowed nearby. His voice dropped, gentle.

“…Y/N?”

You stopped breathing.

He sounded worried.

But also kind of… guilty?

“Did I say something wrong…?”

Oh no. Oh no no no. Now you felt bad and nosebleedy.

Sanji’s shoes scuffed gently against the wooden deck as he stopped, peering behind the stack of deck chairs. You could see the tip of his cigarette curl a little trail of smoke into the sky. He was about to call your name again.

No time for pride. Only time for damage control.

You popped up like a Meowbanese jack-in-the-box — nose clearly stuffed with two balled-up tissues, hands awkwardly behind your back like that somehow helped your case.

“What? Huh? Oh—just, uh… dropped my… dignity!” You flashed him two thumbs up and the most painfully forced grin imaginable. “Haha! Carry on, Chef Extraordinaire!”

And then you bolted again, tissues fluttering as you turned the corner, slipping through the door like a ninja with no stealth and way too much panic.

Back in the galley, Sanji blinked after you. He looked around, slowly, like maybe someone else had seen what just happened. Nope. Just him. He gave a small exhale, scratched his head, and muttered:

“…Dropped their dignity, huh?”

Shrugging, he went back to delicately arranging garnish like nothing was weird at all. King of cool. Unbothered. Focused on the mission: make this meal perfect.

-

You returned a few minutes later, face scrubbed, tissues trashed, and nose only slightly red — though your pride had taken a direct hit and was bleeding out somewhere in the hallway.

Sliding into your seat as if nothing had happened, you folded your hands neatly on the table and tried to appear so normal. Calm. Collected. A person who definitely didn’t spontaneously bleed from the face over a pretty boy’s casual charm.

Sanji turned and gave you a polite little smile, setting a plate in front of you like usual.

“You’re back. Hope you’re feeling better.”

You nodded. “Much, thank you. Totally fine. Very healthy. Normal blood pressure and everything.”

Usopp, across from you, was barely holding it together.

“Dropped my dignity,” he mouthed at you, shoulders shaking.

You kicked him under the table.

He giggled louder.

You tried. Oh, you tried.

You sat at the table like a model of composure, hands folded, nose clean, staring at your food like you were very invested in the marbling of the grilled fish and not, in fact, in the man who was currently adjusting his tie just out of reach — sleeves still rolled, wrist veins on full display, looking like a romantic tragedy in a magazine spread.

Your blood pressure? Through the roof. Your dignity? Still MIA. Your brain? Scrambled eggs.

Usopp, of course, was living.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked with a smirk. “Not gonna, you know, explode again? Should I move my plate this time? Maybe wear goggles?”

You shot him a death glare. He winked. Bitch.

Chopper scurried up with his thermometer, concern in his giant sparkling eyes. “You do look a little flushed. Do you have a fever?! You did bleed earlier, it could be a sign of internal—”

“I’m fine, Chopper,” you said too quickly, waving him off with the limp enthusiasm of someone in a full-body crisis. “Just got… caught off guard. My body was like ‘hey let’s spontaneously combust’ and I said sure.”

Robin, sipping tea like the queen of ice she is, looked at you over the rim of her cup.

“Sanji flustered them,” she said simply, like she was narrating a documentary. “It’s love.”

SILENCE.

Everyone froze.

Your eye twitched.

Sanji turned from the counter slowly, like a cat who just heard the can opener.

“…What was that, Robin-chwan?” he asked, blinking, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Robin just sipped her tea again. “Nothing at all.”

But the damage was done.

Sanji walked over, that gleam in his eye, like a hunter spotting prey that wants to be caught.

You backed your chair up one inch. He took two steps closer.

And then — smoothly, without fanfare — he reached down, took your hand gently in his, and with the grace of a prince at a ballroom, kissed the back of it.

Your brain blue-screened.

The room was dead quiet.

He grinned up at you, eyelashes stupidly long. “For your speedy recovery, mon chéri~.”

You stared at him. Blinked once.

Geyser.

Zoro, without looking, leaned back in his chair and lifted his food just in time as the fountain of nosebleed erupted from your face like a broken fire hydrant. Everyone flinched as it rained down like a cursed blessing from the gods.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even make a sound.

You just tipped backward out of your chair and hit the floor with a soft thud, one twitching leg still propped on the seat.

“Daaaaamn,” Usopp whispered, poking at your twitching hand. “She’s not gonna make it,” Franky muttered. “She’ll be fine,” Robin said, placid as ever. “…Should I kiss her again?” Sanji asked.

Chopper panicked. “NO.”

-

Your consciousness returned in a wave of lavender-scented horror.

You were on the floor, Chopper gently patting your cheek with his tiny hoof, concern etched across his fuzzy face. “Come on, come on, wake up! I gave you a cotton pad and everything!”

Something burned in your nose. A sharp sting. You jolted upright with a gasp.

“I’M FINE.”

The room stared.

You blinked, pupils dilated like a startled raccoon, hair stuck to your forehead, shirt absolutely soaked in your own blood. Chopper held up a small bottle of smelling salts with an apologetic expression.

“…Okay, not the ideal wake-up scent,” you muttered, dabbing your nose with what pride you had left.

“Y/N,” Sanji started, voice smooth as buttercream, “you didn’t have to faint over me—”

“Shut up, Sanji.”

Usopp snorted.

You pointed a warning finger without looking up. “You too. Shut. Up.”

You kept your eyes locked on the floorboards. Not on Sanji’s stupid, beautiful face. Not on Usopp, who was probably pantomiming geysers behind your back. Not on anyone. Your soul was already halfway out the window. You weren’t gonna risk the rest of it with another glance.

You took the plate Sanji had gently set beside you, now cooled slightly, and just… ate. In silence. Like a haunted Victorian ghost girl. One elbow on the table, spoon shaking slightly. You were fine. This was fine.

Meanwhile, Sanji had gone oddly quiet himself. Not in embarrassment. Not in smugness. Just… quiet.

His eyes softened, watching you out of the corner of his eye as he cleaned up your mess with a towel and a fond little smile tugging at his lips.

“She reacts like that to me, huh…”

He said it under his breath. Genuinely flattered. Like someone who’d just been told a puppy fainted from excitement at seeing them.

And while you definitely heard it, you didn’t acknowledge it. You just shoved more rice in your mouth and gave the table a threatening side-eye.

-

The room was starting to settle again. Forks clinked against plates, Chopper finally relaxed, and you were almost — almost — convincing yourself that no one was ever going to bring it up again.

And then, Luffy — sweet, innocent, chaos-in-human-form Luffy — glanced up from his food mountain, pointed at you with a grin, and said:

“Hey, Y/N! Your shirt matches mine now!”

You looked down. Blood. Blood everywhere. Your once-nice, light-colored shirt looked like it had been used as a prop in a horror movie.

Luffy grinned, proudly tugging at his own red vest. “Twinsies!”

Your head turned very slowly toward him.

“Luffy.”

He blinked at you, still chewing. “Yeah?”

“I’m going to curse your children’s children.”

There was a beat of silence before Usopp howled laughing, nearly choking on a fishbone. Chopper gasped. Robin covered her mouth in amusement. Zoro wheezed into his drink.

Luffy blinked. “Huh. Can you do that?”

You shoved more food in your mouth with dead eyes. “Watch me.”

Sanji coughed behind one hand to hide his chuckle, but you could still see the way his shoulders shook — and that warm, flattered little smile hadn’t left his face since the geyser incident.

He looked at you again. “If you want, I could get you a new shirt. Preferably not red.”

You didn’t look up.

“Preferably made of Kevlar,” you muttered.

[highprettybabyy]

Seeing Red

Part 8 - Breaking Bread

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: Y/N recovers from her injuries

warnings: enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, maybe angst... some fluff...

AN: i love domestic fluff

word count: 3k

Part 7

—//—

(Jenna's POV)

Y/N hadn’t moved in hours.

Not since you stitched her up, hands shaking, blood caked in your fingernails. Not since her body had gone terrifyingly still. You’d cried into your knuckles until your ribs ached, until the nausea passed, until the only thing you had left was focus.

Now… all you had was waiting.

You sat on the edge of the coffee table with your elbows on your knees, rifle across your lap. Every few minutes, you stood. Paced to the window. Checked the barricade. Looked through the cracks in the boards. There was nothing out there. Nothing. You still checked.

Y/N had said this place was clear. She’d said she cleared it out herself. But how could it be? She was attacked just five minutes from here. Five minutes. You couldn’t stop replaying it - the way she collapsed, the sound she made, the blood. God, the blood.

Your chest felt like it might cave in.

You leaned over her again. Checked her pulse. Still there. Still steady. Her face was flushed but calm, lashes twitching slightly as she breathed. She didn’t look like she was in pain.

That helped. A little.

You sat back down. Ran a hand over your face. Then, without really thinking, you reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead.

It was softer than you expected. Tacky with sweat.

She didn’t stir.

You let out a breath.

Okay. Okay. She was okay. You could breathe. You could-

You needed to move.

You stood up and started wandering. Quietly. Careful not to step on anything too loud. You didn’t know what you were looking for. Just needed to do something.

The house was a strange mix of fortress and memory. There were barricades, yes - but there were also photos on the walls. Drawings on the fridge. A little ceramic owl on the bookcase by the stairs.

It was her home.

And she’d kept it standing.

You found a stack of notes in the dining room. Maps, lists, inventory logs. Dozens of watches in a plastic container marked “SYNCHRONISED.” A line of entries detailed times, alarms, and distances. Another page showed rough sketches of what looked like a toy car circuit.

You stared.

No wonder the streets had been so quiet.

She’d used the watches. Set the alarms. Mounted them to something that could move. Lured the zombies away on purpose.

You felt your chest rise, then fall.

She hadn’t just been surviving. She’d been planning.

Somehow it felt safer.

Years of disagreeing on stupid topics and petty arguments should've made it feel like the opposite- but it didn't.

You moved through to the kitchen. Checked the cupboards. A decent stash of canned goods, some dried fruit, a university student appropriate amount of instant noodles. You peeked into the fridge - and actually smiled when you found a covered pan of what looked like stir fry. Cold. Slightly wilted. But edible.

You hesitated.

Then you ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Every bite tasting like something sacred. You were sure she wouldn’t mind. Probably.

Outside, the sun was dipping lower. You headed into the backyard through the kitchen door and stared at the rain collector. It was rudimentary - a couple of tarps strung over poles, funnelling into a barrel - but it worked. There was plenty enough water inside to wash with.

You found a pot and took it outside to fill. Found a clean rag. Set the pot on the stove, pressed the button to turn it on. It turned on.

You clapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from cheering.

You boiled the water to sterilise it, then let it cool until it was barely warm. Dipped the cloth in, wrung it out carefully, and returned to the couch.

You cleaned her wounds one by one. Silent. Focused. Trying not to breathe too loudly.

When her face twitched in her sleep, you gentled your hand immediately. Soothing in strokes. Whispering nothings like she could hear you- except, you'd probably not say anything if she was awake.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. Just a little longer.”

The cuts across her shoulder. The gash near her ribs. The bruises blooming over her thigh. You did what you could. Bandaged. Re-bandaged. Checked for infection. No heat. No smell. Not yet.

You wiped her face last.

Her lips were dry. Skin pale.

But she looked… peaceful.

God, she was beautiful.

You shook that thought away. You’d already let too many things slip.

You dragged two blankets and a stack of pillows off the nearby armchair and set up on the floor beside her. Laid your Glock within reach. Turned your body toward hers.

And for the first time in a long, long while-

You slept.

Not with one eye open. Not with your hand on a trigger. Just… slept.

-

(Y/N's POV)

You woke to pain.

Sharp, raw, bone-deep pain that throbbed behind your ribs and across your temple. You groaned before your eyes even opened, the sound dry and broken in your throat.

Everything hurt. Your head, your gut, your chest. You could barely move. Something was wrapped tight around your midsection. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic. And something else - something warm.

Blankets.

You blinked your eyes open and tried to sit up.

Bad idea.

You gasped through gritted teeth, muscles spasming in your stomach. Stars danced across your vision. You slumped back with a strangled whimper, forehead damp with sweat.

Then-

“Don’t move.”

A voice. Right above you. Steady. Firm. Familiar.

You turned your head slightly and saw her.

Jenna.

She was kneeling beside you on the floor, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled. Her eyes were wide - too wide - and her jaw was clenched so tightly it made your own teeth ache.

She looked like she hadn’t breathed in hours.

“Wha…” You licked your lips. Your voice was barely there.

She reached out - slowly - and placed two fingers against your wrist.

Checking your pulse.

Her eyes searched yours like she was looking for something behind them. Then her lips parted, and she asked:

“What was the name of that professor we had for public speaking?”

You blinked.

“What…?”

“Just answer the question.” Her voice cracked slightly, like she was holding something back.

You frowned. Memory was fuzzy, but not that fuzzy. “Uh… Dr. Vesnik. The one who looked like a wax candle and spat when he talked.”

A pause.

Jenna exhaled hard and sat back on her heels.

“Thank fuck,” she whispered.

You stared at her.

Then it hit you.

The question. The way she was watching you. The fear in her posture.

“Oh my God,” you rasped. “You thought I was-”

“You passed out,” she snapped, voice wobbling. “You stopped breathing for a second. You were bleeding everywhere. You-” She broke off. Rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth. “I didn’t know if you were gonna wake up.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain. Not exactly.

“Jenna-”

“No, don’t,” she said quickly. “Don’t do the thing where you pretend it doesn’t matter. It does.”

You swallowed.

The silence between you buzzed like static.

You shifted slightly, trying not to cry out as the pain lanced through your abdomen again.

She noticed. Of course she did.

“Here,” she murmured, moving closer. “Let me help.”

She adjusted the blanket around you, slipping a pillow under your shoulder. Her touch was careful, featherlight. Like she thought you’d shatter if she was too rough.

“I cleaned your wounds,” she said quietly. “Boiled water from the collector. Changed the bandages.”

You looked at her, blinking slow.

“You stayed.”

She shrugged, but the motion was stiff. “You would’ve died otherwise.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You stayed.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

You stared at her for a long time.

“You didn’t have to.”

Her eyes darted away.

“Maybe I wanted to.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

You weren’t sure what to say. Neither was she.

So instead, you reached for her hand - slow, tentative - and rested your fingers over hers.

She didn’t pull away this time.

-

The days passed in pieces.

Pain first. Then sleep. Then the hazy in-between, where time was soup and your body was glass. It was a blur of soft footsteps, rustling blankets, quiet humming, and the faint click of your front door locking and unlocking as Jenna came and went.

She never stayed gone long.

Sometimes you woke to her checking your bandages or replacing the damp cloth against your forehead. Other times you heard her muttering to herself while sweeping broken glass from the hallway, or rearranging the canned goods in the pantry like she needed them to be just right.

She was always doing something. Restless. Efficient. Calm on the outside.

You weren’t fooled.

On the third day, you finally managed to sit up on your own.

The movement made your side scream, and your ankle was still swollen and bruised. But you didn’t black out. That counted as a win. You hobbled slowly from the couch to the window, leaning your weight on the walls, and pulled back the curtain to peek outside.

Empty streets. Motionless trees. No snarls. No groans. Still safe.

She came back five minutes later, arms full of laundry from the upstairs bedrooms.

“You’re up,” she said, somewhere between surprise and scolding.

You gave her a tired smile. “Only took me three days.”

She didn’t smile back. Not yet. But she did set the laundry down and walk to your side.

“You should’ve called me,” she murmured, checking your stitches. “What if you ripped something?”

You shrugged, biting back a wince. “Then you’d get to sew me back up again. Your favourite.”

That earned you a very small, very reluctant eye roll.

You counted that as another win.

-

By the fourth day, you were able to walk the full length of the hallway and back. Jenna hovered like a mother hen. You made fun of her for it. She threatened to tie you to the couch.

Somehow, it worked.

When the pain dulled enough for longer conversation, you sat at the dining table with a heating pad against your ribs and let her talk you through gun handling. She broke down every part of her rifle, named each piece like she’d known them all her life. You’d held weapons before. You weren’t a stranger to fighting. But watching her talk about the tools that kept her alive - the reverence, the calm precision - it felt like seeing something sacred.

Later, you taught her how you’d lured away the zombies. Explained the watches, the race car, the alarm syncing. She asked questions. Smart ones. Took notes in your scavenged journal. She got it right away.

It was strange. How easily you fit. Like puzzle pieces that had spent years jammed into the wrong box.

She didn’t joke as much as she used to. But when she did - when she let it slip - it was quiet and sincere. And when she smiled, it reached her eyes now.

You caught yourself watching her too long more than once.

-

It was near sunset when it happened.

You were trying to fix the rain tarp outside - badly, slowly, but trying - and Jenna was sitting on the porch steps, fiddling with a knot of rope and listening to your instructions.

“Maybe I am a burden,” you said suddenly, wincing as you shifted your leg. “You haven’t said it, but I know what it looks like.”

Jenna looked up at you, eyes sharp. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not trying to guilt trip you. I just…” You shook your head. “You didn’t sign up for this. For me.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I didn’t.”

Your heart sank a little before she continued.

“But I’m here anyway. You didn’t sign up for me either.”

You met her gaze. It was steady. Grounding.

“I don’t think you’re a burden,” she said, voice softer now. “And even if I did - I think I’d still be here.”

You didn’t know what to say.

She took a breath. Looked down at the rope again.

“I never hated you, you know.”

You blinked. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I know. I wanted you to think that.” She gave a half-smile, but it didn’t last. “You were the only person who could actually keep up with me. In class. In debates. Hell, even at parties. Everyone else just… fell in line. Not you.”

“I thought you were just trying to crush me,” you murmured.

“I was. But not the way you think.”

You stared at her.

She glanced up again, and this time her voice dropped.

“When I found you in that mall... I thought it was a dream. I thought I was losing it. I’d been alone so long. After what happened with my family… I didn’t think I’d ever feel okay again. But then you were there. Bloody. Snarky. Breathing.”

She paused. Her voice caught a little.

“I don’t know if I could’ve kept going if I hadn’t found you.”

You felt something deep and fragile in your chest begin to ache.

“Jenna…”

She stood quickly, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Anyway. That’s all I’m saying. Come inside before you pass out again.”

But her ears were pink.

And when you brushed past her on your way back in - just barely - her hand steadied your arm.

She didn’t let go right away.

-

By day five, the pain had faded to a dull hum, still loud enough to slow you, but no longer the tyrant it had been. You could move around the kitchen now, cautiously, hands bracing countertops, hips bumping drawers as you navigated the space like someone relearning their own home. You hadn’t realised how much you missed just… moving. Doing.

Jenna had claimed a corner of the kitchen table as her “tactical HQ.” A map of the area sat there now, covered in scribbles and markings that made sense to no one but her. Beside it: an old rag she used to polish her weapons, your lighter, and a pack of gum she insisted tasted like cardboard but kept chewing anyway.

It was weirdly domestic. The way she moved through your space without breaking it. The way you’d started finishing each other’s thoughts without trying.

That morning, you caught her staring out the living room window, arms crossed, lips slightly parted. You didn’t speak. You just passed her a cup of coffee - not great, but warm - and she took it without looking, murmuring a quiet “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask what she was thinking.

She didn’t offer.

But she sat closer after that.

-

By the afternoon, you were itching for something to do. So, bread.

Jenna, for all her stoicism, was surprisingly eager when you offered to teach her.

“You just want me to get flour in my hair,” she muttered, tying your old apron around her waist.

“I want you to do something stupid with your hands for once,” you said. “Let go of being hyper-competent.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Flirting’s gotten weird since the world ended.”

You smirked. “You wish.”

The dough was sticky. Jenna kneaded like she was trying to kill it. Flour exploded across the counter.

“God, it’s like a crime scene,” you wheezed, laughing despite yourself - which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Pain shot through your ribs. You doubled over slightly, clutching your side, still laughing.

Jenna panicked. “Shit, shit-are you okay?”

You nodded, wheezing. “No- yes- I think- I think I’m dying of laughter.”

She groaned, but you caught the ghost of a smile before she turned away to find a cloth to wipe her hands. The bread ended up dense and dry.

You cut it anyway, slathered it in whatever preserved butter you had, and ate it like royalty.

It was perfect.

-

That night, while Jenna cleaned up, you made a plan.

You weren’t the kind of person who owed people things. Not like this. But she’d been there for you - really there - when you’d barely had the strength to breathe. And you’d promised her a warm meal, didn’t you?

You waited until she disappeared upstairs to check the traps on the window screens. Then you moved fast.

You pulled a thick cut of ribeye from the bottom drawer of the freezer earlier - one you’d hidden behind bags of frozen berries and forgotten veggie mix. You’d tucked it there days ago, when you first started planning this.

Now, it had thawed perfectly in the makeshift basin near the radiator.

You seasoned it simply - salt, pepper, a little oil - and pan-seared it until it hissed golden on both sides and tender . Avocado came next, mashed with salt and cracked red pepper, spread over toasted slices of bread.

Hashbrowns crisped in another pan. Coffee brewed low and slow in the French press. You moved on muscle memory alone, hands steady, heart oddly light. Ankle - aching.

By the time she came downstairs, everything was plated. Two mismatched forks. Two mugs of fresh coffee. The table cleared of maps and weapons. Just food. Warm, real, and waiting.

You heard her feet on the stairs before her voice floated in-

“Okay, so I’ve been smelling something for the past twenty minutes and I didn’t know if I was hallucinating or if you’d actually poisoned me in my sleep-"

She rounded the corner and froze.

You turned, already grinning.

She gasped. “No fucking way. Y/N.”

You said nothing. Just gestured to the table.

She covered her mouth with one hand. “This is- holy shit.”

You shrugged. “Told you I’d cook. You didn’t believe me?”

Jenna walked forward slowly, like you’d just built her a shrine.

“You made steak,” she whispered.

“You’ve earned steak.”

She sat down across from you like the meal might vanish if she blinked. Her eyes went wide as she picked up a fork, practically bouncing in place.

“This is insane. You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” you said simply.

She looked at you. Really looked.

Then smiled. Wide. Unfiltered. Almost childlike.

It hit you like a truck.

You’d never seen her like this.

You hoped you’d get to see it again.

--//--

AN: see? it's fine! Y/N survived today :D

...

today.

Part 9

[solxamber]

Can i please request a reader/yuu x rollo where rollo is either visiting or like that popular hc comes to stay and live in ramshackle and over hears reader admitting they have a huge crush on him? Grimm is out here like human. Why. And reader is like he's respectful, he's curious about my world he's the only guy who was ever actually concerned about me, and rollo is like wow the bar is in HELL but I'll blow their mind fr.

Ty!!

Rollo Flamme x reader

Rollo my beloved!!! Thank you for the request <3

Rollo hadn’t planned to spy, but the creaky, haunted vibe of Ramshackle Dorm seemed to have a mind of its own, and before he knew it, he found himself standing outside the door, frozen in place by the sound of your voice.

“Grim, I’m telling you. He’s perfect.”

There was a pause. Grim’s voice cut through the quiet, pure disbelief oozing from his every word. “Henchman. Why. Why him?”

You sighed, like this was the fiftieth time you’d had this conversation, and honestly? It probably was. “He’s respectful, Grim. He’s curious about my world, he’s smart, and—wait for it—he’s the only guy here who has ever been actually concerned about me.”

Rollo blinked. Wait. Was this about him? Surely not—he, the paragon of discipline and order, the man who sought to rid the world of dangerous magic, couldn’t possibly have inspired such devotion. Could he?

Grim made an audible smack sound, probably facepalming in disbelief. “Respectful?! Henchhuman, he hates magic. He tried to murder everyone with flowers! That’s not romantic!”

You groaned. “Okay, but like… he’s intense, yeah, but have you seen the chaos magic causes around here? He’s got a point! And anyway, it’s kinda… hot?”

Grim let out the most exasperated sigh a fire cat can muster. “The bar is in hell, Henchhuman. I mean, the floor. It’s not even a bar anymore; it’s a speed bump. A pebble.”

“Look,” you huffed, “he clears it with room to spare! He listens to me, Grim! He doesn’t call me weird for being from another world. He’s… thoughtful. And he’s got a great voice. And! He didn’t try to blow me up, unlike some people here.”

Rollo’s eyebrows shot up. They really were talking about him. His mind swirled, caught somewhere between confusion, amusement, and, dare he say it, a spark of pride. You thought he was thoughtful? Respectful? Hot?

Meanwhile, Grim’s brain was clearly on the verge of short-circuiting. “Henchhuman, I can’t—look, what about Leona? At least he doesn’t wanna purge all magic. He just naps!”

You snorted. “Leona? He’s practically allergic to effort. At least Rollo has ambition. He cares about something.”

Rollo, leaning against the side of Ramshackle, ran a hand through his hair. Alright, this was too much. He needed to intervene before you said something even more embarrassing for both of you. He straightened up and knocked lightly on the door.

Inside, Grim screeched, “Oh great, you summoned him with your weird crush energy!”

You jumped, scrambling to look composed as you opened the door, revealing Rollo standing there, an unreadable expression on his face. “R-Rollo! What a… surprise! What are you doing here?”

Rollo blinked, his mind still reeling from everything he’d just overheard. “I… was in the area and thought I would stop by. To see how you were adjusting.”

Grim, squinting with all the suspicion of a small goblin, pointed an accusing paw at you. “Adjusting, my tail. They’re over here writing sonnets about how you’re, like, the best thing since sliced bread.”

Rollo’s lips twitched upward in a smug smirk as he glanced between you and Grim. “Is that so?”

You wanted to dissolve into the floor. “Grim is exaggerating.”

Grim was not having it. “Oh, am I? You said, and I quote, ‘he’s the only guy who’s ever cared about me.’”

Your face burned, and you were about two seconds away from chasing Grim into the wilderness. “Grim.”

Rollo, on the other hand, was practically glowing. “It seems I’ve left quite the impression.” He leaned in slightly, voice low and soft. “But I must say, I had no idea your opinion of me was so… glowing.”

You stared, at a total loss for words, while Grim loudly pretended to gag in the background.

Rollo, emboldened by the chaos (and maybe just a tiny bit flattered by how pathetically low your bar was), took a step closer, his tone growing more teasing. “The bar may be in hell, as your companion said, but I’ll be sure to exceed it. I promise you that.”

You blinked, brain short-circuiting under the intensity of his gaze. “Uh—well—thanks?”

Grim threw his paws in the air. “This is the worst. The actual worst.”

Rollo, amused by Grim’s melodramatics, turned his attention back to you. “If you think this is impressive, just wait. You’ll see what true concern looks like.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “What, like… flowers that won’t try to choke everyone?”

Rollo’s eyes glinted, a teasing smile pulling at his lips. “Exactly. Much more benign this time. Perhaps something to show how… thoughtful I can be.”

You could practically hear Grim’s soul leaving his body as he groaned, dragging a paw down his face. “This is the end. I’m leaving. I’ll be at Heartslabyul.”

As Grim shuffled out in defeat, Rollo gave you one last, knowing smile. “Until next time,” he said smoothly, turning to leave. “And perhaps, next time, you won’t need to admit your feelings through your… furry associate.”

You were pretty sure you blacked out for a solid five seconds, and when you came to, Grim was gone, Rollo was halfway down the path, and you were left with the overwhelming feeling that you’d just set yourself up for a whirlwind of chaos.

But to be honest? You were kind of excited about it.

Masterlist

[livvymd]

After Hours Service. MDNI

this one low key isnt eating sorry anon

The second the restaurant doors opened, you knew this day was going to be chaos.

You'd worked a few pop-ups before, but nothing quite like this — a full-on Sidemen event, half content shoot and half real service. It was all a bit mad: cameras everywhere, orders flying in, the back kitchen sounding like a school canteen on fire, and somehow you were meant to keep a smile on your face and carry three plates at once.

You were good at your job. Calm. Composed. Focused.

Or at least, you were — until ChrisMD entered the building in a too-clean apron and made eye contact with you for a full second before looking away like you’d physically blinded him.

And that became the theme of the day.

Chris was also “working” the event, roped into the front-of-house rotation with various YouTubers, and he was doing an okay job when he wasn’t short-circuiting every time you got close.

You didn’t even have to flirt. You just existed — and he apparently couldn’t handle it.

It started small.

You passed him a plate of sliders. “Table three, yeah? You good with that?”

He nodded a little too fast, eyes flicking from your hands to your face. “Yep — uh — totally. I’m good. I can do plates. Yep. That’s what I do.”

You raised a brow. “Right… Well, try not to drop them.”

Spoiler: he nearly did.

And that was before he walked into a folding signboard that hadn't been there two minutes earlier.

It escalated.

Every time your paths crossed, it was a fresh scene from a romcom:

You asked him to carry drinks. He spilled a third of a Coke on himself.

You brushed shoulders near the pass window. He nearly dropped a tray of garlic bread.

You asked him how the tables were going. He blanked completely, said “table 9 is a man,” and walked away.

You couldn’t not smile around him.

And apparently, neither could the others.

By the third hour, Harry had started narrating his movements. “And here comes Chris, attempting human interaction. Will he survive? Odds are low.”

Ethan chimed in, “Bro turns into a loading screen whenever she walks by. Buffering for his life.”

You caught Chris ducking his head behind the drinks fridge, pretending to look for cans. Probably hiding from you.

Cute.

You decided to push your luck.

Near the end of the lunch rush, you cornered him — lightly, playfully — by the cutlery stand.

“Chris,” you said, and the way his name sounded in your voice made him glance up, heart already racing.

You held out your hand. “Need help with section five? Looks like they’re about to riot.”

He blinked at you. “Help? From…you? Yeah. Totally. I mean, if you’re not too busy — ”

You just smiled and walked past him, bumping his shoulder gently. “Come on, then.”

He followed.

He always followed.

By dinner service, things had settled into something almost normal. Tables were clearing out, the last guests were halfway through desserts, and the YouTubers had mostly stopped pretending to be competent.

You were behind the bar restacking glasses when Harry strolled past you.

“Y’know he’s completely lost for you, right?” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

Harry snorted. “Chris. You’re like his Roman Empire. He can’t think straight.”

You smirked but didn’t answer. The warmth in your chest betrayed you. You liked knowing that. Liked that Chris wasn’t like the others — he wasn’t pushy, or flirty just for content. He was genuinely trying, and failing spectacularly, and that was half the charm.

The restaurant emptied out slowly.

Most of the crew started packing up, clearing the last of the plates, throwing out props. Cameras were off. The lights were dimmed. You stayed behind to tidy up your section, focused on the last table when someone stepped up beside you.

Chris.

Hair slightly messy. Apron wrinkled. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked boyish, nervous, and — despite the long day — still painfully fit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes on the table you were wiping. “I wanted to — uh — say thanks.”

You glanced at him, pausing your work. “For what?”

“For… not laughing at me. Much. Or for not reporting me to management for being the worst pretend-waiter of all time.”

You leaned back against the table, crossing your arms. “You weren’t that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you were terrible. But you were sweet.”

He shifted closer. “Sweet like… pity sweet? Or sweet like maybe-you’d-consider-hanging-out-after-this sweet?”

Your mouth quirked up. “Depends how brave you’re feeling right now.”

He looked at you for a long moment — longer than any glance he'd managed all day. His confidence wasn’t fake, but it was shy. Tentative. Like he’d finally decided to risk it.

“I’m feeling brave enough,” he said.

You reached out, your fingers curling lightly around the edge of his apron, tugging him closer.

“Then show me.”

The kiss started soft.

He leaned in slowly, carefully — like if he moved too fast you’d vanish. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, testing, then again with a little more pressure.

You sighed into it, your hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

That was the switch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Not rushed — just sure. His hands slid to your waist, gripping gently like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You pulled him closer, mouths moving in sync, the kiss growing more heated. His tongue brushed yours and your knees went a bit weak — not from the kiss itself, but from how into it he was.

Like he’d been holding back all day and couldn’t anymore.

The door clicked behind you as Chris locked it.

You were both still breathless — bodies too close, pupils blown, hands already wandering.

The restaurant was closed. The others were gone.

You were alone.

Your back hit the prep counter as Chris’s mouth found yours again — this time deeper, desperate, no hint of nerves left. His hands roamed with less hesitation now, gripping your waist, skimming over your hips, tugging you closer until you felt every hard inch of him pressed to your body.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked.

You smiled, your hand sliding under the hem of his hoodie. “I think I do.”

You pushed it up and over his head, and Chris dropped it to the floor without a care. His chest was warm and lean, skin smooth beneath your palms as you traced down the slope of his abdomen, dragging your nails lightly just to watch his abs twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, shivering at your touch.

He bent, lips ghosting down your neck, then across your collarbone. His teeth grazed gently as he nipped, sucking marks into your skin you’d probably have to hide tomorrow. One hand slid under your shirt, warm and rough against your waist, until his thumb brushed just under your bra.

You arched into his hand.

“Off,” you said, tugging at your own shirt. Chris helped you peel it off in seconds, followed by your bra.

His breath hitched when he saw you — his gaze devouring, lips parted, frozen for a moment like he was trying to burn the image into memory.

“God, you’re — ” He stopped, swallowing thickly. “You’re unreal.”

His mouth latched onto your chest — tongue and lips moving slowly, wetly, kissing over sensitive skin while his hands gripped your thighs. You reached between your bodies, unfastening his belt and jeans, pushing them down just enough for his boxers to tent obscenely in front of you.

Chris groaned when you brushed your fingers over him through the fabric.

“Y/N…” he rasped, forehead against your shoulder, hips jerking.

You kissed his jaw, then his throat, licking a slow stripe across the hollow of it before whispering, “Want you.”

He stepped back long enough to drag your trousers and underwear down your legs, his hands firm but reverent. You helped him out of his jeans and boxers, both of you standing fully bare in the middle of the dark, empty kitchen — fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.

Then he was between your legs again, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

Chris kissed you slow this time — less urgent, more worship. His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing the inside gently, so close to your centre but not touching yet.

“I’ve thought about this too many times than I'd like to admit,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

“Then show me,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reached down between your bodies and lined himself up, the head of his length brushing against you — hot, hard, ready.

And when he pushed in?

You gasped — head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you in one long, perfect thrust.

“Shit — ” Chris choked. “You feel — fuck, you feel amazing.”

He paused once he was fully inside, letting you both adjust, just staring at you with wide eyes and parted lips. You were flushed and panting, legs tight around his waist, hands gripping the back of his neck like you needed him to anchor you.

Then he moved.

Slow at first — deep, dragging thrusts that had your whole body rocking with each one. The wet, filthy sounds of skin against skin filled the kitchen, along with your moans, his groans, his whispered curses in your ear.

Your hips met every movement, your thighs tightening with each delicious grind of his pelvis against yours. He hit that perfect spot again and again, making your breath hitch, making your body clench around him until his rhythm stuttered.

“God, Y/N — you’re so tight — I’m not gonna last — ”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, eyes rolling back. “I’m close, Chris, please — ”

He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle — his thumb pressing to your clit just right.

Your whole body tensed.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, waves crashing through your body as you cried out his name, shaking, clenching around him. Your walls pulsed and fluttered, drawing him even deeper.

Chris groaned — deep, raw, helpless — and followed you over the edge with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, head falling to your shoulder as he trembled in your arms.

The air between you was hot and thick with breath, skin sticky and flushed.

You stayed like that — entwined, panting, bodies still joined — for long minutes.

Finally, Chris lifted his head, lips brushing your forehead.

“I’m never gonna look at the prep counter the same way again,” he muttered.

You snorted, too blissed out to care. “Guess I’ll never eat another chicken tender again without getting flashbacks.”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your mouth. “Reckon we’re due a round two in the freezer.”

You grinned. “And then maybe… dessert?”

Chris smirked, lips against your neck. “Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”

[neferaskingdom]

♡ I Need A Charles Dickens | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Maybe teasing him so much was not her best idea but all's well that ends well am I right?

A/N: Guys I swear this is the last Christmas fic. But I was listening to Nonsense Christmas by Sabrina Carpenter and my brain immediately spawned this. like I don't even know if this was an innuendo or not but my brain sure as hell thought so.

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Warning: This chapter contains non-explicit sexual content

Dinner with your family was always lively. Christmas Eve had everyone in high spirits—your dad cracking his usual corny jokes, your mom fussing over the perfect placement of the centerpiece, and your siblings sneaking cookies before dessert.

And then there was Charles.

Perfect, charming Charles, sitting next to you at the table, effortlessly winning over everyone as usual. He looked good enough to eat, dressed in a snug sweater that hinted at his toned physique and a smile that could have melted the snow outside.

But as much as he seemed at ease, you knew better. You could see it in the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hand occasionally tightened on the edge of the table, and the barely-there flush on his cheeks.

You had him exactly where you wanted him.

It started small. A lingering touch on his arm as you reached for the butter. “Can you pass that to me, Charles? Thanks, love.”

Your hand brushed his, fingers lingering just a moment too long, and you saw the way his jaw tightened, his smile faltering for the briefest second before he regained his composure.

“Of course,” he replied, his voice smooth but strained.

Then, as your mom brought out the mashed potatoes, you leaned close to him, your lips brushing the shell of his ear under the guise of making conversation. “These are your favorite, right?”

He inhaled sharply, his hand gripping the fork a little tighter. “Oui,” he managed, his accent thicker than usual.

But still, he didn’t break.

Halfway through the meal, you excused yourself to grab the extra bread rolls from the kitchen. On your way back, you “accidentally” brushed against his chair, your hip grazing his thigh and—very deliberately—his crotch.

“Oops,” you said innocently, setting the rolls on the table and glancing at him. “Sorry about that.”

Charles froze for a moment, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his knife and fork. He didn’t look at you, but you caught the way his chest rose and fell a little faster, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth.

Still, he said nothing, though the storm brewing behind his eyes told you he was hanging on by a thread.

You weren’t done.

After dessert, Charles handed you a beautifully wrapped box. “Open it,” he said, smiling nervously.

Inside were several books you’d been wanting for months.

“Charles,” you breathed, genuinely touched. “These are perfect.”

His face lit up, relief washing over him. “I hoped you’d like them.”

You looked up at him, your smile turning mischievous. “I do. But you know,” you said, your voice dropping just enough for only him to hear, “I think I could use some Charles Dickens too.” 

His brain short-circuited.

Charles coughed, turning his face away as his cheeks burned bright red. “Ah—” He grabbed his water glass, taking a long sip to regain his composure.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, watching the way his hand fisted his napkin, the tension radiating from his entire body.

By the time you said your goodbyes and got into the car, the air was thick with unspoken tension. Charles didn’t say much on the drive home, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, his jaw set as he stared straight ahead.

You glanced at him, amused. “Are you okay?”

His laugh was dry, almost dangerous. “You’re really enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, feigning innocence.

He didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and you knew you’d crossed a line.

The moment you stepped through the door, Charles shut it behind you with more force than necessary, spinning you around and pinning you against it. His hands framed your face, his body pressing into yours as his lips hovered just above yours.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done tonight?” he murmured, his voice low and filled with restrained frustration.

You tilted your head, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’m not sure. Care to remind me?”

His hand slid down to your hip, gripping it firmly as he pressed closer, his breath hot against your neck. “You’ve been teasing me all night,” he growled. “Brushing against me, whispering in my ear, saying things you know you shouldn’t.”

Your pulse raced, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little further. “And what are you going to do about it?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and smoldering. “Oh, chérie, you’ve been such a bad girl tonight,” he said, “And I’m going to make sure you understand it.”

Before you could respond, his lips crashed into yours, demanding and punishing. His hands roamed your body, his grip possessive as he dominated the kiss, leaving you breathless and clinging to him.

“You’ve had your fun,” he murmured against your lips, his tone softening but still firm. “Now it’s my turn.”

With that, he scooped you up effortlessly and carried you to the bedroom, tossing you onto the bed with a smirk that made your stomach flip.

“Stay right there,” he commanded, his eyes glinting with anticipation as he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up slowly. “We’re not done yet.”

And as he stalked toward you, you knew you were in for a very memorable Christmas.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Charles was on you, his body moving with a deliberate, unyielding confidence that made your pulse race. He climbed onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as his hands found your wrists, pinning them above your head with ease.

"Do you know how hard it was to sit through dinner tonight?" he asked, his voice low, each word dripping with restrained intensity. His lips brushed against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Do you know what you did to me?"

Your throat was dry, your heart hammering against your ribcage as his grip on your wrists tightened just enough to make you feel completely at his mercy.

"I-I might have an idea,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you, shaky and breathless.

His laugh was soft but dark, laced with a dangerous sort of amusement. "Oh, chérie, I don't think you do."

His free hand trailed down your arm, his touch featherlight, teasing and unhurried. You squirmed beneath him, heat pooling in your stomach as his fingers traced the line of your collarbone, dipping lower with every pass.

"Be still," he ordered, his tone sharp enough to make you freeze, your body obeying before your mind even registered the command.

The tension in the room was palpable, every nerve in your body attuned to his every movement. You felt the weight of his gaze as he looked down at you, his eyes dark and focused, as though he were memorizing every inch of you.

"You've been such a tease tonight," he murmured, his hand continuing its slow exploration. His fingers skimmed the hem of your sweater, pausing just long enough to make you ache for more. 

"Did you think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't do something about it?"

You swallowed hard, your skin prickling under his touch. "Maybe I was hoping you would."

His smirk was devastating, a perfect mix of amusement and dominance. "Careful what you wish for, mon amour."

His lips claimed yours again, the kiss intense and demanding, leaving you breathless. You felt the scrape of his teeth against your lower lip, a sharp contrast to the softness of his tongue as he deepened the kiss, stealing what little control you thought you had left.

When he pulled back, you gasped for air, your chest heaving as his lips moved to your neck, trailing a line of heat that made your toes curl. Every press of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth, sent shockwaves through you, making it impossible to think about anything but him.

"Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper as his hand finally slid beneath the hem of your sweater, his crotch brushing against your thigh.

"Yes," you breathed, your voice barely audible.

His hand moved with deliberate slowness, his touch both teasing and possessive, as though he were staking his claim. "Good," he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw. “Because I want you to remember this. Every. Single. Second."

His words sent a shiver through you, your body arching toward him instinctively, desperate for more.

"Patience," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "You don't get to rush me, not after tonight."

The weight of his words settled over you, and you realized he was doing this on purpose-dragging it out, making you feel every agonizing second of his touch. And it was working.

When he finally moved to shed the sweater you'd worn specifically to catch his attention, his hands were slow, precise, as though unwrapping a gift he intended to savor. The fabric pooled on the bed, leaving you exposed to his gaze, which burned into you.

"You're beautiful," he said, his voice softer now, reverent even. His hand traced a path down your side, his touch igniting sparks everywhere he touched.

Your breaths came in short, shallow bursts as he leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through you.

"Yes," you whispered, your heart swelling with both anticipation and certainty.

"Good," he said, his lips brushing against your skin. "Then let me show you exactly how bad you've been."

You didn’t know how much time had passed. Your body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together, every nerve alive and buzzing, your muscles trembling in the aftermath.

You were exhausted, but it was a good exhaustion—the kind that left you boneless and utterly content, your heart still racing as you tried to catch your breath.

Beside you, Charles sat up on the edge of the bed, his chest rising and falling as he ran a hand through his tousled hair. His back glistened faintly, his broad shoulders tense for a moment before he exhaled deeply and turned to look at you.

“Mon amour,” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. His touch was gentle now, a stark contrast to the way he’d gripped you earlier, his hands firm and unrelenting. “Are you okay?”

You smiled, your voice hoarse from all the times you’d screamed his name. “I’m more than okay.”

He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re amazing,” he said quietly, his thumb stroking your cheek.

Without another word, he stood and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the sound of water running, and a moment later, he returned with a warm, damp towel. He knelt beside the bed, his movements unhurried as he gently cleaned your skin, murmuring soft reassurances as he worked.

“You pushed me tonight,” he said, his tone teasing but affectionate as he wiped your shoulder. “But I might have pushed you harder. Did I go too far?”

You shook your head, reaching out to touch his arm. “Not at all.”

His lips quirked into a small smile, though his eyes remained serious. “If I ever do, you tell me. Promise?”

“I promise,” you said, squeezing his arm to reassure him.

Satisfied, he set the towel aside and climbed back into bed, pulling you into his arms. The heat of his body was soothing, and you curled into him instinctively, resting your head on his chest.

His fingers began tracing lazy patterns on your back, his touch light and soothing. “You completely wore me out,” you mumbled, a soft laugh escaping you.

He laughed too, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “Good,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before teasing me like that.”

“Doubtful,” you murmured, smiling as your eyelids grew heavy.

Charles sighed dramatically, though the smile in his voice was unmistakable. “You’ll never learn, will you?”

“Probably not,” you admitted, your words slurring as sleep began to claim you.

His arms tightened around you, his voice the last thing you heard before slipping into dreams. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep reminding you.”

"Merry Christmas Charlie" 

"Merry Christmas love"

[stargirlygirl]

if they were househusbands

denki, izuku, tamaki x fem!reader⋆｡°✩ — fluff, tama's is a bit suggestive, kinda hcs, 870 words

kaminari denki

100% a househusband

not exactly unemployed ⟶ he’s tryna be a pro gamer and with you being the breadwinner, he picks up the slack around the house

kinda ends up being a part-time gamer (cause i’m not so sure about those skills making him a pro) just because of how hard it is to balance gaming and keeping your home in order

does he do the chores well, though? i would imagine that he tries to bake muffins or banana bread for you but it ends up getting burnt; he tries to fix one of the lights but then short circuits the entire house; he makes the leaking tap ten times worse so you have to call bakugou over to fix it

apologises profusely after setting the kitchen curtains on fire and buys you new ones that you absolutely love

he would look so cute in his lil apron that you got him for his bday!!!!!!!

you’re sitting on the couch, watching with a smirk as denki pulls a frilly, pink and white waist apron out of the gift bag you got him. his golden eyes are wide as he stares at the garment. he’s holding it up in the air, gaze flicking between you and the apron.

he stutters, “what-what the fuck?” you burst out into laughter as he just stares at you, thumbing the frills. you bend over as you laugh, your hand on his knee, unable to contain yourself.

denki places the apron down on his lap and says, “what am i to you? a maid?” you nod, your hand in front of your mouth as you continue to laugh at him.

once you calm down and wipe the tears from your eyes, you say, “don’t you like it?” you try to pout but your giggles make it nearly impossible.

denki sighs, “only a maid for my beautiful, sexy wife.” you notice his adorable pout, his blond brows furrowed. you lean over and wrap your arms around his shoulders, planting a big smooch on his cheek.

“all mine,” you taunt in his reddening ear. he gently pushes you off, causing you to laugh as you lean back. “try it on!” you squeal in excitement. at that, denki’s face reddens. he looks at you, mortified by the thought of how he’s about to humiliate himself for his wife. he gulps and grumbles about how stupid this is, how mean you are. but it doesn’t stop him from slipping the apron around his slutty waist and tying it in a bow at the back.

you stare at him, checking him out shamelessly as he does a little twirl for you. “happy now?” he pouts. you nod enthusiastically.

“very happy.”

midoriya izuku

househusband because he got injured during hero work

you tell him to take it slow and rest but he’s up early every day, making you lunch for work and putting on a load of laundry

he’s the successful househusband ⟶ great at all of the chores; never leaves a mess, not a speck of dust to be seen, nothing out of place

during the winter, he’ll throw your work clothes in the dryer so that when you get dressed, they’re still toasty; he’ll place a beanie on your head and even put your mittens on for you

when you come home from work, dinner’s on the table and izuku is greeting you with a sweet kiss; he takes your bag from you and asks you about your day while leading you to the bedroom to get changed

if you’re tense, then he’ll give you a massage and shower with you

“come and sit, honey,” izuku coos to you. he pats the spot next to him on the couch. you shake your head and try to tell him you’re fine, but he insists. sighing, you plop down on the couch next to him. he tells you to turn and face away from him and so you do. then, you feel his warm, large hands on your shoulders and upper back, kneading the tender muscles. you let out a sigh of relief and ease into his touch, letting him take away the stress of your day.

he ends up convincing you to take off your top so he can have better access to your upper back and, therefore, give you a better massage. and your pure-intentioned boy is true to his word, his fingers and palms pressing into your soft flesh and soothing you. after he’s worked your shoulders, he adjusts your body so that you’re sitting facing forward. he gets down on the floor and props your foot up on his knee. he repeats the process, helping you relax with those perfect hands and their relieving rhythm across your skin.

he kisses your ankles, shins, and calves, working his way up to your knees. you giggle as your hand threads through his curly green locks. you let him wrap his arms around you and carry you off to the bathroom, setting you down on the cold tiles and helping you undress. you two get into the shower and he lathers your body in body wash, sprinkling little kisses here and there before rinsing it off.

you sigh into the crook of his neck, “thanks for taking such good care of me.”

he hums in response and says, “always, honey.”

amajiki tamaki

idk about this twink

he’s giving shy cutie who does all of the laundry and makes the most delicious meals for you

he’s also great at gardening ⟶ you have the most beautiful garden in the neighbourhood because of this man and his quirk; he spends his days wrangling those weeds and planting pretty flowers and vegetables and fruits

of course, he uses your homegrown produce in your meals, making it taste amazing and extra special because of all the hard work he put into cultivating them

he would also make you the cutest bentos!!!!! like with the tako sausages and star-shaped fruit and veg ⟶ makes literal edible art just for his beautiful wife

i think he would always be trying new recipes and dishes and sharing them with you ⟶ like every friday, he’ll cook something new and won’t try it until you get home and try it with him

“tama, i’m home!” you call as you enter your home. you slip off your shoes, the scent of something savoury and delicious filling your nose. you walk into the kitchen and find your husband stirring a pot on the stove. you skip over to him and plant a kiss on his cheek, making him flinch in surprise. he lets go of the wooden spoon and looks at you with wide eyes, red dusting his cheeks.

“i didn’t hear you,” he says quietly, averting his gaze from yours.

you giggle and say, “did you miss me?” he nods furiously and returns to stirring the pot. you ask him what he’s cooking, and he tells you he’s making a soup from a magazine he read. you nod and leave him be.

for dinner, he serves you the most yummy soup you’ve had yet. with wide eyes, you tell him just how good it tastes, and he murmurs that he’s glad you like it. you two talk about your days, tama listening quietly to you rant about work drama. afterwards, you help him clean up.

you stand next to him, drying the dishes that he washes. after setting a plate down, you lean over and whisper in his ear, “maybe i’ll have to show you how much i like your cooking, tama.” you pull back, giggling and feeling cocky once you see that familiar blush rise to his cheeks and ears.

he glances at you every so often, watching his perfect angel dry the dishes and put them away. he quickly looks away once you bend over or reach up, your ass far too round or your tank top riding up and exposing a strip of your soft skin. you can’t wipe that shit-eating grin off of your face. you’re well aware of how he’s watching you, and you like how nervous you make him.

it takes some convincing but eventually, you let him know just how much he and his cooking, his taking care of your home, means to you.

[kathlare]

island in the sun

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie rushes to Suzuka, Japan, on race day after a chaotic journey, hoping to catch Lando before he races.

Wordcount: 3.8 k

Warnings: just fluff

request over here!

April 6th, 2025 - Susuka, Japan

She was still zipping up the side of her yellow dress when the driver took the last turn toward Suzuka Circuit.

—Shit, shit, shit— Amelie hissed under her breath, nearly stabbing her ribs with a mascara wand as the car bumped along the uneven pavement. She sat cross-legged in the backseat, a makeup bag balanced on her lap, her hair still slightly damp from the hotel’s quick rinse. Her white heels were discarded beside her, her skin still warm from rushing through Tokyo’s humidity.

Her flight delay from Stockholm had been a nightmare. Twelve hours of sitting on the tarmac, a half-hearted nap at the airport, and a last-minute scramble to catch a replacement flight had her showing up in Japan on the actual day of the Grand Prix. Lando was racing in less than an hour. She was supposed to have arrived last night, snuck into his hotel room like always, and slept tangled up in his arms. But instead—she was doing her eyeliner in the back of a car with adrenaline and chaos as her only companions.

She let out a groan and slumped back against the seat.

—Fucking hell, I look like a stressed-out canary, don’t I?— she muttered to herself, flicking her reflection one last nervous glance in the compact mirror.

The driver announced they were at the gate, and she immediately perked up, heart pounding in her chest. She had one job—get to the paddock in time to kiss her boyfriend good luck before he zipped himself into that ridiculous fireproof suit and transformed into McLaren’s golden boy.

Max Fewtrell was supposed to be the one to get her in. That was the plan. Max knew her flight was delayed, knew she hadn’t gotten her pass yet, and knew how important it was for her to see Lando before the race.

But when she texted Max?

Nothing.

Not even the classic little "Seen" bubble.

She stared at her phone screen in disbelief, thumb hovering over the chat that was suspiciously quiet.

—Max, if you make me text your best friend's dad, I swear to God, I'm switching your dry shampoo with glitter spray— she muttered, rapidly typing another message and sending it off into the void.

Still nothing.

She let out a strangled groan and tossed her head back dramatically against the seat.

—This is so Max-coded. Man probably got distracted by a vending machine or a bird or something—

Her phone buzzed. Hope sparked in her chest, but it wasn’t Max.

It was worse.

Her own reminder notification: “Lando’s warm-up lap begins in 32 minutes.”

—Fuck fuck fuck— she whispered, dragging a hand through her hair.

She didn’t have time to wait for Max. Her only option left was… well, technically, Lando’s dad.

Adam Norris.

She liked Adam, she really did. He was kind, always polite, always smiled at her, and had even once sent her a recipe for banana bread when she told Cisca she was craving something comforting on tour. But they weren’t close. Cisca was her go-to—texting her memes, asking for outfit advice, sending photos of Benny whenever he stayed over in Monaco. Adam was just... the intimidating, slightly quiet British dad who always had one eyebrow raised like he knew exactly what she and his son had been getting up to.

But she was out of options.

With a dramatic sigh, Amelie pulled up his contact and fired off a message before she could chicken out.

Amelie Dayman: Hi Adam, I’m so sorry to bother you, but Max isn’t answering and I’m stuck at the gate without a pass. Could you maybe help me out?

She stared at the screen, chewing on her lip. Within seconds, the little dots appeared.

Adam Norris: Of course. I’m nearby. Give me two minutes.

She exhaled in relief, then immediately kicked her legs into motion, slipping on her heels and grabbing her tiny handbag. Her hair was half-waved, half-frizzy chaos, but it would have to do.

Two minutes later, Adam emerged from the VIP entrance, dressed in a crisp white button-down, lanyard swinging around his neck. He spotted her instantly, lips curling into a gentle smile.

—You made it just in time— he said, handing her a bright orange McLaren guest pass.

Amelie gave him a sheepish grin, clipping it to her dress as they walked side by side toward the security checkpoint. The humidity curled her hair further at the ends, and she had to do everything in her power not to sprint in heels just to get to Lando faster.

—Thank you so much, really. I didn’t wanna bother you but Max just… vanished— she huffed, adjusting the strap of her handbag.

Adam chuckled softly, hands tucked into the pockets of his khaki trousers.

—He tends to do that. Disappears when he’s needed most. I’ll have a word with him later.—

—Please do. Preferably while holding a flip-flop. Mexican-style justice.—

Adam actually laughed at that, a low, amused rumble that surprised her.

They passed through the final gate, and immediately, the chaos of the paddock greeted her. Fans were already clustered along the sides, shouting names, waving posters, holding out phones. And of course, the second they spotted her—one of the most famous women on the planet—there was a shift.

Phones came up.

They passed through the checkpoint without issue, though Amelie instantly felt the shift in the air.

The moment the staff clocked her, eyes started to turn. It was subtle at first—a whisper here, a double-take there—but as soon as they stepped past the entrance and into the inner paddock lanes, it was as if someone had flipped a switch.

Security guards nodded. Team personnel offered tight, polite smiles. A few media crews lifted their cameras instinctively, and even though it wasn’t a public-access area, there were still scattered fans lingering behind the barricades. Some gasped, others lit up their phones, and a couple waved shyly, already whispering to each other.

Of course they were. She wasn’t just Amelie, Lando’s girlfriend. She was Amelie Dayman.

Oscar winner. BRIT performer. The girl who grew up on screen and took over stadiums and red carpets with the same velvet gloves.

Even if her heels were pinching and her dress felt a little too sunshine-bright for a race day, she smiled and waved as if she didn’t feel like her lungs were about to explode.

Adam kept a calm pace beside her, a comfortable barrier between her and the rest of the world. She noticed how he subtly blocked a cameraman’s view at one point, gently redirected a security officer when they tried to stop her for a photo.

It wasn’t that he was overbearing—just quietly protective. Like Lando.

It made her chest ache a little.

They finally reached the McLaren motorhome, and still… no Lando.

No Max.

Not even a glimpse of anyone she could cling to for a second of normalcy.

She hovered awkwardly at the entrance, biting the inside of her cheek. Adam stepped ahead to speak to the staff member at the door, then turned back to her with a calm nod.

—He’s still out back with his engineers, probably talking strategy. You’re early enough to catch him before the drivers’ parade.—

She nodded, grateful, but still clutching her bag like a lifeline.

There was silence. For a beat too long.

Amelie shifted from foot to foot, trying to ignore the thrumming of nervous energy in her veins. The inside of the McLaren motorhome was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustle outside. She couldn't stop glancing around, hoping to see Lando’s familiar tousled hair or that signature grin. The silence, however, only amplified the tension she felt.

Adam, sensing her discomfort, smiled and cleared his throat.

—So, uh… how’s Benny? Still claiming the bed as his throne?— he asked, his voice light and easy.

Amelie couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the image of her cat sprawling out in the middle of her bed, pushing her to the edge with his paw and demanding attention.

—He’s literally a dictator, Adam. You’d think the way he stares at me is an act of pure tyranny.— She sighed dramatically. —But honestly? He’s been better lately. He’s been a little more chill, thank God. Björn on the other hand… he’s like a tornado. I’m pretty sure he’s planning to destroy the world one chair at a time.—

Adam laughed, a deep chuckle that softened his usually stern demeanor.

—I’ve met Björn once, remember? Don’t think I’ll ever forget his flying leap onto the kitchen counter. A cat with a serious attitude problem.—

Amelie grinned, relaxing into the moment. It was funny how easy it was to talk with Adam, even though they’d never been that close. There was something disarming about his calm presence, like he wasn’t fazed by anything, like he had all the time in the world to chat about her cats. It helped ease the knot in her chest.

—He’s definitely a handful. But I’m telling you, there’s a special kind of chaos in a cat who’s convinced he’s the king of the house. Benny’s just the lapdog of chaos, you know?— She tilted her head, feeling more at ease with Adam than she’d expected.

Adam smiled, nodding knowingly.

—Sounds like you're living with a bit of a circus over there. I’m sure Lando would be thrilled to know his cats are running things while he’s away.— He chuckled lightly, his eyes twinkling with a quiet amusement.

Amelie felt a warm, genuine smile spread across her face. Despite the awkwardness she’d initially felt, Adam was actually easy to talk to. The conversation felt natural, and her nerves began to fade. She glanced around the motorhome, still no sign of Lando, but the space felt oddly comforting with Adam beside her.

—You know, Lando’s been pretty happy lately, seeing you around. It’s clear you make him feel… well, more like himself. He’s been a bit more relaxed this season. It’s good to see that.— Adam’s voice softened, his words laced with a hint of fatherly pride.

Amelie’s heart fluttered in her chest. Lando’s dad had always been polite, but hearing this felt different. She wasn’t used to people talking about their kids like that—so openly, so honestly. She met his eyes, feeling a surge of warmth.

—That means a lot, Adam. I’m just happy I get to be here for him, especially with all the madness he’s been juggling lately. It’s been... a ride, honestly. But we’re figuring it out together, one day at a time.— She shrugged, trying to downplay the butterflies that danced in her stomach at the mention of “together.”

Adam gave her a kind, knowing smile. —I can see that. And I’m happy for both of you. Lando deserves someone who sees the person he really is, not just the driver. I think you’re that person for him.—

Amelie’s breath caught in her throat at his words. They were simple, but they held so much meaning. She wasn’t used to hearing things like that from someone so close to Lando. It made everything feel more real, more… right.

Before she could say more, arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind.

—Missed you, baby— came a familiar voice, muffled against her hair, followed by a kiss on her cheek and then her lips.

She gasped, grinning wide as she turned around in Lando’s arms.

—Lan! Jesus, you scared me— she laughed, hands flying to his shoulders as she took him in.

He looked good. His race suit was already half-zipped, his curls damp with sweat, his grin even brighter than usual.

Behind him, Max Fewtrell and Sacha Fenestraz trailed in with smirks on their faces.

—Someone’s late— Max teased.

—Someone’s dead— Amelie shot back, narrowing her eyes as she jabbed a finger in Max’s direction. —You left me on read, asshole. I had to text your Adam to get in.—

Max threw his hands up, looking only mildly sorry.

—I got distracted! There were snacks in hospitality. And a wasp. But mostly snacks.—

—You’re unbelievable.—

—You still love me.—

—Barely.—

Sacha just laughed and gave her a quick hug hello.

Lando kept one arm slung lazily around her waist, anchoring her close as the rest of the paddock whirled by.

—You look like sunshine— he whispered against her ear, warm and low.

She glanced up at him, cheeks flushing under his gaze.

—Do I look like sunshine or like a stressed-out banana? Because I put mascara on in a moving car.—

He tilted his head, pretending to consider.

—A very hot banana.—

—You’re an idiot.—

—And you’re mine.—

She kissed him again, soft and fast, before nudging her head toward Adam.

—Your dad and I had a whole bonding moment while I waited. You better not fuck this up now.—

Lando laughed, glancing toward Adam, who simply raised a brow.

—Did she threaten you with a flip-flop? Because she does that.—

Adam just smiled and shook his head.

—She’s alright. Might even keep you in line.—

Amelie gave Lando a smug look.

—Told you your family likes me more than you.—

He rolled his eyes, but there was so much affection in them it made her knees weak.

—Whatever. Just don’t let Max near your cats again. Benny almost peed in his shoe last time.—

—That was Björn, thank you very much.—

—Still deserved.—

They lingered there a little longer, wrapped up in their own little bubble, the chaos of race day orbiting around them like background noise.

It was her first race appearance of the season.

But standing there, surrounded by warmth and teasing and all the familiarity of a place that felt more like home than anywhere else—

Amelie realized she wasn’t just here to support Lando.

She was part of this now. Really part of it.

And she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

-------------

liked by formulalovers, lanmelie4ever, and others

f1wagscentral: Miss Dayman has officially entered the paddock 👀🎌 Amelie was spotted arriving at Suzuka ahead of today’s race!

View all 87,213 comments

lanmelie4ever: oh she’s BACK back 😭💅 → mcloverrr: @lanmelie4ever and looking like a 10 as always → formulalovers: @lanmelie4ever watch lando crash from blushing too hard

padlockprincess: i fear this is gonna be her WAG szn → deluluforlando: @padlockprincess she walked in like she owns the track and tbh she doe

pitlaneprincess88: she finally made it to the paddock i’m SOBBING → lanmlovers: @pitlaneprincess88 she really said ✈️💨 wife duties activated → chaoticcarla: @pitlaneprincess88 mclaren better win now that she’s here LMAO

helmetboii: i fear she’s about to become the moment again

lanmiefanacc69: ok but why did she eat every single paddock wag up just walking in 💅 → ameliedaydream: @lanmiefanacc69 bc she’s THAT girl. respectfully.

hardslicks: she flew across continents just to slay?? dedication → gaslygirlies: @hardslicks or maybe bc her MAN is racing today

tinybutfast: she’s so little next to the garages i wanna put her in my pocket → ameliesleftboot: @tinybutfast emotional support wag energy

drsfordrama: why is she in the paddock again i thought she was just a singer 😭 → lanmelieloverr: @drsfordrama bc she’s dating the driver who pulls your fave in quali xoxo

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It was barely a few hours after the Japanese Grand Prix, the sky over Suzuka now dark, moody, and misted with the kind of chill that made you crave warmth from the inside out. Neon signs blinked lazily above narrow Tokyo alleys, buzzing with life, steam rising from every corner as night owls hunched over bowls of soup or laughed loudly into their sake glasses.

Lando had really wanted a quiet dinner.

Just her, ramen, maybe a little hand-holding under the table, and an excuse to kiss her when no one was watching.

But Amelie had other plans.

—Come on, it’ll be fun! Just a little ramen with Max, Sacha, and your dad. It’s cute. It’s wholesome. It’s post-race bonding!— she had chirped in the car, sunglasses still perched on her nose even though the sun had long since dipped below the skyline. —We can have our little romantic night after. Or during. I’ll sit on your lap, I’ll feed you noodles. It’ll be a whole thing.—

—You’re literally blackmailing me with noodles right now.—

—That’s not blackmail. That’s foreplay, baby.—

He had no defense after that.

And so, here they were—crammed into the corner of a ramen shop that looked like it hadn’t been renovated since 1983, tucked away in a quiet Shinjuku backstreet with steam fogging up the windows and laughter fogging up their brains.

Lando slouched at the end of the booth, his thigh pressed firmly to Amelie’s under the table, her fingers tangled with his in her lap. Max was animatedly reenacting something about a vending machine that definitely wasn’t that funny, but somehow had everyone nearly choking on their noodles.

Sacha was howling, head thrown back.

—You’re telling me you almost missed her at the gate because of a wasabi-flavored Kit-Kat and a wasp?— he laughed, gripping his chopsticks like they were about to launch from his hands. —Mate. Priorities.—

—Hey, she knows what she signed up for. Max Fewtrell: unreliable in emergencies, but excellent in snack recommendations.—

Amelie, curled into Lando’s side, stabbed a piece of egg in her bowl and smirked. —I’m changing my emergency contact to Adam. At least he doesn’t abandon me for candy bars.—

Adam, seated across from her, snorted into his beer. —That’s the wisest decision you’ve made tonight.—

—Second wisest,— Lando muttered, leaning into her ear. —First being that dress you wore today.—

She elbowed him lightly, grinning.

The table was chaotic in the best way. There were too many bowls and not enough space, broth splattered across menus, and someone’s coat half-hanging off the back of a chair. It didn’t matter. They were full of noodles and race-day adrenaline and the kind of warmth that came from being with people who got it.

Adam raised a brow as he took another sip of his drink. —So. That race.—

Everyone groaned simultaneously.

—God,— Max groaned. —Can we talk about how nothing happened? Like, literally. Zero. I watched paint dry faster than that race moved.—

—There were no overtakes. None. Zilch. Nada.— Sacha threw a napkin dramatically onto the table. —It was like watching a 53-lap procession.—

—A sexy procession,— Amelie added. —You looked hot, babe.—

Lando gave her a deadpan look as he sipped his miso broth. —Thanks, I guess. Love to know I was radiating “stuck behind Max for 90 minutes” energy.—

—You still got P2,— Adam offered, always the voice of reason. —Solid points, no drama, no DNFs. You drove smart.—

—And that restart?— Sacha leaned forward with his brows raised. —You had him for like, a second. I actually stood up.—

—So did the whole pit wall,— Max admitted. —I swear Zak threw his headset.—

Everyone burst out laughing again, the kind of deep-bellied laughter that left you wiping tears from the corners of your eyes. It was the kind of dinner that stitched itself into memories—not because of anything dramatic or glamorous, but because of the easy joy of being with people who made you feel like yourself.

Amelie was radiant in that golden way she always was when she was relaxed—laughing with her whole body, chopsticks in one hand and her other laced through Lando’s fingers under the table. She had changed into a big navy cardigan that might’ve been his, her hair up in a messy bun, cheeks slightly pink from the heat and the beer.

At one point, between teasing Sacha for slurping too loudly and making Max promise not to tell that vending machine story ever again, she nudged Lando’s arm.

—Hey, gimme your phone for a sec. You took those photos of me outside, remember? I wanna airdrop them.—

Lando blinked mid-bite. —I did? Oh yeah… right, by the lanterns.—

—Yeah, where you were being all artsy and moody with the framing. Very photographer boyfriend-core of you.— She smirked and held out her hand. —C’mon. I’ll send ‘em to myself and delete the ugly ones before you post a dump captioned “she eats noodles and my heart” or something tragic.—

—That was literally my draft caption.—

—You need me.—

He surrendered the phone with an exaggerated sigh, and she unlocked it with ease, thumb over the screen, already scrolling through the photos.

But then she paused.

Brows furrowed.

The camera roll wasn’t open.

It had been left on Safari.

And what was open was not the lantern photos she expected. Instead, it was Zara Home. A very full shopping cart.

Her gaze flickered from the screen to Lando, who was currently deep in a debate with Max about whether ramen broth counted as a beverage or a soup. He looked stupidly cute. Hair still a bit messy from the post-race cap, sleeves rolled, cheeks flushed from the heat.

She glanced back down.

Five items sat in the cart.

A cream-colored bathrobe, embroidered with delicate florals. A set of silk pillowcases—blush pink. A vanity tray with little golden edges. Two candles labeled “Midnight Peony” and “Honeysuckle Amber.”

What.

The.

Hell.

Her thumb hovered.

She wasn’t even sure why it was weird. People bought home stuff. Lando had a flat in Monaco. But blush pink? Florals? A vanity tray?

That man still used body wash as shampoo if she wasn’t supervising him. He didn’t even have a vanity.

She blinked, heartbeat catching slightly, but tucked the phone to her side and forced a bright smile as Lando turned to her.

—Got the pics?— he asked, completely unaware, his free hand lazily squeezing her thigh under the table.

—Mmhmm,— she replied, sending them to herself and then flipping quickly to the camera roll so he wouldn’t notice. —You actually got my good angles. I’m proud of you. You’re learning.—

He preened. —It’s the muse. I’m just following greatness.—

Max made a retching sound. —You two are unbearable.—

The moment passed. Barely.

But the thought lingered like broth on a spoon. Stirring gently. Softly.

Who was he buying those things for?

He hadn't mentioned a birthday. A surprise. A “hey, I got you something” moment. And while he wasn’t exactly the king of planning, she knew him. Knew how spontaneous he could be. How sometimes he just picked things up when something reminded him of her.

So why hadn’t he said anything?

Across the table, Adam was now telling some story about Lando’s karting days, about how he once threw a tantrum so intense they had to physically remove him from the paddock like a football injury substitution. Everyone was howling. Lando buried his face in his hands. Amelie laughed too—but it was a little distracted. A little tight.

Not enough for anyone to notice.

Except maybe Lando, who leaned in again and murmured near her ear.

—You okay? You went all quiet on me.—

She turned and smiled, soft and easy. —I’m perfect.—

But the words hung crooked between her ribs.

Because now she had a question she didn’t want to ask.

And a shopping cart she couldn’t unsee.