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[ask-the-6-souls]

Ask the 6 human souls!

Clover and the other 5 humans are open for asks!

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[piastriprincess]

caught  up  in  circles ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader  .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  time  loop  ,  f1  med  staff!reader  ,  strangers  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn  . tw  one  crash  ,  z*k  br*wn  and  chr*stian  h*rner  mentions  lol word  count  9.9k author’s  note  this  one  is  for  my  piastri  princesses  !  aka  it’s  all  about  oscar  and  entirely  self - indulgent  but  i  hope  you  all  like  it  too  !  inspired  by  palm  springs  -  one  of  my  favorite  movies  which  for  some  reason  made  me  think  of  osc  the  last  time  i  was  watching  it  <3  this  is  lowkey  long  as  hell  but  in  my  opinion  it’s  worth  it  .  as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think  ,  and  my  inbox  is  open  for  requests  !  i’m  hoping  to  have  an  event  up  in  the  next  couple  of  days  too  .  love  you  all  MWAH  !  title  is  from  time  after  time  by  cyndi  lauper  .

Oscar always wakes up before his alarm goes off.

He doesn’t bother checking the date anymore. Sunday, May 25, 2025 — the 82nd annual Monaco Grand Prix. It’s sunny outside, a cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly over the glittering harbor. It seems like the perfect day for racing, though it will grow overcast around the 32nd lap and rain will cover the Fairmont Hairpin by lap 41. Lance Stroll always hits the turn going too fast on his inters and skids into the barriers. Oscar knows everything about the day, down to his bones. After all, today will be the 57th time he’s lived it. 

By now, his morning routine doesn’t run on instinct so much as muscle memory. He brushes his teeth, calls his mum and tells her he loves her, listens to her tell him you’ve got this, Osc (which is entirely ironic to him now, because he affirmatively does not “got this.” In fact, he thinks this might be the first time he’s ever done anything 56 times without improving at it even an ounce). He shaves, not because he needs to, but because he knows his stubble will start itching by the time he gets to the media pen. He puts on the team kit that’s always neatly folded on his chair when he wakes, even when he leaves it crumpled on his bedroom floor the night before. At least reliving the same day over and over means he never has to do his laundry.

Here’s what he knows so far (a list, meticulously kept in one of his McLaren notebooks). He’s tentatively titled it Oscar Piastri’s Guide to the Time Loop. 

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep. 

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains. 

Number two: he can alter the day. 

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life �� a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet. 

Number three: he can’t die. 

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him. 

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out. 

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there. 

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him. 

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset. 

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest. 

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side. 

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock. 

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads. 

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words. 

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet. 

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied. 

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still. 

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word. 

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway. 

You’re not here. 

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine. 

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache. 

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before. 

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters. 

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it. 

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around. 

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood. 

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his. 

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.” 

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice. 

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear. 

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri. 

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!! 

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes. 

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend. 

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on. 

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either. 

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water. 

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan. 

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent. 

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.” 

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters. 

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does. 

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin. 

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets). 

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing. 

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water. 

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic. 

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head. 

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht. 

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment. 

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck. 

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing. 

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t. 

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time. 

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake. 

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you. 

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to. 

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you. 

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap. 

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache. 

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life. 

And then he jumps. 

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly. 

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air. 

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours. 

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook. 

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment. 

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet. 

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own. 

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always. 

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today. 

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now. 

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment. 

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone. 

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it. 

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences. 

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion. 

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table. 

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food. 

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?” 

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice. 

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you. 

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth. 

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped. 

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you. 

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done. 

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart. 

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it. 

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow. 

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it. 

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries. 

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you. 

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure. 

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling. 

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.” 

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time. 

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you. 

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising. 

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors. 

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time. 

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened. 

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once. 

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you. 

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit. 

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different. 

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof. 

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness. 

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir. 

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else. 

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips. 

Forever isn’t an easy concept to swallow for a man who’s just been stuck in a time loop. But Oscar thinks if you’re by his side, he could definitely get used to it. 

[loverboy-cc]

Dmtryo • He/She • Not Cis • Druid/Artificer (alchemist)

So this dude and my durge are actually forks of my Genshin/hsr self insert, which is a fork of my persona lmao (All are named Dmtryo too which is fun and not confusing at all /sarc)

He’s kinda just Some Guy. Referred to as “the slightly uncanny Druid” bc he is the stares really hard genre of Autisim and does not blink as much as he realistically should.

Literally his whole design stems from my love of spiders and my roommate saying people find me unnerving bc I idly have the same vibe as the happy mask salesman which is so unbelievably gender btw.

I love being widely unappealing /gen

No-op trans thing just kinda chilling in a tiny grove north of the Spine of the World. Spends most of her time reading, or making potions. Carries a thick notebook full of hundreds of different recipes. While she’s not a healer, she can cure most small ailments with relative ease. As long as she’s got the ingredients that is.

Negative rizz (8 chr) and squishy as hell (8 con) but he sure can think really good (17 int / 16 wis)

A coward who spends more time running from her problems than it would realistically take to fix them.

Spends most of his time wildshaped as a wolverine.

Gale kisser and mustards no. 1 hater (very casually offered to non lethally poison her for gale. Magical food poisoning.)

Spends a lot of time post game making intense and unbroken eye contact with tara.

Has knee problems

Didn’t know how to tell Gale he was Down Horrendous so he foraged him a bunch of fresh herbs and wrote a really awkward note that went something like.

“I want to kiss you on the mouth with romantic intent. Do with this information what you will but if you mock me for it I will probably cry so keep that in mind I suppose.”

Licked the spider but sent his companions out of the room first.

[worldofchristmas]

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[hellcheerful]

Eddie: *Drawing "CC" on his notebook during class*

Gareth (sitting next to him): "CC"? what you doing there?

Eddie: It's a name, I mean um.. for our band, yeah! for the talent show, man. I feel like we can work out something with those initials.

Gareth: Oh cool! but what those stand for?

Eddie: Chr... cr- co-corroded! um... Coffin! yeah Corroded Coffin.

Gareth: Corroded Coffin sounds metal, dude. I like it!

Eddie: Yeah man we're so fucking metal *Discreetly hides another page with Chrissy Cunningham written in cursive and hearts all over it*

[fluffymisha97]

Creative Writing

Summary :  You and Chris moving in together. You have to sort through your stuff. You come across something old, something you wrote years ago. You aren’t the only one who discovers what you’d been hiding.

Warnings : Language ! Smutty cont implied. Explicit. 

Word count : 2,255 

**The idea came to me and I sort of just went with it. Also the pic, his facial expression is what I imagined so let's all pretend it’s not a Ipad but a Laptop. That last line in the fic, goes out to all of the amazing writers here on Tumblr. You all amaze me. I hope you enjoy it. **

Author Note : 

I do NOT give permission for my work to be re-posted, translated, or published on other sites than on my Tumblr. Comments, likes and reblogs are however much appreciated and humbly welcomed.

While you’re here :  Feel free and more than welcome to check out my other stories. Here --> Master List. 

While Chris packed up the kitchen, you moved on to your small study where you found your old notebooks from your teenage years and much more.

Time must’ve flown as you sat on the floor engrossed in some old story you wrote.

“Babe, at this rate it’ll take us forever to get done.”

You look up from the page, Chris stood by the door arms crossed but smiling at you.

“Sorry- I just found something from my high school. God, I can’t believe I won a contest with this. Luckily, my writings gotten better over the years.”

You continued to pack your stuff in the study. Most of the stuff was going to be donated or given away. Chris had made room for you in his- soon to be your office.

Suddenly you came across your old laptop. You were sure it had been thrown out. All excited and happy, you tried turning it on. Surprisingly it worked. You came across old documents and files from high school and college among family photos. You made sure to back everything up.

You ventured into your internet browser. You found your old WattPad and Tumblr user. You’d almost forgotten about that. For many years you wrote a lot of fiction and- … fanfiction. Reader insert fanfiction. You went through a quick and very brief Twilight phase and luckily your taste improved a whole lot. You wrote a bit Harry Potter and shortly dived into Marvel and DC which was a slip and slide into Actors x readers. You clicked on your old ‘Master list’.

“Hey, you about done in here?”

You closed the laptop promptly as Chris walked in.

“Yeah, I just found my old laptop and I wanted to save some old files and pictures- Something from a creative writing workshop.”

Chris squinted his eyes at you.

“That why you slammed the laptop closed? Cos of some writing?”

“Ahh yeah…- You need help in the kitchen?”

“Nah, almost done. Came looking for the tape.”

You slid the tape across the floorboards.

“Thanks. Are you hungry? I was thinking when you’re done here, we could order some pizza.”

“Yeah, actually- I can go down and get it. I should order one last Pizza from Sal’s pizza and pasta while I got the chance.”

You asked him about his order despite already knowing what he wanted. You grabbed your purse and keys.

You pulled Chris into a chaste kiss before leaving. You let out a soft hum against his lips feeling content. Chris caressed your cheek as you pulled away.

“See you in a bit.”

Silence filled the apartment. Chris went to finish the last box in the kitchen but curiosity nagged him. He couldn’t help but wonder what you’d been so desperately trying to hide on your laptop. ‘No, respect each other's privacy.’

But then again, you told each other basically everything. ‘Didn’t you?’ he thought so. Chris walked back and forth between the kitchen and the study while trying to talk himself down. ‘Y/N, loves me and couldn’t possibly get mad at me for this seeing how we have full transparency and no secrets.’ Therefore, it shouldn’t be a problem if he snuck a little peak on your laptop. He eyed the laptop about 20 times before he let out a groan and marched into the study.

Chris sat down in your chair. ‘Nice and comfy- gotta keep this baby’ anyhow- Chris opened the laptop. There was no password. Chris was sort of expecting this to be your ‘naughty laptop’. You’d mentioned once a while back, that you had a separate laptop for certain things like porn which you would never surf on your daily and current laptop. You were paranoid and odd like that. Another thing you’d shared with him.

Chris saw several documents that he assumed were from school. His eyes danced across the screen. Then something caught his eye. Tumblr. Chris clicked on the site. It was a dashboard, your Tumblr user’s dashboard. Intrigued and curious, Chris clicked on ‘Master list’. At first, he’d thought it would be a place where you posted your original stories and such but he was surprised about this discovery. There was soooo much stuff. What caught his eye as he scrolled down, was ‘Actors x readers’.

Chris knew enough about Tumblr to know -sort of- what the platform was used for. Often he had heard a lot of people talking about it. He’d never really explored it until now that is.

Chris clicked again, and found something he hadn’t seen coming. ‘Chris Evans x reader’, there must’ve been about 20+ stories about ‘him’?

‘Well this calls for further investigation.’ Chris clicked on one of the stories. The first many stories were soft, sweet and cuddly like you were. As he scrolled further down, his eyes went wide. ‘Chris Evans x reader, SMUT’, dying to know what you’d written, he clicked on the story. As he read, his eyes got bigger and bigger. This was straight up filthy, dirty, sexy and core-shocking. Yes, Chris knew you were great with words and you were no shy girl when it came to some heavy sexting but this- ‘Damn,’ was all he could say. Sucking it all in, he read on.

You balanced the pizza boxes as you entered your soon to be old apartment. You placed the pizza on the kitchen counter and took off your jacket.

“Hey, sorry for the long wait. They mixed up some of the order but I got a butt-load of garlic bread as compensation and- OMG, what are you doing?”

Chris leaned back, hands behind his head, looking at you, wide-eyed in the doorway. You saw your laptop perched on his lap. God knows, he wasn’t playing Sims on that thing.

“Well, this is certainly some creative writing, sweetheart.”

You looked down, fiddling with your hands.

“How much have you read?”

“I read most of the ones featuring me- I glanced at the Marvel stuff too, and wasn't a fan of the fics with Henry Cavill.”

Chris chuckled at you as your wide eyes locked with his. He then placed the laptop on the desk, and motioned for you to join him. You hang your head low wishing God would swoop down and have mercy on your soul. Chris called your name and reached a hand out for you. Slowly, you walked to him. Chris patted his thigh, you sat so both your legs were on one side of his.

“Y/N, I’m not mad or offended or anything…Actually flattered and-”

“I wrote those years ago and I wasn’t really all that social and- Wait, you’re not mad?”

“No, not at all…Maybe that you seemed to have had an infatuation with Henry Cavill as well but I can live with it. I had more stories if I’m not mistaken.”

You look up from your folded hands. There’s no signs of anger, disgust, disdain or anything like that. If anything he looks amused and unbothered.

“I feel like such a creep, Chris.”

“Why?”

“Because, I wrote them about you and you reading them wasn't a part of my plan. It was meant to entertain other ‘thirsty CE fans/readers… - Not you, now I just feel dirty and kinda cheap.”

“Honey, writing wise what I read was really good. Not just saying that because I’m in it but they were good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Really, really.”

Chris smiled as you lifted your head, no longer sad or worried. Chris leaned forward while balancing on his chest, you did the same. It was barely a peck on the lips before you flicked him hard right on his forehead.

“Dammit, what was that for?”

“What were you doing on my computer in the first place?”

You narrowed your eyes at him leaning back. Chris offered a sheepish smile.

“What? I’m sorry, I was curious.”

“You do know what curiosity did to the cat, right?”

Chris wrapped his arms around your waist holding you.

“I do yeah- but judging from your writing, killing me isn’t your style. - No, maybe whipping me, spanking me for being a naughty boy-”

“Screw you dude- Let me go.”

You tried wiggling your way out from his strong grip. Chris only laughed at your futile attempt. At last, you gave up leaning forward to rest your head in the crook of his neck. Chris rubbed your back as the laughter quieted down.

“I hate you.”

“I know.”

You let out a small hum.

“I’m sorry for snooping. Too nosey and curious for my own good.”

“And I’m apparently a thirsty whore on a laptop. So, sorry too.”

“Do not apologize for that. Ever. ”

You leaned back, Chris kissed your lips, cheeks and jaw. You gave him a small pat on the arm, signaling him to let you up. Not entirely willingly he did. The delicious smell of pizza filled his nostrils as he followed you.

You sat on the kitchen counter eating your pizza in a comfortable silence. Chris talked a bit about how the two of you could rearrange at home in regards to furniture. You disposed of the pizza boxes and cleaned up. Looking at Chris, You didn’t miss the way his lips quirked up every now and again.

“What?”

“There was one story, involved food-”

“Chris, no! You peaked and that is it. No more and never again, are we to discuss this.”

“Okayyy.”

There was silence after that. You walked through the living room and unfolded a moving box. Chris' smooth voice startled you as it filled the room.

“ ‘She trembled in his hands, both his cum and hers dripping down her thighs. Chris tightened his hand around her throat- ‘ “

You leaped across the room, when Chris read out loud from the laptop. You placed the laptop in one of the boxes and turned around facing Chris.

“I will hurt you if you utter one more word.”

Chris tried hiding his smile as you stood with both hands on your hips, giving him ‘the stern and mad’ look. Chris raised his hands, surrendering. If only.

“Now, weren’t you the one who didn’t want this to take forever? - Then help me.”

You emptied your coffee table while Chris carried the boxes from the study into the living room, stacking them together. You stretched your arms above your head and arched your back.

“ ‘ You felt hot as Chris’ strong hands glided over your naked body. He looked up at you with lust in his eyes before looking down. Your cunt glistening from his previous and ‘far-from finished- feast-’ ”

You picked up one of the throw pillows and threw it at his stupid face. Chris laughed at your pathetic attempt. Whenever you were angry, you looked as angry as a kitten. He loved that. You clicked your tongue and crossed your arms.

“Fuck it, don’t bother packing the rest. I’ll stay here and die of humiliation. Thank you and please close the door on your way out.”

You threw yourself on the couch hiding your face in the cushions. You could hear Chris chuckling behind you, soon you felt the couch dip as he laid down next to you. His hand on your back instantly.

“You aren’t going to let this go anytime soon, are you?”

“Not likely- Y/N, I’m kidding… I’ll stop or I’ll try really hard to. Call it me being envious. I could never come up with any of that. Might I add, you normally do the majority of the sexting whilst I prefer facetime cause I ain’t good with words.”

You rolled over lying on your side facing him.

“That’s a lie. Your work with ASP?”

“Hon, that’s politics. Not hot stuff exactly.”

“I bet you could make it hot. You already are doing that. Fandom be thirsting and creaming for you.”

Chris’ eyes sparkled as a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

“Speaking of ‘creaming’, there was one fic-”

You slapped your hand across his lips, silencing him.

“I ought to beat you if you don’t shut up…”

Chris raised his eyebrows at you, muffled speaking from behind your hand.

“I think I got a whip from a bachelorette party I went to years ago.”

Chris’ eyes darkened a bit briefly but you saw it and he saw that you saw it. You felt his tongue on the inside of your palm. You removed your hand slowly as Chris pulled you closer, flipping you so that you were trapped and pinned down on the couch. Chris hummed as you shivered at his hand grazing your jean-clad pussy. He looked proud as he felt your hips bucking up against his own. A low growl vibrated from his chest.

“How about that?”

‘Hmm’

Chris leaned down pressing kisses by the corner of your mouth teasing you. More like torturing you. Your arms went around his neck holding him close to you. He smirked at you.

“I guess I ain’t opposed to that seeing how all of your creative writing got me all riled up earlier.”

It was safe to say that Chris was your biggest fan and reader of your work. You didn’t write fanfiction anymore and why would you when you had the real deal. There was no fantasy that this man would say no to. He was more than happy to fulfill them. And every once in a while, the two of you would explore some creative writing on Tumblr. 

The stuff on there is to die for.

Tag list 

@bellaireland1981 @denisemarieangelina​​

@patzammit​​

@chris-butt

@castellandiangelo​​

@harrysthiccthighss​​

@tantricevans

@katiew1973​​      

@draw-back-your-bow​

@missswriter​

@arabescapr​

@liquorlaughslove

@chaneajoyyy

@sunflowercaptain

@ la-cey 

@adoreyou976

@geminievans1

@justile​

@breezykpop​ ​

@nikkitc0703​

[iwriteinsertreader]

Straw Hats with a reader who’s similar to Komi Shouko (Komi can’t communicate)

A/N: Welcome to my first insert reader!! This is my first so there might be some mistake and some chr might be OOC (I haven’t watch one piece for a while) moment so I really hope you don’t mind and I’ll be gladly take criticize to improve more. So enjoy!! >3

| Reader is gender neutral (They/Them), Komi can’t communicate references, character may be OOC (Out of Character), their relationship is platonic etc. |

Okay that mean two things

You’re gorgeous, and pretty. Everyone treat you like a god

But what everyone beside your parent didn’t know is that you have communicate disorder, they thought you we’re just cold but no you just don’t know how to communicate with people

You wish you could speak, but you just couldn’t, and you often overthinking that people will think you’re weird and fear that they’ll reject you

It was until when the Straw Hats arrive at the island where you live

When the Straw Hats first meet you, they we’re all got distracted by your beauty, it’s like you been send by god. No, maybe you ARE the god itself

(Not sure about Luffy case, but if you have cool power though? he’ll probably like you)

Although they will be confuse why you wrote on a notebook, but they didn’t mind

At first they probably thought you’re just cold, doesn’t felt like speaking, or maybe even muted. But in reality, you just a struggle and panic non binary person who just want to communicate and get friends

I felt like Robin will be the first person in Straw Hat to know first, and Luffy definitely would be the last one to know

All of them also be surprise when you speak (or stuttering to some case), like ‘holy sh you sound so????’ in a positive way.

//For Luffy case it will be “WAIT YOU CAN TALK??”

And after the crew know that you have communicate disorder, they all willing to help you and will be patient when you’re trying to speak

Now onto headcanons or facts 

No matter what Luffy will still drag you to play games with Usopp and Chopper (before letting you decide), with Nami yelling in the background, but you don’t mind actually, you have fun with the other

You often listen to Usopp story, even if they are lie or real

Reading book with Robin and listening Brook playing music made you felt relaxing

Franky works often amaze you, sparkle can be seen in your eyes

The crew doesn’t mind if you did something that you overthinking it’s bad, it’s okay to be wrong and make mistake

Let said you once overthink that Sanji will thought that (insert your favorite food) is childish, but he doesn’t think its childish and doesn’t mind either, everyone has their favorite type of food

You secretly and sometime train with Zoro, because you doesn’t want to cause problem to your friends and you doesn’t want to felt weak

If you want to hanging around on a new island, you’ll have to pair with either Nami, Robin, Sanji or any crew member that is not Zoro and Luffy.

(You once pair with Zoro or Luffy, and it either you’ll get lost or you get drag into something trouble)

Robin and Jinbe is a great choice to talk to if you have problem, mama Robin and papa Jinbe will always help you

Carrot is awe at your pretty look and hair, asking how you manage to take care of them well

The moment when you first meet Yamato at that arc you we’re scare at him at first “holy sh tall people”, but don’t worry you’ll slowly getting used and manage to keep up to him

Remember how there’s often a moment when there’s a cat ear appear on Komi head somehow? This is you doing something new and exciting. People often find this cute but never said it out loud

If there’s a person that actually made you cry tho? Ho boy

Will no hesitate to beat up that person, how are they mess with their baby crew mate

You are still struggling to communicate, but you felt happy and safe when you we’re with the Straw Hat, the chaotic friends, and crews you didn’t regret join

“Communicate disorders, they cause people to struggle in social situations. This makes them come off as cold. But keep this in mind: Their struggle with their disorder doesn’t mean they don’t want to make friends.”

-Komi can’t communicate ; episodes 1

Felt free to share your idea and headcanons as well : D

[bunie-grrss]

Yan! Roguefort cookie x Detective! Reader

Requested by a person that doesn't want to be mentioned!

CHR; Almond Cookie, Walnut cookie, 'and Roguefort cookie Prompt; the reader is a detective that was investigating Roquefort cookie various crimes, as more and more crimes about him been popping up more, the reader started to get overwhelmed and took a rest, little that they know... it will sink Roquefort's mind in a deep abyss. ------------------------------------------------- Sitting at a chair near the window at the nearby cafe, you sighed, as you tapped your pencil at the notebook you've been using as your diary. looking back at the empty notebook, only a few words have been written in there 'i wondered' was the only thing you can think of, there's been a suspiciously huge crime rate of Phantom Bleu.you sighed as you take a sip of the coffee while looking back at almond cookie, an infamous detective who is your friend, well maybe partners in the detective agency, also a young little lady with curly hair, with a side ponytail, walnut cookie, almonds child, you patted her, as she looked at your notebook "what were you writing y/n?" you stay silent as you try to find a response to the comment "I.. don't know yet.." she would looked confused at you, before bringing your mind to reality "is it the phantom bleu continuous crimes?"you would look at her with a surprised expression before switching to neutral "well... yes, you could say that it's very...complicated, considering he the infamous jewel thief leaving almost no trace behind in every crime"you would huffed in frustration as your break was gonna be over in a few days, meaning you have to solve their crimes again. "well, we have to leave now goodbye y/n" almond would stand up, walnut following her father behind before leaving you alone in your seated site, leaving you alone with 4 other customers. that's including Roquefort himself, reading a piece of newspapers quietly sipping his cup of tea, staring at you, of course, you couldn't know, his a 'citizen' for now until night has struck. -------------------------------------------------------- he would be wondering what he had gone wrong, he wanted to see them, he wanted to hold them forever, he wanted them to keep chasing after him, he loved them, he wanted them, he wanted to..see what their doing, closing his notebook filled to the brim with photos of you. he loves it all, but he never will feel their presence when their away. it started to get morning fast than he thought, looking through the window through his office. changing back to his normal clothes instead of the blue vest cheese hat thief he always be, his mind been flooded with the image of them being happy together, he didn't think he would lose his mind over a simple detective. "heh... I wish I could see you now.." seeing how he polish his glasses and looking out at the right cafe window his in now, sipping his tea before abruptly being distracted by a warm presence he had always known for some time. he looking over he saw you, almond cookie, his heart boiled in acid, making his stomach churn in disgust, he wanted to be near you but can't, he sighed, calming down his nerves, deciding to watch over you, as he red his newspapers. he'll always be watching you for now. ----------------------------------_______________ Jesus I finish it very fast- but here's Roquefort x reader -

[thebuttsmcgee]

ALRIGHT. SO. Once again, not unlike a child making a chr*stmas wishlist by cutting out pics from magazines and gluing them on a notebook page, I've compiled a list of cosmetics I'd love to see in Frontiers!!! (Nerding out about cosmetic possibilities and listening to I'm Here is how I've been avoiding spoilers ✌️😔)

They range from "I can see it", to "okay yea that's not gunna fucking happen". I'd be cool with anyone adding anything they'd like to see too!!!!

Okay first of the agenda,

Outfits previously worn by Sonic! Aside from the last one, these have all been worn by Sonic at some point in time in either official games and/or official artwork! Last one tho, is concept art for Sonic Riders and is definitely in the "yea that's not gunna fucking happen" section.

Second page of shoddy notebook,

Same sorta concept with all these being official except some are a bit more, questionable, due to some of them being one time exclusives from older media! Some even being wildly unknown such as the OVA fit and WereHog Hoodie. I like them tho. :^)

Thirdst,

SEGA crossover stuff. Yea. 👍. Also the link and Mario fits would be exclusive obvs but eh. I'd dig it. the other consoles could get anything tbh I have no idea other than sly cooper and master chief lmao.

Damned Fourth one,

Okay so hear me out, Link in BotW and Mario in Odyssey broke gender norms in both games by wearing some kinda women's fit, so I think Sonic should too with Amy and Blaze's fits! Plus, Blaze's boots are rad. Also Knuckles' hat is a must c'mon now.

That's really it for cosmetics, but one final thing I'd love to see, isn't exactly a cosmetic. As a matter of fact it's an entirely different model that they'd have to create...

NOW HEAR ME OUT. Odyssey and Crash 4 had the same deal with this where you could play their respective first appearances, wonky polygons and all. And considering how beloved Adventure will always be, as well as how much inspiration Frontiers seems to be taking from the Adventure games, I think it'd be fun if you could play as either the original DreamCast or Adventure DX model!!!

Thanks for reading and please tag spoilers!!!✌️

[bedtimebrain]

EXO D.O. Series: You and Me. (P4)

Series Page

Genre/Desc: Loosely adapted from A Love So Beautiful

Chr: u x ksoo

Word Count:1.2k

You slept through your alarm that rang at 6am. Your brain cells were overworked yesterday night, as you thought about what you saw.

Just as the brightness of the sun cast through your room window, your mum came banging on your door to wake you up.

Without Kyungsoo to go school with... Your motivation to get up was almost zero. You unwillingly got out of bed and trudged your way to the bathroom.

By this time, you normally would already be waiting by kyungsoo’s gate. But not today .. You didn’t know if you wanted to see him or not.

Who’s that girl? He left me alone for 20 minutes... he didn’t even think about me who’s waiting there right?

Feeling down, you didn’t even eat your breakfast. Taking the sandwich on the table you left home.

On your way down, you suddenly thought

would Kyungsoo be waiting for me downstairs? What should I say if I saw him? Should I just walk pass him?

Exiting your apartment, you searched around for kyungsoo. But like another stab to your heart, he didn’t wait for you.

In even more of a mood now, you headed to school alone.

-

‘Y/N~~ why so late today? Where’s kyungie? Don’t you guys always come to school together?’

Coincidentally meeting woohyun at the school gate, he chirpily asked

‘Ah.. i overslept..’ you could barely even make a smile in your reply

He stopped walking and pulled you to a halt, taking a close up look at your face.

‘Ya, did you really oversleep or have you been ditched by him? Do you want me to give him a kick’ he asked half seriously and jokingly.

Feeling annoyed, you pushed him away, ‘it’s a long story.. don’t ask’

‘Damn , I knew there’s more than it meets the eye. Cheer up, you’ve got me to spice up your day’ he put his arms over you and walked into class together.

Passing by Kyungsoo to get to your seat, you could feel his eyes following you. Without greeting him or acknowledging him, you sat down and started pulling out your notebooks.

From the side of your eye, you could see him switching between looking at his notes and at you.

Did he have something to say? I’m not going to talk to you first, kyungsoo.

‘Y/N..’ just as he finally called out to you, your class monitor called for the class’s attention to greet the teacher.

Making no effort to follow up on what he wanted to say, you pretended to pay attention to whatever the teacher was saying.

Kyungsoo himself held tightly onto the ‘no talking during class’ rule, so he didn’t continue the conversation he wanted to make either.

When break time finally came, you can’t help but still felt awkward with Kyungsoo. You didn’t really want to hang out with him with now, with yesterday’s incident still a fresh wound.

‘Woots! Cafeteria let’s go let’s go!’ Woohyun got up excitedly

But you remained in your seat and looked up at him

‘You guys go ahead, I still have my breakfast with me. I’ll stay in class’

Woohyun looked behind you, where you Kyungsoo was, seeming to understand you were trying to avoid him

‘Y/N are you ...’ Kyungsoo started but was cut off by woohyun

‘Okay then, we will go ahead without you’

Once again, Kyungsoo held back his words. But from the corner of your eye, you saw kyungsoo’s shuffling his feet. Was he unsure whether to go or not?

‘Tell me if you need anything’ woohyun leaned across to your table to tell you. You ruffled his hair and smiled, showing that you appreciate him.

Whatever it was, he ended up leaving you in the classroom to eat your already cold sandwich, without a word.

-

When you came back from the toilet, Kyungsoo and woohyun were already back from the cafeteria.

‘Got sipping yoghurt for you and melon pan, just incase you faint from being hungry’ woohyun pointed at the snacks on your desk just as you sat down.

‘Omo, woori woohyunie is really the best!’

‘Of course, but give me something in return’ he shot you a flirty look

His suggestive looks made you go off tangent on your thinking right away.

‘Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?!’ You exclaimed in shock. The entire class’s attention was now on the both of you

Woohyun quickly covered your mouth and pulled you out of the class, you make a grab for your yoghurt as he dragged you.

‘Ya! Are you crazy ?! Why would I ask you to be my girlfriend?’ the both of you were now at the corridor

‘how would I know.. ? You looked like it alright ! Plus I mean you’re always so nice to me...’ you innocently said

Flicking your forehead he clarified

‘I just wanted to know what happened between the both of you. Kyungsoo either doesn't want to say it or seems to have no clue what’s going on.’

‘Oh that... yesterday while we were studying, we went to buy some drinks from the vending machine. Then..’

You couldn’t bear to say the words out

‘Then what? You confessed your love or something?’

Woohyun eagerly probe

‘We forgot our wallets, so he was supposed to go back up to take it.

But he left me there waiting for 20minutes while he spoke to some pretty noona’

Your heart was heavy just thinking about that. But Woohyun burst out laughing instead

‘I thought it was something really serious you know, y/n, like something that could tear our friendship . But this ...’ and he continued laughing

‘Ya... I’m just sad about this cause I felt abandoned okay... can’t you understand’

Stifling his laughter, he tried his best to comfort you

‘Alright, I know. Like you aren’t important enough for him to remember you are waiting there.

Don’t think too much about it y/n, you know Kyungsoo doesn’t casually hit anyone up or entertain people. It’s probably something significant ok?’

Though his words didn’t really get to you, you were still thankful, till he added

‘But... y/n ah Kyungsoo is still a high school boy. I think pretty noonas are still part of our interests compared to......’

He deliberately scanned his eyes up then down at you.

You got what he was trying to get at and threw a punch at him which evolved into a childish fight.

As if the timing couldn’t be better, Kyungsoo came out of the classroom door and caught sight of the both of you tangled in a ‘fight’.

His eyes widened just slightly, and he visibly swallowed.

‘The class monitor’s looking for the both of you to hand in your work before the next period’

His voice suddenly changed to the voice he use when he felt awkward with new people. Without making eye contact with either of you, he hurriedly turned on his heels.

Internally face palming yourself a thousand times, you whined

‘Woohyun ah, it’s so awkward now! What excuse should I give to not go home with him today?’ You were in a dilemma. You caused this awkwardness but it feels like you were more scared than him at this persisting situation

‘No worries y/n, he’s got something after school today. I’ll get you snacks you missed out on yesterday ok? Let’s go back to class now’

Entering the class, you caught kyungsoo’s eyes turn away from the back door that instance.

Somehow..

You had this feeling that he had been looking at it for a long time.

Or maybe you were hoping he was

-----

P5's gna be fluffier, so hang on a little more! my drawing is pretty trash, but just wanted to try something fun while trying to write more since exo's having their comeback soon~

funfact that im an engine student! And have been absolutely horrendous at arts and humanities since forever. am a typical math and science brainer :p feel free to laugh at my 'art' but hold your insults please :,)

[ask-the-6-souls]

[written-on-the-trees]

Silver Linings In Winter Clouds - Machine Gun Kelly Fan Fiction

Prompt: Nativity Play (very, very loosely)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2100 words (I know, okay, it got away from me)

Summary: High-school AU. Colson is almost one-hundred per-cent sure that there was no punishment worse than having to join the drama club for their Christmas play, even one of the other members is possibly the cutest girl he's ever seen...

Colson had thought he had experienced the worst of his school’s punishments for bad behavior, having been in detention almost every week since he could remember, but he had been wrong.

   So, so wrong.

   He stared in horror at the carnage unfolding in front of him, and wondered if the punishment for bailing on this punishment could really be any worse than what he was currently facing.

 Sure, he might get suspended or something…but he wasn’t really sure that was any worse than being forced to take part on the drama club’s Christmas play. His dad would absolutely flip his shit, but he’d be able to pick up some extra shifts at work, and he’d get out of the fucking nightmare that was this drama club bullshit.

 Colson was more than ready to take his chances, when Mr. Greene, the drama teacher, saw him frozen in the doorway to the practice room, and cheerfully called out to him:

   “Mr. Baker! So glad you could make it.”

   Too late to escape now.

   Unwilling to lose face by running (or even walking) away now everyone was looking at him, Colson curled his lip in disdain and stepped further into the room.

 He wasn’t a coward.

 Disgusted by all this theatre shit, but not a coward.

 It was exactly the kind of attitude they were expecting from him, so it wasn’t long before they were all going back to focusing on that they had been doing before Mr. Greene had drawn everyone’s attention to him. Knowing Greene, it was probably a deliberate way of irritating Colson - the guy was just like that - but unfortunately that didn’t mean Colson could avoid him. Greene was the only one who could sign off on Colson’s report that documented him actually being here…and he was also the only one who could give Colson a job to do, because Colson sure as hell wasn’t taking any initiative with this shit.

 The less effort he could put in, the better. It was bad enough that people were going to think he was one of the drama nerds (albeit unwillingly), he refused to give anyone even an inkling that he was enjoying or being proactive about being part of this.

 As it was, Greene sent him over to work with the group of kids working on the scenery, muttering something about putting his height to good use. Colson had never been so grateful to be a lanky motherfucker as he was right then, walking over to where four girls and two guys were leant over various bits of paper, arguing between themselves.

   “Hey…apparently I’m meant to be helping out over here.” Colson announced to get their attention, watching as all six of them looked up from the paper and had six different reactions.

   Brendan, always the drama queen, threw his hands up and stormed away while muttering about not wanting to deal with ‘the white trash kid in detention’. His twin sister, Ellie, smiled apologetically and went after him to calm him down. Willow looked a little nervous, which was understandable since the last time she’d seen him he had been kicking the shit out of her older brother. Cameron beamed friendlily and welcomed him to the team. Darren just smiled.

 And then there was Belle.

 Colson had to stop himself from staring as she smiled at him, the soft, somehow glowing expression one he’d never had directed at him before.

 She looked so gorgeous, standing there in her black denim dungarees and white t-shirt with the small splotch of pink paint on the shoulder and with the paint and ink stains on her hands, Colson felt like he almost swallowed his own tongue. She just looked so…soft, so sweet, like some kind of paint-stained Christmas angel.

 He was instantly in love with her.

   I’m so screwed…

      Being in regular contact with Belle was doing nothing to stop Colson feeling like he was doomed – because if their first meeting had been difficult, with Colson feeling like he was tripping over his words every time he spoke to her (although thankfully she seemed not to have notices his sudden incompetence when it came to speech), then the second was basically excruciating.

 The thing was, Belle was nice.

 Genuinely, altruistically, nice.

 Unlike Brendan, who sneered at Colson every time he spoke, or Willow and Darren who were still a bit jumpy around him, Belle always took time to not just say hello when he showed up, but actually ask how his day had been and then listen when he responded - however flippant his responses were.

 She laughed at his jokes, and shut Darren up when Colson saw a bit of scenery design so blatantly stupid he had to suggest it be changed - because even if he was going to be part of this fiasco, he wasn’t going to have his name associated with anything so dumb as the fake graffiti Brendan had drawn on the plans.

 Modern take on the Christmas Nativity scene or not, there was no need for that bullshit.

   Colson hadn’t really expected anyone to take his side, even when he explained why he didn’t like it, but then Belle had nodded and said: “That’s a fair point - what would you suggest we do instead?”

 “Like, speak to someone who maybe knows how to do that graffiti shit?” Colson asked.

 “I’m sure you have a whole list of degenerate friends to recommend - ” Brendan sneered, but Belle cut him off:

 “Great idea, Colson. I know exactly who to ask.”

      On the day of their third meeting, Belle walked into the room five minutes later than Colson, with a familiar face trailing after her.

 Dom was a kind-of friend of Colson’s in the same way he was a kind-of friend with everyone in this school; he just had one of those personalities. He went to the same parties as Colson and his friends, wrote stories that had him in good standing with the English Lit kids, and apparently spent a lot of his art classes working next to Belle.

 He also was well known for creating various pieces of artwork all over any walls he got get to without being seen. His fingers were constantly stained with spray paint.

   Colson was a little bit surprised to see him, but still happy to chat while the others were distracted: “Hey man, I didn’t know you got involved with this shit.”

 “I don’t, normally. Mr. Greene hates me.” Dom laughed loudly - and drawing a furious expression out of Greene: “But Belle’s sound, and she asked me to ‘consult’, so here I am.”

   Colson shouldn’t be surprised that other people thought Belle was a good person - or ‘sound’ as Dom put it - and, when he thought about it, he wasn’t.

 He just surprised at how in love he was with her after just two meetings.

   I’m so unbelievably screwed…

      After a week of planning sessions, Belle took Colson to the art cupboard to help her gather supplies for painting the scenery Willow and Cameron were currently drawing out back on the stage of the school theatre.

 He wasn’t much use; standing outside with a big cardboard box in his arms while Belle actually found everything they had been sent out to go and get, but Belle didn’t seem to mind all that much…

   “I’m just so glad I don’t have to lug it all back by myself, or with Darren.” she confided in him while putting some pots of brightly coloured paint in the box he was holding: “Don’t tell him I said it, but you’ve got a lot more muscles than he does.”

 Colson knew she was only being friendly…but that didn’t stop him from winking at her: “Thanks, I worked hard for them.”

 “And they’re very nice, too.” Belle laughed, clearly taking his response as a joke…but Colson didn’t mind her missing him flirting with her.

   He’d seen her looking at his arms.

 She hadn’t just been teasing.

 Colson wasn’t the only one

      On opening night, Colson was hanging out backstage, leaning against a wall and waiting for his cue to help move the scenery about on stage. They had to keep it down, as to not be heard over ‘Marine’ and ‘Joey’ dramatically bemoaning that there was no room at the inn – in rhyming couplets (Colson was seriously glad he hadn’t been put with the kids writing the script for this punishment, he might have actually punched someone), but it was still…alright.

 Brendan was still a dick, obviously, but Willow had warmed up enough to offer him some sour patch kids from the bag she, Ellie, Belle, and Cameron were sharing (which was more than she’d offered Brendan - which Colson was taking as a major win), and Belle was leaning against the wall next to him, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a black button-down shirt like the rest of them, with her chocolate-coloured hair smoothed into a sleek twist, and her skin free of paint.

 Honestly, Colson kind of missed the paint stains…but he had to admit he wasn’t ungrateful to be seeing the smokey eyeshadow and deep red lipstick she’d put on for when they went out on stage to take their bow after the play was over.

 After a month of spending anywhere between one and three hours a day with her, Colson could safely say he’d never wanted anyone more than he wanted Belle.

 She was…indescribable. Literally; he didn’t have all the words to describe her properly, and Colson prided himself on being eloquent. He adored everything about her: from the fact she was constantly sketching in a notebook just as he always had scraps of paper to write down anything he thought might sound good in a song, the way she was quick to laugh and even quicker to smile, and the fact that she was always willing to give someone a chance, no matter how disdainful they were when she met them.

 Yeah, he was talking about himself.

 Belle had been nice to him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when, to make sure everyone knew he was no coward, he’d acted like a dick.

 Well, Colson still wasn’t a coward…so tonight, after they’d all taken their bow and shit, he was going to ask Belle if she wanted to go out with him at some point over the Christmas break. Just the thought was terrifying, but if she noticed anything, she was kind enough not to mention it as they waited around backstage, or as they moved scenery as required, or when they went out and took their bow with the script writers, the kid who’d done the lighting and sound effects, the kids who’d make the costumes.

 She just…carried on making normal conversation, and didn’t seem to mind when Colson’s responses were a little halting and disjointed. She didn’t even say anything when they were heading out of the back of the auditorium after most of the audience had left, and Colson was trailing after her, feeling a little like a lost puppy…

 He felt like an idiot, so when she paused just before she was about to say goodbye, Colson blurted out:

   “Hey, Belle, I know we probably won’t be seeing each other much now my detention in theatre club is over, since if I stick around I might get kicked out for finally punching Brendan like he deserves, but I was wondering if…maybe you wanted to go out over winter break? Like, on a date?”

 Belle looked surprised for a few seconds, and Colson’s heart dropped…but then she grinned, fishing a pen out of her pocket and scrawling her number on the back of his hand, before leaning up to press her lips against his cheek: “I’d love to. Text me to work something out?”

 “I’d love to…” Colson echoed, feeling a little dazed from the kiss…but still overjoyed.

   Belle laughed gently, before ducking out when someone called for her.

 Colson waited a few seconds in the room, probably smiling like an idiot, before heading out too.

   Slim and Rook were waiting for him just outside the doors, the grins on the faces confirming that they had heard everything Colson and Belle had said, with Slim greeting Colson with a congratulatory grin: “So, bro, how do we sign up next year? I’m thinking I need a way to find me a hot girl…”

[cuddlecave]

Hmm, reading that last naga ask makes me wonder what would happen if Ben was pulled to the future on the return trip along with Gordon. But that seems like a risky chance for sads and experiment stuff. And also things being accidentally crushed. But a time travel relationship seems like it's set up for tragedy, didn't the Notebook teach us anything? /lh

plus, you just DON'T wanna fuck with time travel! doesn't always end as well as like chr/ono trigger did!

[lunariasilver]

The Virtuoso - 4. Meteor City IV

Masterlist

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A/N I'm sorry guys, the ending of this chapter kicked my fucking ass. I've been sitting on it being almost done forever.

After the troupe left, I started composing a song for them. I wasn't sure why. It wasn't like I was going to be able to play it for them but...it provided me with some peace. It reminded me of them. It wasn't just them that playing my violin reminded me of, though.

Every time I looked at it I remembered my grandfather. My mother, my father...my brothers. It made me want to tear it apart.

I wouldn't, though. My father always told me I was a sentimental fool, and he was right.

The music it made was nice, at least.

Inspiration had struck me in the middle of the street and I was working on a random stanza. Eventually I was going to have to put all of these parts together, but for now I just kept coming up with more pieces. I couldn't help but wonder if they would ever fit together.

I was interrupted by a familiar face. I couldn't quite place it at first, though.

"Give me your violin!" She demanded, standing in a threatening manner.

I stared at her blankly.

"Now, or- or I'll kill you!" She continued.

Oh, that's right. Zara. The girl I made lead me into the part of the city that people actually lived in.

"Why?" I asked. I was still positioned to play as if her presence made no difference to me. It didn't really.

"I'm- I'm gonna sell it!" Zara yelled. The woman was practically shaking. How tedious.

I tilted my head to the side. "To who?"

"Um-"

"Nobody here would ever buy this. Nobody can play it." I paused. "Why do you want it?"

Zara faltered, lowering her fists and looking at the ground. "Y-your music is beautiful. I thought that...maybe I could make it."

It remained silent. She was still trembling. She probably thought I was going to kill her. I was considering it. She did threaten me, after all...

"Would you like me to teach you?" I offered, surprising even myself.

-

-

-

After that, more and more people began approaching me asking for lessons. They started trading with me for them.

It was almost like I was an actual musician holding classes. After a while, people started trading violins to people. I assumed they bought them with whatever money they made working for the mafia.

I saw the mafia often. Well, their runners. It was strange how many jobs they were doing recently. They'd come to me a few times to ask me to handle a job for them. I obviously could never complete them, but I could at least point them in the direction of somebody who could. After the fourth time of me doing that, they started to come to me first. They even payed me. Jenny was no good to me, so I gave them a list of things that would work as payment.

I couldn't wait to discuss my new books with Chr-

Oh.

Right.

-

-

-

I was in the middle of teaching a class when I felt a familiar presence. It had been two months since I had last felt it. I almost dropped my violin I whipped around so fast-

"Chrollo?"

"I hadn't even said hello yet." Chrollo said, seemingly amused by my quick response to his presence. "What's this?"

My class was unnerved, but seemed to trust me to protect them from the former resident. "I'm teaching them to play the violin."

"How domestic."

I pursed my lips, trying to hide how truly pleased I was to see him. "I have to do something while you're not here." I then turned to face my class. "An old friend of mine is visiting. Class is over for today. Your next lesson will be free. I apologize."

They grumbled a bit, but they knew better than to kick up a fuss. When they were gone I turned to face Chrollo.

He was still smiling. "I brought you some books and sheet music."

I wasn't quite sure what to say to him, and I think he could sense that.

"I also brought food."

And those were the magic words. "What food did you bring? Is it cake? Cookies? Pasta?" I asked, advancing on him quickly.

His smile seemed to grow warmer at this. "You'll have to find out."

I narrowed my eyes. "Let's eat now."

"So impatient."

"Come on!" I demanded, grabbing him by his free arm and dragging him with me. When we got to my "residence" I paused for a brief moment.

"I-" I started, staring at the ground for a moment.

"Yes?"

I shook my head before dragging him inside. "I'm gonna have to read the books before you leave. So we can discuss them."

I didn't think you'd come back.

-

-

-

I was less sad when Chrollo left again. After all, this time I knew he'd be back. All of them would be back. They had no reason to, but they would. Just to visit me.

How strange.

The song that I had been composing with them in mind was so much easier now. I could hear how the puzzle fit together. It all started making sense to me. It had to be perfect, though. I couldn't count the amount of times that I had scrapped an entire section. Chrollo had given me a notebook that I was using to write it all down. I couldn't risk losing any of what I had already come up with. Maybe one day I would play it for them all. I knew Paku at least would like to hear it.

Time kept passing me by. Members of the troupe visited from time to time, usually by themselves. Sometimes they visited in pairs, but never all at once. That was fine with me.

Any time they got a new member somebody came to introduce them to me. Apparently Chrollo wanted there to be a total of thirteen members. I wasn't really sure why. (I mean, I had an idea, but he had never actually told me.) It kind of stung that I couldn't be a member, but I understood why. What use could I be to them if I couldn't leave the city?

Still, they clearly cared about me, and that was all I really needed.

Meteor City was starting to feel more like home. My thoughts didn't turn to Zoldyck Manor nearly as often as they used to. The people here were all fond of me. Or at the very least they knew better than to outwardly express their distaste of me.

I didn't "take care of people's problems" as often as I used to, since I was so busy with my classes, but I was still willing. Not to mention I had begun to serve as a liaison for the mafia. Honestly, aside from the complete and utter lack of modern amenities, Meteor City was quite comfortable.

I did miss having a chef, though. I still couldn't quite grasp the concept of cooking. Nobody had ever explained it to me. And it wasn't like I had an abundance of seasoning here.

....I missed good food so much.

-

-

-

Apparently the Troupe had gotten pretty busy as of late, trying to establish themselves in the greater world. They didn't have the time to visit me like they used to. It was okay though, I knew they hadn't forgotten about me. They still sent me messages from time to time, so I at least knew that they were thinking of me.

I tried not to think about how much I wanted to join them in whatever it was they were up to. That line of thought was dangerous. It might make me do something reckless.

I was laying on my pathetic mattress staring at a scarf that Paku had gotten me. It wasn't the actual scarf, it was a copy that I had conjured up. It had been quite some time since she had visited me. I missed her. I really wanted to see her again.

I closed my eyes, sighing heavily. Suddenly, it felt like I was falling, which was impossible.

My eyes shot open and I was standing in an unfamiliar bedroom. It was opulently decorated.

"What the fuck?" I muttered, looking around before I spotted a familiar face.

"Paku?" I questioned. She didn't look at me. She was currently cooking.

"Paku!" I tried again. Still no answer. "Pukunoda!" I exclaimed. It seemed she finally heard me as she whipped around to face me. Her gun was already drawn. She lowered it upon recognizing me, a perplexed expression on her face.

"Ivela? How did you get here?" She asked.

I looked around. "I have no idea. I was just holding the scarf you gave me and thinking about seeing you and then I was here." I shrugged at her. I had no real explanation.

Paku paused before nodding. "Ah. It must be your specialist ability."

"I'm not a specialist." I stated, raising an eyebrow at her.

She furrowed her eyebrows at me. "But you are."

That is not what my parents told me. "I must have developed a specialist ability, I guess." I was a conjurer.

"...I suppose." She said, seemingly unconvinced. "You'll have to figure out its limitations yourself."

I nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to have any insight."

I stayed and talked with her for a long while, quickly discovering that it didn't seem to have any kind of time restraint. That was good to know.

I figured out that going back was done much the same way as getting here.

I spent a lot of time figuring out my ability, which I decided not to give a name to. It seemed to tie into my conjuration ability quite nicely. I figured I'd just call it a part of "Gift Box."

In my defense I named my ability when I was young.

I found that I had to have been given a gift from somebody in order to visit with them, and I had to have chosen to use that particular gift within my Gift Box ability.

All of my Gift Box restrictions applied. When I was visiting someone, they couldn't see or feel me until I said their name. Their first or last name would suffice, I discovered, but it couldn't be a nickname.

Only they could see or feel me when I was visiting them. And I couldn't attack them, just the same as they couldn't attack me. I hadn't quite tested the theory on how my ability differentiated between an attack and innocent touching. That required further experimentation.

It was nice, actually. I could still see everyone without ever having to leave.

I could even see Killua.

He thought I was an imaginary friend.

I even checked up on my parents and grandfather from time to time. They seemed to be doing well, but I wasn't expecting them to be suffering. I was always careful to never make them aware of my presence, however. They didn't need to know what I was capable of. My luck they'd forbid it.

The time between the visits from the troupe grew ever larger, but it didn't really matter since I could visit whenever I wanted! I saw them all the time! It wasn't quite the same as seeing them in person, though. Apparently I felt different to them. Every time I visited Uvo he would throw something at my head. It would always just sail harmlessly through me. It was usually a can of beer.

He always looked so disappointed that I hadn't caught it. I think he was upset because now he couldn't drink the beer. (Cause it was all shaken up.)

The last time he visited the city he brought a keg.

That was a good time.

I barely thought of returning to Zoldyck Manor anymore.

-

-

-

It was almost like no time at all had passed before it was the second anniversary of my arrival to Meteor City. It was strange. This place was supposed to be a punishment, but it felt like anything but.

Which, admittedly, didn't make me feel as good as it should.

It wasn't like I had been falsely accused. I deserved to be punished.

I shook those thoughts away. It was better not to focus on them. The present was so much more pleasant than the past.

I hadn't been expecting it, but...the entire troupe came to visit me. I couldn't quite figure out why. It seemed like a strange thing to do.

I appreciated it, though.

Everyone around me was talking and laughing. I didn't know what about. Try as I might, I couldn't pay attention. I was too busy wishing it could be like this all the time.

I was too busy wondering what it would be like to really be a part of the Phantom Troupe.

I was too caught up in the realization that sitting here with all of them felt right in a way being with my actually family had never.

"When is your birthday, Ivela?"

I blinked. Chrollo was looking at me expectantly. Actually, they all were. I assume they had been talking about birthdays before and I realized they had no idea when mine was.

I made a split second decision.

"Today, actually. July 8th." The day I came to Meteor City. I didn't know why, but the day I was born a Zoldyck didn't feel like the right answer anymore.

The troupe were immediately in an uproar.

"Why didn't you tell us?!"

That seemed to be a sentiment shared by them all.

"Sorry, sorry." I said sheepishly.

"It's just a good thing we had a gift for you anyway!" Uvo exclaimed.

I narrowed my eyes. "Gift?"

"Hey! You weren't supposed to tell her that yet!" Nobu yelled.

"Uvo!" Chrollo said harshly.

The others also admonished him.

"We were gonna give it to her anyway!" Uvo defended.

Paku sighed. "The plan was to give it to her when we left. But I suppose now we don't have a choice."

I was beginning to think they liked giving me gifts because they felt bad for me, being cooped up here. That didn't bother me as much as it should have, though. Maybe people should feel a little bad for me. I have to bathe in a dirty river.

"I'm waiting with bated breath." I said blankly.

"We're gonna wipe that look off your face." Machi vowed. "Close your eyes."

I did as requested. If it isn't food I'm gonna be pissed-

I almost snickered at my own joke.

A moment later, I was told to open my eyes. Chrollo was standing in front of me holding a violin. At first glance it was nothing special. I was confused. I already had a violin, I didn't need-

Wait.

My eyes widened as I carefully took the violin from him. It was a Strandivari Violin.

Back when the world was my oyster, (so long as I obeyed,) I had taken a particular interest in valuable violins, for obvious reasons. This one in particular was...

Insane.

I looked at Chrollo with my eyes wide, and turned my gaze to the other members. They were all staring at me.

This was literally the most valuable violin in the world. This violin was...perfection.

I couldn't believe they'd stolen this for me.

Whenever my family had given me gifts, they'd always been practical. Any gifts that weren't murder related weren't gifts at all. They were rewards.

A dagger. A bottle of poison. A blade hidden within a bracelet.

Nothing they ever gave me was to create. Every 'gift' I received from them was a tool meant to help me do whatever they wanted me to. Nothing was ever chosen just because I might like it.

In contrast, the troupe had always brought me things that made them think of me. They brought me books. They brought me food, sheet music, scarves, clothes. Things to make me more comfortable.

Things to make me happy.

Things to make me smile.

"Ivela?" I heard Chrollo ask.

I blinked, registering that my eyes had started to well up. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my eyes.

"Do you like it?" He asked softly.

I stepped back and regarded the whole troupe, as opposed to just Chrollo.

They were all staring at me.

I stared back blankly, before I smiled warmly. "I love it."

The uproar was immediate.

"What a pretty smile!" (I still hate Shalnark.)

"Ivela can smile?!?!"

"I DIDN'T THINK SHE COULD!!"

"You guys haven't seen her smile?" That one was Chrollo.

"You have??!?!?!"

I just kept smiling at the chaos I had caused, waiting for it to settle down. If anything, my smile was only growing wider.

I adored these people.

I snickered as the chaos only grew. They were being completely ridiculous. It was just a smile.

I pursed my lips and turned away from the Troupe. They quieted down immediately as I positioned my new violin on my shoulder.

"So. Do you guys want to hear a song?"

I didn't wait for a response, instead choosing to force them to listen to me play the song I'd written for them.

8 years passed mostly uneventfully.

After that first birthday celebration, the trend of me seeing the troupe in person less and less continued, although they all came for my birthday every year. Or...they did. Before my father came. Before he killed a member on my birthday.

(To be fair, he was unaware that it was my birthday. But still. To hell with him.)

I liked the girl he killed. She was kind.

He and Chrollo fought. My father didn't stick around to finish the fight. Of course he didn't. Chrollo wasn't his target.

I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even let my father see me.

After that, it was decided that the Troupe having a regular day where they're all in one place was a bad idea, even if it was only once a year.

I still saw them, but those get-togethers that I had so cherished were long gone. I started to get a little scrappy with everyone that I could. I had to be the strongest Zoldyck. At least for now. My training regimen was intense.

I met many people over the years, although only two of them were particularly memorable. They all inevitably left or died any way. Aside from those two, the only people I bothered to remember were my violin students.

I remembered a girl that I trained. She grew to be quite strong. So strong that when a butler from the Zoldyck estate came looking for a new apprentice, I sent her off with them.

Cruel, perhaps, but it was what she wanted. Besides, the family never did much to the butlers. They wouldn't treat her the way they'd treated me. She'd be fine.

The other....well. Ging was...well. Um. Hm.

He wasn't someone I liked to think about.

Some of my violin students managed to get out of Meteor City and make something of themselves.

Or at least I hoped they had. I only really knew that they had left to go join an orchestra or something. I try not to think about them either.

No, I have to stay focused. I have to keep running towards my goal.

I'm going to get out of Meteor City.

A/N

Okay guys once again I am so sorry. That birthday scene was something I had a very specific plan in mind for, and executing that was a struggle. (I'm pretty happy with it.) Plus I'm doing the school thing again, so...that isn't helping with writing time. But I'm not going on another insane hiatus! I promise.

Anyway, here we are! Next chapter we start the real story. Only took 5 chapters to get there, counting the prologue. Hope you guys liked the Meteor City Arc! IT WAS A LOT

Also, Ivela's violin is based (obviously) off of Stradivarius Violins. Her's in particular would be this world's equivalent of the Messiah Stradivarius. That's right guys the Troupe went all out.

They said "If we're stealing Ivela a violin, it's gonna be a VIOLIN."

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[dokidokiliteraturegirls]

I’ve been rereading this entire blog (because I don’t have anything better to do) and I just got to the part where Monika talks about the different file types, where it shows Sayori’s stats. So, I’ve been wondering, what are everyone’s stats?

Canonically I’ve only shown those two, so I had to actually write the rest for this ask and some people who’ve been asking me on the Discord Server~

For those of you who are not on the loop of what we’re talking about, I’ll do a brief explanation of what the stats are before giving them.

The “In-Game Stats” were introduced long ago, during an update where Monika looked up the reason she couldn’t help but do well on a test. They’re used to describe and categorize the girls’ personalities, essentially breaking down their character to numbers.

They were introduced as a one-time thing for this specific update (which is why they’re not comprehensive/detailed), but I liked the idea so I revisited it again and gave it more importance for the Monika’s Death and The Perfect Yuri arcs.

The stats are as follows:

Physical Aptitude: A character’s ability with physical activities. Basically how sportsy or how “fit” they are.

Intelligence: How apt a character is at a certain field. By the way, this is based on the “several types of intelligence” theory, not the IQ theory. So for instance, if a character is really good at playing the guitar, then they have a lot of musical intelligence, which means that their intelligence stat would be high.

Emotional Intelligence: Weird that this is a different one when I just said the last stat covers all types of intelligence, but this stat is specifically about how good the character is at connecting with others and understanding their feelings. For example, Monika may be really intelligent for math tests, but she’s bad at having empathy or understanding why others may be sad.

Appearance: This is basically how “physically attractive” the girls are. Which is different from the following stat,

Cuteness: Cuteness, I believe, is not a thing about appearance, but about attitude and personality. Someone may be very attractive, but they can still not be cute if they’re rude to others.

Obsession: This refers specifically to how much a character obsesses over their romantic partner.

Manipulation: How likely a character is to manipulate others for their own gain.

Compassion: How likely a character is to help others.

Creep Factor: How scary a character is, and how likely they are to perform actions that would be considered “creepy”, such as stalking or filling notebooks with a person’s name over and over.

(As you can see in the picture, there used to be a Love stat, which referred to how much a character loved their romantic partner. I ended up retconning it though because it’d be kind of redundant. All of the girls’ Love stat would be 10, they love their girlfriends very much.)

Before moving on to the girls’ stats themselves, there are two key points that I’d like to clarify.

1. I’ve seen some people confused over the Obsession and Creep Factor stats, and why these exist. Basically, you know how Monika made Natsuki and Yuri all scary in Act 2 of the original game? She said she did that by modifying the girls’ files, so I included those to explain that plot point. Also because I wanted some stats to reflect negative aspects.

2. The stats are not set in stone. They’re meant to reflect how a character evolves and changes through the story as well. For example, in the above picture, Monika’s Emotional Intelligence was really low because that was from the start of the story. Monika’s Emotional Intelligence has since grown a lot and she has learnt empathy and kindness. Another example is Natsuki’s Physical Aptitude stat. At the beginning of the story it would’ve been around one (she only ate candy and sweets, her sleep schedule was kinda effed up and she fell asleep super easily), but she has since fixed her diet and started doing exercise, like with the skateboard, so she’s healthier at the time of this writing.

Ok now that I’m done with that wall of text, LET’S ANSWER THE QUESTION!!

*Stats based on the girls’ current state in the story

Monika:

Physical Aptitude: 10

Intelligence: 10

EmotionalIntelligence: 7

Appearance: 10

Cuteness: 2

Obsession: 3

Manipulation: 3

Compassion: 10

Creep Factor: 5

Sayori:

Physical Aptitude: 2

Intelligence: 5

Emotional Intelligence: 10

Appearance: 7

Cuteness: 9

Obsession: 1

Manipulation: 0

Compassion: 10

Creep Factor: 0

Natsuki:

PhysicalAptitude: 6

Intelligence: 8

EmotionalIntelligence: 5

Appearance: 7

Cuteness: 10

Obsession: 4

Manipulation: 0

Compassion: 7

Creep Factor: 0

Yuri:

PhysicalAptitude: 3

Intelligence: 8

EmotionalIntelligence: 6

Appearance: 10

Cuteness: 8

Obsession: 7

Manipulation: 5

Compassion: 6

Creep Factor: 4

The Perfect Yuri:

PhysicalAptitude: 10

Intelligence: 10

EmotionalIntelligence: 10

Appearance: 10

Cuteness: 10

Obsession: 10

Manipulation: 10

Compassion: 10

Creep Factor: 10

(You may be wondering why she didn’t help Natsuki if her Compassion stat is 10. Remember that TPY’s worldview is twisted and her Compassion translates as being mean to others to teach them to toughen up.)

Ako:

PhysicalAptitude:  1

Intelligence: 3

EmotionalIntelligence: 2

Appearance: 5

Cuteness: 5

Obsession: 0

Manipulation: 0

Compassion: 6

Creep Factor: 3

And those are the girls!! I should mention that canonically speaking, Anthy doesn’t have any stats, because she’s not a .chr file, but a separate .exe completely different from the game. However, I know that if I didn’t include them people would ask me what they would be like, so here’s what Anthy’s stats would be if she was a character in the game~:

Anthy:

PhysicalAptitude: 9

Intelligence: 10

EmotionalIntelligence: 1

Appearance: 8

Cuteness: 0

Obsession: 9

Manipulation: 10

Compassion: 3 (she’s working on it)

Creep Factor: 10

There you go!! If you have any questions or would like any further explanation on why a character’s stat was numbered the way it was, feel free to ask me in the Discord Server, where we have a channel dedicated to questions about the story~

Thanks for the ask!! ❤️

[bunie-grrss]

“A house in the woods?”

*Practically a yandere cookie run x reader blog. Also, this is my first time posting on Tumblr and writing, I don’t have the perfect English nor’ do I know a lot of words, but I hope this is good enough for your entertainment(?).

CHR; Almond cookie, Walnut cookie{mentioned}

{i tried to stay in character as possible, theres some ooc here and there} TW; implied yandere ig??, slight obsession{mentioned}

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You are y/n cookie, a shy and yet timid nature, you're smaller than the average cookie height, but still taller than a child cookie. You live in a small run-down-but-somewhat functional house, it isn't too big, or small. It was always quiet, no company, or cookies to visit you or to talk too. It's always you and your lonesome house.  The house always so quiet, and looked so inhabited, so worn down, when cookies stumble upon your home, they started rumors about a cookie witch inhabiting it, making potions that will harm the people of magic city. One of the rumors one said that you were working for dark enchantress cookie, even though you're an innocent little cookie looking for fun in the dark woods. Oh, I almost forgot. You have never been into any kingdoms before, though you hesitated to enter them, for the reason you're a dark magic user. Even though the rumors spread like wildfire, It's also attracted the grand detective, almond cookie. You never wanted to drag the police into this matter, instead of dealing it, you hid in your home. You could hear footsteps, then a knock, knowingly its almond cookie checking your little home “hello, I’m almond cookie I'm here to check your use of magic” you eventually poke your head out to see them “yes..?” “ah, you’re there, how about we discuss this matter.”  and indeed you two have tense discussing why you’re living in the woods, though it was you that was in tension and nervous, but it went through nicely, i hope. sometimes you could feel like almond is judging or staring at you, intensely or its just you’re imagination messing with your mind. “so.. let me put this together..” you’re thoughs we’re interrupated as his voice snapped your mind to reality, “y-yes?..” “you’re.. a witch cookie, living here for..?” “ for the view, and..maybe some peace?.. almond would sigh, as he open his little notebook, starting to write-down what you just had said “alright, thats it for the discussion?” “yes!” you would smile brightly at the comment. standing up then leaving you seated there “ well, guess that’s it, i have to go now theres much more important things i have to attend to” walking away as you waved goodbye at them “o-oh! well goodbye!” as he stared a his notebook, smiling, glad he met them.  they’ll be the perfect wife, for walnut and him only, if only he can understand his own feelings more often.  ______________________________________________~* Sorry for the short story im trying to finish this as quickly as i can, plus i dont want anymore drafts-. but also i lost motivation for the plot -Yakoumo