#actually I could turn a lot of these into references

[bratbarzal]

Could you please do ⁵⁾ “i couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you i am.” with Nico?

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“i couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you i am.” this also goes out to the anon who requested this exact line with meier sister reader bc it's where my brain immediately went when I saw this!!!! BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND!NICO NATION WE UP!!! RISE AND SHINE!!!

*this includes sexual references, but no actual smut.

"Stop watching me like that."

Nico sits at the top of the bed, the bed sheet only just covering his modesty as his legs sprawl out from beneath the covers. He has one arm stretched across the pillow you just vacated, and another scratching slowly at his stomach, where the soft patch of hair on his abdomen disappears under the flimsy strip of cotton.

He looks like sex personified, and he needs to give it a rest.

Laughter rumbles lowly from the depths of his chest, a sly smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes follow you - rushing around the room to retrieve the clothes he had torn from your body maybe an hour ago now. You hop back into your panties, and then your shorts, and it's as you're clipping your bra back on that he asks, "Like what?"

His tone is teasing, familiar, exactly the kind of flirty cadence that had lured you into his bed earlier today, in the first place - passing by a little too close for comfort with a hand on your hip, and lips to your ear, muttering how good your ass looked in your shorts before he planted a quick, light smack to it.

He knows what he's doing.

"Like you could go again," you huff, buttoning at the light, summery shirt you were wearing before as you look up at him.

"Maybe I could," he shrugs, straightening up in a way that makes the sheet slip dangerously low, an action that attracts your gaze like a high powered magnet, stuck on him until you can shake yourself out of it. "Maybe we should."

"No," you rattle your head, trying to claw back any kind of sense or dignity, diverting your attention in search of your sandals. "Not happening. I need to go shower. I smell like a combination of a sex den and you."

"And what's wrong with that?" he chuckles, "You use my stuff in the shower every time you come over, you wear my clothes when you leave, why's today any different?"

"Because we're on vacation with my brother, Nico," you huff, finding where you had kicked them off and they had slid toward his side of the bed. "He catches a whiff of you on me, on today of all days, and he'll throw you overboard the next time we're out on the boat."

"C'mon," he sighs, although that tempting smirk remains, and shuffles his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet slipping, forcing you to spin on your heels to avoid staring down the barrel of what you have no doubt is, once again, a loaded gun.

That man is insatiable.

You hear his laughter from behind you, along with footsteps that fall out of pattern for a brief second, and you're thankful when a large hand places itself on your upper arm to turn you, that he's at least wearing boxers now.

"We can't keep sneaking around forever, it's been long enough, don't you think?"

You feel your eyes flutter shut as he pulls you close, his assertive grip holding you in place with fingers now curved around the back of your waist, and you sigh - a big one, that despite the heaviness of it, does little to quell the anxiety swirling around your chest.

"I thought you wanted to wait until the season was finished," you frown, distinctly remembering how you felt after that conversation back in November - when your situation became a lot less casual, and Nico had officially asked you to be his girlfriend one morning when he had finally run out of other excuses for you not to leave his bed.

"I did," he muses, fingers pressing into your flesh and forcing you forward, until you're flat against him, and once again encompassed by his ever lasting warmth. "But now I'm tired of hiding. Just want to love on you, not just in private or when Timo isn't looking."

His actions mimic his words as his hands start to wander, and his lips press soft, lingering kisses in a trail from your cheek, to your jaw, to your neck.

You melt, as you always do, body feeling like putty that moulds to his touch and sticks to his fingers as he reels you back in.

"We can't hard launch to my brother on Valentines Day, Nico," you mumble, your resolve weakening by the second with every slight ministration, his lips nipping at all the sensitive parts of your neck and his hands seeking out whatever skin he can get to first.

"Why not?" he asks, his voice low just beside your ear - so low that it sends a shiver down your spine, your chest pressing straight to his. "It's technically our anniversary after all."

This whole thing had started last year - in his bye-week - not long after you had moved in with your brother, and had been invited with the two of them and a couple more of their friends for a week-long trip.

What had always been teasing and lingering between you and Nico had swiftly evolved into more - one night of one too many drinks leading you straight to his bed, and one night leading to something frequent and forbidden.

Something changed in the summer - the two of you meeting up a little more back in Switzerland, when you weren't under your older brother's constant supervision, and you weren't worrying about being caught all the time, and then when you all came back to the states, you found yourself in Nico's bed more often than your own.

“I couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you I am.”

Your heart thuds in your chest at the revelation, muttered straight into your ear - it taking you a second to get past the vibration of his words down your whole entire body before you register exactly what he said.

And then you lean back, your faces close as you turn to meet his eye - that captivating glimmer shining straight across dark chocolate irises, the smirk from before melting into something softer, more serious, more real.

"You're in love with me?" You ask, watching the smile slowly grow.

"Obviously," he replies, his thumb swiping gentle strokes into your spine, not giving it a chance to tense up or stiffen at the revelation - still moulded perfectly to his touch. "I don't risk my life at the hands of your brother for just anybody."

You smile too, despite the four-tonne block of anxiety that's launching itself your way at the all the possible ways this could go wrong.

Nico loves you.

And Timo's just gonna have to deal with it.

"I'm in love with you too," you tell him, leaning in immediately to press a kiss to his lips, like sealing the sentiment in place, feeling them curve against your own.

"Good," he mutters against you, kissing and kissing until you're too far gone again to do anything about it. "We should fuck again to celebrate, just in case your brother kills me."

You giggle, still not pulling back, letting his feet shuffle towards the end of the bed and guide you the same way.

You'll shower later. Probably with Nico - and the smell of his shampoo in your hair might give the two of you away, but who cares.

He's in love with you.

[p1astr81]

the cove

In which: you and Oscar start your own restaurant, navigating the troubles of the unknown territory and the relationship between you. (au)

pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

warnings: references to sex, no actual smut, use of y/n (once), lots of time jumps, bit of angst, fluff, more plot than romance lowkey

wc: 5.1k

an: I just rewatched the bear and can’t stop thinking about it so here I am

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧ * ‧₊˚ ‧

Milk crates were flipped upside down, making use of themselves as chairs for you and Oscar to sit on during your break. It was rare you ever saw a break—let alone a collective one—but it was a Wednesday night and the restaurant was seeing few customers.

“God, I smell like oil.” You grimaced.

Oscar laughed, leaving a beat of silence between you before speaking. “We should start our own place.” He suggested, his voice quiet, fearing your reply.

At first, you laughed. A loud, mocking laugh. But his face told you that he was serious. “Come on, Os. Be serious. Where would we get the money? I mean,” you scoffed, “we can hardly get by living off both of our wages.”

Oscar bit his lip, eyeing his polished black shoes. He knew you wouldn’t like his next suggestion. “You could always ask aunt Audrey.”

It was a known fact that your aunt Audrey was loaded with cash. With no kids, a rich husband, and rich herself, how could she not be? But she always offered you money whenever she got the chance. You declined every time. You weren’t going to be her charity work.

You shook your head. “Im not asking her.” You said with finality.

“Why not?! We could make something—be something!” He tried to bargain.

You got to your feet, walking away from him.

“Just think about it. You and me, a brilliant fucking restaurant that we built.”

Head shaking once more, you turned to face him. “I’ll owe her for the rest of my life. Do you realize that?”

He stuttered for an answer.

“I don’t want that.”

Oscar blinked, nodding. “Yeah. It was just a stupid daydream anyway.” He kicked a pile of trash, threw the door open, and disappeared into the kitchen.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Oscar had found sleep long ago, peacefully wiped out beside you.

You struggled to join him in the state. His ambitions plagued your mind. You felt like you were disappointing him with your rejection.

You turned over in bed, facing Oscar now. Even in sleep, you felt guilty about rejecting his proposal. He was so passionate about it.

Being shackled by the debt you’d owe to aunt Audrey was less than a desire for you. The longer you stared at Oscar, though, the less and less you felt bad about it.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Before work the next day, you’d told Oscar you were going out to run some errands. A bold faced lie.

Aunt Audrey answered the door after a long few seconds. It gave you plenty of time to run if you wanted, but the image of Oscar’s disappointed expression flashed in your brain, rooting you to the ground.

“Oh my gosh! I wasn’t expecting you!” She gushed upon opening the door. Her arms were around you in an instant, pulling you into her mansion of a house.

“Hey aunt Audrey,” you greeted.

She detected the way your voice wavered, and decided to ignore it for now. The both of you ended up in the garden, sat around a fire pit. “How are you, love? Has that Oscar asked you out yet?”

You laughed. “No, we’re just friends.”

She cocked her head, eyeing you with a suspicious expression. “That’s what Nick”—her husband—“said about us, too. No we’re married.”

You shook your head, an awkward laugh. “No it’s not like that, I promise.”

“Alright…” she trailed off, the tone of her voice indicating that she didn’t really believe you.

You shifted in your seat. “Well, he’s actually kind of why I’m here.”

Audrey perked up in her seat, brows raising.

“He brought up yesterday—last night, while we were on our break, actually—that, uhm…” you fiddled with your hands in your lap. “well he thinks that we should start our own restaurant.”

“Oh that’s exciting!”

You forced a laugh. “Yeah uhm but, well, neither of us have the funds and I hate to ask you but uhm…” you shifted in your seat once more. “Would you be interested in helping… financially? Uhm, we’ll pay you back in full, along with whatever interest you want to add on, and uh, we can give you some of the profit. Twenty five percent, maybe?”

Audrey smiled. “Of course I’ll help you out! Oh, this is so exciting, I’m so happy you decided to ask me!” She beamed, jumping up to hug you.

“Thank you.” You smiled, though it pained you.

She took up her seat again. “So how much are you thinking? Just so I can make sure I don’t buy too many bags.” It was meant to be a joke, but it made you feel more guilty.

“Well, we’ll need to buy a place first, then all the utilities and equipment and the stuff for the dining room and…” you didn’t realize just how much you’d need from her until now. “You know what, forget about it.” You waived a hand through the air. She frowned “it’s a stupid day dream. Not really realistic now that I’m thinking about it.”

You went to leave, but your aunt grasped hold of your hand. “Hon, I have so much money that’s just sitting around. Please I want you to use it.”

She directed you back to your seat. “It’ll probably be close to a million.”

All she did was nod. “As long as I get to be involved, you can have as much as you want.”

A smile was forced on your face. “Okay. I’ll get someone to write up a contract. Just let me know how much interest you want to put on it, and does 25 percent of the profit sound good?”

She looked at you like you had five heads. “Interest? And a fourth of your profit? Honey, as long as you pay it all back, I’m fine. We don’t need a contract.” She shook her head.

Damn her and her generosity. The guilt weighed heavier on your shoulders with every word she spoke. But who were you to argue with her and risk her withdrawing from the deal.

So you nodded, “okay,” you agreed.

You cant recall a time you ever saw Audrey smile quite so large. “How about some lunch?”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

That very same night, Oscar and yourself sat around your coffee table—a dining table wasn’t in your budget—eating the left over food that customers didn’t bother to pick up from the restaurant.

Oscar seemed especially down today. You didn’t doubt that it was due to you shutting down his idea the day prior.

You called his name softly and he looked to you with his brown eyes blown wide in interest. “I went to talk to aunt Audrey today.”

He dropped his fork. “What do you mean?” He urged.

“She’s agreed to help us with the restaurant.” You didn’t meet his eyes.

Oscar gave a quiet gasp. “But you said…” he shook his head.

“I know.”

“Well, I mean, are you sure about this?” He was hesitant to ask the question.

You took a shaky deep breath. “Yeah. She agreed to give us as much as we need.”

“This is amazing.” Oscar beamed, rounding the table to hug you.

Your nod put him off. Not quite convinced you were happy about this. “This is amazing, right?” He asked, a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, ‘course.” Your strained smile did little to ease him, but he didn’t push it any further.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Your free time disappeared, dropping to nothing. The hours not spent at work, we’re spent shopping around for a place that fit both of your visions. Most were either too small or not in an ideal location.

That was, until after a week and a half of searching, you found it.

The realtor stood at the door, allowing Oscar and yourself to enter before her. You stepped in first, glancing around the space, stunned at what your eyes laid on. You gasped, gaze finding Oscar’s after having done a 360 of the space. “Oh, Oscar, it’s perfect.” You smile was infectious.

He hadn’t seen you this happy in months. “Yeah?” He asked, slowly moving to join you at the center of the room.

You nodded profusely. “Yeah.” You confirmed. “How much did you say this one was?” You turned to the realtor.

“200k.” She answered simply. Your smile dropped, and following up quickly by saying, “but we could try and negotiate with the buyer to lower it.”

You nodded slowly.

Oscar didn’t have to ask you to know what you were thinking. The value of aunt Audrey’s money captivated your mind once more, as it had many times since beginning this journey.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

While the carpenters built a new wall to separate the kitchen from the dining room, you and Oscar got to painting. Most of the walls were coated in a light blueish-white. Except the back wall where the bar would sit against, which was being painted in a deep blue color.

Oscar dipped the paint brush back into the paint. He swiped it along the baseboards, careful to not paint them. The light wooden shade would go well with their plans for the dining room furniture.

The brush was dipped back into the bucket of paint. Too much paint. Oscar tried to shake it off. Good thing you set plastic down to protect the floors. The paint went everywhere, including on your face. A pale blue streak across your cheek.

“Oscar.” You called his name. Your tone questioned his audacity.

He looked up at you in curiosity. He tried, and failed, to hold back his chuckles.

“Oh you think this is funny do you?”

He broke out in uncontrollable laughter.

The pads of your fingers swiped across your cheek, collecting the paint. Your fingertips met his face, painting his face in a smear of the blue-white color.

He was no longer laughing, staring at you with his jaw dropped.

“Not so funny now, huh?” You replied, smug as ever, a smile of vengeance playing on your lips.

Blue paint from the can met Oscar’s finger, a purposeful gesture. The look he gave you was devious.

He stood, drawing closer towards you like a lion hunting down his pray. You held up a hand. “Don’t you dare.” His advances didn’t stop at your warning.

Cautiously, you backed away, careful of the paint cans that littered the floor. “Oscar don’t!” He chuckled, finger missing your face by mere inches. You ran for it, but he was faster.

His unpainted hand wrapped around your arm, pulling you into his chest. You tried to squirm away, but his arm around your waist held you in place. He laughed at your objections while he drew a tiny heart on your cheek. It tickled, drawing a giggle out of you.

With the proximity, you could see every detail of Oscar’s eyes; the streaks of gold that threaded through the brown and green. Mesmerized, lost in the way they shined when the rays of sunlight hit them just right.

He cleared his throat, reluctant to release you from his hold. “We should probably clean up. Gotta be at work in less than an hour.”

You nodded, tucking your hair behind your ears and stepping away.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

It had been a month since Oscar and yourself began flipping the barren building into your own restaurant. It was coming together. The bar was built, walls put in place. The furnishings were all that was left.

As you were preparing a dish, you overheard two of your coworkers.

“Did you hear about that new place that’s opening soon over on everlake street?”

“Yeah, lucky bastards. Probably rich fucks who couldn’t care less about the food.”

You met Oscar’s eyes across the preparation table. He could tell you were uncomfortable. It wasn’t hard to pick up from the way you shifted on your feet, and the way your eyes flicked around the room.

“I feel like I’m a shit person.” You confessed in a hushed voice later that night, sitting next to him in bed.

Oscar sighed, taking your hand in his and squeezing it. “If this is about what we heard earlier-“

“Not just them.” You interrupted. “But with aunt Audrey, too.” Your fingertips drew shapes on the back of his hand.

“Audrey is so happy for you. Why would she make you feel like a shit person?” Oscar leaned forward, observing your face fully.

You bowed your head. “You know how my parents put me through culinary school?”

Oscar nodded.

“Well, they resented me for it. Told me I was a waste of their hard earned money.” You shook your head, scoffing a laugh. “I don’t want the same to happen with aunt Audrey.”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

“Hey Aunt Audrey!” You greeted her with a hug.

Another month had passed. The dining room was all put together. Boxes of alcohol sat at the bar. The kitchen was still coming together. The preparation table was really the only thing that was done back there.

“Wow it’s looking fantastic, honey.” She beamed, glancing around the room. It was the first time she came in.

You followed her journey to the kitchen. “You think?” You asked as she pushed open the door.

“Absolutely, love. Best investment ever.”

The sound of Audrey’s voice alerted Oscar, who had been overseeing the installation of the ovens. “Aunt Audrey,” he smiled, greeting her with a hug just as you had. When he pulled away, he went and stood beside you, an arm coming up to rest around your shoulders.

“What are you going to name the place?” She questioned.

You and Oscar exchanged a look. You shrugged. “We’re not sure yet.”

Audrey waved a hand through the air. “No matter. I’m sure whatever it is will be excellent.”

“Hey, there’s a guy out front who needs your signature.” One of the maintenance guys informed.

You nodded and excused yourself from Oscar and Audrey.

Oscar’s eyes lingered on you until you were no longer in his view.

“I’m so happy you guys are doing something good with all of that money. I was worried I would just carry it all to the grave.” Audrey laughed.

Oscar sighed. “Yeah. She feels guilty about borrowing it all.” His gaze drifted to the door you exited from moments ago.

A frown replaced Audrey’s soft smile. “Is that why she was insisting paying me interest? And giving me a fourth of the profit?”

The new information caused Oscar’s eyes to blow wide in shock. “I suppose so, yes.”

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Oscar and yourself put in your two weeks. The restaurant was near done. The only thing left was to get all of your food for a test run with family and close friends.

Well that, and deciding on a name.

“How about we name it something fancy? Y’know maybe it’ll make people want to come in then?” Oscar suggested. You’d been lying side by side on your living room floor for the past hour, throwing name ideas out there.

You hummed, an idea sparking in your brain. “Maybe we name it after aunt Audrey.” You suggested. You twisted your head to face him.

He did the same.

Your faces were so close. Each time one of you exhaled, the other could feel the heat of their breath. You could see every little detail of his face. How deep his dimples were. And that same golden glow of his eyes.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but Oscar’s eyes had trailed down to your lips. The plush pinkness of them enticed him. It was like a magnet, drawing him closer to you without his knowledge.

He froze when he realized his advancements, and receded back to a safe distance. He gazed at the ceiling once more. “You’re my best friend, you know that?” His quiet words weighed heavy with the burden of his heart.

You laughed. A sweet noise to his ears. Like a liquid sugar. “I don’t think that’s what we were talking about.”

“No, yeah, duh.” Oscar breathed out a laugh. “Naming it after Audrey would be nice.”

The silence stretched, both of your thoughts being the reason for the lack of communication.

Though, your minds were on different topics. Yours—on topic of conversation—was focused on creating a name that would reference your aunt. Audrey’s? No, it doesn’t sound right. Too basic. What about using her last name?

Oscar’s thoughts were far from on topic. Instead of Audrey coursing through his mind, it was you.

“The cove.” You spoke, breaking Oscar from his daydreams.

“Her last name. Audrey Cove. The cove.” You explained.

Oscar smiled and nodded.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Opening night. The first display of your restaurant, serving your families and close friends.

You stayed in the kitchen, calling plates and managing the rest of the cooks. The best you could find.

Oscar was on the host stand, greeting your families and taking in all the praise for starting his own place. He was the more hospitable one.

The response was overwhelmingly positive from all those who came. You got in your head about it, though, insisting it was only because they were family. They were just being polite.

You didn’t see their faces when they tasted the food, though. Oscar did. He could tell their positive feedback was genuine. After all, visual reactions were always more reliable than verbal ones.

Audrey stayed longer than everyone else, tears welling in her eyes as she congratulated the both of you.

You and Oscar remained long after everyone had left. The dining room was dark. Only half the kitchen lights remained illuminated. You were both sat on the preparation table. Your topic of conversation was dependent on the future of the restaurant.

“So, Audrey told me something.” He began. You raised a brow at him, enticing him to continue. “She said you were pushing for interest on the loan, and that you offered a fourth of the restaurant’s profits.” The information was factual, but he spoke like it was a question.

You hung your head. “Yeah.” You confirmed.

“Why would you do that?” His tone indicated stupidity on your behalf. “We don’t have the funds for that. And even when we get started, we won’t have those funds for at least a year out!” He raised his voice in frustration. He couldn’t wrap his head around why you would want to plunge the both of you into a large gaping hole of debt.

“Don’t yell at me! You know exactly why I did what I did.” You shook your head. “I only went to her for you anyway. Just so I could help you make your stupid dream a reality.” You spit the words out at him, jumping from the counter and storming out to the dining room.

He called after you. You didn’t answer. He followed you out of the kitchen. “Don’t make this my fault. I didn’t force you to go to her.”

“Of course you didn’t! But I did this for you because I figured…” your breaths were erratic. “Y’know I figured…” you shook your head. “Forget it.” You blinked away the tears forming on your waterline.

You tried to leave, but Oscar caught hold of your arm. His grip wasn’t letting up any time soon, keeping you in place. “Figured what?” He asked, tentative and gentle.

Facing the ceiling, you tried to will this situation away, silently praying to the heavens to get you out of his.

Oscar’s hand slid down your arm, holding your hand in his. He gave it a squeeze. “You can tell me anything, you know that.” He paused. “I’m your best friend.”

A shaky breath was sucked into your lungs. “That’s exactly the point.” You confessed in a mere whisper.

“What?” Oscar asked. He heard you, but didn’t understand.

You built up the courage to meet his gaze. “I figured if I did all of this for you, that you would…” you took a deep breath. He was patient. “You would see me as more than a friend.”

The streetlights outside bathed his face in an orange glow, allowing you to see the shift in his expression. Eyebrows lifted, mouth agape, eyes widened. You knew you messed up when he dropped his hand from yours.

He cursed under his breath, taking a step back.

A nasty feeling brewed in your stomach. Bile threatened to inch it’s way up your throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You repeated, shaking your head, trying your best to hold back tears. It’s like you could physically see him slipping through your fingers.

Oscar’s head was in his hands, refusing to meet your eyes. The further he withdrew into the restaurant, the more the orange glow faded from his figure. Like a visual representation of him fading away from you.

“Just forget I said anything, please.” You begged.

He looked at you like you were crazy.

“How long? How long have you felt like that and not told me?” His tone demanded an answer.

You shook your head, trying desperately to recall a time. You couldn’t. “I don’t know. Awhile.”

He cursed again.

“Look, I don’t want to ruin our friendship and everything we’ve built, please just forget about it.” The tears began to roll in silent streams. Your fear of losing him becoming too close to reality.

Oscar didn’t say anything. You were drowning in his silence. “I don’t want to be friends.” He shook his head. His words was the water filling your lungs.

You choked on your sobs. The sound seemed to flip a switch in Oscar. Suddenly, through the blurry tears, you could see him standing right in front of you. “Fuck, don’t cry.” He wiped away your tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He started. “I meant,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “God, I fell for you the first time I laid eyes on you. Stupid cliche, but I never believed in love at first sight until them.” Finally confessing his truth, Oscar felt lighter.

You gasped a laugh.

“I never told you because I couldn’t bare the thought of rejection. Of losing you. It’s driven me crazy for years.” Oscar’s palms were warm against your cheeks.

“Years.” You sighed out.

He nodded, a stupid grin on his face.

Your hands pushed his hair out of his face, settling at the base of his neck.

Oscar went for it, dipping his head to finally feel your plush pink lips against his. And it was as close to heaven on earth as he’d ever get. It was inexplicably wonderful.

Years of built up tension snapped in that moment. You pulled him closer, heavy breaths exchanged through open mouths as the kiss became heated. He backed you up into a table, lifting you up to sit you on the surface.

His hands dug into your thighs while yours dipped underneath his button-up. He sighed into your mouth at the feeling of your fingers tracing the grooves of his toned body.

You pulled back; Oscar’s lips chased yours. “Probably shouldn’t have sex where our customers are going to eat.” You laughed, breathless.

Oscar nodded, chest heaving. “Yeah. Let’s get home.” He grinned.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Three months after your official opening, you’d wracked in a good amount of customers. The dining room was packed each night. The reviews were excellent.

Oscar burst into the kitchen one night, during rush. You knew it was important. “Jean Flavia is here.” He whispered in your ear.

Jean Flavia. An esteemed critic. In your restaurant. Your breaths came sporadically. Eyes darting around the kitchen. Blinking a million times in a minute.

Oscar placed his hand on the small of your back, rubbing tiny circles there. “It’ll be alright.”

You nodded, though the movement wasn’t done out of a conscious effort. “Okay. Get his order. I’ll cook it personally.” You scribbled his name down on a post it, all caps and a few exclamation points. You placed the little blue paper on one of the tables displayed on your whiteboard with the guidance of Oscar’s finger.

“Sadie,” you called one of your other chefs. She’d just sent out a dish. She was the only one who wasn’t currently occupied.

She was at your side in an instant. “Yes, chef?”

“Take over, will you?” You asked, already drawing away from the stand.

“Yes, chef.”

Oscar came back through the kitchen, making a direct line to you to deliver the order to you. Your heart was beating out of your chest. Oscar could tell. He squeezed your shoulder. “You’re an incredible cook. Just pretend it’s for any old customer.” His encouraging smile settled your nerves a little.

His presence was gone from the kitchen as soon as it came.

You took a deep breath, gathering yourself before you began.

The dish was simple enough. Beef tenderloin, grilled asparagus and roasted potatoes. It wasn’t anything wildly outside your comfort zone.

But as you started on the asparagus, fear of failure crept up on you. If you messed up, it wouldn’t only hurt you, but also Oscar. You didn’t want to hurt Oscar.

The tenderloin was tossed on a skillet beside the asparagus.

“How’s it going?” Oscars voice in your ear startled you.

“Please help me.” You weren’t ashamed to ask. Not when the establishment itself was at risk.

He jumped in as soon as you asked him, taking the reigns on the tenderloin. He was always better at cooking the meats compared to you.

All three components of the dish were completed at the same time. You shooed Oscar back to the floor, leaving you to plate the dish.

It was the most perfect dish you’d ever plated.

You handed it off to one of the waiters, following the young boy out to the floor. You found Oscar quickly, stood by the host stand. You went to join him.

The concern radiated off of you in overwhelming amounts. It was starting to infect Oscar.

His warm hand found the small of your back, thumb brushing in soothing circles.

You tried your best not to look like a stalker, but you couldn’t afford to miss Jean’s reaction. You watched intently as he cut into the beef, and as he brought the fork to his lips.

And after all that, he had no visible reaction. He simply scribbled some words down on a notepad and continued to go about eating his meal.

“What do you think that means?” You asked Oscar, hushed whispers.

“I guess we’ll have to wait to find out.” He sighed.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

It was before hours, ten in the morning. Oscar was sat in the office when you returned with mail, shouting his name as soon as you set foot in the building.

He greeted you with a small, nervous smile. “Is that it?” He asked, glancing down at the newsletter in your hand. You nodded eagerly. “Well, let’s read it.”

The title of it was put simply. The name of your restaurant.

The Cove

While the name may lead customers to believe this is another bland seafood restaurant, it is much more than that.

The menu features a wide variety of flavors and options—something for everyone.

What is certainly more interesting, though, is the food itself.

I had the pleasure of receiving a meal cooked by the founders themselves, a young y/n l/n and Oscar Piastri, and I must say they have talent in the field.

The tenderloin lived up to its name, tender from the very first bite. The beef was mouthwatering, a perfect blend of seasoning to complement its natural flavors.

The vegetables were just as good. I don’t think I’ve ever had such delectable grilled asparagus and roasted spring potatoes.

Every bite of the meal was as good as it’s predecessors. It never fell flat for me, and I find that very hard to come by.

It would be foolish of me to call the food anything except for excellent. These two young chefs really know the art of the trade.

You gasped upon finishing reading, looking up at Oscar with a glimmer in your eye. “We’re excellent!” You cheered, jumping into his arms. You laughed as he twirled you around.

“I’m gonna bake a cake.” You declared when he put you down. You landed a peck on his lips, and he watched with a smile as you skipped off to the fridge.

While you baked, Oscar stood close, clingy as ever. He always had a hand on you in some way. Whether it was overtop one of yours, on the small of your back, or hugging you from behind. He was simply too happy to distance himself.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

It’d been a month since the review was published. Reservations were booked out for months. You cried when Oscar told you, too happy to contain it.

You laid in his arms one night, watching ratatouille for the eighteenth time. “I miss cooking.” You confessed. Since the opening of the restaurant, you’d been in a manager position. The last time you cooked a dish was for Flavia.

Oscar’s arms tightened around you. “I’ve been thinking… desserts would be a good addition to the menu.”

Inclining your head to look up at him, Oscar could see the sparkle of passion in your eyes. “Are you saying…?” The smile stretched across your face made the muscles ache. You didn’t care.

“I can’t think of a better baker around.” He replied.

Twisting around him, you straddled his hips, dipping to slot your lips together. Oscar laughed into the kiss.

₊ ‧ *‧₊˚ ⋅* ۶ৎ ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Two years since opening.

Aunt Audrey refused to take any more money after you paid a fourth of it back. The only thing she wanted was a guaranteed table whatever night she wanted. Her meals were always on the house.

But you did pay back your parents, matching every dollar they put into culinary school.

You and Oscar moved out of your one bedroom apartment, buying a big three bed, three bath house.

There was a shiny rock on your finger, too. A wedding in the planning.

“What do you think? Dark blue? Or the lighter more sky blue?” Squares of fabric were shuffled around the dining room table. You were trying to decide on a color scheme. What color dresses your bridesmaids would wear, and the color of the groomsmen’s suits or ties.

“Why not both? Maybe the bridesmaids can wear the lighter blue and the groomsmen the darker blue?” Oscar suggested.

You tilted your head, thinking it over. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I like that.” You nodded, beaming up a him.

“Perfect.” Oscar muttered against your lips before planting a small kiss on them.

[umbrellajam]

Robin: Need a hand? Batman: Somehow, I don't recall ever listing punning as part of the job description. Robin: Stay or go? Corrosive Man: What'll it be, Bat? Wanna play rock, paper, acid? Batman: Please. Base beats acid every time. Nightwing: Did you hear that? Robin: Yeah… Next he'll be dueling stand-up with the Joker. Nightwing: That's not funny. Give him a break, already. He's been through a lot. Robin: We've all been through a lot, big brother. - Gotham Knights #33

the Bane siblings arc is so funny even before Bane turns up. Bruce is so relatively light, punning back at his Robin and generally riding the high of re-embracing his family and allies after the Murderer/Fugitive arc.

meanwhile Tim still has some reservations about just letting the whole thing go after everything Bruce pulled. very fun and satisfying to see a little lingering back and forth between Dick and Tim here, a bit of a coda to their argument in GK 26 (my beloved),

but not a serious one, as we've seen that they, at least, have clearly made up. "big brother" aaaaahhhh, help 🥰 we so rarely get Tim actually labeling his relationships with the Bats as familial - even with Dick, though that one is the strongest and most clear-cut.

I find it so interesting that Dick is the one who uses the brother label with Tim more often - although of course it's still not very often, and frequently couched in "like a brother" or "closest thing I have to a brother" terms, Bat emotional constipation etc. etc. - but it's still more often than Tim uses it toward Dick, I'm pretty sure?

so you have Dick, who lost his last "closest thing I have to a brother" in Jason, though they never knew each other well enough or got close enough to actually use those terms. so you'd think he might be reluctant to use that label - but nope, he started talking about Tim as family as early as Prodigal.

meanwhile Tim has parasocially hero-worshipped both Dick Grayson and Robin since he was a very small child, even before he knew they were the same person. even after becoming Robin, jumping at every chance to work together, getting to know Dick as a person, going through Prodigal, Contagion, Legacy, Cataclysm, NML, Joker's Last Laugh, M/F, spending holidays together, becoming so close....how could Tim just casually refer to Dick as his brother? it had to have taken so much build up for Tim to feel like he even remotely had the right - and yet, barely a year of real time after this in Robin #120, Tim is still certain that if he ever quit Robin, Dick (and Bruce) wouldn't be in his life at all, even out of costume. just. aaaaahhhh

definitely related to that last reblog, but these moments of emotionally reserved characters acknowledging a relationship out loud are so much more satisfying for how rare they are, how hard-earned, and how much is going on under the surface.

[palettepainter]

Could you show/tell us how exactly Doey and Bobby met? I remember that on Bobby's reference sheet that she was gonna be food for some other toys but then the hour of joy happened. But was Doey shocked when he found her? Or was he relieved to find another (nice) toy?

I said this in a comment to someone on another post but this is actually one of the ideas I want to turn into a comic! I've gotten about five drawings roughly sketched out, and have an idea in mind for the beginning and end of the comic, it's just the middle bit I'm stuck on at the moment

Can't say when this comic will be posted but I think part 2 to the Doey nightmare comic is the one I'll post first (I can't promise it'll be the next DB found siblings related content I post, but it'll likely be the next comic related thing I post with them)

But without major spoilers! Doey found her after the hour of Joy and after Safe Haven had been established. There were a lot more toys in Safe Haven so Doey, as well as Hoppy, went out scavenging for supplies a lot more and that's how he found Bobby. Bobby was being transported to the prison for food for the bigger experiments, so she managed to survive the HOJ by staying hidden in her transport container

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

idk who exactly this user is referring to, but i'll just share my personal views on this.

i don't think it's hypocritical to ship scorptra or prefer it over c//a. do i think that scorptra was completely healthy? absolutely not. in s4 especially, catra was extremely abusive towards scorpia.

however, there was potential before that. there was actual development in their relationship, especially with catra learning to open up to scorpia and trust her. up until s3, catra was a lot nicer to scorpia than she was to adora. most of catra's kind moments was directed towards scorpia.

that's all we're saying. i personally have never said that if catra apologized and made amends, then scorptra could work. i said that it had more chances of working before catra turned on scorpia and started treating her like shit.

and even if we consider the other option, it is a lot easier for me to imagine that catra might change her attitude towards scorpia and start treating her better. because she has already done that and also because in s5, she seemed more guilty about the way she treated scorpia than she did about literally anything else, including attempted genocide.

with adora, all we've ever seen is catra abuse and berate her any chance she got. and this was happening ever since they were little kids. so it's a lot harder to imagine that catra would suddenly change that attitude after presumably 20 years, and start treating adora with love and respect.

[lordansketil]

Since all the contemporary depictions of George IV was idealised in some way, how do you imagine him when you write him? Do you envision him as an actor who portrayed him? How about the more realistic sketches/accounts of how he looked? Do you base your descriptions on accounts from when he lived? Is it a mixture of all?

So, the starting place for figuring out what George IV looked like is about finding a balance between portraiture and caricature, but that's not all there is to it. Many of his earlier portraits (from his twenties to forties) are not as idealised and there are portraits of him by more amateur artists as well that do not flatter him as much. It's always worth remembering that Prinny was twenty-nine when Gillray's 'A Voluptuary Under the Horrors of Digestion' was published.

The more famous paintings of him were shown at the Royal Academy and reviewed (and the critics were very ready to say if they felt a portrait wasn't true to life). So you can look up what his contemporaries thought of various portraits.

Thomas Moore described this 1815 portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence as a "lie upon canvas", but William Hazlitt's review is delightful:

"Sir Thomas Lawrence had with the magic of his pencil recreated the Prince Regent as a well-fleshed Adonis of thirty-three; and... we could not... but derive a high degree of goodnatured pleasure from imagining to ourselves the transports with which his Royal Highness must have welcomed this improved version of himself. It goes beyond all that wigs, powders and pomatums have been able to effect for the last twenty years. Talk of the feelings of Bonaparte as he re-entered the Tuileries - psha! nonsense! Think of the feelings of the Regent when he saw himself in this picture!"

It is actually possible that a couple of his first portraits as Prince Regent were slightly less idealised than they might otherwise have been because he was anxious and ill for a lot of 1811 and sources say he lost a great deal of weight during that time due to stress, although he put it all back on and then some after he hurt his ankle in 1812 and had his first bout of gout.

I think it's worthwhile looking at how artists other than Lawrence depict him in his late forties and fifties.

You can see how broad his face is and how he's using his cravat and high shirt points to conceal his double chin and you can piece together a picture of his features based on what's carried across. In the central picture Hoppner even gives his stomach some prominence.

Now, going back to just the features of the Lawrence portrait rather than the obviously false figure, you can see his round face, low set ears, lips, the dimple he turns away from the viewer, the shape of his brows, the set and colour of his eyes, and the double chin pushing out his stock, are pretty consistent with other portraits drawn from life. You can reference what he looked like when he was younger as well. The flattering light probably obscures crow's feet, but people who carry a lot of weight in their face often look younger than they are. It's his neck and shoulders that have been distorted to make him seem more slender.

So portraits of George IV are actually a pretty good way to see what his features looked like and what he wore, provided you look at multiple artists and take things with a grain of salt. What they're not good for, by and (cough) large, is getting an accurate idea of his figure. For that I mostly have to rely on a few sketches, caricature, and contemporary descriptions.

I've posted Wilkie's sketches and a couple of descriptions of him when he was younger, but let's have some descriptions of him in middle age. Here's Thomas Creevey:

"He was in his best humour, bowed and spoke to all of us, and looked uncommonly well, though very fat. He was in his full field marshal's uniform. He remained quite cheerful and full of fun to the last - half past twelve - asked after Mrs Creevey's health, and nodded and spoke when he passed us."

The Earl of Albemarle, who played with Mrs Fitzherbert's ward, Minnie Seymour, when he was a boy, describes him vividly:

"His appearance and manners were both of a nature to produce a lively impression on the mind of a child - a merry, good-humoured man, tall though somewhat portly in stature, in the prime of life, with laughing eyes, pouting lips; and a nose which very slightly turned up, gave a peculiar poignancy to the expression of his face. He wore a well-powdered wig, adorned with a profusion of curls, which, in my innocence, I believed to be his own hair, as I did a very large pigtail appended thereto. His clothes fitted him like a glove, his coat was single-brested and buttoned up to the chin. His nether garments were leather pantaloons and Hessian boots. Round his throat was a huge white neckcloth of many folds, out of which his chin always seemed to be struggling to emerge.

No sooner was His Royal Highness seated in his arm-chair than my young companion would jump onto one of his knees, to which she seemed to claim a prescriptive right. Straightaway would arise animated talk between 'Prinny and Minnie' as they respectively called themselves. As my father was high in favour with the Prince at the time, I was occasionally admitted to the spare knee and a share in the conversation, if conversation it could be called, when all were talkers and none listeners."

Here's the Grand Duchess of Oldenberg, who pretty much hated him at first sight, on his manner and appearance. She acknowledges his good looks but deplores his overweight figure and efforts to flirt with her:

"Handsome as he is, he is a man visibly used up by dissipation and rather disgusting. His much boasted affability is the most licentious, I may even say obscene, strain I have ever listened to. You know I am far from being puritanical or prudish; but I avow that with him... I do not know what to do with my eyes and ears - a brazen way of looking where eyes should not go."

Lady Bessborough writes to her lover about how she had to beat him off with a metaphorical stick as he tries to woo her with a change in government and grovelling on the floor:

"He has kill'd me--such a scene I never went thro': his manner to you was to open the most Vehement Tirade... then a list of your inconsistencies... I stared and he went on, and after another long tirade threw himself on his knees, and clasping me round, kiss'd my neck before I was aware of what he was doing. I screamed with vexation and fright; he continued sometimes struggling with me, sometimes sobbing and crying... then mixing abuse of you, vows of eternal love, entreaties and promises of what he would do--he would break with Mrs. F and Ly. H., I should make my own terms!! I should be his sole confidant, sole advisor--private or public--Mr Canning should be prime minister (whether in this reign or the next did not appear); then over and over and over again the same round of complaint, despair, entreaties, and promises... and then that immense, grotesque figure flouncing about half on the couch, half on the ground... I have not room or time to tell you half what passed. You know when he came; he had the conscience to stay til eight! ...After telling him for two hours that I never could or would be on any other terms with him than the acquaintance he had always honour'd me with, we came to a tolerably friendly making up and he kept me two more telling me stories..."

In terms of writing him, all of this makes for lots of material to draw on. His personality comes across very strongly and most people who met him wrote about him because of who he was. I always laugh when I read about Mrs Creevey, who had displeased him by leaving the Pavilion early two nights before, making him "a curtsey perhaps rather more grave, more low and humble than usual (meaning--'I beg your pardon dear, foolish, beautiful Prinny, for making you take the pet') and he put out his hand." Taking the pet meant having a sulk.

All the descriptions of him are so memorable, I don't find it too difficult to piece it all together. I guess one difficult thing is exactly how heavy he was at various points since his weight is obscured in paintings and exaggerated in caricature. But there's the 17 stone measurement from the 1790s and his 50 inch coronation waist, so that's a good basic guideline. There are records of how often his clothes were taken out. He was fat. Everybody knew it. A pro-government journalist covering the Ascot Races in 1828 even frames his size as a good thing:

"It cannot be denied that the popularity of these races arises more from the sanction afforded them by his Majesty, than from the mere running. Horses may be seen every day, but Kings are scarce; and the sight of one is something to talk of, and is recompense for an immensity of fatigue and expense. Of the thousands congregated at least three out of every five came to see the King; and it is a fortunate circumstance for his admiring subjects, that the Royal Person is sufficiently bulky not to be mistaken for that of any less personage."

So, I guess in a very roundabout answer to your question, I try to describe him based on the souce material available. My Prinny is a character, of course, and I take a lot of liberties with him, but I try to get across what he was like in looks and personality. I always recommend reading books about him if you're interested because he really was Like That and the more you know about him the more Like That he becomes.

Thanks for the ask, Nonny!

[arcsin27]

Why do all of these suck what is going on in that podcast

Anyways the secret one sounds like it’d make for some killer vigilantism so I chose that one

This poll is for people who have NOT listened to The Magnus Archives:

[moonstruckhaze]

having a lot of fun over on my alt twitter hehe

[acrobattack]

i don’t know if this is a hot take or not but the rr/b skew more neutral than evil to me

[thatbuddie]

you seriously cannot make this up: you have people reblogging fic featuring a racist character as half of the main ship in the morning then trying to give morality lessons in the evening by calling others homophobic over a joke.

THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE, BABES.

[mars-ipan]

kinda funny when ur brain’s gut instinct is repression so you just kinda watch while your stress and emotions get bottled and corked and the whole time ur just like “that is going to bite me in the ass so bad later but i can’t seem to open the damn bottles without getting glass everywhere so! guess we’ll wait”

[idrils]

finally watched mean girls: the movie: the musical: the movie last night and honestly i LOVED it. i'm not familiar with the actual musical at all (except the song stupid with love), so i only had the original movie to compare it to

i think the ways it was updated for the new 20s (montages of everybody tiktoking about the events of the movie, the burn book was "the thing we did that week they took away our phones" etc) were clever and fun; the performances were largely grounded and entertaining; the cinnamon topography was silly and colorful and delightful; and even though the lyrics are pretty mid, the songs are EXTREMELY catchy. i even liked that aaron samuels' part was really small and his songs were cut! it was never about him and his interiority! he's a trophy! it's going on the comfort movie pile, i loved it

[hauntingblue]

Strong world is the nami and luffy twins manifesto written by oda this is my one piece.

You see luffy's finishing attack with his giant hammer being fueled by lightning which is nami's main weapon with her clima tact and she even made the guy steer the islands towards the cyclone so even if the lighting isn't produced by her the lighting is provided by her either way so luffy AND her finished that guy and even luffy attacked after nami announced how he will lose which also means nami knew and trusted luffy to end him after that and of course he did and

Oh my god luffy making nami explain herself about the message he left on the tone dial and being pissed that she didn't trust him to save and protect her but he got so mad and didn't hear the whole message and she asked luffy to save her omg....... she knew after all that they will come and win..... I love this ending I am going to walk into the sea now goodbye.

Why are whitebeard and ace on the ending credits I already cried. Watching aces part again cause he looks so good. Hello alive dead wife

[fideidefenswhore]

"She was a ruthless woman who injured many, myself and my sainted mother included. She was quite capable of playing the King false, I promise you. My advice to you, Sister, is to forget you ever had a mother like that." Elizabeth caught the note of obsessive grievance in Mary's voice. She knew instinctively that it would be unwise to provoke her further by arguing with her. "Forgive me, Sister, but I had heard otherwise," she said simply. "Then you heard wrongly. She had me sent to wait upon you when you were a baby, and she told those that had charge of me to beat me for the little bastard I had become. How could you think such a one innocent?" "I am very sorry for your afflictions, Sister," Elizabeth whispered, aware more of the need to be diplomatic than of the desire to defend her mother. "They were not of my making, nor my desire." "How could you think her innocent?" "I heard things," she answered, then grew a touch defiant. "The whole world does not think my mother guilty."

The Lady Elizabeth [Chapter 8: 1544], Alison Weir

[livvyofthelake]

this is what i was referring to the other day btw.... she literally said well you people were annoying last time so fuck off i'm not doing it anymore.... and i stand with her <3

[cathnospam]

Bakugo makes you laugh, A LOT and it drives him insane.

“It was not that damn funny.”

You try to conceal the snickers from your mouth, but fail horribly. All he did was mutter something about Mineta being a punk ass and it had you giggly.

At first he used to take offense by it, maybe you were laughing AT him and not what he says, almost like mocking him, that wasn’t until Deku quickly explained in passing that you laugh very easily.

But you don’t laugh this damn much with anybody else but him. At this point he thought you had a similar quirk to Ms. Joke, and he nicknamed you Giggles.

You both were studying in the library like you both usually do during exam week, and Bakugo noticed you haven’t been Miss. Cackle the past few days. Not even a smile actually and you’d think it would have been some relief for him from hearing your laugh obxonious laugh, but he’s actually more annoyed.

He looks up from his book and glances at you across the table, you’re typing away, with a less that neutral look on your face. Lips somehow forming a pout and eyes looking droopy. He scoffs going back to his work, but it was an itch he needed to scratch with you..?

“Who pissed in your breakfast.”

“What?”

“You been looking like a sad lost puppy all week what the hell is your problem.”

The corner of your lips cracked upwards a bit, almost as if you were fighting to smile, but instead you shrug, “‘Nothing you needa worry about. Why.”

It was almost concerning how calm you sounded. Your voice was more tame that you didn’t even sound recognizable which make Bakugo crease his brows, “You suck at lying. Is it, because of that shitty boyfriend you have pissed you off.”

He was referring to Shindo, he wasn’t your boyfriend, but he was a guy you got close with after meeting him a few years ago, but Bakugo was half right he was part of the problem.

You had a small crush on Shindo , but overheard him tell his classmates how he isn’t into you like that mainly because you’re not his type and how much he can’t stand how loud you talk/laugh sometimes.

It hurt hearing it, when he found out you heard he tried apologizing but you didn’t wanna hear it, so since then you’ve turn self conscious about speaking and laughing too loudly for the past week to avoid anymore issues that you have caused with people.

After slowly explaining to the Blonde he rolled his eyes, “You’re ganna let the walking vibrator dictate your life too? So stupid.”

“You hate my laugh too. What does it matter.”

Bakugo stayed silent for a moment while you went back to work. Thinking how could he word what he wants to say without sounding like an idiot, “I never said that, besides you never stopped even when I did tell you your laugh was annoying. If you want to cackle like a hyena who gives a fuck—“

You break into a snicker but end up covering it with your hand. He cracks a proud smirk, he almost forgot what you looked like with a smile, “I don’t wanna be loud. Just can’t help it.”

“We know.”

You giggle at his deadpanned voice, it really wasn’t your fault, you’re just so easy to please and Bakugo knows that, “Giggly ass, and I seen you almost laugh when Denki tripped at the lecture today.”

“Becauuseee he is always so dramatic when he falls.” You whined into a chuckle, sharing a small one with him.

It was a start of many more shared laughs after studying, Katsuki even tried to be just a LITTLE bit more funnier than usual when walking back to the dorms. When you finally cracked a real loud one out he felt himself grinning at you.

“Katsuki Alexander Bakugo are you smiling?”

“Don’t you EVER say my full name like that again got dammit I will blow you the hell UP!”

You almost fall to your knees of how funny his reaction was to you, it felt so good to smile again. You missed it, and so did everybody else the next day apparently.

Mina and some others thought you were depressed, Deku assumed you were sick, Denki outwardly blamed Bakugo which got him smacked, and IIda actually missed your loud noises as well.

Your classmates enjoyed your presence more than you thought they did.

But Bakugo missed it the most.

Your laughs drives him insane, because he loves to hear them.