#in my mind this is what happened bc it’s so funny

[scoupsakakitty]

I just read the drunk 14th member drabble you did and it got me thinking 🤭

Can I pretty please request also drunk 14th member but she’s at home and being super honest (bc she’s drunk) so the members take advantage of the situation and ask her questions

Just a funny and fluffy drabble 🫶

Late-Night Secrets | Seventeen x 14thMember | fluff

Seventeen rarely had a free day where they could just chill together without schedules or obligations. So, when such a day finally came, they made the most of it—lounging in their dorm, playing games, ordering way too much food, and watching old variety show episodes of themselves.

As the night rolled in, Jeonghan clapped his hands together. "Alright, since we're all free tomorrow, how about a little soju party?"

The members cheered in agreement. Even Y/N, the 14th member and the only girl in Seventeen, excitedly nodded along. She had been with them for years and considered them family.

"Are you sure, Y/N?" Joshua teased. "You don't drink that often."

She rolled her eyes. "Please, I can handle my alcohol. I’m not a lightweight."

At first, everything was fine. The soju flowed, laughter filled the dorm, and the conversations became louder and more chaotic. They played drinking games, from 'Never Have I Ever' to 'Truth or Dare,' and Y/N was holding up surprisingly well—until she wasn’t.

It happened so gradually that no one noticed at first. But soon, Y/N started giggling at nothing, leaning heavily onto whoever was next to her (which happened to be Vernon), and blinking as if trying to remember how her eyes worked.

"Y/N... are you drunk?" DK asked, biting back a grin.

"Nooo," she slurred, dramatically flipping her hair. "I'm perfectly fine. You, on the other hand, are blurry."

Seungkwan burst out laughing. "Oh, this is going to be good."

Drunk Y/N was a menace. She poked at Woozi’s cheeks, calling them 'mochi-soft,' ruffled Mingyu’s hair until it stuck up in every direction, and stole Hoshi’s phone, only to take 50 blurry selfies before tossing it back at him.

"I feel so powerful," she whispered to Dino, who just stared at her in pure amusement. "No one can stop me."

"I don’t think anyone wants to," Dino replied, laughing.

Then, things took a turn.

"You know what?" Y/N announced, standing up (wobbling dangerously). "I have secrets."

The room went silent.

Hoshi’s eyes sparkled. "Oh, this just got interesting."

Seungcheol leaned forward. "Go on. We’re listening."

She pointed dramatically at them. "You guys always complain that I don’t like cuddling, but deep down—I love it. I love when you guys want to cuddle, but I have to act all cool about it."

Gasps filled the room.

"I KNEW IT!" Woozi exclaimed, pointing at her like he solved a murder case. "She always pretends to hate it, but she never actually moves away!"

"EXPOSED!" Seungkwan yelled, laughing so hard he almost fell off the couch.

Y/N pouted. "I feel attacked."

"Too late, you already exposed yourself," Wonwoo said, smirking. "What else do you have?"

Y/N tapped her chin, as if thinking. "Hmm… Oh! I kind of… borrow your clothes."

"Borrow?" Minghao repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Or steal?"

"Pshh, borrow. Borrow!" she defended. "Like, you know, sometimes your hoodies, or caps, or skincare products... but I always give them back!"

"That explains why I kept running out of toner," Joshua muttered.

"I KNEW my hoodies were disappearing!" Woozi groaned. "I blamed DK!"

"Oh!" she suddenly gasped dramatically. "Mingyu."

Mingyu, who had been innocently sipping his drink, choked. "What about me?!"

Y/N covered her mouth, giggling. "I may or may not have scratched your car."

Silence.

"Excuse me?" Mingyu's eyes widened.

"It was an accident! I was driving, and I miscalculated, and—" she waved her hands wildly. "But you never noticed! You thought it was your fault!"

Mingyu stood up, mouth open in betrayal. "I blamed myself for WEEKS. I thought I was losing my mind!"

"Well, mystery solved!" DK laughed.

By now, the members were having way too much fun with Y/N’s drunken confessions. But then, she dropped the biggest bomb of all.

"Also… I might be talking to an idol," she mumbled, swaying slightly.

Instant silence.

"I’m sorry, WHAT?" Jeonghan nearly shrieked.

"WHO?!" Hoshi demanded, eyes wide.

"Is he from a big group?" Joshua asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Is he older or younger?" Woozi probed.

Y/N groaned, rubbing her eyes. "Ugh, he’s so hot. Like, ridiculously good-looking."

"That’s not an answer!" Minghao whined.

"Y/N, who is it?!" Seungcheol urged.

But it was too late. Y/N, mid-sentence, had passed out.

Right on Seungcheol’s shoulder.

He sighed, looking down at her curled-up form. "Guess we’re not getting any answers tonight."

The members looked at each other.

"Okay, but seriously," Seungkwan started. "Who do we think it is?"

"Mingi from ATEEZ?" Hoshi guessed.

"Nah, I think it's I.N from Stray Kids," DK said thoughtfully.

"No way, it’s definitely Soobin from TXT," Dino chimed in confidently.

After a few more wild speculations, the group finally gave up.

Joshua, being one of the responsible ones, carried Y/N to her bed, tucking her in gently.

"Tomorrow’s going to be fun for her," he chuckled.

"Oh, absolutely," Mingyu muttered, still bitter about his car.

Seungkwan smirked. "The moment she wakes up, we’re making her relive every single thing she said tonight."

The members all grinned, looking forward to Y/N’s reaction when she realized just how much she had spilled.

Tomorrow was going to be very interesting.

[scoutofmymind]

hey babe I’m not the anxiety attack req anon but wow do I need to read that!!!!!

That Funny Feeling — { Luigi x Reader}

Content: panic attacks, anxiety disorder, sweetie boy Luigi, friends to lovers, Disney World (lol), Ms. Anxiety is referred to as ‘her’, Bo Burnham lyric reference, lots of pet names, comfort

Wc: 4,101

Notes: You and Luigi have known each other for over a decade, and in that time, Luigi has found himself rather well versed in handling your anxiety attacks. But what sets him apart isn't just his ability to help you through these moments — it's his perspective on them.

Hello my pookies. This request is super recent but I felt compelled to write it! As someone who struggles with anxiety (especially during winter months) I felt generally responsible for portraying the feeling of anxiety disorder as realistically as possible, and with that being said, please take care of yourself — if you think reading this will cause any anxiety, or trigger you in any way, please do not read!

There’s plenty of other things to read on my bloggy 💕

I deleted this original ask on accident, if it wasn’t already obvious, so original anon (maybe) responded to my Hail Mary with another ask:

Now I’m thinking I had several anons asking about anxiety attack reqs bc the original was just a general request (no mention of an exam or gettin freaky) about reader having an anxiety attack and being comforted by Luigi through being his sweetie self and physical touch.

Anyway, I added a good girl for you, anon. 💋

There it is again, that funny feeling.

That funny feeling.

You still remember the first one.

Where all of it started.

Disney, of all places, where dreams were supposed to come true, or whatever.

You and Luigi were dancing around the Just Friends label, though his willingness to endure a fourteen-hour road trip with your family spoke volumes. He'd claimed the passenger seat next to you without hesitation, making this his third family vacation with yours.

Your parents drove ahead in their own car, leaving you to manage your bickering tween siblings with Luigi as your sole ally.

The separate cars were your mother's idea — a stroke of genius, really.

After last year's catastrophic drive to the beach with everyone crammed into one minivan, personal space had become a priority. Your father had joked it was for everyone's sanity, but you knew it was mostly for his.

Looking back, the warning signs had been writing themselves across your day in bold letters you didn't yet know how to read. Strange sensations you'd never experienced before crept in at the edges — moments where the lines on the pavement seemed to ripple and dance, pulling your focus until the world around you blurred.

There were seconds, terrifying and fascinating all at once, where you felt yourself floating somewhere above your body, so disconnected from the earth that your own name became a foreign whisper in your mind.

The tingling started subtle — a live wire of sensation that would spark without warning, racing up your spine like lightning searching for ground.

It would burst at the base of your skull, sharp and electric, gone almost before you could process it.

These symptoms, these peculiar feelings that should have set off alarm bells, you dismissed as exhaustion, dehydration, anything but what they really were.

Honestly, Disney hadn't exactly topped your travel wishlist — you'd dreamed more of quiet European cafes or hidden mountain trails — but you'd sooner wrestle an alligator than voice any complaint about being at the self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

Besides, there was something almost supernatural about the way Disney's magic worked its way under your skin, seeping into your bloodstream with each step closer to the kingdom.

The transformation from cynic to believer happened somewhere between the parking lot and your hotel room, as if crossing that threshold stripped away your carefully cultivated teenage skepticism.

Suddenly you were giddy with possibility, enchanted by the little touches that made everything feel surreal — Mickey-shaped waffles that were too cute to eat, chocolate-dipped strawberries appearing like edible rubies on your pillow, and Luigi's laughter mixing with yours as you both sprawled across crisp hotel sheets, talking well past midnight despite knowing tomorrow's alarm would be merciless.

But it was nothing caffeine couldn’t fix.

"C'mon," Luigi's voice carried that edge of concern you'd grown familiar with lately, his elbow gentle against yours as you sat at the hotel's breakfast bar. His dark brows pulled together, creating that little wrinkle you usually found endearing. "That's your second espresso."

You knew exactly what prompted this — either that pretentious health documentary he'd made you watch last week, or those endless conversations with his med school friends.

The last thing you needed was an interrogation before your first ride, especially from someone who'd once tried to survive finals week on nothing but Red Bull and prayer.

"It's basically just a double shot, Lu," you murmured, your voice honeyed with practiced patience. You speared a chunk of pineapple with your fork and lifted it to his lips — a tried and true distraction technique. "People do it all the time." The people in question being you, most mornings before school, but you kept that detail to yourself.

Some lectures weren’t worth inviting, and you were running out of time to get the most out of the breakfast bar, at least with the crammed itinerary your siblings had planned.

The sensation hit you almost the moment you passed under the wrought-iron gates.

The press of bodies, the shuffle-step of crowds being herded through winding queues, it all started to feel suffocating.

That strange disconnection from earlier crept back, stronger now, but you pushed it down. Blamed it on the Florida heat, on too much sun, on too little sleep — on anything but what it really was. But then the world started to narrow, your vision tunneling until all you could see was a pinprick of light ahead, everything else fading to a nauseating blur of color and movement.

You fled.

No destination in mind except away, away, away from the crushing weight of too many people in too little space.

Luigi had been waiting in line for god knows what when he noticed you'd vanished.

He found you later — minutes or hours, time had lost all meaning - wedged between two meticulously manicured topiaries. Donald Duck and Goofy's cheerful forms cast dappled shadows over your huddled figure as you pressed your head between your knees, desperately trying to remember how breathing was supposed to work.

Each gasp felt like trying to suck air through a coffee stirrer, your lungs burning with the effort of simply existing.

The moments after he found you exist only in fragments, like a film reel with missing frames.

Your focus had narrowed to the simple task of staying conscious, counting breaths that refused to fill your lungs properly. But you remember Luigi's panic with startling clarity — the way his usual steadiness shattered into sharp-edged fear.

He'd never seen anyone like this before, and the sight of you — normally so composed — crumpled between cartoon shrubbery sent him spiraling. His voice pitched higher, words tumbling out faster, convinced your heart was stopping or your brain was hemorrhaging or any number of catastrophic scenarios his medical friends had planted in his mind.

It wasn't until you'd gone completely still, retreating so far into yourself that even his increasingly frantic questions couldn't reach you, that real terror seized him.

The last thing you registered was the sound of his footsteps pounding against pavement as he sprinted away, shouting for help.

He'd left you there, alone in your private apocalypse, while the happiest place on earth continued its cheerful orbit around your collapsing world.

Somewhere nearby, a child laughed.

A parade song played.

And you forgot how to exist.

Over the years, you became fluent in the language of your anxiety — learning its dialect of triggers and tells.

Though most attacks still ambushed you without warning or reason, appearing like sudden summer storms in a clear sky, there was a growing anthology of things to approach with caution; hot and crowded spaces, lack of clear exits, too many consecutive nights of poor sleep, too many drinks the night before. Some rules could bend; others were steel-rigid boundaries you'd learned to respect.

Luigi, ever the engineer at heart, remained steadfastly convinced that those two espressos had been the match that lit the powder keg that morning at Disney.

He'd quote studies about caffeine's effects on the sympathetic nervous system, ticking off statistics about heart rates and cortisol levels with the same intensity he once used to memorize roller coaster heights.

You'd let him have his theory — it was easier than arguing, and his concern came from a place of love.

In the decade since that morning in Disney, Luigi has watched you wage war with an enemy he can't see or touch.

For someone whose world operates in binary — in clean ones and zeros, in problems that can be debugged and solved with enough careful coding — watching you battle something so abstract and unpredictable has been its own kind of torment.

"I mean it," he'll say, dark eyes serious in that way that still makes your heart skip, even after all these years. "If I could just understand the variables, map out the function that triggers it..." He trails off, but you know what he means.

Luigi has always believed in learning through data, in breaking down problems into manageable chunks until a solution presents itself.

But you've made him promise never to wish this on himself.

There are some kinds of knowledge that come at too high a price.

Still, watching him move through life without this constant companion of fear sometimes fills you with a complicated mixture of relief and envy; his brain doesn't betray him with false alarms and imagined catastrophes, and it doesn't make him better — you both know that — but God, there are days when you'd give anything to experience that kind of mental quiet, even if just for an hour.

Dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant had become almost routine when organized by Luigi's circle — a mix of brilliant minds who'd evolved from awkward coding camp kids into successful engineers, plus their equally accomplished partners.

The old social anxiety that used to accompany these gatherings had faded to background noise, manageable enough to let you focus on the menu rather than escape routes.

In fact, nothing lately had set off your internal alarm system.

No triggers lurking in dark corners, no unexplained spikes of dread.

For the first time in recent memory, your mind felt.. Well.. Quiet.

Your therapy journal — a habit maintained since the Disney incident — reflected this unprecedented peace.

The past few weeks had been remarkably clear, like someone had finally adjusted the lens through which you viewed the world, even compared to your good years, this period stood out as exceptional. A far cry from that morning a decade ago when you'd found yourself becoming intimately acquainted with topiary versions of Donald Duck and Goofy.

But there she is, joining the table unannounced — anxiety, that vindictive ex who always seems to know exactly when you've finally stopped checking over your shoulder; the moment you dare to relax, to think maybe you've somehow outgrown her, she kicks down your door without so much as a courtesy knock.

It starts in your chest, right after a sip of wine — expensive stuff, carefully selected by the sommelier with his practiced French pronunciation; one moment you're admiring the way the wine catches the light, and the next, your ribcage feels like it's being crushed in a vice.

Oh, fuck.

Your mind immediately launches into its familiar spiral of worst-case scenarios, each thought more catastrophic than the last.

When did you last have wine?

Could you have developed an allergy?

Is this anaphylaxis?

Your throat isn't closing up, but maybe it will.

Should you be able to feel your heartbeat this clearly?

Is this what the beginning of cardiac arrest feels like?

The rational part of your brain — the part that's been through this dance a thousand times — tries to remind you that you're fine, that this is just anxiety's signature move.

But panic has always been louder than reason.

Luigi presses his temple against the side of your head, that familiar gesture of affection he's perfected over the years. Like some oversized, obsessed feline marking his territory, "What you gettin'?" His warmth bleeds into your skin. "You've been here before, right?"

But you're too busy wrestling with your own mind to fully process his presence.

No, you're not dying.

You're not dying.

You are not dying.

But what if..

Stop it.

Please, not here.

Not now.

His words filter through your panic in fragments, like trying to catch radio signals through static.

Been

here,

right?

"Mm-hmm." The sound escapes like a breath you'd forgotten to release, your head bobbing in what you hope passes for a normal nod.

The menu before you becomes your anchor, though the carefully curated descriptions of dishes blur and swim across the page, words dissolve into abstract shapes, then into nothing at all as your vision tunnels inward, focused on the growing storm in your chest rather than the $95 risotto description you're pretending to contemplate.

Around you, life continues its normal rhythm.

Someone laughs at a joke about crypto drama, wine glasses clink, a story about a failed startup makes its way around the table, but you're watching it all through thick glass, separated from reality by an invisible but impenetrable barrier that arrived unprompted and appears to have packed for an extended stay.

"Mm-hmm what, angel?" Luigi's voice cuts through the fog like a lighthouse beam, momentarily illuminating a path back to shore, and you blink to find it again while your shoulders automatically square in an attempt at casualness that feels as obvious as a neon sign. "You with me?"

He's learned over the years to modulate his voice just so — keeping the concern tucked beneath layers of practiced calm. Luigi knows now that panic is a mutiny; your mind's crew turning against its captain, led by powder monkeys convinced each breath might be their last.

In these moments, you're a ship without stars to guide you, your internal compass spinning wild and useless.

He's discovered that once the storm hits, there's no turning back to safer harbors, no amount of retracing your wake will stop the waves from coming.

The panic has to run its course, has to drag you through its depths before it will release you back to the surface.

Like a riptide, fighting only exhausts you faster — you have to let it carry you out before you can swim parallel to shore and break free.

This is what your therapist tells you, what Luigi reminds you, what you know somewhere in the rational corner of your mind that's still functioning.

There's no fighting the abduction when it comes.

Resistance only makes the ship sink faster.

But believing it while you're drowning?

That's still a lesson you're still learning.

Your focus narrows to a single champagne bubble in Luigi's glass, watching it rise with desperate fascination, as if this tiny sphere of effervescence holds the secret to staying grounded. Your chest constricts further, every sense heightened to painful clarity — the scratch of silk against your skin, the too-loud clink of silverware, the overwhelming scent of truffle from three tables away.

Your body screams warnings in a language you're fluent in by now, though you wish you weren't.

The message is always the same.

This is it. This is how you die.

"Just have to go to the bathroom." The smile you manage feels like origami folded from sandpaper, but you place your napkin on the table with practiced grace.

Even as your insides are being shredded by panic, your muscle memory remembers its manners.

You navigate your exit with the poise of someone whose nervous system isn't currently attempting a coup, only to discover what can only be described as panic attack architecture at its finest — a single stall bathroom, complete with what appears to be a leather wingback chair, because apparently this is the kind of establishment where people need to sit contemplatively while powdering their nose.

Some interior designer's questionable choice about bathroom furniture has just become your salvation.

Later, when you're back to being a person who can form coherent thoughts, you'll want to write a thank you note to whoever decided that this bathroom needed a seating area.

Right now, though, all you can focus on is the mechanical process of existing; spine straight against the leather, shoulders rolled back, lungs remembering their one job.

Time dissolves into a blur until a familiar silhouette materializes before you — all black turtleneck and chocolate waves, appearing like a storm cloud in reverse.

Luigi crouches, his words filtering through your panic; a light through murky water. "You didn't lock the door." It's not an accusation, just gentle explanation.

"Worked in my favor, though." His forearms settle across your lap, warm and solid, while his fingers wrap around your torso with practiced care, his thumbs finding their place beneath your ribs, pressing with deliberate pressure — a physical tether to the present. "Feel that?" He looks up at you from his crouch, studying the vacant expression he's come to know like a seasonal forecast. "Where am I?"

Where am I?

Where am I?

Where am I?

The question echoes through the static of your mind like another signal cutting through the white noise.

It's become your lifeline over the years — Luigi's idea, one of his elegant solutions to a complex problem, the kind of simple brilliance that's pulled you back from the undertow countless times.

"You're in my belly." The words come out barely above a whisper, but they're there. You focus on the steady pressure of his thumbs against your skin, the thunderous beating of your heart against them, proof that you're still here, still existing, still breathing.

He hums softly, a gentle "Mm-hm, good girl." that doesn't quite reach through the chaos of your thoughts, but his thumbs pressing steadily into your sternum somehow breach the mutiny of your mind. "Where am I now, darling?"

Your brows knit together as new anxieties stack themselves like stones — the table of colleagues wondering about your extended absence, the inevitable questions about Luigi's disappearance, the mounting social debt of disrupting such a carefully orchestrated evening.

"My chest." The words escape as a whimper, and Luigi's expression shifts with recognition.

He knows exactly where she's made her nest tonight — that malevolent stowaway, that hijacker of peaceful moments, that pirate who turns calm waters treacherous without warning. She's taken up residence behind your ribs, squeezing your heart like it's treasure she means to keep.

"Mm — yeah," he breathes between a gentle nod, one palm spreading wide across your sternum, the other a steady presence on your back.

The pressure feels overwhelming for a split second, like being caught between two closing walls, but then- "Breathe with me, baby." His voice is low, steady. "Breathe in for me."

Through the crackling fizzle of your thoughts, his voice cuts through like a clean line of programmed commands, and you draw air in through your nose, your body remembering this familiar subroutine even when your mind is caught in an infinite error loop.

"Out." He demonstrates, his own exhale warm against your skin as he presses his nose to your cheek. A soft, approving hum vibrating through him when you complete the cycle — one successful execution of this breathing protocol you've practiced countless times.

For the next six minutes, your world narrows to this simple command-and-response; his gentle prompts, your body's gradual remembrance of how to operate its most basic function.

Input, output.

Inhale, exhale.

Reality still feels like you're underwater, everything distorted and just out of reach.

The sensation draws a physical response — your fingers curling into the soft wool of Luigi's sweater, anchoring yourself to something tangible, your brows pinched together. "I'm-" The apology dies as the first tears breach your defenses, and you remember belatedly that Luigi's already witnessed every shade of your darkness.

"Shhh," he soothes, rubbing solid circles into your chest while the strap of your dress slides rebelliously down your shoulder. The scene would be quite the tableau for any accidental witness — especially since Luigi hadn't thought to lock the door after pointing out your own oversight. "We gotta get her out of there." His lips curve into a gentle smile.

The her being that wicked thing that's made a home in your chest, coiled around your lungs like a python, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

"It's always at the worst times." Your voice emerges paper-thin as you stare at the ceiling, fighting against tears that threaten to break free; you know if you let go now, you might flood this whole restaurant with the weight of your shame. "I'm so sorry."

Luigi shakes his head, though your gaze remains fixed upward.

"Look at me," he whispers, nudging his nose against your neck to encourage you to look away from the ceiling while his hands maintain their steady orbit — one drawing circles into your chest, the other tracing constellations between your shoulder blades. When you finally lower your head, he meets you halfway, forehead pressing to yours. "You never need to apologize for this." His nose brushes yours, a gentle reassurance, before his lips find your cheek. "There is nothing to be sorry for."

But there is, and the weight of it sits heavy in your throat.

Because you are sorry.

You're horribly, terribly sorry for all the moments Luigi has sacrificed to tend to you — his hands learning the maps of your distress across chest, head, and belly, working to exorcise that wicked presence.

You've pulled him from meetings, from deadlines, from life itself.

He's tracked your hazard lights down empty highways, found you pressed against brick walls in city alleyways, breathing into paper bags.

He's always been right there, though.

And every episode has refined his expertise, until caring for you in crisis has become as natural to him as breathing — though that knowledge only adds another layer to your guilt.

Sometimes you worry — no, that's not right. You're always worrying — about what would happen if this all fell apart.

If Luigi woke up one morning and decided he was done being your sanctuary, done pressing his thumbs into the spaces where your demons nest, done chasing away the thing that makes your heart hammer and your fingers go numb.

What if one day he craves simplicity — a love story without footnotes, without having to keep a mental catalog of triggers and remedies, without having to scan rooms for exits and quiet corners just in case she decides to visit.

But in reality, Luigi doesn't carry these thoughts at all.

Not even a whisper of them.

To Luigi, loving you isn't a burden — it's as natural as the way his hands know exactly where to press, as inevitable as his instinct to follow when you disappear.

He doesn't see himself as a therapist or an exorcist.

He sees himself as the person who gets to love you, who gets to be there when you're strongest and when you're struggling to remember how to breathe.

Every time he finds you — whether it's in bathroom stalls or behind steering wheels or pressed against alley walls — he’s not thinking about what he's missing; he’s thinking about how brave you are, how you keep fighting even when your mind turns traitor.

He's thinking about how you still show up, still try, still love with your whole heart even though this disorder has taught you how quickly things can shatter.

You see yourself as a compilation of crises.

He sees you as complete.

Where you count the times he's had to rescue you, he counts the times you've trusted him enough to let him in during your darkest moments.

Your fear of being too much is met with his certainty that you're exactly enough.

"You know what I think about?" Luigi murmurs against your temple, his hands still tracing those steady circles. "I think about how strong you are. How you feel everything so deeply, and still get up every morning. Still love so fiercely." His voice drops lower, meant just for you. "Still choose to trust me with this part of you."

One of his hands slides up to cup your face, thumb catching a tear before it can fall.

You're still trembling, but it's different now — like aftershocks rather than the main event. "Remember our first real date? When we decided after three years to stop playing the just friends shit?” He asks suddenly, a soft smile playing at his lips. "When you had a panic attack at the theater, and I found you outside?"

He doesn't wait for your response, knowing how words still feel too heavy on your tongue.

"You apologized then, too. But all I could think was how brave you were, coming back in to finish that awful movie." His forehead presses against yours again. "That's when I knew, you know. That I wanted to be the person that would always find you.” You sniffle gently, reaching your hands to cradle his face into them as he continues, "I'm not going anywhere."

Your breath catches — not from panic this time, but from the sheer weight of his words settling into your chest.

They nestle there, pushing against the lingering tightness, making space for something warmer.

"But I-" you start, the familiar litany of apologies rising to your lips like muscle memory, and Luigi shakes his head, the movement gentle against your forehead.

"No buts," he says softly, firmly. "Remember what we talked about? No apologizing for the way your mind works." His fingers trace the line of your jaw, steady and sure. "I see you surviving. And I see you letting me be part of that. Do you know how much trust that takes?"

"I keep waiting," you whisper, the words barely audible, "for it to be too much."

Luigi's laugh is soft and tender. "And I keep waiting for you to realize that too much isn't in my vocabulary.“

[sincenewyorks]

im sorry i can’t stop imagining that taylor and nick walked in on set one day and robbie and matthew were like ‘we figured it out guys, here’s videos and a ppt presentation! make sure to take notes’

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[puppppppppy]

AND I MET THE CHANGE GOD TOO. OKAY. COOL OKAY

[mispatchedgreens]

drift compatible bitches bc like knows like

[aq2003]

twelfth night is not a Shakespeare I have read or seen but now I’m a bit terrified of ever consuming it. I definitely would never touch that audio drama with a 10 foot pole though (so so tempting. I might give in)

i was normal about twelfth night and held many normal emotions about it i really liked it for being this fun very messy queer drama until i listened to david tennant malvolio which ruined my life i cannot stress enough all of my evil derangements are because of david tennant malvolio if he had not done any of that i would have been FINE

[charmac]

hey seth! i'm just a random guy that's been really into sunny for the past year, and i always love your tweets. you, loren, and anna have been on my fyp a lot the past weekend, and i know a lot of people are being assholes about it, but it's genuinely so heartwarming to see. you three definitely deserve it and are the best kind of people for this to happen to. you always come off as respectful of rcg. hope you can pass the message along to them both too! have a great day

Thank you for the kind message, I really really appreciate it and so do Anna and Loren! Glad you got into the show :)

Honestly I get people are lashing out/shit talking because it does seem kinda weird to witness through a screen how much we’ve been able to interact with them and the interactions we’ve had. I know people are jealous, too (as in have told me they are, and I was certainly jealous last year when Rob didn’t do any events in NYC bc he was sick but did them in Philly a few days later) and I totally get that. Whatever the reason for people being assholes is, I don’t really take it personally. They don’t know the full story of literally anything that happened, they’re just watching through a screen and making their own assumptions of before, after, and in between all these clips they’re seeing, and trying to find something to justify how they feel. The claims that I’ve been ‘stalking’ them or ‘overstepping boundaries’ are genuinely just funny to me when every place we’ve met them has been an event that was publicly posted to Instagram/Facebook well in advance.

(And I’m not gonna talk on Twitter about certain details of this, but I feel like I can probably disclose here that the Four Walls people approached me to tell me/give me things and not the other way around. Their socials dmed me, followed me, Rob followed me, etc. I had literally no sway in them choosing to do those things or introducing themselves to me in person and organically engaging in conversations with me.)

We want to share our interactions with RCG on social media because we think most people appreciate and enjoy their interactions with fans (and also the small amounts of Sunny info we got), and that’s it. I don’t need to share or brag about anything. I would be perfectly content keeping everything that happened this weekend to myself (I very much avoid otherwise sharing my face or voice on social media, so I genuinely have to overcome that insecurity to even be able to share these things), but we know the majority of fans like to see this stuff and that’s why we have been posting everything.

Your message (and others i’ve received) means a lot. I’m glad the majority of people are enjoying our interactions with them and I really appreciate the time you spend to send this ask, really! And I’ll be back to posting regularly scheduled actual Sunny content very shortly :)

[smalltimidbean]

I finally finished Bugsnax

[james-spooky]

this is a test

[orcelito]

Ok I Am enjoying getting to see Neji's teammates react to this. Especially Lee, who's fuckin wrecked by this. Wish we got more reaction from Tenten, but by this point I can't be surprised at Kishimoto not giving proper depth to the girls.

This part tho,

LEE... YOUR HAND... YOUR HAND TOOK HIS EYEBROWS AWAY... GIVE THEM BACK..!!!!!!!

[skunkes]

Absolutely firehose blasting good vibes your way cheye!!! So happy and proud of you for pursuing the life you want even though it's hard. Manifesting cheysperity (cheye prosperity)

thank u! when me and my dad were breaking the news to my mom even he was telling her that he isn't thrilled about it either, but I've had so little Say over my life, all my life, that this needs to be something I can choose for myself for once...now I jst hope it actually all goes thru + happens ^_^

[moomeecore]

f&c finalle bingo sheet. made w my younger sibling - they made one also but i didn't photograph it. it was their idea to have it say "betty" instead of bingo, which is genius. happy f&c final episodes eve everybody!

[skitskatdacat63]

I meant to write more for a pt 2 lore post earlier but didn't end up doing so, so pls take these AU sketches(Mark & Jense and then some assorted sketchies)

[gregmarriage]

are things going good for me, if i’m dreaming about moving out, but in a healthy way, not in a like ‘a runaway from home and get fucked up’ type of way? and i don’t feel trapped here anymore, i feel like, maybe, the future could be good? *vomit noise*

[itsalwaysdark]

like i wouldnt mind like. Not having new linear games post 5 its judt that sims 4 wasnt even supposed to Be The Sims 4 it was a last minute pivot and the base code is so outdated and was broken On launch so like. i just wish we could have the final actual sims game be like. one that was always intented to be a major sims release AND be intended to be so long term . yk