#the other .. no idea where i stand on that one

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

to girlfriend!reader wearing a necklace with their race number on it (some slightly suggestive lines included) (requested)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

The sun shines in through the kitchen window in golden strings of light. It's a quiet day at home, with no plans till the afternoon and no need to hurry there. Still, you've already dressed yourself in a new summer dress you've bought. The material flows down over your hips, swishing as you turn in the mirror and then as you walk from your bedroom to the living room to show Max your chosen outfit. But you dress isn't the only new item you're wearing.

You'd bought it secretly. A suprise. One you hoped he'd love.

Max spots the necklace right away, his gaze flicking from your eyes, to the dress and then landing on it with a sudden, knowing smirk curling at his mouth. From where's he's sat on the couch, he leans in just a little, elbows on his knees and head resting on his upturned hand. His voice low and teasing as he speaks.

“Well, well, look at you,” he says, voice thick with amusement and something a bit more dangerous.

"You like my new dress?" You ask, giving him a quick spin, hands in the air for a moment and then settling on your waist. His gaze lingers over you with careful precision.

"Not the only new thing you've got on," he muses, tilting his head to the side slightly, "Where'd you get that?"

"Ordered it," you say simply, as if it were nothing at all, as you readjust the necklace chain.

“Careful, schat. Trying to make sure no one forgets who you belong to, huh?”

He stands, slowly, holding your gaze. He stalks towards you, one hand reaching out to hold your waist, the other fingering the chain of the necklace, his eyes lingering on the number and then dragging up to meet your gaze.

You catch the challenge in his eyes and flash him a grin in return. “Maybe I just like the idea of having you close, all the time.”

The teasing in his expression softens in an instant. His fingers gently brush the pendant as he looks at you, eyes warm and serious now.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice softer, “I like the sound of that.”

He pulls you into a quick kiss, no dramatics, just the softnes of quiet love, then he lets his forehead rest against yours.

“You don't know what you do to me,” he whispers into the small space between the two of you, his eyes resting closed like he's still processing the necklace and the dress. It's barely any distsnce at all, yet it feels like a mile. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips.

"I think I've got some idea." You smile. He does too.

lando norris

He notices it while you’re lying beside each other on the couch, limbs tangled up together in a familar way, and watching some random movie you're only half paying attention to. It's background noise more than anything. You couldn't care less though, just being with Lando was enough to make you relax.

It's about halfway through the movie, with some museum scene plays across the screen, when he notices the new shiny necklace hanging around your neck.

“Wait—hang on. Is that… is that my number?” His voice, though scratchy and slow from tiredness, goes up slightly as he speaks. The little queaks of excitement in his words make you smile.

You can only nod, biting back a smile, desperate to see his reaction. You'd bought the necklace on a whim a few nights ago and were lucy it had arrived while Lando wasn't home. The fun was the suprise of it, after all.

He stretches forward for the remote, sat on the coffee table infront of you two, and pauses the movie dramatically.

“You love me.”

You blink, a small laugh bubbling in your chest at his sudden and sombre declaration.

“I mean, yeah, obviously—”

“No, no. This is serious,” he says, grinning from ear to ear like an madman, all teeth and dimples. “You got a number four on your chest. That’s, like, actual dedication.”

You raise a brow, amused. “It’s just a necklace.”

“Just a—?” He gasps, scandalised, hand to his chest and all, like you’ve personally offended him. “That’s my number. You realise what you’ve done, right? You’re basically branded now.”

“Branded?”

He nods solemnly, though his eyes are still sparkling with excitement. “Yup. You wear that out and people are gonna know. Like, know know. I won’t even have to introduce you anymore. They’ll see it and go, ‘Ah, that’s Lando’s girl.’”

You can't help but laugh now, full bellied and joyful, and he grins wider as he hears it, if that’s even possible.

He tackles you into the cushions, kissing your neck with soft pecks. “Next step: matching tattoos. Just saying.”

"Lando!" you cry out with a huff of amusement, knowing he's entirely joking.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding..." His quiet for a moment, then looks up at you again with a cheeky grin. "Unless..."

"Lando, no. If you want everyone to know you’re mine, I have a few other ways in mind..." Your hand reaches out to his collarbone, then traces soft lines up to his neck and jawline. Your touch is hot and familiar, slow and intentional. You can see him swallow hard as you do it.

"Oh, yeah? Maybe you could show me them. Just to make sure we're on the same page, love."

oscar piastri

Coffee dates with Oscar are a constant in your life. There's a small shop around the corner from his place that you love to visit on quiet, sunny days. When the sun rose that morning, seemingly shinning brighter than normal, and with a particually joyful sparkle, you knew it was a coffee date day.

It was the perfect time to show Oscar your new piece of jewellery.

He notices the necklace while you’re talking, halfway through a sip of his coffee, eyes slipping from your gaze to the number hanging around you neck. The unexpected, but not undesired, sight causes him to do a double take.

“Wait…” he leans in, interupting your sentence, though you don't mind. You only smile softly as he squints slightly, slowly taking in the sight infront of him, then blinks up at you with slight disbelief. “Is that... 81. My number?”

You nod just once, a little shy, and pick up the charm that dangle from the end of the chain, holding it closer for him to see. He leans in to meet you halfway. But before you can say anything else, a deep blush spreads across his face. He cheeks go an adorable shade of pink as you watch the cogs turn in his brain.

His mouth opens like he has a joke ready, but nothing comes out except a breathy little laugh.

“That’s… kinda cute,” he mutters, eyes still fixed on it like he’s really trying to quickly process all the implications of you going outside wearing his number so casually. “But, like, uh, cool cute. Really cool.” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

When you smile and say it’s because you like having him close all the time, he looks down, shaking his head with a small, dimply smile. The blush on his cheeks remains, though he looks less caught off guard than before.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he murmurs, his hands reaching out to hold yours across the table. Then under his breath, he adds, “Will you wear it to the race next week? Please. Even just under your jumper.”

You agree, of course. You hadn't bought the necklace to hide it away, and you tell him as much. Your words just make him smile and pull you hand closer towards him to plant a gentle kiss to your knuckles. Then it's your turn to blush, squeezing his hand with a smile.

And when you do wear it the next week, proudly walking into the paddock hand in had with Oscar, his smile is brighter than any coffee date day sun has ever been.

carlos sainz

Carlos, the gentleman that he is, loved to plan spontaneous dates. One more occasions than one, what you thought was going to be a quiet night at home had turned into the romantic night out. Candles on resturant tables, hands holding your and taking out the chair for you, the whole deal. Which was how you once again found yourself picking out a fancy outfit, wit no idea which resterant you were going to.

It was sweet of him, though you did wish you had a little more to go on than just wear something pretty, not so hard you you, yes? to go off of while trying to pick your outfit. Settling on an old favourite outfit, you slipped into it with ease, only calling Carlos in when you realised you needed help zipping up the back. Upon hearing his name, he pattered into the room obediently, already dressed in his dress shirt and pants, look perfectly put together.

"Gorgeous, cariño," he whispered into your ear after doing as you asked, "Anything else you need, my love?"

With a barely concelled smirk, you went over to your jewellery box and pulled out your new necklace.

"Help me put this on?" you asked innocently, walking over to him, placing it delicately in his hand and turning around, patiently awaiting his reaction.

“¿Qué es esto?” he asks, his voice light and breathy.

You smile, though it's more of a smirk than anything, but don't turn around. “A little something I got, it's new.”

“Number fifty five?” he says, fingertips ghosting along the back of your neck as he put it on for you, then settling his touch onto your hips to admire your outfit in the mirrors reflection, his head resting on your shoulder. “Dios mío, I’ve turned you into a fangirl, hm?”

“I've always been a fan.”

His brows lift, amused and smug, head tilted slightly to the side. “Of me? Or just the accent?

“Mostly the arms,” you quip, resting your hands ontop of his.

He laughs, pulling you closer and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “That’s permanent, right? Not just for today? Because I kind of love seeing my number right there.”

“So everyone will know I'm yours?” you joke, voice light.

He kisses your temple, voice low. “Sí. I like it that way. I'm yours. And you're mine.”

alex albon

He’s on his way out the door, backpack on and car keys in hand, when he finally notices it hanging from your neck.

You had it on all day and waited patiently at breakfast, then on your walk together, then through lunch, and then while he was getting ready to leave your apartment. for him to notice, but he simply hadn’t. The whole day. That was, until now.

You we're glad he finally had, you would have hated to have spoiled the fun and justed showed it to him yourself after going through all the trouble of buying it secretly and hiding in in the back of your pjamama drawer.

Oh, well. At least he had spotted it before leaving, now the fun could begin.

His mouth drops open into the perfect little ‘o’ shape as he stares at the little shinny 23 hanging down from around your neck. His eyes are glued to the necklace, one outstretched finger pointing at it.

“Wait, what is that?”

You smile, and wave your hands around it with fluttering fingers. “A new necklace. Nice, right?”

He squints, then closes the front door softly and steps closer to you. “Is that my number?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.” You smirk, and tilt your head slightly to the side, trying to hold in your laugh at the stunned, suprised look on his face.

He dramatically clutches his chest, standing right in front of you now. “Too late. You’ve turned me into a puddle. I've melted.”

Then he leans in, eyes glowing with mischief as his hands reach out to grab your upper arms. “Just promise me one thing. Please?”

His voice drips with glee.

“What?”

“If someone, some guy, ever comes up to you in public... ask for your number or something, you better point to that necklace, and then say my name. Clearly. Loudly. Alex. Alex Albon. 23. Got it? Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laughing at his bright smile. “You’re unbelievable."

“Unbelievably lovable, yes. Hence you having my number arounf your neck.”

You could only laugh harder at his smug expression and mock dramatic tone. After pressing a soft kiss to his lips, you reply, "You're so stupid. Truly.”

"Stupidly in love with you? Definitely."

"You're lucky I love you too."

"Luckiest guy in the world, I know."

charles leclerc

You'd been wearing it for a few days already, under jumpers and high necked shirts. it felt like a little secret, a constant reminder that Charles was with you even when we wasn't actually next to you. You weren't exactly keeping it a secret, per say, but you hadn't yet put it on display.

He notices it at the most random time, while you’re brushing your teeth, hair up, wearing one of his old shirts. The collor of the shirt, well-worn and stretch, dipped over your collarbone and revealling the shiny little necklace you were wearing under neither..

He squints, rubbing his eye from tiredness, or maybe slight disbelief. “Sixteen?”

You nod around a mouthful of toothpaste, toothbrush sticking out one side of your mouth, the edge of your lips curling up into a small smirk.

“Mon dieu,” he mutters, half teasing, half stunned, coming to stand behind you and wrapping his arms around possessively around your waist. He rests his weight onto you, curling into your warmth. “You’re more sentimental than me.”

You spit, rinse, and smile, Charles never moving from his place behind you. It's a purely domestic scene, a moment that reminds you how comfortbale you exist in eachother's orbit. “I wanted something cute to remind me of you. Something to keep with me when your away.”

He watches you through the mirror, soft eyes watching you move with a tired ease, hands pressing comforting circles into your hips. A constant warm presence. “You should have told me, I would loved to buy it for you. You deserve many pretty things, chérie.”

You lean back into him, letting his body mold to yours. You fit perfectly into eachothers embrace.

“I didn’t need you to buy it,” you murmur, reaching down to toy with the charm. “It felt more special this way. Like it was mine to choose.”

He hums into the crook of your neck, nose brushing softly against your skin. “Still,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse from sleep, “I would’ve added matching earrings. A whole Charles Leclerc collection.”

You snort, turning around to look him in the eyes, hands reaching out to hold his face between your palms. “I don’t need anything else. Just you.”

His expression shifts, tender and quietly overcome. He presses a slow kiss to your lips, then you forehead, and pulls you against him. “You have me. Even when I’m not here. Especially then.”

There’s a pause. A quiet that isn’t awkward or heavy, just full of feeling. He looks down at the necklace again, then back at you with a soft smile, one you only ever see when he's looking at you.

Charles sighs, breath warm and ticklish against your skin. “Sixteen looks good on you,” he says eventually. And those simple words hold within them a hundred different meanings you can't wait to dream about all night.

"I'll have to wear it more often, then," you say simply, and the words make him smile even wider.

lewis hamilton

You and Lewis had gotten to the truly domestic era of your relationship. You had keys to each other’s apartments, and you knew you could let yourselves into each other's spaces. So when Lewis texted you, saying he had work to do at home, but you were welcome to come and sit with him while he did it, exist in his orbit for the afternoon, you were soon letting yourself in his front door. Any chance to spend time with Lewis was an opportunity you took, escpeccialy given his busy schedule.

Lewis notices it the second you walk in, even if you don’t realise he’s looking. He’s lounging on the sofa with his laptop resting on his lap, reading something, probably reviewing data notes or one of the endless supply of emails he recieved, but the moment his eyes flick up and land on your necklace, all his focus slips away from him.

He closes the laptop slowly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips, subtle and calm. The kind of smile that makes your chest ache with warmth and familiarity. Lewis' smiles had a way of making you feel whole.

“That’s for me?” he asks gently, nodding toward your necklace. His voice is quiet, curious. His gaze lingers on the number, just visible beneath the open collar of your shirt.

You glance down, fingers brushing over it self-consciously. “I thought it suited me,” you say, only half teasing.

He stands, putting the laptop on the coffee table infront of him, and crosses the room with unhurried ease.

One hand comes up to cradle the charm between his fingers, his thumb gliding over the number as though memorising it by touch.

“It suits you better than me,” he murmurs, a hint of joking in his tone, eyes lifting to yours. "I’m flattered.”

"Flattered?" you said, giggling slightly at his word choice.

"Well, yeah. A pretty girl is wearing my number, how else should I feel?" He lets the necklace fall back against your skin, then adds with a little smirk, “Might need to get something with your initials now. Y’know, to keep things balanced.”

You smirk, letting your hand rest on his chest. “What, like a bracelet? Property of...”

“Necklace. Tattoo. Your name embroidered on my socks... I’m not picky.” He shrugs and sighs dramatically, clearly enthralled by his own joke.

You lean into his embrace, shaking your head as he pulls you into a sweet kiss, his arms wrapping around you with familiar ease and comfort.

“You’re such a sap,” you murmured into his hoodie, resting your head on his chest as you speak.

“And you’re mine,” he said, grinning down at you, hand lingering on your lower back. “So I think we’re even.”

george russell

It’s a lazy Sunday morning spent at your usual breakfast spot. Just off a main road, the quiet atmosphere was the perfect place to unwind and relax on a slow morning. You were dressed casually, sunglasses pushed up on your head for look more than necessity, and your new favorite necklace catching the light and resting around your neck. The necklace, more than anything, you hoped he’d notice.

You slide into the booth across from him, pressing a kiss to his cheek first before sitting down, dropping your bag and stretching your arms out in front of you with a sleepy smile. You hadn't arrived together, George having to go to an extra early meeting and you prefering to sleep in on such a gorgeous morning. But it made it the perfect time to show off the new addition to your jewellery collection.

George doesn’t say anything at first, but you watch as his eyes widen slightly as he spots it. Instead of immediately reacting, he takes a slow moment to sip his coffee, watching you with that knowing look that makes your stomach flip.

Then, with a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, he tilts his head and says, “You’re really trying to make this obvious, huh?”

You glance across at him, shrugging and feigning confusion. “I don't know what you mean.”

He gestures toward your necklace with his half-finished coffee. “The whole ‘I’m madly in love with a certain F1 driver’ energy you’ve got going on with that necklace.”

You laugh, resting your chin on your upturned hand. “Maybe I just thought it looked cute. Favourite number. Totally nothing to do with you, sorry.”

“Mm,” he hums, matching your posture with his head on his own hand and leaning towards you slightly with a growing grin. “Or maybe you just wanted the world to know you’re taken.”

“Think it's working?”

“Oh, definitely,” he says, eyes gleaming and a light edge colouring his words. “But now I’m going to have to step up my game. Watch out. I might start wearing your initials. Embroidered. Everywhere. Just to make sure everyone knows I'm definitely off the market.”

You snort at his dramatics, but match his teasing tone. “George Russell, turning up to the paddock with my name monogrammed onto his fireproofs? Oh, the scandal!”

He grins, and laughs as he leans back in his chair. “You think I won’t?”

You roll your eyes and sigh, but you’re blushing now, and he can see it. He reaches across the table to tap your necklace gently with one finger and intertwined your hands with the other.

“It looks good on you,” he says, voice quieter now, sincere, like it’s a secret he doesn't want the rest of the room to hear. “I like knowing you carry a little piece of me around with you.”

Your smile softens, the moment suddenly feeling much softer than before. “I always do. Not just the necklace.”

He grins, like he’s won something more important than a race. “Still getting the monogrammed suit, though.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“A menace in love,” he says proudly, then flags down the waiter like nothing's happened.

taglist: @verogonewild

(comment if you would like to be added!)

[p1astr81]

I LOVE your writing for oscar!!! if ur reqs are open, could you consider writing about playing like truth or dare with him and the other drivers. and then one of the dares is to sit on oscar’s lap (but you end up feeling something hard against your skirt……. it’s too bad you enjoy teasing oscar)

Warnings: smut! 18+, panties as a gag, exhibition/voyeurism

A blackout kept you all inside Lando’s apartment. You, Charles, Oscar, Max Fewtrell, Carlos, and Alex were all there originally because he wanted you all to try is cooking. (You all lived in the same complex and Lando often took advantage of that).

But now you were all sat in a circle, relying on Lando’s record breaking count of two candles and all of your phones flashlights.

Of course it was Lando who brought up the idea of truth or dare.

“Truth or dare?” Lando asked you, a dangerous spark of evil shimmering in his eye.

You rolled your eyes before picking dare.

“I dare you to…” his eyes danced around the room. “sit on the hottest guy in the room’s lap.”

Grinning, you got to your feet. You maintained eye contact with him, walked right up to him like he was your pick, the sat down in Oscar’s lap right beside him.

Even in the dim lighting, it was easy to make out Lando’s shocked expression. Charles laughed loudly.

“Him? Are you serious?!” Lando screeched.

You waved a dismissive hand through the air. You ignored his protests and turned the question on him.

“Truth.” He chose.

“Did you want me to choose you?” Your voice was low, teasing, dangerous.

“I pick dare.”

Laughs rang out. “Not how the game works.” Carlos reminded him.

He chewed his cheek. “Yes.” He muttered.

“Ouch.” You hissed.

He moved on quickly, selecting Charles to ask.

You leaned into Oscar, your mouth ghosting by his ear. “This okay with you?” You whispered. You knew it was. You’ve felt him growing harder and harder underneath you since you sat down. And your skirt had ridden up since you’d sat down, so the only thing stopping you from dripping all over his shorts was your thin lacy panties. You shifted and heart the catch of his breath in response.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah,” his voice was hoarse, like all his energy was going into not doing something about how solid he was.

You shifted again, rolled your hips deliberately. The only indication of it affecting him was his shaky exhale.

The game continued. Charles attempted a cartwheel. Alex deep throated a banana. Max kissed Lando. Entertaining stuff.

But Oscar was too occupied to pay attention to any of it. Your squirming was insistent, and he was sure it was purposeful. He was clenching his jaw so tight he thought he might break his teeth. It got to a point where he thought he might actually cum in his shorts, then he grabbed your hips and held you in place.

“You think this is funny?” He muttered, his voice hot.

You smirked. “Lando in a dress? Absolutely.” Playing dumb.

He’d had enough, grabbing your hand without a warning and marching down the hall to the guest bedroom. He locked the door, but that didn’t stop Lando from banging on it and questioning what the hell oscar was going in there.

He ignored his teammate, shoving his pants down to his ankles. He bent you over the bed. “Tell me to stop.” He warned.

“Don’t.” You wiggled your ass to entice him.

Your arms were pinned behind your back, both your wrists in his one hand. He slammed into you, gagging you with the panties he’d ripped off of you. Whatever, your moans were still echoing off the walls while he fucked you like you owed it to him. I guess in a way you did.

“They’re all listening,” he groaned as he felt you tighten around him. “Yeah? You like that?”

He slammed into you particularly rough, earning a muffled, “yes!”

“Oscar you’re washing those sheets!”

“Hear that? They know what we’re doing and they’re still standing there.” He laughed when you squeezed him again, kissing along your exposed neck. Your nails dug into your hands. “Do you think Lando’s recording so he can get off to the sound of your pretty moans later?” He grunted into your ear as he bumped your cervix. “He wanted you. But who did you pick?”

Your eyes were rolling to the back of your foggy head. The pleasure was blinding, better than you’ve ever felt before. “You,” the confession was muffled. He pulled the gag from your mouth, sopping wet now.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“You, I picked you Oscar,” you sighed out, “close! ‘M gonna-hmph fuck”

“You think you deserve to cum?” He whispered, his voice rough.

You nodded quickly. “Please, please, please,” you panted.

“Well, since you gave the guys something nice to listen to-“

Fingers found your clit, pressing, circling. Your vision went white as you came. You bit your lip, trying not to be so loud. Still, small hah, hm, mhph escaped.

There was no warning before Oscar came inside of you, filling you with his cum. Hearing muffled, you hadn’t heard him moan your name.

When you both finally came to your senses, you started to panic. “Oh, oh fuck oh no, Lando’s going to be so pissed! We shouldn’t have- Oscar!” You scolded him as he stood there grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

You had no idea that he thought you were a better prize than a lottery win.

He walked out first. The lights were on. The power had come back while you two were busy. Everyone else went home. Lando sat on the living room sofa.

Rounding the sofa to stand in front of him, you both realized he was in nothing but a pair of black boxers. A wet patch and a bulging tent.

“Well, you both did this to me.” He shrugged. “So you gonna fix it?”

You licked your lips. You and Oscar turned to each other at the same time, giving each other the same hungry look.

[finelinevogue]

something new

summary - you meet harry at a festival and have a bit of fun

pairing - harry styles x stranger!reader

word count - ~1.5k

“Where are you?” Your friend, Lea, shouted down the phone just so you could hear her over the loud music.

“I’m coming back with drinks now.” You shouted back, slightly tipsy from the amount of beer you had been drinking.

You and your two best friends, Lea and Hallie, had decided to come to the LIDO festival last minute.

Your outfits were as cheap as the tickets, but you were having the best time. The music was fun but you definitely needed a drink or two to get through it.

“Okay, come quick! We miss you!” Lea shouted.

“Miss you queen!” Hallie shouted too.

“Who are you missing?” Someone else shouted in the background, to which there were a bunch of inaudible screams from your friends.

“Hello?” You tried pushing through the crowds and back to your friends.

“Come back Y/N! We all miss you!” You had no idea who shouted that, but the phone call disconnected before you could find out. Hopefully your friends were okay.

It took you another ten minutes to push back through the crowds.

At least the drinks survived though.

Three beers were going to have to last you all at least another two hours, because there was no way you were going back through those crowds again anytime soon.

“Lea!” You shouted as you got closer.

You couldn’t see Hallie because she was talking ever so closely to a girl. She was cute and definitely Hallie’s type.

Lea turned to you and pulled your arm to help you through the wedges of large men.

“You’re back!” She screamed excitedly.

“Here you go.” You handed her a beer and kept ahold of Hallie’s for the moment - no need to interrupt her moment.

The music was even louder here down next to the stage, but this is somehow where you managed to grab a spot.

You checked that your bag was still across your chest and immediately got back to dancing with Lea.

The beer wasn’t great but it would do.

You danced around whilst Lea full-on belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing. You weren’t fully comprehensive in this genre of music, but you were happy to be here for the experience.

You took another sip of your drink before Hallie came over and snatched hers from your other hand, giving you a kiss on the cheek in thanks.

You winked at her as she went back to the girl.

At least one of you three were getting some excitement tonight.

To be fair, Lea had her boyfriend at home so she would no doubt be waking him up later to have fun.

That just left you.

Luckily you were broken from that self wallowing thought as someone came up to you, emerging from the crowds.

“You must be Y/N!” The guy shouted, cap pointing low on his face so you couldn’t see him entirely.

“Who’s asking?”

The guy tipped his hat back and shock washed over your face to see Harry fucking Styles standing in front of you.

“Holy shit.” You said out loud, not having meant to.

Harry laughed.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, feeling more assured that it wasn’t some creep who was calling your name.

“Harry.” He held out his hand for you and you shook it.

He had nice hands.

That wasn’t creepy to say. His fingers were rings free and they were so soft. You couldn’t help but blush and smile at the touch of him. He looked like he was having the same physical reaction.

“Nice to meet you.” You said.

“And you.”

You took another sip of your beer, not knowing where or how to steer the conversation next.

“What is it?” Harry pointed to your drink.

“Just a local beer, I think.” You said after swallowing, “Wanna try?”

You handed over the beer to him, both your hands getting the opportunity to touch again. He thanked you as he brought the drink to his lips and you couldn’t help but watch how his lips balanced on the edge of your cup.

He looked so pretty, wow.

You couldn’t believe that Harry Styles was drinking your beer at a random summer festival.

He nodded after he had finished, giving it the seal of approval.

“Good?”

“Yeah.” He smiled.

“Wanna share?” You offered as he gave it back to you.

“Okay.” He nodded.

A new song came on and you knew this one.

Lea and Hallie came over to you because they knew this was one of your favourite songs. You had such great friends.

“Here.” Harry offered to hold your drink so you could dance with your friends.

You three all held hands and then danced like there was no one else here. The kind of dancing you would usually reserve for your bedroom or cleaning the house. None of you had it in you to care how crazy you looked though, because you felt so free.

After the song was over Hallie hugged you both before returning to her new smiling girl. Lea told you she was going to attempt to face-time her boyfriend. That left you to get close to Harry again.

“Thanks.” You said as he handed your drink back, needing to take a big sip after your dancing.

“It’s alright.”

“Why aren’t you performing tonight?”

“Can’t be a singer all the time.” He shrugged.

“Shame. I would’ve loved to see you up there.” You smiled, pretty sure that you were attempting to flirt.

“Oh yeah?” He smiled, showing his pretty dimples to you.

“Mhm. Is it okay to admit I came to see Love on Tour?”

“Of course.” He nodded.

“Three times.”

He laughed at that.

“Well, I’m flattered.”

“You should be. You’re great.” You gave him your best admiring eyes, returning your gave from him to the stage so that you could give yourself a moment to reset your blush.

You felt Harry come and stand close at your back.

You turned slightly to see his hand ghosting over your back as if he wanted to keep you close but wasn’t sure where to toe the line.

You helped him out by reaching behind you to bring his hand forward and place it on your right hip, his body bumping a little into you from behind.

Harry settled nicely.

His hand immediately went firm on your hip, his fingers spreading to keep your balance against him.

Your body swayed as another song came. Harry swayed along with you.

Hallie caught your gaze from across the way and gave you an excited, silent, scream and you couldn’t help but smile and shake your head at the bizarreness of it all.

You turned your head to the side so you could see Harry, “You here alone?”

“No. My friends are over there.” He nodded his head over to where Lea was speaking to some guys “They’re both married, don’t worry.”

“Lea is close to being too.”

“Ah congrats to her.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to turn back around to the stage now that you had your gaze set on Harry. Why would you want to?

Harry kept his head tilted down to watch you intensely, pursing his lips as he watched you bite the corner of yours.

“What?” You asked with a giggle.

He just shook his head with a smirk.

“No, what?”

“You’re very pretty.” He answered softly and even though the music was way louder than him, you could still hear him perfectly.

“So are you.”

“Pretty enough to kiss?”

Your jaw dropped a little over his preposition. He was so smooth, but you didn’t want to boost his potential ego by telling him.

“I suppose.”

“Oh you do, do you?” He raised his eyebrows in jest.

You simply nodded, but you turned your body so that your chest was against his now. Your hand came up to cup his cheek and you still felt his hand on your other hip now. He hadn’t let go.

Harry leant his head down to meet you half way, leaving you to finish the rest of the distance or back away if you wanted to - but you definitely didn’t want that second option. Instead, you leant up and cupped the back of his neck to guide his lips to yours.

The music blended into the background as you closed your eyes and all you could feel was Harry.

His body pulled yours to his and you felt yourself moulding your lips and body in tandem with his.

His cap got slightly in the way but neither of you minded, kissing around the obstacles.

The kiss was sweet and firm, but he pulled away before anything intense could happen. As soon as he pulled away though he realised what he was missing, so he pulled you back for one more kiss.

You both stayed close to each other, smiling like two kids in love and not two strangers who’d just met.

“You planning to stay for all the music acts?” He asked hoarsely, like he still hadn’t caught his breath back.

“Maybe. I could be persuaded otherwise.” You suggested.

“Good to know.” He pursed his lips so he could taste your lipstick again - cherry - before going in for another kiss.

Your arms reached up behind his neck to hold him closer this time, feeling his hands keep ahold of your waist. He didn’t want you slipping away from him, but neither did you want to.

Your lips pressed urgently into his, both of you tasting like the beer you’d been sharing. His moustache and beard hairs tickled your skin, but felt good.

Harry breathed into the kiss, causing you to lean further into him just to chase his lips.

Your face tilted the other way to kiss him better, but you got fed up at one point and brought a hand up to move his cap around so it was now on backwards. It was easier to kiss him without a bumping restriction.

Harry laughed at your move.

“What?” You smiled as he smiled at you.

“Nothing.” He kissed you again. “This feel alright?”

“Nothing’s felt better.” That probably sounded desperate, but at this point you didn’t care.

“Very much agree.” He laughed and kissed you once more - or twice.

Harry’s arm slunk around your waist to bring you close to his side and you wrapped your arm around his waist too. You probably looked like a couple, but you were happy to pretend for the evening.

The song changed again to something that made Harry cheer, pointing towards his friends who cheered too.

His friends and Lea came over, Lea internally screaming at you for whatever had just happened between you and Harry.

You tucked your head onto Harry’s chest to get away from her shocked stare. Harry only pulled you closer in.

Harry bounced along to the song with his friends and you laughed as you watched him enjoy himself.

The joy was overwhelming and you couldn’t help but feel like something new had just begun.

[slashersiren]

Hi hi!!! I was wondering if I can throw in my request? I made sure to not go aginst you're rules but if there was some rules I dident see then ignore this then and im sorry. I was hoping to reqest a reverse harem?

In this request, 3 elder Yautja males are mated for life with (Y/N) who is a human. One day, while they are walking through the forest to hunt, their human lover stops and freezes. They know humans are prey even on their world, so seeing their partner acting like very alarms them.

So, (Y/N) sees something, like a face pattern or maybe the uncanny valley since we have evolved to see that. How will our 3 elder boys act when (Y/N) suddenly stops, freezes and sees somthing they can't (Even if it is nearly impossible).

Sorry if this is a long request, ignore if it is to big. (Y/N) is female though, you can turn them male if you want to, I don't mind. Stay safe irl :)

Hi,

I actually liked this idea a lot, I hope you’ll like the story I made out of it as well!

Here you go, take care and stay safe🫶🏻

Three Elder Yautjas x Female reader

Unseen Danger

The forest was alive with the quiet hum of nature. Birds chirped distantly, the wind whispered through ancient trees, and the earth beneath their feet felt alive and sacred. Three massive figures moved through the dense greenery with the grace and power of predators born to hunt. Their armor was scarred, their presence undeniable Elder Yautjas, each one marked by countless battles, their dreadlocks dusted with silver and streaked with dark blood.

Ka’rath the oldest, Br’kan the second and Xul the youngest.

Between them walked their most treasured prize, not a trophy won through blood, but through bond. Among all their victories, she was the one they guarded most fiercely, a human, fragile by comparison but fierce beyond measure. She carried herself like a queen, her senses sharper than any human had a right to be, honed by years living with these legendary hunters. Her heart beat steady in her chest, her eyes wide and alert. But then she stopped.

Suddenly, she froze mid-step, breath hitching in her throat. The three elders halted immediately, their bodies tightening like coiled springs, eyes flicking to her with an urgency that turned the air thick with tension.

“She is not moving.”

Rumbled Ka’rath, his helm scanning her vital signs.

“She is afraid,”

Growled Br’kan, already unslinging his blade from his back.

“Heart rate high. Adrenaline spike.”

Xul, the quietest of them, stepped closest. He reached out a large, clawed hand to her shoulder but paused just before touching her. His voice, low and gravel-deep, spoke in Yautja.

“You are safe. Speak.”

But she didn’t move.

Her eyes were locked forward — wide, unblinking. Unseen to the others, nestled in the brush of trees ahead, something looked back. It didn’t breathe. It didn’t move. But her primal instincts screamed. The pattern on the tree bark was too symmetrical. The shadows too perfect. The face wasn’t right.

“I see it..”

She whispered. Xul’s mandibles clicked open in immediate warning. “Where?”

“There,”

She said, and her voice was not her own. Distant.

“It’s… looking.”

Br’kan moved to stand in front of her, shielding her with his massive body. Ka’rath dropped into a crouch, aiming his shoulder-mounted cannon into the thicket.

“There is nothing,”

He growled, frustrated.

“She sees what we do not,”

Xul said darkly.

“It may not be for our eyes.”

She flinched. A shiver traced her spine. Then it was gone. Her body slumped forward. Br’kan caught her before she hit the ground. His grip was firm, grounding her. Her breath steadied, the fear draining from her limbs like venom from a bite. But something still lingered in her chest. Xul touched her cheek gently, claws soft against her flushed skin.

“You saw the Unseen.”

“I don’t know what I saw,”

She admitted, voice small.

“But it saw me too.”

Ka’rath growled and activated a full scan of the area.

“No sound. No movement. Nothing physical… We will not allow you to walk in danger.”

“We are hunters,”

Br’kan said fiercely.

“But she is ours and we are her’s. We will hunt anything that dares to threaten her. Even if it is not flesh.”

They circled her as they resumed the path weapons drawn, senses on edge. The forest suddenly felt colder, the light dimmer, but with the three elders standing beside her, the impossible fear began to crumble into fierce determination, and whatever lingered in the dark?

It knew she was protected.

[ttdamian]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child II ݁

⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. Potential disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. Usage of Y/N, M/N (mothers name) English isnt my first language. wc: 2,2k Not beta read. IM SORRY THIS WAS KIND OF RUSHED. I HAVE EXAMS (੭ ;´ - `;)੭. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

The halls of Wayne Manor had always been quiet—but tonight, they felt hollow.

The silence didn’t settle. It pressed. Heavy, suffocating, like a weight laid over the entire estate. Even the grandfather clock in the hall, usually a steady and familiar tick in the rhythm of the night, felt like it had forgotten its purpose. The seconds came too slow. Or too fast. Or not at all. Bruce couldn’t tell anymore.

He sat alone in the study, surrounded by flickering shadows that danced like ghosts against the walls. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting little warmth, only light—and even that felt artificial. It illuminated the room like a stage, like a place where something terrible had just ended, or was about to begin.

He hadn’t moved in hours. He didn’t know when he had last slept. He couldn’t remember what had brought him here in the first place—whether it was instinct, or memory, or some subconscious hope that sitting in this room would somehow bring her back.

The call came just past midnight.

The ringtone echoed too loud in the dark, shrill and sharp like a scalpel. He stared at the name on the screen for a long time. Gordon.

He didn’t want to answer.

Some part of him already knew.

Still, his fingers moved automatically, lifting the phone to his ear. There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by a breath, and then—

“She’s dead, Bruce. I’m sorry. [M/N] is dead.”

The words didn’t sound real.

They didn’t feel sharp, or sudden, or cruel.

They came slow. Soft.

As if wrapped in cotton, cushioned to protect something fragile.

But there was no protection. Not from this.

Bruce didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. The firelight flickered across his face, but his expression didn’t change. Not right away.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

“[M/N] is gone.”

Gordon repeated it like a priest offering last rites. Final. Definitive.

But Bruce’s mind rejected it instantly.

No. That wasn’t possible.

She had been angry, yes. Distant. She had left him—Left to be with another man years ago— But that didn’t mean she was gone. That didn’t mean she was… dead.

He tried to find his voice, but when it came, it didn’t sound like his own.

“It can’t be her,” he said, hollow and mechanical, as if reading lines from a play. “You’ve made a mistake.”

He clung to that idea like it was oxygen. Mistaken identity. Wrong file. Someone else’s name on the report. There had been a mix-up—there had to be.

Gordon’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver.

He knew that tone. It was the same one Gordon used when delivering news that shattered people. That tone wasn’t used for lies.

“I’m sorry. It’s her. We confirmed it.”

Bruce’s hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened.

His vision blurred, not from tears, but from the kind of pressure that builds behind your eyes when something inside you breaks and refuses to show it.

The fire crackled in the hearth. The sound was so familiar, so normal, that it felt obscene. Everything around him was the same—this room, this chair, the hum of the old manor—but something vital had been ripped out from underneath it all. And the world just kept going.

Gordon spoke again, quieter this time.

“She has a daughter, Bruce. A young girl. She… she doesn’t have anyone else.”

The words struck deeper than the first blow.

Bruce closed his eyes.

Of course she had a daughter.

Their daughter.

The one [M/N] had carried in silence. Had raised alone. Had hidden from this city, from this life, from him.

He remembered the way she used to stand in the doorway of their bedroom, one hand resting on her stomach, the other clutching her robe closed as if it could shield her from the future. She lied. Saying it was a stomach ache. But he knew better. Because he knew there were things she never said aloud—fears, hopes, quiet heartbreaks—but he saw it in her eyes. The way she looked at him like she was already saying goodbye.

“She needs you,” Gordon said again. “She’s your responsibility now.”

That word—responsibility—hit harder than he expected. Like an accusation dressed up as mercy.

He stood abruptly, knocking over the chair behind him. The clatter echoed in the room, sharp and final.

“No,” he said, breathless. “I’m not her father.”

He said it like a curse, like if he said it with enough certainty, the truth would rearrange itself to obey.

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the lie in them.

He could see her—[M/N]—in his mind. Smiling that tired, sad smile she wore the day she left. And he could see the child now too, in flickers and fragments. A girl with [M/N]’s mouth and his eyes.

That was the part that terrified him the most.

Not that the girl existed. But that she might look at him the same way her mother once did—with too much trust. With too much hope. With something like love.

Because if she looked at him like that, he didn’t know if he could survive it.

He didn’t know if he could let her go.

Sterile walls wrapped around you like a second skin—cold, impersonal, suffocating.

The kind of cold that didn’t just sit on your skin but seeped into your marrow. The kind that pretended to be clean, but only masked the rot beneath.

Machines sang a song you never wanted to learn. A flat, mechanical lullaby that buzzed against your skull like gnats. Too loud to ignore, too hollow to comfort.

Everything beeped in rhythm, but none of it felt alive.

Harsh white lights flickered above, humming like a stage show performed just for you.

Too bright. Too artificial. They cast shadows in all the wrong places, made even your hands look unfamiliar.

It had been three days since you opened your eyes.

Three days since you were dragged out of whatever haunted dream your body had escaped to.

Three days of voices too soft, hands too gentle, smiles too wide.

The nurses were kind. Sweet, even.

They brushed your hair back like you were glass.

Tucked your blankets like they were afraid you’d vanish.

Whispered words your mother never would have said.

And you hated them for it.

Not loudly. Not openly.

But in the quiet ways children hate things they don’t understand.

You recoiled from their kindness like it was acid. Because it wasn’t hers.

Because no one was her.

No one else could hum that cracked lullaby.

No one else could cradle you with rough hands and a heart too bruised to beat cleanly.

No one else could love you the way she did—flawed, fevered, terrifying.

You didn’t want anyone else to try.

So you waited.

You waited for him.

Your “father.”

The word tasted foreign on your tongue.

Awkward.

Mismatched.

Like a puzzle piece that didn’t fit, no matter how hard you pushed. But the nurses said he was coming. That he had been called. That his name was Bruce Wayne.

You didn’t fail to recognize the name.

How could you not?

Especially when it had been whispered in the dark of your childhood, slurred between sips of liquor and choked sobs. Escaping from your mother’s lips like a curse. Or a prayer.

And every time she said it, something in her changed. Her eyes would glass over, her mouth twist—not in grief, but in something quieter. Sicker.

You remembered how she'd go silent afterward. How her fingers would tremble around the bottle. How she’d stare at nothing for hours.

Bruce Wayne.

You mouthed it now in the dark, like you were trying it on. Seeing how it felt in your throat.

And it didn’t feel right.

It felt like poison.

Like the reason your mother stopped smiling.

Like the thing that hollowed her out from the inside until there was nothing left but bitterness and ash.

Maybe that was why her love felt wrong sometimes. Felt broken. Too sharp in some places and too soft in others.

Maybe that’s all she ever knew. All she ever learned—from him.

Maybe that was what you were born from.

Not love.

But rot.

Not hope.

But him.

You sat up slowly, arms trembling under the IV, and stared out the hospital window. The city beyond looked too bright. Too alive. Somewhere out there, he was walking streets that had never known you. Breathing air untouched by the girl he didn’t know existed.

And soon, he’d be here.

You hoped.

Coming for a daughter he never asked for.

And you’d have to look him in the eye.

And pretend that wasn’t already a kind of grief.

You moved to return to your bed, tip toeing quietly and closed your eyes.

Not to sleep. Not even to rest. Just to escape.

The walls around you continued to buzz, like they were trying to deafen out your memories. Like if they kept humming long enough, you’d forget the dark. Forget the cradle. Forget the hands that once reached for you—too soft, too kind, too wrong.

But something about the quiet daylight felt different.

Thicker.

Heavier.

You sat in it, back pressed to starched hospital sheets, arms wrapped around yourself. The air felt syrupy. Sweet in a way that made your teeth ache. A warning masked as comfort. And then—

You felt it.

Not a draft. Not a shift.

Arms.

Familiar, in a way you never wanted them to be.

They crept from behind you, slow, certain. Wrapping around your waist like they’d never left. Not cold. Not hot. Just there. Holding you like you belonged to them.

The same ones from the dream.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t even flinch.

Because somewhere deep in your bones, you knew they were never really gone. They had been waiting. Watching. Curling just beneath your skin, coiled around the memory of your mother and the rot she left behind.

The arms tightened, just slightly—gentle, even tender.

Like a mockery of love.

A touch pretending to be comfort.

You pressed your lips together, throat burning with something you couldn’t name. The kind of grief that didn’t have a beginning, because it had always been there. Because you were born with it.

You didn’t want to cry.

But your eyes stung anyway.

You thought maybe if you stayed still enough, quiet enough, the arms would dissolve. That you’d wake up and this would be another dream.

Another lie your mind fed you while your body stayed caged in this hospital room.

But then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Polite.

You blinked.

And just like that, the arms were gone.

Vanished without sound or weight. As if they had never been there to begin with.

But your skin still remembered.

“Miss [Y/N]?”

The voice was old. Warm. Tired.

You turned, just slightly, to see him standing there—his silhouette cast long in the flickering hall light.

You didn’t know him. Not really. But the way he stood there—with his gloved hands folded neatly in front of him, eyes gentle but unreadable—you could tell he wasn’t here by choice. He was here out of duty.

Duty to the man who wasn’t with him.

To the man who couldn’t come.

Because Bruce Wayne wasn’t ready to face you.

Wasn’t ready to see what was left behind after [M/N] died.

Wasn’t ready to see her in your eyes.

Alfred gave a soft, practiced smile. “Master Wayne sent me to bring you home.”

Home.

You almost laughed.

But the sound died in your throat.

Because you didn’t know what that meant. Because the last time you’d called anywhere “home,” it was filled with rot, empty bottles and slurred words and lullabies that never ended right.

Still, you nodded.

Because what else could you do?

He approached slowly, like you were something fragile. Like you might shatter if he moved too quickly. And maybe, in some way, you would.

“I’ve brought your things,” he said gently. “And if you’d like, we can leave this morning. I thought it might be easier.”

You didn’t answer.

Just stood on shaking legs, IVs removed, your hospital gown replaced with clothes too clean, too new. As you followed him down the hall, you glanced back once.

Half-expecting the arms to be waiting.

Reaching.

But there was only the hospital bed. Neat. Untouched.

And the faint scent of sugar and antiseptic.

You walked beside Alfred in silence, the hallway stretching endlessly ahead. Each step echoed like a heartbeat. You wondered if Bruce was somewhere, pacing. Watching from a distance. Maybe he couldn’t look at you without seeing what he lost. Or maybe he didn’t want to look at you at all.

Maybe that’s why he let someone else do the loving.

Just like your mother did.

You didn’t cry.

But deep inside, something curled tight and silent.

And as you stepped out into the morning  air, the sun above thin as a sliver of bone, you felt the arms again.

Not touching.

Just near.

Waiting.

Watching.

Like they always had.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

Taglist: @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll

[vsa-pieldepapel]

ralsusie became real and kinda popular in the fandom and i IMMEDIATELY thought of you. also your susie hadcanons... you're predicting it all....

so what are your thoughts on their dynamic in the new chapter? and on susie's character development overall?

oh it's a fucking party in my house rn you have no idea. i have so many things to say about them that i don't believe its possible to make all of them coherent in a single post but i'll vomit some of it Before that tho i must say i am surprised at how many people thought of me w these new developmetns lol. mostly because the internet is so fast paced i thought no one would remember. thank you though.

i remember saying somewhere that I was convinced ralsei observing susie's independence and force of will would plant a seed in his head for him to strive for freedom and agency, and I'm surprised how dead on that was. Guts is widely accepted to be the stat for how much a character is willing to stand against the control of the player, which ralsei has Zero of in all chapters, but fascinatingly, even though he goes back to zero in ch4, at the tail end of ch3 before i fought the roaring knight i checked the power screen and ralsei had a single Guts point. this was immediately after susie consoled Tenna and told him, "did you hear that, Ralsei?" so i am convinced that single moment of guts was brought forth by her, by the lessons he learns from her character.

I had rather low expectations going into the new chapters because I really still wasnt convinced if Toby was self aware on how he was writing the holiday family, susie and noelle, and ralsusie, or if that was all serendipitous. The new chapters make me believe more strongly that he is aware and its not all coincidental. theres a lot here and i would have to make an entire separate post about it but I was incredibly pleasantly surprised by how many poignant, emotionally resonant moments happened between susie and ralsei building on how much they push each other to be better, and how it's emphasised that they're influencing the other. I was incredibly shocked in a good way that they had an actual argument, but Susie didn't resort to all the coping mechanisms we see her use with Lancer. Ralsei has proven now that he will be there by her side and she has decided to believe in that rather than keeping in mind that she could be abandoned at any turn, and I thought them being able to genuinely talk it out and MAKE it through an argument was an excellent indicator of how powerful their relationship is (and I do mean this all even if it's just friendship stuff for now, because the healthiest couples, anyway, are those where your partner is also your friend). I remember being skeptical way back when of people who made susie sporty and confident, because she struck me as feeling ugly, insecure, and not really that successful in that regard either, and I'm glad I was right. Her monologues about feeling unwanted and broken which feels very much the result of unstable circumstances like moving constantly, where there is no consistency to any one situation, and neglectful or abusive parenting were very resonant. Curiously though my fave part of all these new developments about susie are when it pertains to how she connects to the lore of the prophecy, which is another separate post. Basically, I love how susie is a "wild card", but that necessitates a LOT of elaboration. I like that her stubbornness and her will to fight are displayed for both when they're good and worth it and when they're dysfunctional. I also found the exploration of how an individuals psyche shapes a dark world fascinating.

The bloody handprint lives fucking rent free in my head. Again, I need to make a MASSIVE post to connect a lot of dots here idk how to do it. But I am very, very excited. Maybe it would be easier to organise everything if I was prompted to talk about specific things. I could make a pepe silvia style video about it atp rofl

[lexus-k4]

Batman going to read over the documents phantom had put on his desk before disappearing before he could get a word in.

Later that day-

Batman: Constantine. Can you confirm that the names writer here are legitimate or reliable. I cannot find any records in human databases.

Constantine: *slightly frazzled after just escaping talking with Wonder Woman about conduct* huh? Oh yeah sure?

*reads through the paper multiple times.*

Constantine: is there anywhere I can refill my flask? It's empty. And I am too fakin' tired for this shit. Goodbye Battsy.

Batman stands there concern growing, looking down at the paper Constantine had shoved back into his hands.

Again later that day -

Batman: phantom.

Danny: oh hey bats. What can I do for you?

Batman: I want you to explain who these are. They aren't humans and Constantine didn't answer.

*Danny noticing the paper in his hands and sees clockworks name instantly realizing what he's asking.*

Danny: oh well. You asked for emergency contacts, but I don't exactly have anyone, do next best thing I guess like mentors and parental figures- if you could call em that -but they aren't alive so they don't exactly have numbers. Ergo summoning circles.

Batman: hmm.

Danny: I- uhh. I can't tell if that's a happy grunt, a dissatisfied grunt or just a grunt...

Half Jordan just passing by with a bag of chips in his hands: yeah none of us can. Let me know once you've deciphered it because the ones who have won't share.

Danny looks a Hal then to Batman, then back to Hal as he stares at him eating his chips: where did you even get those?

Hal: the kitchen.

Danny:...

Danny:There's a kitchen here?!?!

Batman: your going off topic.

Danny: I don't know what you want me to say!!!

Batman: I want to meet at least one of your emergency contacts.

Danny:... R You sure bout that?

Batman: hm.

Later during the summoning of his first emergency contact, clockwork, with wonder woman, flash, Hal, and a few of the bat kids now being present along with Constantine to do the summoning.

Hal: soooo. This clockwork dude. Is he like made of clocks?

Flash: yeah I was wondering that too. Like what's with the name.

Danny: the name is because he's a master of time. His existence started when time did...

JL: ...

Constantine in the back chanting finally finished as the circle glows.

Danny: also a warning, he hats you flash. You've made a lot of paradoxes he has to fix.

Flash: WHAT?! Why are you only telling me this now?!

Clockwork appears from the circle in a middle aged man form wearing his usual theme but this time as a suit and with legs as if he's at an interview: because I paid him to not tell you until the last second so that I can catch you. I'm gonna have a nice word with you once I've finished with the Bay's questions.

Flash now frozen still letting out a sheepish chuckle folowed by a panicked whine as he realises he can't move. Clockwork answers all of Batman's questions and a few of the others, some before fully being asked and others without even needing to be asked.

Idk where to take this but I feel like a good idea would be like either bats being paranoid and summoning the others but it turns out well, like Pandora friends with WW or frostbite smothering Danny with praise, or nocturn becoming quick friends with Superman because I'd like to think with his golden boy energy he's the only one out of everyone who is present has the most consistently normal sleep schedule.

Or even like clockwork and the others passively saying stuff that makes the JL severely concerned for Danny.

Phantom's emergency contact form, particularly in a no one knows AU

At first, Danny tried to reject doing an emergency contact form and pushed it off for as long as possible. 

He had some great points on his side: He was already dead, he didn't even know If he could die again, Ghosts don't have families (to his knowledge) and he really didn't want anyone to find out just how long he's secretly been pretending to be alive.

The other members of the Justice League asked gently if he really wanted to leave his loved ones wondering should he suddenly disappear one day.

And he hesitated.

That made the other JL members realize he definitely had loved ones that-- for whatever reason-- he didn’t want to know he was a member of the Justice League.

While they understood protecting their loved ones from their enemies, it was also important to protect them from being hurt by their friend disappearing without warning.

Flash wouldn’t shut up about it, Wonder Woman made stupidly good points. Batman kept pushing to put in the paperwork.

Finally, Batman handed Phantom a folder of all his blank paperwork and insisted Phantom finish it that day, or else he would be pulled from his missions.

Phantom really didn’t want to stop investigating the crime syndicate he was working on with Robin, so he took the papers with a sigh.

Danny agonized over the emergency contact form in a private room of the Justice League headquarters.

A singular piece of paper to be set in a box that would self-destruct at any attempts to open it without at least three personalized passwords from different members of the league after the League’s internal systems recognized Phantom as deceased or missing for longer than 48 hours.

It was as thorough as Batman could get, albeit not flawless.

Danny is already aware his friends and family are concerned about him. Their constant attempts to reconnect only to be met with radio silence on his end was a sign enough.

He tried to imagine to how Batman would react to having to call the “Fenton Hotline” and tell them their teenage son died on a mission for the Justice League… that is, if they even pick up.

[moesthoughts]

thinking about bottom nat

blurb about bottom nat because i’m starting to really like the idea, (lit after my dom nat propaganda post i got so many sub nat on my time line) So here are some thoughts

pairing ➥ natalie scatorccio x fem reader

warnings ➥ sub nat, fingering r! giving, head r! giving, strap, mostly just sesbian lex, pure smut

𑄽𑄺 Thinking about how Nat is all bark no bite, sure she can get you weak in the knees with some whispered words, but once you have her alone and under you she’s suddenly the shyest person on earth.

𑄽𑄺 One knee parting her legs during makeout sessions and she’s completely yours, already rocking her hips on your thigh, whimpering into your mouth.

𑄽𑄺 Sex while you’re both high, and she’s feeling the most vulnerable and sensitive. You’re eating her out like she’s your last meal and she’s on cloud nine in two different ways.

𑄽𑄺 Nat just loves the attention, she’s been deprived of it her whole life and now that she has you making her feel so good when she needs it, she feels so safe in your grasp.

𑄽𑄺 Please praise her, don’t be mean. Any bit of degradation makes her sad, not turned on. But if you praise her she melts under your touch, begging you for more.

𑄽𑄺 Fucking her with your strap, drinking in her moans as she grinds on your fake dick. Riding her strap or sucking on it, she’s groaning like she can feel what you’re doing to her.

𑄽𑄺 She falls apart around your fingers, be rough, be gentle, she doesn’t care. She loves how you know where to curl your fingers to make her pleasure levels skyrocket.

𑄽𑄺 I feel like she’d be quiet, but if you want to hear her she will be loud. Mostly, you’ll get soft moans, quiet whimpers and groans on occasion.

𑄽𑄺 Drunk sex too, in a semi public space at a party. You both pressed against each other, and your hand traveling down her pants that has her heavily breathing into your mouth. The thought of being caught excites her.

𑄽𑄺 Rub your thumb around her clit and she melts against you, losing all strength in her knees. She can’t resist your touch.

𑄽𑄺 I feel like her relationship with Travis made her feel like she had to be dominant, so if you guys got together after they broke up she’d be so relieved to finally be receiving again.

𑄽𑄺 Leave hickeys on her, kiss marks from lipstick, anything. She loves having something from you on her. She also loves seeing her marks on you.

𑄽𑄺 DIRTY TALK. Nat cannot keep her mouth shut during sex, she’ll praise you, tell you how good you’re making her feel.. she just loves affirming what you do.

𑄽𑄺 Sex in her hut when you’re in the wilderness, it’s perfect because you both are quiet enough that nobody will notice. Even then she’s arching into your tongue, you tasting every bit of her.

𑄽𑄺 Aftercare, clean her up, light her a cigarette, or get her water. She’ll help you clean up as well, try to get anything you need.

𑄽𑄺 if she can’t touch you she will actually whine, small protests, tie her up and she can’t stand it. Her hands need to be somewhere on your body, ESPECIALLY if you’re riding her strap.

𑄽𑄺 Pull her hair and she’s all yours, groaning into your pussy while she eats you out.

𑄽𑄺 Nat just loves receiving from you and enjoys the break she has from being the dominant one all the time.

since i’ve been hypnotized here u go… i might be even more in love with her idk.. FALLIMG FOR SUB NAT PROPAGANDA

req me!

masterlist

[kxsagi]

𝟎𝟒. 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐭-𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞

the balcony door clicks shut behind you, slicing through the silence like a blade. you don’t turn. you don’t need to. you know who it is. 

the air shifts – not just cooler now, but heavier. you can feel the weight of it settle into your bones as a figure steps into your peripheral vision.

isagi. 

his hood’s down for once, arms folded loosely over his chest like armor. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t look at kaiser either. just stands there, still as stone. 

“didn’t know this was booked,” he says, voice even. 

kaiser doesn’t move. doesn’t flinch. he takes another drag from the cigarette, slow and deliberate. “didn’t know you cared.” 

“i don’t.” 

“sure.” 

the tension stretches, thick and unyielding, wrapping itself around the three of you like smoke. you’re suddenly hyperaware of where you’re standing – how close you are to kaiser, how isagi’s watching from the doorway, how you’re caught in the middle like a line drawn in the sand. 

you speak up before the silence swallows you whole. “i’ll go,” you offer, already shifting your weight toward the door. 

“no.” kaiser’s voice is sharp. too fast. like a reflex he couldn’t swallow in time. “don’t.” 

you pause. isagi’s eyes finally lift to yours, dark and unreadable in the low light. there’s no irritation in his gaze. no challenge. just quiet calculation, like he’s measuring the space between you and kaiser and drawing conclusions he doesn’t say aloud. 

“the first episode’s out,” he says after a moment. “it’s already blowing up. comments are coming in nonstop.” 

kaiser exhales smoke toward the sky, eyes on the stars. “and?” 

“some people think the fight was staged.” 

a humorless laugh escapes kaiser’s mouth. “of course they do. internet’s full of critics who think they’d survive five minutes in this band.” 

“but most of them don’t,” isagi continues, gaze flicking briefly to kaiser. “they think it’s real. raw. that we hate each other.” 

kaiser lets the cigarette dangle between his fingers, jaw tight. “they’re not wrong.” 

isagi’s voice drops a little. not softer, just quieter. more pointed. “then maybe stop acting like you’re the only one who’s allowed to spiral.” 

the words land harder than they should. not loud, not dramatic. but they hit something – you feel it in the way kaiser stills. just for a second. something in him pulls taut. he doesn’t respond. he doesn’t have to. 

isagi doesn’t wait. he turns without another word and slips back inside, letting the door click softly shut behind him. 

the quiet that follows isn’t peaceful. it’s jagged. humming with all the things left unsaid. you glance over at kaiser. his eyes are fixed on the stars, but his jaw’s clenched tight, mouth drawn in a hard line. he looks… tired. not the cocky, untouchable version the world sees – just a boy in a graphic tee, standing in the dark with too many thoughts and no idea what to do with them. 

“i hate him,” he mutters. 

you don’t look away from the door.

“no,” you say quietly. “you don’t.” 

[twitch: chokiigan – 106.7k viewers] 

🎮 live now: “my honest opinion of saint ego’s doc so far: ass or pass” 

nagi starts his stream late that night, propped up in bed with his phone half-charged and a half-eaten bag of chips resting on his chest. the room’s dimly lit, bluish from his monitor glow, and he’s wearing a wrinkled saint ego hoodie with the hood up. 

his eyes are barely open, but the second the stream connects, the number at the top corner jumps – 106.7k and still climbing. 

“yo,” he says lazily, brushing chip crumbs off his screen. “why are there so many of you. it’s like... bedtime.” 

the chat explodes anyway: 

@babegirlnagi: UR LATEEEEE  @sexymfslut69: do u sleep with socks on  @rinbeater9000: DROP THE DOC EP REVIEW  @fuckitweball: DID YOU WATCH IT? BE HONEST  @chillgirlxo: nagi be our neutral party pls 

he blinks at the screen, mouth full. “yeah, yeah. i watched it.” 

the chat goes full feral. 

he chews a bit longer, thinking. then: “i’m surprised they included a scene of kaiser and isagi fighting again,” he says, like he’s just now realizing it. “but it’s actually smart.” 

he pauses to drink from a bottle of water that’s definitely been sitting out for too long. 

“'cause like... if they cut out the fights, fans would think they’re hiding something. like they’re trying to look perfect or whatever. but by leaving it in...” he shrugs, eyes flicking to the chat. “they show they’re being honest. and i respect honesty more than perfection.” 

the chat floods with support instantly: 

@nagiismycomfortmeal: PREACHHH 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️  @sadguitargf: he said it

nagi scratches the back of his head and yawn-sighs. “anyway. it was good. kinda intense. i liked the music though. isagi was, like, really in it.” 

@bananabrainrotbachira: the lyric scene??? 💔 @rinsstareloweredmygpa: they’re fighting for her and she doesn’t even want a man 🙄

nagi reads that last one and snorts. 

“don’t blame her,” he mumbles, mouth already back in the chips. “you people are exhausting.” 

he squints at the chat again, blinking slow. some usernames are spamming in all caps, bold letters jumping off the screen: 

@saesilencemepls: drop. the. theory.  @nagiinmysheetsnotstreams: nagi knows something he's not telling us  @traumacoregroupie: stop being mysterious and EXPLAIN  @snortednagisbreath: do you think they’re fighting over the girl??? be so serious rn 

nagi reads one, then another, then scratches his cheek with a lazy finger. “you guys are so nosy,” he mumbles, shifting the camera slightly so the phone doesn’t slide off his chest. “parasocial behavior. be normal.” 

but he keeps reading anyway. thumb dragging the chat up slowly. eyes half-lidded and thoughtful now. 

“do i think they’ll stop fighting?” he echoes aloud, like he’s tasting the words. “maybe.” 

his voice stays low, soft in a way that makes the stream feel almost private, like he forgot 106,000 people are watching. 

“when they stop pretending they hate each other more than they care.” 

the chat explodes. 

@rinrejectedmeindolbyatmos: 🫨 🫨 🫨 🫨 🫨 @canonicallydelusional: HELLO???????????

nagi yawns, completely unfazed. “anyway.” 

he picks up his water bottle and swishes what’s left of it before tossing it somewhere off-camera with a dull thud, ignoring the way his chat is only ramping up. “you guys talk a lot.” 

he grabs his phone and angles it closer to his face, lips brushing the mic. “you ever think maybe they’re all too emotionally constipated to admit what they want?” 

@bleachmybrainagain: need tissues and therapy after this 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭  @saintslut95: ✨EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED KINGS✨  @guitardaddyissues: GIVE HIM A PODCAST  📢  @nvrmindmydelusion: you’re not even trying and you’re spitting fire 

“anyway,” he mumbles again, leaning back and pulling his duvet up to his chin. “i think it’s brave they kept the fight in.” 

he goes quiet for a moment, just the faint sound of his comforter rustling as he shifts to one side. 

“people love perfect bands, right? polished. shiny. scripted. but that’s fake. this was real. messy. kind of ugly.” 

his words are slower now, sleepier. like they’re coming from somewhere deeper than usual. 

“so yeah. honesty over perfection. every time.” 

the chat slows for just a second. a ripple of actual agreement in the sea of memes and spam. 

nagi yawns one last time. “mm. bored now.” 

he taps something off-screen and mumbles, almost as an afterthought, “goodnight. or whatever.” 

and just like that, the stream cuts to black. no goodbye. no warning. no follow-up. 

the fans are left screaming into the void. 

now texting: saint ego gc 🎸

the room stills as yukimiya takes his seat on the red velvet throne. 

he settles in slow, deliberate, like the chair was made for him and he knows it. behind him, silk champagne curtains catch the golden lights overhead, pooling at the base of the throne like spilled elegance. it’s a composition that shouldn’t work – soft and brutal, polished and raw – but somehow, it does. somehow, he does. 

he’s dressed in a matte black blazer with matching tailored pants, sharp and clean from the waist up shot, except for what’s beneath. 

nothing. 

no shirt. just bare skin peeking through the sharp angles of the blazer, collarbones catching the light, a sliver of his sternum exposed like an open secret. it hangs loose, careless, falling wide enough to suggest something intimate, something unfinished. 

his hands, splayed out on his spread thighs, steal the scene. 

wrapped in white bandages, knuckles to wrist, like he’s fought something and won, or lost, or maybe just endured. tangled among the gauze are the white cords of earpods, looped loosely around his fingers. static caught in silk. chaos knotted in control. 

and written across each digit, in sharp black ink: 

S I L K S T A T I C 

one letter per knuckle. a title etched into flesh like it belongs there. like he belongs to it. 

he tilts his head down slightly, eyes fixed on some point only he can see – the floor, his hands, his reflection in the lens. his expression is unreadable. not blank, but buried. contemplative. maybe even cracked. 

is he thinking? grieving? accepting? whatever it is, it’s beautiful in a way that hurts. 

the camera clicks. the room exhales. 

you’re standing just off set, watching it all happen in real time – the way yukimiya transforms the air around him. he always had that gift. even as a kid, he carried stillness like it was power. even in your worst fights, he never raised his voice. just gave you that look. calm and cutting. like he saw something in you worth waiting for. 

between setups, you catch his eye. 

yukimiya looks up like he’s been waiting for you to approach. the sharp edge of his on-camera persona fades almost instantly, replaced by something softer, not weaker, just warmer. familiar. he gives you a smile you haven’t seen in years, the kind that used to flash before a dare, a secret, a getaway plan out of boring summer school. 

“you,” he says, standing up before the photographer can protest. “are still the best view in any room.” 

you roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “and you’re still full of it.” 

he chuckles, steps forward, arms already open. 

the hug is immediate. easy. like muscle memory. his cologne’s different now – deeper, expensive – but the way he holds you is the same. one hand around your back, the other cupping the back of your head briefly. you remember this. he always hugged like he meant it. 

“you got taller,” you mumble into his shoulder. 

“you got meaner,” he teases. “but it looks good on you.” 

you laugh and pull back, eyes scanning his face. he’s changed, yes – sharper jawline, styled hair, more sure of himself – but underneath it all, he’s still the boy who used to sneak you snacks during detention and swear loyalty with a pinky promise. 

“you killed it. the album cover is gonna be iconic for generations to come.” 

yukimiya grins, blazer shuffling to reveal more of his bare torso, muscles on display. “wasn’t sure if the throne was too much.” 

“no,” you say, laughing. “you sat in it like it was built for you.” 

he huffs a quiet laugh, pulling off the wired earpods tangled around his hands. “but seriously,” he says, leaning in a little. “you look different.” 

“yeah?” 

“older. cooler. more dangerous.” he pauses. “hotter, too.” 

you give him a look. “i’ll take that as payback for high school when i told you you peaked in middle school.” 

“still hurts,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “but yeah. i missed you.” 

you blink, softening your voice. “i missed you too, yuki.” 

you’re still smiling when the studio door opens. 

kaiser steps in. 

he doesn’t speak. just freezes – eyes flicking first to you, then to yukimiya. standing far too close to you. smiling in a way that feels like a memory he was never invited to. 

your expression changes when you see him, but not in a guilty way. just… different. like you were in one kind of warmth, and now you're bracing for something colder. 

kaiser takes a step forward. he doesn’t know why he came down here. maybe to check on the shoot. maybe because you weren’t in the kitchen like he expected. maybe because you were humming his guitar solo earlier and it hasn’t left his head since. but now, standing here, something crawls into his chest and digs in deep. 

“interrupting?” he says flatly. 

you tilt your head. “no. just catching up.” 

kaiser’s gaze drags over yukimiya’s open blazer. the bandages. the knuckle tattoos. he looks every bit the album cover prince. 

“right,” kaiser mutters. “of course. nothing says catching up like being half-naked.” 

yukimiya smiles coolly. “good to see you too, kaiser.” 

there’s tension now. the kind that knots under the skin. you shift between them, like you can feel it bleeding into the air. 

kaiser doesn’t understand it – this heat curling behind his ribs. he shouldn’t care. you’re not his. you never were. but the way you look at yukimiya? soft. familiar. like he belongs. he hates it. 

“didn’t know you two were close,” he says, voice casual, but not quite. 

you blink. “we grew up together.” 

kaiser nods once. jaw tight. “guess that explains the chemistry.” 

yukimiya raises a brow. “jealousy isn’t a good look, man.” 

“who said anything about jealousy?” his tone turns sharp, almost amused, except he’s not. 

you touch yukimiya’s arm gently. “yuki, can you give us a second?” 

yukimiya’s eyes linger on you for a breath too long. but he nods. 

“i’ll be outside,” he says, and as he walks past kaiser, he adds quietly, “don’t be an idiot.” 

kaiser doesn’t respond. just stares after him, then shifts his attention back to you. you’re looking at him now, guarded. 

“what was that?” you ask. 

he shrugs. “i came to check on the shoot.” 

“and picked a fight instead?” 

“looked more like flirting than photography.” 

you sigh, stepping closer. “kaiser.” 

his name in your mouth is enough to make him dizzy. 

he doesn’t move. just stares down at you like he’s trying to memorize your face and forget it at the same time. 

“what are we doing?” he asks, voice low, fraying at the edges. “because you hum my guitar solos when you think i’m not listening. you defend me when you think i don’t notice. and then you laugh with him like he still owns a piece of you.” 

your eyes widen, startled. 

“you’re not–” you start, but stop yourself. 

he steps closer. “i’m not what? entitled? you’re right. i’m not. you’re not mine.” 

his voice drops lower. dangerous and beautiful. 

“but tell me to walk away right now, and i will.” 

your breath catches. 

kaiser watches your reaction like a man trying to find gravity. like your silence might crack open something inside him. and then he looks away. 

the moment hangs, tight and aching. you think maybe he’s going to say something else. maybe take a step closer. maybe touch your arm, or ask a question he’s not brave enough to know the answer to. but instead, he laughs under his breath. no humor. just a bitter edge. 

“fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

he steps back. runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to pull the thoughts out of his skull. 

“i shouldn’t have come down here,” he says, quieter now. “this is… not my thing. whatever this is.” 

you blink. “kaiser–” 

“no, it’s fine,” he cuts in. too fast. too sharp. “seriously. forget it.” 

you watch him turn. the confidence is still there in his walk, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away. like he’s fighting himself with every step. but just before he reaches the door, he pauses. his voice is quieter this time. not bitter. not sharp. just honest. 

“don’t know why it still gets to me.” 

he doesn’t wait for your reaction. doesn’t look back. he just walks out, like staying any longer might unravel him. 

the door shuts behind him – soft, but final. and you’re left there, with his words sitting heavy in the room. 

the kitchen lights are dim. just the low hum of the fridge and the soft spin of the microwave turning slowly, blinking green digits as your leftover curry reheats in silence. well, mostly silence. 

you’re barefoot, jacket draped, hair tied back. the kind of exhausted where your brain starts filling in the quiet with music. and without realizing it, you start to hum. 

“i got goosebumps all over me… when you’re around… it’s hard for me to breathe…” 

you pause only to peek through the microwave glass. still cold in the middle. great. 

“when you’re around…” you murmur again, barely above a whisper this time. 

“you like that one?” 

you nearly jump, spinning on your heel. 

isagi’s standing in the doorway, shadows curling around him like a movie entrance. knit black long sleeve shirt, loose gray sweatpants, the edge of a towel slung around his neck like he just got out of the shower. his hair’s still damp. he looks… casual. too casual. enough to feel your heart hiccup in your chest. 

“geez,” you breathe. “sneak up on me, why don’t you.” 

he tilts his head, steps further in, like the air isn’t already charged. “didn’t sneak. you were too busy singing my lyrics.” 

you scoff. “wasn’t singing.” 

“humming, then,” he says. his voice is low. tired in that raw, real way. “you only do that when you’re thinking too much.” 

you roll your eyes and turn back to the microwave. “maybe i just liked the melody.” 

“mm.” he steps closer. the distance between you shrinks by degrees. “or maybe,” he says, almost teasing, “you related to it.” 

you say nothing. the microwave beeps. you yank the door open, grateful for the distraction. even though he’s still watching you. 

you grab the container with a dish towel, trying to play it cool. “you wrote that one about an ex?” 

“what?” he blinks. “no.” 

you glance over your shoulder. “a crush, then?” 

he exhales through his nose. “didn’t say that either.” 

you pause. “so what did you mean?” 

he doesn’t answer immediately. and when he does, it’s quieter. 

“i meant… exactly what it says.” 

you turn to look at him. really look. 

he’s not smirking. not joking. just standing there, eyes steady on yours, like the silence between you is a question he’s waiting for you to answer. 

you swallow. the microwave heat rises between you, too warm. the kitchen feels smaller now. his gaze keeps slipping – your mouth, your neck, your fingers wrapped tight around the towel. 

“you get goosebumps when i’m around?” you ask teasingly to break the tension. 

isagi’s jaw flexes. he takes another step closer. his voice drops. 

“i do worse.” 

your breath catches, realizing he’s actually being serious. 

“like what?” you ask, voice barely a whisper. 

“like think about what would happen if i kissed you,” he says, like it’s nothing. like it’s everything. “and then wonder how much of you i’d ruin if i tried.” 

the silence breaks open between you. heavy. aching. you can’t look away. and he doesn’t even touch you. he doesn’t have to. 

“that’s what that song’s about,” he adds, gaze never leaving yours until he turns around and leaves the room. 

you forget all about your curry. 

masterlist | ch. 03 | ch. 05 (coming soon)

taglist (closed): @nensi @ro4love @avaxoxo13 @levisgoonerr @jnkosstuff @simpingmyassoff @sunsettsguitar @trinkets-of-time @cinneorolls @silverwings920 @mymeloreo @satorella @gkattdoesstuff @lovingmayday @pixelpancakes @vverie @nicfics @nevvynev @astro-3000 @mihyas-dieehefrau @i-eve-i @ohagiyoo @aadahyax @yumerinns @rie-cecooker @neeeooon @laylaandsstuff @irethepotato @byzantiumhollow @luvsymai @blu3-l0v3r @kiritokunuwu @anaxugoras @yxnnu @academiq @jaeyuuns @x3nafix @sukunaspillow @sasukevrz @anyaslittlepeanut @yunsspace @gurehai @chiieni @6riix @miiyabi @2ukika @ventivente @heartsforfeitan @kai-wavesii-blog @iqxatlantic

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[cakypa120]

About Billy keeps dying au

Is it crazy to think that if an interdimensional portal were opened, Marvel who was reborn after being killed could meet up with fellow Leaguers from his past lives?

Like, is he reborn directly when he died, or does he kind of break through space and time and always be born in the same year he was supposed to be born? So does he generally have a standard age in relation to the infinite possibilities of Leagues?

Billy sighed. This wasn't how he'd pictured his long-awaited mission with the Flash of the new world. They were currently standing in the middle of another dimension's goddamn Gotham. And their home dimension was three dimensions away.

Flash: Where are we?

Marvel: Gotham. And also in another dimension.

Flash: Dude, when you said that mage could send you to other dimensions, I thought you were kidding.

Marvel: Well, now you're going to listen to everything about magic. That's the lesson.

Flash: Right. Shit, are we stuck here forever?

Marvel: No, we're just a long way from our home world. But I guarantee if we hurry, we'll make it in time for the free food giveaway at the Watchtower.

Flash: Then what are we waiting for? We gotta hurry!

Billy laughs. The Flash of the new world was young. And he had only recently been accepted into the Justice League. Barry was even different from his versions. Black-haired, blue-eyed, and curious to the point of insanity. The Bruce of the new world denies that he mentally adopted the guy, but Billy knows otherwise, Clark knows, and Diana knows too. No matter how much Bruce denies it, it is obvious that he has become attached to Barry. Billy is now eagerly awaiting Dick's arrival.

Flash: Do you have any ideas on how to get back to our home world, Gandalf?

Marvel: Did you just call me Gandalf?

Flash: Dumbledore?

Marvel: *pinches the speedster's cheek* Yes, I do, now calm down. We need to get to Fawcett. There should definitely be a portal there.

Flash: Why is there a portal in your town?

Marvel: Precautionary measure. Let's go quickly.

Flash: Race?

A shot rings out next to them. They turn around and see Red Hood. Billy quickly raises his hands up. Jason standing in front of them was the one who personally slit Marvel's throat when Billy was poisoned by magic and seriously damaged. Everyone wanted to save him then, to cure him, but it was impossible. Then Jason ended his suffering.

Jason froze when he saw Marvel. Just as bright, and just as big. He knew that Marvel would be reborn again. He knew, but doubts penetrated his heart. But now Marvel stood before him. A lump in his throat prevents him from breathing normally. Jason takes off his helmet and puts away his gun.

Jason: Holy shit, old man, you're really alive, huh?

Marvel: Alive as can be. Thanks for last time.

Jason: No thanks.

Flash: Guys? Anyone got something to tell me?

Marvel: Flash, meet Red Hood, he might show up, but we're not sure. Hood, this is Flash. Go easy on him, he's new to the hero business.

Flash: Hey!

Jason: Trying to mentor the new guys, huh, Cap?

Marvel: Sort of. Sorry, but we need to get to Fawcett fast so we can teleport back to our home dimension.

Jason: Try to stay out of sight of the other heroes. They didn't take your death very well.

Marvel: Got it, thanks for the warning.

Flash: Wait, you're dead?!

Marvel: Yeah, that happens sometimes. Now let's go, we need to get to the city quickly.

Superman: I don't think there's any need to hurry.

The three of them freeze and look up. Superman is hovering in the air, watching them like a hawk. Jason lets out a guttural growl and points his gun at the Kryptonian.

Superman: No need for violence, Red.

Jason: I wanted to tell you the same thing, asshole. I told you not to come to Gotham.

Superman: Sorry, but I couldn't ignore such a familiar voice.

Marvel steps in front of Barry. Clark has changed. A lot. This universe was especially violent. Rarely, but it happens. But Billy remembered a different hero. What else happened after he died? Now, the most important thing is not to lose control.

Marvel: Supes, how old are you? How is Lois?

Superman: She's okay. How are you? Still playing superhero?

Marvel: Of course, I'm not going to be thrown out of this job that easily. Well, Flash and I need to get back to our world, so we need to hurry.

Superman: Your world is here, Captain. You're staying here.

Billy didn't like the man's tone. Superman suddenly lunges at him, but Billy ducks just in time.

Superman: Marvel, don't make this difficult.

Marvel: What's wrong with you? Flash, run to Fawcett. I'll hold him off.

Flash: I don't want to leave you here!

Marvel: Flash. Run. That's an order.

Barry flinches at the hero's voice. Marvel rarely gave orders. He glances at the strange Superman, who was looking at Marvel like a dog looks at a bone. But an order is an order. Barry turns and runs.

Marvel: Clark, what happened.

Superman: A lot has changed since you died. Oliver's disability, Barry's coma. This world is losing its light. I just want to keep the light in the world. Will you help me?

Marvel: I don't belong in this world anymore.

Superman: You've already been killed here. Not there. You're safer here. Marvel, stay.

Marvel: Again, the answer is no.

Clark sighs, Jason tenses.

Superman: Then I have no choice.

Jason: Don't even think about it, son of a bitch!!

Clark attacks and pins Marvel to the ground. Billy watches in horror as the hero's eyes begin to light up. Jason points his gun, ready to fire. A sudden flash of light knocks Superman down. The Kryptonian flies away. And Billy looks at Barry.

Flash: Your hobbit saves the day!

Billy looks at Clark. Then he grabs Barry and teleports away, ignoring how loudly Clark screamed. His insides are burning from teleporting to Fawcett. He didn't like teleporting to other universes.

Flash: Dude, I don't like it here. Let's go home.

Billy nods and runs toward the old subway. Barry runs after him. There were many questions in his head, but he decided that he would ask them later. Now they needed to get home.

[r66dusthewriter]

In the noise, you.

Pairing: Drew starkey x reader

Masterlist | Author's blog note | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: just a sweet lil thing to ease back into it.

Genre: Fluff

Contains: struggles with anxiety

Word count: 0.6k

There were few things in life you dreaded more than standing under the spotlight, not for a lack of gratitude but because it never felt natural. Some would argue you had almost six years to get used to the fame but truth is, it never got better. Becoming famous in the stillness of a pandemic, tucked away from the real reach of it all, meant you had no idea how much impact your “little silly boat show” had had globally. 

Public appearances didn’t get easier, if anything, they chipped away at you differently each time. 

The cast had always been your anchor, showing up for you when it counted… but Drew? Drew had been something else entirely. A constant. A quiet kind of salvation.

You were both very similar in your way of being: barely online, barely seen, always opting for privacy over the chaos. That shared instinct to retreat meant you spent a lot of time in each other's company, quietly inseparable yet easily pointed out by fans. You never confirmed anything publicly, but people knew. It was hard to ignore that kind of connection, the one that needed no name to be understood. 

Now, standing next to the stage at the Tudum event, nerves curled tighter in your stomach with every passing minute. Chase, Carlacia, Jonathan, Madison, Drew and you huddled near the stairs, surrounded by crew and camera ops, voices overlapping in every direction. The crowd buzzed around you, fans screamed nearby, calling out your names and holding up signs. 

You soon started to drift. Your eyes locked on a point in the distance, breathing shallow and automatic while Chase spoke to the group, except to you, his voice was muffled, like he was underwater. Still, you nodded absently, trying to seem present while also trying to calm your pulse. 

Then, a hand on your lower back, gentle and grounding, pulled you a few steps away and with a gentle squeeze, it left your skin, its warmth lingering for a few seconds short of what you had wished for.

“Hey,” called a soft voice close to your ear “Where did you go just now?”

It took a few seconds for your eyes to focus on him, his were sharp, brows drawn together in worry, the kind that said ‘Im’ ready to get you out of here right now if that’s what you need’.

You cleared your throat, blinking the fog away. “I’m okay, just…I’m okay”

He studied your face, clearly reading your lips over the crowd noise. You could see it in his expression whenever you forced your wandering gaze to land on his, he didn’t buy it. His jaw twitched slightly as he leaned in again, mouth near your ear.

“Try now without the lie.”

You couldn’t help the twitch of a smile. That was the thing with Drew, he knew you in a way that left no room for pretending. Sometimes, you were sure he knew you better than you knew yourself.

“Just overwhelmed,” you admitted quietly. 

You didn’t mention how guilty you sometimes felt, enjoying moments like this but still getting caught in your own mind, but he knew. He could read it in the slight crease of your brow and though you could tell he wanted to pull you into him, to help block it all out, you were technically at work.

Still, he leaned down again.

“Want to make a run for it?” he murmured, entirely serious.

You huffed a laugh, short but genuine, knowing full well he could do it, contracts be damned. You didn’t need to answer, he already knew you just needed time, space and the impression of silence. He was the one person who could give you all of it without you ever having to ask.

He shifted in front of you, placing his broad shoulders between you and the world. A human shield. Then, without turning, his hand reached behind him.

You didn't hesitate sliding yours into his. Warm and solid around yours. And finally, you could breathe.

Three soft squeezes followed.

I love you.

Your heart stuttered, this time in a way you welcomed.

[mee30p]

Broken 🖼️

A/n: sorry this took so long to write i had a massive autistic meltdown two days ago and i have been recovering since then so yeah! (I am okay now i was just overwhelmed)

This fic is inspired by this writing inspo by @dixondisease!

☽ Summary: Even after the break out/apocalypse reader has held onto something very special to her, When Shane finds out about this he scolds her and a few days later he goes on another on of his “survival” tantrums where he breaks readers thing forcing them to watch but Daryl comes to the rescue.

☽ Warnings: swearing, Shane Walsh, physical violence, reader being held down ish?, mention of suicide, mentions of death of a younger child, vomit, pills Daryl punches Shane a few times, swearing.

☽ Word count: 1.4k

“No… i’m okay Shane” You say trying to let him down gently for seemingly the 600th time as Shane tries to get you alone, you sit on your camping chair around the fire with some of the group being Lori, Carl, T-dog, Andrea and Amy, while the others are preoccupied. Shane has been relentlessly trying to get into your pants practically since you first met him even when your boyfriend was still alive. Shane strikes you as a bit of a man-whore as you were under the impression he was interested in Lori then you thought he liked Andrea and now you are a victim of his interest. “Come on girl.. I promise ya aint gon regret it” Shane says lowly as he doesn’t want the others to overhear. You let out a louder sigh and run your hand over your face, it’s taking all your being to stay respectful and calm. “Shane.. I said i’m good i’m not lookin’ for any of that shit right now okay?” 

Your response elicits a loud pissed off scoff from Shane. “Why not? You still strung up on your little boy toy? Well i got news for you sweetheart he’s dead and there ain’t no bringin’ him back or the past back you need to learn to let go” Shane says his voice growing louder and thicker with anger you can tell this is going to lead into one of his “survival rants” again. “What?” You scoff breathlessly as you are taken back by Shane’s words, you thought you’d made it clear you weren’t holding on to the past, sure you get sad and grieve your late boyfriend sometimes but that's because you loved him. 

Shane stands up and before anyone can stop him he storms straight to your tent, ripping open the zipper and somehow like he knew where you hid her he grabs the last precious thing of yours left. The photo frame of your sister before storming back over to the fire in front of you. The whole ten seconds this took for him to grab it you are frozen, stunned and unable to think or move. “See this, this is whats holding you back woman! You need to let go of the past forget everything, it's not real anymore” Shane yells as he holds the frame out of reach. “Shane please don’t do this” You beg, you’ve never begged for anything but right now it’s all you can do to try and save the last relic from your past life.

You know it’s stupid to cling to the past. What's gone is gone, you know that but you’ve had that picture of your sister since she passed away long before the break out. Your sister was only 13 when she committed suicide, it hadn’t been her first attempt God it haden’t even been her 4th but i was her 5th and final attempt that final morning that you found her already cold and grey laying on the bathroom floor surrounded by a broken pill bottle and vomit. You remember screaming bloody murder when you found her, the sobs of your mother and father. 

No one in the group truly knew why you kept that photo, they didn’t know who the young girl not much older than Carl was in the frame. A few people had an idea, Carol had asked but when you shut it down she had already come to a conclusion. It’s not like you showed off the picture you simply had it out one time while moving some stuff around but that was enough to ruffle a few peoples feathers, particularly Daryl, Merle and most of all Shane. Daryl had questioned you plenty of times previously why you kept the photo he never asked who she was he’d just ask curiously under the mask of gruffness and survival why you kept it and why you couldn’t just let go. Every time you’d simply give him a short answer of “It helps me push through seeing her face, Daryl”. 

“NO!” You practically shriek as you watch helplessly as Shane tosses your precious picture into the fire, before you can grab it out he grabs you from behind pinning you to his chest to make you watch. “I ain’t gonna let you be consumed by the past any longer girl” Shane says lowly as he listens to your sobs and pleas. “Shane, why? Please that was all I had.. She was all I had left” Your breathing is becoming fast but laboured as you start to spiral into a panic. The others around the fire are either yelling at Shane or sitting slack jawed.

“The fuck is all this noise bout?” Daryl asks as he turns the corner from behind the RV. He’d been hiding and minding his own business making some squirrel jerky when his precious peacefulness was interrupted but yelling and Shane’s tantrum. That's when Daryl's blood runs cold, you’re being pinned back by Shane in tears and thrashing against him. Sure Daryl’s never liked you alot hell he doesn’t like anyone but you were the first one to treat him like a decent human being so when he sees you in distress being pinned down by a man he isn’t too fond of he sees red. “The fuck did you do to her?” Daryl asks after he’s already pulled you out of the grasp of Shane and swung a powerful and angry fist at him. Shane stumbles backwards but before he can get his bearings Daryl is on him, throwing punches hard and angry. That's the thing about Daryl, he punches first and asks questions later. After everyone ‘lets him’ get a few good hits in, T-dog and Dale mange to pull Daryl and Shane apart and drag Daryl away to prevent him from retaliation again. 

Andrea and Amy were already at your side as soon as you were free from Shane, comforting you and drying your tears. But nothing could fix what's been done, that was the only picture of your sister you had left, it was the only thing you cared about. Her face was the reason you kept going to try to live a life she never got to.

The sun has now set low below the horizon, the only light being the simmering fire and the silvery light of the moon. From where you are sitting the campfire is only a red and orange flicker in the distance as you sit on a rock in the clearing of the forest. You've been hiding since Shanes stunt earlier in the afternoon which left you pissed off, more depressed and embarrassed. Your peace and dwelling is interrupted by a snap of a stick and footsteps to which you whip your torso and head around your pistol following suit to see your killer but instead you are met with a shy looking Daryl. “Easy girl.. Just me” Daryl says softer than you ever imagined he was capable of. You turn your back to him again but he doesn’t go away this time instead he sits down a foot and a half away, resting on his side farthest away from you. Daryl lets the two of you sit in silence for 5 or so minutes before he clears his throat in an almost shy manner as he taps his knee before grabbing the object and handing it to you. “I uhh- I tried to fix it as best I could..” Daryl starts as you look down to see the half charred picture of your sister still mostly intact thanks to the old frame which has been replaced with some wood from god knows where and some wild flowers tucked on the gap. It makes you tear up about how thoughtful it is. “I know it aint gonna be the same but-” You cut Daryl off as you move to your knees and throw yourself at him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his neck and you sniffle into his shoulder before pulling back. “Thank you Daryl.. You don’t understand how much this means to me- this is truly so thoughtful and beautiful” You sniffle as a tear falls down your face. “S’ okay.. Was nothin” Darly mutters shyly as he forces himself to look at you and much to his surprise you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek softly.

“Really thank you”

[hughiecampbelle]

Thunderbolts Preference: Getting Your Period

A/N: I have been thinking about this since day 1 of mine lol. I have PCOS and it's gotten so bad lately, like exactly when I was a teenager and everyone said I was overreacting. Ruined both my pajama pants and my sheets this morning, but I think writing will help 🖤

THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Bucky doesn't realize what's going on until you accidentally bleed through your pants on a mission. You escape to the nearest bathroom, cursing, angry at yourself, at your body for doing this right now when it's quite actually life and death. It's the one time you didn't wear black pants, too. He follows, fearing the worst, telling the others you're going on a little detour. Bucky stands outside the stall, knocking quietly, asking if you're okay. Finally, defeated, you tell him no. Emotions come rushing over you and you can't help but wipe away tears. Fuck. Everything hurts. Everything aches. And now you've got blood everywhere. You tell him you bled through, that you don't have anything (a pad, a tampon, clean pants). He tells you to stay there and you watch his boots disappear from beneath the door. You're not sure how long you spend sitting there, but he comes back eventually, handing you not only a fresh set of pants, but a box of each, too. You change quickly, hating that you wasted so much time on something so stupid. When you ask him where he got any of this he just shrugs, says he's gotta be prepared for anything. You thank him, but he brushes it off. He just wanted to help.

Alexei has no idea why you're crying, or that you even could cry, only that you are and there's no one else around to help. You're watching a movie that's not supposed to be sad, but somehow you thought about it too much and it's so happy you made it sad. He sits next to you, leaving space between you, even more confused. He saw this movie: nothing bad happened. So what was wrong? That's when he sees the warm blanket and the heating pad you're hugging against yourself and the snacks on the table (salty and sweet, of course) and it clicks. Oooooh. He's not exactly the most delicate with this though, and asks (humorously) "Red time again?" You nod, handing over the bag of M&Ms without looking over, grabbing the chips instead. Because the women in his life went through the Red Room, he never had to deal with this, but he heard about it from others, from the other husbands whose wives went through the same thing. Plus, recently, Yelelna gave him the rundown on periods and how to properly act instead of assuming the worst. He sits with you and watches whatever you put on. He gets you a cold drink and more blankets if you ask. Whatever he needs to do to make you more comfortable.

Yelena catches you one morning looking defeated, early, too early for your usual routine. She watches you pile your sheets, blankets, and covers outside your room, stripping the bed completely. She knows you love clean sheets, but this early? Then she notices a pair of pajama pants on top of the pile stained red. Oh. She knocks on the doorway, wanting to get your attention. She asks if she can help. You're embarrassed, telling her it's fine, you got it, but she's already scooping everything up in her arms, telling you she doesn't mind. You follow her through the floor towards the washing machine, coming up with every excuse in the book. Doesn't she have to train? John could already be waiting for her and you both know how he gets. It'll throw off her entire routine! Finally she stops and turns towards you, telling you she's not afraid of a little blood. She tells you to go back to your room and wait for her to put new sheets on. Don't move until she gets there. It's too early and you're too tired to fight, instead (for once) following orders. She helps you make the bed and tells you to go back to sleep. She'll worry about switching it over and folding everything. Your body hurts too much and the mattress is more than welcomed. She checks on you through the day and by sunset, everything is clean, blood free, and placed on top of you after coming straight from the dryer.

Ava knows exactly what time of the month it is because your entire demeanor changes. Usually, you're confident, stubborn, and not easily provoked. This week though, you doubt yourself too much. Your looks, your body, your fighting abilities. You can't make up your mind and you, usually stone-like in confrontation, are fighting with Valentina about the littlest things, giving her ultimatums she knows you don't actually want or care for. You hate the new costume she's designed and you won't be caught dead wearing it. It's actually not that bad, but she knows it's just how you feel about your body right now that makes it so heinous. Ava tries to take your mind off things, asking if you need anything. A heating pad, candy, pain killers. You break down, admitting you feel crazy, like you're losing it. She asks if maybe you're getting your period next week? Fuck. You apologize profusely, beating yourself up over it, but she's not one to villainize someone's hormones. She tells you it's normal, that you shouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed. You want to apologize to Valentina too, but she tells you not to. Someone needs to put her in her place once in a while. It's really not the end of the world.

John is your training partner for the day and he couldn't have picked a worse time. He's brutal on a regular basis, cut throat, but today is bad. You've already taken pain killers and used a heating pad and still, the cramps won't let up. Not even a little. Not realizing, he gets frustrated, says your mind is somewhere else, that you need to focus. He knees you in the stomach and that's the final straw. Picking yourself up, you throw down your weapons, telling him to fuck off before leaving. He's stunned. What did he do? He follows close behind, but you're not talking. You get to your room just in time to slam the door in his face. He doesn't take the hint, knocking and yelling through, asking you what he did wrong. He was always saying and doing the wrong thing, apparently. Angry, frustrated, and in pain, you open it, yelling in his face you got your period and that little stunt made your cramps 1,000x worse. He's stunned silent for once in his life. Finally, you tell him to go away, that you need your space. He listens, but he comes back a little while later, asking you to open the door. In his hands are the heating pad and a bottle of pills. He apologizes, remembering how his ex-wife's periods were brutal, asking if these will help. You thank him. He checks in every hour, apologizing again, asking you to tell him next time. You will.

Bob, truthfully, doesn't know that much about periods. He's got the basics down, but that's about it. It's strange that you're calling him when you're both in the tower, but he picks it up anyways. You sound so sad, so quiet, when you ask him if he can go out and pick up a box of pads/tampons for you. You didn't realize you were all out and there's no way you can do it yourself. It's too heavy. He's the only one here with you, otherwise you would have asked someone else. Despite having zero knowledge, he's more than eager to help. He comes back with multiple bags of boxes. He never knew there were so many options, so he just grabbed one of each. He asked around with the employees and picked up extra stuff: bubble bath, snacks, face masks, pain killers, etc. You thank him, apologizing profusely, hating that you had to ask for help with this. He shrugs it off though, grateful to help. He asks if he got the right ones and you come out, telling him he did a great job. You're embarrassed, but he really doesn't seem bothered, asking if you can open the pickle chips while you watch a movie. Of course, you say, and along with the many, many boxes of tampons/pads, it looks like he went through the snack aisle and grabbed a bag of each, too.

[geogabby2]

It’s especially insane because that girl on your post was from the pacific northwest of the US, which used to be this diverse:

(the states of washington and oregon respectively)

Many of these regions are entire languages families where each band spoke a unique dialect, where closer dialects were mutually intelligible and further dialects were not. Most of the language families on this map are considered unrelated to one another, meaning they had been distinct groups for millennia, their histories now almost entirely unknown. Though the population of the region was dramatically lower in 1800 than it was a century earlier due to epidemics caused by colonization of other parts of the continent, the thing that really displaced these peoples and destroyed so much of their culture was process beginning with colonial trade practices, then strategic use of diseases, and concentration of early white settlement particularly in the Portland Basin (at the bend in the border between these two states) where indigenous people were massacred and villages burned in order to create a forward base for the settlement of the wider Willamette Valley and “Oregon Country”through the first half of the 19th century.

The population of white settlers increased during that period due to the Oregon Trail, and in 1846 the 28 year long British-Usamerican condominium ended and the US government gained full sovereignty over the region. In the decade following this the US government forced indigenous peoples of the region to sign a number of treaties which split bands apart, dispossessed them of their land and recombined them into new tribal confederations. They were then forced march hundreds of miles under horrific conditions, often with white settlers chasing them and murdering individuals at random, to tracts of land where they would be confined and their traditional practices became impossible, such as the Grande Ronde or Yakama reservations. East of the Cascade Mountains, the United States waged a genocidal war against the Cayuse people between 1847 and 1855 for the crime of resisting white settlement in the Columbia Plateau region.

White settlers coming to the Pacific Northwest often came with the idea that they were creating a society that would be to the US as the US was to Europe, and thus ideas of white supremacy were taken to an extreme. Most did not support the expansion of the institution of slavery to the region, expressly because they wanted to live somewhere with zero black population. In 1844, the Oregon Provisional Government (then governing the entire region) passed a law mandating that all black people residing within the territory be lashed every 6 months until they left. The Oregon Constitution, adopted in 1857, prohibited black people from owning land in the region, or even living here at all. Parts of that clause remained in the constitution of the State of Oregon until 2003. I was 1 year old.

Of course the history of ethnic cleansing in the Pacific Northwest doesn’t end in the 1850s! Many Chinese communities who came here in the latter half of the 19th century were almost completely displaced out of the US entirely within a few generations. During WW2 the federal government forced Japanese-American communities into concentration camps, and after the war’s end most places simply never had a significant Japanese community again. Here in Portland, just a few decades later, the Lower Albina area which was the center of black culture in the city, was specifically chosen to be the site of an interchange in the United States’ new Nazi-inspired freeway system, which was basically the final step to fully culturally homogenize the US.

(Lower Albina in 1946 and today)

Only one of those things was a footnote in that woman’s nationalistic spiel. I kept thinking, do you even know what you’re standing on top of when you walk around Seattle? Do you have the slightest idea how different what’s going on here is to almost anywhere else on earth? When you think about the history of the places you see around you, do you only think back to when the first white people showed up? You don’t have the slightest idea of what this place could have been if not for this piece of shit country, and its rise to global imperialistic hegemony?

All that fucking history, just for someone to act like the Pacific Northwest of today might as well be a different country from any other region. Fuck that! The Pacific Northwest is just another yankicized region. But people like her make me think that if this place was a country, it’d be Transgender Israel.

the one culturally unique thing about the US is the fact you have to travel off the continent to experience a meaningfully unique culture

[ribbonmage]

CNA I ASK FOR TAPH X READER where theyre both Lowkey nuzzling each other for warmt h in the cold H

TAPH X READER

luvluv ts idea omg ,,

also taph with wings and bird/pigeon motifs here bc i said so heh…

you layed in your bed, feeling helpless as the night cold was getting to you.

nothing could help, not even your blanket which was draped ontop of your freezing body. your cabin was really cold.

you sighed, staring at your cabin roof as you started thinking of ideas, you grumbled, yet your mood brightened after you finally thought of one.

you shivered in the night breeze, standing infront of your neighbor’s cabin door as you knocked, your tired face meeting taph’s.

“ uhh, hey taph … mind if i stay here, just for the night? it’s a bit … cold.” you hesitated, his body shifting to let you enter.

you walked inside, taking note of the slight creaks of the wooden planked floor below you as you inspected taph’s room. it was fairly cluttered with traps and tripmines here and there, but felt cozy nonetheless. just like the other times you’ve visited.

you looked at taph, “ thanks for having me over.” you smiled, receiving a thumbs up from the avian.

you both layed on the bed, your shoulders touching each other as you had a look of uncomfortableness in your expression, causing taph to worry.

“🤔🫵✅?” he asks, his face turning to you to inspect your movements.

“yeah, i’m fine. it’s just a bit … cold.” you huffed, before feeling taph’s arms wrap around you, his wings do as well. you didn’t expect him to be quite warm, but you werent complaining.

you turned your body to face his, watching as his head wings shift slightly.

“did i ever tell you that you remind me of a pigeon?” he becomes a bit shocked at your observation, a bit confused overall.

“don’t worry, i think it’s cute.” you chuckled, his head nuzzling into your neck in embarrassment as your skin tickled from his head wings. your smile present as you started to drift off into slumber, your arms wrapped around his waist, rubbing small circles onto his back as his large back wings enveloped you like a blanket.

you yawned, his warmth getting to you as you finally slept in the comfort of his arms.

[babyarmywrites]

never be like you - bang chan

Synopsys: From studio chaos and midnight phone calls to gentle confessions and years of longing finally unraveling, this is a story of love that doesn’t explode—it grows. Softly. Quietly. Steadily. Because some love stories don’t start with fireworks. Some start with a shared dream—and a boy who always brought you dinner.

Word count: 10k

Warnings: none, I think?

Enjoy!

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.

Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.

That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.

You met as trainees—both wide-eyed and tired, shoved into dance studios and vocal booths with a dozen other hopefuls. You didn’t want to be an idol, not really. It was your parents’ idea. “Just try,” they said. “You’re talented. See where it goes.”

It went exactly as far as it needed to. Long enough to meet him.

You dropped out before debut. Not because you couldn’t keep up—but because you realized the spotlight was never yours to chase. What you loved was the storytelling, the world-building. Not standing center stage—but shaping what the audience would feel when the curtain rose.

So you stayed. You worked your way through internships and freelance projects until you were offered the role that finally felt right.

Creative Director — one of the youngest in the company.

Now, you’re the one behind every comeback concept. The one in charge of moodboards and visual narratives, teaser aesthetics and tour stage designs. It’s your job to build the world fans fall in love with.

And for Stray Kids, that means working closely—sometimes painfully closely—with their leader, your best friend.

Because if Bang Chan is the engine behind every song, you’re the one driving the car.

And it’s never just work, not with him. It’s ramen eaten at 2AM over concept moodboards. It’s his sleepy laugh when he watches your editing notes play out in real time. It’s the way he rests his chin on your shoulder while watching final cuts of music videos, completely unaware of how still the world goes when he’s that close.

He’s your best friend.

You’re the one who reminds him to sleep, to eat, to take breaks—not because he needs to be looked after, but because he forgets he's allowed to pause. You notice the signs before they show: the way his voice gets quieter when he’s tired, how he stares through screens when he’s overwhelmed.

The boys call you omma when you’re scolding them over cluttered dressing rooms or skipped meals—but with Chan, it’s different. It’s quieter. Closer.

He never resists. He’ll let you steal his laptop mid-session if it means getting ten minutes of fresh air. He’ll groan but follow you when you tug him out of his chair, muttering about deadlines he’ll still meet anyway. He listens when you speak, even if it’s just to say, “You good?” after a long day.

And Chan… he leans into it. Into you. Not because he needs saving. But because with you, he finally lets himself breathe.

The meeting is scheduled for noon, but you’re already in the conference room ten minutes early, iced americano in one hand, your tablet in the other. You’re flipping through early design concepts for the album visuals—dark tones, nostalgic accents, a slightly rough edge to match the overall sound.

Then the door swings open, and in walks Bang Chan with the most unbothered smile on his face and a paper cup balanced on top of his head like some kind of crown.

“Royalty has arrived,” he announces with mock grandeur.

You don’t even look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m ten seconds late.”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

He drops into the chair across from you, the coffee crown still perched atop his curls. “Semantics.”

You set your tablet down and give him a look. “I listened to the tracklist demo last night.”

His eyes sparkle—proud, expectant. “And?”

“It’s solid,” you admit, then pause, narrowing your eyes. “Except for Railway.”

He gasps. Full drama mode. “Railway is a masterpiece.”

“It’s a sensual R&B track in the middle of an emotional, identity-driven concept album,” you say, deadpan. “Explain how that makes sense.”

“It’s a song about trains,” he says, with a straight face that doesn't even crack.

You blink. “It’s not about trains.”

“It’s literally called Railway. It has train sounds in the background.”

“You added those in post.”

He grins, finally cracking. “Okay, but metaphorical trains. It’s layered. Nuanced.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost gives you whiplash. “You wrote a thirst trap and tried to sneak it in between two ballads.”

Chan shrugs, leaning back in his chair like a kid who just got caught red-handed and couldn’t care less. “Balance. Gotta give the people what they want.”

“I am the people and I want you to pick a concept and stick to it.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not the target audience of Railway.”

Your cheeks burn immediately, but you recover fast. “Bold of you to think I haven’t heard all fifteen versions of it in the studio, including the one with the backup moaning.”

He chokes on his own coffee.

You smirk, victorious.

The meeting continues—technically. You both talk about visual elements, comeback schedules, and how to pace the release teasers. But between the points on your shared document, there's laughter, teasing, soft eye contact that lingers a second too long. You bicker like co-workers. You banter like best friends. And somewhere between debating whether red or gray better fits the mood of the lead single, you feel it again—that quiet undercurrent of something warmer. Something slower.

Maybe it's love. Maybe it's just him. But either way, you don’t say it out loud. Neither does he. Not yet.

Jeongin’s girlfriend wasn’t usually the nervous type. She had pitched branding concepts to CEOs and fought tooth and nail over key visuals with entire creative teams. But today was different. Today, she was presenting her draft designs for Stray Kids’ new comeback album—to Bang Chan and you, the group’s creative director.

She’d heard the stories.

Chan was a perfectionist. Jeongin said he’d once rejected a logo because the spacing between the letters felt “too emotionally distant.”

And you? Jeongin didn’t say much, but Hyunjin’s flower girl had muttered once that you could make even the cockiest stylist cry if a color palette didn’t align with the concept vision. Apparently, you had taste and weren’t afraid to weaponize it.

So, yeah. She was a little terrified.

She arrived exactly on time, nerves bundled in her chest, carrying her portfolio and a neat little stack of mock-ups. The meeting room at JYPE’s creative wing was bright, modern, and—thankfully—quiet.

Chan was already there, lounging back in his chair with a coffee half-forgotten beside him. And you were at his side, leaned forward over the table, highlighter cap in your mouth as you scribbled a note on a storyboard draft.

She paused at the door.

You glanced up first. “You must be Jeongin’s girlfriend.”

There was no icy professional front, no judgment. Just a soft, genuine smile as you stood to greet her. “I’m glad you’re here. He said you were nervous, but there’s no need. We’re not scary.”

“You’re not scary?!” Chan said, voice teasing as he reached for his coffee again, as he looked at his maknae's beloved girlfriend with mischief in his eyes. “She terrifies me. Have you ever seen her throw a Pantone book?”

You kicked him lightly under the table. No hard feelings. Just playful banter between two people who are close. Super close. Have been for a long time,

The meeting flowed naturally after that. Her designs—moody, tactile, layered with handwritten lyrics—seemed to land well. You traced your finger along one of the printed covers and murmured, “This… This feels like the right kind of intimacy.”

Chan didn’t even look at the mock-up. He was already looking at you when he said, “Told you she was perfect.”

The rest of the review blurred. Jeongin's girlfriend took notes, absorbed feedback, but mostly she watched the two of you: the way Chan leaned toward you unconsciously, the way you nudged his coffee back toward him without thinking, the way his eyes softened when you laughed at something only the two of you seemed to understand.

By the time the meeting ended, she was no longer intimidated. Just intrigued.

She met up with Jeongin, Hyunjin, and flower girl at a nearby café that evening, unable to keep the thought to herself.

“She’s in love with him,” she blurted out, pulling off her coat.

“Who?” Jeongin asked, blinking.

“Your creative director. She’s in love with Bang Chan.”

Hyunjin actually dropped his spoon. His girlfriend nearly snorted her drink. Jeongin choked on his pastry.

“No, no,” Jeongin said once he caught his breath. “They’re like siblings.”

“Worse,” Hyunjin added. “They’re like… mom and dad. Not in a weird way. Just—you know. The leadership pair. It’s strictly family.”

“She literally forces him to eat lunch,” Jeongin added. “That’s not romance. That’s parenting.”

“But they’re so close,” she argued. “They’re always touching. And the way he looks at her—”

“They’ve been like that since we were trainees,” Hyunjin said, tone final.

“They’re just affectionate,” flower girl added. “It’s normal. They’ve been best friends for so long, they don’t even notice it anymore.”

She frowned. “So you’re telling me they’re not in love.”

The three of them answered at once:

“Nope.” “Not a chance.” “Absolutely not.”

Still, as she took a sip of her coffee, something about their certainty didn’t sit right.

Because sometimes love doesn’t show up with fireworks and declarations.

Sometimes it slips into the everyday—into quiet meals, gentle nudges, and the way someone instinctively reaches for your coffee before you even realize you've forgotten it.

The building was quiet.

Too quiet, really. Most of the staff had left hours ago, and even the clamor from the rehearsal studios had gone still. The only light in the control room came from the soft glow of monitors and the pale overhead bulbs that buzzed like they were tired, too.

Chan sat slumped on the couch, head tilted back, eyes fluttering open every few minutes like his body hadn’t gotten permission to rest just yet. His hoodie was bunched up under his chin, exposing the curve of his throat. His laptop blinked idly beside him, abandoned. For once.

You returned with two warm bottles of banana milk, holding one out without a word.

He took it with a sleepy smile, not even asking where you’d found it at this hour. Of course you had a stash somewhere.

“I’m going to tell HR that you’re my emotional support manager,” he said, twisting the cap off.

“I’d be unemployed in five seconds,” you replied, taking a sip of your own.

Silence settled in again. But not the heavy kind. This one was soft, comfortable. The kind that only existed between two people who’d done this a thousand times—sat in the quiet, side by side, not needing to say anything.

You nudged his knee with your own. “You need to go home.”

“I am home,” he muttered.

“Chan.”

He peeked over at you with a small grin. “I know, I know. You’re right. I just… need five more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

“Yeah, well, I like hanging out with you.”

It was such a simple sentence. No weight to it, no emphasis. But it made your heart skip anyway.

You looked away first, pretending to inspect the label on your drink. “Don’t say stuff like that when you’re this tired. You’re emotionally unstable.”

“You say that like I’m not emotionally unstable when I’m fully rested.”

You rolled your eyes, but he was still watching you.

There was something about his gaze tonight. Not intense. Just… real. Like the usual noise had quieted enough for him to really see you. Like he didn’t have to be Bang Chan the leader or producer or hyung for a second.

Just Chris.

And Chris looked at you like your presence alone had made his day survivable.

You softened. “Do you want me to call you a car?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because then I won't get to spend time with you.”

You blinked. That wasn’t the answer you expected.

He laughed, a little embarrassed now. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—can you stay for a little longer? Just until I fall asleep. You’re better than melatonin.”

“Great. I’ve been downgraded from creative director to sleep aid.”

Chan reached out lazily and caught your sleeve, tugging you closer so that you’d sit beside him again. Shoulder to shoulder. Familiar.

“I’m serious,” he said softly, “You keep me sane.”

You turned to face him, but he was already closing his eyes again, leaning his head onto your shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it was. And maybe this—this quiet, sleepy, warm version of him—was the truest one of all. Sometimes too honest. Too raw. But never overwhelming. Always inviting. That's the charm of Bang Chan. That's why STAYs all over the world fall in love with him, without knowing him personally. He's a walking green flag. A boy with the kindest of souls, warmest of smiles, and prettiest of words. He always knows what to say to calm one down, to cheer someone up, or to make them believe they are worth it. That's why it seems so unfair to see him spiral, drive himself crazy over the public's perception of him.

It was almost 2:37 a.m. when your phone lit up.

You groaned, face buried in your pillow, blindly reaching for it with one hand and squinting at the caller ID: Han Jisung. You debated ignoring it—surely he butt-dialed. But then came the second call, immediately after. Then a third. You sat up, heart skipping into emergency mode, and picked up.

“Is everything okay?”

“Noona,” he whispered like someone was holding him hostage, “he’s doing it again.”

“…Doing what again?”

“The thing.”

“What thing, Jisung?”

“The thing where he writes songs he wants to strip to on stage!”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious. He’s got the lights off, there’s a red LED bulb on for ambiance, and he’s been looping the same R&B drum beat for an hour. It sounds like a perfume commercial. I’m scared.”

You sighed and pushed your hair back. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not! Changbin and I left the studio for ten minutes to get snacks, and when we came back, he’d taken off his hoodie and was humming into the mic with his eyes closed. He’s gone.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You want me to come there?”

“Yes, please, I'm begging you. Bring holy water. And maybe something he can emotionally latch onto so he doesn’t write a demo called ‘Velvet Hands’ or something.”

You groaned but swung your legs over the bed anyway. “If this is a prank, I swear to God—”

“I wish it was. But this man looked me dead in the eye and asked, ‘What if this comeback had a pole?’”

You were out the door in under ten minutes.

By the time you arrived, the dorm lights were off except for the glow under the crack of the studio door. You could hear the bass from the hallway.

You knocked.

“Come in,” Chan called, voice smooth as silk.

You opened the door—and immediately paused.

There he was. Hoodie abandoned on the back of his chair, in just a white tank top and joggers, legs crossed as he bobbed his head to a slow beat with a rose-tinted LED light casting a glow over his desk. The scent of instant coffee and something vaguely sandalwood hung in the air.

He turned and lit up. “What are you doing here, sleepyhead?”

You squinted at him. “The better question is, what in the Fifty Shades of Chris is going on in here?”

He laughed, easy and unapologetic, like he knew he was caught. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh? Because it looks like you’re scoring a mood lighting commercial for a lingerie brand.”

“Okay, a little what it looks like.”

“Jesus, Chan.”

You stepped into the room as Jisung and Changbin poked their heads in from the lounge couch, thumbs up in silent thanks.

Chan leaned back in his chair, stretching with a yawn. “I had an idea. You know how our last title track was super high energy? What if this one’s more sensual? Slower? Grown?”

“You already tried that with ‘Drive,’ remember? Half the fandom had to sit down.”

He smiled again, a little too proud. “Exactly.”

You sat down across from him and gave him the look—your patented Don’t-Make-Me-Take-Your-USBs-Again glare.

“Chris.”

“Yes?”

“Did you eat today?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then pointed weakly at a granola bar wrapper.

You raised a brow.

“…Okay, no.”

You sighed and got up. “I’m making you food. Then you’re going to shower. Then you’re going to sleep. And then you’re going to tell me why your Google doc is titled ‘Songs to Commit Crimes To.’”

He grinned sheepishly. “It was a working title.”

“You need supervision.”

“And that’s why I called you,” Jisung chimed from the hall, triumphant. “Good night, lovebirds!”

“We’re not—!” you started, but he’d already disappeared.

Chan laughed again, soft and fond, as you rummaged through their kitchen for ramyeon and eggs.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he said, leaning in the doorway.

“Apparently, I did.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving you. “You always do.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hiss of water boiling and the occasional clink of a spoon against a pot. You moved around the space with ease, focused on a late dinner or early breakfast, who knew at this point, while Chan lingered near the counter, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

He didn’t say much, just watched you. You could tell his mind was racing, but the usual confident leader was nowhere to be found—replaced by something quieter, more uncertain. After a long pause, Chan finally cleared his throat, voice low. “Thanks for… always being here. For all this.” He gestured vaguely at the steaming food and the calm around you.

You looked up, meeting his eyes, and he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed. The vulnerability was so subtle it almost went unnoticed.

“It’s nothing,” you said softly. “You don’t have to thank me.”

He gave a small, tired laugh. “I do sometimes wonder… if I deserve it.” His words barely a whisper, as if afraid to speak them louder.

You stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You deserve kindness. You deserve care.”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes flickering between you and the floor. “Sometimes I’m scared if I let myself feel that… I’ll lose it all. That maybe… you’d see the real me, and…”

His voice faltered. You didn’t interrupt. You let the silence speak, letting him find the courage on his own time.

He finally looked up, the faintest trace of a smile breaking through the exhaustion. “But… having you here like this—it means more than I can say.”

You smiled back, squeezing his arm gently. No confessions. No grand declarations. Just two people finding safety in the quiet moments between the noise.

The apartment buzzed with warmth and chatter, fairy lights casting soft glows over scattered wine glasses and snack bowls. The girlfriends had taken over the living room, sinking into cushions and stretching out comfortably as stories flew back and forth like old friends reuniting.

Seungmin’s lover, the stage manager, was rolling her eyes fondly at yet another ridiculous Seungmin anecdote, while Han’s girlfriend laughed, shaking her head at Jisung’s latest tattoo drama. Flower girl was quietly giggling, sharing one of Hyunjin’s latest artistic disasters, and Jeongin’s girlfriend — the graphic designer — sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook forgotten in her lap as she listened intently.

Then, inevitably, the conversation turned towards you. Something you were dreading the whole night, not even understanding how you ended up in this situation in the first place. The PR manager turned Jisung's girlfriend worked closely with you, hence why she politely asked you to join. However, being the only single person in the middle of such an ensemble was a nightmare turned reality.

“So, what about you?” Seugmin’s girlfriend asked, eyes flicking toward you with a teasing smile. “Anyone special in your life these days?”

You took a slow sip of your wine, feeling all their curious eyes settle on you like a spotlight.

“Honestly? I don’t really have time for dating,” you said with a shrug, trying to keep it light. “Work is nonstop. And when I do get a moment, I’d rather not waste it on awkward small talk or meaningless dates.”

Jeongin’s girlfriend raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Sounds like you’re dodging something,” she teased. “Or someone.”

You smiled faintly, voice dropping just a bit, like sharing a secret meant only for them.

“I believe… everyone is given one true love,” you said softly. “And maybe I’ve already found mine.”

A beat of silence.

“But I’m pretty sure it’ll never be reciprocated.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the usual buzz fading as your words hung gently in the air. No one pressed you, but the understanding was unmistakable — a shared tenderness beneath the playful surface.

Jeongin’s girlfriend nudged Flower girl, whispering something that made them both giggle, breaking the spell.

“Okay, enough of the heavy stuff,” Seungmin's girlfriend declared, pouring another glass of wine. “Let’s hear more embarrassing stories about our boys.”

Laughter bubbled back up, filling the room again, but the little moment stayed with you — a quiet truth shared with those who cared.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you sent a quick message, the warmth of the wine making your words a little looser than usual.

You Hey… you awake?

Chris♥️ Always. What’s up?

You Just… had a little wine. Might be feeling a bit buzzed. But don’t worry, I’m fine.

Chris♥️ Buzzed, huh? That sounds like trouble.

You I’m a responsible adult, I swear.

Chris♥️ Sure, and I’m a unicorn. Come on, you don’t have to pretend. You sound exactly like you after a glass or three.

You Okay, maybe three. But I’m good. Promise.

Chris♥️ Good or not, do you want me to come get you? Or at least stay on the phone until you’re safe?

You I’m okay, really. Just… buzzed enough to text you random stuff.

Chris♥️ That’s what worries me.

You shifted on the couch, laughter still ringing from your friends around you, but your eyes were fixed on the screen. The noise of the girls’ chatter softened at the edges as your mind floated to the familiar warmth in Chris’s messages. You hated feeling vulnerable, hated the idea of needing someone—but his steady presence was a quiet comfort, a lifeline you didn’t realize you needed so much.

The night stretched on, and soon enough, a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. There he was—Chris, quietly standing with that familiar worried smile, ready to make sure you got home safely. In the chaos of deadlines, meetings, and your self-imposed armor, he was the calm you could always count on. Maybe one day, you’d be brave enough to tell him exactly that.

You were too buzzed to notice, but Chris saw how all the girls shared a knowing look upon his arrival. He greeted everyone tenderly, considering the girls were his brothers' significant others, he tried to keep as close to them as possible, without ever intruding. However, he couldn't really decipher the suggestive eyebrow raises or cheeky winks sent towards him over your shoulder as you hugged everyone goodbye.

The ride home was quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows as you nestled into the passenger seat, your head heavy with tiredness—and maybe the wine, too. Your eyes fluttered shut before long, surrendering to the pull of sleep.

Chris glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, his heart squeezing softly at the sight. You looked so peaceful—soft features relaxed, breathing steady and calm. The world slowed down around him in that moment, and all the noise and stress of his endless schedule faded away.

He thought about how often you were the opposite—busy, always moving, juggling a million things at once. But right now, in this small, quiet space, you were just… you. Unguarded. Vulnerable. And breathtaking.

There was something about the way you trusted him so fully, letting go enough to fall asleep beside him. It made him feel honored, like you were letting him hold a piece of your world no one else saw. That fragile quiet filled him with a warmth he couldn’t explain, a tenderness that made his chest ache in the best way.

He reached over carefully, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment on your cheek. If only you knew how deeply fond he was of you—how every small gesture, every laugh, every late-night conversation stitched you closer into the fabric of his heart.

Tonight, he promised himself, he’d just be here. Quiet. Present. Grateful for this moment.

Because loving you—however quietly—was the most real thing he’d ever known.

The dressing room buzzed with restless energy, but the mood was far from lighthearted. Beneath the surface, tension rippled through the group—subtle shifts, hesitant movements, and uneasy glances that betrayed discomfort.

Chan stood by the door, trying to keep the peace, his voice calm but strained. “Please, let’s remove the tape on Jisung’s tattoos. He’s clearly uncomfortable.”

The stylist gave a polite nod but didn’t make any real move to fix it.

Across the room, Changbin tugged at a rough, scratchy shirt, biting back a grimace. “I’m allergic to this fabric,” he muttered, voice low but edged with frustration.

Then, almost like salt in a wound, a staff member handed Minho a compression shirt, smirking as they said, “Here, this one should fit better—you’ve gained too much weight lately.”

Chan’s eyes flickered with disbelief and something sharper—hurt, maybe. The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.

He continued to try, his tone measured but growing firmer, “Everyone deserves to be comfortable. Please listen to the members.”

But his words seemed to vanish into the background noise as the staff ignored his requests, their dismissive attitudes making the room heavier.

And then the door swung open.

You stepped in, all business and steel-clad determination, the kind of presence that instantly demanded attention. The chatter died down to a hush. Chan watched you, admiration blooming quietly but fiercely inside him. You scanned the room with a steady gaze—sharp, unyielding, utterly confident.

“What’s going on here?” Your voice was cool but resolute, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Chan’s chest tightened as relief and respect washed over him. Watching you take charge reminded him why he trusted you so completely.

In that moment, he thought about you—your unbreakable character, the way you carried yourself with quiet, unwavering confidence. You never compromised your principles, never faltered when it came to protecting those you cared about. Your vision for the group’s comfort and well-being wasn’t just a job—it was a passion, a fierce dedication that inspired everyone around you.

He admired how you stood up without hesitation, how your belief in respect and kindness was absolute. You moved through the room with purpose, addressing the stylists directly, your voice steady and firm.

“I don’t care how you’ve done things before,” you said, eyes locked on theirs. “Making the members uncomfortable isn’t acceptable. Jisung’s tattoos aren’t a problem to ‘fix.’ Changbin’s allergy isn’t a fashion statement. And Minho deserves respect—no one talks to him like that.”

The stylists exchanged uneasy looks, suddenly aware that their usual arrogance wasn’t welcome here. You held their attention with the kind of authority that came from years of knowing exactly who you were—and what you would stand for.

“Adjust everything immediately, or I’ll find someone who will. This stops now.”

“Thank you,” Chan said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His tired eyes met yours, filled with a rare vulnerability. “I tried to tell them to change whatever needed to be changed, but no one listened. Sometimes I'm just too polite to get my point across.”

You softened, the sharp edge of your professional armor slipping just for a moment. The weight of the day faded away as you took a small step closer. Gently, you reached up and ran your hand through his hair—the familiar curls now tamed, smoothed down by the stylists.

“I was actually imagining you leaving your hair naturally curly for this comeback,” you murmured, your fingers lingering in the strands. “But I guess the staff straightened it anyway.”

Chan’s lips curved into a sheepish smile. “That was my call,” he admitted quietly. “I thought people liked the straightened look better.”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping. “No way. Everyone thinks you’re way hotter with your curls. Fans go crazy for it.”

His eyes twinkled with something like relief, maybe even gratitude. For a brief moment, the chaos around you both dissolved—there was just the two of you, quiet and intertwined. In the middle of the dressing room frenzy, it felt like the only place that truly mattered was the connection shared between the two of you.

The studio feels unusually quiet this afternoon. The usual buzz has softened to a gentle hum, like the calm before a storm. The others are busy with their last preparations for the Japan trip, but you sit still, fingers hovering over your laptop, words caught somewhere between your mind and the screen.

Chan looks your way, hopeful but cautious. “You’re coming with us, right?”

His question is simple, but it carries more weight than you can say. Your heart twists painfully at the thought.

You want to go with them. You want to be there, beside him. But your feelings for him are getting tangled, overwhelming — and you’re scared what might happen if you don’t keep some distance. You need to protect yourself.

You shake your head gently. “I think I’m going to stay in Seoul this time.”

Chan’s eyes widen for a moment — surprise, confusion, maybe even a flicker of hurt, quickly masked. “Oh. Okay.”

He wonders why you’re staying behind.

Does she not want to be with me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t want to lose her — she’s the one person I can always count on. But maybe I’m too much, or maybe I’m not enough.

You avoid his gaze, your heart pounding. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just… need some space.”

Chan tries to decipher what those words really mean.

Space? Does she mean distance? Or something else? Does she even feel the way I do?

The room suddenly feels colder, heavier.

Chan swallows and forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. If that’s what you need.”

I want to reach out, to tell her everything — how I feel, how scared I am of losing her — but I’m too afraid. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin this?

You watch him quietly, your carefully held walls starting to crumble.

He deserves to know. He deserves to hear that you care, that the space you need isn’t because you want to leave him behind, but because you need time to sort through feelings that overwhelm you.

But the words stay locked inside.

As Chan zips his bag, the silence between you grows heavier — fragile and full of unspoken things neither of you dares to voice.

You both sit there, two hearts aching quietly, afraid to cross the line into the unknown. You stand up, gathering your things slowly, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air. Chan watches you, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but holds back. Before you walk away, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Hey… if you change your mind, just text me. I'll pay for your flight and all,”

You turn, catching the sincerity in his eyes — a soft, vulnerable light that you don’t often get to see. Your chest tightens. Without thinking, your hand brushes lightly against his arm. It’s a small touch, almost hesitant, but it sends warmth rushing through you both. Chan’s breath catches. For a heartbeat, the distance between you feels smaller, less certain. You give him a shaky smile. Finally, he pulls you into a warm embrace, one that feels like home. He's renowned for his hugs; his muscular arms feel safe and calming as they encircle you, and as you're surrounded by his sweet vanilla scent, it becomes harder and harder to keep your distance.

“Thank you, Chris.”

He nods, fighting the urge to hold you there a little longer.

As you leave the studio, your heart aches — filled with hope and fear tangled together, knowing that maybe, just maybe, this fragile moment is the start of something neither of you dared to say out loud.

The day had been relentless for Chris—hours packed with rehearsals, last-minute adjustments, and the stress of their TV showcase looming large. Every little detail needed to be perfect, and the weight of it pressed down on him heavier than he expected. It's always difficult for him to manage all this chaos without having you there. By the time he finally got back to his hotel room, his mind was still racing, the exhaustion in his body nowhere near enough to quiet his thoughts.

He stared at the ceiling, the buzzing of his phone beside him offering a small comfort. Without really thinking, he swiped it awake and dialed the one person he knew would calm the storm in his chest.

You answered on the second ring, your voice sleepy but warm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Chris said, voice a little rough. “Long day… couldn’t sleep.”

You yawned softly. “Same here. What’s on your mind?”

He let out a tired chuckle. “Everything and nothing. The showcase prep is driving me crazy. The kids are great, but the pressure… you know.”

You listened quietly, the calm steadiness of your voice smoothing the edges of his tension. “You always manage to hold it together, Chris.”

“Only because I have you to remind me to breathe,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart skip.

For a while, the two of you just talked — quiet, easy conversation about silly things and shared memories, letting the comfort of each other’s presence work its magic. The city’s distant noises faded away, replaced by the soft intimacy of the call.

“I’m really glad you picked up,” Chris whispered.

“Me too,” you answered, your eyes closing as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you.

“Hey, promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight?”

“I promise,” you said.

A long pause. Then, his voice, softer now. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

“Goodnight, Chris.”

The phone slipped from your hand as sleep finally took you, the quiet sound of Chris’s even breathing the last thing you heard before drifting off.

As soon as he got back, you were over at his place. He didn't even get to unpack, which for a meticulously clean and organized person like him was equal to hell, but he wanted you there as soon as it was possible. He dialed your number from the airport shuttle, begging to see you. And you can't say no to Chan. It's impossible. And he knows.

The apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal, Chris moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. You admired the way he handled the pans and spices — precise, confident, and calm. Unlike his usual self-consciousness in public, here he was in his element, effortlessly creating something delicious. You slipped in to help, chopping vegetables or stirring sauces, your laughter blending with the soft music he’d put on.

When Jeongin and his girlfriend arrived, the atmosphere shifted to playful and lighthearted. Jeongin’s grin was impossible to miss.

“Double date vibes tonight, huh?” he teased, elbowing his girlfriend with a sly smile.

You and Chris exchanged quick, shy glances. Both of you turned a shade of pink, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and awkwardness as Jeongin’s joke hit right where it counted. You laughed nervously, trying to play it cool, but the teasing was relentless — and honestly, it just made the evening feel more special.

After they left, the night settled into quiet comfort. You and Chris retreated to his room — his sanctuary, a place full of soft lighting, scattered notebooks, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of coffee from his late-night sessions.

You settled into the familiar nest of blankets and pillows on his bed, limbs entwined like you always did. The world outside faded away. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with that gentle, grounding pressure that made your heart beat a little slower.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, lulling you to sleep. He slowly leaned in, sure that you were already floating in dreamland, pressing a little kiss to your forehead. His voice was low, hesitant but filled with something you’d longed to hear.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, so soft that you barely heard it.

Your breath caught — a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t say anything, you knew he didn't mean for you to hear his quiet confession, so you stayed put. Nuzzled into his chest. The silence wrapped around you both like a tender promise.

And as you drifted off to sleep, still tangled in each other’s arms, you felt a warmth settle deep inside — the quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in feeling this way after all.

You lie there, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady next to you, and the quiet weight of his words resting softly on your skin. It’s everything you didn’t dare say out loud, and suddenly everything feels both fragile and certain at once.

You want to tell him that you’ve been afraid — afraid of losing this, afraid of hoping too much, afraid of how much you care. But right now, words feel unnecessary. You just want to stay here, wrapped up in the warmth of him, and believe that maybe, this could be the start of something real.

You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but for the first time in a long time, you feel brave enough to let the possibility in. Maybe love doesn’t have to be scary. Maybe it can be this quiet, steady, and soft. Maybe it’s already here.

You Hey, did you actually eat today or are you surviving on caffeine and sheer willpower again?

Chan♥️ Haha, I had a sandwich. Barely counts, I know. But don’t worry, I’m not turning into a walking skeleton yet.

You Barely counts? Chris, you’re supposed to be the leader, not a starving artist. I swear, if I see you at the studio looking like you’ve forgotten how to human, I’m dragging you out for food myself.

Chan♥️ Deal. Speaking of dragging, when can we schedule that meeting to go over the tour details? I need your magic on this.

You How about Thursday afternoon? I’ll bring snacks as a bribe.

Chan♥️ Thursday it is. You bring snacks, I’ll bring the caffeine. Perfect.

You Also, have you noticed Changbin’s been acting weird lately? Like, seriously weird?

Chan♥️ Haha, you mean the way he stares at the new personal chef like she hung the stars? I caught him trying to “accidentally” get into the kitchen more than once.

You Right?! I’m pretty sure he’s got a crush. This is going to be interesting…

Chan♥️ Oh man, imagine the chaos. Should we start placing bets on how long before he actually talks to her?

You You’re on. But if he messes it up, I’m blaming you for not coaching him properly.

Chan♥️ Fair enough. Guess I better start my mentorship duties early.

You knew he hadn’t eaten properly all day. You saw the way his eyes were a little tired, how his movements had the usual restless energy but lacked the usual spark. So, you did what you always did—showed up at the studio, determined to drag him away from his work.

When you slipped into the control room, Chris was hunched over the mixer, headphones around his neck, completely absorbed. You cleared your throat softly, and he looked up, surprised but relieved in equal measure.

“Hey,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “Come on. You’re not finishing that without food. I’m taking you out.”

He hesitated for a moment, that familiar crease between his brows, but then he gave a small, grateful smile. “You’re relentless.”

You took his hand—a quick, familiar squeeze—and led him out before he could say no. The city lights blurred past the windows as you drove to a quiet little restaurant you both liked. The kind of place where the lighting was soft, and the music was just low enough to hear your own thoughts.

Chris was different here, relaxed. He pulled out your chair with a gentleman’s ease, ordered your favorite dishes without asking, and laughed softly at your jokes—those little things that made his presence feel like home.

You watched him across the table, the way his eyes caught the candlelight, the easy warmth in his smile. It stirred something deep inside you. A flutter of hope mixed with the fear that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

You wanted to reach out, to tell him all the thoughts swirling in your mind—the late nights you spent wondering if he felt the same, the quiet moments you replayed where maybe he was sending signs you missed. But you stayed silent, because saying it aloud felt too fragile, too risky.

Chris caught your gaze, and there was something in his eyes—a flicker of the same hesitation, the same unspoken yearning.

The conversation drifted softly, filled with comfortable silences and light teasing. Neither of you rushed to cross the invisible line, but the space between you was charged with all the things you weren’t saying.

When you finally left the restaurant, the night air cool against your skin, Chris slipped his hand into yours without hesitation. It was a small, simple gesture, but it said everything neither of you dared to speak.

And as you walked side by side, your heart thrumming with a nervous hope, you realized—this was real. And it was terrifying.

But somehow, you didn’t want to look away.

Chris stepped back into the studio, the familiar hum of equipment greeting him like an old friend. He barely had time to drop his bag before Han and Changbin were all over him like a storm.

“So? How was the dinner? Did you finally say it? Spill the tea, hyung!” Jisung practically bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes shining with excitement. “You’ve been dragging this out forever, man! She’s perfect for you, you know that, right?”

Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to dodge the barrage. “I didn’t say anything, okay? It was just dinner.”

“Just dinner?!” Han threw his hands up dramatically. “Hyung, that’s like the first step to confessing! You’ve got to put the moves on her, make her see that you’re the one!”

Changbin, who’d been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped in with his trademark calm tone. “Han-ah, maybe ease up a bit. Channie hyung, listen—if you’re scared or unsure, that’s normal. But you don’t have to rush it. Just be honest. Start small. Show her you care, and when the time feels right, tell her.”

Chris looked between the two, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the pressure. Jisung was a hurricane of energy and encouragement, sure—but Changbin’s steady voice made more sense.

“I know. It’s just… hard,” Chris admitted quietly. “I don’t want to mess this up. She means too much to me.”

Han clapped him on the shoulder so hard Chris nearly stumbled. “Then stop overthinking and just go for it! We’ve got your back, hyung.”

Changbin nodded firmly. “We do. And no matter what happens, you’ve got us.”

Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. With friends like these—some chaotic, some calm—maybe he wasn’t so alone in this after all.

The rest of the group was glued to the karaoke machine, belting out pop hits with that mix of enthusiasm and off-key charm only close friends could appreciate. The room was alive with laughter and music, but you had slipped away to a quieter corner with Hyunjin, Flower Girl, Jeongin, and his girlfriend.

The soft clink of glasses punctuated the hum of conversation as the girls leaned in, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“So,” Flower Girl teased, swirling her drink, “You called someone your ‘one true love’ on girl’s night. We need details. Who is he? What’s going on?”

Jeongin’s girlfriend grinned, adding, “Yeah, spill it! Any advances? Is he making moves or what?”

Hyunjin was already dramatizing the moment, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Come on, this is a moment worthy of a drama. Does he know he’s won your heart? Has he confessed yet, or are you torturing him like the dramatic lead you are?”

You laughed softly, feeling a little warm from the wine and the company. “Maybe things have been… different lately,” you said, eyes darting around just enough to keep them guessing.

The girls exchanged knowing looks, ready to pry more, but before they could launch into another round of questions, Chan appeared.

His eyes were a little glassy, and a goofy grin spread across his face as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close with affectionate familiarity. “Hey, no leaving me alone, okay?” His voice was low, slightly slurred but full of warmth.

You leaned into his embrace, the buzz in your head settling into a calm comfort. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.

Hyunjin gasped theatrically, clutching Flower Girl’s arm. “Well, there’s your answer, ladies! The clingy best friend has arrived!”

Jeongin rolled his eyes but grinned. “It’s about time.”

You glanced up at Chan, who was looking at you with a softness that made your heart flutter and your worries melt away, at least for the moment. Chan tightened his hold on you, but the teasing from the girls was relentless.

“Hey, Chris,” Flower Girl said with a sly smile, “You do know noona’s been calling someone her ‘one true love’ at girl’s night, right?”

Jeongin chuckled, nudging Chan’s side. “Yeah, we’re all trying to figure out who this mystery guy is. It’s like a secret mission for us.”

Chan’s smile faltered for the barest moment. His buzzed brain knew better than to get upset. He didn’t have the right to be jealous — not when you hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given him a sign. Still, a flicker of something like possessiveness tightened in his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Chan said, voice a little rougher than usual but carefully calm, “I’m not worried. Whoever he is, he better be worth it.”

You caught the shadow in his eyes and squeezed his hand softly. “No one else compares.”

The girls exchanged amused glances, clearly loving the low-key tension.

Hyunjin smirked. “Aw, poor Channie hyung. So sweet, but so defeated.”

Jeongin laughed. “Don’t worry, hyung. You’re not losing noona just yet.”

Chan just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, though inside he was quietly fighting down a storm of hope and fear — the same storm you were feeling.

The night air was cool and soft as Chan wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You walked side by side down the quiet streets, the buzz of the party fading behind you like a distant memory.

He was quieter now, the confident teasing replaced by a gentle protectiveness that made your heart flutter. You could feel his warmth, steady and reassuring, as you both navigated the dimly lit sidewalks.

At your doorstep, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he was looking for permission without words. You leaned into him, still a little tipsy, your breath catching as he pulled you closer.

Without any grand confession, just a simple, heartfelt murmur, he whispered, “I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

That was all it took.

Before either of you could overthink it, his lips found yours—soft, a little shaky, but full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. You melted into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, the world shrinking until it was just the two of you in the quiet night.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Goodnight,” he whispered, voice thick with feeling.

And just like that, everything changed—though neither of you quite knew it yet.

The studio was quiet, the usual hum of equipment softened by the early morning calm. You arrived early, clutching your tablet filled with notes and schedules, ready to dive into the day’s agenda. Chan was already there, leaning against the desk with his usual relaxed smile, but there was something different in his eyes today — a flicker of something unsettled.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady. “Can we talk about last night?”

You glanced up, offering a polite smile but immediately returning to your notes. “I’d love to, Chris, but we have the new tour timelines to finalize, and the creative direction for the lighting effects still needs your input.”

He stepped closer, hopeful. “I mean—us. What happened.”

You nodded, voice clipped but careful, “Right now, I’m focused on ensuring the choreography cues sync perfectly with the stage design. I think if we prioritize that, the rest will fall into place.”

Chan’s expression faltered, his smile tightening. “You’re dodging me.”

“Not at all.” You tapped on your tablet, scrolling. “I’m just being responsible. The boys need us to be sharp. We’ll get to personal stuff later, okay?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor. When none came, he took a step back.

“Fine,” he said quietly, hurt clear in his voice. “Guess I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence heavier than any words. You sat there, heart pounding, guilt settling in even as you tried to bury it under the weight of your work.

You watch him walk away, your chest tight. You tell yourself it’s just about work—staying professional is the only way to keep things from spiraling out of control. But deep down, the ache is undeniable. You’ve been protecting yourself, building walls because these feelings scare you more than you want to admit. Could you handle the possibility of losing him as more than a friend?

Chan’s footsteps fade down the hall, but in his mind, the moment replays over and over.

She won’t talk to me. She’s shutting me out. The frustration twists in his gut, but underneath it all, there’s a small flame of hope. Maybe you're scared too. Maybe you just don’t know how to say what you feel.

He thinks about how carefully you always carry your heart, how you put on that strong, unbreakable front like a shield. But to him, that isn’t weakness—it’s a kind of bravery. And it makes him want to protect you even more.

I can’t give up on her—not now.

Back at your desk, you force your focus back to the glowing screen, but your mind is tangled in “what ifs.” What if you’d been softer? What if you’d let yourself be vulnerable? But the fear of crossing that line, of exposing yourself to pain, keeps you locked in your professional shell.

You take a deep breath. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll try again.

Your inbox dings just as you wrap up your work. You open the email from Chris, expecting the usual files for the comeback lighting setup. But then you see it—a whole folder attached, titled with your name.

Curious, you click it open. Inside are dozens of raw, unpolished demos—all love songs. Written by Chris himself. Songs he’d never meant anyone to hear yet, especially not you.

Across town, Chris’s phone buzzes urgently. It’s Jisung's girlfriend, the PR manager of Stray Kids.

“Hey, Chris, quick question,” she says, trying to keep her voice professional but with a hint of amusement. “Did you mean to send some files just now? Because there’s a folder attached with—uh—noona's name on it. I was included on the email thread, so I saw it.”

Chris freezes, confusion twisting into panic. “Wait, what? I didn’t send anything like that. Which folder?”

She chuckles. “The one titled with your Creative Director’s name. That one.”

Chris’s breath hitches. His mind races. “No, no, that can’t be right. That was not supposed to go out. I—I don’t even remember attaching that.”

Chan hears Jisung's voice on the other side of the call, in full teasing mode.

“Dude! You seriously sent your secret love song folder? The one you never share with anyone?! Man, you’re so busted!”

Chris runs a hand through his hair, heart pounding in his chest.

“Yeah… I’m officially doomed.”

Chris was already halfway across the city when his phone buzzed with your message: “I’m at the studio. We need to talk.” Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning out of control. He couldn’t let you listen to those songs. Not like this. Not now.

When he burst into the studio, he found you there—sitting quietly in his chair, headphones on, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating your face. One by one, the songs played, each one carrying the weight of his most hidden feelings.

His voice stumbled out, frantic and breathless. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. The kiss—me sending those songs—it was all a mistake.”

You slowly took off the headphones, your eyes shining with unshed tears, voice trembling but steady. “Was it really a mistake? Do you mean any of those things you wrote in those songs?”

Chris hesitated, heart breaking at the sight of your fragile expression, the quiet sadness that clung to you like a second skin. But instead of softening, his frustration boiled over.

“No, you’re not the one who should be sad,” he snapped, voice rising. “You still have your one true love out there, you said so yourself. You're the one who didn't want to talk about our kiss in the first place, probably because of him. You’re the one who gets to be happy with someone else after this, while I lose my best friend and the love of my life at the same time.”

His words hit like a slap. Your breath caught. Your voice cracked with fury and heartbreak as tears spilled down your cheeks. “That’s you, you absolute idiot! It’s always been you, Christopher! Ever since you snuck me food during our trainee days, I’ve been in love with you. You're the one I was talking about that night, you're my one true love.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your confession hanging between you. Chris’s eyes softened, searching yours, finally understanding just how long and how deeply this had been brewing inside you both.

Chris's breath hitched, eyes wide with disbelief and an overwhelming rush of happiness. The weight of years—of silence, of hiding—seemed to lift all at once. His heart pounded louder than ever before, as if finally free to beat without restraint.

Without thinking twice, he closed the small gap between you in one swift step. His hands reached up to cup your face gently but urgently, trembling just a little. And then, without hesitation, he pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was fierce and full of everything he’d been too scared to say—the longing, the fear, the hope, and the unshakable love that had quietly grown between you all along.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair, grounding him. Time blurred. The noise of the world faded away until there was only this—only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart matching yours.

Chris pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining with relief and something raw—vulnerability mixed with hope.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Since those trainee days when I’d sneak you food because I didn’t want you to go hungry. Since every time I stayed up late, not just because of work, but because I was thinking about you. I was scared—scared you didn’t feel the same, scared I’d lose the best thing I’ve ever had if I said anything. But I can’t hide it anymore. You are the one I want. You’ve always been the one.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as if memorizing your face. “You’re my person. My home. I’m done being afraid.”

His gaze never wavered as he waited, hoping you could see just how true it all was.

The music pulses through the studio’s speakers as the boys move through their synchronized choreography, energy and precision filling the room. You stand at the edge, your tablet in hand, eyes darting between the dancers and the progress bar on your screen. Your job is to cue the right track at the right time, to catch every little nuance that could make or break the performance.

But your attention keeps drifting to Chan.

He’s in the middle of the formation, but you catch him stealing glances at you more often than at the choreography instructor. His brows furrow in concentration, but his lips twitch into a shy smile whenever your eyes accidentally meet. You sense his focus wane, like his heart is pulling him away from the dance routine and right into your orbit.

“Chris! Eyes up!” Changbin’s voice rings out, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

Chan snaps back to attention, cheeks flushed as he tries to follow the complicated steps. The rhythm falters briefly, his movements a bit off, and a frustrated sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head.

When the choreography run ends, he jogs over to you, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry... I just… you distracted me,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

You grin, closing your tablet with a tap. “Save some of that attention for the music cues, alright? You’re making me jobless.”

He chuckles, a little embarrassed but unable to hide how your words lift him. “No promises,” he says with a wink. Then, pulling a playful salute, he steps back into the group. But every few seconds, he looks your way, a silent confession in his gaze.

The green room is a cozy sanctuary away from the buzzing chaos of rehearsals and photo shoots. You enter first, carrying your coffee like a prized possession, and find a quiet corner to sit and gather your thoughts.

Almost instantly, Chan appears behind you, as if drawn magnetically.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs, sliding onto the couch beside you with a familiar ease.

You take a sip of your coffee, eyes half-closed in relief. But Chan isn’t done.

“Did you eat anything yet?” he asks, his voice gentle but persistent.

You chuckle, placing your cup down. “I did, Chris. Twice actually. You’re not my mom.”

He grins, leaning closer until his head rests lightly on your shoulder. “Maybe not, but I’m your biggest fan,” he teases softly.

The group’s laughter drifts from the hallway—Jeongin’s teasing voice is unmistakable, “Channie hyung, you’re spoiling her! What about us?”

Chan only squeezes your shoulder and replies, “She’s my priority.”

Your heart swells quietly at his affection. He’s not the type to shout it from rooftops, but moments like this, small and intimate, speak volumes. Being wrapped in his warmth, you feel protected, cherished—and incredibly lucky.

Chan catches you during a rare lull in the day, tablet clutched like a secret treasure. His eyes gleam with excitement and nervousness, the kind that makes you grin before he even speaks.

“I wrote a new song,” he says, voice low but full of pride. “It’s… well, it’s kind of a love song.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms teasingly. “Again? You’re on a roll.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I can’t help it. Every time I think about you, melodies just start playing in my head. It’s like my heart’s got its own playlist.”

Just then, Hyunjin and Jeongin stroll by, catching the tail end of your conversation.

Hyunjin smirks, calling out, “Channie hyung, love is great and all, but how about a real party anthem? We need something to get the crowd jumping.”

Jeongin laughs, elbowing Hyunjin. “Yeah, or are you planning a duet with her? Because if you are, don’t flood us with more mushy songs!”

Chan’s cheeks flush a deep red, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps closer to you, eyes locked on yours. “Maybe I will,” he whispers. “Because if it’s about you, it’s always worth it.”

You squeeze his hand, warmth blooming through your chest. Despite the teasing, you know this is his way of showing how much he cares—one love song at a time.

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

It doesn’t strike like lightning or unravel like a slow-burn drama. It unfolds—gently, without fanfare, in between coffee breaks and color palettes, late-night edits and sleepy glances across cluttered work tables.

Sometimes, it’s years in the making. Years of inside jokes, of shared playlists, of standing at the edge of each other’s dreams—not to take credit, but to make sure the other doesn’t fall.

That’s how it was with you and Bang Chan.

You learned the language of his silences, the softness behind his steady hands. And he learned to trust the steady rhythm of your presence—the kind of comfort that doesn’t need words to be felt.

No grand declarations, no fireworks—just the steady warmth of two souls intertwined, quietly daring to be seen, quietly daring to belong.

And in that quiet, you found a love so true it's unnecessary to shout from rooftops.