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telephoniii · 5 months ago

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WHY WOULD A FELLOW WANT A GIRL LIKE HER?

☆彡 in which malleus and leona fight for your affections

leona kingscholar x gn!reader & malleus draconia x gn!reader

word counter: 4K

warnings: reader is prefect, cursing, love triangle, possible ooc

a/n: based off of the song “stepsister’s lament” from cinderella the musical— hence the title. one of my favorite works!! I had fun writing this!! both mal and leona are capital p PETTY and I'm living for it. i hope you enjoy :>

No matter how much he claims he doesn't care, Leona finds himself hissing at the sight of you and Malleus together. He wants to deny it so badly— but deep down he knows.

He knows as he glares at you, sitting on a bench beside the fae, giggling and having a jolly old time. He’s well aware of what he’s feeling as he scoffs, telling the greedy hyena beside him that he��s returning to the dorm.

And he’s fully conscious as he lays in bed, staring at the ceiling; unable to get the image of you and that spiny horned reptile out of his head.

He’s jealous. Envious. And any damn variation of the sort.

Out of all the people you could choose to spend your time with, you pick that slimy lizard?!

Your taste is questionable—who’s he kidding? Absolutely awful. Really, going for the guy who doesn’t age? Ever think about how awkward it’s going to be when you’re getting hip pains and he still looks like a teenager? Hell, he’s not one for settling down but wouldn’t you at least want someone with the capacity of growing old together?!

What does that scaley little scumbag do for you anyway?

Sure, Malleus does gift you little trinkets you’ve mentioned in passing. Leona isn’t blind; he can see the way you light up at these gifts. He distinctly remembers seeing a dorky gargoyle keychain on your bag. It stank of that fae freak.

Yet you seemed to adore the tiny statue, so much so that you went on a small rant about the history. To Leona’s surprise, he listened to every single word you had to say about it. Gargoyles are always way more interesting when it’s you talking about it.

Though, everything involving you is more interesting nowadays… He had to resist the urge to sand that stupid little toy right then and there.

And he’s well aware of the ‘secret’ walks the two of you have at unholy times of the night, talking about whatever that overgrown lizard is interested in. The way you speak of it like nobody knows is irritating. Only an idiot wouldn’t pick up on it.

Too bad NRC is full of idiots.

It’s not like it matters too much anyway. He doubts Malleus has the charisma to charm you. The guy isn’t invited to a whole lot of events for a reason. While Leona knows he can come off as a prick, he’s still a prince nonetheless. He was taught how to flatter and flirt— he remembers being surrounded by a bunch of bootlickers as a cub.

He isn’t intimidated by Malleus’s magic all too much either. Although he’s more than sure you wouldn’t fall for a person solely based on their strength, Leona believes he could take on Malleus. The lizard is painfully predictable after all.

Not to mention most of his ‘shows of power’ are akin to temper tantrums. If dueling wasn’t banned, that pathetic excuse of a dragon would be dragged in the mud by him.

Everything Malleus does for you, he could do better. He’s sure of it.

Beneath the surface, is he scared of coming second place to yet another person? Terrified that he’ll always be the second-best choice? That all the time spent with you would never be more than that? Maybe.

But those night terrors are lessened when he sees you approach— knowing he was the sole reason you were there.

Leona feels his heart race as you sit beside him, casually talking about your day and whatever hijinks you got into. He worries you might hear just how fast it beats for you when you nap with him, laying your head on his chest.

As he hears you mumble his name in your sleep, he feels reassured that he’s your one.

I mean— why would someone as great as you ever want a flimsy, little lizard? Especially when he’s right here, ready to be your pillow in hard and happy times.

A green thunderbolt struck through the sky. Coincidentally, you happened to be napping on Leona outside when this happened— shaking the both of you awake.

Did Malleus do this on purpose?… Of course not. He’s not immature enough to do that, unlike a certain lion he knows.

It’s not his fault that you two were cuddling outside when he was ‘testing’ out something with his thunder.

That doesn’t mean he was any less satisfied watching you get up and walk back to your dorm, leaving that mangy cat by himself.

He never understood what value you gained from hanging around someone as…unusual as Kingscholar. A ‘prince’ who lays around, sleeping the day away? What a joke! Wouldn’t you rather have a prince— better yet a ruler— who’s proactive in his kingdom?

That flappy street cat is better suited to accompany Grim rather than yourself.

He doubts Kingscholar would hold open the door for you like he does!

Malleus has heard it’s a human custom to do so; ever since then, he’s now perfected the art of swiftly rushing over to a door and slamming it open for you. It delights him when you giggle at his antics. He bets that idiotic lion would never be able to do that— Kingscholar barely moves anyway. It’s like he’s glued to that bed of his.

Kingscholar seems as though he’d let the door slam in your face. That alone just shows how superior Malleus is to him.

Although, Kingscholar’s words of advice indeed seemed to matter to you quite a lot. Every time you had attracted chaos, you commonly turned to the lazy loaf and asked for his perspective. And each time, without fail, Mal had watched you take the prince’s suggestion in stride and use it.

It pains him to admit it, sometimes Kingscholar can be rather clever. Malleus is somewhat glad that said lion uses his intelligence to keep you safe.

He doesn’t know what, but something about Kingscholar’s mere existence seems to relax you. Malleus has seen you look at ease in a way he’s never witnessed before when you simply just lay beside the other student. He watches with envy as Kingscholar’s tail protectively wraps around your thigh.

As long as you’re safe… Malleus supposes he can bear through you hanging out with the lion.

That won’t stop him from interrupting the two of you whenever he feels the time is right. Sudden bolts of thunder, random objects falling from the sky and hitting Kingscholar on the head, out-of-the-blue power outages…

It’s all fair play to him. You still get to hang out with that lazy excuse of a prince anyway.

It doesn’t matter too much to him— at least that’s what he tells himself. It’s not as though you’d leave him to hang out with Kingscholar; no, you’d never.

You’ll stay, won’t you?

He’s sure of it as you walk beside him in the dead of night. Nobody else knows, nor do they need to as you two stroll along the campus. Seeing your enthusiastic smile next to him as you talk about your dreams fills him with unexplainable joy. Malleus fights the urge to hold your hand, interlocking your fingers with his.

You seemed to have read his mind— you always do understand him like no other— as you glanced down at your hands. A small giggle leaves your lips before you inch your hand closer to his.

“Can we…?” You hum with hopeful and amused eyes.

Wordlessly, Malleus indulges now with your consent. The warmth of your hand compared to the polarizing coldness of his made him feel dizzy. In a good way.

You’ll never leave him. At least not when you're hand in hand together like this.

“Man I’m starving— Hurry it up, henchman!” A familiar, squeaky voice demanded as Grim pushed on your shoulder.

“Patience, patience. This is very important. It can determine my mood for the rest of the day.” You murmured, standing strong despite Grim’s efforts. Narrowing your eyes, you stared at the different lunch options.

What were you going to eat today?

“Prefect has a point. Your nutrition affects the way you function.” Jack shrugs behind Grim, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You say that like they’re going to eat something healthy.” Ace yawns, stretching out his arm and lightly hitting Deuce. “Hurry it up, Prefect! Clock’s ticking!”

“Fine! Fine!” Quickly, you grabbed the same thing you’ve gotten for the past week. A series of groans emerged from behind you.

“All that time just to get that?” Ace crossed his arms, giving you an unamused look.

“Okay, I’ll get something else then—“

“—Nononononono!” Practically everyone behind you yelled in a panic.

“Just go sit down ‘n secure us a table already!” Epel huffs, to which you happily comply.

You scout out the area, looking for a free table to sit at. Geez, was the cafeteria always this packed?

A sigh of relief escapes your lips as you spot a familiar, robotic Shroud waving to you from a table.

“Prefect!” Ortho chirps, his voice synthesizer going a pitch up. Just as you were about to walk over, you felt your blazer being pulled on from the back. Suddenly, you were yanked away.

“Ay! Watch it—!” You grab the hand that was pulling on you, turning around to come face to face with a smug Ruggie.

“Leona’s callin’ you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“He didn’t want to send a text or call? He just had to send a goon to come and get me?”

Ruggie nodded with a cheeky grin.

“Yep.”

Groaning, you turn towards Ortho and wave him goodbye, signaling that you are going to leave. “Lead the way, hyena.”

And with that, you found yourself walking through the hallways on your way to Savanaclaw. You hope Ortho told the others about you leaving. It kinda slipped your mind to tell them.

You snapped out of your thoughts as you heard munching coming from Ruggie— “Wait, that's my lunch you’re eating! How’d you even…!? When did you…?!”

It also slipped your mind that Ruggie is both a great thief and greedy when it comes to food.

“Shishishishi… you left yourself open, Prefect! I’m sure Leona will get you something else to eat. He always does.”

“Always is a stretch.” You grumble, watching Ruggie eat your food. “Is it?” You didn’t want to ponder his question.

Instead, you turn your gaze ahead of you and focus on walking… At least that’s what you would be doing if you didn’t walk face-first into somebody.

“Gah! I’m so sorry—“ “Child of man.”

Only one person used that nickname for you. Looking up, you were met with Malleus’s amused smile.

“Impeccable timing,” The fae seemed happy to see you. You could see his fangs the way he was smiling. Ruggie was unsettled but thankful that Malleus was ignoring his presence. “Would you accompany me for lunch? Lilia, Sebek, and Silver will be there too, of course.”

You were about to accept right away before you felt a light hit to your side. Ruggie sneakily elbowed you. Before you could curse at him, he gave you a look and— Oh, right. You were going with him to spend lunch with Leona already. A small frown made its way on your lips as you turned back to Malleus.

Great sevens, it was hard to turn him down. Especially when he was all cheery like this.

Fortunately— or unfortunately, you didn’t have to. A roaring voice from behind you did it for you.

“Herbivore’s coming with me. They agreed to it already.” Leona huffed, a scowl clear on his face as he approached. Ruggie seemed surprised.

“Leona?! What’re you—“ “Did they now? I didn’t exactly hear them say no to my proposal though.” Malleus interrupted Ruggie, whose ears went flat against his head.

“They don’t need to. They’ve already got plans.” The lion growled, narrowing his eyes at the other third year.

Malleus stepped forward, the fae’s irritation growing. “Why do you insist on speaking for them so vigorously? My dear child of man, don’t let him dictate your choices—“

“I’m not doing shit. Just stating what they already agreed to.” Leona also stepped forward, refusing to back down.

You were starting to get worried and turned your head to murmur something to Ruggie. Except Ruggie wasn’t there. The hyena snuck off already. Bastard. A voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Well, Prefect? Who would you rather accompany? Kingscholar— who’ll likely laze around the whole lunch— or I?”

“Damn lizard…” Leona grumbled under his breath before shaking his head and facing you. “Well? The choice is yours. I wouldn’t force you to do anything.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze flickering between the two. “Well… I—“

Before you could finish, you were interrupted by a loud ring.

The lunch bell had rung. It was time to head back to class.

“Are you doing okay?” You ask, shifting closer to Leona. He lets out a small grunt in response, his eyes closed as he sprawled out in his usual spot inside the Botanical Garden.

For as tough as Leona was, he was unusually soft when tired. He carried this relaxing air around him. That no matter what happens, you’ll be okay with him around. The thought makes you smile as you tilt your head at him.

He was also kinda cute when he laid there like that—

“Quit staring.”

Leona abruptly huffed out. Blinking in surprise, you soon realize that one of his eyes was cracked open. A tiny blush finds its way on your cheeks while he stutters out an apology. The lion’s lips soon form a smug grin.

“You were looking at me pretty attentively, herbivore…” His words are slow and agonizing. Leona’s tail swishes up and down as he leans in closer. Your eyes widen as he comes mere inches away from your face; from your lips.

“…Got something you want to tell me?” You feel your breath hitched at the sudden, feather-light touch of Leona’s hand against yours. Just as you were about to respond—

“Roi du Lions!”

The romantic atmosphere Leona so carefully built went down the drain, along with his motivation. A groan left his lips.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt.” Trey soon appears behind Rook, an apologetic expression on his face. You shake your head, standing up.

“You’re good! What’re you two up to?”

Leona had an annoyed look on his face as you engaged with the other students. He tried to ignore and drown out everyone’s voices. At least he was, till Rook caught his attention.

“During an exploration for new ingredients that we could bring to our club, Roi de Dragons made a magical appearance.“ You raised a brow while Leona’s ear flicked.

Trey let out a small chuckle at Rook’s dramatic storytelling.

“Malleus just asked us to find something for him in the Botanical Garden.”

Leona’s scowl deepened. That damn lizard.

“Maybe we could help! What’re you looking for?” You offered.

Trey soon fiddled with his pocket, searching for something. Shortly after, he pulls out a piece of paper. “A… toy? It looks like this. Malleus said he last had it here.”

You made an “O” shape with your mouth. “His virtual pet! Gao-Gao!” Trey lets you hold the paper, letting you get a closer look at the drawing that resembled Malleus’s Tamogachi.

“I know what it looks like, I’ve got no idea where he could’ve left it though…” Soon enough, you, Trey, and Rook are scouring the Botanical Gardens for this little toy. Leona finds this stupid.

Slightly bitter about his ruined moment, he lays back down to take a nap.

That’s when his ear flinched after hitting something hard. Turning around with a displeased look, Leona’s eyes narrowed.

There, in his favorite sleeping spot was Malleus’s dumb toy —which wasn’t there literally minutes ago might he add. Picking it up, Leona contemplated crushing the small electronic. However, as he held it, the lion was quick to notice a bit of ink getting on his fingers.

He turned the Tamogachi around. Written on the back with a blue pen was “Kingscholar :)”

Oh, that fucking Draconia did this on purpose.

Sitting up from your bed, you rub your eyes. With an annoyed groan, you get up and go to the door— trying not to wake Grim in the process. You could feel the ghost watching with curiosity. Not that you blamed them. Hell, you were curious too!

Who was knocking at 2 in the morning!?

The sun wasn’t even up. Ramshackle probably looked horrid, inside and outside, at this time.

You weren’t looking too great either: bags beneath your eyes, saggy pajamas, slouched posture… Vil would die on the spot if he saw you. Internally, you prayed it was anybody but him. And thank the Sevens that your prayer was answered.

You titled your head in confusion at the one in front of you.

“Malleus?” He smiled back at you. As though his appearance on your doorstep at the crack ass of dawn was the most normal thing ever.

“Greetings.”

You shook your head, still waking up and trying to make sense of the situation. “Do… Do you need something?”

Now he looked confused. Which only heightened your confusion. The fae furrowed his brows. “Did you not want to talk, child of man?”

“I like talking with you! Just, preferably not this early in the morning— Look, why are you here? Did you just want to hang out, Tsunotarou?” You tried being as polite as possible, but damn you were tired.

Malleus looked just as lost as you.

“…Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the letter you sent me?” You look to the side, slightly scrunching your nose as you try to remember what ‘letter’ he was referring to.

“Uhh— When did I send this letter?” You give him an apologetic smile. It wasn’t too far-fetched; the idea of you giving him an invitation to Ramshackle.

However, you feel as though you would’ve remembered if you had actually done it. And you would’ve hoped that past you would be smart enough to set your invitation time to anytime BUT 2 AM.

“I recall receiving this letter yesterday, in the library,” Malleus explained, his hand reaching into his pocket to find said paper. “You slipped it to me when you walked by—“

The fae grabbed his invitation, only for him to be met with sand that trickled down his hand.

“—with Kingscholar…” He fell silent as he stared at the tiny particles in his hand. You seemed to catch on quickly, giving him a sympathetic look as your eyes flickered between the sand and him.

“Tsunotarou, did you see me give you this letter?”

The way he averted his eyes to the side, his pale cheeks faintly turning pink from embarrassment, already gave you the answer you needed. It’d be cute if not for the circumstances. As expected, Malleus shook his head.

“My apologies… I assumed it was you since I had acquired it right after you had waved at me and it was an invitation to Ramshackle.”

You let out a small chuckle before brushing off the sand that still dirtied his hand. “Don’t sweat it. It’s not your fault that Leona is… well Leona and he does stuff like this.” Offering Malleus a smile, your hand soon intertwined with his. The blush on his cheeks subtly brightened.

“Well, you did come all this way just to hang out. It’d be a shame to turn you away now. Here, come.” You kick the door to open it wider and pull the fae inside Ramshackle. Leading him to the couch, you could gauge that Malleus was amused by your antics. Practically dragging one of the top mages in the world by the arm into your dorm…

“Let me just freshen up first! Wait here— I’ll be right back. Then we could watch some movies or whatever.” You shrugged with a grin before running upstairs to wash up. Malleus gave you a polite and happy wave as you exited.

Once you left, he let out a sigh and leaned back on the couch. His hands balled into fists as he felt more sand pooling in his pockets. A green bolt of lightning struck from the sky.

That measly fucking lion.

You let out an aggravated sigh. Did they not think you realized what both of them were doing to each other? Between the Tamagotchi incident and the whole letter debacle a few nights ago, they were being so obvious.

Jeez, you get that they had a rivalry going on and whatnot, but why did they have to involve you? Fed up and rambling, you look to your side at Grim to get his thoughts on the matter. He sat next to you in the kitchen, munching away on a can of tuna.

“They’re getting really annoying! Stealing my henchmen’s time like that…” A chuckle left your lips at Grim’s bitterness, causing you to pet him on the head.

“Mhm. I just want them to quit it— at least around me. I’m good friends with both and care a lot about them… Also, don’t talk with a mouthful.” You lightheartedly huff, getting up from your seat to grab Grim another can of tuna as he was beginning to finish his first. He usually ate two to three cans before bedtime.

“Why don’t ya just tell 'em?” The cat curiously asked with a tilt of the head, staring at you. You let out a snort. “Yeah, just tell two extremely powerful mages with an intense hatred for one another to stop. Like that’ll work.”

Grim let out an annoyed groan at your sarcasm. You opened a new can of tuna and slid it to him. His frown quickly disappeared as he began to dig in.

“Eh— sounds like Leona and Malleus could use some quality time together.” Grim offhandedly comments, chewing away on his food.

“What did I say about talking with a mouthful, man?” You roll your eyes before falling silent, pondering his words. Quality time… Leona… Malleus…

“Grim! You’re a genius!”

“Herbivore, what the hell.” Leona’s tone was unamused, giving you a deadpan look.

“I thought it’d be nice if we hung out all together! As a group?”

The two men stared daggers at each other across the small, dusty table in Ramshackle. With a nervous chuckle, your eyes flickered between the two as you slowly passed out cards for some random board game that Idia lent you.

Leona and Malleus didn’t take their eyes off one another. It was at this moment you were starting to think that Grim, in fact, was not a genius.

These two were definitely going to kill each other.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x you #twst x yuu #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x you #malleus draconia x you #malleus x reader #twst fanfic #twst x you #twst x y/n #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona x yuu #leona x y/n #leona x you #leona kingscholar x yuu

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thethirdtriplet · 1 year ago

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Headcanon for the Bats:

The Bats are absolute menaces to society, in their own weird and unique ways.

—————

Dick refuses to be referred to as anything but “Dick” when in public with his family or even his friends, so no, he will not be referred to by his legal name or any of his common nicknames, but any and all variations or nicknames for “Dick” (Dickie, Dikehead, ect…) are acceptable:

It almost makes Dick a little too happy when any of his siblings yells “Dick” in a crowded room or public place.

One woman actually yelled at Dick and his siblings for their language, that is, until he informed her that Dick is his name. She was so embarrassed she turned a deep shade of red and she apologised.

Dick tried to hide his smirk because he's an absolutely horrible person. His siblings are not impressed, and refuse to admit that it’s kinda funny.

—————

On Father’s Day, Bruce receives a multitude of gifts from his children (whether legal, emotional or biological), as a joke he has to receive at least one gift that has “worst parent ever” on it, from one of them. And while he loves all of the gifts (gag gifts or sentimental) equally, he still has his favourites:

Bruce might enjoy the utter horror and unease a little more than necessary as he uses the thermos Jason bought him for Father’s Day with the words “worst dad ever”, printed on the front, in bright red for all to see.

He is currently forced to endure attending yet another board meeting when one -brave but stupid- new board member made a rather rude comment about how Bruce’s kids shouldn’t disrespect him with such gifts. Which prompts Bruce to go on a tirade about how he should mind his own business, and never speak about any of his kids like that. It got so bad, and he was so furious, that none of the other board members mentioned that the meeting would be ending soon. By the end of Bruce’s speech, their time was up and the meeting had to end.

Not that Bruce was finished. The next day, to work, bruce wore the bright blue tie Dick had gotten him, holding the mug Tim got him that had “Not the best parent, but I am trying my best.” printed on it. And he has continued to wear the things his kids buy him to work, without fail.

No one mentions anything about his clothing choices or the mugs (yes, mugs because there’re multiple mugs with equally concerning words printed on all of them), because if they do, he will go on a tirade about his kids and how much he loves them, and no work will get done.

—————

Cas unlike her siblings is the same inside her mask and outside:

cashier working:

Cass suddenly appears and adds an item to the conveyor belt:

Cashire: !?

Cashier: Where did you come from?!

Cass, silently stares pointedly at the cashier:

Cashier: …you know what? I don’t get paid enough for this.

Cashier, casually rings up the item:

Cass grabs the item and disappears the minute the cashier looks up to see her and find nothing there.

Chasier, quietly: I really don’t get paid enough for this.

#tim drake #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #duke thomas #cassandra cain #bruce wayne #i will be adding more

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narcissistshandler · 8 days ago

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I’ve read your other fics and they’re delicious 🤤.

Imagine eating Rin out then getting caught, by like Isagi or some.

　⸸ .ᐟ W A R M U P

「 pairing 」 gn reader x itoshi rin 「 content 」 rin is trying to stretch and you are trying (and succeeding) in getting in his way 「 tags 」 rimming [rin receiving], reader has no gender or genitalia mentioned, yoga, cumming in pants, caught in the act, slightly dubious consent but rin is loving it I promise

a/n in case I did a terrible job of describing the position Rin is in here is a link for reference (it would be some variation of this)

LETTING you bury yourself between his legs in a room where anyone could walk in was a terrible idea. Rin knew, that's why the first thing he did when he saw you approaching while he was maintaining a bridge was a clear, "no." Because you would never have pure intentions when trying to follow any of his daily routines, something you had never done before.

But that only made you smile like a cat while feigning innocence.

Rin let you hover around, trying to ignore you. And then somehow everything went wrong and here he was: arched on the mat, supported by his hands, his chest open in an almost impossible arch, only one foot on the ground. Forming a living bridge, initially tense but firm, which has evolved to now be on the verge of collapse.

You had the audacity to direct one of his legs over your shoulder, and Rin could only growl at your boldness.

"Get out," he demands, but there's no heat in his voice. Especially not when your hot, bold tongue licks around the ring of taut muscle and your chuckle against his warm skin makes him shiver. Rin knew, he was too lenient with you. He should have been stricter when you still listened to him. "You bastard gnh— this is not the place for this."

But he still doesn't push you away. Your fucking mouth...

You didn't even try to undress him, just pushed the leg of his shorts to the side along with his underwear to gain access to his hole, leaving his cock trapped in the tightness of the fabric — so heavy and hard that Rin could feel the blood rushing through his entire member, moisture accumulating at the tip. You were brazen, not backing down even when he kicked you on your first attempt to put your mouth on him.

Rin should have worn the tightest shorts today, even though he doubted it would have stopped you from trying to embarrass him in such a public place.

Your mouth moves against him, murmuring. Rin feel the words more than hear them — wet, muffled, broken against his sensitive skin. "Mmm… jus’ wanna— taste…"

Rin will definitely kill you. As soon as he can. "Seriously?" he snaps, voice low and ragged. "You can’t shut up even with your mouth full?"

He can't see your face from this position, what is good, he doesn't want to see the smug expression that will be there. That was permission enough for you. The obvious choice: either shut up and carry on, or...

Rin's arms tremble with the effort of holding his weight as your lips suck on the soft rim. Even though he had showered before starting his stretches, he still found it disgusting, having your mouth there, knowing that there was no way you couldn't taste not only the soap and water, but also the salty sweat.

Embarrassment made his face hot, his entire body on fire as you casually, as if it were part of your routine, reveled in the way Rin's hole clenched around of your tongue, twitching under each wet lick; eating his ass slowly, lazily.

"...You're going to make me fall," he growled, his eyes about to roll back in his skull, his voice trailing off into a groan as your tongue probed past the ring of muscle and slid into the tight heat. As if shocked, the muscle in his leg jumped with unexpected pleasure, contracting in your shoulder.

You make a contented sound against his ass, using your fingers to spread his cheeks so you have more room to work with your mouth... Rin hears his own voice ringing in his ears, loud, surprised, breathless as a flash passes behind his eyes and his balls tighten.

He doesn't have time to warn or try to get away. Rin is only able to feel: heat flooding his stomach, hole tightening around your tongue, heart pulsing in his cock confined in his gym shorts. You lick him through his orgasm, thrusting your tongue inside him, making disgusting sounds like you're eating the most delicious meal.

Wetness spreads in his underwear and his arms that held his body up finally give way.

Rin's back hits the floor at the same moment the door opens with an audible click. "Rin—"

Upside down, he sees Isagi, with an expression that seems to range from traumatized to provocative in horrible seconds.

The three of you freeze.

There's no way to disguise it. Rin on his back on the mat, hair flushed in his face, shorts still messy and with a wet spot growing in the front and you kneeling between his legs, lips glistening with moisture and one of his heels still on your shoulder.

Rin's face burns brighter.

Only an idiot wouldn't connect the pieces, but well, Isagi was an idiot so maybe...

"Are you two making out or doing some very very specific type of training?"

"Get out."

"No, seriously, Rin, I want to learn too—"

Rin grunts like an animal about to attack. He'll kill Isagi, then he'll kill you. He won't leave any witnesses to his humiliation.

"Get the fuck out, Isagi." Isagi obeys, laughing like someone who now has an ace up his sleeve, muttering to himself an "I always knew" that makes Rin's head throb harder.

He covers his eyes with the back of his hands, feeling the semen cool against his skin, forming a disgusting mess in his underwear, drool dripping from his hole because you always had to spit on it like a salivating dog. "You fucking idiot, I warned you someone might come in and you didn't even think to lock the door—never again. Never again."

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andhumanslovedstories · 9 months ago

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An intro to doing crosswords for complete beginners

as told by someone who didn’t do any before this year and now has gotten so deeply into them

with examples pulled almost entirely from crosswords published in American publications this week

A crossword is not a measure of general knowledge or intelligence or skill with words anymore than a Mario game is a measure of how good you are at plumbing. It certainly helps to have the same cultural reference points as the puzzle, but you can brute force your way through a lot of it if you just know how crosswords work

Easiest on Mondays and then get harder over the week

The answer is in the same verb tense as the clue (ex. “doesn’t float” is “SINKS” while “didn’t float” is “SANK”)

If there’s an acronym or abbreviation in the clue, the answer will have one as well (ex. “Toothpaste-approving org.” is “ADA” because that the short way of referring to the American Dental Association)

If the answer is in written like a text from a teen girl with her first flip phone, the answer will be a common texting abbreviation (TMI, OMG, LOL, LMAO, BRB, TTYL, etc) (ex. three letter word with clue “i can’t believe u told me that” is “TMI”)

If the clue is in quotes, it’s dialogue and the response should also be dialogue (ex. the clue “‘That’s it for me!’” is “IQUIT”)

An answer can be multiple words, (see above) so some correct answers can make you second guess yourself because it creates letter combos that seem impossible to be in one English (mostly) word or mess you up bc it’s ambiguous where one word ends and another begins (ex. you have the letters “OWFO” and the answer ends up being “PILLOWFORT” or “UDAT” being “BERMUDATRIANGLE”)

Treat clues with a question mark like they’re going to be puns that make you groan so think about other meanings of the words in the clue (ex. “Volumes you can hear?” is “AUDIOBOOKS” or “Not fancy at all?” is “HATE” or “Remained under cover?” is “SLEPTIN”)

Clues that add hedging language line “they could be called…” or one might use this as…” are telling you to think very laterally. These are the ones that make you a little mad when you get them (ex. “They might be said to be dancing or raging” is “FLAMES” or “They admit they might be punched” is “TICKETS”)

The word “maybe” usually indicates the answer will be an example of the clue, not a synonym (ex. “Pet, maybe” is “CAT”)

If a person is in the clue and a person is the answer, the answer will be from the same part of name as the clue (ex. Trevor Noah replaced John Stewart on the Daily Show. So the clue “Stewart’s successor on the Daily Show” is “NOAH” while “John’s successor on the Daily Show” would be “TREVOR”

No word in the clue will be featured in the answer (ex. “What Beyoncé Knowles goes by” could be “ONENAME” but could never be “BEYONCÉ”)

A answer can be a phonetic spelling of a letter (ex. “Epic finale?” is “CEE”)

Not every clue is going to be tricky and clever, don’t rule out an obvious choice just because it’s obvious (ex. “Do ___ disturb” is “NOT”)

Roman numerals pop up a lot but typically only in clues where a Roman numeral makes sense, so “finale of a play?” could be “ACTII” but “Number of Stooges” is not going to be “III”

There’s a ton of really common clues. If you do enough crossword puzzles you recognize them. (ex. Literally almost anything about oil is going to be OPEC, any variations on “things on a smartphone that someone can download and use” is going to be “APPS”, and anything about a european capital city is probably “OSLO”)

If a clue can be about a cookie, the answer is almost certainly “OREO”

#crosswords #I’ve done 94 crosswords in the last two weeks

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vosling · 4 months ago

Note

Alas! The future versions are imo absolutely not all the same people (+1 to prev). At the very least, they do not all grow into the same future person.

OP - the connectivity and iterative lineage of many Michaels is unknown, which basically means you can't assume how most of these Michaels relate to one another. The best way I can explain it is a follows (but mind you, this is still simplified).

Let's start with what is generally considered the Michael. The first Michael we encounter in the show, also nicknamed “Latvia Michael” and "Cowboy Michael". For this simplified explanation, let's consider Latvia Michael the Michael ancestor on the evolutionary tree of ever-further-branching Michael subspecies.

But that's the linear start, and it's not that simple. Because Latvia Michael traveled to the 2021 from (simplified) 10 years in the future. Since he got introduced in Episode 44, the narrative has progressed about 4 years. In other words, it was 2021 in the show when Michael was introduced and it's 2025 in the show now. So Michael has looped through 2021-2025 at least twice, yeah?[1] And Michael has already existed in 2030 though we (the show, the audience) haven't even been to that time yet.

Everywhen and everywhere Michael has been (in spacetime), there have been opportunities for Michael(subspecies) to branch out. Some of this we have seen in action (we witness a Michael getting iterated), some of we haven't (a new Michael enters the room, let's roll with it!).

Knowing how a Michael branches out from the "original" is what we call iterative lineage. Mind that "original" and "real" are highly contested concepts in the show - but that's diving into iterative personhood realms and you're not here for that.

Known iterative lineages: some of the Michaels on the show branched off Michael-after-he-got-introduced-to-the-show. An example of this Michael is Tex(as Michael), who is of the lineage of the Compound Michaels. We can trace this back to Episodes 80 and 81. Another example are Lieutenant and Michaels in OIs army, who are of the lineage of the double agent Michael, send to OI by Ty Betteridge. We can trace this back to Episodes 124 and 132. Old Man can be traced back to Episode 146.

Then there is the complication that other Michaels may originate from Michael-before-he-was-introduced-to-the-show. Which are both "earlier" Michaels (by evolutionary lineage logic they descend from a Michael with less life experience) but they are introduced later in the show.

And/but often, we don't know the exact iterative lineage of a new Michael introduced. So that's the case with the Numbered Michaels that attend Tex' poker night. We currently don't know their origin. They are all numbered now, but that doesn't mean they're connected. These numbers could have been assigned after Tex "saved their life" (offhand mention in Episode 196). Basically: Tex could be running the Michael version of a shelter, adopting Michaels from all kinds of bad fates. These Michaels could all have different iterative lineages.

I'm writing this all out because it's fun for me to talk about, not to tell you what to do! But maybe it will give you a bit more context to how "Are iterations all one person or do they have their own personhood" is an ongoing theme in the show. Most characters are at least somewhat fluid in their answer, based on context, because humans are hypocrites :3

But generally Mike Walters(species), which includes all the Michaels, consider every iteration its own person. Every iteration has been shaped by his own individual experiences and (if given the time and opportunity) will form his own relationships/build his own life.

[1] This Michael died for the second time and so far seemingly final time in Episode 168, which was released August 7, 2024. A new Michael was introduced recently, in Episode 192, when VHS Michael (self-appointed iterative lineage of "Mikeybear" + "betrothed to Edgar") and one Compound Overnighter Michaels[2] got consolidated ie merged into 1 person. Just to quickly highlight out how quickly iterative lineages can get messy.

[2] We don't even know how many Compound Michaels (with presumed Overnighter subspecies) have existed, what their iterative lineage structure looks like, nor how long they've been experimented on. I have some suspicions regarding the protocols set up by the Compound but that's steering too far away from canon + this post. But it comes down to: we have no idea how long it's been since Michael turned himself in and this one Overnighter got consolidated. From the POV of that particular Overnighter, it could have been 3 weeks. It could have been 8 years. We don't know.

I hope you know about woe.begone already, but if you don't, I must tell you THERE ARE SO MANY MICHAELS

Woe.begone is about time travel and the main character is named Mike Walters, and all the future versions of him go by Micheal.

Here is a wiki link explaining some of the michaels: https://woebegone.miraheze.org/wiki/Michael_Walters. There are more that aren't on there - particularly the Poker Night Michaels. There are 92 of them and they go by numbers instead of names and all play poker in Tex's (Texas Michael's) bar. There's also VHS Michael which is the only one who isn't a cowboy.

Pls enjoy the chaos of all the michaels

what. hwat the fuck

92??????

i feel like if i put these guys on multiple michael friday it’ll straight up outlive the account. this. this is like 3 whole months of nonstop michael.

well technically all the future versions of him are still him right? so i can just put him as one day right? (coping) (but i’m probably just going to do that.)

by god……. this series is the bane of my existence. the root of all evil. it was made specifically to target me. oh my god.

uhhh he can be tomorrow’s michael yeah. thabks for the submission/pain.

#OI's Michael army has hundreds of Michaels btw. Episode 132 mentions a 472 and 681 and 223 and 963. My guess is they started with a thousand #obviously many of those didn't make it through all their training but there were still hundreds of OI-numbered Michaels at the end #shshshsh sorry it's just funny that the Poker Night Michaels got mentioned but the army of Michaels wasn't /lh #woe.begone #w.bg #woe.begone spoilers #I wrote Michael so many times it's not a word anymore #I keep wondering if I misspelled it #anyways #sorry for the Lore drop OP I promise I'm not invested in the choices you make from here on out my brain just went BRRRRR at the opportunity #to ramble about my favorite podcast and the way it mimicks evolution and how science_irl builds fossil records to create the geologic recor #but then #time travel fucks everything up 😂#as a long-term theme W.BG likes to defy categorization #science_inuniverse keeps trying to make sense of time travel concepts and build theories and the fandom clutches on to it like a life jacke #and then the creator introduces a new concept that fucks it all up again by creating all kinds of new variations in the system #it's a lot of fun for nerds like yours truly #anyways pt. 2 #I'm having a little too much fun with this

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romerona · 12 days ago

Text

Ethera Operation!!

You're the government’s best hacker, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared to be thrown into a fighter jet.

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Awkward!Hacker! FemReader

Part III

You stared at the inside of your closet like it had personally betrayed you.

Phoenix’s words echoed in your head 'something that doesn’t scream high-stress lab goblin' which, okay, was technically unfair. You did have clothes, you had plenty of workwear. Dark slacks, fitted blazers, collared shirts and what not.

You weren’t a lab goblin, you were a certified government-grade digital menace. Totally different.

Still, she wasn’t wrong.

You flipped through hangers, each one offering some variation of government-issue chic. Professional, structured and mostly black. Great for briefings and tech demos, but utterly useless for looking like someone who belonged at a bar full of cocky yet unfairly hot aviators and sunburnt adrenaline.

It wasn’t that you were trying to be one of those people who say, “Oh, I only wear comfy clothes, I don’t even own makeup, haha,” like some badge of honor. You weren’t. Truly. You actually liked getting dressed up— when there was a reason, but you rarely had one.

Working in cyber intelligence didn’t exactly come with a thriving social calendar. Most days, your job happens in your house or sealed secret rooms under terrible fluorescent lighting, surrounded by other chronically caffeinated keyboard warriors who wouldn’t think going to a bar is fun... well, at least your friends don't think so.

So your off-hours wardrobe? Pretty much whatever was clean, soft, and didn’t have crumbs in the pockets.

But buried at the back—wedged between a surplus hoodie and a pair of emergency heels—you found it.

A dress.

You’d bought it on a rare, feral trip to a department store clearance rack, swayed by the fact that it had pockets and didn’t itch. It wasn’t flashy, but it was soft and kind of cute, even if a little wrinkled. You remembered holding it up in the mirror under brutal fluorescent lighting and thinking, Huh. Not terrible.

You pulled it on, added a jacket that looked slightly less formal than your usual outerwear, and gave yourself one last look in the mirror.

You didn’t look like a security clearance badge or a drone operator or someone whose last full-body adrenaline spike happened in a simulated crash dive.

You looked… good. Put-together enough to pass for someone with a social life. Which, frankly, was more than you could say for most of the past year.

The dress skimmed just right, the jacket added a hint of structure, and your hair, while still slightly chaotic, managed to fall in that strategic mess kind of way instead of I lost a fight with my pillow. Your face looked… soft, less “up all night decrypting hostile intel,” more “hey, I could flirt with a bartender if I had to.”

You blinked at your reflection.

Damn. It's been a second since I felt like this.

There was a knock on the door—two quick taps—and then Phoenix’s voice. “You decent?”

You grabbed your bag and opened the door. "Hi"

She took one look at you and smirked. “Well, damn. Who knew the Doc had legs?”

You froze in the doorway. “Too much?”

“Depends," She raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to win a bar fight or start one?”

You blinked. “…Neither?”

“Then you’re good.” She stepped back, still grinning, "If anything, we might need to keep you away from the pilots. Some of 'em are barely house-trained.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the flicker of warmth that crept up your neck. It wasn’t a you’re trying too hard kind of comment. More of a huh, didn’t know you had that in your arsenal one.

“Come on,” she said, already turning. “First round’s on you.”

You locked up behind you and followed, still tugging self-consciously at the hem of your dress as you walked.

Soon enough, you stepped into the bar and immediately regretted every life choice that led you here.

The place was loud, warm, and packed.

It smelled like beer and sweat and salt and confidence. The kind of confidence that came from people who routinely defied physics and came back grinning. You tugged at the hem of your dress instinctively, suddenly aware of every inch of exposed skin and every decision that had brought you to this exact moment.

Pilots laughed over pool tables, boots scuffed against the floor, music blared from a jukebox in the corner. The whole place crackled with energy you weren’t sure you belonged to. It was like stepping into someone else’s world, where the rules were different and everyone spoke in call signs and inside jokes.

Phoenix, of course, didn’t even blink. She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, greeting a few people with nods, bumping knuckles with others. She had that home-field advantage thing going on. The kind of comfort that came from knowing no one here could outfly you or outdrink you.

You stuck close for a few steps, then leaned in toward her over the music.

“I’ll grab us drinks,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the bar.

Phoenix gave you a look like she was about to argue—then thought better of it.

“Alright, I'll be by the pool tables,” she said, pointing at where the tables were. “Two beers, whatever’s on tap. And don’t let anyone hustle you into a conversation about call signs unless you’re ready to hear about fly accidents and bad tattoos.”

You snorted. “Noted.”

With that, you turned toward the bar, and you didn’t notice him.

Didn’t see how Rooster’s laugh died mid-sentence when his eyes caught on you from across the room. Didn’t register the way he straightened slightly from his lean against the bar, the way his gaze tracked you with something half-stunned, half-something-else.

You were too busy weaving through the crowd, trying not to look like you were in the middle of an identity crisis, squeezing between a guy in a bomber jacket and someone loudly retelling the story of a near-miss over Guam, edging your way toward a clear spot at the counter.

The music thumped in your ribs, and you adjusted your jacket. Tapped the edge of your nails against the wood to feel like you belonged here.

You were just beginning to feel the tiniest bit grounded when your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket.

You fished it out instinctively, screen glowing with a text from your mom that read,

Are you eating real food or just caffeine again? I read on Facebook about how it shrinks your brain.

You snorted under your breath and started typing a reply, thumbs already moving—

“Careful.”

You jumped and looked up and there he was.

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw.

Closer than you expected.

He was already smirking—more amused than smug, but still with that slow-rolling confidence like he lived in places exactly like this. One hand cradled a drink; the other gestured toward your phone.

“I’d put that away,” he said. “Unless you’re looking to buy a round for the whole bar.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

He nodded toward a sign nailed just above the taps—worn, wood-burned, and clearly older than some of the lieutenants here. It read:

DISRESPECT A LADY, THE NAVY, OR PUT YOUR CELLPHONE ON MY BAR. YOU BUY A ROUND

Your eyes widened. “That’s real?”

Rooster gave you that maddeningly easy grin. “It’s real enough when someone’s watching.”

You immediately shoved your phone back into your pocket like it had personally betrayed you. “Okay, that feels like entrapment.”

“More like tradition, "He took a sip of his beer, clearly enjoying it this way too much. "Penny enforces it and trust me—you do not want to be on her bad side.”

“Wait, did anyone see?" You glanced around, paranoia kicking in. "Is it too late? Am I financially ruined?”

He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough that it skimmed across your skin. “Nah. You’re good, I caught it in time. Consider it a rescue.”

You gave him a look. “How heroic of you.”

“That’s what they call me.” He raised his bottle in a mock toast.

You snorted under your breath, the last bit of nerves starting to bleed out of your shoulders. “What, Captain Save-A-Phone?”

“Could be worse,” he said, eyes flicking over you again—quick, but not subtle. “I’ve been called worse.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched before you could stop it. “Thanks for the save, I guess.”

He tapped the rim of his bottle against the bar. “Anytime, Doc.”

The bartender—a pretty woman with stunning blue eyes and the kind of effortless confidence you’d need three drinks to fake—stepped into view. She gave Bradley a nod, like they knew each other well (of course they did), then turned her attention to you with a warm, curious smile.

“What can I get you?” she asked, voice smooth but edged with something sharp, like she didn’t miss much.

You blinked. “Oh—uh, two beers. Whatever’s on tap.”

Bradley made a quiet sound beside you—definitely a laugh, definitely at your expense—but you caught the flash of amusement in the bartender’s eyes, too.

“Coming right up,” she said smoothly.

As she turned to pour, Rooster tapped the bar twice with two fingers and said casually, “Put it on my tab, Penny.”

“You don’t have to,” you said quickly, shifting the beer money in your hand. “I told Phoenix I’d buy the fir—”

He cut you off with a look. Not sharp, not smug—just easy, steady, and mildly amused. “She won’t care, I’ll let her bully me at pool later to make up for it.”

You frowned. “I’m serious, Bradley, you don’t have to.”

He didn’t flinch at the use of his name, if anything, his eyes crinkled slightly, like he liked the way it sounded coming from you.

“I know I don’t,” he said, already lifting his drink to his lips. “Take it as a congratulations on your first week in the Navy.”

You groaned, cringing a little. “God. Don’t say it like that. I already feel like I need a morale patch that says ‘I’m not supposed to be here.’”

“You survived five sim runs, didn’t cry, didn’t puke, and only mildly panicked under G-force, that’s a win.” He tilted his glass in a casual toast.

You raised your brows. “You set the bar real low, huh?”

“It’s not the bar that matters. It’s clearing it.” Bradley grinned, "Either way, you're one of us now."

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth tugged up anyway. He wasn’t teasing to embarrass you—he meant it, and that was somehow worse and better and worse again.

“Temporarily.”

“Mmhmm.” He took another sip, then added, almost offhanded, “By the way, you clean up dangerously well, Doc.”

Your stomach did a small, unapproved somersault.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said lightly.

“Should,” he said, already stepping back with that damn lazy confidence of his. “’Cause it was.”

A beat passed, the music changed, something with a heavier beat and just enough bass to rattle the glasses.

You reached up to adjust your jacket, only now realizing how warm the bar had gotten, or maybe that was just him, standing too close and way too comfortable.

You turned to him, trying to focus on literally anything but the way his big arms looked in that damn Hawaiian blazer; it was clear he did pull-ups for fun.

“Do you always hang out here?” you asked. “Or just when unsuspecting civilians walk in and almost rack up a bar tab the size of a defense budget?”

He raised his bottle in a half-toast. “Could be both.”

Just then, Penny returned with the beers, setting them down in front of you with a quick glance between the two of you that said she was clocking everything.

“Enjoy,” she said, and moved on.

"Thanks," You reached for them both, fingers brushing condensation, but Rooster was already lifting one.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the back of the bar. “I’ll show you where we are.”

You blinked. “We?”

He was already moving, weaving effortlessly through the crowd like he did this every weekend. Which, judging by the way people kept nodding or shoulder-tapping him, he probably did.

He was already walking, weaving through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who knew the terrain. You followed—beer in hand, pulse doing strange things—trying not to stare at the way his shirt shifted across his back or how everyone seemed to move from his way like he belonged to this place in a way you couldn’t fake if you tried.

You spotted Phoenix before you spotted the others, posted up near the pool tables, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cue like she was about to ruin someone’s night.

As you approached, she looked at you both, raised an eyebrow, and smirked.

“You get lost, Doc?” she asked, taking her beer with one hand and motioning you over with the other. “Or did Rooster here decide to give you the full VIP tour?”

“She was about to buy everyone a round,” Rooster said innocently, sipping his drink. “I intervened.”

You rolled your eyes, the last of your nerves slipping into something looser, lighter. You handed her the drink and shook your head. “Next time I’ll bring cash and a fake name.”

“Smart,” Phoenix said, already lining up her shot.

That’s when he appeared.

The smug blonde from your briefing, the one with the impossible bone structure and the kind of confidence that came standard-issue with being extremely good-looking and knowing it.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite payload,” he drawled, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You turned slowly, beer halfway to your lips. “I’m sorry?”

He gave you a quick once-over—same as in the briefing room—but this time, his grin was dialed down just enough to pass as charm instead of mockery.

“I mean, you are the most heavily guarded piece of government property in the room,” he added, taking a sip of his beer. “Just odd to see the brains of the operation drink.”

Rooster made a low sound beside you, half-choked into his beer. Phoenix didn’t even glance up from her shot while saying, “Play nice, Hangman.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hangman's your call sign?”

“One and only,” the blonde said, holding out a hand like he expected a spotlight. “Jake Seresin. Resident heartbreaker, ego booster, and occasional lifesaver.”

You stared at his hand for a beat, then gave it a brief, polite shake. "Nice to officially meet you,"

"It really is, ain't it?" Jake grinned as he leaned his elbow on the edge of the table, clearly unbothered. “So what’s it like? Building a superweapon and then getting tossed in with the flyboys?”

You tilted your head, calm and even. “About as fun as being verbally dissected by a man who uses hair gel like it’s armor.”

“Oof, rough,” a voice said to your left.

You turned as another pilot stepped forward, who had a slight grin that softened the otherwise sharp edge of him. He held out a hand. “Reuben Fitch, Payback. Nice to meet you.”

You shook it. “Likewise.”

“Mickey Garcia, call sign Fanboy, ” said the one beside him, shorter, with a buzzed head, already half-laughing as he raised his beer in a little salute. “We’re not usually this charming, by the way.”

“That’s not true,” Payback said. “I’m always this charming.”

Before you could respond, another voice chimed in, softer. “And I’m Bob.”

You turned to the speaker, glasses, clean posture, a deceptively polite face that probably hid a mind like a scalpel.

"Nice to meet you," You smiled at him, still holding your beer but relaxing, just a little.

This wasn’t a debrief, It wasn’t the sim room, just a bunch of pilots talking shit and maybe, maybe letting you sit at their table, at least for tonight.

Rooster leaned in slightly, shoulder just brushing yours. “They aren't so bad.”

“But come on, Doc,” Jake said, still lounging against the table like gravity worked differently on him. He lifted his bottle in your direction. “Even you have to admit, there’s something kind of electric about all this. High-stakes, high-speed, secrets and skyfire. Gets the heart racing, doesn’t it?”

You took a sip of your beer, breaking eye contact. “Heartburn, more like.”

Mickey laughed behind his drink.

Jake just grinned, unbothered. “No shame in a little adrenaline. Means you’re alive.”

“Yeah,” you said dryly. “That, or dangerously overstimulated.”

Rooster was still grinning when he leaned in slightly, voice low and warm, just for you. “You’re doing great, by the way. In the sim.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from teasing to genuine. “Thanks,”

And then, mercifully—because your brain was dangerously close to short-circuiting—Phoenix lined up her shot and sank the ball with a clean, effortless clack.

She straightened, gave the group a look, and said flatly, “Can we play now, or are you all done peacocking?”

Fanboy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wasn’t me this time.”

Jake, of course, gestured grandly toward the table. “By all means and for the record, I wasn’t peacocking, I was flirting, there’s a difference.”

"You? Successfully flirting with someone besides your precious AC?" Rubeus snorted. "Now that I’d pay to see."

Bradley grinned. “Still carrying a torch for her since the academy, Hangman?”

Jake shot him a look, sharper, more serious than usual. “Can it.”

“And you were peacocking,” Bob added.

“I was multi-tasking,”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and turned to you. “You in?”

You hesitated for half a second, then took the cue. “Just for the record, I haven’t played in years.”

Phoenix’s smirk widened slightly. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

Rooster leaned in again, voice just loud enough for you to hear. “We’ll go easy on you.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds like a challenge.”

He just smiled, lazy and lopsided. “Good.”

So, you weren’t the best.

You scratched and missed some easy ones. Once, you managed to completely launch the cue ball off the table and nearly take out Hangman’s drink, but you held your own and by the time the first game was over, you were laughing.

Not politely or nervously but actually laughing.

The night stretched on better than you’d expected, better than you’d dared hope, by the fourth round of beers, you were… joyful.

Which, for you, usually meant a bit flushed, very talkative, and unreasonably confident about things like your pool strategy and your very unpopular stance on pineapple on pizza. Someone made the mistake of letting you pick music on the jukebox, and now, Take My Breath Away is playing in the background.

Mickey had just finished explaining—very dramatically—how Reuben once got pantsed mid-flight suit and refused to acknowledge it ever happened. Bob, with whom you had been sharing fries for half of the night, had chimed in with the exact timestamp. Jake kept interrupting with side commentary that no one asked for. Phoenix, who nursed her drinks and pretended she wasn’t smiling.

And Bradley never strayed too far.

Sometimes sitting on the edge of the table, sometimes leaning with one elbow on the bar. Always watching, but not in a way that felt heavy or possessive, but like he was making sure you didn’t drift too far from shore.

At one point, he even slid a glass of water into your hand without saying a word, just gave you a small smile, a raised brow, and took it anyway.

The pilots—the ones who’d rolled their eyes when you dropped your tablet, who’d heard your entire mission explained in hesitant, caffeine-fueled rambles—were now just… people. Loud, messy, sharp-witted people who might be the only thing standing between you and death next week.

Could’ve been the beer, or the fries, or the mood around you, but somehow, that fact wasn’t setting off alarm bells the way it probably should.

You were still the outlier, sure, still the civilian with the classified code and the anti-flight instincts, but tonight, with your fifth beer half-finished, surrounded by chaos and music and the first real belly laugh you’d had in months.

You’d come to genuinely like them all—even Jake... but that was when you were half-drunk, laughing, and firmly planted on solid, lovely, unmoving ground.

Not like now.

Because Monday rolled up like a freight train, and with it came Cyclone’s voice echoing through the hangar with all the warmth of a court summons, “You’re ready for a test flight.”

You’d tried to argue. Oh, you tried.

Tried logic, begged for another sim, even floated the possibility of “emotional unsuitability,” which earned you a long, dead-eyed stare and a crisp, “You’ll be fine.”

So now, here you are.

in the gear room, shakily wriggling your way into a flight suit that feels more like medieval armor than government-issue. It's too heavy, too stiff, and somehow manages to make you feel both protected and wildly exposed at the same time.

Your hands fumble with the last few clasps, fingers trembling, heart somewhere up in your throat, and when you come out, finally wrestle the zipper into submission and stand upright—barely—Bradley's already there.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, sleeves tied around his waist, holding a helmet in one hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His gaze flicks down to your suit, then back up to meet your eyes.

“Turn,” he says gently.

You do.

He steps forward and fastens a strap you didn’t even know you’d missed—steady, practiced, close enough to smell the faint trace of cologne and jet fuel on him.

“I tried,” he murmurs, his voice low and honest. “Tried to talk Cyclone into letting me take you up there today.”

You turn back to face him, eyes wide. “And?”

He gives a small shrug. “Didn’t work. He wants you with Hangman."

Your stomach sinks, your knees aren’t far behind.

Of course, it’s Hangman. Of all the people. Jake Seresin, the smug, cocky pilot, the Navy's most charming landmine, was the one who would take you on your first fly.

You inhale sharply through your nose. The flight suit suddenly feels even heavier, like it's made of wet concrete.

“Okay. Cool. Coolcoolcool. That’s fine. That’s actually great,” you say, nodding like you’re trying to gaslight your own nervous system into cooperating.

“I know how it sounds,” Bradley says, voice even but gentle. “Don’t tell him I said it, but Jake’s good in the air, okay? He might be an ass, but he’s not a psychopath.”

“That’s not exactly a reassuring distinction.”

“I mean it. He talks big, sure, but he knows what he’s doing. And more importantly, he knows he’s supposed to bring you back in one piece.”

You swallow hard, fingers tightening slightly around your helmet. “I hate that that even has to be said out loud.”

“Welcome to Naval aviation,” Bradley mutters, deadpan.

You shoot him a flat look, and he softens again. “Hey. Look at me.”

Bradley dips his head just a little, voice dropping even lower. “You’ll be strapped in before you even realize you’ve left the ground and before you know it, you’ll be back on it.”

You glance down at the helmet still in your hands, fingers gripping the edge tight enough to leave marks.

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. “What if I freak out?”

“Then you freak out,” he says, simple, steady. “And then you breathe, and you come back, and you keep going. That’s it.”

You swallow hard, blinking up at him a he lifts a hand—pauses, like he’s asking permission—then sets it lightly on your shoulder and part of your neck.

“You’re gonna be okay. Just trust the process, and remember what you've learned and when you land? I’m taking you for coffee.”

You try to smirk, but it wobbles. “Coffee.”

“Or something stronger.” His mouth quirks. “Dealer’s choice.”

You nod once, trying to breathe past the knot in your throat. His hand lingers just a second longer, grounding, then falls away.

"Okay," you say, more to yourself than anyone else. "Let’s get this over with."

Before you can overthink it, Rooster takes the helmet gently from your hands and settles it over your head with a quiet, practiced motion. The visor lowers slightly as he steps back and taps the side.

“Godspeed.”

You don’t say anything, simply give him a look, because if you open your mouth now, you might lose your nerve.

And then you walk—wobble? march? shuffle?—toward the hangar, where Jake Seresin is waiting beside the jet with aviators and zero shame.

“Look at you,” he called, grinning like the sun. “All dressed up like a real pilot.”

You stop in front of him and cross your arms—partly to seem composed, mostly to hide the way your fingers are trembling. “You’re aware you’re the last person I want to see right now, right?”

Jake just grins, entirely unbothered as he passes you a replica of the tablet you'll be using the day of. “Give it ten minutes in the air. You’ll be singing a different tune.”

You take it while shooting him a look. “Highly doubtful.”

Jake just grinned wider, entirely undeterred. “That’s the spirit.”

Then he nodded toward the cockpit and stepped aside, one hand sweeping toward the ladder like he was inviting you to your doom with all the charm of a game show host. “Hop in.”

You gave the jet a long, slow look, then him. “Just remember—I’m the one with access to your digital footprint.”

“Don't worry, I promise we'll have fun." Jake winked.

You gave him one last flat stare, then looked up at the cockpit like it might lurch away if you got too close. The jet gleamed under the morning light, all sleek lines and barely concealed threat. Your stomach did a full somersault.

“You and I have astronomically different ideas of fun,” you muttered, hands tight on the ladder as you shakily began to climb.

Jake chuckled behind you, the sound entirely too amused for your liking. “That’s what makes this partnership so special.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, mostly because your brain was too busy screaming IT'S OKAY, YOU'RE FINE on a loop while you hauled yourself into the back seat.

The cockpit was tighter than you expected—too many buttons, too little legroom, and absolutely no exit once that canopy closed. You slid in, stiff and awkward in the flight suit, your fingers fumbling with the harness as your nerves caught up to your hands.

“You good with the harness, or do you need a hand?” Jake asked, pausing at the top of the ladder with just enough smirk in his tone to be irritating.

“I have it,” you snapped, then immediately got the buckle caught in your sleeve.

“Sure you do.” He stepped closer, leaned in, and without waiting for actual permission, reached in to unhook, untwisting the strap and buckling it across your chest with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. "You’re a whole government-certified genius, yet seatbelts are tricky.”

You clenched your jaw. “I was getting to it.”

“I believe you,” he said, clearly not believing you at all.

“Helmet?” he said, but he already was adjusting the chin strap and checking the comms line with irritating precision.

“There,” he said once everything was settled, slapping your helmet twice, making you wince. “Now you look like a real pilot.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled, the word slipping out before you could reel it back in.

Jake didn’t gloat, which was somehow worse; he just gave a crooked smile, like he was letting you have that one. “Anytime, Doc.”

Then he turned and hauled himself into the front seat with that same effortless grace, flipping switches and tapping controls like it was muscle memory.

You settled back, the harness tight across your chest, helmet a little heavier than expected, and every inch of you vibrating with nerves, tensing as the canopy sealed shut with a pressurized hiss, and suddenly everything felt very real.

The cockpit was smaller than it looked from the outside, like the world had narrowed to buttons, switches, and the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears.

Jake’s voice crackled to life through the comms. “Comms check—how we doing back there, Doc?”

You cleared your throat. “Mildly regretting every life decision that led me here.”

“That’s a ‘loud and clear’ in pilot-speak,” he replied, flipping another switch. “Alright. Let’s light her up.”

The engines growled beneath you, the whole jet vibrating with coiled power. You felt it in your chest, your spine, the soles of your feet.

Jake’s voice crackled through your headset, smooth and practiced. “Tower, this is Hangman requesting clearance for takeoff. Got one backseat VIP and a perfectly good morning to ruin.”

"Oh, god!" Your hand was tight on the seatbelt.

A female voice crackled back, calm, smooth and efficient. “Hangman, you are cleared for runway three-five. Winds at five knots. Try not to scare her off, will you?”

“No promises, darling,” Jake said, grinning into his mic.

A faint "Ugh!" came through the comms.

You resisted the very strong urge to scream I can hear you, but you didn’t trust your voice not to crack.

Instead, you gripped the sides of your seat, tried to remember the breathing exercises Phoenix drilled into you, and muttered to yourself, “Okay. Just… breath.”

“Just think of it like a roller coaster,” Hangman said, voice as easy as ever. “A really fast, really expensive roller coaster. With missiles.”

"... I've never been on a roller coaster."

Jake let out a sharp laugh over the comms. “Well, hell. Firsts all around, then.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “That’s not comforting.”

“Didn’t say it was,” he replied, clearly grinning. “But hey—at least I’m the one driving.”

The jet lurched forward, taxiing with more confidence than you currently had in your entire body. You could hear the subtle clicks and whirs as Jake ran through the final pre-checks, his voice calm as he rattled off confirmations to the tower.

Jake’s voice filtered through again, smooth as ever. “Okay, tower’s good to go. You’re strapped in, I’m charming as hell, the sun’s out—it’s a perfect day for a little ride.”

“God, I hate your voice,” you muttered.

He laughed. “You’ll miss it when I go radio silent during the loop.”

Your heart stopped. “What loop—?!”

Your question got swallowed by the roar of the engines as the jet picked up speed, the world outside streaking past in a blur of tarmac and heat shimmer.

The nose tilted skyward and the force slammed into you like a truck—your back flattened against the seat, the sky rushing toward you in a dizzying, g-force-laced blur. Your stomach dropped somewhere around your ankles as the ground vanished.

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest, maybe your soul, too and through it all, Jake’s voice came steady and maddeningly cheerful in your headset.

��Welcome to the sky, Doc.”

You didn’t open your eyes until the shaking slowed.

Even then, it was just a squint, enough to see sky and clouds and nothing solid whatsoever beneath you. You swallowed hard, barely able to focus as Jake leveled them out.

“There we go,” he said, like they hadn’t just ripped into the sky at bone-rattling speed. “Smooth as butter.”

Your mouth felt like sandpaper, your pulse thundering in your ears, and your hands were locked in fists so tight your knuckles ached—nails digging into the inside of your gloves like you were trying to anchor yourself to the Earth that was now very far below.

Jake’s voice came through again, “Still with me, Doc?”

“Barely,” you managed, voice rough.

“That’s fine,” he said easily. “You only need like… one lung for this.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response; your heart was still trying to beat its way out of your ribs.

“Hang in there, Doc,” Jake went on, maddeningly upbeat. “We’re running the basic sim—mock target tracking, maneuver drills. Nothing fancy. Just stay awake, listen for the tone, press the button on your panel, and try not to scream loud enough to spike the comms.”

You knew this—you’d done it in the sim more times than you could count. It just felt different now, with the sky actually moving around you and gravity trying to shake your teeth loose.

You unclipped the tablet with shaky hands but managed to power it on, fingers already flying through the familiar security layers. The interface booted up quickly, screen flashing through the loading prompts of your prototype system.

“I know the drill,” you muttered, not looking up.

“Good,” Jake said. “Because this time, it’s not a chair bolted to a fake cockpit. It's the real sky.”

You ignored him and focused on the startup sequence. The display for ETHERA glowed to life on your screen, diagnostic overlays already sweeping across the mock flight path.

“Target simulation’s loading in ten,” Jake said, tone shifting just slightly into something more focused. “Once I give the signal, you’ve got a few seconds to let her breach their Blackstar—just like in the sim. She’ll run her ghosts or whatever, and we’ll peel out before they know what hit ’em.”

You drew in one last breath and steadied your grip on the tablet, eyes locked on the countdown.

“Copy,” you muttered, voice clipped and controlled.

There was a beat of silence, then Jake’s voice cut in, smug as ever. “Look at you—almost sounded like a real aviator.”

“Don’t push it, Hangman.”

The timer hit zero.

“Go,” he called.

You tapped the screen without hesitation.

ETHERA spun to life like a second set of instincts. Streams of code rippled across your display as the system initiated its mock infiltration. Within seconds, the simulated Blackstar interface cracked open—mock enemy systems lit up on your tablet: communications, targeting schematics, internal logs. All exposed, all accessible.

“She’s in,” you said tightly, eyes locked on the data flowing in.

Jake let out a low whistle. “Hot damn.”

You didn’t wait for a reaction; your fingers were already flying across the screen, scanning the mock architecture as ETHERA slipped deeper into the system, laying digital breadcrumbs, mapping out pathways, preparing to ghost your signal off their radar entirely.

You were just about to execute the override when the jet banked hard.

Your whole body jolted, the Gs slamming you sideways into the harness as the tablet nearly slipped from your hands.

“Hangman!” you shouted, gripping the seat with both hands now. The tablet tumbled against your chest, still tethered but dangling.

“Oop—looks like we’ve been made!” Jake chirped, way too cheerful for someone yanking you through a tight evasive maneuver. “Time for some fun!”

The jet pitched into a sharp barrel roll, sky and sea flipping over each other like a blender set to maximum chaos.

You couldn’t breathe—literally couldn’t. Your lungs locked up, every muscle in your body tensed like they were bracing for death. The harness bit into your shoulders as the Gs slammed down, and you were 90% sure your soul tried to leave your body mid-roll.

Jake whooped over the comms like it was a rollercoaster. “Now that’s the good stuff! Let’s get low!”

The jet dove, slicing just above the simulated terrain, a blur of digital mountain ridges whipping past. Then up again, then a snap turn left, followed by a hard roll right that sent your tablet sliding sideways before you caught it with a wild swipe.

“Hangman—!” you managed, voice ragged and strained.

“Don’t worry, Doc, this one’s just a corkscrew,” Jake said casually, as the jet spiraled sharply downward before leveling out in a gut-lurching drop. “Keeps the ghosts scrambling.”

You wheezed like a deflating balloon. “What the hell does that even mean—!”

“Means your fake enemies are probably panicking. Which is great for us!”

Another hard bank to the left, then a roll that tipped you nearly upside down. Gravity vanished, reappeared, and tried to fold you in half, and thought all this, your ETHERA was still running.

Mock Blackstar systems glowed steadily across your tablet, icons shifting with your trajectory, responsive and alive. Despite the chaos outside, the code held.

The system was moving with you as it was programmed to do, yet, you could not deploy anything else, not because it couldn't, but because you were frozen in your seat.

“Breathe,” Jake said through the comms, and though it was still annoyingly smug, there was a thread of real focus beneath it. “Seriously, in through the nose, out through the mouth or, you know, scream. Either works.”

You clutched the tablet to your chest like it might somehow anchor you back to solid ground. “I hate you. How’s that?”

Jake laughed, full and unbothered. “Music to my ears.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

He was definitely grinning—you could hear it—right before he pulled another sharp dip that knocked the air from your lungs. Your fingers clawed at the harness, heart thudding so loudly it was practically echoing inside your helmet.

“That's enough, Hangman. Bring her home,” Cyclone’s voice cut through the comms, clipped and final.

“Copy that,” Jake said, voice sobering just a bit. The jet leveled out in one smooth motion, like all the chaos had been flipped off with a switch.

“You did good, Doc,” he said after a beat. Still calm and very much still irritating, but not unkind.

However, you didn’t answer, you didn’t even move.

As Hangman guided the jet back toward the base, smooth and casual like he hadn’t just flung you through the sky at Mach terror, you stayed frozen, shoulders locked, hands clenched, every muscle still braced for impact that didn’t come.

The landing jolted through the airframe, not rough, but enough to make you wince like it had hit bone. You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how long you’d been holding your breath. The harness dug into your chest, the helmet felt too tight, and your heart was still somewhere up in the stratosphere.

Jake popped the canopy with a hiss of pressure and sunlight.

You climbed down the ladder on legs that felt more decorative than functional—your boots hit the tarmac with a little more force than necessary, just to remind yourself you were back on solid ground. The helmet was off, your tablet tucked under one arm, and you were vaguely aware that your hands were still shaking.

Jake hopped down behind you, helmet tucked under his arm like he hadn’t just tried to give you a heart attack at 30,000 feet.

“See? Piece of cake,” Jake said, voice smug, but laced with something that sounded almost like genuine approval.

“Yeap,” you managed, though your voice came out faint, barely there.

The ground didn’t feel quite solid anymore, your knees buckled slightly, and the edges of your vision blurred like smudged ink, and just as you tried to blink it away, the world tilted.

You swayed once, then everything went quiet and black.

A/N:

HEYYYY!!!!! I just wanted to say thank you all for reading, like seriously, I had no idea this story would get big!! and I'm so glad people are enjoying it so much and supporting it too. <3<3<3<3<3<3

Another thing, the AC that is mentioned in this story, Hangman's beloved? yeah, that's you in a different font because I am lowkey thinking of making a hangman fic too.

Plot: He fell first and harder and you don't like him at alllll.

Anywaysss, once again I want to thank you all so so much for the support and love for this fic (and the patience)<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

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ataleofcrowns · 8 days ago

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Monthly Progress Update [20/JUL]

Hey gang, hope you’ve been doing well and enjoying your summer so far ✨

As promised, a progress update for this month! This will be a more general summary of the more detailed ones I've been posting on the Patreon every week, so if you're a member of that, this won't contain any new info for you 🙏🏼

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been chipping away at CH14 and making steady progress. After wrapping up CH13 and handling a round of bug fixes, I took a short breather before jumping back in, and so far it's been going well!

During the start of July most of my time went into outlining and building out the structure of CH14, which comes with a lot of variations at the beginning depending on your previous choices. These include things like:

A scene for R’s belated birthday gift, with a special variation for R romancers 💖

Differences based on your choices regarding Kham/Eshkar

Whether Yekbûn is still alive or not

Whether you got any citizens killed in CH9

Whether you had Ishrah spy on Bazo

A small extra variation for X romancers

Variation depending on your choices made during the public petitions last chapter

And that’s just the beginning of the chapter lol. There will be variations for A and D incoming too at later points in the chapter. It’s all necessary to tie up loose ends before the Crown and their companions set off on what I've lovingly decided to call the Road Trip for CH14/15 🤪

Basically, the Road Trip is gonna be a big shift in tone from courtly intrigue to more adventure and exploration, and it’s been super fun to work on so far. It’s also a great chance to dive deeper into the relationships with the cast, especially romances and friendships. You can expect a lot of bonding time, character moments, and new scenery as the Crown travels through Rojan's wilderness 👀

I’ve also started implementing a feature I meant to insert much earlier but hadn't got around to until now: letting you define your Crown’s hobbies and interests! These will come into play during the journey and help shape the flavor of different scenes to help shape your Crown in more fun ways for once haha

In terms of actual writing, I’ve gotten a few thousand words in, mostly on the scenes I’m most excited about. That includes:

A pretty major romance choice with R that’ll impact your relationship going forward, like how X and D got last chapter

A scene with X that shows their popularity among common folks for the first time, since we haven’t seen much of that side of them yet

Some variations in how the public reacts to your expedition, based on the decisions you made in CH13

And the return of the Crescent Blades! Expect lots of interaction with them throughout this chapter and the next, especially with familiar faces like Heval, Tûjo, and Şanazî 🫶🏼

This past specifically I’ve been writing some of the Kham/Eshkar variations and refining how those storylines split based on how you handled their arcs earlier. There's a lot of nuance there, especially depending on whether you worked with Kham, blackmailed her, or cut her out of the loop entirely. Eshkar’s role is also expanding a bit—he’ll be dragged along as a prisoner during the Road Trip if you chose that path.

Just imagine your Crown and their friends having fun picking flowers in the meadows or whatever while Eshkar is miserable in the background lmao

At the moment I’m still thinking how to best pace the final stretch of ACT I. CH14 is already shaping up to be a long one, and I might extend the Road Trip arc into CH16 instead of wrapping it by CH15, just to make sure it doesn't feel rushed. We’ll see how it all turns out!

Thanks so much for your support!! Hope this update gave you something to look forward to. X’s POV drop for CH13 is releasing on the Patreon soon too, while A's was already posted last week 🫶🏼

Catch you next time 💖

#a tale of crowns #interactive fiction #if wip #twine game #twine wip #if game

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darklydeliciousdesires · 28 days ago

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Sunstroke - A Vessel/Reader Short Series.

So yeah, I'm kinda back at it, besties, with a brand new muse who prompted this. No idea how many parts it'll be yet, I'm anticipating three, but I might surprise myself!

Summary: As tour manager for Sleep Token, you're naturally close with the lads whom you're employed to look after. Then, there's your closeness with Vessel, the lines between manager and artist seeming to blur into something more meaningful... if you'll let it.

Words: 2,090

Warnings: None for now, but it will get smutty! Pairing Vessel/Fem!reader.

Witnessing him upon a stage, it is a sight unmatched to you. It always has been, from small venues to arenas, the spaces still sacred, but now perhaps more befitting of a man whose talent and aura radiates at such a magnitude.

He’s part enigmatic shadow cast from neon lights, part lovable man-child who dances like there aren’t a few thousand people watching him. All long, nimble arms and legs flailing. It’s why, other than Ves, maybe very occasionally his real name, your forever nickname for him is Bambi. Or Bambers, Bambo, Bambs, etc. There are a couple of variations.

It earned you a side eye and a little tut, a mutter of playful discontent over you allegedly taking the piss out of his moves, but he knows you. He realises it’s in good humour. It’s also partly borne out of the fact that he’s just so damned cute, with his huge, brown doe-eyes, too, that he reminds you of a little baby deer, the dancing akin to an excitable fawn on shaky, brand-new legs aside.

He doesn’t know that part, though. You keep that hidden, because it would make your working life difficult, for your beloved Bambi to realise you think he’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. Yep, he might be a full-grown man in his early thirties, but by lord, he’s still so fucking cute.

The life of a tour manager does not lend to having heart eyes for the talent you’re looking after, though, it has to be said. You wear many hats in your role, from organiser of hotel rooms to liaising with the venues, to part personal assistant to the band themselves. They hired you firstly back when they were still very small fishes in an agonisingly large pond. Now, they’re the sharks circling within the waves of an endlessly stormy sea, their success setting them apart from all others they rose head and shoulders above.

You’ve watched their rise with nothing but pride. They were always destined for this.

The night where you take a breather from your endless hurricane of activity to watch them is no different, standing in the wings, ignoring the vibrating of your phone from a non-important contact within your back pocket as you witness the beauty of what they have so keenly cultivated. Sleep Token went from fledglings craning for their place in the sun to a garden in full bloom right before your very eyes.

To you, though, Ves is the sun who nourishes all below him, his all-encompassing talent touching every petal, every winding stem with its radiance. How you love it, though, when his light solely shines upon you.

“Alright.”

Turning, you see him appear behind you in the backstage area a while after their set has finished, free of any paint and costume that signifies his alter-ego. Your heart skips a beat, because of course it does, and you smile. “You look tired, Bambs.”

“Mm,” he hums, “I could do with a good kip. Want to watch these lads, though.”

The festival headliners are a band you both appreciate hugely, and it’s one of the many instances where you feel truly fortunate to have such a vantage point to watch them perform from. There in the wings, though, isn’t his place of choice.

“C’mon,” he speaks, jerking his head to the left, “the little grassy hill to the side of the stage is much better than here. Quieter. Fewer people.”

He enjoys that, a space significantly lacking in crowds. Beneath the black painted, hooded enigma who prowls and dances over the stage lies a man with a soft soul, one who appreciates a little peace. Peace and tea, from the box of teabags you always ensure is provided for him in the band’s rider at every venue. Throat coat in lemon echinacea, to soothe his frayed vocal cords and keep his incredible voice in pristine condition.

He places the Thermos beaker down before him as he sits, his long legs stretched out fully. At 6ft 2”, he’s a towering, long-limbed creature. He’d be intimidating if he wasn’t so bloody pretty. Or so lovely and personable. He’s your exact type, intelligent, talented, friendly without being too much, fun loving without being a complete extrovert.

If only the whole work thing didn’t get firmly in the way of you and your would-be beautiful creature.

Securing the beaker between his thighs, he leans back on his elbows, coughing, a little bark there in his throat. Immediately, your hand goes to your jacket pocket.

“Here.” Offering forth the blister pack of strawberry Strepsils, you watch his eyes move from the stage, noticing with appreciation the way the fading sun catches the tips of his enviably long eyelashes.

His mouth arches into a smile, long, tapered fingers grasping the packet, pausing to rub his thumb affectionately over your knuckle. “Always looking after me, aren’t you, love?”

It makes your tummy tingle whenever he calls you that, even though you know there’s little in the way of anything truly meaningful behind it. Darlin’ or love are his standard pet names for the women he happens to be around.

“It’s my job,” you shrug, bobbing your head slightly.

“Yeah, but you go above and beyond. You always have.” He punctures the foil of the blister, taking out the pink lozenge and popping it into his mouth. “And you always get the nice flavours, not the ones that taste like Pledge.”

A snort laugh rasps from your nose. “So, you’ve been imbibing enough furniture polish to make that distinction, have you, Bambers?”

“Yeah, man,” he chuckles, “it’s a filthy habit.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere, about filthy habits and cleaning products,” you point out, “but I think I’m too tired to piece it together wittily enough to do it justice.”

“Me too,” he laughs softly, the sound of the lozenge tapping against his perfect, brilliant white teeth doing something pleasant to your insides. “I’m completely knackered. I love being on tour, but blimey, I’ll be glad to get home and spend about a day in bed.”

He’ll get that in just over three weeks, when the tour finishes this leg, the guys taking a month off before they’ll be back out again to fulfil the USA dates.

“Any plans for your month of freedom?” you inquire, watching as the spectacle of stage lights signifies the arrival of the headliners, both of you reaching your hands aloft to applaud. A few more various crew members make their way to the hill, seeking the better vantage point, but remain at a distance from you and Ves.

“Not much,” he replies, crunching down on the lozenge and swallowing the little ground fragments, making a motion with his hand. “Another, please.”

“You’re not supposed to have them one after the other,” you chide softly, laughing at the look of incredulity he fixes you with.

“They’re bloody Strepsils, not crack,” he snorts. “C’mon. I like them.”

“Recreational lozenges,” you mutter, and he tries not to look as amused as he feels, but his little chuckle soon makes an appearance.

“They always remind me of you.” A curious statement, one which earns a raised eyebrow in his direction. “Because you love anything strawberry flavoured.”

You like that about him; how observant he is over the tiniest of details. “You don’t really need the reminder when I’m right next to you, though, do you?”

“Nah, but you’re not in my mouth, are you?” His eyes widen then, his cheeks immediately flushing pink. “That wasn’t meant to sound as filthy as it did! I meant, erm, I, ahh, shit!”

You join him in the laughter he descends into, Ves hiding his face behind his hand momentarily, peeking out between his fingers and snorting as he falls apart again.

“You filthy tart.” Leaning over, you softly nudge his shoulder with yours, an action he immediately reciprocates.

“Didn’t have an especially negative reaction to it though, did you?” His embarrassment quickly fades at the realisation he can turn it around on you a bit. It would be incorrect to claim he wasn’t quite playful like that, but how you have to work hard to hide how much you love it whenever he is.

“Depends, really,” you speak, taking a deep breath. You know what he’s up to. “What part of me do you want in your mouth first?”

He drops his head, outfoxed a little, on the back foot. Looking back up at you, his gaze feels like starshine beaming through the dark, his mouth tugging up into a tilted smile. He holds you there in that stare, and for a moment, the banter slips away, and you could be fooled into believing he’s truly looking at you as if you hang the very starshine twinkling in his irises. “Feed me that lozenge and perhaps you’ll find out.”

Oh, god. Oh, bloody hell. Is this simply the banter you’re used to with him, the little dalliances that at times do skitter into the realms of playful flirting, or is this actual flirting? You can never really tell with people you’ve sworn off from enjoying that with, and no matter how much you desire the tall beauty of a man to your side, you have sworn him off.

You have.

You have!

You... you have?

“I’m waiting.”

Met with a look that demands, but is soft, you meet his eyes while popping a lozenge from the pack, all the while with your mind screaming at you over what the hell is happening. The noise becomes muted, though, thoughts quietening, the hypnosis of a deep, chocolate brown gaze muting everything else as you reach towards his mouth.

Parting his lips, he takes it from you gently, one of his front teeth pressing below your middle fingernail. The warm hug of his lips pulls the digit between them just a little, a soft suck coupled by perhaps the most rapid tongue movement you’ve ever experienced against the tip. Immediately, your hand flies back in retreat.

“And that’s enough of that, Bambers,” you assert, your heart thundering in jackrabbit in your chest, “else I puddle the bloody grass.”

His laugh booms, scrunching his eyes closed tightly as he sits up, pulling the Thermos beaker from between his thighs. “And she accuses me of being a filthy tart.”

All flirty talk falls by the wayside once more, Ves finishing his tea and settling again to watch the headliners. You can’t help but notice him continually reaching back to grasp at his neck as he does, grumbling softly.

“What’s up?” you ask, turning to him.

“Bloody neck is tense,” he reveals, “I need to lie flat or against something.”

The offer is out of your mouth before you’ve even given a chance to negotiate the appropriateness of it with yourself. “Come rest on me if you want? I’m told I’m comfy.”

“You sure?” Nodding, you widen your legs and gesture to the space between, your lovely Bambi man moving to lie back with his head rested upon your stomach. “Thanks, love. That’s way better.”

For him it might be, but for you, you have to wonder what you’ve let yourself in for, lying with him like that and all the emotions the seemingly innocent-but-maybe-not-quite pose is kicking up for you. Raising one of your legs until your knee bends, you find a little further comfort.

Ves remains where he is for that moment, but shifts his head a little a time on, resting it against your thigh. He then curls his arm up, pressing a splayed hand over the top of your leg, fingertips gently flexing against the muscle connecting to your hip. It all feels very familiar suddenly, a little too easy for comfort, yet you cannot deny that comfortable is always how you feel with him. This just goes a little further.

Intimate. That’s exactly what it is. Undefined intimacy, and you’re not too sure how to handle it.

“Bambo,” you speak, watching him tilt his head back to meet your eye.

“Mm?”

“While you’re down there,” you wink, watching him immediately begin to laugh.

“Don’t tempt me, darlin’.”

But maybe tempting him is exactly what you want, now you’re sure that there’s perhaps more intention behind this flirting you’ve fallen into with him. Maybe it’s the worst idea in the world, becoming involved with someone you know professionally.

As you lie there and feel his hand idly begin to stroke where it rests upon your thigh, you’re suddenly not altogether certain of that, though.

Did you enjoy what you just read? If so, please help your author out by commenting/reblogging. If you want to be added to the taglist, please do let me know, too!

Part Two

#sleep token #vessel x reader #vessel x you #vessel fanfiction #sleep token fanfiction #vessel smut #sleep token smut

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aeyumicore · 1 year ago

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━━ HI!

.ᐟ✧ here you will find links to all my writing. please read my rules before proceeding through the masterlist of fics.

✧.˖ i currently only write for love and deepspace and ikemen villains, but may very well branch out in the future! i do have 1 jiyan fic in my drafts (3.5k words) and 1 dan heng fic (1.7k words)

.ᐟ✧ last updated: july 2, 2025

━━ NAVIGATION

Ⅰ. rules Ⅱ. mlist Ⅲ. twitter | x Ⅳ. ao3 Ⅴ. ask

━━ LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

✧.˖ bodyworshipping drabble - 513 words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ gravity pilots reveries (caleb re-read event yaps) ✧.˖ one year older - caleb bday special - 6.9k - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ caleb finds your prenatal gummies - 1.9k - fluff - ao3 ✧.˖ endless summer - 5.5k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ oh, baby! - caleb - smut 1.9k - ao3 ✧.˖ green-eyed and creampied - 1,417 words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ valentine's day headcannons - 379 words - fluff - ao3 ✧.˖ captive bird - 13.4k - smut/angst - ao3 .ᐟ✧ caleb blurb - 658 words - smutty blurb - ao3

.ᐟ✧ where hearts live sylus birthday special - 4.5k - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ green-eyed and creampied - 1,213 words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ valentine's day headcannons - 379 words - fluff - ao3 ✧.˖ wasteland - 15.9k - smut/angst - ao3 .ᐟ✧ between the blades of grass - 3.4k - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ shot, shot, shot, shot! - 4.3k - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ lost oasis (misty invasion) - 4.5k - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ please & thank you - 7.5k - smut - ao3

.ᐟ✧ green-eyed and creampied - 1,120 words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ perv!zayne - 927 word - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ know better - 2.2k - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ shot, shot, shot, shot! - 3.7k - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ hidden motive (misty invasion) - 3.6k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ snowy serenity - 7.7k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ exclusive tutorial - 7.6k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ heart within reach - 5.6k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ what's mine - 10.7k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ business trip - 6.7k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ valentine's day headcannons - 800 words - fluff - ao3

✧.˖ green-eyed and creampied - 1,165 words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ perv!xavier - 987 words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ shot, shot, shot, shot! - 3.8k - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ no restraint (misty invasion) - 5k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ she can't come to the phone right now - 3.1k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ heartstring symphony - 10.1k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ valentine's day headcannons - 800 words - fluff - ao3

.ᐟ✧ green-eyed and creampied - 1,190 words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ shot, shot, shot, shot! - 3.8k - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ omnipotent perception (misty invasion) - 6.5k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ the sixth of march (rafayel birthday special) - 5.09k words - smut - ao3 .ᐟ✧ your fragrance - 10.4k words - smut - ao3 ✧.˖ valentine's day headcannons - 800 words - fluff - ao3

━━ IKÉMEN VILLAINS

.ᐟ✧ get drunk get me drunk drown - william rex - smut 2.5k - ao3 ✧.˖ every inch of you - ellis twilight - smut 2.5k: ao3

━━ JUJUTSU KAISEN

.ᐟ✧ a choice - gojo satoru - angsty blurb

━━ ET CETERA

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask.

.ᐟ✦ please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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crescencestudio · 9 days ago

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ALARIS EARLY ACCESS BETA OUT NOW

WE ARE FUCKING HERE BROTHER

I say this in a haze of art grinding, sprite expression coding hell, and straight up tears, but with pride and excitement IN MY CHEST:

THE ALARIS EARLY ACCESS BETA IS NOW UP ON PATREON

For those who want to get early access to the upcoming EA build in its beta stage, the game featuring all four Central routes is now UP and READY TO PLAY on Patreon (tier Hydra)!!!!!

Beta Build Features

~240k Words, spanning across four routes, each with both a good and bad end

426 Choice Menus

470 Personality Variations

Updated Sprites for Central LIs

Revamped Communicator System

38 CGs (9 CGs for each of the LIs)

New Side Character Sprites

We have come so far..... And while there are still a lot of things I need to do before the beta build is ready for official public release, it's so crazy to see how much our current Alaris build has. This is truly the product of so many years of Crescence's blood, sweat, and tears, bro.....

If you'd like to play the beta build to get your hands on it before official release, you can do so at my Patreon!

#alaris

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fnzktn · 1 month ago

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bubble gum

danielle marsh x 6th member!reader

established relationship, fluff, slight angst, comfort

synopsis: ever since newjeans debuted, you have brought nothing but controversies. but god damn it, do they bring good publicity and more fans to the group.

but then one day, a certain company wanted to take advantage of that.

contains: secret dating, mentions of h*be🤢, jiwoo of h2h, loser!r, gamer!r, (lmk if i should add more!)

word count: 7.4k

ador is actually in shambles right now. another unhinged sentence came out of your mouth during a live.

you were playing League of Legends (without your manager’s approval, by the way), the tripod was positioned in front of your torso, your phone streaming your computer screen. you were trying out a new strategy of doing an AD LeBlanc instead of the typical AP route.

needless to say, bunnies and your teammates were not happy with your choice. the moment your mouse hovered over the Trinity Force item, they were already spamming your chat, asking what the hell you were doing.

26 minutes into the game, you have 5 items in your inventory, 18 kills, and 0 deaths, they were not saying much anymore. except your team’s jungler, Nunu.

the enemy team was attacking the dragon. all 5 of them. his little monkey brain decided to go in and ult, expecting a penta kill. did he at least kill one of them or steal the dragon? no. he died within seconds of going in.

and of course, he decided to blame you. the one that was actually carrying the team. he was pinging your character, flaming you in chat with profanities that surely will get him banned.

[Team] Nunu & Willump: lb u piece of shit i literally get zero help

[Team] Nunu & Willump: we couldve gotten an ace but ur just standing there waiting for some kills to steal like a fukin npc

[All] Nunu & Willump: report lb for trolling pls

“what the hell is wrong with this guy?” you exclaimed, effortlessly killing 3 of the enemy team and even managing to steal the dragon. “not my fault you’re braindead. like, who in their mind would go in and expect something good despite being 2/7/4? you’re barely in your third item, you bozo!”

[Team] LeBlanc: aw gonna cry to mommy? tell her how lb hurts ur wee lil feelings? :(

you decided to hide the in-game chat, knowing that slurs and more profanities are going to be sent by Nunu because you provoked him. you’re already going to get in trouble for streaming a game without proper consent—you weren’t going to dig yourself a deeper grave by exposing bunnies to the toxic environment that is low elo gameplay.

instead, you shifted your whole focus on trying to win the game despite two of your teammates purposely dying. one of the turrets protecting the enemy team’s nexus was destroyed by you. you were alone, trying to finish the game early because you were tired of the dead weight that is your team. seeing this as an opportunity to finally give you your first death, all 5 of the enemy team jumped you. you killed them with ease, one by one, securing yourself a pentakill. i mean, would they even stand a chance against a full build 26/0/9 LeBlanc?

“I’M THE NEXT FUCKING FAKER! I’M SO GOOD THAT T1 IS GONNA OFFER ME A CONTRACT BECAUSE I'M THE GOAT!” you screamed, jumping behind the camera with your hands still on your keyboard and mouse.

the last turret fell and the nexus was destroyed. a victory screen was in front of you and bunnies. the chat went crazy, praising you and saying different variations of ‘congratulations’ with some occasional:

‘wow this woman really is crazyᄏᄏ’

‘no way she actually did it’

‘sybau y/n🥀’

just as you were about to take your phone off the tripod to show your face and talk to your fans, a text message from your manager saying ‘End the live. We need to talk. Right NOW.’ appeared on top of your screen.

you chuckled nervously, “i need to go now, bunnies! the game drained me and i’m tired. i’ll talk to you guys again soon! bye!” and with that, you quickly ended the live.

you were reprimanded. heavily. saying stuff about how they are very disappointed in you, and that they will not hesitate to put you on hiatus if the parties involved (Faker and T1) do not receive your words well.

danielle, who was watching your live from start to finish, knew that something was wrong when your farewell to bunnies was rushed. usually, you would yap for 20 minutes more despite already saying that you were going to leave soon.

she made her way to your room, knocking softly before opening the door. she didn’t wait for a response. didn’t have to. it was something you and danielle agreed upon when you first started dating.

there you were, sprawled on your bed with your head buried on the plushie that danielle won for you (she’ll never reveal to you how much money she lost trying to win that damn minion plush). your headset was tossed carelessly to the side, and the slight shaking of your shoulders told her more than enough.

“hey,” she started softly, rubbing your back, “what did they say?”

you groaned, not lifting your head. “that i should watch my mouth and i would be in a month-long hiatus if i didn’t.”

she let out a quiet hum and pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder, her hand never stopping its comforting strokes.

“do you want me to make you something?” she asked after a beat, voice low and careful, like she knew you’d only eaten cereal and coffee today. “or we could just order from that chinese place you like. the one with the angry dumplings.”

you let out a muffled laugh against the plush. “you mean the really spicy ones?”

“yes, but you always tear up and get all snotty eating them. so angry dumplings.”

“i’d like that,” you mumbled.

danielle chuckled and kissed your temple, then gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “okay, angry dumplings it is. but you’re cuddling with me while we wait, i missed you.”

you finally lifted your head just a bit to look at her. “you’re not mad?”

“at you? never.” her hand slid down to intertwine your fingers. “but if they really try to put you on hiatus, i’m giving them a piece of my mind.”

you grinned, putting a hand on your chest. “my hero.”

“always,” she whispered, and kissed the tip of your nose.

the explosion didn’t happen all at once.

at first, it was a quiet hum— couple of clips on twitter, few thousand views on tiktok, and a mid-level panic in the PR group chat.

but within twelve hours after your live, the ripple turned into a full-on wave.

a huge LoL related account had posted the clip of you declaring that you were the next Faker, captioning it, “this kpop girl just solo-carried, roasted her toxic jungler, AD LeBlanc, all while saying she’s the next faker”

and then the real chaos started.

because the official T1 twitter account saw it and quote-tweeted it.

@/T1LoL: sign the contract big girl, sign the contract

the post had over 100,000 likes in under six hours. (did they really have to quote mike tyson?)

and if that wasn’t already a death sentence or a badge of honor (you couldn’t decide which), Faker himself went live later that night— and of course, chat spammed him with your name the second he turned his cam on.

“oh, y/n from newjeans?” he asked, amused. “yeah, i saw the clip.”

he smiled genuinely and added, “26/0/9? that’s not easy. not even in low elo. she’s actually decent. kind of aggressive, though.”

then, after a pause:

“but that AD build on LeBlanc… yeah, no. that was criminal, but somehow she managed to make it work. you’d need talent for that.”

“if i retire, please put y/n in our roster.”

ADOR’s PR team originally drafted a formal apology.

they had the whole thing ready — tight, polished, apologetic without being too apologetic — until someone on the social media team pointed out that most of the backlash had already turned into applause.

so instead of an apology, they rewrote the statement.

NewJeans’ Y/N recently shared an unscheduled but heartfelt gaming stream with fans. While we acknowledge the concerns about language and the importance of mindful online interaction, we ask for understanding. We also want to thank everyone—especially the League of Legends community—for the surprising and overwhelming support.

your merch sales reportedly spiked that week. huh.

you didn’t think much of it at first.

your schedule just said ‘internal sync meeting’ – three words that could mean anything from an updated media briefing to a light dressing down over your most recent quote trending on stan twitter. you showed up five minutes late, iced americano in one hand, hair still damp from the shower. you hadn’t even bothered to put on make up.

the room smelled like burnt coffee and unease.

a mix of too many overused essential oil diffusers, the dull hum of industrial-strength air conditioning, and the constant clicking of keyboards filled the sterile hybe conference room. two men in suits sat on one side of long black table, a third slightly off-center-someone from SM, you assumed, based on the lanyard he has around his neck.

you sat slowly, your iced americano suddenly tastes too sharp against your tongue. a thin gray folder in front of you, unopened. your nails picked at the edge of the manila cover. it had your name written on it. in sharpie.

beside you, your manager’s boss, had a tablet in front of her but hadn’t touched it since the meeting began. you were told she was here to “make sure you were okay”. she hadn’t made eye contact with you once.

“thanks for coming in on short notice,” one of the SM reps said, hands folded on the table like this was a negotiation. beside him, a woman — someone you recognized from ador’s PR team — smiled like she’d rehearsed it.

Your own manager gave you a nod from the corner. you frowned.

“what’s this about?” you asked.

they didn’t answer right away. Instead, the rep tapped the screen of a tablet and slid it towards you.

on it: a media tracker. articles, tweets, graphs. your name. trending charts. Thumbnails from videos with titles like “4th gen it girl” “why y/n is the only interesting idol right now.” one had your freeze-frame from music bank with the caption, “NewJeans’ y/n - idol or menace?”

“you’ve been talked about a lot lately,” he said. “consistently.”

you glanced down, finding the condensation on the side of your iced coffee much more interesting than whatever this was. “i didn’t even do anything this week.”

“exactly,” the woman chimed in, her tone light. “that’s the point. you trend even when you don’t mean to. it’s something we think is… useful.”

you blinked slowly. “useful for what?”

the SM rep smiled, folding his hands. “we’re launching a push for our rookie girl group – hearts2hearts. you know them?”

“kind of,” you muttered. you’d seen their debut on music core. clean choreo, pretty styling, stable vocals. their music video already had over 20 million views. that was good, especially for a rookie group.

“they’re doing well,” you added, cautiously.

“they are,” the woman said quickly, “but we’re aiming higher. aespa-level buzz. and to be completely honest, we’re missing the noise. we need a little unpredictability. we need people talking.”

“and that involves me how?”

“you’re the most talked about idol right now. it would benefit everyone involved.”

“what we’re saying is that we want to stage a casual meetup. between you and their leader, jiwoo.” the man said.

your brow furrowed.

“a staged hangout. something that can pass off as spontaneous. han river. picnic blanket. snacks. some walking, talking, laughing. maybe some matching accessories.”

you stared.

“matching–?”

“the point is to make it believable, not scandalous. just two young idols vibing on their day off. and if the public happens to like the chemistry…”

you put the coffee down slowly. “...you’d want a fake relationship,” you continued, voice flat.

“eventually, yes. but right now, friendship. and we want a mutually beneficial moment,” the PR woman corrected.

“and how is this beneficial to me?” you asked, leaning forward now.

there was a pause. not awkward — just rehearsed. like they’d been waiting for the question, unsure how to answer it without saying the quiet part out loud.

“well,” the ador rep started, carefully, “not everything needs to be transactional, right?”

you didn’t respond. didn’t blink. just watched as she shifted in her seat.

“sometimes it’s about… showing goodwill,” she added. “being a team player. stepping up for the industry. and truthfully, there aren’t many idols who could pull this off without it looking obvious.”

the sm rep nodded. “you have a certain… credibility. people believe whatever you do is real. that kind of authenticity can’t be manufactured.”

you tilted your head slightly. “but this is manufactured.”

“sure,” he said, as if that part didn’t matter. “but if you do it, it won’t feel like it.”

you could hear what wasn’t being said — that you didn’t need more fans, or buzz, or press. that the only thing you stood to gain was keeping the machine running, uninterrupted. that your ‘benefit’ was staying exactly where you were: talked about. watched. useful.

which, you realized, was just a nicer way of saying: you get nothing, but please make this look good anyway.

“so let me get this straight,” you said slowly. “your rookie group is doing objectively well — millions of views, good public response. and yet, that’s not enough.”

they hesitated.

you added, “you want aespa numbers.”

“aespa-level popularity, yes,” the woman admitted. “and to get there, we need a jolt. a shift in narrative. and right now, you are the narrative.”

you didn’t reply.

“just meet her once,” the SM rep added. “talk. feel it out. we’ll set a follow-up meeting with the two of you in the same room, and if you both agree, we’ll go ahead with planning the shoot.”

a pause. just long enough to be uncomfortable.

“what if i say no?” you finally asked.

silence. then:

“then we remind you that your contract includes clauses regarding promotional obligations and collaborative projects,” the hybe rep said.

you didn’t respond. not because you agreed—hell no—but because you felt your own fury curling up behind your ribs, white-hot and petty. you’d say something sharp if you opened your mouth again. something too honest. something you’d regret later.

they wrapped the meeting shortly after. they didn’t need your input. just your face, your presence, your “controversial charm.”

you didn’t tell danielle that night.

you could have.

she made you dinner. sesame noodles with crisp vegetables and a soft-boiled egg, cut just the way you liked. she’d even remembered the seaweed. you sat together in the little kitchen corner where the late-night light came in warm and drowsy. the floor beneath you was cold but she kept pressing her knee into yours like it meant something, like the touch would anchor you there a little longer.

she was smiling when she talked about her day. not the big stuff—just little things. how hanni dropped her phone in the cereal. how minji sneezed seven times in a row and tried to claim it was a hidden talent. you were smiling too, or at least you thought you were.

but there was a hollow kind of sound to your laughter that didn’t sit quite right in your chest.

you curled into her later, both of you tucked under her favorite yellow blanket, her hand resting on your hip. she always slept warm. one of those people who radiated comfort, even when she was dreaming. her breath was slow and even, and you counted them like seconds until you fell asleep too.

you didn’t tell her.

not because you wanted to keep it from her.

but because saying it out loud felt like betraying something.

you had done fan service before. lived in it, actually — turned it into a second language, one that required no subtitles. so when you were told that today would be “natural,” you already knew what that meant: curated spontaneity. manufactured ease.

they picked the han river for a reason.

picturesque, but public. wide, open grass that caught the light perfectly. enough civilians walking by that it wouldn’t feel suspicious. enough distance that no one could hear what you were saying.

you were seated on a checkered blanket. picnic basket placed just right, snacks barely touched, drinks arranged with label sides forward. haerin would’ve rolled her eyes at the effort. hanni would've fixed the food to look prettier.

you tried not to think about them too much.

jiwoo sat across from you, knees tucked under her skirt, hands folded neatly in her lap. she looked calm, but you recognized the stillness — that media-trained tension in her shoulders, the constant awareness of where the invisible cameras might be. the two of you had been told Dispatch might be “in the area.” they weren’t subtle. they never were.

still, you both pretended you didn’t know they were watching.

“have you had anything to eat today?” jiwoo asked gently.

you shook your head. “no. i forgot.”

she pushed an onigiri towards you. “this is my favorite, try it.”

you took it, murmured a soft thanks. chewed slowly.

the conversation was light, intentionally forgettable. favorite drinks, training stories, pets. something about a dance move from a stage you couldn’t even remember doing. you tried to listen, really — but your mind kept drifting back to the meeting that started all this.

the breeze picked up. a paper napkin fluttered off the basket and you reached for it at the same time as jiwoo. your fingers brushed. instinctively, you pulled back.

you heard the faint click of a camera nearby.

dispatch was here.

jiwoo straightened, tucked her hair behind her ear, and smiled as if you’d just told her something funny. you laughed too — or mimicked the sound of it. not too loud. not too quiet. just enough to sell it.

you passed her a bottle of yogurt drink, and she took it like you’d done it a thousand times before.

“this feels weird,” you said under your breath.

“it is weird,” she replied, tone light. “but at least we look good.”

you looked at her, amused by the honesty. she smiled, a little apologetic, a little grateful.

“we only have to do this once, right?” you asked.

“hopefully,” she said.

for a moment, the two of you sat in silence, watching the water.

the blanket rustled under your weight as you leaned back, arms stretched behind you, face tilted toward the sky. you closed your eyes, breathed in the late afternoon air, and pretended you weren’t waiting for your phone to blow up.

when it did, later — when the “rumored meet-up” headlines hit, when the blurry but perfectly angled photos surfaced on twitter and forums and fan accounts — you were already back in the van. already watching the reactions roll in.

but that would come later.

for now, you tilted your head to jiwoo and asked, “how much longer do we need to stay?”

she glanced at her watch. “twenty minutes. max.”

you nodded. “let’s make it count.”

she grinned. “let’s give them something to talk about.”

it started like most dispatch drops did.

no warning. no statement. no teaser.

just a photo.

the han river glowing gold, a girl in beige pants and a soft blue sweatshirt, leaning back on her hands. another girl, legs tucked to the side, holding a yogurt drink, smiling at her like they’d shared the same inside joke. wind in their hair. effortless. soft. intentional.

the caption was simple.

“Hearts2Hearts’ Jiwoo and NewJeans’ Y/N spotted enjoying an afternoon together. Casual senior-junior hang out or something more?”

hashtags followed. speculations.

within minutes, it was trending.

within an hour, it was global.

‘omg????’

‘the duo we never knew we needed’

‘this looks staged lmao’

‘they look so good tgt omg power couple in the making???’

‘y/n better leave h2h alone, they’ve only been in the industry for 2 months PLEASE😭’

danielle wasn’t surprised when the article dropped.

she had known something was coming. you told her before you left for the shoot, your voice unsure but trying to sound casual, the way someone might explain that they accidentally knocked over a vase but everything was fine now.

you didn’t downplay it, not really — you told her the truth. sm wanted you and jiwoo to stage a hangout. it was a publicity stunt, a photo opportunity. han river, a picnic setup, dispatch on standby. “they think it’ll bring attention to her group,” you said, fingers twisting at the hem of your sweatshirt. “it’s not a big deal. they said we just have to look like we’re having fun.”

you didn’t ask her directly if it was okay, but danielle could feel the question wedged in every pause. still, she smiled, nodded, and offered an “i get it” that sounded steadier than it felt.

because what else was she supposed to do? say no? tell you to back out and risk making a mess of something your company clearly already agreed to?

so when the first photo appeared later that day — not through any official announcement, but through a now-familiar Dispatch-style drop — she wasn’t shocked. still, the moment she saw it, a strange ache bloomed in her chest. her thumb hovered over the image on her screen, heart beating a little too loud in her ears.

you were there, exactly like you’d described. legs stretched out on a gingham blanket, soft blue sweater catching the breeze just enough to make the hem flutter. beside you, jiwoo leaned in close, holding a yogurt drink, smiling at you like the two of you had been friends for years. the kind of smile people could easily mistake as something more.

danielle’s first instinct wasn’t to panic or jump to conclusions. no, it was subtler than that. it was a weight behind her ribs, the kind of heaviness that made her blink too slowly. she studied the photo again, noticing the things other people might miss — how your eyes crinkled, how your hands were placed neatly in your lap, how the sunlight hit just right. and how none of it looked posed. it was natural. effortless. exactly what sm and hybe wanted.

she didn’t go running to you. she didn’t text you a storm of anxious questions. instead, she lay on her bed, one leg curled beneath her, the other swinging slightly off the edge, her phone still in her hand. she didn’t want to admit it, not even to herself, but the longer she stared at the image, the more it hurt. not because she doubted you, not because she thought anything happened — but because of how well you had to play pretend. how easy you made it look. and because everyone else was going to see that and think they knew something about you. something they didn’t.

she closed her phone, but that didn’t help. she opened it again ten seconds later. instagram, twitter, tiktok, a loop of checking and rechecking — like maybe one of those places would offer something that made it sting less. instead, all she found were screenshots, cropped photos, confused fans theorizing. some of them laughed about how staged it all looked. others pointed out how “comfortable” you and jiwoo seemed. the comments weren’t malicious, but they chipped away at her mood like water dripping on stone.

danielle put in her earbuds eventually. turned on something gentle — soft piano, slow vocals, nothing too dramatic. just enough to let her thoughts wander without completely drowning in them. she watched the ceiling for a while, then turned her head and let her cheek press into the pillow. the quiet filled the space around her, heavy and unmoving.

when you finally walked into the room later, the air shifted. you didn’t say anything right away, and neither did she. you just sat down slowly on the edge of her bed, pulling your sleeves over your hands, the way you always did when you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t ask if she saw it. of course she had.

danielle turned her head to look at you, her expression unreadable at first. you looked tired — not just physically, but in the way your shoulders sagged a little more than usual. she could see it in your eyes, the guilt that lingered even though you hadn’t done anything wrong.

still, she didn’t ask you to explain. didn’t demand reassurance. instead, she reached out and gently tapped her phone screen to pause the music. then, without a word, she passed you one of her earbuds.

you took it.

you leaned in, resting your head lightly on her thigh, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to. she let you. her fingers instinctively found your hair, combing through it slowly, like she’d done so many times before. the music resumed, soft and melancholy.

the silence stretched long between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

because she wasn’t angry. not really.

she just missed you. even with you right there.

danielle didn’t speak at first.

her fingers stayed in your hair, tracing slow, careful lines across your scalp. the kind of absentminded affection she only gave when she didn’t feel like putting anything into words yet. you let yourself melt into it, cheek warm against her thigh, eyes unfocused, staring past the comforter and into nothing at all.

you stayed like that for a while. the music hummed quietly in the background. it was a song you both liked, but neither of you were listening. not really.

“you looked happy in the photos,” danielle said eventually, so softly it almost didn’t feel real.

your throat tightened. “i didn’t mean to.”

“i know,” she sighed. not upset, not cold—just tired. “i just… noticed.”

you turned your face slightly, enough so you could see her from where you were lying. she didn’t look like she was joking, but she wasn’t bitter either. there was a calmness to her, a kind of weary acceptance that made your chest ache.

“i tried to tell them no at first,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “i told them hearts2hearts is already doing well. i told them their debut video has over twenty million views—like, they’re fine. they don’t need this.”

danielle nodded, like she already knew.

you shifted, pulling your hand from under the pillow to fidget with the end of your sleeve. “they said they want aespa-level attention. aespa-level noise.”

she gave a dry little laugh through her nose. “so they picked you.”

you didn’t know what to say to that.

she ran her thumb along your hairline. “i get why they did. you’ve been everywhere lately. people don’t stop talking about you.”

you flinched, but she caught it. her hand stilled for a moment.

“not your fault,” she added gently. “i know you didn’t ask for this stuff.”

you looked up at her, eyes glossy. “i didn’t want it to feel real.”

danielle’s expression softened even more—if that was possible. she leaned back against the headboard, letting out a long breath. “it didn’t. not to me.”

you let out a breath too, shaky and quiet. “really?”

“yeah.” she smiled a little, brushing a strand of your hair aside. “i know what you look like when you’re really happy. i know how you laugh when it’s real. and that… that wasn’t it.”

you swallowed, guilt thick in your throat. “it still sucks though.”

“it does,” she agreed, because she didn’t want to lie. “but we’re okay.”

you blinked. “are we?”

danielle didn’t hesitate. “yeah. we’re okay.”

you closed your eyes at that, pressing your face into her leg like you could hide there for a while. her fingers found your hair again, picking up where she left off. she didn’t rush you. didn’t ask for anything more.

just held you like she always did.

quietly. tenderly. like she knew this was just another part of the storm, and the two of you would ride it out together.

within a day, hearts2hearts saw a spike in their streaming numbers. fancams of jiwoo at past music shows resurfaced. clips from their debut showcase hit trending, especially those highlighting jiwoo’s stage presence and visuals. people wanted to know who this girl was. who was close enough to be seen with y/n — the y/n, the ‘problem child (lovingly)’ of newjeans, the center of every forum thread lately.

the sm execs were, reportedly, thrilled. insiders leaked that they’d been hoping for just this: buzz, speculation, google searches. even the doubt surrounding the authenticity of the meeting played into their hands. “controversy creates interest,” one staff member was quoted anonymously. “and interest builds momentum.”

you heard that SM gave a hefty amount to hybe and ador as thanks. kind of unfair that they didn’t give you a percentage of it, to be honest. you did most of the work after all.

you didn’t mean to write a song. not at first.

it started during one of those rare quiet weeks — a break between promotions, schedules light enough for the dorm to actually feel like a home again. late nights meant low music, acoustic strings, and you sitting on the floor with hanni’s guitar balanced comfortably in your lap. not borrowed this time. you’d asked, and she’d waved a hand, told you to take it like it already belonged to you.

you weren’t a beginner. you’d learned to play long before debut — enough to strum smoothly, build chords, mess around with melody when the mood struck. hanni was still leagues ahead of you, her playing effortless in a way you admired but didn’t try to chase. still, you could hold your own— enough to turn a passing thought into something real.

you weren’t trying to write lyrics that night. you were just playing, letting muscle memory carry you, repeating a soft loop that sounded warmer the longer it stretched. something sweet. something almost too light to hold onto.

danielle had been on your mind.

she’d always been on your mind lately. (when did she ever leave?)

especially now, when it felt like the rest of your world was being steered by other people’s decisions. meetings you hadn’t asked for. texts from your manager about follow-up “check-ins” with jiwoo, vague phrasing that left little room to decline. they’d never used the word “date”. not even once. but that’s exactly how it was starting to feel. manufactured intimacy, scheduled like it was any other content shoot. just this time, the cameras were from Dispatch, not the company. none of it your choice, not really.

and somewhere between the third repetition and the quiet in your chest, the words started forming. not heavy ones. nothing about heartbreak or longing. just the soft things. how danielle’s voice made the air feel warmer. how her laugh was something you looked forward to. how being around her made you feel like your shoes had lifted half an inch off the ground.

you didn’t write it down that night. just hummed through it, fingers tracing the shape of the chorus on the strings.

a couple nights later, hanni passed your room, then doubled back. leaned on the doorframe, brow raised.

“what is that?”

you blinked. “what’s what?”

“that,” she nodded at the guitar, where your hands had just been moving. “you’ve been playing the same thing for the past twenty minutes.”

you hesitated. “just a thing i’m messing with.”

hanni padded in, plopped down cross-legged on your bed. “play it again.”

you did. sheepish. a little shy.

she listened. tilted her head. “you’ve got something there.”

and just like that, she was in. offering tweaks, pointing out where a melody could tighten. adding little touches to the instrumental as you mumbled potential lyrics under your breath. she never pried. never asked what — or who — it was about. just helped shape it. (i mean, who are we kidding? hanni definitely knows who it was about.)

when you played the demo for your team, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. maybe a polite head tilt. maybe it’s cute, but let’s shelf it for now.

instead, your ceo was grinning before it even hit the second chorus. “this is good,” she said. “really good. i want you to do more in the future.”

you nodded, stunned.

but even then — even with the green light, the credits, the polished version lined up neatly on the album — what stayed with you most was the way danielle had smiled when she first heard it.

soft. unreadable at first. then, slowly, unmistakably warm.

like she knew. even before anyone else. even before you said a word.

eventually, hanni’s name and yours both end up in the producer credits.

and the lyrics?

they weren’t dramatic. not poetic in the way people might expect. but they were yours.

you added how your heart beat a little faster every time she walked into a room. about the small thrill of getting ready to see her, despite living together. about the secret sort of joy that made you feel like you were floating — high up, like a balloon that couldn’t be pulled back down.

it was a song full of sugar and soft crushes and pink-tinted feelings. light as air. sticky, sweet, like the candy it was named after.

bubble gum.

by the time the comeback rolled out, fans were already curious. the moment the tracklist was posted and you were credited as the sole songwriter — with you and hanni also tagged as producers — theories spread like wildfire.

people analyzed every line. made lyric videos. pointed fingers. and of course, one name kept popping up: jiwoo.

some swore the song had to be about her. others said it was a clever misdirect. the debate carried on for days, louder than anything you’d expected. a mess you didn’t mean to make. (you just wanted to make a song about being utterly in love with your girlfriend, for god’s sake.)

“it has to be about jiwoo,” a fan had tweeted. “they had their little han river picnic era right when she would've been writing this. the timing adds up.”

“maybe it’s just about love in general?” another chimed in. “but y/n doesn’t do general. she always writes about something specific. this sounds like someone real.”

ador hadn’t said anything. sm didn’t say anything either. but the comments piled up. jiwoo’s name trended alongside yours. again. pictures of your recent ‘hangout’ at a cafe in hannam were being paired with bubble gum on tiktok. people made edits. made assumptions. built stories out of half-truths and blurry photos.

it was one of those sleek, polished interview sets — glossy table, soft white lighting, everyone in coordinating pastel outfits that made all of you look like you were dropped out of a spring daydream. newjeans had just wrapped up a music show stage, and now you were seated in a semicircle across from a seasoned interviewer, surrounded by cameras, staff, and publicists lurking just out of frame.

the questions started out light — the new ep, behind-the-scenes moments, favorite snacks. danielle answered one with her usual brightness, hanni made the room laugh with her dry timing, and you found yourself playing with the hem of your sleeve, listening.

but then the topic shifted.

“now, let’s talk about bubble gum,” the interviewer said, glancing down at their notes. “the response has been huge. but what’s really fascinating is that the song credits list only one lyricist — y/n — and one of the producers are her and hanni as well. can you walk us through that process?”

there was a beat of silence. you smiled softly, eyes flickering down to the floor for a second. you could feel the shape of danielle’s knee lightly brushing yours under the table — a casual touch that no one would see, but it grounded you.

“i wasn’t really planning to write anything for the album,” you said, voice calm, measured. “i just started... toying around with hanni unnie’s guitar one night. i didn’t think it’d go anywhere.”

“and the melody?” the interviewer asked.

hanni jumped in, grinning. “she kept borrowing my guitar. like, for weeks. we’d be in the dorm, and i’d hear the same chords over and over again from the living room and when i pass by her room. it got stuck in my head before the lyrics did.”

that earned a laugh from the group, and you ducked your head slightly, cheeks pink with quiet embarrassment. “it just... fit. i didn’t even realize it was turning into something until hanni unnie helped me lay out the chords properly. correctly.”

the interviewer nodded, clearly pleased, and then, like clockwork: “it’s a really tender song. very specific, very emotional. was there a particular inspiration behind it? someone you were thinking of?”

the room was still. the lights were just a little too bright. your fingers, hidden beneath the table, found danielle’s. a brush of fingertips. not quite a hold. but danielle’s hand shifted toward yours instinctively, a quiet answering touch that only the two of you noticed.

you didn’t look directly at her. just slightly to her side. enough.

“i think,” you started, voice calm and almost amused, “some songs don’t try to hide what they are.”

you rested your other hand in your lap, fingers brushing over your rings. “they’re not metaphors. they’re not abstract. they just… describe a feeling exactly as it happened. like how someone makes your heart race. or how getting ready to see them suddenly feels like the most important part of your day.”

danielle didn’t look at you either, but her cheeks were dusted pink, lips pressed together as if holding in a laugh or a secret. under the table, her thumb brushed over your knuckles once.

“bubble gum is like that,” you continued. “it’s made up of little things. tiny, honest moments. someone’s laugh, the way they speak, the way time starts feeling like it’s only yours when they’re around.”

you shrugged lightly, like the song hadn’t come from your own heart. “so maybe it’s not a mystery, you know? maybe it’s just what it sounds like.”

danielle didn’t say anything, didn’t even move, but under the table her pinky slipped to hook around yours—so quickly no one would notice.

the interviewer tilted their head, trying again. “so it’s safe to say it’s drawn from personal experience?”

“i’d say,” you said with a nod, “it’s drawn from memory. but mostly romance movies, though.”

the subject shifted after that, onto choreography challenges and trainee days, but the atmosphere had changed slightly. warmer. softer.

and when all of you stood to take post-interview photos, danielle reached for your hand — just briefly — while you waited for the photographer to count down.

“a moment,” danielle whispered under her breath, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “that’s how you described me?”

“you’re the gum part,” you whispered back. “sweet. sticks with me.”

danielle rolled her eyes, but her fingers never left yours until the flash went off.

the dorm was alive that night, full of the soft chaos that only came after an interview day and too many shared inside jokes. makeup off, pajamas on, the members had settled into their usual post-schedule routine — limbs tangled over the floor and couch, snack wrappers scattered across the coffee table, someone’s playlist humming faintly from a speaker in the corner.

“you’re actually insane,” hanni declared dramatically from across the room, “you held her hand under the table. that’s, like, the oldest ‘we’re secretly dating’ move ever!”

you groaned into the couch cushion. “we weren’t even holding hands—”

“we saw you,” minji interrupted, lying flat on the floor with a bowl of ice cream balanced on her stomach. “don’t even try to lie to us. the only way dani would smile like that is when she’s being all lovey-dovey with you.”

“the way you looked at her when you were asked if it’s about someone?” hyein chimed in from the kitchen, one eyebrow raised as she stirred honey into her tea. “oh my god.”

“i was being genuine!” you protested, your voice pitching upward in desperation. “that’s how normal people talk about their songs!”

“nah,” hanni said, leaning back and mimicking your expression during the interview — eyes half-lidded, lips parted just slightly, voice low and dreamy. “‘a feeling that lingers. that stays with you. one you don’t want to let go of’ — like be serious. i thought you were gonna propose to dani right then and there.”

“you guys are so dramatic,” you muttered, though your face was already burning.

“it’s embarrassing, really,” hanni added. “you sat there all dreamy-eyed, talking about feelings and moments and whatever. no wonder people still think you and jiwoo have a thing.”

minji licked her spoon slowly. “you really thought you were being vague, huh? sweetie, you folded so hard. you said ‘it’s not really about a person,’ and then stared directly at your girlfriend like you were reliving the entire demo session in your head. i’d be surprised if people are still going to talk about you and jiwoo when the interview comes out.”

you groaned again and flung the pillow across the room, where it landed harmlessly against the base of a chair. “i’m never writing another love song again.”

“sure,” haerin replied calmly, her tone utterly unconvinced. “until next comeback, when we find lyrics like ‘your voice is my sunrise’ and realize it’s about danielle ordering iced coffees for you.”

“that was one time!” you said, sitting up. “ we were trainees–we were young and she remembered my order— that’s just— that’s—”

“—so romantic,” a familiar voice teased behind you, light and airy.

you turned to see danielle walking in with two cups of tea, that ever-gentle smile on her face. she handed one to you and settled beside you on the couch, tucking her feet under her and leaning in just enough that her arm pressed against yours.

“thank you for immortalizing my coffee order in verse,” she added, taking a sip.

“i hate it here,” you grumbled, but you were already smiling. it was hard not to, especially when danielle’s eyes crinkled the way they did.

hanni screamed into a throw blanket. minji groaned loudly and rolled over. haerin just shook her head, amused.

“anyway,” hyein finally piped up from where she was curled in a chair, phone in hand. “if you really don’t want them to speculate, maybe don’t, like, write the sappiest song in our discography.”

“i was subtle!” you insisted weakly.

there was a pause. and then a chorus of groans.

“get out,” hanni muttered, tossing a pillow at you.

but no one meant it. it was all part of the rhythm of your group — the teasing, the closeness, the safe space to unravel. eventually, the conversation shifted to stage outfits and how brutal the next day’s rehearsals would be. but you and danielle stayed quiet in your corner of the couch, pressed together, content in the lull that followed the chaos.

the room around you buzzed in quiet tones, but your world felt slower — gentler — tucked into this moment with her.

you didn’t speak for a while. just sipped your tea, now slightly cooled, letting the silence wrap around you both. her hand rested on your knee, warm and steady. yours covered it after a while, fingers slotting into place like it was second nature.

danielle’s head tilted toward you, her voice soft. “you really wrote it for me?”

you glanced at her, at the way her expression held something unspoken. she already knew the answer — had known it from the moment you showed her the demo, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. but hearing it out loud, even just between you two, was different. it meant different.

your answer came not in words, but in the way your fingers gently squeezed hers. in the way your eyes didn’t waver when you looked at her. in the way your silence was filled with meaning.

she leaned in, resting her head on your shoulder, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

“write more,” she whispered, barely audible, a secret meant just for you. “even if no one hears it. even if it’s just us.”

you pressed a quick kiss on her head.

“i will.”

a/n: first fic, yay!

#newjeans x reader #danielle x reader #danielle marsh x reader #njz x reader #newjeans danielle #newjeans #njz #danielle marsh fluff #danielle marsh angst

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