l0v3rrrrr

[l0v3rrrrr]

DEDICATED

Pairing - yan!fanboy!yoo kihyun x male!idol!reader Warnings - yandere, obsessive love, abusive relationship dynamics, stalking, etc. Word Count - 4.4k

A life like yours never really slowed down. As a solo artist you had to do just as much as any idol group did but with all the weight and pressure to be perfect on your shoulders alone. The best way to describe it was stressful, and even that didn't fully cover it. Needless to say, as thrilled as you were to give back to your fans, you were exhausted.

But that doesn't mean you wouldn't continue to be stretched as thin as possible.

There you were, sat down at the backside of a long white table, sharpies lined up next to you and ready for use. Another fan-signing event to be added under your belt of hundreds.

It didn't take long for things to get started. Your manager giving you the signal to start the speech that you made each time you did something like this. It was basic formalities, a greeting and brief explanation of how things would be working before exclaiming how excited you were to meet them all. Que the cheers and things were officially underway.

The first few fans approached the table, eyes wide with awe, clutching posters and albums like sacred relics. You gave them each a few seconds longer than the staff might’ve liked. You’d always hated the rushed feeling, the conveyor belt of gratitude. These were the people who kept you going, who memorized your lyrics, who saw you through a screen and still believed they knew you.

You smiled, just like always. Bright, genuine, at least, that’s how it had to look. Years of practice had taught you how to tuck the fatigue behind your eyes, how to keep the tremble out of your voice no matter how little sleep you got the night before. You waved at the crowd, your fingers aching slightly as you lifted your hand. Another fan, another signature, another carefully curated conversation under the watchful eyes of your management team.

A young girl stepped up, probably no older than sixteen, hands shaking as she passed you a handwritten letter. Her eyes brimmed with tears before she even spoke. "You helped me through so much," she whispered. "Your music… it saved me"

You blinked, the smile still on your face, but something behind your ribs twisted. It always hit a little too close, hearing that. Because they didn’t know how often you needed saving too.

You thanked her softly, fingers brushing hers as you took the letter and set it gently beside you. You made eye contact, just for a moment longer than usual. Just enough to make her feel seen. And then the staff gently ushered her along.

Another fan. Another moment.

And still, the line stretched on.

The monotony of it all was starting to get to you. It always did. The same thing over and over again made it hard to be genuine, not that you had started off the night that sincere to begin with, but it made you feel guilty. They spent all this money, took time out of their day, and waited in this huge line just for what felt like a half-assed interaction on your part.

Slowly but surely the line started winding down. A bit of a boost of energy sparked through your veins as you could finally spot the end of the crowd. End was in sight, as bad as that sounds.

But then you saw him.

He stood out. Not in any obvious way. He wasn’t waving or crying or clutching your latest album to his chest. In fact, he barely moved at all. Just stood there, calm and stiff in the middle of a group of excited fans, like he was waiting in a grocery line instead of one to meet his favorite artist.

He had on a plain black hoodie, the hood pulled low over his forehead, and his hands were tucked in his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes didn’t blink nearly enough. You weren’t even sure he had blinked since you first noticed him.

For some reason, he made your skin prickle.

It was subtle, easy to write off, maybe you were just tired. Maybe the fluorescent lighting was finally starting to mess with your head. But still, your fingers tightened slightly around the sharpie in your hand as the line inched forward, fan by fan, bringing him closer.

When he finally stepped up, it was quiet. No squeal of excitement, no wide eyes. Just a simple nod as he slid a photo across the table toward you. Not the usual glossy promotional one, though.

It was a candid.

A picture of you, off-stage. No makeup. Phone in hand. Walking out of a side door to one of your recent hotels.

Your heart skipped a beat. You kept your face neutral. You tried to think back, questioning if you had seen any paparazzi around in that moment. Everything came back blank in the face of this stranger.

“Where… did you get this?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light as you looked back up at him. He had a soft face framed by wispy brown locks. He could have been an idol himself with his visuals. But for some reason something about his appearance felt off. Maybe it was how his dark brown eyes were so well trained on yours, or how his hair was just slightly disheveled. Something was wrong.

He smiled then. Just a small one. Just enough.

“Found it online. You looked nice.” He was lying. He had to be. Sure, there was no way to know every single photo of you that was out there with the thousands in circulation. But something was screaming at you that what he said wasn't true.

You stared at the image for a second longer before your manager subtly cleared his throat from a few steps away. You were taking too long again. You gave a mechanical laugh, pretending it was some kind of inside joke you didn’t get. Signed the photo quickly, even though your hands were suddenly clammy.

He didn’t move to take it back. Staring through you.

Your manager began to approach, tired of waiting for you to end things yourself. Before you could be reprimanded you lifted the photo up to him. It was his turn to graze his fingertips against yours. The touch sent shivers up your spine and left goosebumps in it's wake.

“I’ll see you again,” he said quietly, like it was a promise. And then he walked off, disappearing into the thinning crowd like smoke.

Your manager leaned in behind you, his voice low. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, too fast.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

But your eyes flicked back to the crowd.

And this time, you weren’t sure the exhaustion was the only thing gnawing at your nerves.

-

You were on tour now. City to city, stage to stage, hotel to hotel. Everything blurred together into one endless stream of flashing lights, screaming crowds, and late-night rehearsals. You hadn’t really been home in weeks, not that "home" ever felt real anymore. Just a place where your things lived while you chased everything else.

You didn’t think about him often.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But sometimes, when the hallway lights in a hotel flickered, or when your driver took just a little too long to show up, his face would creep into the back of your mind. The soft smile. The calm stare. The way he said he’d see you again.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Just another weird fan interaction. You’d had plenty before.

But this one lingered.

It was after your third show in Osaka when things started to feel wrong.

You were alone backstage, sipping from a water bottle and trying to work the ache out of your legs. The staff had filtered out, busy packing up or getting ahead of tomorrow’s logistics. For once, you had a rare sliver of quiet.

Then your phone buzzed.

A message.

Unknown number:

You looked beautiful in the blue today. That color suits you more than the stylists realize.

Your stomach dropped. You were wearing blue. A flowy, cropped stage top they’d picked just hours ago. You hadn’t posted yet. No one had.

You didn’t reply. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone facedown on the table.

Breathe.

It was probably someone on staff. A stylist maybe. A dancer playing a weird joke. You told yourself a dozen lies in under five seconds. None of them stuck.

The next day, another message.

You sing like you’re sad. Are you sad? I’d know if you were.

This time, it came with a photo.

A blurry one. Taken from the side of the building. A view only someone standing outside would’ve had. It showed your dressing room window with the lights still on.

You were in it.

Barely. A silhouette. But undeniably you.

Your manager saw your face after the receiving the message. You didn’t even have to say anything. He took your phone gently from your hands and told you he’d handle it. Tight-lipped. Serious.

But even as he left the room, muttering something about “security” and “private investigators,” you weren’t sure it would matter.

Because somehow, in the back of your mind, you knew it wasn’t over.

You knew he meant it now, when he said he’d see you again.

And this time, he might not bother waiting in line.

-

You hadn’t blocked the number.

Not yet, anyway.

He watched the read receipt light up on his burner screen. A soft thrill curled through him, not excitement. No, this was something deeper. Satisfaction, maybe. The kind that bloomed when everything was going exactly the way he wanted it to.

You were rattled. He could tell.

He’d seen it on your face after the show. The way you’d scanned the crowd just a little more urgently. Your smile faltered for half a second too long when a fan in the front row held up a handmade sign. You were beginning to understand.

You had to.

He hadn’t meant to scare you, not really. It was just that you didn’t see him. Not at first. Not the way he saw you.

He’d been watching you long before that fan-signing event. Long before the music videos and the world tours. Back when you were still posting blurry phone videos of your songs in your childhood bedroom. When you were real. Before they polished you into something glossy and untouchable.

He liked you better back then. But it was okay. He could fix it. He could bring you back.

The security around you was better now. Your manager barely left your side. The hotel staff were tighter-lipped, the entrances locked, your schedule more obscured. But it didn’t matter.

He always found a way.

-

You told yourself to breathe.

The messages had stopped, at least for now, but the feeling they left hadn’t gone anywhere. You couldn’t shake the sensation that you were constantly being watched, like a pair of eyes had latched onto your skin and refused to look away.

You started checking the locks. Triple-checking, really. You no longer opened the curtains in your hotel rooms. You stopped taking the side exits your staff once used to sneak you out quietly, the photo being a stark reminder it wasn't as private as you thought. It felt like being hunted.

But what scared you most was the silence.

It had been two weeks since the last message.

And it was somehow worse than when they were coming regularly.

Your manager had reported it all. The label beefed up your security, switched hotels last minute, started escorting you out of soundchecks like you were the president of a country. But it didn’t feel like enough.

Not when you started finding flowers.

The first one had been in your dressing room. A single white tulip in a plain glass bottle, no note. No one saw anyone bring it in, not even the interns.

The second was left outside your hotel door.

Now, it was becoming a pattern.

You didn’t know whether to scream or stay quiet. Maybe if you said nothing, it would go away. Or maybe that’s what he wanted.

You were starting to feel sick.

-

You’d been warned not to go out alone.

But you were tired. Tired of handlers, of drivers, of being followed by security like a child with scissors in his hands. And besides, it was late. The streets were quiet. You’d only stepped out to get air, to remind yourself you were still a real person in a real world and not just a product wrapped in glitter and vinyl.

You pulled your hoodie low over your brow, mask up, earbuds in but with no music playing. just a buffer. Enough to make people think you weren’t paying attention.

You were.

You always were now.

The alley behind the cafe was dim, washed in the kind of orange glow that made everything look sleepy and surreal. It was the kind of hidden spot you used to sneak off to before the debut, back when anonymity came easy and no one looked at you like you were more than a name.

You didn’t hear him approach.

But when you turned, he was already there. Leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for hours. Same hoodie. Same eyes. Same quiet, terrifying calm.

Your heart didn’t race. It dropped. Just sank into your stomach like a stone.

“You...” you said. Useless, but it was the only thing your mouth could form.

He didn’t smile at first. Just stared at you for a second too long. Then, slowly, there it was. That same unnerving softness tugging at his mouth like he knew something you didn’t.

“I told you I’d see you again,” he murmured, like it was a reunion and not a confrontation.

-

There you were.

Up close again. Real again.

You looked even better without the lights on you, tired, yes, a little gaunt around the edges, but real. Not airbrushed. Not scripted. The way you were meant to be.

You hadn’t run. You could’ve. Could’ve screamed, could’ve called for help. But you didn’t.

“You’re not safe,” he started softly. “They don’t keep you safe like they say they do.”

You flinched. Barely. But he saw it.

Good.

“Every time I see you,” he continued, stepping closer, “you look less like you. They’ve hollowed you out. You know it too.” He didn't miss they way you twitched at the movement.

You tensed like you were ready to swing, but didn’t. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And maybe you hated this. Maybe you hated him.

But you were still listening.

That was all he needed.

He pulled something from his pocket, not a knife, not a weapon like you probably thought. But a photo.

You, smiling. Off-stage. A candid. From years ago.

He held it out gently.

“I just want you back,” he whispered. “The real you. The one they’re trying to erase.”

-

You stared at the photo, barely able to process it.

It was you. Long before the fame. It was a shot from your university campus, one you didn’t even remember being taken. You looked young. Stupidly happy.

You took a step back. Your throat was dry.

“You’ve been watching me since then?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The silence confirmed everything.

And in that moment, you realized it wasn’t just obsession. It wasn’t even about your music. He had made you his.

Years ago.

Before you ever even knew to be afraid.

The photo shook slightly in his hands.

You hadn’t even noticed you were trembling until then, until the streetlamp flickered above and cast his face in a warped, golden hue. He was still holding the picture like it was fragile. Like you were fragile.

Your voice came out low, raw, still utterly lost despite it all becoming more clear. “You’ve been following me… since before I debuted?”

He nodded. Not ashamed. Not proud. Just honest.

“I’ve always loved you.”

Your chest tightened, like the words hit some pressure point you didn’t even know existed.

“That’s not love,” you said. “You don’t know me.”

“I do.” His voice was soft. Too soft. “More than anyone else ever will.”

You took a step back, but he mirrored it, forward, slow, careful, like he was approaching a scared animal. Not to trap it. Not to hurt it.

To hold it.

“I watched you grow. Not just the stages. The in-betweens. The lonely parts. I know when your smile is real and when it’s the one they taught you to wear. I know how your voice cracks just a little when you're close to tears but you sing through it anyway.”

“Stop—” Your voice broke. “You think that’s love? That’s not love, you're obsessed”

He didn’t flinch at your words. “Maybe. But what I feel when I see you… it’s more real than anything I’ve had in my life.”

-

You hated him.

He could see it in your eyes, how they darted to the alley entrance, how your shoulders tensed like you were waiting to bolt. But you were still here. Still listening.

That meant something.

It had to.

“Do you know how hard it is to watch someone you love burn themselves out for people who will never really care?” he whispered. “They only love the pieces of you they can touch. The image. The voice. But I see all of you.”

You didn’t respond.

The silence between you stretched, thick and fragile like a thread about to snap.

So he stepped closer, almost within reach now, the photo still trembling between his fingers.

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I just… I wanted to remind you of who you were before they turned you into someone you don’t even recognize.”

He lifted the photo, holding it between you like an offering. “You were happy then. I want that for you. I want to protect you from all of this.”

His hand hovered, fingers itching to touch your sleeve.

“I know it’s wrong the way I’ve done this. But please… let me in. Even just a little. I’m not your enemy.”

-

His words hit like a knife made of velvet. They were soft. They sounded beautiful. Almost convincing.

And that’s what made it so terrifying.

Because for half a second, just one, something inside you wanted to believe him. To believe someone loved the version of you that no one else remembered. The one that came before the stages and the cameras. The one even you were starting to forget.

But then the image of your dressing room window came to mind, the messages, the flowers, the silence. You couldn’t ignore what it all really was.

You took a careful breath.

“I want you to leave me alone.”

His eyes changed.

Not rage. Not even sadness. Just heartbreak. Cracked and quiet and suddenly very, very human.

He stepped back, just once. Just enough that the space between you felt like something more than air. The photo was still in his hand, but now it trembled for a different reason. “You don’t mean that,” he said, but it came out small. Shaken. “Not really” You held his gaze. Forced yourself to stay steady even as your pulse pounded like a drumline in your ears.

“I do,” you said. “Whatever you think this is… it’s not real. You don’t know me. You know about me. There’s a difference.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The streetlamps buzzed faintly overhead, the only sound between you besides the shallow hitch of his breath. “I know you’re scared,” he said finally, voice brittle around the edges. “But if you could just see it from my side, if you just let me—”

“I don’t want to see it,” you cut in, sharper now. “I don’t want you watching me. Following me. Sending messages. Leaving things. Stop”

His expression fractured. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker of something too fast to catch behind his eyes. The soft exterior didn’t vanish completely, but it cracked like porcelain, letting something colder seep through.

Then he took a step forward. You instinctively shifted back. But he didn’t stop.

“You don’t mean that,” he said again, firmer this time. “You’re just tired. You’ve been under too much pressure for too long. I understand. I really do.”

Your pulse thundered. “Stop. Don’t come closer.”

He froze, hands half-raised like he was trying to show he wasn’t a threat. But his eyes didn’t match the gesture. They were locked on yours with laser focus. Unshakable. Unhinged.

“I know you’re scared,” he said, voice low, coaxing. “But that fear? It’s because you’ve been lied to. Conditioned to think that love looks like distance. Cold contracts and PR smiles and fake security. I’m not like them.”

“You don’t know me,” you snapped, the fear leaking into your voice now, a sharp edge of desperation.

“I do,” he insisted, his voice rising, losing its composure. “I know the way your eyes linger on the crowd after a show because you’re afraid no one really sees you. I know the exact moment your voice almost cracked during that acoustic set in Seoul because you hadn’t slept the night before. I watched the interview where you smiled too hard because your manager was just off camera glaring at you.”

Each example made your skin crawl. How much had he seen? How long had he been watching?

“You shouldn’t know that,” you whispered.

He stepped closer.

“I had to. No one else was paying attention. Not really. Not the way I do. You think they love you? Those fans? They just want pieces of you. The songs. The selfies. The illusion.” His voice dropped, low and intimate. “But I want you whole.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. You could feel your back nearly brushing the brick behind you now. No more steps to take.

“You need help,” you said quietly. “Real help.”

He smiled at that. Not amused. Not kind.

Pitying.

“No. You do.” Another step. The air between you charged, electric with something you couldn’t name. “I’ve been patient,” he murmured. “I gave you time. I let you go back to your little tours, your schedule, your fake world. But I see it in your eyes, you’re breaking. Every day, a little more.”

You flinched when his hand lifted, slow, like he was reaching for your face, but you turned your head, pressing your back to the wall of the alleyway you were now trapped in. Still, his fingers hovered just inches away. Close enough to feel the warmth of his skin.

“I could fix it,” he whispered. “I could fix you. If you’d just let me.”

“Don’t touch me.”

Something twisted further in his expression. His hand dropped, but he didn’t back away.

“You say that now,” he said, more to himself than to you. “But someday soon, when everything crashes down, when you realize they never really loved you, you’ll remember this. Me. And you’ll know I was the only one who ever saw the real you.” You tried to push past him, but he stepped in front again, blocking you. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quickly. “But I can’t let you keep living like this. You're drowning. And no one else is reaching in to pull you out.”

“You are not saving me!” you snapped, louder now, panic blooming in your chest.

His jaw clenched.

And for the first time, the softness shattered completely.

“That’s the problem,” he hissed, eyes darkening. “You don’t know what’s good for you.” The alley around you felt smaller now. The walls taller. The shadows thicker. You were trapped between a man who thought he loved you and the version of yourself he’d invented in his head. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than any stranger with a weapon.

Because he didn’t want to destroy you. He wanted to keep you.

You had to do something. Anything to keep him calm. To buy time. To make him think you weren’t going to bolt the second you had a chance.

So you forced your voice to steady and said the first thing that came to mind. “What’s your name?”

That made him pause.

His brows twitched, confusion flickering through his features like you’d just handed him a puzzle with the final piece missing. Then, slowly, it melted into something like awe. And for a moment, he almost looked bashful. You didn’t respond to his expression. Just stared, heart pounding in your throat.

“…Kihyun,” he said finally. “My name is Kihyun.”

You nodded, trying to keep your breathing even. “Okay. Kihyun. You’re not just some nameless person in the crowd now. I see you.”

His eyes widened slightly, like that meant more to him than it should’ve. Like you’d just said I love you instead of please don’t hurt me.

And that’s when he reached out.

Slowly. Like he didn’t want to startle you. Like he wanted this to feel mutual.

He brushed your wrist.

You tried not to flinch, but his fingers wrapped around you gently, holding your arm with just enough pressure to let you know he could grip harder if he wanted to.

His thumb traced the inside of your wrist. Slowly. Reverently.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly. You were. You hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Kihyun whispered, taking another step in. “I know it’s scary. Change always is. But this? Us? This is inevitable.” He leaned in, just a little closer. His voice dropped to something tender.

“The way you say my name...” His voice sounded like he was breathless. His hand slid from your wrist to your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “I’ve imagined what your skin would feel like a thousand times,” he said quietly. “But this, it’s even better.”

You could feel the heat of his body now, far too close. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was anchoring. Like he was holding something precious. Like letting go would be a mistake he couldn’t afford.

Your breath hitched as he tilted his head.

“And now you know mine,” he whispered. “Now it’s real.” His free hand lifted toward your cheek.

And you had a choice to make, push him away and risk escalation or let him think you were still listening. Still reachable. Still his. You had never experienced what fight or flight felt like before, but now, the aching feeling of escape allowed you to know which you would choose instinctively.

You had to get away from this lunatic

[l0v3rrrrr]

your name, your last name, 26 years old

seasoned employee at 'la bouche', a local restaurant in seoul. chronic insomniac with little to no free time. college drop out trying to make enough money to move away from the bustling city life he's spent his entire life barely making it by in.

“There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.” – Dessen

lee, jooheon, 23 years old

new hire at 'la bouche'. inexperienced in the food industry having only worked retail. eager to please newbie who is willing to do anything to prove he's worth keeping on. extroverted soul who quickly has everyone warming up to him. childhood friends with changkyun.

yandere type: clingy, overprotective

“He is not a lover who does not love forever.” – Euripides

im, changkyun, 22 years old

new hire at 'la bouche'. forced by parents to start living independently. born with things being handed to him on a silver plater. not used to fending for himself. looking to prove he can thrive without help from others. a cold personality that never quiet lets down his walls. childhood friends with jooheon.

yandere type: stalker, jealous

"So, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.” – Coelho

[l0v3rrrrr]

CAN'T HANDLE THE HEAT.

Chapters -

To be added

Extras -

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