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followingthebutterflies7 · 4 days ago

Text

Press [E] To Kneel

Spencer Agnew x Software Engineer!Reader

Word Count: 7.1k

Summary: Spencer thinks he’s just playing a cute anniversary game his girlfriend made, until the final level asks the biggest question of all.

Warnings: Fluff and light language. (Fun emojis!)

A/N: This was a lovely request from an amazing genius! I had so much fun writing every pixel of this love story!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’d never planned on staying in Los Angeles.

The original plan had been simple: make games, win awards, go home.

And for a while, you did. Straight out of university, you landed your dream job at a boutique studio that specialized in narrative-heavy indie games. You weren’t just coding, you were storytelling through gameplay. By the time you were twenty-five, you’d already helped create two award-winning titles. Critics called your work “emotionally immersive” and “hauntingly clever.” You called it “pressing buttons until something felt right.”

Somewhere between crunch weeks and conference panels, you met Spencer.

You didn’t expect someone like him to say yes when your studio reached out looking for a freelance narrative consultant. But he did. Maybe because the game you were working on involved absurd comedy, existential robots, and morally grey NPCs who made dad jokes. His name was already well known from Smosh, but you only knew him as the guy who had strong opinions about quest trees and wrote shockingly good branching dialogue.

What started as a contract gig quickly became something more. When Spencer wasn’t filming, he’d spend hours on calls with you, fleshing out character arcs and cracking open emotional plot beats with surgical precision. You swore he could make a pixel sprite cry. You, meanwhile, designed entire levels inspired by inside jokes you had with him. Including one infamous boss battle that featured a corrupted save file and a possessed coffee pot.

He made your games better. Sharper. Funnier. More human.

And you? You made him laugh.

You were a cinnamon roll in programmer’s clothing; a storm of puns, pop culture references, and code magic. You wrote patch notes in limericks. You had a pet cactus named Commander Prickle. You once added a secret dev room in the game that contained a love letter to Star Wars, a playable cat, and a JPEG of your favorite breakfast burrito.

Spencer fell for you hard.

And, okay, maybe you fell for him first.

Two games. Countless late-night builds. One forehead kiss on a loading dock in Austin that derailed everything in the best possible way.

It was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Because then came the investors.

They promised funding. Exposure. Global launches. All they wanted in return was control. Slowly, they took it all: your timelines, your characters, your creative freedom. They shelved Spencer’s favorite storyline. They told you to “scale down the weird” and “lean into monetizable emotional arcs.” They started talking about replacing the lead writer (Spencer) with someone “more brand-aligned.”

You walked out before they could rip up the last thing that mattered.

Spencer, to your eternal surprise, walked with you.

You went freelance. He went back to focusing full-time on Smosh. You thought that chapter of your life — game dev, dreams, building something bigger than yourselves — was over. You told yourself it was okay. That you’d survive.

But you didn’t expect the silence that came after.

You spent six weeks curled up with your laptop in a mountain of takeout containers, promising yourself you’d bounce back, that you’d build again. Instead, you started editing freelance, grabbing whatever work you could just to keep moving. Coding felt too raw. Too close.

And then an old friend texted you.

Alex Tran: Hey! Random idea. Want to come edit for us a bit? We need someone nerdy enough to get the Skyrim joke and fast enough to cut out Shayne’s fart soundboard.”

You: Are those separate qualifications?

Alex Tran: Nope. Same job, same person. And we’d like it to be you.

You thought it would be temporary. Just a few weeks of freelance work, maybe a couple of game-themed sketches. You didn’t expect to fall in love with the weird, chaotic brilliance of the Smosh crew. Or to find a second creative home in a room full of green screens, snacks, and too many rubber chickens.

You especially didn’t expect Spencer. Again.

He was quieter at Smosh. More sardonic, a little more guarded than the boy who used to send you playlists for your late-night coding sessions. But when he saw you in the breakroom with your eyes wide, fingers stained with hot Cheetos dust, and explaining the probability matrix you used to randomize enemy behavior in your old game, he smiled.

He hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had you.

You picked up right where you left off. Bickering over color grading. Sharing playlists. Syncing B-roll and giggling at outtakes until 2 a.m. You started eating lunch together, editing side-by-side, quietly rebuilding something that had never truly broken.

He saw you. That part still scared you.

Because you were always the quirky one. The one with snort-laughs and messy desks and Star Wars socks. You wore your weirdness like armor and your brilliance like a joke. Smart enough to break a game engine in a day, and soft enough to cry at the title screen music.

But Spencer never made you feel like too much.

He made you feel like enough.

Over time, “you’re fun to edit with” turned into “want to get dinner?” and then into long nights at his place, curled up with controllers and Chinese takeout. He didn’t care that you’d stepped back from the industry. He never treated it like a failure. In fact, whenever you got that itch, that hunger to build something again, he’d just tilt his head and say:

“I can’t wait to see what you make next.”

And that’s when the idea hit.

Not a game for money.

Not a game for reviews or awards or Reddit threads full of half-accurate theories.

But a game for him.

For the boy who helped you build a world out of pixels and code.

For the man who watched you crash, reboot, and rebuild with all the love in the world.

For the only player who ever really understood the rules of your heart.

You weren’t just going to tell him you loved him.

You were going to code it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Smosh Games office was alive with that specific kind of chaotic energy that only hit on shoot days and special streams.

Cameras were being positioned. Audio levels were getting checked. Lighting gels swapped out. You sat criss-cross on the floor beside the couch, laptop in your lap, pretending to tweak a plugin while secretly double-checking (for the seventeenth time) that the custom cutscenes in your game wouldn’t crash mid-stream.

“You good?” Courtney called from the snack table, cracking open a fizzy water. “You look like you’re gonna throw up or propose to someone.”

You didn’t even look up. “Yes.”

Across the room, Spencer adjusted his headset with a confused squint. “Which one?”

You smiled. “Guess.”

He blinked. “…Wait, what?”

Your heart thudded in your throat, but you just shrugged innocently. “Nothing, cinnamon!” And Spencer didn’t think any more of it.

Today was technically a work stream, a special feature on the Smosh Games channel titled “Spencer Plays a Game Made Just for Him.” The idea had started as a half-joke, pitched during a brainstorming meeting when someone asked what anniversary content might look like.

What no one else knew, not even Spencer, was that you’d spent months crafting the perfect game behind the scenes. A silly, sweet, emotionally explosive side-scroller designed specifically for him. To celebrate your years together. To relive it all. To ask a question you hadn’t been brave enough to ask out loud.

Until now.

Spencer took a seat on the main gaming chair, hoodie rolled to his elbows, sleeves slightly wrinkled from a full day of filming. You settled beside him, noticeably quieter than usual.

Spencer took a seat on the main gaming couch, flannel rolled to his elbows, sleeves slightly wrinkled from a full day of filming. You settled beside him, noticeably quieter than usual.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured under his breath, mic still muted.

You nodded too fast. “Totally fine. Just a little nervous, cinnamon.”

“I’ve seen you handle live crash bugs with one eye closed and a donut in your hand.”

“This is different.”

He looked at you curiously but didn’t press.

From behind the camera, Alex waved two fingers and counted them down. “And we are live in three… two…”

Spencer’s mic clicked on just as the title card splashed across the monitor behind him.

🔴 LIVE: SPENCER PLAYS A GAME MADE JUST FOR HIM: Anniversary Stream · Smosh Games Channel · Sponsored by Emotional Damage

The chat exploded instantly.

— OMGGGGGGG

— She MADE him a WHOLE GAME????

— I would literally combust if someone did this for me😭

— THEY’RE SO STUPID IN LOVE I CAN’T

— I HOPE HE CRIES

“Hey, guys,” Spencer greeted, lifting a hand in mock calm. “Welcome to our totally normal, definitely low-stakes stream. I’m here with my brilliant and mildly terrifying partner, who apparently built an entire game from scratch just so I’d play it on camera and embarrass myself.”

You waved awkwardly at the chat cam. “Hi.”

“She’s being modest,” Shayne’s voice piped in from off-screen, already halfway into a La Croix. “I’ve seenlike three seconds of it and it’s unreal.”

Courtney leaned into frame with a conspiratorial smirk. “I’ve cried twice already and I haven’t even touched a controller.”

“I’m so scared,” Spencer said flatly, eyes darting between you and the screen. “Anyway, it’s our anniversary today—”

— AWWWWWW💕💕

— I KNEW IT

— FOUR YEARS STRONG BABYYYY

— If he doesn’t propose by the end of this I’m suing

Spencer laughed. “We’ve been dating a while. This is probably the longest build-up to a game release I’ve ever experienced.”

“I’m a perfectionist,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer looked at you sideways. “You delayed this stream twice because you wanted the menu animation to ‘feel more emotionally resonant.’”

“That animation is doing heavy narrative lifting, thank you.”

He rolled his eyes, fond. “Alright, let’s boot this up.”

You plugged in the USB yourself, fingers trembling slightly, and watched as the screen flickered black. The game launched without a hitch, thank goodness, and a cascade of pixelated gold hearts and soft 16-bit music filled the monitors.

A retro-style title screen blinked to life:

QUEST FOR THE CINNAMON HEART💘

Press Start to Begin

Pixel-Spencer stood in the middle of the screen in all his tiny, hoodie-wearing glory. The background looked suspiciously like the Smosh studio.

Spencer leaned in. “Wait. You animated my stupid little walk?”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. “Accurately, might I add.”

— QUEST FOR THE CINNAMON HEART I’M GONE💀

— IT’S PIXEL HIM. PIXEL SPENCER.

— I would die for tiny hoodie Spencer

— STOP CINNAMON IS HER NICKNAME FOR HIM🥹

Spencer squinted at the text. “This is the most ominously romantic title screen I’ve ever seen.”

“Press start,” you whispered.

He did.

The screen went dark.

Then soft, pixelated piano notes trickled in, a simple melody which was almost lullaby-like. Warm tones bloomed into view: a small, animated storybook flipping open across the screen.

Once upon a time, in a world full of chaos and crash logs…

A pixel-art cutscene began, gently animated like an 8-bit fairytale.

…there was a programmer. Brilliant. Kind. Goofy as hell.

She built worlds for other people to explore… but rarely let anyone into her own.

On-screen, a tiny pixel version of you sat cross-legged in a glowing cave of code. Glitches flickered at the edges, little pixel storms of doubt and burnout. The sprite curled inward, eyes downcast, barely visible beneath the twinkling lines of code floating above her head.

Then a second sprite appeared.

Until one day, a boy walked in.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t ask to change her world. He just wanted to see it.

Pixel-Spencer entered the cave, in his tiny hoodie and nervous posture, holding a heart-shaped lantern. He didn’t speak. He just sat beside the other sprite, offering his light.

Together, they started building. Not just games. Not just stories.

Something else. Something quieter. Softer. Real.

The music swelled gently.

But even good code breaks sometimes.

The sprites stood in front of a massive glitch wall, a looming tower of red errors and broken platforms. They tried to climb it together. Failed. Tried again. A storm of pixel rain fell around them.

But they never let go.

This is their story.

The journey they’ve already taken… and the one that’s still ahead. Every memory. Every restart. Every choice that led to now.

The camera slowly zoomed out on the two sprites, now holding hands, as they stepped forward toward a glowing door marked Begin.

The text shimmered one last time.

Welcome to the Quest for the Cinnamon Heart.

Press any key to begin.

The room was silent.

Spencer hadn’t said a word.

You could feel his breath hitch beside you. His hand twitched near the keyboard, hovering like he needed a second to absorb it.

Behind the camera everyone had gone still.

The chat had frozen in reverence.

— …oh

— I wasn’t ready

— WHO GAVE HER THE RIGHT

— I just started crying and I don’t know why

— I would die for both of them

Spencer cleared his throat. “Okay. I’m already emotionally compromised and I haven’t even moved yet.”

You smiled, heart hammering. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

He turned to you, and for a second, a full unfiltered second, he looked at you like he knew. Like he didn’t have the words yet, but something in him had caught a flicker of what was coming.

But then he smirked.

“Let’s do this.”

He pressed a key.

The game shifted.

The screen blinked into a lovingly rendered pixel version of the Smosh office, complete with crooked lighting rigs, Courtney’s coffee cup on a desk, and a cardboard cutout of Damien with googly eyes.

Pixel-Spencer stood in the lobby, blinking up at a glowing prompt:

LEVEL ONE: THE FIRST GLITCH 👾

OBJECTIVE: Find the New Editor

Tip: She has a sharp tongue and good taste in sci-fi.

Spencer squinted. “This already feels targeted.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

He moved his sprite around the space, clicking on various coworkers:

🧔‍♂️ Pixel-Shayne: “She’s in the edit bay. Try not to fall in love this time.”

👱‍♀️ Pixel-Courtney: “She already renamed one of your files something passive aggressive. You’re in danger.”

🧑‍🦳 Pixel-Damien: “Why are you sweating? Oh god, is this feelings?”

The chat was eating it up:

— PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE FILE NAMES I’M SCREAMING 🤣

— this is 100% real lore

— why is this game calling him OUT like this

— the dialogue is too good wtf she’s a genius 🙌

Finally, Spencer found her (you) tucked away in a tiny edit bay, headphones on, surrounded by glowing monitors.

Pixel-You looked up.

“You must be the guy who thinks he’s funny.”

[OPTIONS: FLIRT | PANIC | HAND OVER DRIVE]

Spencer groaned. “Oh come on.”

“Choose wisely,” you said.

He grinned and selected PANIC.

His sprite immediately dropped the hard drive and fell over. Pixel-You laughed and picked it up.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to roast you properly. Let’s do this.”

The level ended with both sprites sitting back-to-back at desks, screens glowing, a heart meter flickering quietly in the top corner.

The level ended with a soft chime and a fade to black, the pixel-heart in the corner pulsing slowly. The words “Level Complete” shimmered across the screen in bold gold letters. A tiny sprite of Spencer raised his fist triumphantly, even as real-world Spencer leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the screen.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

You could feel the air shift.

The studio had grown quieter too, as if everyone, even the crew behind the cameras, knew this stream was turning into something else. Something more than just a goofy anniversary bit.

Spencer’s eyes flicked toward you.

“You… remembered all of that,” he said quietly.

You swallowed. “Of course I did.”

A long pause. He looked like he was about to say something, something bigger, but then Shayne shouted from behind the camera, “IS THAT DAMIEN’S ACTUAL GOOGLY EYE CUTOUT?!”

You both broke into laughter, the moment cracking like glass underfoot.

Spencer shook his head, smiling down at the keyboard.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, half to himself.

You leaned forward, chin on his shoulder. “You haven’t even seen the boss fight yet.”

He tilted his head just enough to nudge his temple against yours, a small, quiet thank-you disguised as a gesture.

And then the screen shifted.

A flickering globe icon appeared.

Lightning crackled in pixel form. A choppy, 8-bit remix of a romantic theme underscored the stage, glitchy and distorted like an old VHS.

LEVEL TWO: BUFFERING LOVE 😍

OBJECTIVE: Stay connected across time zones, bad Wi-Fi, and international SIM card meltdowns.

Spencer burst out laughing. “Oh my god. It’s long-distance mode.”

You grinned. “Boss level Wi-Fi trauma.”

His sprite stood on the left of the screen. Pixel-You appeared on the right, backpack slung over one shoulder, coffee in hand, standing in front of a blinking router.

Between them: a broken, crumbling path of platforms, text bubbles, missed calls, lag symbols, and static clouds.

Tip: Connection is not guaranteed. Try anyway.

The chat blew up again.

— STOP THIS IS TOO REAL

— someone give her a writing award

— I once watched that Smosh Games stream where Spencer froze mid-sentence and she texted to say he looked like a concerned goat 🐐

— THIS IS CANON

— this is ACTUALLY beautiful, I’m not joking

Spencer started jumping from platform to platform, dodging:

Floating “Poor Connection” alerts

Flying Wi-Fi ghosts

Glitch walls labeled “Mismatched Time Zones”

A rapidly spinning dial that read “She fell asleep mid call”

“Oh my god, I forgot about that one night where you passed out mid-FaceTime with your laptop open on your chest.”

You covered your face. “I was jetlagged!”

Halfway through, he hit a new mechanic, a Text Message Puzzle, where Pixel-Spencer had to unscramble pre-written phrases to restore the connection:

“Goodnight from here”

“Wish you were closer”

“Still thinking about you”

“Don’t forget to eat”

He matched each correctly.

The connection bar filled.

Your sprite flickered in fully.

Pixel-You ran forward across the screen and collided with Pixel-Spencer just as the stormy backdrop softened into sunrise. They hugged.

The music swelled into a brighter, warmer version of the glitched love theme.

“Some connections take work. But they’re worth it.”

Spencer didn’t say anything this time.

He just stared at the screen, blinking a little too much.

You quietly bumped his foot with yours. “Still with me?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, still looking at the screen:

“…You built all of this for me.”

Your smile was soft now. “Took me three years to find the right engine for the hug mechanic.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes wet. “Of course it did.”

The heart in the top corner pulsed again, just a little brighter than before.

Level Two faded out with soft pixel sparkles and the words “Level Complete” drifting up the screen.

The studio didn’t erupt like it usually did after a successful gameplay segment. There was no bit, no gag, no Shayne screaming from behind the lights.

Just a still, quiet sort of hush.

Spencer leaned back slightly in his chair, a hand coming up to rub at the corner of his eye. Not dramatic, not for show, just reflexive. You sat a little straighter beside him, watching.

Courtney was the first to break the silence. Their voice came through from off-screen, softer than usual.

“Hey… I know we joke a lot but, uh… this is beautiful. Like, actually beautiful.”

Alex nodded from behind the camera. “This is gonna break the internet in the nicest possible way.”

Shayne whispered, far too loud, “If no one proposes by the end of this I’m walking into traffic.”

Spencer snorted, wiping his hand down his face. “Please don’t.”

— I love that everyone just went silent for that

— you know a moment hits when SMOSH goes quiet

— spencer’s eyes are glassy do NOT pan away👀

— she really made a therapy game and handed it to him on their anniversary

— BEST STREAM OF ALL TIME

You reached over, gently bumped your knee against his again. “Wanna take a break, cinnamon ?”

Spencer shook his head once. “Not yet.”

And then he hit continue.

The screen turned dark.

The music changed — stripped down now, a lo-fi piano melody underlined with static and distant echoes, like a song trying to play through a broken speaker.

The level title hovered:

LEVEL THREE: THE BREAKPOINT 💔

OBJECTIVE: Remember what we almost lost.

Spencer exhaled.

“Oh.”

Pixel-Spencer appeared alone, standing in the middle of a rainy pixel city street. Lights blinked in the background. Cars drove by in silence. Every few seconds, thunder rolled in faint flashes.

The sprite didn’t move at first.

The player couldn’t make him.

Instead, text slowly filled the screen, line by line, fragments of a fight.

“You’re not listening.”

“I am listening, you’re just not saying anything real.”

“I can’t do this tonight.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have to.”

Spencer swallowed thickly.

The character finally moved, but only at a slow walk. As he made his way across the side-scrolling city, bits of memory appeared in windows, lit like silent cutscenes:

A flash of you curled up on the couch crying.

Spencer pacing with a phone pressed to his temple.

A text bubble reading “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”

The pixel heart in the corner? Cracked.

You said nothing.

The room said nothing.

Only the chat filled in the silence:

— this one hurts😔

— oh god this is the fight isn’t it

— she turned their lowest point into a game level??

— art. this is ART.

— how did she make sadness feel this beautiful

Spencer’s sprite stopped at a train station. A pop-up message appeared:

You can leave now.

[OPTIONS: STAY | GO]

He hovered.

You could feel the hesitation in him, both on screen and beside you. He didn’t want to get it wrong.

Spencer selected STAY.

The sprite turned around.

The music shifted. Same melody, but warmer, rising through the static like sunrise breaking through fog. As Pixel-Spencer retraced his steps, bits of color returned to the city around him. Faint light in the windows. People walking. Tiny sprouting plants on the sidewalk.

He returned to the apartment.

Pixel-You opened the door.

They stood in silence.

Then, slowly, they reached for each other’s hands.

“We didn’t fix everything that night.”

“But we chose each other anyway.”

The cracked pixel heart pulsed once… then slowly mended.

Level Complete.

Spencer sat perfectly still.

His fingers weren’t even on the keyboard anymore.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He finally turned, voice a little rough. “You remembered all of it. Not just the good.”

You met his eyes. “It wouldn’t be us if I didn’t.”

He nodded.

And then: “Thank you.”

The quiet in the studio deepened. Not awkward, not heavy. Just full. A breath held between beats. The moment right before something gives.

— I’m actually crying what is this😭

— I’ve never felt so emotionally invested in a relationship I’m not even in

— marry her immediately. I’m serious😠

— the narrative design of this game is UNREAL

— Spencer MARRY HER

Then the screen flashed:

Next Level: Pizza Nights & Patch Notes🍕

Press Any Key to Continue

Spencer blinked. Laughed quietly.

“Okay,” he said, voice lighter but still thick with feeling. “I’m emotionally destroyed, and we’re only halfway through.”

You just smiled.

Spencer pressed a key, and the screen faded from black into something softer.

The piano theme from the last level lingered, but now it was lighter, tinged with acoustic guitar and the occasional, playful pluck of strings.

Onscreen, a pixel version of your shared apartment blinked into view.

It was rendered with quiet reverence. There was a pixel couch with a rainbow quilt tossed over the back, a laundry basket half-full in the corner, an open pizza box on the coffee table, a cat curled up on a stack of game discs. Everything glowed faintly, like golden hour through digital glass.

At the top of the screen, the level title appeared:

LEVEL FOUR: PIZZA NIGHTS & PATCH NOTES🍕

OBJECTIVE: Build a home, one night at a time.

Spencer made a soft sound in his throat, not quite a laugh and not quite a sigh.

His sprite appeared at the front door. Pixel-You padded out from the kitchen, hair messy, a controller in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other.

You offered it to him.

He accepted.

— THEY’RE COHABITING IN PIXELS I’M SOBBING

— this is the romcom montage level and I love it

— not the laundry basket 😭 the DETAIL

— she made a whole love letter out of GAME MECHANICS

The level played differently than the others. It was less linear and more exploratory.

Spencer moved from room to room in the apartment, clicking on different interactive elements that triggered cozy memories.

The Couch 🛋️

A cutscene played of the two of you curled up, half-asleep while the TV played something neither of you were really watching. Pixel-You mumbled something like “I’d fight a dragon for you.” Pixel-Spencer replied, “I’d let you. You’re scarier.”

The Kitchen Counter 🍕

A mini-game launched where Spencer had to build a pizza to match your ridiculous order — half mushroom, no olives, extra cheese, crust well-done. Each incorrect topping triggered a disapproving head shake from Pixel-You.

The Computer Desk 💻

The screen shifted into a debugging mini-puzzle where both sprites worked side-by-side, fixing game code and bickering flirtatiously:

“You missed a semicolon.”

“You’re a semicolon.”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

“It’s the tone that matters.”

The Bedroom 🛏️

A quieter moment. Just two sprites sitting on the floor, backs against the bed, looking at a laptop between them.

A single line hovered:

“We’re allowed to be happy, you know.”

As Spencer moved through the space, the pixel heart meter in the corner filled with tiny bursts of color.

The chat, which had been full of weeping moments ago, was now unhinged in the most wholesome way:

— THIS IS DOMESTIC HEALING ❤️‍🩹

— I would die for pixel game night

— the semicolon line got me I’m DONE

— if this was a real game I’d play it once a month just to feel something

— this is what love looks like. she built what love looks like 🥹

Spencer reached the final door of the level, the exit to the hallway, and paused.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “There’s no boss fight?”

“Nope.”

He blinked at you.

You shrugged. “Not every level needs one.”

Spencer stared at the screen for a long moment, and then back at you. Something unsaid flickered behind his eyes.

“I love this level,” he said, voice low and warm.

You smiled. “Me too.”

He pressed a key.

Sometimes, love is just pizza and patch notes and showing up again tomorrow.

Level Complete.

The screen faded, and the studio lights buzzed softly in the quiet between scenes. Spencer turned in his seat and looked at you, really looked at you.

“You made our life into something playable,” he murmured.

You felt your throat tighten. “Is that… weird?”

He shook his head. “It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

The chat was losing its mind again, but you hardly saw it.

Everything felt soft. Golden. Fragile in the best way, like something you didn’t want to breathe on too hard in case it shattered.

Behind the camera, someone sniffled.

Courtney whispered, “If you don’t marry her by the end of this stream, I will.”

Spencer gave a watery laugh. “You might have to fight me for her.”

And with that, the screen blinked again.

The next title card hovered into view:

Next Level: Meeting the Parents (And Surviving It) 🧍🧍‍♀️

Optional Side Quest: Impress Her Dad With Trivia

Spencer groaned.

“Oh no.”

The screen flashed.

A new level title appeared. This time scrawled across the top in bold, pixel-font red, with a dramatic orchestral sting that was definitely too intense for the context.

LEVEL FIVE: MEETING THE PARENTS (AND SURVIVING IT) 🧍🧍‍♀️

OBJECTIVE: Don't say anything weird.

Spencer groaned. “I already hate this.”

You grinned beside him. “This was your actual dialogue the night before.”

The scene opened in a pixel version of a suburban home, the familiar layout replicated with lovingly specific detail. A porch with potted plants. A welcome mat that said “NO SOLICITING (unless it’s for dessert).” A digital family photo over the mantle featuring a pixel-you in braces and a comically large cat.

— PLEASE. NOT THE MAT. — no because I bet her mom actually has that💅 — that cat is photorealistic someone check on her — “don’t say anything weird” LMAO so this level is impossible

Pixel-Spencer stood at the front gate, facing a blinking objective box:

Find a way into her parents’ hearts. Warning: There is no respawn button.

The level kicked off with a split-objective structure:

Main Quest: Survive dinner with her parents

Side Quests:

🟩 Compliment her mom’s lasagna 🟨 Avoid political traps 🟪 Pretend to understand sports 🟧 Impress her dad with trivia

Spencer winced. “I’m gonna die.”

“Be careful,” you said. “There’s a passive-aggressive silence meter.”

He moved cautiously through the entryway, triggering interactions:

👩‍🦰 Pixel-Mom:

“So… you make internet videos?” [OPTIONS: Say yes proudly | Downplay it | Deflect to your girlfriend]

He chose: Say yes proudly. Pixel-Mom nodded, then added, “Hmm. So… no pension?”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered. “That’s exactly what she said.”

You cackled.

🧓 Pixel-Dad:

“What’s your opinion on The Godfather trilogy?” [OPTIONS: Say Part II is best | Say Part I is best | Say you’ve never seen it]

Spencer hovered over “Never seen it.”

You grabbed his wrist.

He gasped. “YOU PUT A TRAP IN.”

“YOU NEVER SAW IT. I HAD TO WARN YOU.”

"I DID RIGHT AFTER THIS!"

He panicked, selected Part II is best.

Pixel-Dad nodded slowly. A +1 floated above his head.

Spencer threw his hands up. “Let’s goooo!”

— the GODFATHER TRAP I’M CRYING — she built a BOSS DAD and gave him OPINIONS — no because this is actually genius game design — HOW DO I PLAY THIS IRL — SPENCER NOT SEEING A MOVIE?! AND IT BEING THE GODFATHER?!😡

In the dining room, the dinner scene was a rhythm mini-game. Spencer had to match dialogue beats and deliver compliments at appropriate times to keep the family’s heart meter from dropping.

It included such iconic moments as:

“Wow, this salad is seasoned perfectly.”

“Your garden gnome collection is charming and not creepy.”

“My daughter talks about you all the time. She adores you.”

The last line caused a spark animation. The pixel heart in the corner glowed golden, and a small cutscene triggered:

Pixel-You reached under the table and squeezed Pixel-Spencer’s hand.

“You’re doing great.”

Back in the studio, Spencer’s hand had gone still on the mouse. He stared at the screen a moment longer than necessary, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

“I was so nervous that night,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you were perfect.”

“Your dad asked me about six different baseball stats and then grilled me on what I’d do if you got a better job across the country.”

“I warned you he was dramatic.”

Spencer chuckled. “He said if I ever broke your heart, he’d do it backwards and with flair.”

“He meant it.”

— I WANT TO MEET HER DAD SO BAD — backwards and with flair 😭 this is the dad of the year — this game is a romcom AND a coming-of-age journey I’m not okay — someone give this woman a job directing emotional indie games immediately — THEY’RE LITERALLY SO IN LOVE STOP

The level ended with the two pixel sprites on the front porch.

Pixel-Dad handed Pixel-Spencer a Tupperware of leftovers and gave a solemn nod.

Pixel-Mom smiled gently and said, “You make her laugh. That’s good.”

The heart meter burst into sparkles.

Love is earned one awkward dinner at a time.

Level Complete.

Spencer leaned back in his chair with a hand over his heart.

“That was somehow more stressful the second time.”

You tilted your head. “You did better this time. You didn’t call my uncle’s dog a ‘tax deduction.’”

“I STAND BY THAT. HE FILED THE DOG UNDER BUSINESS EXPENSES.”

You both burst into laughter as the next level title appeared onscreen:

Next Level: “Couch Cuddles & Code Reviews” 🛋️ Objective: Support her through the burnout. Bonus XP for forehead kisses.

Spencer stared at it, then turned to you slowly.

“Oh. It’s that level, huh?”

You only smiled.

The title card for the next level hovered onscreen, but Spencer didn’t hit continue right away.

The studio had mellowed, the usual Smosh buzz giving way to something quieter. Shayne had long stopped throwing in commentary. Courtney now sat cross-legged on the floor beside the camera rig, watching with chin in hand. Alex had pulled out his phone, not to scroll, but to film the moment, like even he didn’t want to forget it.

Spencer reached up and tugged lightly at the cable on his headset, adjusting it out of habit. His other hand hovered uncertainly near his lap until you gently reached over and laced your fingers through his.

He held on like he needed the anchor.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice low, off-mic.

He looked at you, really looked, and gave a small nod.

“Yeah. I’m just…” He exhaled, almost laughed. “This is the best and most emotionally compromising workday I’ve ever had.”

You smiled. “You’ve survived worse and have inflicted worse. You’ve got this, cinnamon.”

A soft beat.

He squeezed your hand once. “Thank you for making me a whole damn game instead of just writing me a card like a normal person.”

“I tried that,” you said. “It turned into a game design doc after paragraph three.”

He let out a breath of laughter and leaned just enough to rest his shoulder against yours for a second. Just one second. Just long enough to say I love you without saying anything at all.

And then, he pressed the key.

The screen glowed soft orange, sunset hues melting into lavender pixels.

The apartment was back. But this time, it wasn’t lively or buzzing with banter. It was quiet. Still. Cozy in a different way.

The couch sat in the middle of the screen. Blankets piled high. A mug on the side table. One lamp on, casting golden pixel light across the scene.

Pixel-Spencer entered from the right.

Pixel-You was already there, curled up under a blanket, laptop on your knees, expression tired. A progress bar hovered above your head, labeled:

Burnout Level: 87%

— NO — I’M ALREADY CRYING 😭 — THIS LEVEL IS TOO REAL TOO FAST — WHO PUT THE BURNOUT METER — why is this better emotional writing than most movies

Spencer’s hand paused briefly on the mouse.

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t need to.

He clicked forward.

The screen prompted him to Choose a Support Response:

Offer Hot Drink

Suggest a Break

Sit Beside Her in Silence

Tell Her She's Brilliant

He chose Sit Beside Her in Silence.

His sprite sat down.

No music. Just the ambient loop of soft rain on the windows and the occasional keyboard tap.

Then Pixel-Spencer leaned gently against Pixel-You.

A new prompt appeared:

Unlocked Passive Buff: Comforting Presence Burnout Level -10%

Spencer laughed quietly. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

You shrugged, heart full. “You always knew when to just sit with me.”

The level continued with small interactions. Spencer had to navigate subtle “burnout care” mechanics:

🫖 Boil water without setting off smoke alarm 🧺 Find her hoodie (that’s really yours) in the laundry and bring it over 🎮 Offer co-op game night without guilt-tripping 🧠 Remind her of her worth, even when she can’t see it

Each successful action brought your burnout meter down by small increments.

Every once in a while, Pixel-You would look over and smile.

And the heart in the top corner?

It pulsed slow and steady, like breath. Like safety.

At the end of the level, the laptop closed. Pixel-You set it aside. Then curled into Pixel-Spencer’s side on the couch.

The screen zoomed in.

A final bit of dialogue scrolled across the screen:

“You didn’t fix me.” “I didn’t need to.”

Sometimes love is just staying. Just sitting. Just being soft when the world is sharp.

Level Complete.

Spencer swallowed.

He didn’t say anything this time.

He just turned slightly and rested his forehead against your shoulder for a long, steady moment.

The chat lit up again, but neither of you looked.

— THIS IS THE REAL BOSS LEVEL — why is this game slowly putting me back together — they’ve been in love for SO LONG oh my god — I never believed in soulmates until now — he better marry her at the end or we riot

The screen shimmered again.

Next Level: Final Quest – The Big Question❓ The Endgame Begins.

Spencer whispered, “Is this…”

You just smiled, heart racing.

“Go see.”

The studio was silent again. No chaos, no offscreen bits, no commentary.

Just a quiet sort of reverence hanging over everything.

Spencer hadn’t pressed the key yet.

He stared at the new title card on screen. He exhaled slowly, fingers resting just above the keyboard.

You could feel the shift in him.

His expression had changed, softened. That boyish smirk he wore like a shield had cracked somewhere between Level 3 and Level 6, and now something much more vulnerable had taken its place.

His hand lowered.

He turned to you.

“…Is this what I think it is?” he asked softly.

Your mouth went dry.

You nodded, barely.

Spencer’s eyes searched your face for a second, not for confirmation. For readiness. For permission to let himself feel what was coming.

You gave it with a whisper.

“Yeah.”

He looked back at the screen.

Then smiled.

And pressed Enter.

The screen faded in.

This time, there was no UI. No heart meter. No objectives.

Just the pixel moon above a quiet rooftop.

It was stylized to look like the roof of your apartment complex, all crooked vents and string lights and a skyline painted in soft purples and deep navy.

Pixel-Spencer stood alone in the middle of the rooftop, looking out over the city.

Footsteps echoed.

Pixel-You entered from the right, nervous and bouncing slightly on your heels.

The music started.

It wasn’t chip-tune anymore.

It was a real recording, the melody you’d been weaving through the game, now arranged for piano and strings. The theme that had played under every level, now in its final form.

You watched Spencer’s jaw tighten slightly.

He knew it.

The sprites turned to face each other.

A prompt appeared on screen:

FINAL CHOICE: PRESS [E] TO KNEEL

Spencer froze.

The chat erupted:

— OH MY GOD — SHE’S GONNA DO IT — SHE BUILT HER OWN PROPOSAL — SPENCER DON’T CRY I’M NOT STRONG ENOUGH — PRESS E KING 👑

Spencer reached forward, almost reverent.

He hit E.

Pixel-Spencer dropped to one knee. Pixel-You stepped forward, holding out a small, glowing ring.

A text box opened. No options, no dialogue trees.

Just the line:

Spencer Agnew, will you marry me?

Onscreen the music swelled, rich and full and cinematic.

And just then — as Spencer’s hand lifted to his mouth in real life, as the chat exploded in all caps, as the cameras quietly zoomed in — you stood up beside him.

And pulled the ring box from your hoodie pocket.

You dropped to one knee in front of him, heart pounding.

He turned to you, startled and blinking fast.

“Spence,” you said, your voice barely holding steady, “you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re my favorite story, my best player two, the only person I’d ever let see my unfinished builds.”

He laughed, all choked and overwhelmed.

You opened the box.

Inside: a simple, elegant band engraved with tiny binary code that read forever.

“I’ve loved you through crash bugs and pizza burns and creative burnout and weird edit hours and every version of myself,” you said. “So… I made this. Because there was never any other way I wanted to ask.”

You smiled up at him.

“Will you marry me?”

Spencer let out a sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and dropped to his knees with you.

He pulled you into a hug so hard you nearly lost your balance.

“Yes,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

The chat was losing its mind:

— I’M CRYING ON THE FLOOR — THIS IS THE BEST STREAM OF ALL TIME — THE GAME. THE RING. THE PROPOSAL. — HE SAID YES HE SAID YES HE SAID YES — GOD TIER COUPLE — ROLL CREDITS

The final cutscene played quietly behind you, unnoticed by most:

Pixel-Spencer and Pixel-You stood on the rooftop.

The words faded in:

“You were always the quest.”

And beneath that:

Game Complete. 💍 Thank you for playing.

The stream was technically still live.

But no one was watching the screen anymore. Not even the chat, which had broken into an endless flood of crying emojis, marriage memes, and declarations like “this is why I still believe in love.”

Spencer had long since turned off his headset.

The studio crew had given you both space — stepping back with misty eyes and wide, stunned grins, as if they’d witnessed something sacred.

You were still kneeling, forehead against Spencer’s, both of you laughing breathlessly through the aftershock of what had just happened.

Then you heard it.

The credits music.

Soft. Real. Yours.

You pulled back just enough to look up at the screen.

The final scene had faded into a black background with golden scrolling text in the classic game credit style, but written entirely in your voice.

CREATED WITH LOVE BY: Me FOR: Spencer Agnew SPECIAL THANKS TO: — Your incredible hoodies — Every cup of oat milk coffee — The way you hold me when I crash — Every eye roll you tried to hide when I over-scoped the narrative DEDICATED TO: The boy who saw my mess and called it magic. The man who chose me. Bugs, burnout, soft code and all. TO BE CONTINUED…

Spencer blinked hard.

He reached over and tugged you gently into his lap on the floor, your knees curled sideways, his arms around your waist like he couldn’t quite trust the moment to last unless he held onto it.

You rested your head on his shoulder, heart full and aching in the best way.

“I don’t know how to top this,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

“I mean, I will try,” he added. “There will be at least five bouquets and a surprise musical number at our wedding featuring Chanse and Angela.”

You smiled. “As long as you’re in a cape.”

“Oh, I will be in a cape.”

He kissed your temple. “I can’t believe you made a whole damn game just to ask me to marry you.”

“I’d do it again,” you said, eyes soft. “A hundred times.”

And Spencer, voice quiet but sure, said:

“Then let’s build the sequel.”

The game credits faded out behind you.

The screen blinked once.

And then, in soft gold text:

NEW FILE SAVED Forever Unlocked ❤️

#spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh #smosh x reader #youtuber x reader #software engineer

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just-ornstein · 1 year ago

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[JK] My first job was as an Assistant Producer for a video game company called Interplay in Irvine, CA. I had recently graduated from Boston University's School of Fine Arts with an MFA in Directing (I started out as a theatre nerd), but also had some limited coding experience and a passion for computers. It didn't look like I'd be able to make a living directing plays, so I decided to combine entertainment and technology (before it was cool!) and pitched myself to Brian Fargo, Interplay's CEO. He gave me my first break. I packed up and moved out west, and I've been producing games ever since.

[JK] I loved my time at EA. I was there for almost a full decade, and learned a tremendous amount about game-making, and met the most talented and driven people, who I remain in touch with today. EA gave me many opportunities, and never stopped betting on me. I worked on The Sims for nearly 5 years, and then afterwards, I worked on console action games as part of the Visceral studio. I was the Creative Director for the 2007 game "The Simpsons", and was the Executive Producer and Creative Director for the 2009 game "Dante's Inferno".

[JK] I haven't played in a long while, but I do recall that after the game shipped, my wife and I played the retail version for some time -- we created ourselves, and experimented with having a baby ahead of the actual birth of our son (in 2007). Even though I'd been part of the development team, and understood deeply how the simulation worked, I was still continually surprised at how "real" our Sims felt, and how accurate their responses were to having a baby in the house. It really felt like "us"!

Now for some of the development and lore related questions:

[JK] So I ended up in the incredibly fortunate position of creating the shipping neighborhoods for The Sims 2, and recruiting a few teammates to help me as we went along.

Around the same time, we started using the Buy/Build tools to make houses we could save, and also bring them into each new build of the game (correcting for any bugs and incompatibilities). With the import tool, we could load Sims into these houses. In time, this "vanguard QA" process turned into a creative endeavor to define the "saved state" of the neighborhoods we would actually end up shipping with the game.

On playtesting & the leftover sims data on various lots:

Basically, we were in the late stages of development, and the Save Game functionality wasn't quite working. In order to test the game properly, you really needed to have a lot of assets, and a lot of Sims with histories (as if you'd been playing them for weeks) to test out everything the game had to offer. So I started defining a set of characters in a spreadsheet, with all their tuning variables, and worked with engineering to create an importer, so that with each new build, I could essentially "load" a kind of massive saved game, and quickly start playing and testing.

It was fairly organic, and as the game's functionality improved, so did our starter houses and families.

The thought process behind the creation of the iconic three neighborhoods:

I would not say it was particularly planned out ahead of time. We knew we needed a few saved houses to ship with the game; Sims 1, after all, had the Goth house, and Bob Newbie's house. But there wasn't necessarily a clear direction for what the neighborhood would be for Sims 2. We needed the game to be far enough along, so that the neighborhood could be a proper showcase for all the features in the game. With each new feature that turned alpha, I had a new tool in my toolbox, and I could expand the houses and families I was working on. Once we had the multi-neighborhood functionality, I decided we would not just have 1 starter neighborhood, but 3. With the Aging feature, Memories, a few wacky objects, plus a huge catalog of architectural and decorative content, I felt we had enough material for 3 truly distinct neighborhoods. And we added a couple of people to what became the "Neighborhood Team" around that time.

Later, when we created Strangetown, and eventually Veronaville, I believe we went back and changed Pleasantville to Pleasantview... because I liked the alliteration of "Verona-Ville", and there was no sense in having two "villes". (To this day, by the way, I still don't know whether to capitalize the "V" -- this was hotly debated at the time!)

Pleasantview:

Anyway, to answer your question, we of course started with Pleasantview. As I recall, we were not quite committed to multiple neighborhoods at first, and I think it was called Pleasantville initially, which was kind of a nod to Simsville... but without calling it Simsville, which was a little too on the nose. (There had also been an ill-fated game in development at Maxis at the time, called SimsVille, which was cancelled.) It's been suggested that Pleasantville referred to the movie, but I don't think I ever saw that movie, and we just felt that Pleasantville kind of captured the feeling of the game, and the relaxing, simple, idyllic world of the Sims.

Pleasantview started as a place to capture the aging feature, which was all new to The Sims 2. We knew we had toddlers, teens, and elders to play with, so we started making families that reflected the various stages of family life: the single mom with 3 young kids, the parents with two teens, the old rich guy with two young gold-diggers, etc. We also had a much greater variety of ethnicity to play with than Sims 1, and we had all new variables like sexual orientation and memories. All these things made for rich fodder for a great diversity of families. Then, once we had family trees, and tombstones that carried the actual data for the dead Sims, the doors really blew open. We started asking ourselves, "What if Bella and Mortimer Goth could be characters in Sims 2, but aged 25 years? And what if Cassandra is grown up? And what if Bella is actually missing, and that could be a fun mystery hanging over the whole game?" And then finally the "Big Life Moments" went into the game -- like weddings and birthdays -- and we could sort of tee these up in the Save Game, so that they would happen within the first few minutes of playing the families. This served both as a tutorial for the features, but also a great story-telling device.

Anyway, it all just flowed from there, as we started creating connections between families, relationships, histories, family trees, and stories that we could weave into the game, using only the simulation features that were available to us. It was a really fun and creative time, and we wrote all of the lore of Sims 2 within a couple of months, and then just brought it to life in the game.

Strangetown:

Strangetown was kind of a no-brainer. We needed an alternate neighborhood for all the paranormal stuff the Sims was known for: alien abduction, male pregnancy, science experiments, ghosts, etc. We had the desert terrain, which created a nice contrast to the lush Pleasantville, and gave it an obvious Area 51 vibe.

The fact that Veronaville is the oldest file probably reflects the fact that it was finished first, not that it was started first. That's my guess anyway. It was the simplest neighborhood, in many ways, and didn't have as much complexity in terms of features like staged big life moments, getting the abduction timing right, the alien DNA thing (which I think was somewhat buggy up until the end), etc. So it's possible that we simply had Veronaville "in the can", while we put the last polish on Pleasantville (which was the first and most important neighborhood, in terms of making a good impression) and Strangeville (which was tricky technically).

Veronaville:

But my personal favorite was Veronaville. We had this cool Tudor style collection in the Build mode catalog, and I wanted to ship some houses that showed off those assets. We also had the teen thing going on in the aging game, plus a lot of romance features, as well as enemies. I have always been a Shakespeare buff since graduate school, so putting all that together, I got the idea that our third neighborhood should be a modern-day telling of the Romeo and Juliet story. It was Montys and Capps (instead of Montagues and Capulets), and it just kind of wrote itself. We had fun creating the past family trees, where everyone had died young because they kept killing each other off in the ongoing vendetta.

[JK] You know, I have never seen The Lone Gunmen, and I don't remember making any kind of direct references with the Strangetown Sims, other than the general Area 51 theme, as you point out. Charles London helped out a lot with naming Sims, and I'm pretty sure we owe "Vidcund" and "Lazlo" to him ... though many team members pitched in creatively. He may have had something in mind, but for me, I largely went off of very generic and stereotypical ideas when crafting these neighborhoods. I kind of wanted them to be almost "groaners" ... they were meant to be tropes in every sense of the word. And then we snuck in some easter eggs. But largely, we were trying to create a completely original lore.

[JK] Well, I think we kind of pushed it with The Sims 2, to be honest, and I remember getting a little blow-back about Bunny Broke, for example. Bunny Broke was the original name for Brandi Broke. Not everyone found that funny, as I recall, and I can understand that. It must have been changed before we shipped.

We also almost shipped the first outwardly gay Sims in those neighborhoods, which was bold for EA back in 2004. My recollection was that we had set up the Dreamers to be gay (Dirk and Darren), but I'm looking back now and see that's not the case. So I'm either remembering incorrectly (probably) or something changed during development.

In general we just did things that we found funny and clever, and we just pulled from all the tropes of American life.

[JK] The alien abduction started in Sims 1, with a telescope object that was introduced in the "Livin' Large" expansion pack. That's when some of the wackier ideas got introduced into the Sims lore. That pack shipped just before I joined Maxis in 2001; when I got there, the team had shipped "House Party" and was underway on "Hot Date". So I couldn't tell you how the original idea came about, but The Sims had this 50's Americana vibe from the beginning, and UFOs kind of played right into that. So the alien abduction telescope was a no-brainer to bring back in Sims 2. The male pregnancy was a new twist on the Sims 1 telescope thing. It must have been that the new version (Sims 2) gave us the tech and flexibility to have male Sims become pregnant, so while this was turned "off" for the core game, we decided to take advantage of this and make a storyline out of it. I think this really grew out of the fact that we had aliens, and alien DNA, and so it was not complicated to pre-bake a baby that would come out as an alien when born. The idea of a bunch of guys living together, and then one gets abducted, impregnated, and then gives birth to an alien baby ... I mean, I think we just all thought that was hilarious, in a sit-com kind of way. Not sure there was much more to it than that. Everything usually came from the designers discovering ways to tweak and play with the tech, to get to funny outcomes.

[JK] Possibly we were just testing the functionality of the Wants/Fears and Memories systems throughout development, and some stuff got left over.

[JK] I can't remember, but that sounds like something we would have done! I'm pretty sure we laid the groundwork for more stories that we ended up delivering :) But The Sims 2 was a great foundation for a lot of continued lore that followed.

I once again want to thank Jonathan Knight for granting me this opportunity and taking the time from his busy schedule to answer my questions.

#BURNING LORE QUESTIONS FINALLY ANSWERED!! :D #the sims 2 #ts2 #sims 2 #ea games #ea #electronic arts #sims #the sims #strangetown #veronaville #pleasantview #jonathan knight interview #the sims 2 development #sims 2 development #sims 2 beta #I'm so glad I got this opportunity man.

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babyarmywrites · 2 months ago

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never be like you - bang chan

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

Word count: 10k

Warnings: none, I think?

Enjoy!

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creative Director — one of the youngest in the company.

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

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

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

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

He’s your best friend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m ten seconds late.”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “It’s not about trains.”

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

“You added those in post.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chokes on his own coffee.

You smirk, victorious.

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

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

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

She’d heard the stories.

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

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

So, yeah. She was a little terrified.

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

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

She paused at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Jeongin asked, blinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three of them answered at once:

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

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

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

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

The building was quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am home,” he muttered.

“Chan.”

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

“You said that an hour ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just Chris.

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

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

“No.”

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is everything okay?”

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

“…Doing what again?”

“The thing.”

“What thing, Jisung?”

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were out the door in under ten minutes.

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

You knocked.

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

You opened the door—and immediately paused.

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, a little what it looks like.”

“Jesus, Chan.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Chris.”

“Yes?”

“Did you eat today?”

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

You raised a brow.

“…Okay, no.”

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

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

“You need supervision.”

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

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

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

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

“Apparently, I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Your fingers trembled slightly as you sent a quick message, the warmth of the wine making your words a little looser than usual.

You Hey… you awake?

Chris♥️ Always. What’s up?

You Just… had a little wine. Might be feeling a bit buzzed. But don’t worry, I’m fine.

Chris♥️ Buzzed, huh? That sounds like trouble.

You I’m a responsible adult, I swear.

Chris♥️ Sure, and I’m a unicorn. Come on, you don’t have to pretend. You sound exactly like you after a glass or three.

You Okay, maybe three. But I’m good. Promise.

Chris♥️ Good or not, do you want me to come get you? Or at least stay on the phone until you’re safe?

You I’m okay, really. Just… buzzed enough to text you random stuff.

Chris♥️ That’s what worries me.

You shifted on the couch, laughter still ringing from your friends around you, but your eyes were fixed on the screen. The noise of the girls’ chatter softened at the edges as your mind floated to the familiar warmth in Chris’s messages. You hated feeling vulnerable, hated the idea of needing someone—but his steady presence was a quiet comfort, a lifeline you didn’t realize you needed so much.

The night stretched on, and soon enough, a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. There he was—Chris, quietly standing with that familiar worried smile, ready to make sure you got home safely. In the chaos of deadlines, meetings, and your self-imposed armor, he was the calm you could always count on. Maybe one day, you’d be brave enough to tell him exactly that.

You were too buzzed to notice, but Chris saw how all the girls shared a knowing look upon his arrival. He greeted everyone tenderly, considering the girls were his brothers' significant others, he tried to keep as close to them as possible, without ever intruding. However, he couldn't really decipher the suggestive eyebrow raises or cheeky winks sent towards him over your shoulder as you hugged everyone goodbye.

The ride home was quiet, the city lights blurring past the windows as you nestled into the passenger seat, your head heavy with tiredness—and maybe the wine, too. Your eyes fluttered shut before long, surrendering to the pull of sleep.

Chris glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, his heart squeezing softly at the sight. You looked so peaceful—soft features relaxed, breathing steady and calm. The world slowed down around him in that moment, and all the noise and stress of his endless schedule faded away.

He thought about how often you were the opposite—busy, always moving, juggling a million things at once. But right now, in this small, quiet space, you were just… you. Unguarded. Vulnerable. And breathtaking.

There was something about the way you trusted him so fully, letting go enough to fall asleep beside him. It made him feel honored, like you were letting him hold a piece of your world no one else saw. That fragile quiet filled him with a warmth he couldn’t explain, a tenderness that made his chest ache in the best way.

He reached over carefully, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for a moment on your cheek. If only you knew how deeply fond he was of you—how every small gesture, every laugh, every late-night conversation stitched you closer into the fabric of his heart.

Tonight, he promised himself, he’d just be here. Quiet. Present. Grateful for this moment.

Because loving you—however quietly—was the most real thing he’d ever known.

The dressing room buzzed with restless energy, but the mood was far from lighthearted. Beneath the surface, tension rippled through the group—subtle shifts, hesitant movements, and uneasy glances that betrayed discomfort.

Chan stood by the door, trying to keep the peace, his voice calm but strained. “Please, let’s remove the tape on Jisung’s tattoos. He’s clearly uncomfortable.”

The stylist gave a polite nod but didn’t make any real move to fix it.

Across the room, Changbin tugged at a rough, scratchy shirt, biting back a grimace. “I’m allergic to this fabric,” he muttered, voice low but edged with frustration.

Then, almost like salt in a wound, a staff member handed Minho a compression shirt, smirking as they said, “Here, this one should fit better—you’ve gained too much weight lately.”

Chan’s eyes flickered with disbelief and something sharper—hurt, maybe. The words hung in the air, heavy and cutting.

He continued to try, his tone measured but growing firmer, “Everyone deserves to be comfortable. Please listen to the members.”

But his words seemed to vanish into the background noise as the staff ignored his requests, their dismissive attitudes making the room heavier.

And then the door swung open.

You stepped in, all business and steel-clad determination, the kind of presence that instantly demanded attention. The chatter died down to a hush. Chan watched you, admiration blooming quietly but fiercely inside him. You scanned the room with a steady gaze—sharp, unyielding, utterly confident.

“What’s going on here?” Your voice was cool but resolute, cutting through the tension like a blade.

Chan’s chest tightened as relief and respect washed over him. Watching you take charge reminded him why he trusted you so completely.

In that moment, he thought about you—your unbreakable character, the way you carried yourself with quiet, unwavering confidence. You never compromised your principles, never faltered when it came to protecting those you cared about. Your vision for the group’s comfort and well-being wasn’t just a job—it was a passion, a fierce dedication that inspired everyone around you.

He admired how you stood up without hesitation, how your belief in respect and kindness was absolute. You moved through the room with purpose, addressing the stylists directly, your voice steady and firm.

“I don’t care how you’ve done things before,” you said, eyes locked on theirs. “Making the members uncomfortable isn’t acceptable. Jisung’s tattoos aren’t a problem to ‘fix.’ Changbin’s allergy isn’t a fashion statement. And Minho deserves respect—no one talks to him like that.”

The stylists exchanged uneasy looks, suddenly aware that their usual arrogance wasn’t welcome here. You held their attention with the kind of authority that came from years of knowing exactly who you were—and what you would stand for.

“Adjust everything immediately, or I’ll find someone who will. This stops now.”

“Thank you,” Chan said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His tired eyes met yours, filled with a rare vulnerability. “I tried to tell them to change whatever needed to be changed, but no one listened. Sometimes I'm just too polite to get my point across.”

You softened, the sharp edge of your professional armor slipping just for a moment. The weight of the day faded away as you took a small step closer. Gently, you reached up and ran your hand through his hair—the familiar curls now tamed, smoothed down by the stylists.

“I was actually imagining you leaving your hair naturally curly for this comeback,” you murmured, your fingers lingering in the strands. “But I guess the staff straightened it anyway.”

Chan’s lips curved into a sheepish smile. “That was my call,” he admitted quietly. “I thought people liked the straightened look better.”

You shook your head, a small laugh escaping. “No way. Everyone thinks you’re way hotter with your curls. Fans go crazy for it.”

His eyes twinkled with something like relief, maybe even gratitude. For a brief moment, the chaos around you both dissolved—there was just the two of you, quiet and intertwined. In the middle of the dressing room frenzy, it felt like the only place that truly mattered was the connection shared between the two of you.

The studio feels unusually quiet this afternoon. The usual buzz has softened to a gentle hum, like the calm before a storm. The others are busy with their last preparations for the Japan trip, but you sit still, fingers hovering over your laptop, words caught somewhere between your mind and the screen.

Chan looks your way, hopeful but cautious. “You’re coming with us, right?”

His question is simple, but it carries more weight than you can say. Your heart twists painfully at the thought.

You want to go with them. You want to be there, beside him. But your feelings for him are getting tangled, overwhelming — and you’re scared what might happen if you don’t keep some distance. You need to protect yourself.

You shake your head gently. “I think I’m going to stay in Seoul this time.”

Chan’s eyes widen for a moment — surprise, confusion, maybe even a flicker of hurt, quickly masked. “Oh. Okay.”

He wonders why you’re staying behind.

Does she not want to be with me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t want to lose her — she’s the one person I can always count on. But maybe I’m too much, or maybe I’m not enough.

You avoid his gaze, your heart pounding. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just… need some space.”

Chan tries to decipher what those words really mean.

Space? Does she mean distance? Or something else? Does she even feel the way I do?

The room suddenly feels colder, heavier.

Chan swallows and forces a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. If that’s what you need.”

I want to reach out, to tell her everything — how I feel, how scared I am of losing her — but I’m too afraid. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if I ruin this?

You watch him quietly, your carefully held walls starting to crumble.

He deserves to know. He deserves to hear that you care, that the space you need isn’t because you want to leave him behind, but because you need time to sort through feelings that overwhelm you.

But the words stay locked inside.

As Chan zips his bag, the silence between you grows heavier — fragile and full of unspoken things neither of you dares to voice.

You both sit there, two hearts aching quietly, afraid to cross the line into the unknown. You stand up, gathering your things slowly, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air. Chan watches you, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he wants to reach out but holds back. Before you walk away, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“Hey… if you change your mind, just text me. I'll pay for your flight and all,”

You turn, catching the sincerity in his eyes — a soft, vulnerable light that you don’t often get to see. Your chest tightens. Without thinking, your hand brushes lightly against his arm. It’s a small touch, almost hesitant, but it sends warmth rushing through you both. Chan’s breath catches. For a heartbeat, the distance between you feels smaller, less certain. You give him a shaky smile. Finally, he pulls you into a warm embrace, one that feels like home. He's renowned for his hugs; his muscular arms feel safe and calming as they encircle you, and as you're surrounded by his sweet vanilla scent, it becomes harder and harder to keep your distance.

“Thank you, Chris.”

He nods, fighting the urge to hold you there a little longer.

As you leave the studio, your heart aches — filled with hope and fear tangled together, knowing that maybe, just maybe, this fragile moment is the start of something neither of you dared to say out loud.

The day had been relentless for Chris—hours packed with rehearsals, last-minute adjustments, and the stress of their TV showcase looming large. Every little detail needed to be perfect, and the weight of it pressed down on him heavier than he expected. It's always difficult for him to manage all this chaos without having you there. By the time he finally got back to his hotel room, his mind was still racing, the exhaustion in his body nowhere near enough to quiet his thoughts.

He stared at the ceiling, the buzzing of his phone beside him offering a small comfort. Without really thinking, he swiped it awake and dialed the one person he knew would calm the storm in his chest.

You answered on the second ring, your voice sleepy but warm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Chris said, voice a little rough. “Long day… couldn’t sleep.”

You yawned softly. “Same here. What’s on your mind?”

He let out a tired chuckle. “Everything and nothing. The showcase prep is driving me crazy. The kids are great, but the pressure… you know.”

You listened quietly, the calm steadiness of your voice smoothing the edges of his tension. “You always manage to hold it together, Chris.”

“Only because I have you to remind me to breathe,” he said, and the sincerity in his tone made your heart skip.

For a while, the two of you just talked — quiet, easy conversation about silly things and shared memories, letting the comfort of each other’s presence work its magic. The city’s distant noises faded away, replaced by the soft intimacy of the call.

“I’m really glad you picked up,” Chris whispered.

“Me too,” you answered, your eyes closing as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you.

“Hey, promise me you’ll get some sleep tonight?”

“I promise,” you said.

A long pause. Then, his voice, softer now. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

“Goodnight, Chris.”

The phone slipped from your hand as sleep finally took you, the quiet sound of Chris’s even breathing the last thing you heard before drifting off.

As soon as he got back, you were over at his place. He didn't even get to unpack, which for a meticulously clean and organized person like him was equal to hell, but he wanted you there as soon as it was possible. He dialed your number from the airport shuttle, begging to see you. And you can't say no to Chan. It's impossible. And he knows.

The apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal, Chris moving around the kitchen with practiced ease. You admired the way he handled the pans and spices — precise, confident, and calm. Unlike his usual self-consciousness in public, here he was in his element, effortlessly creating something delicious. You slipped in to help, chopping vegetables or stirring sauces, your laughter blending with the soft music he’d put on.

When Jeongin and his girlfriend arrived, the atmosphere shifted to playful and lighthearted. Jeongin’s grin was impossible to miss.

“Double date vibes tonight, huh?” he teased, elbowing his girlfriend with a sly smile.

You and Chris exchanged quick, shy glances. Both of you turned a shade of pink, feeling that familiar mix of warmth and awkwardness as Jeongin’s joke hit right where it counted. You laughed nervously, trying to play it cool, but the teasing was relentless — and honestly, it just made the evening feel more special.

After they left, the night settled into quiet comfort. You and Chris retreated to his room — his sanctuary, a place full of soft lighting, scattered notebooks, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of coffee from his late-night sessions.

You settled into the familiar nest of blankets and pillows on his bed, limbs entwined like you always did. The world outside faded away. His hand found yours, fingers curling around yours with that gentle, grounding pressure that made your heart beat a little slower.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, lulling you to sleep. He slowly leaned in, sure that you were already floating in dreamland, pressing a little kiss to your forehead. His voice was low, hesitant but filled with something you’d longed to hear.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, so soft that you barely heard it.

Your breath caught — a smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t say anything, you knew he didn't mean for you to hear his quiet confession, so you stayed put. Nuzzled into his chest. The silence wrapped around you both like a tender promise.

And as you drifted off to sleep, still tangled in each other’s arms, you felt a warmth settle deep inside — the quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone in feeling this way after all.

You lie there, feeling his heartbeat slow and steady next to you, and the quiet weight of his words resting softly on your skin. It’s everything you didn’t dare say out loud, and suddenly everything feels both fragile and certain at once.

You want to tell him that you’ve been afraid — afraid of losing this, afraid of hoping too much, afraid of how much you care. But right now, words feel unnecessary. You just want to stay here, wrapped up in the warmth of him, and believe that maybe, this could be the start of something real.

You don’t know what tomorrow holds, but for the first time in a long time, you feel brave enough to let the possibility in. Maybe love doesn’t have to be scary. Maybe it can be this quiet, steady, and soft. Maybe it’s already here.

You Hey, did you actually eat today or are you surviving on caffeine and sheer willpower again?

Chan♥️ Haha, I had a sandwich. Barely counts, I know. But don’t worry, I’m not turning into a walking skeleton yet.

You Barely counts? Chris, you’re supposed to be the leader, not a starving artist. I swear, if I see you at the studio looking like you’ve forgotten how to human, I’m dragging you out for food myself.

Chan♥️ Deal. Speaking of dragging, when can we schedule that meeting to go over the tour details? I need your magic on this.

You How about Thursday afternoon? I’ll bring snacks as a bribe.

Chan♥️ Thursday it is. You bring snacks, I’ll bring the caffeine. Perfect.

You Also, have you noticed Changbin’s been acting weird lately? Like, seriously weird?

Chan♥️ Haha, you mean the way he stares at the new personal chef like she hung the stars? I caught him trying to “accidentally” get into the kitchen more than once.

You Right?! I’m pretty sure he’s got a crush. This is going to be interesting…

Chan♥️ Oh man, imagine the chaos. Should we start placing bets on how long before he actually talks to her?

You You’re on. But if he messes it up, I’m blaming you for not coaching him properly.

Chan♥️ Fair enough. Guess I better start my mentorship duties early.

You knew he hadn’t eaten properly all day. You saw the way his eyes were a little tired, how his movements had the usual restless energy but lacked the usual spark. So, you did what you always did—showed up at the studio, determined to drag him away from his work.

When you slipped into the control room, Chris was hunched over the mixer, headphones around his neck, completely absorbed. You cleared your throat softly, and he looked up, surprised but relieved in equal measure.

“Hey,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “Come on. You’re not finishing that without food. I’m taking you out.”

He hesitated for a moment, that familiar crease between his brows, but then he gave a small, grateful smile. “You’re relentless.”

You took his hand—a quick, familiar squeeze—and led him out before he could say no. The city lights blurred past the windows as you drove to a quiet little restaurant you both liked. The kind of place where the lighting was soft, and the music was just low enough to hear your own thoughts.

Chris was different here, relaxed. He pulled out your chair with a gentleman’s ease, ordered your favorite dishes without asking, and laughed softly at your jokes—those little things that made his presence feel like home.

You watched him across the table, the way his eyes caught the candlelight, the easy warmth in his smile. It stirred something deep inside you. A flutter of hope mixed with the fear that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just friendship anymore.

You wanted to reach out, to tell him all the thoughts swirling in your mind—the late nights you spent wondering if he felt the same, the quiet moments you replayed where maybe he was sending signs you missed. But you stayed silent, because saying it aloud felt too fragile, too risky.

Chris caught your gaze, and there was something in his eyes—a flicker of the same hesitation, the same unspoken yearning.

The conversation drifted softly, filled with comfortable silences and light teasing. Neither of you rushed to cross the invisible line, but the space between you was charged with all the things you weren’t saying.

When you finally left the restaurant, the night air cool against your skin, Chris slipped his hand into yours without hesitation. It was a small, simple gesture, but it said everything neither of you dared to speak.

And as you walked side by side, your heart thrumming with a nervous hope, you realized—this was real. And it was terrifying.

But somehow, you didn’t want to look away.

Chris stepped back into the studio, the familiar hum of equipment greeting him like an old friend. He barely had time to drop his bag before Han and Changbin were all over him like a storm.

“So? How was the dinner? Did you finally say it? Spill the tea, hyung!” Jisung practically bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes shining with excitement. “You’ve been dragging this out forever, man! She’s perfect for you, you know that, right?”

Chris sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to dodge the barrage. “I didn’t say anything, okay? It was just dinner.”

“Just dinner?!” Han threw his hands up dramatically. “Hyung, that’s like the first step to confessing! You’ve got to put the moves on her, make her see that you’re the one!”

Changbin, who’d been silently watching the exchange, finally stepped in with his trademark calm tone. “Han-ah, maybe ease up a bit. Channie hyung, listen—if you’re scared or unsure, that’s normal. But you don’t have to rush it. Just be honest. Start small. Show her you care, and when the time feels right, tell her.”

Chris looked between the two, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the pressure. Jisung was a hurricane of energy and encouragement, sure—but Changbin’s steady voice made more sense.

“I know. It’s just… hard,” Chris admitted quietly. “I don’t want to mess this up. She means too much to me.”

Han clapped him on the shoulder so hard Chris nearly stumbled. “Then stop overthinking and just go for it! We’ve got your back, hyung.”

Changbin nodded firmly. “We do. And no matter what happens, you’ve got us.”

Chris let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. With friends like these—some chaotic, some calm—maybe he wasn’t so alone in this after all.

The rest of the group was glued to the karaoke machine, belting out pop hits with that mix of enthusiasm and off-key charm only close friends could appreciate. The room was alive with laughter and music, but you had slipped away to a quieter corner with Hyunjin, Flower Girl, Jeongin, and his girlfriend.

The soft clink of glasses punctuated the hum of conversation as the girls leaned in, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“So,” Flower Girl teased, swirling her drink, “You called someone your ‘one true love’ on girl’s night. We need details. Who is he? What’s going on?”

Jeongin’s girlfriend grinned, adding, “Yeah, spill it! Any advances? Is he making moves or what?”

Hyunjin was already dramatizing the moment, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. “Come on, this is a moment worthy of a drama. Does he know he’s won your heart? Has he confessed yet, or are you torturing him like the dramatic lead you are?”

You laughed softly, feeling a little warm from the wine and the company. “Maybe things have been… different lately,” you said, eyes darting around just enough to keep them guessing.

The girls exchanged knowing looks, ready to pry more, but before they could launch into another round of questions, Chan appeared.

His eyes were a little glassy, and a goofy grin spread across his face as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close with affectionate familiarity. “Hey, no leaving me alone, okay?” His voice was low, slightly slurred but full of warmth.

You leaned into his embrace, the buzz in your head settling into a calm comfort. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.

Hyunjin gasped theatrically, clutching Flower Girl’s arm. “Well, there’s your answer, ladies! The clingy best friend has arrived!”

Jeongin rolled his eyes but grinned. “It’s about time.”

You glanced up at Chan, who was looking at you with a softness that made your heart flutter and your worries melt away, at least for the moment. Chan tightened his hold on you, but the teasing from the girls was relentless.

“Hey, Chris,” Flower Girl said with a sly smile, “You do know noona’s been calling someone her ‘one true love’ at girl’s night, right?”

Jeongin chuckled, nudging Chan’s side. “Yeah, we’re all trying to figure out who this mystery guy is. It’s like a secret mission for us.”

Chan’s smile faltered for the barest moment. His buzzed brain knew better than to get upset. He didn’t have the right to be jealous — not when you hadn’t said anything, hadn’t given him a sign. Still, a flicker of something like possessiveness tightened in his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Chan said, voice a little rougher than usual but carefully calm, “I’m not worried. Whoever he is, he better be worth it.”

You caught the shadow in his eyes and squeezed his hand softly. “No one else compares.”

The girls exchanged amused glances, clearly loving the low-key tension.

Hyunjin smirked. “Aw, poor Channie hyung. So sweet, but so defeated.”

Jeongin laughed. “Don’t worry, hyung. You’re not losing noona just yet.”

Chan just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, though inside he was quietly fighting down a storm of hope and fear — the same storm you were feeling.

The night air was cool and soft as Chan wrapped his jacket around your shoulders, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You walked side by side down the quiet streets, the buzz of the party fading behind you like a distant memory.

He was quieter now, the confident teasing replaced by a gentle protectiveness that made your heart flutter. You could feel his warmth, steady and reassuring, as you both navigated the dimly lit sidewalks.

At your doorstep, he hesitated, eyes searching yours like he was looking for permission without words. You leaned into him, still a little tipsy, your breath catching as he pulled you closer.

Without any grand confession, just a simple, heartfelt murmur, he whispered, “I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

That was all it took.

Before either of you could overthink it, his lips found yours—soft, a little shaky, but full of everything he hadn’t said aloud. You melted into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair, the world shrinking until it was just the two of you in the quiet night.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “Goodnight,” he whispered, voice thick with feeling.

And just like that, everything changed—though neither of you quite knew it yet.

The studio was quiet, the usual hum of equipment softened by the early morning calm. You arrived early, clutching your tablet filled with notes and schedules, ready to dive into the day’s agenda. Chan was already there, leaning against the desk with his usual relaxed smile, but there was something different in his eyes today — a flicker of something unsettled.

“Hey,” he said, voice low but steady. “Can we talk about last night?”

You glanced up, offering a polite smile but immediately returning to your notes. “I’d love to, Chris, but we have the new tour timelines to finalize, and the creative direction for the lighting effects still needs your input.”

He stepped closer, hopeful. “I mean—us. What happened.”

You nodded, voice clipped but careful, “Right now, I’m focused on ensuring the choreography cues sync perfectly with the stage design. I think if we prioritize that, the rest will fall into place.”

Chan’s expression faltered, his smile tightening. “You’re dodging me.”

“Not at all.” You tapped on your tablet, scrolling. “I’m just being responsible. The boys need us to be sharp. We’ll get to personal stuff later, okay?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor. When none came, he took a step back.

“Fine,” he said quietly, hurt clear in his voice. “Guess I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, leaving a silence heavier than any words. You sat there, heart pounding, guilt settling in even as you tried to bury it under the weight of your work.

You watch him walk away, your chest tight. You tell yourself it’s just about work—staying professional is the only way to keep things from spiraling out of control. But deep down, the ache is undeniable. You’ve been protecting yourself, building walls because these feelings scare you more than you want to admit. Could you handle the possibility of losing him as more than a friend?

Chan’s footsteps fade down the hall, but in his mind, the moment replays over and over.

She won’t talk to me. She’s shutting me out. The frustration twists in his gut, but underneath it all, there’s a small flame of hope. Maybe you're scared too. Maybe you just don’t know how to say what you feel.

He thinks about how carefully you always carry your heart, how you put on that strong, unbreakable front like a shield. But to him, that isn’t weakness—it’s a kind of bravery. And it makes him want to protect you even more.

I can’t give up on her—not now.

Back at your desk, you force your focus back to the glowing screen, but your mind is tangled in “what ifs.” What if you’d been softer? What if you’d let yourself be vulnerable? But the fear of crossing that line, of exposing yourself to pain, keeps you locked in your professional shell.

You take a deep breath. Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll try again.

Your inbox dings just as you wrap up your work. You open the email from Chris, expecting the usual files for the comeback lighting setup. But then you see it—a whole folder attached, titled with your name.

Curious, you click it open. Inside are dozens of raw, unpolished demos—all love songs. Written by Chris himself. Songs he’d never meant anyone to hear yet, especially not you.

Across town, Chris’s phone buzzes urgently. It’s Jisung's girlfriend, the PR manager of Stray Kids.

“Hey, Chris, quick question,” she says, trying to keep her voice professional but with a hint of amusement. “Did you mean to send some files just now? Because there’s a folder attached with—uh—noona's name on it. I was included on the email thread, so I saw it.”

Chris freezes, confusion twisting into panic. “Wait, what? I didn’t send anything like that. Which folder?”

She chuckles. “The one titled with your Creative Director’s name. That one.”

Chris’s breath hitches. His mind races. “No, no, that can’t be right. That was not supposed to go out. I—I don’t even remember attaching that.”

Chan hears Jisung's voice on the other side of the call, in full teasing mode.

“Dude! You seriously sent your secret love song folder? The one you never share with anyone?! Man, you’re so busted!”

Chris runs a hand through his hair, heart pounding in his chest.

“Yeah… I’m officially doomed.”

Chris was already halfway across the city when his phone buzzed with your message: “I’m at the studio. We need to talk.” Panic clawed at his chest, his mind spinning out of control. He couldn’t let you listen to those songs. Not like this. Not now.

When he burst into the studio, he found you there—sitting quietly in his chair, headphones on, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating your face. One by one, the songs played, each one carrying the weight of his most hidden feelings.

His voice stumbled out, frantic and breathless. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. None of this was supposed to happen. The kiss—me sending those songs—it was all a mistake.”

You slowly took off the headphones, your eyes shining with unshed tears, voice trembling but steady. “Was it really a mistake? Do you mean any of those things you wrote in those songs?”

Chris hesitated, heart breaking at the sight of your fragile expression, the quiet sadness that clung to you like a second skin. But instead of softening, his frustration boiled over.

“No, you’re not the one who should be sad,” he snapped, voice rising. “You still have your one true love out there, you said so yourself. You're the one who didn't want to talk about our kiss in the first place, probably because of him. You’re the one who gets to be happy with someone else after this, while I lose my best friend and the love of my life at the same time.”

His words hit like a slap. Your breath caught. Your voice cracked with fury and heartbreak as tears spilled down your cheeks. “That’s you, you absolute idiot! It’s always been you, Christopher! Ever since you snuck me food during our trainee days, I’ve been in love with you. You're the one I was talking about that night, you're my one true love.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of your confession hanging between you. Chris’s eyes softened, searching yours, finally understanding just how long and how deeply this had been brewing inside you both.

Chris's breath hitched, eyes wide with disbelief and an overwhelming rush of happiness. The weight of years—of silence, of hiding—seemed to lift all at once. His heart pounded louder than ever before, as if finally free to beat without restraint.

Without thinking twice, he closed the small gap between you in one swift step. His hands reached up to cup your face gently but urgently, trembling just a little. And then, without hesitation, he pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was fierce and full of everything he’d been too scared to say—the longing, the fear, the hope, and the unshakable love that had quietly grown between you all along.

You melted into him, your hands threading through his hair, grounding him. Time blurred. The noise of the world faded away until there was only this—only the warmth of his lips, the steady beat of his heart matching yours.

Chris pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own shining with relief and something raw—vulnerability mixed with hope.

“I’ve loved you for so long,” he whispered, voice trembling but steady. “Since those trainee days when I’d sneak you food because I didn’t want you to go hungry. Since every time I stayed up late, not just because of work, but because I was thinking about you. I was scared—scared you didn’t feel the same, scared I’d lose the best thing I’ve ever had if I said anything. But I can’t hide it anymore. You are the one I want. You’ve always been the one.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek as if memorizing your face. “You’re my person. My home. I’m done being afraid.”

His gaze never wavered as he waited, hoping you could see just how true it all was.

Love with Chris never needed an occasion.

It weaved itself into the hours between rehearsals and meetings, slipped through quiet spaces where no one was looking. It lingered in how he reached for your hand when the cameras weren’t on, how he always had a snack stashed away just in case you hadn’t eaten. It lived in stolen glances during choreography, in warm coffees passed to you before your fingers got too cold, in songs he never meant to share but somehow always found their way to you.

The music swells through the studio, crisp and thunderous beneath the harsh hum of overhead lights. It echoes with every stomp of sneakers against the polished floor, every timed breath of eight bodies moving in sync. You stand just off to the side, tablet balanced against your chest, tracking cues and transitions with practiced precision.

But there’s a warm weight pulling at the edges of your focus—something gentle, persistent, and wearing a black sleeveless tee.

Chris.

You try not to watch him. You do. But there’s something about the way his brow knits together when he’s concentrating, the way his mouth tugs into a half-smile every time he catches your eye. The way his gaze keeps sliding back to you, like he can’t help it.

You’re wearing his hoodie. That’s probably part of it.

It’s a simple thing—grey, worn-in, oversized. You’d thrown it on without thinking when the studio air turned too cold this morning, sleeves hanging long past your fingers. It smells like clean laundry and faint cologne and something undeniably Chris. And maybe that’s what’s messing with his head.

Because you notice it, too—the split-second beat he misses in the choreography, the tiny stutter in his footwork.

“Chris!” Changbin’s voice cuts through the music, sharp but amused. “You planning to look at the floor or your girlfriend the whole time?”

Chris startles, eyes widening like he forgot where he was. The rest of the boys chuckle. Seungmin shakes his head, muttering something about “heart eyes,” and Hyunjin just smirks knowingly.

Chan stumbles through the rest of the sequence, then jogs over to you when the track cuts out. He’s flushed and slightly breathless, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“I’m so sorry,” he pants, eyes flicking to the hoodie and then back to your face. “You’re—uh—distracting.”

You blink, playing innocent. “Me?”

He groans quietly, tugging on one of your sleeves. “You’re wearing my hoodie. It’s not fair. I can’t think straight.”

You grin, amused and fond all at once. “Then maybe don’t give me things if you don’t want me wearing them.”

“I want you wearing them!” he blurts, then immediately winces at himself. “I just… not during rehearsals. My brain short-circuits.”

You raise a brow. “You’re blaming your dancing mistakes on me?”

He shrugs sheepishly, eyes crinkling. “Maybe. But only because I keep looking at you and thinking she’s in my clothes. Like, mine. It does something to me.”

You don’t say anything—you just hold his gaze a second longer than necessary. His cheeks flush again.

Then, before he runs back, he leans in with a quick, stolen whisper: “You can keep it, by the way.” Your heart stumbles the tiniest bit, just like his feet had.

The green room feels quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that settles after a long day but before the next begins. You slip in first, the sound of your coffee lid popping open the only interruption. There’s a warm hum of laughter somewhere down the hallway—Jeongin and Han, probably still arguing about something ridiculous—but in here, it’s calm.

You curl up on the far couch, tucking your legs beneath you, fingers wrapped around the paper cup.

You barely get a sip in before you feel it—the slight dip of the cushion behind you, the warm presence you’ve come to know instinctively. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just settles in, letting his knee brush yours, letting his arm stretch out behind you on the couch like he has every right to it.

Then his voice, soft and scratchy from overuse: “Hey.”

You glance at him sideways. “Hey.”

He tilts his head, eyes drifting to your cup. “Is that your first one today?”

You sigh. “Second.”

He hums thoughtfully, unconvinced. “Did you eat anything?”

You give him a pointed look. “Chris.”

“I’m just asking,” he says, lips curving. “I worry.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“No,” he agrees, inching closer. “I’m your boyfriend. That gives me, like, triple the authority.”

You roll your eyes, but the affection in your chest blooms anyway, soft and steady. Especially when he leans his head gently onto your shoulder, nestling into the crook of your neck like he’s found his home there.

“I like you like this,” he murmurs. “Soft. Sleepy. In my hoodie.”

“You really like this hoodie, huh?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you. “I love it on you. You have no idea. It’s unfair.”

From the hallway, Jeongin’s voice rings out, sharp with mock jealousy. “Hyung! Share! She’s gonna forget the rest of us exist!”

Chan doesn’t even flinch. He wraps his arms around your waist and replies casually, “That’s the plan.”

You laugh, warmth unfurling through your ribs, and let yourself fall back against his chest.

It’s one of those rare moments where the day slows down enough for it to feel almost like a secret. The studio lights are dimmed, the hum of activity dulled to a background hush, and Chris stands by the console with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You walk in expecting a conversation about deadlines.

You get a boy holding out his tablet like it contains treasure.

“I wrote something,” he says, barely able to hide the eagerness in his voice. “I wanted you to hear it first.”

You narrow your eyes in amusement. “Another love song?”

His smile falters—just a little. “Yeah. I guess I can’t stop.”

You take the tablet from him, earbuds already offered. “I feel like I’ve become your muse or something.”

He watches you closely as you press play. The melody is soft, gentle, like a heartbeat in lullaby form. And the lyrics—full of quiet longing and the kind of devotion that feels built over years.

When the song ends, you take the earbuds out slowly.

Chris is still watching you.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But now it’s like… every chord, every verse… they all sound like you.”

Before you can reply, the door creaks open and Hyunjin walks in dramatically, tossing his hair like he’s entering a stage. Jeongin follows, mid-laugh.

“What are we listening to?” Hyunjin asks, already grinning. “Another ballad? Another ‘I love you more than air’ moment?”

Chris glares. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure it’s not,” Jeongin smirks. “We’re just saying, maybe spare us the next eight-song EP titled ‘My Girlfriend’s Smile, Vol. 1’.”

You snort, unable to help it. Chris groans.

But then—he turns to you, all jokes aside, and says quietly, “If I’m gonna flood the studio with songs, they might as well be about the best thing that ever happened to me.”

The boys both groan.

You, on the other hand, are already replaying the melody in your head, heart swelling with every beat.

Love that grows from friendship is the quietest kind.

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

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

You learned the language of his silences, the softness behind his steady hands. And he learned to trust the steady rhythm of your presence—the kind of comfort that doesn’t need words to be felt.

No grand declarations, no fireworks—just the steady warmth of two souls intertwined, quietly daring to be seen, quietly daring to belong.

And in that quiet, you found a love so true it's unnecessary to shout from rooftops.

#stray kids #skz #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x y/n #bang chan fluff #bang chan angst #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

Text

Before Duolingo wiped its videos from TikTok and Instagram in mid-May, social media engagement was one of the language-learning app’s most recognizable qualities. Its green owl mascot had gone viral multiple times and was well known to younger users—a success story other marketers envied.

But, when news got out that Duolingo was making the switch to become an “AI-first” company, planning to replace contractors who work on tasks generative AI could automate, public perception of the brand soured.

Young people started posting on social media about how they were outraged at Duolingo as they performatively deleted the app—even if it meant losing the precious streak awards they earned through continued, daily usage. The comments on Duolingo’s TikTok posts in the days after the announcement were filled with rage, primarily focused on a single aspect: workers being replaced with automation.

The negative response online is indicative of a larger trend: Right now, though a growing number of Americans use ChatGPT, many people are sick of AI’s encroachment into their lives and are ready to fight back.

When reached for comment, Duolingo spokesperson Sam Dalsimer stressed that “AI isn’t replacing our staff” and said all AI-generated content on the platform would be created “under the direction and guidance of our learning experts.” The company's plan is still to reduce its use of non-staff contractors for tasks that can be automated using generative AI.

Duolingo’s embrace of workplace automation is part of a broad shift within the tech industry. Leaders at Klarna, a buy now, pay later service, and Salesforce, a software company, have also made sweeping statements about AI reducing the need for new hires in roles like customer service and engineering. These decisions were being made at the same time as developers sold “agents,” which are designed to automate software tasks, as a way to reduce the amount of workers needed to complete certain tasks.

Still, the potential threat of bosses attempting to replace human workers with AI agents is just one of many compounding reasons people are critical of generative AI. Add that to the error-ridden outputs, the environmental damage, the potential mental health impacts for users, and the concerns about copyright violations when AI tools are trained on existing works.

Many people were initially in awe of ChatGPT and other generative AI tools when they first arrived in late 2022. You could make a cartoon of a duck riding a motorcycle! But soon artists started speaking out, noting that their visual and textual works were being scraped to train these systems. The pushback from the creative community ramped up during the 2023 Hollywood writer's strike, and continued to accelerate through the current wave of copyright lawsuits brought by publishers, creatives, and Hollywood studios.

Right now, the general vibe aligns even more with the side of impacted workers. “I think there is a new sort of ambient animosity towards the AI systems,” says Brian Merchant, former WIRED contributor and author of Blood in the Machine, a book about the Luddites rebelling against worker-replacing technology. “AI companies have speedrun the Silicon Valley trajectory.”

Before ChatGPT’s release, around 38 percent of US adults were more concerned than excited about increased AI usage in daily life, according to the Pew Research Center. The number shot up to 52 percent by late 2023, as the public reacted to the speedy spread of generative AI. The level of concern has hovered around that same threshold ever since.

Ethical AI researchers have long warned about the potential negative impacts of this technology. The amplification of harmful stereotypes, increased environmental pollution, and potential displacement of workers are all widely researched and reported. These concerns were often previously reserved to academic discourse and online leftists paying attention to labor issues.

As AI outputs continued to proliferate, so did the cutting jokes. Alex Hanna, coauthor of The AI Con and director of research at the Distributed AI Research Institute, mentions how people have been “trolling” in the comment sections of YouTube Shorts and Instagram Reels whenever they see AI-generated content in their feeds. “I've seen this on the web for a while,” she says.

This generalized animosity towards AI has not abated over time. Rather, it’s metastasized. LinkedIn users have complained about being constantly prompted with AI-generated questions. Spotify listeners have been frustrated to hear AI-generated podcasts recapping their top-listened songs. Reddit posters have been upset to see AI-generated images on their microwavable noodles at the grocery store.

Tensions are so high that even the suspicion of AI usage is now enough to draw criticism. I wouldn’t be surprised if social media users screenshotted the em dashes in this piece—a supposed giveaway of AI-generated text outputs—and cast suspicions about whether I used a chatbot to spin up sections of the article.

A few days after I first contacted Duolingo for comment, the company hid all of its social media videos on TikTok and Instagram. But, soon the green owl was back online with a satirical post about conspiracy theories. “I’ve had it with the CEOs and those in power. It’s time we show them who’s in charge,” said a person wearing a three-eyed Duolingo mask. The video uploaded right afterwards was a direct message from the company’s CEO attempting to explain how humans would still be working at Duolingo, but AI could help them produce more language learning courses.

While the videos got millions of views on TikTok, the top comments continued to criticize Duolingo for AI-enabled automation: “Keep in mind they are still using AI for their lessons, this doesn’t change anything.”

This frustration over AI’s steady creep has breached the container of social media and started manifesting more in the real world. Parents I talk to are concerned about AI use impacting their child’s mental health. Couples are worried about chatbot addictions driving a wedge in their relationships. Rural communities are incensed that the newly built data centers required to power these AI tools are kept humming by generators that burn fossil fuels, polluting their air, water, and soil. As a whole, the benefits of AI seem esoteric and underwhelming while the harms feel transformative and immediate.

Unlike the dawn of the internet where democratized access to information empowered everyday people in unique, surprising ways, the generative AI era has been defined by half-baked software releases and threats of AI replacing human workers, especially for recent college graduates looking to find entry-level work.

“Our innovation ecosystem in the 20th century was about making opportunities for human flourishing more accessible,” says Shannon Vallor, a technology philosopher at the Edinburgh Futures Institute and author of The AI Mirror, a book about reclaiming human agency from algorithms. “Now, we have an era of innovation where the greatest opportunities the technology creates are for those already enjoying a disproportionate share of strengths and resources.”

Not only are the rich getting richer during the AI era, but many of the technology’s harms are falling on people of color and other marginalized communities. “Data centers are being located in these really poor areas that tend to be more heavily Black and brown,” Hanna says. She points out how locals have not just been fighting back online, but have also been organizing even more in-person to protect their communities from environmental pollution. We saw this in Memphis, Tennessee, recently, where Elon Musk’s artificial intelligence company xAI is building a large data center with over 30 methane-gas-powered generators that are spewing harmful exhaust.

The impacts of generative AI on the workforce are another core issue that critics are organizing around. “Workers are more intuitive than a lot of the pundit class gives them credit for,” says Merchant. “They know this has been a naked attempt to get rid of people.” The next major shift in public opinion will likely follow previous patterns, occurring when broad swaths of workers feel further threatened and organize in response. And this time, the in-person protests may be just as big as the online backlash.

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brinasheqrt · 1 month ago

Note

sabrina got harassed by paparazzis or at the backstage of her concert (or amother place u can think of) and feels a bit nervous and uneasy, and she needs reader to comfort her?? (preferably masc!reader)

Safe

summary - request!

warnings - none.

wc - 2.2k

You’d parked in the usual spot outside the studio—half-shaded, tucked between two concrete pillars, and far enough away from the main doors to avoid attention. The tinted windows did most of the work, but it was still hot, even with the engine idling.

Sabrina had texted you twenty minutes ago:

“running over, almost done. promise.”

It wasn’t unusual. When she got into a creative groove, especially in a writing session, time stopped existing. You didn’t mind. Your playlist had been looping quietly, and you were scrolling through photos from your last trip together, smiling at the memory of her squinting into the sun with your sunglasses on crooked.

But when the studio doors opened, you could tell something was off.

She stepped out quickly, head down, one hand gripping her tote bag tighter than usual. A flash went off across the street.

Then another.

Paparazzi.

You straightened up in the driver’s seat instantly.

“Sabs…” you muttered under your breath, hand moving toward the door handle, but she hadn’t seen you yet. Two guys—cameras slung around their necks—were already walking toward her, quick.

“Sabrina, smile for us!”

“You dating that girl we saw you with last week?”

“One photo?!”

“What happened with Barry?!”

You saw her flinch at the last question.

The man’s voice was loud, too loud, and her pace quickened. She wasn’t saying anything—just beelining for the car. You threw the door open and stepped out.

“Back off,” you called, tone sharp, shoulders square. The click of their cameras didn’t stop, but they slowed a little when they saw you approaching.

Sabrina’s eyes found yours and instantly softened.

“Baby,” she said, half-breathless as she reached you.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist and guiding her toward the car. “Just ignore them. I’m here.”

They didn’t follow, not closely, but the damage was done. You could feel the tension in her body as she climbed into the passenger seat, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged the door shut. You made sure to shoot the men one final warning look before getting in and pulling out of the spot.

It was quiet for a while, except for the low hum of the road under your tires.

You glanced at her.

She was staring out the window, biting her lip. Her hands were fidgeting in her lap—playing with the ‘SC’ ring she always wore, twisting it over and over.

“Sabrina,” you said gently, reaching across to rest your hand over hers.

She blinked and looked down, like she’d only just realized what she was doing.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “That was stupid.”

“Hey.” You squeezed her hand. “Don’t do that. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t think they’d be there,” she said quietly. “I usually wait for someone to come out with me, but everyone was still in the booth and I just… I don’t know, I wanted to go home.”

Your eyes softened. “Of course you did.”

She fell silent again. Her jaw was tight now, and when you stopped at a red light, you noticed her foot tapping anxiously against the floor mat. The kind of twitchy movement that only came when she was trying to hide her nerves.

You reached for her hand again and laced your fingers through hers.

“Talk to me.”

Her throat bobbed. “I hate when they yell stuff like that. Like they’re entitled to know everything.”

“They’re not,” you said. “And you don’t owe them anything.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, but you felt her squeeze your hand tighter.

“I used to be good at brushing it off,” she murmured. “But lately it’s been… harder. I don’t know if that makes me soft or sensitive or—”

“It makes you human.”

Your voice was steady. Calm. You knew she needed that right now—something to anchor her.

You pulled into your driveway a few minutes later and shifted the car into park. You didn’t rush her out. Instead, you turned to face her, your fingers still threaded with hers.

“Want to go inside?” you asked gently.

She hesitated, eyes flicking toward the house, then back to you. “Can we just… sit for a second?”

“Of course.”

You leaned your head back against the seat and turned the AC up slightly. The silence between you was comfortable now—held together by the quiet strength of your presence and the way you hadn’t let go of her hand once.

Finally, she broke it.

“I hate how it makes me feel after,” she whispered, voice so small you barely heard it. “Like I’m being watched even when I’m not. Like something’s gonna jump out.”

You looked over at her—really looked—and saw the tightness in her shoulders, the way her chest was rising and falling a little too fast, the tremble in her lip she was trying so hard to hide.

You reached over and cupped her cheek.

“Come here.”

She didn’t hesitate. She unbuckled her seatbelt and slid across the center console clumsily until she was in your lap, arms slipping around your neck, face pressed into your shoulder.

You held her. Strong and steady.

Her breath hitched once—then again—and you felt it: the way her fingers clenched at your jacket, the soft, shaken sound she made as the adrenaline started to wear off and her nerves cracked open a little.

You kissed her temple.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Her body trembled slightly, but she didn’t pull away. You cradled her like she was glass. You ran your hand up and down her back, soothing and slow.

“They don’t get to have you,” you whispered. “They can take a picture, shout all they want—but you’re still yours. Always.”

She nodded against your shoulder.

“I didn’t like the way one of them looked at me,” she admitted. “Like he knew something he didn’t. Like I was…”

“Objectified,” you finished for her softly.

She nodded again.

You exhaled, pulling her tighter. “I hate that you had to feel that. I hate that they try to make you smaller.”

“You make me feel safe,” she whispered.

Your hand paused on her back. “Yeah?”

She nodded, face still tucked into your neck.

“I always feel better when I’m with you. Like nothing bad can reach me.”

You kissed the top of her head and let that sit between you.

“Let’s go inside,” you murmured after a while. “You need to be wrapped in a blanket and buried in my hoodie.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from her—a real one. She leaned back enough to look at you, eyes glassy but warm now.

“And snacks?”

“Obviously.”

She kissed your cheek, soft and grateful. “Thank you for always being there.”

“Always,” you echoed. “No matter what.”

⸻

Inside, she sat on the couch, bundled in your favorite hoodie, the sleeves way too long on her. Her legs were curled up beneath her, and her makeup—what was left of it—was smudged under her eyes, but she looked softer now. Less wound up. Calmer.

You set a cup of tea down in front of her and sat beside her, resting your hand on her thigh. She immediately laced her fingers with yours again.

The room was quiet. No cameras. No shouting.

Just you.

After a while, she looked over at you with that vulnerable kind of gaze—one she only gave you when the walls came down completely.

“You don’t think I’m weak?” she asked, voice hesitant.

You shook your head instantly. “Never.”

“I just… I hate that I still get scared. That I still carry it with me, even after I’m home.”

You leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her cheek.

“Courage isn’t never being scared,” you said quietly. “It’s being scared and getting through it anyway. And you do. Every time.”

She stared at you for a long moment—then curled into your side, head resting against your chest.

“Can we just stay like this?” she mumbled.

“For as long as you want.”

You let the quiet stretch out, your thumb brushing over the back of her hand, grounding her. And when she finally drifted off—still curled into you, breathing steady—you knew she felt safe again.

And that was all you ever wanted.

#sabrina carpenter #sabrina carpenter x reader #sabrina carpenter x you #sabrina carpenter fluff #fluff #angst #sabrina carpenter angst

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jiniretbabii · 4 months ago

Text

Spend the Night:

Hongjoong x F. Manager Reader

MDNI (This ain’t for yall)

Warning ⚠️: SMUT

Oral (f. Receiving), fingering (f. Receiving) unprotected sex (use a condom plz)

Friends to lovers

The hum of the airplane's engines droned softly in the background, lulling passengers into a calm stupor. Y/N sat next to Hongjoong, the leader of Ateez, who had succumbed to sleep beside her, his head gently resting on her shoulder. She cast a glance at him, marveling at his peaceful expression. Hongjoong, her hyung by ten days, still radiated an aura of charm even in slumber. Wrapped in a cozy sweatshirt, he looked so unguarded, and her lips curled into a fond chuckle at the sight.

She couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at how effortlessly he could seem comfortable, especially when she was squeezed into a tight pencil skirt and an elegant silk blouse that seemed to restrict her every movement. Adjusting her position delicately so as not to disturb him, she felt the constriction of her garter belt against her skin and cursed her choice of attire. The discomfort served as a constant reminder of her role: managing the hectic lives of eight energetic idols was a demanding job, but somehow, all her irritation faded when she looked at Hongjoong, an unwavering pillar of support for their group.

Eventually, the airplane touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport, and with it came a flurry of excitement M streams and activity. The anticipation in Paris held an intoxicating allure, and Y/N rallied her focus, knowing they had an exciting itinerary awaiting them—the prestigious Paris Fashion Week.

Once they stepped through the arrivals gate, the excitement was palpable. They were greeted warmly by the Balmain team, who embraced Hongjoong with cheerful acknowledgment. “Hongjoong! It’s a pleasure to work with you again!” a team member exclaimed as they shared a hearty handshake and a brief hug.

“Thanks! Always great to see you,” Hongjoong replied, a sparkle of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. As they turned to Y/N, she extended her hand professionally. “I’m Y/N L/N, the manager of Ateez. I’m here to accompany Hongjoong for this engagement if that’s alright.”

The Balmain team’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback. After a series of approving looks, one stylist spoke up, in awe of her breathtaking beauty, “You look like a model! No- a goddess. You’re far too beautiful and well put together for this chaos of a man.” The playful jab drew amused chuckles from the group, and a blush crept across Hongjoong’s cheeks, flustering him. Secretly, he appreciated the compliment directed toward Y/N. She was indeed striking—her poised elegance completely captivating.

As they ventured into the design studio, a vibrant blend of fabric samples and creative sketches surrounded them. Hongjoong was led to a dressing area while Y/N settled into a corner, bringing up her schedule on her iPad. Absorbed in her work, her brow slightly furrowed, and from his perch, Hongjoong couldn’t tear his gaze away. A stylist noticed him staring and leaned in with a knowing grin. “You like her, don’t you?”

Embarrassed but unable to deny the truth, he mumbled, “She’s amazing. She deals with so much for the group. She’s one real backbone of Ateez.”

The stylist chuckled knowingly. “I see that look on your face—someone’s definitely smitten. You do know this is the city of love, right? Why not tell her how you feel?”

Hongjoong shook his head with newfound determination. “No, it’s not that simple. She’s my manager. I don’t want to complicate things. It must stay professional.”

“Love blossoms in all situations,” the stylist insisted, a teasing lilt in their voice, leaving Hongjoong in thought while the fitting began.

As the team worked on styling Hongjoong in a stunning charcoal suit that accentuated his figure, blonde hair slicked back and face framed with large oversized glasses. Y/N set aside her iPad, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “You look incredible, Hongjoong,” she praised, her tone genuine.

Blushing, he replied, “Honestly, I have to admit I don’t look nearly as good as you do.” His tone slightly deepened.

The room was then filled with soft awes and giggles.

Her heart raced, a warmth blooming in her chest at his compliment. She felt herself blush, feeling momentarily flustered under his tender gaze.

The hours slipped away, and soon they found themselves seated for an extravagant dinner with the Balmain team. Y/N felt the buzz of the atmosphere around her, a symphony of laughter and clinking glasses. However, Hongjoong’s mesmerizing gaze was focused solely on her. She stirred her food absentmindedly, while he mentally savored the moment—he craved more than just the sumptuous meal laid out before him; he craved her.

After dinner, they made their way to the luxury hotel in central Paris. The lobby sprawled elegantly before them, ornate chandeliers casting a soft glow over polished marble floors. As they approached the front desk, Y/N felt a sense of apprehension. “We have two suites reserved.”

The clerk hesitated, tapping furiously at the keyboard. “Actually, it appears one of your rooms has been double booked… however, we’ve upgraded you both to our grand suite.”

Y/N frowned, a micro-level of irritation rising. “If you’d please check again, that isn’t acceptable; I can’t share a room…”

Hongjoong could sense her annoyance and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, leaning closer. “Hey, it’s okay, Y/N. It’s not like the members are with us. We can handle this.” Despite his calming presence, she still pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, but she ultimately nodded. “Alright, fine.”

The receptionist handed Y/N the key to their suite, her expression apologetic. “Welcome to Paris!”

Once they entered the grand suite, Y/N’s annoyance dissolved into awe. The room overflowed with elegance; roses adorned every surface, gifts neatly arranged for Hongjoong. But as she scanned the space for her luggage, she quickly found her frustration rising once more. “I don’t see my things.”

A quick contact to the front desk confirmed the unfortunate truth: her luggage had been misdirected. Slumping onto the edge of the king-sized bed, she let out a long sigh of exasperation, “fucking hell.” She groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“They misplaced my luggage at the airport and contacted the hotel that it arrive tomorrow.” Her deep voice laced with irritation.

Hongjoong, concerned by her demeanor, walked over to her, his voice soft as he asked, “Hey, if you want, I have spare pajamas you can wear for tonight.”

His offer surprised her. “You have pajamas?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow playfully.

“Yeah! Just a pair—I always keep one handy in case of emergencies,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“Very resourceful,” she retorted, the corners of her mouth curling upward. “But I can’t just wear your pajamas around. That’s….” She faltered, her heart racing at the thought of being so close to him. “That’s just not professional.”

He stepped closer, his expression earnest. “Y/N, it’s just us. Besides, it’s okay to not be professional if I see you like this. You deserve to relax. And I promise I won’t peek.”

Caught off guard by his sincerity, she felt her resolve crumbling. Hongjoong’s gaze held a warmth that felt both inviting and electric. “Okay, just for tonight,” she finally agreed, a hint of a reluctance playing on her voice.

“Perfect,” he replied, relief flooding through his veins. “While you change I’ll go shower.”

She heard the shower start, she peaked making sure he wasn’t around. She felt as if the coast was clear. She began to undress, despite working so close to Hongjoong, this seemed too intimate for her. Trying to compose herself, she began to unbutton her silk blouse. Slowly sliding the delicate fabric down her arms revealing her black see through lacy bra that held her large, round breast. Unzipping her right pencil skirt, allowing the skirt to fall to the floor.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips. Standing in her expensive matching lingerie and tall red bottom heels, she could feel eyes on her. She turns to see Hongjoong, looking at her, a gaze she can’t read. His eyes looked almost predatory.

Sitting at the table sipping wine, legs crossed in a white bathrobe. He watches her every move. Her heart began to race.

‘How long was he watching?’ She ask herself.

“I-I thought you were showering?” She asked face blushing.

Setting the wine glass down. He walks over to her. Circling her, taking in her beauty. Her body was as if it was sculpted by Aphrodite herself.

She stiffened as he came even closer. Her breath hitched, caught in her throat.

Slowly Hongjoong wraps his arms around her waist, their eyes locked into a gaze. His hands moved to her back. Fingers ghosting up her spine, sending her chills. His hands gently unhooks her garter belt.

“I know how much you hate wearing those things.” He whispers in her ear. “Such a nuisance, like you always say.”

He’s not wrong, she always complained about wearing garter belts but refuses to wear pantyhose.

Dropping to his knees, he unhooks the stockings from the garter, eyes never breaking from hers.

“What are you doing, Hongjoong…” her voice barely above a whisper.

“Taking care of you, baby.”

Her eyes widened at the sudden nickname. Face burning from the intimate situation.

“You look—,” he paused, searching for words, “so sexy like this.”

Her cheeks flushed at the compliment, and she shuffled a bit awkwardly. “This-we shouldn’t be like this.”

He chuckled, his eyes blown with lust and desire. “But here we are.”

In a panic, she rushed over to the bedside going towards the phone.

“H-Hongjoong I’ll see if they have another room,” she replied, her heart pounding through her chest. Attempting to reach for the phone beside the large bed, he gently takes her hand, placing the phone back on the hook, the other wrapped around her waist. Their bodies pressed together. “Baby, I can’t allow you to do that.” He whispered in her ear.

The atmosphere in the suite was thick, tense. Through the thick white bathrobe, she could feel something thick and hard pressing on her ass.

“Hongjoong, please. What’s gotten into you?” She gasped as she felt his free hand trace up her stomach, his lips brushing against her neck.

“I wish you’d stop being so fucking oblivious.” Turning her around so their eyes can meet again. His face was unreadable.

Pushing her against the bed, her arms pressing against the plush mattress for leverage. Slowly she crawled back. She felt so exposed, so confused.

“I been in love with you the second I saw you.” He said as he began to crawl upon the bed to be closer to her.

She fell backwards upon the mattress, soon she was being hovered over by her boss.

Taken aback by his words, a wave of emotions washed over her. “What?” She replied in shock.

“For someone so intelligent, you’re incredibly stupid when it comes to reading feelings.” He teased.

She turned her head in embarrassment. She thought back to all this time, the signs were all written in bold letters for years. She thought it was just admiration. She didn’t realize her Hongjoong was in love with her.

“The way you carry yourself, how you devote your time to us, the little things you do to make this idol life easier to bare, the way you take time for us. The sacrifices you make, it makes me want you so fucking bad.” He grips her face, making her look at him.

“Those tight ass skirts and dresses you wear, how your big round ass looks. It makes me want to take you right then and there… EVERY. FUCKING. TIME.”

She looks in his eyes, her mind flooding. She feels herself getting wet from the confession.

“Hongjoong please this isn’t professional.”

He scoffed, “we’re far past professional baby. The way you’re looking at me, you in this lingerie- did you plan this?”

“NO!” She protested as she poorly attempted to get up to only be pushed back down by his small yet strong palm.

Pinning her hands above her head with one hand , he chuckles, “I’m only teasing. I know you’re not the type to do this.”

“The nights I lay in bed thinking of how you’d look and sound under me as I make you mine,” he began to slowly grind himself against her clothed core. “thinking all the ways I would make you cum, how you’ll sound moaning my name.”

“H-Hongjoong!” She gasped and the friction began to lightly brush against her clit.

He looks down and sees a wet spot forming between her clothed heat.

“Tonight don’t worry about being professional and being Ateez’s manager. Tonight it’s my turn to make care of you.”

His dainty fingers began to ghost between her clothed core. Pressing lightly on her hardened bud. She tossed her back at the sensation.

Slowly he worked his fingers through her lace panties. He could feel how wet she grew.

“Fuck you’re getting so wet, tell me, have you fantasized about this?” He moaned at the wetness coating his fingers.

“I try not to.” She confessed.

“Tell me more, what do you think about?” He demanded, his body heating up.

Y/N now vulnerable, she had to confess her sins, “many times when it’s just us in the studio while you work I think of those songs you write, the more intimate ones and I think who are those about. Sometimes wishing it was about me. Those long nights when it’s just us and we are resting. Those peaceful nights without dealing with Wooyoung and his tantrums.” She chuckled.

Hongjoong pulled his fingers away, she whined at the instantly halt. “Don’t mention any of the members. I just want to hear about me.”

“I’m sorry.” She whined.

He smirked, pleased with her expression, “good girl. This is about me, about us.” Pulling her thong to the side, he pushed in one finger.

“OH!” Her back arched off the bed, her mouth slightly open.

“How many times have you thought about you and I, like this?”

“I can’t count the amount of times.”

“Guess baby girl.”

“Hundreds.”

Pleased with her answer he slid a second finger, pumping into her tight, drooling hole.

“Fuck you’re so tight, so wet for me.”

“F-fuck! H-HONGJOONG!” His length throbbed at the sound of his name escaping her lips so lewdly.

Without hesitation, he pulls his fingers out, yanks off her panties. The cold air hitting her bare exposed pussy caused her to shiver.

Seconds later he dives his head in between her thick plump thighs. His wet tongue devouring her cunt.

The feeling was too much to handle. The suite was filled with her moans and pants. “Oh. My. God!” She cried out. She locks eyes with Hongjoong. His pupils blown with ecstasy. He hummed in satisfaction, knowing he’s the one tasting her sweet juices, that he’s the one making her feel this goddamn good.

As his tongue swirls and sucks her bundle of nerves, he places two fingers back inside, pumping into her wetness faster.

The moans turned into screams. Y/N felt a knot tightening in her stomach.

Her legs began to tremble from the stimulation. Hongjoong began to feel his fingers being clamped, damn near crushed by her tight squeezing pussy.

She’s close. She’s so fucking close.

Oh it made him harder than he already was.

He works his tongue and fingers faster as he began to grind himself into the mattress, desperate for friction. Groaning into her pussy, he refuses to stop, “HONGJOONG I-I’m going to!”

That’s all the confirmation he needed.

He goes even faster, making her see stars. Knocking the sound from her. The sound of her gushing pussy more sweet nectar was better than any music he’s ever heard.

Her eyes rolled back, palms fisting the white sheets under her. “KIM HONGJOONG! IM CUMMING! I-BABY PLEASE! IM FUCKING CUMMING!” She screamed, her usually deep velvet voice now many octaves higher.

Her body convulsed as her orgasm washed over. He pulls away from her now drenched core, face and fingers coated in her sweet, creamy juices.

Looking down at his most precious work. He looks at her fucked out state.

“Im far from done with you baby. I’m going to make love to you all fucking night.”

Ripped off her delicate lace bra, throwing off his robe, she looks down to see his aching reddened tip. His heavy cock standing straight up, pressing against his lower abdomen.

He’s a lot bigger than she imagined. Her eyes widened.

He smirked at her expression.

“You like what you’re seeing?”

“Yes…” her voice trailed off.

“It’s all yours baby. I’m all yours.”

He laid on top of her. His lips met her plump lips.

Passionately kissing, he pushed his tongue in her mouth. She openly allowed him. His hands roamed and felt her large breast,

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this.” He hushed against her lips.

Her hands reached around and began to caress his back. “Hongjoong.” Was all she could say.

“Can I put it inside?”

Franticly nodding her head, desperate for him as he was for her, “please fuck me.”

In one swift movement, he was buried deep inside her. The stretch stung but it felt so good. She was so full. His tip pressing against her cervix.

Gasping in unison, they stayed still. He allowed her to adjust to his size. “f-fuck you’re so tight, so warm.” He could cum just from feeling her alone.

She slightly moved her hips up for any form of friction.

He giggled, “desperate aren’t we?”

Desperate she was. “Stop fucking teasing me already. Just fuck me!” She begged.

My god he loved this side of her. She was begging for his cock. Was this reality?

“Anything for you baby.” He placed his palm on her cheek as his other hand gripped her right thigh, raising it to his hip, he wanted, no needed to go deep.

Slamming his cock deep inside her. A yelp escaped her mouth. Her head laid back, gasped for air as he mercilessly drilled inside her.

“FUCK!” She cried out in pleasure. Her nails digging into his back.

He loved the pain of it. He wanted her to mark every inch of him. Making her claim her territory.

“mmm baby, you feel so fucking good. Your pussy is made for me. You’re made for me!” He groaned. Her wet pussy kept sucking him back in.

The sound of juices squelching, skin slapping, moans and pleas harmonized an erotic melody.

“Hongjoong!”

“Yes baby?”

“P-please! Kiss me!”

His lips smashed onto hers. The tempo increasing. Her nails dragged harsher into his skin. “AUGH! FUCK, YES KEEP DOING THAT BABY GIRL! MARK ME! Make me your property!”

Those words did something to her, it made her wetter than before. Hongjoong felt her pussy becoming even more juicy, so sloppy. “Mmm, keep getting wetter for me.”

The sensation was so much. His cock so deep, abusing her cervix also brushing against that sweet spot.

That knot feeling came back. Her eyes rolling back. She knew she was close.

“Baby, I’m so close!” She cried out. Hongjoong felt her walls squeezing his length.

“Y/N… I… I LOVE YOU!” He shouted feeling himself getting close also.

Her eyes widened. “H-hongjoong.”

He was a babbling mess, “please, I love you, I love you, I love you! I need to cum!”

Her heart raced, she realized she also loved him. After all these years, she was with the man she wanted.

“Kim Hongjoong, I love you!” She moaned out, she felt her body beginning to tremble, her orgasm approaching.

Tears began to weld in her eyes. Hongjoong placing his hand on her cheek. “Baby…”

“I fucking love you Hongjoong! Please! I’m so close!��

“I love you y/n…”

“CUM INSIDE OF ME!” She gasped out feeling her orgasm crashing.

Getting on his knees, taking her thighs in his hands, he began to brutally pound into her pussy. Her juices squirting out of her, walls gripping his cock, body trembling, words completely incomprehensible.

Hongjoong felt his cock throbbing, his face flushed, jaw slacked. “I-IM CUMMING BABY!”

Her insides felt so warm as she was being filled with Hongjoong’s cum. Her pink fleshy walls now decorated white.

He immediately collapsed onto her. His length now softening inside her.

“Do you mean that?” He asked, panting. Slowly he pulled out, soft moans escaping each other’s lips. Laying beside her, he caressed her body. Trying to come down from her orgasm. She looked into his eyes, dazed. “Yes,” she weakly placed her hands upon his hot cheek. “I love you.”

“Please be mine.”

“I thought I was?”

He chuckled. “You’re mine Y/N.”

“I’m yours, Kim Hongjoong.”

She looks down to see he’s hard again. Her eyes grew larger. He noticed her shock.

Pressing his lips against her ear…

“I did say all night…”

#ateez #atiny #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez x atiny #kpop #kim hongjoong #hongjoong smut #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x y/n #ateez hongjoong

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