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creatingblackcharacters · 9 months ago

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No, That’s Not ‘How Color Works’. - Whitewashing

Whitewashing, as defined by Merriam-Webster:

"to alter (something) in a way that favors, features, or caters to white people: such as a) to portray (the past) in a way that increases the prominence, relevance, or impact of white people and minimizes or misrepresents that of nonwhite people and B) to alter (an original story) by casting a white performer in a role based on a nonwhite person or fictional character"

In fandom context, we know it to include:

Making someone’s skin lighter

Making someone’s hair a thinner texture

Changing someone’s nose to be thinner

Shrinking their lips

Changing the character in their entirety to be someone else

The Normalization of Whitewashing

Remember how I mentioned last lesson that despite the nature of poorly drawn Black characters, most audiences are not turned off enough to discourage the action in professional works? Similar idea with whitewashing. Not the same- unlike the Ambiguously Brown Character, which claims to have plausible deniability, overt whitewashing is usually enough to make fans speak up! But that’s the key word here- overt! It has to be “bad enough” to make enough people speak up, but as we’ve seen many a time, “bad enough” seems to have a much higher threshold for nonblack viewership (sometimes the limit doesn’t exist!)

Some visual examples

This is a link to my personal thread on a Netflix show I was watching- Worst Ex Ever. Now, while the show itself was quite enlightening, there was something I could not get over. I thought I was going crazy. And that was that no matter how dark the person of color would be in real life, the animated portions would draw this light pinkish-brown. Every. Single. Time. It's like they couldn't fathom scrolling down the color wheel. And this is a Netflix original! Netflix has plenty of money for someone to have caught this in creation. But... it was produced. And put out. And they're making more of it.

I asked all of the Dragon Age fans about the series, and uh… I didn’t know things were this bad, guys! Apparently this is a man of color, but it doesn't seem like the creators want you to know that 🤣. Jokes aside, as I’ve discussed before, the noticeable whitewashing- and that was one of many racist things I was told- was not enough to prevent sales... so why would they stop? I can only hope this new game, with all the updates, is enough to turn the tide. But the series has gone on for a while now, that if they’d chosen to do ye same olde… there clearly would not be a lack of financial support to prevent it.

Colorism as a Tool

Even when actors of color are cast, colorism often plays a role in normalizing whitewashing to audiences, even to Black audiences! People think “oh well at least they’re Black!” as if that is the only important part. It is not.

While Aaron Pierre, the actor cast for John Stewart of Green Lantern fame, is a GORGEOUS, STUNNING man, he is not the dark-skinned man that John Stewart is supposed to be and should not have been cast! To me, this is overt colorism, but clearly for many people this is not “enough” to warrant concern or even prevent the casting itself- including the studio behind the movie! Black fans have plead for years for the character of Storm to be played by a dark-skinned, preferably African, woman, and it has never happened.

It naturally happens in fan spaces as well, which is another indicator that colorism as a tool for whitewashing is quite effective for audiences. If I see one more Zendaya fan cast for Kida from Atlantis, I will scream. It’s been happening for years, and I don’t think any of the people who just want to see her and Tom on screen either understand or care that Kida is a dark-skinned character. Zendaya doesn’t look anything like Kida- it doesn’t matter if she’s Black too! Just because someone is Black does not mean they can play every single Black character! I’ve even seen people fancast Emilia Clarke of Game of Thrones fame, to which… I don’t have the words. I can’t fathom what would cause these decisions other than racism.

The Common Excuses

I must be honest. I don’t really feel like re-iterating how certain things are not okay and how to fix them, because I’ve already discussed these things in massive detail. So I’m just going to direct the excuses I regularly hear to my lessons, where you can read up on them.

“Their hair/eyes are like that because they’re biracial so-”

Relevant Lessons: 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, 8, 9, 10

There is nothing wrong with having biracial characters with a range of features. I am not saying that! Because yeah, genetics do happen!

But I mentioned this in my last lesson, and I will re-emphasize here, that using biracial identity as a way to whitewash is a sinister form of racism. The intention here- the real intention- is the issue here! The idea that somehow this character can only look the way you want them to look by "diluting" their Blackness… I don’t know how you can explain yourselves out of that one.

You don’t get to use us as an excuse for diversity while still trying to maintain your preference for Eurocentric beauty standards. Black biracial people don’t always look light skinned, thin-haired and ambiguous, and even the ones that do don’t deserve to be treated as your fetish for pretend antiracism. If you just want to draw a white person with a tan, do that. But don’t change a character’s entire look just so you can work in some whiteness. If you want to claim that canon Black character’s mother was white, then I guess they inherited some of her personality because their features should not change.

“It’s my style/It’s the color-”

Relevant Lessons: 3, 4, 10

I hate all excuses for whitewashing, but I’ve grown to despise, hate, abhor and loathe this one the most as I’ve become an artist. I wish there were stronger words to describe just how much I hate the “style” and “color” excuse.

Are style and use of color oft intertwined? Absolutely. I’m not saying they aren’t. But out of everything, there are two things I want artists to understand:

1. Style does not cancel out racism! No style forces you to choose ashy greys and to change peoples’ features. That’s you! If you look at something, and it looks offensive, you change the style. You grow as an artist!

2. “Everyone who is brown will look ashy so I just-” if you recognize that your Black characters look strange in comparison to your nonblack characters, then it’s time to try something else! I don’t understand this sudden need for “realism” when it comes to color and lighting, but not when it comes to hair, for example. No one cares about realism when giving every and all Black characters wavy tresses they probably wouldn’t have, but suddenly milquetoast watercolor attempts at brown and off-putting lighting is “how it works”. That’s not fair.

The color picker is an available tool! I use it often!

Dead giveaway of purposeful whitewashing: if someone gets the outfit color palette right via color picking, but the skin color is multiple shades lighter. That means they were looking at that character and chose not to proceed.

Dead giveaway of purposeful whitewashing: if the white characters in the show are completely correct in their palettes. Again, that means they cared enough to look at everyone else… and not the Black characters.

If you use the color picker and the color picked is… disrespectful, you do not have to use that! You can simply choose a better color that is still similar to the brown that ought to be depicted!

“It’s the lighting-”

Relevant Lessons: 4, 5

If your white characters do not shine like snow in the sunlight because of your lighting, then your lighting does not make your Black characters suddenly light tan.

If your Black characters look bad in your lighting of choice- for example, putting a very dark-skinned character in electric white lighting can be ghastly- try changing the intensity or the color of the lighting. DON’T change your character’s skin color!

I'm going to show you some pictures of South Sudanese model Nyakim Gatwech. Pay attention to the choices of light, color, and makeup.

Look how BEAUTIFUL she is! Look at the choices of intensity and color of light, and how they make her look different in each image.

Now look at this image in comparison:

In this image, whoever did her makeup and took this picture did not take into consideration her skin tone. She's also under this really intense lighting. This is an example of "increasing the lighting does NOT make an image "better"". She didn't need to have lighter skin or "more lighting" to look good. She needed BETTER lighting, lighting that worked with HER.

To see this as an example in drawn art, @dsm7 makes an excellent argument for proper lighting and color, why it is an issue to use it as an excuse, and how to solve that problem.

‼️DISCLAIMER FOR NEXT EXAMPLE‼️

Okay. I am about to show y’all a fan-created example from my personal experience. It is a TEACHING EXPERIENCE ONLY. I am not including the artist’s name in this image. It happened a couple years ago, and it’s over- they’ve chosen to be who they are despite me kindly confronting them about it. The only reason I’m including it at all is because I feel like it would be remiss to have such a clear-cut, multi-level example, and not teach with it. That said, no, I am not telling anyone to act out towards them. Again, that is not what I’m telling you to do. The last thing I need is a literal lynch mob of angry nonblack viewership for trying to teach you all, and y’all sitting there watching it happen to me. Every example of whitewashing is not going to be so obvious, but I hope you learn how to spot the examples in the art you see and share.

I'm obviously a Hades fan, particularly of Patroclus- despite my disdain for the lack of effort in his canon character design. So I've seen a lot of things. That said:

“Well it’s just MY design of them-”

Relevant Lessons: ALL

The sepia coloring did not do this. The lighting did not do this. The design is the exact same as the Hades version, even down to the shape of the hair curling in the back. The only thing that is different… is the man himself.

Y'all. Y'all! You CANNOT take a pre-existing Black character and say “oh well this is my design of them” …and the design is of a whole white person. Because if the rest of the fit is the same, and the only thing that changed is the Blackness… Racism. If you’re going to “make up your own design”, then do that!

“Blackwashing”

Speaking of: I’m sure someone edgy out there thinks they’re so smart as they retort to the screen: “but if that’s not okay, then why is Blackwashing okay?” To which I say- shut up. 😐

The “definition” by fandom: making a nonblack character Black, usually an anime character, but characters in general.

Funny enough, the actual definition in the dictionary (or closest to) is “to defame”, in contrast with whitewash (as in whitewashing history). Maybe racist fans ARE using it correctly when they say you’re blackwashing their characters, when they mean you’re making them “less likable because they’re Black now”. 🤔

Anyway: Blackwashing is not real for the same reason reverse racism is not real.

Me painting these characters brown is not going to take away from the fact that there are far more of you in media than there is of me. Me saying that I ‘headcanon a character as Black with 4C hair’ is not going to make the studio go “oh! Well they must be Black with 4C hair now!” Me saying “oh I think I’d like this character better if they were Black” as a beta tester (less overtly, obviously, because I’m not racist!) will never make a studio change that character. Black viewers have minimal value in comparison to the power of the white viewer’s dollar. I could draw white characters Black every single day of every single game media… and they would still produce majority white characters. There has not been centuries- if not millennia, when we consider Jesus Christ himself, even- of purposeful “Blackwashing” with the intent of removing the original ethnicity- and thus importance- of white people. No one has ever been allowed to forget when someone is white. No one has ever been allowed to forget or not acknowledge white people.

How it could be "solved"

Personally, I love Black edits and I welcome them here. I find them creative and fun. But if you really, REALLY didn’t want us to make those edits, then naturally, we need more Black characters in all of our media!

I wouldn’t have to make edits if I saw more of me to begin with in the things I like to watch- but when we have those characters, racists act an ass about them. We’re not allowed to even be present! I’ve seen too many gamer bros mocking the existence of Yasuke in Assassin’s Creed, and he was a real ass man. But if we made a game about African peoples in African societies, how many of the gamer bros would actually play those games? Do you think there’d be as much support, when we hear so much about Black characters that are treated so abhorrently? How many games do we have where people would love their faves just as much if they were Black? I even learned that Solas was apparently supposed to be a man of color. IMAGINE how many people would not have liked that man, with the same exact plot and characterization.

Something I’ve noticed recently: apparently "Blackwashing" is not a thing when White fans “allow” it. Take this recent trend with Miku. International Miku was beloved! But if you draw any other character as Black on any other day, there will be people that are horrid about it. Ask any artist, Black artists and Black cosplayers especially, who’s ever done it what their comments are like. I’ve read entire missives akin to white supremacist drivel on how it’s somehow morally wrong to make characters Black. Meanwhile no amount of “hey maybe you shouldn’t do this” prevented the movie Gods of Egypt from being created, with a cast full of British White people.

Solutions to Avoiding Whitewashing!

1) Using References!!

Do I think you should know what Black people look like? Yes. We’re humans. It’s 2024. Everyone knows what we look like when it’s time to hate and discriminate against us, so you know what we look like when it’s time to love and depict us. If you’re on Tumblr, you have access to the Internet. ESPECIALLY if you’re in the U.S., as Black people are the source of damn near every piece of online pop culture. If you can find my dialect to make my jokes, you can find pictures of me.

Would I rather you use a reference every single time so that you can only strengthen your depiction of my people? ABSOLUTELY.

Anyone on the Internet telling you not to use a reference or that you shouldn’t need a reference? Unfollow them. You don’t need that negativity in your life. Why would you deprive yourself of a tool to create? The greatest portrait painters in history had to look at their subjects! You are not getting paid nearly as much to do this as Hans Holbein, and he had to stare at Henry VIII correct else lose his head- you can pull up multiple references. I’d far rather be judged for using hella references than be judged for being a racist!

Part of the issue is people draw what they’re used to, what they’re comfortable with (thus last lesson). But if what you’re used to is not what someone will look like… That’s not okay. Their features are not the issue, your skills are the issue. Learn! Practice! There is no rush. No one is rushing you to be perfect at drawing Black characters, and no one is rushing you to post them. You can just practice! If you’re not a professional, you can take as long as you need to draw! If you need to draw that piece of hair over and over until you feel like you have down the shape, you do that! If you need to use a tool that would draw the hair for you, you get that tool!

If you want to post, you can say you are practicing! If you make clear you are practicing, then be willing to accept that people may have feedback. I’d far rather deal with someone saying they’re unconfident and practicing, than someone posting a whitewashed caricature and closing their ears because “well at least I’m trying!”

2) Empathize! Care about actual Black people when you create a Black character!

Imagine, if you will, in the Twilight Zone: you went to an artist, and you asked for a white character (I typed in “regular looking white dude” on google). There’s hardly ever any white characters, you’re so super excited about this one! You paid good money, because you’ve seen just how amazing this artist creates! They’re so good at drawing characters of color! But no matter how many times you ask, they send you back an image of… Assad Zaman.

That man might be fine as hell! Gorgeous! Beautifully done! Chef’s kiss. Stunning! But… He’s not white. That’s not what you asked or paid for. You can’t even fathom how they mixed this up, they don’t even look alike! And when you confront them, they gaslight you, they call YOU the issue for not understanding how you can’t tell that this is a white man! They would never get this wrong! They have white friends, you’re the racist! But you’re not stupid, and you have functioning eyes- you can SEE what this drawing looks like! And… It’s not you.

It’s dehumanizing. It’s being told that there’s a “better way” to look like you, and that’s by… Not looking like you. You, as you exist, are what’s incorrect. Your identity is incorrect, not their drawing. It’s better to have thinner hair instead of an afro or locs, it’s better to have lighter skin, it’s better to have a straighter, thinner nose over a round one, and smaller lips.

And what makes it worse is knowing that people who don’t look like you? Probably won’t care. They won’t be willing to see- not unable, but unwilling- that playing with this caricature is harmful, that they’re propagating harm by not acknowledging it. They’re letting you know that your humanity means less to them than the clout received with a whitewashed or half-assed Black character, and that people will applaud them for that ‘attempt at inclusion’. And people will applaud! They will be entertained by the mere performance! And that hurts.

I’m going to say this, and it’s awkward and I try not to say it directly on here, but… Having Black friends and/or being around actual, real life Black people would help. I can tell from some of the questions I receive that Black characters and their traits- especially things like our hair and our cultures- are being treated as… alien concepts. But even if, for whatever reason, you legitimately don’t know any Black people, you do not need to know us individually to care about our humanity as a whole! Even if you do not know we’re there, we are, and we could possibly see your work!

By acknowledging Blackness and making room to understand what it means- and that includes how we can look- you are doing the bare minimum of acknowledging our personhood. If you cannot do even that, you don’t need to be drawing us.

Conclusion

Here’s the thing: if you want to draw a white man with tanned skin, do that. Just do it! You do NOT have to erase me to have more of you! There is not a single fandom where the majority of the white fans ever said “gee, not another white guy!” It simply doesn’t happen. God knows we wish it did sometimes. You will always have an audience for white characters. There’s no danger to any of you of “being erased”.

(Without putting on my political hat, I will say that a lot of white people who consider themselves to be far from white supremacist will express beliefs in line with great replacement theory if you push them hard enough. It is unfortunately not as uncommon an idea as you might think. I would do some self-evaluation.)

People are going to notice that you only ever draw white people, but… To be frank, that has never stopped anybody from being successful. Again, Jen Zee, at Supergiant with the terrible dark-skinned characters… Still has a job. at Supergiant. A professional studio. Dragon Age. Multiple games of consistent whitewashing and racist writing. Still going. If racism prevented creation and popularity, I wouldn’t have to have this blog. Alas, that is the society we currently live in.

But if you ACTUALLY want to depict Black characters, if you ACTUALLY want to do right and be respectful- not because you want the clout, but because it’s the right damn thing to do- then you need to commit! This means drawing them as they are meant to be! Accept that you’ll likely lose some fan base, who was there (whether they were aware of it or not) for the white and lighter skinned characters. Accept that this means that trying to appeal to those people by whitewashing characters is 1) wrong, 2) racist, which is 3) something you chose to do when you could simply have just… Drawn more white people.

I’ll say it again: antiracism is hard. It’s hard doing the right thing in a society that rewards racism so easily. It’s really hard knowing that people will stop supporting you or caring as much about your work when you start including Black characters as actively as you do white ones, especially if you start talking about the importance of it. But in my honest opinion, I’d far rather be someone that cared about others, with genuine fans, than someone that was racist for the fleeting internet clout of strangers. And that may be less ‘hopeful’ than I normally am in these lessons, but… People make choices. And people who have been informed- as you are now- are aware of the choices they are making. It’s the thought that counts, but the action that delivers- let’s choose better actions.

#creatingblackcharacters #black character design #whitewashing #antiblackness

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svt-luna · 20 days ago

Note

svt did thirst tweets but only four members can you make it so it’s all of them plus Luna! I think it will be funny. Maybe FML era promotions so they are complete!!! i NEED the tweets to be UNHINGED!!

ʚིᵋ ⋆ SEVENTEEN READS THIRST TWEETS ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── now playing…

synopsis: SEVENTEEN read unhinged thirst tweets, laugh through chaos, and barely survive the secondhand embarrassment.

wc: 10.1k

that recent buzzfeed video only had 4 members and honestly, i also wanted ALL of them there soooo, here is my brain indulging me and all of you lovelies with an ot14 version of Thirst Tweets!! hope you lovelies enjoy reading! 💕

also, this might be my last post FOR A WHILE! before you guys panic, i have decided to take a break from this blog (only for a little while) because i have been extremely burnout and honestly, i haven’t been 100% satisfied with my recent works because of that. i also have been extremely busy with school and my own personal life, i haven’t got the time to focus on this blog. so, i decided take a short break. don’t worry, i will be back soon. i just need to regroup and rest for a while. i am extremely proud of this blog and happy that i have all of you to appreciate it so i will not take it for granted! I WILL BE BACK! but for now, this will be the last (for now!!!) i hope you guys understand! i will see you soon, my lovelies! 💞

disclaimer! suggestive content!

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ more interviews

bold dialogues are spoken in english ღ

The stark white backdrop of the BuzzFeed studio glowed brightly under the overhead lights, making the already-vibrant group look even sharper against the minimalist setting. It was just fourteen members— all in sleek, coordinated casuals, hair styled immaculately, faces lightly powdered— seated in two neat rows on tall stools.

The back row held the first seven: S.Coups at the far left, Jun beside him, followed by Hoshi, Jeonghan, Wonwoo, The8, and Woozi. Each sat comfortably, slightly angled toward the center, phones in their hands and soft smiles playing on their faces.

The front row featured the remaining seven: from left to right, Dino, DK, Mingyu, Luna, Joshua, Vernon, and Seungkwan. There was a soft buzz of conversation among them, some teasing each other, others adjusting how they held their phones or sneakily peeking at the tweets they’d be reading soon.

Then came the cue.

“Okay!” S.Coups clapped his hands once, his tone steady but energized, immediately commanding attention. It was the classic leader tone— not too loud, but firm, familiar. The low chatter ceased, and all heads turned his way as he leaned slightly forward in his seat.

“Say the name!” he announced with a practiced smile, one that lit up his eyes.

Without hesitation, the members moved in perfect sync, raising their right hands in a sharp gesture as they chorused, “SEVENTEEN!”

Then, almost as one organism, they bowed respectfully, hands neatly placed on laps or knees before coming back up with bright, practiced smiles.

“Hello, we are SEVENTEEN!” they all said in unison, voices overlapping in a smooth harmony of tones and accents— the result of hundreds of group intros over the years.

The camera zoomed in slightly as the individual introductions began, starting with the leader seated on the far left of the back row.

“Hi, I’m S.Coups.” He gave a small wave and a signature soft, sheepish grin that didn’t match his charismatic aura, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Hi, I’m Jun.” Jun smiled warmly, his head tilting just a little, as if to soften the edge of his already angelic visuals.

“Hello! I’m Hoshi!” Hoshi beamed, throwing up his signature tiger claw hands mid-air with a playful roar sound, the move so second-nature it felt like muscle memory.

“Hi, I’m Jeonghan.” Jeonghan lifted his hand in a loose wave, expression calm and mischievously unreadable, the slight smirk on his lips giving nothing away but knowing everything.

“Hi, I’m Wonwoo.” Wonwoo’s deep voice came out in a quiet, calm tone. He gave a subtle nod and a tight-lipped smile, charming in its effortless simplicity.

“Hi, I’m The8.” Minghao’s posture was perfect, chin lifted slightly as he greeted the camera with a confident but calm smile.

“Hi, I’m Woozi.” Woozi said it quickly and clearly, his expression professional, though the small lift of his brows and a twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted he knew what chaos they were about to dive into.

The camera panned to the front row now, beginning with Dino.

“Hello, I’m Dino.” He sat upright, grinning with a mix of excitement and nervous energy, like the youngest sibling bracing himself to read something very not maknae-friendly.

“Hello! I’m DK!” DK waved both hands enthusiastically, a smile stretching his cheeks so widely it made Mingyu beside him laugh a little under his breath.

“Hi, I’m Mingyu! Nice to meet you!” Mingyu said, his voice low and smooth as he leaned slightly forward to the camera with a practiced charm.

“Hello, I’m Luna.” Luna’s soft British accent was evident as she smiled at the camera, the accent catching the attention of even the crew behind it.

“Hi, I’m Joshua.” Joshua’s tone was warm, with a hint of his American accent bleeding through. His posture was perfect, and he smiled calmly like he was born in front of the camera.

“Hi, I’m Vernon.” Vernon lifted his hand in a casual wave, the motion easy and relaxed.

“Hi, I’m Seungkwan!” Seungkwan finished the roll call with a confident tone and slight bounce in his seat, always bringing the flair of a seasoned entertainer.

Then Luna leaned slightly forward, the camera subtly centering her frame.

“And we are here with BuzzFeed to read Thirst Tweets.” Luna said, her tone clear, calm, but with a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

A chorus of reactions immediately burst from the group.

“Ooooh~!”

“Wow!”

“Ahh, here we go,” Hoshi laughed, already rubbing his hands together.

“Thirst Tweets.” Mingyu echoed with a wide grin, like he was tasting the phrase on his tongue. “I think it’s going to be fun.”

He nodded to himself, shifting slightly in his seat. “I thought it would be fun from the moment I heard we were going to do this.”

The others murmured in agreement, the atmosphere buzzing now with barely restrained laughter and anticipation.

“Right? I’m excited.” Luna nodded, mock-serious, her lips twitching with a smirk.

“You know,” Seungkwan chimed in, sitting a little taller as his inner MC mode turned on, “we’ve heard a lot of thirst comments from fans over the years, so I’m hoping some of them go a bit bold. I’m excited to see just how much they’ll make us laugh.”

DK leaned over toward him slightly, holding in a laugh. “That’s cute, thinking fans are gonna hold back.”

“I’m nervous,” Dino admitted, laughing nervously. “This is my first time doing something like this.”

“It’s okay. It’ll be fun,” Jeonghan said plainly.

Mingyu glanced at the camera, holding up his phone. “All right. Let’s not waste time. Some of these tweets are… long.”

“That’s what scares me!” Hoshi laughed again, bouncing slightly on his stool.

Then Vernon looked around the group, lifting his brows as he held his phone more securely in both hands.

“Let’s go?” he asked casually.

A chorus of overlapping responses echoed around him.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go!”

“Lets do it!”

“I’m not ready—”

“Too late now.”

The phones were lifted, fourteen sets of eyes scanning the first tweet, fingers poised and expressions ready for the chaos that was about to ensue.

“‘Fuck SEVENTEEN and puppies. I proposed SEVENTEEN reading thirsty tweets.’” Vernon read in his usual calm, flat tone, the deadpan delivery only making the line funnier.

A split-second beat passed and then—

“Oh?” Seungkwan gasped, hand immediately flying up to cover his mouth as his eyes went wide.

Mingyu blinked, lips parted in disbelief before he squinted at Vernon’s screen. “So… the ‘fck’ is ‘fuck’?”

“Yeah,” Luna and Vernon confirmed simultaneously with a small nod, casually unfazed beside him.

“Okay,” Mingyu muttered after a pause, lips pressing together like he had just downloaded forbidden knowledge.

Chuckles rippled through the group as Vernon shifted slightly to glance over his shoulder at the back row, now translating the tweet smoothly into Korean for the members who didn’t fully catch the English.

“Yeah. So basically, get SEVENTEEN and puppies out of here. I just want to see them read thirst tweets.”

The room exploded into laughter.

“Ahh!” Hoshi doubled over slightly, shoulders shaking. “They’re mad at puppies now?!”

“I thought we were cute with the puppies!” Dokyeom said, pointing to himself indignantly, though he was grinning.

“I loved the puppies too,” Luna pouted, crossing her arms dramatically, her bottom lip sticking out as she leaned back in mock offense.

“Ah… so this refers to that puppy interview we did, right?” Mingyu asked, glancing around for confirmation.

“That’s right. We did the puppy interview before.” Seungkwan nodded, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh again.

“Those puppies were so cute. I remember,” Dino said sweetly, the nostalgia hitting him like a soft breeze.

“So it’s saying to take out the puppies and the puppy interview,” Mingyu summarized with a grin.

“Just skip the cute and go straight to… this.” Jeonghan added coolly from the back row.

Seungkwan chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned forward, palms on his knees like he was gathering himself.

“Still,” he said, trying to be mock-reasonable, “they must’ve put a lot of effort into the puppy interview content too… and then it’s just like— boom… ‘fuck puppies.’”

The entire group burst into loud laughter.

“Isn’t that exactly what you wanted?” Vernon asked Seungkwan, deadpan, brow slightly raised.

He was, of course, referring to Seungkwan’s earlier statement about wanting bold tweets.

“This is great,” Seungkwan replied, giving a big, overly enthusiastic thumbs up toward the camera like a proud elementary schooler. His eyes were bright with mischief, lips twitching upward.

S.Coups, shaking his head, muttered, “We’ve only just started.”

“Should we be scared?” Jun asked, clutching his phone like a shield.

“I am scared,” DK laughed. “But it’s kind of fun.”

“I love this already,” Hoshi declared, pointing to Vernon. “More!”

Still giggling, Seungkwan glanced around, a sudden look of mock-concern washing over his face.

“It might be my first time saying ‘fuck’ on camera,” he said, voice dropping as if he was confessing a scandal.

“That’s okay,” Luna said brightly, leaning over to pat his arm before turning fully to face the camera, suddenly slipping into promo-mode with the elegance of a seasoned idol.

“Because we’re promoting our new mini album ‘FML’.” She smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Then she turned back to the camera, still smiling sweetly, a complete betrayal of what she was about to say.

“Please give lots of love to our song ‘Fuck My Life’,” she said sweetly, before giggling under her breath at the sheer shamelessness of the plug.

The reaction was instant.

“Yahhh!” Seungkwan squealed, covering his face.

“Shameless queen!” Hoshi clapped.

“Good job!” Dokyeom cheered for her, lifting both hands in celebration like she just won a game.

“FML era Luna is different,” Joshua said, shaking his head fondly.

Luna just winked at the camera.

The moment the laughter finally died down, Seungkwan raised his phone slightly and glanced at it with mock suspicion. “Okay, my turn,” he announced, lips already twitching in anticipation.

He cleared his throat like a seasoned emcee and read aloud, “‘God created men and then sent Mingyu as an apology.’”

A loud, collective “OHHH!” erupted instantly.

“That’s sweet,” Luna said, smiling genuinely as she turned to look at Mingyu beside her.

Mingyu clutched his chest with one hand dramatically, his eyes glistening like he was about to cry. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, as if accepting a lifetime achievement award, his deep voice soft with mock emotion.

Seungkwan blinked at him, then down at his own phone, lips parting in exaggerated disbelief. “Wait— why is it my turn to read and then it’s a tweet about Mingyu?”

Laughter broke out again.

“I think you need to film my solo shot,” Mingyu said, turning to look at the camera crew behind the setup, voice serious but teasing as he pointed to the camera, “not Seungkwan, because this tweet is clearly about me.”

The members cackled at his shamelessness.

“It’s true!” Hoshi said, laughing as he smacked his own thigh. “He should be center right now!”

“As I was talking,” Seungkwan said, his voice rising an octave as he looked off into space like he was replaying the moment in his head, “I was like… wait, why am I not in the tweet?!”

“Men are in fact disappointing,” Hoshi added suddenly, nodding gravely as he crossed his arms.

The reaction was immediate, boisterous laughter from every direction.

“Not you guys,” Luna clarified quickly, turning to the group with her hands up in surrender, laughing softly. “That tweet could be applied to all of you guys.”

The teasing softened as the group melted at her words.

“Aww,” Joshua smiled warmly.

“You’re sweet, our Jiyeonie,” said DK with a hand on his heart.

“That’s so nice,” S.Coups added with a tiny smile.

Minghao nodded appreciatively.

“Please say thank you to the account,” Seungkwan said, now back in emcee mode as he gestured toward the camera dramatically, “Send them a kiss.”

“Thank you so much,” Mingyu said, before turning toward the lens and blowing a slow, dramatic kiss directly at it.

“All right, all right,” Woozi said calmly, raising his phone. “My turn.”

The room settled down as Woozi looked at the screen with slight squint, adjusting the angle of the phone before reading it out in a measured, steady tone.

“‘I want Woozi to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.’”

There was a beat of silence before several reactions dropped like dominos.

“OHHHH!” Hoshi exclaimed with wide eyes.

“That’s specific!” DK added, his mouth forming a perfect “O.”

Woozi blinked once, then slowly nodded, expression completely neutral.

“That’s sweet,” he said, nonchalantly, as if the idea of whispering sweet nothings into a stranger’s ear was just a regular Tuesday for him.

Luna giggled behind her hand. “They gave us the sweet ones to read first,” she said knowingly, glancing toward the rest with a sparkle in her eye.

More laughter broke out, some of the members nodding as if silently agreeing that things were going to spiral soon.

And they did.

Minghao looked down calmly at his phone, then tilted it forward slightly as if to check it again before reading aloud, “‘Minghao’s giggles give me a kind of energy that no coffee, no sunlight, no sleep could ever match.’”

“Awwwww!” DK gushed.

“They help your body recover,” Vernon said seriously, not even cracking a smile which only made it funnier.

“The8… by any chance…” Seungkwan started dramatically, narrowing his eyes with suspicion.

“Give us a giggle, please,” Mingyu and Wonwoo chorused instantly, leaning toward him like fans at a fanmeeting.

All eyes turned to Minghao.

He didn’t even hesitate.

With perfect comedic timing, he let out a light, airy giggle… just a small one, barely loud enough to register, but undeniably adorable.

That was enough.

Dokyeom wheezed, Hoshi slapped his knee and leaned sideways, and Luna leaned forward, laughing so hard she covered her mouth.

“I don’t think this is it…” Minghao said dryly, raising an eyebrow afterward. “Yeah, this can’t be it.”

“You’re saying this is sunlight?” Mingyu asked, pointing dramatically at Minghao, eyes wide as he addressed the camera.

“What was that?”

“No way.”

“Replay that!”

“You’re holding back!”

The comments flew from all directions.

Minghao only smiled coolly and faced the camera again. “Still, make sure you’re eating well,” he said gently, voice soft. “I’ll try to laugh a lot.”

“If you keep sending us these thirst comments, he’ll definitely be giggling a lot,” Mingyu added with a wink, nudging him with his elbow.

“Next! Wonwoo!” Joshua called out with cheer, amping the energy up again.

Wonwoo adjusted his glasses with one hand, sat up straighter, and lifted his phone.

He read carefully: “‘Wonwoo’s shoulders are so… broad I just know… you wouldn’t be able to see… the ceiling.’”

Luna giggled, hunching forward as she pressed her hand over her mouth, while Vernon beside her twisted in his seat, full-on laughing with his head down.

Joshua chuckled lowly before glancing at the members in the back as he translated the tweet in Korean.

“Ah… what—” Wonwoo started, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process it.

“What does that mean?” S.Coups asked from the back row, leaning in with an intrigued squint.

“No— cause we went from zero to a hundred all of a sudden,” Vernon said, shoulders shaking as he leaned toward Luna, their private laugh spiraling into unfiltered chaos.

“Why?” Dino blinked, looking confused.

“Yeah, what is it?” Jun added, brows lifting curiously.

Luna turned to Wonwoo slowly, still laughing, and tried to explain, “It’s because your shoulders are so broad… they think… they wouldn’t be able to see the… ceiling.”

“You just repeated the tweet in Korean,” Seungkwan and Dokyeom pointed at her in unison, making the others burst out laughing.

“I’m trying!” Luna said, giggling as she lifted her hands to gesture vaguely. “It just means… they think they wouldn’t be able to see the ceiling.”

She leaned back against Jeonghan’s legs, who was sitting behind her, and waved her hand up over her head. “You know… cause…”

She waved again in the air, her palm facing up, like miming someone hovering over her.

“Cause Wonwoo would be on top,” Vernon and Joshua chorused helpfully, their voices almost too in-sync.

Wonwoo’s head snapped to them with an expression of pure shock— eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.

The group erupted.

“Aaaaaah!”

“YAHHHHHHH!”

“No way—”

“STOP!”

DK had fallen sideways into Mingyu, who was gasping for breath. Dino covered his face with both hands. Woozi turned away and let out a silent, shaking laugh.

“THAT ESCALATED!” S.Coups shouted from the back, both hands on his thighs.

“That’s crazy!” Jun exclaimed.

“My ears are red,” Hoshi muttered fanning his face.

Mingyu just stared at the camera with a stunned expression. “We’re really doing this, huh?”

In the middle of the chaos, Wonwoo smiled shyly, his head ducked just slightly.

“T-Thank you,” he said in a soft voice, giving the most reluctant gratitude ever recorded on camera.

“‘T-Thank you,’” Seungkwan mimicked, clutching his chest dramatically.

“‘T-Thank you!’” Dokyeom repeated with exaggerated shyness.

“Cute,” Luna said sweetly, tilting her head toward Wonwoo as she giggled again.

Wonwoo gave a sheepish grin, pushing his glasses up his nose again like he could hide behind them.

Jeonghan glanced down at the phone in his hand, tapping the edge of the screen with his thumb before raising it slightly. His posture relaxed, his tone casual but his smirk gave him away long before he opened his mouth.

“‘Yoon Jeonghan is an amazing kisser. I bet everything I own,’” he read smoothly, eyes flicking up with a lilt of amusement in his voice.

“OOOHHHHH!” the group exploded in unison like a perfectly timed sound effect, voices overlapping in shock and laughter.

Hoshi’s hands flew to his cheeks. “Aigoo, aigoo, aigoo!”

Joshua let out a low whistle and leaned back. “That’s a big bet.”

Dino gasped dramatically. “Everything you own?!”

DK was already leaning on Dino’s shoulder, laughing. “Even their house?!”

The teasing chorus rippled through the group like a wave.

In the middle of it all, Luna, seated in the front row just ahead of Jeonghan, looked down slowly at the phone in her hands. Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as she fought the faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She scrolled idly, pretending to check the next tweet, but the weight of everyone’s gaze was starting to crawl in her direction.

“Ah… ah… ahh…” Seungkwan caught the shift in her expression immediately.

He reached over gently, placing one hand on her shoulder and giving her a soft nudge.

“Do you agree?” he asked, voice high with mischief, eyes practically sparkling.

The room went still for a split second, and then the giggles came in waves again, some low and restrained, some high-pitched and chaotic, everyone clearly doing their best not to push too hard… but failing spectacularly.

DK leaned forward, hand over his mouth. “Oh my…”

S.Coups was shaking, eyes darting between Luna and Jeonghan like a spectator in a tennis match.

“A-Agree with what?” Luna asked, forcing her voice to stay even, though her fingers curled just a little tighter around her phone.

“The tweet.” Seungkwan said innocently, almost too innocently, blinking at her.

Luna took a steady breath and gave a perfect shrug, calm and collected. “I don’t know.”

Then she turned gracefully to face the camera, her smile sweet but calculated. “That’s up to Carats’ imagination.”

A loud chorus of “OHHHHHHH!” rang out across the room, the members cracking up once again.

“What can you say?” Joshua asked, turning to Jeonghan now, his eyes glinting. “About the tweet, I mean.”

Jeonghan was already smirking.

He hadn’t looked at the camera yet, his eyes were fixed somewhere else, just slightly downward— at the back of Luna’s head, her silky hair brushing over her shoulders as she tilted back into her seat again.

He let the moment hang in the air, letting anticipation bubble up naturally, before finally dragging his gaze to Joshua with a faux-casual blink, then finally, slowly to the camera lens.

The smirk stayed.

“I mean…” Jeonghan said, voice low and measured, laced with mischief, “I don’t kiss and tell.”

The studio exploded.

“YAAAHHHHHH!”

“YO!”

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

“OH MY GOD!”

“HYUNG!?!”

Dino physically turned away, shoulders shaking. “I CAN’T.”

Mingyu slid halfway off his chair and onto Luna, laughing so hard he was wheezing. “HYUNG!!!”

Joshua covered his face, his whole body trembling from laughter. “He didn’t even deny it!”

Hoshi clapped so aggressively, it echoed.

Even Luna— biting back a smile as Mingyu nearly collapsed into her lap. She let out a soft, incredulous chuckle, shaking her head while covering her mouth.

Jeonghan, unfazed and still smug, leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other with the satisfaction of someone who had absolutely just won the round.

Hoshi, practically vibrating with excitement in his seat, eagerly raised his phone and scooted forward.

“Okay!” he chirped, already grinning from ear to ear.

He held the phone up proudly, the screen glowing in his palm as he read the tweet aloud— slowly, carefully, in English.

“‘I would pay… Kwon Soonyoung all my life’s… savings for him to break my back… like a glow stick.’”

It was the long pause between “back” and “like a glow stick” that did it.

“What–” Luna’s jaw dropped. She looked up from her phone and turned to the camera in stunned silence, blinking rapidly.

Joshua’s eyebrows shot up as his mouth opened slightly, stunned into silence before he exhaled, “Oh… my God.”

Beside them, Vernon covered his mouth with one hand, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

The rest of the group who didn’t fully catch the meaning but heard the words “break my back” and “glow stick” responded with a collective wave of confused but curious “OHHHHs” and a few “HUHHHs.”

DK leaned in. “Glow stick?”

“They want to what now?” Mingyu furrowed his brow. “How old are you?”

Seungkwan turned to Joshua and Luna expectantly. “Wait… was that bad? It sounds bad.”

Luna tilted her head and looked around the group like she was mentally preparing an HR-friendly explanation. “That one was strong,” Joshua said, lips twitching.

“Yeah,” Luna agreed, blinking at Hoshi. “That’s… strong.”

Still chuckling, Vernon turned to the back row and translated casually in Korean, his voice smooth as always:

“They said they would give Soonyoung hyung their entire life savings for him to… uh… break their back like a glow stick.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then—

“What the hell?!” Hoshi said immediately, scrunching his nose and fanning his face like he just heard something unholy.

“Oh my GOD,” Dino yelped.

“That’s crazy,” Mingyu muttered, eyes wide as he mouthed “break my back?!” again to himself.

Hoshi, however, sat there absolutely beaming, nodding proudly. “That’s powerful. They know power when they see it.”

“You’re proud of this?!” Dokyeom laughed.

“It’s a compliment!” Hoshi argued, pointing at himself with both thumbs.

Minghao, meanwhile, looked disgusted. He squinted, blinking slowly. “Isn’t that… painful? And weirdly unhygienic? What does that even mean? Why would you want that?”

“It’s metaphorical,” Luna muttered, covering her face with both hands.

“Yeah,” Vernon added with a laugh, “Not literal back-breaking.”

“I mean… unless they meant literal, in which case—” Joshua said, pausing dramatically, “Seek help.”

“Call a chiropractor,” Jeonghan quipped.

“I’m honored,” Hoshi said again proudly, nodding like he just won Artist of the Year.

“Okay…” Seungkwan waved his hands like clearing the air. “Moving on…”

Jun raised his phone with a smirk that screamed, brace yourselves.

“‘Wen Junhui, I’d volunteer to wipe sweat off you with my tongue,’” he read aloud in Korean, calm as ever.

Chaos.

Absolute chaos.

A synchronized chorus of “AAAHHHH!” broke out across both rows. Hoshi grabbed DK like he was going to faint. Mingyu half-stood. Luna physically flung herself back into Jeonghan, who let out a stunned wheeze of laughter.

“WHAT?!” Seungkwan screeched.

“NO NO NO NO NO,” Joshua laughed, holding both hands up.

“That’s not… okay?!” Dino cried.

“I—WHY THE TONGUE?!” Dokyeom demanded, looking personally betrayed.

Jun just sat there, blinking. “That’s a lot of dedication.”

Minghao, already exhausted by humanity, shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowing. “That’s unsanitary.”

“EXACTLY,” Woozi said, gesturing to him with conviction.

“There are towels,” Minghao continued, gesturing with his hands. “Just use a towel.”

Luna groaned into her hands. “Oh my god…”

Joshua, recovering from his fit of laughter, glanced around at the chaos and began to explain, “Okay— so, it’s a very sensual thing to say—”

“Too sensual,” Vernon added.

“They’re basically saying they’re so attracted to Jun that they’d wipe the sweat off of him… in the most unhinged way possible,” Joshua finished.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jun said with a gentle smile, folding his hands. “But… thank you.”

“They’re brave for admitting that out loud,” Luna said, fanning herself. “I wouldn’t have the guts.”

“That’s a bold visual,” S.Coups added from the back.

“You shouldn’t have the guts!” Woozi snapped, his tone laced with disbelief.

“I can’t believe we’re talking about this in a BuzzFeed video,” Mingyu said, laughing in shock.

“We used to just talk about food and teamwork,” Jeonghan sighed dramatically.

“Now it’s tongues and back-breaking,” DK said with a crooked smile.

“We’ve evolved,” Seungkwan declared proudly. “Too far. But still.”

S.Coups finally raised his phone with the calm, quiet energy of a man who had heard everything and still feared what came next.

He read steadily, “‘When Scoups smiles… standing… ovulation or whatever… they say.’”

There was a pause.

“…Huh?” Hoshi blinked.

Luna chuckled again, covering her mouth with both hands as she turned toward S.Coups, eyes wide. “We aren’t even halfway. These are getting out of hand.”

“Wait, wait, what’s ovulation?” Dino asked, tilting his head.

Luna turned to Joshua, wide-eyed. “Joshie… go ahead. You’ve got this.”

“Why me? You’re the girl!?” Joshua retorted.

Luna sighed deeply, brushing hair away from her face like a professor about to give a sex-ed seminar.

“So, ovulation is… something that happens in a woman’s body when someone’s, uh… biologically ready to— how do I put this—”

“Make a baby,” Vernon said flatly.

“Basically, yeah,” Joshua nodded. “And this tweet is saying that… when S.Coups smiles, they feel that… intense biological urge.”

A beat.

The group screamed.

“YAHHHH!”

“NOOOOOO!”

“I can’t DO THIS!”

“Oh my GODDDD!”

Jeonghan turned completely around in his seat, laughing into his sleeve.

“I’m gonna quit,” Minghao said.

Hoshi was wiping tears from his eyes. “This is— this is the best interview we’ve ever done.”

“Not the reproductive system making a guest appearance!” Luna shouted, still laughing as she leaned on Joshua’s arm.

“This is the point in our career where we can talk about this?” Woozi asked the air.

“Is this growth or regression?” Dokyeom asked seriously.

“Both,” Seungkwan said.

“I can’t believe someone typed that out with a straight face,” Wonwoo mumbled.

“I can believe it,” Mingyu replied, gesturing around. “Have you seen Carats lately?”

“I’m honored?” S.Coups said slowly, laughing nervously as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Well,” Joshua chuckled, “Congratulations on… causing hormonal reactions.”

The group erupted again.

And still… there were more tweets to go.

Dino sat upright, back straight, phone in hand like he was about to take an exam. He glanced nervously around at the others, eyes wide with anticipation.

“I’m nervous,” he said with a shy chuckle, brushing the back of his head.

Next to him, Luna turned her head and smiled warmly. “It’s okay,” she said gently, voice reassuring as if she were preparing him for a rollercoaster ride.

He gave a little nod, then straightened his shoulders.

“Okay!” Dino declared, rallying his courage with his signature energy before looking down and reading clearly, “‘Dino is the kind of man you fall in love with once… and then never fully recover from.’”

The reaction was immediate.

“Awww!”

“Ohhh, that’s sweet!”

“That’s actually… really nice!”

Even Jeonghan tilted his head and smiled. “That’s a good one.”

“Finally,” Luna added, shoulders relaxing, “that one’s not that bad.”

“Right?!” Seungkwan said. “I thought we were going to have to shield our maknae’s ears today.”

“I feel safe,” Dino nodded, pleased. “Thank you to the person who wrote this. That was really kind.”

“Still…” Woozi began thoughtfully, “I think you should recover.”

“Yeah,” Minghao nodded. “Emotionally, it’s better to heal.”

“I mean, if you don’t recover from loving someone, that could be… kind of painful?” Joshua added with a sheepish smile.

“But it’s romantic,” DK insisted with his hand over his heart. “Like, that one deep love you never forget.”

“Dino is giving first love energy,” Luna nodded sagely.

Dino blushed a little and bowed his head with a small smile. “Thank you. I’m honored.”

The members all clapped lightly for him, the warm moment giving the group a brief, wholesome pause from the chaos.

But it didn’t last long.

“Okay! It’s DK time!” Dokyeom announced suddenly in his usual booming tone, raising his phone triumphantly.

The others chuckled at his enthusiasm as he read.

“‘I wanna… Seok his DK… until he Kyeoms.’”

There was a beat.

Silence.

Then—

Joshua slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes bulging as he stared wide-eyed at the camera.

Luna gasped so hard she almost choked, both hands flying to cover her mouth as her eyes widened in horror and amusement. “Oh— oh my GOD—”

Next to her, Vernon blinked once. Then twice. Then his entire body folded in half as he threw himself sideways— right over both Luna’s and Joshua’s laps.

“WH— Vernon-ah!!” Joshua cried, but even he couldn’t stop laughing as Vernon curled up on top of them, his body shaking.

Luna lost all composure. Her laugh broke free in a long, chaotic wheeze as she bent forward, clutching her stomach, and the next thing anyone knew— both Vernon and Luna were slowly sliding to the floor in tears.

Jeonghan instinctively reached forward from the second row to grab Luna by her shoulder, “Oh no—wait—” but she was already collapsing down off the seat with laughter, too far gone.

“Oh my god,” Hoshi gasped, watching them both. “They’re on the floor.”

“What’s happening?!” Jun laughed, craning his neck to see.

“Why are they down there?!” Woozi asked, blinking in confusion.

“Did it break them?” Dino whispered dramatically.

“I don’t get it,” DK said, furrowing his brows. “Should I read it again?”

“No!” Vernon tried to warn from the floor, but he was still muffled, face buried in Luna’s back as he laughed.

Too late.

DK, still bewildered but determined, read it again in full.

“‘I wanna… Seok his DK… until he Kyeoms.’”

A strangled gasp left Luna as she waved her hand wildly from the floor. “Stoppp!”

“Hyung, please!” Vernon choked, tapping the floor twice like he was tapping out in a wrestling match.

Luna wiped at her eyes, her back still turned to the camera as she faced the rest of the members, shoulders shaking.

Vernon, equally breathless, had his face buried in the back as he lay on top of her in defeat.

“Get up, get up,” Jeonghan was behind them, chuckling as he reached to help, but both Vernon and Luna were already staggering upright, wiping at their eyes and laughing as they made their way back to their seats.

As they turned around to sit again, their backs were still to the camera, and all the members could see was the two of them slowly shaking their heads at the group.

Joshua leaned in and whispered to the still-confused DK, “The tweet is using your name as a pun to…”

Joshua started to explain to the members.

DK’s eyes got huge. “Ohhhhhhh…”

“YEP,” Luna said, still fanning herself as she sat down, voice raspy from laughing.

“I was so caught off guard,” she muttered to Vernon.

“It was so creative,” Vernon replied, snorting through his last laugh as their eyes met.

“Right?!” Luna agreed, nodding.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu muttered, holding his head. “How old are you?!”

“This is what Carats are doing instead of sleeping,” Minghao said flatly.

“Our Carats are naughty.” S.Coups said chuckling.

Dokyeom, still red in the face, looked up with a stunned expression. “I… I didn’t mean to read that so confidently .”

“You read it twice,” Joshua reminded him, patting his arm.

“You volunteered to read it again,” Jeonghan laughed.

“I didn’t know what it meant!” DK protested, now pink to his ears.

“You do now,” Vernon muttered.

Vernon and Luna giggled again, heads bowed down side by side.

The laughter from the DK tweet fiasco hadn’t quite died down yet, but ever the natural MC, Dokyeom clapped his hands together and grinned into the camera like nothing just shattered the entire room moments ago.

“Okay! Thank you, thank you…” he said brightly, still flustered but keeping it together with charm. “I… appreciate your enthusiasm… yes.”

A few of the members chuckled at his forced sincerity, especially Hoshi, who mimicked the stiff, polite tone behind him. Dokyeom gave a half-glare over his shoulder but smiled anyway, ever the sunshine of the group.

He nodded, looking at the camera with wide, eager eyes. “Luna’s turn!”

All eyes turned to Luna, who exhaled a long breath and shook her head as if to reset her brain. She still had a laugh stuck in her throat from before and was blinking tears from her lashes, but she straightened in her chair with grace, pushed her hair off her shoulder, and cleared her throat with a soft ahem.

“My turn,” she said.

Her voice came out lower, calmer, with her natural accent laced in the delivery as she looked down at the tweet on her phone. “‘Whoever Bae Jiyeon’s partner is, I hope you know how lucky you are and you need to be treating her like an absolute princess.’”

As she finished reading, Luna blinked at the words with a soft pout forming on her lips, tilting her head and glancing up at the camera. Her expression was touched— almost genuinely emotional.

From the side, Vernon, already glancing at her, turned toward the camera and translated fluently in Korean for the rest of the members.

“That is so sweet of you. Thank you,” Luna added softly, voice warm as she gave the lens a grateful nod.

“Awww,” echoed several voices.

“Ayy that’s cute,” said Mingyu with a smile.

“Sweet,” Woozi nodded approvingly, while Dino gave a sincere thumbs-up.

“She deserves it,” S.Coups muttered under his breath.

But as Luna smiled back down at her phone, there was a subtle shift in the room.

The kind of silence that wasn’t really silent.

The kind of stillness where everyone was thinking something but trying not to say something.

A few heads turned slowly.

Minghao smirked and tilted his chin as if suppressing a comment.

Joshua darted his eyes toward the second row behind Luna, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

And right behind her, leaning back in his chair, Jeonghan was looking down at the back of her head with the faintest, smug smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

He didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t need to.

The tweet had everyone aware of the same unspoken truth— that the “partner” in question, the one allegedly treating Luna like a princess, was… already right there.

Sitting behind her.

Smirking at her.

Pretending like nothing was going on.

Luna (bless her) either didn’t catch it or was ignoring it masterfully.

“I think every woman should be treated like a princess by their significant other,” she said thoughtfully, lifting her head as she gave the camera one more smile.

It was sweet. Innocent. Politically correct.

Until—

“Noona,” Seungkwan started, and the way he leaned in slightly was dangerous. His tone was too casual to be innocent. “Are you being treated like a princess?”

Luna’s head snapped to him. “Huh?” she blinked.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across Seungkwan’s face. “Are you being treated like a princess?” he repeated, almost innocently.

Luna laughed nervously, her hand curling around her phone like a lifeline.

“M-Me?” she stuttered. “I-I don’t have anyone yet.”

It was a blatant lie, and everyone knew it.

The moment she said it, at least four members tried to suppress their laughter.

Hoshi turned away, biting his lip. Jun hid behind his phone, pretending to scroll. Mingyu made a hmm sound that clearly wasn’t from believing her. Even Minghao cracked a grin and shook his head.

“Really?” Seungkwan asked, drawing out the word like a cat playing with its food.

“Yes, really,” Luna said quickly, eyes flicking away as she leaned back into her seat like she was retreating into safety. “I have our Carats… and… you guys. You guys treat me like a princess.”

“Awwww,” said Hoshi teasingly.

“Oh, we treat you like a princess?” Seungkwan repeated, turning dramatically to his left and patting Jeonghan’s knee without warning. “Hyung, did you hear that? We treat her like a princess.”

Jeonghan blinked down at Seungkwan, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes as he held back a laugh. Luna, meanwhile, bowed her head and tried not to visibly combust, lips pressed together in a mortified smile.

“She said we,” Seungkwan said louder, laughing now. “Plural. As in… all of us. Together.”

“I—” Luna mumbled, unable to even argue as giggles bubbled up around her again.

“We got your back, our Jiyeonie.” Mingyu teased.

“Princess behavior only,” Hoshi nodded seriously.

Jeonghan, behind her, finally moved. His hand, which had been resting casually near her chair, reached up and gently touched her shoulder. His fingers massaged briefly, almost comfortingly.

“She is a princess,” Jeonghan said smoothly, his voice so steady and convincing that it could’ve been directed at the camera, the staff, the fans— anyone.

The room hummed with approving noises.

“Exactly,” nodded Joshua.

“A true gentleman,” Wonwoo chimed in.

Luna gave Jeonghan a glance over her shoulder, barely— just a flick of her eyes and a press of her lips, and he returned it with a tiny smile.

Before the next tweet could begin, Jeonghan subtly reached forward again.

This time, his hand brushed the small mic pinned to her collar. With his other hand, he covered his own mic. His movements were smooth and practiced, like he’d done this a thousand times.

Then he leaned forward, lips near her ear, voice low enough that not even the nearest members could hear.

Whatever he whispered made Luna’s mouth twitch into a small, bashful smile. Her gaze dropped, then lifted again as she reached back and adjusted the lapel of Jeonghan’s jacket with a light tug, smoothing it out.

Jeonghan leaned back with a satisfied expression, like someone who just passed along a perfectly executed secret, and Luna sat properly again, a little straighter this time, letting herself lean back lightly against his knee behind her seat.

It was seamless.

Effortless.

Almost invisible— unless you knew what to look for.

And the other members? Oh, they knew.

Even if no one said anything, the air was filled with a shared knowledge.

A princess… and her very smug, very silent prince.

“Joshua, you’re up,” Vernon called, trying to drag them into the next tweet.

“Finally,” Joshua sighed, raising his phone and preparing to read but not before glancing sideways at Luna and Jeonghan with an almost imperceptible smirk.

Joshua blinked down at his phone and let out a soft breath before reading in his usual soft American accent. “‘Joshua is the kind of man who opens the car door for you… and then ruins your life in the backseat.’”

As soon as the sentence left his lips, he widened his eyes and pulled his chin back, letting out a low, startled, “Ohh,” his voice curling up with embarrassment as he brought the phone down slowly and looked around at the others. A slow, shy smile began spreading across his face, the color rising noticeably to his cheeks.

Vernon leaned forward to translate the tweet in Korean, his tone casual as if he were reading a weather report. As the translation hit, reactions came in waves.

“YAH!” Seungkwan practically shouted, his hand flying up.

“Whaaat?!” Hoshi squeaked, laughing into his sleeve.

Luna, already tired from the earlier wild tweets, just leaned back in her chair and looked directly into the camera lens like a war veteran. “I’m desensitized at this point,” she said dryly.

That sent Vernon into a chuckle beside her, nodding like he truly felt that in his soul. “Yeah. Same,” he murmured, eyes still amused.

Joshua just shook his head with a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t expect that turn… ‘opens the car door for you’— I was like, oh, that’s nice,” he said softly, laughing to himself. “Then suddenly…” He trailed off and gestured vaguely behind him.

“Oh my god…” Mingyu muttered in awe, head tipping back.

“He ruins lives now?” Jun asked in a mixture of shock and amusement.

“I mean… not wrong,” Jeonghan said casually, crossing one leg over the other and smirking.

Joshua raised his eyebrows at that but didn’t comment. He was too busy hiding his smile behind his hand, trying to remain professional.

“I really didn’t see that ending coming,” Woozi murmured as he sat back.

“You could’ve stopped at car door, and it would’ve still been romantic,” said The8.

Joshua chuckled shyly. “I guess… thank you?” he said, looking directly into the camera with a bashful but charming smile.

“My turn,” Vernon said coolly, lifting his phone. His expression didn’t change much— ever unbothered, ever collected— as he read aloud, “‘Sometimes I thank God for the fact that I don’t know Vernon in real life because for the life of me I wouldn’t be able to listen to him, all I’d think about is kissing him in the mouth and that wouldn’t end well.’”

“Wow.” Seungkwan blinked, lips parted.

“Oh my god… so hot,” Mingyu muttered dramatically, fanning himself with his hand.

“That’s intense,” Dino said, eyes wide.

Luna let out a low whistle, then blinked slowly. “This tweet is very… visual,” she said, glancing toward Vernon.

Vernon raised an eyebrow, looked around at the chaos, then coolly said, “Thank you. For your honesty.”

“Respectfully,” Woozi added dryly, and Luna cracked up again.

“Like, it’s a full-on confession letter,” DK commented, nodding.

“They’re right about one thing though,” Seungkwan said, pointing at Vernon. “If I had your voice, I would also… think about kissing you.”

Vernon blinked. “Thank you?” he said, deadpan.

Behind him, Jeonghan leaned into Luna’s ear. “I think Vernon just got proposed to.”

“Lucky.” Luna grinned but didn’t look back, still recovering.

“Anyway…” Vernon handed it off with a lazy wave. “Mingyu.”

Mingyu cleared his throat and stood a little taller in his chair like he was about to give a speech. “‘Mingyu’s hairline is perfect… his… skin is glowing, his cheeks are plumpy… his fangs are pretty… his smile is mesmerizing… his nose mole is kissable… his curved-up lips are to die for… Mingyu is just perfect.’”

He paused, let it sink in, then looked around as the room fell into stunned silence. The members just stared.

“Did you hear that?” he asked them, cocking his head with fake innocence.

“Yes,” Vernon said dryly.

“Loud and clear,” Luna chuckled, trying not to laugh at how serious he looked.

“Yes. We heard,” Dokyeom nodded firmly.

Mingyu’s eyebrows lifted higher. “Did you hear that?” he repeated, louder this time.

A chorus of responses came in:

“Yeah.”

“Unfortunately.”

“We heard, we heard.”

“You don’t need to say it again!”

“You guys agree?” Mingyu asked, already knowing the answer.

There was a dramatic pause.

“No,” Jeonghan said without skipping a beat.

“Nope,” said Woozi.

“Nah, I’m good,” Jun chimed in.

“Couldn’t be me,” Seungkwan added.

Luna burst out laughing at the wave of denial.

“Why?” Mingyu asked, playing along, holding his hand over his chest.

“Everything is natural?” Seungkwan echoed, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah,” Mingyu nodded firmly, puffing out his chest.

“Really?” Seungkwan tilted his head at him with mock suspicion.

Mingyu leaned closer, eyes sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”

The whole room erupted.

“Shut the fuck up?” Seungkwan gasped in disbelief.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mingyu said again, pointing at him this time.

“Okay, okay— no, no, no!” Luna said loudly, waving both hands like she was a mother trying to break up fighting kids.

“How about we all shut the fuck up?” she added flatly, one eyebrow raised.

That made the whole room groan with laughter again.

“I agree,” Mingyu said to the camera, nodding solemnly. “Thank you so much.”

Then he turned to Seungkwan. “Do you know I have a mole on my nose?”

“Of course,” Seungkwan said instantly. “I’ve been looking at you for years now.”

Once the laughter from the last tweet had subsided, Seungkwan shifted in his seat, holding his phone up with a theatrical seriousness that immediately earned a few giggles from the members already anticipating chaos. He cleared his throat.

“‘The fact that Seungkwan is sexy doesn’t mean we have to brag that Seungkwan is sexy cause Seungkwan is sexy and that how sexy Seungkwan is.’” he read all in one breath, his tone building with each repetition of the word “sexy.”

He paused. “…Wow,” he deadpanned, blinking at the camera.

“Ooooh!” DK hollered, leaning away dramatically like he was scandalized.

“That was a poem,” Vernon nodded.

“A loop!” Joshua chuckled.

“So in the end,” Minghao tilted his head with a furrowed brow, “it’s just saying that Seungkwan is sexy, right?”

“Yes,” Vernon and Joshua said in perfect sync.

“The bottom line is Seungkwan is sexy,” Luna concluded, lifting a brow as if she were delivering a verdict.

“Why do you think I’m sexy?” Seungkwan suddenly asked the camera directly, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t agree,” Mingyu immediately chimed in from the side, raising a hand with a smug grin.

“I agree,” Seungkwan retorted proudly. “But why do you think I’m sexy?”

“Why not?” Luna said, shrugging with a teasing smile as she looked at him.

“Ohhh!” DK grinned, nudging Seungkwan.

“See, even Luna agrees,” Joshua pointed out.

“Sexy Seungkwan!” Hoshi chanted, clapping once.

“Stop, I’m shy,” Seungkwan covered his face with a hand while still peeking at the camera.

“You are not,” Woozi muttered with a smirk.

Then came S.Coups’ turn.

He raised his phone with casual confidence and read, “‘Daddy Cheol… that’s it. That’s the tweet.’”

Immediate chaos.

“Daddy!” DK hollered with glee.

“Dad?” Dino blinked.

“Dad Cheol!” Hoshi barked out through laughter.

“Oh my God,” Luna muttered, leaning away.

“Appa~” Jeonghan added with a fake sweet tone, smirking.

“Father Seungcheol.” Vernon deadpanned.

S.Coups chuckled under his breath and shook his head, looking up like he was asking the universe to spare him. “I’m not at dad yet,” he said firmly, adjusting his mic.

“You’re daddy though,” Luna teased with a mischievous grin, turning her head toward him.

Vernon chuckled lowly. “She said it.”

“You can’t fight that,” Joshua pointed at her, amused.

“It’s out there. It’s tweeted,” Seungkwan nodded solemnly.

“I didn’t write it,” Luna said innocently. “I’m just repeating what it said.”

That was when it was Luna’s turn again, but the tweet in her hand made her freeze.

Her mouth opened slightly in surprise, and she blinked at the screen like it had betrayed her. Still, she cleared her throat and read, “‘Luna’s stronger than me cause if Jeonghan looked at me the way he looks at her when he thinks no one’s watching, I’d let him do the nastiest things to me.’”

Vernon immediately snorted, covering his face. Joshua nearly fell forward as he instinctively reached to translate for those who hadn’t fully grasped the message. The reaction was instant— laughter, howls, shocked gasps.

Luna stayed frozen, phone still in hand, her face caught somewhere between a laugh and horror.

“I—” she started, then stopped, her eyes flicking up. “W-What does that mean?” she asked, voice pitching higher than usual in mock confusion.

“She suddenly doesn’t know English,” Seungkwan said, eyes wide in mock surprise, earning a loud laugh from Mingyu and Vernon who pointed at him while cackling.

“I do know English!” Luna laughed back, tossing her hair. “I just— shut the fuck up.”

The group cracked up.

In the back, Jeonghan was sitting smugly. His body leaned slightly forward behind her, head tilted, and he was indeed giving her the look. The one referenced in the tweet.

“They meant like that,” Seungkwan said slyly, pointing at Jeonghan who, sure enough, hadn’t even tried to look away. He was openly smirking.

Luna turned and caught him in the act, her brows lifting. “He looks at everyone like that,” she said, loud and clear, facing the camera with a wave of her hand. She was lying through her teeth, and they all knew it.

“Do I?” Jeonghan finally said, that usual honeyed tone laced with subtle mischief.

“Yes,” Luna said without turning to him, still addressing the camera. “You look at everyone like that.”

“Why are you yelling?” Vernon asked her, still laughing.

“I’m just defending myself!”

“You’re the one being looked at!” DK pointed out.

“That’s true,” Jun nodded.

The members shared knowing glances, eyebrows raising, smirks exchanged. Some tried to hold in their giggles, but it was too much. Mingyu buried his face in his palm, Hoshi had a hand on his stomach from laughing too hard, and Woozi muttered something under his breath about needing water.

Finally, all eyes turned to Jeonghan again.

He leaned back, calm and composed, and blinked once before speaking.

“That’s a nice tweet,” he said smoothly. “Some people observe very well.”

A unified “OOOOOOH!” erupted from the rest of the group, Dino yelling while pointing at the camera like he’d just witnessed a plot twist.

Luna gawked at him for a moment, jaw slack, then narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying,” she muttered.

Jeonghan turned toward her with a cheeky grin. “You’re very defensive, Nana-ya.”

“I’m just trying to get through this interview alive.”

“Then stop reading tweets about me.”

“I didn’t pick the tweets, Yoon Jeonghan!”

“I’m just saying, I’m innocent here.”

“You’re literally the opposite of innocent,” Luna deadpanned.

“Oh my god,” Seungkwan leaned over, waving his hands. “Stop fighting!”

“We’re not fighting!” Luna and Jeonghan snapped in unison before playfully glaring at each other.

“Okay, flirting, then,” S.Coups said, shaking his head.

“That’s worse,” Woozi said dryly.

Joshua chuckled and checked his phone, “Should I just read mine now?”

“Yes. Please,” Minghao muttered, sipping water.

Joshua cleared his throat as he prepared for his turn. The members were settling down from the latest round of laughs, their attention now back on him. He held up his phone, eyes scanning the tweet.

“‘I want to trade places with Jeonghan and be “platonic” with Luna too,’” Joshua read aloud, doing air quotes with exaggerated flair.

The room went silent for a split second, before it was broken by Luna’s incredulous voice. “What is happening?” she asked, wide-eyed, staring at Joshua as if the tweet had just pulled her into some parallel universe.

The members, however, were already snickering. Vernon reached out and gave her a gentle pat on the back.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean… ‘platonic’?” Luna said, mimicking Joshua’s air quotes in the air with both hands, her expression a perfect mix of shock and disbelief.

Seungkwan, ever the instigator, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “The plot thickens,” he muttered under his breath, trying to hide his grin.

Vernon leaned in closer to Luna. “I think they’re just implying that… they’d like to be as close as you and Jeonghan,” he said carefully, trying to keep the situation light.

“But what’s with the air quotes.” Luna exclaimed.

Jeonghan, ever the calm one in the midst of chaos, chuckled at Luna’s reaction. He leaned over and gently patted her head, his fingers ruffling her hair affectionately. “Calm down,” he teased softly, his voice a smooth melody that contrasted with her flustered state.

“I am calm!” Luna pouted, crossing her arms and looking down at her phone in an attempt to hide her blushing cheeks.

“Really?” Mingyu interjected with a teasing smile. “You look like you’re about to unplug the camera,” he said, clearly enjoying the show Luna was unknowingly putting on.

“I’m just confused…” Luna sighed, rolling her eyes as she tried to deflect the topic. “Okay! Next tweet!” she said quickly, attempting to change the subject with a bright smile.

But the members weren’t going to let her off that easily. “Hold on,” Seungkwan grinned, “Jeonghan hyung hasn’t said his thoughts yet!”

Luna’s face went a shade redder as her gaze shifted to Jeonghan. The members were watching expectantly, eager for his response. Jeonghan, ever the smooth operator, leaned back in his chair, his usual mischievous smirk curling up one side of his mouth as he casually did air quotes.

“You can’t trade.” he drawled, repeating the word as if savoring it. “Jiyeonie is my platonic friend.” he said coolly, his tone laced with playful arrogance. His eyes met Luna’s, full of quiet amusement.

“Okay,” Seungkwan nodded approvingly. “We can’t argue with that.”

Luna shifted in her seat, still feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, but she was trying her best to act unfazed. “Okay,” she muttered, as if brushing off the comment, “next tweet. Please.”

The members chuckled, but the attention soon shifted to Vernon, whose turn had arrived.

Vernon, his energy bouncing back to its usual level of enthusiasm, immediately took his phone and read aloud, “‘Vernon’s line in Water by Seventeen was so sexy seriously my legs are divorcing.’” He paused.

Luna, who had been silently laughing at the situation, suddenly burst out in giggles.

Seungkwan, ever the one to take things in stride, stared at Vernon. “Why are the legs divorcing?” he asked with a raised brow, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Like… they just gave out and went weak in the knees?” Vernon said with a shrug, making a gesture as if his legs were buckling under the weight of something overwhelmingly sexy.

Luna snickered, shaking her head. She leaned closer to Vernon, lowering her voice to a whisper as she whispered teasingly, “You know damn well that’s not what that meant.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously, the corner of her mouth twitching into a grin as she tried to keep herself composed.

Vernon laughed along, glancing sideways at the group, trying to maintain his cool. “Well, that’s what I said,” he shrugged, but even he couldn’t keep the chuckles from escaping. “I’ll stick with my version.”

The members couldn’t help but laugh, but they all paused as they processed what had just been read. “Creative, I guess?” Wonwoo mused, nodding slowly as he tried to understand the metaphor.

Luna laughed again, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “It’s definitely something.”

“It’s definitely creative,” Seungkwan agreed, smirking at Vernon. “Who knew you had such poetic fans?”

Vernon and Luna exchanged one more glance, their laughter spilling over, as they both tried to compose themselves. The members continued laughing and joking amongst themselves, and for a moment, the craziness of it all felt just right.

“Okay, okay!” Seungkwan waved his hands, signaling that it was time to move on to the next one. “We need to keep this moving or we’ll never get through this.”

Luna nodded, still chuckling. “Yes, please. Let’s move on.”

The crew had signaled that they had time for one last round, and all eyes turned to Luna, who held her phone up like it was the final scroll of prophecy.

She cleared her throat with unnecessary dramatic flair and bit back a smile already tugging at her lips. “Okay,” she said, exhaling, already fighting giggles. “Last tweet.”

The anticipation was instant. Jeonghan tilted his head to look at her from behind, Joshua leaned forward like he was trying to see the screen from across the couch, and Seungkwan had both hands folded under his chin as if in prayer.

Luna finally read aloud, barely able to keep a straight face. “‘Sex is good…” she paused already snickering, “but have you seen Seventeen, heard Seventeen, eat, sleep, drink Seventeen?’”

She broke into a small fit of laughter at the end of the tweet, trying to keep it cute and contained, but it was too funny. Her shoulders bounced slightly as she pressed a hand over her lips.

The room collectively exploded.

“Ay, that one’s good!” Hoshi howled, clapping his hands together.

“Oh my God…” Joshua muttered into his hands, laughing silently, eyes creasing with secondhand embarrassment and amusement.

“Who wrote that?” Minghao asked, deadpan but entertained, adjusting his posture as he looked over at Luna. “Like genuinely— who wakes up and writes this?”

“Sex is good,” Vernon repeated under his breath, biting his lower lip to stop his laugh.

Then came Seungkwan, ever the firestarter, turning toward Mingyu with wide eyes.

“Mingyu, can you translate for us?” he asked innocently, blinking up at him like a student asking their teacher for help with vocabulary.

Without missing a beat, Mingyu straightened up and began in a confident, booming voice, “‘Sex is good—’”

But he didn’t get any further. Because the moment the words left his mouth with such sincere gusto, the room erupted into chaos of giggles and chuckles.

Luna was still hiding behind her hands. “I want to go home,” she said faintly, but she was laughing too hard to sound serious. Her face was bright red as she leaned forward, Jeonghan’s hand automatically reaching to steady the back of her chair again.

“I think the Carats are going to have a lot of edits from this,” Vernon said calmly, already anticipating the TikToks and compilation videos.

“A lot,” Minghao agreed. “Too many.”

The laughter slowly started to simmer, and Joshua straightened up in his seat, regaining composure as he clapped his hands together.

“Well, I think that’s a good place to end,” he said, smiling. “That was…” he paused, glancing at the others.

“A lot,” Woozi finished for him.

“A spiritual experience,” Luna added under her breath.

“But very fun,” Joshua nodded, gesturing to the camera. “To everyone who sent in tweets— thank you. We were very entertained, and also slightly traumatized.”

“That’s okay,” Dino said brightly. “I still had fun!”

Everyone nodded and chimed in with variations of, “Me too!” and “This was fun!” and “Thank you, Carats!”

Finally, Seungcheol, seated cool and calm like the composed leader he is, leaned forward with a satisfied smile. “Yes. Thank you!” he said warmly, raising his hand in a casual sign-off. “This has been…”

“Seventeen!” the members chorused in perfect unison, their voices rising brightly as they smiled and waved toward the camera.

A beautiful, chaotic harmony.

Luna joined them in waving with both hands, still giggling. “Bye, Carats! Please rest!”

“Stop writing about us like this, please,” Joshua joked through a laugh.

“No, keep going,” Jeonghan said right after.

Seungkwan dramatically pointed at the camera, “But think of our mental health!”

“You mean your mental health,” Vernon whispered.

The video ended with a final burst of laughter and waving arms, all fourteen figures smiling brightly, some still shaking their heads in disbelief, others laughing through the lingering chaos that would no doubt echo across Carat Twitter for weeks.

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

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graphicpolicy · 2 years ago

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Marvel VFX workers vote unanimously to unionize

Marvel VFX workers vote unanimously to unionize #mcu #unionstrong

Entertainment unions and labor are having a year with ongoing strikes, contracts being approved, and the first a unit of solely VFX workers has unionized. Marvel Studios’ Visual Effects (VFX) Workers voted unanimously in favor of unionizing with the IATSE. The belief is this is the first of many in the visual effects space to unionize. The vote took place on Monday after an election agreement…

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#featured #iatse #marvel studios #marvel studios visual effects workers #unions

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 5 months ago

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Ron Wasserman - X-Men 1992

X-Men: The Animated Series is an American animated superhero television series aired for five seasons from 1992 to 1997. Set in the same fictional universe as Spider-Man (1994–1998), it was followed by a revival, X-Men '97, which began airing on March 20, 2024, on Disney+ to critical acclaim. In the 2022 MCU film Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, the theme song from the TV series (orchestrated by Danny Elfman and credited as X-Men '97 Theme) is played when Charles Xavier (portrayed by Patrick Stewart) first appears; in the film, unlike his previous performances as the character in Fox's X-Men franchise, Stewart's Xavier is visually redesigned to match his animated counterpart, complete with his iconic green suit, blue and black tie, and yellow hoverchair. (let's be fair; his entry scene with this music is the only thing worth remembering about that film) In the Ms. Marvel episode "No Normal", the X-Men theme is played when Kamala Khan discovers that she is a "mutant".

Ronald Aaron Wasserman, also known as Aaron Waters and The Mighty Raw, is an American musician who composed the original theme songs for Mighty Morphin Power Rangers and X-Men: The Animated Series. He composed the theme songs for Sweet Valley High, Teknoman and VR Troopers. During his early days at Saban Entertainment, Wasserman worked as a music engineer, sometimes contributing background music and co-writing themes for several of their smaller series. Shows Wasserman worked on during this period include King Arthur and the Knights of Justice (which he composed the theme for), Little Shop, Saban's Around the World in Eighty Dreams, Saban's Gulliver's Travels, and Video Power.

In 1992, Wasserman wrote the theme song for the animated X-Men series and co-composed background music for it, with this being the first hit show he worked on. Wasserman did not know anything about X-Men when he was asked to compose the theme. In a retrospective 2022 article, Wasserman remembered, "it was two weeks of hell putting that song together", adding that "I kept getting notes saying they wanted more baseline, then more high-hats. It was a real pain in the ass to do all that back then too. It came out really great though, the theme was really catchy and interesting and it was especially interesting when they animated to it." Wasserman also wrote some of the show's background music, with other composers from Saban also working on the background music. For the early episodes, the show's closing credits featured an instrumental heavy rock song from Wasserman, but for later episodes it was replaced by a shortened version of his opening theme.

Wasserman's X-Men theme would later be reworked by The Newton Brothers for X-Men '97 (2024). The series is a continuation of X: Men: The Animated Series, which originally ended in 1997. One of Feige's stipulations for reviving X-Men: The Animated Series was ensuring Marvel Studios was able to use that series' theme song. Following legal battles with Saban Entertainment over the use of the theme, Marvel Studios paid a large sum to secure the rights to it in 2022. This was done on the condition that it be re-recorded for future projects and credited to the original series' music executives.

"X-Men" received a total of 89,3% yes votes! A special shout-out to those of you who knew this theme would show up because I have mentioned X-Men a few times here before already, lol. 😂 I chose to put the '97 version on the reveal video with the original remaining on the poll's audio. :)

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#finished #high yes #high reblog #low no #90s #o1 #lo3 #soundtracks #instrumental #ron wasserman

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demifiendrsa · 8 months ago

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Okami sequel - Project Teaser Trailer

The tentatively titled Okami Sequel is developed by CLOVERS, a new studio founded by original Okami director Hideki Kamiya, who will also direct the sequel, alongside M-TWO and Machine Head Works. Platforms and a release date were not announced.

Key visual

First details

About Okami Sequel The Okami sequel project is underway!! Okami is a game critically acclaimed for its unique world, heartwarming story, and exciting adventures. Now, a new adventure in the same vein as Okami has been set in motion. Hideki Kamiya, director of the original Okami, will be the director of this project, which is being co-developed between studios that include various staff members of the original Okami: M-TWO Inc., Machine Head Works Inc., and CLOVERS Inc.—which Hideki Kamiya is a member of. What will the new adventures of Amaterasu and company be like? It will be some time before we greet you again, but we really hope you look forward to this project. What is Okami? Life in this world revives. Originally released in 2006 and set in a Japanese-style world, take on the role of Amaterasu and embark on an adventure to bring back life in this action adventure game. Enjoy the action and character development, while overcoming difficulties through its unique game system, the Celestial Brush. Featuring a unique world, a heartwarming story, and many other game elements, Okami continues to be loved by fans all over the world, even more than 10 years after its original release.

Message from Hideki Kamiya

#Okami sequel #Okami 2 #Okami #CLOVERS #M TWO #Machine Head Works #Capcom #video game #TGA 2024 #The Game Awards

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luckyroll3 · 2 months ago

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Picture Perfect

Summary: After experiencing loads of chemistry with Chan during a magazine photoshoot, your insomnia leads to a chance encounter with him late night at the hotel pool that turns into an intimate one-on-one private photography session.

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 15,451

You arrive at the studio two hours before the scheduled shoot, the weight of your camera bag a familiar comfort against your hip. The space smells of cleaner and expensive equipment, a scent you've come to associate with the peculiar blend of anxiety and control that defines your work. Your footsteps echo across the polished concrete floor as you flick on the industrial lights, transforming the cavernous room from shadow to clinical brightness. Today’s subjects are from Stray Kids; they’re a global sensation, eight impossibly photogenic men.

This is huge for you and you refuse to be anything less than impeccable.

The studio assistant has already arranged the sets according to your specifications, but you double-check everything anyway. Your reputation for perfectionism precedes you in the industry; it's how you landed this high-profile job in the first place. You adjust a reflector panel by two inches, tweaking the angle until the light bounces exactly right. Not harsh, not flat. Perfect.

You examine the concept boards propped on sleek easels with minimalist black frames housing images of striking contrasts and bold silhouettes. The brief called for "raw authenticity with polish," whatever the hell that means. But you understand the visual language behind the marketing jargon. These men need to look accessible yet untouchable, human yet godlike. The contradiction that sells.

Crouching beside your primary camera, you check the settings for the ninth time. Your fingers dance across the dials with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over as you mentally run through your shot list. Background music flows through hidden speakers; something ambient and unobtrusive, selected to create the illusion of calm in a space that will soon vibrate with heightened energy.

"Checking the histogram?" asks your assistant, materializing with a clipboard and a coffee that's more cream than caffeine.

"Always." You straighten up, rolling your shoulders to release the tension gathering there. "Did the stylist confirm the wardrobe arrived?"

Before she can answer, the atmosphere shifts. The front door swings open, and suddenly the air in the room feels electrified. You hear them before you see them; laughter, rapid-fire Korean interspersed with English, the unmistakable sound of a group that shares years of inside jokes and comfortable chaos.

Stray Kids spill into the studio like paint splashing onto canvas; They are vibrant, impossible to ignore, instantly transforming the space. Your eyes dart from face to face, mentally matching them to the brief profiles you'd studied. The tall one with the intense gaze must be Hyunjin. The one with the angelic features and impossibly deep voice has to be Felix. The one joking loudly and making exaggerated hand gestures is probably Changbin.

While your assistant scurries to greet them formally, you hang back, observing. It's part of your process, watching subjects before they know they're being watched often reveals the most authentic versions of themselves. The group moves like a single organism with eight distinct personalities, a choreography of friendship that speaks of a long-term shared experience.

And then, separated slightly from the playful chaos, your eyes lock with his. Bang Chan. The leader. You'd recognize those dimples anywhere, those intelligent eyes that seem to register everything at once. While the others are still shrugging off jackets and exclaiming over the studio setup, he approaches you directly, purposeful and present.

"Good morning," he says simply, extending his hand. His voice carries a hint of Australia in the vowels, a warmth that seems both professional and personal. "You must be our photographer for today."

His hand meets yours, and the contact sends an unexpected current up your arm. Static electricity, you tell yourself. The dry studio air. Nothing more.

You gave him a calm, practiced smile. "That's me," you respond, impressed by how steady your voice sounds despite the ridiculous flutter in your chest. “And you must be the one they warned me about.”

That earned you a soft chuckle. “Guilty. But I have a feeling they probably warned you about all eight of us.”

"You’re right. ‘Complete and utter chaos’, they said,” you confirm with a smirk. “Welcome to the studio. I've been looking forward to working with you all."

Chan's smile deepens, dimples appearing like punctuation marks on his face. "We've heard great things. Your work with that indie rock band last month, MindSweep, was incredible."

The fact that he's familiar with your portfolio catches you off guard. Most celebrities arrive prepped only with the bare minimum about the shoot itself.

"You've done your research," you say, allowing a small smile.

"Always." His eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "It's important to know who's capturing your image, don't you think?"

Before you can respond, the management team arrives, breaking the moment with schedules and logistics. You slip back into professional mode, addressing the group as a whole, explaining your vision for the shoot, how you'll be working with each of them individually and as a unit.

"We'll start with group shots, then break into individual sessions," you explain, gesturing toward the main set. "The concept is contrast; light against shadow, structured against fluid. I want to capture the duality that defines your group."

As you speak, you notice Chan watching you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. Not a critical stare, but something appreciative; like he's seeing more than just another industry professional running through a routine.

The shoot begins, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of direction and capture. Your voice becomes firm, confident, all business as you position the group, adjust lighting, suggest angles. This is where you shine; behind the lens, control at your fingertips, seeing what others don't.

"Changbin, chin slightly lower. Seungmin, quarter turn to your right. Felix, that's perfect; hold that expression."

Through your viewfinder, eight faces transform under your guidance. You work quickly, efficiently, calling out adjustments and praise in equal measure. But no matter where you point your camera, you keep finding your focus pulled to Chan. The way he positions himself naturally, understanding the composition before you have to explain it. The subtle shift in his expression when the shutter clicks; somehow more present, more aware of the lens than the others.

"Chan, can you move slightly to center? Perfect." Your voice betrays nothing, but when he follows your direction with a knowing half-smile, something unspoken passes between you.

Two hours in, you're reviewing images on your monitor when you sense him behind you, close enough that you can smell the faint notes of his cologne. It’s something woody with subtle hints of vanilla.

"How are we doing?" he asks, voice low near your ear.

You scroll through the images, hyperaware of his presence at your shoulder. "Great. Your group photographs well together."

"Professional harmony," he says with a light laugh. "Over eight years of practice."

"It shows." You stop on a particularly striking image of him, the studio lights catching the angles of his face in a way that emphasizes both strength and vulnerability. "You have a natural instinct for the camera."

"Maybe it's the photographer," he counters, and you refuse to look up, focusing intently on the screen to hide the flush that threatens to rise to your cheeks.

When you move to individual shots, the energy shifts again. Each member brings a different presence to the set: I.N with his fashion-forward confidence; Hyunjin with his intense, almost theatrical expressions; Lee Know with his effortless cool that makes every frame look like an editorial spread.

During Han's session, you catch Chan watching from the sidelines, his gaze moving between you and the set with quiet assessment. When he catches you noticing, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers that same half-smile that somehow makes you feel both seen and challenged.

"Chan, you're up next," you call after concluding with Seungmin, who thanks you with surprising formality before bouncing back to make fun of Changbin, who promptly pulls the younger member into a headlock.

Chan steps into the light with an ease that speaks of countless photoshoots, but there's something different about his demeanor now; a focused intensity directed at you rather than the camera. As you approach to adjust his position, your hand briefly touches his shoulder, and the contact, though professional, feels charged with meaning.

"Turn slightly toward the light," you instruct, your voice lower than intended. "I want to capture the contrast between shadow and illumination on your face."

He complies, but his eyes remain fixed on yours rather than looking into the lens. "Like this?"

You step closer, reaching up to adjust the angle of his jaw with your fingertips. The touch is clinical, something you've done with countless models, but your pulse quickens embarrassingly.

"Almost. Look past the camera, not at it. I'm trying to capture contemplation."

He holds the pose perfectly, and you retreat behind your camera, grateful for the barrier. Through the viewfinder, you see him differently; fragmented into composition, light, and form. It's easier to maintain professionalism when reducing him to artistic elements.

"Perfect," you murmur, capturing frame after frame. "Now, relax your shoulders,” you say, voice low. “Think less magazine cover, more… album you made for yourself but never released.”

His brow arches with amused curiosity, but he follows your direction. And when he exhales, the wall drops. The image you capture in that instant is breathtaking; it makes your heart skip.

“Now, don’t move but look directly at the lens."

When he does, the intensity in his gaze seems to bypass the camera entirely, connecting with you despite the equipment between you. Your finger hesitates on the shutter for a fraction of a second before continuing.

Throughout his individual session, you maintain the appearance of cool professionalism, but there's an undeniable current running beneath each exchange. His responses to your direction come just a beat slower than necessary, as if he's considering each word. When you show him a particularly striking image on the camera display, his shoulder presses against yours briefly, and neither of you moves away.

Chan hovers near your table as you scroll through the preview reel on your laptop.

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

You tilt the screen toward him. One of him leaning against a pillar, looking half-bored, half-thoughtful.

He laughs. “I look like I just told someone they disappointed me.”

“It’s honest,” you say. “People like honesty.”

Your eyes meet again. Something soft flickered there; recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.

"I like how you see things," he says quietly, for your ears alone.

The final group shots are a controlled chaos of eight bodies and distinct personalities coming together under your direction. You navigate around the set, occasionally brushing past Chan as you reposition lights or adjust compositions. Each momentary contact feels deliberate on both sides, though nothing could be proven.

From across the room, you notice Felix whispering something to Seungmin while glancing between you and Chan. Seungmin responds with an eye roll that dissolves into a knowing smile. They've noticed something; perhaps the same electrical current you've been trying to ignore.

"Last set," you announce, positioning the group for the final concept. "I want movement in this one; natural interaction, nothing posed."

They fall into comfortable chaos: Changbin playfully headlocking Seungmin, Hyunjin dramatically posing while Han pretends to faint at his beauty, Lee Know trying to kiss I.N. while the youngest recoils in horror as he laughs, and Felix grinning brightly at all the chaos. Chan maintains his position slightly apart, his eyes finding yours over the top of your camera with unmistakable intent. When Han yells something loudly in Korean, Chan breaks the intense eye contact and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

You capture it all: the friendship, the playfulness, the subtle thread of tension that runs between you and the group's leader. In the viewfinder, they're just images, compositions of light and shadow. But the feeling in the studio, particularly when Chan's gaze meets yours, that's something no camera can fully capture.

When you finally call the shoot complete, the group erupts in relieved laughter and thank-yous. As they gather their personal items and the stylists begin packing up, Chan lingers near the equipment, examining your camera setup with genuine interest.

"This lens," he says, gesturing but not touching, respectful of your equipment. "It's the same one you used for that editorial last spring, isn't it? The one with all the dramatic shadows."

The fact that he remembers such a specific detail about your work catches you off-guard again. "Good eye," you reply, impressed despite yourself. "Most people wouldn't notice the difference."

He shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow manages to highlight the line of his shoulders. "I pay attention to things that interest me."

The statement hangs in the air between you, ambiguous enough to be professional, specific enough to be something more. Before you can respond, his manager calls him over to discuss scheduling, and the moment stretches thin, unresolved.

As the group prepares to leave, Chan turns back, catching your eye across the now-cluttered studio. The smile he offers is different from the ones he's given all day; smaller, more private, like a secret between the two of you. You nod slightly in acknowledgment, already knowing that the photographs you've captured today, technically perfect as they may be, won't fully convey what passed unspoken between photographer and subject.

You're coiling the last of the lighting cables as the clamor of eight voices, stylists' directions, and management's hurried phone calls has dissolved into a humming silence punctuated only by the soft clicks of your equipment being packed away. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, casting the space in a warm glow that softens the industrial edges of the room. You look up to find Chan standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your hands fumble slightly with the cable. You didn't realize he had stayed behind.

"I thought you left with the others," you say, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet studio. You loop the cable with methodical precision, focusing on the task to maintain composure.

"The others went ahead to dinner." His voice carries easily across the space between you. "I told them I'd catch up."

You nod, placing the coiled cable in its designated case. The studio feels smaller somehow with just the two of you in it, as though the walls have inched closer. Your movements are deliberate, professional, a contrast to the inexplicable nervousness fluttering beneath your ribs.

"Everything go okay with the shoot?" you ask, though you already know the answer. The images captured today were some of your best work, partly due to the subject matter, though you're reluctant to admit that to him.

Chan pushes away from the doorframe and moves into the room with unhurried confidence. His presence seems amplified in the emptiness, drawing your attention even as you pretend to focus on closing equipment cases and checking memory cards.

"Better than okay," he says, approaching your workstation where the monitor still displays the last image you were reviewing, coincidentally, one of him, eyes direct and challenging the camera. "I've done hundreds of these, you know. But this one felt different."

You glance up, meeting his gaze. "Different how?"

He considers the question, running a hand through his tousled hair in a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Most photographers see what they want to see. You seemed to be looking for what was actually there."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s specific, thoughtful, not the generic praise you typically receive. You turn away, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, his presence radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with the studio lighting.

"That's the job," you respond, closing the laptop with a soft click. "Finding the truth in the performance."

Chan makes a sound that’s half laugh, half acknowledgement. "Is that what you think I was doing? Performing?"

You look up at him again, allowing yourself a moment of professional assessment. "Everyone performs in front of a camera. It's human nature."

"And what about now?" He gestures to the empty studio. "No camera. No audience. Am I still performing?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with implication. His expression is open, curious, with something simmering beneath the surface that quickens your pulse.

"I don't know," you answer honestly. Most of the celebrities you meet are always on, camera or not, audience or not. "Are you?"

His smile appears slowly, creating those dimples that the camera loves so much. In the softened studio light, they appear deeper, more intimate somehow.

He ignores your question. "Thank you," he says suddenly, the phrase landing with unexpected significance.

You tilt your head slightly. "For the shoot? Just doing my job."

"No." He shakes his head, taking another step closer. "For seeing us, seeing me, the way you did. The pictures were..." he searches for the word, "honest."

You find yourself mirroring his movement, drawn forward by some invisible pull until barely two feet separate you. The air feels charged, like the moment before a flash fires.

"Honesty makes for better art," you say, your voice dropping to match the intimate atmosphere that's developed around you both.

"Is that what brought you to photography? The pursuit of honesty?" His questions feel deeper than the typical post-shoot small talk, probing gently at your passion rather than just your process.

You consider how to answer, surprised by your desire to offer something genuine rather than the practiced responses you usually give. "Partly. I like finding the moments between the moments, I guess. The truth that exists when people think no one's watching."

Chan's eyes hold yours, and for a second, you feel as exposed as if you were the one in front of the lens. "Like how you were watching me today when you thought I wouldn't notice?"

Heat rises to your face, and you're grateful for the dim lighting. "I was doing my job," you counter, though the defense sounds weak even to your ears.

"Very thoroughly," he agrees, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip. "Especially during my individual session. I counted at least twice as many shots as the others got."

"Some subjects require more work," you reply, surprising yourself with the boldness of your response.

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet studio. "Ouch. Is that how you talk to all your clients?"

"Only the ones who hang around after hours to critique my process."

"Not critiquing," he corrects, his hand coming to rest casually on the edge of the desk, inches from your own. "Appreciating."

The proximity of his fingers to yours creates a tangible tension, a magnetic field you feel compelled to either break or complete. You remain still, neither of you retreating or advancing.

"You know," Chan continues, his voice lower now, "I requested you specifically for this shoot."

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Your work has this... rawness to it. Even with all the commercial gloss, there's something uncalculated about your images. It's rare in this industry."

You find yourself momentarily speechless, touched by the specificity of his observation. Most people in his position would hardly give a second thought to who was behind the camera.

"I’m sure the label had several options," you say, recovering. "I assumed they made the final call."

"They did… after I made my preference clear." His fingers drum lightly on the desk, still tantalizingly close to yours. "I can be persuasive when I decide I want something."

There's that unspoken current again, running beneath his words, charging the exchange with meaning that extends beyond professional admiration. You should probably create some distance, maintain the boundary between photographer and subject, but your feet remain rooted to the spot.

"Well, I'm flattered," you say, aiming for nonchalance despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Though you might be overestimating my talent."

"I don't think so." His response is immediate, genuine.

Your phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the moment. You glance down to see your assistant's text asking if everything wrapped up okay and if you need her to come back. The real world intruding on whatever bubble had formed around you and Chan.

"I should finish packing up," you say, though most of the equipment is already secured.

Chan straightens, giving you space, though reluctance is evident in his posture. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."

You busy yourself with the remaining equipment, aware of his presence as he moves to the doorway again, one hand coming to rest on the pillar in a casual pose that somehow manages to highlight the lean strength of his body. Even in this unguarded moment, he's naturally photogenic, and your fingers itch for your camera.

"I meant what I said about your work," he says as you shoulder your camera bag. "It's special. You see things others miss."

You allow yourself to meet his gaze again, abandoning the pretense of professional detachment. "And what do you think I see when I look at you, Chan?"

The question is bolder than you intended, stripping away the polite veneer that's characterized your interaction so far. His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, more intense.

"I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "But I'd like to find out." There’s a smirk on his face that you try to ignore as you sling your tote bag around your body and pick up your box of equipment.

You move toward the door where he stands, knowing you need to leave but reluctant to end whatever this is. As you approach, he remains in place, his body creating a partial barrier that will require you to pass close to him.

“Thank you again for today,” he says softly. “You’ve got a really calm energy. Kind of rare in rooms like this.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Thank you for being a great subject,” you respond as you readjust the box to hold your hand out to him. “Hopefully I’ll get to work with your group again.”

He takes your hand in his and squeezes gently. “Hopefully.” He holds onto your hand for a second too long, before releasing.

As you move by him, he remains close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest, a contact that could be dismissed as accidental but feels entirely deliberate.

At the threshold, you pause and look back at him, standing in the glow of the studio, somehow looking like he belongs there. The day has been a symphony of unspoken communication, charged glances, and professional pretense masking growing attraction. Now, on the cusp of leaving, that attraction crystallizes into something palpable enough to touch.

As you finally turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

"And for the record," he says, "I wasn't performing today. Not with you."

You glance back over your shoulder, allowing yourself one last look at his face, memorizing the way the fading light catches his features. "I know," you reply simply. "That's what made it interesting."

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

You stare at the hotel ceiling, counting the tiny stucco bumps until your eyes cross and uncross. Sleep is playing hard to get tonight, flirting with your consciousness before ghosting you completely. The digital clock on the nightstand flashes 2:17 AM like it's mocking you. Your body also still hums from the shoot. You’re creatively energized and emotionally restless thanks to the residual adrenaline, as your mind replays today's session on an endless loop, specifically the moments when Chan's eyes found yours over the camera lens, the way his voice dropped when speaking only to you.

You reach for your phone, then think better of it. Your brain won't be silenced by another mindless scroll through social media or the muted sitcom reruns playing on the hotel TV.

"Fuck it," you whisper to the empty room half an hour later. With a frustrated sigh, you kick off the suffocating sheets and pad to your suitcase. If sleep is determined to evade you, you might as well do something about it. You pull out the yellow bikini you packed out of habit and a thin cotton cover-up that's seen better days but feels like an old friend against your skin. Hotels equal pools equal bikinis; simple traveler's math.

The elevator ascends silently as it carries you to the rooftop, the mirrors reflecting a woman caught in the liminal space between exhaustion and alertness. You pad across the marbled hallway and stop at the glass doors. According to the information packet in your room, the pool closes at midnight, but your keycard still grants access. Either someone forgot to update the system, or night swimming is the hotel's unspoken perk for insomniacs. You push through the glass doors into the night.

The rooftop deck appears as a midnight oasis, the pool a rectangle of liquid sapphire, illuminated from below by lights that pulse gently between shades of blue as moonlight dances across the water’s surface. The water glitters under the night sky, empty and peaceful, while silver patterns shift and reform with each gentle ripple. The city sprawls below in a patchwork of lights, but up here exists in a bubble of quiet separate from the urban pulse.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

You kick off your flip flops and drop the cover-up onto a lounge chair, its fabric forming a crumpled shape. You slip into the pool without ceremony, sighing as the warmth wraps around your skin when you slide beneath the surface. This is exactly what you needed, something real and immediate to wash away the day’s lingering electricity.

You float on your back, eyes open to the vast spill of stars above, letting your thoughts dissolve into the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. Your eyes gently close as the water plugs your ears against the world, creating a private universe as the silence holds you.

A splash shatters your tranquil solitude. It’s almost silent, signifying the execution of a clean dive.

You jerk upright, treading water, as a figure cuts through the water just below the surface with practiced grace and professional looking strokes, powerful arms slicing through the blue. When the swimmer surfaces with a satisfied inhale and exhale and pushes hair back from his face, your heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against your ribs.

Chan.

He freezes and his eyes widen when they meet yours, recognition sparking between you like the underwater lights reflecting on the pool's surface. His surprised expression mirrors your own.

"Oh," he says, his Australian accent coating the syllable in honey as he treads water. "I didn't think anyone else was… I can go if you want privacy."

"No!" The word comes out louder, quicker than you intended. "I mean, it’s fine; it's a big pool. Plenty of room for two insomniacs."

His laugh is low and warm, creating ripples around his shoulders where they break the water's plane. "Is that what we are? Fellow members of the Can't Sleep Club?"

"Charter members," you confirm, treading water at what feels like a respectful distance. "I was halfway through counting those ceiling bumps when I had to bail."

Chan grins, accompanied by those infamous dimples. "I was writing lyrics in my head. Same ones I've been stuck on for three days. Figured maybe they'd flow better in water."

"Does that work? The water thing?"

He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, droplets flying from his fingertips like tiny diamonds. "Sometimes. Water, shower, driving; places where your body's busy but your mind can wander. You know what I mean?"

You do. You tell him about your own creative process, surprised at how the conversation flows easily, the water providing a buffer against the awkwardness of speaking with someone you spent the day assessing and photographing.

“What about you? What’s keeping you up?”

"Same disease, different symptoms." You don't mention that he, specifically, has been the primary thought keeping you awake. "The ceiling in my room was starting to mock me."

Chan laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the open-air space. "Mine was definitely judging my life choices."

He swims closer with lazy, confident strokes, coming to rest a respectful distance away. Water beads across his shoulders and collarbones, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds.

"So," he begins, "do you crash hotel pools after 2 AM often, or am I witnessing a rare event?"

"Only when particularly photogenic boy band leaders keep me from sleeping," you quip before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a horrifying second, you think you've overstepped. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Oh? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality that made an impression."

"That too," you concede, relaxing into the banter. "Though your dimples did most of the heavy lifting."

He splashes a small wave of water in your direction, the playful gesture breaking any remaining tension. "And here I spent all those years developing my musical talents when I could've just smiled my way to success."

You splash him back without hesitation. "Don't sell yourself short. Your music isn’t that bad,” you add with a smirk, causing him to laugh loudly.

"You’re funny. So do you leave tomorrow?" he asks, gliding even closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water.

"Yeah, I'm covering a music festival in Austin on Saturday for an online magazine. Arts and culture beat."

"We fly out tomorrow too. We have a couple performances in Tokyo before heading back to Seoul." His gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, and the water suddenly feels warmer against your skin.

The two of you drift into an easy conversation. You talk about music; not just his, though you do mention a B-side from their last album that you particularly love, watching his face light up with pride. He asks thoughtful questions about your work, listening with his whole body, nodding and responding in ways that make it clear he's not just waiting for his turn to speak.

He’s different in this setting: looser, softer. He's not Bang Chan the performer right now; he's just Chan, a guy with tired eyes and a bright smile that seems to pull from somewhere genuine. And when you laugh together, it doesn’t feel like a first-time thing. It feels familiar.

"That's exactly what I was trying to express in that track," he says, after you describe how a certain chord progression in one of his songs made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and beautiful. "Like you're about to jump, and you don't know if you'll fly or fall, but the not knowing is what makes it worth doing."

The conversation shifts to art, to creativity, to the way certain combinations of notes or words or colors can crack something open inside a person. You're both moving in lazy circles now, sometimes drifting closer, sometimes apart, like binary stars locked in orbit.

"I’m surprised you've actually listened to our music. I thought maybe you just did your homework for the shoot."

"I like to understand what I'm capturing," you admit. "But I was a fan of your production style before I knew about this job. The layering you do with vocal harmonies on your solo tracks is..." You pause, searching for the right word. "It's architectural. I mean, it’s also there in many of the group songs, you singing harmonies in the background, but it’s more pronounced on the songs you record by yourself."

Chan moves closer, genuinely intrigued now. "Most people don't notice that stuff."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving yours. "You definitely aren't."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the gentle sound of water as you both tread calmly.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice is softer now, more intimate.

"Depends on the question."

"What made you become a photographer? Like, really; not the answer you give in interviews."

The unexpected depth of his question catches you off-guard. You consider deflecting with humor but find yourself wanting to give him honesty instead.

"I was always the observer," you tell him. "The kid on the periphery watching how people interact, capturing moments in my mind before I ever had a camera. Photography just gave me a legitimate reason to keep watching."

Chan nods slowly, absorbing your words. "That makes sense. You have that quality of seeing beyond what people present."

"What about you?" you ask. "Was music always the path?"

"Always," he confirms with absolute certainty. "Even when I was being passed over for groups and debut and my parents were gently suggesting backup plans. Music wasn't just what I wanted to do; it was the only way I made sense to myself."

His hand gestures animatedly as he speaks, sending small ripples across the water's surface. One hand comes to rest briefly on your arm to emphasize a point, and the contact, though fleeting, sends warmth radiating through you despite the cool water.

"I get that," you say. "Some pursuits aren't choices, they're necessities."

He studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Exactly. That's exactly it."

You've drifted closer during the conversation, close enough now that you can see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"You know what's funny?" Chan says, his voice softer now. "I came up here to be alone, but this is the first time today I've felt like I could breathe properly."

"The irony of finding peace with a stranger in a pool at 3 AM isn't lost on me," you reply, and he laughs again, the sound rippling across the water's surface like rain.

"Are we still strangers, though?" he asks, and there's a genuine curiosity there, a head tilt that makes water droplets run from his hair down the curve of his neck.

You consider this. "Maybe not. Maybe we're... temporal friends. Friends for tonight."

"I like that," he says, swimming closer. "Temporal friends with potential."

"Potential for what?" The question hangs between you, heavy with possibility.

Instead of answering, he floats onto his back, staring up at the slice of sky visible above the hotel's glass barriers. You join him, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you drift. The contact sends tiny electric currents through your body each time it happens.

"Some people are just blips," he says eventually. "And some are turning points."

The philosophical tone surprises you. "Which am I?"

His hand finds yours underwater, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."

When you both right yourselves again, you're closer than before, your hands still touching. Close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his eyebrows, the moles scattered across his face and neck that makeup usually conceals. There's a small scar peeking out from the edge of his swim shorts on his hip; it makes you want to trace it with your fingertips.

"Today, during the shoot," he says quietly. "There was something there, wasn't there? I wasn't imagining it?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "No. You weren't imagining it."

"And now?" he asks. When you don’t say anything, he continued. "I have a confession," he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates pleasantly against your sternum despite the water between you.

"Should I be worried?"

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you from earlier today."

Heat that has nothing to do with the pool temperature rises to your cheeks. "Oh really?"

He nods, one hand reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "How you talked about your philosophy for taking pictures, capturing the moments in between.”

His hand lingers near your face, and something shifts in the air between you. The playful banter recedes like a tide, leaving something more raw and honest in its wake.

"Chan…," you start, not entirely sure what you're going to say next.

"I like how you say my name," he interrupts softly. "Not like you're saying the name of someone you've heard of. Like you know me."

His arm brushes against yours as a slight current pulls you both toward the center of the pool. Neither of you moves away. The contact is deliberate now, the press of skin against skin underwater creating a different kind of conversation.

“Funny,” he says, bobbing in front of you. “I didn’t think the most memorable part of today would happen after the shoot.”

You look at him. “Are you trying to be charming?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

Instead of answering, you move closer. So does he. And then the space between your bodies disappears.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks quietly, and the directness of it, the simple honesty, makes your breath catch.

You nod, and he eliminates the remaining distance between you with a smile that's equal parts shy and certain. His lips touch yours with cautious pressure, cool from the water but warming quickly. It's tentative at first. Slow, exploring, questioning. But when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you open to him with a small sound that seems to echo across the water's surface.

His hands find your waist underwater, drawing you flush against him and anchoring you to him as your legs tangle together to stay afloat. The sensation of being weightless while he holds you makes every touch feel amplified.

You break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Around you, the water ripples with the movement of your bodies, small waves lapping against the pool's edge like applause.

"That was..." he trails off, searching for words.

"Good potential," you finish for him, and his laugh is breathless against your mouth before he kisses you again, more certain this time, his hands moving from your waist down to your ass.

You can feel every inch where your bodies connect: the firm plane of his chest against yours, the brush of his thighs against your own, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip. The water seems to echo the sound of your combined breaths, magnifying them in the quiet night.

When you pull away again, his eyes are darker, more intense than before. The playful musician has been replaced by something more primal, more focused. It sends a shiver down your spine despite the warm water.

"My room or yours?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.

You consider for a moment. "Mine's on the twelfth floor."

"Mine's on the fourteenth, but we’re more likely to get interrupted by my bandmates. They’re a bit… mischievous. And nosey."

"Mine it is," you agree, and there's a moment where you both just look at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold you're about to cross.

He kisses you once more, softly, before you both swim to the edge of the pool. You climb out first, water cascading from your body, suddenly aware of how your bikini clings to every curve. Chan follows, and you allow yourself to appreciate the way water runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest and arms, highlighting the definition of muscles that his usual oversized hoodies conceal.

He retrieves your cover-up from the lounge chair, holding it open for you with a gentlemanly flourish that makes you snort with laughter, breaking the tension. He grabs his own t-shirt, using it to roughly dry his hair before pulling it on over his wet skin. It seems neither of you remembered to bring towels for your late night swim.

As you walk toward the elevator, leaving damp footprints across the marble floor, his hand finds yours again. It's such a simple gesture, fingers lacing together, but it carries the weight of intention. This isn't just about physical attraction. There's a connection here that transcends the random chance of two insomniacs finding each other in a hotel pool at 3 AM.

The elevator doors close, and Chan leans against the wall, still holding your hand, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Still temporal friends?" he asks.

"With increasingly clear potential," you answer, and his laugh follows you all the way down to the twelfth floor.

When you and Chan finally make it back to your room, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels inevitable.

You fumble with the key card, your breath hitching when Chan’s hand brushes your hip, casual but deliberate. You open the door and step aside to let him in. The room is dim, painted in soft golds from the city lights bleeding through the windows.

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a decision made. The two of you stand in the dim entryway for a moment, water still dripping from both your bodies, the air between you thick with anticipation. You're suddenly aware of how small the space feels with Chan's presence filling it. His eyes catch the subdued light from the bedside lamp you'd left on earlier, turning them to liquid amber. The wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to imagination yet somehow making you hungrier to see what's beneath. A small puddle forms where you both stand, neither of you moving, the moment suspended between hesitation and inevitability.

"So," Chan says, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh that humanizes him instantly. "This is the part where I'd normally make a joke about being all wet, but I'm trying not to be that guy."

"You just made the joke while saying you weren't going to make it," you point out, grateful for the tension breaker.

"Fuck. I did, didn't I?" His dimples deepen as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "Let me try again. Hi, I'm the hot guy from the pool who can't stop looking at your mouth."

Heat blooms between your legs. "Much better," you say, stepping closer. "I'm the girl who's thinking about peeling that shirt off you."

"Thinking about it, or...?" He lets the question hang.

In response you reach for him, bringing your lips to his.

The kiss is different now; deeper, more urgent. You curl your fingers into the hem of his soaked t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. He raises his arms to help, and the wet fabric makes a soft sucking sound as it releases his skin. You break the kiss to pull it the rest of the way over his head. You drop it to the floor with a soft splat, your eyes tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen.

His hands settle on your ass, thumbs brushing the bare skin just beneath the bikini bottom.

He kisses down your neck slowly, as if savoring each inch of you. You shiver as his teeth graze your collarbone.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper.

He chuckles against your skin. “Only if you want me to be.”

His palms slide over your ass, up your back, around your front and across your tits until they find the tie of your cover-up, tugging gently. "Fair's fair," he murmurs.

The light fabric falls open, then to the floor, and his breath catches audibly at the sight of your bikini-clad body. His eyes travel a slow path from your collarbone to your hardened nipples probing through the fabric, then down your stomach to your thighs, appreciation evident in the way his pupils dilate.

"You're staring," you whisper.

"Can you blame me?" His voice has a rough edge to it now. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself. The hot photographer from my shoot is standing in my hotel room in a wet bikini."

"Your hotel room is on the fourteenth floor," you remind him with a smirk. "This is my room."

"Details," he dismisses with a wave, stepping close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Important detail, though: I really want to kiss you again."

"Then do it."

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. This kiss is more deliberate, more knowing. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste chlorine and the steak he had for dinner. You press closer, your damp skin meeting his, and he groans into your mouth.

Your fingers dance along his spine, feeling each vertebra, mapping the terrain of his back. His hands move from your face to your shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of your breasts through the wet bikini top.

"This needs to go," he murmurs against your lips, fingers finding the tie at your back. He pulls to loosen it.

"Yours too," you reply, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts.

There's a moment of clumsy, laughing urgency as you both shed the last of your wet clothes. Chan's swim shorts stick to his thighs, requiring an ungraceful hopping movement that makes you both dissolve into giggles. But the laughter dies in your throat when he stands before you, fully naked and unashamed.

His body is a testament to discipline. It’s all lean muscle under smooth skin, the definition of his abdomen leading your eyes downward to where he's already hard for you.

"Your turn," he says, his voice lower now, serious.

You reach behind your neck to untie the second set of strings of your bikini top, letting it fall away to the ground. Chan’s sharp intake of breath is more gratifying than any practiced compliment. His eyes darken as he takes in your bare breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious gesture of want. The bikini bottoms follow, sliding down your legs to join the puddle of wet materials at your feet.

For a moment, you just look at each other, naked in more ways than one.

"You're fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes the words feel like more than a line, more than what you say in these moments.

"So are you," you reply, meaning it.

He closes the distance between you again, and the first touch of his naked skin against yours pulls a gasp from your throat. His erection presses hard against your stomach as his arms encircle you, hands splaying across your back to pull you closer.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. You walk backward toward the bed, unwilling to break contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Chan follows you down as you fall back, his body covering yours, hips settling naturally between your spread thighs.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he admits against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Standing behind that camera, completely in control."

Your fingers trail slowly down his back. "And now?"

His smile is wicked, dimples appearing like punctuation marks to his intent. "Now it's my turn to capture you. Tell me what you want," he breathes against your neck, where his lips have been leaving a trail of heat.

"You," you say simply. "But also… talk to me."

He raises his head to meet your eyes, a question in his gaze.

"I want to hear you," you clarify. "Not just the polite, edited version of the idol they train you to be. I want the real you."

A slow smile spreads across his face, something darker and more primal than his stage smile. "Careful what you wish for," he warns, then drags his mouth down your body, pausing to take a nipple between his lips.

You arch into the sensation, a moan escaping as he uses his tongue in wicked circles around the sensitive peak. His hand finds your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the nipple in counterpoint to his mouth's rhythm.

"Fuck, you taste good," he murmurs against your skin. "Been thinking about this since I saw you this morning, standing there looking all professional but with this mouth that had me imagining all sorts of unprofessional shit."

His confession sends a thrill through you. "Like what?" you ask, running your fingers through his damp hair as he moves lower, lips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel.

"Like how you'd sound when you cum," he says, settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your center. When his lips kiss the inside of your right thigh, it quivers. "Like how your body would react to mine. Like whether you'd be loud or quiet." His tongue takes a long, deliberate swipe through your folds as if he was licking a large scoop of ice cream. "Like how wet you'd get for me."

Your hips buck involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.

"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.

"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"

"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."

The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.

"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."

Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."

So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"

He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.

When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.

He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."

He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.

"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.

His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."

He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.

"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”

"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.

His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."

The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.

"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.

He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

"There," you gasp. "Right there."

"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."

The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"

You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.

Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."

You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.

Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.

You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.

You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”

Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"

“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”

His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."

"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."

“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.

"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.

"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."

He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame: the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.

You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.

"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.

Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.

"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.

"I don't usually…"

"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."

You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.

"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.

The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.

"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.

"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.

You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos. One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.

Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.

"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.

"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.

You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.

Thirty more minutes have passed.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.

You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.

"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."

His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is.

He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.

Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.

Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.

You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.

But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.

"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.

You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.

"This wasn't..." he begins.

"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."

The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.

"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.

He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."

The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."

Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."

"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”

He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.

The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.

You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.

****

Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.

They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.

So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.

You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.

The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights.

That one you printed just for you, not for public display.

Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.

You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:

Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.

Hey, you try. Too casual.

Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.

Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.

You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.

I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.

The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.

The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.

Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.

You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.

The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.

You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.

If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.

Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.

At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.

Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.

Thank you for considering this request.

You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.

The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.

With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.

The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.

You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.

Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.

Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.

Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.

There.

Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.

Yes, you have my permission.

One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.

You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces.

You find none.

Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?

But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.

You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.

"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.

Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.

Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.

You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:

Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.

You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions.

You have permission. That's all you needed.

The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?

****

When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.

"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.

"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."

The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.

You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit, black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.

A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.

The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.

You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.

You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.

"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."

You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."

"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.

You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.

The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.

Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.

Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.

Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.

Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.

"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."

Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.

You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.

Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.

When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.

"They look different than I’d expected."

The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.

But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.

Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.

Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.

"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.

He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."

“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.

“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.

He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.

"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.

"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."

"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."

Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.

He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.

"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."

You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.

"How did you know I'd still be here?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."

The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.

"I'd like that."

You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.

When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.

"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.

"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."

His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."

"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.

Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.

"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"

The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.

"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."

His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.

"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”

You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.

My Masterlist

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