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gyu-tori · 4 months ago

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When Cameras Stop Rolling | P.SH

⟢ Pairing: actor!sunghoon x fem aspiringdirector!reader ⟢ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Smut ⟢ Warnings/Themes: Mature content, explicit language and sexual content, kind of enemies to lovers to ??? , multiple smut scenes (2), soft dom!sunghoon, fingering!, oral! (f! and m! rec) , unprotected!sex, kind of public!sex, creampie! (reader is on birth control but wasn't mentioned), (might've missed some)

Summary: When the cameras stop rolling, the world still watches. You’ve spent years behind the scenes, dreaming of the day you’ll call the shots.

Then there’s Sunghoon—an untouchable star, distant yet impossibly captivating. To him, you’re just another face in the crowd—until tension sparks and walls crack.

When love and ambition collide, will either of you risk it all?

⟢ Word count: 21.1k

You weave through the chaos of the set, clipboard in hand, heart pounding as you check the schedule for the hundredth time today. The towering lights cast long shadows over the crew, the air thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and expensive perfume from the high-profile actors preparing for their next scene.

It’s just another day in the world of film production—one where your name barely carries weight, where you’re another invisible cog in the relentless machine that keeps everything running. No one notices you unless they need something.

“Y/N, can you grab another battery pack for the boom mic?” someone shouts.

“Where’s the set list?”

“We need a fresh slate over here—hey, Y/N, did you double-check the continuity?”

The calls blur together, but you answer each one with practiced ease. You’ve been here long enough to know how it works: the crew hustles behind the scenes, the actors shine under the lights, and the director calls the shots. And you? You exist somewhere in between—essential but unnoticed, striving for a position that still feels painfully out of reach.

Directing. That’s the dream.

Not running errands, not handling last-minute crises, not fetching coffee for people who don’t bother to learn your name. You want to be the one in the chair, guiding the vision, telling a story the way you see it. But for now, you bite your tongue and do the work, knowing that ambition means little in an industry where experience and connections dictate your worth. Still, it stings.

You pause near the monitor, watching as the director—your director—gives notes to the lead actor. He commands attention effortlessly, his vision shaping the world on screen. You watch, envy curling deep in your gut, because that’s where you want to be. “Someday,” you murmur under your breath, gripping your clipboard tighter.

A sharp voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Y/N! Stop standing around! We need the next prop setup now!”

With a sigh, you push your dreams aside and dive back into the fray. Because in this industry, dreaming is the easy part. Making it happen? That’s another battle entirely.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The day has been long, and you’re running on little more than sheer willpower and the half-empty cup of coffee you left somewhere on set hours ago. The schedule is tight, and tensions are high—as they always are on a production of this scale. You’re used to the pressure. Used to being the unseen force that keeps things moving. But today, something is different.

“Y/N!” Your head snaps up at the sound of your name. One of the assistant directors is striding toward you, her expression pinched with impatience. You barely have time to acknowledge her before she thrusts a neatly folded call sheet into your hands.

“You’re assigned to Park Sunghoon today.” You blink. “What?”

She exhales sharply, already looking past you to another crisis unfolding elsewhere on set. “Sunghoon’s personal assistant isn’t here, so you’re filling in. Keep him on schedule, make sure he has what he needs, and for God’s sake, don’t piss him off. Got it?”

Your stomach sinks. Park Sunghoon. The industry’s golden boy.

Rising star, adored by millions, praised for his talent, his charm, his ability to command a scene like he was born for it. He’s the kind of actor whose name alone can secure funding for a film. He’s also notoriously difficult.

Rumors circulate about him—how he’s cold, distant, impossible to please. He rarely speaks to crew members unless necessary, and when he does, it’s often with clipped, impersonal words. Some say it’s arrogance. Others say it’s just the way he is.

Either way, being assigned to him is a daunting task. You swallow your apprehension, nodding before the assistant director disappears. There’s no time to dwell on your nerves. Straightening your shoulders, you make your way toward Sunghoon’s trailer.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The door is slightly ajar when you reach it. You hesitate for only a second before knocking firmly against the frame. No answer. Another knock. Still nothing.

Taking a steadying breath, you push the door open and step inside.

The air is noticeably cooler inside the trailer, the hum of the AC the only sound aside from your own footsteps. At first, you don’t see him. Then, your eyes land on the figure seated in the far corner, completely absorbed in his phone.

Park Sunghoon.

Up close, he’s even more striking than in magazines or on screen. His sharp features are almost too perfect, framed by jet-black hair that falls effortlessly into place. He’s dressed in his costume for the next scene—a tailored black suit, pristine and elegant. He looks every bit the star he is. But what stands out the most is the air of disinterest that radiates from him. You clear your throat lightly. “Mr. Park?”

Nothing. He doesn’t even look up. You shift on your feet, fingers tightening around the call sheet in your hand. “I’ve been assigned as your assistant for today. If there’s anything you need—”

“I don’t need anything,” he says flatly, still not sparing you a glance. His voice is smooth but devoid of warmth, and the dismissal in his tone is obvious.

You hesitate. “Right. Well, I still have to make sure you’re on schedule, so I’ll be around—”

“Do whatever you want,” he interrupts, swiping through something on his phone. “Just don’t get in my way.”

The words are a slap to the face. You’ve worked with difficult actors before, but something about his complete disregard stings more than you care to admit. He doesn’t even acknowledge your presence properly—just writes you off as another faceless crew member not worth his time.

Still, you’re professional. You force a neutral expression, ignoring the quiet prickle of irritation crawling up your spine. “There’s water and snacks here if you get hungry,” you say, motioning toward the neatly arranged table near the window. “And if you need any adjustments to your costume or makeup before the next scene, let me know.”

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes settling on you for the first time. For a brief second, you think he might say something—maybe even a simple acknowledgment. But instead, his gaze flickers over you, uninterested, before he leans back in his chair.

“Are you done?”

Your jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Then you can go.” You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to nod before turning on your heel and walking out.

The second you’re outside, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You should have expected this. The rumors weren’t exaggerated. Sunghoon doesn’t just act indifferent—he embodies it. And yet, despite the irritation simmering beneath your skin, you shake it off.

He doesn’t matter. You’re here for your career, for your dreams. And Park Sunghoon? He’s just another actor. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. For now.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The tension on set is suffocating.

It’s been a long morning of filming, the crew scrambling to keep everything on schedule. The lead actors are preparing for the next scene, cameras are being adjusted, and you—unfortunately—are still tethered to Park Sunghoon, ensuring everything runs smoothly on his end. Not that he’s made it easy.

Since your first encounter, he’s continued to treat you with the same cold indifference. He never acknowledges you unless absolutely necessary, and when he does, it’s with clipped words and dismissive glances. You try to ignore it, reminding yourself that this is just part of the job.

You’ve worked with plenty of high-maintenance actors before. But none of them have ever gotten under your skin quite like this.

“Y/N, make sure Sunghoon’s costume is properly set before we roll,” one of the assistant directors calls.

You nod and step forward, glancing at Sunghoon’s suit. It looks fine, but experience has taught you to double-check everything. You reach out to smooth the lapel of his jacket, making a small adjustment to the way it sits on his shoulder.

The moment your fingers brush the fabric, Sunghoon recoils. “Don’t touch it.” His voice is sharp, cutting through the noise around you.

You freeze, startled by the sudden hostility in his tone. “I was just fixing—”

“It’s fine,” he snaps, brushing your hand away as if your mere presence is an inconvenience. “Next time, ask before you do something unnecessary.” A hush falls over the surrounding crew. People turn to glance at the commotion, their eyes darting between you and Sunghoon.

Humiliation burns through you. It’s not just what he said—it’s the way he said it. Cold, dismissive, like you’re nothing more than an annoyance. Like you don’t belong here.

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay composed. “I was just doing my job,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Making sure you look perfect for the shot.”

Sunghoon scoffs, adjusting the lapel himself with a flick of his wrist. “I don’t need your help with that.” Your fingers curl into a fist at your side, nails digging into your palm.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been looked down on in this industry. You’re used to the hierarchy, to being treated like background noise. But something about Sunghoon’s attitude—his complete disregard for you—stings deeper than it should.

Because it’s not just indifference. It’s deliberate. He wants you to know you don’t matter to him.

The assistant director, sensing the tension, quickly intervenes. “Alright, let’s get into position! We’re rolling in five!”

The moment is over, but the sting of embarrassment lingers. You take a step back, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing yourself to ignore the quiet murmurs from the surrounding staff. Sunghoon, meanwhile, has already moved on—expression impassive, eyes fixed ahead as if you don’t exist.

You bite the inside of your cheek, swallowing the anger bubbling in your chest. Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it, you won’t let him get under your skin. You straighten your shoulders, stepping out of his space and returning to your duties.

You won’t let Park Sunghoon make you feel small.

Not today. Not ever.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set is alive with movement—crew members adjusting lights, cameras rolling into position, and makeup artists doing last-minute touch-ups on the lead actors. You also stay busy, as you always do, keeping things organized and ensuring every detail aligns with the director’s vision.

And, of course, keeping your distance from Park Sunghoon.

It’s been a few days since he had humiliated you in front of the crew, but the irritation still simmers beneath your skin. You’ve barely interacted with him since, only speaking to him when absolutely necessary. If he wants to pretend you don’t exist, you’re more than happy to return the favour.

Still, your job requires you to be aware of everything happening on set—including him.

Sunghoon is standing near the monitors, listening intently as the director gives him notes for the next scene. His posture is straight, his face stoic and unreadable, every part of him exuding that effortless confidence he’s known for.

You hate to admit it, but you understand why the industry adores him.

He carries himself like a star—like someone who was born to be in front of a camera. Every movement is deliberate, every glance is calculated. He doesn’t just act; he becomes the character, slipping into the role with practiced ease when the cameras start rolling. It’s infuriating how effortless it seems.

You’re still standing at a distance, flipping through the schedule on your clipboard, when a voice calls your name. “Y/N, we need someone to run lines with Sunghoon before we roll. Can you do it just until his co-star gets here?”

You pause, gripping your clipboard tighter. Of all the tasks you could’ve been assigned, this is what they ask you to do? You glance around, hoping someone else is free to step in, but no one does.

Damn it. Forcing a neutral expression, you nod. “Got it.”

The second you approach, Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward you. His eyes give away nothing—no recognition, no irritation, just the same blank indifference he always reserves for you.

“We need to run lines,” you say, keeping your tone strictly professional. Sunghoon barely reacts. “Fine.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and open the script, scanning the lines. The scene is heavy—an emotional confrontation between his character and the female lead. It requires tension, anger, and heartbreak.

Not that you care. You just want to get this over with.

Clearing your throat, you begin reading. Obviously, you’re not the best at this, this wasn’t what you signed up for but you do your best. Your voice is steady, controlled, giving just enough emotion to make the lines flow naturally. You expect Sunghoon to do the same—to deliver his part with the same distant professionalism he treats everything with.

But then he looks at you. Really looks at you. For the first time, his gaze isn’t skimming past you or dismissing you outright. It’s focused—intense. He delivers his lines smoothly, his voice calm but layered with the controlled fury his character is meant to convey.

“You said you loved me… I gave you everything, I’d even give you the world if I could, but this? This is how you repay me?”

And for a moment, you almost forget that this is just a read-through.

“Let me explain, I can’t lose us but I also can’t lose this…”

You read from the script, voice quivering the slightest bit. Your pulse quickens, Not because of him, but because of the sheer force of his presence. It’s unsettling how easily he commands attention, how his eyes lock onto yours and make it feel like there’s no one else in the room.

But this isn’t real. It’s just acting. It’s literally his job. He’s trained for this. And yet, the way he holds your gaze makes it impossible to ignore the shift in the air around you.

The second the scene ends, the weight of his stare disappears. He looks away as if nothing happened, flipping the script shut with practiced indifference.

“That’s enough,” he mutters.

You blink. Once. Twice. You’re momentarily thrown off by how abruptly he drops the intensity.

He doesn’t respond. Just turns away, already focusing on something else, as if the last few minutes meant nothing at all. And they didn’t. You don’t dwell on it. You can’t. Because no matter how sharp his gaze feels when it lingers on you, or how easily he commands attention, you refuse to let it mean anything.

He’s an actor.

He was just acting.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The days bleed together, a relentless cycle of early mornings and late nights, and somehow, you always find yourself clashing with Park Sunghoon.

It’s not intentional—at least, not on your part.

He just always has something to complain about. The lighting is too harsh. The script revisions are unnecessary. The costume department didn’t get his measurements right. And when there’s nothing else to nitpick, he directs his irritation toward you.

You, who is only doing your job.

You, who has done nothing to warrant the thinly veiled condescension in his tone whenever he speaks to you.

And yet, every interaction feels like another reminder that to him, you’re just an inconvenience.

“Y/N.” You glance up from the monitor, catching sight of Sunghoon approaching with that same unreadable expression he always wears. His suit is immaculate—no surprise there—but there’s a slight furrow between his brows, a sure sign that he’s about to complain.

You brace yourself. “Yes?”

“This—” He gestures to the set behind you, where props and lighting have been carefully arranged for the next scene. “It’s wrong.”

You blink. “What do you mean, wrong?”

“The setup,” he says flatly, as if it should be obvious. “The table is in the wrong position.”

You glance over your shoulder. The table in question sits precisely where it was placed per the set designer’s notes. Nothing has changed since this morning. “It’s exactly where it’s supposed to be,” you tell him, crossing your arms.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, clearly unimpressed with your answer. “It wasn’t there yesterday.”

“That’s because they adjusted it to match the camera angles for today’s shoot,” you explain, keeping your voice even. “It’s intentional.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “It’s distracting.”

You stare at him. “It’s a table.”

The muscle in his jaw ticks. “It’s in the wrong place.”

You release a slow breath, forcing yourself to remain patient. “Look, Sunghoon, I get that you have your preferences, but moving the table now would mess with continuity. Everything is already set up for the next shot.”

His expression remains impassive, but you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, like he’s resisting the urge to argue further. For a moment, it seems like he’s going to let it go. “Move it anyway.”

Your patience snaps. “No.” It’s a simple word, firm and unwavering, but it seems to catch him off guard.

His eyes narrow slightly. “Excuse me?”

You stand your ground. “I said no. We’re not moving the table just because you don’t like where it is. The set designer put it there for a reason, and I’m not going to mess up the entire continuity just to satisfy your need for control.”

A tense silence stretches between you. The crew nearby pretends not to eavesdrop, but you can feel their eyes darting toward the confrontation, waiting to see how Sunghoon will react.

His expression darkens, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve gone too far. “Fine.”

You blink. Did he just… give up? Sunghoon exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. His gaze is sharp, calculating, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. But just as quickly, the moment passes.

“Do whatever you want,” he mutters before turning on his heel and walking away.

You watch him go, chest rising and falling with quiet frustration.

The crew resumes their work, the tension in the air dissipating, but you’re still left with a lingering sense of unease. Because for the first time since you started working on this set, Park Sunghoon didn’t just dismiss you.

He listened. And somehow, that unsettles you more than anything.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It happens again.

You don’t know if Sunghoon is actually making your life difficult on purpose, or if he’s just that naturally insufferable. Either way, he’s quickly becoming the single biggest source of frustration in your already overwhelming workload.

Today, it’s the costume. “I’m not wearing this,” Sunghoon says flatly, standing in the middle of the dressing room, arms crossed over his chest.

You glance at the mirror behind him, where the reflection of his current outfit stares back at you. The suit is tailored perfectly, sleek and elegant, designed specifically to fit the tone of the upcoming scene. It looks fine. More than fine. It looks good. But, of course, Park Sunghoon has a problem with it.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly before responding. “Sunghoon, the costume department spent weeks finalizing the designs. It’s already been approved by the director.”

“I don’t care,” he says, tone as impassive as ever. “It’s uncomfortable. The fabric is stiff, and the collar is too tight.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “It’s a suit. It’s supposed to fit that way.”

“It’s restricting.”

“That’s the point.”

His eyes narrow slightly at your tone, but you don’t back down. You’re already exhausted from dealing with the hundred other problems popping up on set today. The last thing you need is Sunghoon refusing to cooperate over something as trivial as a suit.

“Look,” you continue, crossing your arms, “I get that you have preferences, but the wardrobe team put a lot of thought into this. You can’t just refuse to wear it because it’s slightly uncomfortable.”

Sunghoon tilts his head slightly, regarding you with that unreadable stare of his. “Why do you care so much?”

You let out a sharp breath. “Because your tantrum is delaying the schedule, and if you refuse to wear it, I have to be the one to fix the mess it creates. So, forgive me for caring, but some of us don’t have the luxury of making everyone cater to our every whim.”

The room falls silent.

A quiet tension settles between you, thick and unyielding. You can feel the wardrobe assistants nervously shifting in the background, the air charged with the weight of unspoken words. Sunghoon, for once, says nothing. He just watches you, gaze unwavering.

You hold your breath, expecting him to lash out, to throw another dismissive remark your way. But instead, he sighs. A small, almost imperceptible exhale. Then, without another word, he turns back to the mirror and adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. The message is clear. He’s letting it go.

You blink, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected lack of resistance. Then, realizing this is your win, you straighten your posture and nod. “Good. I’ll let the team know we’re moving forward.”

Sunghoon doesn’t acknowledge your words. He just finishes fixing the suit himself, his expression unreadable.

You turn on your heel and walk out of the dressing room, your pulse still buzzing with the remnants of the confrontation. But for the first time, you don’t feel small under Sunghoon’s scrutiny. You don’t feel insignificant. You stood your ground. And, whether he’d admit it or not, he backed down.

It’s a small victory. But in this industry? Even the smallest wins count.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You should have seen this coming.

When the assistant director approached you this afternoon, clipboard in hand, and told you that Sunghoon needed someone to help him rehearse lines for an overnight shoot, “You’ve done it before last time, you’re doing nothing else later too,” you should have made an excuse. Should have told them you were too busy. Should have assigned the task to someone else.

But instead, here you are. Trapped. In a dimly lit corner of the set, sitting across from Park Sunghoon in a cramped backstage area that barely fits the two of you.

The main set is being rearranged for the next scene, and since filming can’t resume until everything is in place, the crew is scattered—some grabbing a late-night coffee, others reviewing notes, all leaving you with no escape from this situation.

Sunghoon flips through the script, eyes skimming over the lines. He hasn’t said much since you sat down, aside from a brief nod of acknowledgment. He’s as unreadable as ever, and you’re too exhausted to figure out whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“You ready?” you ask, stretching your fingers as you grip your copy of the script.

Sunghoon barely glances at you. “You sure you can keep up?”

Your lips press into a thin line. It’s been like this for weeks. Constantly butting heads, trading sharp words that always carry the edge of something heavier. You exhale through your nose and roll your shoulders back. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He smirks—just barely, a flicker of amusement crossing his face before he masks it with indifference. “Alright then.” And with that, he starts.

The scene is intense—a heated argument between his character and the female lead, raw with tension and emotion. You read your lines smoothly, keeping your voice steady, but Sunghoon…

Sunghoon doesn’t just recite his lines. He delivers them. His voice shifts seamlessly into character, rich with frustration and unspoken anger, his presence filling the small space between you. Even though you’re just reading, the sheer weight of his performance is enough to make your pulse stutter.

His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unwavering, and suddenly it feels like the world outside this moment doesn’t exist.

You know it’s just acting. You know that. And yet, there’s something unnerving about being on the receiving end of his intensity. You push through, refusing to let his presence throw you off. You meet his stare head-on, refusing to waver, delivering your lines with just as much weight.

The words from the script fly between you like sparks igniting dry air.

“That’s all you ever do. Walk away. Like none of this ever mattered to you.”“Don’t you dare turn this on me. I was the only one who ever fought for us.” Sunghoon scoffs, the sound low and bitter.

“Fought? Is that what you call it? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone who gave up the moment things got hard.” You tighten your grip on the script.

“No. I gave up when I realized I was the only one still trying. YOU chose to not have me, have US, as a priority.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Unrelenting. It’s just a script. Just a scene. But the weight of it presses down like something real.

The next line in the script is a pause—a moment of silence where the characters stare at each other, the fight teetering between rage and something neither of them can name.

Neither of you move. The quiet hum of distant voices from the main set barely reaches you. The only sound between you is the faint rustling of paper as Sunghoon shifts his grip on the script, his gaze still trained on you.

Your heartbeat is annoyingly loud in your ears. You should say something. Make a joke. Brush it off. But before you can, a crew member’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence.

“Sunghoon! You’re needed for blocking in five minutes!”

The moment shatters.

Sunghoon blinks, the tension breaking just as quickly as it had formed. He exhales, rolling his shoulders back before finally looking away.

“Guess we’re done here,” he mutters, flipping his script shut.

You swallow, nodding as you quickly gather your things. “Yeah.”

Neither of you say anything else as you stand and step out of the confined space, rejoining the rest of the crew. But as you walk away, shaking off the strange weight lingering in your chest, you can’t shake the feeling that something between you and Sunghoon just shifted.

And you don’t know what that means.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The exhaustion is starting to creep in.

Overnight shoots have a way of draining every last bit of energy from you, stretching time into something unrecognizable. The set is bathed in artificial light to mimic the illusion of late evening, but outside, the sky is already bleeding into the soft hues of dawn.

You sit at the far end of the set, sipping what is probably your third—no, fourth—cup of coffee, going over the schedule for the day. Your body aches, your eyelids feel heavier than usual, and yet, you can’t rest. There’s still too much to do, too much to coordinate.

You barely register Sunghoon’s presence at first. He’s sitting nearby, reviewing notes with the director, his usually pristine appearance slightly undone—his tie is loose, the cuffs of his dress shirt unbuttoned, dark strands of hair falling into his eyes. It’s the most unpolished you’ve ever seen him. Not that you care.

You force your attention back to the clipboard in your hands, mentally preparing for the chaos of the coming hours. But then, something shifts.

A soft thud.

You glance up and find a cup of coffee placed beside your elbow. You blink. Look up. Sunghoon is standing over you, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.

For a moment, you just stare at the cup, as if trying to decipher its presence. “…What’s this?” you ask cautiously.

Sunghoon shrugs, gaze flickering away. “You’ve been up longer than most of the crew. Figured you needed it. Don’t want you messing things up again.”

You blink again, stunned into silence. Sunghoon? Offering you something? Voluntarily? The world must be ending. Slowly, you wrap your fingers around the warm cup, the heat seeping into your chilled skin. You hesitate before murmuring, “Thanks.”

Sunghoon says nothing. He simply nods once before walking away, leaving you with a cup of coffee and a strange, unfamiliar feeling curling in your chest.

You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. That’s all it is.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The small gestures don’t stop there.

Over the next few days, there’s a shift. Subtle, but noticeable. Sunghoon still keeps his distance, still maintains that cool indifference that makes him impossible to read. But there are… moments.

Like when he passes by the props table and subtly fixes something out of place before you can do it yourself.

Or when he doesn’t argue—for once—when you tell him to adjust his costume before a scene.

Or when you find a neatly folded jacket draped over the back of your chair one evening, long after the sun has set, when the set has turned quiet and you’re the only one left working.

You never catch him in the act. But you know. And you don’t know what to make of it, because this isn’t Sunghoon. At least, not the Sunghoon you thought you knew. The one who went out of his way to ignore you, to dismiss you as nothing more than an inconvenience.

So why does it feel like—despite everything—he’s starting to notice you?

You shake the thought from your head. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. Because Sunghoon is still Sunghoon.

And you? You’re still just another crew member. A nobody in his world for now. You have to focus on your goal.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set is nearly empty, save for a few crew members wrapping up for the night. The usual hum of voices and movement has died down, replaced by the occasional rustling of equipment being packed away. You should have left hours ago, but your body moves on autopilot as you double-check the next day’s schedule, making sure nothing has slipped through the cracks.

The exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. You rub your temples, trying to will away the dull ache forming between your brows, when a voice cuts through the silence.

“You’re still here?” You flinch, turning sharply.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away, leaning casually against a production crate. His suit jacket is gone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his usual polished demeanor replaced by something looser, less composed. He looks just as tired as you feel.

You clear your throat. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just studies you for a beat before shrugging. “Didn’t feel like going home yet.”

You frown slightly. “Why not?”

Another pause. His gaze flickers away for a moment, as if debating whether or not to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quieter than usual. “Silence feels heavier when you’re alone.”

The words catch you off guard. You’ve never heard Sunghoon speak like this before—without sarcasm, without that usual edge of indifference. Just… honest. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond. Then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “Is that why you work so much?”

His lips press into a thin line, but he doesn’t deny it.

You exhale softly, leaning back against the chair. “I get it.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker back to you, sharp with curiosity. “Do you?”

You nod, turning your gaze to the dimly lit set in front of you. “Work keeps your mind busy. When you’re constantly moving, constantly focused on something, you don’t have time to think about the things you don’t want to face.”

There’s a beat of silence. “That’s surprisingly insightful,” Sunghoon murmurs.

You huff a quiet laugh. “I’m full of surprises.”

Sunghoon leans against the crate, tilting his head slightly. His usual sharp gaze softens, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I used to be terrified,” he says suddenly, his voice lower than before.

You blink, caught off guard by the confession. “Of what?”

His fingers drum idly against the crate’s surface. “Failing.”

You don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“When I first started out, no one took me seriously. People saw my face and assumed I was just another pretty boy who got lucky.” He exhales through his nose. “I had to work twice as hard just to prove I belonged here.”

You watch him carefully. You’ve never heard him talk about this before—not in interviews, not in passing conversations with the crew. Sunghoon rarely lets people see beyond the polished surface, beyond the image of perfection he’s carefully built. But right now, there’s no mask. No arrogance. Just raw honesty.

You shift in your seat. “What was the hardest part?”

He hesitates. “The rejection.” His fingers tighten slightly. “You think you’re good enough, and then someone tells you you’re not. Over and over again.”

You nod slowly. You understand that feeling all too well. “But you made it,” you say softly.

Sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. But the fear never really goes away.”

You tilt your head. “Even now?”

“Especially now.” His voice is calm, but there’s something heavy beneath it. “When you reach a certain point, people stop caring about how hard you worked to get there. All they see is what you are now. And if you slip, even for a second, they’re ready to move on to the next rising star.”

You don’t break his gaze. You should have guessed this—should have realized that someone as successful as Sunghoon would carry the weight of expectations heavier than most. Still, hearing it from him directly makes it feel different. Real.

“Do you ever regret it?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. “No.” A pause. “But sometimes, I wonder what it would feel like to just… stop. To not have to care about every little thing, to not have to be perfect all the time.” His voice is softer than before, almost distant. It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him sound tired.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… lonely.”

Sunghoon exhales. “It is.”

The silence between you stretches, not uncomfortable but different. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to fill the space with unnecessary words.

And for once, you don’t feel the need to either. It’s strange—this quiet, fragile understanding between you. But maybe, just for tonight, you don’t have to question it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t know exactly when it happened, or how, but the shift between you and Sunghoon is undeniable. It’s not sudden or dramatic. There’s no grand moment of realization, no obvious turning point. It’s something quieter. Subtle.

You notice it in the way he doesn’t immediately shut you down when you speak to him anymore.

In the way his sharp remarks have softened, turning into dry humor instead of outright dismissal.

In the way he looks at you sometimes—not with disdain, not with indifference, but with something… else.

You don’t question it. You don’t acknowledge it because whatever this is, it’s fragile. And you don’t dare disturb it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It starts with the little things.

Like today. You’re going over the schedule for the next scene when a shadow falls over your clipboard. You look up, surprised to find Sunghoon standing beside you.

“Here.” You blink as he hands you something. A protein bar.

You stare at it for a moment, then back at him. “What’s this for?”

Sunghoon shrugs, looking anywhere but at you. “You forgot to eat lunch.”

You frown. “How do you—?”

“I just noticed,” he says quickly, cutting you off.

You raise an eyebrow but take the protein bar anyway. “Thanks, I guess.”

He nods, already stepping away. But before he leaves, you hear him mumble, just loud enough for you to catch— “Don’t make a habit of skipping meals.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond before he disappears down the hall. You stare after him, heart thudding a little too loudly in your chest. This… isn’t normal. At least, not for him. Park Sunghoon doesn’t notice people. He doesn’t care about the little things. And yet, here he is, paying attention to you in ways that don’t make sense.

You shake your head, stuffing the protein bar into your bag.

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

Right?

ㅤㅤ─────────────────────────

A few days later, it happens again.

This time, it’s late at night, and you’re reviewing notes in one of the empty break rooms. Most of the crew has already gone home, but you’re still here, buried in work as usual.

You barely hear the door open. “You’re still here?” You glance up, unsurprised to see Sunghoon standing in the doorway. This is becoming a pattern.

You sigh. “You really need to stop sneaking up on me like that.”

He smirks faintly. “Maybe you just need to be more aware of your surroundings.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you go back to your notes. “What are you still doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“I work here.”

Sunghoon hums, stepping further into the room. He leans against the table beside you, arms crossed. “You work too much.”

You huff. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you with that unreadable gaze of his. Then, after a pause, he says, “You’re good at what you do.”

You freeze. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

Slowly, you look up. “What?”

Sunghoon’s expression is unreadable, but there’s no sarcasm in his voice when he repeats, “You’re good at your job.”

You swallow, caught off guard. Compliments aren’t something you hear often—especially not from him. For a moment, you don’t know how to respond.

Finally, you manage, “Thanks.”

Sunghoon nods once before pushing off the table. “Don’t stay too late.” And just like that, he’s gone again.

You stare after him, heart pounding with something you really don’t want to name because whatever this is—whatever is happening between you and Sunghoon—it’s starting to feel dangerously close to something real.

And you don’t know if you’re ready for that.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t know what’s worse—the tension before you and Sunghoon started tolerating each other, or the tension now.

Before, you could dismiss him as insufferable, a man too caught up in his own world to care about anyone else. But now?

Now, he lingers.

Now, he notices.

Now, he watches you in a way that makes your skin feel too warm, makes the air between you feel heavier than it should.

And the worst part? You catch yourself doing the same.

It’s nothing—just a series of small moments, insignificant on their own but unbearable when strung together.

Like the way his gaze always seems to find you first when he enters a room.

Like the way your fingers brush against his more often than they should when handing him a prop or adjusting his mic.

Like the way silence between you is no longer uncomfortable, but something else entirely—something thick and unspoken.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing because anything else would be a mistake.

ㅤㅤ─────────────────────────

You’re walking across the set, flipping through the pages of your clipboard as you weave between crew members adjusting lights and moving props. The scene is nearly ready, and you just need to confirm a few last-minute adjustments before filming starts.

You’re so focused on your notes that you don’t see the stray cable lying across your path. Your foot catches. The world tilts.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you stumble forward, clipboard slipping from your fingers. But before you can hit the ground, a firm hand grips your wrist.

The next thing you know, you’re being pulled upright—too fast, too close—until your body collides with solid warmth. You suck in a breath. Strong hands steady you, one gripping your wrist, the other settling lightly against your waist. You don’t have to look up to know who it is.

His hold is firm but careful, his fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, grounding you before you can fully process what just happened. For a moment, neither of you move. The air around you feels heavier, thick with something neither of you acknowledge.

“You should watch where you’re going,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice lower than usual.

You finally look up.

Big mistake. Because he’s closer than you thought he was.

The dim lighting casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a second, the world around you blurs—reduced to nothing but the space between you.

Your pulse pounds. “I—I was busy,” you stammer, trying to find some semblance of normalcy.

Sunghoon tilts his head slightly, gaze never leaving yours. “Too busy to notice where you’re walking?”

You swallow hard, willing your heart to calm down. “Maybe.”

His grip on your waist tightens—just a fraction. Just enough for you to feel it. For the first time, you think he might actually smile–

“Sunghoon! We need you on set!”

His expression hardens in an instant, as if someone flipped a switch. His hands fall away, the warmth of his touch disappearing too fast. You take a quick step back, still trying to catch your breath. Sunghoon clears his throat, straightening his posture. “Try not to trip again.”

You scowl, trying to ignore the heat rushing to your face. “Try not to catch me next time.”

He smirks—just barely, just enough to make your stomach twist in a way you refuse to acknowledge. And then he’s gone. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, pressing a hand to your chest to steady yourself.

This—whatever this is—is getting out of control and you don’t know how much longer you can ignore it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The air is thick with tension.

Not the bad kind, not the simmering annoyance that used to define your interactions with Sunghoon. This is different.

This is the kind of tension that makes your pulse race, that makes your skin tingle whenever he’s too close, that makes every glance feel too much.

The night shoot has stretched longer than expected, with last-minute script adjustments and lighting corrections delaying the schedule. Most of the crew is exhausted, but the director is pushing to get one last take before they call it a wrap.

Sunghoon has been in and out of wardrobe for hours, and by now, even he looks tired. His usual pristine appearance is slightly undone—his tie loosened, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, a few strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

You try not to look. You really did, but you fail.

“Y/N, can you check the lighting cues with Sunghoon before we roll?” You nod, gripping your clipboard a little too tightly. “Got it.”

You make your way toward Sunghoon, who’s reviewing the script under one of the set lights. When he notices you approaching, he sighs. “What now?” he mutters.

You cross your arms. “Relax. I’m just making sure you’re ready for the next take.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. Just tired.”

You hesitate, taken aback by his honesty. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too.”

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The usual biting remarks, the sarcastic exchanges—none of it comes. Instead, there’s just silence, filled with something heavier.

Sunghoon looks at you then. Really looks at you.

And that’s when everything shifts. It happens too fast.

One second, you’re stepping forward to adjust the collar of his shirt, fingers brushing against the fabric. The next, you lose your footing, maybe your own exhaustion catching up to you.

Either way, you stumble and Sunghoon catches you. Again.

His hands grip your arms, steadying you before you can fall. Your fingers clutch onto his shirt instinctively, holding onto him as the world tilts for just a moment.

And then you realize. He’s close. Too close.

Your breaths mingle in the small space between you, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around you. His hands are firm, his touch warm, and when you finally gather the courage to look up, his eyes are already on you.

Something flickers in them, something unreadable yet impossibly heavy. His gaze drops briefly—to your lips, just for a split second—before snapping back up.

The realization hits you like a freight train. Your stomach flips, your breath catches, and for one terrifying moment, you think you might actually let him.

Your grip on his shirt tightens, his fingers flex against your arms, and the world around you fades—reduced to nothing but this moment, this space, him.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re fine with the thought of kissi-

A loud crash from across the set breaks the spell. Someone curses, something clatters to the floor, and just like that, the moment is gone.

You and Sunghoon jerk away from each other as if burned, the air between you suddenly too cold, too empty. Your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—something dangerously close to frustration… or maybe regret.

You don’t stick around to find out. “I—uh—should check on that,” you blurt, stepping back too quickly. “The crash. Someone probably—”

Sunghoon nods stiffly, jaw tight. “Yeah. You should.”

And then you walk away. Fast. Too fast. Because whatever that was?

It can’t happen again. It won’t happen again.

You tell yourself it was nothing.

That the near-kiss, the tension, the way Sunghoon’s hands felt on your skin—none of it mattered. It was just exhaustion. A moment of stupid miscalculation. But deep down, you know that’s a lie.

Because now, every glance between you lingers too long. Every accidental touch burns a little hotter. And every moment spent alone feels like standing on the edge of something dangerous, something you don’t want to name.

You don’t know how much longer you can pretend it isn’t happening.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s raining.

The shoot ran late—again. By the time you step outside, the studio parking lot is nearly empty, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The rain isn’t heavy, just a steady drizzle that coats everything in a thin sheen of water. You tug your jacket closer around yourself, shivering slightly as you rummage through your bag for your keys. Fuck where is it?

“You forgot this.”

You spin around.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away, holding out your clipboard. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, his white dress shirt clinging to his frame. He looks different like this—less put together, less like the untouchable star everyone sees on screen. More real.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh. Right. Thanks.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t walk away.

Instead, he just watches you.

Like he’s waiting for something.

Like he’s fighting something.

And you know—you know—that this is the moment.

The one where you either walk away and pretend none of this ever happened.

Or you give in.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your ears. “Sunghoon…” His name comes out softer than you intended and that’s all it takes. The tension between you snaps.

One second, you’re standing in the rain, barely breathing. The next, Sunghoon is closing the distance between you in two quick strides, his hands coming up to cup your face as his lips crash into yours.

Your breath catches as heat floods through you, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency you’ve never felt before. His grip is firm but careful, as if he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he holds too tight.

And maybe he should be. Because this—whatever this is—feels impossible. But right now, at this moment, you don’t care. You kiss him back.

Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of frustration, of confusion, of longing into the kiss. The rain keeps falling, soaking into your clothes, tangling in your hair, but neither of you notice. The only thing that exists is this.

Sunghoon tilts his head, deepening the kiss, his fingers threading through your hair. He tastes like coffee and rain, like something dangerous and addictive all at once.

And you know—you know—that this is a mistake. But you don’t stop.

Not when his hands slide down to your waist, pulling you against him.

Not when your fingers slip into his damp hair, tugging lightly, making him groan softly against your lips.

Not when he presses you back against the side of your car, his body solid and warm against yours despite the cold night air.

You don’t stop, because for the first time in weeks, you don’t want to.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You don’t remember how you get home. All you know is that one minute, you’re in the rain, drowning in him, and the next, you’re in your apartment.

His jacket is on the floor. So is yours.

His lips molding against yours, passionate and hungry. Your back meets the door, hands travelling to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepens as your tongues fight against each other.

Suddenly he completely pulls away, you open your eyes at the lack of contact. His hand reaches out, gently grabbing yours as your fingers entwine. “Where’s your bedroom?” he says, catching his breath. No other words pass between the two of you as you lead him down the hall.

You stop in front of your bedroom door, his free hand opens it and turns some of the lights on. This time when your eyes meet, it's different. His eyes are dark and wreaking with lust as he closes in. His slender fingers reach forward as he cups your chin. He tilts your head up, eyes searching mine.

He must have found exactly what he was looking for because he finally leans back in. Somehow, this kiss is even more passionate than before. You barely notice the movement as he slowly guides you toward the bed.

The moment your knees hit the frame, he pulls away. His hand on your chin trails down to your chest, pushing gently. You fall onto the bed, a surprised gasp leaving your lips as your back meets the soft material of your comforter.

He moves forward, his gaze never leaving yours. One of his knees props up against the bed next to your thigh. You look down briefly before focusing your attention on his fingers, watching as they slowly work at the buttons of his white button-up shirt, releasing them one by one until he reaches the final one.

He shrugs off his shirt, allowing it to fall effortlessly, showing his toned chest and firm stomach. Your breath catches as he totally removes the sleeves before flinging the fabric on the floor.

If you had any doubts about what was going on, they were quickly dispelled when you noticed the tent in his pants. Is this actually happening? To be honest, everything seemed to fall into place too wonderfully, almost like a dream.

Sunghoon moves forward, taking his place above you. You’re so close that instinct kicks in, and you shift slightly, ensuring you're comfortably situated on the bed beneath him.

His hand moves down, tracing along your sides with slow, deliberate sensuality. Each brush of his fingers sends a warm shiver down your spine.

"Your hair, your eyes, your lips," he murmurs, his touch following the path of his words. "Fuck, you're so beautiful," he rasps, his voice thick with something you can't quite name. "What are you doing to me?"

Your heart skips a beat when he grasps the bottom of your shirt. "There's just something about you..."

"May I?" he asks, though all you can manage is a small nod.

A wave of last-minute nerves crashes over you as he slowly drags the fabric up, taking his time revealing your upper body. Once he’s done, he moves on to your jeans, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you before tossing them aside.

You squeeze your eyes shut, heat rising to your face in a flush of embarrassment. "You're beautiful," Sunghoon says, his words so genuine it almost hurts.Your hands fly up to cover your face, the warmth of your own skin only confirming how flustered you feel. But thinking back to his words, his actions—there’s no reason to be embarrassed at all.

You feel him shift before his hands grasp your forearms, gently pulling your hands away from your face. You let him, but you still can’t bring yourself to open your eyes.

"Look at me," he says softly. You can't.

"Baby," he pleads, "look at me." You force yourself to open your eyes, and the moment they meet his, he smiles. "There you are."

His head dips down, his lips capturing yours in a sweet, fleeting kiss. When he pulls away, he trails kisses down your neck, each one wet and slow, traveling lower—across the crook of your neck, down to your chest, your stomach, and then—your thighs.

His lips press gently against the top of your thigh, a lingering, tender kiss. His fingers graze your skin as he does so, the simple touch sending a shiver through your body.

The closer his kisses get, the deeper you feel them, your stomach twisting with anticipation. Soon, he reaches the inner part of your thigh, and the second his skin meets yours, a fire ignites inside you. The insecurities from before melt away, replaced by a single, overwhelming thought.

The kisses quickly turn into pure torment. "Sunghoon," you whine, "stop teasing." He hums in response, his fingers hooking onto your underwear. He pulls it down slowly, giving you every chance to stop him—but you never do.

A groan escapes him as he finally sees the part of you he's been waiting for. He slides the fabric down your legs, discarding it to the floor before moving back up—closer, hungrier.

Each of his hands grips your thighs, gently pushing them apart. You hide your face again, this time out of sheer shyness. Any lingering insecurities are so far gone they don’t even cross your mind anymore—not when you feel his right hand leave your thigh and trail toward your core.

The moment his fingers graze over your clit, a breathless mewl escapes your lips, the sound completely involuntary. He chuckles. "You're so wet already, and I haven't even touched you properly."

You groan, both flustered and frustrated by his teasing. "’hoon."

He laughs again, his left hand squeezing your thigh. "What?"

"Touch me, please," you plead, your voice quiet, needy.

"Anything for you."

His fingers move into your folds, spreading them apart, before pressing his thumb against your clit. He begins with slow, rhythmic circles, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body.

It feels good—too good—but you crave "more." He obliges without hesitation, understanding exactly what you desire as his lips meet your heat. A hushed cry escapes your lips, and your fist flies up to your mouth, biting down in an attempt to muffle any crude sounds.

His hand moves aside, then back to your thigh while his tongue takes control. He grabs the back of your thighs, forcing you up slightly as he devours you, working his mouth against you with such fervor that your head spins.

It doesn't take long before the familiar feeling coils inside you. The sensation grows stronger with each flick of his tongue and measured movement of his lips, with pleasure increasing by the second.

A long moan leaves you as his hold tightens and his tongue presses down with precisely the proper pressure. He smiles against you, a soft chuckle spilling from his lips, and the vibrations send another rush of pleasure through your body.

Your hand flies from your mouth, clutching the blankets. "Fuck," you gasp, your hand clenched.

His right hand moves away from your thigh and back to your core, but this time he isn't simply focusing on your clit.

Your breath is caught as his fingertip softly pushes past your entrance, slipping inside with ease, your arousal covering his digit. Sunghoon groans at the vulgar sight, and the sound sends jolts down to your heat in more ways than one. Then he inserts another finger, carefully pushing it in and out as his lips suck down harder on your clit.

It's just too much.

A shattered cry escapes your mouth as your peak draws near. You pry your eyes open, looking down at him—and instantly wish you hadn't. Seeing him positioned between your legs is nearly unbearable.

His gaze catches yours from beneath, deep and brimming with desire, and you sense his grin on your skin. His fingers turn, curling perfectly as the pressure on your clit intensifies. The way he moves creates waves of pleasure surging within you, his tongue synchronizing flawlessly with his hands.

The feeling is so strong that your body surrenders, collapsing onto the bed as your head touches the plush duvet. Your abdomen constricts, your muscles gripping his fingers.

"I'm almost there," you whine, voice trembling and gasping.

He remains unwavering, maintaining his pace as the strain in your stomach intensifies to the limit. "Oh God—fuck," you exclaim, your hand moving to bring him nearer.

Your fingers weave through his dark hair, pulling gently, and the low groan that slips from his mouth resonates profoundly within you. That sound—combined with the movements of his tongue—pushes you to the brink.

A sharp breath escapes you as your spine bends, ecstasy flooding your body in overwhelming surges. Blinding sparks fill your sight as your climax overwhelms you. Your grip on his hair strengthens, and your thighs instinctively squeeze around his head.

"It feels so good," you murmur, voice dazed and dripping with lust. "Shit, Sunghoon, you're so good.”

He hums with contentment, his tongue skillfully navigating you through your peak, extending every surge of pleasure until it gradually starts to fade. You fall onto the bed, your hold on his head loosening, your legs parting a bit.

His fingers withdraw from you—but his mouth remains. His tongue caresses your delicate folds once more, savoring every single drop of your climax.

A whimper slips from you. "Sensitive, ah—" Your thighs shake, the overexcitement delivering intense yet pleasurable jolts throughout you. It's intense—agonizing and exhilarating simultaneously.

Satisfied, he finally pulls away. "You taste so good," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. "So sweet."

Your dazed eyes meet his, and you watch as he licks his lips, his lower face glistening with your arousal. Just seeing this sight alone sends another chill up your spine.

He climbs up your body, trapping you beneath him. The moment his lips crash into yours, you groan, tasting yourself on his tongue. When he pulls away, you instinctively chase after his lips, only for him to chuckle and gently push you back down.

He presses a wet kiss to your cheek before moving down to your neck, lips trailing lower in search of your sweet spot. When he finds it, your body jerks, a sharp inhale giving you away. He smirks against your skin, sucking down before biting softly, marking you his.

He continues his path down, leaving a trail of bruises along your neck and collarbone. Your hands find their way to his bare shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his lips descend further.

Kneeling between your legs, his hands slide around your back. You arch instinctively, allowing him access to the clasp of your bra. His fingers fumble with the material, trying to unhook it.

A quiet curse leaves his lips when he fails. He tries again—another curse. You giggle, tapping his back. He lifts his head, meeting your amused gaze with pleading eyes.

Chuckling, you sit up slightly, giving him room as he leans back on his knees. Your hands move behind you, unclasping your bra on the second try. He watches, mesmerized, as you shrug it off, discarding the fabric to the floor.

He’s about to push you back down, but you stop him, pressing a hand to his chest. Reaching forward, you hook your fingers into the loops of his slacks. "Take it off," you say, voice firm with want.

You’re already completely bare beneath him, while he’s only shirtless. That’s not fair, is it?

Sensing your impatience, his fingers work swifty to unbuckle his belt, throwing it aside before undoing the button of his slacks. When he pulls down the zipper, you let go, allowing him to rid himself of the material on his own.

Your mouth practically waters as Sunghoon reveals his black boxer briefs, the outline of his arousal leaving nothing to the imagination. He kicks them off, letting the fabric join the scattered mess of clothing on the bedroom floor.

Your fingers instinctively reach forward, tracing the rigid shape still clothed beneath the thin material. A low groan escapes him at your touch, his brows furrowing as pleasure flickers across his face. The way he reacts makes your stomach tighten—you want to return the favor.

You grab hold of the waistband, ready to pull them down, but before you can, he pushes you back against the mattress, towering over you once more.

"Wait," you whine, looking up at him. "I wanna make you feel good."

"I'm sorry, baby, but I can't wait any longer." His hands find your waist, pulling you further up the bed until your head rests against the pillows. His voice drops, thick with need. "I need to feel you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, equal parts frustration and anticipation curling low in your stomach.

Your gaze stays locked onto his briefs—he still needs to take them off. But he's moving too slowly, teasing you on purpose. Huffing, you reach forward and yank them down in one swift motion.

His cock finally springs free, the motion making it smack against the firm plane of his stomach. You can’t help but stare. It’s odd to admit, but—God, it’s pretty. Of course, it is. Just look at his damn face.

He chuckles, the deep sound laced with amusement. "Is my baby getting impatient?"

"You're such a tease," you mumble, cheeks burning as you refuse to look away from his lower half.

"But you like it, don't you?"

You don’t deny it, though words fail you. As much as you love his teasing, the ache inside you is unbearable now, your body begging for his. The want in your stomach is almost outmatched by the throbbing between your legs.

A groan of frustration slips past your lips as you throw your head back against the pillows. "Sunghoon," you scold, voice strained with impatience.

"Hm?" He hums innocently. "What is it?" The playfulness in his tone only makes it worse.

You swallow hard, your entire body burning with need. "I need you."

"Yeah?" His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.

"Yeah." A sharp gasp leaves you as he grinds against you, his cock sliding along your folds, spreading the wetness. The friction makes your breath hitch, but it’s not enough. You reach for him, arms winding around his back, pulling him closer.

"Stop teasing," you beg, voice trembling. "I can't take it anymore."

His gaze darkens as he takes in your desperate expression. "Shit. I can’t either."

One of his hands leaves your thigh, wrapping around his length as he strokes himself briefly. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he aligns himself at your entrance.

A sharp moan tears from your throat as he pushes inside, inch by inch. The wetness between your legs makes it easy, the stretch deep but not painful. He bottoms out, and for a second, neither of you moves, the moment overwhelming.

Not only is he perfect, but he fits inside you like he was meant to be there. Like your body was made to take him.

"You feel so good," he groans, his head dipping to press against your neck. "So fucking good."

His breath is warm against your skin as he starts to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm. You get lost in the sensation—the heat of his body against yours, the way he fills you so perfectly, the rough yet tender press of his lips at the curve of your throat.

His pace quickens, his strokes deeper, more insistent. Each thrust ignites something inside you, and you whimper, fingers threading through his hair.

"I don’t think I'm gonna last long," he confesses, voice hushed against your ear.

"That's okay," you whisper back, your lips brushing against his temple. "Just feel good for me."

A strangled groan rumbles from his chest. His teeth graze your neck before biting down gently. One of his hands snakes between your bodies, fingertips finding your clit. The moment he starts to rub slow, firm circles, you let out a gasp.

Your hand tightens in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. Your other arm clings to his back, fingers digging into his skin.

"More," you plead, voice breaking.

"Like this?" He applies more pressure, his movements precise, skilled.

Your only response is a hurried nod, your body arching into his touch. "Yes—just like that."

He lets out a desperate moan, hips snapping harder. His rhythm falters slightly, but the intensity only makes it better. Each thrust hits something deep inside you, winding the coil in your stomach impossibly tight.

You’re close. So close. "Sunghoon—"

He answers before you can even finish, slamming into you just right. The air is knocked from your lungs, a cry of pleasure escaping before you can stop it.

The knot inside you snaps. Your entire body trembles as pleasure crashes over you in waves, your walls tightening around him. Your hands fall from his body, too weak to hold on any longer.

A broken moan tumbles from his lips. "Fuck—baby, I'm gonna—"

His hips stutter, his cock twitching deep inside you. A strangled groan escapes him as he spills his seed inside you, his face still buried in your shoulder. Even through his climax, he keeps moving, his thrusts growing sloppy as he works you both through the high.

Eventually, his movements slow. The pleasure lingers, buzzing through your veins even after he pulls out. His fingers slip away from your clit, leaving your body aching but satisfied.

Silence settles between you, the only sound filling the room being your ragged breathing.

Sunghoon is the first to move, letting out a low groan as he sits up.

You let out a slow breath, running your hands over your face, then through your now-messy hair. The post-orgasmic haze still lingers, making you feel weightless. When you turn your head, you find Sunghoon already watching you.

He offers you a lazy smile. "How do you feel?" His fingers trace gently along the side of your face.

"Amazing," you murmur. "I feel amazing."

"Good." He leans down, his face hovering inches from yours.

You reach up, fingers curling into his hair, and pull him in for a slow, lingering kiss, before exhaustion takes over both of you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake up is warmth.

The second is that you’re not alone.

Your eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through your curtains. Your body is sore in ways that make your face heat up, the memories of last night flashing through your mind in fragmented pieces—his hands on your skin, his breath against your neck, the way he whispered your name like it was something precious.

You swallow hard, pulse stuttering.

Sunghoon is still beside you. He’s lying on his side, face relaxed in sleep, dark lashes fanned across his cheekbones. His hair is tousled, strands falling messily over his forehead. His bare shoulder peeks out from beneath the sheets, and one of his arms is draped over your waist, keeping you close even in sleep.

For a moment, you just stare. Because this? This is different.

You’ve seen Sunghoon in a hundred different ways—on set, in magazines, under the harsh glow of studio lights. But never like this. Never so unguarded.

Your heart clenches, confusion and something dangerously close to longing twisting inside you.

Whatever this is—feels real. Too real and that’s what scares you the most.

You shift slightly, trying to untangle yourself from him, but the small movement stirs him.

Sunghoon hums low in his throat, his grip tightening around you for just a second before his breathing changes, his body stretching out as he starts to wake up.

His eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he looks at you without his usual guarded expression.

His gaze flickers over your face, his fingers tracing absent patterns against your hip beneath the sheets. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough and quiet.

Your throat goes dry. You should say something. Something easy. Light. Anything that will make this feel normal. But before you can, reality slams into you like a freight train.

This is Sunghoon.

Sunghoon, who is always in control.

Sunghoon, who has spent weeks pretending you didn’t exist only to kiss you like he was drowning last night.

Sunghoon, who—despite everything—still belongs to a world that isn’t yours.

The thought is sobering And judging by the way his gaze sharpens slightly, the way his fingers still against your skin, he sees the shift in your expression. He sighs. “You’re overthinking.”

You force a small, stiff laugh. “I just—”

“I know,” he cuts in, voice unreadable now.

Your lips press together.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Sunghoon is sitting up, the warmth of his body leaving yours as he runs a hand through his hair. The loss of contact makes something inside you ache but you don’t stop him.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second before exhaling sharply. Then, he reaches for his clothes. And just like that, the spell is broken.

You watch as he dresses, his movements slower than usual, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, but you don’t, because you don’t know what to say.

By the time he buttons his shirt, the tension between you is suffocating. Sunghoon finally turns, his gaze meeting yours again. “I have to go.”

You nod. “Right. Early shoot.”

He hesitates. “Yeah.” He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t leave. Just lingers by the bed, like there’s something else he wants to say.

“You regret it?” The question is quiet, but it cuts through the air like a blade.

Your stomach twists. “I—”

Sunghoon’s expression is unreadable. “It’s fine if you do.”

You don’t know what you feel. But regret? No.

You shake your head, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, nodding once before stepping toward the door.

You watch as he reaches for the handle, your fingers clenching against the sheets. You should stop him. You should say something.

But before you can, he glances over his shoulder one last time. “I’ll see you on set.” And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left staring at the empty space where he stood.

And for the first time, you wonder if walking away was easier when he was just a stranger.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The next few days are torture.

You and Sunghoon don’t talk about that night. You don’t talk at all.

It’s not like before, when he was cold and dismissive, or when every glance between you carried an undercurrent of tension.

This is different. This is silence filled with something too heavy to ignore.

And Sunghoon? Sunghoon looks at you like he’s waiting.

For you to acknowledge it.

For you to say something.

For you to do something.

But you don’t.

Until one night, he makes the decision for you.

You’re the last one on set, flipping through notes in one of the break rooms, pretending you’re focused when your mind has been elsewhere all day.

You hear him before you see him. The quiet shuffle of footsteps. The faint sigh of someone bracing themselves before speaking.

“We need to talk.”

You tense. Slowly, you look up.

Sunghoon is standing in the doorway, hands tucked into his pockets, expression unreadable.

You swallow. “About what?”

He exhales sharply, stepping forward. “You know what.”

You force yourself to hold his gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

A humorless chuckle. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Sunghoon—”

“Why are you pretending it didn’t happen?” he cuts in, voice edged with frustration.

You flinch. “Because it shouldn’t have.”

His expression flickers—just for a second. But you see it.

The hurt. The hesitation. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“So that’s it?” His voice is quieter now, calmer. “You’re just going to pretend nothing happened?”

You exhale, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what you want from me, Sunghoon.”

He’s quiet for a beat.

“I want you.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, gaze steady. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

He swallows hard, voice softer now. “I just care about you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, searching for something in your expression. He takes a breath and says, “I can’t promise everything will be perfect. But I want you. Will you be mine?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

And you realize…

Maybe you don’t have to be ready.

Maybe you just have to try.

So you inhale deeply, steadying yourself. You nod and Sunghoon smiles.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Keeping a secret relationship on set is harder than you thought.

It’s not just about avoiding suspicion—it’s about suppressing the way your eyes linger on each other longer than they should. About keeping your hands to yourself when all you want to do is reach for him. About pretending that nothing between you has changed, when in reality, everything has.

And Sunghoon isn’t making it any easier.

It’s in the way he watches you when he thinks no one is looking.

The way his fingers brush against yours when he hands you something, even though there’s no reason for them to.

The way his expression softens, just barely, whenever your eyes meet.

It’s subtle, but it’s there. And every time it happens, your heart stutters in your chest.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The first time you slip up, it’s barely noticeable.

You’re standing by the monitors, going over the director’s notes, when Sunghoon walks past you. It’s nothing out of the ordinary—he’s just moving to his next position for the scene, but as he passes, his fingers graze lightly against your waist.

It’s so brief, so quick, that if anyone were watching, they’d assume it was an accident, but you know better, and judging by the way he smirks as he walks away, he knows you know better.

You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to stay composed. This man is going to be the death of you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The second time, it’s more obvious.

You’re on set, waiting for the next scene to start, when you feel the weight of his gaze. You try to ignore it and you fail. Against your better judgment, you glance up—and sure enough, Sunghoon is watching you from across the room. His eyes are unreadable, dark and steady, as if he’s daring you to react.

You scowl, mouthing, What?

Instead of answering, he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down—just for a second—before meeting your eyes again.

It takes you a moment to process what he just did, and when you do, your face burns, because he wasn’t just looking at you. He was looking at your lips.

You inhale sharply, whipping your head away before anyone can catch the way your expression betrays you. Sunghoon chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained.

You hate him. You really hate him. But the worst part? You don’t. Not even a little.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The third time, it’s a problem.

Sunghoon is filming an emotional scene, one that requires complete focus. The cameras are rolling, the entire crew is watching, and you should be paying attention to the details—the lighting, the sound cues, the blocking, but instead, all you can focus on is him.

Because for the first time, his eyes aren’t just on his co-star. They’re on you. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone else. But you see it.

Every time the camera resets, every time there’s a break between takes, his gaze flickers to you. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Then, during takes, a green monster appears. The female lead—a well-known actress, beautiful and elegant—laughs at something Sunghoon says. She leans in slightly, playfully nudging his arm, and he chuckles in return.

It’s nothing. It’s acting. It’s professional. But it still makes something bitter curl in your chest. You hate that feeling. You have no right to feel it, and yet Sunghoon glances at you then, as if he knows. As if he can see the shift in your expression, despite how hard you try to mask it.

You force yourself to look away, because this is dangerous. Because if you let yourself get caught up in this—if you let yourself forge that this is a secret—you’re going to get hurt.

And Sunghoon? You can’t be the reason his career gets ruined.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Keeping your relationship a secret is turning into a losing battle.

It was easier at first. The stolen moments, the quick touches, the looks that only the two of you understood—it was thrilling in a way, like playing a game where no one else knew the rules. But the longer it goes on, the more reckless Sunghoon gets. And the more reckless you get.

The moment happens during a break in filming. You’re standing near the refreshment table, absentmindedly stirring sugar into your coffee, when you feel him before you even see him.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just steps up beside you, close enough that his arm brushes against yours. Your body tenses instinctively, your grip tightening around your cup.

“Careful,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “You’re gonna spill.”

You exhale sharply. “Maybe don’t sneak up on me, then.”

He smirks, leaning in slightly. “Didn’t realize I was sneaking.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want?”

He hums, pretending to consider it. “I could use some sugar in my coffee.”

You move to hand him the packet in your hand, but instead of taking it, he wraps his fingers around yours, holding them in place. Your breath catches. This is dangerous. Anyone could see. Anyone could notice.

You try to pull away, but his grip only tightens for a second before he finally releases you, his fingers grazing yours as he takes the sugar packet. The smirk never leaves his face. You glare at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Sunghoon chuckles, tearing the packet open. “Maybe.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath before turning to leave. But before you can take a step, his voice stops you. “You look good today.”

You freeze. Your heart lurches against your ribs. You turn slowly, meeting his gaze. “What?”

Sunghoon shrugs, casually stirring his coffee. “Just saying.”

There’s nothing just about it. Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your neck. “You’re impossible.”

He grins. “And yet, here you are.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you walk away before you do something really reckless. Something like kissing him in the middle of set.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The director is giving notes to the cast, and you’re standing at a distance, pretending to be focused on your clipboard when, in reality, your thoughts are nowhere near work.

You don’t mean to look at Sunghoon, but you do, and he’s already looking at you. Your pulse stutters. You don’t know how long he’s been staring, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Instead, he smirks. It’s barely there—a small twitch of his lips, a flicker of amusement—but you feel it.

Heat prickles up your spine, your fingers gripping the edge of your clipboard so tightly your knuckles turn white. You mouth, Stop it.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, pretending not to understand. He knows what he’s doing. And worse? He’s enjoying it.

You scowl, turning your attention back to your notes. But the damage is already done. Your face is warm, your thoughts scrambled, and you know Sunghoon isn’t going to let you live this down.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You’ve spent weeks walking a tightrope, balancing between professionalism and the undeniable pull toward Sunghoon. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every moment spent too close when no one is looking—it’s all been a careful game of control. But control is a fleeting thing.

And tonight, you lose it.

It happens after another long shoot, exhaustion weighing heavily on you.

The set has cleared out for the night, most of the crew heading home, but you linger, finishing up last-minute adjustments for tomorrow’s call sheet. You don’t hear him approach—you never do.

“You’re still here.”

You sigh, glancing up from your notes. “So are you.”

Sunghoon shrugs, stepping closer. “Didn’t feel like leaving yet.”

You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face. “You should. We have another early morning.”

Instead of listening, he moves behind you, leaning down slightly until his voice is right beside your ear. “So should you.”

Your breath catches. You should step away. You should remind him that this is dangerous. That someone has already seen too much, that you’re walking on thin ice. But instead, you stand there, your fingers gripping the edge of the table as warmth spreads down your spine.

Sunghoon notices. Of course he does. “Come with me.”

You blink, turning to face him. “What?” He’s already reaching for your wrist, tugging you gently toward the far side of the set. You hesitate for only a second before following, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Sunghoon leads you down a quiet hallway, past dressing rooms and storage spaces, until he finds an unlocked door. Without another word, he pulls you inside. It’s a small space—an old wardrobe storage room, lined with racks of costumes and forgotten props. The air is still, thick with dust and the faint scent of fabric softener.

And then, before you can even ask, Sunghoon shuts the door and locks it. Then he turns to you.

Your back presses against the cool surface, his hands resting on either side of you, caging you in. The only sound is the distant hum of the studio lights, the uneven rhythm of your breaths mingling in the quiet. “This is a bad idea,” you whisper.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his gaze flickering down to your lips. “Probably.”

You swallow hard. “Then why—”

“Because I can’t do this anymore.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “I can’t pretend like I don’t want you.”

Your pulse skyrockets. You should stop this. You should. But when Sunghoon leans in, so close that his lips brush against your jaw, you don’t.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, and suddenly, the weeks of restraint snap like a frayed wire. The first kiss is slow, deliberate, his mouth moving against yours with a patience that contradicts the tension crackling between you. But then you grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his control shatters.

A quiet groan escapes him as he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to get more.

More of you.

More of this.

More of everything he’s been denying himself.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him curse under his breath. The sound sends heat pooling in your stomach, and suddenly, you don’t care where you are. You don’t care about the risk. All you care about is him.

Sunghoon presses you further against the door, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands tracing fire along your skin. You gasp, tilting your head back, and he takes the opportunity to press another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin.

You don’t. Instead, you pull him back to you, crashing your lips against his once more.

Sunghoon groans, gripping your hips tighter, and you know you’ve lost. Completely, but if this is losing, you don’t think you ever want to win.

The kiss is scorching, heat pooling between you as Sunghoon tightens his grip on your ass and lifts you effortlessly against the wall. A gasp escapes you, your lips parting, and he takes full advantage—his tongue slipping past your own, greedy and demanding. A needy whine slips from your throat as your legs wrap around his waist, his arousal unmistakable as he presses against you.

“Sunghoon, fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back to hit the wall with a soft thud. He seizes the opportunity, dragging his mouth down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing sensitive skin.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, licking a slow stripe up your neck before nipping at your earlobe. “Someone could walk in. Do you really want them to hear you?”

You glare at him, the expression meant to be a warning—but all it takes is a slow roll of his hips, and any fight in you melts away.

“What—what are you doing?” he asks, blinking in surprise as you suddenly push at his shoulders, dropping down onto your knees before him.

“What do you think?” You flash him a knowing look, amusement laced with something darker, more deliberate, as your fingers make quick work of his belt. Tugging his pants down his thighs, you smirk. “Didn’t get to do this last time, remember?”

Sunghoon’s head falls back with a groan the moment you pull him free from his boxers, wasting no time in taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck, why didn’t I let you do this sooner?” he groans, fingers threading into your hair as you begin to bob your head. You hum around him, the vibration making his knees nearly buckle.

His hips jerk shallowly, testing, and when you grip his thighs and let your mouth open wider, he gets the message. Glancing up at him with watery eyes, you meet him halfway, hollowing your cheeks. A curse falls from his lips as he tightens his hold on your hair, taking control. His thrusts grow deeper, his pelvis pressing into your face with every movement, and you use his thighs to steady yourself as he groans above you.

“Baby, fuck—you feel so good,” he pants, muscles tensing as heat coils low in his stomach.

Your jaw goes slack as you accept more of his cock, relaxing into the feeling. He picks up the pace, basking in view of his glossy cock dragging against your lips. You’re a vision. So beautiful to him. The disgusting wet noises your throat makes when he pulls away are deafening. He loves the way you gag when he pushes back in.

“Mhm, it’s yours, baby. Take it.” He licks his lips and nods, looking at you with hooded lustful eyes. You hollow your cheeks, drawing a strangled moan from him. “Shit, I’m not gonna last.”

Determined, you push forward, taking him to the base, your nose pressing against the soft hair at his pelvis. He lets out a broken curse, his grip tightening as he thrusts once, twice—before he’s unraveling with a sharp groan. “Fuck—”

“Excuse me?” A voice. From outside the storage room.

Sunghoon’s eyes snap open, panic flashing across his face.

“Yes?” you call out, pulling away as if you hadn’t just had him down your throat moments ago. There’s a translucent strand of spit connecting his penis to your mouth. You swallow, wiping your chin with the back of your hand. A fit of coughs want to erupt through your chest, but you’re able to stop it. You can’t really focus at the moment.

“Uh… is everything all right?”

“Yep! All good,” you reply, voice bright but just a little hoarse as you quickly pull his pants back up. “I just dropped something while looking for some equipment.”

“Oh. Do you need help?”

“Nope, I got it. Thanks, though!” A pause. Then retreating footsteps.

Sunghoon sags against the wall, exhaling hard. “Holy shit.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Holy shit indeed. Now, let me go out first. Meet me at my apartment later?” You grin before slipping out the door, leaving him to catch his breath.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s been days since that night in the storage room—days of stolen moments and whispered conversations, of Sunghoon pulling you into empty hallways when no one’s looking, of his lips ghosting against your skin right before he’s called back on set.

It’s reckless. It’s dangerous. But it’s addictive.

And now, sitting beside him at a long restaurant table filled with the entire production team, you’re starting to realize just how stupid this is. Because Sunghoon is doing it again.

That thing where he pretends to be focused on his conversation, nodding along to whatever the director is saying, while his foot slowly nudges against yours under the table.

You shoot him a warning glance. Stop it. He doesn’t. If anything, he makes it worse. His foot slides up the side of your calf, subtle but deliberate, sending an involuntary shiver up your spine. You nearly drop your chopsticks, barely managing to recover before anyone notices. Sunghoon smirks behind the rim of his glass, taking a slow sip of his drink like he isn’t actively trying to ruin your life.

You inhale sharply, gripping your napkin with unnecessary force. Two can play this game. Carefully—casually—you shift your foot, pressing against his ankle before dragging it up just enough to make him twitch this time. His smirk falters, just barely, but it’s enough Your turn to smirk.

Sunghoon narrows his eyes slightly, and you know—you know—he’s not letting this slide. And then, without warning, his hand finds yours under the table.

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that. The teasing was one thing. The flirting, the pushing, the secret little games you played when no one was watching.

But this? This is different, this was… sweet. His fingers lace through yours, warm and solid, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles. It’s not playful. It’s not reckless. It’s soft. And that’s what terrifies you.

You could have ignored the teasing. You could have laughed off the flirting. But this quiet gesture—the way he holds your hand like it’s normal, like it’s natural—makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t want to acknowledge.

You swallow hard, your fingers tightening slightly around his before you can stop yourself.

Sunghoon’s gaze flickers toward you, barely for a second, but the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He knows. He feels it too.

But before either of you can say—or do—anything, someone calls your name. You jolt, quickly pulling your hand back, hoping your face isn’t betraying anything. One of the assistant directors grins, nudging your shoulder. “You’ve been quiet. What, Sunghoon making you nervous?” Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, effortlessly sliding back into his usual composed demeanor. “Why would she be nervous around me?”

You force a laugh, shaking your head. “Please. If anything, he’s the one who should be nervous.” The table erupts in laughter, and just like that, the moment is gone. But under the table, Sunghoon’s fingers brush against yours one last time before pulling away.

And even as the dinner continues, even as conversations shift and drinks are poured, you can still feel the imprint of his touch against your skin.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The rumors are starting.

You hear them in passing—casual whispers from crew members, quiet speculations during coffee breaks, the occasional knowing glance when you and Sunghoon are in the same room. No one knows, not for sure. But people are noticing, and that’s dangerous.

So when Sunghoon pulls you aside after filming one night, his expression unreadable, you already know what he’s about to say. “We need to be more careful,” he mutters, arms crossed as he leans against the wall of an empty dressing room.

You sigh, mirroring his posture. “No kidding.”

He exhales sharply, tilting his head back slightly. “Someone almost caught us last night.”

Your stomach twists. “Who?”

“One of the lighting techs,” he says. “They walked in right after you left my trailer.”

You curse under your breath. “This is getting impossible.”

Sunghoon pushes a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “We need to lay low for a while.”

You frown. You hate this—hiding, pretending, the constant paranoia that one wrong move could ruin everything. But you also know he’s right.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

For a second, it seems like the conversation is over.

“…You free tonight?” Sunghoon asks, glancing at you.

You blink. “Didn’t we just agree to be careful?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “We will be.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t like that look.”

His smirk widens. “Trust me.”

You groan. “That’s exactly what someone untrustworthy would say.”

But despite yourself, you agree.

And that’s how you end up standing outside his car later that night, staring at the ridiculous disguise he’s holding out to you.

A frumpy cardigan. A floral scarf. And—dear god—gray wig.

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “No.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “You got a better idea?”

You do, actually. It’s called staying inside like normal people instead of dressing like retirees on a Sunday stroll.

But Sunghoon is already shrugging into his own disguise—a baggy windbreaker, oversized glasses, and a gray newsboy cap that makes him look like he belongs in a retirement home. He looks ridiculous. You bite your lip, trying so hard not to laugh.

He catches it. “Say one word, and I’m leaving you here.”

You hold up your hands in surrender. “Not a word.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re walking side by side through the city, looking like an elderly couple that escaped their nursing home. You shake your head, tucking the scarf tighter around your neck. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

Sunghoon adjusts his fake glasses. “Genius, isn’t it?”

“I think ‘genius’ is a stretch.”

He smirks. “No one’s looking at us, are they?”

You glance around. To your absolute disbelief, no one is paying attention. Not a single person gives you a second glance. And somehow, that makes you laugh.

Sunghoon looks at you, amused. “What?”

“This is so stupid,” you giggle, shaking your head.

He grins. “Yeah. But it’s working.”

You sigh, looping your arm through his dramatically. “Fine, Grandpa. Where are we going?”

Sunghoon chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Wherever you want, Grandma.”

And for the first time in weeks, the weight of secrecy feels a little lighter. Because right now, in this ridiculous moment, it’s just you and him.

And nothing else matters.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It’s late when you both make it back to your apartment.

After spending the night disguised as an elderly couple—walking through quiet streets, sneaking into a small late-night café, laughing at how absurd you both looked—there’s a strange kind of warmth settling in your chest.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t looking over your shoulder.

For the first time, you and Sunghoon were just two normal people.

Now, you sit on your couch, legs tucked beneath you, watching as Sunghoon flips idly through an old book on your coffee table. “You really read all of these?” he asks, eyes scanning the spines of stacked screenwriting books on the shelf.

You nod, sipping from your mug. “Some of them multiple times.”

Sunghoon hums in approval, setting the book down before leaning back against the couch. “You’re serious about this directing thing, huh?”

You shoot him a deadpan look. “I work on a movie set, Sunghoon.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but a lot of people say they want to be directors. Not everyone actually means it.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around your mug. You’ve heard that before. From coworkers, from mentors, from people who’ve been in the industry long enough to know how brutal it is. Everyone wants to be a director, but only a few ever make it. And you refuse to be part of the majority that doesn’t. “I do mean it,” you say quietly. “I don’t just want to be some assistant forever.”

Sunghoon watches you carefully. “You won’t be.”

You glance at him. “You say that like it’s a guarantee.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Because it is.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know when Sunghoon started believing in you so much, but hearing it from him now—when you’re still fighting to believe in yourself—hits differently. A small silence stretches between you before you muster the courage to ask, “What about you?”

Sunghoon blinks. “What about me?”

You shrug. “You’ve been acting for years. You ever think about what’s next?”

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I try not to.”

You frown. “Why not?”

His lips press together, as if weighing his words. “Because thinking about the future means thinking about the end. And I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

You stare at him. For all his success, for all the ways he’s established himself in the industry, Sunghoon still carries fear. The same fear you have—the fear of not making it. The fear of being forgotten. You set your mug down, shifting closer. “Well,” you say softly, “if I ever do make it as a director…”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. “If?”

You roll your eyes. “When I make it, then.”

He smirks, satisfied. “Go on.”

You inhale deeply. “I’ll cast you in my first movie. You can be the lead.”

Sunghoon scoffs, but there’s amusement in his expression. “Oh? That’s bold of you.”

You tilt your head. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No. I think you would.”

You smile, nudging him lightly. “And then when it wins an award, I’ll make sure to thank you in my speech.”

Sunghoon hums. “What would you say?”

You pretend to think. “Something like, ‘I’d like to thank Park Sunghoon, my first-ever lead actor, for not throwing a tantrum on set and actually listening to my direction.’”

Sunghoon laughs, a full, real laugh that makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“You’re hilarious,” he mutters.

“I try.”

He watches you for a moment, his laughter fading into something quieter, softer. His fingers brush against yours on the couch, his touch deliberate. “Promise me something,” he says.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“When you make it big—” His voice is low, steady. “Don’t forget about me.”

You blink. “Sunghoon…”

“I mean it.” His gaze is unreadable, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it. “You’re going to do great things. I know it.”

Your chest tightens. “I won’t forget you.” A small pause.

Then, just barely above a whisper, “You better not.”

Your fingers entwine with his, the silence between you heavy with things unsaid. And for the first time, you wonder. If this could last beyond stolen moments and whispered secrets.

If this—you and him—could ever belong to the future you’re both afraid to think about.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

For a while, everything is perfect.

Or at least, it feels that way.

Sunghoon’s hands find yours more easily now, even if they have to let go before anyone notices. His glances linger longer, his smiles come easier, and the time spent together—hidden away in the late hours of the night or in the quiet spaces between scenes—feels real.

The secrecy is still there, but it’s different now. It’s not something you tiptoe around in fear. It’s something you choose—a fragile world that exists only between the two of you, protected from the outside.

And for a while, that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

It starts with small things.

Sunghoon doesn’t touch you as much anymore—not even when no one’s looking.

He still meets you in quiet corners of the set, still kisses you breathless when you’re alone, but there’s a distance now. A flicker of something restrained in his gaze, something held back.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. But then the silences grow longer. The laughter comes less often. Then you realize Sunghoon is pulling away.

The first time you bring it up, he brushes it off.

“I’m just tired,” he says, rubbing his temples.

You hesitate. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. Long shoots. Too much press. It’s nothing.”

But it doesn’t feel like nothing. The more time passes, the more you feel him slipping away.

It gets worse when he starts missing your usual late-night meetings.

You wait for him after shoots, sitting alone in the dimly lit studio hallways, only for your phone to vibrate with a short, clipped text.

Can’t make it tonight. Sorry.

The first time, you let it slide.

The second time, you tell yourself he’s just busy.

The third time, you feel something inside you crack.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

One night, after another grueling day on set, you decide you can’t take it anymore.

You find Sunghoon sitting in his dressing room, scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t look up when you enter. You close the door behind you, arms crossing over your chest. “What’s happening?”

Sunghoon finally glances at you, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

You inhale sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this—” you gesture between you “—is fine when we both know it’s not.”

He exhales, setting his phone down. “Y/N—”

“You’re pulling away,” you cut in, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “And I don’t know why.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. “I have a lot on my plate,” he mutters. “There’s a ton of press lined up, and the agency is already breathing down my neck about scheduling conflicts. They want me to be careful, especially with—” He stops himself, but you already know what he was going to say.

Especially with you.

Your chest tightens. “So what? I’m just another inconvenience?”

Sunghoon’s gaze snaps to yours, sharp and unyielding. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it’s what it feels like.” Your voice wavers despite your best efforts. “You’re choosing to distance yourself, Sunghoon. And I don’t understand why.”

He exhales heavily, standing up and pacing across the room. “Because I have to, okay? Do you know what would happen if this got out? Do you know what the agency would do?”

You swallow hard. “So you’re just going to push me away?”

His hands clench at his sides. “I don’t have a choice.”

You laugh—bitter and hollow. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Sunghoon flinches, but he doesn’t argue, and that hurts more than anything.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. “What’s happening to us?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence tells you everything.

You nod slowly, stepping back toward the door. “I get it.”

Sunghoon’s brows furrow. “Y/N—”

“No,” you interrupt, voice raw. “I get it. You don’t have to say anything else.”

You leave before he can stop you, and for the first time in weeks, you feel alone.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You barely see Sunghoon after that night.

You don’t wait for him after shoots anymore. You don’t check your phone for his messages. You don’t seek him out in the quiet moments between takes. And, most of all, you don’t ask him for explanations he’s never going to give.

It’s easier this way. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. But deep down, you know that’s a lie. Because every time you step on set, every time you hear his voice in the distance, every time you feel his presence before you even see him—your chest tightens.

Sunghoon might be pulling away, but that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped wanting him to stay.

The breaking point comes when you least expect it.

Sunghoon has been acting off all day—more distant than usual, his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched. The crew is extra careful around him, treading lightly, trying not to provoke whatever storm is brewing beneath the surface.

You do the same, but when the director announces a sudden scheduling change, everything snaps.

“We need to push the final filming dates up,” the director says, glancing at Sunghoon. “Your overseas project confirmed your start date, so we have to wrap this production sooner than expected.”

Your stomach drops. Overseas project? You turn toward Sunghoon, heart pounding.

He doesn’t look at you. “Understood,” he says stiffly.

The meeting ends, people disperse, and you stand frozen in place, trying to process what just happened. You don’t realize you’re walking toward him until you’re already standing in front of him. “Overseas?” your voice comes out unsteady. “When were you going to tell me?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains guarded. “I was going to.”

“When?” You exhale sharply, frustration bubbling up. “After you left?”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Y/N—”

“No.” Your hands curl into fists. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to pull away for weeks and then act like this is nothing.”

Sunghoon clenches his jaw. “I never said it was nothing.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Really? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.”

The tension in the air is suffocating. Crew members glance at you both nervously from a distance, sensing the hostility radiating off of you, but you don’t care. You’re too angry. Too tired.

“You’re leaving,” you say, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “And you weren’t even going to tell me.”

His lips part, but no words come out. And that—more than anything—breaks you.

“Right,” you whisper, nodding to yourself. “Got it.”

You turn to leave.

“If you love me, why are you making me choose?” His voice is quiet. Frustrated. Pained.

You freeze. Slowly, you turn back to face him.

Sunghoon’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

Then in a hushed voice, “If you love me,” you whisper, “why won’t you choose me?”

His expression falters.

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

Sunghoon looks at you, his gaze full of everything he wants to say but won’t, and that’s all you need to know.

You inhale sharply, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I hope your career was worth it. Take care ‘hoon, I mean it.” Then you walk away.

And this time, Sunghoon doesn’t stop you.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The set feels off today.

Sunghoon notices it the moment he steps onto the lot.

Everything looks the same—the cameras rolling into position, the crew bustling around, the murmurs of last-minute adjustments to the schedule.

But something is missing. No—someone is missing.

His eyes instinctively scan the space, searching for you. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it at first. It’s second nature by now—finding you in a crowd, watching you from across the set, waiting for the moment your eyes meet his.

Except today, that moment doesn’t come.

A strange weight settles in his chest. Maybe you’re just running late. Maybe you’re off handling something behind the scenes. Maybe—

“Sunghoon, we need you on set!”

He blinks, snapping out of it. Right. Focus. But as the morning drags on, the unease only grows.

By lunch, when he still hasn’t seen you, it becomes unbearable. He stops one of the assistant directors on their way back from a meeting. “Where’s Y/N?”

The assistant director hesitates. “You don’t know?”

Sunghoon’s stomach twists. “Know what?”

“She transferred to another crew.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He stares at them, unable to process it. “What?”

“She requested a transfer last night.” The assistant director shifts uncomfortably. “The director approved it this morning. She’s working on another set now.”

Sunghoon’s breath catches. You left. Not just him. Not just the late-night moments and stolen glances. You left everything. And you didn’t tell him. Didn’t give him a warning. Didn’t give him a chance.

For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know what to do. All he knows is that the set feels emptier now. Colder. And no matter how many times he looks, you’re not coming back.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Time moves forward, with or without you.

At first, it feels like you’re running on autopilot. The transfer to another crew is exactly what you needed—a fresh start, a clean slate, a distraction. The work is just as exhausting, the deadlines just as relentless, but at least here, no one looks at you like they know.

No one whispers behind your back.

No one searches for your eyes across the set.

No one makes your heart ache just by existing.

And that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To forget? To move on?

You tell yourself that enough times, and eventually, you almost start to believe it.

Months turn into years. Your career flourishes.

At first, you’re just another assistant, working your way up, taking whatever projects come your way. But then, little by little, your name starts to mean something.

Your hard work doesn’t go unnoticed. Producers take note of your efficiency. Directors praise your instincts. Soon, you’re getting bigger responsibilities—helping with shot lists, offering creative input, refining scenes.

Until, one day, you get the call.

The one that changes everything.

The one that makes your dream of becoming a director something more than just a dream.

Your first movie. Your name on the credits, not as an assistant, not as someone behind the scenes, but as the director.

You should be overjoyed. And you are. Really.

But success has a funny way of feeling lonely sometimes.

Because no matter how many awards you win, no matter how many people praise your vision, there’s still a part of you that wonders—

Would Sunghoon have been proud of you?

Would he have smiled the way he did that night on your couch, when you told him your dreams?

Would he have been your lead?

You never let yourself dwell on the answers, because the past is the past, and Sunghoon is nothing more than a ghost in it.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Sunghoon gets everything he ever wanted.

The overseas project is a massive hit. Critics rave about his performance, calling it his most compelling work yet. He wins awards, lands more prestigious roles, works with some of the biggest names in the industry.

His career skyrockets. Every magazine cover, every interview, every red carpet event cements his status as one of the top actors of his generation. And yet, the higher he climbs, the emptier it feels.

The first few months after you left were the hardest. He would step on set and instinctively look for you, only to remember—you’re gone. He would scroll through his phone late at night, resisting the urge to type out a message he knew he’d never send. He told himself he had no right to miss you. That he made his choice. That this was the price of success.

But sometimes, when the nights were too quiet and the loneliness too loud, he wondered, had he really chosen his career? Or had he just been too afraid to choose you?

But life moves on and Sunghoon learns to live with it.

He throws himself into work, into press tours, into pretending that nothing haunts him. It works. For a while.

Until one day, he sees you on a screen instead of beside him. Your name flashes across an industry article—"Breakout Director Y/N Takes the Film World by Storm." There’s a photo of you attached to it. You’re smiling, standing on a stage, accepting an award.You look different. More polished, more confident. Like the version of yourself you always wanted to be.

And for the first time in years, Sunghoon feels like he lost, because you made it. Without him.

And he doesn’t know if he should be proud of you, or devastated that he’s no longer a part of your story.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Success is supposed to be fulfilling.

That’s what you tell yourself when you sit in an empty editing room late at night, staring at the final cut of your latest film. The screen glows in the dimly lit space, casting shadows across your desk, but you don’t move.

You should be proud. This is your film. Your vision. Your name stamped onto something that will live beyond you. But right now, all you can feel is exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders.

And something else. Something lonelier.

Your phone buzzes on the desk, breaking the silence. You blink, glancing at the screen. A message from an old friend from your assistant days.

Did you see the headlines?

Your fingers hesitate before typing. What headlines? It doesn’t take long for the reply to come through.

Sunghoon just won another Best Actor award. His speech was everywhere.

You inhale sharply. Of course he did. Of course he’s still winning, still thriving. He’s Park Sunghoon. This is what he was always meant to do.

Still, your hands move on their own, searching his name. And there it is. A photo of him on stage, trophy in hand, looking every bit the polished, untouchable star he’s become.

You tell yourself not to click on the video. You tell yourself not to care, but your finger taps play before your mind can catch up.

Sunghoon stands before a packed audience, cameras flashing, his expression calm and composed as always.

“…There are too many people to thank,” he says, his voice steady. “But more than anything, I want to thank the people who believed in me before the rest of the world did.”

He pauses, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “And to those I let go of along the way,” he exhales quietly, “I hope you’re doing well.”

Your breath catches. Because he knows. He knows you’d be watching. He knows you’d hear those words and wonder, was he talking about you?

A lump forms in your throat. You close the video before it can play any longer, tossing your phone onto the desk as you press the heels of your palms into your eyes.

This is ridiculous. It’s been years. You shouldn’t still feel like this. But as you sit there, alone in a room filled with nothing but the echoes of your own thoughts, you realize something terrifying. No matter how much time has passed, no matter how much you’ve accomplished.

Sunghoon is still a part of you, and you don’t know if that will ever change.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

Years later, you’re working on the biggest project yet.

The set is already bustling when you arrive.

Your latest film—the one you spent years working toward—is finally in production, and you’re at the helm. The director’s chair belongs to you now, the vision in your hands, the weight of the project resting on your shoulders.

It should feel like a victory, but the moment you step onto set, something shifts.

A whisper moves through the crew, quiet but undeniable. You turn to your assistant, frowning slightly. “What’s going on?”

She hesitates. “Uh… the lead just arrived.”

Your stomach drops. You already know who it is. But what you don’t expect is for him to walk in with her.

Sunghoon enters the set with his co-star—an actress whose name has been plastered across magazines, her face just as recognizable as his. She’s beautiful, effortlessly poised, the kind of woman who fits perfectly into the world he’s built for himself.

And she’s holding his hand.

Your grip tightens on the clipboard in your hands as you watch her lean in close, whispering something against his ear. Sunghoon chuckles, his lips curling into an easy smile—one that looks far too public, too polished. Too different from the way he used to smile at you.

Your chest tightens. Because this? This is nothing like what the two of you had.

Sunghoon was never the type to be affectionate in front of others. With you, everything was secret—stolen glances, hidden touches, late-night meetings where the only witnesses were the shadows.

But with her? He isn’t hiding. He isn’t holding back. It’s as if whatever existed between you never even mattered. You force yourself to breathe, schooling your expression into something unreadable.

Sunghoon’s eyes sweep over the room, taking everything in, before they land on you. And for the first time in years, your gazes lock. The noise around you fades. The years that have passed, the distance that’s settled, the choices that have been made—they all press into the space between you, heavy and suffocating. Sunghoon’s smile falters for just a second. But it’s enough. Because in that second, you see it—the flicker of recognition, of hesitation. The realization that you’re here, that this is real, that after all this time, after all the choices that led you both here— You’re standing in front of him again. And then, just as quickly, the moment is gone.

Sunghoon’s expression smooths over, unreadable once more. His grip on her hand tightens ever so slightly, a silent reminder of the life he’s built without you. He takes a step forward, nodding in greeting.

“Director,” he says, his voice even.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “Mr. Park,” you reply, just as composed. The formalities sting. Especially when the last time you spoke, you were begging him to choose you.

Sunghoon watches you for a moment longer, as if searching for something in your face, and for the first time in years, you don’t let him find it.

You glance at your assistant, clearing your throat. “Let’s get started.” Then you turn away.Because no matter how much your heart still aches, no matter how much it kills you to see him like this.

You refuse to be a part of his past anymore. Because you’re living your future.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You do what you do best. You focus.

You drown yourself in your work, in camera angles and shot compositions, in the steady rhythm of directing. You give feedback, adjust blocking, consult with the cinematographer—anything to keep yourself from thinking about the fact that he’s here. That he’s with her. That you’re finally in the same place again, but this time, he’s standing next to someone else.

Sunghoon is professional. You expected nothing less. He follows directions with sharp precision, delivering each scene flawlessly, slipping into character with the kind of ease that made him famous. He listens when you speak, nods when you give him notes, keeps his distance when the cameras aren’t rolling. And for the first few days, it works.

Until one night, after an exhausting day on set, you step outside for some air and find him already there, waiting. The cool night air is a relief against your skin, but the sight of him standing by the railing, hands tucked into his pockets, sends a sharp wave of something unwelcome through your chest.

You should turn around. You shouldn’t let this happen. But then he turns, his gaze meeting yours, and just like before—just like always—you can’t look away. He exhales slowly. “I was wondering when we’d actually talk.”

Your fingers tighten around your jacket sleeves. “We talk every day.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What do you want me to say, Sunghoon? That it’s weird seeing you again? That it’s strange directing you? That it’s exhausting pretending like the past doesn’t exist?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react. But something in his expression shifts. A crack in the carefully composed exterior. “That night,” he says quietly. “The night you left.”

Your breath catches.

“I let you walk away,” he continues, voice heavier now. “And I thought—no, I told myself—that was the right choice.”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay still. To stay indifferent.

“But I watched your career take off. I saw your name in the headlines. I saw you win—without me.” His voice is softer now, more raw. “And for years, I convinced myself that was enough.” Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. “It wasn’t.”

Your heart clenches. This isn’t happening. You can’t let this happen. “You don’t get to do this,” you say, your voice colder than you intend. “You don’t get to come back after all this time and say this.”

Sunghoon takes a slow step forward. “Why not?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Because you made your choice, Sunghoon. You chose your career. And I chose to stop waiting for you to choose me.”

He exhales sharply. “Y/N—”

“You have her now,” you cut in, your tone sharp, pointed. “So why are you standing here, saying these things?”

Sunghoon falls silent. For a moment, you almost think he won’t answer. “She’s not you.”

Your breath stutters. “Don’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”

“I thought it would be easier,” he continues, ignoring the warning in your voice. “That if I had someone who fit into my world, who didn’t make me question everything, it would be enough.”

You inhale shakily, willing yourself to stay calm. To stay unaffected.

“But it wasn’t,” Sunghoon murmurs, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. “Because no matter where I went, no matter who I was with—” His voice drops lower, heavier. “It was always you.”

The words slice through you like a knife. But you don’t let them break you. You can’t. Because the past is the past. And you’re not that girl anymore. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting his gaze. “Then I feel sorry for you.” Sunghoon stills. You exhale slowly, your voice quiet but firm. “Because I moved on.”

It’s a lie. A lie so fragile that if he pushed just a little harder, if he looked at you just a second longer, it would shatter.

But Sunghoon doesn’t push, because maybe, just maybe, he already knows he’s too late.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

The next few days pass in a blur.

You and Sunghoon fall back into professionalism, neither of you acknowledging what was said that night. The crew doesn’t notice the way your exchanges are clipped, the way you avoid being alone together, the way Sunghoon’s co-star pulls him into picture-perfect embraces while you pretend not to see.

It’s exhausting. But you refuse to let it break you. You’ve spent years building yourself up again. You won’t let him tear you down now. So when you see him lingering after a late-night shoot, standing alone by the trailers, you tell yourself to keep walking. You don’t owe him anything.

“Y/N.” You stop. Sunghoon exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Just—stay for a second.”

Against your better judgment, you do. But when you turn to face him, your expression is unreadable. “What do you want, Sunghoon?”

He hesitates. “The truth.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “The truth?”

He nods. “Did you really move on?”

Your stomach twists. Because you should say yes. You should lie. But you don’t. Instead, you take a deep breath and meet his gaze, steady and firm. “I had to forgive you,” you say quietly. “Not for you. For me.”

Sunghoon doesn’t speak. He just watches you, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

You exhale slowly. “I had to forgive you because holding onto the anger and resentment wasn’t healthy for me. But remember that it made me who I am now.”

He swallows hard. “Y/N—”

You shake your head. “You have a long-term girlfriend now, too.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “You made your choice years ago. You have to live with it, just like I did.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. “I know.”

You pause, letting the words settle between you. Then, with a small, tired smile, you add, “Don’t treat her like you did with me.”

Sunghoon’s breath catches.

“And hey,” you say, your tone softer now, “you’re already a step ahead of where we were. Be proud to be able to share her with the world.”

He doesn’t respond. He just looks at you, something fragile and almost broken in his gaze. But you don’t let yourself fall into it. Not anymore.

“We both moved on, maybe not from each other yet, but we’ve moved on with our lives already,” you continue, offering him one last bittersweet smile. “And I hope you find peace with it.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He finally understands. You’re not his anymore, and you might never be again.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

On the last day of filming, as the crew wraps up and the cast exchanges goodbyes, you step outside for a breath of air.

You should be celebrating. This film—the one you fought for, the one you poured your soul into—is finally complete. And yet, all you can think about is the fact that this means you’ll never see him again. That after today, Sunghoon will just be another name in the credits. Another person in your past. You exhale slowly, pressing a hand against your forehead. This is good, you remind yourself. This is how it’s supposed to be.

“Y/N.” You stiffen. You knew he’d come. You don’t know how, but you knew. Sunghoon stands behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable. “So… this is it.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, glancing up at the sky. “It’s funny. I used to think we’d meet again and everything would just… fall back into place.”

Your heart aches, but you don’t let it show. “That’s not how life works,” you murmur.

Sunghoon looks at you then, and for the first time, there’s no longing. No regret. Just quiet acceptance. “I know,” he says. Silence stretches between you. “I’m proud of you. Take care, Y/N.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, offering him a small, soft smile. “You too, Sunghoon.”

And with that, you turn and walk away. For the last time.

ㅤ─────────────────────────

You watch as your hard work gets shown on the big screen, proud of where you’ve come.

The final shot of the film is of him.

The camera lingers as he delivers his last lines, “I’m happy for you,” his gaze drifting past the lens, it’s not obvious, but you notice it. And for a fleeting moment, as you and thousands of people watch the end of your film, you wonder if he’s looking at you.

But then the scene ends, the cameras stop rolling, and the moment fades.

Just like everything else.

Rei's Notes ✎: It's here woooo, no one dies this time dw. I hope the smut improved from last time T^T Was heavily inspired by the k-drama Melo Movie, but the fic is more of a rough inspiration. Once again, I've broken my longest word count record, this time we went past 20k. Had to use a different divider instead of the usual image cuz of how long this was. As always I'd love to hear your thoughts and how this made you feel so leave a reblog or reply!! <33

⟢ Taglist: @yunverie @dawngyu @hueningstar @hhoneyhan @immelissaaa @lovingbeomgyudayone @xylatox @i-like-to-read-at-4am @imlonelydontsendhelp @ode2soob @pagelets @laylasbunbunny @vrusha01 @enhaflixer @highway-143 @keloiu @m1kkso @cutehoons02 If you want to be tagged in all of my fics, go here to be added to my permanent taglist.

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prettybugsinbandages · 4 months ago

Text

Blot!reader pt.4

Part 4 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes

(No but seriously, pt. 4 is extra graphic.)

The walk to Ignihyde was suffocating in its silence. The air sat stagnant, thick with something unspoken, clinging to your skin like a second layer. Somewhere in your bag, your phone buzzed—a new message from the group chat. Under different circumstances, it might have brought you comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone. But tonight, isolation wrapped around you like a mourning lover, familiar and unwanted.

Your mind wandered, flitting between fragmented thoughts like a radio caught between too many channels. It was exhausting, a constant background noise atop the weight already pressing on your shoulders. The steady rhythm of your footsteps on concrete softened as you entered the Ignihyde dorm, giving way to the cool echo of marble halls. Tonight, even the usual mechanical hum of the dorm's technology felt muted, as if the entire building was holding the breath for some crescendo.

The invitation still gnawed at the back of your mind. You hated to admit that the Blot had a point—something about this felt... off.

Idia's door loomed ahead, a simple barrier yet somehow imposing. Before, it had been a gateway into a world of dim neon lights and digital sanctuary, an introvert's haven. Now, it felt like the threshold of something, heavier, something waiting. Judging. You exhaled, squaring your shoulders before knocking softly.

The response came in the form of a quiet click as the lock disengaged.

Inside, the usual blue glow of Idia's room bathed everything in its cold light, but the atmosphere was different. The usual hum of monitors filled the air, but it felt heavier, dampened by something unseen yet tangible—despair, maybe. A slow, sinking sensation settled into your bones before you even took a step forward.

Did he lose in the game? You wondered, letting your gaze sweep over the multiple screens in his setup. but there was no new game on display. Instead, strings of data filled the monitors, lines of statistics and files that hinted at something far more serious. Had he already begun hacking the game? Or was this related to his unofficial internship at STYX?

Idia sat hunched at his desk, wearing the familiar pajamas you'd come to associate with the version of him that had grown comfortable around you. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in a posture that spoke of exhaustion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his normally wild hair casting deep shadows over his hollowed-out expression. The way he curled in on himself was almost childlike, a feeble, pitiful attempt at self-soothing.

You nearly laughed—an instinctive, misplaced reaction to lighten your own mood. but you tactfully swallowed it down.

Instead, you focused on what he had invited you here for. "Which game was released?" You ask instead, kicking off your shoes and coming up behind him.

The moment you moved behind him, his reaction was immediate. He shut the files in a heartbeat, screens flickering back to something more benign. But the damage was done. You'd already seen it. And the unease pooling in your gut only grew.

You didn't like the way Idia seemed to mirror the way you felt.

Slowly, his eyes drifted toward you and something about his gaze unsettled you. It was blank, hollow. No nervous darting, no anxious fiddling with his sleeves. For once, Idia didn't look away. His stare was unwavering—determined, but utterly hopeless all at once.

It made you want to stand a little taller—to brace yourself, because whatever this was, whatever had brought him to this point—you had a feeling you weren't going to like it.

"Idia?"

He doesn't answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice is eerily flat. Clinical in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"...Take off your jacket."

You blink. What?

"It's—no. It's cold. Your room is always freezing." You argue, your throat tightening. You don't like the way the air suddenly feels heavy, pressing in on you.

Idia's fingers twitch. "You won't."

A shiver crawls up your spine, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. Something is wrong. You can feel it in your bones, in the way your limbs feel impossibly heavy—like gravity itself has turned against you, dragging you down under the weight of something unspoken, something ugly.

The creak of Idia's chair cuts through the suffocating silence as he turns to face you fully. His expression is... off. The usual awkward hesitance is gone, replaced by something raw and strained. His lips are parted, as if he wants to say something, but the words refused to come—lodged in his throat like razors, threatening to spill blood if he forces them out.

"What are you?"

The question lands like a dagger between your ribs. You inhale sharply—a mistake. "Idia, what—"

"No." His voice trembles, and his hands curled into fists, the fabric of his pants bunching under his white-knuckled fingers "No, don't—don't do that." His breathing is shallow, uneven. "Tell me; What are you?"

He sounds afraid. but not of you. No—he's afraid of knowing, of confirming whatever terrible thing is clawing at the edges of his mind.

"You're not normal. You know that, right?" His words stammer out, breath hitching. "You—you're not even cold when you should be. Do you—do you even realize that?"

A laugh escapes him, the sound ragged and worn—nearly broken. His voice rises, faster, breaking, unraveling. "You haven't noticed it, have you? You haven't said a damn thing about it—my room is negative six degrees." His voice climbs higher, fraying apart. "It's freezing—!"

Your blood runs cold—colder than it already was. You hadn't noticed the way his breath fogged in the air with every exhale. Your jaw locks shut, a dull sting in your palms forcing you to realize you've clenched your fists too tight, nails biting deep into your skin.

"Ortho scanned you." The words come out rushed, panicked. "I didn't think much of it at first, but— but I kept thinking, and looking and—" He swallows hard, struggling to force the words out. "I've seen those numbers before! T-that's what happens before an overblot takes over, except—it's not stopping. You're—"

His voice breaks, filled with despair. "You're frozen there."

You step back, arms instinctively coming up as if to shield yourself from the weight of his words. "Idia—"

He cries out your name, standing abruptly. The motion is almost aggressive, but then—he hesitates, body almost jolting forward before he stumbles back as if afraid to get any closer.

"No. No, don't act like I'm crazy! You know something's wrong, don't you?!" His voice is raw, frayed at the edges like he's spent nights crying until his throat was raw. "I'm not an idiot—look at you!"

His gaze locked onto your finger—the Blot ring. Moving to hide it like a fool, you only further incriminated yourself. You were too flustered, too out of your element. A person that thrives in carefully articulated plans will never blossom in unexpected situations and confrontations.

Silence stretched between you, tense, suffocating and then, finally—his voice drops to a whisper. "That's a Blot stone, isn't it?"

Your jaw clenched as you forced a smile, trying to get the upper hand again. "It was a gift from a friend."

Not a lie.

But not the truth, either.

Because the Blot—whatever it is, whatever you are to it—is not something you can explain. Not something you can put into words.

He watched you in silence, his gaze heavy, searching—like he could drag the truth out of you by sheer force of will. The room felt smaller, the air thinner, the walls pressing in and closing the space between you. Your skin prickled, instincts screaming at you to move, to run—but your feet refused to obey.

He was closer than he'd ever dared to be before, breath shallow and uneven, pupils contracted into pinpricks. it was the look of someone who had seen something they were never meant to see.

He was afraid.

"It's Blot, isn't it?" His voice is softer now—not less intense, just careful. As if he were unraveling a puzzle, and each word was another thread pulling the truth closer. "How? You don't have magic—so how? You didn't get sick, you weren't cursed—"

The silence stretched thick between you, swallowing the hum of his electronics, turning the once-familiar background noise into an irritating drone. You said nothing, but it was enough.

He exhaled a short, bitter laugh, devoid of humor. A wry smile flickered across his lips, brief and brittle. "I can't believe I didn't notice sooner. I mean, of course—! Of course, it had to be something like this. The first real friend I make and they're some... monster."

Your breath hitched, anger rising fast, sharp and sudden. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms. Monster? He had no idea—no idea what you had sacrificed, what you had done to survive.

Idia noticed the shift immediately, his expression faltering. He took a step back and bumped into his desk, drawing out a low curse. "How much of you is still here?" he asked, and this time, his voice was small and fragile. "Did I ever get to meet you? Were you ever real?"

The words should have gutted you. Maybe later they would, but right now, there was no time for doubt—no time for guilt. You had come too far, had too much left undone to let this shake you.

So you smiled. Soft, careful, deceptive. A picture of warmth despite the cold seeping from your skin. You took a slow step forward the same way people approached startled animals.

Idia almost broke right there. How could you smile like that—so beautifully, so effortlessly—when he was holding your rotten truth right in front of you? He wanted to scream, to cry, to beg you to undo it. He wanted to pull you into a rare embrace and promise that it would be okay.

"It doesn't matter what I am." You you began, voice steady despite the way your lungs are closing at the fact you're admitting it to yourself. "I'm here, Idia. See? I'm real." Your words were flowery and sweet rivaling powdered sugar. Cold hands met his as you laced your fingers together gently—as if they belonged together, tilting your head up to meet his terrified gaze once again.

Your hands, impossibly cold, found his and laced together. Gentle, deliberate as if they belonged that way. His breath stuttered and yellow eyes widened, darting between you and the affectionate embrace. The chill of your skin confirmed his worst fears, but still, his heart pounded at your saccharine touch. A traitorous part of him bloomed with hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, things could still be okay.

You both exhaled.

A cloud of mist curled from Idia's lips.

None came from yours.

The walls pressed in again, suffocating and constricting like a serpent.

His expression shattered. "'Real?'" he echoed, the word brittle, dangerous in its quietness. "You think—?" He lets out another sharp, shaky breath, his breathing picking up, hands trembling in yours. He wanted to pull away, but they constricted instead, holding you tighter. "Real people don't have to convince others they're real."

The words cut deep. A blade straight through your skull.

And then he laughed. not out of amusement—but the hollow, broken sound people make when they don't know whether to scream or cry. His shoulders shake, and his fingers press hard against your knuckles like he's grasping at anything—even you—to keep himself together.

"You're dying." Idia whispered.

"You're already dead." His voice was eerily calm now. Empty as he sunk to the ground, dragging you down with him.

"And I don't know what I'm supposed to do with you."

The walk home was slow, the silence stretching thick and suffocating. Creeping whispers slithered into your mind, sharp-toothed and insidious, gnawing at the edges of your consciousness. You had left without a word, untangling yourself from him with a violent jerk—shoving him away as if his touch burned.

Only now did the look on his face register. The hurt. The despair.

Guilt settled into your gut like a stone. He was terrified—not just of you, but of what you had done, of what you had become. Idia's questions sent your thoughts spiraling, prying open doors you had never dared to unlock. Before now, your focus had been singular, your purpose unwavering. And yet—had you ever truly thought beyond that goal?

Had you ever been anything else?

Your pace quickened. Unknowingly, you gnawed at your thumbnail, gaze unfocused, lost in the labyrinth of your own mind. You had no destination, only the restless movement of your feet leading you anywhere, nowhere.

Were you ever real?

As you passed the window, the dark pane caught your reflection—a sight you had no desire to face. Yet, before you could stop yourself, your pace faltered and you drew closer. The sound of your footsteps echoed, hollow and distant, swallowed by the wind that howled like a living thing, shrieking in the shell of your ear.

The stranger in the glass stared back, their expression twisting in revulsion, lips curled in a sneer as if the very thought of mirroring you was unbearable.

Were your eyes always that color, that shape...?

You couldn't bear to look.

The thought burrowed under your skin like maggots in rotting flesh, itching, writhing, unbearable. They skittered through your veins like they belonged there with you and bile rose in your throat, bitter and acrid. You wanted to claw yourself open—to dig out whatever filth lay inside and present it to a watchful divinity, to dissect yourself beneath the eye of heaven, to strip away this diseased existence and return to nothingness once again. To be the faceless, nameless void again.

"Am I a corpse?" you whispered into an empty night.

The world only answered with silence. Cold. Oppressive. Cruel.

Your teeth clenched so tightly that the pressure throbbed in your skull, tension coiling like barbed wire and you felt something wet slide down your arm. Blinking, you pulled your hand back.

The nail-biting had evolved into something worse—your thumb torn open, the flesh peeled away to ragged strips down to the bone. It glistened in the moonlight, pale and wet, like a shard of quarts freshly unearthed.

Your breath hitched and hands trembled, but the pain hadn't set in yet—adrenaline drowning it out like restless tides.

A laugh bubbled up, fragile and unhinged, teetering on the razor's edge between hysteria and horror. It spilled past your lips in a wavering exhale, like a drunken ballerina twirling toward oblivion.

Your vision swam, locking onto the raw, ruined digit when a mortifying thought occurred to you—one that felt nearly alien.

It's already severed enough.

Might as well finish the job.

Before you could sink your teeth into the rest of your thumb, shadows lashed around your wrist, yanking your hand away with sharp, bruising force.

The Blot materialized before you, its form flicking like a nightmare barely held together, face unreadable—featureless, shifting—but you could feel its glare, an icy pressure boring into your skull like an icepick.

The slender digits wrapped around your arm only tightened, sending a dull ache up your elbow as your fingers numbed beneath the crushing force. Cold blood still dripped sluggishly down your skin and for a moment you thought the Blot might reprimand you, scold you for damaging yourself. After all, it needed you intact, didn't it? Alive and whole?

Then again... you couldn't quite recall the exact terms of your contract, the entire encounter seemed far away and blurry.

Instead, the Blot's voice dipped into something almost gentle, low and intimate in a way that made your spine stiffen.

"My... What have you done to yourself, little star?" It murmured, its words gliding over you like silk, knowing and low. "I warned you not to go to that boy's room... What happened?"

Despite the soft tone, its grip remained ironclad. A brittle, breathless laugh escaped your lips, the force of it making you dizzy. "He knows—Idia knows." You searched the Blot's face for any sign of deception, anything to suggest this was another game it was playing with you. It always seemed to know more than it let on, and foolishly you hoped it knew how to fix this predicament. "Actually... he seems to know more than I do. Why is that?"

You sounded far more vulnerable and accusatory than you'd have liked, making you cringe internally.

Your head swam. It was getting harder to focus, harder to breathe. Lungs grew stiff, like rigor mortis had set in and the muscle was now too firm to move. Even the fresh forest air seemed repulsed to enter your bloodstream.

The Blot's free hand materialized a handkerchief, dabbing away the streaks of blood down your arm with an eerie, deliberate tenderness. It pressed the cloth against your wound, the pressure grounding you just enough to feel the sting. "He's smart," it mused, voice edged with something unreadable. "Threateningly so. I advise you avoid him, darling. He's no good for you."

A pause. A breath. Then, softer—almost an afterthought, spoken like arsenic honey: "Or remove him. Anything for your goal, right?"

The casual suggestion sent an involuntary shudder down your spine, your body tensing on instinct. The moment of vulnerable hesitation was all it needed. Before you could react, the Blot lifted your injured hand—bringing it to its face. It was warm—soft—something you'd never have expected from something like it. You could feel its breath against your wrist as it nuzzled into your palm, quietly begging you to adore it the way it adores you.

Before you could realize it, the Blot's breath gently fanning against your finger as it took your thumb into its mouth, the sensation stinging for a moment.

A sharp inhale caught in your throat. Its tongue was warm, contrasting against its otherwise frigid presence, the sensation having an odd numbing effect that dulled the throb of your injury now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

You scrutinized the Blot in the short moment as it seemed to savor the taste of you—gazing at you with something dark and devoted, like an adoring lover, something dangerously akin to reverence as if you'd given it every star in the sky.

Even worse—you felt sickeningly safe in the weight of that adoration, the realization digging the knife deeper into your gut. For the first time in what felt like forever, warmth seeped into you—real, tangible and you almost leaned into it, instinctively reaching for something genuine, something real.

Connection. Affection.

The realization crashed over you like cold water, and you yanked your hand back, barely avoiding the scrape of its teeth. Your mouth opened, poised to scold it—to revel in the kicked-puppy demeanor it always assumed when chastised—only for your breath to catch on something else entirely.

Your thumb was healed perfectly as if never damaged but left behind was a mark—a scar shaped like teeth, a deep, pitch-black imprint that looked less like healed flesh and more like a crack into the void itself. The mark had seemed more like a brand upon your flesh, reminiscent of the lace-like markings overblotters had.

Instinctively, you tried to wipe it off—only to realize it stubbornly refused to fade.

"All better." the Blot chirped, the previous air of seduction vanishing in an instant. It slipped effortlessly back into that playful persona, as if it hadn't just done something deeply intimate.

There was no time to respond as the Blot suddenly jolted, its form flickering before vanishing into nothing and a sound echoed behind you—footsteps.

Someone was coming.

Folding your thumb into your fist, you shoved your hands in your pockets and turned, your gaze landing on a familiar figure—sandy hair catching the dim light, tired blue eyes flicking toward you with something unreadable in them. Ruggie.

Relief almost escaped in a sigh. You and Ruggie had worked together before—odd jobs, small schemes, and a shared understanding of the little sacrifices needed to survive. In time, a comfortable camaraderie had formed. You'd earned his favor, trust, and respect taking on extra work when exhaustion clung to him like chains in deep water. That familiarity should have steadied you. It should have made this easier.

But the weight pressing against your ribs, heavy and suffocating, refused to let up.

Lately, guilt had followed you like a stray dog, skulking in your shadow, nosing at your heels, whining for scraps of attention you refused to give. You tried to convince yourself it was misplaced, that you were entitled to the power you'd clawed for and deserving of the luxuries you'd earned. And yet, in the quiet of the night, when there was no one left to lie to, the thoughts gnawed at the edges of your resolve.

What if they didn't deserve this? What if they were undeserving of your plan for revenge?

By now, the dog had devoured you, leaning nothing but bones in its wake and it heavily impacted your interactions these days.

You forced a smile, ignoring the weakness in your knees, the warble in your voice. "Ruggie? It's late. What're you doing out here?" You chuckled and motioned him over.

His hesitation was slight but enough to send a ripple of unease through you. "Sam has a sale before closing," he muttered, glancing toward the direction of the shop before his gaze flickered back. "Gets rid of stuff that doesn't sell." Ruggie's voice trailed off, distracted.

"Hey... what was that?" He inched closer and set down his bag of groceries, gaze lingering on the spot in the forest clearing earlier where the Blot once stood.

Your stomach dropped, throat constricting as if barbed wire circled it like a serpent going in for a kill.

Ruggie sat straighter than usual, ears perked, tail stiff with bristling fur. Dull blue eyes locked onto you, scrutinizing and sharp. No room to play dumb, no easy escape. You opened your mouth, a defense already forming but he cut you off before you could speak.

"That shadow thing." His nose wrinkled, displeased. "It was creepy... Are you okay? Was that a campus ghost?" Ruggie had an idea of what it was, one he really didn't want to confirm or think was possible.

The concern burned like acid on your skin and for a split second your carefully constructed expression wavered.

He saw. He knew.

The thoughts whirled around in your head, a flurry of panic, anger, and grief. Too many people knew. Involuntarily, you found your mind circling back to the Blot's suggestion: Or remove him. the words were small in the back of your head, but they burned like hot iron.

You... wouldn't do that.

You're not that bad.

Lying once again felt like swallowing something foul, but your teeth were already rotten from all the saccharine lies fallen from your lips like angels.

What was one more? You're doomed anyway.

You let out a sigh, feigning exhaustion, and tilted your head back, the weight of the thoughts locked inside were too much to hold up. Your eyes lidded, shifted to meet Ruggie's and you chuckled. "Worried for little old me?" You teased, voice low and calm, betraying the tyrannical storm within.

You shifted your tone to allow a hint of vulnerability to slip through, creasing your brows and making him feel special—after all, you're opening up to him out of everyone else. "After the overblots, something changed. Maybe it was the repeated exposure to all that strong magic, maybe I've been here too long."

What a bad lie. You continued it anyway. "I've been practicing getting used to it. Applying the stuff I've learned in class really is fun. Don't tell, okay?"

It sounded fake even to you, but you prayed to whatever gods would listen that Ruggie would believe it.

The gods refused to answer.

Ruggie chuckled and crossed his arms, disbelief clear. "Hah? Are you pullin' my tail? You just- developed magic? What about the Yuus then?" His arms crossed, tail flicking once, sharply. "You expect me to believe that?"

Irritation flickered behind your eyes. Damn Blot. It's harder to lie when someone sees clear proof. Before you could respond, Ruggie's expression shifted, voice dipping into something softer, nearly hesitant. "Just... don't do anything too stupid, yeah? What will I do if my favorite coworker vanishes?"

It was clear he understood the lengths desperation led someone to. You must've had a reason, and clearly you didn't want to talk about it. Ruggie wasn't sure what you'd done, but as long as you're okay... it should be fine, right?

Internally you pumped your fist and attempted to direct the conversation to something else. "What about Yuuka?" You ask, a playful lilt in your tone.

"She's in sometimes. Leona gets Yuuka to do some errands like me, but we're never assigned to anything together—just two chores at once. Boring, lonely." He drawled, one ear flicking sharply at something that irritated it.

You nodded quickly, eager to let the previous topic fade before the cracks in your façade grew too wide. But Ruggie wasn't looking at your face now, no longer quietly admiring the angles and shape—his gaze had dipped lower, posture stiffening.

The handprint on your forearm was still there—your poor circulation kept it clear and visible, blood still hadn't rushed to fill in the space beneath your skin, leaving a clear, pale mark on your flesh.

Your stomach twisted violently, dread, your forlorn lover, gripping you tightly. It felt like you were drowning in sand; Gritty, dark, uncomfortable, and excruciating.

You wanted to give up.

Ruggie reached for your wrist, his fingers barely moving before you wrenched back, springing to your feet so fast you felt lightheaded. The boy's gaze darkened, expression creasing with annoyance and concern.

"You know, you've been acting really damn weird." he muttered. His tail bristled further, ears twitching. "It was always strange how you just showed up one day—not just stepping on stage with the others. Nobody even remembers seeing you there anyway. You just appeared one day. One day you were nobody, and then suddenly..." His lips pressed together, eyes shining with unspoken feelings. "You were somebody. To everyone. To me—please just tell me what's wrong."

There was an edge to his voice now, sharp and unforgiving yet hurt and confused. "And now you're jumpy, your excuses suck, and I saw whatever the hell that shadow was."

It was too much. Your senses overloaded, screaming at you to do something. Every nerve ending was firing conflicting signals and your body felt hot for once.

Or remove him.

Ruggie never got the chance to say more.

You lunged, mind going blank. Not now. Gods not now. You didn't want to think of your circumstances, or your life, or what you'd once been and now are. It hurt. It all hurt.

Ruggie reacted fast—he always did and it was admirable, but this wasn't a fight he knew how to win. It was brutal, desperate, nearly on the same level as fights the ones he'd get into for scraps of food as a child—and yet this was worse, like your entire life depended on it.

He fought back hard, scrappy as ever, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a plea. But you weren't just fighting to win.

You were fighting to end this.

He didn't want to hurt you. Ruggie needed you to stop— to listen..!

His mind spun, air cruelly knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground. The world seemed to churn as he tried to focus his gaze. Your weight pressed against his chest, arms pinned beneath your knees. Ruggie attempted to focus, but his vision swam from the impact.

A monster towered over him, primal by every meaning of the word, heaving and desperate. Its eyes were a cocktail of rage, yet tears spilled from them—the eyes he admired that once held so much conviction now full of sorrow.

A rock was held above your head, one too large for you to have been able to pick up in such a short amount of time, yet poised to come down on him.

This isn't happening.

In the space between heartbeats, he felt it come down.

The crunch echoed in his ears as they filled with blood.

Skull collapsing like a shattered pastry. The bones splintering, cartilage crumbling beneath the force of it. Over and over again—

No.

His body jerked. The scene in his mind unraveled in an instant, yet the bloodlust in your eyes lingered, making it feel real.

His breath hitched, shallow and frantic, ears flattening so hard they almost ached. Every instinct in him screamed at him to run, but his body remained frozen, muscles locked in tight animalistic panic.

When you hesitated, a weak sob escaping you, the stone slipped from your hands and landed with a dull thud beside his head and your body crumbled like paper on top of Ruggie. Whatever spell of despair you were under shattered under the pressure.

Ruggie scrambled away, breath ragged, body trembling. His usual smirk was absent, snark stolen by something colder, something raw. No jokes, no clever remarks. Just wide, fearful eyes staring up at you like he was seeing you for the first time—was this the real you?

You were going to kill him.

And yet against all logic, against the terror still clawing up his throat and clutching his heart-

Ruggie was still worried for you—the way a loyal dog is despite the way its master treats it.

This monster hunched over on the forest floor, wracked with sorrow unimaginable—even by the divine—was still somebody's baby. This monster wanted to go home and fall into the embrace of somebody safe.

part five

Pls read:

Hello!! Thanks for reading part 4. As mentioned in a previous post, I'd like to make this story a little more interactive. Since I'm writing a fanfic, and technically writing "YOU", I thought It'd be fun to have you guys as the readers, genuinely get your thoughts and questions in.

So, I'm inviting anybody willing to ask one question that may be selected for an interaction in part 5's confrontation scene I have planned.

Think hard on this one question, the Blot is a crafty thing so be careful with your questions.

Of course I won't be able to choose every question for the interaction. Any extras may be added to something separate. (You can tell the blot you wanna make out w it 😔)

If you want slightly more info or hints about the Blot, I suggest you read this post, if you haven't already.

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e

#twisted wonderland #twst #idia shroud #twst x reader #twst angst #twst fanfic #blot!reader #twst blot #blot x reader #bug writing #ruggie bucchi

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traegorn · 3 months ago

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Time to be Internet Cockroaches

So I am constantly in active rebellion of the centralized web. We're in a world where all of our online interactions happen on just a handful of sites (and this includes DIscord and Tumblr too).

SO I WANT TO REMIND FOLKS -- YOU CAN BUILD YOUR OWN STUFF, AND WHEN YOUR FRIENDS DO IT YOU SHOULD USE IT.

Now I know not everyone can pay for their own webhosting and setup their own stuff, but for those of us who can -- we should. When every major platform is at risk, we should be splintering out across the web and decentralizing as much as we can.

I host the Nerd & Tie [dot] Social forums for my friends and my stuff for instance.

It's a "slow forum" right now, but it can support a lot more -- and works well on mobile. But, like, on a lot of webhosts setting up a Flarum forum like that takes almost zero technical skill.

And you can set up your own blog on a self hosted server. Like Wordpress is incredibly easy to set up on your own site, We run the main Nerd & Tie site -- and we use it to serve up our podcasts. I also use it to power my webcomics like Peregrine Lake.

My personal website comes from the old internet, so my blog is literally run from a hand coded piece of software I hacked together originally back in like 2001.

And you might be asking yourself "How do I follow blogs that are independently run" and the answer is simple -- RSS feeds.

RSS is an XML format that breaks down items in a standard way that can be interpreted by an RSS reader. You probably already use something that touches RSS feeds -- Podcasts run entirely on RSS feeds. I don't know if it still works, but even Tumblr blogs have RSS feeds at the url [username].tumblr.com/rss.

Now I use Thunderbird for email, which has a built in RSS reader to monitor certain blogs to watch for import updates.

Is it harder to discover people to follow in this model? Absolutely. The onus is on the reader to seek out the folks they want to read and interact with. But it's safer. We see with congress's attempts to constantly ban TikTok and Musk's destruction of Twitter that centralized platforms have deep vulnerabilities. By moving across the web to multiple datacenters on multiple hosts we ensure that we're much harder to get rid of.

Time to be the cockroach.

#internet #centralized internet #social media #forums #the internet #RSS

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lcvemiyuki · 1 year ago

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“when they get jealous” | hq

𓂃𓂃𓂃𓊝 ࿐𓂃𓂃𓂃

content: haikyuu boys x reader, when they get jealous over someone else

warnings: disgustingly cute, kenma x reader + tsukishima x reader are established relationships, fem!reader, osamu x reader (y/n is perceived as shorter than osamu)

characters: kenma, tsukishima, osamu

a/n: more! bc these also have been stuck in my head... (not proofread sorry!)

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Kozume Kenma

'he would get distracted to the point of jeopardizing a game'

It was a weekend afternoon, and Kenma had carved out some precious time to play solos in the gaming room. His specialty was first-person shooter games, and he stayed absolutely silent to focus; a pin drop could be heard from how quiet it was. Only the sounds of his game controller clicking resonated softly in the soundproof room.

You two shared the room, with back-to-back monitors and a personalized setup on each side. Occasionally, you would enter and play a game or two, leaving when you knew he had a stream scheduled.

Today was one of those quiet days, with Kenma fully immersed in his game. His noise-canceling headphones ensured nothing but the game’s audio reached his ears.

You entered the room, aware of his headphones, and left rabbit-cut apple slices next to his keyboard. The colors from his monitor illuminated the slices, casting a soft glow on them as his slender fingers worked like a well-oiled machine.

As you moved, your figure momentarily blocked his sight, and he glimpsed you holding a phone to your ear, a smile plastered on your face as you talked. Kenma's eyes lingered on you for a few seconds before his monitor demanded his attention again. Usually, you would make some sort of light contact to remind him you were there, a gentle touch or a pat on the shoulder.

But this time, you didn’t.

Instead, you turned to your side and plopped down on the plush chair, fully engrossed in your conversation. Kenma wasn't overly nosy, but he couldn’t help but peek out from the side of his monitor to observe you.

‘Who has your attention?’ he wondered.

Knowing he couldn't keep glancing your way without compromising his game, Kenma adjusted his headphones so that only one side covered his ear, leaving the other exposed to the outside world.

Kenma's focus split in half; he tried to concentrate on his game, yet every time he heard your wholehearted laugh, his eyes darted to you instantly. Your joy was infectious, and it pulled at his curiosity with an unfamiliar force.

“Tomorrow? Yeah, that sounds great!” Your voice rang out, clear and cheerful. Kenma's brows furrowed as he strained to make out more of your conversation. His concentration slowly dissipated, the multiple noises becoming a chaotic blend in his mind.

“I can’t wait to see you!” Your exclamation, followed by another giggle, broke his focus entirely. He turned his head fully for just two seconds, enough time for his character on screen to be targeted and shot.

The screen flashed red with ‘GAME OVER’ in bold letters.

Kenma's eyes did a double take as the realization hit—he had gotten distracted a bit too long.

He never lost a game—ever.

He yanked the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck as he leaned back in his chair. A long sigh heaved out, his worn-out hands finding their way behind his head as his legs spread apart for a more comfortable position.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you later, bro. Tell Mom I can’t wait to see you guys!” Now free from his game’s immersive audio, Kenma heard you loud and clear. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling a twinge of annoyance at himself for getting so distracted.

That really cost him a game—yet he couldn't help but feel his heart rate slow down after realizing you were just talking to your brother.

Lost in his thoughts, Kenma didn’t hear you approach until he felt the soft, slightly wet touch of your lips pecking his. His eyes slowly fluttered open to find you staring down at him with a confused look.

“You lost, Kozu?” Your eyes now drifted to his monitor.

He could only softly scoff at himself, a mix of embarrassment and amusement in his tone. “Yeah, I guess I did.” His lips pursed together, noting the twinge of sweetness they tasted.

He would never tell you the real reason, though.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Kei Tsukishima

'his smile looks indifferent, yet his eyes shot daggers'

The sound of someone’s cough echoed through the museum as you and Tsukishima passed through another grand exhibit. The exhibits grew slightly crowded at times, prompting you to lightly grasp the edge of his coat, careful not to fully grab him. His strides were slightly faster than yours granted his slight eagerness. Tsukishima turned his head, peering down at your hand clutching his clothes.

“Is this your way of trying to keep up?” His light eyebrows raised slightly in amusement before he reached back, taking hold of your hand to guide you instead.

“Excuse me!” a slightly loud voice echoed in the room, causing you to close your mouth before you could respond. You turned to face the source of the shout, only to find a young man staring right at you.

Tsukishima halted with you, turning his head around with a hint of annoyance at whoever was shouting.

“Do people not know when to lower their voices?” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As he was about to finish his sentence, he noticed the man making his way toward you specifically. Tsukishima didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes were solely focused on you.

Turning his attention to you, Tsukishima also noticed how your squinting eyes suddenly morphed into one of pure surprise.

“Y/N? Is that really you!?” the man exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement.

As the man launched into an animated recount of his recent adventures, Tsukishima stood by, feeling a pang of irritation.

Soon enough, a few others caught up to your classmate. Tsukishima couldn't miss the way it took them a few seconds to avert their eyes or the eager way they held out their hands to shake yours.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, ‘How shameless.’

“This is my—” you began to introduce Tsukki, but he beat you to it, turning fully to face the group. “I’m the boyfriend.” His smile was anything but genuine.

His tone might have been friendly, but you could tell Tsukki was irritated.

Quickly realizing he might be upset about the abrupt interruption of your date, you hastily said your goodbyes to your old high school friend.

“Aw, c’mon Y/N, how about a reunion selfie before we let you go?” your old classmate nudged, pointing at the phone he was holding.

You awkwardly laughed, trying to think of a way to politely decline. But before you could say no, you felt a gentle but firm pressure on the small of your back, guiding you forward. You turned to see Tsukishima's long fingers splayed out against your back, his touch insistent. The action caused you to straighten up in response, feeling the solid reassurance of his hand.

You quickly took the selfie with your old classmate, offering a polite smile for the camera. Before you could say another brief goodbye, you noticed the three guys in the back all staring in your direction, only to quickly avert their gaze to some random object in the building.

Curious about what had caught their attention, you turned your head to follow their line of sight. Your heart began to race as you saw the reason for their sudden shift in focus.

Tsukishima, now several meters away, was turned slightly to the side, but his eyes were locked onto the guy next to you. His usual could-care-less demeanor was replaced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. Tsukishima's glare was menacing as if silently placing a bounty on his head. His hands were comfortably placed in his pockets; his black glasses failed to mask the daggers he shot their way.

There was no mistaking it—he was jealous, and not just mildly so.

You quickly excused yourself, murmuring a final goodbye to your old classmate. You made your way over to Tsukishima, your steps quickening with each passing second.

As you reached him, you hesitated for a moment before gently placing a hand on his arm. His eyes flicked to yours, then quickly shifted away, focusing on anything but you.

“Tsukki,” you said softly, “Sorry that took so long.”

“Whatever,” he muttered, his tone begrudgingly agreeing.

“Were their stares bothering you?” you asked, trying to keep your tone light.

Tsukishima’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They were just...annoying,” he said, his voice clipped. “Like, read the room.”

A mischievous smirk played on your face as you interlocked your hand with his. “Is that why you were death-staring them like they were your sworn enemies?”

“Obviously. Anyone would with how noisy they were,” he replied, trying to sound indifferent.

He would never admit to it, but you could read him all too well.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

Miya Osamu

'wouldn't care if a purchase or two gets put on the line'

One day, Atsumu, his doting twin brother, waltzes into the semi-busy shop with open arms.

“Take a whiff, boys—the infamous Miya blood mixes with success,” he says smugly.

Osamu doesn't even welcome them once he sees who it is—he simply deadpans and shoves the curtains to go in the back.

With a bright smile that reaches your eyes, you quickly greet the customers. The two unfamiliar gentlemen behind Atsumu had a muscular and tall build—likely hungry athletes in need of rewarding food.

‘Time to sell the whole shop,’ you think with determination.

Although you weren’t an official employee at Onigiri Miya, you wanted to help Osamu as much as you could. That included selling his delicious food to hungry customers.

You devise a quick game plan and target the first tall guy, hastily approaching him. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he examines the menu, trying to decide what to eat.

“Hi there! If you’re looking for something delicious, you can’t go wrong with our classic tuna mayo onigiri,” you suggest cheerfully, your enthusiasm catching his attention.

The tall guy’s face lights up at your recommendation. “That sounds perfect, thanks!” he says, his serious expression softening.

Just as you’re about to show him another flavor, Osamu suddenly walks directly between you and the customer, almost bumping into you. “You should try the natto,” he says, grabbing a natto onigiri from the display, his tone a bit sharper than usual.

The customer looks a bit taken aback, clearly put off by the sudden change. “Uh, I’m not sure about natto…” he says hesitantly.

You frown slightly, trying to salvage the situation. “Well, we have plenty of other options too—how about the umeboshi?” you suggest, stepping around Osamu to point at another onigiri.

Osamu, however, doesn’t move, effectively blocking your view. “Natto’s a specialty here. You should give it a shot,” he insists, practically shoving the onigiri into the customer’s hand, his eyes darting briefly to you and then back to the customer.

The customer looks uncomfortable, but Atsumu, ever the opportunist, steps in with a grin. “Look at ya, ‘Samu. Can’t stand to see Y/N sellin’ your onigiri to my pal, huh?” he teases, clearly enjoying the situation.

Osamu’s scowl deepens as he grabs an onigiri from the counter. “Shut up, ‘Tsumu,” he mutters before stuffing the onigiri into his brother’s mouth, effectively muffling his cackle.

Atsumu’s eyes widen in surprise, slightly coughing from practically choking on a rice ball.

Trying to pretend the twins weren’t going at it, mouthing silent threats to each other on each side of you two, you try to make a pitch once again.

“I hope you try out all, but it’s up to you!” you quickly put all three into the man’s hands and in doing so, your hand encloses them and gives it a slight pat.

The shuffling stops as you feel two holes being burned into the back of your head.

You could hear a soft chuckle as Osamu's large hands suddenly and slightly encircled your neck from behind. His weight leaned lightly against you as he crouched down a bit to join the conversation.

"Y/N's putting in quite the effort to sell you these, man. I'd say take them and enjoy," he remarked, his face close enough to yours that you could almost feel his breath against your ear.

With a subtle maneuver, you sidestep out of his grasp and guide the customer towards the register; the mess the very owner put you through just to sell these damn onigiris. You mentally roll your eyes as Atsumu continues to tease Osamu in the background.

As soon as the trio of athletes bid the shop goodbye, the door chiming softly behind them, your attention soon fell on Osamu.

You could feel a slight tension in the atmosphere, the remnants of the earlier exchange still hanging in the air. Osamu stood behind the counter, his back turned to you as he methodically rearranged the onigiri displays. His movements were precise, almost mechanical as if he were trying to distract himself from the task at hand.

"Why the face, Y/N?" Osamu feigned confusion as he went around the stalls to continue his organizing.

You stood by the register with your arms crossed, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. "Oh, really," you began, "I mean, I get Atsumu—you guys always go at it—but that guy was just like any other customer, 'Samu."

Osamu paused in his task, his expression shifting into a thoughtful gaze as if pondering something. His fingers tapped absentmindedly on the counter before he finally met your gaze. "Yeah, but there's always something more to it," he said cryptically, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You tilted your head, intrigued by his response. "More to what?"

He chuckled softly, a glint of something indescribable in his eyes. "More to everything," he replied enigmatically, leaving you with a curious smile as he continued to work around the shop. His words lingered in the air.

𓇼𓆉𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆉𓇼

want more?

⤷ masterlist.

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solxamber · 9 months ago

Note

Hello!! I absolutely adore your writing and have been reading a lot of it recently 🫶

I have a request, but may follow a more sensitive topic? I was wondering if you could write a fic with Idia, Cater, Rollo (twisted wonderland), or Welt, Ratio, Boothill (honkai star rail) comforting a recovering reader struggling with SH.

I can understand the denial of this request, as it can touch on a sensitive topic, but it would mean a lot to me if you considered it. I've been struggling with this for a while and it would be nice to have some comfort with recovery.

Again, I adore your work and I hope you can consider my request.

Idia, Rollo, Cater and Welt, Ratio, Boothill with a Recovering Reader

Warnings: Mentions of SH

i hope you're doing well now anon. i'm so so proud of you and i'm cheering you on in your recovery. if you wanted something different, please let me know!

it's a sensitive topic that i don't have first hand experience in, so i hope that nothing comes off as insensitive.

Idia Shroud

It had been one of those days. The weight of everything felt suffocating, and you couldn’t quite shake the heaviness that clung to your chest. The dorm felt too loud despite the silence, and yet somehow still too empty. You needed an escape—something to distract from the gnawing thoughts that tugged at the edges of your mind.

So, naturally, you found yourself at Ignihyde.

You didn’t say much when you got there. It wasn’t like you needed to. Idia was sitting at his usual setup, bathed in the glow of his multiple monitors, tapping away with his game controller. He didn’t glance up, but his fingers paused just for a second.

“You, uh, can sit over there if you want,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely to a cushion beside him. “No big deal, really. You can just… chill.”

You took the offer, sinking into the seat beside him. Idia never pressed for conversation, which you appreciated more than words could express. The quiet was comforting in a way that only he could provide. His presence wasn’t demanding, nor was it suffocating—it was just there, a steady companion when everything else felt too much.

After a few minutes of just the sounds of the game filling the air, Idia spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

“I’m not, like, great at pep talks or anything.” His eyes stayed glued to the screen, a blush dusting his cheeks. “But, like, if you ever… I dunno, need a distraction or something, you can always come by. We can game or… just sit. Whatever works.”

It was such a simple offer, but the sincerity in his voice cut through the haze of your thoughts. You knew Idia wasn’t one for big gestures or emotional outbursts, but his awkward, roundabout way of offering support warmed something deep inside you. He understood—maybe more than anyone else—the desire to escape, to disappear into a world where the problems of reality couldn’t touch you.

The next few times you visited, the routine was the same. Quiet, gaming, the occasional muttered commentary from Idia. But there was something so comforting in the routine, in knowing you didn’t have to explain yourself. That he didn’t expect anything from you, just your presence.

One evening, as the two of you sat in comfortable silence, Idia hesitated, fidgeting with his controller before finally speaking.

“You’re, uh… You’re important, you know that, right? Like, I don’t have many people I’d say that to, but you’re… one of them. Just… don’t disappear, okay?”

The vulnerability in his voice surprised you, and you found yourself blinking back the sting of tears. It was a simple statement, but it held the weight of his affection and worry, wrapped in the awkward delivery that was so uniquely him. You didn’t have to say anything; you knew he wasn’t expecting a response.

Instead, you just stayed. That night, in the warmth of his presence and the soft hum of the game, you felt a little less alone.

Cater Diamond

You hadn’t realized just how exhausted you were until you found yourself dragged into Cater’s latest selfie spree. He had a way of sneaking up on you with his usual grin and carefree energy, his arm slung casually around your shoulders as he pulled out his phone.

“Hey! How about we grab some quick pics? No filters this time, just the two of us being real.”

Normally, you’d groan, roll your eyes, and let Cater have his fun without thinking much of it. But today, the idea of being in front of a camera, of capturing yourself as you were now, felt… daunting. You hesitated, tugging at the sleeves of your shirt, your eyes downcast.

Cater, as perceptive as ever, didn’t let it slide.

He turned the camera away for a moment, his smile softening just slightly as he glanced at you. “Hey, no pressure, seriously. We don’t have to do the whole selfie thing if you’re not feeling it. I just thought… you know, we could capture some real moments.”

You glanced up at him, noticing the way his usual carefree demeanor had gentled. Cater might act like everything was all fun and games, but he was more in tune with people’s emotions than he let on. He wasn’t forcing you, wasn’t pushing—just offering a moment of distraction, of fun, if you wanted it.

After a long pause, you finally shrugged, offering a small smile. “Okay, one picture.”

Cater beamed, but it wasn’t his usual bright, showy grin. It was soft, genuine, like he understood what a big step this was for you.

The selfie session wasn’t as performative as you’d expected. Cater didn’t force you into poses or try to make you laugh when you weren’t in the mood. He just stood beside you, his arm slung around your shoulders, and snapped a couple of candid photos. There was something comforting in the simplicity of it, in the way he let you just be.

After a while, he pulled back and glanced at his phone, showing you one of the photos. It wasn’t perfect—your smile was a bit lopsided, your hair a little messy—but Cater grinned at it like it was the best picture he’d ever taken.

“See?” he said, his tone light. “No filters needed. You’re perfect just like this.”

The compliment caught you off guard, and you found yourself blinking back tears you hadn’t realized were there. Cater, ever perceptive, noticed immediately and nudged you gently with his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be ‘camera-ready’ for me. I like you as you are, messy hair and all.”

Later that evening, when you checked your phone, you found the photos he’d sent you. Beneath one of them, he’d written: "Real friends don’t need filters. You’re more than enough, just as you are."

And for the first time in a while, you believed it.

Rollo Flamme

Rollo had always been the type to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. You admired his conviction, his sense of duty, but today, as you sat beside him in the quiet of the garden, it was hard to find comfort in his seriousness.

You had come to him seeking solace, though you weren’t sure if Rollo’s stoic demeanor would offer the comfort you needed. He wasn’t one for soft words or gentle encouragement, but something about the way he watched the world with such intensity made you feel like he saw through the chaos swirling inside you.

For a long while, the two of you sat in silence, the rustle of leaves the only sound breaking the stillness. You expected Rollo to stay silent, as he often did, but after a moment, he spoke, his voice low but steady.

“There’s a battle you’re fighting,” he said, not looking at you. “A battle within yourself. I understand.”

His words startled you, not because they were untrue, but because they were so unexpectedly... personal. You glanced at him, finding his gaze fixed on the horizon, his expression unreadable.

“I’ve fought similar battles,” he continued, his tone measured. “It’s easy to feel overwhelmed, to believe you’re fighting alone. But you’re not. You never have to be.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at his words, and for the first time, you realized just how much you had been carrying by yourself. Rollo’s offer of support was understated, as was his way, but the sincerity behind it was impossible to ignore.

He finally turned to look at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. “I won’t pretend to understand everything you’re going through. But I’m here. I’ll stand with you, as long as you need.”

The weight of his promise hit you harder than you expected, and without a word, you found yourself leaning into his steady presence. He didn’t flinch or pull away—he simply let you rest, offering the quiet strength you didn’t realize you needed.

Welt

Welt’s calm demeanor had always been a source of comfort for you, but today, it felt especially grounding. After a long day of battling your inner turmoil, you found yourself seeking him out, hoping his presence could soothe the storm raging inside.

You didn’t have to say anything when you arrived. Welt, ever perceptive, seemed to understand without words. He led you to a quiet spot under the stars, his gaze gentle as he sat beside you.

“The stars have always been a reminder to me,” he said softly, looking up at the sky. “No matter how dark it gets, there’s always light somewhere. You just have to look for it.”

You followed his gaze, the twinkling lights above offering a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in days. The silence between you was comforting, not suffocating, and for the first time in a while, you felt like you could breathe.

Welt turned to you, his expression kind. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever you’re going through, you have people who care about you. And if you ever need a reminder, just look at the stars.”

His words were simple, but they carried a weight of sincerity that made your chest ache. You hadn’t realized just how much you needed to hear that. The stars twinkled above, and you found yourself nodding, tears brimming in your eyes.

“I don’t want to burden anyone,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Welt shook his head, a gentle smile breaking across his face. “You’re never a burden. Reaching out is part of being human. We all have our battles, and sharing them makes them lighter. You have to let others in, even when it feels hard.”

You looked away, feeling the warmth of his presence wrap around you like a comforting blanket. Welt had a way of putting things into perspective, of making you feel seen without demanding anything from you. His understanding was a lifeline, a beacon guiding you through the darkness.

“What if I keep struggling?” you asked, the fear spilling out before you could hold it back.

“Then we’ll face it together,” he replied with quiet confidence. “Every time you feel lost, remember that I’m here, and so are the others. Just like the stars—sometimes hidden, but always there.”

As the cool night air wrapped around you, you leaned into Welt’s side, allowing the silence to envelop you both. You felt the tension in your shoulders ease just a little, the comfort of his unwavering presence bolstering your resolve.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you finally said, your voice steadier.

“Me too,” Welt replied, glancing up at the stars once more. “And remember, no matter how dark it gets, you are never truly alone.”

Dr. Ratio

Dr. Ratio sits across from you, his expression calm and thoughtful. He’s not the type to rush into emotional outbursts, but the concern in his gaze is unmistakable.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says quietly, voice steady. “I know the weight you’re carrying is immense, but you’re stronger than it.”

You nod, feeling a knot in your chest loosen as he continues. “One step at a time. We’ll make sense of it together. Just know—I’m here for you.”

He reaches out, his hand resting gently on yours. His grip is firm but comforting, grounding you in the moment. The logical part of him is evident in his approach—he breaks things down into manageable pieces, knowing that’s what you need right now.

“There’s no shame in struggling, and there’s no shame in asking for help. It’s okay to feel lost, but you won’t always be. Healing isn’t linear, but each day is progress.”

His words settle over you like a warm blanket, soothing the anxious storm swirling inside. As you lean into his comfort, he offers you a small smile, the kind that tells you things will get better, even if it doesn’t feel that way now.

“You don’t have to have everything figured out today,” he adds, his thumb gently tracing soothing patterns over your skin. “But I’ll be here, however long it takes.”

Boothill

Boothill isn’t the type to hover, but he knows when someone’s hurting—he’s been there too many times himself. His heavy boots clunk against the floor as he approaches you, sitting down beside you in a quiet, solid presence.

“Life’s got a way of takin' pieces outta you,” he says, voice gravelly. “But you don’t gotta do this alone, partner.”

You look away, unsure of how to respond, but Boothill doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps a comforting arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. It’s a gesture so simple, yet so grounding. You can feel his steady heartbeat, his unwavering support.

“You’re tougher than you think,” he continues, his voice softer now, “but even the toughest folks need a hand sometimes. Ain’t no shame in leanin’ on someone.”

The weight of his words sinks in, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself lean on him, just a little. Boothill’s grip tightens ever so slightly, and he lets out a quiet sigh, as if holding the weight of the world alongside you.

“We’ll get through this, partner,” he murmurs, “one step at a time.”

Boothill isn’t one for long speeches, but the sincerity in his voice is more than enough. You feel the warmth of his presence, the understanding in his quiet demeanor, and for a moment, the weight you’ve been carrying doesn’t feel so heavy.

And with that, you know you’re not alone.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #cater x reader #cater diamond x reader #rollo x reader #rollo flamme x reader #idia x reader #idia shroud x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #welt x reader #boothill x reader #dr ratio x reader #ratio x reader #tw: sh mention

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formula1au · 1 year ago

Text

reward for a champion

summary: max is playing on the sim while y/n distracts him

pairings: max verstappen x gf!reader

content: fluff, teasing

warning: none (no smut)

word count: 644

Max sat in the middle of his living room, his eyes glued to the multiple screens of his race sim. The setup was impressive—three large monitors curved around him, a high-tech steering wheel, and a seat that mimicked the cockpit of his Red Bull Racing car. He was deeply immersed in a virtual Grand Prix, navigating through the twists and turns of the Monaco circuit.

Y/n leaned against the doorframe, watching him with a mischievous smile. She knew how much Max loved his sim racing. It was his way of unwinding and staying sharp during the off-season. But today, she felt a playful urge to distract him.

She walked over to him quietly, her bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. Max didn't notice her approach, his concentration unwavering as he took a particularly tight corner. Y/n leaned in close, her lips just inches from his ear.

"Are you winning, Max?" she whispered, her breath tickling his neck.

Max jumped slightly, the car on the screen swerving dangerously close to the corner. He quickly corrected the mistake, his focus momentarily shaken. "Schat! You scared the hell out of me," he said, laughing despite himself.

Y/n giggled and moved to sit on his lap. "Sorry, I couldn't resist. You just look so serious," she teased, poking his side gently.

Max shook his head, trying to keep his attention on the race. "This is serious business, you know. I can't afford distractions."

"Oh really?" Y/n said, raising an eyebrow. She slid her hand down his arm, her fingers lightly tracing his skin. "What if I do... this?" She leaned in and kissed his cheek softly, then his jawline, her lips trailing down his neck.

Max's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. "Liefje, you're making this very difficult," he said, his voice strained with a mix of amusement and distraction.

Y/n pulled back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Come on, baby. It's just a game. You can always restart if you crash."

Max grinned, glancing at her briefly before focusing back on the screen. "You know I hate losing, even in a game."

"Well, if you win this race, I'll make it worth your while," she said, her voice low and suggestive.

Max's eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled. "Oh? And what exactly does that mean?"

Y/n leaned in close again, her lips brushing his ear. "You'll just have to win and find out," she whispered.

With renewed determination, Max fixed his eyes on the track, maneuvering his car with precision. Y/n watched, impressed by his skill and concentration. She decided to dial down her teasing, not wanting to genuinely ruin his race. Instead, she opted for a different approach.

She slipped off his lap and moved behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders. She began to massage his tense muscles, her thumbs working out the knots. "Relax, Max. You've got this," she said soothingly.

Max sighed, the tension easing from his body as he navigated the final laps of the race. With Y/n's hands working their magic, he felt a surge of confidence. He took the final corner flawlessly and crossed the finish line in first place.

He let out a yell, raising his arms in victory. "I did it!"

Y/n clapped her hands, her face beaming with pride. "I knew you could. Well done, champion."

Max turned in his seat to face her, pulling her onto his lap. "Now, about that reward you mentioned..."

Y/n wrapped her arms around his neck, her eyes sparkling. "Patience, Mr. Verstappen. Let's just say it'll be worth the wait."

Max smiled, kissing her softly. "I like the sound of that."

They stayed there for a moment, wrapped in each other's arms, enjoying the quiet victory and the promise of something more.

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fayelero · 1 year ago

Text

— SPACE SONG ! kenma kozume

syn : your boyfriend is rather distant because of his streams but make it up to you

wc : 3.4k

tw : angst, smut, fluff, timeskip!kenma, afab!reader, ruined orgasm, missionary then cowgirl, unprotected sex, dirty talk, praise, reader get drunk (not during smut)

Kenma Kozume, once a skilled setter for the Nekoma High School volleyball team, had transformed his passion for gaming into a lucrative career. His YouTube channel and Twitch streams boasted millions of subscribers, eagerly tuning in to watch his expert gameplay and witty commentary. His fame had skyrocketed, leading to numerous sponsorship deals with major gaming companies, each vying for his endorsement of their latest releases.

You stood in the doorway of Kenma's state-of-the-art gaming room, watching your boyfriend of nearly a year as he sat hunched over his setup. The glow of multiple monitors illuminated his face, his cat-like eyes darting across the screens as his fingers danced over the keyboard and mouse. You couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness, despite being in the same room.

"Kenma," you called softly, careful not to disrupt his stream. "Do you have a minute?"

Without taking his eyes off the game, Kenma responded in a low voice, "Not now. I'm in the middle of a crucial match."

You sighed, used to this response but still disappointed. "I was hoping we could talk about our plans for the weekend. Maybe go out somewhere?"

Kenma's brow furrowed slightly, more from concentration on the game than your question. "This weekend? I have a sponsored stream for that new MMORPG. It's a big deal."

"But we haven't had a proper date in weeks," you protested, trying to keep the frustration out of your voice.

Kenma paused for a split second, his character on screen momentarily idle. He glanced at you, his expression a mix of guilt and irritation. "Look, I know it's been busy lately. The channel's growing faster than ever, and I can't pass up these opportunities."

He turned back to the game, his fingers resuming their frantic pace. "Do you want something? Use my credit card as you like, buy anything. And don't disturb my work hours," he added, his tone indifferent as he refocused on the live match.

You felt a lump forming in your throat. "It's not about the money, Kenma. I just want to spend time with you."

But Kenma was already back in his gaming world, his microphone reactivated as he called out strategies to his teammates. You knew he wouldn't respond now, not with tens of thousands of viewers watching his every move.

As you turned to leave the room, you caught a glimpse of the chat flying by on one of the monitors. Fans were speculating about Kenma's personal life, some wondering if he was single. You remembered the conversation where Kenma had asked to keep your relationship private, fearing the impact it might have on his career and your privacy.

Now, standing alone in the hallway of your shared apartment, you couldn't help but wonder if there was room for you in Kenma's life of pixels and paychecks. The sound of his voice, animated and engaged with his audience, drifted from the room behind you, a stark contrast to the quiet, disinterested tone he had used with you moments ago.

You made your way to the kitchen, your footsteps heavy with disappointment. The sleek, modern appliances and granite countertops that had once excited you now felt cold and impersonal. As you leaned against the kitchen island, the emotions you'd been holding back finally broke through.

Tears began to roll down your cheeks, and you covered your mouth to muffle the sound of your sobs. The last thing you wanted was for Kenma to hear you crying over his livestream. The contrast between the enthusiastic voice coming from his gaming room and the silence of the kitchen where you stood alone was painfully stark.

With shaking hands, you pulled out your phone and opened your group chat with your closest friends.

You: Hey guys. Anyone up for going out tonight? I really need to get out of the house.

Ami: What's wrong? Everything okay with you and Kenma?

Yuki: I'm free! Let's hit that new club downtown. You sound like you could use a girls' night out.

Hana: Count me in. We'll cheer you up!

You: Thanks, girls. I just... I need a distraction. Things have been tough lately.

Ami: Say no more. We've got your back. Meet at my place at 9?

You: Sounds perfect. I'll be there.

You wiped your eyes, feeling a small sense of relief. At least you had friends who cared and were there for you. As you headed to the bedroom to get ready, you could still hear Kenma's voice, now punctuated by occasional laughter and excitement over some in-game achievement.

"I'm going out," you called out, knowing he probably wouldn't respond or even notice your absence.

As expected, there was no reply. You sighed, picked out an outfit that made you feel confident, and started getting ready. The night out with your friends wouldn't solve the underlying issues in your relationship, but at least it would provide a temporary escape from the loneliness that had become all too familiar in your shared apartment.

As you applied your makeup, carefully concealing the evidence of your tears, you couldn't help but wonder how long you could continue like this – loving someone who seemed to exist more in the digital world than in the real one beside you.

–

As you arrived at Ami's place, your phone buzzed with a message. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw it was from Kenma.

Kenma: Where are you?

You hesitated for a moment before replying.

You: I'm out with the girls. Told you I was leaving.

Kenma: Oh. When will you be back?

You: Not sure. Don't wait up.

You stared at your phone, half-hoping he'd say something more, express concern, or ask you to come home. But no further messages came.

"Everything okay?" Ami asked, noticing your frown.

You forced a smile. "Yeah, just Kenma checking in. Let's go have some fun."

The four of you piled into a taxi, the excitement of a night out slowly lifting your spirits. As you approached the club, the pulsing beats could be heard even from the street.

"This is exactly what you need," Yuki said, linking her arm with yours. "A night to forget about everything and just dance."

The club was packed, bodies moving in sync with the music. The DJ was skilled, mixing tracks that kept the energy high. You and your friends found a spot on the dance floor, and for the first time in weeks, you felt yourself start to relax.

As you danced, the rhythm pulsing through your body, you tried to push thoughts of Kenma aside. But every now and then, you'd catch yourself checking your phone, hoping to see a message from him.

Hana noticed and gently took your phone. "Hey, tonight is about you, okay? Let's live in the moment."

You nodded, grateful for your friends' support. The night continued, a blur of dancing, laughter, and overpriced cocktails. For hours, you lost yourself in the music and the company of your friends.

It was nearly 2 AM when you stumbled out of the club, your feet aching but your heart lighter than it had been in months.

"Thank you all so much," you said, hugging each of your friends. "I really needed this."

As you got into a taxi to head home, the euphoria of the night began to fade, replaced by the reality waiting for you. You wondered if Kenma would still be awake, if he'd noticed your absence, if he'd care that you'd been out so late.

The taxi pulled up to your apartment building. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever awaited you inside. As much as you'd enjoyed the night out, you knew that come morning, you and Kenma would need to have a serious conversation about your relationship and your future together.

As you fumbled with your keys, the door suddenly swung open. Kenma stood there, his hair disheveled and eyes wide with concern.

"Where have you been? I've been worried sick!" he exclaimed, pulling you into a tight embrace.

The sudden show of affection, combined with your inebriated state, caught you off guard. You giggled, your words slurring slightly as you spoke.

"Kenmaaa," you drawled, poking his cheek. "Did anyone ever tell you you're a cutie? 'Cause you are. Such a cute kitty."

Kenma's brow furrowed with worry as he realized your state. "You're drunk. Come on, let's get you inside."

As he guided you into the apartment, you stumbled, nearly falling before he caught you. "Whoopsie! My hero," you giggled again.

"I'm so sorry," Kenma said, his voice thick with remorse. "I shouldn't have ignored you earlier. I didn't realize you were so upset."

You waved your hand dismissively, nearly hitting him in the face. "S'okay. You were busy with your millions of fans. Who needs a girlfriend when you have millions of fans, right?"

Kenma winced at your words. "No, that's not... I've been terrible to you. I'm so, so sorry."

He helped you to the bedroom, where you flopped onto the bed, your world spinning. Kenma knelt beside you, gently removing your shoes.

"You know what?" you said, your voice suddenly serious despite your drunken state. "I miss you. Even when you're here, I miss you."

Kenma's face crumpled with guilt. "I know. I've been selfish and blind. I promise I'll make it up to you."

He helped you sit up and handed you a glass of water. "Drink this. It'll help."

As you sipped the water, Kenma busied himself getting you comfortable. He helped you change into pajamas, brought a bucket in case you felt sick, and made sure you had painkillers nearby for the inevitable hangover.

"There," he said softly, tucking you in. "Try to get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

You nodded sleepily, already drifting off. Just before you fell asleep, you felt Kenma's lips press gently against your forehead.

"I love you," he whispered. "I'm sorry I haven't shown it lately. That's going to change."

As sleep overtook you, you felt a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

–

As you slowly regained consciousness, your head throbbing and your mouth dry, you became aware of movement in the room. You cracked open an eye to see Kenma looking at you with a mixture of concern and amusement.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said softly, a small smile playing on his lips.

You groaned in response, your voice hoarse. "Is it morning already?"

Kenma chuckled lightly, taking in your disheveled appearance. "It's almost noon, actually. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck," you mumbled, slowly sitting up.

"Come on," Kenma said, helping you to your feet. "I've made coffee. It should help."

You shuffled after him to the kitchen, squinting against the light. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you.

As Kenma busied himself pouring you a cup, you leaned against the counter, watching him. Something felt different, but in your hungover state, you couldn't quite put your finger on it. Then suddenly, a realization hit you.

"Wait," you said, your brow furrowing in confusion. "Don't you have a stream right now?"

Kenma turned to you, coffee in hand, his expression serious. "No, I cancelled it."

"You... cancelled it?" you repeated, stunned. Kenma never cancelled streams, especially not sponsored ones.

He nodded, handing you the coffee. "I cancelled all my streams for the next few days, actually. We need to talk, and you're more important than any sponsorship or subscriber count."

You took a sip of coffee, trying to process this information. "But... your career, your fans..."

Kenma shook his head, cutting you off. "They can wait. I've been neglecting what really matters - you, us. I realized last night how close I was to losing you, and I never want to come that close again."

Despite your hangover, you felt a surge of emotion. "Kenma..."

He took your free hand in his, his golden eyes meeting yours. "I'm sorry for how I've been acting. I got caught up in the success and forgot about the most important person in my life. Can we talk? Really talk, about us and where we go from here?"

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and apprehension. "Yeah, we should talk."

Kenma squeezed your hand gently. "Finish your coffee, take a shower if you want. I'll be here when you're ready.”

As you settled on the couch, Kenma positioned himself between your legs, resting his head on your stomach. Your fingers instinctively found their way to his hair, gently running through the soft strands. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on either of you.

"I've missed this," Kenma murmured, nuzzling closer.

You smiled, twirling a lock of his hair around your finger. "What, using me as your personal pillow?"

He chuckled softly. "Among other things. Your touch, your scent, just... you."

"Careful, Kozume," you teased. "Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me."

Kenma tilted his head to look up at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh? And what if I do more than like you?"

Your heart fluttered at his words. "Prove it," you challenged playfully.

In one swift motion, Kenma sat up and cupped your face in his hands. His golden eyes locked with yours, full of warmth and affection. "Challenge accepted," he whispered before pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss.

When you parted, you couldn't help but grin. "Not bad for a gamer boy."

Kenma raised an eyebrow. "Gamer boy? I'll have you know I'm a gamer man."

You laughed, pulling him close again. "Oh really? Then show me your high score, gamer man."

He smirked, leaning in for another kiss. "Game on."

As you feverishly clutched each other, all the pent-up desire from months apart erupted into a frenzy of passion. The hunger and longing was palpable as you devoured each other's lips, your hands greedily exploring every inch of skin. Words were unnecessary as your bodies spoke their own language, a primal dance of pleasure and release. There was no need for discussion, only the wild abandon of two lovers reunited at last.

Kenma's hands slid under your sweatshirt, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You're so beautiful," he whispered against your neck as his lips met your skin. You couldn't help but let out a small gasp as he squeezed your breasts gently. "I need you," you moaned, craving more of his touch. With each kiss, the desire between you grew stronger, igniting sparks of passion like wildfire. Your breaths mingled, creating a symphony of pleasure as the world around you melted away. In that moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heartbeats and the overwhelming feeling of being consumed by each other.

As his skilled fingers traced a path over the fabric covering your heated core, you couldn't help but let out a soft moan into his hungry mouth. "That's it, baby," he murmured against your lips, his movements becoming more fervent. With a quick swoop, he removed your panties and shorts, exposing your now throbbing center to the cool air. As his fingers continued their maddening circles, his tongue eagerly explored your mouth, sending shivers down your spine. Just as you felt yourself on the brink of ecstasy, he abruptly stopped, leaving you flushed and wanting. "Kenma..." you breathed out, pleading for him to continue.

He slowly removed his pants, revealing the outline of his erect member through his underwear. "I'll show you just how much of a man I am," he said confidently as he peeled off his underwear, causing you to gasp in excitement. You couldn't help but admire the size and girth of his throbbing cock as it stood proudly before you. He smirked at your reaction and teasingly rubbed the tip of his dripping pre-cum along the edge of your soaking wet pussy. "Look how wet you are," he whispered huskily in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Suddenly, he pulled back and only brushed the head of his cock against your slick entrance, making you whimper with frustration. "Please," you begged, gripping onto him tightly as he held your thighs apart. Without hesitation, he thrust himself into you fully, causing you to moan loudly into his neck. Your bodies moved together in perfect synchronization as he pounded into you with every ounce of strength and passion he possessed. And for that moment, nothing else existed except for the two of you locked in an ecstatic embrace.

With a predatory gaze, he slowly undressed, revealing the outline of his impressive erection through his tight underwear. "I'll show you just how much of a man I am," he growled with confidence as he slid off his underwear, exposing a throbbing and girthy cock that made your mouth water with desire. He smirked at your obvious arousal and teasingly dragged the tip of his dripping pre-cum along the edge of your soaking wet pussy, eliciting an eager gasp from your lips. "Look how ready you are for me," he purred huskily into your ear, sending delicious shivers down your spine. But just as you thought you couldn't take it anymore, he pulled back and only grazed the head of his cock against your slick entrance, making you whimper in desperation. "Please," you begged, desperate for him to fulfill your burning desires. With a feral hunger in his eyes, he gripped onto your thighs tightly and plunged himself inside you with a powerful thrust, causing you to cry out in pleasure and cling onto him desperately. Your bodies moved together in a primal rhythm, each thrust driving both of you closer to the brink of ecstasy. And in that moment, nothing else existed except for the raw passion between the two of you as you were consumed by unbridled desire and pleasure.

Your bodies collided in a frenzy of passion, each thrust causing your entire being to jolt with euphoria. The taste of his saliva lingered between your lips, igniting a primal desire within you as he devoured your mouth. "Kenma...'s t-too much...t-too good," you gasped, feeling yourself on the brink of explosion. But before you could surrender completely to ecstasy, he flipped you over and guided you onto him in the cowgirl position, his depths reaching even deeper inside of you. "Ride me, baby," he commanded, and with a few moments to adjust and find your rhythm, you began to ride him with reckless abandon. Your hands gripped onto his torso for support as you moved together in perfect harmony, both moaning and groaning in ecstasy. His words of praise only fueled your desire as you picked up speed, feeling the rough friction between your bodies. He grabbed onto your ass, guiding and assisting your movements as you cried out his name in absolute bliss. Every sensation was heightened in this position, every thrust and grind sending shivers of pleasure through your body as you reached the pinnacle of pleasure together.

Each powerful thrust sends you spiraling further into a state of pure ecstasy. Your cries reach a deafening crescendo, urging him to never stop as he takes you with an unrelenting force. His torso presses against yours, his head buried in your chest as he hungrily tastes and teases your sensitive breasts. The overwhelming sensation of pleasure consumes every inch of your body, building towards an explosive release that you can no longer hold back. With a final desperate cry of "Fuck! K-Ken...!", you both shatter into oblivion, consumed by the intensity of your passion until there is nothing left but the sound of heavy breathing and the taste of each other lingering on your lips.

As you both lay entwined in the afterglow, your hearts beating in sync with one another, a sense of peace and comfort washes over you. Kenma's arms envelop you protectively, and you can't help but marvel at how this gamer boy has turned into a man who thoroughly knows how to take care of you.

You trace your fingers along his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under your touch. "I love you, Kenma," you whisper, your voice filled with emotion.

He turns his head to look into your eyes, his own shining with love and devotion. "And I love you too, more than words can express." He pulls you closer, his lips brushing against your cheek in a tender caress.

tag : @haechansbbg

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estellan0vella · 3 months ago

Text

The Secret Sound of Us: B.C Bang Chan x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 18.5K

CW: Sexual Content, Implied and referenced sexual activity, Anxiety and Mental Health, Injury and Medical Treatment, Suicidal Ideation (Discussions about wanting to die out of embarrassment)(Multiple exaggerated jokes and comments from Y/N about throwing herself into the Han River), Threats of Violence, Accidental Voyeurism, Dramatic references to gagging and dry heaving

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

It’s mid-afternoon in Seoul, and the sun is spilling golden light through the partially closed blinds of Felix’s bedroom at the Alpha Phi frat house. Felix’s triple monitor setup hums quietly, Attack on Titan playing across all three screens in a chaotic mosaic of Titans and dramatic stares.

You’re lying on Felix’s bed, limbs tangled between Felix and Jisung like a mess of lazy cats, all three of you bundled in pyjamas you probably should’ve washed a couple nights ago. You’re in your favourite Spiderman pyjama trousers, a black cropped camisole that’s more spaghetti strap than actual shirt, and the matching Spiderman slippers that make the softest little thump-thump sounds on the floor when you walk.

Jisung’s got on his Garfield pyjama trousers and a white vest that’s already stained with something suspiciously orange. His matching Garfield slippers, slightly too big, keep falling off his feet and hitting the floor with soft plops. And Felix, because he’s Felix, is wrapped in Hello Kitty pyjama trousers and a pink vest that reads A Slay Gay in glittery cursive.

You’ve been rewatching Attack on Titan for the sixth time, but really, no one’s watching anymore. You’re jotting down more lines for your latest song, working on your fifth verse and your handwriting’s getting a little messy from the constant motion of Jisung’s foot bouncing against your knee.

“Okay, but like, Miche? The fucking shoulders on that man? He could carry me, my emotional baggage, my unresolved trauma, my dead body, fucking everything.”

Felix snorts, not looking up from his phone. “You say that about every man with biceps.”

“And I’ll keep saying it,” Jisung says, offended. “I’m a simple guy. Give me a tragic backstory and tree-trunk arms and I’m done for.”

You laugh and close your notebook with a little thud, tossing it on Felix’s desk. “I’m all for women being independent, you know, like, strong as fuck, but I would be Levi’s housewife in an instant. I’d be in an apron, barefoot, making stew or some shit.”

Jisung props himself up on one elbow, raising a brow. “Always in a little summer dress to get fucked?”

You shrug. “Absolutely.”

“Respect.”

You giggle, pushing Jisung’s leg slightly off your lap to sit up straighter. “Forget the men. You know where it’s at? Hange. The most beautiful 2D they I’ve ever seen. And Nanaba could punch me and I’d say thank you.”

Jisung makes a gasping sound, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing your hand for another fist bump. “As another proud pansexual, you’re so fucking right. Hange is unhinged and sexy, and Nanaba? The power. The femininity. The rage. She’s mother.”

Felix hums. “As a fully gay man, I think I could get it up for Hange. Androgynous icon. They could wreck my shit.”

You cackle, burying your face in your hands. “God, Felix.”

“I’m just being honest!” he says, throwing a pillow at your shoulder. “I’m sexually liberated.”

Jisung sits up suddenly, eyes lighting up. “So, Y/N, is takeout on you tonight?”

“Why would it be on me? Is it because I’m a woman? That’s sexist.”

Felix boos dramatically, flinging both arms around you. “Booooo! Boo this misogynist!”

Jisung holds up his hands. “No! No, it’s because you have a steady income! Secret Sound Programme, remember?”

“Shhh! Someone could hear you!”

“Bitch, you can sing. Embrace it! I do. I make it everyone’s problem that I’m musically gifted and chose to pursue journalism instead.”

“I’d die if anyone besides you two found out it was me,”

Felix rubs your back in circles. “Because you’re super shy, super shy.”

Jisung sings, “But wait a minute while I make you mine, make you mine!”

Felix looks at Jisung and says, “That was very gay of us.”

Jisung pretends to gag. “Ugh. Disgusting. Queerness.”

“Look, if I was ever gonna make money off singing, what I’d do is sing my songs for some girl who can’t sing, and she’d lip-sync on stage and I would be happily rich and anonymous.”

Felix gasps. “Like Milli Vanilli?”

You nod vigorously. “Exactly.”

Jisung blinks. “Hello? Incheon boy here? Born in Korea, raised in Korea and Malaysia? What the actual fuck is a Milli Vanilli?”

Felix gasps, sitting upright. “Oh my GOD. You unwesternised gremlin. It was a scandal! A SCANDAL none of us were even alive for, and yet, the drama remains!”

Jisung’s eyes widen. “What happened?!”

“Okay, picture this. Two hot dudes. They can’t sing for shit, right? But they LOOK like they could. So the record label’s like, boom, we got something. They get actual singers to do the vocals, but the hot dudes are the faces of the band. They win a Grammy. A fucking Grammy. And then BOOM. Exposed. The whole world finds out they didn’t sing a single goddamn note.”

“I want to do that but, like, smartly. So I don’t get caught. I will forever remain anonymous. Singing. Rich. In a house full of plants. While someone else takes my credit. That’s my life goal, I think.”

Felix sighs dramatically and leans back again. “You and your fucking plants.”

“They’re not just plants,” you say quickly, voice rising with the speed of your ramble. “They’re emotional support organisms. Like, I can’t talk to people. But I can talk to my string of turtles. And my monstera is so fucking pretty. I have one that’s growing a fenestrated leaf for the first time and I almost cried when I saw it because I’ve had it since freshman orientation and it didn’t even like me for six months and now it’s thriving and I’m like, that’s growth, literally and figuratively-”

“Jesus,” Jisung says, watching you with wide eyes. “You and I are the same person. I talked to my fucking desk cactus during midterms.”

“Don’t shit on emotional support foliage,”

Felix is giggling again, the kind of giggle that makes his shoulders shake. “You two have negative common sense between you. I swear to god.”

“Not true,” you say, poking his side. “We have a combined IQ of, like, a lot.”

Jisung raises a brow. “Name three bones in the human body.”

“Funnybone,” you say.

“Dick bone,” Jisung adds.

“Backbone,” Felix finishes, high-fiving both of you.

“See?” you say proudly. “Fucking geniuses.”

“Oh, Y/N,” Felix says, way too brightly, “time for your fucking medicine.”

“Noooooo,” you whine, already kicking your legs like a toddler. “I don’t want to do the drops. They make my eye feel weird. It’s like, cold and stingy and too fucking clinical. And my eye keeps twitching. And I hate people touching my eye. And it always feels like they’re gonna poke it into the back of my skull-”

Jisung snorts. “Jesus, you sound like you’re describing a horror movie. It’s just eyedrops.”

“Just eyedrops?” you squeak, sitting up suddenly. “Jisung. I have to get these fucking things four times a day, and you remember how I got this, right? Or were you too drunk to retain any memory of my tragic fucking trauma?”

“Okay, that’s dramatic, even for you,” Jisung teases, booping your nose.

“Let the girl be dramatic, she hit her face on the fucking kitchen counter!” Felix says, already reaching towards his desk where he keeps your dexamethasone drops. “You were drunk off your ass. You tripped over your own fucking Spiderman slipper and just BAM! Counter to the face. You slid down like a character in a video game. It was horrifying and honestly kind of graceful"

“It was not graceful. It was traumatic. I couldn’t even see out of my right eye, and then Minho had to drive me to the hospital because you two fuckers were useless.”

“That’s fair,” Jisung admits. “I was, like, seventeen tequila shots deep. I thought the inside of the freezer was a portal to Narnia.”

“And I passed out on the beanbag and woke up covered in Cheeto dust,” Felix adds casually, shaking the eye drop bottle. “You should be thankful Minho was sober. That man is, like, terrifyingly competent.”

You remember it vividly. Waking up on the kitchen floor, half-blind in your right eye, your face throbbing, Felix trying to pour water on your head like that would fix a head injury. Jisung trying to google how to heal a busted eye with a spoon and a towel. And Minho who came storming in with his hair still damp from a shower and calmly said, “Get in the car,” like a fucking protagonist in a thriller.

Then at the hospital, he held your hand while the emergency ophthalmologist examined you, and by held your hand, you mean he pinned your arms down because you wouldn’t stop flailing and trying to escape.

“Minho had to physically restrain me while they looked at my eye,”

“And now we have to restrain you while we put in your drops,” Felix says cheerily, already climbing over Jisung to get closer. “This is a group effort.”

“No! Noooo!” you cry, trying to scoot backwards off the bed, but Jisung grabs your ankles and yanks you back with a victorious shout, laughing his ass off as you flail.

“Get the arms!”

Jisung throws a leg over your thighs and pins you down, giggling madly while Felix straddles your chest.

This is not hygienic! I have RIGHTS! I hate you both!”

Felix frowns. “Fuck, she’s twitching again. I can’t get a clean shot. Her eye’s moving around like she’s being electrocuted.”

“I’m nervous! My eye is vulnerable and wet and you’re attacking it with chemicals!”

“We need backup,” Jisung announces solemnly, grabbing his phone and texting at the speed of light. “Summoning the Eye Drop Task Force.”

“Oh god,” you whisper as the door slams open.

First comes Hyunjin, looking freshly moisturized and vaguely annoyed, shirtless in grey sweatpants and blinking like he just woke up from a nap. “Is it time?”

“Yep,” Jisung grins.

Jeongin waltzes in wearing a silk robe and sipping a protein shake and Seungmin trails in behind him, yawning, phone still in hand, dressed in all black like he’s attending a funeral, and mutters, “I had just started a game.”

Finally, Changbin storms in, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to brawl. “Is the patient resisting again?”

“Okay, Jeongin, you’re on eye duty,” Felix commands like a general. “Hyunjin and Seungmin, arms. Changbin, head stabilization. Let’s do this.”

“I swear to god-” you begin, but then it’s too late. Suddenly, you’re being held down like a lab rat, Jeongin climbing over you with his perfectly manicured fingers prying your eyelids apart.

“Holy fuck, why is her eye twitching so much?” Jeongin asks, squinting at your face. “It’s like trying to hold open a possessed clam.”

Felix dives in with the bottle, tongue poking out in concentration. He angles it just right, and plop. “Got it!”

“IT’S COLD. IT’S IN MY FUCKING BRAIN. I CAN TASTE IT THROUGH MY SINUSES.”

“Side effect,” Seungmin says dryly, already letting go of your arm and stepping back.

“Goddamn,” Changbin says, brushing off his hands. “You put up a fight. That was like wrestling a raccoon.”

“Do raccoons scream about injustice and cry while getting medical treatment?”

“Only the very dramatic ones,” Jeongin says, patting your head.

As the boys file out, muttering things like “good luck with the next dose” and “text if she tries to bolt next time,” Jisung flops back on the bed beside you, breathless.

“You know what I need?” he says, staring at the ceiling. “I need a nap.”

“Me too”

The two of you immediately curl up together like a pair of exhausted kittens, dragging the blanket up to your chins. Felix sighs loudly, clearly pretending to be annoyed, but you can hear the fondness in his voice. “Oh my god, you two nap more than my halmeoni. It’s three in the fucking afternoon.”

“Naps help with anxiety,”

“And the crushing weight of existing in late-stage capitalism,”

The kitchen is quieter than usual for a mid-afternoon at the Alpha Phi frat house, save for the occasional distant shout of "FUCKING HEADSHOT!" echoing from the game room next door.

That can only mean one thing, Felix is gaming. And if Jisung isn’t glued to Felix, then there’s a one-hundred-percent chance he and you are currently passed out upstairs in Felix’s bed, dead to the world.

Chan sits alone at the kitchen island, hunched over his laptop, his elbows planted on either side of his black over-ear headphones as he scrolls through the Secret Sound Programme submission list. He’s been at it for over an hour now, the audio files blurring together, some decent, some good, a few outright painful, but none of them have what he needs.

The request he submitted for this batch was specific, a cover of Good Day by IU. A notoriously difficult song because of those three high notes. Chan knows exactly what he wants, and it’s not mediocrity.

And then he sees it. #8847.

The number jumps out like it’s glowing, not because of anything on the screen, but because he knows it. He’s heard this one before. Not this exact file, but this submitter. This voice. This goddamn voice.

Chan clicks and the sound that pours through his headphones is nothing short of magic. He exhales sharply, sitting back like the wind just got knocked out of him. It’s not forced. It’s not shaky. It’s confident without sounding cocky, emotional without being overdone.

From behind him, there’s the steady sound of chopping. Minho is at the stove, stirring a pot of guksu jangguk with his usual laser focus. His hair is pulled back with a makeup headband with little cat ears perched on top.

Minho doesn’t look up. “You’re listening to your singing Cinderella again, aren’t you?”

“How the fuck do you always know?”

“You get that same dumb dreamy look every time,” Minho says, flicking sesame seeds into the pot. “Like you’re in a Disney movie and the forest animals are about to start harmonizing.”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, yeah. I am. But listen to this.”

He yanks the headphone jack out of his laptop and hits play again, letting the voice fill the kitchen.

Minho finally pauses, tilting his head as he listens. “Damn. That’s a good voice.”

Chan shakes his head. “That’s not a good voice. That’s perfection. This girl should be an idol. Not getting paid like twenty thousand won a clip to sing anonymously for my student projects.”

Minho gives him a sideways glance, smirking. “You’re in love with a voice. What if she’s ugly?”

“What the fuck, Min?”

“I’m just saying. Someone with a voice like that could still look like she crawled out of a fucking swamp.”

Chan stares at him in horror. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Minho shrugs. “I’m concerned. My objectively attractive friend is developing a parasocial crush on an anonymous voice. And if this girl turns out to be fugly, and you fall in love and make ugly babies, I will have to lock them in a cupboard when I babysit. I’ll feed them, I’m not a fucking monster, but it’ll be with a slingshot because I’m not trying to have their ugly asses within eyesight.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“I’m serious,” Minho says, pointing a wooden spoon at him. “No one in this frat is allowed to have ugly babies. Everyone in Alpha Phi? Hot as fuck. It’s not a coincidence.”

Chan laughs, running a hand through his hair. “So you're saying we’re hot by design?”

“Yes!” Minho slams the spoon down with emphasis. “You think Seungmin’s still here because he’s our future lawyer? No. It’s because he is photogenic as shit. You, me, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jisung, Felix, Jeongin, we’re a fucking visual lineup. This is curated beauty. It must be preserved.”

“You’re ranting about eugenics right now. You’re cancelled. You’re done.”

“I’m not saying we sterilize ugly people,” Minho says, like that somehow makes it better. “I’m just saying ugly people should fuck other ugly people. And beautiful people should fuck beautiful people. Like you. And oh, I don’t know. Off the top of my head. Y/N. Just as an example. For the sake of argument.”

Chan doesn’t say anything for a moment because his brain is suddenly glitching between two very inconvenient truths. One, he has a stupid, growing crush on you. You, the anxious, soft-voiced, ramble-prone botany major who trips over nothing and drinks tea out of mugs shaped like frogs. Two, he’s also falling in love with a voice, this anonymous, elusive voice from the Secret Sound Programme that keeps showing up in his project folders and sounding like a dream.

“I mean, think about it,” Minho continues, now ladling broth into little bowls for later. “You and Y/N would make the most disgustingly pretty kids. The kind of babies that get sponsorship deals before they can talk. And she’s sweet. She’d probably grow an entire herb garden for their baby food. You’d write lullabies. It’d be domestic as fuck.”

Chan groans and drops his head onto the counter. “Can you not?”

“I’m just helping,”

“You’re matchmaking with my crush on a person I barely talk to,” Chan mumbles into the granite.

Minho laughs and drops a pair of chopsticks beside him. “Eat your soup and stop fantasizing about your mystery songbird. She probably has four teeth and a criminal record.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Chan mutters, “You’re lucky your food is good,” and starts eating.

But even as he sips the warm, rich broth, the voice lingers in his head. That smooth, almost haunting clarity, the way she hits those notes like it’s effortless. Like she was born to do it. And something in his chest aches, not just from musical admiration, but something... deeper. He tells himself it’s professional curiosity. That’s what he always says.

But part of him wants to find her. And another part wonders what he’ll do if she’s not who he imagined at all.

The music department hallway is buzzing in that quiet kind of way. Chan’s on his way to the studio he booked out for the next few hours, planning to layer some beats and maybe work on that track he’s had in his head all week, the one meant for the mystery vocalist who’s been haunting his laptop like some siren made of MP3 files and vocal perfection.

He’s brought to a dead stop by a shriek so loud it makes him jump, followed by someone yelling, “Just keep your eye open! You need your drops!”

There’s another, more dramatic shriek, and then a loud laugh, one that sounds very familiar.

Chan’s head turns immediately, brow furrowed, and a second later, the door to one of the Secret Sound recording rooms swings open. Out tumble you and Jisung, both laughing, you blinking rapidly and wiping at your right eye while Jisung pumps both fists in the air.

Chan watches the scene unfold like a confused bystander caught in the weirdest flash mob ever. His brain is already spinning, because that’s the studio for Secret Sound students only. No one’s supposed to know who’s in there. The program is built on anonymity.

Singers submit under ID numbers, files get encrypted, and only the admins know who’s behind which voice. Even the production majors working with the clips get no names, no faces. It’s been the most creatively exciting part of his projects recently, this total mystery.

And now he’s staring at the two people he least expected walking straight out of that studio.

You blink up at him, your right eye still a little red and watery. “Oh, hey Chan! We, uh- Hi!”

Jisung jumps in, saving you without hesitation. “Hey! Didn’t know you were gonna be here! Haha, yeah, we were just doing some stuff."

Chan blinks. “Were you just in the Secret Sound studio?”

Jisung nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, totally. I needed some extra cash. Figured I’d lend my angelic vocals to the student masses.”

You make a little squeak of a noise beside him and try to smile. “I just tagged along. Moral support. Very moral. Supportive. Morally supportive.”

Chan looks between the two of you. You’re wearing a dark blue cropped denim jacket layered over a black lace bralette, the jacket sleeves pushed halfway up your forearms. Your high-waisted denim mini skirt barely skims your thighs, and your thigh-high black boots are so well-fitted it’s almost unfair. A small black handbag dangles from your shoulder, your fingers clutching it like a lifeline.

Jisung’s coordinated to match you, dark blue button-up shirt and pants covered in white stars, a chunky silver chain around his neck, a black crossbody bag slung across his chest, and white high-tops scuffed in a way that screams style and chaos in equal measure. He always looks like he’s about to perform or rob a very fashionable store.

“Oh, cool. I didn’t know you guys were part of Secret Sound. Obviously. Considering the secret part.”

You laugh nervously, clutching your bag tighter. “Oh no, uh, not me. Just Jisung. I can’t even sing. And if I did, which I don’t, I wouldn’t do it publicly. Even secretly. That’s not- Anyway, I was just here to support Ji, because he, um, gets nervous. Not that he needs to. Because he’s amazing. But support is good.”

“Uh huh, yep. Just me singing. Not Y/N. I just needed support hitting the high notes and who better than Y/N, right?”

Chan tries not to raise an eyebrow. “Right. Well, good for you, Ji. Maybe now you can stop making a point of belting Defying Gravity during your late-night showers.”

“And deny my fellow frat housemates the pleasure of my high notes? That’s a hate crime.”

You giggle beside him, and Chan’s heart does this stupid little lurch in his chest that he immediately pretends not to notice. You always laugh like you’re surprised by it, like the sound escaped you on accident. It’s adorable in a way that really shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.

You tap Jisung’s arm gently. “Ji, we have that thing, remember?”

“Oh! Right! Yes, the thing. The very important thing. Top secret.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “What thing?”

“We’re working on a present,” Jisung says, grabbing your hand and dragging you a step backwards. “For Felix. He’s been feeling kind of homesick lately.”

Chan blinks. “Need help? I know the feeling.”

Jisung waves a hand. “Nah, it’s cool. I’ll text you if we need backup. Y/N’s Aussie too, so she’s got, like, all the outback wisdom stored in her brain.”

You nod, eyes wide and innocent. “Yup. Koalas. Kangaroos. Tim Tams. Deeply ingrained generational trauma. The whole shebang.”

Chan laughs softly despite himself. “Sounds very authentic.”

“We try,” Jisung says brightly, already half-turning to go. “Anyway, gotta dash! Bye!”

You offer a tiny wave and a breathless smile. “Bye, Chan.”

You barely make it halfway down the hallway before you’re spiralling. Jisung keeps pace beside you effortlessly, hands shoved into the pockets of his star-covered pants, but he’s watching you from the corner of his eye with increasing amusement and a hint of concern. You, on the other hand, are mid-freak-out.

“Oh my fucking god. He knows. I know he knows. He looked at me. Like actually looked. He’s going to figure it out. He’s going to fucking figure it out and I’m going to have to fake my death. I’ll jump into the Han River. With rocks in my pockets. And bricks. Around my ankles. And maybe a couple of dumbbells, just to be sure.”

Jisung snorts. “Little dramatic.”

“I am serious, Jisung! Dead. Serious. Nice knowing you. Tell Felix he can have all my skirts. And thigh-high boots. He can have the whole fucking closet. The two of you can split it. You’ve both got the waists and the legs for it, make sure it goes to good use. But also, listen to me. This part’s important.”

He nods solemnly, lips twitching. “Go on.”

“If I die and you use an ugly picture of me for any memorial posts, I swear to fucking god I will haunt you. Forever. I’ll be one of those sad suicide ghosts, dripping water all over your stuff and whispering your name in the middle of the night.”

“Oh my god-”

“And I’ll do it when you’re trying to fuck Felix,” you continue without pause. “Like literally when you’re mid-thrust. I’ll pop up out of the closet, soaking wet, mascara dripping down my cheeks, looking like the Babadook’s depressed sister. You will never get hard again. I will be a phantom boner killer for the rest of your goddamn life. Not even the little blue pill will save you.”

Jisung stops walking. “Okay, first of all, how fucking dare you use the words phantom boner killer like that in public. Second of all, I love you, but what the actual shit is wrong with your brain?”

You inhale like you’re about to start again, but he holds up both hands.

“No, wait, don’t answer that. I already know. You’ve got anxiety and imagination trauma, it’s a potent fucking combo. But listen, I have a plan.”

“Go on.”

Jisung steps closer like he’s about to whisper state secrets. “If Chan starts getting close to figuring out that you’re one of the Secret Sound students, we’ll redirect.”

“To what?” you ask slowly.

“To someone else,” he says confidently. “Someone more obvious. Someone who could very realistically be a musical mystery girl. Someone who’s already obsessed with him. You know who I’m talking about.”

You blink. “Please don’t say-”

“Eunjung,” he says with a wicked grin. “That girl from the theatre department who’s been foaming at the mouth for Chan since the start of the semester.”

“Oh god,” you groan. “You want to Cinderella Story him.”

“Yes,” he says immediately.

“The one with Lucy Hale?”

He nods again, all enthusiasm. “Absolutely. That one was a fucking masterpiece.”

You bite your lip. “It might actually work.”

He beams. “It will work. It’s flawless. And if he does find out, don’t worry. I’ll cause a scandal so big, Chan’ll be too busy trying to fix the frat’s PR image to even remember what his name is.”

You blink. “Scandal?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “I’ll wear a skirt. No panties. To the next frat party.”

You choke. “You what?!”

“I’ll show everyone the Jischlong,” he declares proudly. “I’ll twirl. I’ll bend over. I’ll dance on the fucking beer pong table. Chan’ll spend weeks managing the fallout. He’ll be too busy for fucking anything else.”

“You are completely unhinged.”

“Thank you,” he says, bowing slightly. “I do it all for you, my sweet spooky suicide ghost.”

“I cannot believe this is the plan.”

“It’s foolproof. Either he doesn’t figure it out, or he does and is immediately hit with a flash of thigh and psychological damage so intense, he forgets what music is.”

The Alpha Phi kitchen is bathed in the kind of dim, flickering light that only comes from a single overhead bulb deciding whether or not to give up. It’s 2 a.m., the hour where everything feels a little fuzzy around the edges and the air itself hums like it’s trying to lull you into sleep, except none of you are going to sleep anytime soon.

There’s an open tub of cookie dough ice cream in the middle of the island with three spoons shoved haphazardly inside, and a half-empty bottle of red wine sitting next to it. Felix is nursing his glass like a suburban housewife, perfectly manicured fingers holding the stem delicately as he stares at you and Jisung like you’ve just shat in the wine.

“I love you both with my whole fucking heart,” Felix says, pausing dramatically. “Y/N, you’re my platonic soulmate, my twin flame, my own piece of Sydney that I smuggled into Korea with me like an emotional support kangaroo. And Jisung, you’re my boyfriend with the fluffiest hair I’ve ever buried my face in, and I love you and your beautiful, girthy, wide, fat cock that my ass has literally shaped to at this point-”

“What the actual fuck-”

“-but,” Felix continues smoothly, “that is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life. You want to Cinderella Story Chan?”

Jisung blinks at him, wide-eyed. “Yeah!”

“We didn’t say it was a good plan. Jisung said it was a plan. I never committed verbally. Or emotionally.”

Felix closes his eyes like he’s praying to some higher power to give him strength. “It is hands down the worst idea you two have had. And that’s a high fucking bar. You two are complete pabos.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Jisung pouts.

“No, it’s not,” Felix says flatly. “Chan would figure it out in less than twenty-four hours. He’d sniff out the bullshit before Eunjung even opens her mouth. And what if he asks her to sing? What if she sounds like a fucking dying cat?”

“She’s a theatre major!” Jisung says defensively. “She has to be able to sing!”

“Not if she’s just focusing on acting,” Felix snaps. “If she wanted to sing, she’d be in musical theatre. She’s probably never hit a high note in her fucking life. If you put her up as the mystery voice and she opens her mouth and starts croaking like a frog with laryngitis, Chan will know.”

You press the side of your face to the countertop dramatically. “I’m going to die.”

“No, you’re not, we’ll think of something else.”

Felix huffs, taking another sip of his wine. “Back to the drawing board then.”

You groan. “The problem is, like, Chan is way too hot for me. Like, not even a little. Like full-blown fictional-level hot. He’s a twelve. I’m a five. Maybe. And that’s without the uveitis. With it, I’m probably a three. Or a very solid haunted Victorian child, which might get me points with the goth community, but Chan is not goth-”

Felix doesn’t even let you finish. He whacks you on the arm with the back of his hand and glares. “Don’t talk shit about my best friend.”

Jisung slaps your other arm with the flat of his spoon. “You’re hot as fuck! Stop saying weird shit like that!”

You flinch. “I bruise easily!”

“And I will keep bruising you if you keep talking about yourself like that,” Felix threatens, jabbing a finger into your forehead. “You’re hot. You’re smart. You’re kind. You’re so pretty it makes me want to shove you into traffic sometimes, just to balance the universe.”

“Wow. Okay. Love you too, I guess?”

Jisung nods solemnly. “You are the sexiest haunted Victorian child I’ve ever seen, and if Chan doesn’t think so, then he’s an idiot. Or blind. Or possibly both. In which case, you’ll still have us and your uveitis, and honestly, that’s a powerful trio.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm, and you feel the beginnings of a smile creeping in despite the lingering self-pity. “It’s not about being hot, though. He’s so talented. He’s focused. He’s the head of Alpha Phi. And he produces these tracks that sound like actual professional shit. Real question here. What the fuck kind of situation is this?”

“Honestly? If Chan’s already sampled one of your recordings, Y/N, he’s going to figure out it’s you no matter what fucking teen movie you two try to rip off.”

You suck in a sharp breath like you’ve just been stabbed in the chest with a very small, very accurate knife. “Fuck, okay, well, that’s like completely within the realm of realistic thought, and I get it, I totally get it. I just- I was really hoping that the level of sheer insanity in the plan might buy me some kind of cosmic protection, you know? Like, surely no one is this stupid and therefore I would be safe.”

Felix points at you. “That’s the problem. You are that stupid. You and this idiot.” He nods toward Jisung, who salutes like this is a badge of honour.

“Maybe he hasn’t heard any of mine.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Jisung straightens in his chair like he’s just been struck by divine inspiration. “What if we try She’s the Man?”

Felix and Jisung both squint at you, scanning your face like they’re trying to solve a very intense mathematical equation. Felix frowns. “She couldn’t play being a man. Too pretty.”

You snort, disbelieving. “Okay, you’re just saying that because you love me.”

“Yeah, and I have eyes,” Felix says. “Look at you.”

“But Felix,” Jisung argues, turning to his boyfriend. “You’re too pretty to be a man and you are an actual man with a dick and balls, which I have seen and can certify are there.”

“But I speak and it gives it away. My voice is deep as shit. Y/N is prettier in a softer way, it’s not the same vibe. She couldn’t pull off being a dude in disguise. So, next idea.”

Jisung hums, poking the side of the ice cream tub with his spoon. “Okay, Parent Trap?”

Felix doesn’t even hesitate. “Pass. She’d panic and confess within thirty seconds of opening her mouth.”

“Fair,” you admit.

“Okay, okay, Juno?”

You look him dead in the eye. “I’m not getting pregnant for a bit. Next.”

“Boooooo! Boring! Do it for the plot!”

“Imagine me with excess hormones,” you say, eyes wide. “Imagine that. I can barely survive my period. You want me to throw pregnancy hormones into this already delicate soup of dysfunction?”

Felix shudders. “Next.”

Jisung doesn’t miss a beat. “Camp Rock?”

Felix squints. “Literally nothing about that is secret. She just shows the back of her head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, “and then fully turns around with a weird leg position. What part of that was meant to be a secret identity?”

“She was brave!” Jisung defends, mouth full of melted cookie dough.

“She was an idiot,” Felix says. “Next.”

Jisung sighs, flopping his arm over your shoulder dramatically. “Hannah Montana. Next time we go to the studio, we stick you in a wig.”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad at all.”

Jisung perks up. “You guys agree with me?”

Felix points at his boyfriend. “Mark this moment. Write it down. We agreed with Jisung.”

You’re already spiralling again, tapping your spoon nervously against your leg. “What kind of wig, though? Like full blonde? Should we do highlights? A bob cut?”

“Okay, you need to chill,” Felix says, clapping a hand over your mouth. “Let me handle the disguise.”

You nod under his palm, and he releases you with a sigh.

“We can dress her in something she’d never fucking wear,” he says, already in stylist mode. “Slap a face mask on, sunglasses, a cap, something that screams undercover idol. Give her some weird clothes, maybe fake lashes or a beauty mark somewhere. Something to throw him off. Make her a whole new bitch.”

You squint. “Can we call her something? Like, an alter ego name?”

Jisung leans in. “Ooh, what about Aurora Borealis?”

Felix frowns. “That’s not a name, that’s a natural phenomenon.”

“Exactly,” Jisung whispers dramatically.

You’re halfway through another sip of wine when the idea finally settles in, and then you mutter, “And if that doesn’t work, suicide.”

“WHY IS THAT YOUR GO-TO AT ANY MINOR INCONVENIENCE?!”

"Because it’s failproof!”

Jisung throws his head back and groans. “Oddly, I feel like you’d fail at suicide.”

“I would, I’d trip on the way to the bridge. Or fall in and somehow end up winning a local swimming competition instead.”

Felix is on his feet now, pacing dramatically like a lecturer at the edge of a breakdown. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard you say that shit since we were thirteen? Thirteen! The first time was after that goddamn school assembly about mental health, and you stood up after and went, ‘If I ever have to ask for help, just let me walk into the sea with rocks in my pocket.’”

“I meant it,” you say solemnly, twirling your spoon.

Felix throws his arms in the air. “And I’ve had SEVEN YEARS OF THIS SHIT. Seven! It’s 2025 now, and I’m still getting suicide monologues at two in the fucking morning over boys and bad ideas and whether or not you have too many freckles on your nose-”

“I do,”

“You do not!”

You’re giggling now and Jisung is cackling beside you, cheeks flushed, his arm around your shoulder as you both sway gently like seaweed in the tide of your collective nonsense.

“I swear to god, if I have to listen to one more fake death plan involving rivers or ghosts or you becoming a vengeful spirit just because someone looked at you too long, I’m going to walk into the Han River myself.”

You lean your head on Jisung’s shoulder and smile. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d haunt you,”

You sigh, eyes closing briefly. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, but he’s already reaching across the table to top off your wine.

You, Felix and Jisung walk through the halls of the music department like you’re part of a covert black-ops mission. Your boots click-clack sharply on the linoleum, tall stiletto heels echoing like war drums. The leather trousers are so tight you can practically hear them scream for mercy with every step, and your bandeau crop top is small enough to be considered legally insignificant. The red, black, and white racer jacket swishes slightly as you walk, its colours bold against your all-black base. The red wig sits perfectly under your black cap. A black surgical face mask hides the lower half of your face, and oversized black sunglasses obscure your eyes entirely.

Behind you, Jisung walks like he owns the floor, a fitted black long-sleeve shirt hugging his lean frame, silver chain glinting around his neck. His black cargo pants hang low on his hips and the way his boots stomp makes it sound like he’s daring someone to challenge his drip. Felix is all sharp contrast in his white jacket over a black crop top, baggy black cargos making his tiny waist look even smaller, white Converse practically glowing against the dull floor tiles.

“This is fucking perfect,” Felix whispers. “Thank god for my leather trousers, huh?”

“Her ass looks better in them than yours does.”

Felix doesn’t even blink. “True.”

“Can we please not talk about my ass? I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Felix whispers dramatically.

The hallway bends around to the left, and the Secret Sound studios come into view and unfortunately, so does Chan. His black hoodie is pulled up over his beanie, and he’s wearing those black joggers that hang off his hips like a threat. He’s looking down at his phone until he hears your boots and lifts his head. The smile he gives when he spots Felix and Jisung is soft and lazy, and your stomach twists into a knot.

“Oh hey, Lix, Ji,” Chan greets, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Who’s your friend?”

You freeze. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears. Jisung, ever the chaotic saviour, jumps in without hesitation.

“She’s in my journalism course!” he blurts, a little too loudly. “Yeah, she, uh, doesn’t talk much. Kind of shy. She had this really bad car accident like, last year? Or maybe earlier this year. Definitely recent. Yeah. It, uh, left her with this big facial scar and- Uh- she doesn’t like to show her face in public. Also, she lost her left eye. So that’s why she’s got the sunglasses. And the mask. And the hat. You know, protection. From the sun. And from stares. She’s really private. So we’re just helping her feel normal. And, you know, supporting her. Because she’s super talented and- yeah.”

Felix just nods solemnly and hooks his thumb into the waistband of his pants. “Yeah. She’s got some serious vocal chops. Real hidden gem kind of vibe.”

Chan nods slowly, face unreadable. “Oh, wow. Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jisung winces dramatically. “Yeah, it was rough. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Chan tilts his head. “So, where’s Y/N?”

Felix groans like he’s been asked to recount a war story. “She has a botany assignment. I tried to convince her to leave it till the last minute but nooooo. Plants are more important than human connection.”

Chan laughs softly. “Sounds like her.”

“Tragically,” Felix agrees, folding his arms.

“So,” Chan gestures vaguely toward you. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Mina,” Felix says immediately.

Jisung nods too quickly. “Yeah, Mina. Yep. That’s her name. Mina. Choi Mina"

Chan smiles again, soft. “Well, nice to meet you, Mina.”

You nod. Just a nod. One slow, single dip of your head. You don’t trust your voice. You don’t trust your limbs. You don’t trust any of your senses right now because you are absolutely, violently unprepared for this backstory and this name and the absolute nerve Jisung had to throw in facial disfigurement. You were prepared to pretend to be anonymous. Not a one-eyed, scarred tragedy heroine.

Felix grabs your arm, all but yanking you toward the booth door. “Okay, well, time’s ticking, gotta get her in there before her nerves kick in.”

Jisung reaches around Chan like he’s diffusing a bomb and shoves the studio door open. “Yeah, she gets real jittery if she waits too long.”

And before Chan can say another word, the two of them hustle you into the studio like a pair of overly invested stage moms and slam the door shut behind them. You’re barely upright, your heart thudding so loud you think you might pass out.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Felix looks unbothered, already fussing with the mic stand. “Mina has range.”

“I panicked.”

“Jisung, you said I lost my eye in a car crash!”

“You do have uveitis!”

“Which is not the same thing!”

“Details!” Jisung waves you off. “You were brilliant.”

Felix spins to face you, grinning like a proud parent. “You’re a star.”

“I want to die.”

Felix pats your shoulder. “Not until we get this track down. Come on, Mina. Let’s get to work.”

Chan stands outside the Secret Sound studio like he’s rooted to the goddamn floor, still staring at the door Jisung and Felix just dragged Mina through. The last thing he expected when he showed up to grab some gear and check his booking schedule was to be slammed in the face with a brand new mystery. He’s not sure if he should be suspicious, confused, or maybe just concerned.

He’s about to leave, finally pulling himself away from the door, when he hears it. A voice. Soft at first. Just a breath. Then it sharpens, strengthens. Builds. His chest goes still. Because that voice, he knows that voice. It’s her. His secret singer.

Chan leans closer to the door, straining to hear every note like it might change something in him. His hand lifts slowly, resting against the frame. The song flows and when it hits the high, delicate bridge, it fucking soars. His heart clenches. His mouth goes dry. He knows this performance. He knows this voice like he knows his heartbeat.

But instead of the satisfaction he thought he’d feel when he finally found her, something cold settles in his gut. Something bitter.

He thought it was you.

He hoped it was you.

He can’t even pinpoint when it started, when his mind began attaching the fantasy voice to your face, your laugh, your nervous little rambles. The secret hope grew slowly, secretly, like a weed he let take root in a corner of his heart he didn’t want to acknowledge. Maybe it was the way you speak in metaphors when you’re tired and off-guard. Or maybe it was just wishful fucking thinking. Whatever it was, it’s shattered now. Because Mina isn’t you.

Chan turns away from the door and starts walking down the hall, trying to shrug off the disappointment that clings to him. He tells himself not to be dramatic. That he didn’t know anything for sure. That he never asked. Never had proof. Just a dumb fucking crush and a voice he romanticized until his heart made up its own conclusions.

The walk back to the Alpha Phi house is slow, not because his legs are tired, but because his thoughts won’t shut the fuck up. He’s spiralling just a little, in that annoying way where he knows he’s being irrational but can’t stop himself anyway.

When he finally steps into the frat house, the smell of food smacks him in the face like a warm, comforting punch. He finds Minho in the kitchen, hair pushed back with his cat-ear headband that he only ever wears when he’s deep into chef mode. He’s flipping kimchi pancakes in one pan and sautéing bulgogi in another.

“I know who my singing Cinderella is,”

Minho doesn’t turn. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Chan sighs again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Someone on Jisung’s journalism course. Felix said her name’s Mina. Choi Mina”

Minho finally looks up from the pan, raising a brow. “Why so glum, sugar plum?”

Chan leans his elbows on the counter. “I thought it was Y/N.”

Minho pauses mid-flip, then carefully turns the pancake and drops the spatula onto a paper towel. “Oh.”

“I mean, it was dumb,” Chan says quickly. “Wishful thinking. I just, I don’t know, I thought maybe- Fuck, I don’t know what I thought. I’m being fucking dramatic. Forget it.”

“No, no, we don’t suppress feelings here. We just drown them in oil and carbs.”

Chan chuckles weakly and watches as Minho plates the bulgogi with clinical precision.

“So,” Minho says casually, “what’s the deal with this Mina girl?”

Chan exhales again, digging his fingers into his hair. “She was in a bad car accident. Got facial scars. Lost an eye. Doesn’t talk much. Jisung said she’s shy, keeps to herself, covers up a lot. Sunglasses, mask, all that.”

Minho hums. “Poor girl.”

“Yeah,” Chan mutters. “She didn’t speak, just nodded. And then Lix and Ji shoved her in the booth like they were hiding stolen art or something.”

Minho finally brings the plate over and drops it in front of Chan, followed by a smaller one with kimchi pancakes stacked high. “Y/N wasn’t with them?”

“Nah,” Chan says, grabbing his chopsticks. “Felix said she had a botany assignment. Tried to convince her to skip it but she’s a total nerd about her plants.”

Minho makes a noncommittal sound and reaches for his chopsticks, twirling them slowly between his fingers.

Chan digs in, groaning at the first bite. “Jesus fuck, Minho. You’re a blessing.”

“I know,” Minho says, but his tone’s distracted.

He watches Chan eat for a minute, silent. Something about the story doesn’t sit right. Felix and Jisung show up with some girl no one’s ever heard of before, conveniently while you’re busy. A mystery girl who’s all covered up and shy and also just so happens to be the voice Chan’s been obsessed with. A girl with a damaged eye, no less.

Minho knows you. Has watched you wrestle Jisung to the ground to avoid eyedrops. Has watched the way you fluster when anyone compliments your handwriting, how you trip over your words and apologize for existing when someone looks at you too long. A

and one thing Minho prides himself on more than anything else is his nose for bullshit. And this is Grade-A, top-tier, gourmet bullshit.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He’ll get the truth. He’ll waterboard Jisung if he has to. Strap Felix to a chair and interrogate him like it’s a fucking spy movie. Whatever it takes.

For now, he watches Chan shovel bulgogi into his mouth with zero grace and reaches over to pinch his nose. Chan grunts. “What the fuck?!”

“Eat faster. You sound sad. Sadness is a symptom of hunger. We’re treating it.”

“I’m gonna choke.”

“You’re gonna heal.”

Chan glares at him but keeps eating.

Minho doesn’t let his expression waver. But inside, he’s already planning. If Mina’s who he thinks she is, if you’re the girl behind the voice, then shit’s about to get messy. But Minho lives for messy.

It’s around 6 p.m. when you, Felix, and Jisung fully abandon any concept of productivity and end up flopping in a tangled, colourful heap on Felix’s bed.

All three of you are dressed in matching Minion pyjama pants. The pants are an eye-burning bright yellow with Minions printed all over them, and the fabric is already pilling, but you love them. You and Felix are both in cropped blue camisoles, and Jisung is wearing a yellow pyjama top to complete the horrifying aesthetic. And somehow, the three of you have ended up deep in a very serious, absolutely unhinged debate about terminal velocity.

“I’m telling you, humans have to fall at, like, 120 miles per hour to die. It’s basic physics.”

You nod solemnly in agreement with Jisung. “That’s why it’s called terminal velocity. Like, terminal. Like death. You fall that fast, you die. Anything under that, you’re probably fine. Maybe a broken ankle, but, like, alive.”

“Thank you! Y/N gets it. Someone here has a brain.”

Felix, perched at the head of the bed with his knees drawn to his chest and a hand pressed to his temple like he’s nursing a migraine, looks completely done. “You two are the reason the educational system is collapsing. That is not what terminal velocity means. Terminal velocity is the maximum speed an object can fall through air, like, due to drag and gravity. It has nothing to do with whether you die or not. Galileo is fucking weeping right now. Newton just rolled over in his grave. You’re killing science with your mouth words.”

You frown, raising your head just slightly. “But like, if terminal means death-”

“It doesn’t!” Felix groans.

Jisung throws a hand in the air. “It’s terminal. Terminal velocity. Ergo, the velocity at which you get terminally fucked.”

“So just so we’re on the same page, what you two have essentially just said to me is that if I fall from the top of Lotte Tower and I fall at 119 miles per hour, I’ll be totally fine. But if I hit 120? Instant death?”

You and Jisung nod, completely in sync, like two cult members agreeing with their charismatic, chaotic leader.

Felix groans into his hands. “This is so fucking bleak. It’s tragic, really. I’m dating a man who thinks drag equals death and my best friend genuinely believes physics works on horror movie logic.”

You sit up a bit more, crossing your legs awkwardly on the mattress. “Okay, but isn’t it possible that, like, there’s a speed where the body just shuts down? Where your organs go nope and everything just gives up?”

Felix is mid-scream when the door swings open and Minho steps in, shutting the door behind him with a click, his presence immediately shifting the energy and he looks like he’s about to ruin your lives.

“Important conversation happening. Do not interrupt. Y/N and I are proving Felix wrong with scientific fact.”

“You’re not. You’re both aggressively wrong. You’re big stinky pabos. I am right. Me. The only person in this room who apparently paid a slither of attention during physics.”

Minho walks over slowly, arms folded. “Jisung,” he says calmly. “You would have mentioned ages ago if some girl on your investigative journalism course got mangled in a car crash.”

You, Jisung, and Felix all turn your heads toward Minho at the exact same time, in perfect sync, like the three heads of a hydra all swivelling to face the knight who just stumbled into their cave.

“Okay, what the fuck, that was creepy as shit. Never do that again. But seriously.” He narrows his eyes, and now he’s not looking at Jisung anymore. He’s looking at you.

“Who is Choi Mina?”

Your stomach drops through the floor. You can’t breathe for a second. Your fingers curl around the Minion blanket on your lap and you’re suddenly very aware that Minho’s eyes are cutting through your entire soul.

His gaze slides from you to Jisung. Then to Felix. All three of you press your lips together like it’ll stop the truth from spilling out on its own.

Jisung crumbles like a soggy wafer, like the full intensity of Minho’s bullshit detector has melted every last ounce of resistance in his body.

“Okay! Fine! Fuck, I’ll talk, Jesus!” he blurts out. “Fuck, okay, yes, we lied, we’ve been lying, it was a whole thing, a whole complicated spiralling thing that started like, not even on purpose! I mean it sort of was, but also not in a like, malicious way!”

Felix groans into his pillow. You pull your knees to your chest, eyes wide with guilt and panic and the beginnings of a spiralling anxiety attack, because Minho hasn’t blinked once.

“So,” Jisung continues, flailing like he’s conducting his own confession, “We were coming out of the Secret Sound studio, me and Y/N, because she had just finished recording something and I was there for moral support, which I provide often and generously by the way, and we ran into Chan in the hallway. It was just bad luck or maybe karma, I don’t know, I still think I’m a good person but that’s subjective at this point! Anyway! Chan saw us, right? And we panicked, obviously, because the whole point is anonymity and mystery and intrigue or whatever, so I, being the genius that I am, said to Y/N, hey, what if we Cinderella Story this shit? And she was like, bet. Let’s go.”

You bury your face in your hands as Jisung barrels forward with the energy of a man who’s been holding in a secret for far too long.

“But then,” he goes on, “later that night we were drinking wine and brainstorming more movie plots and Felix said the Cinderella Story plan was stupid, and I mean, he wasn’t wrong, but it hurt my feelings a little. So I started considering other movies! Like, She’s the Man, but Y/N’s too pretty to be a convincing guy and her voice is too soft and nice and Felix pointed that out, and then I considered Juno, but she wouldn’t get pregnant for the plot, which I still think is kinda selfish-”

“Jisung,” Minho snaps.

“Right! Sorry! So anyway, we landed on Hannah Montana, and next thing we know, Y/N’s in a red wig, black cap, black face mask, and sunglasses, looking like she's on the run from Dispatch. Chan sees us again, and I panic and come up with the whole backstory on the spot! Car crash, facial scar, lost eye, emotional trauma, super shy, boom, instant mystique. And Felix-”

“I picked the name. Mina just sounded right.”

Jisung points at him. “Exactly! So now we’ve got Mina, tragic backstory girl, and it worked! Or it seemed like it did. And that’s all. That’s the whole fucked up tale. There was never any malicious intent. Just wine, anxiety, and a collective lack of fucking common sense!”

Minho is quiet for a full beat and when he finally speaks, it’s not the reaction you expect. “Why don’t you want Chan to find out?”

“It’s not just Chan,” you say, your voice too soft and a little shaky. “I don’t want anyone to find out. Like, at all. Chan’s just the most likely to figure it out. But he probably hasn’t even heard my recordings. So maybe he never even got mine. It’s fine. I like being invisible. It’s safe. It’s comfortable. I don’t want to give that up just because I opened my mouth and sang into a mic in a soundproof booth. That wasn’t the point.”

“Well,” Minho says slowly, “your fucking ridiculous plan worked. Chan’s obsessed. Like, full-on emotionally attached. He now thinks his obsession-causing recordings came from some beautiful, broken girl who survived a car crash and lost an eye. You know what that means?”

You say nothing. Just stare at him like he’s got a knife pressed to your anxiety.

“It means,” Minho continues, “he’s not just curious anymore. He’s invested. You could’ve just left it. Let the anonymity do its fucking job. Maybe he’d connect the dots, maybe not. But now you’ve given him a whole fucking tragedy. He thinks his muse is someone who’s been through hell.”

“Oh my god, I’m the worst person alive.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, Y/N, from what Chan said about meeting Mina, well, you, but you know what I mean, you didn’t actually say anything. You stood there in silence. So really? This is all Jisung and Felix’s fault.”

Felix sits up straight. “Excuse the fuck out of me?!”

“You’re right! You’re so right. Jisung made up the car crash story on the spot! And Felix named me! You guys humanised me!”

“Oh, fuck you! I gave you a name because he asked! What was I supposed to say? Oh, this is our mute mystery friend with no identity? That would’ve been worse!”

“And I panicked!” Jisung huffs. “Chan looked at me and my whole brain fried! I thought I was doing improv under pressure! You try lying to Chan’s face when he’s smiling at you like he trusts you not to be full of shit!”

“You are full of shit!” Minho snaps.

“We’re all full of shit!” Felix throws his hands up. “This whole fucking situation is made of shit! We’re in a pyramid of lies built entirely on drama and zero fucking logic!”

“I want to die.”

“You’re not allowed,” Jisung says, nudging you. “You need to finish recording those lyrics next week.”

Felix glares. “And if we’re going down, we’re all going down together. I am not taking the fall alone for this melodramatic novella of fuckery.”

Minho crosses his arms. “You’re all idiots.”

“Well, I’m back to the plan of tossing myself into the Han River. I think the timeline’s sped up. I was giving it, like, two to three working days, but honestly? It’s giving now. Where are my shoes? Someone find my shoes.”

“Oh god, she’s spiralling! Felix, she’s spiralling again!”

“It’s always fucking suicide,” Felix says, voice deadpan. “We should get her some therapy. Honestly, we should get you therapy while we’re at it, Ji.”

“You’re gonna be a ghost with anterior uveitis,” Jisung says, pointing at you like that’s the real tragedy here. “That’s what they’ll find in your autopsy report. Drowned with a funky eye. That’s your legacy. That’s what’s going in the newspapers. Local uni girl found dead in the Han River, had one weird eye and a Minion obsession.”

You gasp and dramatically press a hand to your chest. “That’s not my legacy! I refuse! I need a hot outfit, a white dress, something that makes a statement. So that if a scuba diver finds me or a fisherman pulls me out or whatever, at least I look iconic. I’m not dying in these fucking Minion pyjamas, that would be so embarrassing. There’s no dignity in death when you’ve got Stuart smiling on your left thigh.”

Felix snorts into a pillow, trying not to laugh but completely failing. “Okay, but if you do go, can I have your Minion pants? I’ll wear them every year on your death anniversary. With a crop top and a single tear.”

“You may,”

“And I’ll give a speech,” Jisung adds, one hand over his heart. “Something like, She faked an entire identity, and the weight of it crushed her. She wore Minion pants but died a main character.”

You start waving your hands, speaking too fast for your own brain. “The dress needs to be white, yes, but with, like, delicate beading. Floor-length with a train, but not too dramatic. Maybe a halter neckline? Or something backless. And it needs to cling in just the right places. I want the police divers to be like, Wow, this corpse slayed. Like tragic but hot. People should look at my photo and say, I wish I died that pretty. And my makeup has to be waterproof, because if I’m being dragged out of a river and my eyeliner’s smudged-”

Felix makes a strangled sound. “Please. Please stop planning your corpse glam.”

“I need bricks,” you continue, barely pausing for breath. “And rocks. Big ones. I need to not resurface. I can’t just be floating like some half-assed corpse on day two. It has to be dramatic. Final. Someone find me something heavy. Where are my fucking shoes?”

Minho’s hand appears from seemingly nowhere and plants firmly on your shoulder, shoving you back down with just enough force to make you collapse backwards onto Felix’s bed with a whine and a flail of your limbs.

“You’re not drowning yourself, pabo,”

“I have a new plan, I attempt to fight Changbin. There’s no way I make it out of that situation alive. He’s built like a prize stud bull”

“Okay, solid,” Jisung nods, immediately supportive. “We just throw you at him like bait and let him finish you.”

“Or,” you continue, gesturing wildly now, “I go and just annoy Seungmin for, like, a second. That’s all it’ll take. One second. He’ll smite me where I stand. No hesitation. His words will be so cutting I’ll disintegrate on the spot. Where is Seungmin?”

Minho sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seungmin won’t smite you. He thinks of you like a little chick. Like, all fragile and in need of protection.”

You pause, blinking. “So back to the Changbin plan.”

“Tell him he’s not as babygirl as he thinks he is. That’ll do it.”

Felix groans. “You guys are so fucking stupid.”

You flop back onto the bed, arm flung over your face. “Well, make sure I’m wearing something good when I go. White dress. Beaded. A little mystery.”

“I’m going to actually call a therapist,” Felix mutters.

“Make it a group session,” Jisung says, flopping dramatically across your legs.

Minho just watches the three of you with the most unimpressed look on his face, arms crossed like he’s trying to decide whether to lecture or lobotomize the entire room. “You’re all getting matching straitjackets.”

“I’ll bedazzle mine,” Felix offers.

Jisung nods. “Mine needs room for snacks.”

The evening drags itself forward in the sluggish, golden way only post-dinner fatigue can manage. The bulgogi had melted in Chan’s mouth, the kimchi pancakes were crispy and just sour enough, and the fried garlic rice hit the kind of spot that made grown men emotional.

But Chan doesn’t feel comforted. Not really. And Minho had vanished upstairs immediately after dinner with a vague-ass, suspicious line about needing to rearrange the bookshelf in his closet, which was definitely code for something potentially illegal and inhumane.

Chan’s still chewing on the bitterness of the day. His stupid, fucking idealistic brain had been so certain, so sure it was you. He let himself believe it. That his crush on the girl who somehow made spiralling anxiety endearing could collide with the obsession he had for the voice that kept showing up in his tracks like it belonged there. One big messy crush. That’s what he wanted. Something easy. Something real. But then there was Mina.

He sighs, heavy and sharp, and makes his way back to campus on autopilot. His feet lead him toward the music building, into the quieter corridors, until he’s standing in front of the Secret Sound studio again. He shouldn’t be here.

The room’s still faintly warm from the last session, and there’s a faint scent of shampoo lingering in the air, something sweet and floral that tickles the back of his memory. He squints in the low light, blinking slowly, and then he sees it. A notebook on the desk. It’s covered in stickers, most of them are Attack on Titan characters, Levi, Jean, some tiny chibi versions of Mikasa and Armin in the margins. There’s even a foil sticker of mullet Jean near the top that looks like it’s been peeled off and restuck about six times.

The notebook looks familiar. Chan furrows his brows, steps closer, and picks it up gently. He flips it open without even meaning to.

The pages are chaos. Swirls of lyrics and scrawled lines, some crossed out with violent strokes, others underlined or starred or circled multiple times. Doodles in the corners, little ghosts, vines, hearts, the occasional eyeball. He reads the first full set of lyrics he lands on, and his stomach clenches. It’s like reading a heart laid bare. And they’re good. Like, insanely good. He flips again. Another song. Then another.

He keeps flipping. Page after page. And then he hits the front. The inside of the front cover has three lines of writing scrawled in different colours. The first is small, neat, and in the upper right-hand corner: L/N Y/N. His stomach lurches.

The second is messier, written in dark green marker with little stars around it, Jisung Was Here!! and he underlined was three times, the idiot.

The third is written in pink gel pen, all glittery and slightly smudged, Felix is the best friend EVER and this is a legally binding statement <3.

Chan stares at the names like they’ve personally betrayed him. Because that’s your name. This is your notebook. He knew he’d seen it before. You carry it around all the fucking time. It’s always poking out of your tote bag or lying on top of your textbooks. He’s seen it on Felix's desk, in your lap, on your knees when you’re curled up next to Jisung like a cat.

Taped onto the inside cover, right next to the names, are two Polaroids. One of them is old and slightly faded, corners curling, dated to 2010. A tiny six-year-old you grinning next to a matching six-year-old Felix, both of you with your front teeth missing and holding hands, standing in some park somewhere in what has to be Australia. The caption underneath, in pink glitter pen, just says: Look at these ICONS.

The second photo is newer. You’re on Jisung and Felix’s shoulders at a frat party a few months ago, dressed as Velma from Scooby-Doo. Felix is Fred, Jisung is in a full purple Daphne outfit, purple dress, wig and all. Your arms are in the air like you’re the queen of the world, and they’re both grinning up at you like you hung the fucking moon.

Chan flips back through the pages, faster now, like he’s desperate for confirmation. And he gets it. Notes for the song he requested complete with scribbles of ideas and reminders. There, at the top of the margin, is your Secret Sound ID number.

Chan knows that number because it’s the ID connected to the voice he’s been building his entire fucking sound library around for the past six months.

There is no car crash victim. No scarred, mysterious girl who sings like she’s bleeding and holds her pain in silence. It’s you, the anxious, rambling, messy girl who’s always talking about soil acidity and carries around homemade iced coffee in mismatched tumblers. It’s you.

Chan yanks out his phone with trembling fingers and hits Minho’s contact. His thumb stabs the call button and he paces the studio like a man with way too much adrenaline and not enough places to put it.

Minho picks up on the second ring. “What?”

“The singer, it’s been Y/N this whole fucking time.”

There’s a pause. Then the shuffling of movement on the other end. “Give me a moment, I’m with them right now.”

Chan starts pacing faster, his footsteps echoing slightly off the walls. “What do you mean you’re with them right now?”

Minho pulls the phone away from his mouth but doesn’t hang up. Chan hears it all, clearly as if he’s in the room. “He knows,”

There’s a sharp gasp, your gasp, and then immediate chaos.

“Y/N, no! You have so much to live for, don’t jump in the Han River!”

“Grab her before she can get out of the house!”

“We should section her!”

Chan stares at his phone in disbelief, then presses it closer to his ear, heart climbing higher into his throat.

Minho comes back on the line, sounding like he’s just wrestled a small animal. “It’s bad over here, man. You should get here fast.”

“Y/N! Get your head back inside! Do not jump out the window! Jisung, don’t join her!”

“What the fuck, Jisung?!”

Chan spins on his heel and bolts from the studio, not bothering to turn off the lights or shut the door. “I’m on my way.”

“Y/N! Jisung! Both of you get back in the window right now! Mommy Minho is putting his fucking foot down!”

Chan sprints across the campus, shoving his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he runs. He can hear everything, the crashing, the rustling, someone stomping, and then-

“Oh my god! She’s stripping! Her tits are out!”

“Y/N!”

“I am not dying in minion pyjamas! Felix, you have a perfectly nice white dress! I’m putting it on!”

“This is a hate crime! I’m gay and you showed me titties! Wait! When did you get your nipples pierced?!”

“A few months ago! I got drunk and Seungmin took me! Jisung, zip me up!”

“Okay!”

Chan’s lungs are burning but he keeps running. He cuts across the central quad, barely looking where he’s going. Someone almost crashes into him and he swerves around them without slowing down, phone still wedged tight against his ear.

“Why do you look better in my dress than I do?!”

“Because I have perky boobs and pierced nipples! Now find me a cinderblock to tie around my ankle for launching myself into the Han River!”

“All zipped up!” Jisung says with the energy of a man who thinks this is somehow helpful. “You look hot! Very tragic sexy corpse ready!”

“Great! Now get me to the Han River!”

Chan nearly chokes on a breath. He can’t tell if this is a fever dream or just your usual level of absolutely unhinged behaviour but turned up to eleven.

“What the fuck is happening over there?”

Minho doesn’t even answer. He doesn’t even seem to remember he’s still on the phone, because the yelling continues without a single update for Chan.

“Stop trying to open the window again! I swear to god, Y/N, I will tie you to this fucking bedpost myself.”

"You got piercings and didn’t tell me?! We’ve been getting changed in front of each other for months and you just hid them like you've got some kind of nipple shame?!”

“I was gonna tell you! But then you were busy baking and the moment never came up and also I forgot!”

“Who the fuck is throwing hangers?!”

“I’m accessorising! She needs a choker! Something slutty but dramatic!”

“I have a silver one with a dagger charm!”

“Yes! Give me that!”

Chan is breathless now, sprinting past the convenience store near the frat house, nearly slipping on the pavement.

“Where the fuck is the dagger necklace?!”

“In my second drawer under the mesh tops!” Felix replies. “Move the leather harness!”

“You own a leather harness?!” Minho shouts.

“Multiple! Don’t judge me!”

Chan is still breathing hard when he bolts up the frat house stairs, his sneakers pounding against the steps like a fucking war drum. His chest is tight, his heart slamming like it’s trying to punch through his ribs, but none of that matters, because the noise coming from Felix’s room is escalating.

He hears yelling. Thudding. Something crashing. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t knock, just grabs the handle and throws the door open like he’s kicking down the gates of hell.

The chaos hits him like a brick wall.

Jisung is crouched near the window, fluffing the skirt of Felix’s silky white party dress like he’s prepping a bride for a high fashion shoot, except this bride is you, standing on the bed, barefoot, hair a frizzy mess, tugging aggressively at the ends to give it volume.

The dress hugs you perfectly, clinging to your body like it was tailored for you. Your lips are glossy and a little puffy from nerves, your eyes are wide with panic, and the straps of the dress are slightly askew from being yanked on too fast. There’s a silver choker tight around your neck, a tiny dagger charm resting just above your collarbone.

The moment your eyes land on Chan, something wild flickers in them. He watches the shift in your expression, recognition, fear, and then sudden, chaotic resolve.

Minho moves like a fucking linebacker. He lunges across the room and tackles you mid-air, dragging you down just before your knees hit the windowsill. Jisung leaps on top of him. Felix dives a second later, all three of them crashing into a chaotic, grunting pile of limbs and screaming. You let out a muffled yelp as they all collapse on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

“Oh my god! Ow! Jisung, that's my face!”

Minho is flat on top of your chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. Jisung is splayed on top of Minho, one leg thrown over his back like he’s making himself comfortable. Felix, somehow, ends up at the very top of the pile, half-sliding down Jisung’s side and shouting something about wrinkles in his trousers.

You squirm beneath them, your voice straining. “This is another way to die. I see the light. It’s that scene where Levi says ‘Two fingers is all I need.’ Heaven is glorious. Let me go.”

“We’re killing her!”

Chan grabs your wrists and yanks you up, dragging you out from under the pile of bodies like you’re some half-conscious ragdoll. You gasp when the air hits your lungs again, your legs flailing and the skirt of the dress riding up mid-rescue. Chan catches you just before you hit the floor.

You jerk away from him the second your feet hit the ground.

“Wait, Y/N-”

You bolt from the room like a deer being hunted, barefoot and breathless, heart pounding so hard it makes your vision tunnel. You don’t even think. You just run. Because there’s only one room in this house that represents safety. One room you know you won’t be followed into unless invited. And Seungmin? Seungmin is order. Stability. Rationality. Seungmin is your last hope.

You skid around the hallway corner and slam into his bedroom door, shoving it open so hard it bounces off the wall behind it.

Seungmin looks up from his laptop, one brow raised. He’s wearing glasses and a big hoodie that says CIVIL LAW IS SEXY. There’s a cup of tea on his desk and he has lo-fi beats playing softly from his speakers.

“I need sanctuary.”

“Did you commit a felony?”

“I committed emotional fraud,” you say. “Please, don’t ask questions.”

You slam the door shut behind you and throw yourself into his bed, diving under the covers like you’re burrowing to hide from the shame monster.

Seungmin turns his chair and stares at the mountain of blankets you’ve become. “So, who do I have to sue?”

“Me. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. I’m going to become an international embarrassment.”

He sighs and climbs into the bed next to you, grabbing the edge of the blanket and tugging it back until your face peeks out. He wraps the blanket tighter around you, burrito-style, tucking it in at the sides like he’s swaddling a baby.

“Okay, start from the beginning.”

You do. Between wheezes and dramatic sighs and occasional gasps for air, you tell him everything. You tell him about Secret Sound and how you never told anyone but Felix and Jisung. You tell him about how you started submitting stuff anonymously, how you thought you’d stay invisible. You tell him how you walked out of the studio with Jisung, only to run into Chan himself.

You tell him about the panic, the Hannah Montana inspiration, the wig, the name, the backstory Jisung invented like a gremlin on five Red Bulls. You tell him how Minho figured it out. How he confronted you. And how, somehow, Chan found out too.

“I was fine!” you exclaim. “I was so fine! It was anonymous! I could be fucking mysterious and tragic and safe! I didn’t want anyone to know it was me! And now Chan knows! And I’m not even wearing a bra!”

Seungmin strokes your hair gently. “You’re also not wearing shoes or dignity.”

“Thank you,”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m spiralling.”

“Clearly.”

You hiccup and stare at the ceiling. “What if he hates me?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if he does?”

“He doesn’t.”

“What if he sues me for emotional damage?”

“I’ll represent you. I’m only charging five thousand an hour.”

“You’re my emotional support friend, not my lawyer!”

“Not anymore.”

You groan and shove your face into his chest. “Just let me die. In peace. In your bed.”

Seungmin pulls the blanket tighter around you and sighs. “I swear to god, you dramatic little fungus, you’re going to be fine. You just need to breathe and stop inventing new ways to traumatise your friends.”

“I didn’t invent them. I just accidentally implemented them.”

He rests his chin on your head. “And you’re gonna fix it. But first, you’re going to stay in here, breathe, and stop stripping in front of people.”

You nod miserably and in that tiny, warm room, swaddled in blankets and humiliation, you let yourself believe that it might be okay. Eventually. Maybe. If you survive this next hour.

For the next two weeks, the Alpha Phi frat house becomes a battlefield. A holy sanctuary of peace violently guarded by one very sleep-deprived, very unhinged civil law major. Seungmin doesn’t just put up metaphorical walls, no, he becomes the wall. The moment Chan tries to make even the slightest approach toward you, Seungmin is there. Always.

It begins subtly. A casual lean across your body when you’re seated on the couch. A suspiciously timed accidental door closing before Chan enters a room you’re already in. But it escalates. Fast.

By day three, Seungmin is pulling a travel-sized can of hairspray from the sleeve of his hoodie and flicking a lighter beneath it to create a two-foot fireball in Chan’s direction. Chan nearly drops his protein shake in horror as a streak of flame wooshes past his face and scorches the wall.

“What the actual fuck, Seungmin?!”

Seungmin raises the can calmly. “Back the fuck off.”

And he does.

The frat house enters an era of quiet warfare. Everyone learns quickly. If you see a glint of silver and hear the hiss of aerosol, turn and run. Seungmin is not above arson to protect you, and he makes that clear every single day.

He shadows you everywhere. Not in a creepy way, more like in an overbearing, extremely overprotective way, which for Seungmin, is just another day of the week. You can’t pee without him hovering by the door. He has a notebook of your eyedrop times. He knows which mug is your favourite and which brand of hot chocolate calms you down fastest. Your anxiety is high, like a constant, heart-thumping, shoulder-tensing high, and Seungmin sees the signs before you even open your mouth.

You don’t go back to your dorm. Not once. Seungmin had demanded that you stay in his room after the Chan incident, and when you’d tried to protest about being a burden and how your dorm room was fine, he’d shut it down immediately.

“You’ll spiral alone,” he’d said, deadpan. “and then I’ll have to drag your limp, dissociating body back here anyway. Skip the middleman.”

And that was that.

Seungmin even sent Changbin, who was still halfway through his dinner, to your dorm to pack a bag for you. Big mistake. Changbin, sweet, buff, confused Changbin, shows up thirty minutes later with a gym duffle filled with four hoodies, a single tube of lip balm, three pens, one slipper, and a fucking black lace thong.

Seungmin stares into the bag for ten full seconds. “What the fuck is this?”

Changbin blinks. “You said comfy shit-”

“A lacy thong?” Seungmin holds it up with two fingers like it’s biohazardous. “This isn’t comfort, this is slutty depression. I meant halmeoni panties, dumbass.”

“I WAS TRYING TO HELP!”

“She’s fragile, not trying to get dicked down by a ghost.”

After that, Seungmin makes a very detailed packing list for the next trip. He writes it in Sharpie on Changbin’s arm.

Changbin also gets daily plant duty. Every morning at nine a.m., without fail, Changbin goes to your dorm, sends a photo of each plant to Seungmin for inspection, waters them under exact supervision via video call, and sends back one final image of your dorm door locked tight. He’s never been more afraid of messing up in his life.

But the worst of it? The worst of it is eyedrop hour.

Four times a day, every day, you need them. Dexamethasone, right eye, two drops, four times a day, minimum. But you’re a twitchy, dramatic mess about it. And Seungmin is militant. So he enlists help.

The task force includes Changbin, shoulder duty, Hyunjin the head stabiliser, Felix the eyelid pryer, Jisung and Jeongin, the leg wranglers, and of course, Seungmin himself, the drop master. It’s a full fucking operation. They call it Operation Eyeball.

“She’s kicking again!”

“Jesus fuck, she almost bit me!”

“Y/N, breathe!”

Felix has his pinky wedged under your eyelid. “I’m doing the lord’s work!”

And then two tiny, icy cold drops of medicine hit your eye.

“I hate everyone,” you whisper from beneath the pile.

They roll off you, one by one, and Seungmin adjusts your blanket burrito back into place like nothing just happened.

Eight days in, Felix and Jisung finally crack. They corner you in the kitchen with ice cream and puppy eyes. They sit you down and talk gently. About Chan. About maybe, just maybe, talking to him. They try to be careful, try not to push. Try to remind you that Chan is probably spiralling too.

And that’s the moment Seungmin comes in, sees the scene, and hisses like a feral raccoon before he lunges.

Jisung yelps and throws himself over the back of the couch.

Felix screams, “SEUNGMIN NO-”

But it’s too late. Seungmin’s already got a hold of Jisung’s hand and bites down hard enough to leave deep crescent marks. “OW OW OW! Fuck!”

Felix tries to intervene and Seungmin bites him too. Now both of them are nursing identical bite marks and cursing Seungmin’s ancestry in three languages.

From then on, the others give you a wide berth. Well, most of them. Hyunjin and Jeongin get sent in on day eleven. They bring you bubble tea and sneak into Seungmin’s room while he’s brushing his teeth.

“We come in peace,”

“Please just think about talking to him,”

Seungmin appears in the doorway, toothbrush in mouth, toothpaste foaming. And in his hand is a fucking frying pan. He doesn’t even say a word. Just starts swinging.

Jeongin yelps, drops the bubble tea and runs. Hyunjin follows, flailing. Seungmin chases them halfway down the stairs, still in his slippers. And you just sit on his bed, wrapped in a blanket, watching it all like you’re at the theatre.

The only one Seungmin doesn’t go after is Minho. No one fucks with Minho. Not even Seungmin. It’s unspoken. But everyone’s pretty sure Minho carries a switchblade in his sock. No one has ever seen the switchblade. But everyone believes it exists. Even Seungmin.

So when Minho strolls into the room, arms crossed, Seungmin sighs, steps aside, and lets him in. Minho doesn’t say much. He sits beside you. Slides you a steaming mug of tea. Restocks your emergency snacks pile on the desk. Tells you dumb stories about the freshmen in his veterinary class who tried to bathe a cat with no gloves. Makes you laugh.

He doesn’t push. Just sits. Breathes with you.

And you finally pick up your lyric notebook again. You stare at the page for hours. Just stare. But eventually, you write one line. Then another.

And Minho sees it. And he nods. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re coming back to yourself. Even if Seungmin has to burn the whole fucking house down to keep you safe while you do it.

Chan is sprawled on the living room couch in that particular state of existential half-consciousness that only Hannah Montana reruns and the weight of two weeks of unresolved romantic frustration can inspire. He stares at the TV blankly, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, hoodie bunched around his stomach, and a bag of crisps slowly going stale on the coffee table next to him.

The sound of a soft knock on the doorframe pulls him out of his spiral. You’re standing there.

Clutching your notebook like it’s your last line of defence between you and the outside world. You’re dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants and a massive hoodie that swallows you whole. Your hair’s up in a loose bun with a pencil sticking out of it. There’s no makeup on your face. You look soft, sleepy and terrified.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “No. No, I’m not. I mean, I’m not dying but also I feel like if I blink wrong I’ll have a meltdown. And also I feel bad. For not talking to you. And the whole Seungmin the bodyguard from hell thing. He might have rabies. I’m kind of concerned.”

Chan lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes soft.

“Anyway,” you ramble on, voice speeding up, “I’m here to talk to you. And the notebook is like my emotional shield. I will be holding it to my chest the whole time. Like soft armour. Don’t judge me.”

Chan nods once, seriously. “I would never judge your emotional armour.”

You cross the room and lower yourself awkwardly onto the beanbag next to the couch, curling your knees up and clutching the notebook so tightly your knuckles crack.

“I’m sorry, I freaked out. Big time. Like, full-on breakdown mode. Because singing- Okay, like, I know I’m good. I’m not trying to be humble. But also attention? Makes me shrivel like cold balls.”

Chan snorts, shoulders shaking with a half-laugh.

You groan and immediately yank your hood up over your head, hiding inside like a turtle retreating into its shell. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I feel like I’m gonna stroke out every time I submit a piece for assessment. doesn’t matter how confident I am, the moment someone else listens to it, I lose the ability to breathe.”

You push the hood back slightly and peek at him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Music’s personal. It’s like ripping your chest open and hoping people like what falls out.”

You blink at him. The room is too quiet, the glow of the TV casting flickers of light across both your faces. Your heart thuds against your ribs.

Chan shifts on the couch and leans forward a little. His voice drops, softer than before. “While we’re getting it all out there, you should know that I have a massive crush on you.”

You freeze. Your eyes go wide. Your brain forgets how to function. He watches you, amused, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Uh oh,” he mutters. “She’s buffering.”

You don’t move. You just keep staring at him.

Chan raises his eyebrows, then smiles wider. “How does a date sound? Just me and you. I’ll book the studio for a few hours. We can get takeout, and wear the comfiest, ugliest clothes we own. No expectations. Just fun.”

You immediately shrink into the hoodie. “Sounds good"

“You okay?”

You stick your hand out of the hoodie hole and give him a shaky thumbs-up.

Chan bursts out laughing. “Does that mean you like me too?”

You don’t respond. You just curl tighter into yourself, holding your notebook up in front of your face like a riot shield, hiding everything except your eyes.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, wheezing. “You’re so shy it’s weaponized.”

You peek out slowly, just enough to see his face. He gets off the couch and moves to crouch in front of you, his eyes twinkling.

You squeak quietly. It’s embarrassing. Your hands fly up to cover your face. Chan immediately loses his balance from laughing too hard and falls on his ass, flopping backwards onto the floor.

You burst out laughing. The kind of laugh that shakes your shoulders and makes your chest ache. “Seeing you fall like that helped actually. That was super embarrassing for you.”

Chan doesn’t even move. He lies there, sprawled out on the floor, arms spread like a starfish, and gives you a thumbs up from the ground. You wipe at your eyes, still giggling, your hoodie bunched up around your neck now. Your notebook rests in your lap like it just witnessed the most awkward rom-com moment in history.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in your chest loosens. Just a little. Just enough.

Chan is seated on the edge of the couch in the Alpha Phi frat house living room, knees spread just slightly, elbows resting on his thighs. His legs are bouncing at different speeds, his left one jittering erratically while the right taps out a steadier rhythm like he’s trying to keep time with the lo-fi beats playing from the TV. He’s already been sitting here for twenty-five minutes. Not that he’s counting. He’s absolutely counting.

He wipes his hands down the front of his grey sweatpants for the third time. They’re soft and slouchy and objectively comfortable, but nothing about him feels relaxed. His black tank top clings to his chest in a way that makes him feel slightly exposed, no matter how casual the outfit was meant to be. He’s freshly showered, hair still a little damp at the ends and fluffed up in the back from nervous towel-drying and pacing. He ran his fingers through it too many times and now his fringe flops crooked over his forehead.

The studio reservation isn’t for another twenty minutes, but he can’t just sit still. The television is on, visuals of Tokyo backstreets and neon lights rolling across the screen as soft instrumental beats play beneath. It’s supposed to be calming. It’s not. Every two seconds, his eyes flick to the stairs. He listens for the sound of footsteps, of soft socked feet on the stairs, of you coming down to meet him.

He reaches for his phone and checks the time again. Six minutes since the last check. He groans and drops his head back against the couch cushion. He’s not even sure what to call this. A not-date-but-totally-a-date. Studio time with takeout. A maybe moment. A crush confession follow-up session.

The second he lets out a sigh through his nose, a shadow falls across the entrance to the living room. Chan looks up, his heart lifting, then slamming straight back into his stomach.

It’s not you. It’s Seungmin. Leaning against the doorframe with the casual air of someone who isn’t holding a large box of rat poison in one hand and a very real, very sharp kitchen knife in the other.

"What the actual fuck?!”

“Pick one.”

Chan squints. “Huh?”

Seungmin lifts both hands slightly. “Rat poison or stab wound. You get to choose how you die. I’m generous like that.”

There’s a moment of complete silence as Chan just stares at him, trying to decide if this is a joke or the start of a true crime documentary.

“Okay,” he says slowly, raising his eyebrows. “Well, context would be super helpful right now.”

Seungmin nods toward the stairs. “If you make her sad. If you so much as look at her wrong. If one single fucking tear falls from her eyeball because of you, I will end your bloodline.”

Chan breathes in deep, drags his hands down his face, then exhales through his teeth. “Cool. awesome. Love that. Love the loyalty. Very mafia of you.”

“Don’t fuck with her, Chan,” Seungmin says, voice completely calm. “She’s been hanging on by one thread and that thread is currently me, a frying pan, and a half-empty bottle of melatonin. I have nothing to lose and a lot of rage.”

“So just one stab wound then?”

“No,” Seungmin says without hesitation. “Multiple. Very slow. Very painful. You’ll bleed out like a little bitch.”

Chan gestures vaguely toward the poison box. “Then I choose poison.”

Seungmin shrugs like that’s a perfectly reasonable choice. “Respect.”

Chan clears his throat. “Okay, but just to confirm, is this like, a hypothetical threat or an actual plan you’re actively working on?”

Seungmin leans forward, knife glinting faintly in the low light. “If you break her heart, I will break your spine.”

Chan swallows hard. “Duly noted.”

Seungmin gestures with the knife again. “Also, in case you thought I was bluffing, I’ve got backup. Jisung, Felix, Changbin, Hyunjin and Jeongin all said they’d help me get rid of your body.”

“And Minho?”

The faintest hint of a smile touches Seungmin’s lips. “He said he gets to go first. Said something about acid and slicing your tendons.”

Chan visibly shudders and Seungmin nods in satisfaction, like he’s just completed a group project early. He starts to turn, pauses, then adds over his shoulder, “She doesn’t know I’m threatening you, by the way. She’s upstairs with Jisung and Felix still freaking out over her hoodie strings being uneven. Figured I’d use the time wisely.”

And then he walks out of the room like he didn’t just casually deliver the most detailed murder threat Chan’s ever received.

Chan sits there in stunned silence. He blinks once. Then again. He leans back against the couch, rubbing his hands down his face again like that will somehow reset his entire nervous system. It doesn’t. He adjusts his tank top, tugging it down slightly like that’ll fix how exposed he feels.

He glances up at the staircase again, even more nervous than before. Because now, apparently, his ability to hold a date together determines whether or not he gets a knife in the kidney. Or drinks poisoned coffee. Or whatever other horrific plan Seungmin’s got scribbled in his chaotic little planner.

Chan looks up the second he hears the telltale sound of footsteps on the stairs. Not the heavy thuds of Changbin or the dramatic stomps of Jisung, but the quiet, careful, almost tiptoeing steps that only one person in this house makes like you’re trying not to bother the floor.

And then you appear.

Chan sits up straighter, completely forgetting to breathe for a second. You step into the living room, fidgeting slightly with the drawstrings of your hoodie. You’re wearing a light grey hoodie, the sleeves too long and the hem dipping over your hips. Underneath, he can see the edge of a fitted white crop top, peeking out each time the hoodie shifts. Your wide-leg sweatpants are the same shade of grey, loose and soft, paired with chunky white sneakers that make your legs look longer.

Your hair falls in soft, loose waves around your face, perfectly tousled like you didn’t try at all, but Chan knows better. He knows you. You definitely tried. There’s the faintest shimmer on your cheekbones and flawless natural makeup that makes you look so glowy it’s honestly kind of unfair.

You stop in the doorway and blink at him, notebook clutched against your stomach like it’s armour again.

“Hey,” you mumble.

Chan smiles and pushes himself to his feet. “Hey. You ready?”

You nod quickly, too quickly. “Yep. definitely. one hundred percent. I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life, which sounds like sarcasm but it’s not. I’m just talking a lot because I’m nervous and I’m shutting up now.”

Chan’s grin widens. “Please don’t. I like it.”

You blink, caught off guard, and then offer a shy smile. “Okay.”

The walk across campus is quiet but warm. You walk close enough that your arms brush every few steps. You keep your head ducked slightly, and Chan pretends not to notice how you keep looking up at him, then quickly away like your brain hasn’t caught up with the reality of this actually being a date.

When you reach the studio, Chan unlocks the door and slides the IN USE tab across. You both step inside, and the moment the door shuts behind you, the air feels different, quieter, more intimate, like a bubble. Chan sets his bag down in the corner and turns to you with a smile.

“Okay,” he says. “First things first. Let’s relax. I propose we get all the embarrassing stories out right now. No secrets on the first date.”

You nod, eyes wide, still clutching your notebook. “Okay. I’m warning you, mine are bad.”

“Good,” he laughs, dropping onto one of the padded stools near the console. “I’ll go first. One time, at a party, I was super drunk and accidentally peed on Changbin’s bedroom wall.”

Your mouth drops open and then immediately splits into a grin. “I remember that!”

Chan groans and drops his face into his hands. “Oh god. you were there.”

“Oh, I was there,” you say, laughter bubbling out of you now. “Changbin caught you pants down, in his room, pissing on his wall. I’ve never seen him so horrified.”

“I got lost on the way to the bathroom!”

“You were yelling that the toilet was too cold!”

“It was a wall, Y/N. A fucking wall. I was hallucinating the porcelain.”

You shake your head, giggling. “That story’s never going to stop being funny.”

“Your turn,” Chan says, pointing at you.

You take a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, mine’s really bad. Like, secondhand embarrassment levels of bad but we’re doing full honesty, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright,” you say, clutching your notebook tighter. “So one time, Jisung and I were in Hanam. We’d taken the wrong train because we were trying to go to Hongdae and got distracted by a guy playing the saxophone in the station and ended up getting on the wrong train.”

Chan’s brows lift. “Off to a strong start.”

“Yeah, so we’re in Hanam, very much not where we’re supposed to be, and we get off and we’re trying to figure out where the fuck we are when two police officers come up to us.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” you say, nodding seriously. “They said they had some questions and we panic immediately because we’re dumbasses with anxiety. So Jisung starts flapping his hands like he’s trying to summon a weather change and I immediately assume we’re going to prison.”

Chan is already laughing, hand over his mouth.

“And then I start retching.”

Chan’s eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“0h yes,” you say again, mimicking a loud retching noise that makes him wheeze. “like full dry heaving. because I’m so panicked. the officers are trying to calm me down and I’m just there on the sidewalk like-”

You make another retching noise, louder this time and Chan nearly falls off the stool.

“And then,” you say, giggling now, “Jisung’s anxiety skyrockets because I’m panicking, and that little monster starts retching too. We’re both dry-heaving on the sidewalk like we’re in a horror movie. And the officers are just standing there like ‘What the fuck is happening?’”

“Please tell me someone saved you.”

“Felix, he's my emergency contact. They called him. He got Changbin to drive him all the way down and the officers had to wait with us while we hyperventilated on the pavement.”

Chan’s laughing so hard his eyes are watering. “And what did the officers want?”

“They were just looking for witnesses. Someone stole like eighty-thousand won worth of clothes from a boutique. They just wanted to ask if we’d seen anything.”

Chan wheezes. “And instead they found two retching anxiety goblins.”

You point at him with your pen. “Yes. Anxiety goblins. That's us.”

Chan leans back in his chair, still laughing. “God, I love this.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, waving a hand between you. “Talking. Laughing. You being an absolute fucking weirdo. It’s the best.”

"Why’d you have to say that? Now I’m all embarrassed again.”

Chan leans forward, chin on his hand, still grinning. “Good. Keep telling me embarrassing shit. I’m collecting stories.”

“Okay. your funeral.”

Two hours later, the studio smells like fried chicken and soy garlic sauce, the floor is covered in empty takeout boxes, and the lights are dimmed low, just the glow of the monitors illuminating the space in soft blue light, and your face glows in it. You haven’t stopped talking in the last five minutes, and Chan hasn’t stopped listening.

“Okay, okay, wait,” you say, licking your thumb clean, “Play that one again. The one that had, like, that weird little echo-y beat before the drop? The one that sounded like you sampled a creepy music box but made it sexy?”

Chan is leaning over his laptop, poking through folders with his brows furrowed, grinning the whole time. “This one?”

You nod quickly, leaning forward to get a better look at the waveform, and you accidentally bump your knee against his thigh. “Yeah! That one! Okay, play it again.”

He does. The eerie little melody starts to roll, delicate and distorted, and you sit forward even more, your eyes locked on the screen like you can somehow see the way the music moves.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “so, like, I don’t know how to explain this without sounding completely batshit, but it’s giving haunted carousel in an abandoned theme park vibes, but like, if you also want to have sex at the same time.”

“You have the weirdest fucking metaphors.”

You grin and shrug, picking up your can of soda and sipping it. “But am I wrong?”

He replays the track again and tilts his head, eyebrows raising. “Actually, now that you say it-”

“I’m just saying, you could easily blend in, like, some harsher drums right before the drop, make it really go from eerie to sexy as hell.”

Chan lets the track run as he slides open his beat pad and pulls up the midi layer. “You mean something like this?” He taps out a rough loop, nothing polished, just rhythm.

“Yes! Yes, exactly! That! It’s got punch but still matches the spooky aesthetic.”

He’s laughing again, but he keeps going, tweaking the reverb slightly and layering it under the drop, adjusting the volume and fade as you rattle off thoughts like your brain’s on overdrive.

“I’m not a producer, obviously,” you say, “but like, I hear things and it just, my brain makes weird little connections. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but that was- Yeah, that worked.”

Chan leans back, turning his head to look at you fully. “You’re really good at this.”

“I’m not, like, good good. I just say shit and hope it makes sense. Most of the time it doesn’t. Felix and Jisung usually just tell me to shut up. Or they laugh. Sometimes both.”

“Well, they’re idiots. You’ve got a good ear. You should trust that.”

“God, you’re so nice. Why are you so nice? I can’t handle that level of kindness. My system short-circuits. I’m gonna combust. You’re gonna have to scrape my ashes out of this chair.”

Chan’s grin doesn’t fade as he watches you dramatically hide your face in your sleeves, mumbling about combusting and cremation and how your ashes better be scattered somewhere meaningful.

The track continues to loop behind you, eerie and seductive, and you glance up shyly, suddenly very aware that the two of you are alone in a room designed for acoustics and intimacy, the light barely illuminating the planes of Chan’s face as he turns back to his laptop.

He's relaxed. Happy. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins visible in his forearms, his fingers flying across the keyboard like muscle memory. The curve of his smile is soft and content, like he’s exactly where he wants to be. He is.

Because this? Right here? This is the best fucking date he’s ever been on.

It’s not just the music, or the food, or even how hilarious you are when you retell stories. It’s not even the way you keep getting excited about the simplest things, like the slider automation on one of his older mixes or the way a particular reverb sounds like a whisper behind the vocals.

It’s just you.

He wants so many more of these. Late nights. Studio sessions. Takeout boxes and wild metaphors and you, in all your chaotic, anxious glory. All of it. Forever, if he can manage it.

It begins, like most of their worst ideas do, with seven idiots coming up with an idea. They’re dressed like they’re in a low-budget spy movie. All black from head to toe, including hoodies, cargo pants, and even knit beanies. They are the least stealthy group in the world. But they’re determined.

Minho said that there was a possibility, however small, that someone needed to be stopped before emotions spiralled out of control or Chan made a fool of himself, which was very likely. And Seungmin was bribed into tagging along by Hyunjin, who promised to let him slap Jeongin if he misstepped even once.

So now, here they are, crouched around the corner from Studio C, breathing heavily from the effort of tiptoeing across two buildings and ducking under a janitor cart on the way.

“Alright,” Minho whispers, eyes narrowed. “Jisung, you peek.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the nosiest. and you’re fast,” Seungmin adds. “If they see you, you can pretend you were having an anxiety episode”

“Do you know how many times I’ve had to use that excuse this semester?”

“It’s believable,” Jeongin shrugs. “You’re jittery as fuck.”

Felix grins and ruffles Jisung’s hair. “You’re our chaos compass, baby. Now go.”

Jisung groans, drags his palms down his face, then begins his approach like he’s infiltrating a mafia hideout. He tiptoes dramatically across the corridor, pressed to the wall, pausing every few steps like there are lasers he needs to avoid. He stops right at the studio door, hand hovering just above the handle.

Jisung takes a deep breath, lowers himself into a squat, then very slowly pushes the door open just a crack. There’s a beat. Then he pulls it shut.

He turns, stumbles backwards like he’s been shot in the chest, one hand slapped over his eyes. He doesn’t say a word. Just makes a strangled whimper and collapses onto his knees, crawling away from the door like he’s being dragged by invisible demons.

“Ji?”

“What the fuck did you see?”

Jisung lets out a small, broken sob and covers his eyes with both hands.

“Jisung, what happened?”

Still nothing. Jisung just keeps crawling away, whimpering like a kicked puppy, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

“Jisung, speak, what did you see?”

“What are they doing? Were they kissing? Cuddling? Talking about feelings?”

Jisung doesn’t respond. He just keeps crawling. Faster now. Like a fucking hamster trying to escape its enclosure.

“He’s in shock,”

“Or he’s being dramatic,”

Felix frowns, worried now. “Jisungie, baby, come on. Breathe. Tell us what you saw.”

Jisung hits the corner of the hallway and turns it like he’s on autopilot, crawling on hands and knees like that scene from The Ring, but more pitiful.

“He’s broken,”

“Someone reboot him,”

“I don’t wanna touch him. What if he’s contagious?”

“He’s your boyfriend,”

“Yeah, but not right now.”

The six of them start following him slowly down the hallway, walking in a group like ducklings behind their broken leader. They keep their voices low, worried about making too much noise and tipping you and Chan off.

“Oh my god, he’s gone. He’s fucking gone.”

“Someone call a therapist,”

“Should we just leave him?”

They follow around the corner as Jisung crawls into an empty classroom and collapses in a heap by the whiteboard, hugging his knees to his chest. He lets out a soft, shuddering breath and presses his face into his arms.

Felix sighs and pulls out his phone. “I’ll go find a juice box and a priest. Whichever one helps first.”

It’s been three months since your first studio date with Chan, and the frat house has never been the same. You and Chan have been official for just over a month now, though the twice-a-week date routine had started long before the actual relationship label.

It became a habit, him showing up outside your dorm with snacks, or you sneaking into the Alpha Phi house with your notebook clutched to your chest and a six-pack of peach iced tea.

Sometimes it was takeout and movie nights in the studio, other times it was long walks through the greenhouse on campus while you told him facts about moss and carnivorous plants like you were narrating a fucked-up nature documentary.

The others adjusted pretty quickly. Minho was smug about being right. Felix cried when you told him, loud, emotional, dramatic sobs that included declarations like “my baby girl has a boyfriend, oh god, my child is growing up.” Changbin fist-bumped Chan so hard it nearly dislocated his shoulder. Jeongin screamed. Hyunjin made you promise to make a playlist for your makeout sessions. Seungmin demanded weekly updates and swore he’d castrate Chan if you so much as frowned.

But Jisung? Jisung’s been weird.

Every time he sees the two of you together, his whole body tenses like he’s going through trauma. He’ll stare for exactly three seconds too long and then run in the opposite direction, or he’ll make a high-pitched sound and vanish through the nearest door like a Scooby-Doo character.

At first, you thought it was jealousy. Or maybe some unresolved feelings. But when Felix asked him gently if he was okay, Jisung just whispered “no” and clutched his own head.

Now, three months into domestic bliss, you’re sitting on the kitchen island in the Alpha Phi house, sipping from a mug Chan made for you, extra milky coffee with a swirl of whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Your hoodie is oversized, your sweatpants are comfy, and Chan is standing at the counter buttering a slice of toast.

He turns and looks at you. You raise an eyebrow. “You’re doing the thing again. The thing where you look like you’ve got something to say but you’re scared you’ll get stabbed.”

Chan sighs, sets the knife down, and runs a hand through his hair. “I have to ask him.”

You blink. “Ask who what?”

“Jisung. Why he’s acting like I’ve murdered his pet hamster every time we’re in the same room.”

You snort into your mug. “Oh god, are we finally doing it?”

Chan nods grimly. “It’s time.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and storms out of the kitchen with the kind of dramatic purpose that only Alpha Phi boys seem to possess. You swing your legs gently, sipping your coffee, content to be the peanut gallery as you hear footsteps shuffle, and then-

“Jisung.”

“No.”

“Jisung, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I said no.”

“I haven’t even asked anything yet!”

“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GONNA ASK.”

You lean slightly to the side, watching Chan corner Jisung near the pantry like a predator about to interrogate a witness. “I just want to know why you’ve been acting like I’m actively stabbing you in the soul every time I hold my girlfriend’s hand.”

Jisung’s shoulders shoot up to his ears. “Because you are.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Jisung clenches his jaw. You can see the internal struggle like he’s weighing whether or not to ruin his own life.

“I SAW YOU EATING Y/N OUT IN THE STUDIO,” he blurts, voice strained, wobbling on the edge of hysteria.

The silence that follows is the kind that drops like a boulder off a fucking cliff. You freeze, mug halfway to your lips. Chan stares at Jisung like he’s just confessed to war crimes.

“We all went to spy on your first date, okay? It was supposed to be recon! Intel! And they made me peek! THEY MADE ME PEEK.”

You cover your mouth, but it’s too late. The laugh rips out of you like a car backfiring.

Chan’s mouth falls open. “Oh my god.”

Jisung is crying now. “I opened the door. I peeked in. And I saw-” he chokes, covering his mouth. “I saw you tongue-deep-”

You choke on your coffee and Chan bursts out laughing. Full, loud, belly laughter.

“I saw toe curlage, Y/N! TOE! CURLAGE!”

You nearly fall off the island. Chan lurches forward and catches you by the waist, doubling over with laughter, dragging you off the counter and into his arms.

“I’m never gonna unsee it! His fucking HEAD, Y/N. It was shaking side to side like a bobblehead on steroids! I can't believe you put out on the first date!”

You’re crying now, tears running down your face as Chan laughs into your shoulder. Your knees buckle, and you both sink to the kitchen floor, howling.

Jisung drops to his hands and knees. “THE OTHERS MADE ME DO IT. THOSE SIX FUCKERS!”

You’re gasping for air, curled against Chan’s side as you both lie sprawled on the cold tile, bodies shaking with laughter.

“YOUR TOES CURLED, Y/N! I SAW IT! YOU LOOKED POSSESSED!”

“I’m gonna piss myself! Oh my god, I swear I’m gonna pass out or piss myself, possibly both, someone get a mop.”

Chan has tears running down his face. “He’s crawling, he’s actually crawling, oh fuck, I’m gonna die.”

“I’M CALLING MY THERAPIST! FELIX! FELIX, BABE, THEY’RE BULLYING ME!”

You watch through teary eyes as he scrambles out of the kitchen on all fours like a feral raccoon, sobbing into the floor, shrieking for his boyfriend, his socks sliding against the tile as he crawls at top speed.

And then he’s gone. Just gone.

The house falls silent again, save for your breathless wheezing and Chan’s uncontrollable giggling as you lie there on the floor like two emotionally broken idiots. Your face is damp. Your stomach hurts. Your hair is a mess. And still, you’re laughing.

Chan turns his head to look at you. You’re sprawled on your back, one hand over your chest, eyes squinting up at the ceiling as you try to catch your breath. Your face is glowing, not from makeup, but from joy. Your nose crinkles every time you let out another wheezy laugh, your lips stretched into the kind of grin that’s impossible to fake.

And Chan, lying there on the kitchen floor next to you, thinks you are it. You’re the source of the warmth in his chest and the ache in his cheeks from smiling too much. You’re the voice he wants to hear singing over every track he ever finishes. You’re the reason his playlists sound softer now. The reason his mornings feel brighter and his nights feel easier. You’re everything.

You notice him staring and blink at him, smiling despite the tears in your eyes. “What?”

He just shakes his head, smiling softly.

“Nothing,” he whispers. “you’re just my favourite.”

And in that moment, with your laughter still echoing through the Alpha Phi kitchen and Jisung crying in the hallway somewhere, Chan knows there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than right here with you.

Forever.

Bang Chan Taglist: @0haerireah0

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101

Proofread by the wonderful @hwangjoanna <3

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