#she refuses to answer she refuses to choose

[idle-vapourings]

This is so real.

for myself, I've just had to realize when I'm talking to someone who has no desire to understand me.

because yeah, ableist people be ableist, bigots be bigots, selfish people be selfish, and it will be a losing game every time trying to make them come around.

i had this happen with a friend who had hurt my feelings. I kept it very short and polite because I didn't want to be angry with her or make her feel bad. and then she interpreted that negatively and had a lot of questions for me about my feelings. so i tried to take that in good faith, and explained myself in more detail. I tried to be both empathetic but clear, but really explain and answer her questions. she kept asking me to explain my feelings and at some point I felt that I was being asked to justify having an emotion, which I explained why that hurt. She wasn't getting it, so I explained with more words in an attempt to be clear while being honest how what was happening was frustrating and hurtful to me. she took that as aggression and an unwillingness to work things out with her (the precise thing I was attempting to do). and then she blocked me.

that stung and for a while i thought, hm did i fuck up. but the thing is, no i didn't. really, what it was about is that she refused to accept that she had done something hurtful. so the issue wasn't how i was communicating. it was that she refused to accept a world where she hurt my feelings - even if I had told her it was okay and that I know she didn't mean harm and that I had moved on. Instead, she needed to dissect why I was hurt to begin with and challenge it, rather than accepting that she was a human being who made a mistake. that person wasn't interested in my feelings or my take on the situation. they were interested in being right. and when they couldn't find a path to that with me, they just bounced.

I've also had this happen when requesting disability accommodations after getting a job offer. I requested clarity. I got obtuse replies. I gave more clarity. I got more obtuse replies. That was interpreted as me not wanting to participate in a good faith process. The reality was, the process was not good faith, and it never would have been, no matter what I said.

This feeling of no matter what you say it being wrong can be crushing and frustrating. because at least for me, I feel my autistic brain is really set on there being a solution, a right way to say something to get through to someone or to bridge a connection. and a sincere desire and deep need to be understood and heard. what I've had to come around to is that... sometimes people do not want to hear me. and if they don't, yeah, no matter what I choose, it results in misunderstanding.

I give it a genuine good go once or twice but if they're still interpreting me in the worst faith way possible or choosing to not really hear me then, yanno, time to not bother talking to someone who isn't listening and go talk to someone else worthwhile. I just try to remember that the failure is not mine, here. Someone who doesn't want to listen will never hear me. And people who don't actually want to hear me are never, ever worth my energy in the long run.

The people who really want to listen are out there. I say my thing, I be myself, and I see what the other person does with it.

I LOVE being autistic and trying to communicate because every time it’s

[in1-nutshell]

…tfa!Optimus Prime x Vespa?

Okay?!

Did not expect this to be a ship, but also I can see the vision!!!

Hope you enjoy!

3 times Vespa saw Optimus as a friend and the 1 time she saw him as something more

SFW, Platonic, Slight Angst, Romance, Cybertronian reader

TFA

Number 1. Pond watching

Optimus had been feeling the effects of burnout for a good couple of days.

He could relax, but he had a team to take care of and Cons to worry about.

Relaxing could wait.

An idea that didn’t sit well with Vespa.

She had been taking carefully observing the Prime’s activities and found it a bit alarming the limited amount of rest he was getting.

The smaller bot knew that if something didn’t happen soon, he would collapse.

So, an idea was made.

Vespa walks straight up to the Prime. Vespa: “You come with Vespa.” Optimus blinked. Optimus: “What?” Vespa just grabbed his servo and started leading him out. Vespa: “Come with Vespa.” Optimus, confused as ever, just follows.

He was a bit annoyed when they arrived at the ponds.

The only reason Optimus had left the Plant was because he thought Vespa needed him for something important.

Apparently pond watch was on that list.

He did try to go back to the Plant but was surprised when Vespa stopped him.

And by stopping him, Vespa had jumped onto his back and covered his optics, refusing to let go until he continued the pond watch with her.

She was going to make sure her friend relaxed!

Eventually Optimus decided to humor her for a bit and watch the ducks.

The planned 10 minutes turned into 3 hours of duck watching, petting and having long talks about life on Earth.

Mission Relax Prime was a success!

Number 2. Paint job

Vespa’s old color scheme had become faded and dull.

The last mission involving all that dust and dirt didn’t do any favors.

She had been going through every color pallet Sari had offered and had finally managed to land on one she liked.

Now the only question was who she could trust to get those hard-to-reach places.

Most of the team was out doing their own things… except Optimus.

Perfect!

One minute Optimus was planning on re-organizing some of his old datapads, the next, he was sitting down and carefully applying the first coat of paint on Vespa’s back.

Optimus: “Hey Vespa, why me?” Vespa hummed a bit confused. Optimus: “Why did you choose me to do this? I’m sure Bumblebee or Bulkhead could have done this for you. Not to mention they have a better knowledge of Earth paints than I do.” Vespa paused for a bit before speaking. Vespa: “Prime already here.” Optimus: “Ah…” But Vespa continues. Vespa: “And Vespa trust Prime with paint. Bumble bot can’t paint. Bulky servo too shaky. Prime servo steady. No mistakes.” Optimus just smiled at the compliment and the confession of trust. Trust that did not come easy for a bot like Vespa.

Number 3. Thunderstorms

A nasty thunderstorm had rolled in a couple of weeks since Vespa joined the team.

She didn’t even know that this planet could produce these kinds of things!?

It was the middle of the night when the first claps of thunder and lightning rang out.

The poor bot was petrified feeling how close they were.

She hated it.

It brought up to many memories of the stockades…

Vespa didn’t want to wake anyone up so she decided that maybe walking around the Plant would do her good.

It would at least take her mind off things.

And it worked for the first few softer thunderclaps.

Then a rather loud one startled her and immediately ran into the nearest room and hid under the closest thing she could find.

Vespa couldn’t stop shaking, keeping her servos over her helm and screwed her optics shut.

She nearly screamed when a much larger servo held her’s.

But the bot could recognize that soft hold anywhere.

Vespa slowly opened her optics to meet Optimus concerned ones. Optimus: “Vespa? What are you doing here? Is there something wrong?” Vespa was about to answer when another loud claps of thunder shook the ground. She made herself smaller under the berth, gripping the Prime’s servo tightly. He didn’t scream or say much. The larger bot just sat down near her and continued to let his servo be used as a stress ball. Optimus: “You’re safe Vespa. You’re safe here.” It took a bit for her to come out from under the berth and sit down next to him. There was no judgement or disgusting stares. Just silence. Vespa: “…sounds like in stockades… too loud…too much…” Optimus wordlessly allows the smaller bot to scoot closer to him as more claps came around. She was still shaking but lessened when he placed his arm around her. Vespa: “Vespa sorry for waking Prime bot up…” Optimus shook his helm. Optimus: “You have nothing to apologize for. We’re here for you, I’m here for you. And if you ever want to talk about what you went through or maybe about the ducks again, I’d be honored to be the shoulder you come for.” Vespa just looks at him in shock and looks back down at their now intertwined servos. The Prime notices her tighten grip on his arm. Vespa: “…Thank you… Optimus…”

Number 1. Con attack

The entire team was called out to the city.

The Cons were trying to attack a steel warehouse when they got there.

As much as the Cons scared the paint off Vespa, she managed to not run for the hills.

Besides, her job was to make sure all the humans had evacuated in time.

Soon enough it was just Sari and the Professor that needed to go.

Before she could shoo them away, the smaller bot was suddenly caught by the back of her neckcables and held up.

Vespa desperately clawed at the larger servo and tried to get out his grip.

Apparently Starscream thought it was a good idea to take this smaller bot hostage.

Keeping her in the base for a few days would surely give him enough time to think of the best exchange!

Vespa’s wide optics stared directly into Starscream’s. Starscream just smirked. Starscream: “Oh don’t give me that look. You’ll have a lovely cage once we leave for the Decepticon base.” The thrashing only increased after the word ‘cage’. Starscream just laughed at the smaller bots pitiful attempts to free herself. Starscream: “Look at you squirming! Do you really believe you can hit me?” Optimus spots Vespa dangling from Starscream’s hold. He doesn’t even register the yell before his pede came in contact with the back of the Con’s neck. The Seeker let out a loud squawk, releasing Vespa in the process. Vespa flipped onto her back and groggily sat up. Optimus was throwing punch after punch with a type of anger she had never seen before. Optimus: “Don’t! You! Ever! Touch! Her!” Vespa felt her frame grow warmer. Soon her vision of Prime was replaced with one of a concerned Bumblebee and Sari. Sari: “Vespa! Come on we gotta go!” Vespa just tried to look past them. Vespa: “But Optimus—” Bumblebee helped her up, hoisting her on his back piggy back style. Bumblebee: “Boss bot’s got this. But we need to go!” The warm feeling in her chassis didn’t go away, not even after the fight. A strange yet inviting feeling the smaller bot welcomed the second she saw the Prime’s relived face.

[bujorulgalben]

Would you rather only have garlic or onions?

[ /it takes a minute before she says anything at all! it's incredible! her typical blathering answers to prefer 'this' or 'that' are absent, and her eyes flick back and forth as she thinks intently. brows furrow, a finger taps her chin. ]

I... well I mean I... I-I uh, but why do I need... um...

[ /her voice creaks and her lower lip trembles at the idea of answering such an impossible question. then comes the crumpling of her complexion, a feeling similar to the closing of her throat and a single bleat of a sob. she cannot answer. she cannot choose!

instead, she chooses to cry. ]

[enjoyerofstories]

what i think is funny is that nick seems like a dog person but he's actually a cat person (it's kinda canon given that they had a cat before sel arrived) and sel seems like a cat person but he's actually a dog person (i won't budge from this. it's canon to me)

[rafeysbunny]

‧₊˚ ⋅ i'll show you, rafe cameron

stepbro!rafe x fem!reader

masterlist

synopsis. in which your stepbrother kindly offers to show you porn for the first time.

warnings. stepbro!rafe, innocent!reader (but she's not an airhead), virgin!reader, smut, fingering, rafe putting in just the tip, oral sex (fem receiving), rafe licks his own creampie.

word count. 4k.

author's note. idea by @matts1andonly. english isn't my first language so there might be spelling mistakes, don't hold it against me. enjoy!

it's past midnight when you finally slide out of your bedroom without making a sound. you have been waiting patiently for your mom and ward to go to bed so you can do this without risking getting caught. wheezie is already asleep too, sarah is out with john b somewhere, and rafe left the house earlier, not telling anyone where to, so you know he's going to arrive late, as always.

it's the perfect moment.

rafe's room is down the hallway, so you make your way there quietly not to wake anyone, your barefoot feet making soft footstep sounds when you walk. once there, you open the door as carefully as you possibly can, knowing it creaks every time it gets open. this time, thanks to god, it does not.

you manage to sneak into the dormitory unnoticed, then shut the door behind you. the place is dark, only a faint glimmer of moonlight coming in through his curtains, but you want to lay low, so you don't turn on the lights. by all means, the dim lighting is enough for you to spot what you're looking for.

rafe's mac, laying there on his desk.

what's the point behind all of this? you might be wondering. well, let me answer you real quick. turns out, this handsome, muscled college guy has invited you on a date. problem is, you have never been on a date. you haven't even hold hands with a guy romantically before, much less kissed or fucked one. you simply refuse to come off as a prude, which honestly you are, but that dream of a man doesn't need to know that.

and that's why you have decided that it is a good idea to break into your stepbrother's bedroom and borrow his laptop, since yours broke last week, to watch porn in it for the first time.

well, now that you hear it out loud, it probably sounded better in your head. anyways...

you stroll towards the desk with languid steps and sit down on rafe's chair, small hands reaching hesitantly to open the laptop. you turn it on and the screen light illuminates your pretty face right away. you swear your fingers are shaking a little bit as you open up the browser and type 'porn videos' on the search bar.

somehow, you feel like you are doing something wrong, and you can't seem to shake the guilt away. either way, you don't back out. you click the enter button and, after just a few seconds, a million search results pop up. honestly, you don't know where to start, so you click on the first one, which redirects you to a website called pornhub.

the home page is full of videos, the first thing to catch your attention being the obscene thumbnails of each one of them. your cheeks flush a deep shade of red. you read some of the titles as you bite your lip nervously, realising most of them contain the word 'stepsister' in them, and you wonder if that is the only content posted on this page.

how innocent of you not to know that the website is making recommendations based on your stepbro's most searched tag.

before things escalate further, you spot rafe's airpods max sitting there on the desk and decide to grab them, connecting them to the laptop and putting them on —this way you can make sure no one overhears anything. after that, you spend a few more minutes scrolling through the page, during which you discover that there's a ton of categories to choose from.

how are you supposed to know which one to pick?

you are so invested in your little research, headphones canceling the noise, that you don't hear neither rafe opening the front door nor him walking up the stairs and, surely, don't notice him standing behind you until he speaks. and it's too late by then.

"the fuck are you doing, sweetheart?" he blurts, complete and utterly shocked to see his naive stepsister fuckin' watching pornhub.

well shit, maybe you aren't as innocent as he thought you were.

you jolt instantly, jumping out of your seat as you feel all the colour draining from your cheeks. no way rafe just caught you in the act. this can't be real. despite how bad you want to run away, you are left with no other choice but to turn around and face him, wishing the earth would swallow you up.

"i– this is not what it looks like, i swear i can explain," you stutter nervously, taking of the airpods with trembling hands. from here on, the anxious rambling begins, "i wasn't doing anything... this guy– well, i... i uhm– i got a date, 'kay? with this guy from class and– listen, i know this is silly, but..."

"jesus christ, baby, slow down, 'kay?" he stops you, his heart nearly melting from how cute you look, so shy and flustered. he almost feels bad for interrupting whatever the hell you were doing here.

the colour has returned to your cheeks, and you are all flushed now, from head to toe. your face feels like it's on fire; you have never been this embarrassed before.

"could you please start over?" he asks, hoping to hear a coherent explanation to why you are in his room, in the middle of the night, and watching porn on his laptop.

you take a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of your top. you are so deeply ashamed that you don't seem to remember that you are wearing nothing but a flimsy white singlet and a tiny pair of matching panties. rafe's very aware of that fact, though, hungry eyes trailing all over your beautiful body.

"i've got a date with a guy from class," you start explaining, white teeth nibling occasionally on your plump bottom lip, "but i've never dated anyone, ya' know? i've no experience, and i don't want him to think i'm pathetic if we..."

"fuck?" he finishes your sentence, a roguish grin spreading across his handsome face.

if possible, your blush deepens even more at the vulgarity while you mutter a quiet 'yeah' in response.

honestly, he is a bit jealous of that guy. not only you are willing to let him fuck you, but you are also trying to learn how to do it properly so he has a good time doing it. yeez, what a shame for him he is going to kill him as soon as he finds out who he is; there's no chance rafe's letting you near any other man but him.

"i thought, uhm, maybe watching that would help..." you add coyly, his silence making you more nervous.

it is cute how you try to avoid saying words like 'fuck' or 'porn', like it is a crime to pronounce them or something.

"you know what? let's watch it together," he proposes.

there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn't go unnoticed. you swear your cheeks might just explode at any second, and you can't help the pathetic stutter that comes out when you talk. "uhm, i don't think that'd be appropriate," you refuse, shaking your head.

"why not? you want help, and i can help you here, sweetheart," he answers, his voice surprisingly soft and gentle —unlike rafe, "that's what big brothers are for, aren't they?"

he takes a few steps in his direction until he is standing right beside you. then, he grabs the laptop in his large hands as he flashes you a wicked smirk, his curtain bangs falling messily on his forehead. you gulp, having him so close makes you feel a certain way; you cannot deny that.

"you, uhm, being my stepbrother is exactly why not," you stammer as you tilt your head back to look at him, his height towering over you.

"bullshit," he retorts, huffing. "you trust me?"

your first mistake is, probably, trusting rafe cameron. "yeah, i do, but..."

"that's why 'm perfect for the job, baby," he interrupts you. his words are clearly intended to manipulate you, but you are way too innocent to notice it, "i'm probably the guy you feel most comfortable with, aren't i? i can give ya' all the advice you need."

to be fair, he isn't wrong about that. you don't have any male friends, and you are honestly too embarrassed to ask your girlfriends for help on this department, not wanting them to think less of you. plus, rafe is a guy; he knows better what guys like, right?

"wouldn't it be kinda... weird ?" you ask, clearly hesistant.

"weird?" he repeats. "no, 'course not."

only a few more sweet, reassuring words is all it takes for him to gently coax you into watching his favourite pornos with him. his cock starts to harden in his pants just at the thought of having you like that. when you finally accept, he swears he's on cloud nine.

god, he's been wanting you for months now; he can't believe this is happening.

"c'mere, baby," he eagerly instructs you, getting on his bed.

he sits with his back resting on the headboard and pats the spot between his legs to invite you to sit there. he places the laptop next to him, the pornhub website still open on it. you move slowly towards him, cheeks slightly flushed from the embarrassment as you settle on the mattress in between his parted thighs, your back pressed to his hard chest.

he wraps one strong arm securely around your waist, his hand coming to rest gently on your tummy. with his other hand, he reaches for the laptop sitting beside him, carefully bringing it closer so the two of you can see the screen properly.

your heart is beating so fast in your chest that he can probably hear it, too. the way he is touching you is not making it easier for you to stay calm, either, his fingers tenderly tracing patterns on your belly over the thin fabric of your shirt while he scrolls through the page.

he seems to sense your discomfort and chuckles low in his throat, his warm breath tickling your ear. "relax, sis," he whispers teasingly, his voice laced with amusement. "i'm not gonna make you watch anything that'll traumatize you."

"it's just– this is a bad idea," you babble, fidgeting nervously when he finally clicks on a video and a pretty young woman appears on screen.

the actress is beautiful; she has a gorgeous body and face. her lips are full and pink, and she has these big, expressive eyes that appear to gleam. and you don't realize it, but she looks exactly like you.

the scene starts playing; in it, the girl is watching some movie with a guy that, apparently, is her roommate —at least that's what the title says.

"shhh..." he hushes you softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds emanating from his laptop's speakers. "just watch. don't overthink it."

"okay," you answer between gritted teeth.

your pretty eyes are fixed on the laptop while you try not to cringe at how bad the script and acting are, which is nearly impossible, to be honest. despite that, you keep watching in silence as the video plays, growing more flustered as the clock ticks.

you didn't know mouths could be used for that... interesting.

as opposed to you, rafe's pretty chill behind you, like he's unbothered by this whole situation —he's actually hard as fuck inside his pants, the thing is you haven't noticed. you wonder how he can act so unfazed, since you keep pushing your thighs together to try and soothe the throbbing sensation building in between them while you take in the lewd actions occurring on screen.

you weren't expecting your body to have this reaction, and now you don't know what to do to make it stop.

rafe soon becomes aware of the way you keep letting out soft sighs and squirming in his arms, plush ass rubbing against his cock every time you do it. it's a miracle he is still holding back, though he doesn't know how much time he will be able to.

he's not even paying attention to the video anymore, his entire focus put on you. he finally ventures to lean in, his hot breath grazing the shell of your ear as he whispers, "you know, i could do that to you..." his hand slowly slides to your plush thigh and he gives it a gentle squeeze.

his movements are measured and controlled not to scare you, but your breath hitches in your chest at his actions either way, body tensing up in his grasp. your brain is telling you to push him away, but the insistent throb in your sex doesn't like that idea, not one bit.

"you– you could?" you utter quietly, not taking your eyes away from the laptop.

rafe notices the uncertainty in your voice, but the way you haven't pushed him away yet emboldens him to continue, his large hand gradually sliding north.

"yeah, baby," he murmurs huskily against your ear, fingertips brushing along your inner thigh. "i could put my fingers inside you, just like he's doing to her..."

his words make you blush heavily as a little gasp is released from your pouty lips. "would it feel good?" you ask naively.

your eyes are transfixed in the sight of the guy on the screen pushing his fingers inside the girl's pussy. god, she seems like she's enjoying it so much... and you desperately want to feel like that too. you can't even bring yourself to care that it's your stepbrother offering to show you.

rafe's fingers creep higher and higher until they're barely brushing against your cotton panties. "yeah," he growls huskily against your ear, "it'd feel real good, sweetheart. i promise..."

you shudder, a sweet little mewl escaping your throat involuntarily. you can't help but blush at your own reaction, slightly embarrassed by it. you tear your eyes away from the screen, head falling back against his chest as you look up at him.

"it's throbbing, rafe..." you whine, self-control slipping from your hands. "can you make it better?"

rafe's fingers finally make contact with your wet underwear, pressing against your clit through the fabric. he rubs gentle circles around your sensitive nub, his other hand curling around your supple thigh to spread your legs wider.

"oh, baby, you're soaked through your panties..." he pants out.

your body literally melts into his touch like butter, perfectly shaped brows knitting together in a frown of pleasure. the girl in the video moans, and you do too, both sounds echoing in the silence of his room.

taking your moan as an invitation, rafe carefully hooks his fingers in the gusset of your panties to push them aside, exposing your sopping cunt to the cool air of his bedroom. then, he traces your wet slit slowly, leisurely, as if savoring the velvety feel of your skin.

"such a pretty little pussy..." he praises, eyes hungrily taking in the pink expanse of flesh.

you squirm and let out a soft whimper, biting your lip right after to avoid keep making noises; the last thing you want is to wake up your parents or wheezie. rafe notices your struggle and swiftly reaches up to cover your mouth with his free hand, muffling your sweet moans.

he gathers some of the wetness dripping out of your cunt before trailing his fingers all the way up to your clit, rubbing it gently. your eyes roll back, hips bucking up against his hand instinctively. the way your swollen bud throbs beneath his fingertips is going to make you mad. he begins to touch your clit in fast, tight circles, his other hand still holding your mouth shut to keep you quiet.

he leans in to whisper against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine, "if you make a sound, i'll stop, got it?"

you nod obediently in response, making your best effort to comply; you don't want him to stop doing this, never. as a reward, rafe slides a thick finger down your slit and presses it against your clenched entry, steadily applying pressure until your tight muscles finally give in and allow his digit ingress.

"so fuckin' tight," he groans under his breath at the feeling of your narrow pussy engulfing his finger.

withdrawing his finger almost all the way out, he teases your entrance with the tip, making you tremble with anticipation before pushing it back in to the knuckle, his palm cupping your mound as he starts to thrust in a smooth, lazy rhythm. you swallow a whiny cry while your eyelids flutter shut, pretty face scrunched in a blissful expression.

rafe works his finger in and out of your slick pussy slowly, marveling at how your velvety walls flutter around the digit. he curls it inward, searching for that special spot that's guaranteed to drive you wild.

after a few experimental pokes, rafe's fingertip finally brushes over your g-spot, eliciting a muffled moan from under his palm. he smiles wickedly against your skin, and you shudder in his grasp, pleasure waves running through your body.

"that's it, sweetheart... feel good?" he croons softly, fingering you nice and deep.

you can't bring yourself to reply, the sensation of his large digit fucking your pussy, added to the constant rubbing of his palm against your puffy clit has your mind feeling all fuzzy. your body language is the only answer he needs, though.

rafe leans in to tenderly nip at your neck, his hot mouth latching onto your slender throat as he keeps pumping his finger steadily in and out of your dripping cunt. he knows you're close when he feels your inner muscles starting to clench erratically around his digit.

"rafe," you moan onto his palm as you feel this new, strange sensation building in your tummy, pussy tingling so nicely.

heaven help him. hearing you, his stepsister, moan his name like that makes rafe's hard dick throb almost painfully against his zipper.

and then it happens. the coil in your belly suddenly snaps and you have to bite onto your lip harshly to keep yourself from screaming as you cum for the very first time, on your stepbrother's hand. rafe continues to pump his finger in and out of your spasming cunt as you ride out your climax, wanting to prolong your pleasure.

when you finally come down from your high, you're all shaky and flustered in his arms, panting heavily to try and catch your breath. he has a satisfied smirk on his lips while he slowly withdraws his slick digit from your quivering hole to bring it up to his mouth and lick it clean, savoring your taste.

"did so well for me, baby," he coos as he uncovers your mouth, gently turning your head to the side to press a kiss to your swollen, red lips.

you return it sloppily, eyes fluttering shut in the process, and you sigh contently against his mouth. he can't help but rock his hips against your ass, rubbing his hard on against you.

"did i make you feel good?" he asks between little kisses, his breathing growing uneven. you nod in response. "yeah? then it's just fair you make me feel good too, sweetheart... wanna do that f'me?"

"yes," you whisper against his lips without even thinking, feeling him smirk into the kiss.

"such a good girl," he praises.

at some point, the porn video playing on his laptop ended, so he simply closes it up and tosses it away, the device landing somewhere on his king size bed. then, he turns you both around, until you are laying on the mattress and he is on top of you.

he is quick to undo his pants and yank them down, just enough to free his raging hard on, which bounces against his abs. let me tell you this, he's big, the tip pink and fat, already leaking precum.

suddenly, realization hits you. this is your stepbrother for god's sake, are you really gonna let him fuck you?

he notices how your body tenses up, one hand reaching to stroke your plush thigh reassuringly while the other wraps around his shaft, giving it a slow pump.

"hey, baby, relax..." he whispers gently, "i'll put just the tip in, yeah? there's nothing wrong with that."

you hesitate. his strong arms slide beneath your legs to tug you closer. then his cock brushes your pussy and you whimper. how are you supposed to say 'no' ?

it's just the tip.

"mhmm, 'kay" you end up agreeing with a little nod.

rafe flashes you a lopsided smirk, his hand gripping his cock again while the free one yanks your panties aside once more. keeping eye contact, he slowly glides the fat head of his dick up and down your drenched slit, coating it thoroughly in your arousal. you shudder as his tip eventually meets your puffy clit, the gentle rubbing sending shivers down your spine.

"rafe," you whimper.

rafe's eyelids droop, a low hum of pleasure escaping his throat as he continues to slowly drag the reddened head up and down your chubby pussy lips with squelching sounds. his breathing grows heavier the longer he teasingly rolls it against your slick folds, reveling in your breathy whimpers. he feels like he's about to burst already, pre-cum steadily leaking from the tip and onto your flesh.

he can't fucking take this anymore.

with a slow, gentle thrust, he sinks his cock into your warm, slippery pussy, just the head breaching your entrance before he pauses, savoring the initial penetration. his eyes lock onto yours, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"jesus, fuck." he grunts.

your cunt starts fluttering around him. he has barely slided the first two inches in, as he promised, but he's so thick that even that feels like a tight fit. you let out a moan, which mingles with a strained groan from rafe as your velvety walls clench tightly around his swollen cockhead.

"gonna– might just nut already, shit" rafe mutters through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to just drive forward and hilt himself deep. "so goddamn tight."

your hips buck unconsciously against his, making him slip in just a tad further —which nearly makes him lose all his self-control. somehow, he manages to keep his shit together, hips rocking slowly to thrust in and out of you while his veiny hand strokes the rest of his shaft.

you're totally enthralled by the sight, liquid heat pooling in your belly while you watch him use your body for his pleasure. he looks so good, you can't believe he's real. your chest fills with pride at the knowledge that you're making this greek god feel good.

this is the fastest rafe has ever cum, the movement of his hips becoming jerky and sloppy after a few minutes as he spills his sperm inside you. he's panting heavily, sweat beading on his brow while his fist squeezes the base of his cock tightly.

you're left wanting more when he slowly pulls out, pussy stretched out and leaking white spurts of cum. he gazes down at you with a smirk, lightly tapping the head of his dick against your swollen clit, which has you writhing beneath him.

"so fuckin' gorgeous stuffed full of my cum," he whispers, his cock smearing the sticky substance all over your slit. you mewl in response. "hmm, 'm sorry for making such a mess on your pretty pussy, sweetheart, lemme clean it up, yeah?"

you blush in response when he leans forward, throwing your creamy thighs over his broad shoulders, to put his mouth onto your sex. you almost cry at the heavenly feeling, his playful tongue delving between your folds to lap up his own release. he cleans you up thoroughly, only to mess you up again right after, his spit soaking your cunt as he makes you cum again.

after tonight, you are cancelling that date, that's for sure.

[a-casxandra]

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞.❞ part 2

Rafayel as your actor boyfriend x you as non-mc

𝗥𝗮𝗳𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗹'𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘃

At first, he didn’t notice.

He came home late—again. Tossed his keys on the counter, muttering something about being exhausted. He was always tired now. It was the price of rising fame. One more photoshoot. One more scene. One more smile for the camera.

But the penthouse was too quiet.

There was no scent of your shampoo lingering in the hallway. No soft hum of your favorite playlist from the kitchen. No hoodie of yours on the couch. And worst of all—no messages waiting for him.

Not one.

He figured you were asleep. Until he walked into the bedroom and saw the closet door wide open.

Half-empty.

Drawers, too. Neatly cleaned out. Not rushed. Not angry. Just… gone. His heart skipped.

“Babe?” he called out, walking through the rooms now. Bathroom. Balcony. Nowhere. The silence was so loud it made his ears ring.

He picked up his phone. No new messages. No missed calls. Not even a "goodbye."

It hit him like a truck.

That you hadn’t yelled. That you hadn’t begged. That you hadn’t even tried to fight for him anymore.

Because you’d already fought enough.

Rafayel sat on the edge of the bed you once shared, head in his hands, guilt swallowing him whole.

He didn’t mean to forget the anniversary.

He didn’t mean to miss dinner.

He didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

But intent never mattered more than action.

He could still see your cake in the trash, the candles burned down to wax puddles. He remembered your text. “Where are you?”

And his heart twisted at his own response: “Don’t wait up.”

He remembered MC’s lips. The kiss that went on longer than it should have. The way her eyes glimmered, the way his chest fluttered—for a brief moment, he slipped. Confused fantasy with reality.

But now?

Now reality was an empty home. A closet missing your warmth. A toothbrush holder with only one left.

And God, how it hurt.

Rafayel tried calling. Ten times. No answer.

He messaged. Paragraphs. Then essays. Then just your name.

“Please. Come home.”

“I messed up. I know. But I love you.”

“Don’t leave me. Not like this.”

“I can fix this.”

“I choose you. I’ve always chosen you, I just—I forgot how to show it. Please let me try again.”

Nothing.

The press kept pairing him with MC.

The director asked him to ride the wave— “You guys are a hit, man. The chemistry? Off the charts. Just keep it lowkey romantic in public. It sells.”

He almost said yes.

But then he remembered your voice in his mind.

"I guess I’ll always remain a fan… someone who supports him, but never be seen by his side.” He said no.

He canceled interviews. Refused a new drama. Skipped the gala where he and MC were supposed to walk together.

He didn’t care.

He sat on the rooftop of the penthouse—your favorite spot—wondering how long he let himself drift so far from you.

He remembered how you used to wait up for him. Even when you were tired. Even when he was late.

He remembered how you’d ask, “Did you eat?” before anything else.

How you’d tuck notes into his bag before big auditions. How you’d fall asleep waiting for his calls when he was away filming.

And all he did in return… was take your love for granted.

Rafayel visited your favorite café. The owner said she hadn’t seen you.

He went to your family’s house. You weren’t there.

He scrolled through your old photos. You were smiling in every single one—with him.

God, he’d kill to see that smile again.

A month passed.

The drama ended. The ship with MC was still trending. But Rafayel stayed quiet. He never smiled in photos anymore.

𝗕𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘁…

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗲.

One night, Rafayel stood outside your new place.

He only found it because you slipped once—left your Spotify logged into the shared tablet. The playlist changed. The location pinged.

He debated whether to knock.

What would he even say?

"I'm sorry I made you feel like a shadow in your own relationship?"

"I'm sorry I kissed someone else and didn't even realize you were watching?"

"I'm sorry I forgot the day we promised each other forever?"

No apology would fix it. But he knocked anyway.

You opened the door, surprised. Your face was calm—too calm. You weren’t angry anymore.

That scared him most.

“Rafayel,” you said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Rafayel whispered, eyes already misting. “I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you slipping away from me. I was so caught up… chasing a life I thought I wanted, that I didn’t realize I was losing the one thing I needed.”

You didn’t speak.

“I choose you,” he said. “Not MC. Not the cameras. Not the crowd. You. I should’ve shown it more. I should’ve held your hand in public. Told the world about you. Come home on time. Loved you better.”

You looked at him then. and for a moment, he hoped. That maybe—maybe—you’d forgive him.

But you just smiled. Soft. Bittersweet.

“You should’ve,” you said. “But you didn’t.”

And you closed the door—slowly. Not angrily. Not cruelly. Just… finally.

That night, Rafayel sat on the steps outside your building.

He stayed there until sunrise.

No one came out.

And that’s when he knew—

The worst kind of heartbreak…

isn’t when someone leaves you in anger.

It’s when they leave in silence.

Because by the time you notice,

they’re already too far gone to hear you call their name.

[palskippah]

Hi! I give you this Stobotnik fankid I made a while ago :'y

She's Sofia --or Ivania or some other name ending in 'ia'-- Robotnik (coolest last name)

It's a compilation and also there's some Stone for practice bc I have no idea how to draw him pipipi Eggman is easier bc it's just his Sonic Boom design (I love it)

Some stuff about this universe under the cut!

(Btw if there's incongruencies is bc I can't make up my mind about the facts whwhw)

-Robotnik and Stone are married, very much married. Cartoon villains in love, I love that for them.

-["MARTHA I'M COMING HOME SWEETIE-"] Mixing up the movie things and the whatever's going on in the Sonic Boom, so Robotnik was gone for eight months and when he's back she's already born.

>Also the drawing is a reference to Icarly's "Whatcha got there?" "A smoothie" but she was clearly asking about the ostrich Spencer brought with him.

>Alternatively, Eggman's there and they go through the journey together yippiee. Choosing names, making evil parenting plans and whatever, being their idiot selves.

(After celebrating because they're good news actually) "I want a boy or a girl-" (Eggman) "Yeah me too." (Stone) "-and we should name them a single, worth of remembering name! Like... Eggette for a girl and Eggson for a boy." "I'm not letting you name them any of that, doctor..." "Okay, then how about Beyonce for a girl and-"

>They wouldn't have kids (?? maybe? I don't really know, I only know sonic boom and the movie :'U)- but she was probably the 1% the birth control warns you about. Also, Stobotnik got a very active seggsual life, and I'm imagining she came to be from a quickie over the desk, why not.

>Helpful diagram of Eggman + Stone kissing and then = baby. They were in work hours.

-In the one where he comes back and the baby's already there, Eggman does a terrible job as a father the few first months, but then he gets the hang of it and it's not so bad.

>He gets projectile vomited on and he's immediately asking to get an abortion (the baby's already born) (he didn't give birth to her), Stone says no anyways.

>"Surprisingly, I'm a good father" he thinks one day and it's because he's still very much an orphan here with no frame of comparation or example aside from researching the matter.

-In the one where they wait for her together, he does all the research necessary in all those months, absolutely refusing in doing an average job in that matter, he's the great Ivo Robotnik c'mon. He excels at anything and he'll be a great father (jk he's terrified of fucking up).

-The Stobotnik family is an evil but loving family, like the bears in Puss in Boots whwh criminal family✨

-For the funny of it, Sonic and Eggman got a sort of relationship like in Sonic Boom, so sometime maybe our favorite boy, Tails and Knuckles had to look after their child.

-Also since Knuckles broke Stone's and Robotnik's hands with their handshake, let's have him handle the baby with the most careful grip ever, just to demonstrate that he didn't have to grab their hands that hard aksdjask

-She's a big fan of Sonic and friends (Sonic the Hedgehog, not Sonic Wachowski, the second guy hadn't done even half the things she admires him for, but no one has the heart to tell her when she's a kid). Has a bunch of merch and all the comics of Sonic the Hedgehog.

>When she's a teenager she proudly uses her Sonic backpack in the same way Deadpool uses his Hello Kitty backpack.

-BTW Sonic, Knuckles and Tails are all brothers and Maddie and Tom's kids bc that's the best idea ever made.

-ALSO I'm definitely gonna draw that scene where Knuckles was about to put the baby in the blender and Sonic shouts THE CHILI DOG NOT THE BABY. Some day, you'll see pipipi.

-SAGE was created for various reasons, to be her sister (since she wouldn't stop asking for one but neither Stone nor Robotnik were willing in raising another human kid, thanks very much), to protect her, and also to answer the tedious "why?" questions that neither father had the patience for (A+ parenting right there). Maybe she was used for the original purpose too idk (I don't know that sonic game where she debuts).

>The child's delighted about having a sister, then she grows up and SAGE doesn't, so she has a little sister.

>METAL SONIC TOO MAYBE? Perfect lil american family, the two happily married parents and their three kids (one human girl, an IA and a robot clone of their alien enemy).

-On her early months she was called Pebble, because she really was a mini Stone, Robotnik went along with it (bc he also looked at her and only saw his husband whw) until she was a little older and they started calling her by her name.

>Alternatively, since Eggman was gone, Stone waited for him to return in hopes of choosing together a name for their child, and Pebble worked as a placeholder since she was just a bebi.

>Alternatively alternatively, Eggman came up with the nickname. ROCK-ONNAISSANCE 🗣️ also yeah I know he was going crazy from the mushroom stuff, but he's not above making silly puns, he's a dad now and also he's naturally silly.

(NGL I really gotta make up my mind about how it all happened ajsdkad)

-She's a spoiled kid and also a little menace, unintentionally evil, she can't help it.

>Good-hearted too sometimes, she loves Sage and does her best to protect her back (it's not necessary but it's appreciated anyways).

-Robotnik calls himself 'daddy' way too much in the live-action movies to ignore it, so he's daddy and Stone's dad (dada when she was younger).

>"These are my daddies!" (points to what's clearly two villains -but also good fathers-)

-She has Robotnik's eyes but as big as Stone's. They're the lethal-est sad puppy eyes ever (they work wonders on both parents and other people) (both men got beautiful dark brown eyes with visible eyelashes fight me).

>Look at Eggman's silly eyelashes:

>Also, you know that picture of Lee Majdoub with the beautiful everything? I think he was wearing eyeliner so my Stone wears eyeliner too in contrast to Eggman's dark circles under his eyes JDJS😭

-She's the five-year-old that made Sonic fear them because 'they can be so cruel when they sense weakness' (she was brutally honest as any young kid is).

-Stone and Robotnik got Gomez and Morticia Addams kinda parenting. They see their child beating up someone and they're like:

"What did we do wrong?" (Stone while shaking his head in disappointment) "I know... she lacks resourcefulness." (Eggman) "Exactly, there's her baseball bat right there, why doesn't she use it?"

-Remember that Shadow said in a game that he wouldn't mind taking a candy from a baby? (fandub I think but still) This comes in handy when neither Tails, Sonic or Knuckles want to upset the kid (so Shadow does it instead).

-She plays sports too because she got too much energy. In each of them she loses her patience. She grabs the football and hauls it at the nearest team member, she throws her baseball bat to the ground and starts beating up whoever threw the ball that she missed, she stomps in frustration if she loses, she's great at dodgeball (sends her classmates to the infirmary).

-Throws tantrums and stuff and overall's an annoying kid if she's upset. Eggman's like UGH WHY'S SHE LIKE THIS?? and Stone's like Because of you, doctor (terrible temperament runs in the family and also Robotnik just spoiled her too much).

-I'm kinda dressing her up in the clothes that existed in my mind that supposedly Eggman wore (the weird dress-like jacket with the big zipper in the middle). Under her jacket there's a dress in the same pattern as the original Eggman's clothes, also she wears a baby onesie like that too.

-When she's older she's definitely proud of her fathers, but she doesn't appreciate the rumors that she's prone to go power-crazy like Robotnik did. Especially because it may be true, but what do they know.

-For the irony, she can't stand drinking coffee, but loves the smell of it because it reminds her of home (omg).

-THEY HAVE A PET CAT like I read in some fics and her name is Robot and she's a lil shit and also grumpy like Robotnik.

>Maybe she brings her alive mice to experiment on all sort of stuff (like Pávlov and his dogs and the guy Skinner with his mice and cats (??))

-She gets to hang out with Sonic and friends under the condition of annoying him as much as possible. So, she complies. (She loves Sonic the Hedgehog, but she loves making her fathers happy more).

-Very smart kid but not to the level of Tails or Robotnik at that age, she's just got very good memory and learning skills and knows a lot of stuff ever since she was a little kid. More like a Matilda-kinda intelligence.

-She's a scientist when she grows up too but the kind that makes evil potions and serums and stuff aksjdk probably (chemistry things? biochem idk). She can make silly little robots for the fun of it but it's not her passion, unlike Robotnik and Stone's. PROBABLY. I'm still deciding.

-BTW LOOK (it says 'carefully crafted ploy to distract space porcupines')

>While Eggman's there with the baby and Sonic in front of him going AWWW BABY BOO and making her laugh, Stone is sneaking up on him holding a chair above his head to knock him out.

THAT'S IT THANKS FOR READING ✨✨

[morganmnemonic]

I can't stop thinking about the relationship between Jon and Helen as perhaps one of the most important ones in the entire show. They are narrative parallels for each other, and they both know it. They've both known it from the very start!

Helen walks into the Archives, paranoid, unsure of who to trust, and Jon sees himself in her. And he thinks "If i can help her, maybe there's hope for me too." Then he can't save her. The next time they meet, she's a monster. They're both monsters. There was never any other way their stories could have gone, their fates entwined from the very start.

And Helen answers his original thought with one of her own: "Maybe if we can help each other, there's hope for us both." But Jon looks at her and sees everything that he fears becoming, and so he turns her away, and refuses to accept that their stories are still one and the same.

Helen went to the last person who was ever kind to her, the only person who both knew her as a human and had the context to understand what she'd become, and he hated her. He hated her because he liked Helen, and told her that she couldn't be Helen.

So she stopped trying to be Helen, and embraced being a monster. Reveled in it even. Then Jon wakes up from a six month coma, more monster than person, and tries so hard to cling to the things that mattered to him when he was human. Even with no support, even with the entire archives staff against him, he chooses humanity and compassion over and over again.

And this is a direct threat to Helen's world view. Their stories are entwined. If Jon can continue to be a person even after everything he's been through, then she could have clung to her humanity too, if only she'd tried a little harder. And that terrifies her! She wants to conceptualize herself as someone who was completely overwhelmed by forces beyond her control, who never had a choice but to become a monster. She want's to be an innocent victim. But Jon argues with his actions that they'd both had choices.

And, Jon, in turn, holds out hope that she might make better choices until the very end.

This is the conflict between them for all of season 4 and 5. Jon wants to prove that they can both be decent people, and Helen wants to prove that they were never going to be anything but monsters. This is why she's so devoted to trying to goad Jon into enjoying his newfound godhood. She knows that they are the same, and wants that to mean that he has a spark of evil inside of him, and not that she was always capable of doing good.

When Jon kills her, she loses her life, but wins the argument. Helen is nothing but a dangerous monster who needs to be killed for the good of everyone, and in the moment he decides that, Jon dooms himself to the same fate. Their stories are one and the same. "If i can help her, maybe there's hope for me too." he thought. But he couldn't help her, refused to, even, in the one moment when it actually mattered. And thus, there was never hope for him.

[goomyloid]

got uty au pilled again, sorry... more info under the cut

an AU where ceroba, in the end, refuses to inject kanako with the serum. even after all her research, she just can't trust that it's totally safe. while kanako accepts this, she still wishes she could eventually be of use somehow, and indirectly blames herself for her father's death.

despite all this, with kanako alive, ceroba is able to grieve chujin in a far less desperate way, still having her daughter by her side. as the years go by, ceroba devotes more and more of her time to finishing chujin's research in hopes of finally making a serum that can save the underground. kanako is determined to help, too -- together, they clean up chujin's lab and make it a far nicer place to work, because they're in this together now. well, in theory.

ceroba still certainly takes care of kanako and does her best to be a good mother, but as time passes, ceroba spends more and more time in the lab trying to find an answer. kanako, being the social butterfly that she is, can't bring herself to always stay shut inside like her mother; she travels daily to Oasis Valley, making friends and becoming the town darling. as ceroba spends more time working, kanako spends more and more time taking care of the estate, trying to spend time outside whenever possible.

but it gets kind of lonely. the ketsukane estate is off outside of Oasis Valley, and not many people come by. she's worried about her mother, who's been shutting her out as she becomes more desperate to find a solution. there's only so much to do at the house.

then, clover falls into the underground and explores the dunes. there are barely any other kids at this spot in the underground -- finally, someone around her age! she's immediately entranced by them and determined to become their friend, even after finding out they're a human -- that just makes them cooler...!

but there's a problem; kanako has seen her father's tapes, she knows that a human soul would be extremely valuable to producing the serum. of course, she wants to help save the underground, and she wants her mother to finally be rid of stress and be able to spend time with her again... but after spending time with clover, kanako knows there's no way she can let clover die. they're like the sibling she never had...

and kanako can't even let her mother know that clover exists, either; she knows exactly what will happen if ceroba finds out there's a human here. and yet, a secret part of her wishes and hopes that maybe, just maybe, ceroba could find value in clover as a person and then they could all live in the ketsukane estate together. it would be a dream come true! maybe there's even some way clover can help ceroba without having to give up their soul...?

but things aren't destined to work out that way. any number of things could happen.

clover could peacefully move on in their quest through the underground, leaving a sad and lonely kanako behind.

or, ceroba finds out about clover in one way or another, and things are not looking good. but would she choose to take clover's life at the cost of her daughter's one and only friend?

what if clover didn't come in peace, but in vengeance?

or maybe ceroba somehow accepts clover, growing to respect them after all is said and done, and she tries to experiment on a living human soul?

or maybe, wracked with grief and loneliness, kanako discards her mother's warnings and takes the new, updated serum herself, determined to become the hero for her family like she always wanted...?

or, something else could happen.

what if, after an unhappy ending, kanako wakes up on that same day again, waiting for clover to come by the ketsukane estate for the first time? she doesn't even know how it's possible, reliving the same few weeks over and over. she just wants to find her happy ending, and she'll search and search for as long as she needs to.

how long can she watch the same endings play out over and over?

[rikudaa]

₊ ⊹ ᶻz !! The Ones Who Weren’t There !! ␥ Part 1

[BatFam x Alien Stage] x Reader | <<< You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: One sibling gone, a family unraveling. A watch still blinking. A city still bleeding. And somewhere unknown, eyes open again.

✮ WARNING!! Contains Themes Of Violent Death, Grief, Psychological Trauma, Body Horror, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor’s Guilt

You were always “the Wayne heir.”

That’s what they called you.

In interviews.

In society columns.

From gala podiums beneath chandeliers brighter than the streetlights in half of Gotham.

“Wayne’s golden child.”

“Gotham’s legacy-in-waiting.”

“Just like dear Brucie.”

And maybe, from a distance, you were.

You gave them posture sharp enough to cut glass. Smiles timed to the flash of a camera.

A vocabulary that made tutors obsolete.

You wore medals. Memorized speeches. Dressed in designer you didn’t choose.

Stood at your father’s side like a perfectly-cast accessory.

You played the part.

Because someone had to.

But every crown leaves a bruise.

What they never saw—what they refused to see—was the weight.

The pressure.

The quiet grief of being measured against a myth no one truly knew.

Bruce Wayne: billionaire, recluse, symbol.

And you? His child.

That’s what the headlines said.

But the whispers always followed.

Sticky little things, clinging to the hem of your reputation.

“Who’s the mother?”

“Some random fling, probably.”

“She was a dancer.”

“Or a thief.”

“Or worse.”

“He only claimed the kid to save face. Bet the DNA didn’t even match.”

They said it in locker rooms. Behind manicured hands at garden parties.

In bathroom stalls when they thought you weren’t in the next one over.

Some said she never existed.

Others swore she was the scandal Gotham forgot.

None of them knew her.

None of them wanted to.

That’s what stung the most.

You learned to hold it all in.

Tucked every rumor behind straight shoulders and ironed collars.

Didn’t twitch when they dragged her name through the dirt.

Didn’t blink when they reduced you to charity.

Because if you did—if you flinched even once—they’d know.

They’d see you weren’t perfect.

And then the whole façade would crack.

You were proud of what you built.

Every accolade. Every sleepless night. Every mission feed you stayed up monitoring long after your homework was done.

You weren’t handed your victories—you carved them out of silence and steel.

But it still didn’t matter. Not really.

Because no matter how high you climbed, someone always reached up to pull you down.

“Just a name.”

“Just a shadow.”

“Just another Wayne with a safety net.”

And on the quiet nights—when the manor felt too big, when the mirrors looked too much like him—you’d wonder:

Would he have claimed me if no one was watching?

Would I still be his if my birth didn’t make the papers?

You never got an answer.

Not one that lasted.

All you had were trophies.

And silence.

And a face that looked more like hers than his—the cheekbones, the sharp eyes, the way your jaw locked when the world felt too loud.

They could doubt you.

They could doubt her.

But you wouldn’t let them erase you.

You earned your place.

And if you had to smile through their ignorance to keep it, so be it.

──── ୨୧ ────

The clock read 3:47 a.m.

You shouldn’t have been awake.

But you were.

You always were—whenever someone was out.

Especially Tim.

You stood by the window with your arms crossed tight against your chest. The glass fogged faintly with your breath as you stared through it, not really seeing anything. Behind you, the manor creaked—old wood shifting with the night. Below, the cave hummed with mechanical life, but too quiet.

No ping.

No signal.

No return alert from the field.

Your gut twisted.

Something was wrong. Off.

And when the cave platform finally hissed to life, you didn’t wait.

The chair scraped back behind you, forgotten. Your bare feet whispered over the cold floors, fast down the corridor, toward the grandfather clock passage that Alfred always told you to leave to Bruce.

But screw that.

Not tonight.

You hit the cave level just as the Batmobile came to a stop, steam hissing from beneath the chassis like an angry sigh.

Bruce stepped out first. His cape was shredded along one side, cowl partially retracted, and his expression—blank. Hardened. The unreadable mask he wore better than any kevlar.

He barely looked at you.

But your eyes weren’t on him.

Because a second later, Tim emerged.

He half-fell out of the backseat, catching himself on the doorframe, one leg dragging like dead weight. His side was soaked in red. The left lens of his domino mask was spiderwebbed with cracks, and his mouth was pulled tight—trying not to show pain, trying not to make this harder than it already was.

He didn’t even flinch when you gasped.

Because he knew this wasn’t new.

Just the first time you saw it this up close.

Your stomach flipped.

“What the hell happened?” you breathed, rushing forward.

Tim tried to wave you off, already lifting a hand like he could still be the professional. Like this wasn’t as bad as it looked.

But it was.

And Bruce answered like he was reading off a grocery list.

“We were ambushed. There were more than I anticipated. It’s handled.”

Handled?

Your eyes snapped to him.

“He’s bleeding. He can barely walk. You call that handled?”

He didn’t even blink. Just kept walking toward the med station like this was routine. Like your brother wasn’t half-collapsing behind him.

That’s when something inside you cracked.

“He’s fourteen, Dad!”

Your voice echoed in the cave, bouncing off stalactites and stone.

“Fourteen! You can’t just drop kids into warzones and expect them to fight like they’re built for this—like they don’t break!”

Tim inhaled sharply behind you. You could feel it more than hear it—the way he straightened, tried to make himself invisible. His way of trying to protect you from his own injuries.

You weren’t finished.

“You did this with Jason too. You threw him into the deep end because he was angry and fast and made you feel like the mission wasn’t crumbling. And look what happened! You broke him—and now you’re doing it again.”

Your throat burned. Your voice was rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d shoved down over the years. The words weren’t rehearsed. They were erupting.

“They’re not Dick. They shouldn’t have to be Dick.”

Bruce paused at that—only slightly. But you saw it. That tight flex in his jaw.

Still, no answer.

“You raised Dick like a prodigy. Like he was some perfect prototype. And now you expect the rest of them to fill his goddamn shadow just to feel like you’re not failing.”

Tim winced beside you, trying to stand straighter, trying to make this less about him. He never liked being the center of attention like this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “It’s fine. Really. Don’t—don’t do this.”

But you couldn’t stop. Not now.

“They’re not weapons, Bruce.” You turned, almost spitting the words. “They. Are. Your. Sons.”

That hit something. You didn’t know what. You didn’t care.

Your hand reached out—gently, instinctively—and curled around Tim’s arm, pulling him close, shielding him without even thinking.

And he didn’t pull away. Not this time.

He leaned into you. Just slightly. But enough.

Bruce’s voice came after a long, cold silence.

“Go upstairs.”

His tone was colder than the cave floor.

“You don’t understand. This isn’t your responsibility. Stop interfering like you’re part of something you’re not.”

Time stopped.

Your breath caught in your lungs.

Not part of something.

Not your responsibility.

The words carved through you like glass.

“Not my responsibility?” you whispered.

Your hands were shaking. Your entire body felt wired and weightless, like it was all about to collapse.

“He’s my brother. He’s not some field report or mission file or name on a damn roster. He matters. They all matter. You want me to stop treating it like it’s my duty?”

You stepped back. Every syllable hit like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Then maybe someone should’ve started acting like it was theirs.”

You didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing left to hear.

You wrapped your arm firmly around Tim, and together, slowly, you made your way up the stairs.

His fingers clutched your sleeve. Tight.

•

The kitchen was dim.

Only the faint overhead stove light illuminated the space.

Alfred was already waiting. Of course he was.

The tea kettle was set. A towel folded. A chair waiting, turned just slightly—quiet hospitality in motion.

He looked at Tim. Then at you. And said nothing.

Just:

“Sit, Master Timothy. Let’s have a look.”

You helped ease Tim down gently. He hissed as he moved—shoulder jolting. Blood still seeping under the fresh gauze Bruce must’ve slapped on mid-ride.

You hovered beside him, arms crossed too tightly across your chest. As if that alone could keep you from shaking apart.

Alfred worked in silence.

Sterilizing the wound. Cutting away fabric. Wrapping his ankle. Dabbing blood like it was just another Tuesday.

Tim clenched his jaw but didn’t complain. Not once.

You couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t look away.

You were supposed to keep him safe. You should have kept him safe.

And now he was stitched and shaking and fourteen.

Finally, Tim broke the silence.

“You didn’t have to yell like that.”

You looked up slowly. Blinking like you’d come up for air.

“You were bleeding, Tim. Limping. And he acted like it was just—routine. Like you were another broken gadget he could toss in the tray.”

He didn’t look at you. Just murmured:

“I am part of the mission. You know that.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. Like this wasn’t new. Like he’d already accepted it.

And that made it worse.

“You shouldn’t be,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Alfred finished with the ankle, then placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder. He turned to you, eyes worn but kind.

“I’ll prepare tea. For both of you.”

You nodded numbly.

As he turned, he paused. Reached out and touched your arm—just lightly.

“You did the right thing.”

But it didn’t feel right.

It felt like the kind of right that hurts.

You sat across from Tim, both of you silent for a long time.

Finally, he spoke again.

“You were always the one who held it together.”

You glanced at him. His head was tilted slightly toward the window.

“Everyone else cracked. Eventually. Dick left. Jason… exploded. Damian fights everything. Even Bruce—he hides behind it. But you–”

He looked at you now.

“You never lost it. Not once. Not until tonight.”

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he was the one hurt.

“How long have you been holding it in?” he asked quietly.

The question hit harder than it should have.

Your lips parted. No words came.

Just a slow, sharp inhale.

Because you didn’t know.

Because it was too much.

Because if you said one word, you might cry.

So instead, you shook your head.

And whispered the only thing that still felt true:

“I just didn’t want to watch it happen again.”

Tim looked down.

And this time, he didn’t argue.

──── ୨୧ ────

The chandelier above the ballroom glittered like the Gotham skyline you used to believe meant safety.

Now, it just looked like glass waiting to fall.

You stood beneath it—spine straight, jaw set, wearing a suit that felt more like armor than clothing. Custom-tailored. Impeccable. Probably cost more than your old dorm’s entire tuition bill. It fit like a second skin.

You hated it.

The press called the gala a success.

A smooth handoff.

Wayne blood stepping into legacy.

“Wayne heir dazzles in father’s absence.”

“Poised, polished, professional—the perfect next face of the Wayne empire.”

And you? You smiled on cue. Laughed where appropriate. Recalled every donor’s name, every senator’s spouse, every board member’s favorite wine. You hadn’t let a single drop of champagne pass your lips.

Because this wasn’t your night.

This was Gotham’s.

And you were the mask it wanted.

Bruce hadn’t come. Not that it surprised you.

A single message through Lucius that morning:

“Can’t make it. They’ll handle it.”

“They.”

Means you.

But you showed up anyway. Like always.

Minor hiccups. A late performer. A too-drunk investor. A passive-aggressive spat between two philanthropists who hadn’t forgiven each other since the Arkham Restoration vote.

You handled it all.

Flawless. Smooth.

Your cheekbones ached from the smile you wore too long.

•

By hour two, though… you felt it.

That pressure. That itch.

Between your shoulders, under your skin, in the way your heartbeat slowed just enough to feel like a warning.

You scanned the crowd. The laughter. The flashbulbs.

Nothing obvious.

But someone was watching. You knew it.

You slipped back toward one of the columns—damn near invisible in the way you moved, like Bruce taught you even when he swore he didn’t.

There stood Damian, planted like a statue in a too-crisp tuxedo. His arms were crossed, chin tilted, gaze cutting across the crowd like a falcon.

“I feel like someone’s watching me,” you murmured.

He didn’t blink.

“Of course. You are the face of the empire tonight,” he said flatly.

You frowned. “Not like that.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of awareness, or maybe concern. He didn’t mock you for it. Not this time.

“…Paranoia?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Maybe. Or something worse.”

He nodded once, subtle and sharp. Then stepped closer.

Not a gesture of comfort. But one of protection.

It was enough.

Moments later, a softer step approached.

Tim, slightly pale under dim lighting, appeared at your side in his tailored suit. The cane in his right hand matched his gait—still healing, still moving slower than usual, but still here.

“Someone say paranoia?” he asked, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “If so, Im your guy here.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His presence made it easier to stand upright.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

He shrugged one shoulder, then bumped his arm against yours gently.

“Better than last night. Bruised ego, not internal bleeding. Progress.”

You gave him a look that was part apology, part exhaustion.

“Sorry for dragging you out here.”

“Are you kidding?” he smirked. “I live for trauma in formalwear.”

But the teasing dropped from his face when he saw yours hadn’t changed.

“You’re not just shaken. You’re… spiraling.”

You looked away.

“Still stuck in last night,” you admitted.

He nodded. No judgment.

Damian, sharp as ever, added:

“You haven’t forgiven yourself.”

You met his gaze.

He was right.

“It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have been in that condition, and I—”

I should have stopped it sooner.

I should’ve fought harder.

I should’ve been more like Bruce.

Tim’s voice pulled you back:

“You did what no one else did. You stood up to him.”

You exhaled slowly. “And look where that got us.”

•

The party wore on.

And so did the mask.

But when the last guests slipped out, and the lights dimmed amber, and the staff began packing up the night’s illusions…

You told the boys:

“You two go ahead. Get rest. I’m heading back to the dorms soon anyway.”

Lie.

Tim frowned, but didn’t push.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

Lie.

Damian squinted at you like he was reading an autopsy.

“Don’t linger.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Scout’s honor.”

He arched a brow. “You were never a scout.”

“Exactly,” you whispered. “I lie well.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

The two of them left, silent shadows on marble.

And you?

You returned to the ballroom.

Shoes off. Feet aching. Shoulder slumped.

Backstage.

Behind the curtain.

Where the lights couldn’t find you.

You stared at the empty stage, the echo of music long gone, the faint scent of perfume and champagne still clinging to velvet drapes.

You whispered to yourself—because there was no one else to hear it:

“Maybe I was too harsh.”

The memory slammed back into you. Bruce’s face. That cold, immovable silence.

“This isn’t your responsibility.”

“Stop acting like it’s your duty.”

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you didn’t belong in the cave.

You didn’t wear a mask.

You weren’t trained like them.

You weren’t forged in fire like Jason, or honed like Dick, or born into it like Damian.

You were just… the glue. The peacemaker. The face.

A golden child made of glass, cracking in silence.

Your voice shook.

“I tried. I really—tried.”

But no one claps for the one who prevents collapse.

No spotlight waits for the quiet sibling who stitches wounds, who memorizes schedules, who fills in gaps and covers scars with a perfect smile.

Your knees hit the tile floor before you realized you were sitting. Curling in on yourself like the truth was finally too loud.

You buried your face in your hands.

I wasn’t enough.

I never will be.

──── ୨୧ ────

The ballroom had gone quiet nearly an hour ago.

The glitter was gone. The music was gone. Even the air felt… thin now, like it had forgotten how to hold warmth.

You were alone.

The staff had vanished into elevators and service corridors. The janitorial bots whirred once and died in standby. Even the chandeliers, once a galaxy above your head, now dimmed to tired crystal, their shimmer gone.

No footsteps.

No echo.

Just silence.

You stood behind the curtain, alone in the place that had celebrated your name an hour earlier—alone in a body that didn’t know if it belonged to a legacy or a ghost.

And then your fingers found the edge of your clutch.

Muscle memory.

You pulled out the sensor. That slim, quiet rectangle Barbara had handed you months ago.

“Just in case,” she’d said, clasping it into your palm like a lifeline.

“For nights when no one answers the comms. When your gut starts screaming but you don’t know why. Keep it on you. Always.”

You hadn’t used it.

Not once.

You’d smiled, thanked her, tucked it away.

Because you were the safe one. The responsible one. The one who didn’t go on rooftop missions or dropkick muggers or get shot at in alleys.

But tonight…

Tonight the air felt wrong.

You held the device in your palm. Cold. Lightweight. Nearly forgettable.

Until it blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Red.

Your breath locked inside your throat.

You turned your head—slowly, deliberately. Your muscles tightened. Your shoulder blades felt exposed, like the bones themselves could sense it.

Something was watching you.

But the ballroom behind you was still empty.

The curtains didn’t move.

The marble floor gave no sound.

You stared at the blinking light.

Tapped the screen.

Just to be sure.

LOCATION: This building.

DISTANCE: 28 meters.

MOVEMENT: Advancing.

You inhaled—sharp and shallow.

Your hands started to tremble.

“This is just nerves,” you whispered, trying to stitch reason into your panic.

“Leftover adrenaline. From the gala. From last night. From… everything.”

But the blinking didn’t stop.

Your mother’s voice came back to you, uninvited, rising like smoke in the back of your mind.

“You trust your gut, kitten. Always.”

Selina had said it the night you watched her slip a lockpick from behind her earring.

“Your instincts are worth more than any gadget Bruce ever builds. Gut’s faster than fear. Smarter than pride.”

Back then, you didn’t understand.

Tonight, you did.

You felt it in your skin.

In your bones.

This wasn’t panic.

This was warning.

You stepped into the open hall—slowly, quietly. The soft clicks of your shoes echoed too loud against the tile, even though you were barely moving.

The lights flickered.

Just once.

Then again.

A third time—

Then out.

Gone.

Every bulb along the hallway burst in a single ripple, plunging the space into darkness. The emergency lights stayed dead. Even the backup generators—silent.

Someone had cut power.

Someone had planned this.

No cameras. No signal. No eyes.

You stood frozen for a full five seconds.

Then—

You bolted.

Not because you were brave.

Because you were trained.

Selina’s voice again:

“Never wait to be cornered.”

Bruce’s, colder:

“Escape is a strategy, not weakness. Always have a path out.”

You ran—barefoot now, shoes abandoned behind you. Disheveled clothes, hands trembling as you shoved through a service door and into the staff corridor.

The halls blurred past you. The smell of cheap soap and floor polish burned your nose.

You could feel it.

Someone was following.

Too quiet to hear.

But close.

So close.

You turned corners like a bullet. Hit a stairwell. Took the steps three at a time. Your lungs burned. Your ribs ached.

You crashed through the exit door, out into the night—

Into Crime Alley.

You stopped.

The breath in your lungs died.

Brick. Trash bins. The skeletal remains of an old security light flickering overhead. An alleyway Gotham had refused to clean up, even when the rest of the district got repaved.

You knew this alley.

You shouldn’t have ended up here.

You couldn’t have.

You retraced routes in your head—you didn’t take this path.

The building’s exit shouldn’t lead here.

Unless someone rerouted the doors.

Locked the others.

Funneled you.

Your hands clutched the sensor.

It was still blinking.

“Please,” you whispered, voice shaking, barely audible over your own heartbeat.

“Please, someone…”

Your thumb hovered.

Trembled.

You activated the emergency beacon.

Pulse sent.

Silent. Invisible. Immediate.

But in your heart, the truth had already landed like an axe:

No one’s coming.

If they were, they’d be here by now.

If they cared—really cared—they would’ve answered.

Someone would’ve stayed.

Would’ve seen the way you smiled too hard.

Would’ve felt the silence closing in.

But they didn’t.

And now you were here.

Alone.

In the alley that made Gotham what it was.

Where the myth of the Bat was born.

You swallowed. Turned your back to the wall. Blinked into the dark.

“Just shadows,” you whispered. “Just shadows. Just—”

A sound behind you.

You turned.

And the last thing you felt…

…was the shape of your mother’s voice, echoing one last time through your mind:

“Your instincts are worth more than anything, kitten. The trick is knowing when they’re already too late.”

<<< You are here!! >>>

•Note: dawg this shit is too long and tumblr only limited around 1000 words a post 💀🤚 so I have to divide into two parts. The second part will coming out shortly after I edit the rest of this chapter so enjoy this one first!

Tagging: @lizzyzzn @whaaaaaaaaat111 @hai-there-how-are-you

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[luckyroll3]

Picture Perfect

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

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

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

Word Count: 15,451

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

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

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

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

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

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

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

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

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

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

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

Chan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does that work? The water thing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not most people."

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

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

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

"Depends on the question."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Should I be worried?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. 

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

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

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

"You're staring," you whisper.

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

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

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

"Then do it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.

"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"

"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."

The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.

"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."

Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."

So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"

He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.

When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.

He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."

He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.

"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.

His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."

He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.

"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”

"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.

His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."

The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.

"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.

He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

"There," you gasp. "Right there."

"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."

The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"

You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.

Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."

You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.

Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.

You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.

You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”

Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"

“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”

His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."

"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."

“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.

"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.

"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."

He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame:  the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.

You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.

"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.

Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.

"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.

"I don't usually…"

"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."

You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.

"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.

The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.

"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.

"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.

You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos.  One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.

Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.

"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.

"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.

You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.

Thirty more minutes have passed.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.

You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.

"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."

His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is. 

He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.

Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.

Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.

You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.

But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.

"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.

You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.

"This wasn't..." he begins.

"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."

The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.

"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.

He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."

The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."

Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."

"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”

He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.

The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.

You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.

****

Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.

They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.

So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.

You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.

The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights. 

That one you printed just for you, not for public display.

Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.

You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:

Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.

Hey, you try. Too casual.

Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.

Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.

You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.

I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.

The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.

The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.

Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.

You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.

The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.

You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.

If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.

Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.

At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.

Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.

Thank you for considering this request.

You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.

The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.

With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.

The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.

You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.

Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.

Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.

Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.

There.

Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.

Yes, you have my permission.

One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.

You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces. 

You find none.

Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?

But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.

You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.

"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.

Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.

Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.

You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:

Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.

You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions. 

You have permission. That's all you needed.

The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?

****

When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.

"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.

"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."

The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.

You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit,  black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.

A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.

The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.

You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.

You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.

"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."

You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."

"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.

You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.

The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.

Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.

Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.

Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.

Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.

"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."

Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.

You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.

Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.

When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.

"They look different than I’d expected."

The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.

But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.

Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.

Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.

"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.

He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."

“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.

“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.

He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.

"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.

"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."

"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."

Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.

He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.

"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."

You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.

"How did you know I'd still be here?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."

The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.

"I'd like that."

You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.

When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.

"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.

"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."

His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."

"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.

Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.

"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"

The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.

"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."

His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.

"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”

You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.

My Masterlist

[charliemwrites]

Men At Work - Part 3

I know this has been a little slow to start, but things should progress a little more quickly from here. I wanted to establish some of the groundwork for this weird dynamic they all have but unfortunately, these men don't know the meaning of slow, even in my own head.

No Content Warnings

“How are the repairs going?” you ask.

It’s just Nikto today, returning your Tupperware from dinner the other night. He’s covered head to toe once again, all that’s visible are those glass blue eyes. One way mirrors - hiding everything beneath the surface.

They remind you of… something. 

Hmm. When you figure it out, they’re sure to make an appearance in your next novel.

“On track,” he answers in that sharp, staccato way you’re learning is just his way.

Unfortunately for him, that just makes you more curious. You know it’s a bit obnoxious - you’re not entitled to information, you know that. And most of the time you curb the inquiries tapping at the back of your teeth. But he’s in your house, snuggling your traumatized cat. If he’s got a problem answering casual questions, you’re certain he’ll have no problem letting you know.

“You’re redoing the whole thing?”

“Most of it. Foundation is good. The rest - дерьмо.”

You don’t know a lick of Russian, but you can guess.

“Good bones,” you hum in understanding. As if you know anything about construction. “That helps. When do you think it will be done?”

He shifts, sharp eyes flicking between your busy hands, the door, and Rasputin holding him lovingly hostage.

Little guy is currently perched on your shoulder, face buried against your collar in abject despair that his bestest friend hasn’t come to visit. Shithead is poaching (or attempting to, anyway) the sandwiches you’re assembling. So far, she’s only swishing her tail, biding her time. You’re keeping an eye on her.

“Two months. Three if any of us are called.”

You hum, reach for the tomatoes. It’s only because you’re looking at him that you notice the slightest twitch around his eyes. Beneath his mask, you’d bet he’s scrunching his nose.

“No?”

“I will eat.”

You leave the tomatoes off. Guy mews sadly, you tilt your head to press a kiss to his little ear.

“So, two or three months. Krueger said you’ll move in then.”

“Da.”

You top the sandwiches with a final slice of bread and turn to the oven. Spin back just in time to catch Shithead’s paw reaching for Krueger’s designated sandwich. Nikto eyes the plate of brownies in your free hand; you bite the corner of your mouth to keep from grinning.

“What about the yard?”

Nikto tilts his head. If he didn’t give the impression of a particularly large predator, you’d call it cute. As it is, even spiders and snakes endear themselves to you somehow.

“What about yard?”

“Any plans for it?” You sneak an extra brownie onto Nikto’s plate. Reward and apology for wrenching conversation out of him. “Grass? Trees? Flowers?”

He blinks. Just once. Some sort of intuition tells you that even that behavioral tic is a big social step for him.

“No.”

“Oh, uh… gravel then?”

“We mean no plans,” he corrects.

“Oh! Alright, I suppose that’s a long way off anyway. There’s still so much work to do on the inside.”

But it does get you thinking. What even goes into fixing a house? And how do they know all this stuff? The electric, the insulation, the… whatever else goes into a home. Is it just Weird Things they picked up from the military?

You stare contemplatively at the house’s exterior as you walk the plates across the street with Nikto. (Ras is riding on his shoulder and Guy refused to detach his claws from yours. You fear for the state of your home with Shithead left behind, but neither you nor Nikto had a spare hand to wrangle her with.)

Nikto practically kicks the door in, shouting for the others as he goes. Guy chooses that moment to start crying - uncanny sense for appearing pathetic as possible.

Konig must hear him halfway down the stairs, because the steady boot steps get faster after a moment.

“Oh, bubchen! Why are you sad? What has happened?” Konig coos, nearly running to your side.

Of course, now that he’s gotten what he wanted, Guy’s volume lowers. He makes a pleased little “mrow” and slinks off your shoulder and into Konig’s reaching hands. You’d call him a traitor but you’re a damn sucker for a big man with a cute animal. 

“You two are ridiculous,” you laugh, setting the plates on the counter.

It’s already been replaced since last you saw it. Black granite, very sleek. You like it. (Which of them installed it? Nikto? You usually catch glimpses of him on the ground floor.)

“He is a baby, Biene,” Konig protests, “he must be treated like one.”

“He’s already five!” You reply, like you don’t have a papoose for when your hands are too full to snuggle him.

“Did I stutter? I do not think so. This is a baby.”

You have to turn away to hide your laughter, pretending that taking the foil off the lunches requires your full attention.

Krueger steps up behind you while you’re not looking. The heat of him is what alerts you, the only reason you don’t jump when his rough voice comes by your head.

“Where is the Shithead.”

“Hello to you too, Krueger. How is your day?”

He grunts and reaches past you, trying to snatch up a brownie. Without a thought, you slap at his hand - balk at the sharp whack sound it makes. He jerks his hand back in shock.

“You deny me my dearest friend and you attack me in my own home.”

You spin on your heel, mouth already open. False start as you realize he’s even closer than you expected. The height difference doesn’t seem like much until you’re eye level with his neck. You untangle your tongue and ignore the smirk growing at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“This is barely a house, never mind a home,” you scoff.

He snorts - that smirk turns to a full blown grin. A little crazed. Unfortunately, that makes it more attractive. (And the bastard probably knows it too.)

“You insult me too, now.”

“Sure, but I brought you food.”

He flicks his eyes to the plate behind you and arches a brow.

“Bring me the little Sheisskerl and I will forgive you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Go get her yourself.”

What the hell did you just say? Inviting a man into your house unaccompanied?! You may not be a true crime writer, but you know better.

You still don’t take it back.

He locks eyes with you, gives the distinct impression that he knows exactly what you just thought and he’s amused by your obstinance.

“Fine.” He reaches past your hip. Smells like sweat and something that reminds you of heat. Solder? Certainly not anything you’re used to. “Behave, eh? Konig is easy to take advantage of.”

You snort and glance at Konig over his shoulder, who’s glaring now. (Somehow no less intimidating even with Guy nuzzling at his mask.)

As Krueger turns, he takes a big bite of brownie, humming appreciatively under his breath. You shake your head, then turn to Konig.

“If you want to steal one of his sandwiches, I’ll look the other way.”

Konig barks a short, sharp laugh of surprise. It startles you a bit, but not enough to wipe the grin from your face. You know he really means it when he sounds like that.

“How are the bathroom repairs going?” you ask.

“They are going well!” he answers. Then launches into an in-depth explanation of all the ongoing projects. Replacing walls, rewirings, outlet and light installations. What doesn’t go over your head is almost too fast to understand as his accent thickens with excitement. You nod along anyway, because you asked, and he’s stupidly endearing - big muscular man getting a bit squeaky while he rambles about pipes.

He barely even notices Guy’s little paw reaching until it’s shoved into his open mouth. He sputters as you burst into laughter, gently tucking Guy’s arm against his chest.

“Why would you do this?!” he asks, only to receive a slow blink in response.

“He’s saying you need to eat,” you giggle, nudging Konig’s plate.

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for the lunch!”

Barely a couple bites in and you hear the door open again. Krueger stomps in with Shithead bundled in his arms, one hand under her bottom, the other around her tummy. She’s got her head tilted all the way back to chirp and chitter at him.

“Why are you carrying her like that?” you ask, choking back a giggle. 

“It is how she wishes to be carried.”

You blink at her - but sure as shit, she’s perfectly content being held like a child’s toy.

“Well good luck eating like that.”

“You won’t feed me?” he leers.

“I don’t want rabies if you bite me.”

His laughter is even harsher than Konig’s. You like it instantly.

All that’s left is to hear Nikto’s.

Agatha is outside when Nikto walks you back home.

(Krueger huffed that he had too much work to do for the day, but he would see you for dinner. While you were still blinking in shock at his self-invite, Konig transitioned Little Guy back into your arms. All the while grumbling at Krueger’s impatient German.)

She scowls as she notices your two-person parade. Nikto’s juggling Little Guy and Rasputin; you’ve got a firm grip on Shithead and the stack of dirty plates. You snort a bit just thinking of her paranoid comments about them being bad men. Sure, they might be in some ways, but it’s a hard sell when Ras is trying to lick at the edge of the mask around Nikto’s eyes.

“Afternoon, Agatha,” you call, just to be petty.

“When is your fiance coming by again?” she calls back. “Such a lovely young man.”

Your mirth dries up in an instant. “I broke up with my boyfriend four months ago. I thought I told you.”

You did. You know you did. Because she’s a nosy pain in the ass that was asking about your Easter plans with him (trying to invite you to church once again) when you told her that you left him. She’d even fussed about it at the time, saying that there’s hardly anything that can’t be healed with time and understanding.

(It was only your commitment to your own privacy that kept you from asking how much time it takes to smooth over someone cheating with your cousin.)

At your side, Nikto grunts. You glance sideways at him, wondering what he must think.

But his eyes are on Agatha. Even Rasputin has paused the grooming routine to narrow his one eye at her.

“Is this the one that looks in mailbox?” he asks, louder than you’ve ever heard.

Loud enough that she hears. And flushes redder than the poppies in your flowerboxes.

“That’s her husband, actually,” you answer. She sputters, and an incredibly immature bolt of satisfaction suffuses you.

He grunts again. Eyes her up and down. “Maybe we leave surprise for him next time, da?”

You press your lips together, but it does nothing to prevent you from grinning. He’s deadly serious, though, which somehow makes it even funnier to you.

“Maybe!” you reply in a tone that really means absolutely.

Nikto shuts the door on her face before Agath can get out a threat to call the police.

“You’ve got a petty streak,” you say, grinning at him.

He tilts his head. “You like.” He doesn’t even sound sure if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah,” you giggle, “I like it.”

He grunts and takes the plates from your hand. “We wash. You think about dinner and revenge. Da?”

You plop yourself onto a stool by the kitchen counter. “Da.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[heliosunny]

hiiiii, i hope your doing good, i adore how you write charecters and was hoping that you could write Alhaitham for the lucky egg series. Thank you

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader

The sky split open like a wound as the alien armada descended. Their ships were vast, silent monoliths of silver and obsidian, drifting through the atmosphere.

Governments collapsed within hours. Resistance was met with annihilation so swift, so absolute, that humanity had no choice but to kneel.

You watched from your window as the streets filled with towering figures—elegant creatures with skin like polished onyx and eyes that burned with distant light.

"Compliance ensures survival. Each of you will be assigned an Overseer. They will guide you. Ensure order."

An egg was pressed into your hands. It was heavier than it looked. The alien who delivered it tilted its head, studying you with those depthless eyes before speaking again.

"In three days, it will awaken. Do not resist."

Then it was gone, leaving you standing there, clutching the egg as if it were a bomb.

-Day 2-

You placed the egg on your desk, half-expecting it to move. But it remained still.

That night, you dreamed of whispers.

"Soon."

You woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to your skin.

The news feeds were a graveyard of grim updates. People who had refused their Overseers had vanished overnight. Those who obeyed were rewarded—food, shelter, safety. But at what cost?

-Day 3-

Crack.

Your eyes flew open. The egg on your nightstand was fracturing.

The egg soon split open, and the figure inside unfolded itself.

Fluid dripped from silver hair, evaporating into mist before it could even touch the sheets. The man—because it was a man—lifted his head.

You flinched, fingers digging into the sheets. "Who—what are you?"

"Alhaitham."

He rose. His fingers brushed your cheek, cold at first, then warming unnaturally fast.

"You are my master" 

A slow smile curled at the edge of his lips.

"Protect. Guide. Own." His grip tightened, just slightly, as if testing your reaction. "The terms are interchangeable."

-----

You quickly realized that Alhaitham was… different.

The other Overseers, hatched from their eggs in the days following the invasion. A man down the street had one who never smiled, who watched his charge with unblinking precision, correcting even the slightest deviation from the new world’s order.

But Alhaitham?

He was calm.

And he loves reading.

“You have a collection of books,” he remarked, fingers trailing over the spines on your shelf.

You hesitated before answering. “Yes. I like to read.”

He hummed, pulling out a well-worn novel. “This one is annotated.”

“I… mark my favorites.”

Then, to your surprise, he sat in your armchair, flipping it open. “Read it to me.”

“What?”

“You are my master. I am to learn from you. So teach me.”

So you read to him.

You saw the way the others acted.

Your neighbor, a nervous young man named Eli, had an Overseer who monitored his every move. She stood by the door as he ate, as he worked, as he slept.

“She won’t even let me choose my own clothes” he whispered to you one day, when she was momentarily distracted.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because Alhaitham, in contrast, had merely glanced at your wardrobe that morning and remarked, “The blue sweater suits you better.”

It became a habit.

Every night, without fail, he would select a book and wait for you. Sometimes you read to him. Sometimes, when your voice grew tired, he took over, his smooth baritone filling the room as you curled against the armrest.

One evening, exhaustion from the day’s labor dragged you under before he’d even finished the chapter. You woke hours later to the soft glow of lamplight, the book still open in his hands, his other arm curled around you.

You jolted upright. “I—I fell asleep?”

He turned a page, unfazed. “You did.”

“Why didn’t you… move me?”

“You were comfortable.”

Something warm settled in your chest.

The others feared their Overseers.

You… didn’t.

----

The monthly check-up was as clinical as you expected.

You stood in line with the others as the aliens inspected each human and their Overseer. Their hands were cold when they touched your wrist, scanning something beneath your skin that you couldn’t see. Beside you, Alhaitham stood perfectly still.

When it was your turn, the alien tilted its head, studying you both.

"Report" 

"No irregularities. Compliance is maintained."

Then, the alien released your wrist and moved on.

You barely breathed until you were outside.

The walk home was tense. Alhaitham’s hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

Once you were far enough away, his voice dropped low.

"Don’t react."

You kept your steps even.

"They were watching us more closely than usual." 

"Why? What’s happening?"

His fingers pressed slightly against your spine. "Not here."

So you stayed silent the rest of the way, your pulse loud in your ears.

The moment the door closed behind you, you let out a shaky breath.

Alhaitham didn’t relax—if he ever did—but his shoulders lost some of their rigid tension. He moved to the window, drawing the blinds shut before turning back to you.

"They suspect something" he said simply.

"Like what?"

"It doesn’t matter yet. Just follow my lead."

You wanted to argue. To demand answers. But the look in his eyes stopped you.

So you nodded.

And then, because you needed something to distract yourself, you turned to the chores.

You were scrubbing dishes when he appeared beside you.

"Let me help."

"No, it’s fine. I’ve got it."

"You’re tired."

"I’m fine."

Reluctantly, he let go. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you worked.

"You don’t have to hover"

"I’m not hovering," he said, "I’m observing."

That night, curled under the blankets with the lights dimmed, you finally dared to ask.

"Do they know?"

Alhaitham glanced up from the book in his hands. "Know what?"

"About how you’re different."

"It’s complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"We’re not meant to be too attached."

You frowned. "But the others—their Overseers control everything."

"Control isn’t the same as attachment" 

You hesitated before asking the next question. "Do you… know the other Overseers?"

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

"We’re aware of each other," he admitted after a moment. "But we don’t… interact."

"Why not?"

He closed the book slowly. "Because some of them wouldn’t approve of how I handle you."

You didn’t ask anything else after that.

----

The television was your one escape.

In this strange new world, where every move was monitored and every choice scrutinized, the flickering glow of the screen offered a sliver of normalcy.

Celebrities still performed, still lived their lives—albeit with their own Overseers hovering just off-camera.

Tonight, the entertainment news was buzzing about a rising star—a young singer with a voice like spun sugar and a smile that could melt glaciers. But it wasn’t her who caught your attention.

It was her Overseer.

Blond hair swept back in elegant waves, eyes like molten honey, dressed in a tailored suit that shimmered under the studio lights. His one hand resting lightly on the singer’s shoulder as she gushed about her new home.

"Kaveh designed everything himself," she said, "He knows exactly what I like!"

The camera panned to him, and he smiled.

You leaned forward, intrigued.

"Huh. I didn’t know Overseers could be so…"

You trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Obnoxious?"

You jumped. Alhaitham’s voice was dry as dust, right beside your ear. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

"I was going to say ‘expressive,’" you muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.

Kaveh was gesturing now, explaining some architectural detail with animated flair.

"He’s very…"

"Loud" Alhaitham supplied.

"I was thinking ‘attentive.’"

A hand covered your eyes.

You yelped. "Hey—!"

"Change the channel"

You batted at his wrist. "I’m watching that!"

"No, you’re staring at him."

You could hear the frown in his voice.

"Are you jealous?"

His grip on you tightened, just slightly.

"I’m ensuring you don’t develop poor taste."

You snorted. "Oh, so now you’re an art critic?"

"I don’t need to be a critic to recognize gaudy excess."

On screen, Kaveh laughed at something, head thrown back, golden hair catching the light.

Alhaitham’s fingers twitched.

You smirked. "You are jealous."

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, in one smooth motion, he plucked the remote from your hand and switched the channel.

A nature documentary. Elephants.

You groaned. "Really?"

"Educational" he said flatly, settling beside you.

You elbowed him. He didn’t budge.

----

The streets were quieter these days.

Not out of peace—but out of fear.

The Overseers walked among them, their presence a constant reminder of the new order.

You kept your pace brisk, arms wrapped around yourself as you turned the corner toward home. The sun had barely set, but the alleyways were already swallowed by gloom.

You heard it.

The rustle of fabric.

Then, a gasp.

Your steps faltered.

Curiosity warred with instinct, and against your better judgment, you glanced toward the sound.

Two figures pressed against the brick wall, tangled in each other. A woman, her fingers clutching the collar of a man’s shirt—her Overseer—as he kissed her.

Alhaitham was waiting by the door when you stumbled inside, your face burning, pulse hammering in your throat.

He took one look at you and arched a brow.

"You’re flushed."

"It’s—it’s nothing," you stammered, toeing off your shoes with too much force. "Just walked too fast."

He didn’t move. Just watched as you all but fled to the kitchen, busying yourself with the kettle like your life depended on it.

"You’re a terrible liar."

The kettle clattered against the stove. "I’m not lying."

"Your pulse is elevated. Your breathing is uneven. And you won’t look at me." He stepped closer. "So. What happened?"

"I just saw something… unexpected."

"Define ‘unexpected.’"

"Why do you care?" you snapped, finally turning to face him.

"Because," he said slowly, "if something—or someone disturbed you, I’d like to know."

You exhaled sharply. "It wasn’t like that. I just… saw a couple. In the alley."

A pause. Then, understanding dawned.

"Ah."

"Yeah." You rubbed your temples. "Can we just… not talk about it?"

"As you wish."

Life went on.

You worked. You ate. You read together in the evenings.

But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you’d catch him studying you.

Neither of you mentioned the alley again.

----

It was your day off, and the apartment was quiet without Alhaitham.

He had left early.

So you did what any sane person would do in a world where sanity was a luxury.

You turned on the TV.

The News: Love, Obedience, and Rebellion

The first channel was a broadcast of some government-approved talk show.

"Today, we discuss the beautiful bonds between humans and their Overseers!" she chirped, gesturing to a panel of guests.

A woman in a pastel dress clasped her hands together. "My Overseer knows me better than I know myself. He anticipates my needs before I even realize them!"

A man nodded fervently. "Resistance is pointless. Why fight when they only want what’s best for us?"

Then the screen cut to footage of a protest—or what used to be one. The rebels were being dragged away, their faces bloodied.

"Those who refuse harmony must be… corrected" the host said.

You changed the channel.

The next channel was pure entertainment.

There they were again—the rising starlet and her dazzling Overseer, Kaveh. They sat on a plush couch, her fingers laced with his as she giggled at some interviewer’s question.

"We’re just so in sync," she sighed, leaning into him. "It’s like he was made for me."

Kaveh smirked, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "I was."

The audience swooned.

You rolled your eyes—but couldn’t help the twinge of curiosity. Was this… real? Or just another performance for the cameras?

A knock at the door startled you.

You fumbled for the remote, switching off the TV just as Alhaitham stepped inside.

He paused in the doorway, gaze flicking from you to the darkened screen.

"You’re tense"

"Just watching junk TV," you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest.

Alhaitham set down a bag of groceries. "What did you see?"

You hesitated. "The usual. Rebel crackdowns. And, uh… your friend Kaveh."

"He’s not my friend."

"You know him, though."

"We’re aware of each other. That’s all."

The commotion outside was sudden.

You and Alhaitham exchanged a glance before rushing out, joining the crowd gathering in the street.

A group of rebels had been cornered, their faces desperate as they fought against their Overseers. One of them, a woman, raised her hands, and a surge of violet energy erupted from her palms, aimed straight at the enforcers.

But the blast went wide.

Straight toward you.

A shimmering barrier of geometric green energy materialized in front of you, absorbing the attack.

You turned, stunned.

Alhaitham stood with one arm outstretched, his eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly teal hue.

The rebels were subdued moments later, dragged away by their Overseers. The crowd murmured, some in awe, others in fear.

But all you could focus on was him.

Back inside, you finally found your voice.

Alhaitham didn’t answer immediately, pouring tea with deliberate calm.

"All Overseers have abilities" he said at last. 

You stared.

He sipped his tea.

A long silence stretched between you before he spoke again.

"They’ve offered me a promotion."

You blinked. "A… what?"

"Better resources." His gaze met yours. "A safer district."

You hesitated. "Oh."

"You don’t seem excited."

"I just…" You fidgeted with your cup. "I didn’t realize Overseers could get promotions."

"Neither did I. But it would mean better living conditions. For you."

"Do you want to take it?"

"I want to know what you want."

You exhaled. "I’m fine either way. As long as…"

"As long as?"

"As long as you’re still you."

He nodded.

"Then we’ll stay."

----

The knock at the door came when you least expected it.

You had been lounging on the couch, flipping through an old book, when the sharp rap of knuckles against wood made you jump. Setting the book aside, you peered through the peephole—only to see a tall, uniformed officer standing stiffly on your doorstep, his Overseer hovering just behind him.

You hesitated.

Then opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” the officer said, “I’m here for a routine follow-up.”

“A follow-up?” You frowned. “On what?”

“Your Overseer’s recent… declination of a promotion. May I come in?”

You swallowed hard but stepped aside.

The officer strode in, his Overseer following like a ghost. The moment they crossed the threshold, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier.

“You have a lovely home,” the officer remarked, though his gaze was sharp, scanning every detail—the books on the shelf, the half-drunk cup of tea on the table.

“Thanks,” you muttered. “Can I ask why this is necessary?”

“Just ensuring everything is in order.” He turned to face you fully. “Your Overseer is an exceptional case. His refusal was… unexpected.”

“He has his reasons.”

“And what might those be?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

The officer’s smile thinned. “I intend to.”

The door opened just as the officer was reaching for another question.

Alhaitham stepped inside, the moment his eyes landed on the intruders, the temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

“Officer,” he said, “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Just a routine check. Your refusal of the promotion raised some… questions.”

“And have you found your answers?”

“For now.”

Before leaving, the officer cast one last glance at you.

“We’ll be in touch.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

You let out a slow breath. “That was—”

“Unnecessary.” 

“They’ll keep looking.”

“Let them.”

The night was quiet when Alhaitham slipped out.

You were deep in sleep, unaware of the weight of his gaze lingering on you before he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then he was gone.

Kaveh’s residence was predictably opulent, a gleaming testament to his charge’s fame. The lights were still on when Alhaitham arrived, the sound of faint music drifting through the windows.

He didn’t bother knocking.

Kaveh looked up from his drafting table.

“Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alhaitham didn’t waste time. “I need your help.”

Kaveh arched a brow. “Oh? And why would I help you?” He gestured lazily around the room. “I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you.”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll dismantle this little paradise of yours piece by piece.”

Then Kaveh sighed dramatically, tossing his pencil aside. “Ugh, fine. I was joking anyway. You’re so tedious when you’re serious.”

Kaveh leaned back, crossing his arms. “So. What’s the plan?”

“We gather the dissidents.”

“And then what? Storm the capital with sticks and righteous fury?” Kaveh snorted. “The masters aren’t exactly pushovers.”

“No,” Alhaitham agreed. “Which is why we don’t fight them directly. Not yet.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We infiltrate. Until the time comes—”

“We strike.” Kaveh finished.

“I’m talking about freedom.”

Then Kaveh exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “...Fine. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”

Alhaitham turned to leave. “Naturally.”

In the weeks that followed, whispers began to spread.

A network of rebels, slowly coalescing under the guidance of two leaders.

Kaveh, with his charm and connections, gathered sympathizers among the elite.

Alhaitham, with his cold precision, identified weaknesses in the system.

And you?

You remained blissfully unaware.

But change was coming.

----

Alhaitham had left that morning with the same quiet efficiency as always.

But when he returned, something was off.

The door slammed open with a force that made you jump.

Alhaitham stood in the doorway, his eyes colder than you’d ever seen them.

“You’re still here”

“...Yeah? Where else would I be?”

He didn’t answer. Just strode past you.

You watched, unease coiling in your stomach, as he began methodically inspecting the apartment—touching objects, scanning the shelves, as if searching for something.

“Alhaitham, what’s going on?”

He paused. Turned. And when his eyes met yours, there was nothing familiar in them.

“You will address me as Overseer.”

Days passed like this.

The Alhaitham you knew was gone, replaced by this hollow, aggressive shell.

You hated it.

But what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was the truth beneath the act.

The way his fingers twitched when your voice wavered.

The way his jaw clenched when you flinched away from him.

The call came on the seventh day.

A coded message, hidden in plain sight—a news broadcast about construction delays in the capital.

Alhaitham listened. Nodded once.

Then waited until you were in bed before slipping out.

Kaveh was already there, leaning against a crumbling wall in the abandoned sector.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered. “I was starting to think they’d actually wiped you.”

Alhaitham didn’t dignify that with a response. “Status?”

“The brainwashing tech is centralized in the Tower. If we hit it during the shift change, we can disable it long enough to free the others.”

“And the masters?”

Kaveh grinned, “Oh, they’ll definitely notice.”

Then Alhaitham nodded. “Good.”

----

When he came back, dawn was just breaking.

You were awake, curled on the couch, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders.

The door opened. Closed.

“...You’re up.”

His voice was different. Softer. 

The Alhaitham who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, he's finally back.

“It’s over” 

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You crashed into him, arms wrapping around his waist, face buried in his chest. Relief flooded you so violently your knees nearly buckled. He was back. He was himself.

Alhaitham stiffened for a fraction of a second—then his arms closed around you. His breath shuddered against your hair.

>4 hours ago - The Tower<

The brainwashing facility wasn’t just a building.

It was a slaughterhouse.

Alhaitham moved through the halls, his blade slicing through guards. Blood painted the walls. The air reeked of iron and ozone, the stench of seared flesh from the malfunctioning machines.

Kaveh was at his side.

"They’re rerouting security—we have five minutes before the masters lock this place down!"

Alhaitham didn’t respond. Just wrenched open the control panel.

A scream echoed from deeper in the facility.

Human.

Not dead yet.

They found the prisoners strapped to tables, their skulls hooked to machines. Some twitched. Some wept. Some didn’t move at all.

One—a young woman with dark hair matted to her face—jerked against her restraints as Alhaitham passed.

"P-please… kill me…"

He didn’t.

He cut her free instead.

She collapsed, sobbing, into Kaveh’s arms.

The alarms blared.

They came.

The masters.

Tall, gleaming, their obsidian skin reflecting the flickering emergency lights. One lifted a hand—and the air rippled, a shockwave of force hurling Kaveh into the wall.

Alhaitham barely dodged.

The master tilted its head.

"Defective."

Alhaitham’s blade shattered on the second strike.

He didn’t flinch. Just pivoted, driving the broken shard into the master’s throat. The creature staggered—

And then Kaveh was there, driving a stolen energy core straight into its chest.

The explosion blew out half the floor.

The facility collapsed behind them, flames licking at the sky. The survivors—those they could free—stumbled after them.

Kaveh was laughing.

Alhaitham wasn’t.

He was thinking of you.

>2 hours ago - The Mothership<

The masters’ true stronghold wasn’t on Earth.

It hung in the sky like a grotesque moon, a jagged obsidian monolith pulsing with sickly violet light. Getting inside had required more than just violence—it required precision.

Alhaitham moved through the ship’s corridors along with Kaveh, their path littered with the corpses of the creatures who had once ruled your world.

At the heart of the ship, suspended in a web of bioluminescent cables, was the Core—a living, breathing mass of writhing tendrils and neural tissue.

"You are flawed."

Alhaitham didn’t argue.

He plunged his blade into its center.

The Core didn’t die.

Alhaitham’s fingers worked swiftly, tearing into its neural pathways, rewriting its purpose.

Peace.

A forced one, yes. A lie, perhaps.

But better than slaughter.

The Core shuddered, its violet glow shifting to a soft, steady gold.

The change rippled outward—through the ship, through the planet, through every Overseer still connected to the network.

Including him.

The Core couldn’t sustain itself.

It needed fuel.

Alien blood.

So, when the time came, Alhaitham returned.

He fed the Core with the lifeblood of its own kind, ensuring the illusion of peace held firm.

And when it was done, he came back to you.

>Months later<

"Where have you been?"

"I have some unfinished business."

This world—this peace—wasn’t the masters’ design.

It was his.

----

Sunlight spilled through the curtains as Alhaitham stirred beside you, his arm draped lazily over your waist.

He enjoys those moments.

He'd read his books in the garden.

Sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d smile, as he watched you hum over breakfast or lose yourself in a novel.

The world outside might never know the truth, but here, in this stolen peace, it didn’t matter.

[noirscript]

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[daylightstring]

i manifested a new house for my family and some revelations about the law.

i’m honestly super emotional even typing this because housing has always been a huge issue for my family, but not anymore. it’s finally resolved.

basically, our lease for the house we’d been living in for five years was ending. now, i don’t want to take full credit for this manifestation because my dad worked incredibly hard to make this happen too. in my family, my dad is the only provider since my mum has her own mental health struggles, and me and my brother are focused on our studies. because of that, getting a loan for a good house was really difficult. but knowing the law, i decided to start affirming and visualising every time the topic came up, no matter what was happening in the 3d. i kept telling myself the house is already ours, only moving boxes is left. even when my parents were stressing about it, i stayed in my own reality internally.

luckily, once i started persisting, my parents found a really decent house in our area that was still within our budget. i kept affirming that the house was already ours, that all that was left was moving boxes. and guess what? we got the call that the house is officially ours. it’s a modern, four-bedroom house with a huge backyard. it’s beautiful.

this is probably my first really ‘big’ manifestation and it’s helped me understand the law on a whole new level. i had already studied the law a lot and understood the basics from reading source material, but actually living it through something life-changing hit differently.

when i kept repeating to myself that the house is already ours, that moving boxes is the only thing left, i realised this mindset is exactly what makes manifestations happen. nero knowledge, my favourite manifestation creator, always says that once you’re no longer dependent on seeing change in the outside world, that’s when it happens. whatever it is you want, you have to claim it with unbelievable conviction, so much so that even if you didn’t get it, you would still feel like you have it. that’s the level of certainty it takes. brazen impudence. refusing to accept ‘no’ as an answer from reality.

identity is everything. i hate to say it, but you need a strong self-concept to experience true life-changing shifts. that’s the real principle behind the law that every successful, enviable person has lived by. i know this because i tried to manifest a new house two years ago when i was deep in anxiety and depression, and it didn’t happen. my identity back then was someone terrified she wouldn’t get what she wanted, and the universe, being a mirror, simply reflected that.

stop identifying with labels that do nothing but hurt you. i understand trauma. i’ve lived it too. but you can’t spend your life staring at your wounds. you’re strong. you want to change. i know you do because you’re here, reading this, waiting for that big “aha” moment that will fix everything. but it’s not going to come from the outside. it will only come from you, when you apply the law and choose a new identity. like neville said…there is no one to change but self.

you have to stop caring in the wrong way. when i say ‘stop caring’, i don’t mean stop wanting your desires, i mean stop being so attached to the idea that once you have it, everything will change. there is no ‘after’. it’s happening now. right now. soak into that feeling, claim it, and live from it.

[carawenfiction]

One night you are faced with a dream that alters something within you, forcing you to return to your now abandoned childhood home to search for answers.

Little do you know that the house is connected to another realm where darkness reigns and sunlight is nothing but a distant notion — a realm your family appears to be mysteriously involved with.

Upon encountering a group of paranormal beings of unknown nature, you are drawn further into a strange and unsettling existence as you strive to uncover the truth of your past and find your way back home.

Whatever path you choose, remember to look out for your own shadow.

"The Shadow Society" was first published in 2020 and is currently undergoing an extensive rewrite. The new version leans more into mystery elements with added focus on characters, relationships and how they are forged in a world where nothing is certain.

One sequel is planned to release once the rewrite is finished.

The rewrite of “The Shadow Society” is an 18+ game that includes depictions of violence, mental health, mental illness and sexual content. The demo is roughly 48k words as of June 2025.

Demo | Patreon | Ko-fi

* Play as a male, female or non-binary main character whose personality, actions and appearance are shaped entirely by your choices. * Play as gay, bi, straight, aromantic or asexual. * Discover a hidden world and take the first steps in uncovering its secrets. * Pursue one of five love interests along with two hidden ones, become entangled in a triangle between two siblings or remain single. * Determine who to trust and who to shun, who to befriend and who to antagonize, among a cast of characters with differing secrets and motivations. * Experience a story that explores the meaning of reality and illusion, truth and deceit, in a world of shadows that mirrors our own.

✹ A (Azuridian/Azuridia)

Their eyes, cold and piercing, seem filled with bitter truths that they refuse to share. They protect their knowledge fiercely and disclose only what they believe they need to when the situation calls for it. Some call them arrogant, but to that they would retort that they are the only one who can do what needs to be done. Driven and direct with a dash of sensuous charm, they don't hesitate to pursue what they want.

Appearance (male version): His face is angular and pale, his lashes a fringe of silver-white. His hair is slicked back, the sides of his head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. He wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, he seems to quietly command the very air around him, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

Appearance (female version): Her face is angular and elegant, her lashes a fringe of silver-white. Her hair is gathered into a high ponytail that reaches her lower back, the sides of her head trimmed in an orderly fade cut. A sensual carmine red blooms on her lips, standing in stark opposition to her somewhat achromatic appearance. She wears a form-fitting, navy blue suit that gives a refined and sophisticated impression. A powerful yet subtle presence, she seems to quietly command the very air around her, emanating a sense of confidence that is both inviting and intimidating all at once.

✹ G (Gwyndal/Gwendolyn)

There is something palpably playful about their gaze. When turned your way, it seems to shine with the same kind of interest a child might show a shiny new toy. Though jovial and charming, there's something just beneath the surface of their demeanor that gives the impression that something far less pleasant lurks within. G has certain obsessive tendencies - their tireless interest in anything related to the 'Sunworld', as they are prone to call your home, for one - and seems to prefer the company of humans to the company of their own kind.

Appearance (both versions): They have tawny skin that contrasts with the short, blond hair that frames their rounded face, a slightly upturned nose sitting above charmingly curved lips. Their clothing style is eclectic and flashy, consisting of a torn yellow shirt with red- and black checkered pants. Silver chains hang around their neck and wrists, the metallic sheen matching the piercings that line their pointed ears.

✹ M (Michael/Michaela)

Though they aren't considered particularly bright, their dark eyes hold a reassuring warmth, alight with zest that could lure a smile from even the most jaded of people. But at times, when they think you aren’t looking, that spark seems to dim, the faint creases in their face appearing more prominent.

They are quick with quips and remarks they most likely hope others find witty, and equally quick to lend an ear and protect the things they care about.

Appearance (male version): His hair is dark brown, thick and tousled, often falling into his eyes. As an avid athlete he works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. His clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

Appearance (female version): Her hair is dark brown and thick, often pulled back in a high ponytail. As an avid athlete she works out frequently, sporting a toned and muscular figure as a result. Her clothing style is simple and comfortable, rarely going beyond casual jeans, t-shirts and sneakers.

✹ Q (Quaiel/Quarie)

A great, invisible chasm stretches between them and the people in their vicinity, a silent yet keenly felt tension seeming to follow wherever they go.

Bereft of the ability to speak, they somehow still appear more forthcoming than the people they surround themselves with. Somewhere deep inside they harbor an unyielding loyalty to A that is difficult to comprehend, especially when the latter's morals and actions often clash with what Q would normally agree with.

Though they rarely seek others out willingly, their eyes are kind, and when gazing upon someone they care about, a subtle tenderness seems to shine through.

Appearance (male version): His creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering his lower face. His red hair is curly and unevenly cut, long in the front and short in the back. A tattered, knitted cardigan falls off one shoulder, reaching a little past his knees. Beneath he wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

Appearance (female version): Her creamy skin is dotted with freckles that peek out around the dark muzzle covering her lower face. Her red hair, curly and wild, falls over her shoulders down to her waist. A tattered, knitted cardigan lays half-neglected at her elbows and reaches a little past her knees. Beneath she wears a white shirt carelessly half-tucked into umber pants.

✹ R (Rheylo/Rheyla)

Their gaze is withdrawn, bordering on hostile, their eyes a pair of flames that seem to want to incinerate whoever they’re aimed at. They hide themselves behind long, black hair and a hood, wielding snark and sharp comments as weapons to fend off deeper probing into their psyche. For all their posturing, they get embarrassed easily and may not be quite as laidback as they hope to appear.

Appearance (male version): His skin is medium-dark, a faint of stubble crawling along his jaw on the half of his face that he deigns to show. Though difficult to spot, a small gap that he'd rather keep hidden rests between his front teeth. His straight, midnight-black hair falls down to his elbows, obscuring the right half of his face.

Three braids adorn his left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across his shoulder. He is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs his torso, while wide trousers skim his calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at his wrists. A heavy belt circles his waist, securing the flowing fabric.

Appearance (female version): Her skin is medium-dark. In her upper row of teeth, between darkly painted lips, rests a small gap she'd rather keep hidden. Her straight, midnight-black hair falls down to her elbows, obscuring the right half of her face.

Three braids adorn her left temple - two slim plaits framing a thicker rope that drapes artfully across her shoulder. She is clad entirely in obsidian hues. A form-fitting, sleeveless turtleneck hugs her torso, while wide trousers skim her calves, cinched above knee-high boots. A yukata-inspired, cloak-like garment covers the inner layers, generous sleeves pooling at her wrists. A heavy belt circles her waist, securing the flowing fabric.

✹ Jaelyn

Your ex-best friend/ex-lover. Though quiet and reserved, they are not without humor; once comfortable with a person, their perceived shyness can turn into good-natured smugness and gentle back-and-forth teasing. They have a certain fondness for books and will take whatever opportunity they get to quote a work they enjoy.

Jaelyn works closely with the Shadowman/Shadowlady and is often the one who carries out their orders, though not always without complaint. Though loyal, they are not a blind follower and possess strong opinions of their own. As for their motives and how they ended up in their current position is anyone’s guess.

Appearance (male version): His eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. He has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. His lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

Appearance (female version): Her eyes are a mystery to you, concealed behind a pair of gradient colored, diamond-shaped glasses. She has dark skin and long tight curls that are parted on one side. Her lean figure is draped in clothing that appears at once modern and antique, consisting of a violet blouse with an intricately designed jabot, waist-high pants and a pair of leather boots.

✹ The Shadowman/The Shadowlady

It was their voice that drew you in first; the kind that could lure anyone into a sense of security and then cruelly leave you to navigate best you could in its absence. Smooth and mysterious, they grace your life through whispers and echoes of times long gone. When you first meet them face to face, they hide behind masks and shadows alike.

But who are they, really?

Appearance (male version): His turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. He stands taller than most humans, his long hair streaked with black and silver, gathered in a loose ponytail that reaches his lower back. A few wisps that have managed to free themselves almost appear to float around his face, dark clinging to shining grey like black ink stuck to parchment.

His long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above tiny streaks and dots delicately painted to accentuate his eyes. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from his left ear, swaying delicately when he moves.

His skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll, his figure lithe and broad shouldered. He wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath he wears a fitted, sleek black suit, complete with a tie. Strange, dark dust covers his hands and long, claw-like nails.

Appearance (female version): Her turquoise eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. She stands taller than most humans, her long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in an elaborate updo. A few wisps have managed to free themselves from the chignon and float gently around her face, dark strands clinging to shining greys like black ink stuck to parchment.

A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from her left ear, swaying delicately when she moves. Her lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver. She wears purple-blue eyeshadow and shimmering purple lipstick.

Her skin appears polished and glossy, like that of a porcelain doll. She wears an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones. Underneath she wears a low-cut dress  that clings to her voluptuous figure. Strange, dark dust covers her hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Appearance (non-binary version): Their eyes glow with a terrifying kind of potency, lips formed in an ever-present half-smile. They stand taller than most humans, their long hair streaked with black and silver and pulled back in a loose ponytail that reaches their lower back. Their lashes are long, each black one followed by one of silver.

Sometimes their figure appears soft, shaped by feminine curves, other times lithe and slender with broadened shoulders. They wear an iridescent blue and green robe that is adorned with gemstones and slide off their shoulders, baring the intricate piece of golden jewellery tied around their neck.

Their long lashes, each black one followed by one of silver, curve above shimmering purple-blue eyeshadow and purple lips. A golden earring attached to a peacock feather hangs from their left ear, swaying delicately as they move. Strange, dark dust covers their hands and long, claw-like nails.  

Current Progress:

Written/reworked chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Edited chapters: Prologue, chapter 1, beginning of chapter 2.

Demo wordcount: ~48k as of end of June 2025.

Total wordcount (on Patreon): ~70k as of end of June 2025.

Credits

@filopay for the gorgeous cover art

Canva for the other images used in this post