#so not a masterpiece but at least i had fun x)

[notonlymice]

“And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.” ― Kiersten White, The Chaos of Stars

[hatethysinner]

ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: New York, 1970. You’ve come too far from Mississippi to be told no. Your agent, Remmick, calls you his masterpiece, and he’ll do anything to make the world see you the same. You don’t ask what it costs him, but every time the spotlight hits your skin, his eyes shine like it’s worth it.

ᴡᴄ: 22.5k (including cont'd)

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. if there's any fanfic writer reading this, mix your settings up! it's so fun to go out of your comfort zone and just go batshit crazy with your ideas and that's exactly what i did. the fact that i had to split this into two posts makes me so mad like i promise i'm not interaction farming tumblr just can't handle the heat of 20k+ words. i've done grateful remmick, pathetic remmick, and now we've got obsessive remmick. collecting his archetypes like infinity stones 💋! as always, white girls i promise you can have your fun with this too. enjoy reading divas! i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: (including cont'd) SLOWburn, obsession, murder, vampirism, blood, bloodplay i think, praise kink, breeding kink, body worship, eye contact, biting, cunnilingus, very light dubcon, exhibitionism, p in v, monsterfucking, overstimulation, dacryphillia, cockwarming, the wildest possible time to have sex (you won't guess it), i'm sorry yall this shit is just freaky as fuck, overt affection from the start, fluff, a little domesticity never hurts, remmick being an unhinged control freak but in the least toxic way possible, reader did not prepare herself for ts, maybe a little angsty but that depends on your definition, codependency, power imbalance but it's never abused(?), religious undertones if you squint, depictions of racism, texturism, and microaggressions in the fashion industry, amateur knowledge of 1970s fashion and modeling (i was living on the devil wears prada and a prayer), excessive use of dividers, minor vampire rule changes for writing convenience

New York City, 1970.

The city shimmered in the distance like a mirage, flickering orange and gold against the horizon, then hardening into glass and steel as you drew closer. Manhattan rose from the ground like something alive, wild and bristling, all sirens and streetlamps and noise thick enough to taste. The car hummed low beneath you, headlights slicing through the last stretch of night. You leaned against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the skyline appear piece by piece like it was being conjured just for you.

It had been a long drive. A strange one. Not quick, not smooth. Over twenty-four hours, maybe more. Time bled at the edges when you were with Remmick.

He wouldn’t drive during the day. Not once. Every time the sky began to lighten, he’d pull off the road. Into a gas station, a motel lot, once even behind an abandoned diner where the air smelled like rust and pine needles, and he’d wait. In silence. Crouched low in the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even in the dark. You’d offered to take the wheel more than once, half-joking, half-worried, but he’d only chuckled and said, "Ain’t no use rushin’. Best things bloom slow, darlin’. Let the night do her part."

The highways felt endless. Flat fields, flickering street signs, the quiet rhythm of tires against asphalt. You dozed in and out, lulled by his steady driving and the scratch of his thumb against his lighter. He didn’t play the radio. He didn’t sing. Sometimes he talked to himself, voice low and rhythmic like a sermon, words you couldn’t quite catch. Other times, he said your name like it was the only thing worth saying.

And then: the city.

He pulled the car to the curb, the engine softening into silence. You blinked up at the brownstone. Tall and narrow, made of worn red brick with black trim and a wrought-iron gate that looked older than both of you. The street around it was quiet, lit by just a few streetlamps buzzing with moths. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was nice. Too nice, as if it'd been detailed just minutes before you arrived. Clean front stoop. Big bay window. Flower boxes under the sills.

You frowned. “This yours?”

Remmick stepped out of the car, rounded the hood, and opened your door with a little bow. “Ours,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

You stood slowly, stretching your spine after hours curled in the seat. The New York air was colder than Mississippi. Sharper. The kind that cut clean and left you blinking. You looked up at the brownstone again. It had to be expensive. The kind of place a real agent might have. The kind of place someone powerful stayed, not someone who drifted into a backwoods general store and offered to make you a star.

But he just smiled. Like he already knew what you were thinking.

“Ain’t much yet,” he said, his voice low, accent thick and lazy and true. “But it’s the start. From here on out, we climb.”

You stared at him. Your so-called agent, your midnight stranger, the man who found you counting change behind the counter of your uncle’s store in Mississippi, under flickering fluorescents and a ceiling fan that squealed with every turn.

You hadn’t been looking to be found.

You hadn’t even meant to speak to him.

He’d come in just before closing, tall and tired-looking, dressed like he didn’t belong. Black turtleneck, coat that didn’t suit the heat, and those eyes. Blue, yes, but something off about them. Ancient. Red flashed in his pupils if the light hit just right, like a warning. You caught yourself staring too long.

Then he said it. “You ever thought about modeling, sweetheart?”

You laughed in his face.

He didn’t leave.

He came back the next night. And the one after that.

He didn’t try to touch you. Didn’t leer or flirt. Just leaned on the counter and looked at you like you were already on the cover of Vogue or Life. Like he was just waiting for the world to catch up.

“You’re a fuckin’ star,” he said again and again. “You don’t see it, but I do.”

Now here you were.

He carried your suitcase without asking, easy like it weighed nothing, and led you up the narrow staircase. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of lavender and old books. The walls were clean, freshly painted, but the baseboards and window frames still bore signs of age. The floors creaked under your feet, polished wood catching the light. The front room had a velvet couch in a deep wine color, a small but elegant fireplace, and shelves that already held a few books. Some old, some new, all carefully arranged.

There was a vase on the windowsill. Empty, waiting.

It wasn’t just an apartment. It felt like someone had made space for you here.

You dropped your bag near the door and looked around slowly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“You… really live like this?”

Remmick leaned against the doorframe, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest. That red glint shimmered faintly behind his tired blue eyes, not threatening, just… different. Other. He didn’t hide it. You didn’t want him to.

He grinned, showing the faint edge of his canines. Too sharp to be human, too familiar to scare you. “I told you, didn’t I?” he said softly. “You’re gonna be a fuckin’ star.”

You stepped toward him, unsure if you meant to laugh or cry. “And this is part of that?”

He nodded once, serious now. “You deserve a place to start from. A place that ain’t tryin’ to drag you back down. I meant it when I said I’d take care of you.”

And in his voice, you heard it again. That vow he’d made in a gas station parking lot under moth-covered lights. That strange devotion that didn’t ask for anything in return.

You looked around one last time, then back at him.

“So what now?”

He stepped into the room, slow and certain, like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

“Now,” he said, brushing a stray curl from your face, “we get to work.”

You very quickly learned the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

It wasn’t subtle. There were no illusions of partnership or shared footing. You weren’t splitting rent, trading favors, or learning the city together like other girls who moved north with dreams and no real plan. No, you were being kept. Thoroughly, obsessively, deliberately kept.

It started small. You mentioned your shoes were falling apart. The next morning, a pair of Ferragamos appeared beside the bed. You half-joked about not owning a proper winter coat, and he was gone for twenty minutes, then returned with three. Leather. Wool. Something French you couldn’t pronounce, still with the tag attached.

The closet filled before you realized what was happening. It started with a rack of dresses, mostly black, some red, some blue, a few greens and golds, all tailored like they knew your body before you’d ever tried them on. Then came the heels. Then the jewelry. Not flashy, but real. Real enough to catch light. Real enough to turn heads.

You didn’t ask for it. Sometimes, you weren’t even sure you wanted it.

But he noticed everything.

You lingered a second too long looking at a photo in a magazine, the jacket the model wore, the earrings that matched her lipstick, and the next day, something damn near identical was folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Remmick, I don’t need-”

“Didn’t ask what you need, darlin’,” he’d say, brushing past you with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I asked what you want.”

He never lit that cigarette inside. Not even once. Wouldn’t so much as hold a lighter within ten feet of you. He’d smoke out on the stoop or disappear to the far end of the street, muttering something about “not stinkin’ up the air you breathe.” The first time you joked about wanting one yourself, just to see what the fuss was about, he looked at you like you’d cursed, warning “not with a smile like yours, not a chance.”

It wasn’t just the clothes.

You ran out of conditioner once. Just once. The bottle was still in the trash when you stepped out of the shower and found five new ones lined up on the bathroom sink. Different brands, all familiar, all from back home. Stuff you didn’t even think they sold up north. He’d stocked them like he’d raided a beauty supply store in Jackson and brought the entire aisle to you.

When you tried to thank him, he shook his head and looked at you like you’d insulted him.

“Don’t need thanks,” he murmured, turning the sink knobs absently, like making sure the water still ran. “Don’t want it neither. Just want you ready. Prepared. You look the part, they treat you like the part.”

That was the other thing. He never wavered.

You could be barefaced and groggy, hair wrapped, in slippers and one of his oversized shirts, and he’d still say it: “You’re the most beautiful thing in this city.”

Always with that voice, like gravel and honey, and always with that look. Like he was memorizing you for when you weren’t there.

He refused to let you carry groceries. Refused to let you pay at restaurants, even diners. The one time you tried, fumbling for your wallet while he was in the bathroom, he damn near lost it. Quietly, of course. Never loud. Never unkind. But the look on his face when he stepped out and saw you holding your purse?

He took your wrist gently and leaned in close. “You ain’t got to do that, darlin’. You never will.”

And you believed him.

Because Remmick didn’t make promises lightly.

He’d booked your first photoshoot before your second night in the city. He knew a guy who knew a guy. Shady as hell, probably, but the studio was real, the lighting was good, and the photographer never once looked at you sideways. You didn’t have a portfolio yet, didn’t know how to pose, but Remmick stood just out of frame, nodding, giving you small, soft corrections. Not criticism. Just reminders.

“Chin up. Eyes sharper. That’s it, darlin’. Just like that.”

He was everywhere. In the corner of the room, watching. Waiting. Always watching.

You got used to it. Maybe too fast. Maybe too easy.

But something about his presence didn’t unnerve you. It calmed you. Like if anything went wrong, if anyone tried anything, he’d handle it before you even knew to be afraid.

The girls you passed on the sidewalk in Harlem, downtown, SoHo, they looked at you with curiosity. Some with admiration, others with judgment. You didn’t blame them. You were the new face, the quiet one with an older man who opened every door and paid every bill and looked at you like you were something exquisite and holy.

And you noticed him too.

The way he never ate. The way his canines always looked a little too sharp when he smiled too wide. The way his eyes gleamed red sometimes when the light dipped low.

You weren’t stupid.

You weren’t scared either.

Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t hunger. It was worship.

Like he’d waited lifetimes for you. Like now that he had you, there wasn’t a single thing on this earth. living or dead. he wouldn’t rip apart to keep you standing.

And the strangest part?

You were starting to believe it.

You still didn’t know what exactly he was. He hadn’t told you, not directly. But there were nights when the city seemed to go still around him, when your reflection in the apartment window looked younger than it had the day before, when he came back from “errands” with dirt on his sleeves and a strange, metallic smell clinging to his coat.

You didn’t ask.

You just watched him move through your life like a secret you didn’t want solved.

And when he knelt in front of your vanity, helping you fasten the strap of your heels, he looked up at you like you were the moon.

“Whatever you want, darlin’,” he said. “All you ever gotta do is ask.”

And you believed him. Again.

The proofs arrived in a thick envelope, crisp and neatly stacked, smelling like ink and developer fluid. Remmick slit it open with his finger, careful not to smudge the edges, then spread the photos out across the kitchen table like cards in a high-stakes hand.

You hovered nearby, still in your robe, coffee cooling untouched between your hands. He’d barely said a word all morning, just paced between windows and rearranged the chairs until the light hit the table just right. Now he sat, back straight, fingers laced under his chin like he was studying scripture.

“Alright,” he muttered, nodding to himself. “Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”

He picked up the first photo, held it close to his face, then glanced at you with a small, stunned kind of smile.

“Goddamn, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Look at you. Look at those eyes. Like they know somethin’ nobody else does.”

Your lips twitched. “That good or bad?”

He flicked his eyes up. “That’s perfect.”

The next photo didn’t get the same reaction. He turned it sideways, then back, then let out a thoughtful little hum before setting it aside.

“Not that one?”

“Too wide on the lens. Warps the shoulder line.” He looked up again, serious now. “Ain’t you. That’s on the camera, not the subject.”

You sat across from him, watching the small pile of rejects begin to form at his elbow. But with each one he discarded, he gave an explanation. Real, technical, thorough.

“This one’s too soft. Focus is just off the eye, makes you look unsure.”

“Lighting’s dirty on this one. Sinks the skin tone. Not your fault, not on you.”

“Angle’s wrong here. Nose ain’t shaped like that, lens just thinks it knows better.”

He never let it seem like you’d done something wrong.

Even the ones he didn’t like, he lingered on first. Admired them. Complimented the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth, the way you held your hands. He only tossed them aside if the frame failed you, if the shot wasn’t worthy.

“You’re not a problem to fix, darlin’,” he said at one point, tapping one of the keeper shots. “You’re a truth they gotta learn how to capture right.”

You were starting to understand how his mind worked. Not just as your agent, but as someone who genuinely couldn’t stand seeing the world misunderstand you. It mattered to him, deeply. Almost violently.

He ended up with four he liked. Four out of thirty.

“This one for the face,” he said, sliding the first forward. “No smile, just eyes. Says take me serious.”

The second: “This one shows the angles. That jaw? That neck? You’ll have girls tryin’ to grow bones like yours.”

The third: “Little softness. You look like someone’s dream here.”

And the last, his favorite, he didn’t explain. Just stared at it for a long while, thumb grazing the edge, eyes unreadable.

When you reached for it, he didn’t let go right away. Then he finally handed it over.

It was a shot of you mid-turn, hair caught in motion, dress pulling just slightly at the hip, your mouth parted like you’d been about to laugh.

You didn’t even remember posing like that.

“I love this one,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Remmick replied, watching you with something almost reverent in his face. “That’s why it works.”

You leaned your cheek into your hand, tracing the edge of the photo with your finger. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen myself like this before.”

“’Cause you haven’t had someone show you right. Not till now.”

He stood, collecting the rejected prints and sliding them back into the envelope. You watched him move. Graceful in that slow, deliberate way of his, like every motion was premeditated.

At the counter, he paused to straighten the stack of fashion magazines he’d brought home the night before, flipping through one until he found a dog-eared page. A model with your same cheekbones, but none of your soul.

“See that?” he asked, tilting it toward you. “They’ll chase this look ‘til they die tryin’, but you-” He tapped the table beside your photo. “You got it. Easy.”

He lingered a moment longer, then returned to the table, his thumb brushing a speck of dust from the corner of your favorite shot. You noticed his hands. Always busy, always precise. Even when they trembled a little, like they did now, like he was holding something too precious to mess up.

“Gonna send these four out by noon,” he said, tapping the chosen shots. “Couple magazines, two scouts. I’ll follow up by phone tomorrow.”

Your brow lifted. “That fast?”

He gave a small shrug, lips tugging into a lopsided grin. “You think I came all this way just to sit on my ass?” He leaned across the table, close enough for you to see the faint red gleam flicker at the edge of his irises. Subtle, quick. “Told you I’d make you a fuckin’ star. Didn’t say when. Just said I would.”

He leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly, then looked at you with that soft, satisfied expression he wore whenever he thought you weren’t watching. “Put somethin’ nice on, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and warm. “I’m takin’ you out tonight. Gotta celebrate your first real shoot.”

The look in his eyes told you it wasn’t just about the pictures. It was about you. Everything was.

He didn’t call it a date. Wouldn’t even come close.

When you stepped out of the bedroom in one of the dresses he’d picked out days ago, red, silky, and cut to fit like it had been stitched directly onto you, he only gave a low whistle and said, “Now that’s how a star walks into a room.” Not you look beautiful. Not I can’t stop starin’ at you. But it was there in his face, plain as anything. The way he let his eyes trace you, slow and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.

He held the door for you like always, one hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the black town car idling at the curb. The engine was quiet, the driver already waiting. No one had told you where you were going, and Remmick didn’t say. He just tucked you into the backseat like you were made of porcelain and leaned close with a grin, his fingers grazing your bare shoulder.

“Big night,” he murmured, low and warm. “You should eat like it.”

You didn’t expect what came next. The restaurant didn’t have a name on the front. Just a narrow archway tucked between a boutique hotel and a shuttered tailor shop, with a single golden plaque bolted to the brick. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if he hadn’t guided you up the steps like he belonged there.

The maître d’ recognized him instantly. “Right this way, sir,” he said without even asking for a name, and suddenly you were being led into the kind of place people waited months to get into. The dining room was dim and hushed, wrapped in warm light and the clink of expensive silverware. Velvet chairs, fresh flowers at every table, real wax candles instead of electric flickers. The sort of atmosphere where everyone whispered even when they didn’t have to, because they could.

You were seated in the center of it all, surrounded by couples in tailored suits and silk shawls, sparkling jewelry and moneyed quiet. The moment you sat down, you felt them. Eyes, subtle and sideways, glancing over menus and martinis to look at you. You were the only Black woman in the room. Probably the only one who’d been here in a while, if ever. Their stares weren’t loud, but they were there. Lingering. Curious. Unwelcome.

Remmick didn’t miss it.

His hand was already on the table, fingers brushing yours. “Hey,” he said, soft enough only you could hear. “They look ‘cause they don’t get it. ‘Cause you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like a fuckin’ dream, and they’re not used to seein’ somethin’ that real.”

You looked up at him, and he was already watching you, something dangerous and steady behind the softness in his voice. “Let ‘em stare. You belong right here, sweetheart. You belong everywhere.”

That was all he had to say. The weight of the room shifted. Not for them, for you. Like suddenly you were immune. Like the whispering walls of that restaurant had never held a woman like you before, but they were damn lucky to now.

He ordered for both of you, waving off the menu like he already knew what was good. “She’ll have the oysters and the saffron risotto,” he said with a smile that was somehow both charming and firm. “Bring us the champagne. The good kind.”

You laughed and asked how he even got a reservation. He just shrugged. “Told ‘em I had someone I needed to impress. They didn’t ask more’n that.”

The food came in careful courses, small and perfect, each bite richer than anything you’d ever tasted. He didn’t eat much, just pushed things around on his plate while watching you. Every time you made a face or hummed in surprise at the flavor, he looked like he was cataloging it, like he’d remember what you liked forever.

“Tell me which dish you want me to learn to cook,” he said at one point. “I’ll have the whole damn kitchen figured out by next week if you ask.”

You told him that wasn’t necessary, and he smiled. “That ain’t the point.”

Between courses, he kept the compliments coming. Not like a man trying to win favor, more like someone stunned into reverence. He said it like a fact, like gravity: you were stunning, and you should already be on magazine covers. “The cameras don’t even get it yet,” he said. “They ain’t caught what I see.”

Still, he never called it a date.

Even when his gaze lingered on your mouth for too long. Even when he wiped a smear of sauce from the corner of your lip with his thumb and let it stay there for a beat too long. Even when his voice went low again and he said, “We’ll remember this night. First of many, I promise you that.”

You smiled down at your plate, cheeks warm, heart louder than it had been all day. He watched you like you were the only one left in the world. Like he could feel the pull of it just as much as you could, but wouldn’t name it. Not yet.

Dessert was something ridiculous with gold leaf and dark chocolate, something you didn’t ask for but he somehow knew you’d love. When you took the first bite, he grinned wide and leaned back in his chair.

“A star and her agent,” he said. “That’s all this is.”

But his voice was thick, and his eyes didn’t leave yours, and when he reached out to adjust the strap of your dress where it slipped on your shoulder, his hand lingered, slow and possessive.

“And stars oughta be spoiled, don’t you think?”

You nodded, quiet, caught between the warmth of the food and the fizz of champagne and the impossible softness in his voice. He said nothing more, just sat there across from you like he’d already decided you were the best thing he’d ever done.

And maybe he had.

Watching Remmick work was your favorite pastime.

You curled your legs up beneath you on the couch, still wearing the oversized tee he’d laid out for you. Not one of yours, of course. Something soft and perfectly worn, smelling faintly of cedar and whatever cologne he only ever seemed to wear around the apartment. The plate on your lap was empty now, just crumbs and the last smear of blackberry preserves from the toast he’d made fresh that morning. No burnt edges. No crusts. The way you liked it.

He’d sat with you through the whole thing, elbows on the table, watching every bite like it fed him instead. When you asked if he was gonna eat too, he only smiled.

“I’ll grab somethin’ later. You go on.”

He never ate around you, not really. Said mornings weren’t his time. Said he didn’t like the taste of breakfast. Said he’d already had his coffee. A lie, probably, because you never once saw him make a cup. But he’d sat there all the same, chin in his hand, smiling at you like you were the sunrise itself.

Now he stood across the apartment, back to you, the long cord of the house phone stretched taut from the wall to where he leaned against the kitchen counter. His voice was calm but firm, syrupy in a way that meant he was negotiating. You could only hear his side, but it was enough to understand.

“...I know what I’m askin’, but you ain’t looked at her yet, Mary. Once you see her in front of you, you’ll understand-”

A long pause. The hand not gripping the phone gestured in frustration, but his voice didn’t budge.

“Yeah. I get that. But what I’m sayin’ is, she ain’t just a checkmark on a theme issue, alright? She’s talent. She’s the face. Whether that issue’s in January or June or never, she deserves ink. You know it.”

Your stomach tightened a little. He hadn’t said what magazine it was, not directly, but you’d caught the hint yesterday when he started listing off dream shots. Glamour, he’d said. Cosmopolitan. Vogue, if they bite, but Glamour’s got that open slot sooner. At the time, you’d thought he was dreaming big. Shooting for the stars to see what stuck.

Now, listening to him wrangle a gatekeeper with the kind of slick charm only he could wield, you realized he hadn’t just dreamed. He’d promised.

And he was fighting tooth and nail to deliver.

“Mmhm. Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. I read it.” His voice thinned slightly, though he still sounded smooth. “Saw the whole spread. Good issue.”

A beat. You caught the flicker of his jaw tightening.

“Nah, I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t have done it. Just sayin’ maybe you oughta take another look at your timing. Feels a little... seasonal. Like maybe you think color only matters once a year.”

Your eyebrows rose.

There was a longer pause now. You heard a faint tinny buzz from the other end of the line, though the words were too muffled to catch. Remmick didn’t speak. He just waited, staring out the tiny kitchen window at nothing. His fingers tapped the countertop, slow and even. You could feel it. The moment. That low boil of something restrained. Whatever she’d said next, it had hit a nerve.

Then finally, he spoke again.

“Listen, Mary. I’m not askin’ you to do her a favor. I’m offerin’ you a face your readers are gonna be grateful for. She’s got the look and the movement. She’s camera-trained and runway-ready, and she just got off a shoot with a photographer I know you’ve pulled from before. You want numbers? You’ll get numbers. All I need is fifteen minutes in front of your casting director.”

Another pause.

His eyes flicked to you.

You offered the smallest smile, and he smiled back. Just slightly, just enough to soften the line of his mouth. Then turned back to the phone.

“Perfect. Yeah. Tuesday’s good. Tell ‘em she’ll be there.”

He hung up with the kind of gentleness that didn’t match the fight you’d just heard in his voice. As if slamming the phone down would’ve undone the win. He stayed there a second longer, hand resting on the receiver, then turned toward you and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well,” he said, voice back to its usual slow drawl. “Hope you didn’t make other plans for Tuesday.”

He'd already made sure you didn't.

You blinked, throwing the first name that came to your mind out. “That was Glamour?”

He gave a short nod and crossed the room in two strides, crouching down in front of the couch. “That was me doin’ what I said I would. You’re in, sweetheart. Casting preview, ten a.m. I’ll walk you in myself.”

Your heart was thudding, too fast to hide. “Remmick... they said no at first, didn’t they?”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t pretend. Just shrugged. “Didn’t matter what they said at first. You got me. I make sure first ain’t never final.”

You looked at him, really looked. The way his blue eyes caught the light and shimmered red in the middle, something not quite right about them, something old and endless that had never scared you. Something that felt like fire behind glass. You’d never asked what he was, not out loud. But you knew.

And you knew whatever he was, it loved you. Or worshipped you. Or both.

“Remmick,” you said, quieter now. “What if it doesn’t go well?”

He reached up, thumb brushing just beneath your cheek. “Then I raise hell.”

You laughed, half from nerves and half from wonder. You’d come to this city with nothing but a suitcase, a dream, and a man who’d found you behind a dusty counter and said star like he already believed it. And now here you were. Toast crumbs on your lap, your agent on fire, and Tuesday morning shining in the near distance like something impossible.

You weren’t sure if you were ready.

But with Remmick at your side, it almost didn't matter.

Tuesday morning came earlier than you'd hoped, though you weren’t the one who set the alarm. Remmick had been up before the sun, half-dressed and humming under his breath in the next room while laying your outfit out across the back of the couch.

He’d picked it the night before, but apparently that hadn’t stopped him from fussing over it again in the morning. You heard the crisp flick of a lint roller, the brush of fingers smoothing seams, the rustle of tissue paper as he checked the shoes a third time.

When you finally dragged yourself out of bed, you found the kettle already whistling and the lights dimmed low, the way you liked them. Remmick was standing by the window, fingers pressed lightly to the frame, eyes flicking up toward the gray, dim sky like he expected it to turn on him.

You watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe in your feather-trimmed robe, half-curious, half-sleepy.

“You waitin’ on somethin’?” you asked.

He turned slightly, not startled, just aware. That quiet, humming attention he always gave you.

“Mm? No,” he said, too quickly. “Just checkin’ the weather. They were callin’ for sun earlier. Thought maybe it’d clear.”

You blinked. “And that’s bad?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you don’t want your hair frizzin’ before the cameras roll.”

You didn’t buy that, not fully, but you didn’t press. Especially not when you caught the way his shoulders dropped just a little with relief as he turned back toward the window and muttered, “Overcast’s good. Real good.”

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, all his focus was back on you.

“Went with the green. It’ll set off your skin like it’s already been retouched,” he said, running a hand over the fabric. “Open collar, mid-thigh hem. You’re showin’ just enough to make ‘em lean forward, not enough to make ‘em blink wrong. You’ll kill in it.”

He’d chosen your heels too. Pearlescent and soft. He bent to help buckle them before you could even sit down fully, kneeling in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked up after the second one clicked into place.

He pulled you in front of the small mirror in the hallway, fingers brushing through your curls. Careful but firm, like he was memorizing every strand, every coil.

“You look damn beautiful like this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you. “This hair? It’s got fire. It’s you. Ain’t no straightening iron gonna fix what’s already perfect.”

You watched his face, how his lips twitched into a rare smile, how his sharp canines flashed for a moment when he spoke. It was like he was showing you a piece of a world you hadn’t dared to claim yet.

“If they try to tell you to change it, you tell ’em exactly what I’m tellin’ you.” He leaned in, voice dropping lower, the kind of serious that makes you hold your breath. “If they don’t like this, they can choke on it.”

You couldn't help but laugh.

The walk to the Glamour offices wasn’t long, but he stretched it out like a runway. Kept looking you up and down with a quiet smile that made your stomach dip.

“You remember what to say if they ask about work history?”

“Freelance,” you said. “New Orleans, mostly. Catalogue stuff. A few showroom calls.”

“Good girl.” His hand found the small of your back. “And if they ask who’s representin’ you?”

“You.”

“Damn right.”

Every few steps, he’d stop to adjust your sleeve, or reposition your collar just slightly, or brush a speck of lint off your back like it was a threat. All the while, compliments rolled off him like breath.

“Walkin’ like you got six hundred cameras on you already.”

“No one else out here looks like you. That’s why they’re gonna remember.”

“God, darlin’, if they don’t pick you up after this, I’ll make a whole new magazine just to show ‘em what they missed.”

He meant it too. That was the thing.

When you reached the building, the receptionist barely had time to look up before Remmick had already introduced you both. “Ten o’clock, casting preview for senior editorial. We’re expected.”

He kept his hand low at your back as you were ushered toward the elevators, nodding politely but not waiting to be led. He knew the layout better than he should have. Knew exactly which floor. Which door. Which office.

You didn’t ask how.

Just like you didn’t ask how he managed the reservation for that dinner, or the money for the apartment, or the pull it must’ve taken to get a Tuesday meeting with Glamour on less than a week’s notice.

He stood with you right up to the waiting room. Talked you through every possible scenario. Repeated it all again. Not like he didn’t think you remembered, but like he needed to be sure. His hand curled around yours for a moment, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“You’re gonna go in there, and you’re gonna own it,” he said low. “Chin up. Shoulders back. They ain’t doin’ you a favor, darlin’. You’re the one bringin’ value.”

You smiled, even if your heart was loud in your ears. “You’re staying, right?”

“As long as they let me.”

The door cracked open then. A woman in a gray blazer stepped out and gave you a polite, clipped smile. “They’re ready for you.”

Remmick looked at her, then back at you.

“You got this,” he whispered, eyes catching the light like glass. “Go turn ‘em to mush.”

You stepped through the door with a deep breath, feeling him at your back even after it shut behind you.

The room wasn’t anything like you’d imagined. No flashbulbs. No velvet couches. Just white walls, a long table, and a row of people behind it. Only three today, though it felt like more.

The man in the middle leaned forward, adjusting his glasses as he looked you over. His suit was tan. His tie was brown. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a retirement brochure.

He didn’t smile.

His eyes landed on your hair, soft and natural, shaped carefully the way you and Remmick had discussed, and he frowned.

“You didn’t straighten your hair?”

The air thinned.

He said it casually. Like it was a reasonable question. Like you were the one who’d missed a memo. There was no malice in his voice. No edge. Just that neutral, evaluative tone. The kind that made your skin prickle.

You opened your mouth, unsure whether to answer. Whether to defend. But you didn’t get the chance.

Remmick’s words came back to you.

If they don’t like it, they can choke on it.

You straightened your spine. Lifted your chin.

“No,” you said, clearly. “I didn’t.”

His brow lifted, but he didn’t comment further. Just made a note on the paper in front of him and gestured toward the far end of the room. “We’ll have you stand there, please.”

You moved without trembling. Stood where he told you. But just as he looked up again, his tone shifted. Cool, clinical, condescending, like he was correcting a child.

“Next time, I’d encourage you to tame it a little,” he said, making a vague swirling motion near his own head. “It tends to interfere with the shape of the editorial spread. Distracts from the clothes.”

You held your breath for a second.

Then exhaled, choosing to respond with your silence.

You couldn’t see Remmick from here, but you knew, if he could, he’d be watching through the walls. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. Fingers curled around the armrest of some uncomfortable waiting room chair, burning with the need to intervene but holding back for your sake. Because he trusted you. Because he’d prepared you for this.

They smiled at you.

All three of them. The old white man in the center, still reeking of cedar cologne and importance. The younger one on his left with the narrow glasses and tight mouth. And the woman, quiet, polished, seated from the start, offered the warmest smile of all, like it might soften what was coming.

“You’ve got something,” the man in the center said, folding his hands like he was giving you the world instead of brushing you off. “Undeniably. And that face? It tells a story.”

You waited. Chin high. Shoulders set. The reader in you knew a setup when you heard one.

“But,” he continued, “we just couldn’t find the right fit for you on the cover. The concept’s already tight, and we’re working with established talent.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. “We’ll absolutely include you in the spread, though. There’s a great piece near the back. Beauty-focused, intimate lighting. You’ll photograph beautifully there.”

“Somewhere in the centerfold,” the younger man added. “Where you’ll pop.”

Pop.

You kept smiling. Even thanked them. Told them it was an honor.

The hallway outside felt colder than it had earlier. Like whatever heat had filled the building this morning had been drained just for you. You glanced around, expecting to see Remmick waiting in that same corner you assumed he'd been pacing in for the last hour, but he wasn’t there.

“Your agent?” the receptionist offered, catching your look. “He was asked to wait in the lobby. Waiting room’s only for models.”

You nodded, once. Of course it was.

You stepped into the elevator, then down through the marble lobby, each heel-click a reminder. Not of rejection exactly, because they hadn’t said no. But of all the ways a person can still be told not quite.

Remmick was already rising from the bench opposite of the window when you turned the corner. The second he saw you, he stood fast. Palms brushing down the front of his shirt, like his whole body was waiting for your cue. For your expression to tell him what to feel.

His mouth opened, but you beat him to it.

“They said I’ll be in the magazine,” you said.

His face didn’t move. Not right away.

Then slowly, his brow lifted.

“And?”

“Not on the cover.”

You watched it hit him. Watched how his expression stayed still for half a second too long. Just long enough for it to twist into something else. Something dangerous.

His jaw set hard. A muscle ticked. The color beneath his skin seemed to shift, just faintly, as if whatever fire lived inside him didn’t know where to go yet.

You almost thought he’d go back upstairs. March into that office and ask those men if they had any idea who they’d just handed a consolation prize to. If they knew how much talent they’d looked straight in the eye and passed over like it was nothing. He looked like he wanted blood.

But instead, he turned back to you.

His voice was quiet when it came. Measured.

“Well,” he said, lips tight around the word, “it’s a start.”

You gave a small nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“And every star,” he added, smoothing his thumb along the back of your hand, “has to get her start somewhere.”

You looked down.

There was something about the way he said it. Not forced, not fake. But like he was trying to convince himself as much as you. Like he was clinging to the shape of the words because they were the only thing keeping him from sinking into whatever fury had been building behind his eyes.

“I wore what you told me,” you murmured. “Said what you told me to say. Stood still, smiled, kept my tone light. Did everything right.”

“You did more than right,” he said quickly. “You were brilliant.”

You looked back up.

“Then why wasn’t it enough?”

His face twisted. Something old passed over it. A flicker of pain he couldn’t hide fast enough.

“It was enough,” he said, voice low. “You are enough. You’re more than they’ve ever had walk through those doors, and they know it. That’s why they smiled so damn hard, ’cause they were too scared to admit they didn’t have the guts to hand you what you earned.”

You blinked.

He softened immediately.

“Darlin’,” he said gently, and that was the first time he’d called you that in a place like this. Not in the safety of your brownstone, not in the hush of his voice during quiet mornings or late nights. Here. Now. On a marble floor that didn’t want to carry your name.

He pulled you close, just enough to press his hand to the small of your back, shielding you from the glances nearby. “This is the last time someone underestimates you and walks away proud of it. I swear on my fuckin’ life.”

You exhaled, shaky. His hand rubbed small circles into your back, smoothing over the ache like he could press all the disappointment down until it flattened into something manageable.

“You said it yourself. You'll be in the magazine,” he went on. “A spread still gets eyes. Still gets press. They’ll see your face, your name, and the next time we walk into a building like this-” his voice dropped, almost growled, “-they’ll beg to put you on the front.”

You knew it wasn’t just a promise. It was a threat. A vow.

Remmick didn’t get loud. He didn’t need to. But the intensity in his voice had a gravity all its own, like if the world didn’t bend for you, he’d find a way to crack it open with his bare hands.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he said, softer now. “No matter what it takes.”

You leaned into him. Just slightly. Enough for him to steady you.

The world had felt heavier in the elevator. More than disappointment. It was like it had reinforced something you’d been trying to unlearn: that the door would still close, even when you did everything right.

But here, in the curve of his palm and the grit of his words, it felt manageable. Not fixed. But seen.

You didn’t say anything else as you both walked toward the exit, his hand never once leaving your back. His touch didn't say Keep moving. It said I’ve got you, and for now, that was enough.

He didn’t take you out that night.

You thought maybe he would. Half-expected it, honestly, with the way he’d looked at you in the car. Like you were glass and flame all at once, and he couldn’t decide which part to reach for first. His hand had stayed on your knee the whole ride, but not in that idle, drifting way men sometimes did when they got comfortable. No, his touch had been still. Focused. His thumb pressing slow, precise circles into the fabric, as if committing the shape of you to memory.

But when you stepped into the brownstone, he didn’t say a word about dinner, or drinks, or anything at all that required going back out into the city.

The door clicked softly shut behind you.

He locked it. Then checked it again, like he always did. Not once. Twice. Fingers lingering on the bolt like the world couldn’t be trusted not to knock again.

Then he turned, caught your eye in the dim hallway light, and you caught the redshift in his.

“Let me keep you in tonight,” he said.

Not a plea. Not a command. Just a fact.

You nodded before you even realized it.

It wasn’t long before the apartment was quiet again, save for the distant hum of traffic and the rustle of Remmick moving through the kitchen. You stood in the living room, still in your casting outfit, watching him open the fridge with that same thoughtful care he brought to everything. Like every bottle or jar might be hiding something important.

You didn’t expect him to cook. You’d never seen him eat. But the man knew his way around a pan, that much was clear.

He tied your apron around his waist without asking, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows as he set to work with the kind of slow, methodical focus that made the whole kitchen seem quieter.

Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit it next, the sizzle sharp and sudden before mellowing into something rich and familiar.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded. Watching.

He didn’t look up, but you saw his shoulders shift like he could feel your eyes.

“I had somethin’ else in mind for tonight,” he said. “Somethin’ with music. White tablecloths. Wine list thick enough to kill a man. But figured you might need a minute to breathe.”

“I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said softly. “Still.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Just watched him toss fresh herbs into the pan. Basil, thyme, a pinch of something red from a spice jar he’d labeled in your handwriting. You didn't allow yourself to consider how he even learned to write like you.

“What’re you making?”

“Pasta,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “The real kind. Not that boxed stuff.”

You raised a brow. “You knead dough too, Remmick? That part of the agency job description?”

His mouth twitched, knowingly so. “Never hurts to be versatile.”

You smirked, but didn’t push it.

The radio played something low and old from the corner of the room, letting its dusty melody thread through the space like smoke. You sank into the armchair by the window, curling one leg beneath you as you listened to the rhythmic scrape of Remmick’s knife against the cutting board.

It was peaceful. Domestic in a way that felt almost unreal.

He plated your food with a flourish and brought it over without a word, setting it gently in front of you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Don’t wait,” he said, already moving to clear space on the coffee table.

You didn’t.

The pasta was perfectly done. Homemade sauce, deep and savory. You chewed slowly, trying to hide your surprise.

“You sure you didn’t work in a kitchen before this?”

“No ma’am,” he said, stretching out on the floor in front of you, back against the couch. “Just picked things up.”

He didn’t have a plate. You’d stopped asking about that after the third time it happened. He always said he’d eat later, that he’d already eaten, or that he wasn’t hungry. But the look in his eyes as he watched you always told a different story.

“Thank you,” you murmured, after a few more bites.

He looked up at you then. Eyes soft.

“You don’t gotta thank me.”

“I want to.”

Something shifted in his face. A flicker of something he didn’t say. He looked back down at the rug.

“I know today didn’t go like we wanted,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s a start. Ain’t no stars born in full blaze. You’ll get there.”

You hummed, letting the praise settle somewhere deep inside. The pasta disappeared slower after that. You were full before you finished, but you kept taking little bites just to keep him sitting there. Just to keep this moment still.

He cleared the plate when you finally set it down. Washed it, dried it, and returned like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t watched his shoulders flex through the thin linen of his shirt or followed the curve of his jaw as he leaned over the sink.

When he returned, he didn’t sit on the floor this time.

He eased onto the couch instead, the cushions dipping under his weight, the worn linen wrinkling beneath him. His body moved with the kind of slow care that wasn’t laziness, but calculation. Like he was measuring how much space he ought to take up, how much distance there was between your bodies.

Then he held out his hand.

Open. Bare. Still.

No words. Just that quiet, steady offering. Not an ask. Not a demand. An invitation.

You didn’t speak either. Just looked at him, looked at that hand, then back up into his face.

He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. But there was a kind of soft hope carved into the lines of his mouth, a flicker in his eyes that said he needed the touch more than he wanted to admit.

So you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his, warm and steady, and let him draw you forward. Not pulled. Not dragged or directed or coaxed, but simply… guided. Like gravity worked differently where he was.

You let yourself settle beside him.

His arm curled naturally along the back of the couch, but didn’t touch you. Not at first. He sat still as you tucked your legs beneath you, shifting until your shoulder just brushed his chest.

The lamp nearby cast long, slow shadows against the brick wall behind you. The whole apartment felt hushed, wrapped in soft amber and low sounds from the street that barely reached the window.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And not with that mask he wore around others, the one he used when smoothing the way for phone calls and photoshoots, all cleverness and quiet, careful charm.

This was different.

His hand slid from the cushion behind you, moved down and found yours again. He cradled it between both of his like it was delicate. Breakable. A thing too precious to be touched without veneration.

He traced the shape of your palm with the tip of one finger. Slow. Careful.

And said nothing.

You let him do it. Let him take your hand in his and explore it like it might disappear, like every line and fold and soft edge meant something more than flesh and skin.

You looked at him for a long moment, studying the lines around his eyes, the way his hair was still mussed from running his fingers through it. His jaw was tense, but not with anger. Something quieter. Something more internal.

“You okay?” you asked.

He smiled faintly. “Tired.”

“You sleep last night?”

He gave a soft snort. “Don’t need much.”

You let that go.

The apartment was quiet again. The kind of hush that felt deliberate. Sacred. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only thing keeping time now.

And then he spoke again.

“I ever tell you how much I hate bein’ helpless?” he said quietly. “Hate sittin’ in a hall waitin’ to hear how they gonna minimize you. Like I’m just supposed to swallow it.”

You didn’t answer. Just turned, leaning slightly into the curve of his arm where it hovered behind you.

“Hey,” you said after a pause. “You didn’t fail me.”

He didn’t speak.

“You hear me?” you pressed, voice firmer now. “You didn’t.”

He looked at you again then. That same old look. Like you were something just out of reach, Something he didn’t think he deserved but couldn’t stop staring at.

And then, like a dam breaking, he shifted.

His hand slid from yours, only to return a second later, cupping the back of your fingers, cradling them between both of his. He brought them close to his mouth, not quite kissing them, but holding them there like they warmed him.

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” he frowned.

You tilted your head.

“It is,” you said. “Not the job. Not them. But this? Us?”

He blinked.

“It’s getting there.”

That earned a small laugh. Quiet. Real.

You smiled.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said again, softer now.

His eyes lingered on your lips a moment too long.

“Anytime.”

And he meant it.

Anytime. Anything. Always.

Every inch of him said so.

You didn’t sleep much the night before.

Too much weight in your chest. Too many thoughts, all rustling like paper just out of reach. Every time your eyes drifted closed, they fluttered open again. The room was too quiet, the air too still. It felt like something was waiting. Or maybe you were.

But even if you had managed to drift off, you would’ve woken anyway. You always did, somehow, whenever he came close.

It was subtle at first. The soft creak of a floorboard just beyond the hallway. A change in pressure. Barely there, but enough to make your skin prickle. Like the atmosphere shifted slightly to accommodate him. The air grew heavier, like it recognized him before your eyes did.

You didn’t move. Kept your breath even. Let your lashes stay low, even though your eyes were cracked open just enough to see the shape in the corner.

Remmick.

Standing there. Still as a portrait, as if one stray blink might smear him from view. Bare-chested, in nothing but a pair of dark briefs that hung low on his hips, his skin pale and sharp against the dark. The moonlight didn’t dare touch him directly. It hovered in the corners instead, gathering where his shoulder met his throat, pooling in the shallow dip of his chest. His body looked almost carved. Lean, wiry muscle wrapped tight in skin that barely looked like it belonged to someone living.

But it was his eyes that held you in place.

They didn’t catch the light.

They made their own.

Twin glints of red shimmered low beneath his brow, steady and unblinking. Not the flash of a reflection. Not the glimmer of light hitting moisture. No. These burned from within, low and quiet, like embers buried deep beneath ash. They didn’t flicker. They didn’t pulse.

They glowed.

And in that glow was something else. Something wordless. Something ancient.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t make a sound.

Just stood there at the foot of your bed, breathing like he didn’t trust himself to get any closer. Like he’d been walking through a dream all night and didn’t want to wake you for fear of it ending.

It wasn’t hunger in his face. Not lust, either. It was… awe. Disbelief, maybe. As if he wasn’t entirely convinced you were still real.

And as you watched him, quiet, breath steady, you couldn’t help but wonder:

How long had he been doing this?

How many nights had he stood in that exact spot?

How many times had you not woken up? Had you not noticed?

The thought didn’t scare you. If anything, it stirred something softer. Stranger. Like the ghost of a heartbeat rising from the floorboards beneath you.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

And neither did he.

By the time the alarm sounded, the sun wasn’t up yet, but he was already in the kitchen.

You heard the clink of porcelain, the soft scrape of a drawer sliding open, the rhythmic hush of his bare feet moving across the floor. The smell of something warm and faintly herbal drifted through the air. Something like honey and mint, but darker underneath. Earthier.

You sat up slowly, still heavy with the weight of half-slept dreams, and blinked against the dim light spilling in from the hallway.

Your clothes were already laid out again. Pressed and folded across the back of the couch. The same place as last time.

A blouse in cream and cinnamon tones. High-waisted slacks. The matching heels you'd only worn once, but that he’d polished clean anyway. Everything laid out with such care it made your chest ache. He didn’t miss a detail. He never did.

Even your hair products, combs, oils, moisturizers, pins, were already set neatly beside a warm towel on the kitchen counter. Like he’d anticipated the exact order you’d reach for them, the sequence of your morning carved into his mind.

You stepped in, still rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and found him whistling. Low and unhurried, some old tune you couldn’t place. He stood at the stove, stirring something in a small pan, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. There was a quiet light to him this morning.

His hair was combed back, not slicked, but neat. The buttons on his shirt done all the way up, save for the top two, leaving his throat bare. His slacks were creased to perfection, and the leather belt cinched around his waist gleamed like he’d buffed it just for the occasion.

He looked over his shoulder at you, and his face lit up like it always did. Like you were the very thing he’d been hoping would walk through that doorway.

Because you were.

“Evenin',” he said with a smile, voice rough but still sweet.

You raised a brow. “It’s morning.”

His smile widened, almost sheepish. “Don’t feel like it.”

You moved closer, the floor cool beneath your bare feet, and leaned your hip against the counter beside him.

“You been up long?” you asked.

He shrugged, eyes flicking back to the pan. “Long enough. Wanted to make sure everything was just right.”

He handed you a steaming mug of tea without being asked. Your favorite, of course. Just the right amount of honey, just the way you liked it.

“You nervous?” he asked softly, not looking at you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you watched him. The set of his jaw. The way his fingers flexed slightly on the wooden spoon. His body was still, but the tension was there. It always was. Like the storm never fully left his bones.

“Not really,” you said. “Not yet.”

He nodded. Then turned toward you fully, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into the waistband of his slacks. He studied you, head tilted slightly, eyes trailing over your face with that same intent scrutiny you were starting to get used to.

You didn’t flinch from it anymore.

“C’mere,” he said gently, holding out a hand.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Then reached forward.

His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and careful, and he tugged you closer. Slow, but certain.

“I had a dream about you,” he said softly.

“You were wearin’ that same look. All bright-eyed and sharpened up. Like you’d walked straight out of some storybook meant to ruin someone,”

He laughed, soft and half-embarrassed, but didn’t look away.

“You make it hard for a man to think straight, y’know that?”

You didn’t respond right away. You just let the words settle, warm and slow in the hollow of your throat. Something in the way he said those words made your stomach twist. Made your breath stick somewhere deep in your ribs. It didn’t feel like the usual flattery. Not cheap. Not performative. Not the kind of thing you’d heard a dozen times back home or whispered at castings with a sleazy grin.

This was different. Lower. Honest. Like it surprised even him.

And maybe it did.

Because as soon as he said it, he seemed to catch himself. Barely. His throat moved with the effort of swallowing it down. His eyes dropped, and he took a small step back, as if distance might fix whatever he’d let slip between you.

“Go wash up,” he said, voice quieter now. “I’ll get breakfast finished.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded once and moved toward the bathroom, heartbeat louder than your footsteps.

By the time you stepped out again, hair wrapped in a towel and skin still warm from the steam, the apartment smelled faintly of sage and something sweet. Peaches, maybe. Or brown sugar. You couldn’t tell. Just that it was soft. Comforting.

The living room had a golden hue now, touched by early light filtered through overcast skies. Everything looked gentler, as if the whole city had been wrapped in gauze.

Remmick wasn’t at the stove anymore. The burner was off, the kettle still hot beside it.

He stood at the window instead, one hand resting on the sill, the other pulling the curtain back just a fraction. Not enough to see out fully. Just enough to check.

When he turned back around and saw you, whatever he’d been worrying about fell clean out of his face.

His eyes widened slightly. Jaw slackened. His whole posture shifted, like the breath had been pulled straight out of him.

“God damn,” he whispered, nearly under his breath. “Look at you.”

You didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing. The high-waisted pants he’d picked out the night before, fitted just right to your waist. The blouse with its delicate neckline and little pearl buttons, catching faint light. Your curls still damp but styled soft and neat. Face clean. Mostly bare, but radiant.

You let yourself smile. Just a little. “You picked the outfit.”

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t nod, either.

Just walked toward you, slow and careful, like approaching something sacred. His boots barely made a sound on the old wood floor.

“Still,” he purred, reaching out to brush something, nothing, really, from your sleeve. His fingers lingered a little longer than needed. “You wear it better than I dreamed.”

He fussed over you the entire time. Fixing buttons. Adjusting seams. His fingers lingered where they shouldn’t have. On your hip, on your collarbone, but always under the guise of perfection.

“You’re gonna hate the cabs in this city,” he chuckled, smoothing a wrinkle from your skirt. “Good thing we’re not takin’ one.”

You raised a brow, though you weren't at all surprised. “We’re not?”

He looked up, pleased with himself in that quiet way. “Got a car waitin’. Somethin’ a little easier on the nerves. And the shoes.”

You laughed. “You got us another driver?”

“I got you a driver,” he corrected gently, brushing something invisible from your sleeve. “I just happen to be taggin’ along.”

His words tried to sound offhand, but his hands kept pausing. Kept hovering like they couldn’t quite bring themselves to let go.

The last touch lingered too long on your lower back.

“If it comes down to it,” he added lowly, “I’ll carry you myself.”

You smiled at the joke, but when you met his eyes, it wasn’t a joke at all.

He meant it.

And for a second, the air in the room felt heavier. Pressed in close. Charged.

You cleared your throat. “We better go.”

He nodded once, like it snapped him out of whatever spell he’d drifted into.

But just before you reached the door, he caught your hand. Gently. Held it between both of his, the edges of his fingers slightly trembling.

“Today ain’t just a shoot,” he said, voice steady, low. “It’s your beginnin’. Your real one. So when they look at you, don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Let ‘em see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” you asked softly.

He didn’t smile.

“Perfection.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a tall brick building tucked deep into SoHo, the kind with no sign on the front and a buzzer system you had to know how to work to get inside. From the curb, it didn’t look like much. A delivery van was parked at the corner. Two men with light meters and cases of film were hunched over a dolly at the service entrance. But inside was something different.

The photographer’s studio took up the entire top floor. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, wall-to-wall windows dressed in gauzy white fabric that filtered in the pale morning light like milk through cheesecloth. You stepped in and immediately noticed the quiet chill in the air, too sterile to feel artistic. Not cold exactly. Just... clinical.

The space had clearly been prepared. No one had cut corners. A fresh bouquet of lilies and peonies sat in a vase by the makeup station. Garment racks overflowed with gowns in every imaginable shade, some still tagged, some borrowed from designers who only lent to the best. Studio assistants buzzed around with clipboards and cups of coffee, walking fast but talking softly. Respectfully. Not to you, but to him.

Remmick.

He stood just behind your shoulder, as he always did, not saying much but radiating authority in a way that made people clear a path. There was no need for volume, no need for presence to be announced. His silence had weight. The kind that made a room shift without realizing it.

You saw it in the way spines straightened when he stepped close, the way assistants lowered their voices mid-sentence, as if whatever they were discussing might offend him by accident. He didn’t bark orders. He didn’t need to. His gaze alone, steady, unreadable, somehow both patient and predatory, did most of the work.

Every time someone turned, they looked at him first. Their questions never quite made it to your lips. The makeup artist. The stylist. Even the photographer, who was trying too hard to act like he didn’t notice. His eyes flicked to Remmick’s figure once, twice, like he was trying to place him. Like he didn’t understand why he felt nervous.

You’d started noticing it more often. How his presence rearranged a room. How the tone changed, the pace shifted. Like the energy bent around him before anyone knew it was happening.

The photographer, a trim white man in his late thirties with thin lips and thick-framed glasses, finally stepped forward. His pants were pressed too stiff. His cologne smelled sharp and expensive, but didn't mask the sweat already building beneath his collar. He gave you a quick glance. Nothing warm. Nothing memorable. Just a skim of the eyes like you were a fabric sample. He didn’t offer a name.

Instead, he turned his head, nose wrinkling ever so slightly, and addressed the stylist behind him.

“She’s darker than I expected,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. Not even a whisper of shame. “We’ll need to be careful with lighting. That undertone catches weird on film.”

You felt Remmick stiffen behind you. So subtly you might’ve missed it if you hadn’t been so attuned to the way he breathed.

There was a silence, sudden and sharp, like someone had shut a drawer too hard.

But he didn’t speak.

Not yet.

You didn’t need to turn to know his hands were probably flexing at his sides, slow and deliberate. His restraint wasn’t the brittle kind. It was the kind that bided time. Waited for the perfect opening.

You kept your face smooth. Not blank, not soft, just controlled. Every inch of you brimming with dignity he clearly hadn’t expected. You caught one of the assistants glancing up from her clipboard, eyes wide and flicking from the photographer to you with something like alarm. Her jaw tensed, but she said nothing.

No one corrected him.

No one said a word.

But you simply walked past anyway, toward the makeup chair, head held high.

The chair sat beneath a ring of lights, too white and too bright. You sank into it with practiced grace, smoothing your robe over your thighs as a stylist bustled over, her nervous smile stretched too wide.

“Hey, sweetie,” she chirped. “Let’s get you glammed up, yeah?”

Her hands were quick, efficient. She swatched shades across your jawline with a speed that spoke more to panic than precision. None of them matched. Too yellow. Too gray. Too red. You didn’t say anything. Just watched as she fumbled, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for another palette.

“Your undertone’s so unique,” she muttered. “Really gotta find that balance... can’t let the camera flatten it...”

You knew what she meant.

And what she didn’t say.

Remmick hadn’t moved from the edge of the room. He leaned against a column, arms crossed, eyes locked on the back of your head through the mirror. Not breathing heavy. Not shifting. Just watching.

Guarding.

The stylist was careful with your hair, at least. Didn't try to fight it. Just lifted and pinned and fluffed with dutiful fingers, whispering tiny praises under her breath like she was scared of doing too much. She was trying, you gave her that. Whether it was guilt or fear or something closer to decency, you didn’t care. So long as she kept her hands gentle and her thoughts to herself.

“Camera loves your cheekbones,” she said, and that part sounded honest.

When you were done, you stood slowly, caught your own reflection in the mirror.

You looked like yourself.

Yourself, but sharpened. Framed in gold and plum. Lips glossed, lashes full, jaw set just right.

Behind you, Remmick shifted. You saw him in the glass, his eyes not on the outfit, not on the hair.

On you.

Always on you.

You didn’t smile. Not yet. But something eased in your chest.

The first few rounds of photos went smoothly enough. You moved between backdrops in different gowns. Deep purples, yellows, something champagne-colored with a sheer overlay that caught the light like water. The fabric floated when you walked, whispering against your legs, pooling at your ankles in gentle, liquid waves.

You didn’t pose so much as exist the way Remmick had taught you: shoulders open, chin tilted with certainty, mouth soft but deliberate. Posture like armor. Expression like invitation. You didn’t chase the camera. You let it come to you. Let it find the angles it wanted, as if it had no choice but to follow the pull of your gravity.

The flashbulbs burst in rhythmic intervals, bright and brief, filling the space with the scent of heat and ozone. Stylists moved around you in a silent, efficient orbit. Patting down your skirt hem, adjusting the hang of your sleeve, brushing an invisible strand of hair from your brow. But it was the photographer who kept lagging behind. You could feel it in the pauses. In the hesitations. In the way he kept glancing toward Remmick like a man who had questions he didn’t know how to ask.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

“Give me something more demure,” he called at one point, standing behind the camera with a squint and a frown. “Less... confrontational. Softer eyes.”

Your brows lifted. Not high. Just enough. And just for a moment, you let your tongue slip.

“I’m looking into a lens.”

“Well, yes,” he said, chuckling like he thought that’d smooth things over. “But it’s just... try to be less direct. You’re a feature, not the focus.”

You didn't say anything back.

Your mouth didn't even twitch.

But Remmick did.

“She’s exactly the focus,” he said, stepping forward from the edge of the lights, voice low and firm and without a speck of humor. “That’s what centerfold means.”

The room went still again.

Even the stylist’s hands froze mid-pin near your waist. The assistant by the reflector stiffened, eyes darting between the two men.

The photographer adjusted a light. His fingers weren’t as steady as before.

“I meant it compositionally,” he said, clearing his throat, not quite meeting Remmick’s eye.

“No, you didn’t.”

Remmick said it without blinking.

His tone hadn’t changed. Calm. Crisp. But the weight behind it was enough to press the silence flat between every heartbeat in the room.

And for a moment, the only thing that moved was the slow flicker of the overhead bulb as it warmed.

The photographer looked down, fiddled with his light meter, and muttered something about “another angle.”

Eventually, the shoot resumed.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t fold.

But you caught the way Remmick stayed closer now. Just outside the frame. Arms still crossed. Watching the photographer like a man making mental measurements. Every time the camera clicked, his eyes weren’t on the flash, but on the hands that adjusted it. On the words that came next. On every breath, every shift in tone, like he was deciding whether or not to let this man finish his job.

As the final shots were taken, dramatic lighting, a sheer backdrop, your hair full and proud against the white, he moved beside the stylist and spoke low, voice barely above a hum.

“She’s done after this one,” he said. “I’ll be handling approvals.”

The stylist didn’t argue. Just nodded, lips pressed together, hands folding neatly at her waist.

You were back in your clothes ten minutes later, the silk blouse clinging a little from the heat still radiating off your skin. The dressing room felt more cramped than it did before, the air heavy with setting spray and leftover perfume. Your throat was dry. One of the assistants handed you a paper cup with a straw, and you accepted it without a word, sipping slow, letting the cool water settle the heat in your chest.

Someone knelt beside you, working at the straps of the heels. Your feet ached, throbbing faintly from hours of posing. Never quite standing, never quite walking, just holding beauty in place.

Remmick was waiting by the door.

He hadn’t moved the entire time. Coat over his arm, one hand resting lightly against the wall as if to anchor himself. His body didn’t sway. Didn’t fidget. But his jaw ticked every few seconds, like he was grinding something silent between his teeth.

When you joined him, blouse tucked, shoulders square, he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you.

Looked long.

“You were perfect,” he hummed, voice barely above a hush.

“But?”

“But nothing,” he said, tone rough at the edges. “You were perfect.”

He opened the door with his free hand, held it until you passed through, his touch naturally settling the small of your back.

He didn’t comment on the photographer again.

He didn’t have to.

You saw it in the way he walked beside you. Shoulders set too tight, gait too rigid for someone supposedly at ease. His jaw was still clenched, the muscle there twitching with the rhythm of his steps. His fingers flexed every now and then, as if rehearsing something they’d wanted to do but hadn’t been given permission to.

And when you stepped into the elevator, he stood still. Hands folded in front of him. The red shimmer pulsed once, subtle and slow. You reached out, gently brushing the tips of your fingers against his wrist.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t flinch.

Just looked at you, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.

You weren’t sure what he would’ve done if you hadn’t been there to stop him.

But you were.

And he let you lead this time.

Just this once.

It had been a week since the shoot. Seven full days since your skin was powdered and styled, since camera bulbs flashed like lightning, and since Remmick’s hand hovered behind your back like a second spine. Steadier than any wall, quieter than any breath, always there.

And now, a week later, the magazines were out.

The sun hadn’t even gone down when you heard the lock click. You were barefoot in the living room, tea cooling untouched on the windowsill, your thumb slowly dragging across the same corner of the same page in a book you hadn’t really touched since morning. You weren’t reading. Just looking. Letting the quiet stretch long around you.

The soft hum of traffic rose from below, dulled behind brick and double glass. Somewhere across the alley, a radio crackled faintly from an open window. But inside, the air was hushed and warm, filled with the scent of sweet almond and black vanilla. Something Remmick had lit before he left, soft and curling in the corners of the apartment like memory. A clean smell. Luxurious in its calm.

You turned your head at the sound of the door creaking open.

Remmick stepped in, arms full. No coat, he hadn’t worn one in days now, but his favorite fitted blazer was slung on his shoulders. Brown and a little rumpled like he’d worn it too long. His sleeves were pushed to the elbows, forearms exposed, the collar open at his throat. His skin looked flushed, not from heat, but from effort. From thrill.

And in his hands?

Magazines.

Stacks and stacks of them.

Glamour. Thick, glossy. Dozens, no, maybe hundreds of copies, some with their spines still crisp, others already peeled open, like he couldn’t resist peeking before bringing them home. He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe and dropped the load on the coffee table in a huff of breath and triumph.

You blinked at the pile.

Then looked up at him.

Then back down.

“…Remmick.”

He beamed at you.

Actually beamed.

And for just a second, just long enough to make your stomach flip, you saw them.

Fangs.

Not teeth. Not canines. Fangs.

They hadn’t fully retracted. The points glinted faintly behind his bottom lip, his mouth too wide with joy to contain them, like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to hide.

He didn’t notice. Not yet. Just stood there, catching his breath, eyes glowing faint and sweet in the lamplight like he'd returned from battle with spoils no one could take from him.

And you, watching from the couch, weren’t sure what took your breath first. His smile, or the fact that it wasn’t quite human.

“Every shop had a limit,” he said breathlessly, already tugging the first magazine open. “Three per customer, some of ’em said. Five, if I smiled real nice.”

You raised a brow.

He licked his thumb, flipped a page. “So I went to every damn shop in Manhattan.”

And he meant it. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves wrinkled at the elbows. A thin line of sweat traced his temple like he’d run half the way home. You could practically see the city on him. Subway grit on his cuffs, the faint scent of cold air and ink clinging to the folds of his blazer. He looked like a man who’d carried your name through the streets like it was gospel.

Then he found the spread.

Your spread.

Dead center in the glossy pages, your face filled the left half. Your body, the way they’d posed you, half reclined, your mouth parted like you’d just finished saying something worth listening to, took up the right. Above it, the title gleamed in embossed gold: A Southern Star on the Rise

He whistled low. “Would you look at that.”

He turned the magazine toward you like you hadn’t already lived it. Like you hadn’t memorized every contour, every careful arch of your brows, every piece of your expression caught in that still moment of light.

But he held it like it was sacred. Like scripture. Like he was revealing something you hadn’t quite grasped yet.

“Damn,” he muttered, opening another copy. “Print didn’t dull you a bit. Thought maybe it would. Thought maybe it’d catch you wrong. But no. You shine right through.”

He pulled open another magazine. Then another.

In seconds, your entire coffee table disappeared under layers of your own image. Identical pages laid side by side, all turned to the centerfold. There you were, over and over again. Still. Composed. Glowing.

Like a constellation laid across the living room. Like stars, just rearranged.

Remmick crouched beside the table, smoothing one copy flat with the care of someone laying down silk. He didn’t blink, just studied the page like it was breathing, alive. Like he was waiting for it to reach back.

Then he rose to full height, tucked a copy under his arm, and walked over to you. Still barefoot. Still silent.

Still watching.

And you, frozen on the couch, felt your throat tighten with something you hadn’t named yet.

“You seen yourself in these?” he asked, voice quiet and smooth. Like the question itself was fragile.

You nodded once.

He grinned and leaned in to kiss your cheek. Just a brush of lips. But slow. Like it meant something. Like it had waited all day to land there, and now that it had, the world could keep spinning again.

Then he reached for your chin. Callused fingers gentle as they tipped your face up, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

“I want you to say it,” he demanded, though so gently you could've mistaken it for a polite question.

You blinked. “Say what?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you. Really looked. His pupils were blown wide, red bleeding through the blue, burning steady in the low light of your living room.

Not glowing out of hunger.

Not now.

Out of pride. Out of something heavier. Older.

He waited.

So you said it.

Soft at first. A breath, barely formed.

“I’m a fuckin’ star.”

His smile widened. Slow, hungry, like it’d been waiting just beneath the surface.

So you said it again.

Louder this time.

“I’m a fuckin’ star!”

And this time, he didn’t stop at your cheek.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Gentle. Noncommittal. A press of gratitude, of awe. Like you’d just named something holy.

Then he straightened, tapped your shoulder once with two fingers like sealing a blessing, and turned back toward the coffee table. Toward the sea of open pages like he couldn’t stand to look at just one.

He crouched again. Fingers drifting over the print, barely touching the paper. Just enough to feel the ink. Just enough to make sure it was real.

Behind him, you stared down at your own face. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room felt covered in you. Until your name echoed back at you from every glossy surface.

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.

You reached for one of the magazines and ran your hand over the fold. The version of yourself staring back was powerful. Beautiful. Alive. You looked like a woman who knew exactly who she was.

The only thing stronger than the pride warming your chest was the look in his eyes every time he flipped a page.

He thumbed through another copy, quieter now. As if just the sound of turning paper was too loud. Then, almost absentmindedly, like the thought had just resurfaced between page turns, he said it:

“Oh, Vogue called.”

Your head snapped up.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept flipping, smoothing down a crease on one of the centerfolds.

“Said they had an opening next month. I booked it. Thursday, ten.”

You blinked.

“Vogue.”

“Yeah.” His voice was soft, distracted. Eyes still on the magazine in front of him. “Figured it was a good fit. Didn’t wanna wait.”

“You... booked a Vogue shoot?”

He finally looked up then, eyes wide and sincere, brows pinched like he was only just realizing something might be unusual.

“I mean… yeah. I told you, didn’t I?”

You stared at him.

He stared at your photo.

And then you laughed. Soft, incredulous, stunned.

Because of course he had.

Of course Vogue had called Remmick.

Of course they had seen the piece and knew exactly what they were looking at.

He hadn’t had to knock on their door, hadn’t begged or bargained. They came to him.

Because when they saw you, they didn’t see a gamble. They didn’t see a request.

They saw inevitability.

And Remmick?

He treated it like the most obvious thing in the world.

“You,” you said, smiling now, “are insane.”

He blinked once. Then gave a faint shrug, turning back to the magazine.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But I’m not wrong.”

And when he looked at you again, spread out across a dozen pages, glowing under lamplight, you could see the truth settle in his expression.

He wasn’t just proud.

He was certain.

You were everything he said you were.

And now, the world was catching up.

You woke to the scent of freshly peeled citrus and the low sound of Remmick humming. The windows were still closed, the curtains drawn against a morning sky that hadn’t quite made up its mind. The apartment smelled sharper than usual. Grapefruit, maybe. Lemongrass. Something he knew cleared your head. You were still blinking the sleep from your eyes when his silhouette appeared in the doorway.

“Up,” he said gently. “Got somethin’ to tell you.”

You sat up slowly. “What time is it?”

“Little after six. But don’t panic,” he added, smile curling at the corners. “You’ve got hours.”

You raised a brow. “Remmick... what?”

He walked in, holding your outfit already pressed and draped across one arm. Light blue silk. Crisp ivory slacks. A bold, gold-buttoned jacket you didn’t recognize.

He held them out. “We’re goin’ to Vogue.”

You blinked. “I know. You said the shoot was today.”

He hesitated. Then, sheepishly, almost boyish, he added, “Right. But, uh… I didn’t tell you everything.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “It’s the cover. They want you on the cover.”

Your mouth went dry.

He took a step back. Just one. Holding the clothes like a peace offering. “Figured if I told you earlier, you’d start worryin’. Fret about posture. Or pores. Or your walk. Or-”

“Remmick.”

He looked at you then. Earnest. Glowing.

You pressed your palm against your chest, trying to slow the way your heart was kicking against your ribs.

“The cover?” you whispered.

“Front page. Full feature.”

It should’ve floored you. Maybe it still would. But right now, all you could do was nod and let him help you out of bed.

He guided you through the morning like a man who’d rehearsed it a hundred times. Hands careful, patient. Shirt laid out before you needed it. Jewelry untangled before you even glanced at the box. He pressed a warm cloth to your face, careful not to disturb the curl of your hair, freshly done the night before.

“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead,” he said, and you knew he believed every single word.

And then, quieter, almost to himself: “And I’ll be right there to see it.”

The car was waiting downstairs. Sleek and black and already running, the driver greeting Remmick with a nod and holding the door open for you like he’d been coached. Your nerves didn’t settle, not even on the drive. But Remmick’s hand rested gently against your knee the entire way. Grounding. Warm.

The studio was quiet when you arrived. Museum quiet, gallery quiet. The kind of stillness that felt curated, intentional, like someone had taken great care to make the space feel more like a cathedral than a workplace. The polished concrete floors were cool under your heels, spotless and reflecting faint outlines of the high arched windows that lined the walls. Exposed brick, original to the building, gave the room a sense of old, lived-in charm, and soft white curtains billowed ever so slightly from vents high above. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender, linen, and something powdery-sweet.

You moved through the entrance with Remmick just behind you, his hand barely grazing the small of your back. Never guiding, just anchoring. He didn’t speak, didn’t announce himself. He didn’t need to. His presence always did the talking.

The photographer met you before you’d taken more than three steps inside. “Étienne,” he said, with a faint bow of the head. His accent was French, thick and rounded at the edges, the syllables slipping from his mouth like warm sugar. His hair was silver at the temples, his blazer draped and elegant, and his handshake was firm but not aggressive. Warm, like he’d waited a long time to meet you.

“It is my absolute pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said. “I’ve admired your spread in Glamour. You moved with the camera. Not many know how to do that.”

He didn’t say your skin glowed.

Didn’t ask about your hair.

Didn’t say anything about being “surprised” by your presence.

He just met your eyes, quiet and open. Like you were someone worth listening to.

“Today,” he said, “you belong to the camera. Let’s make her fall in love.”

You let yourself breathe, just a little.

The rest of the team introduced themselves in a calm rhythm, one by one. No rushed hands. No clipped instructions. A stylist with a soft Brooklyn accent asked gently before adjusting your collarbone. A makeup artist barely older than you murmured a few compliments while swatching shades along your jaw. Matched your undertones on the first go. No hesitation. No apologies.

Your hair wasn’t “a challenge.” It wasn’t “big.” It was just yours. One woman, sharp-eyed and efficient, studied the fullness of your curls for a beat, then nodded once and said, “Let’s let it speak today.” No flattening. No translation.

You didn’t feel tolerated.

You felt expected.

Appreciated.

The way the room moved around you was not with caution, but with respect. Like your place had already been made, and they were just moving to match it.

And Remmick, he didn’t hover today.

He didn’t pace. Didn’t step in or offer unnecessary notes. He took a chair near the edge of the set, legs crossed, hands loosely clasped over one knee. His coat lay neatly across the back of the chair, and he looked like he was simply waiting for a performance he’d already seen, waiting to watch it unfold in the flesh.

He watched you the way a man watched a storm rolling in. Calm. Certain. Unwavering.

His eyes tracked your every step.

And when the camera clicked, when Étienne raised the lens and tilted his head just so, it began.

Soft commands, never harsh.

“Lift your chin just a touch, oui. That’s perfect.”

“Let the shoulder dip, like you’re sighing.”

“Not a smile. Just the idea of one.”

And you you didn’t pose. You existed. You did what Remmick had drilled into you for weeks: you let the room adjust to you. Shoulders drawn back, chin at just the right angle, spine fluid. You didn’t chase the lens. You let it orbit you.

Each frame caught something new: your strength, your softness, your refusal to shrink.

Backdrops shifted behind you. One faded into the next. Cool eggshell white to a moody, smoky grey. Then to a blush-rose curtain lit from behind to mimic early sunrise, and finally to a gold-toned gradient that bathed your skin in warmth, turning every line of your body into a celebration. Your hands, your mouth, the arch of your back. You weren’t just in the photo.

You were the photo.

At one point, as you adjusted in the sheer champagne gown, the stylist stepped close to smooth a wrinkle on your shoulder. She paused, tilted her head, then muttered under her breath, “I swear, you don’t have a bad angle.”

Remmick smiled at that.

Didn’t say anything.

But you saw his fingers twitch against his knee.

And when Étienne pulled the camera down after the final shot, when the room held its breath and the lights warmed one final time, he exhaled slow, his voice dropping.

“Mon dieu,” he said. “You are going to be the beginning of a new era.”

There weren’t cheers. No grand applause. Just a quiet stillness that settled over the room like snowfall.

The stylists nodded. One of the assistants wiped her eyes.

Your name passed around the room in whispers.

Back in your own clothes again, the familiar weight of your own scent folded into the fabric, you stood in front of the mirror, unsure what exactly had changed.

Something had.

You could still feel the echo of the lights on your skin, the soft heat of the set, the way Étienne had whispered magnifique under his breath more than once without knowing you heard him. The clothes they’d dressed you in had been draped and pinned and sculpted to fit your body like a second skin, but now that they were gone, what lingered wasn’t fabric.

It was power.

You weren’t wearing a magazine dress anymore.

But you still felt like a cover.

You gathered your things slowly. Slipped on your shoes one at a time. Tucked the lipstick you'd needlessly brought. Gave the studio one last glance over your shoulder, just to make sure it had all been real. That the lights weren’t a trick, that the hush in the room wasn’t some illusion of grandeur.

And then you saw him.

Remmick.

Standing at the edge of the studio floor, right where the light faded into shadow. His coat was folded neatly over one arm, the other hanging at his side, still and sure. He didn’t lean against the wall. Didn’t shift his weight. He just stood there like he’d been waiting for this exact moment, this exact you, to turn and meet his eyes.

And when you did?

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t grin. Didn’t offer some teasing remark or coy turn of phrase.

He just looked at you.

Like he couldn’t believe it.

Or maybe he could.

Like he’d known it all along but still wasn’t prepared for the truth of it staring back at him now, standing in her own skin, quiet and luminous and ready.

He extended his hand.

Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Like a gentleman.

Like a vow.

You stepped forward, each footfall soft against the studio floor, and reached out to take it.

His palm was warm. Slightly callused, as always. Big enough to hold you steady.

And when he leaned in close, closer than necessary, just so his breath could touch your ear, his voice dropped so low it barely cleared the air.

“They’re never gonna forget this.”

A beat passed. Two.

Neither did you.

Not the way the stylist said your name like it mattered. Not the way Étienne had bowed when the shoot wrapped, saying Merci, étoile. Not the way your hands hadn’t shaken once. Not the way Remmick’s thumb had grazed your knuckles on the way out, subtle and steady.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And the city welcomed its newest star.

You should’ve known not to get your hopes up.

Remmick had warned you once before. To not believe in the win until the ink dries and the check clears. And still, the moment the phone rang, you felt the breath catch in your chest like something was finally about to settle right.

It was early, too early, and the tea in your hand hadn’t even cooled yet. Steam curled in the morning light, soft and golden through the windows.

You heard him answer it in the kitchen. Not loud, not sharp. Just steady.

“Remmick.”

His voice, smooth. Polished. Still cold from sleep, but clipped with that quick professionalism he always wore when someone else was listening.

There was a pause. Long enough to tighten something at the base of your neck.

“…Come again?”

That was the first red flag.

You stood. Not rushed, not loud. Just enough to hear better. Half-expecting him to wave you off with a flick of his fingers, that little sideways smile he gave when things were under control.

But he didn’t.

He turned his back instead. Shoulders hunched slightly. Quiet. Like he didn’t want you to hear what was coming next.

He rubbed the back of his neck once, then pressed his thumb into the edge of the counter like he needed the grounding. His knuckles whitened around the phone cord, twisting it once, twice, tighter.

“Yes,” he said carefully, “I’m familiar with your lead editor.”

Another pause.

Then something darker entered his tone.

“Yes. The one with the impeccable eye for trend pieces.”

Your stomach dropped.

There was silence on his end. Long. Tense.

And then:

“They what?”

His voice didn’t rise. Not yet.

But it changed. Dropped lower. Flat and cold like steel before it’s drawn.

You stepped closer, quiet as breath, barefoot against the hardwood. Leaned just enough to see the side of his face. The angle of his jaw, sharp and flexed. The twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“They’ve already had their one for the year?” he repeated.

Low. Disbelieving. Dangerous.

His free hand came up, rubbing slow at his temple like he needed to press the words back out of his skull.

“Who’s they?” he asked, quieter now, but you felt the weight of it in your chest. “Go on. Say it clear.”

There was no response.

Just static. A voice on the other end fumbling for footing.

Remmick’s brows drew together.

“No, I’m not upset with you,” he said, voice thinning again into something cool and even. “I understand you’re just passing the message along.”

He closed his eyes a moment. You could see him working to keep it in. Like something old and sharp was waking in his blood, trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’d like to speak with the editor directly,” he said, softer now. “Yes. I’ll hold.”

And then his hand dropped to the counter. Fingers drumming.

Waiting. Ready.

The line clicked.

Then his jaw twitched.

“Good morning,” he said. Different now. Calmer, colder. Stripped of the courtesy he kept like a glove around secret hands. “Didn’t expect to catch you so early.”

You still couldn’t hear the voice on the other end. Not a single word. But you didn’t have to.

You could see everything you needed in him.

The stillness of his posture, the death grip he had on the base of the phone, the fine tremble running through the muscle of his forearm beneath that rolled-up cotton sleeve. It wasn’t the kind of rage that burst outward. It was the kind that boiled, thick and patient, one degree at a time.

“Yes,” he said, so polite it sounded rehearsed. “I was just speaking with your assistant.”

He closed his eyes a moment. Not a blink, but something longer. As if he needed to press the lids down tight to keep from rolling them.

“She told me they, meaning you, have reconsidered the cover.”

The pause that followed was electric. Tense.

Then, low and even:

“Right. Of course. Marketable. That’s the word you’re going with?”

He said it like the word itself offended him. Like it was dirty in his mouth. Too small for what he knew you were worth.

You moved forward without thinking. Just enough to lean your shoulder against the hallway wall. Careful. Watchful. Your arms folded tightly across your chest, heart beating fast and slow at once. He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you weren’t sure he was aware of anything anymore beyond that call.

“I see,” he said softly.

That was the shift.

The sound of something sliding into place. Like a bolt locking. A fuse catching.

“So let me get this straight,” he continued. Slow. Measured. Precise in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Your board approved the shoot. Your casting team signed off. Your editor watched the proofs. Sat on them. And now, after all that, you want to scale her back to a feature because you already had your cover for the year.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t empty.

It was dense.

He didn’t yell.

He didn’t curse.

He didn’t raise his voice by an inch.

But every word landed like a coin dropped on concrete. Heavy. Sharp. Deliberate.

“You think this city’s gonna run out of covers?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but it wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief, slicked with venom. “Or is it just that you think she’s the kind of beauty you ration out, so you don’t have to explain yourselves twice?”

His free hand braced against the counter now, steadying himself.

“Was she too sharp? Too soft? Too dark?” he asked, the last word clipped so hard it cracked in the air.

You watched him as he stood there, completely still except for the way his shoulders were rising. Measured. Controlled.

But underneath that, underneath every inch of him, he was seething.

He wasn’t shouting.

But something inside him was.

And you knew it. Could feel it.

Remmick was holding onto composure with a thread, not because he didn’t want to break, but because he knew what would happen if he did. Because if he said what he really meant, what lived behind that voice, that mouth, those glowing eyes, he might set the whole building on fire.

And you hadn’t even heard the worst of it yet.

His voice didn’t rise at first.

It stayed low, clipped, deliberate. But the sharpness in it grew. Line by line. Word by word. Like something uncoiling inside him, slick with heat and venom.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice climbing with a force that prickled the air, “and listen real good, if you think for one goddamn second that this is a numbers game, a market play, a token, you’ve already lost the future.”

You flinched. Not because he was yelling at you. He wasn’t.

He was yelling for you.

“You want safe? Go print another profile on Gunilla Lindblad. You want forgettable? Put some washed-out French girl on the cover in a turtleneck. But if you want history, if you want impact, you don’t remove the only name worth remembering.”

He turned then. Saw you.

And his eyes didn’t soften. Not even a little.

“She’s the only thing your readers are gonna remember come fall,” he snapped, jaw set, nostrils flaring. “Not the blonde. Not the brunette. Not whatever recycled face you’re tryin’ to float next. Her.”

There was a sputter of protest from the line. You couldn’t hear what was said. Didn’t need to. You were watching Remmick’s knuckles flare white around the phone.

“No, I don’t care what the board says. I don’t care what the sponsor says. And I sure as hell don’t care what you think’ll sell. I know what sells. You’re lookin’ at the future and treating it like it’s a fuckin’ one-shot.”

His voice cracked with how tightly it hit the consonants. Near shouting now, not just raised. Commanding.

“You owe her the same shot you’d give any other girl in her place. And if the only reason you’re pulling her is because you already had your one,” he hissed the word like it was venom, “then you better grow a spine before I walk you into a lawsuit so loud it echoes into next year’s masthead.”

Silence on the other end.

Remmick didn’t wait.

“I want you at the brownstone tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Alone.”

His next words were a knife dragged slow.

“We’ll talk in person.”

And then he hung up.

Didn’t slam the receiver. Just lowered it with a kind of deliberate grace, a calm that only made the burn beneath more terrifying. He stared at the cradle for a moment like he could crush it just by looking hard enough.

Then sat, slowly, at the dining table. Exhaled through his nose.

He didn’t look up at you right away.

Just stared at the wood grain beneath his fingers, the set of his jaw making it clear he was holding something in.

Then his hand rose.

Palm up.

You crossed the room without a word and slid your fingers into his.

He pulled you down gently, like you were breakable, into his lap. One arm curled low across your waist, the other resting across your thighs. His hands were steady, even though you could still feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms, coiled and waiting, like it hadn’t quite drained from him yet.

His cheek pressed to your shoulder, his breath warm against the side of your neck.

“You’re goin’ on that cover,” he said, low and final.

There was no fire behind it. No venom.

Just certainty.

Like he was telling you the weather. Like it was already written in the next day’s paper.

You turned slightly in his arms. His hands tightened to keep you balanced, to keep you close. “Remmick…”

“No,” he cut in, soft. “No more backpedalin’. No more maybe next times. We play their game, we lose. You hear me?”

You nodded. You didn’t trust your voice not to shake.

He looked up then. Met your gaze dead on. The light in the kitchen caught in his irises, a faint, simmering red just beneath the blue. Not bright. Not threatening. Just there. Alive.

“Which means,” he continued, more gently now, “you’re not gonna be here tomorrow night.”

That made you blink. “What?”

“I want you out the house. Just for a few hours. Somewhere comfortable. I’ll make sure your ride’s arranged. I don’t care if it’s the theatre or a restaurant. Hell, spend it with friends if you want.”

You didn’t have any of those yet.

He knew that.

Still, his tone didn’t waver.

“I just need the place. Need it quiet. I don’t want you hearin’ what might be said.”

His fingers grazed your wrist, his thumb brushing along your pulse. You leaned back, just slightly, the movement slow. Measured. Testing.

“What are you gonna say?”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “Enough.”

That was all he gave you.

And somehow, it was enough.

He kissed your temple then. Just once.

The kiss wasn’t sweet.

It was solemn.

Like a promise.

Like a man setting something in motion.

And you, sitting in his lap with your arms around his shoulders and your pulse kicking hard against your ribs, believed him. Felt something shifting under your skin.

A current.

A warning.

You’d seen Remmick angry before. Seen the quiet tension in his jaw when someone spoke over you. The cold way he looked at men who looked too long. The clipped tone when a stylist suggested straightening your hair or brightening your skin.

But not like this.

Not cold. Not still.

This wasn’t bluster.

It was a verdict.

You pressed your forehead to his, and he closed his eyes like the touch settled something in him. His fingers slid slowly along the small of your back. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t grip.

He just held.

Quiet and firm.

And somewhere, under all your nerves, you felt that same fire rise too.

Because he was right.

This was your cover.

And they didn’t get to decide otherwise.

Not anymore.

cont'd.

[strrykais]

── ☁️ ๑ masterpiece ๑

𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑒𝑟 ² ・・・ most would think after peeping on his best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend - the cam girl mingi used to goon too - would cause some tension. but that tension is the exact opposite of what he thought and even becomes a part of the fun.

꒰ 𝓢ubject ꒱ ──── 𝓑oyfriend! 𝓨unho x 𝓕em.ᐟreader x 𝓕riend! 𝓜ingi ༘⋆ ‎g. smut cw. mouth gag, bondage, marking/biting, voyeurism, threesome, cuckqueanry, dacryphilia, spanking, mingi’s bi awakening if you squint, dom yunho, oral (both m and f), slight mxm, a lot is going on really.. wc. 2.4k ┈┈┈ Ӄfiles ₊꒷꒦˚ ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ ғᴏʀᴍ

Ӄai’s ¿? masterpiece made me do this … thank you ateez 🙏this is the extra for different sides of the internet, it can totally be a stand alone but i think knowing the history in the making of this helps!

Mingi stirred awake, the blanket that was draped over him falling to the ground as he lifted his body off the couch. Mingi doesn’t actually remember falling asleep. All he remembers is you, Yunho and him were sitting on the couch watching some thriller movie you've been talking about for a couple of days.

Mingi feels awkward sitting in your living room alone, he takes in his surroundings, finding a clock on your wall reading half past 1 in the morning. His place wasn’t far from your guys’ building so he grabbed his phone, cleaning up his mess as quietly as he could trying not to wake either of you up.

Mingi thought he was hearing things when he was walking down your hallway to the front door, and as he took another step he heard it again. Mingi twists his body, letting curiosity get a hold of him.

A soft light coming from out the room with the door slightly ajar. Mingi quietly steps in, eyes focusing on what is inside the room through the opening.

Mingi’s eyes widen when he first sees your hands tied up to the bed post, the red rope tight against your wrists as you pull at them. As his eyes travel down, he sees your face. Your cheeks are red, either from the blush or the heat of the room. Your voice and moans are muffled by the white fabric that is stuffed in your mouth.

Your chest bare, nipples perked. Mingi could see the bites and marks decorating the top of your body, Mingi couldn’t see what was happening to the other half but whatever Yunho was doing was having your nails digging into your palms.

Mingi could feel his breaths coming out heavier, his boxers becoming tighter and tighter as he continued to stare at you.

This is wrong, he shouldn’t get turned on by you. At least not anymore, you were dating yunho, you have been for months now. You stopped your nightly streams. You even deleted all the footage you had on your page.

Your groan pulls mingi out his mind, eyes focusing back to your face seeing that you are staring straight at him. Mingi feels his heart stop with his eyes locked into yours. The tears flooded your eyes, your moans got louder, harsher, faster. Mingi didn’t know what to do, he knows you are watching him. Your eyes leave him as your head falls back against the pillow, you let out a loud moan.

Mingi was frozen to this spot, he didn’t know you looked this pretty when you climaxed, you never really showed your face in your videos. But now that he knows and he doesn't think he is gonna be able to have the image leave his mind. Mingi adjusts his bottoms, his dick aching. Too focused on his throbbing dick, Mingi gets pulled back to reality when the door gets pulled open, revealing yunho.

Yunho knew mingi was behind the door, the way your moans got louder and the way you were clenching around his mouth proved his theory right.

Yunho didn't bother to wipe his face as your orgasm dipped down his face.

“Did she wake you?” Yunho licks at his lips, watching mingi zero in at the arousal on his face.

Mingi couldn’t form words, quickly shaking his head “N-No.. I- uh.”

Yunho tsks turning leaning on the door frame facing you.

Your face wet with your tears from your third orgasm of the night, eyes watching the very dominant one and then shifting to the scared one behind him.

“I told you to be quiet baby or what would happen if you woke up mingi.” yunho walks over to you, grabbing you and flipping you, placing you on your knees, ass in the air. Yunho places one hand on one of your cheeks rubbing the area.

Mingi still stood at the door, he wasn’t sure if he should be watching, but he wasn’t gonna leave unless one of you told him too.

“Can you count for her Min, as you can see her mouth is in use.” he points to the object in your mouth that mingi now realises is your panties.

“C-count what?” Mingi soon got his answer when yunho has reaches up and swings down slapping your ass right in the place he was rubbing before. You moan head falling onto your arms, elbows pressing deep into the mattress.

“Mingi.”

“One.”

“Good boy.” Mingi eyes snap away from you to Yunho.

Yunho smirks at the way Mingi eyes look. Yunho rubs his hand over the red mark and slides down your spine, planting a kiss on your shoulder. “And who is my good girl?”

Your moan muffled but mingi knew what you were replying with.

His body going back to the position it was behind you before he repeated the same motion, hand coming down to your ass.

Mingi swallows the saliva that is forming in his mouth. Mingi felt a little conflicted on who to watch. There was you, a horny, sopping mess. Mouth gagged, hands bounded, arched so prettily and so eager to have yunho touch you.

Then there was Yunho, arms defined as he lifted them. The cool demeanor was intoxicating, the way he handles your smaller body. Touching you that has you squirming. Mingi has never seen this side of him.

“If you are going to continue to waste my time, I'm going to kick you out and you won’t be able to get a reward for helping out.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just count. Or our poor princess here is gonna have to start from one again.”

Mingi could tell you could care less about starting over, but he was curious about his reward so he takes a small step inside the room. “Two.”

Yunho grins continuing this rhythm, the only sounds are the harsh slaps, your moans and mingi’s voice counting.

“Ten.”

You were a mess, your ass was throbbing but it was soon forgotten when Yunho told mingi to come here. Your forehead pressed into clenched fist as you felt the stares they were giving your sopping pussy.

“You would think it's punishment but to a slut like her.” Yunho runs two fingers through your slit gathering up your wetness. Yunho pulls away from you, fingers placed in front of Mingi's mouth.

“Open up.”

Mingi hesitates, this is his best friend. Why the hell are those two little words making his head buzz.

“Come on, she's waiting.” You see Yunho nod towards your direction, Mingi eyes focus on yours, he slowly opens his mouth wrapping around Yunho’s fingers, eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks heat up at the way Mingi is falling under yunho’s control. The scene was unreal before you. Mingi was always the loudest in the room but at this moment he is so quiet, so obedient that it sends goosebumps throughout your skin.

“Sweet isn’t she?”

Mingi hmms as Yunho pulls his fingers out his mouth.

“Wanna try it straight from the source this time?”

“Oh god please.”

You watch as mingi slowly places his hands on the back of your thighs, softly rubbing almost like he was making sure this was real. His hands snake around to the front as his hands land right at the lower base of your stomach, holding you firmly before he licks a large stride through your folds.

Your body shakes with the sudden pressure head falling down. Yunho watches as Mingi licks and sucks at your clit, like you were clenching this thirst he never knew he had.

Yunho rubs his hand against your skin, smoothing out the goosebumps running across your skin.

Yunho grips your hair pulling your head, turning your attention to him instead of the boy devouring your entrance.

“How does Mingi feel, baby?”

You choke out a moan, saliva gathering behind the panties yunho stuffed in your mouth when you were moaning too loud.

“You don’t need this anymore.” He reaches with his other hand pulling out your panties and tossing them aside. Your voice rings out music to their ears, Mingi speeds up his pace, tongue licking deep inside you. He can feel your body slightly shake, his and yunho hands hold on you the only thing keeping you up right.

You watch yunho lean down and places a kiss on your lips, swallowing the moans Mingi is causing. The tears in your eyes are threatening to fall, a sign yunho has come to know and love showing that you were close. Yuhno lets go of your hair, and quickly pulls mingi by his hair, pulling his mouth away from you, denying you of the orgasm you were desperately reaching.

You whine looking back to see the spaced out looked mingi was holding, eyes drifting to yunho silently pleading to let you. But you knew better than to just let your eyes do the talking. “Please yunho, please.. I-I'm so close. Please.”

“Should we ask Mingi? Should our baby girl finish on your mouth or on your dick?”

Now mingi was the one to groan out, the thought of him being buried deep in you was always this fantasy and now he was so close to having it his reality.

“Dick, oh god please my dick.” Mingi was practically begging to be in. Yunho sits on a chair telling mingi he could. Mingi was quick to pull down his bottoms and taking off his shirt knees pressing into the bed as he positioned himself behind you.

You turn to your head, cheek resting on the pillow as you see Yunho taking his dick out slowly rubbing it up and down, giving you a smile. You lick your lips while staring at him jerking himself off. You loved Yunho's hands, his gentle touches, his rough ones everything, to you his hands held your world, too focused on yunho, you get shocked when Mingi runs his dick gathering up whatever liquid was left to help slide into easier.

Mingi slowly slides in with ease, you groan at the he stretches you out. Mingi wasn’t as long as Yunho but the girth of mingi makes up for the loss of inches.

“Holy fuck, oh my god yn, you are so wet. I slid right in.” Mingi halts as he lets you settle around him buried deep in you. Mingi can feel the way you are pulsing around him. He was in heaven.

“Mingi please.” He feels you push back on him to cause some sort of friction between you. Mingi looks at Yunho who has his hand at the base of his dick, he nods letting Mingi know he was okay to move.

Mingi doesn’t waste another moment pulling out and slamming back into you. Your mouth agape nothing but air coming out as mingi thrusts in a rhythmic pattern. Mingi was different from Yunho. Yunho loved to take his time, making you beg for more. But Mingi was quick and rough, you know he is losing himself by the way he is gripping your hips, adding to the marks littering your body.

Yunho was matching the speed of Mingi's thrust, soft groans falling from his lips as he watches you get pounded from the back. He quickly gets up, grabbing your face and bringing your mouth to his dick, you tried your best to suck him off without the use of your hands, and the movement mingi was causing.

“Shit baby, your mouth feels so good, you are so good for mingi.” Yunho says reaching behind your head holding it still as he pounds into your mouth. Your moans help stimulate Yunho more as he releases harshly into your mouth. You swallow around him throat sucking everything you can out of him. “Holy fuck.”

Mingi reaches around you harshly pinching his fingers around your clit. You scream out, clenching on him, moaning out as you reach your high, completely ready to cum.

“Cum baby, cum for Mingi.” Yunho says rubbing his thumb over your lips, while your eyes are locked. That's all you needed. You cum hard around Mingi. Mingi hips stuttered thrusts getting harder and slower.

“You can’t come in her mingi.” Yunho says quickly face turning to watch mingi groan out in frustration as he is forced to pull out releasing all over your back.

Yunho slowly places your head onto the pillow, untying your hands rubbing at the red marks from the restraints. Yunho brings each wrist to his lips placing kisses all over the redness.

“You did so well my love, you are so pretty.” Yunho places a kiss on the inside of your palm. Letting you come down from your high with praise.

Yuhno reaches out grabbing the nearest piece of cloth wiping the cum off your back.

“Hey, that's my shirt.” Mingi says from his position next to you.

“I don't care.” Yunho says continuing to clean you up with Mingi's shirt.

You are still on your stomach and you turn to face mingi “so does that mean you like yunho?”

Mingi's frightened face makes you laugh as he stutters out excuses and saying nonsense.

Yunho rolls his eyes as he goes to your bathroom running the tub for you and him.

“You can stay at my apartment and borrow some clothes. I’m gonna stay here with yn.”

“Wait I don’t wanna be alone, can’t I stay here with you.” Mingi sits up as yunho tosses him his boxers.

“If you stay you are the one gonna be tied up to the bed.” You jokingly say as yunho helps you out of bed, walking you both to the bath.

“I'm okay with that.” Mingi says.

You both stop in your tracks turning to see mingi sitting on his heels, dick hard against his abdomen and the most pleading eyes you have ever seen.

You and Yunho share a look, a dark look in his eyes and a smirk on your face.

“Let me get my camera, we are gonna make a masterpiece.” you say.

DSOTI taglist : @mygsis @babrieeee @thisrandombitch @cybergracie @nosungluv @i-kai @igotajuicyass @fandom-freak-geek @champagneconfetti @s4nniebe4r @apophecy @mrsminseochoi @juicyjaxxy @honeyhotteoks @urlocaltrash28 @soupyjoy @blubb0 @seomisaho @lovinjjong @woohwaholic @heelovesmeknot @nislost @kookieswithjung @arigakittyo @lilyscloud @vampwritesstuff @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @lze325 @sparda1234 @kukkurookkoo @blossomflowerpott @yeosrewind @sannieflix @sungjin-spoon-hands @gyusbabydoll @dawn-iscozy @cherryangel-coke @drewsandsebastianswife @pigeonseatmayo @roxhanah

𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 : @sxungchqn @chenlezip @kookieswithjung @cowboy-jester @peskybirdysya @jjcanwrite @skysole @champagneconfetti @suckerforv @auroratiseee @dollxkill @bookishcaptain @goldenmellow @kj-kts @imagine-all-the-imagines @lze325 @sellomaybe @va1entinaaa @insbread @d3kstar @atinyrosedoor @corgilover20 @changbinsdwaekkiball @thisrandombitch @jeonginsbaee @torkorpse @grassbutneo @weirdowithaphone @unfxrgetwble @avilio-is-dead @stylishcaprisuns @iarainha @ssunglvr @beomgyusluver @unfxrgetxble @lezleeferguson-120 @wookiebearz @cowboylikemets1989 @kwanspace @peskybirdysya @unbel1ve4ble @bee-gremlin @bussdownflockiana

[lotusdrops-world]

Canvas & Cradles

wc: 1.5k

rating: explicit

tags: rafayel x pregnant reader, pregnant sex, established relationship, husband/wife, paints, fluff with smut, p in v, oral sex f!receiving, creampie.

cross posted on ao3 | sylus version.

The scent of linseed oil and acrylic paint clung to the warm air. Rafayel’s studio was a haven of creative chaos—brushes in jars, canvases leaning like dominoes against the walls, and the gleaming seawaves dancing with the wind outside the studio were playing in the background as white noise.

You sat in the center of it all, posed on a worn velvet chaise, a thin robe draped over your shoulders. The robe had slipped open, framing the swell of your belly, glowing with the soft blush of candlelight and the waning gold of the sun slanting through the tall windows.

Rafayel stood a few feet away, brush in one hand, palette in the other, white shirt paint-stained and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He tilted his head dramatically, squinting at you through one eye.

“Okay, but be honest, are you trying to seduce me or are you just naturally this breathtaking?”

You smirked. “This was your idea, remember?”

He clicked his tongue. “Yes, but you are the one sitting there glowing like a fertility goddess who just stepped out of a Renaissance fever dream. You’re ruining my concentration, cutie.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’ve already been staring for over an hour.”

“That’s because I’m in agony,” he said, placing a hand to his chest in mock despair. “Do you have any idea what it's like trying to paint you while you’re literally the most beautiful thing that’s ever existed?”

“Flattery won’t make me sit still longer.”

He grinned mischievous, roguish—and walked over to you, the tiled floor warmed under his slow, theatrical steps. “No? Not even if I tell you I’m immortalizing you? Preserving this perfect moment of motherhood, beauty, and ‘glowy hormonal goddess energy’ for future generations?”

You raised a brow. “Future generations?”

“Well,” he said, kneeling between your knees with that familiar smirk, “at least for our kid. So they’ll know how extra their parents were.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the crest of your belly. His lips were soft, reverent. The humor faded from his face, replaced by something quiet, intimate.

“I mean it,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re… everything. Every shade I’ve ever mixed. Every curve I’ve ever chased with a pencil.”

Your fingers sank into his curls. “Raf, you’re getting sentimental.”

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m vulnerable right now.” He kissed your belly again. “I’m painting my muse while she grows a whole human. I think that earns me a free pass to wax poetic.”

You leaned down to kiss him—slow and deep, tasting the intimacy that had always lingered between you. When you pulled back, he exhaled against your mouth.

“You’re warm,” he murmured. “And you smell like paint and peaches. It’s driving me crazy.”

“You’re the one who said this was going to be a ‘wholesome art session.’”

“Cutie,” he said, grinning, “I’m an artist. I lie for a living.”

You laughed again, tugging him up by the collar of his shirt until he was hovering above you. His hands found your thighs, parting them with practiced ease, his eyes flicking between your mouth and your belly like he couldn’t decide which miracle to worship first.

“You’ve been sitting there for almost an hour. Can we unwind a bit?” he spoke gently, while his hands filled with paint that had already dried played with the hems of your robe.

“Absolutely.”

The robe slid further open, revealing the fullness of your breasts, the curve of your hip. Rafayel drew in a breath like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

“You’re more than a muse,” he said. “You’re a masterpiece that keeps changing. Evolving. It’s not even fair.”

You let out a breathless chuckle, “You’re very dramatic today.”

“It’s the lighting,” he whispered, brushing his nose along your neck. “And the hormones. Yours and mine.”

You reached between you, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. “Then take this off and stop talking so much.”

“Oh now you want me to shut up?” he teased, tugging the shirt over his head and letting it fall to the floor. “You didn’t seem to mind when I was reciting sonnets to your belly a minute ago.”

You pulled him closer. “I love your mouth most when it’s not speaking.”

His laugh rumbled against your skin, low and sweet. “I do love when you get bossy.”

Then, he pulled back slightly—just enough to kneel before you once more, eyes locked on where your thighs parted.

“I have to see you,” he said, breath husky, reverent. “I need to see what I’ve made mine.”

You laid back slightly, propping yourself on your elbows, robe fully open now. Rafayel dipped between your legs like a man approaching the altar of a cathedral, his hands coaxing your thighs wider, mouth already parting with anticipation.

And when he looked at you—slick, swollen, divine—it was as if he were looking at brushstrokes in motion.

“God…” he exhaled, brushing a thumb so gently over your folds you shivered. “Cutie, you’re... you’re glowing down here too. This—” he spread you open more, watching your slick catch the flickering candlelight, “—this is the center of the universe right now. Do you have any idea what it does to me to see you like this?”

He leaned in, tongue pressing flat and slow, tasting you like a sommelier savoring wine, moaning low in his throat. His lips moved over your core as if kissing a page of scripture. Every motion was languid, reverent, worshipful.

“You’re sweeter than I remembered,” he murmured between licks, voice rasping like charcoal over silk. “And I remember everything, cutie. The first time I saw you, you were standing by that gallery window, wearing that ridiculous linen jumpsuit you hated.”

He kissed just above your clit, making you tremble.

“I looked at you and thought—that’s it. That’s the line I’ve been trying to draw my whole life.”

You moaned softly, hips arching into his mouth as he flattened his tongue against you again, dragging it up slowly, deliberately.

“Every painting before you was a draft. A study. And then you walked in like light through stained glass and ruined me.”

Your breath stuttered. “Raf—”

“You’re art,” he whispered, now licking you in firmer strokes, his voice cracking under his own arousal. “But this? This is my favorite part. The wettest, softest proof that you’re real. That you want me.”

You cried out softly as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like a man starved. He didn't rush—he savored. Between every flick of his tongue he murmured praises, confessions, tiny worships.

“You taste like something I’d die to paint, but never share.”

Your legs began to tremble, hands clenching the velvet beneath you. He looked up, lips glistening, chin slick with your arousal, and smiled against your heat.

“You want me now?” he murmured.

You nodded, breathless. “Need you inside..."

And then he rose, pressing his body against yours once more. His hands cradled your hips, your belly, freeing his cock from the restraints of his trousers, hard and heavy between you.

He guided himself to your entrance, sliding in with one long, slow push. You both gasped at the depth, the fullness. One of his hands never left your womb.

“Let me leave one more memento before I finish the piece,” he said again—but this time his voice was trembling with raw, unfiltered adoration.

When he moved inside you, it was a rhythm of worship. Slow, unhurried. Like strokes of oil on a canvas he never wanted to dry. His mouth brushed against yours in quiet pulses, his murmurs soft as paint on linen.

“You’re a living sculpture. I still can’t believe I get to keep you…”

As much as you want to tell how much he means to you, words are stuck in your throat. The long drag of his cock around you, your tightness memorizing each thrust makes you feel dizzy, feel needed.

“This body, this soul—this is the best work I’ve ever helped create.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer until your foreheads pressed together. His thrusts grew deeper, still gentle but filled with a hunger that reached past flesh and bone.

“Raf… ‘m cumming…hah…”

“M-me too, princess. Paint your cum around me…”

And one finally thrust got Rafayel shaking on top of you. When you both finally came undone—shuddering, clinging, whispering each other’s names—it felt less like an ending and more like the finishing stroke on a masterwork.

Minutes passed in warm silence. Rafayel pulled the robe back over your shoulders, wrapping his arms around you as you curled into him, the baby nestled safely between you.

“I’m keeping this canvas forever,” he murmured, brushing your hair back. “But even it won’t do you justice.”

You smiled, tired and full. “Guess you’ll just have to keep painting me.”

He smirked. “Deal. But next time, I get to pose. Nude. With a flower crown.”

You groaned. “God help me.”

“Cutie,” he said, kissing your temple. “You married a menace. No take-backs.”

And with that, you fell asleep in the arms of your artist—his paint-streaked fingers still wrapped around your hand, your body resting in the quiet, sacred glow of love and new life.

[dontsh0vethesun]

i’m hungry, i hope you feed me

masterlist

my username used to be just-a-torn-up-masterpiece

natasha romanoff x reader

summary: carol and valkyrie bring you a bottle of an asgardian aphrodisiac, you decide to put it to use

18+: sex potion?, smut; edging, fingering, face riding, oral, overstimulation, slight degradation, masturbation, underwear used as a gag, lots of biting nom nom

a/n: please let me know if you want a part two where valkarol join in too because i’m so tempted 🙏

word count: 2.4k | song for the vibes - ‘desire’ by meg myers

Carol and Valkyrie sat across from you, recounting their recent visit to Asgard whilst you leisurely sipped on drinks; the conversation was always easy and the four of you had made it a habit to spend your evenings together whenever you could. 

As the evening bled into the night, you were gulping the last mouthfuls of your drinks before you parted ways; Carol reached beneath her seat, pulling a bag into view. 

“So, we brought you a couple of gifts,” she spoke with a mischievous smile pulling at her lips. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you returned, eyeing the bag she pushed across the table. 

“We know,” Valkyrie returned. “But we always do. Plus, we know you get sulky if you don’t get a souvenir.” 

“I do not,” you gasped, finding three pairs of questioning eyes peering back at you. “Okay, fine, I like gifts - is that so wrong?” 

“I, for one, think you deserve gifts every single day,” Natasha grinned, poking your side teasingly. 

“Open it then,” Carol groaned, growing impatient with her excitement. 

You eagerly took her command and reached in, grabbing something from the bottom of the paper bag and immediately smiling at the sight of it. 

“Is this what I think it is?” 

“If you think it’s a piece of rock from Aladna, then yes,” Carol laughed, leaning back in her chair as you marvelled at it. 

“You got me space rock - finally.” 

“Well, considering you ask me to bring you some every time I go to space, I figured I’d actually make good on my promise.” 

“The other gift was my idea,” Valkyrie smirked. Natasha reached in this time, wrapping her hand around the neck of a bottle. She peered at the label for a moment before laughing slightly. 

“I’m not sure we need this,” she cockily murmured, handing the glass bottle over to you to read. 

“Don’t knock it before you try it, Nat,” Carol grinned in return. 

“An Asgardian aphrodisiac?” you asked, feeling your cheeks heat up bashfully. You missed the way the three of them exchanged looks at how adorably shy you can get. 

“It’s strong stuff, have fun ladies,” Carol laughed. 

“And let us know how it goes.” 

— 

Despite agreeing you wouldn’t use it - not any time soon, at least - only a few days later, you were sat with two shot glasses in front of you. Natasha poured the pale pink liquid until they were full to the brim before sitting in front of you on the bed. 

“I have a wager for you,” she murmured, a playful smirk pulling at her lips. You looked at her curiously for her to continue. “A competition to see who can abstain the longest.”

“You’re setting yourself up for a loss already,” you grinned. 

“Mm, I don’t know,” she cooed, stroking the back of her fingers along your cheek to feel how easily they heat up with her attention. “You get pretty desperate. And you’ll be so pathetically eager for my attention - begging me to get you off.”

“Well, what does the winner get?” you huffed, looking away from her before you gave in before the game even began. 

“Total control,” she returned. “If you win, you can do whatever you want with me - I’ll do anything to you that you beg for. And, if I win,” she began, pretending to ponder on her response. “I think I’ll keep that to myself for now.” 

“Then let the best woman win,” you answered, passing her a glass whilst you lifted yours to your lips, waiting to drink the liquor down at the same time. 

— 

Twenty minutes later your back burned against the headboard of the bed; you’d built a wall of pillows between your bodies whilst you distracted yourselves with a movie. 

Every inch of your skin was on fire, your veins pulsed with need. Within thirty minutes, your shirt had been discarded with a petulant huff, hoping to cool off under the light breeze coming through the window. Your core throbbed and begged for some attention - some sort of release - but the smugness on Natasha’s face each time you squirmed in your seat only fuelled your competitive streak. 

The movie wasn’t even halfway through and you’d both stripped down to your underwear to combat the prickling heat the dreaded drink had caused. Natasha’s neck shone with beads of sweat, and you thought of dragging your tongue along her skin to taste it. She was so close that you could pull her into you with ease, pushing her hand between your legs; the desperation made you dizzy. 

She looked over at you when she felt you staring, her eyes dark and lust-blown, pupils wide and cheeks pink. Her breathing faltered beneath her desire and her fists grasped at the sheets to keep herself from touching you. 

“You giving up yet?” she rasped, desperately wishing you would so that this awful competition could be over. 

“No.” Your voice was breathy, it made her need you more. She could see your thighs clenching tightly together, your hips beginning to subtly buck upwards. 

“I can see you need me to touch you,” she mused, licking her lips. “I could make you feel so good, baby. I could give you what you need.”

You let her words linger. The way your cunt throbbed and ached was almost painful, your hand began its descent without any thought. You were so close to bypassing the waistband of your underwear until a hand wrapped itself around your wrist. 

“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” she mocked with a laugh. “Just admit defeat.”

You’d lasted 45 minutes. Surely, that was long enough to keep her from holding this victory over your head. You couldn’t wait a minute more. 

“Fine,” you grumbled, rushing over to plant your knees on either side of her, instantly pushing your clothed cunt against her thigh. You gasped at the mere contact and gave in to the kiss she dragged you into. Never have you felt a kiss so heated with passion, a newfound arousal made for sloppy kisses, teeth clashing and hands groping at anything they could reach. 

You felt as though you were on the brink of combustion, teetering on the edge with just a push against her; each nerve ending in your body was alight, frayed and ready to spark at a mere glimpse of heat. Natasha moaned into your mouth, grinding against your knee as best she could. You could feel the growing dampness of her underwear. 

She pulled you closer and closer to release; your body twitched and bucked with reckless abandon until she pulled away just at the precipice. You whined as she lifted you out of her lap, positioning you on the bed as she shuffled away to kneel before you. 

She kept her eyes on your panting form as she slipped her underwear away from her, putting her soaked cunt on display,

“Don’t think I forgot about our deal, honey,” she breathed, tossing her bra to one side, making a show of the soft pinching of her pert nipples. 

“But I-”

“Mm mm,” she tutted with a shake of her head. “No talking. And no touching.” To keep you silent, she forced her underwear past your lips, and you slackened your jaw to obey. “Patience is a virtue, little slut; good things come to those who wait, so sit back and look pretty, and I’ll fuck you when I’m done.” 

You fisted at the bedsheets to refrain yourself and, despite every muscle begging for the opposite, you kept as still as you could. She wasted no time before her fingers danced over her clit, swollen and sensitive, pulling a grunt of desperate arousal from her throat with the slightest pressure. Her hips rolled, her digits thrust into her core, and her head leaned backwards.  

It was the most desperate you’d ever seen her; a pure ravenous streak coursed through her and you could see it in the fervent movement of her digits. Each rub of her thumb against her made her gasp a moan, and her body flushed deep pink with need. 

You could hear how soaked she was - you could see it dripping to her knuckles - you wanted to wrap your lips around them. A choked moan fell from her lips as she came, you’d never heard her make such a cry of hunger before but it only made you need her more. 

“Fuck, I wanted to make you wait a little longer, but I can’t,” she sighed through heaving breaths. “I’ve never needed you so bad - I feel like I’m starving for you.” 

You couldn’t even utter a reply before her lips were claiming yours, hungry like she was parched and you were her only source of salvation. Your bra and underwear were soon discarded and your skin pressed against hers in a burning heat, the scent of sweat and sex filling the air. She knelt between your legs, trailing her fingers down to swipe through your folds; she smirked against you at how drenched you were and brought the shining digits to her mouth to lick them clean. 

Natasha’s eyes were primal when she looked at you, sparing no time before she shifted on the bed, licking a stripe through your cunt. It was messy and sloppy, each suck to your clit and flick of her tongue; the hand that wasn’t roughly digging into the flesh of your hip was buried between her legs; she practically whined against your sex whilst she humped her own hand with pathetic need.

She felt you near the edge of release and, for her amusement only, she pulled away. She left you hopelessly balancing on the precipice of relief whilst she came again, sinking her teeth into your inner thigh so roughly you’re sure they drew blood.

“Nat, I-“

“No. Just do as I say.”

You obeyed, of course, somehow enduring three more waves of relief being ripped away from your grasp. You ached and your eyes grew tearful with how much you just needed to be allowed to cum. Your jaw ached too from the way your teeth had been tightly clenched, biting into the underwear she decided to shove past your lips again when all you did was whimper and murmur unintelligible grumbles of disapproval. She’d allowed herself the freedom of rutting against her hand, soaking the duvet beneath her, whilst simultaneously leaving you in painful purgatory. She’d lapped at you for so long that your core burned with pain, clenching around nothing with tear-stained cheeks. 

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled away from you completely; her lips were plump and shining with your slick, stray hairs clung to her forehead and the rest was mussed up from the aimless tugging of your hands. 

“Such a pretty little slut,” she mused, panting almost animalistically as she cupped your jaw and pulled her underwear from your mouth. “Such an obedient girl.” The Asgardian elixir still had her pupils wide; both of you continued to thrum with desire, hearts thudding. 

Despite the want for attention between your legs, you couldn’t withhold your excitement when she crawled up your body, gripping onto the headboard as she lowered her cunt to your lips. The taste of her coated your lips immediately, soaked and hot and ready for you to devour. You moaned at the flavour, letting her grind onto your face with mindless pushes of her hips, burying your tongue deep within her. With the way you were so sex drunk, you ached to consume her entirely, dig into her as far as you could until the end of you and the beginning of her was too difficult to distinguish. 

She moaned at the feeling, pulsing around the muscle of your tongue, revelling in any feeling of friction applied to her sensitive bud that she could get. Your lips latched around her, messy and unbecoming and your nails clawed at her thighs whilst your own clenched as tightly as they could. 

“Fuck, you’re doing so good,” she grunted out above you. “Make me cum, baby - God ‘m so close.”

The eager, desirous pleas spurred you on until she came onto your lips. You swallowed down each drop she gave and pressed soft kisses against her as she came down from the high. 

“Nat, I need you, please,” you begged. “I feel like I’m gonna explode.” 

She laughed at your pouted mumbles, kissing along your jaw with bites into the flesh, stroking her fingers down your body until they slid through your folds. The pads of her fingers were instantly soaked, easily pushing into your wanting hole. 

“You’ve been so patient, honey,” she whispered, languidly moving her fingers with the heel of her palm nudging against you. You gasped at the sensitivity, twitching up into her touch. It was soft and gentle; she pampered your abused cunt with tender attention, letting you fall over the edge as soon as you needed to. 

Natasha knew you needed more - even she longed for more despite how many times she’d brought herself to climax - so she kept her attention on you. Your body was littered with marks, anywhere her teeth could reach had grooves and bruises from her bites. She thought of pleasing you forever; staying splayed on the sheets for as long as she lived until you were both worn out and spent. 

The air was filled with sounds of her fingers fucking into you, hoarse moans from the back of your throat and pants for breath like primal animals. The breeze didn’t cool your skin anymore but you were so wrapped up in one another that the sticky warmth didn’t matter.

You came again, and again until you had to push her hand away with a wince at just a ghost of a touch. You needed more but you couldn’t take it, she pulled away with a loving kiss to your lips. 

She crawled from the bed wordlessly, legs wobbling as she padded away, returning moments later with a glass of water for you to share. She took a sip before handing it to you, sitting next to you with kisses pressed against your shoulder as you drank. 

“Carol and Valkyrie are evil,” you grumbled between gulps. 

“I didn’t think I’d still be so horny after all that,” Natasha answered with a laugh. 

“I know,” you sighed with a mirrored chuckle. “How about I return the favour - we can take shifts until it wears off.” 

“Or until we pass out,” she smiled, already dropping the emptied glass to the floor to pull you on top of her.

[cherryc1nnam0n]

You entered the wrong house, pretty boy! | Ghostface!Ethan Landry x FEM!Reader

Based on this poll I did, we have this masterpiece

Summary: Ethan made a big mistake by entering your house, a Ghostface fan

Cw: Dub con, P in V sex, unprotected, creampie, he resists at first but then gives in, virgin!Ethan, Ghostface!Ethan, mask kink, riding, mirror sex, recording while having sex, multiple orgasms, excessive cum, overstimulation, spit, knife mentions, rough sex, hair pulling, oral (male receiving), ball play

It was late at night, almost 1 am and you were still awake, sitting on your bed reading a book, when something coming from your living room startled you

"What the?" You said getting up to go investigate, a sandal on your hand, pure instinct

When you reached the place where the noise had come from you saw nothing, just your cat licking her paw

"Callie, you scared me" you whisper yelled at her and she blinked slowly at you "Awe"

You turned around and where met with a masked figure, he tilted his head and pulled out his knife

"Why you up so late?" He asked in a weird voice

"I-I" he started to walk and corned you against a wall, placing the knife against your throat, which made you moan

"What?" He asked genuinely concerned

"Oh what you thought I would be scared?" You said defiantly and he just stood there "Baby, this is having the reaction you least expect" you said squeezing your thighs

He looked down and breathed heavily, where you aroused by this? Where the hell is he?

"Wait, aren't you Britney?" You shook your head "Oh shit, my bad I-"

"What? You were supposed to be in someone else's house?" He nodded, feeling like an idiot "Awwwe, it's okay baby, I'll take good care of you" you said begining to walk into him

"W-wait, hold on, lemme just-" he tripped against your coffee table falling backwards, he tried crawling to the door but you grabbed his foot and began dragging him to your room "Hold on wait! No!"

"Oh you're not going anywhere baby, you entered the wrong house, pretty boy!"

He screamed while you dragged him away into your room, finally inside you ran to close the door and lock it, he backed away from you and you looked at him with hungry eyes

"This has been my fantasy for so long" you licked your lips, scanning him

He was tall, broad even, but you didn't really care about who he was, you just wanted him to fuck you, or you to fuck him

"What is wrong with you?" He asked concerned

"Many things" you said taking your shirt off, boobs falling off freely "Now give me your cock"

He screamed again and you tackled him into the bed, hurrying to lift off his robe so you could free his cock, under it there were pajama pants, so cute, you easily found his mid hard cock, maybe from when he saw your tits

"It's big, I'm gonna have fun with it" you said smacking his dick against your face, he breathed heavily as he saw you play with his cock

You started to suck his dick, it was uncut so you pulled the skin back to suckled his head, he began to moan and grabbed the sheets, bucking his hips up into your mouth, your other hand freed his balls so you could play with them, his breath hitched and he started whining

"Please, please" he said under the mask, you could hear his breath heavy

Your mouth went down to suck his right ball into your mouth, looking up at him while you did so, his head fell back as he finally came all over himself and your face, he came a lot so you just kept pumping him dry for it

"Fuck, stop stop too much, ahh"

You finally released his cock with a pop, licking your lips clean from his cum

"You taste good baby"

You climbed on top of him, removing your pajama shorts and sitting completely naked on top of him, you grinded onto his dick making him whine again, he really liked to do that huh?

"You're a whiney man, you really that desperate?" He nodded

"I'm a virgin" he said lowly and you chuckled

"I can tell" you said to his ear

You grabbed his cock and guided it onto your entrance, sinking down making him hiss and whine, cursing under his breath

"Feels good right?"

He nodded desperately, his hands finding your hips, squeezing so hard he would leave marks

You started bouncing on him, his eyes rolling back behind his head, you bit your lip throwing your head back, your hips moving sexily on top of him, his masked figure was turning you on so much but you were curious of who he was, so taking advantage of him being in pure bliss, you lifted his mask until you took it off entirely, revealing none other than your crush Ethan Landry

"Ethan? I knew you were weird but a killer? And Ghostface? Wow"

"Fuck, don't tell anybody"

"Or what? You gonna kill me? Don't think so" you clenched around him purposely "If you don't kill me, you can fuck me whenever you want"

"I-I, fuck, you feel so good" his eyes rolled back

You kept going faster on him until you felt the familiar tingling of an orgasm, his hand was rubbing your clit while you held onto his thighs so you could roll your hips against him, the tatch of hair at his base rubbing against your clit deliciously

"I'm cumming, gonna cum fuck!" You said orgasming on top of him

He held your hips and thrusted up into you, your tits bouncing as he did so, finally releasing inside you with a loud whine

He fell limp on your bed, his breath erratic as he kept jerking from cumming, he took like 2 minutes to finish cumming

"Wow..." Was all you could say after that

His dick fell off your pussy when he grew soft again, his cum flooding out of you, coating his base and his thighs, running down his ass, his breath hitched when he felt that

"What? You done pretty boy? I thought you could take more than that"

He looked at you, then took a deep breath and sat up, kissing you deeply, his tongue shoving into your mouth, his hand held the back of your neck and while his other grabbed your ass cheek

"I have an idea"

Now in front of your mirror you held your phone up while your chest was against your carpet, your ass jiggling with every thrust Ethan gave you, his hands holding onto your hips, you were recording the whole thing from a beautiful angle that showed hos good he was fucking you, his mask was back on his face, he tilted it as he looked into the mirror, enjoying the view

"Fuck, you like that pretty girl? Like being fucked by a murderer?" You moaned at him "Answer me, bitch!" His voice changer was on as he said that

His left hand grabbed your hair and yanked you back, you moaned from it, eyes rolling back

"Yes I fucking love it, don't stop"

"Good girl"

The skin slapping noises were so loud you thought you would wake up your neighbors, but you couldn't care much because of how good Ethan was making you feel

He reached for his mask and pulled it up until only his mouth was visible, spitting a fat glob onto your ass letting it drip to your pussy, adding extra wetness into his fucking

His cock was hitting your g spot on every move, he was big, uncut and fat, just perfect, and he knew how to use it

"Fuck I'm cumming, I'm fucking cumming!" You said drooling at the mouth as your second orgasm barreled in

"Good girl baby, fucking cum all over my cock"

With a few sloppy thrusts he finally came again, coating your insides with his warm cum for a second time that night, he massaged your ass as he kept rutting softly into you to keep cumming

"All nice and stuffed baby, so good" he said smacking your ass

Turns out it wasn't that big of a mistake to break into your house...

[bananayuyu]

Behind the Scenes

pairing: idol!yunho x makeup artist!reader genre: smut wc: 1.6k

summary: being a makeup artist on tour certainly had it's perks, and anytime he wanted you, Jeong Yunho was gonna take what he could get

warnings: smut, MDNI, they do stuff in a storage closet lol, throat fucking, facial, degradation, mean!yunho a bit, semi-public sex, vaginal fingering

a/n: thought I'd be finishing my San series this weekend, but then he went and posted these pictures. he will be the fucking death of me. sorry for typos, I barely edited this <3

read it on ao3

++++++++++++

"Holy shit, Bora fucking nailed it today, you look so good."

"You think?"

Yunho's lips were turned up in a smirk, his brows high. But even when he tried to poke fun, you knew you always had the upper hand when it came to bickering. It was too easy with him, his good nature always slipped through, even when you wished it wouldn't. Being a makeup artist on tour allowed you all the proximity needed to know everything about him.

You rolled your eyes at his question, indication enough that you were not going to do this in front of everyone.

"Will you take some pictures for me?" he said instead.

"Now?" You had to ask it with that surprised look on your face, otherwise everyone would start to figure out what was up.

"Yeah."

"Kiki, do you need help with San?" you called across the room.

"His hair's gonna take another ten minutes probably, but then we'll need to finish his face makeup," she answered.

"Okay, I'll be back in a few."

With one look at Yunho you made for the door, and he lazily followed you out, long arms and legs swinging. He was already biting his lip; he had seen how you were looking at him earlier, when he'd first walked in the door with his outfit on.

You were damn good at hiding it in front of everyone, but he knew the look of lust when he saw it. Even if it only flashed in the whites of your eyes.

"Where do you wanna go?" you asked as he exited the door behind you.

"Let's just walk down this way, see if there's a good spot." He held out a hand, pointing roughly in the direction of the quietest part of the hallway.

The part he'd scoped out earlier. But he was a good actor, and even you weren't sure if this was part of the plan or not.

"Here?" you asked as he pulled up to an old grey box backstage, rough marks across it's front indicating the copious years of use.

"Yeah," he chuckled, handing you his phone with the camera pulled up, then leaning against it, one hadn't in his pocket, one on his chin, staring off with all the nonchalance he could muster.

"Okay," you laughed, shaking your head snapping the photo.

"What, is it bad?"

"It's fine, that box is just, kind of ugly."

"I'm not," he shot back. "Keep going, keep taking them."

"I am," you replied, rolling your eyes. You'd been doing this for months, it was mildly insulting that he didn't realize you understood how to do this.

He peered around and grabbed hold of a pole infront of him, part of a support structure in back of the stage. Then he goofily threw his arms wide, twirled around, then stopped himself again and jutted out a hip, cunty as ever.

"Oh my god," you laughed, finally pulling the phone down. You'd taken probably thirty pictures already, but this background really wouldn't suffice.

"What?"

"There no where else we can go?"

"You don't like this background?"

You shot him a disapproving look, and his eyes sharpened a bit in return, his lip again caught in his teeth as he tried to keep from laughing.

"Fine, let's walk further," he said, eventually.

Finally you came to the shiny doors of a service elevator, as wide as they were tall, at least a solid color and unmarred by scratches.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much better," you nodded, walking back to give you the appropriate distance. Yunho immediately was taking it more seriously, locked in, face set and poses at the ready. He knew his angles and knew exactly how to hold his face, making each photo a new masterpiece. There was one where he held his face to the side, and the sight of his jawline and profile were so perfect you twitched a moment, the second picture turning blurry.

"Do I look good?"

You chuckled in response, not shaking your head or nodding, not giving him anything. You just stared with slitted eyes, almost pissed at your dear coworker who'd styled this outfit, how it so perfectly encapsulated everything that made him so fuckable.

"Let's do a few more," he said, readjusting one last time.

And then he leaned back, stretched his arms forward, and winked.

At you, not at the camera. You could feel how pointed it was.

"Yunho." You stopped, pulling the phone down, and just stared at him.

"Come on," he said, tilting his head to the side, indicating a door just to the right of the elevator.

With a quick look over both shoulders you hastily followed him, slipping inside the small room.

It was a storage closet, of course, as always. His lips were on yours before you could think to say anything, and he was grabbing hungrily at your waist and hips, forcing his tongue in your mouth, claiming your body in every way he could. It may have always been you with the power when it came to words, but as soon as they were gone and all that was between you was lust addled heat, he was suddenly in control.

"Get on your knees," he mumbled, breaking the kiss enough to say it, only to kiss you hard again and back you up against a wall, making it difficult to follow his command. You felt through his pants and he was already firm, your own panties filling with arousal as he towered over you. With force you pulled away, slunk down slowly, and let him work at his belt and zipper, pulling his pants just low enough to reveal his hard length.

"You like this outfit don't you?" he asked as you let him enter your mouth, slowly rubbing the underside of his tip along the warm velvety plane of your tongue. The heat and wetness was electrifying, and so too was the dark look in your eye as you gazed up through blinking lashes. "You got all fucking horny just looking at me, didn't you?"

You were nodding constantly, mumbling answers around his thick cock, holding your head steady as you knew he liked.

"Your such a little whore, couldn't wait for me to fuck you mouth, could you?" His voice got so much deeper, so much richer, when he had you like this. Gone was the sweet Yunho you always knew when working; he'd never be able to keep up with your sharp tongue then, but once your mouth was filled and he had the space, he loved to get mouthy.

"Open up for me," he said as he tried to push in further, the back of your throat feeling far to tight to take him. You whined in response, always finding this part hard; he did what he had to do, landing a quick smack to your right cheek, the shock of it always making your throat open involuntarily. He used the opportunity to push in further, his hips finally coming nearly flush with your face.

"Fuck, that little throat is so fucking tight," he groaned, holding you there, your head pressed against the wall behind. "Who knew so much shit talking could come from such a tiny throat."

You normally would laugh in pride at someone calling you that, but you were having trouble breathing, and you were so fucking horny, and he had rendered you as mindless and fucked out as he always did, just from one simple movement.

You waited for him, holding your breath, and finally he pulled back, only to push in again. It was even harder, rougher, and he didn't care how quickly tears were streaming down your face or how hard it was for you to catch your breath. He had only minutes before he was expected on stage, he knew that, but he needs this release, needed this chance with you.

"I could fuck your mouth all day baby, such a good little slut for me," he groaned, holding tight to your hair with one hand, the other smacked to the wall in front of him. From below all you could see was his wide chest and wide shoulders, his shirt accentuating them, his tie floating in the air above you. You wanted to reach up and grab at it, to fuck with him a little, but soon his thrusts became so fast and harsh that there was nothing else you could think of. It didn't take long for him to start coming down your throat, and then he pulled back to let the end of his orgasm wash over your face too, painting you in his cum.

You sat panting as he held his cock in his hand, his breaths coming hard and in waves, your own lungs struggling to find any rhythm. You swallowed hard, coughing a few times as you regained yourself, brushing a strange of hair out of your face that was stuck there.

"You look so fucking hot covered in my cum," he murmured, tucking himself back into his pants, zipping them up and latching his belt with ease. You stood slowly, your knees aching from the position you'd been in, a trail of arousal slipping down your leg. You were wobbly and flushed, eyes still dark, and Yunho knew what you needed, it was so easy to tell.

He turned you around and bent you over, forcing you to place your hands on the wall for balance. Then he pulled down your pants, pushed your panties to the side, and slipped three long fingers inside you easily, your cunt so flushed and wet that he didn't need to spit too.

"Fuck," you cried, his movements harsh and fast, his end goal in mind. It didn't take long until he felt you spasming around him, but he kept going, even as you rag dolled forward and almost fell, even as you mumbled and whined incoherently. He didn't let up until the spasming came again, using his other hand to rub over your clit and rip your second orgasm from you.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

The Things I Never Said | psh

pairing: closefriend sunghoon x reader

word count: 1.06k

summary: loving him was never the problem—pretending I was okay when he loved someone else was.

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I never thought much about Sunghoon that way.

He was just my friend—one of my closest, actually. The person I could always count on, the one who made even the most boring days fun. Our friendship was easy, effortless.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Until one of our classmates planted an idea in my head that I couldn’t seem to shake off.

“Are you guys dating?”

The question had come out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard. I had just taken a bite of tteokbokki, sitting across from Sunghoon at the market, when I nearly choked on my food.

“What?” I coughed, reaching for my drink.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, barely reacted. He just made a face, completely unbothered. “As if,” he said, waving his chopsticks dismissively. “She’s just my friend.”

Just my friend.

I laughed along, brushing it off like it was nothing. Because it was nothing.

Right?

But after that day, I started seeing him differently.

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I began to notice things I hadn’t before—the way his hair fell messily over his forehead, the way he ran a hand through it whenever he was frustrated. The way his voice softened when he spoke to me, like he never had to put up a front.

It started off small. I always had my mobile data on, just in case he needed it.

“Hotspot?” he’d ask, already holding out his phone with his puppy eyes already looking at me.

I’d sigh dramatically, pretending to be annoyed. “You should just get a better plan.”

“Why would I? I have you.” He’d grin, connecting without hesitation.

He had no idea what those words did to me.

Then there were the small touches, the teasing, the way he always found a way to be close to me.

One time, we were sitting on the bleachers after school, just watching the sky change colors when he poked my cheek out of nowhere.

“Why do you always look so grumpy?”

I swatted his hand away. “I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, leaning in with a smirk. “Like a little angry hamster.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He laughed, but then a second later, “...Hamster.”

I groaned, shoving him lightly, but he just laughed harder. And despite myself, I smiled. Because that was just how we were—bickering, teasing, but always comfortable.

I liked him.

I liked him in ways I wasn’t supposed to.

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Sunghoon had this annoying habit of taking random pictures of me.

It didn’t matter if I was mid-bite, yawning, or caught off guard—he always found the worst moments to snap a photo.

One day, we were waiting at the bus stop when I felt him holding up his phone.

I turned my head just in time to see the camera flash.

“Sunghoon!” I lunged for his phone, but he pulled it away, grinning.

“Too slow,” he teased, turning the screen toward me. “Look at this masterpiece.”

I groaned. My mouth was slightly open, my eyes half-lidded, caught mid-blink. It was possibly the most unflattering photo ever taken of me.

“Delete it,” I demanded.

“No way,” he said, laughing as he pocketed his phone. “I need to keep this. It’s a core memory.”

I pouted. “You always take the worst photos of me.”

“Because it’s funny.”

What he didn’t know was that I kept every single photo he ever took of me.

Whenever he sent them to tease me, I secretly saved them. The ugly ones, the blurry ones, even the ones where I was caught in the middle of a sneeze.

Because they were all taken by him.

Because they were proof that, even if just for a moment, he was looking at me.

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I should have known it wasn’t going to be me.

The way he looked at her—it was different.

I noticed it when we were all hanging out after school, sitting in our usual group at the café. Sunghoon’s eyes would follow her movements, his expression softening whenever she spoke.

I knew that look.

And then, one afternoon, he finally admitted it.

“I think I like her.” His voice was light, a little uncertain, but I could hear the excitement underneath.

I forced a smile, hoping he didn’t notice the way my fingers tightened around my cup. “That’s great,” I said, keeping my tone even. “You should go for it.”

I don’t know what hurt more—the fact that he didn’t notice my hesitation, or the fact that I meant it.

I wanted him to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with me.

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Supporting him was second nature. I helped him figure out what to say, listened when he overthought things, reassured him when he doubted himself.

And when he finally worked up the courage to confess, I was there too.

I was the first person he texted.

She said yes.

My heart cracked, just a little.

I told you she would. I’m happy for you!

And maybe if I said it enough times, I’d start believing it.

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My friends noticed before I did.

“You need to stop,” one of them told me after Sunghoon had left the room. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

I laughed, trying to brush it off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They gave me a knowing look. “Come on. You don’t have to pretend with us. We see how you look at him.”

I opened my mouth, ready to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Because they were right.

I had spent so much time pretending to be okay that I started to believe the lie myself.

But how could I walk away?

Sunghoon was still Sunghoon—the person who made me laugh even on my worst days, the one who always saved me a seat, who made everything feel lighter. I couldn’t just stop caring.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it felt like I was breaking a little more each day.

So I stayed.

I smiled when he talked about her. I listened to every story, gave him advice, laughed at his jokes like my heart wasn’t aching.

And if Sunghoon ever noticed the sadness behind my smile—

He never said a word.

But at night, when I was alone, I’d open my gallery and scroll through the photos he took of me—ugly or not.

Because at least in those pictures, for a fleeting moment, I was the only one he was looking at.

© tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserve 2025

[gyuuberryy]

ni-ki's guide to survival: how getting lost led to love

pairing: enemy!niki x reader

synopsis: you would’ve never agreed to go on this camping trip with your friends if you had known you would get paired up with your arch nemesis. and getting lost on top of that? with the said bane of your existence? that was definitely not on your agenda.

genre: enemies to lovers, camping au, humour, comfort, little bit of angst

warnings: mentions of panic attack, bugs, kissing

note: they’re all college students btw! i had a really bad riki brainrot and i love e2l so this fic was birthed hehe

word count: 5.3k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the campfire crackled merrily, casting flickering shadows on the faces of your friends huddled around it. laughter danced in the air, punctuated by the occasional chirp of a cricket. 

everyone except you and the boy sprawled on a log opposite you, a scowl permanently etched on his face. nishimura ni-ki. 

camping trips with your friends were supposed to be fun, a chance to unwind, but with your nemesis by your side, it felt more like a forced march into enemy territory.

the animosity has started innocently enough. you and ni-ki, along with your friends, had embarked on a beach trip determined to build the most epic sandcastle the world had ever seen. hours were poured into sculpting elaborate moats, towering turrets, and intricate sand sculptures. victory was within reach, your masterpiece nearing completion, when disaster struck. a rogue wave, rolled in, obliterating your creation in a single, foamy swipe.

grief turned to rage, and you, fueled by a sugar crash from a previously consumed ice cream cone, pointed the finger of blame at ni-ki. you claimed he'd jinxed the project with his "terrible sandcastle feng shui." ni-ki, ever the provocateur, countered that your "overly ambitious moat design" was structurally unsound. the blame game escalated, escalating into a full-blown sand throwing fight that left everyone covered in a gritty mix of sand and saltwater.

two years later, the incident remained a running joke within your friend group. the mere mention of "sandcastle feng shui" could send you both into a fit of giggles (or, depending on the day, simmering resentment which happened to be today). 

a mischievous grin spread across sunoo's face, the self-proclaimed "king of fun." "alright everyone, time for the foraging challenge!" he announced, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "i've paired you all up to go gather ingredients for our stew!"

a collective groan arose, except from sunoo and heeseung, who were already whispering excitedly about wild herbs. the paper crackled in sunoo's hands as he unfolded it dramatically.

you perked up, eager to escape the suffocating tension between you and ni-ki. maybe a solo scavenging mission wouldn't be so bad. but as sunoo started assigning pairs, your stomach lurched.

"since we have an even number, the last team will be..." sunoo scanned the group, his eyes landing on you and ni-ki. a mischievous glint sparked in them. "...together."

a collective gasp arose from your friends, a mix of amusement and pity for your predicament. ni-ki, however, didn't miss a beat. he shot you a smug smirk, his eyes gleaming with a challenge.

"great," you muttered, sarcasm dripping from your voice. "just what i always wanted, a foraging partner with the survival instincts of a goldfish."

ni-ki scoffed. "says the one who gets lost in a grocery store."

memories of that disastrous shopping trip with your mom flooded your mind. you gritted your teeth.

"at least i won't accidentally set the forest on fire trying to light a campfire," you retorted, referencing a camping trip gone slightly wrong from a year back.

ni-ki's smirk faltered for a split second, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before returning full force. "unlike you, i actually know how to tell an edible plant from a poisonous one."

"oh please, spare me the mr. nature act," you shot back, standing up and grabbing your backpack. "let's just get this over with. before you scare away all the edible plants with your bad attitude."

ni-ki rose from his log with a mocking bow. "after you, princess."

you rolled your eyes, the familiar bickering a bitter comfort in this unwelcome alliance. as you walked past your friends, you heard sunghoon mutter under his breath, "may the odds be ever in your favour." you shot him a glare, wishing for nothing more than to prove him wrong. 

the forest stretched out before you, promising a foraging adventure filled with snarky remarks, petty competition, and maybe, just maybe, a grudging respect for your unlikely partner.

the trail wound deeper into the woods, dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead. the air grew thick with unspoken words, the silence punctuated only by the crunch of twigs underfoot and the occasional chirp of a bird.

"shouldn't you be skipping ahead, searching for your precious berries?" you finally snapped, unable to bear the awkward tension any longer.

"only if you promise not to poison yourself with the first wild mushroom you find, pipsqueak," ni-ki retorted, a playful glint in his eyes.

you scoffed, rolling your eyes. "at least i can tell the difference between food and foliage."

just then, you skidded to a halt, hand flying up to point. "look!"

ni-ki nearly bumped into you, surprised by your sudden stop. he followed your gaze and spotted a fawn grazing a few metres off the trail. its large, innocent eyes looked back at them curiously.

a genuine smile, devoid of their usual antagonism, softened ni-ki’s features. "aww, isn't that cute?"

"hold that thought," you whispered, excitement bubbling in your chest. you fumbled with your phone, eager to capture the adorable creature on camera.

ni-ki chuckled, a hint of amusement in his voice. "don't take all day. we're not exactly bffs on a nature walk here."

you stuck your tongue out at him playfully, focusing on getting the perfect shot. suddenly, a bloodcurdling shriek tore from your throat.

ni-ki whipped around, heart hammering in his chest. he saw you flailing your arms wildly, phone clattering to the ground. without a second thought, he sprinted towards you, fear momentarily overriding his usual animosity.

"what happened?" he gasped, skidding to a halt beside you.

"b-bug!" you stammered, pointing at a nearby leaf. "giant, horrible bug!"

ni-ki followed your shaky finger and let out a snort of laughter. perched on the leaf was a large beetle, no doubt intimidating to someone with a bug phobia, but far from the monstrous nightmare you'd made it out to be.

"seriously, that's it?" he doubled over, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "you screamed like a banshee over a little beetle?"

you glared at him, cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering fear. "it was huge! and it tried to bite me!"

ignoring your protests, ni-ki sauntered over to the leaf, his amusement evident. he poked the beetle with a stick, earning a disgruntled hiss in response.

suddenly, his laughter died in his throat. the seemingly harmless beetle, disturbed by his prodding, lunged at him with surprising speed. he yelped, leaping back with a comical yelp, tripping spectacularly over a protruding root in the process.

the force of his fall sent him tumbling backwards, straight into you. with a startled cry, you lost your footing and the two of you went careening down a steep slope, a tangled mess of limbs and flying leaves.

the world became a blur of green and brown before you landed with a thud in a small clearing at the bottom. you groaned, blinking away spots as you sat up, taking stock of your surroundings. ni-ki lay sprawled a few feet away, groaning dramatically.

"well, this is just great," you muttered, brushing dirt off your clothes. you glanced at ni-ki, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corners of your lips despite the throbbing pain in your arm.

he sat up slowly, sheepish grin replacing his earlier smirk. "looks like we both owe that little beetle an apology, huh?"

the amusement in your eyes quickly morphed into pure exasperation as reality settled into you. you had no clue where you were. 

"are you kidding me, nishimura?!" you suddenly yelled, throwing your hands up in the air. "you tripped us both over a bug! how clumsy can you possibly get?"

said boy winced at your outburst, the playful glint in his eyes fading. "hey, it wasn't exactly graceful," he mumbled, dusting himself off. "but at least we're not hurt, right?"

"not hurt? we just tumbled down a freaking hill! and for what? because you couldn't resist poking a bug with a stick?"

"alright, alright," he placatingly raised his hands. "let's just calm down. the good news is, i can recognise this part of the woods. we should be able to find our way back to the trail pretty easily."

you eyed him sceptically. "how can you possibly be sure? this whole forest looks the same!"

he puffed out his chest, a hint of his usual arrogance returning. "trust me, pipsqueak. i have a good sense of direction. just follow me."

you gritted your teeth, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. given the choice, you wouldn't have trusted a lost puppy to lead you back, let alone your nemesis with a questionable sense of direction. however, with no other options, you reluctantly trailed behind him.

minutes turned into what felt like hours. the scenery seemed to repeat itself endlessly, a maze of identical trees and sun-dappled paths. panic started to gnaw at your insides.

"nishimura," you said through gritted teeth, "are we sure we're not going in circles?"

he stopped abruptly, a frown etching his face. he pulled out his phone, his expression darkening as he stared at the screen. "damn it. no signal."

your blood ran cold. "what do you mean no signal?"

"there's no cell reception out here," he admitted sheepishly. "i guess i was wrong about knowing the way back."

you stared at him, incredulous. "you got us lost, and now we can't even call for help? you are the most irresponsible person i've ever met!"

he held up his hands defensively. "whoa, hey! it was an accident! we'll figure something out, okay? just calm down."

but calm was the last thing you felt. lost, angry, and scared, you glared at ni-ki, a fierce determination replacing the fear. "we will figure this out," you declared, voice shaking with repressed anger. "but for now, shut up and follow me. maybe i have a better sense of direction than you think."

the forest floor crunched under your feet as you marched ahead, a newfound resolve hardening your features. gone was the bickering banter, replaced by a tense silence punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. ni-ki followed close behind, a sheepish silence replacing his usual bravado.

you scanned the surroundings, searching for any landmark, any sign that might lead you back to the familiar trail. the dense foliage seemed to mock your efforts, the towering trees offering no clues in their uniformity. doubt gnawed at the edges of your determination, but the thought of relying on ni-ki was far worse.

"we need to find higher ground," you finally muttered, remembering a survival tip you'd once read. "maybe we can get a better view from up there."

ni-ki nodded curtly, his earlier arrogance replaced by a hint of worry. together, you pushed through the undergrowth, searching for any sign of an incline. after what felt like an eternity, you stumbled upon a rocky outcrop, its jagged surface a stark contrast to the smooth earth around it.

scrambling up the rocks, you emerged onto a small, uneven plateau. taking a deep breath, you scanned the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the familiar smoke plume rising from the campsite. but all you saw was a seemingly endless expanse of green, the trees blurring together in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

disappointment crashed over you, heavy and suffocating. you slumped down onto a smooth rock, the anger slowly draining away, leaving behind a cold dread. lost, with no way to contact anyone, a shiver ran down your spine despite the warm afternoon sun.

"great," you muttered, voice devoid of its earlier fire. "just brilliant."

a moment of heavy silence passed before ni-ki spoke, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "look, i messed up, okay? i should have paid more attention, and i shouldn't have been so cocky."

you didn't respond, staring blankly at the endless sea of trees.

he continued, his voice softer now. "but freaking out isn't going to help us. we need to work together on this."

he was right, of course. but the idea of trusting him after his colossal blunder left a bitter taste in your mouth. yet, there were no other options.

with a sigh, you finally met his gaze. "fine," you conceded grudgingly. "but if we ever get out of this, i'm never letting you live this down."

a flicker of a smile played on his lips, a hint of his usual defiance returning. "deal. now, how about we put our survival skills to the test, pipsqueak? together."

the animosity was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. but in the face of you predicament, a fragile truce had been formed. you weren't friends, not by a long shot. but for now, you were stuck with each other, and survival depended on a begrudging cooperation.

as the golden light of the afternoon began to fade, long shadows stretched across the forest floor, deepening the gloom beneath the dense canopy. the chirping of birds had been replaced by the eerie calls of nocturnal creatures, sending shivers down your spine.

the initial anger you felt towards ni-ki had morphed into a gnawing fear. the realisation that you were truly lost, with no way to contact anyone, settled in your stomach like a lead weight.

your breaths came in ragged gasps, the realisation of your situation finally hitting you with full force.

tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. a choked sob escaped your lips, quickly escalating into a full-blown panic attack. hyperventilating, you clutched your chest, the world seeming to shrink around you.

suddenly, a hand landed gently on your shoulder. you flinched, expecting another snarky remark from ni-ki. but instead, his voice was soft, laced with concern.

"hey, hey," he soothed, his hand moving to wipe away a stray tear that traced its way down your cheek. "it's okay. we'll be alright."

his touch, surprisingly gentle, sent a jolt through you. you were so used to your constant sparring that this sudden tenderness was completely disarming.

"we just need to calm down," he continued, his voice low and calming. "we can't think clearly if you're panicking. look at me."

hesitantly, you met his gaze. his eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were now filled with a genuine concern you hadn't seen before.

"we'll find our way back," he promised, his voice firm but reassuring. "the sun will rise again in the morning, and with daylight, everything will seem clearer. we'll figure out a plan then."

his words, surprisingly, had a calming effect. you took a deep, shaky breath, forcing yourself to focus on the rhythm of your inhalations and exhalations. slowly, the panic began to recede, leaving you drained but a little hopeful.

together, you searched for a suitable spot. you found it nestled under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, its thick trunk offering a sense of security. the ground beneath it was clear of debris, providing a relatively comfortable place to sit.

ni-ki helped you gather fallen leaves and twigs, creating a makeshift cushion. you settled onto it, your body trembling slightly despite the warmth of the setting sun.

he sat down beside you, a respectful distance separating your bodies. the air crackled with an awkward silence, a stark contrast to your earlier bickering.

"thank you," you finally whispered, surprised by the words leaving your lips.

he offered a small smile. "for what?"

"for...not being a jerk," you mumbled, embarrassed.

he chuckled softly, a sound devoid of mockery. "seems like we both have to learn to cooperate sometimes, pipsqueak."

you couldn't help but let out a weak smile, a small flicker of warmth returning to your chest. maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of humanity beneath ni-ki's cocky exterior. as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, plunging the forest into darkness, you leaned back against the rough bark of the oak, a strange sense of calm washing over you. 

you weren't friends, not by a long shot. but for now, in the face of the unknown, you had each other. and perhaps, just perhaps, this forced cooperation might lead to something more, something you weren't quite ready to name.

the forest floor was a tapestry of inky black shadows under the cloak of night. the initial panic had subsided, replaced by a gnawing hunger that rumbled in your stomach. you glanced at the pile of foraged mushrooms and roots nestled beside you, a meagre dinner at best.

"so," ni-ki drawled, his voice barely a whisper in the stillness. "any idea how to build a fire with those twigs?"

you scoffed. "as if you could tell a pinecone from a pile of leaves."

he shot you a mock glare. "says the one who screamed at a beetle."

you swatted his arm playfully, surprised at the almost friendly gesture. "alright, alright. i may have overreacted a bit."

a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. "a bit? pip squeak, you practically launched yourself into orbit."

despite the teasing, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. you fumbled with the meagre tinder you'd gathered, frustration building. just as you were about to give up, a gentle hand reached for yours.

"here," he murmured, taking the twigs from your grasp. "let me show you."

with surprising dexterity, he built a small, precarious structure of leaves and twigs. you watched in fascination as he coaxed a spark from a flint and steel you hadn't even noticed him carrying. soon, a tiny flame flickered to life, growing steadily into a small but comforting fire.

a sense of peace, however fragile, settled between you as you roasted the meagre mushrooms and roots over the flames. the silence wasn't antagonistic anymore, filled instead with the crackling fire and the occasional chirping of crickets.

"so," you started hesitantly, "what made you decide to learn survival skills?"

he shrugged, poking a particularly stubborn mushroom with a stick. "always good to be prepared, you know? never know when you might end up stranded in the middle of nowhere with a drama queen for company."

you threw a playful punch at his arm, the sting of your earlier animosity fading. "hey, at least i don't trip over bugs."

he chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. "touché, pipsqueak."

as you ate your dinner, you found yourself stealing glances at him. in the flickering firelight, his face seemed softer, less arrogant. you realised with a jolt that his presence, although unexpected, wasn't actually that bad. maybe this forced cooperation was revealing a side of ni-ki you hadn't seen before.

the night wore on, the stars twinkling coldly above. the fire had long since died, leaving behind a fading warmth that couldn't compete with the growing chill. you shifted uncomfortably, the hard ground digging into your back. a shiver wracked your body, the thin jacket doing little to ward off the creeping cold.

out of the corner of your eye, you saw ni-ki shift too, his shoulders slumped against the tree. he let out a barely audible sigh, his breath misting in the cool air.

neither of you spoke, but a silent understanding hung in the air. you were both miserable, the bitter taste of rivalry a distant memory compared to the immediate need for warmth.

with a hesitant movement, you inched closer to the tree trunk, hoping to find a slightly more comfortable position. almost imperceptibly, ni-ki did the same. your shoulders brushed, a jolt of surprise shooting through you. he didn't move away, and after a moment, you leaned in slightly, seeking a sliver of shared warmth.

his arm was close now, separated by only the thin layer of your jacket. you stole a glance at him, expecting a sarcastic remark or a playful jab. but his eyes were closed, his face etched with fatigue.

hesitantly, you reached out, stopping just before your hand touched his arm. he stirred slightly, a low murmur escaping his lips. taking a deep breath, you rested your hand lightly against the worn fabric of his jacket, just below his elbow.

he didn't flinch. instead, he seemed to relax a fraction more, his arm moving ever so slightly to brush against yours.

in the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl, you found a strange comfort. maybe it was the shared misery of the situation, maybe it was the unexpected friendly(?) atmosphere that had sprung up between you. whatever it was, the tension had melted away, replaced by a fragile sense of trust.

sleep claimed you slowly, the warmth of your shared body heat a welcome haven against the encroaching chill. you didn't fall asleep with the intention of being close, but in the quiet intimacy of the night, you found a solace you hadn't expected. as you drifted off, a single thought flickered through your mind: maybe this forced adventure wouldn't be so bad after all.

the first sliver of sunlight, faint and tentative, peeked through the dense canopy, painting delicate stripes across ni-ki's eyelids. he stirred, a low groan escaping his lips as the ache in his back made itself known. he cracked one eye open, then the other, blinking against the sudden brightness.

his breath hitched. you were nestled against him, your head resting on his chest. your arms were wrapped tightly around him, one hand burrowed into the thin fabric of his shirt. his chin rested on the crown of your head, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

he had absolutely no memory of this happening. had you gotten cold in the night and sought his warmth instinctively? the thought sent a warmth of its own blooming in his chest, a warmth at odds with the chill of the morning air. he was utterly captivated. you looked peaceful, your normally sharp features softened in sleep, a light dusting of pink staining your cheeks.

just as he was about to lose himself in the unexpected sight, your eyes fluttered open. they met his gaze, and a slow, mischievous smile spread across your face.

"good morning, sleepyhead," you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

ni-ki's cheeks flushed crimson. "m-morning," he stammered, his voice rough from disuse. he tried to disentangle himself from your hold, feeling ridiculously flustered by your closeness.

"nope," you declared playfully, tightening your grip. "this is actually really comfortable. don't move."

he froze, his cheeks burning hotter than ever. his mind raced, torn between wanting to maintain this unexpected closeness and wanting to bolt. a small chuckle escaped your lips, the sound vibrating against his chest.

"relax, drama king," you said, your voice soft. "we're not exactly cuddling in a meadow filled with daisies."

he couldn't help but let out a small laugh himself. the tension started to ease, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the rising sun. slowly, he re-wrapped his arm around you, drawing you closer.

"fine," he conceded, feigning annoyance. "but don't think this changes anything, pipsqueak."

you threw your head back and laughed, a bright, genuine sound that echoed through the silent forest. "of course not, ni-ki," you replied, your voice playful. "we're still enemies, remember?"

"enemies who share a surprisingly comfortable tree," he countered, his gaze flickering to the way your hand instinctively rested on his arm.

"so," you said after a moment of comfortable silence, "how do you propose we get ourselves out of this mess?"

the playful mood evaporated as the reality of their situation came flooding back. he cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. "we need to find a landmark, something we remember from the trail. maybe a creek, or a distinctive rock formation. then we can work our way back from there."

you hummed in agreement, your head nuzzling deeper into his chest. "alright, well, let's not get up just yet. it's still pretty cold out here."

a small smile tugged at ni-ki's lips. this unexpected closeness, born out of necessity, felt strangely…nice. he wasn't sure what the future held, or if this forced truce would last beyond getting back to camp, but for now, in the quiet intimacy of the morning, he wouldn't trade this for anything. "yeah," he agreed, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the rising sun. "let's stay here just a little while longer."

the forest around you both remained cloaked in a pre-dawn twilight, but the horizon was ablaze with the promise of a new day. streaks of fiery orange and vibrant pink bled into the inky blue sky, painting a breathtaking canvas above the silent trees. you couldn't help but let out a soft gasp of awe, the discomfort of the hard ground momentarily forgotten.

ni-ki glanced down at you, his gaze lingering on the way your eyes sparkled in the soft light. "beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.

you nodded, mesmerised by the vibrant display of colours. "it's incredible," you breathed.

a comfortable silence settled between you, the only sounds the gentle rustle of leaves and the chirping of a few early birds. despite the awkwardness of your situation, a strange sense of peace washed over you. ni-ki, with his arm still loosely wrapped around you, seemed less arrogant in the morning light, a hint of vulnerability softening his features.

as the sun climbed higher, painting the leaves in a warm golden glow, you tore your gaze away from the sky. "alright," you announced, a newfound determination in your voice. "let's get serious about finding our way back."

ni-ki mirrored your seriousness. "right. we need to focus." he sat up straight, his gaze scanning the surrounding area. "do you remember anything about the trail? a specific tree, maybe, or a turn-off?"

you wracked your brain, a memory flickering to life. "there was a large, twisted oak tree on the right side of the trail, just before a steep downhill slope. maybe if we can find that..."

"bingo!" ni-ki exclaimed, a grin splitting his face. "i remember that tree too! it was kind of gnarled and had these weird, knobbly branches."

relief flooded your chest. "okay, so let's head east. the sun should be rising in the east, right?"

ni-ki nodded, pulling out the compass he'd managed to find tucked away in a pocket of his backpack. "yeah, the sun should be roughly in the east at this time." he consulted the compass for a moment, then pointed in a direction. "alright, this way."

together, you rose to your feet, your muscles protesting slightly after a night spent on the cold ground. but the prospect of finding your way back to your friends fuelled your movements. you followed the direction ni-ki indicated, carefully navigating the trees, your eyes peeled for any sign of the twisted oak.

the forest seemed less menacing in the bright morning light. you pointed out landmarks – a fallen log, a clump of brightly coloured mushrooms – hoping they might jog ni-ki's memory. he, in turn, shared his knowledge of edible plants and tracking techniques, a surprising wellspring of information hidden beneath his usual cocky exterior.

after what felt like an eternity, your heart leaped into your throat. there, standing defiant against the backdrop of younger trees, was the twisted oak you remembered. you let out a whoop of joy, a sound that echoed through the silent trees.

ni-ki's face mirrored your elation, a genuine smile gracing his features.

relief and a strange sense of accomplishment washed over you. you had faced your fear, survived the night, and most importantly, worked together. maybe, just maybe, this experience would change your dynamic with ni-ki, adding a layer of respect and perhaps a touch of something more.

the familiar path leading back to the campsite emerged from the trees, a beacon of hope and relief. a surge of exhilaration coursed through you. you had made it! without thinking, you spun towards ni-ki, a wide grin splitting your face.

"we did it!" you exclaimed, reaching out impulsively. your fingers grazed his cheek, sending a jolt through you. fuelled by the adrenaline of the moment, and perhaps the lingering intimacy of the night, you leaned in further, your lips brushing against his in a sudden, unexpected kiss.

the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you. time slowed, the sound of the forest fading away. but the kiss was short-lived. ni-ki froze, his eyes widening in surprise. he gently pushed you away, his breath hitching.

"whoa," he stammered, his voice laced with confusion. "what was that?"

you stumbled back, cheeks burning with embarrassment. your mind raced, replaying the past few seconds in a humiliating loop. what had you just done? the audacity of your own actions left you speechless.

"i-i..." you stammered, searching for an explanation that wouldn't sound completely insane. "i'm just...so relieved we're back. thank you for helping me, ni-ki." the words sounded lame even to your own ears.

but before you could retreat any further, ni-ki surprised you again. his hand shot out, grabbing you firmly by the waist and pulling you back towards him. this time, there was no hesitation in his eyes. he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was anything but hesitant.

you melted against him, all thoughts of embarrassment melting away in the heat of the moment. you responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck as you deepened the kiss. the forest around you faded away, the only sound the frantic thudding of your own heart.

finally, ni-ki pulled away, his breath ragged. his eyes, usually so sharp and playful, were now a warm brown, flecked with gold in the morning sunlight. a slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, unguarded smile that sent a flutter to your stomach.

"wow," he breathed, his voice husky. "that was..." he trailed off, searching for the right words.

you swallowed, your own voice barely a whisper. "unexpected?"

he chuckled, a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "unexpected is definitely one word for it." he paused, his gaze holding yours. "but not unwelcome."

the sound of distant shouts jolted you both back to reality. a chorus of voices, laced with worry and relief, echoed through the trees. you pulled away from ni-ki, suddenly acutely aware of your dishevelled state and the way his lips tingled where yours had been.

"there you two are!" heeseung's voice cut through the trees as he emerged from the path, followed by your other friends. relief washed over their faces, quickly replaced by a flurry of questions and concerned chatter.

"we were starting to think you got eaten by a bear!" sunoo exclaimed, his eyes wide.

you launched into a rapid-fire explanation of your ordeal, leaving out the very recent, and frankly, earth-shattering development with ni-ki. your friends listened intently, bombarding you with questions about the night and how you managed to find your way back.

through it all, you were hyper aware of ni-ki standing beside you. he chimed in occasionally, his voice oddly subdued, and you could steal glances at him, catching the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

then, as you finished your story, jake nudged you playfully. "wow, you guys must have been really scared out there all night. scared enough to, i don't know, eat each other's faces off?"

a collective gasp went up from your friends, their eyes darting between you and ni-ki. your cheeks burned crimson. "what? no!" you sputtered, flustered.

ni-ki chuckled, a low sound that sent shivers down your spine. "yeah, jake," he drawled, his voice teasing. "luckily for us, bears were the only thing on the menu last night."

his playful jab sent another wave of heat flooding your face. you stole a glance at him, and your breath caught in your throat. he was looking at you, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes, but there was something else there too, something warm and unguarded that made your heart skip a beat.

you looked away quickly, a shy smile tugging at your lips. maybe this unexpected turn of events wasn't so bad after all.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[moonriizing]

Rewrite the Stars | j.sc (18+)

Ghostwriting fanfics about a KPOP group you barely know? All fun and easy money, until one of them walks into your life and refuses to leave. When fiction meets reality, neither of you is ready for the rewrite.

Genre: idol au, strangers-to-lovers, smut Pairing: RIIZE Jung Sungchan x afab!reader Warnings: mature themes, explicit sexual content (18+) MDNI Notes: 16k words. Listening to Rewrite the Stars from the movie, The Greatest Showman. I have never written an idol AU before, and by choice because I didn't wanna cross that line. But I've been thinking about this plotline for a while now, and the only way it would stop bothering me is if I wrote it. Lol. Hope you like it! Disclaimer: I do not know them, nor claim they would ever in real life behave the way they were portrayed in this fic. If you see the same exact fic in a different blog, for SEVENTEEN, that is me. I did not plagiarize myself; otherwise, lmk.

You were a ghost writer employed by an online blogger to write fanfiction for them. Not your first choice of profession, but after two years of trying—with no luck—to land a decent job using the Creative Writing degree you were once so proud of, you had no choice but to take what you could. Ghostwriting gigs paid the bills. That was enough.

You got it. Life was tough. You knew that better than anyone. And even though you were an orphan with big dreams riding on a full scholarship at a local community college, you foolishly believed you didn’t need to spend four years studying something practical just to get a guaranteed paycheck.

Your passion was writing—pouring your heart and soul into stories, unleashing your endless imagination into literary masterpieces that would touch hearts and change lives.

But in hindsight? Yeah. Maybe you should’ve been more realistic. If you had been, maybe you wouldn’t be stuck writing for some random influencer who ran a popular Tumblr page posting fanfictions about a K-pop boy group you barely knew. Maybe you wouldn’t have to sit there watching people praise her for stories you wrote.

“It pays the bills, hon,” you muttered, squinting at your screen as your fingers tapped briskly across the keyboard. “Suck it up.”

You really shouldn’t be complaining. You took the job willingly, and the pay wasn’t bad. Twenty bucks per thousand words. And with this blogger, you were locked into writing at least 15,000 words every three weeks. A walk in the park—usually.

Except on days like today.

You had five days left to finish the latest fic. This time, you and your employer had agreed on a 20,000-word college AU starring someone named Anton Lee. Easy enough, if not for the fact that you were completely out of inspiration.

You weren’t a procrastinator, not by nature. That was how Jasmin had managed to milk two full-length fics out of you each month. But every now and then, you’d hit a wall. And today, the wall was Anton.

Still, you had to ‘power through’—so Jasmin said.

“Your mind is a bottomless vault of infinite ideas and masterful works,” she told you this morning when you called to confess your writer’s block. “Writer’s block is just your brain taking a quick nap from the alternate universes you’ve built brick by brick out of literally nothing but your genius. You got this. I believe in you.”

Of course, Jasmin, your employer, had an eloquent tongue. She used to post her own original works before the blog blew up, and she needed someone else to crank out 20k-word epics about emotionally constipated idols falling in love at college. Hence, you.

“Come on, Anton!” you groaned at your screen. “Say something already!”

You stared. Typed a line. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.

Eventually, you slumped back in your chair, peeled your fingers off the keyboard, and slammed your laptop shut with the force of someone about to dramatically quit their job.

You met someone’s gaze the moment you slammed your laptop shut.

He was mid-step toward a nearby table, a to-go cup in one hand, and your sudden outburst had made him pause, blinking at you like a deer caught in high-definition LED headlights.

You blinked back. He looked vaguely familiar. You tilted your head at him, trying to place where exactly you’d seen him before. He looked like someone you’d passed a few times in the same space but never actually acknowledged. You were pretty sure you'd seen him sitting at the corner table with an Iced Americano and something on his screen that made him smile to himself.

Meanwhile, he stood frozen for a second longer, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction—like maybe you’d scream, or ask for a selfie, or launch into an unsolicited compliment about his jawline.

But instead, you said, “...Sorry. Did I scare you?”

That broke whatever spell he was under. He smiled, a little sheepish. “A little. But it’s okay. That was a pretty solid slam.”

You raised your coffee cup in mock salute. “Creative frustration.”

“I figured,” he said, stepping past you toward his usual spot by the wall. He sat down, took a sip of his drink, and pulled out his phone—but not before casting one last glance your way.

You turned back to your now-shut laptop.

You didn’t know his name, but you’d seen him around from time to time. Always past ten. Always quiet. A hat or hoodie on, head ducked low. He was probably a student. Or a night-shift worker. Or someone who just hated mornings as much as you did.

What you didn’t know was that he’d noticed you too.

Sungchan had been coming to this café occasionally, drawn by its ambiance, the indie jazz playlist, and the simple fact that no one ever bothered him here. Least of all you.

You, who was always glued to your screen, typing like your rent depended on it. You never spared him more than a glance. Never whispered about him or sneakily took a photo. He liked that.

He liked it so much, in fact, that he’d started timing his late-night coffee runs to match yours. Not on purpose. At first.

And now here you were, laptop finally closed, looking at him like he was just some guy who got caught in your dramatic breakdown. Which—he kind of was.

Sungchan smiled and lifted his cup in acknowledgment of you. You smiled back just as you were standing up to pack your things away and leave.

Funny. You’d never noticed how nice his smile was until now.

You didn’t mean to start talking to him. It just happened.

He was in line behind you at the counter the next night when the barista told you they’d run out of oat milk, and you turned around to groan dramatically into the nearest stranger’s personal space.

“Oh my god, this is the third time this week,” you said. “Being lactose intolerant is the worst.”

The guy behind you wearing a ball cap, hoodie, and a handsome face, chuckled. “Maybe the universe wants you to build tolerance.”

You squinted at him. “Tried that. It was a disaster. Trust me.”

He smiled. “Then I guess you’ll have to suffer with almond milk like the rest of us.”

That was the first real interaction. It was short and mostly unremarkable. But when you sat down at your usual spot later that night and saw him settling into the table across from you, you gave him a polite nod. And he smiled like he was hoping you’d notice.

The next time, it was raining, and he asked if he could share your outlet. And the time after that, he asked your name.

You told him without much hesitation. “You?”

“Chan.”

“Chan?” you repeated, waiting. “Chan what? Just Chan?”

There was a pause. His gaze flicked to his phone screen, which had just lit up with a message from someone. “Song,” he said quickly. “Chan… Song.”

You stared at him. “Chan Song?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It’s Korean.”

“I figured,” you replied, shrugging. You took a sip of your drink to hide your amusement. “Well, Chan Song, welcome to the sad people café. Everyone here’s avoiding something. Deadlines, heartbreak, lactose.”

He grinned. “What are you avoiding?”

“Deadlines. And dairy, apparently.”

“Good combo.”

“Thanks. What about you?”

He looked like he wanted to lie, but then shrugged. “Just insomnia.”

You nodded in understanding, even though something about his face still itched at your memory.

You didn’t think much of him for the next three days—too busy cramming 20,000 words into a fanfic you still weren’t sure made sense. One night, he said hi, and you said hi back, but that was the extent of it.

Until, finally, you looked up from your laptop—and at the same time, he lifted his head from his phone. Your gaze met. You didn’t speak.

You raised your cup. He raised his back. Then you exchanged smiles before you went back to your work.

The whole night, you were so deep into your writing that you barely noticed the world around you. It wasn’t until a plate landed next to your laptop that you looked up and blinked in confusion. It was a pastry with a paper napkin folded neatly beside it.

Your gaze followed the hand that had placed it down.

Chan was already zipping up his hoodie, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder, clearly on his way out.

You opened your mouth. “What’s this?”

“You looked like you needed it,” he said with a small grin. “I saw you eat the same one last week. You mumbled something about ‘crisis carbs.’”

Crisis carbs. Right. 

You looked at him again, a little stunned. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, already backing toward the door. “Good luck with… whatever it is.”

Two days later, you were a new person. Your deadline was met, the fic submitted, the invoice sent. You’d even replied to Jasmin’s unnecessarily emotional ‘thank you’ voice memo with a heart emojis and treated yourself to a full eight hours of sleep for the first time in a week.

Tonight, the café was quieter than usual. But the soft drone of the espresso machine and a slow playlist of lo-fi piano wasn’t any less therapeutic.

You didn’t come to write. You weren’t even pretending to write. You were just sitting there, enjoying your overpriced drink and the feeling of having absolutely nothing due.

So when Sungchan walked through the doors, you noticed him right away. This time, you waved first.

He raised an eyebrow, amused, but made his way over anyway.

“Wow,” he said, looking at your closed laptop. “No laptop tonight? I almost couldn’t believe it was you.”

“Deadlines are dead,” you announced dramatically. “Long live the part where I get a whole week of being idle.”

He laughed and slid into the seat across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world. “So what is it you write, exactly?”

You took a sip of your drink, leaned forward, and smiled. “You sure you want to know?”

“Yeah, why not?” he replied, smiling. “Is it fiction?”

“Fanfiction,” you said bluntly, watching him for the usual wince or awkward pause.

But he didn’t flinch. He just blinked. “For what? Books? Movies? Musicians? Anyone I’d know?”

You squinted at him. “I mean… probably? They’re a K-pop group.”

“Oh.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “Which group?”

“RIIZE.”

He choked on his coffee and started coughing hard. Alarmed, you sat up straighter. “You okay?”

“Yeah—hot coffee,” he managed, rubbing his chest with the back of his hand. “So… uh, you like them?”

You shrugged. “Not really. I don’t actually follow them.”

His brows furrowed. “But… you write about them?”

“Yup. I treat them like original characters, pretty much. It’s all AU stuff. College tropes, office romances, vampire boyfriends. That kind of thing.”

You figured he was just curious, like most people. So you kept talking.

Jasmin’s fanfic blog was dedicated to RIIZE—a group that, apparently, was popular. And it’s not like you lived under a rock. You knew K-pop existed. You’d heard of BTS and BLACKPINK. You even followed Jennie on Instagram. But you didn’t care much for the industry, and what little you did know came from the occasional trending tweet or article.

“I’m confused,” Sungchan said, laughing softly.

You gave him a knowing look. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I’m actually just the ghostwriter. It’s not even my blog—I get paid to write that stuff.”

He blinked. “Wait, someone pays you to write fanfiction?”

You smirked. “It’s a very popular blog, Chan. I’m talking ten thousand followers. Twenty-thousand notes per post. That kind of popular.”

He leaned back, trying to wrap his head around it. “But… why would someone pay for something people can just read for free?”

You laughed. “That’s the thing. She’s not paying me for the content. She’s paying me to keep up the content. The blog pulls traffic, and that traffic drives her Etsy store. She sells handcrafted RIIZE merch, advertises through the blog, and makes real money off it.”

Sungchan’s expression shifted from confusion to dawning comprehension. “So the blog is basically her marketing campaign.”

“Exactly.” You showed your phone to him, toggled your screen, and scrolled through posts under the ‘riizefanfic’ tag. “See this? Your average Tumblr fanfic gets around 1,000 to 3,000 notes. That’s considered decent.”

He nodded, eyes scanning the dashboard as you toggled to your employer’s blog next. You missed the way he froze when your arm brushed against his.

You pulled up a random post. “And this one? Over 30,000. That’s a lot of people.”

He nodded again, just as you scooted away. He cleared his throat before saying, “Still doesn’t explain why she’d pay that much for a ghostwriter. She’s not making money off the posts directly, right?”

“No. That’d violate fair use. But indirectly? Absolutely. People love her work—well, my work, technically—and that love turns into support for her shop. And if you know anything about custom merch,” you added, sipping your drink, “you’d know it’s not cheap to make… or buy.”

He gave a small laugh and leaned back. “Wow. That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

You smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”

He was quiet for a moment, just watching you look at your screen. Then he asked, “Why don’t you just make your own blog? Post your own stuff?”

You looked up from your drink, already knowing this question would come. “I could,” you admitted. “But there’s no point.”

“No point?”

You leaned back in your seat. “First of all, I’m not a fan of RIIZE. Or any K-pop group, really. So I’m not writing these stories out of love for the group—I’m writing them because it’s a job. That’s reason one.”

He nodded slowly. “And two?”

“Two is the hype,” you said simply. “Jasmin already has a huge following. Ten, maybe fifteen thousand regulars, not counting the casuals who reblog. When she posts something, it blows up by default. I could post the exact same fic on my own blog and it’d probably get a hundred notes. Maybe two hundred if I begged.”

Sungchan let out a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Lastly, and most importantly,” you said, raising a brow, “is that Jasmin pays me. If I made my own blog, that same fic would be up there for free. And no offense to RIIZE or their fans, but I don’t care about them enough to write 20,000 words for free.”

That was the most honest answer you had. You weren’t trying to be rude. You just didn’t see the point in devoting hours of effort into something you didn’t believe in—unless there was compensation.

Sungchan didn’t respond immediately. He just stared down at the rim of his coffee cup, brows knit.

“…That’s oddly upsetting,” he said after a moment, scoffing in a self-deprecating way.

You tilted your head, surprised. “What is?”

He hesitated. “Hearing you say you don’t care enough about RIIZE.”

“Oh, I don’t care about them at all!”

Sungchan’s chuckle came out strained. “Okay. I heard you the first time. It’s just… I don’t know. The idea of someone writing about people—real people—like that, but not actually caring about them is kinda sad.”

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond. “It’s not personal,” you said after a pause. “It’s just work.”

“I know.” He looked away, but you could still see the slight pout forming on his lips.

You frowned. “Stop it. I feel like I’m hurting your feelings.”

He smirked faintly. “Why would you be hurting my feelings?”

“Exactly! It’s not like I’m saying I don’t care about you.” You chuckled incredulously. “But you’re scoffing and pouting, like, are you RIIZE or somethi—”

You paused, seemingly coming to a realization. You stared at him, mouth gaping open. Sungchan straightened in his seat, bracing himself for the words that were about to come out of your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you blurted, hand covering your mouth in shock. “Chan, are you...”

Sungchan could feel his heart picking up pace, beating harder and harder the longer you stared at him, holding back on blurting out exactly what—or who—he was.

“...Are you a BRIIZE?”

Sungchan choked, turning away to cough into his hand. You reached over and patted his back, frowning. “You okay?”

He cleared his throat and recovered. “BRIIZE?!” he croaked, blinking at you with wide eyes.

You nodded, completely serious. “Yeah. That’s what RIIZE calls their fans.”

Sungchan laughed in disbelief and then cleared his throat again before leaning on his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “So you know about BRIIZE but don’t know the members?”

You shrugged. “I don’t see how those correlate. Jasmin calls herself a BRIIZE all the time, of course, I’ve heard it.”

Sungchan chuckled, shaking his head as he scrambled to change the subject.

“So you don’t…” he gestured vaguely, “…look them up? Just to see what they look like before writing about them?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I did once. But I don’t like doing that.”

“Why not?”

You sat back in your chair, fingers curled around your mug. “Because I write mostly on inspiration. And I like to think I’m writing for my own renown, not someone else’s fantasy. It’s important to me that I don’t picture someone else’s face in the image of a character I created. Especially not a guy—or guys—I know nothing about.”

Sungchan tilted his head. “Wouldn’t it help, though? Having a visual?”

“I have all the visuals I need right here,” you said, tapping the side of your head with a small grin. “Trust me. My brain’s got better casting than Netflix.”

He laughed. Genuinely. Then leaned forward a bit. “So if I told you I knew RIIZE… like, personally…”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’d say good for you, and tell you I know Beyonce. She’s on my speed dial.”

He grinned, but didn’t push. “Fair enough.”

Sungchan: guys wake up. she writes fanfic. about US. she doesn’t even like us 😭 Shotaro: wait WHAT who is she send her @ Anton: is this the café girl again? Sungchan: yes. her. she thinks i’m just some guy named Chan Song Also she thinks i’m a BRIIZE 💀 Wonbin: Chan song? You’re joking that’s the fake name you used? Eunseok: Chan Song. Sungchan LMAO Anton: dude he used ur last name lol Eunseok: YOOO?? WTF! Shotaro: wait so she writes about US but doesn’t KNOW it’s YOU while TALKING to YOU this is like a fanfic inside a fanfic Sungchan: guys this is not funny i think i like her Anton: don’t simp. Investigate. Sohee: does she write good stuff tho 👀 Sungchan: its literally so good I think I fell in love with myself reading one I'm scared Shotaro: bro Eunseok: bro 💀 Anton: she could be lying. stop seeing her Sungchan: idc she's cute Wonbin: btw when are you flying back? Shotaro: he hasn't even been gone a week clingy ass

He was just about to type another reply when a shadow fell over the table. He glanced up and nearly dropped his phone.

“Hey,” you said, smiling as you slid into the seat across from him. “You’re uncharacteristically early.”

Sungchan fumbled with his phone, locking it so fast it almost flung out of his hand. “Oh—hi. Yeah. No. I mean—yes. Early. Breakfast. I’m getting breakfast.”

You raised a brow at him, amused. “It’s noon.”

“Brunch,” he said quickly, coughing into his drink.

You sipped your drink, watching him with a soft laugh. “Cool. Me too.”

Sungchan tried not to look like he was malfunctioning. The words “i think i like her” were still visible in his recent messages, glowing up at him from his screen.

You sat there scrolling through your phone for a minute, while he watched you cautiously. Then, clearing his throat, he broke the ice.

“So, um,” he began, taking a sip of his drink before continuing, “I read one of your works last night.”

You blinked. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It was really good. The one where this college guy was childhood friends with the girl and had been in love with her since they were little?”

“Oh, the Jung Sungchan one,” you replied, smiling proudly.

“Right, that one.” Sungchan shifted in his seat, trying to act casual. “That version of, um, Sungchan, is super flirty. But it was a great story.”

“Thank you,” you said, pleased. “I thought you said you weren’t a fan?”

“I’m not,” he said quickly, then paused. “I just wanted to check out your work, which, by the way, your stories are… engaging. And interesting.”

You chuckled, sipping your drink. “You think my version of Sungchan is too good to be true?”

“No, no,” he insisted. “Just… maybe a little bold. His game was unreal. No one I know is that smooth.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well. That’s fiction for you.”

“Anyway, I gotta learn from him. Or, from you,” he said, pointing at you with a crooked grin. “You wrote him, after all.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I did write him, but I can’t help you. Just because I can write charm doesn’t mean I have it.”

He tilted his head. “No? You’re pretty charming to me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you flirting with me, Chan Song?”

“Is it working?” he asked back, tilting his head at an angle that highlights his jawline.

“Try harder,” you replied, sipping your drink. He laughed again, and somehow, the conversation didn’t end.

You started seeing him more often after that. At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence—same café, same hours, nothing unusual. But Sungchan—or Chan, as you still knew him—always seemed to show up within ten minutes of you settling in. Sometimes earlier. Sometimes already there, waiting at a different table before casually strolling over to ask if he could join you.

You’d asked him questions he found weird sometimes. Like, “If you could live in any fictional universe, where would you go?”

But he never hesitated to indulge you each time. “Probably the one where people don’t cancel you for the smallest things.”

You had nodded solemnly. “So… a fantasy world.”

Sungchan laughed then. “Exactly.”

Other times, he asked things that caught you off guard, like, “Do you ever wish you wrote under your own name?”

You paused. “All the time. But honestly? Right now, being paid and anonymous isn’t so bad, I get to put my skills to work and practice until I find something I want to write about in my own name. I can’t just sit around and wait for my big break to magically land in my lap.”

He didn’t argue. He just looked at you like he understood.

He told you about his dream of becoming a pro footballer as a kid. You told him about dreaming of being a novelist before you accidentally became a ghost. He laughed at that, and you told him that, no, you meant ghostwriter—but honestly? Same thing.

You told him you liked waking up early, that the air before sunrise felt like it hadn’t been breathed in yet. He made a face and told you you were always in this cafe pulling all-nighters or just hanging out by yourself.

You said, “That’s what writers do. And I said I liked waking up early, not that I do wake up early every day.”

He laughed then. “You always have to have an answer to everything, don’t you? Bet you don’t ever let anyone have the last line.”

“I always get the last piece of pizza too,” you smirked. “I’m competitive like that.”

Some nights, you were both quiet, lost in your own screens. Others, you filled hours with nonsense—debating which ramen flavor was superior, naming the pigeon that always hovered outside the window, wondering whether ghosts ever got bored of haunting the same house.

Sometimes you get into deep conversations about existence and life. Other times, you debated over the silliest things. But overall, it felt nice to hang out with him. You weren’t sure when it started, but you began looking up every time the cafe doors opened. And you started smiling at the sight of his face.

You didn’t think much of it the first night he wasn’t there. Maybe he had something to do. People have real lives to live. Surely, you didn’t expect him to spend every single night in the cafe like he didn’t have a life outside of it.

But then came night two. Maybe work was keeping him busy. And then three. Maybe he finally got sick of overpriced drinks and jazz playlists.

And by the fourth, you caught yourself glancing up every time the door opened—only to pretend you hadn’t. You stayed a little longer that night, ordered an extra drink you didn’t even want, hoping maybe he was just late.

He wasn’t. He didn’t show. The same way he didn’t for the last three nights.

You went through your past conversations in your head, trying to remember if he’d said anything. A mention of a trip, a warning, a see-you-later. But there was nothing. You thought maybe you’d scared him off. Did something that turned him off. It could be anything.

“Maybe you talked his ears off,” said Isla, your roommate. “I mean, you can talk a little too much sometimes, if I’m being honest.”

You squinted at your ceiling. “Yeah, but, really? He hated it so much that he ghosted me?”

Isla sighed from her bed on the other side of the room, exasperated. “Girl, it’s three in the morning. Please. Can we do this in the morning?”

“Right,” you said sheepishly. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Thank you,” she blurted, covering her face with her blanket. “I love you. But I really need to sleep right now.”

“I know.”

You tried not to overthink it. Maybe it wasn’t something you did. Maybe he got bored. Maybe he was just passing through. People drift. Especially people you never really knew in the first place.

So you went back to writing. Half-heartedly. You kept the same table, kept sipping the same drinks, kept pretending it didn’t feel a little colder without him there. 

And then, nearly a week later, the barista called your name as you were packing up.

“Hey,” he said, jogging after you with something in his hands. “Sorry. Totally forgot. This was left for you.”

You turned, confused. He was holding a small box, taped shut, with your name scribbled in all caps on the lid.

“This… what?” you asked, taking it from him.

“Guy in a hoodie left it. Chan. You know, the one you always hung out with,” the barista said, looking apologetic. “Like, days ago. Said it was for you. My bad. It got shoved behind the register.”

You stared at the box. Your chest suddenly felt too tight for how small it was. Funny how something that small could make your chest feel so full. You sat back down and smiled at the barista. “Thanks.”

The café had cleared out by now. The playlist had looped back to something familiar. You peeled the tape off slowly, your mind racing with thoughts and feelings you couldn’t quite make out, but mostly relief.

Inside, there was a neatly folded note and a small keychain—the kind you’d find in a gift shop. It was shaped like a pen. Silver, a little cheesy, but weirdly thoughtful.

You unfolded the note.

Sorry, I didn’t get to say goodbye. Something urgent came up at work. I’ll be back soon. –Chan (P.S. That’s my number on the back of the tag. In case you miss me a little. I’ll wait for you to reach out.)

You stared at the handwriting for a long time. Then flipped the keychain over. And there it was. An international phone number, and three words: Your Chan Song.

You let out a soft laugh. It didn’t even feel as simple as relief. More like... oxygen, after holding your breath for too long without realizing it. You tucked the box into your bag and stared at your phone for a long moment.

You started texting him that same night. Just a short message—casual and nonchalant, like you weren’t sitting cross-legged on your bed, anxiously watching your phone the moment you hit send.

He replied within ten minutes. And just like that, a new part of your daily routine began. It wasn’t constant. You weren’t glued to your phones. But the messages came often enough that you started to expect them.

A photo of some pastry with the caption: “your favorite lol.”A sleepy update at 2 a.m.: “can’t sleep. what u up to?”

Some mornings, he’d text first, asking if you’d eaten. Other times, he’d disappear for hours with nothing but a quick “brb. work thing.” Still, you found yourself scrolling back through old messages more often than you’d like to admit, re-reading lines that made you laugh or feel some sort of giddy feeling in your stomach.

By the fifth day, he hadn’t texted yet.

You found yourself glancing at your phone more than usual. You even opened your chat, typed something, deleted it, then placed your phone face down on the table—like that would stop you from thinking about it.

He messaged late that night.

Sungchan: Did you miss me? I hope you did. Long day. Tell me something good?

You smiled and almost started jumping up and down on your bed. Only to slap yourself on the face and tell yourself to calm the heck down. “He’s just a guy,” you chastised yourself.

You: The café pigeon is back. Sungchan: I miss the pigeon. And the girl who talks to him like he understands English. You: He does understand English. He just pretends he doesn’t. Sungchan: Smart bird.

That was the last message for the night. You didn’t hear from him the next day. Not that you were counting. But part of you kind of was.

Some nights, while you worked on a new story, you couldn’t focus because you were waiting for his message. Other nights, he’d fall asleep mid-conversation and text you a sheepish “oops” the next day. And even though you still didn’t know what he did for work or why he kept disappearing without warning, you didn’t pry. You just kept texting him anyway.

Because for now, that little corner of connection—between the deadlines and the doubts—was enough.

And besides, you were starting to miss him more than just a little.

“Chocolate chip or matcha?” you asked no one in particular, peering through the glass display with your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets.

“Matcha,” said a very familiar voice beside you.

You froze. Then turned. And there he was—standing just close enough, eyes already crinkling with a smile.

Your heart picked up speed almost embarrassingly fast. Something about hearing his voice again felt like plunging into a cool pool on a hot summer day. Jarring. Refreshing. Kind of impossible to recover from.

“Chocolate chip’s safe,” he continued, nonchalantly like this wasn’t the first time you were seeing each other again after two whole months, “but matcha has ambition.”

You blinked at him, then raised a brow, crossing your arms and pretending like you weren’t actively losing your mind. “Matcha tastes like grass and regret.”

He gasped—actually gasped—and put a hand to his chest, wounded. “Take that back.”

“Never,” you said, grabbing a packet of chocolate chip cookies and walking away with a smirk. Half-hoping he’d follow. 

And knowing he would.

You didn’t have to look behind you to know he was still there. He was matching his steps with yours as you made your way to the counter, pretending like this was any other night and not the moment you’d replayed in your head at least a dozen times since he left.

Sungchan set down his drink next to yours while you paid for the cookies. Then he nodded toward the corner table you always claimed and said, “Still your spot?”

You shrugged like your heart wasn’t doing cartwheels. “Unless you’ve suddenly grown too cool to sit there.”

He smiled. “Not a chance.”

You both slipped into your usual seats. And it was quiet between you for a moment. But not the kind that was awkward and tense, but the kind that happens when someone’s absence had been loud, and now their presence feels even louder.

“So, Chan,” you said, peeling open the cookie packet. “Vanished off the face of the earth, huh?”

Sungchan winced, but not dramatically. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

You nodded slowly, chewing thoughtfully. “I almost thought you’d ghosted me.”

“I didn’t want to,” he said quickly, and you looked up at him. “Had to leave last minute. Didn’t have a way to reach you. Though technically, you were the one who took a while to reach out.”

“Me?” you blurted, scowling, but then you remembered how the barista ‘forgot’ to give you the note Sungchan left you. You glanced over your shoulder, glaring at the oblivious barista. “Yeah, well… turns out someone forgot to give me your note.”

“It’s fine.” Sungchan chuckled, and you turned back to him. “I did think you didn’t wanna bother reaching out at all, but you did eventually, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad you did.”

“Flirting on your first day back?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you brought your cup to your lips. “Calm down, Chan Song.”

Sungchan leaned his head back and groaned in feigned distress. “Is it not working? I practiced hard while I was gone!”

That made you laugh. “Where were you anyway?”

“Places,” he replied casually, placing his elbows on the table. “I was swamped with work. This, um, project I was working on took a while. And it’s not done yet, but I can do it remotely in the meantime.”

“What’s the project?”

“Can’t tell you. Confidentiality clause and all.”

You narrowed your eyes at him in playful suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you’re in the CIA?”

He laughed, and the sound reverberated beautifully in your ears. “No. Definitely not cool enough for that.” 

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. The golden café lights caught in his eyes, turning them to amber, and his usual half-smile was soft and warm. For a moment, it felt like time paused around your little corner of the world. You weren’t thinking about pigeons or playlists or the months in between—you were just watching him, and thinking stupid things like: This is the face I’d give a love interest if I ever wrote a story with me as the heroine.

God, you were so down bad.

“But I did miss this,” he said gently. “You. The coffee. Jazz. The pigeon updates.”

You blinked, pulling yourself back into your body. “He got a girlfriend while you were gone,” you said, exhaling a laugh to cover the way your heart was racing.

Sungchan gasped. “No way.”

“Way. They sit on the third lamp post now. Real estate upgrade.”

He shook his head in mock devastation. “I miss one month and everything changes.”

“Two months,” you corrected, before you could stop yourself.

He smirked teasingly. “You were counting? You did miss me.”

You did, but you weren’t about to admit that, so you rolled your eyes. “I’m a writer. I keep track of time in coffee cups and cafe playlists. Hard not to notice the gaps.”

You lingered in the cafe longer that night. The conversation continued to flow, never quite running out. Something about being back in each other’s presence felt too rare to cut short. You watched the way Sungchan leaned back in his chair, the way his fingers curled around his cup, how his gaze sometimes softened when it landed on you. And maybe it was the mellow jazz or the cookie sugar in your system or the fact that you missed him so much more than you admitted—but the moment soon started to feel intimate.

The café lights had dimmed hours past midnight, and only two other customers remained, tucked into their corners, half-asleep. When even they decided it was time to call it a night, you realized you couldn’t stay forever.

Sungchan glanced at the clock, then at you. “You gonna keep holding this table hostage ‘til morning?”

“No,” you said, sipping from your empty cup. “But I like it here.”

He smiled. “Wanna come over instead? I live five minutes from here.”

Your heart stuttered a little. He said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just two friends, too wired to sleep, choosing to stay in each other’s company a little longer.

So you nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

He didn’t say anything else and just stood up, slid his phone into his pocket, and waited for you to gather your things. When he offered to carry it for you, you didn’t hesitate to hand it over.

The walk was comfortable. You talked about nothing. About the weather, about the stupid pigeon, about how you used to hate lo-fi but now kind of love it. His apartment was small but clean, set up like a showroom for a studio condo. It was well-kept and didn’t really look lived in. But it kind of made sense. He’d been gone for a while after all.

He tossed his keys onto the counter and flicked on a soft lamp near the couch. Warm light filled the room.

“Tea?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, not because you wanted tea, but because you weren’t ready to sit down yet. Not ready for whatever this was becoming.

You watched him move through the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking so relaxed and handsome, and that was when it hit you.

You liked him.

God, you really liked him; your heart wouldn’t shut up about it.

He sat beside you on the couch, knees brushing, the cushion dipping with his weight. It was the first time you really noticed how small you looked next to him. You’d always known he was tall—but now, seated this close, it hit you that he was also broad. Solid, and larger than you were.

Somehow, that realization made the nerves all over your skin tingle.

You didn’t drink your tea. Neither did he. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge or the occasional sound of the city outside. You sat side by side, not touching anymore, but still close enough that your body remembered the warmth from just seconds ago.

Neither of you spoke, but you could feel him glancing your way now and then. All while you kept your eyes on the mug in your hands like it was the most fascinating object in the world.

Eventually, you broke the silence, just to say something. Anything. Just to shake off the static.

“You could’ve texted,” you said softly. “That you were coming back today.”

Sungchan didn’t answer right away. You turned your head to look at him and caught him already looking at you. Then, quietly—like he didn’t even mean to say it out loud—he replied, “I was nervous.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I knew if I saw you again, I’d want to do this.”

You didn’t have time to ask what “this” meant because he was already leaning in and kissing you.

It was a tentative one, testing your reaction. And the second your mouth moved against his, he sighed against your lips and kissed you deeper. Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw, holding you steady. 

You set your mug down without looking. His was abandoned somewhere on the floor. Your knees brushed again, then his hand slid to your waist, pulling you onto his lap.

“You’re warm,” he whispered, wrapping strong arms around your waist, pulling you closer against his own body. “Warmer than you look.”

“Did you think I’d be cold?” you smarted.

That made him grin. I didn’t say that. I said warmer, meaning I already thought you were warm, but you turned out to be warmer than I expected.”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, let’s not argue about semantics right now. We have far more pressing matters to—OH!”

Sungchan flipped you onto the couch with one swift movement, immediately hovering over you and kissing you like it wasn’t a decision, but a pull—like gravity.

You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to.

His hands slid under your thighs as he pulled you closer, your bodies fitting together like this had always been inevitable. His mouth never left yours for too long, just long enough to murmur your name or breathe out a soft curse when your nails dug into his back.

His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, and his lips trailed down your throat. He touched you like he already knew you, like every inch of you had already been memorized in his head and he was just retracing it now, slowly and thoroughly.

Clothes disappeared in the quietest, clumsiest kind of way, in between laughter and breathless silences. He kissed your shoulder when you trembled, grinned into your skin when you sighed, and talked you through it gently, though his pace was anything but.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Messy, clumsy, with a touch of awkwardness here and there, but it was amazing. And at the end of it, when you both curled up into each other, tangled limb by limb and breathing in each other’s skin, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so warm.

Or so wanted.

That night with Sungchan changed everything—and nothing at all. 

You still saw each other at the café, still sat at your usual spot in the corner, still argued about nonsense like whether black coffee was superior to lattes or if matcha was real and not just the new social construct these days (like Pumpkin Spice Latte once was). But more often now, you’d find yourself at his apartment instead.

His apartment became the new favorite spot. Mornings, nights, entire afternoons together on that couch, in his bed, in the shower, on the kitchen counter. There was no routine—only instinct, desire, and passion.

There were days you didn’t even bother getting dressed, moving from bed to fridge in one of his shirts, hair a mess, legs still aching from the night before. He’d pull you in again anyway, say something stupid like, “You’re distracting me from feeding you,” only to set the food aside five minutes later because, well, you were both starving—but not for lunch.

You lost track of how many times it happened. Just that it always started the same—him reaching for you like it was second nature, like your body had become his default setting. And maybe it had. Your shirt lifted before your coffee cooled. His fingers trailing your spine while you brushed your teeth. The two of you under the sheets, out of breath, half-laughing, completely undone.

But it wasn’t just that.

Sometimes you cooked together. Ramen, argued over whether ketchup belonged on eggs, more ramen. Sometimes you fell asleep on his chest mid-movie, only to wake up to him still there, scrolling his phone with one hand, the other resting lightly on your hip like he didn’t even notice he was holding you.

There was no talk about what it meant. No confessions, no “what are we doing?” panic. There was only a growing comfort that settled between your bones like muscle memory.

You told yourself it was just physical. But the way he brushed your hair behind your ear before kissing your forehead said otherwise.

And maybe he knew it too. But neither of you said a word. Because if there was anything stronger than your chemistry, it was your shared refusal to ruin a good thing by naming it.

But of course, things couldn’t just stay that way forever.

One day, you were on his couch again, legs crossed, half-listening to his playlist while you typed away on the laptop resting on your thighs.

“What are you writing?” Sungchan asked out of nowhere, walking into the living room with a bowl of what you assumed was his breakfast cereal.

You shrugged. “Not really writing yet, just brainstorming this new idea for a plot.”

He joined you on the couch, draping one arm on the backrest behind you. “You should write about us.”

You paused. “Why would I do that?”

“Why not?” he said, nudging your leg with his knee. “Come on. Writer girl meets charming cafe stranger who turned out to be an amazing lover.”

You snorted, giving him a look before turning back to your screen. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You don’t think I’m an amazing lover?” he said teasingly, leaning in to kiss your cheek while his hand slid into the hem of your shirt.

You rolled your eyes and swatted his hand away. “You are amazing. But you’re not my lover.”

He looked confused, so you said, “I don’t write about myself. And besides, a lover is more than someone who warms my bed. He’s…” You shrugged. “The boyfriend type. You know?”

Sungchan tilted his head, interested now. “So a lover’s a boyfriend?”

“For me? Yeah. I don’t use that word lightly. If I say lover, I mean he’s mine. Officially. Not just in my bed, but in my life.”

You glanced back at him and saw a thoughtful flicker on his face, replaced quickly by a smug grin. “So…” he said slowly, “this your way of asking me to be your boyfriend?”

You flushed, surprised by the turn of the conversation. “Absolutely not.”

"Why not?" He grinned, leaning closer. “Because I will. No questions asked. Just say the word.”

You stared at him, then laughed softly. “God, you’re serious?”

“I am,” he said, and there was no lilt of teasing in his voice. “I understand why labels are important. It’s better to have some sort of agreement making things official, rather than just cruising with it.”

You were speechless for a moment, watching him look at you with the same fondness in his eyes and the small smile on his lips.

And then, shyly, you said, “Okay.”

His smile widened, and he kissed you—quick and sweet—before whispering, “About time.”

From then on, something had changed. You still hung out the same, still ended up in his bed more often than not, but there was something more certain about it now. Your toothbrush joined his in the cup. Your jackets ended up in his closet. He called you his girlfriend, casually at first, and then like it had always been the case.

And maybe the biggest surprise of all? You started writing a plot about it.

Not in full detail, not everything. But the bones of it. The gist of how it began. How you met this guy at a café and didn’t expect him to stay. How he made you laugh when you were stuck, how he kept you glowing and smiling, and how he now warms your nights with his embrace.

Sungchan left again the following week.

He didn’t want to. That much was obvious in the way he lingered in the doorway, kissing you one too many times, pulling you into one last hug before muttering “I really don’t wanna go” against your hair. But work called, and his time off had already stretched longer than planned.

This time, he didn’t disappear without warning. He told you exactly where he was going, for how long, and promised to call whenever he could. You didn’t ask too many questions. You knew what he did now—not the specifics, but enough. And you didn’t need the whole story to understand the parts that mattered.

You stayed in his apartment for a few nights after he left. It still smelled like him. Your laptop stayed open, pages half-written, but your thoughts kept circling back to him.

On the fourth day, Jasmin messaged you.

Jasmin: Hey! Do you think you can do Sungchan next? Haven’t posted any fic for him in a while, and I think you’d kill it. Something soft and light, maybe? I’m thinking comfort character vibes.”

You stared at the screen, smiling because you had only been working on one plot outline all week. You typed in a reply.

You: Absolutely! I have just the plot for this.

You picked up your laptop and opened a new document. Sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed with the scent of his laundry on your skin. And for the first time, you didn’t write about a character you made up. You wrote about him.

The charming stranger who sat beside you in a café. The man who touched you like he already knew you. The boy who made you laugh as easily as breathing.You didn’t use his name—not really. This was still a fanfic for Jung Sungchan, but every word belonged to your boyfriend, Chan.

Chan came back like he always did—without much warning but with his arms around you before you could ask what took him so long.

“I only have five days,” he said, forehead pressed against yours like he was apologizing in advance. “Work’s close by. I’m technically still on the clock.”

You didn’t ask for details. You knew by now that his version of “close by” meant another country, and “on the clock” meant being shuffled between hotel rooms and planes. But you also knew that if Sungchan had five days off, he’d use all five of them on you.

So you spent time with him. In his apartment. In his bed. In your world, like he’d never left in the first place.

“So… what’s the mystery project this time?”

He smiled at his coffee, noncommittal as ever. “Just work. Same old.”

You gave him a look. “You do know that’s the least convincing answer in the history of ever, right?”

“It’s the only one I can give you right now,” he said, and even though it was vague, he kissed your temple right after. So you let it go, because he was here.

And maybe five days wasn’t forever—but it was still five mornings waking up tangled in his arms, five nights of late conversations and whispered nothings, five chances to pretend that the clock wasn’t ticking.

The first night, he didn’t want to talk. Just kissed you the moment the door shut behind him, backing you into the nearest wall with all the urgency of someone who’d been craving this for weeks. He touched you like he was trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

The second day, he slept. Like, did nothing and just slept for hours. You spent the afternoon working on his bed, glancing at him every now and then to make sure he was still breathing. He looked peaceful for once—none of that usual tension he carried in his shoulders. Just Chan, with his big arms wrapped around your torso, face buried on your side, and long legs curled into his chest.

You couldn’t help reaching for your phone to snap a photo of him like that—like he wasn’t an actual grown man curling up like a baby.

On the third day, you tried to cook and nearly set off the fire alarm trying to make pancakes, and he teased you about it until you flicked batter at his arm. It turned into a flour war, which turned into a makeout session by the sink, which then delayed breakfast by another two hours.

The fourth day was quiet. He sprawled out on your couch while you sat cross-legged nearby, laptop open, fingers moving across the keys.

He glanced over mid-scroll through his phone and asked, “What are you working on?”

“The usual.”

“Fanfic?” He raised a brow. “For which member is it this time?”

You turned your screen toward him slightly, curious to see if he’d have any reaction. Maybe he'd know the member, you thought. Maybe he'd laugh.

Instead, his smile dropped. His posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, and his gaze locked on the name at the top of your document.

“Sungchan?” he said, voice suddenly tight.

You blinked. “Yeah. Apparently another member of RIIZE.”

He stared at the screen. At the words Jung Sungchan in the title bar. At the bullet point list underneath: Soft-spoken. Thoughtful. Says things like “I’ll wait for you” and means it.

Then he chuckled and leaned back on the couch, casual as ever. “For a second there, I thought you were finally writing about me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m writing for Sungchan, not Chan Song. Both names sound oddly similar for some reason, but no. Not about you.”

“Right,” he said, grinning. “You’re very defensive.”

He was right, you were. While you did decide to write about your own story, you didn’t wanna tell him that because it was lowkey embarrassing.

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it and hugged it to his chest, smug. “Can I read it?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a line?”

“Nope.”

He pouted and rested his chin on your shoulder anyway. “I’ll read it when it’s posted, then,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything to that. Just kept typing, trying to ignore the way your heart stuttered a little from having him so close.

On the fifth day, it rained. You didn’t leave the apartment. Barely left the bed. You lay tangled together, limbs sore and words soft, talking about everything and nothing. And when the clock struck midnight, you realized his five days were up.

The seasons blurred before you noticed how much time had passed.

Chan still came and went, and you stayed. Not in the way that you were waiting around for him—no, you had your own work, your own life. But somehow, everything always fell back into place the moment he walked through the cafe doors again. As if time outside of each other didn’t really count.

He still kept things vague. His work, whatever it was, still dragged him away. You knew the time zones changed depending on where he was texting from, but he never gave names of cities. Or clients. Or what exactly he did that involved so many trips and deadlines and a phone that never stopped buzzing.

You didn’t push. Not because you weren’t curious, but because pushing never worked with Chan. He was gentle with your questions—deflecting, redirecting, charming his way around the answers until you forgot why you asked in the first place.

And maybe, for a while, you didn’t need to know more. Because he always came back to you.

You knew his apartment better than he did. Knew where he kept the extra towels, knew how to wiggle the bathroom window when it jammed, knew the name of the neighbor downstairs and which flavor of cup ramen he always kept stocked.

You knew he slept best with one arm under the pillow and the other over you. That he couldn’t stand not working out at least once a day. He liked trying different flavors of smoothies and had a weird addiction to everything matcha.

You also knew he dodged your questions whenever they got too specific. “What’s your schedule like next month?” “Do you miss Korea?” “Will I ever meet your friends?”

He never answered directly. Just grinned or kissed you, or said something sweet to reroute your thoughts. Sometimes, the doubt crept in. Slipped into the silence between goodnights. But most of the time, you were too busy wrapped up in him to notice.

Literally, most of the time.

Like now, for example. He was stretched out across the couch, arms wrapped around your middle, head buried into your chest like a human-sized house cat. You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair, the TV humming quietly in the background.

“You’re too tall for this,” you mumbled, shifting under his weight.

“I’m perfectly sized,” he said, his voice muffled against your shirt.

“Mm. Sure. Perfectly sized to be called a Tiny Giant.”

You felt him stiffen slightly. Then he pulled back, blinking up at you with dramatic offense. “Tiny what?”

You grinned. “That’s what your contact name is in my phone.”

“Me? Tiny Giant?” he asked, pointing to himself like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded. “You’re a giant man who likes to be babied. You literally curl up into me like you’re five foot.”

He scoffed, feigning offense. “So what? Just because I’m tall, I can’t ask to be cuddled by my girlfriend?”

“I did not say that,” you giggled.

“You know what? Call it what you want to.” He pouted, then snuggled back into your chest. “I am a full-grown man. There’s nothing tiny about me.”

You grinned, enjoying his reaction. “A full-grown man who steals only my green skittles and says ‘yummy’ while doing it.”

“You’re a bully,” he huffed, then pulled you close, mumbling into your shoulder, “I like it though. Don’t change it.”

Moments like that made it easy to forget the cracks.

Like how you never saw any family photos. Or how he always changed the subject when you mentioned having Korea in your bucket list of places you wanted to visit. Or how once, you walked in while he was mid-call, speaking Korean in a clipped, professional tone and he hung up the second he saw you.

You wanted to trust him. And most days, you did. But some nights, when he was gone for too long and all you had were his cryptic texts and charming excuses, you wondered who exactly you were sharing your heart with—and your body, and your very soul.

“You’re really warm tonight,” he murmured. 

You were curled into him, naked under the sheets, one arm slung over his chest, your cheek pressed against the warm skin of his shoulder. He played with your hair absentmindedly, twirling it around his finger and bringing it to his nose.

“You say that every time.”

“I mean it every time.”

You smiled into his skin. “Maybe you’re just cold-blooded. Lizard man.”

He chuckled and gave your hip a lazy squeeze. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just…always warm.”

You hummed at that, sleep tugging at your eyelids. He saw that and cupped your cheek to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “Wanna wash up before we sleep?”

“I should,” you groaned, hugging him tighter. “But I’m too tired. My legs aren’t working.”

He chuckled softly. “Can’t say I’m sorry. How about I go take a shower and wipe you down? You can stay here and wait for me.”

“But it’s cold,” you grimaced.

“Either that or be stuck feeling gross all night.”

“You say that like you’re not the one who made me gross,” you mumbled.

Sungchan laughed and kissed you again. Then he climbed out of bed, tugging on his sweatpants and stretching his arms overhead as he padded toward the bathroom.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he warned, pointing at you from the doorway, already smiling. “I’ll be right back.”

“No promises,” you yawned, grabbing the nearest pillow to hug against your chest.

The bathroom door clicked shut. Water began to run. You stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the sounds lull you into that dreamy space between sleep and thought. His phone buzzed once. Then again. 

You glanced over instinctively. It was on the nightstand, vibrating against the wood with an incoming call. 

“Chan?” you called out, voice still hoarse from earlier. “Chan, baby, someone’s calling,” you called out half-heartedly. No answer. He probably couldn’t hear you over the water.

The phone kept buzzing. You didn’t move to answer it—of course not. You weren’t that kind of girlfriend. You just leaned over and peeked at the screen, just to check the caller ID in case it was one of his clients or something important.

The phone stopped ringing before you could read it. You didn’t catch the name. But you saw the wallpaper.

It wasn’t the usual blank black background he always swore was “less distracting.” It was a photo—taken in a studio, professionally lit and filtered.

At first, it was the image itself that caught your eye: seven men standing against a concrete wall, each turned slightly sideways, looking over their shoulders. All dressed in metallic silver jerseys, black gloves, and baggy pants. Sharp styling. Photo-shoot quality. A group shot, you assumed.

But then your gaze landed on him. Same height. Same shoulders. Same side profile you’d kissed a thousand times.

He was looking right at the camera, a half-smile tugging at his lips. The same lips that kissed your forehead goodnight. The same lips that whispered sweet nothings while tangled up in your sheets.

And on his pants was big block letters spelling one word—RIIZE.

You sat up straighter, leaning in without meaning to. Squinting. You didn’t need to zoom in to know it was him. No makeup or hairstyle in the world could change that bone structure, that posture, that slightly tilted way he always carried his chin.

Your Chan.

The bathroom door opened then, and Chan stepped out with a damp towel in one hand, hair still wet, a bead of water trailing down his chest.

“Baby,” he said, voice warm and carefree, “you really should get in the shower. The water is so warm, you’re gonna love it.”

“Chan Song,” you mumbled, making him pause.

He hummed inquiringly. You looked up at him, confusion written all over your face. “Chan Song. Is that your name?”

He froze. Then, with a slow breath, he smiled and said, “Great name, isn’t it? Very main character.”

You squinted down at him. “Is that your real name?”

A second passed, and you could see his smile faltering. “It’s a name.”

“Chan.”

He took a step closer, lifting the towel. “Why are you asking—”

“Don’t.”

You stood, the sheet still tangled around your legs, your body still warm from where he’d touched it. You gestured vaguely at the phone, where the screen had since gone black.

“That’s you. Isn’t it?” you demanded, picking up the phone, tapping on the screen, and showing it to him as soon as it lit up. “Right there. That’s you in the picture.”

His hand dropped. So did the towel. There was a long beat of silence. Then, finally, with his chest still bare and the scent of your skin still clinging to his—he nodded.

“…Yeah.” His voice was almost a whisper. “That’s me.”

You exhaled slowly. “So your name isn’t Chan Song.”

“No,” he said, quieter now. “It’s Jung Sungchan.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Like your brain was still trying to reconfigure what it all meant.

“How long were you planning to lie to me?” you asked, though your voice didn’t rise. If anything, it dropped lower.

“I wasn’t lying,” he said quickly. “I just… didn’t say anything. I wasn’t ready for you to know.”

“Because what?” you snapped. “What did you think would happen if I found out?”

“I don’t know…” he muttered, looking away like he was ashamed to say that.

Heat prickled at your eyelids, and a lump started forming in your throat with all the emotions flooding you. “So, what? What’s all this, then? A double life? A temporary fix? A social experiment to see what it’s like having a foreign girlfriend and living a regular, not-a-celebrity life?”

“No, baby, that’s not what this is. You have to believe me.” He looked at you then, wanting to move closer, like he wanted to fix it with just a word, but you stepped back.

“This whole time,” you whispered. “I thought I knew who you were.”

“You do know me—”

“No, I know Chan Song. The guy who’s gentle and clumsy and curls up on my chest like a six-foot toddler. I don’t know this guy.” You motioned to the phone. “I don’t know him.”

Silence fell over the room again. You waited for him to say anything, but he just kept his head down, sighing deeply every now and then. You swallowed hard and turned away, reaching for your clothes in a daze.

“Wait—baby, wait,” he said, stepping forward as you grabbed your shirt from the floor. “Don’t go. Please, let’s talk about this. Just let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” you said, voice sharp now. “You’re not who you said you were. And I—I can’t do this right now.”

“You’re not even dressed—can you just—please, just talk to me.”

You pulled on your jeans, fingers trembling. “I can’t look at you right now, Sungchan.”

That stopped him in his tracks. The first time you’d ever called him that. You pulled your top over your head and bent down for your phone. You didn’t look at him—not even once—because if you did, your resolve would crack.

He stepped forward again, helplessly hugging you from behind and burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Don’t leave like this. Please. Stay.”

“Would you?” you whispered, staring right at the door. “If it were you in this position, being lied to for almost a year by someone you thought you could trust, someone you love, would you stay?”

He didn’t say anything; he just froze. Then a few seconds later, his embrace loosened. You took the chance to pull away, reaching for the knob and pulling the door open.

And then you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you.

You couldn’t believe it. You really, genuinely couldn’t believe it. But at the same time—God—it made so much sense.

The ambiguity. The secrecy. His habit of dancing around questions with just enough charm to distract you from asking harder. The newly furnished apartment that felt like a hotel suite more than a home. The obscure description of his job. The time zone differences, the weeks—months—where he vanished and only texted in vague updates. All of it.

All of it made sense now.

You sat alone on your bed, still in the jeans you barely managed to tug on before storming out of his place. Your phone buzzed a few times on the table beside you, but you didn’t check it. You knew who it was. You knew he’d call. Probably say all the right things. Probably beg you to understand.

And the worst part? It might work. You’d been so caught up in your feelings, so drawn to his warmth, his stupid smile, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go—how could you not fall for that? He was kind. Sweet. Goofy, even. He made you feel like you were the only person in the world who ever really mattered. But he lied.

And not a small lie, either. Not the kind you could write off as a white lie, or a protective omission, or something forgivable in the name of love. No. He lied about his entire identity. About who he was. What he did. Everything that came before he walked into that café the first time and sat beside you like a perfectly normal guy.

You buried your face in your hands. Let out a laugh that sounded too bitter to be funny. Now here you were—heart broken, pride shattered, and a phone full of messages from someone who wasn’t even real.

Chan Song didn’t exist. Not for real, anyway. There was only Jung Sungchan. And you had no idea who the hell he was.

You didn’t see or talk to him for the rest of the week. And he tried—God, he tried. The messages came nonstop. First through text. Then calls. Then emails. DMs. He even left a comment under your most recent post on your locked side account.

“Please. Just talk to me.”

You deleted it without replying.

Back then, it had felt odd how you never gave him your address. But then again, why would you? You spent most nights at his place anyway. Now, it felt like the smartest thing you’d ever done. There was an odd sense of safety in being unreachable. Emotionally, that is.

You turned off your notifications and buried yourself in writing—not the story you’d been working on about him, of course. You couldn’t even look at that draft without your heart clenching. So you opened something else. Something mindless and cliché, just to stay busy. Just to not think about his face.

Jasmin: Hey! Just checking in—any updates on the Sungchan fic? No pressure, just wondering when you think you’ll be done.

You stared at the message, thumb hovering over your screen. A hundred different responses came to mind. You could tell her the truth. You could say, “Actually, I’ve been hooking up with the real Sungchan for almost a year and just found out who he is.” But you didn’t.

Because even if she did believe you, what then? You’d seen the way some fans reacted to rumors. You weren’t delusional—you knew exactly what kind of firestorm that could bring down on you. On him.

And despite everything, you weren’t trying to ruin him. So you replied with the simplest thing you could.

You: Actually, just finished it. Doing some editing rn, should be ready in a few hours.

Jasmin replied with a sticker of a little bear holding a pencil and a “fighting!!” message. You set your phone down and exhaled slowly. The ache in your chest didn’t lessen, but it dulled a little. Enough to let you breathe through it all.

The next day, at the cafe, you ran into him, which, in retrospect, you should have known would happen. The universe had it out for you, after all.

Right when you finally decided it was enough hiding and you needed to get out of your apartment after a week of holing up inside, you went to your favorite cafe and Sungchan just happened to be there. Of course, he’d be there.

Sungchan was sitting at your usual corner, hunched over a half-finished drink, his fingers absently tracing the rim of the glass like he’d been waiting for something. Or someone. When his eyes lifted and met yours, he recognized you immediately.

His face softened as he stood up. “Baby.”

You turned, already on instinct, but he was quicker. “Wait—please.”

You sighed, not turning back around yet. “Chan, I really don’t wanna—”

“I just want to talk.” His voice was gentle but desperate. “Five minutes. Please.”

You glanced over your shoulder. He looked… awful, actually. Not unkempt or anything. He was, still handsome, still put-together, but there were dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders were sagged like you’d never seen before. That made you pause.

You crossed your arms. “Fine.”

He swallowed. “Maybe… maybe back at my place? Just so we can have some privacy?”

You scoffed, loud enough for the nearby barista to flinch. “Oh, right. So you can charm your way into my pants again and avoid the actual conversation like you always do?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down, ashamed. “No. I didn’t mean—okay. Here is fine.”

You picked the furthest table in the corner, where no one else was seated. He followed you like a scolded child. You didn’t speak and neither did he. The silence stretched too long, and you were the first to break it with a pointed remark, “If you don’t start talking in the next five seconds, I’m leaving.”

He looked up, alarmed, then nodded. “Okay. Okay.”

He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I know it was messed up, but I really didn’t mean for any of this to happen. When we were getting to know each other, you told me you were a RIIZE fanfic write. And I just… I wanted to be friends, but didn’t wanna tell you I was… you know, an idol—the idol you’d been writing about.”

You scoffed. “So instead, you just… pretended to be someone else.”

“I didn’t pretend—”

“You literally gave me a fake name.”

“It wasn’t fake. It’s just…” He faltered. “It’s my name too, in a way. A version of it.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared, dumbfounded by his statement. He continued. “It’s a me who was your friend, and fell in love with you later on. I swear, I wanted to tell you. So many times. But things just kept getting deeper between us and I… I didn’t want it to change.”

“You say that,” you said flatly, “but if you could lie about something as big as your identity, what else did you lie about? Did you mean it when you said I was the only one? Did you mean it when you said I made you feel like home? When you said you were in love with me?”

“I did. I do.”

You let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t sound like you. “Right. Of course. So now you’re lying straight to my face. Oh—wait. You’ve been doing that since the very start.”

Sungchan looked like he’d just been punched in the chest. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. You stood. He stood with you, like he still thought there was a chance you’d change your mind.

“Go home, Jung Sungchan,” you said firmly, brows furrowed, your throat tight and eyes stinging.

He staggered a half-step after you, with a pained expression, like he might fall to his knees any moment now and beg.

“And don’t say you’re home right now,” you added, voice barely above a whisper. “Because we both know you could never have one here.” And with that, you turned and walked away.

You went home and cried—again. It was starting to feel like all your tears had his name at the root. You hated that. Hated how heavy your chest felt, how empty and hollow it was.

You quit ghostwriting that same week. Not just for RIIZE, but altogether. Jasmin didn’t argue. You hadn’t given her a real reason, and she hadn’t pressed for one. She simply said it was about time she got back into writing and thanked you for your service of over a year.

You thought that would be it. That you’d cut ties, burn the bridge, and move on. Except you didn’t.

Instead, you found yourself falling down a YouTube rabbit hole—starting with a random RIIZE music video that popped up on your homepage. You clicked on it out of morbid curiosity, expecting it to be bad, just some overrated visuals and fan-hyped mediocrity.

But it wasn’t. Not even close.

Sungchan was radiant and confident. Moving with precision, singing with excellence, and rapping with a good flow. The same body you knew so well suddenly transformed under the lights. You kept watching these videos, exploring the contents, and surprisingly enjoying them. 

Your roommate noticed by the third day. “Didn’t peg you for a K-pop fan,” she said from the kitchen as you replayed one of their dance practice videos for the third time.

“I’m not,” you called back, eyes still on the screen. “Just watching to see how awful they are.”

But they weren’t awful. The more you watched, the worse it got. You learned their names. Their dynamics. Their strengths. Sohee’s bubbly charm. Anton’s oddly relatable humor. Shotaro’s work ethic. Wonbin’s magnetism. Eunseok’s visuals. Seunghan’s charisma. And of course, Sungchan.

You learned to separate the boy you loved from the idol on stage, but the overlap hurt because now you were seeing pieces of him he’d never shown you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t. Not as Chan Song.

You started seeing the boys differently too. The ones you used to write about like they were plot devices. Archetypes. Playthings for fandoms to project fantasies onto. You hadn’t questioned it before. Never thought twice about why it was okay to give them made-up pasts, invented traumas, perfect romance arcs. Everyone did it. It was normal.

But now? Now you knew their voices. Their faces. Their idol personas—the little ticks and quirks you could never have invented. They weren’t movie characters or book protagonists crafted for the sole purpose of being consumed. They were people. People with careers, pressure, families, real-life stakes. You’d never felt weird writing about fictional characters before. Superheroes, fantasy leads, actors from dramas—you could fictionalize them because the boundary was clear. Fiction was fiction.

And it made you cringe because Sungchan had seen some of your works. Had read them. Had probably imagined what it was like to be fictionalized and flattened, turned into someone else’s daydream.

You remembered the time he’d jokingly said, “You should write about us. Or me.”

You had. Except you hadn’t known who he really was then. And now that you did, it wasn’t funny anymore.

Did he lie when he said they were good? You wondered. He’d read some of your stories and gave you his thoughts. He even pointed out how some of the dynamics didn’t quite fit. You remembered him laughing at one of the lines and saying, “Anton would never say that,” tapping the screen with his knuckle. “He’s too shy for that.”

You’d argued, of course. “Well, maybe fanfic Anton is a little more confident.”

“Yeah, maybe. But that’s not him,” he’d said with a shrug and a smile.

“And you know this because?”

He’d shrugged then, brushing it off casually. “Gut feeling. Have you seen his face? He looks like a dork.”

The memory made you laugh a little under your breath. Laughing about it made you miss him. Missing him made your chest hurt.

You tried to push through it, maybe clean up the dishes or open a new tab on your laptop. But it hit you all at once, like a freight train—this grief you hadn’t fully registered yet. You curled up and a sob escaped before you could catch it. Another followed, louder, more broken.

And then you were crying loudly, uncontrollably, the kind of crying that made your head hurt and your breath hitch.

Your roommate came running from the bedroom, barefoot and wide-eyed. “What happened? Are you okay?”

You couldn’t even answer. You just sat there on the rug with your arms wrapped around yourself like that might stop the aching. It didn’t. “I miss him,” you choked out between gasps. “I miss him so much it hurts.”

Isla crossed the room, crouched beside you, and wrapped her arms around your shoulders. You felt her hand stroking the back of your head gently, shushing you like a child caught in the middle of a nightmare.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You didn’t answer. You just cried harder, buried in the warmth of someone who didn’t need explanations.

The next day, you were alone in the apartment. Isla was out for work, and you hadn’t moved from the couch in hours, legs curled under you, your thumb hovering over the screen, staring at the contact name—My Tiny Giant. Still saved the same way you always had.

That was what he was, after all. Your Tiny Giant. All six feet and something inches of him, always curled up against you like he didn’t have a whole wingspan to spare. Snuggled into your chest for as long as you’d allow him. Loving it when you hugged him from behind like he wasn’t a whole head taller than you

You missed him. God, you missed him. Your thumb hovered over the call button, then pressed. 

It rang once. Twice. Thrice. And a few times more. You were seconds from hanging up when it finally connected. There was a pause, then a groggy voice, low and confused.

“Did I wake you?” you asked.

There was shuffling on the other end. “Who—” He paused, then his voice sharpened. “Baby?”

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Baby, is that you?”

You let out a sob. “Yes.”

You heard a loud thud, something crashing to the floor, and then more movement—Sungchan cursing softly under his breath, fumbling for something.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, a little breathless now, his voice clearing. “Are you—are you still there?”

“I’m right here.”

“Oh, good. Good,” he paused, let out a soft shaky sigh. “Good.”

You didn’t know what else to say. Neither did he. The silence stretch long, filled only by the sound of his breathing from the other line. You had expected to say or hear a lot of things. But right now, in the silence, it felt like there was plenty to say and nothing at all.

“What time is it there?” he asked softly, finally breaking the quiet.

“Early. It’s 10 am.”

He hummed. “Did you eat?”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you. “Yeah.”

“What did you have?”

You shrugged. “Coffee and a bagel.”

“Mm. Still eating like a writer, I see,” he quipped.

He asked about your week. What you’d been doing. If you were eating enough. If your roommate was around. If the weather was nice. You answered in soft, gentle tones, short replies, nods he couldn’t see, but you were listening. You were both trying.

Eventually, his voice began to slow, the spaces between his words stretching further apart until it faded completely.

You didn’t hang up for a while, and just listened to the sound of his breathing, steady and deep, like a heartbeat on the other end of the line.

For the first time in a while, your heart was at ease. You always found it odd when people said the best cure to any pain was what caused it in the first place. But now, you realize they were right.

Sungchan woke up to the first ring of his alarm, but didn’t move. The digital clock blared at his bedside, but he lay still—eyes open, unfocused, fixed on the blank wall across from him.

It felt like something had happened. Something important. But his brain is fogged. He didn’t know if he’d dreamed it, or if you had really called him in the middle of the night with your voice trembling on the other end.

A loud series of knocks made him glance at the door.

“Hyung,” Sohee’s muffled voice said through the door, “your alarm’s been going off for five years. Turn it off.”

Sungchan didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his head and reached for his phone on the nightstand. When he didn’t find it there, he searched for it on his bed, in the sheets, under the pillows. His fingers swiped at the screen as soon as he found it. The light made his eyes squint, but he blinked past it, thumb tapping into his call history.

There it was. My Lovely Writer. Call duration: 2 hours, 17 minutes.

He let out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. It wasn’t a dream. You really had called him last night.

The door swung open, revealing an annoyed Sohee. “Hyung, are you deaf or—” Sohee cut himself off mid-sentence, staring at Sungchan who was grinning from ear-to-ear. “Are you okay?”

Sungchan didn’t look up. He just slowly, quietly turned off his alarm. Sohee blinked at the silence, then narrowed his eyes. “What got you smiling like that?”

Sungchan didn’t answer that either. He simply smiled wider, dazed and quiet, still staring at your name on his phone like it was already the best thing that had happened all day.

And then—without a word—he pulled Sohee into a hug. 

“Okay, you’re being weird,” Sohee muttered, stiff as a board in his arms.

Sungchan just hummed. A low sound, somewhere between a laugh and a breath of relief. Then he got up, still wearing that strange, faraway smile, and walked out of the room with his phone in hand—already drafting a message to you.

He walked into the kitchen like he hadn’t spent the past week stomping around like a sleep-deprived ghost with a broken heart. Like he hadn’t just been curled up on the living room couch two days ago rewatching Totoro in the dark.

He was humming. Everyone turned to stare.

“…No way,” Anton said from the fridge, holding a half-empty juice carton.

“Holy shit,” Eunseok whispered dramatically. “It’s alive.”

Wonbin blinked, midway through his skincare routine. “Is he humming?”

“He’s humming,” Shotaro confirmed, poking his head out of the hallway. “And smiling. Jesus. Someone check the weather. Is hell frozen?”

Sungchan just gave them a sleepy grin and reached for a mug. “Good morning, children.”

“What the hell happened?” Shotaro asked.

Anton squinted suspiciously. “Did you win the lottery?”

“Better,” Sohee said, joining everyone in the kitchen. “I think they made up.”

Sungchan didn’t answer, but his grin gave him away.

“Oh my god,” Eunseok gasped. “He’s back. He’s so back.”

“I told you he’d cheer up eventually,” Sohee cheered, slapping Anton’s arm like this was a bet he’d won. “You owe me ten.”

“Alright, spill,” Shotaro said. “What did she say? Did she take you back? Did you cry? Did you cry?”

“I didn’t cry,” Sungchan denied.

“He definitely cried,” Wonbin mumbled.

“He sobbed,” Eunseok said. “He probably started crying the second he heard her voice.”

“I did not cry,” Sungchan said, smiling so hard now it looked like it hurt.

Shotaro slung an arm around his shoulders and shook him like a wet rag. “You did, didn’t you! Oh my god, you cried. I’m so proud of you.”

“No, I didn’t, though, I almost did,” he admitted. “But she called. And I heard her voice. That’s all.”

The teasing died down for a moment. Then, gently, Shotaro clapped him on the back. “You’ve been walking around here like your dog died for a week,” he said. “It’s good to see you alive again.”

Sungchan laughed. “Thanks.”

Wonbin pointed at him dramatically. “Just don’t screw it up this time, lover boy. I really like her.”

“You haven’t even met her,” Sungchan said.

“Yeah, but I like her better than you,” Wonbin said smugly, crossing his arms. “Her Wonbin stuff was impressive. Almost like she knew me personally.”

Everyone groaned. “She made you delusional,” Sohee muttered.

Sungchan didn’t say much after that. He just sipped his coffee, phone in hand, thumb absently brushing over your name on the screen. He straightened up when your reply came in, then he left his mug on the counter and ran back into his bedroom.

“...He’s running. Did she text back?”

“I think so.”

“Godspeed, king,” said Anton, not even looking up.

Sungchan: Back in town, baby. Wanted to see u first but didn’t know where you’d be 🙁 My door’s unlocked if you wanna come over Maybe we could meet at the cafe? Lmk babygirl Babe :( text me back i miss you Pretty girl Baby girlll Where are youuuuu my loveeee????

You didn’t bother knocking. Didn’t even tell him you were coming. You’d rushed out of your apartment and took the first cab to his place. But you stood outside his unit for a few minutes, trying to steady your breath and make sure you didn’t appear like you were too eager to see him again.

Then, after wiping your sweat and checking your reflection in the elevator doors, you stepped into his apartment.

It was clean, dimly lit, and quiet. It still smelled like him—matcha, laundry, a hint of sandalwood body wash—and the scent wrapped around you like a familiar hug. You didn’t realize how much you’d missed it until your lungs started to ache.

You’d barely taken a step inside when hurried footsteps thundered down the hall, and Sungchan popped out from the door with his eyes wide. 

“Baby!” he exclaimed, darting from the bedroom door to the foyer where you were kicking off your shoes.

He stopped himself from pulling you into a hug, clenching his fists at his side like he wanted to wait for you to make the first move. He watched you move quietly, like he was scared one wrong breath would scare you off again.

You kept your eyes on him, not quite smiling, but not looking upset either.

“Hi,” he greeted sheepishly.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

His eyes widened slightly, confused but then he played it cool with a nervous chuckle. “No, but I… well, I didn’t wanna… overstep.”

You scoffed then crossed the room slowly. He stayed still until you were close enough to touch, but he didn’t reach out just yet. He was about to, but he stopped himself again.

“I said I’d give you as much space as you need,” he said, hiding his hands behind his back.

You chuckled, dropping your keys on the counter and your bag on the floor. With your hands now free, you open your arms wide for him. “Come here, you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The second your arms opened, he was already in them—hugging you like he’d spent years without the feel of your body against his instead of just a few weeks. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a ragged breath.

“I missed you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt to say. “I missed you so much.”

Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, gripping him like you couldn’t believe he was real again. That warmth, that scent, that heartbeat thudding against your chest—it was everything you had almost lost to pride and prejudice.

Your hands came up to cup his face, and he looked at you like he was melting under your touch.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. You just kissed him hard and fast and desperate and feverish—like you hadn’t done so in years instead of weeks. Like nothing else mattered except the way your lips found his, over and over again. He kissed you back like a man starving, stumbling forward as you tugged at his collar, your bodies crashing together in the middle of the room.

Neither of you broke the kiss as he backed you into the hallway, bumping into walls, fumbling for direction, your hands already slipping beneath his shirt. He laughed into your mouth when you accidentally hit your hip against the hallway cabinet, but you didn’t stop. Not even for a second.

You reached the bedroom with matching gasps, half-laughs, your kisses turning sloppier with every step. Your clothes were peeled away with every step—his hoodie first, then your top, followed by your skirt, then him shimmying out of his jeans. His hands found your waist, your back, your thighs—every familiar curve he’d been aching to hold again.

By the time you tumbled onto the bed, only your underwear remained. You bounced on the mattress, but neither of you noticed. You were too busy chasing each other’s mouths, tracing skin, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“I love you,” he murmured against your skin, and you felt your heart do a cartwheel in your chest.

His lips crashed into yours again, harder this time. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them open around his hips, grinding against you with a soft groan that made your skin prickle.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips. “Missed you so bad.”

Your nails dug into his back as you bucked your hips against him, the friction sending heat all over your spine and low in your belly. You tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers slipping under, pulling until he helped you push them down. He leaned up just long enough to kick them off, then reached for your underwear, eyes locked on yours for permission.

You nodded. Breathless. Barely able to think.

He dragged them down slowly, eyes never leaving your face as he dropped them to the floor. His hands returned to your thighs, trailing upward, fingers brushing where you needed him most, making you gasp.

“Can I—”

“Yes!” you whispered back before he could even finish his question. “Yes, please, Chan. Touch me.”

He chuckled lowly and leaned down again, kissing the hollow between your breasts before taking your nipple into his mouth. You moaned, legs tightening around his waist, desperate for more, desperate to feel him again in the way that made your world tilt.

His hand moved expertly between your legs, circling, pressing, flicking. Fingers going in and making you gasp. He continued to ravage your boobs, moving from one to the other, all while playing with your sex like he’d memorized exactly how you liked it—he had.

“Chan,” you cried, voice broken and needy. Your hand slipped down his toned chest, reaching to wrap your fingers around his manhood. “Inside, please.”

“Yeah?” he rasped, mouth wet against your skin. “Need me that bad, baby?”

You grabbed his face, pulling him into another dizzying kiss. “Sungchan,” you said, breath broken. “Now.”

He reached between you, stroking himself once, twice, before lining up. He slid into you in one long, slow thrust—so deep, so perfect it knocked the air out of your lungs. You clung to him, gasping into his shoulder, nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your neck. “Perfect. So perfect.”

He moved slowly at first, like he wanted to savor it—every inch, every gasp, every whimper you let out against his ear. Your bodies moved in sync, your hips rising to meet his, and every thrust had your thoughts scattering, your mind teetering to the edge of insanity.

“Sungchan—” you moaned, breath catching.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed, eyes locked into yours, his thrusts never faltering. “Say it, baby. Say my name.”

“Sungchan—AH!” 

He picked up the pace, rolling his hips deeper, faster, making you cry out. Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, dragging him closer, keeping him there. His name echoed from your lips again and again like a mantra. He kissed you through it—sloppy, hot kisses broken by moans and the sound of skin slamming against skin.

You felt him everywhere. In your chest. In your stomach. Between your legs. In the tears burning at the corners of your eyes because you’d missed this—missed him—so much it hurt.

It was messy. Beautiful. Too much and not enough. He touched you like he was trying to rewrite every memory of the last week—like if he held you hard enough, long enough, the world might go back to how it was. And you let him. You let him love you the only way he knew how right now.

Your body tightened beneath him, euphoria catching up fast, and he felt it. He whispered encouragements against your neck, his thrusts turning desperate.

“Come for me, baby,” he begged. 

You cried out, body arching, eyes squeezing shut as release crashed through you. He followed with a broken moan, thrusting once, twice, then spilling into you with a deep groan of your name.

The aftershocks made your body tremble. He didn’t pull away right away—just collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, both of you breathing hard.

You didn’t speak yet. Not because you didn’t have anything to say. But because neither of you wanted to break the fragile, golden silence that had finally returned. The moment between the storm and the cleanup.

The one where you both got to breathe.

The room was warm. Your skin was still buzzing, lungs still trying to remember how to breathe at a normal pace. Sungchan hadn’t moved much—just rolled onto his side so he wouldn’t crush you, one arm still draped over your stomach, his face pressed into your shoulder like he had no plans of going anywhere.

You stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly, your chest rising and falling with every breath. Everything felt heavy. Not physically, but emotionally. And not sadly, just, generally heavy. Like having a question you wanted answered so so desperately.

He let out a breath, soft and shaky, then murmured, “We can talk about it… If you want.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “We should.”

You turned on your side so you were face to face with him. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth sooner? Were you ever going to? Did you ever plan for this to become serious?”

He chuckled heartily, kissing your knuckles. “How about one question at a time?”

You didn’t respond, instead, you just furrowed your brows at him. He sighed. “Okay. Fine. Everything at once.”

You tutted. “Stop weaseling your way out of this.”

“I’m not. I really wanted to tell you the truth sooner,” he said finally, eyes flickering to the ceiling like it held answers. “So many times. Especially when we started getting serious. I just… I couldn’t figure out how. Every time I thought about telling you, I got scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“That it would change everything,” he said, sighing. “That you’d stop seeing me and just start seeing… him. Jung Sungchan. RIIZE. The idol. The fantasy. Not the guy who loved curling up in your lap and eating green Skittles out of your hand.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly.

“I was stupid,” he added, before you could say anything. “I know that now.”

You were quiet for a moment, taking in the sincerity on his face and his voice. Then you said, “I didn’t fall in love with Sungchan from RIIZE.”

He looked at you, confused but expectant. You smiled, continuing, “You know exactly who I fell for. Chan Song, some tall, handsome, adorable dork.”

He chuckled, but didn’t say anything.

“And I’m still in love with him, with you,” you confessed, and it felt like the easiest thing you’d ever said. Sungchan’s mouth parted, surprise painting his expression. 

You reached out to cup his cheek. “I just wanted to know if, even if you lied about who you were, was everything else real?”

He held your hand against his cheek. “It was. It still is.”

“I need to hear that you knew it was wrong. That you’re sorry.”

“I am. I’m so sorry,” he said instantly. “I’m so fucking sorry. Not just for lying, but for not trusting you enough to tell you the truth.”

His grip of your hand tightened, and he intertwined your fingers carefully, as if afraid you might pull away.

“I love you,” he said. “I don’t know if I deserve you, but I love you. I don’t want to lie ever again. So if you want to ask me anything—anything at all—I’ll tell you everything. Honestly.”

“Okay,” you said softly.

Sungchan leaned in to kiss you, hand cupping the back of your head, eyes closed and savoring it like it was the first time. When he pulled away, he had a contented smile on his lips. You smiled back and planted a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I still don’t know everything about you,” you whispered.

“That’s okay. You know the important parts.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know later.”

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m still mad,” you said, lips twitching.

“Totally fair.”

“And you’re still on thin ice.”

“Understood,” he nodded solemnly.

You tilted your head toward him and finally smiled. “But I love you too, Jung Sungchan.”

He let out a relieved exhale. “Oh, damn. Can you say it again? My name?”

“Jung Sungchan?”

He closed his eyes, humming, and it seemed to relax something in him. “Shit. I think I might bust a nut.”

You chuckled and then hit his chest playfully. “Stop overreacting!”

Sungchan just grinned, pulled you back into his arms, and locked you in a tight embrace. “I love you so much, please don't go bald.”

That made you laugh, and he did too. You spent the night like that, laughing, giggling, and talking like no time had passed at all. Like nothing outside of that small bedroom ever mattered.

That was just wishful thinking. You knew there would be a whole lot of things you'd need to face, a whole lot of adjustments now that you knew who he was. But you'll worry about those later. For now, you'll focus on this moment right here.

[fin]

[vxnillabxn]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x puppy gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluffy fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚SO, based on my last post, i was requested to write the reader as the doggo and puppy hybrid this time! i hope you enjoy this one as well. ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚caleb is a dog person, i just know he is. he saw the cutest puppy —you— and decided it was time for him to have someone else in his tiny family of one.

﹙♡﹚he adores you, 100%. he takes you out like… four times a day, or at least every time you only glance towards the door and whine softly. and he's more than happy to play and run around until you're worn out and fall asleep in his arms for the whole afternoon.

﹙♡﹚he takes you everywhere, and i mean it. he bought this baby vest thing, and he just… takes you with him. you're his puppy, after all, and he likes knowing you're always safe, so what better than staying right next to him?

﹙♡﹚he won't feed you kibble. no way. he'll cook healthy and dog-friendly foods for you, with protein, veggies, nutrients and everything the cutest puppy ever needs. and when i tell you your coat shines? it really does shine.

﹙♡﹚he bought you a harness for when he takes you out, and it's the cutest thing ever. it has lots of cute apples and little hearts, and his gallery is full of pictures just of you.

﹙♡﹚now, if you were a puppy hybrid, i'm sure you two met when you were little, when other kids were making fun of your fluffy ears and tail. he defended you and promised to take care of you for the rest of his life.

﹙♡﹚but… now that you're both grown, he teases you a lot. when you're mad, he'll just… pat your head and make your tail wag like crazy. it's not fair at all, but he always gets you to smile. after all, you're his pretty and cheerful pips!

﹙♡﹚this man will hold things out of your reach just to make you jump or whine like a puppy would. however, you just have to flatten your ears and tug your tail between your thighs, and he's frantically apologizing and giving you anything you ask for.

﹙♡﹚he takes you out, too. i mean, you are half-human half-puppy, you need to walk and burn energy! though, he sees them as tiny dates, and he'll always make sure to walk you to the prettiest places, or to the nicest cafés, just to share a cute time together.

﹙♡﹚and that said, he won't let you go anywhere by yourself. sure, you're capable and strong, but you're also his biggest treasure. he's scared other people will stare, or that other puppy hybrids might be bigger or aggressive and try something weird, so… yeah, no. he has to go with you.

﹙♡﹚he'll cuddle you a lot. he likes how your ears feel against his neck when he hugs you close, and he loves the way your tail hits the soft mattress with happy thuds. he'll tell you how good you are just to see that soft, dumb smile on your lips.

﹙♡﹚after getting the robotic prosthetic on his arm, you two get quite a lot of stares when you go out, especially because of the odd pair you make. however, when you look up at him with that soft gaze, tail wagging excitedly as you hug his metallic arm and smile so warmly… he doesn't care about anything else.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚you appeared out of nowhere. he was painting peacefully, when he suddenly saw tiny paw prints trailing from his studio to his bedroom. of course, the main door of his mansion was unlocked, and the fluffiest puppy —you— casually barged in and decided to explore.

﹙♡﹚upon finding you trying to jump on his bed, he quickly picks you up. you've created such a messy masterpiece on his floor, and now you want to ruin his bed? fantastic! he loves it. he keeps you instantly.

﹙♡﹚the first thing he does is get you a pearl collar. he makes sure it's not too tight… and you look absolutely adorable in his eyes.

﹙♡﹚you're his inspiration now. sure, many art critics were confused when his new exhibition had dozens of paintings signed with paw prints, and they were even more dumbfounded upon seeing a whole portrait of a puppy sitting proud and mighty against a colorful marine background. if they don't get it, that's their problem.

﹙♡﹚his studio is literally full of sketches and paintings of you in silly poses. you asked for belly scratches? stay still, he'll sketch you. you curled up in his lap to nap? he's sketching you. you accidentally got your head stuck in a bag of snacks? you guessed it… sketch!

﹙♡﹚he refuses to get a leash. absolutely not. and a harness? no way! you should run free! well… only at the empty beach, and only while he's close next to you. he lets you roam to your heart's content, though your tiny paws never lead you too far.

﹙♡﹚if you were a puppy hybrid, i feel things wouldn't change much. you'd still be his muse, his inspiration, his everything, because you're so damn adorable.

﹙♡﹚you two would bicker a lot. and i mean… every day. he whines and puts on a dramatic show, and you counter with your puppy eyes, both of you trying to outdo each other, eventually arguing about who's cuter. you always win.

﹙♡﹚he'll take you to the beach just to see you swimming “doggy style.” you don't find it funny, that's literally how you swim! but he finds it absolutely hilarious and adorable, and makes sure to record it whenever he can.

﹙♡﹚he will make sure your ears and tail are perfectly groomed before you go out. he takes his time, delicate fingers combing through the soft fur, whispering how cute you are and how pretty you'll look.

﹙♡﹚he makes you paint with your tail. he asked once, you refused. but then, you accidentally got paint on your tail, and he just so happened to praise you until you were a giddy mess, wagging your tail and hitting the blank canvas he —very conveniently— placed behind you. “ah, aren't you a natural, cutie?”

﹙♡﹚he'll proudly take you to his art exhibitions, and he'll make sure everyone knows who his muse is. “yeah, see that highlight over there? caused by this magnificent tail,” or “ah! this 270 cm x 380 cm painting? that's my cutie right there, in their full glory! too big of a canvas? no, my cutie deserves the biggest one ever.” he adores you.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚okay, sylus is a cat person, but when the twins brought back a tiny and defenseless pup, claiming they would take care of it, he knew that was not ideal. they would kill you accidentally, or play too rough with you, so he took you under his wing.

﹙♡﹚once you were able to walk and see the world around you, you would bark at the twins like a little angry thing. you'd also bark at mephisto, your whole body shaking and tiny barks echoing in the room. ah, you were feisty. sylus liked that a lot. it made him smitten with you.

﹙♡﹚now, he takes you everywhere. he carries you in one arm, even when making business. you're his good luck charm, and his decisions are based on whether you wag your tail or, on the contrary, bark.

﹙♡﹚he gets you the best food. he wants you to grow up strong, fierce, and with the most luscious coat ever. he gives you tons of toys, lots of warm blankets for you to sleep in —if you're not sleeping in his bed— and he even got you an expensive collar with a chip in it. he needs to ensure your safety.

﹙♡﹚he takes you out at night, which is good because there are no other dogs around, and you can run free. he's taught you lots of commands, too, but he prefers when you don't listen. he knows you're smart and understand him perfectly, and he likes it when you defy him. it's adorable.

﹙♡﹚he has a very specific list of who to trust when it comes to your care. said list has two names: his, and your vet's. he absolutely brings the twins fully armed to every visit, ensuring the vet doesn't make any mistake or make you feel uncomfortable. it's a life-or-death situation for the poor doctor, but he earns quite the sum, so he doesn't complain.

﹙♡﹚now, if you were a puppy hybrid, he wouldn't let you rest at all. he'd always be caressing your hair, scratching behind your ears, under your chin… and even when you remind him you are NOT a cat, he knows you like it. your wagging tail gives you away.

﹙♡﹚he loves how expressive you are, even when you try to hide it. your ears go up or down, your tail shows how you feel, so truly, nothing gets past this man.

﹙♡﹚he'll praise you. when you feel overwhelmed by the amount of energy you have to spare, or when you're bored and restless, he'll lift you up, place you in his lap and kiss between your ears, listing all the things he has in mind just for you. after all, he wants you to be as happy as possible.

﹙♡﹚he'll groom your fur. you already know he has to. when you step out of the shower, he pats his bed and makes you sit with your back pressed to his chest.

﹙♡﹚he dries and brushes your ears, your tail, your hair… making sure it's fluffy enough and that you're not shedding too much. when it comes to you, he only buys the best, though you keep telling him your shampoo is fine and you can just shake your head dry. naturally, he refuses. not under his watch.

﹙♡﹚he's so proud of you. even if you ever feel self-conscious about being a puppy hybrid, he'll reassure you. you're his to love, his to protect, and his to keep safe. he'll proudly show you off at galas and important events, and no one dares comment on it —because they wouldn't get to breathe the next day.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚xav found you hidden behind a bush deep inside the forest. you were happily munching on berries, your puppy belly full and your snout stained purple. he immediately picked you up and brought you home.

﹙♡﹚now, it's safe to say xavier is a puppy himself. he literally naps with you, and you both sleep for… twelve hours straight. he'll cuddle you against his neck, and together you drift off under a warm blanket cocoon.

﹙♡﹚he usually puts his hoodie on backwards, so he can tuck you inside the hood and carry you around. he also loves taking you to his balcony at night, just to watch the city lights sparkle together.

﹙♡﹚he's very protective. if anyone stops to admire how cute you are, he'll quietly cover you and walk away, afraid someone might snatch you away from him —like a hawk stealing a tiny chick. he's a mother hen, ready to hiss or bite if he has to.

﹙♡﹚this poor boy does feed you kibble, but he tries his best to add nutritious things too! if you don't eat what he serves, he'll sulk for days. he just wants you to be healthy and happy.

﹙♡﹚he takes you on walks wearing the prettiest harness —it even glows in the dark, because he can't stand the idea of losing sight of you, even for a moment.

﹙♡﹚as a puppy hybrid, if you were left solely under his “protection,” you probably wouldn't last a week. thankfully, you at least know how to boil veggies and cook rice, so you end up feeding both of you.

﹙♡﹚he loves playing catch with your tail. when you wag it gently, he can't help but try to catch it, completely captivated by such a silly game. aren't you supposed to be the cute one, though?

﹙♡﹚he teaches you tricks. yes —even as a puppy hybrid. “hand,” “talk,” “jump,” “spin.” at first, you just raise an eyebrow at him… but when you see that dreamy, adoring look in his eyes, you always give in.

﹙♡﹚he takes baths with you. he'll hug you softly from behind in the tub, careful not to wet your puppy ears. always gentle, always patient, even when you squirm or splash unconsciously.

﹙♡﹚he would 100% buy dog ears and an attachable tail to match you when you go out together. he knows he can't be as cute as you, but seeing your shy smile makes it completely worth it.

﹙♡﹚most of the time, he's more chaotic than you. even if you feel like you're the one looking after him, the truth is he silently protects you: making sure you're never cold, hungry, or anxious —whether at home or outside.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚he didn't plan to adopt —not even close. but yvonne found a box outside the hospital, and they all convinced zayne to take care of the sickly puppy, since he was the only one taking a week off.

﹙♡﹚safe to say, he kept you. during that week, he realized having you around kept him company, and you were the only tiny creature that willingly approached him, cuddling against his cold skin without hesitation.

﹙♡﹚your health is far beyond his expertise, so he definitely pulled some strings to find the best veterinarians and groomers. if he can't care for you himself, he'll make sure you're under the safest, most trusted hands.

﹙♡﹚this man did his research, okay? your breed, your ideal diet, possible genetic diseases —anything he might need to know to guarantee you a happy, long life.

﹙♡﹚he feeds you the best. raw diet? if the vets recommend it, done. premium kibble mixed with broth and veggies? you got it. only homemade food? absolutely. and if you beg for something he's eating, he'll usually give in —unless it's chocolate. in that case, he'll literally lock himself away until he finishes, because your puppy eyes are too much for him.

﹙♡﹚he takes you on his research trips. at first, he thought it wasn't prudent —someone else could watch you, right? but the first time he left, he had to come back the same day because you wouldn't eat, wouldn't leave the door, just waiting for him to return. never again.

﹙♡﹚if you were a puppy hybrid, he'd look up everything about your care, especially things that might not be fully human. he prefers to know for certain, just to keep you safe and happy.

﹙♡﹚he'd always keep you close when he isn't busy. if you visit his office, he'll absentmindedly scratch behind your ears or pat your head —relieving his stress and making you the happiest pup in the world.

﹙♡﹚he'd even fix his clothes for you. when he noticed you liked wearing his shirts, he discreetly cut holes for your tail. not that anyone notices —and even if they did, he wouldn't care.

﹙♡﹚he's extra attentive when you're feeling unwell. sure, you're mostly human, but he knows there could be things he doesn't fully understand. so this sweet man will literally refuse to let you go, calling anyone he can to ask every important question.

﹙♡﹚he knows you need enrichment, so he'll get creative: letting you chase your own tail around the living room, or hiding little sweet treats all over the house for you to find on a treasure hunt.

﹙♡﹚and he teases you. a lot. every soft whine, little bark, or innocent head tilt makes him smile. he never thought he'd want something like this in his life, but now that you're here… he loves it more than he could ever admit.

[mocchiixxx]

Sunshine, Multiplied (Joshua x Reader)

Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Sunshine x Chill Duo

Summary: Joshua is known for being calm and collected, but dating you—a hyperactive ball of sunshine—is the ultimate test of his patience. You drag him on spontaneous adventures, overwhelm him with energy, and make his life anything but boring. And despite it all, he’s utterly, completely smitten.

Joshua Hong had always been known as the calm, collected gentleman of SEVENTEEN. He handled chaos with a patient smile, balanced the group’s energy with steady warmth, and rarely, if ever, got flustered.

And then he met you.

His girlfriend. His walking ball of sunshine.

Who, somehow, had even more energy than DK himself.

It wasn’t that Joshua didn’t love it, because, oh, he did. But keeping up with you? It was a challenge. A fun one, but still a challenge.

"SHUAAAAA!"

Joshua barely had time to brace himself before you launched at him, wrapping your arms around him like an overly excited puppy. He let out a soft laugh as he caught you, steadying both of you before you sent him toppling to the floor.

"Hi, baby," he greeted, amused.

You grinned up at him. "I missed you!"

His brows lifted at this, amused. "I just saw you this morning."

"And I still missed you!" You dramatically clutched your chest. "Is that a crime?"

Joshua chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no. Just unexpected."

You pouted, squishing his cheeks. "You should be excited to see me too!"

"I am excited," he assured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Just not in the ‘scream and jump on me’ kind of way."

"Booooring!" You huffed, but the way your cheeks turned pink betrayed how much you loved the little forehead kiss.

Joshua smiled knowingly. "See? You like it when I’m soft."

"…Maybe."

He shook his head in amusement. "So, what’s up? Why the sudden burst of energy?"

You gasped. "Shua. I always have energy. Have you met me?"

"Unfortunately," he teased, making you lightly smack his arm.

"Rude! But anyway," you said, already moving on, "let’s go do something fun!"

Joshua tilted his head. "Like what?"

You beamed. "Like go on a spontaneous date! Let’s go eat ice cream, go to the arcade, and—"

Joshua exhaled, a small but fond smile on his lips. "Didn’t we just go on a date yesterday?"

"So?" You pouted, clinging to his arm. "You love spending time with me, right?"

Joshua sighed in fake defeat, pulling you closer by the waist. "Yeah, yeah, I do."

"Then let’s gooo!" You bounced on your feet, tugging at his hands.

"But what if…" he trailed off, eyes twinkling with mischief, "we stay in and have a chill movie night instead?"

Your face scrunched up. "Chill? Boringgg."

"We can watch whatever you want," he bargained. "Even that cringey rom-com you love."

You gasped dramatically. "You mean The One I Watch At Least Once A Month Because It’s A Masterpiece?"

Joshua laughed, already knowing he had won. "Yes, that one."

You crossed your arms, pretending to think about it. "Hmmm… Ice cream and arcade or cuddling with my super hot boyfriend and my favorite movie…"

Joshua hummed. "You do love cuddling with me."

"True, true." You tapped your chin before suddenly lighting up. "WAIT. We can do both! Arcade first, then movie night!"

Joshua blinked, processing your infinite energy levels. "You’re not tired?"

"Of what? Life? Love? You? NEVER!"

He sighed, already knowing he had no choice but to follow along. "Fine, let’s go."

You cheered, jumping excitedly before grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the door. Joshua only shook his head, amused but deeply, deeply in love.

Because while dating you was like dating a human embodiment of sunshine on caffeine, you also happened to be his sunshine.

And honestly? He wouldn’t change a thing.

Author's Note: Other members having girlfriend opposite to them are coming soon (I'll base it on the personality of their ship btw)🫣

[jadeoru]

shame marathon! - iwaizumi x reader

after begrudgingly agreeing to see the minions movie with his friends, he hoped no one would see him in this state: dressed in small denim overalls, with yellow face paint sloppily smeared all over his face.

unfortunately for him, the person serving him popcorn was exactly his type.

warnings: minions. this is so stupid lmao, iwa dressed like a minion, terrible jokes, deadpool is awesome, awkwardness, cursing, terrible flirting, clu declared this silly and whimsical!!, fluff! wc: 2.8k

a/n: this is entirely self indulgent i work in a cinema and was overwhelmed by the amount of grown people dressed as minions LMAO ^__^

Iwaizumi had never felt true shame until now. His denim overalls were far too small for him, so he walked cautiously - scared that if he flexed his biceps even slightly, the buttons would pop off. He regretted every action he made that led him to this moment. Embarrassment heated his face as he watched his friends enthusiastically hide their candy stash in their pockets. They looked ridiculous: sporting the same overalls as he was. At least theirs actually fit them. Their faces were poorly painted yellow, and some of them (Bokuto and Hinata) even went as far as to wear goggles. He buried his hands in his pockets, silently hoping that even by only covering his hands, somehow, magically, the rest of him would be hidden too. With a tap on the shoulder, his shame was quickly put on hold, now focusing on his yellow best friend, Oikawa.

“Oh come on grandpa, lighten up. Would it kill you to have fun?” He nudged him with his elbow, and Iwaizumi groaned in response. “Why are we even seeing this movie? We’re grown fucking adults! This is- this is ridiculous!” He released one hand from the security of his pocket, running it through his hair, trying to wipe away the sweat that had formed. “Excuse you! Minions is a cinematic fucking masterpiece. I will not let the fact that I'm an adult get in the way of enjoying art!” Bokuto chirped in, his expressive face wonderfully displaying the excitement that surged through him. Iwaizumi’s voice decreased in volume, a clear sign of giving up. “Did we have to go out in public like this? Why couldn’t we have just, i don’t know, stayed home?” as much as he tried to persuade his socially fearless friends to just go home, to spare him the embarrassment of someone he knew seeing him in this state: dressed like a fucking minion, nothing he said would change their mind. “Because it’s funny! And imagine the look on kids’ faces when they see a whole group of minions pulling up to the movie!” It was Hinata's turn to convince him now, flexing his muscles in a half-hearted manner as he spoke, trying to ease iwaizumi’s woes. He wasn’t having any of it. “We shouldn’t be there anyways! It’s a kids movie!” he waved his hands in the air, exasperated, desperate to help his friends realise how utterly ridiculous they were.

Did they fear nothing? Was social anxiety a foreign concept to them? Kuroo slung his arm around his shoulder, a lazy grin stretched onto his face. “Dude, the minion costume isn’t gonna kill you. Plus, we’re all wearing one too so you aren’t alone. Quit complaining and have fun, loser.” He wiggled Kuroo off of him and rolled his eyes. “I agreed to do this when I was high! Now that I have a clear mind, obviously I don't want to do this! You guys totally took advantage of me!” His friends slowly inched further from the car as his complaining progressed. By the looks of it, he had about one minute to convince everyone to just go home, otherwise they’d already be inside the cinema.

Oikawa looked at him from over his shoulder, waving him over to catch up with them. “I’m sorry that your post-nut clarity is biting you in the ass right now, but quit being a wimp! You’re the big strong hunk of the group, you’re supposed to be fearless! Imagine what the ladies would think if they knew you were scared of minions!” his teasing words caused his anger to overpower his shame, quickly speed walking to catch up with everyone. “I’m not scared of the fucking minions!” he shouted at Oikawa, who’s head was turned away from him, holding in a laugh at how ridiculous his once-terrifying best friend looked. The whole group looked like a bunch of jaundiced babies. Everyone struggled to contain their laughter. Before he knew it, they were at the doors of the cinema. “Come on!” Hinata shouted, shoving everyone, including Iwaizumi, through the doors; not giving him a single second to turn around and make a run for it.

Trying to bury his shame, he let out a groan. Looking to his left, both Bokuto and Hinata were bouncing with excitement; their eyes scanned the prices of popcorn. As he thought of it, he realised their personalities were eerily similar to the minion’s. Now that they looked the part, he realised this was the closest he’d get to seeing the real thing. He smiled at that. Okay, maybe this wasn't so bad. Maybe he should just have fun. With his hands on his hips, and that small smile on his face, he inserted himself back into the conversation his friends were having.

“Ew. you look terrifying when you smile.” Oikawa laughed, immediately making his newly found confidence plummet. “Fuck you! You don’t look so hot yourself, shittykawa.” He could feel the vein on his forehead throbbing with annoyance. “Not true! I make a gorgeous minion! I’m like Bob, the cute one!” He winked, Shoyo quickly jumped in. “Nuh uh! I wanna be Bob! He’s the little one right? I meet all of the Bob criteria!” Kuroo let out a laugh, “Sorry Oikawa, Hinata is way more of a Bob than you are. You’re definitely a Stuart.” Iwaizumi could’ve sworn he saw Oikawa’s eye twitching at that comment. He slowly turned his head to face Kuroo, giving him the nastiest dirty look he’d ever seen. “Tetsurou, with all due respect, I hope you wake up in the morning and there are fucking skid marks in your bed.” Oikawa spat his words at Kuroo as if they left a bad taste in his mouth. He hit him in the chest with his finger, poking him repeatedly to add to his threat. “Clearly you haven’t done your research before you showed up today because I am literally Bob in human form!” Oikawa whined. Iwaizumi let out a cackle that quickly silenced the group. “He’s right, you are absolutely a Stuart.” he spoke through laughter. Oikawa looked at him with betrayal in his eyes. “Well if I’m Stuart, then that makes you Kevin.” Iwaizumi’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? I’m not Kevin.” Bokuto chuckled, “You are absolutely Kevin!” his eyebrows furrowed, “How?” He got a smile in response. “Well, for starters you have an abnormally stretched head, you’re a know-it-all, and you take care of everyone. Face it bro, you’re Kevin the minion!” Iwaizumi gritted his teeth. “What’s wrong with my head? It’s shaped completely normally, prick!” he shouted, garnering the attention of the surrounding children. “It’s definitely Kevin shaped!” Whatever. 

He scoffed, not wanting to lose any more brain cells from this conversation than he already had. He looked at his watch. 9:21pm. 9 minutes until the movie started. “Let’s just get our tickets and get this over with.” He mumbled, catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of his watch: his yellow face in all of its glory. Oikawa stopped him before he could begin walking, taking a step in front of him. “Not without popcorn! We can’t watch a movie without popcorn!” He yelled dramatically, more people around them started staring. Iwaizumi wanted the ground to swallow him whole. “Let’s get your stupid popcorn then.” he grumbled, placing a firm hand on his friend’s wrist, Oikawa quickly yanked it away. “Can you just get it for us? I wanna take pictures of us before the movie starts!” He smiled, pulling his phone out and fixing his hair in front of the camera. “So you’re gonna make me talk to the staff on my own? While I look like this?” he huffed, staring at him with irritance. “Trust me this is not your worst look, Iwa. Remember your bowl cut phas-” he cut him off with a nudge to the back, bumping him forward with his elbow. “Shut up! Fine, I'll go. What kind of popcorn are we getting?” He massaged his temple with his fingers in an attempt to soothe the headache that was forming. “Butter!” Hinata shouted, Kuroo nodding behind him. “Gross! Get salted!” Bokuto shouted back, sticking his tongue out; feigning disgust. Oikawa, the tie-breaker, looked at Iwaizumi with shrugged shoulders. “Just get one of each, I’ll pay you back.” Iwaizumi glanced at his watch again. 5 minutes until the trailers started. “Whatever.” he muttered under his breath, quickly turning on his heels and making his way towards the counter.

He was so focused on being fast and time-efficient he almost forgot that he was dressed up like a minion. He almost forgot how stupid he looked. And as he reached the counter, a line quickly forming behind him; leaving him with no chance to flee,

He saw you.

In front of him, stirring nacho cheese with your back facing him, he watched in silence. Maybe it was the shame of seeing your reaction to his current state, but he was nervous. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and stuffed his hands into his pockets once more, fingers fidgeting with his money.

“Uh, excuse me?” he spoke politely, but loudly, trying to catch your attention. You turned around to face him and god, he felt as if his body was set on fire. Embarrassment washed over him like a wave as you jumped slightly at the unexpected sight. “Oh! Sorry!” you smiled, amused by the man in front of you. “What can I do for you?” His fists clenched, and with white knuckles he regrettably made the realisation that you might’ve been the most gorgeous person he had ever seen. For fuck’s sake. Of all times to meet a person like you, it just had to be when he was dressed up like a fool. With yellow fucking face paint, and tiny overalls. He felt guilty for just looking at you.

“Um- could I get 2 medium popcorns?” he cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound deeper, to make up for, well, what was happening on his face. “One salt, and one butter. Please.” He avoided eye contact. If he could be grateful for one thing in that moment, it was that the yellow paint concealed his blush. “Coming right up!” He could hear the slight chuckle in your voice, trying desperately not to laugh at a customer. “Nice outfit by the way. Let me guess, you’re seeing longlegs?” You joked, grabbing a popcorn bucket and shovelling the plain popcorn into it. Iwaizumi laughed - a lot harder than he should have. Was he laughing with nervousness? Were you just so pretty he couldn’t help himself? Were you laughing with or at him? A thick cloud of questions circled in his mind like a cyclone. But the sound of your laughter fading quickly calmed it down. “How’d you know?” he attempted to joke back. He spoke through a smile, gritted teeth trying to hide the embarrassment that danced on the tip of his tongue.

You laughed again, walking further from the counter to add butter to the popcorn. You hummed to a melody only you could hear in your mind, knees bending up and down in a subtle dance. You turned back to face him again, handing him the now buttered popcorn.

“Are they with you?” you asked, pointing at his minion friends behind him, who were dancing as Oikawa recorded them. He rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately yeah. This was their idea. You have no idea how embarrassing this is.” he spoke quieter, causing you to lean in closer to listen, grabbing another empty popcorn bucket. “I don’t think it’s embarrassing. If anything, it’s cute! This job gets boring really easily so seeing people dressed up like you just makes my day!” You weren’t looking at him while you spoke, partly because you weren’t capable of making eye contact after calling him cute, and also because you needed to focus on making sure the popcorn actually landed in the bucket.

He gulped, suddenly way too aware of his sweaty palms. Was he going to make it out of this interaction alive? He doubted it. Honestly, he didn’t care. He was just glad you were talking to him; treating him normally. As if he wasn’t currently about to sweat the yellow off of his face. Noticing the silence that formed around you, he continued the small talk. “So.. You uh, you work in a cinema right? You a big fan of movies?” He straightened his back, flexing his height. His face almost scrunched up with disgust at how pathetic he sounded. You mixed the salt into the popcorn as you spoke. “Honestly, I'm more of a fan of older stuff. Nowadays people just don’t make movies like they used to. Ah- Except for minions, of course.” You winked at him, unaware of how you almost made his heart stop. “I’ve been meaning to see the new Deadpool too, actually.” you spoke at the perfect pace for him to process and cherish each syllable that left your lips. Oh god, he really was pathetic.

Grabbing onto the second popcorn bucket you handed him, he struggled to mirror your smile. “I love deadpool!” He lied. He had never seen a single Deadpool movie in his life. Hopefully you wouldn’t quiz him on his plot knowledge. You smiled again, “It’s so funny!” He nodded in response, not trusting whatever lies would come out of his mouth. You typed something into the register, and then told him his total. He forgot about that. Trying to balance the popcorn, he reached into his pockets and pulled his money out, handing it to you with shaky hands. You thanked him and placed it neatly into the register.

Before you could utter your classic ‘Have a nice day!’ he spoke up again. “Hey uh. How about we see the new Deadpool movie together sometime? - when you’re free of course.” He clutched the popcorn buckets for support; stability. Like if you said no, he could retreat inside of them and hide away forever. Had he misread the whole situation? Did you actually hate him and feel repulsed by the sight of him? He hoped he was wrong. You totally liked him too, right? You leaned forward onto the counter, almost close enough to feel the breath that escaped his lips. “Are you asking me on a date? Am I getting asked out by a minion?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your tone. He cleared his throat, almost choking on his spit in the process. He was so embarrassed it hurt. “Do you want me to?” He choked out - His desperate expression matched his voice. You giggled, holding your chin in your palm. “Maybe I do.”

He almost dropped the popcorn after hearing those words fall from your lips. This time, his smile was natural; wide enough to make his eyes squint. “Awesome! So uh.. When are you free?” he asked, getting lost in your gaze in the most cliché way possible. Your eye contact broke as you acknowledged the long line that had accumulated behind him. Where did these people come from? With a sigh, you looked back at him. “Sorry, would you mind if we planned this later? I need to get back to my job.” You spoke sweetly, pretending to gag at the thought of working another hour. “I could give you my number?” you asked, with a hopeful glint in your eye.

He never said yes faster in his life.

Grabbing a ballpoint pen from your pocket, you wrote your phone number down on a napkin and neatly folded it up, handing it to him. He eagerly grabbed it, placing it in his pocket. He muttered a shy thank you, to which you nodded. “See you later, minion boy.” you joked, the smirk on your face was decorated with cheeks that were hot to the touch. His eyes widened as he realised, he hasn’t even told you his name. “Oh, it’s Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi Hajime.” He almost forgot his own name. You introduced yourself in return. Was it possible to fall in love with names? Because nothing had ever sounded better to him in his life.

“See ya.” he said, repeating your name. It rolled off his tongue like a fluent language. You winked, “Later, Iwa.”

You texted him later that night, when the both of you were at home. You were free tomorrow, and there was a Deadpool screening at 10am. He had to pull an all-nighter that night to:

One: watch the deadpool movies,

Two: plan how he was going to talk to you,

And three: come up with witty jokes that would make you laugh.

He hoped you would like normal him more than the minion version.

[shes-an-odd-bird]

I have an idea for a silly one shot: Basically Billy was buying porns (magazine and/or vhs) and i don’t know why but i think it would be so funny to read all his thoughs in choosing one 😂😂

Thank you for this request! This was so fun to write! Also had fun doing 80's porn title research, omg, so silly

Summery: Little oneshot of Billy in a porn shop looking through the videos deciding what to buy. Some of the titles I made up, but ridiculously most are actually real and I stayed within the 84/85 release date. I wanted him to be super cheesy and pervy. I try to include every hair color here, but Billy favors blondes, sorry, however in the end its all about reader (So its whatever hair color you want)

Title: Angel Is A Centerfold

Billy Hargrove x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only!! MINORS DNI, Descriptions of pornos and Billy's nasty little perverted commentary, mention of you/reader

My Masterlist in case you need more Billy

Divider by @anitalenia

The porno shop Billy finds himself in once a month is just outside of Hawkins, tucked between a rundown pawn shop and an abandoned warehouse.

The faded sign out front reads "XXX ADULTS ONLY" which Billy ignores, because truth was, the middle aged balding dude with the huge beer belly spilling over his stained polo, couldn't give two shits how old you were, as long as you were paying cash. In fact he barely glanced over the latest issue of Hustler to see who was coming through the door.

Billy saunters inside, sunglasses perched on his handsome face, an unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips. Runs a hand through his perfectly coifed blonde curls. Wearing tight jeans and a white tank top that stretches across his muscular body, looking like a damn movie star in this seedy shit hole.

Heavy motorcycle boots sticking to the tacky orange shag rug, which once was probably vivid in color, but now is gross, stained with god knows what.

The place was dank, thick with a random assortment of scents. B.O., smoke and the faint smell of cleaning chemicals. Walls lined with cheap sex toys, overpriced lube, and a sad selection of lingerie that looked more tacky than sexy.

The lighting purposefully dim, like every aisle was a dirty little secret. Billy didn't give a shit though, he had nothing to be ashamed of, like some of the guys here, guys he recognized from town, guys who were married and going to church every Sunday, made Billy chuckle honestly. Got a little kick out of the idea that this "perfect" little town his dad moved him to, wasn't so perfect after all.

Walks straight past the leather handcuffs, latex outfits, ball gags and other BDSM stuff. Not his thing, so he moves to the object of his desire, the magazine section, a forest of naked beauties right there for the taking. He's here for the latest issue of Penthouse, his personal favorite.

Humming to himself he plucks the cigarette from between his lips, tucking it behind his ear. Taking off his sunglasses and sitting them into the collar of his wife beater, so he can get a better look at the goods.

Takes his time, flipping through some random mags, might as well. Familiar names, some tame like Playboy, some more shady with foreign titles he's only heard of through the grapevine, his brow furrowed in concentration, pausing on a particularly lewd spread, blue eyes flicking across the page, examining the glossy tits that are almost staring back at him.

"Shit, seen better tits at Hawkin's Pool."

He mutters under his breath, tossing the magazine back onto the shelf.

Grabs what he came for, eyes light up, seeing a stunning babe on the cover, sprawled out on top of a motorcycle. Grins, licking his lips. Opening immediately to the centerfold. A beautiful blonde, of course, Billy's weakness, reminds him of the beauties back in Cali, although honestly he wasn't choosy, is spread wide open for his eyes only, at least that's the fantasy.

Lets out a low whistle.

"Now that's a masterpiece."

Smiling, head bobbing up and down, snaps the magazine shut and heads towards the register, ready to pay and bounce, but spontaneously decides to take a detour, walking to the section down in the back of the store, where the VHS pornos line the entire back wall.

"Well, well, well, what's on the menu tonight."

He says out loud to no one. His piercing blue eyes, cold and hard as the ocean he left behind, scanning the rows of videos. Every perversion you could imagine. The images blur together, a sea of tits and ass. One vulgar title after another.

Zeros in on a cover featuring a montage of gorgeous half naked beauties.

"Busty Cheerleaders"

He grins wickedly. Winking at the cover, as if the girls could see him.

"Fuck yeah, nothin' hotter than a slutty cheerleader, except maybe... five slutty cheerleaders."

Scans another. His tongue brushes against his bottom lip.

"Hot MILFS"

"Nah, been there, done that, Haha."

Truth was Billy was kind of particular about his porn, sure in a pinch anything would do, but most of the time he needed a particular girl, someone that caught his eye and made his dick twitch. He had his favorites.

Pretty blue eyes scan the shelves, smirk fading into a thoughtful frown as he searches for something... specific. He got a particular itch that needs to be scratched, and he's determined to find just the right porno starlet to do it tonight.

"Natasha: Adventures of a Gorgeous Redhead"

He shrugs at the bondage on the cover. Truth was, Billy was a simple guy, just needed a pretty girl or two, not all the extras.

"Let's see... Natasha, you're fuckn' gorgeous, but I think I need someone a little more... blonde... and a little less bitchy"

"Private Teacher"

A beautiful strawberry blonde on the cover, tits spilling out of a too tight silky blouse as she bends over her desk, little glasses resting on her nose, hair up in a messy bun.

"Tsk, I wish, might've paid more attention in class, if ya know what I mean."

He wiggles his eyebrows to no one before tossing the video back on the shelf.

Eyes another with a pretty girl with a cute short pixie style haircut like in the movie The Legend Of Billie Jean

"Mmm... foxy little thing, love breaking in the shy ones."

He grins, moving on.

"Introducing The Insatiable Lisa Ann"

"Christ, I fuck hotter girls than her in my sleep."

Scoffs, rolling his baby blues.

Glances at the lowest shelf, spotting a gorgeous brunette with hair cascading down her back in soft waves, coy pouty little smile on her full shiny lips. She's wearing a tight, cute little top showing off her small tits, and a little ruffle skirt that barely covers her ass. She wasn't over the top, clearly a natural beauty, exactly his type.

"Little Suzy, YOU ARE a naughty girl, aren't ya?

He mumbles, considering it as an option.

The next one he glances at is a voluptuous girl with beautiful black hair, leaning forward, everything on full display.

"Atta girl, now that's an ass I could spend all day face first in."

He chuckles, giving the girl's plastic ass a playful flick with his nail.

He stops at a beauty with long legs wrapped around some cliche' hairy 70's looking dude, although you couldn't see his face you could safely assume he had a large mustache.

Billy grins,

"She's got that 'I'm a dirty little slut vibe', love chicks like that. She can do better than that asshole, though... she can do me."

Laughing at his own cheesy joke.

"Jesus, I'm the king of Hawkins, sweetheart, I should be the star of this flick. They'd call it "Billy's Got A Big Dick."

He says out loud, tongue lolling out, running against his perfect teeth, still chuckling, like he's the funniest thing.

"Blonde Bombshells, The Ultimate Collection."

"Everyone knows, blonde is my favorite... color."

"Naughty Schoolgirls."

"Fuckn' nymph, aren't ya? Nothin' better than a little corruption."

He snorts.

Picks up tape after tape, holding each one up, examining the cover.

A flash of blonde here, a pair of tits there, but nothing quite right.

Nothing like the girl he's been fantasizing about, the one who's been staring in every filthy dream and jack off session for weeks now...

"Surrender In Paradise"

"What's better than one set of tiddies bouncing around, six sets of tiddies bouncing around."

He huffs, imaging being stranded on an island with a bunch of sluts, imagines the catty, bitchy fighting over him and he smiles.

"Pretty Peaches"

"Tsk, you're telling me, sweetheart."

He says to the babe on the cover. Pretty babe with chestnut hair in a cute bob, big tits, perfect in every way.

"Hottub Honeys"

"Love to crash this little shindig, let these chicks work out all their... tension, all over my fat cock."

He chuckles lowly, moving on.

He scans the sea of porn kind of halfheartedly, too many to choose from, but not enough tickling his fancy.

Kind of spoiled it for himself by thinking of you so much.

"Gangbang Babes"

"Seen this one, this chick's a screamer, hot, but gets on my nerves after a while."

Shaking his head, snickering at a few titles making attempts to cash in on the popular movies of the day. Never Ending Horny, and Wet Dream on Elm Street, his snorting drawing a few glances from the other guys in the store. His smile falters and he straightens up a bit. He's aching for the cigarette that's snug behind his ear right now, and it's getting hot in here, the AC clearly broken.

His eyebrow arches up in approval at a cute girl, sitting at what was supposed to be a doctor's office.

"Look at you... sexy little thing, all needy for your doctor's big cock."

He grins, then frowns.

"Second thought, why she at the doctors? Probably got some kind of VD or some nasty shit."

See most guys just grab and go, but no... not Billy. He would spend a large amount of time trying to pick just the right girl, just the right scenario. Being overly critical if every little thing wasn't perfect.

"New Wave Hookers"

This one had everything, including Ginger Lynn and he was all for that. She wasn't his favorite, Shauna Grant, but he has seen all her movies already, so Ginger was the next best thing.

He looks over the few videos he's decided on.

"Little Suzy, you're a real slut, no offense, but maybe next time."

He puts that one back on the shelf.

"Guess it's me and you Ginger, sweetheart."

He goes to walk away, ready to give up and settle for whatever half ass imitation of his dream fuck he can find, suddenly he stops dead in his tracks.

"College Cuties"

He raises an eyebrow, it's not the cliche' title, but the pretty girl on the cover. She's wearing sexy little heels, white lacy socks, and nothing else. God she's beautiful and well... she kind of reminds him of you. The sexy little tease in his math class. The girl who's been ruining his good time with anyone else, because all he can think of is you.

Been trying to get in your panties for weeks now, but you've been playing hard to get, makes him want you even more. Pictures your pretty face, gorgeous hair and fuck me eyes, how they remind him so much of the smoking hot babe on the cover.

"Christ, I'm losing it. Gettn' all sentimental over some girl who won't even spread for me."

He huffs, staring at the beauty on the cover.

"Being a real fuckn' sap tonight, Billy."

He murmurs to himself.

Lost for a moment in his perverted thoughts of you. Thinks he found what he was looking for, replacing Ginger Lynn for your clone.

Thinks maybe he's too good looking to be here with these losers. Gonna call you, ask you out, like on a proper date maybe. You kind of deserve it, but he's not leaving without this tape. Just in case you have better things to do on a Friday night.

Because really all along he was looking for you.

There's no substitute for the real thing.

Tag List: @bear-ann @bugs-n-roses @cherryssodapop @rincallistis @justice4billiam @unknownroooose @mindsofjade @buckysgrace @therobishow @losingmygrasponreality @devilindesguis @pixtureme @lorifragolina @iambutadepress @richard-michael-afton

Everything written with love by me: Krissy @shes-an-odd-bird - do not copy or steal

[niallerspayno]

About Last Night (Louis Tomlinson x reader) - Fic Request

Masterlist

Anonymous request: Hi!! I was wondering if you could do Louis Tomlinson x fem! Reader who is in the band, her and Louis always had a flirty relationship but always told people it was a joke until one night during one of their tours things get heated between them and they hook up, a few weeks later reader finds out she’s pregnant and doesn’t know how to tell Louis so she goes to her best friend Niall Horan for advice and Louis ends up over hearing them? Smut and fluff please!!

Tags: Louis x reader, friends to lovers, smut, pregnancy, fluff, angst

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

…

The arena hums softly with the buzz of amps and muffled conversations, but your focus is already on Louis, who stands near the drum kit, spinning a drumstick between his fingers with that familiar mischievous glint in his eye. This is how it’s always been with the two of you—partners in chaos, constantly toeing the line of what you can get away with, but never crossing it. The harmless flirting, the relentless teasing—it’s your thing.

“Don’t even think about it,” you call out, a grin tugging at your lips.

Louis turns to you, all innocence and dimples. “Think about what, love?”

“Oh, you know exactly what,” you say, stepping closer. “Put the stick down before you get us all in trouble.”

“Trouble?” he echoes, mock-offended. “I am the very definition of responsibility.”

“You’re the definition of a menace,” you retort, grabbing the other drumstick off the snare. You twirl it between your fingers and smirk at him. “If you’re going to cause chaos, at least make it entertaining.”

His eyes light up at your challenge. “I knew I could count on you, partner.”

Before anyone can stop you, Louis taps the microphone stand with his drumstick, and you follow suit, matching his rhythm with the snare drum. The resulting cacophony blares through the speakers, earning a collective groan from Liam and the sound crew.

“Really?!” Liam barks from center stage, throwing his hands up. “Do you two have to do this every time?”

“Yes,” you and Louis say in unison, both grinning like kids caught raiding the cookie jar.

“Unbelievable,” Liam mutters, shaking his head.

“Oh, lighten up, Payno,” Louis says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “We’re just making things more fun.”

“Fun is subjective,” Liam replies, deadpan.

Louis doesn’t even acknowledge him, already pulling you toward the piano at the corner of the stage. “Come on, let’s give them a real show.”

You follow without hesitation, laughing as you plop down on the bench beside him. “Alright, Mozart, let’s hear it.”

“Watch and learn, darling,” he says, cracking his knuckles dramatically before slamming his fingers onto the keys.

The result is an aggressively off-key rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and you immediately burst into laughter, doubling over as he continues his “masterpiece.”

“Wow,” you say between giggles, clapping along. “Move over, Beethoven. Louis Tomlinson has arrived.”

“I know,” he says smugly, tossing you a wink. “Don’t be jealous of my talent.”

“Talent?” you tease, leaning closer. “This is more like a crime against music.”

“Oh, you wound me,” he says, clutching his chest in mock pain. “But I’ll forgive you because you look cute when you’re pretending to be unimpressed.”

You arch an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to close the space between you. “Who says I’m pretending?”

He falters for a split second, just enough for you to notice, before recovering with a smirk. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, but the playful tone in your voice makes it clear you’re enjoying every second.

The moment lingers, his eyes locked on yours, the air between you buzzing with unspoken tension. But before anything can happen, Liam’s voice cuts through like a bucket of cold water.

“Enough!” he shouts. “Can we please get back to work?”

Louis groans dramatically, standing up and offering you a hand. “Fine, Payno. We’ll behave. For now.”

“Behaving’s overrated anyway,” you say, letting him pull you to your feet.

He grins, leaning in just enough to make your heart race. “Spoken like a true partner in crime.”

You smirk back, the flush creeping up your neck impossible to hide. “You couldn’t handle this partnership without me.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, before finally letting you go.

As you return to your spot on stage, his laughter still ringing in your ears, you can’t help but feel the familiar thrill that comes with being Louis’s partner in crime. This is just how it’s always been—safe, playful, and light. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

…

The club is alive with pulsing music, flashing lights, and the hum of conversation. The six of you—plus a few crew members—have commandeered a booth near the dance floor, a place to regroup between rounds of drinks and bursts of reckless fun. The night is supposed to be lighthearted, a rare break in the chaos of touring. But your attention keeps drifting toward the bar, where Louis leans casually against the counter, chatting up a pair of girls who can’t stop giggling at whatever he’s saying.

You take another sip of your drink, the sharp burn of tequila doing little to distract you. It shouldn’t bother you. This is Louis, after all—flirty, charming, and always ready to make someone’s night with a cheeky grin. It’s harmless. Always harmless. Just like it’s always been with you and him.

But tonight, it stings.

“You alright there, love?”

Niall’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn to find him sliding into the booth beside you, a fresh pint in hand. His blue eyes are sharper than they should be after three rounds, catching onto your mood immediately.

“Fine,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just enjoying the view.”

Niall snorts, following your gaze toward Louis. “Ah. Him.”

“Him what?” you ask, though your tone is defensive even to your own ears.

“You’re watching him like he owes you money,” Niall says, smirking, but his voice softens when he adds, “What’s going on?”

You hesitate, swirling your drink in your hand. Niall’s always been the one you confide in, the one who listens without judgment. But this—whatever this is—feels like dangerous territory.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

“Sure it is,” he says, leaning closer. “Come on. You’re never this quiet.”

You glance at Louis again, just in time to see him lean in to whisper something in one of the girls’ ears. Your chest tightens, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“It’s stupid,” you say, setting your glass down with more force than necessary. “I just… I don’t get how he can be like that. Flirting with everyone, acting like it’s all a game.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “That’s just Louis, though. You know that.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, staring at the condensation on your glass. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s ever not a game for him. If he ever actually means it.”

Niall doesn’t answer right away, his gaze steady and thoughtful. Finally, he says, “And what if he does? Would that change things?”

You laugh, though it’s bitter and hollow. “Not for him. He’d still be Louis, and I’d still be the idiot who gets worked up over it.”

“Hey,” Niall says gently, nudging your shoulder. “You’re not an idiot. You care about him. That’s not stupid.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he’s put words to something you’ve been trying to deny. “I didn’t say I care about him.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His voice is kind, but it hits you like a punch to the gut. You reach for your drink again, draining the rest of it in one go.

“Okay,” you say, standing up abruptly. “I need another one.”

“Hang on,” Niall says, grabbing your wrist before you can escape. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re already—”

“Drinking?” you interrupt, flashing him a wry smile. “Yeah, I know. That’s kind of the point.”

Niall lets you go, watching as you make your way to the bar. You don’t look at Louis as you order another round, but you can feel his presence—his laughter, his charm—like a static charge in the air.

When you return to the booth, Niall’s still waiting, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to tell him, you know,” he says quietly.

“Tell him what?”

“Whatever it is you’re feeling. If you’re not ready, that’s okay.”

You sit down, your drink clutched tightly in your hands. “What if I never am?”

Niall shrugs, his usual easygoing demeanor softening. “Then that’s okay, too. But just… don’t beat yourself up over it, alright? He’s an idiot, but he’d be even more of one not to see how great you are.”

You manage a small smile, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade. Across the room, Louis throws his head back in laughter, and you drain your drink, trying not to think about what it would mean if Niall was right.

...

You’re halfway through your drink, the alcohol starting to make the room blur at the edges, when you feel someone slide into the booth beside you. It’s not Niall this time—he’s gone to the bar for another round.

“Having fun, partner?”

You don’t need to look to know it’s Louis. His voice, low and warm, cuts through the haze like a match striking in the dark.

“Loads,” you reply, your tone sharper than you intended. You focus on your glass, not him.

There’s a pause, and then he leans closer, so close you can feel the heat of him against your arm. “What’s got you in a mood, then?”

You scoff, finally turning to meet his gaze. “Why would I be in a mood?”

Louis’s brow furrows, and he studies you with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Dunno. That’s why I’m asking.”

You shrug, trying to brush him off. “It’s nothing. Go back to your fans.”

Realization dawns in his expression, and his lips curve into a small smirk. “Ah, so that’s what this is about.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he says, his tone light but his eyes sharp. He tilts his head toward the bar, where the girls he’d been chatting with have moved on. “They’re just fans, love. Took a couple photos, had a laugh. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your drink.

“Clearly, it does,” he counters, his voice dipping lower.

You glance at him, and the teasing edge in his expression is gone, replaced by something quieter. More serious. It makes your stomach flip, and you hate how easily he gets under your skin.

“I just don’t get how you can do it,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Turn it on and off like it’s nothing.”

Louis stares at you for a moment, his blue eyes searching yours. Then he leans back slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You think it’s nothing?”

You don’t answer, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not. I just… I don’t know. It’s easier sometimes to keep it light, you know? Keeps people from expecting too much.”

Your chest tightens at his words, and you look away, focusing on the dance floor instead. It feels safer than looking at him when he’s being like this—honest and raw in a way that catches you off guard.

Louis follows your gaze, then nudges you with his shoulder. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Dance with me.”

You blink at him. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, standing up and holding a hand out to you. “Unless you’re scared you can’t keep up.”

It’s a challenge, one you’d normally accept without hesitation. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you, something that makes you hesitate.

“Louis…” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Just one dance, love. For old time’s sake.”

You sigh, finishing the last of your drink before placing your hand in his. His grip is warm and steady as he pulls you to your feet, leading you toward the dance floor.

The music is loud and fast, but Louis doesn’t seem to care. He spins you around dramatically, earning a laugh despite yourself, and when he pulls you close, his grin is infectious.

“There she is,” he says, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the music. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” you reply, though you’re not sure it’s true.

“No?” he asks, leaning in until his lips are just inches from your ear. “Then what are you?”

The question lingers, hanging between you as the beat of the music thrums in your chest. You glance up at him, your breath catching at the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, your fingers tighten around his, and you let him pull you closer.

The music is deafening, the bass vibrating through your chest as Louis pulls you closer. The heat of the crowd presses in around you—sweaty bodies moving together in time with the pulsing beat—but all you can feel is him. His hand rests lightly on your waist, fingers brushing against the bare skin where your top has ridden up, and the touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.

You match his rhythm, your bodies swaying together as the lights flash and the room spins in a blur of color and sound. He leans down, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs something you can’t hear over the music. But it doesn’t matter, because the low rasp of his voice alone makes your pulse race.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, then slide down to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your fingertips. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and intense, and for a moment, it’s as if the entire club has faded away.

He’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before, like he’s trying to memorize every detail. And you can’t look away.

“Louis,” you manage to say, but your voice is swallowed by the music.

He doesn’t answer, just pulls you even closer, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His hand tightens on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, and it’s almost too much.

The air between you is charged, thick with something you can’t quite name but can’t ignore either. And when his lips brush against your temple—soft, almost tentative—it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your resolve snaps.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and tug him toward the edge of the dance floor, weaving through the crowd until you find a dark hallway leading toward the bathrooms.

“Here?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless as you pull him into the dimly lit space.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” you reply, your back pressing against the wall as he steps closer, crowding into your space.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands are on your hips in an instant, his lips crashing against yours with a force that makes your head spin. It’s all heat and desperation, months of tension unraveling in a single, searing kiss.

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans softly against your lips. The sound sends a thrill through you, and you arch into him, gasping when his mouth moves to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice low and strained.

But stopping is the last thing on your mind. “Don’t,” you whisper.

The noise of the club fades into a dull throb, your pulse pounding in your ears as Louis pulls you deeper into the hallway. His grip is unrelenting, his hand firm around your wrist as he guides you toward the dimly lit bathroom, the air thick with the sharp scent of alcohol and sweat. When you step inside, he doesn’t hesitate. He closes the door behind you with a soft thud, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s already pulling you toward him, his hands sliding to the curve of your waist.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice low, gravelly, as he looks you over. His eyes darken with something primal, raw. "I need you."

The way he says it—like there’s no choice in the matter, like he’s been waiting for this—makes your stomach flutter with anticipation. Your heart races as he lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His body presses flush against yours, the heat radiating off of him like a furnace.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—his breath against your skin, the brush of his chest against yours, the sensation of his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he carries you toward one of the stalls. The door bangs against the wall as he kicks it open with a force that leaves you breathless. You barely register it, too caught up in the way he’s looking at you—so intensely, so urgently—that it’s like the entire world outside has ceased to exist.

Louis doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He presses you back against the door, and the sharp click of the lock echoes in the small space. His hands move to the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, until the cool air hits your skin. The contrast of the cold on your warm body makes you gasp, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of him against you.

"God, you're perfect," he mutters under his breath, his eyes raking over you like he can’t quite believe you’re here. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your pulse spike. He’s everywhere at once—his lips, his hands, his body—leaving no space between the two of you.

His lips trail lower, his breath hot as it brushes against your collarbone, and you can’t help but shiver, arching into him as his hands slip lower, tracing the curve of your waist and hips. “Louis,” you breathe, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“You want this,” he says, his voice rough with hunger as he presses his body into yours. His hands slide under your skirt, gripping your thighs, his thumbs brushing the inside of your legs. The sensation sends a shock of desire through you, and you tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer.

You’re both moving instinctively now—his body surging into yours, your hands tearing at his jeans, pushing them down just enough so you can feel the hard line of him pressing into you. You’re both breathless, desperate, as your bodies start moving together, finding a rhythm born from nothing but pure need.

The heat between you is overwhelming, suffocating. You can feel every inch of him against you, your bodies grinding together with a desperation that feels like it's been building for weeks, months even. His lips find yours again, more forcefully this time, his tongue slipping between your lips as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of his body.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans against your mouth, his hands moving to the zipper of your skirt, tugging it down, leaving you exposed to him in the dim light.

You gasp as the cold air hits your skin, but the shock of it only fuels the fire between you. You push him back slightly, giving yourself enough room to pull off your panties, tossing them carelessly to the side. His eyes darken at the sight, and he groans again, his hands trembling slightly as they slide down your body.

“God, you’re killing me,” he mutters as he presses his body into yours again, the door rattling against the force of it. His lips trail down your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin, and you can’t help the moan that slips from your mouth.

“You want me?” he asks, his voice low, dangerous, as his hands slide between your bodies, his fingers brushing against you, making you gasp.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, I need you.”

And just like that, he’s pulling you closer, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he positions himself against you. The first thrust is slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t take long for the urgency to take over, for both of you to lose control.

Your bodies move together with a frantic rhythm, the pressure building, tightening, until you feel like you’re going to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, dizzying, and you cling to him, feeling his hands grip your skin like he’s afraid to let go. His breath comes in ragged gasps against your ear as he buries his face in your neck, his body pressing into yours with every thrust.

The world outside the stall is forgotten—there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the rhythm of your bodies, the urgent need to feel more.

When it happens, it’s all at once—the sharp pull of release, the sensation of your body shuddering as he groans your name, the feeling of him inside you. You lose yourself in him completely, and for a moment, the entire world falls away, leaving nothing but the raw, pulsing connection between the two of you.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. You’re both panting, trying to catch your breath as you stand there, still tangled together in the small, dimly lit stall. The air is thick, heavy with the aftermath, and the sound of the club’s music feels distant now, like it belongs to someone else’s world.

Louis rests his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your hips as if he’s afraid to let you go. His breathing slows, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft, the intensity from moments ago replaced with something else. Something almost tender.

You nod, your hands tracing the lines of his back, still feeling the echo of his touch. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m more than okay.”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, it feels like everything has shifted.

...

The morning light seeps through the curtains, casting pale slivers across the room, and you wake with a pounding headache that has everything to do with last night. As you sit up, stretching stiff muscles, your fingers graze your neck, and you freeze.

You already know what you’ll find. Your stomach flips as you rush to the mirror, pulling your hair away to reveal dark, circular marks. Hickeys. Louis’s hickeys.

Heat floods your face as the memories from last night rush back—his hands on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear, the way he kissed you like he was starving for it. A shiver runs through you, not from regret, but from how damn good it all was.

Still, the marks are a problem. You grab your makeup bag and get to work, layering concealer and powder until they’re faint enough to be hidden by your hair. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. You can’t let the others see. You can’t let anyone see.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, pulling you from your thoughts. It’s a message from Louis: "You good?"

Your heart hammers as you type back: "We need to talk."

A few minutes later, you’re knocking on his door. When it swings open, Louis is there—hair tousled, barefoot, still half-asleep, but the way he looks at you makes it clear he knows why you’re here.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. Your voice feels thin, unsure, but you force yourself to keep going. “About last night...”

Louis closes the door behind you and leans against it, crossing his arms. “Yeah,” he says slowly, watching you with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his.

“I woke up with... these,” you continue, gesturing toward your neck. His eyes follow the motion, a smirk twitching at his lips as he realizes what you’re talking about.

“Didn’t think I went that hard,” he teases, but there’s something softer underneath his usual playfulness. “Sorry about that.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers brushing over the covered marks. “It’s fine. I covered them up, but, Louis... no one can know about this. The others would never let us live it down.”

Louis straightens, the smirk slipping into something more serious. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s probably best if we keep it between us.”

The weight of that decision settles over the room, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then, Louis lets out a low laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, for what it’s worth... it was a really fucking good time.”

Your breath catches, your heart flipping at the sincerity in his tone. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah,” you admit softly, meeting his gaze. “It really was.”

The tension in the room shifts—heavier, but warmer. There’s something unspoken between you, something lingering from last night, but you force yourself to push it aside.

“But it was... a one-time thing,” you say, your voice firmer now. “We were drunk, caught up in the moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Right?”

Louis hesitates, his jaw tightening ever so slightly before he nods. “Right,” he agrees, though his voice doesn’t carry the same conviction. “Just a one-time thing. We go back to normal. Friends. Bandmates. No weirdness.”

You nod, the words hanging heavy in the air. “Alright,” you say, standing and smoothing your shirt. “I’ll see you at soundcheck.”

Louis follows you to the door, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah,” he says softly. “See you there.”

You step out into the hallway, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between you. The memory of last night burns in your mind, and as much as you tell yourself it was a mistake, a small, stubborn part of you knows it wasn’t.

And as you walk away, you know the secret you’re both keeping won’t be the hardest part. The hardest part will be pretending that you don’t want more.

...

The hotel bathroom feels impossibly small, its tiled walls closing in on you as you stare down at the pregnancy test in your trembling hands. The instructions are simple, straightforward, but they feel like a foreign language as you reread them for the third time.

Niall is waiting just outside, sitting on the edge of your hotel bed. You hadn’t planned to involve him this much, but when you decided to sneak out and buy the test earlier, he’d been the one person you trusted enough to call. Now, as the reality of what you’re about to do looms over you, you’re beyond grateful he’s here.

“Everything okay in there?” Niall’s voice drifts through the door, steady and calm.

“Yeah,” you call back, though your voice wavers. “I’m doing it now.”

“Take your time,” he replies, his tone gentle.

You follow the instructions mechanically, your heart pounding louder with every step. When it’s done, you set the test on the counter, face down, and set the timer on your phone. For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the edge of the sink to steady yourself.

When the timer buzzes, you hesitate, your hand hovering over the test.

“You good?” Niall asks from the other side of the door, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

You take a deep breath and pick up the test. The result is instant.

Pregnant.

The air rushes out of your lungs, and you open the bathroom door without even thinking. Niall is on his feet in an instant, his eyes scanning your face.

“What does it say?” he asks, his voice soft but urgent.

You hold up the test, your hand shaking. “It’s positive,” you whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Niall just stares, processing the words. Then, he crosses the room in two quick steps and pulls you into a hug. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, tears spilling over as the weight of the situation crashes down on you. After a moment, he pulls back, his hands resting on your shoulders as he studies your face.

“Do you… know who the father is?” he asks carefully.

You nod, wiping your eyes. “It’s Louis.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth falls open slightly. “Louis?”

You laugh, a short, incredulous sound that bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “Yeah. It was that night we all went out to the bar.”

Realization dawns in his eyes, and he stares at you like he’s trying to piece it together. “Wait—so… the bathroom stall?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Yes, the bathroom stall,” you say, your voice muffled.

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to your surprise, Niall starts to laugh—a low chuckle that quickly turns into full-on laughter. It’s contagious, and soon you’re laughing too, tears streaming down your face as the absurdity of it all sinks in.

“I can’t believe I’m having a baby that was conceived in a bathroom stall,” you manage to choke out, shaking your head.

Niall grins, his laughter fading into a warm smile. “Hey, at least you’ll have a good story for the kid someday.”

You snort, wiping your cheeks. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great.”

As the laughter subsides, Niall’s expression grows serious again. “You're going to have to tell Louis.”

You shake your head, the weight of that reality settling over you. “Not yet. I don’t even know how to tell him.”

Niall squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “You don’t have to figure it out alone. I’m here, alright? Whatever you need.”

His support steadies you, and you nod, a small spark of determination flickering to life. “Thanks, Niall,” you say softly.

He smiles, giving your shoulder a final squeeze. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

...

The hotel dining room buzzes with the usual morning energy: clinking cutlery, muted conversation, and the aroma of coffee filling the air. You sit with the boys, doing your best to seem normal as you pick at a piece of toast. The nausea has become a constant companion, and exhaustion drags at you more with each passing day.

“Still not feeling well?” Liam asks, glancing at your plate with a worried frown.

You force a smile. “It’s just a bug. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been saying that for weeks,” Zayn points out, his tone sharper than Liam’s, though there’s concern in his dark eyes.

Harry leans back in his chair, studying you closely. “You need to see a doctor. You’re barely eating, and you look knackered.”

“Thanks, Harry,” you say dryly, hoping humor will deflect their growing concern.

Louis, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet throughout breakfast, lifts his coffee cup to his lips but says nothing. His eyes linger on you, though, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist again, grabbing your mug and taking a sip even though the coffee turns your stomach. “Just need some rest.”

The boys don’t look convinced, but they eventually let it drop as the conversation shifts to tour logistics. When breakfast wraps up, everyone begins dispersing to their rooms.

As you step into the hallway, Niall gently catches your arm. “Hey, can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure,” you say, letting him steer you toward a quieter section of the corridor.

Unbeknownst to either of you, Louis lingers just out of sight around the corner, pretending to check his phone.

Niall keeps his voice low as he speaks. “How are you holding up? Really.”

You glance around nervously, making sure no one is nearby. “I’m okay,” you lie, though your voice wavers. “Just... trying to figure things out.”

He frowns, clearly not buying it. “You’ve got to stop pushing yourself so hard. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I know,” you whisper, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s just... it’s a lot, Niall.”

“Have you thought more about telling Louis?”

The question hangs in the air, and your heart sinks. “I don’t even know where to start,” you admit. “How do I tell him that I’m pregnant and it’s his baby? That it happened in a bloody bathroom stall?”

Niall snorts, though his expression quickly turns serious again. “You’re going to have to tell him eventually. He deserves to know, and you deserve to have his support.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just… I’m scared, Niall. What if he freaks out? What if it changes everything between us?”

“He might freak out,” Niall says honestly. “But he’s Louis. He’ll step up. You’ve got to trust him—and yourself.”

Neither of you notice the shadow around the corner or the way Louis freezes in place, his breath catching as he processes what he just overheard.

“I’ll tell him,” you say finally, your voice shaky but resolute. “I just need to figure out how.”

Niall nods, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ve got your back.”

You manage a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Niall. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As the two of you part ways, Louis remains rooted to his spot, his mind racing. He had only stopped to grab his jacket, not to eavesdrop—but now, he can’t unhear what’s just been revealed.

Pregnant. His baby.

The words loop in his mind, crashing over him in waves of shock and disbelief. He grips the wall for support, his heart pounding as he tries to process what this means—for you, for him, for everything.

...

The hotel suite is unusually quiet, the remnants of breakfast scattered across the coffee table as the boys lounge around. You’re absent, having slipped away earlier, and the rest of the group assumes you’re just taking some much-needed time to yourself.

Louis, however, can’t sit still. He paces the room, his jaw tight and his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, but one thing is clear: he needs answers.

Niall, sitting on the armrest of a couch, notices the tension radiating off Louis. “Mate, you alright?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

That’s all it takes for Louis to stop pacing and whirl around to face him. “No, Niall, I’m not alright,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to make everyone else in the room sit up straighter.

“What’s going on?” Liam asks, frowning.

Louis ignores him, his blue eyes locked on Niall. “How long were you planning on keeping it from me?” he demands, his voice rising.

“Keeping what from you?” Niall replies carefully, though his face pales slightly.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Louis shouts, taking a step closer. “I know. I heard you talking to her this morning.”

The room falls into stunned silence, and Zayn and Harry exchange wide-eyed looks.

“What are you talking about?” Harry finally asks, his tone laced with confusion.

Louis doesn’t even glance at him. His focus is still entirely on Niall. “She’s pregnant, isn’t she? And it’s mine.”

Niall’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no sound comes out. The rest of the boys look utterly shell-shocked, their eyes darting between Louis and Niall.

“Is it true?” Liam asks, his voice quieter now, though no less serious.

Niall lets out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t my place to tell you, Louis,” he says, his voice firm despite the guilt flickering in his eyes. “She needed time to figure out how to say it herself.”

Louis’s laugh is bitter, almost disbelieving. “Time? You don’t think I deserved to know right away? That I deserved to hear it from her—or at least someone—before overhearing you whispering about it in a bloody hallway?”

“I was just trying to be there for her,” Niall says defensively, standing now to meet Louis’s glare. “She’s scared out of her mind, Louis. This isn’t easy for her.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Louis shoots back, his voice cracking slightly. “Finding out I’m going to be a dad like this?”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw.

Zayn leans forward, his brow furrowed. “Wait. Are you saying Y/N’s pregnant, and it’s yours?”

“Yes,” Louis snaps, throwing his arms out in frustration. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Harry sits back, his jaw slack as he processes the revelation. “Bloody hell.”

“Look, I get that you’re upset,” Niall says, his tone softer now. “But she needed time to figure things out. I was just trying to support her until she was ready to talk to you.”

“She should’ve come to me,” Louis mutters, his anger ebbing slightly but still palpable. “I deserved to know.”

“And she knows that,” Niall replies. “But she’s been scared, Louis. She didn’t want to mess everything up. She didn’t know how you’d react.”

Louis takes a deep breath, his hands raking through his hair as he processes Niall’s words. “I don’t know how to react,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “This is... massive.”

“It is,” Liam says, speaking up for the first time since the confrontation started. “But it’s not something you have to figure out alone. We’re all here for both of you.”

Louis looks around the room, his frustration slowly giving way to uncertainty. “I need to talk to her,” he says finally, more to himself than anyone else.

“Then do that,” Niall says gently. “But give her some grace, mate. She’s dealing with a lot.”

Louis nods, his expression still tense but less combative. Without another word, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving the rest of the boys in stunned silence.

...

You’re standing at the sink in your hotel bathroom, clutching the edge of the counter to steady yourself as another wave of nausea passes. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly, adding to the headache pounding at your temples.

Splashing cold water on your face, you glance at your reflection, pale and drawn. You’d thought you could keep things under control, at least for a little while longer. But the toll on your body is becoming harder and harder to hide.

A knock at the bathroom door startles you. Before you can answer, Louis’s voice cuts through.

“Y/N, it’s me. Open up.”

Your stomach twists for an entirely different reason now. His tone is firm, no trace of his usual teasing lilt. You grab a towel to pat your face dry, stalling for time.

“I’m fine, Louis,” you call back, trying to sound normal.

“I’m not leaving,” he says, and you can hear the resolve in his voice. “We need to talk.”

With a resigned sigh, you open the door. Louis is standing there, arms crossed and a look of determination on his face. The blue of his eyes is intense, searching yours for answers you’re not ready to give.

“Can we do this later?” you ask weakly.

“No,” he says, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. “I know.”

Your breath catches. “You know what?”

“I know you’re pregnant,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “And I know it’s mine.”

The air feels sucked out of the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him.

“How—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“I heard you and Niall talking this morning,” he admits. “I wasn’t eavesdropping—it just happened. And now I need to hear it from you. Is it true?”

You look down at your feet, your hands trembling. “Yes,” you whisper.

Louis exhales sharply, leaning back against the door as he runs a hand through his hair. “How long have you known?”

“About a week,” you admit, your voice barely audible. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I took a test. Niall’s the only one I told.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice cracking slightly. “Why did I have to find out like this?”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you sink onto the closed toilet lid. “I didn’t know how to, Louis,” you confess. “It’s not exactly an easy thing to bring up. And I didn’t know how you’d react. I was scared.”

“Scared of me?” he asks, his brows knitting together.

“No,” you say quickly. “Not of you. Just... of everything. What this means for us, for the band. I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

Louis crouches down in front of you, his hands resting on your knees. The unexpected tenderness in the gesture makes your chest tighten.

“You’re not ruining anything,” he says softly, his voice steadier now. “But you can’t shut me out of this. I deserve to know what’s going on, Y/N. This is my baby too.”

The weight of his words hits you, and you nod, wiping at your eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Louis. I was just... trying to figure it all out.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore,” he says, his hands squeezing your knees gently. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You look up at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. “You mean that?”

“Of course I do,” he says, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “We might not have planned this, but it’s happening. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days, a flicker of hope sparks in your chest. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Louis stands, offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of this bathroom. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to face this alone.

Louis doesn’t let go of your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom, guiding you to sit on the edge of the bed. He stays standing for a moment, running a hand through his hair as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he finally sits beside you, he turns to face you fully, his expression serious but gentle.

“I know this probably feels overwhelming,” he starts, his voice softer now. “But I need you to know something. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

Tears prick your eyes again, and you bite your lip, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his words. “Louis, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupts firmly. “This isn’t about what I have to do. This is my baby, and you... you’re everything to me.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

He exhales deeply, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips. “I mean I’ve been in love with you for ages, Y/N. I’ve just been too much of a coward to say it.”

“Louis...”

He laughs softly, though there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s true. I’ve hidden behind all the jokes and the flirting because I was terrified you didn’t feel the same. I thought if I said something, I’d ruin what we have. And then that night at the club happened, and I thought maybe... but you said it was a mistake, and I didn’t want to push.”

You shake your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. “It wasn’t a mistake,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I only said that because I was scared. Scared of ruining what we have, just like you were. But I’ve been in love with you too, Louis. For so long.”

His eyes widen, and for a moment, he looks utterly stunned. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching for his hand. “I mean it.”

He lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “All this time, we’ve been dancing around each other like idiots.”

You laugh too, though it’s choked with emotion. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

The two of you sit there for a moment, letting the weight of the truth settle between you. Then Louis’s grin turns mischievous, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Can you believe our kid’s going to have the most ridiculous conception story ever?” he says, his voice teasing.

You can’t help but laugh, the tension breaking slightly. “Conceived in a bathroom stall at a nightclub,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not exactly the romantic story you tell at family gatherings.”

Louis chuckles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “No, but it’s our story,” he says, his tone softening again. “And I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

The warmth in his gaze makes your heart swell, and before you can overthink it, you lean in. Louis meets you halfway, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s nothing like the heated, impulsive one from that night. This one is slow, deliberate, and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your face. “I’m all in, Y/N,” he says quietly. “For you, for this baby. For everything.”

A tear slips down your cheek, but this time it’s one of relief, not fear. “Me too,” you whisper.

The two of you sit there in the quiet, holding each other as the enormity of the moment settles in. For the first time in weeks, you feel like everything might just be okay.

...

Part 2

[you-know-honey]

Risky Moves

Viktor x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7k

Chapter Summary: A secret experiment and a punishment at the academy end up conspiring to bring Jayce, his partner, and you together in the same place, and a half-lie will shape the path of their future.

Series: The Path to Zaun

Past Part / Next Part

A/N: English isn't my first language, feel free to correct me in the comments and I'll update it. Remember to share if you liked it. Sorry for the delay but the holiday season is full of work.

That morning started out as a beautiful day, the sun spilling down all the streets and reflecting off almost all the buildings in Piltover, perfect for doing anything but going to class.

“Oh come on, I thought you liked that class” Sky said beside you, both of you had seen outside the dorms and took advantage of the walk to their classrooms to catch up.

“I like the class, but my classmates are asymptomatic smarts” You complained, moving your hands in exasperation, it wasn’t long before your wrist creaked and a grimace of pain was reflected on your face. You remembered perfectly how you had won that.

Sky just laughed with the softness of a kitten. She was very used to seeing you be very expressive, if your mouth didn’t say it your face spoke for you and she simply enjoyed the show, it seemed cute to her. It was something she had seen you do since you were little and it reminded her of the times when things were less complicated, at least in her childish eyes.

“What happened to you?” She asked as he saw you holding your wrist.

“It’s just a little discomfort, don’t worry.” You offered her a calming smile. Sky didn’t believe your words at all, you weren’t that kind of clumsy, but she knew you would tell him when you were ready.

It had been weeks since your little escape with Jayce to undercity, you hadn’t seen him since then, not at the academy or walking down the street. You had passed by his apartment several times by mere chance, your feet simply dragging you to his street every time you left the academy. Your mind kept thinking about whether all those things you had managed to get had really been of any use to him for his secret project, you wished he would need things again, even though you didn’t want to admit it, it had been fun going out with him, running through the streets, returning to your native home without being alone. Of course there was still a thorn of poison in that memory and it had a name, Finn, you didn't expect to see him again, just thinking about his stupid smile made you clench your fist again, you would hit him again even if it broke every part of your hand just to permanently erase that stupid smile.

“Okay, we’re here.” Sky said, pressing her notebooks to her chest before giving you a big hug goodbye.

“You’re leaving already?” You asked like a puppy who was about to be abandoned, you wished you had taken advantage of the time on the way to chat instead of getting lost in your thoughts. But it was too late and you were already in front of her classroom door.

“Can we have a girls’ afternoon tomorrow, tea and cakes?” Your face lit up, your friend could only let out a delicate laugh before giving you a kiss on the cheek and breaking the hug.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything… in your room?” you mentioned putting your hands in your pockets, rocking on your heels. She confirmed it with a sweet nod of her head.

Sky was about to enter the classroom after some students but she turned quickly “I almost forgot, here.” She handed you what you could only describe as a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a notebook with leather covers, cyan blue and gold details.

“Wait what?” You asked as you took it in your hands as if it were a red-hot iron.

“I saw it in a store and it reminded me of you, I hope you like it.” She seemed to enjoy your reaction quite a bit. You were so unaccustomed to receiving gifts that you even refused to accept one. “Maybe it’s worthy of being used in your research.”

“But Sky…” You were left speechless to respond, something that Sky took advantage of and entered the room quickly, leaving you alone in the hallway.

A smile crossed your face from ear to ear, as your fingers wandered over the cover of the notebook, it seemed expensive and even if you tried to rack your brain you couldn’t find a way for it to give off any vibe of you. But that was Sky, out of nowhere she would appear at your door with a hand-knitted scarf or some freshly baked cookies without giving a damn that she had to climb the stairs to the top floor, she seemed to simply sense when something was wrong in your life and would appear to offer you a helping hand.

It was something that happened since you were both little, when you ran away to go to her parents' house to pretend you still had a sweet childhood, where you could feel loved and cared for. More than best friends, she felt like a sister, the good half of your whole life. And that made you have no idea what to put in such a nice gift, your notes about your research were barely legible even for you, pages of theories, data, horrible crossed out lines and torn pages, giving the same fate to such a nice notebook would be like slapping Sky. You would wait, you would wait for something incredible that was worth putting in it.

You continued on your way to class, putting the beautiful notebook in your bag. You knew it wouldn't be an easy day when you could hear a loud commotion inside from the beginning of the hallway. When you entered, Professor Heimerdinger was trying to quiet everyone down, but no one seemed to take the cute yordle seriously, so you decided to give him a little help, slamming the door as hard as you could to close it. All eyes immediately turned to you.

“Oh,” the yordle jumped. “Welcome to class, dear Y/N,” the professor said when he saw you and with one of his small furry hands he motioned for you to sit down.

“Oh, perfect, just what we needed, the misfit has arrived.” one of your classmates murmured as you passed by his table. Others laughed a little under their breath, no one was stupid enough to play along in front of the professor.

“Errik! That language is unacceptable in class!” Heimerdinger quickly reprimanded, the boy just rolled his eyes. “That merited an apology to your classmate.” The professor always fought to keep the peace, no matter how difficult it was.

The boy grimaced before speaking. “I’m sorry for having said such an apt comment about you.”

“Errik!” Heimerdinger scolded again.

“Its okay, professor.” You didn’t want any more attention than you were already getting. “An insult only hurts if it comes from someone admirable, if not, it’s nothing more than envy.” You said as you sat in the first row of tables, next to the window so the air currents would cool you down. The professor seemed to want to say something else, but gave up and decided to continue with the class.

You didn’t care what someone like Errik said, he was the fourth nephew of Councilman Hoskel and apparently low intellect was a dominant gene in that family. You had become the object of his mockery after the last boy he annoyed left the academy, he was basically an untouchable fly, leaving his bacteria on everything and no one would do anything to respect him, not even Heimerdinger himself could give him anything more than a mild scolding. So the best thing was to bite your tongue and try to evade his provocations as best you could, advice that the same teacher had given you along with a long apology for not being able to reprimand him properly.

You would never be on equal terms after all, everyone had someone powerful who watched their back in case they made a mistake, you only had your excessive sarcasm and confidence to defend you and that, well... wasn't much use in Piltover.

You had left blood and tears on the road to even be considered to enter the academy, more exceptional than the average applicant, but not enough to be able to apply for more important careers. So you were stuck with some students really interested in biology and spoiled brats who just wanted to brag about having studied there.

Professor Heimerdinger took advantage of the small silence and started the class, climbing up tiny stairs to reach the blackboard, moving his chalk with agility and speed.

“Well class, I have noticed that no student of this faculty has presented an idea as a project. I must not repeat that without that project the grade of some of you will be severely affected. So we will fix that today” The professor came down the stairs with a small jump “With a brainstorm” his eyes seemed quite excited and by his tone I expected that at least one or another would respond with that same emotion.

Unfortunately the only thing you could do was evoke a smile and a look of support in a sea of tired and indifferent faces. You knew your grades wouldn't be affected in the slightest and honestly, an extra project wouldn't hurt, it would be the perfect excuse to get materials in a less suspicious way.

“Tough audience” the yordle muttered “Okay, then each of you will come forward with an idea, no matter how crazy it is, think big!” he said as he sat down behind his desk.

The whole activity took up a lot of the morning. Not all of them seemed like bad ideas to you, of course some were fantastic and really crazy but really interesting. When your turn came, you walked like the others to the front, you took a breath before speaking. “Replacing the gas streetlights with bioluminescent elements, in the mines of undercity there are mushrooms that shine brightly, it would be a safe and natural way to light up the nights in the cities” the professor seemed quite attracted by your idea and the whispering of your classmates gave you the indication that you were on the right track.

“Ha!” a fake laugh came from Errik’s seat “You can get the rat out of the sewer but not the sewer of the rat”

“Excuse me?” You said through your teeth, clenching your fists behind your back.

The professor’s ears lowered. “Y/N…”

“How do you plan to bring those dirty mushrooms here? Have you even thought that they could be toxic?” Errik asked with the clear intention of discrediting your proposal.

“We will go down to take samples and study them in the laboratory” You answered, it wasn't something complicated to do.

But as soon as the rest of the group heard about going down to undercity it was as if everyone had suddenly stopped their spirits and perhaps not so secretly that offended you.

“Are you crazy or do you take too many drugs? Nobody wants to go down to that dump!” His words were supported by cowardly looks “And help them? This is a project for the city of progress!”

That was enough for you, for your patience and for your pride, it was seconds in the middle of the disaster. The ground shook, the entire classroom moved, some students even fell to the ground. The sound of an explosion in the city resonated in everyone's ears and blue particles floated through the window in the wind. You were the victim of an unknown force, as if a bolt of pure adrenaline had split you in half, traveling through your spine and leaving your brain collapsed. While everyone looked at each other due to the noise of the explosion and helped each other to stand up, you took the eraser from the board and with a lucky aim you managed to throw it with all your strength towards Errik's throat.

“You miserable son of a bitch! I'm going to rip your guts out with a corkscrew if you say one more word about Zaun, you ignorant bastard!” You didn't know how, but you were on his table, holding Errik's shirt collar while a thick drop of blood ran down his nose, his eyes had become moist and his gaze only reflected a scared big mouth bitch. It was the first time you pronounced the name that Undercity had given itself as a promise of freedom for the next generation, that name was something that any inhabitant of above hated to hear. A symbol of rebellion.

“Y/N!” Heimerdinger scolded. “Please let him go!”

His voice made you react, letting go reluctantly, feeling like your fingers had gone numb in the grip. Errik quickly moved away with his hand on his neck.

“Professor, look!” One of your classmates shouted, pointing to the window, the entire class ran to see what was happening. You tried to go too, but your body felt heavy and dizzy so you had to push your way through to look.

“Oh for the gods…” The teacher murmured when he managed to look out the window.

A giant cloud of smoke rose over a building in the academic district between flames and the sound of firefighters and police. The entire class was shocked and they whispered among themselves what could have caused that. But your mind was stuck on a single fact. From the height you knew that street, you knew that building and even more importantly, you knew who lived there.

“Jayce…” your heart was hit by anguish and worry.

“Professor Heimerdinger!” a policeman flung open the door, drawing everyone’s attention. “The council urgently requests your presence.”

The little yordle moved his whiskers in surprise. “I understand…” he gently massaged his chin. “It seems serious. Please inform the others that classes are cancelled today and that all students are prohibited from leaving the academy.”

A group “What?!” spread throughout the classroom.

“Please escort them to their rooms,” the yordle continued.

Despite the complaints, each student heeded his words and lined up in front of the door. You were still at the window with almost half of your body out of it, waiting to see at least a sign of life.

“Y/N...” the teacher said heavily when it was your turn to leave the classroom, you walked to the door still looking towards the window “Not you” the policeman just closed the door in your face before leaving.

Your face frowned before relaxing to look down and face the teacher. His face only showed that he was looking for the wisest and most thoughtful way to let you have the scolding.

“My dear, violence is never the answer, not even in the most frustrating moments…”

“I know, it wasn't my intention, it was…” he stopped you with a sign of his hand.

“Hitting another student not only puts the harmony of the academy community at risk, but also your own progress. I know you want to help yours. But how can we advance as innovators if we don't learn to cross the sea of frustration? True greatness lies in controlling our emotions and using our intelligence to build, not destroy.”

He was right, he always had the right words and you knew it. To argue with him or turn it into a fight would be ridiculous, so you just nodded shyly, hands clasped in front of you.

“I understand professor, I’m very sorry for what I caused.” The embarrassment was clear in your voice to the chagrin of your pride.

“You will understand that I must give you an exemplary punishment.” You averted your gaze, you had already expected something like that. “But you are my best student in this faculty, and since there is an emergency call from the council I don’t think they will pay much attention.” He cleared his throat. “So I will ask you to stay late today and organize tomorrow’s class.”

“Understood,” you said, something like what you had normally done would put expulsion on the table. You were glad it wasn’t like that.

The professor walked towards the door and before closing it behind him, he gave you a few last words: “As for your graduation project…you better postpone it a bit, at least until Councilman Hoskel forgets that you hit his nephew.”

“What?!” You didn’t even know what to say when the door closed, leaving you standing alone in an empty room, just like your hopes. The only sensible thing to do was to let yourself fall to the ground, a stupid fool in a thousand different ways.

The day passed with the afternoon until it reached night, you took a long breath, dropping the pen into the inkwell when you finally finished the punishment that Heimerdinger imposed on you. You had taken as long as you could, writing each letter meticulously just so you could have an excuse and waste time. You stood up abruptly from the teacher's desk, dragging your feet to the windowsill, the cold air of the city making your skin crawl and almost pushing you back inside.

From the window you looked at all of Piltover, every building and every person that was now nothing more than a lost point in the night only illuminated by streetlights that looked more like fireflies from above.

“I'm so… idiotic…” you hit your head against the cold stone behind your back, hugging yourself, just to receive at least some peace of mind. “What the hell happened to me?” You weren't usually violent, at least not at the academy, that outburst was so surprising that you yourself didn't expect it.

You weren't ready to go back to your dorm, see the wall full of terrariums and know that you had ruined everything in a fit of rage that you didn't know where it came from. You had always been agile at dodging Errik's insults no matter how painful they really were, but this time you basically painted a target on your chest. You looked at your hand, the same one you used to throw that eraser straight at his throat. Where had that strength, that anger, come from? You had no idea, again you fell into a hole that you had brought upon yourself by recklessness. Again stagnant like a piece of wood that begins to rot among the garbage in the sewers and by the time it is released it will have already sunk in the dirty water...

You scolded yourself, saying that next time you would be smarter, that next time you would be more prepared. Your mouth opened but no words came out from between your lips other than a warm puff of breath. Your mind wanted to free itself from the torment in which you were submerging yourself, an escape, a fleeting one that would take away your feelings for a while, at least until you knew how to deal with them. Your vocal cords vibrated, even for your ears it was strange to hear yourself sing again, if you closed your eyes you could even see yourself still on that old, damp stage, with the pink and purple lights above you, with the slow and sad music rumbling against your eardrums until it silenced the laughter of the drunks, a way of reminding you how far away from that life you were now. A spectator in the interrupted life of that girl on the stage full of lace and transparent tights reminding you that if there was someone for whom you had to bet everything it was yourself.

“Am I interrupting something?” You quickly wiped away the tears you didn’t know you have, when you heard a soft female voice from the half-open door. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“No…” you said but the tremble in your voice didn’t help your cause at all.

Councilwoman Medarda showed herself, the moonlight illuminating her silhouette from head to toe, she walked towards you with the same elegance of a princess and to your not very enlightened imagination in that regard, she looked just like a pretentious cat. Even though it was ridiculous at this point you still had a shred of dignity to preserve, so you pretended that the darkness of the night outside was more important. The councilwoman dragged her soft hand across the teacher’s desk, caressing the perfectly ordered papers you had arranged.

“Is that song yours?” You nodded in response, the giggle she let out made you immediately turn to look at her.

“Are you amused, councilwoman?” You asked, jumping down from the windowsill with a attitude that stopped the woman from walking.

“Not at all” he said again with his soft tone and a smile on his lips, approaching you with the air of superiority, classic of the advice “But it's hilarious to me that someone with your talent would waste it in these four walls” His hand embraced your cheek, caressing your cheekbone.

You took a step back, moving away from his touch. You didn't expect him to get so close and even less that he would dare to touch you with such sweetness.

Your voice wasn't something that mattered much to you, you knew that it was at least comfortable to listen to but it wasn't your passion, it was a gift that you didn't ask for and that didn't satisfy your soul, if you thought about it, it had even brought more problems.

“Mhmm…” your evasive response to her touch forces her to focus on something else, she looked at the blackboard, it wasn’t long before she sensed that your presence in that classroom was the work of a punishment “It took you so long?” she was provoking you.

“I had my reasons” you weren’t willing to reveal much more.

“You missed an interesting judgment” she sighed resignedly “That boy had so much potential,It's a shame that he was expelled. What a tragedy…”

“Expelled?” as soon as you opened your mouth you knew you fell into her trap, her feline eyes quickly picked up on the concern in your voice and pulled that thread a little further.

“That’s right, Mr. Jayce Talis was officially deemed a danger to the academy community for carrying illegal and dangerous material.” With the click of her heels she turned around ignoring you to play the pen you had left inside the inkwell. Which you were grateful for, so she wouldn’t see your nails digging into your palms.

“Is… is he okay?” you asked.

“He looked devastated at the trial, I doubt he’s better now.” You couldn’t believe how her voice still exuded grace despite such news not being a joy at all. “Did you know him?”

“No.” you rushed to answer, if you didn’t know him you wouldn’t have given a damn about the news and you wouldn’t have shown even a shred of interest, maybe you would have even made fun of him for being discovered. But you had led him to get all that illegal trash and part of you felt responsible for his expulsion although of course it’s not like you would admit it in front of anyone, you didn’t want to run the same fate. “Why is he here?” You asked, maybe something you should have done from the beginning.

“Can’t I just walk around the academy?” she asked but got no response from you so she resigned herself to a sigh and slumped her shoulders before returning to her elegant posture. “Anyway, if you want to do something more than sing to an empty room, call me.” She approached you and from somewhere on her dress she pulled out a card, name and address on it, marked in gold. “And I will make Piltover die to hear you.” She said against your ear, leaving the card in your hands as if it were a secret. “Think about it, it’s a great opportunity…”

With a smile she walked away again towards the door.

“Why are you giving me this?” you asked incredulously.

“Because I see potential. It would be a shame if it was wasted,” she answered from the door frame. “Shall we walk together?”

The echo of Mel's heels resonated in the empty hallway as you tried to keep up with her. Despite her elegance, the councilwoman moved forward with a determination that made it difficult for you to catch up without tripping in the darkness.

You both turned a corner and came across a curious scene: two young men, one stocky and black-haired, the other brown hair and skinny, were leaning in front of an office door. The stocky one held a strange device that emitted a dim light in his hands, while the other nervously looked around. It was Professor Heimerdinger's office.

And it wasn't hard at all for you to figure out who they were, at least one of them was undoubtedly Jayce. A part of you was glad that he was safe and sound and the other wanted to kick him for being so stupid as to infiltrate the academy.

“Are you sure no one will discover us?” Jayce asked, feeling the adrenaline in his ears as they snuck away.

“If you don’t shut up they will” his new partner in crime muttered under his breath. “Gods you really suck” Jayce was basically a bundle of nerves.

“You’re not the first to say it” Jayce replied “Can we just go in?” he complained.

His partner crouched over the three-bolt lock, searching through all the keys for the right one. “So far so good” he managed to get one of the keys to fit.

But to the surprise of both of them a blinding light appeared out of nowhere, revealing two faces familiar to Jayce.

“You'll risk exile for an invention. That's having conviction.” Councilwoman Mel didn't seem very surprised, maybe she already saw something like that coming.

“Councilwoman!” Jayce exclaimed surprised trying to cover his eyes from the light of the flashlight. “Y/N?” but in your case, he seemed disconcerted. As if it were a bad joke from the universe such a rare reunion.

“Wait a minute, isn't this my room? How did I end up here?” You raised an eyebrow at such a terrible excuse. The boy gave up with a soft exhale, holding onto his staff with an unfriendly expression. Although well it was understandable, nobody likes to be caught.

“Please, can we test that it works” Jayce begged causing the councilwoman to laugh.

“Jayce, what are you doing, have you gone crazy?” you asked in a whisper, as if you expected no one but him to be able to hear you.

“It's my secret project... well... ours” he said, giving his partner a quick look. That answer wasn't comforting at all for you. “Believe me, I'll make it work.”

“You couldn't do it before, why would it be different today?” At such an answer from the councilwoman, Jayce's attention returned to her again.

“We managed to stabilize him” Jayce's partner seemed convinced by his words, and he didn't like the way the councilwoman spoke to them at all.

“The professor has you as an assistant...” Councilwoman Mel pointed her flashlight at the boy with the staff.

That helped your gaze analyze him better. He had an appearance that clashed with Piltover's, thin but firmly planted on the ground with a palpable determination, straight back and proud posture. His face was angular, pale skinned, with soft dark circles under his sharp, intense and penetrating golden gaze. His hair was carefully combed with some unruly strands that escaped from the rest. He used the cane elegantly, as an extension of his body. He wore simple clothes, at least compared to Jayce or Councilwoman Medarda, without luxuries but he carried a certain methodical order that was easy for you to notice.

He seemed to make eye contact with you for a moment, you didn't mind that he caught you looking at him, but he quickly looked away with a serious expression to look at the keys hanging on the door. He was in a hurry.

"No, he's my new partner," Jayce said with determination, bringing you back to the situation in front of you.

“Even if you were to prove your theory, the council would destroy it.” These were not baseless comments, she knew the council’s ways better than anyone.

Her words seemed to offend the boy with the cane. “Heimerdinger will recognize the potential.” She said firmly.

“He already does…” the councilwoman began to say. “It scares him. It scares everyone…”

“What do you think?” The question came from the person you least expected, the boy next to Jayce. A discreet search for a little support.

It’s not like your word had any importance or weight in the councilwoman’s opinion but it was worth a try. After all, these boys risked exile to prove that they could do it. It would be hypocritical of you to go against them.

You looked at the councilwoman, she seemed to be waiting intently for you to say “Any innovation represents a risk…and if this is the city of progress, we should be the first to take them.”

Jayce gave you a sweet look of gratitude but everything was cut short by the sound of heavy police boots accompanied by a carefree whistle at the end of the hall.

You weren’t the only one, Jayce seemed more affected than you “Councilwoman, this technology is real and no matter what happens here, it will change our world. We should be the forerunners. Piltover the land of progress, equality, innovation. I know it sounds impossible but have we ever let that stop us…? Please give us a chance.” There was no other chance than this, time was playing against them.

The councilwoman looked at them and then looked at you “One night gentlemen, I suggest you surprise me or pack your things.” Her words were clear before she turned off her flashlight. “My dear, take care of these two. Make sure they don’t do anything that could cause a disaster or worse, a funeral.”

“Good luck.” Before you could protest, the councilwoman disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with the two young men.

“Sneaking in? That was their best plan,” you scolded Jayce with a smack to the back of his head, crossing your arms.

“This is no time for fooling around, let’s get in quick.” The boy intervened, his calm but firm voice an order you both followed.

You sighed, looking at the two of them. “Okay,” he finally said. “But if this goes wrong, it will be your fault.”

A spark of amusement crossed the boy eyes. “I expected nothing less.”

You closed the door as soon as they entered, you had been in Heimerdinger’s office a few times and everything was just as you imagined, somehow too big for its owner’s size.

Jayce rushed to grab some things from the shelves and throw them on the table, with the low light, you could barely tell they were the things you helped him get, you imitated him, bringing the rest and leaving them on the table, he seemed surprised by the sudden support.

“What?” you asked when you saw the way he looked at you “I helped you get this and you think I’m not going to help you with whatever it is you’re doing?” you asked with a proud smile.

He didn’t say anything, he just rushed to give you a big hug, you froze in place as he wrapped his arms around you. “Thanks…” he said against your ear with a nervous breath.

A fake cough was heard behind both of you “We start working once?” The boy asked, holding a box with some tools against his hip, making his way through the two of them to set them on the table. The scolding worked, Jayce got to work, opening his notebook full of notes on the table.

“Well… Y/N, do you know how to weld?” You nodded when Jayce asked. You didn’t really know, but how difficult could it be? “Well then do you think you could put this together while we work on the rest?”

“Sure, boss,” you dropped into the chair to the side, Heimerdinger’s welding glasses were too big so you had to hope you wouldn’t go blind in the process. “Can I at least know what we’re doing?” you asked, turning the page of the notebook and having it completely catch your attention.

The page was covered with blueprints and notes about runes and a strange artifact with giant letters ‘Hextech'. The boys looked at each other.

“Is it trustworthy?” the boy asked as he searched for cables and circuits.

Jayce looked at you for a few seconds, his eyes were a bit doubtful but he didn't last a second to answer “Of course, she's the girl I told you about.”

His partner sighed “Is she the girl?” He seemed somewhat disappointed as he said it “Then tell her” he said with disinterest, as he sat down at the side of the table and began to work quickly, leaving this cane aside in his seat. You were dying to ask what they had both been saying about you, but it wasn't the right time.

“We managed to find a way to unite magic and technology with this…” From the shadows of the table he brought a box closer, when he opened it there were hundreds of blue crystals that shone brightly, with each small touch rays united and separated them. You swallowed hard, trying not to let the panic show on your face. “They’re magical and really unstable, but we managed to find a way to stabilize them a bit, imagine that. We’ll change the world.”

His words were full of hope and pride, while all you could think about was not ending up blown to pieces.

“We don’t have all night, let’s get to work!” the boy growled a few feet away from you. “I’m talking to both of you.”

The scolding worked and although the night was cold the frenzy of their activities throughout the office warmed the atmosphere, even you were starting to sweat after welding a few pieces, the image of the frame was clear and although you felt your eyes burning, you were not willing to stop. If what Jayce proposed was real and really worked then you had to be involved, if it didn't work you wouldn't hesitate two seconds to jump out the window and sneak like a thief into the student residence area and pretend that nothing had happened. Magic was a serious matter, only some were born with it and none of those people were even allowed to get close to the doors of Piltover. Things were different in Undercity, you had had one of them as a client, although he never proved that he was and one day he simply disappeared completely.

Time passed and when everything was ready Jayce and the other boy spent hours adjusting one of the crystals, facing small flaws. You watched along with them, now just as committed to making it work as they were.

“Try it now,” the boy exclaimed, and you leaned over the table with a mix of concern and curiosity. They had already fixed the circuit three times and perfected the structure a few more times. It had to work.

The boy pressed the button and the crystal inside the device rose a few inches from the base causing larger rays to hit the metal that spun around it.

“I told you it would work” the boy exclaimed with an air of enormous pride. “All yours.”

“Impressive…” you murmured, taking mental notes of the entire process.

Jayce’s gaze seemed lost in the crystal, as if he couldn’t believe it was actually working. “Wow… I’ve never done that before.”

“Alright, what are you waiting for? Make it work, I’m dying to see what it does” You handed the notebook over to Jayce, he's partner had been writing down a few things in it.

Although his partner honestly seemed the most excited about it.

Jayce sighed and brought his hands closer to the button, turning it just a little. Everyone held their breath as the runes on the device began to spin and the crystal’s activity began to increase. Another spin. The crystal rose even higher, the runes spinning like crazy on their axis, after another movement of the button, strange shapes orbited the crystal. You held back a sigh as you felt one of the rays coming from the crystal hit the table and its electric current ran through your body, you removed your hand as quickly as you could.

“Are you okay?” Jayce seemed worried, you nodded, it was not the time to worry about you “I don't think it will last!” Jayce shouted when the atmosphere began to charge with heavy energy and the sound was filled with that of the Hextech spinning.

“Look at the accumulation!” you pointed at the crystal with your head.

“The resonance will stabilize it” The boy did not shout, he seemed very calm and sure. A feeling told him that this time it was going to work. “Trust me”

The crystal began to go crazy, spinning faster and faster, emanating a blinding light that electrified the atmosphere.

“Turn it off!” Jayce’s partner shouted as he tried to protect himself a little from the electrified particles.

You tried to turn it off when Jayce couldn’t get close to the table, but the button and the energy of the crystal prevented you from doing so.

“No…I can’t” you exclaimed, any movement you made that was in contact with the particles felt like needles on your skin.

Before anyone could do anything, the power of the crystal concentrated, and a beam of energy went through the window, filling the glass with it.

It was a relief for a few seconds, before the window panes were drawn back to the cristal, flying and breaking against everything and everyone in the office. You felt yourself being dragged towards the cristal, managing not to do so as you hid behind Jayce, luckily his fist crashed into the button and the cristal fell on the base as if it were a simple rock.

“Unbelievable…” the other boy exclaimed in the middle of the darkness.

“Shit!” You shouted as you approached the broken window “The police at the entrance are not here, they must come here, we must hurry and get out of here”

You quickly began to search blindly for your bag in the dark. Jayce seemed to agree with you.

“No!” The boy shouted, getting his attention with a blow of his cane to the ground. “We can't leave, it's ready, it's going to work.”

“The police are coming for us, I don't doubt it will work but we have to leave or they'll catch us.” You confronted him, even though he was taller than you and even though you hit the table somewhat violently he didn't falter, there was no spasm or movement, he was firmly in his place next to the table.

He didn't hesitate to look you in the eyes, like a staring contest that you couldn't win, his eyes were full of conviction.

“Hey guys…” Jayce murmurs, as a mediator of the discussion.

“One more try.” He said somewhat rudely, taking a step closer to you. His scent of parchments and clean clothes embraced you completely.

You tried not to give in but it was impossible, with a sigh you walked away “I'll look at the door. Make it work” you pointed at both of them before opening the door and being alert for any light or sound.

“She it's a bossy” he exhaled, perhaps he would say something else but your frown stopped him.

Seconds were enough to put the crystal back into operation and it was those same seconds that were enough for the police and Professor Heimerdinger himself to approach quickly.

“They come!” you shouted, closing the door and rushing to find something that will work to give them a little more time. “Hey! Give me your staff!” you yelled at the boy who just didn’t hesitate before throwing it and placing it between the door handles. It wouldn’t stop them forever but it would give them a few minutes.

“Stop this madness!” You heard the professor yell in an angry tone that you had never heard from him before.

“They’re going in!” You yelled as you tried to hold the doors back with your own body. “No pressure but… hurry up!” You yelled at both of them.

“That sounds like it!” Jayce answered you upset.

Jayce’s partner raised the button again which didn’t take long to rise between the metal and the runes.

“She won’t hold out for long” the boy said watching you put all your weight against the door.

Jayce's mind was racing through all his knowledge. He had gotten the best student at the academy into this and dragged you along for the ride, it wasn't just his life that would go to shit if Hextech didn't work, but also the lives of two people who had made many sacrifices to get to where they were and still didn't hesitate to support him. It was as if the answer had come like magic, his hand instinctively moved over the button.

Right.

The crystal rose higher and began to spin around itself rapidly.

Left.

The runes froze in place, glowing and propelling the crystal.

Right.

Arcane symbols and seals began to expand from the crystal and fill the air.

Center.

When Jayce pressed the button the symbols and seals filled the entire place, joining together above their heads, culminating in a huge implosion.

You closed your eyes before the light hit you. What a way to die.

“Excuse me, careful downstairs!” Heimerdinger exclaimed, his voice was what made you open your eyes, you were still alive and even stranger. You were floating in the air in a strange galaxy of energy coming from the crystal.

Your face was not the only one that seemed amazed at everything you were witnessing.

The artifact floated beneath your body, along with other books, crystals, and other objects. In front of you, the crystal had transformed into pure energy, surrounded by a ring of light. You were impressed, maybe it was nerves or excitement but you couldn't help but laugh nervously, looking at your companions' gaze.

Jayce was more than amazed. Laughing, as nervous as you, pushing a small nut towards the crystal with his hand.

But it wasn't the reaction that interested you the most. On the other side, catching the nut, the boy with the cane laughed, sweetly and genuinely with a tender smile, the tiredness in his gaze had completely vanished. And that seemed cute to you.

“Oh shit!” You exclaimed when your body was inexplicably drawn to the crystal, your fingers touched the ring of light and before you knew it you were floating headfirst over that boy. His eyes and yours connected and both of you smiled nervously, it had worked and relief was something you could breathe in peace now.

“Wow…” he was surprised to have you so close from one moment to the next.

“You were right… One more try…”

“I told you so” He extended his hand towards you as you began to float further and further away from both of you, keeping you together.

“You really did it” the teacher called the attention of everyone floating. “But just because you can make it doesn’t mean… Guys could stop flying?” he exclaimed a little annoyed.

“I’m not sure how to do it sir” the boy answered somewhat nervously.

A giggle escaped your lips, how he could break all the rules and be so inhibited when speaking was something you didn’t understand.

“Y/N?” The teacher seemed surprised “What are you doing here young lady?”

“Ummm… I’m the… assistant?” You said raising your shoulders, not quite sure that the lie would work. “Right?..ummm..” you realized that you never asked him his name.

“Viktor, Miss Y/N,” he replied with a confident smile on his face.

Mental note: You already knew what you would put in the special notebook.

Tags:aise-30 optimistic-but-very-realistic flare-on ratnamedtoby