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touchme-teezme · 2 months ago

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Fashion Week.

— mingi ver.

PAIRING | ateez mingi x genderneutral!reader

TAGS | (kind of?) fluff, meet cute, alternate universe, model!mingi has a crush

RATINGS | SFW

SONGS | fashion killa by A$AP Rocky, I THINK by Tyler, the Creator

SUMMARY | it’s your first day of working at fashion week and you fucked up without even entering the gates. that’s when you needed mingi’s help to make sure you didn’t get fired.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ this is my first fanfic!! ahhhh (confetti machines explodes) so please be nice huhu. this was something i came up with while actually working at fashion week this year lmao so this is very self-indulgent. a fantasy if you will. i’m also kinda salty that milan & paris fashion week didn’t invite mingi, so i will. letting him walk too mama. models should be grateful this fine ass man chose to be ateez’s rapper. that’s all, okie bye—enjoy.

Milan Fashion Week.

One of the biggest events of the year is being held right here in Italy. Starting today in Montenapoleone, the most exquisite tailoring, the longest legs, and the prettiest faces walk a special runway, while the famous, powerful, and influential gathered to witness what the world would be wearing for years to come.

Understanding the weight of this moment, and how fortunate you were to be part of it, it was today, of all days, that you were running late.

Jostling through the crowded public transport, the stifling heat of the subway still clinging to you, you emerged onto the bustling streets. Honking cars trapped in gridlock loomed like a barrier between you and the entrance to Fashion Week.

You weaved through the chaos, silently praying that nothing had fallen out of your purse—the zipper had been open the entire time. When you finally reached the gate, security stopped you, informing you that guests were about to arrive and the staff entrance was now closed. Only those with crew tags could be admitted, and they had been distributed during assembly—an hour and a half ago.

You sent a silent prayer for a miracle, but it seemed even God was sitting this one out. Pleading with the guards got you nowhere. You couldn’t call your boss; this was your first mistake of the season, and if fashion had taught you anything, it was to take initiative and fix problems before they reached your boss.

Circling the building like a shark hunting for a way in, you spotted him.

A face like an angel, wrapped in a sleek black Saint Laurent coat. You recognized him from today’s model lineup: fourteen shows, 6’3", lean build, size 43 shoes—Song Mingi, the season's newest sensation.

He’d been scouted in Incheon while buying a sandwich at a convenience store. Your friend in the industry took one look at him, got his details, and flew him out for a casting. He stole the show and was signed that same day.

He looked a little lost, scanning his surroundings with a phone pressed to his ear. Judging by how he hung up and stared down at his phone, whoever he’d called hadn’t answered.

Mustering your courage, you approached him. Tapping him on the shoulder, he turned, towering even more up close.

“Hi, you’re opening the first show, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, studying your face as if he should recognize you.

“I’m with Fashion Week,” you said, hoping to reassure him. He sighed in relief.

“Thank God. I’ve been trying to figure out who I’m supposed to meet. I’ve got this that I’m supposed to trade for an access tag, but no one’s shown up to get me and help.”

“That’d be me,” you lied smoothly. Admitting the truth would’ve been a disaster. “I’ll take you in.”

“Awesome! So, uh... do we just go in with this?”

“Yeah, actually, pass it to me, and I’ll get you checked in.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver,” he said, his tone completely at odds with his dark, brooding look.

As he handed over his tag, you finally had your golden ticket. Glancing around the crowded street, you nudged him, “Let’s go.”

He didn’t hesitate, looping his arm through yours. You both walked—though you had to pick up your pace to match his long strides—heading for the back entrance. Flashing Mingi’s card for the exchange with the guards and ushers in the front, you passed yourself off as his manager and were waved through with the temporary yellow wristband that lets you in.

Relief flooded through you when the plan worked.

You handed Mingi back his tag, reminding him to wait until he was called. You guided him to the model green room, where other models should be waiting.

“Dude, there you are!” one of the models greeted him as soon as you both walked in.

“Yunho!” you heard Mingi call his friend. “So I kind of overslept this morning and—”

“On the first day? Brutal.”

You slipped past the towering figures without a glance, heading straight for your station.

Unbeknownst to you, Mingi peeked over his friends’ shoulders, watching as you disappeared backstage, wanting to thank you, but the words never made it past his lips.

Before you knew it, it was showtime. You slipped into place just in time, heart still pounding from the earlier chaos, but no one seemed to notice your absence. You did everything you could to ensure the show went smoothly, handling last-minute changes, guiding models, and coordinating with the backstage crew.

And then, the lights dimmed. The music swelled. The air hummed with anticipation.

That’s when the white curtains dropped, and Mingi emerged. Now transformed with styled hair and makeup, zipped into an avant-garde masterpiece that must’ve taken hundreds of hours to perfect. He strutted down the runway as if he had been doing this for years, though you knew it was his very first show.

He exuded a natural talent and presence that had the audience captivated. But it wasn’t just his walk. There was something magnetic about him, something raw yet polished enough to turn heads.

For a brief moment, his eyes swept across the room and locked onto yours. You froze, convinced that he was looking directly at you rather than the sea of cameras and faces in the front row. You could’ve sworn he smirked as he turned to make his way back up the runway, leaving your heart still racing.

As the show continued, you found yourself catching glimpses of him every now and then backstage—during quick changes, makeup touch-ups, or casual interactions with the other models. Each time, he seemed more relaxed, slipping easily into conversations, though his gaze always seemed to linger just a moment too long when he spotted you.

You headed backstage to run an errand, and there he was—leaning casually against the wall, waiting for his next cue. He looked relaxed, with clips in his gelled hair keeping it flat and perfectly styled. As soon as he spotted you, a grin spread across his face.

"Hey, stranger," Mingi said, straightening up as you approached, hunting down a specific box in the corner.

“So I heard something funny.”

“What’s that?” you asked, fishing out magazines wrapped in plastic and passing it off to the frazzled intern waiting behind you.

“The guy who was actually supposed to get me this morning? He was apparently searching for me outside for like, twenty minutes but I’m glad to see you actually work here and that I wasn’t an accomplice to some rogue crasher.”

You chuckled, continuing to hand off the magazines to the intern, who was struggling to keep up. “Okay, full disclosure—I was totally winging it this morning. I was late, I didn’t have my pass and used you to get in.”

“So I was a ruse?”

“Pretty much.” You shrugged, glancing at the intern balancing the heavy stack. “Take these to reception, and give them out after this slot ends,” you instructed, watching her scurry off.

Mingi raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I see."

“Desperate times,” you replied with a shrug of your shoulders. “Sorry about that.”

“No need,” he said, leaning in slightly with a conspiratorial grin. “To be honest, I was too stressed to think straight too. First-show jitters and all.”

“Jitters? Your walk didn’t look like it was your first show at all.”

Mingi shrugged with an easy smile, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He leaned in a little more, lowering his voice like he was letting you in on a secret. “Honestly? I’m just pretending I know what I’m doing.”

You laughed, feeling your nerves ease a little as the conversation flowed. “Well, that makes two of us and you’re pulling it off way better than me.”

He grinned. “You look like you’ve got it all under control, though.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Looks can be deceiving.”

His smile lingered as his eyes held yours a moment longer. Then, his name was called from across the room. He glanced over his shoulder, clearly needed elsewhere, but before he left, he turned back to you, his voice a little softer. “See you after the show?”

You nodded, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, maybe," you said, your voice softening as he walked away.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of people, clothes and camera flashes. Every so often, you’d catch sight of Mingi, either on the runway or during chaotic backstage moments. And every time, he’d either flash you a grin or give you a subtle nod, like you were sharing some inside joke.

By the time the final show wrapped up, exhaustion was beginning to settle in. You were busy packing up when you felt a tap on your arm. You turned to see Mingi standing there, dressed in the clothes he wore this morning, but with his last runway makeup still on and his hair was slightly messy from the rush.

“So… I made it through my first day,” he said, beaming at you.

“Congratulations. Thirteen more to go,” you replied, returning his smile.

“You know, I wouldn’t have made it without you,” he teased, his voice softer now.

You waved it off, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Oh please, you were the star today. I didn’t do anything, I just brought you backstage.”

“Well,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “I think you deserve some credit too.”

Before you could respond, a silence settled between you—one that felt comfortable, yet charged with something unspoken. He shifted his weight, hesitating for a moment.

“Are you sticking around after this?” he asked, leaning slightly closer.

You glanced around, noticing the crew still milling about but the bulk of the work nearly done. “Yeah, I’ll be here for a bit. Why?”

Mingi looked down, as if weighing his words before meeting your gaze again. “I was thinking… Maybe we could grab a drink or something.”

You hesitated, glancing around at the chaotic backstage scene—the racks of clothing, the scattered equipment, and the crew members still rushing around. Your excitement deflated a little as the reality of your responsibilities sank in. The day wasn’t quite over for you.

“I’d love to, really,” you started, biting your lip, “but I’ve got to stay for cleanup and a team brief afterward. It’s going to be a long night.”

Mingi’s smile faltered for a second before he gave a small nod, his expression softening with understanding. “Ah, I see. Duty calls, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, feeling a twinge of disappointment.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t imagine doing what you do. You guys really are the backbone in all this, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit down today.”

You gave a rueful smile. “Yeah, I should’ve been a model so the only move I would be doing is down that catwalk.”

Mingi laughed, a warm sound that made you momentarily forget how tired you were. “You’d probably pull it off.”

“Not with my schedule,” you shot back, shaking your head. “Or y’know… all this.” You gestured to yourself.

“Nah don’t say that. You’re gorgeous.”

Your stomach flipped. “The model height requirement, I mean.”

Mingi’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he scratched the back of his head. He shifted his weight, biting back a shit-eating grin, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, his voice dropped a little, almost teasing. “Well, if you happen to finish early… maybe I’ll still be around.”

This guy...

You tried to keep your cool. “You should just go. Your call time is early tomorrow. Now that you’ve got your tag, you can just come in through the same entrance.”

He held your gaze, his smile lingering a little too long, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Damn. I was hoping you’d come save me again.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as he gave one last playful salute before turning and walking off. If only you’d love your job less, you would’ve been getting drinks with a fucking model right now.

#ateez #song mingi #ateez fanfic #reader x mingi #model mingi #ateez fluff #touchme-teezme os

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aughby · 1 month ago

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It was a brisk autumn afternoon in Milan, the kind of day where the sun filters through the golden leaves and everything seems to glow. I had just wrapped up a meeting for my new fashion line and was wandering the cobblestone streets, searching for inspiration. My head was buzzing with excitement, as this was my first solo project. A sense of adventure fluttered in my chest as I mentally pieced together the kind of brand I wanted to build.

And then, I saw him.

Walking down Via Montenapoleone, surrounded by towering designer storefronts, was a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a dream. Tall, lean, yet powerfully built. His dark hair was tousled in a way that seemed both effortless and deliberate. His expression? Cold, stoic, like nothing in the world could faze him. He had this quiet intensity, an aura that turned heads as he passed by, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

I couldn’t help but stare.

I knew immediately who he was—Yuki Ishikawa, the star volleyball player. But in that moment, all I could think about was how perfect he would be as the face of my new fashion line. His presence was magnetic, and I just knew he was the one. A quick Google search on my phone confirmed that he was in Milan playing volleyball for his team, but none of that mattered right then. I had to get him to model for me.

Without hesitation, I rushed after him.

"Yuki! Yuki Ishikawa!" I called out, my voice bright with enthusiasm.

He slowed his pace but didn’t fully stop, glancing back at me with those intense, dark eyes. His expression didn’t change, remaining as unreadable as a stone sculpture.

"Hi, I’m sorry to bother you," I said, slightly breathless from the quick chase. "But I couldn’t help but notice you, and I have to say, you’ve got this incredible look. I’m starting my own fashion line, and you’d be perfect as my first model! What do you think?"

For a second, I thought I saw something flicker in his gaze, but then he shook his head—once, sharply.

"I’m not interested," he said in a low, calm voice. "I’m focused on volleyball. Not modeling."

"Oh, come on!" I said, flashing him my brightest, most persuasive smile. "Just think about it! You’ve got that whole mysterious, strong, silent type thing going. You’d look amazing in my designs, trust me!"

He looked at me with the faintest hint of annoyance. "No."

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, rejected but strangely even more determined. Most people would’ve taken that as a hard 'no,' but not me. Oh no. If anything, his coldness only intrigued me more.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself watching every volleyball game he played, captivated by his skill and his unwavering focus. He was even more impressive on the court—quick, strategic, a natural leader despite that stoic exterior. I started showing up to games, and every time I saw him, I’d try again.

"Yuki! Hey! Have you thought about my offer?" I'd ask, trying to catch his attention in between games.

He’d always give me the same blank expression, the same brief, "No."

But I wasn’t the type to give up easily. Slowly, as I watched him play, something shifted inside me. I wasn’t just trying to get him to model anymore—I was starting to admire him. The way he carried himself, his discipline, his dedication. His coldness wasn’t arrogance; it was focus, a singular drive that pushed him to be the best on the court.

After one particularly intense game, I found him alone, cooling down on the sidelines. I approached him, this time more quietly, my usual bubbly energy a little more subdued.

"You were amazing out there," I said, genuinely in awe. "I see why volleyball is so important to you."

He glanced at me, sweat still dripping down his forehead, but didn’t respond.

"I won’t bother you about the modeling thing anymore," I added, surprising even myself with the words. "I get it now. Volleyball comes first."

For the first time, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—respect? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it made my heart skip a beat.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

I smiled, feeling like I’d finally reached some small part of him. And yet, as I walked away, I realized something else. I didn’t just want him for my fashion line anymore. Somewhere along the way, I had started to fall for him. His cold exterior had melted in my mind, revealing a depth and passion that I hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t just about making him my model now. I wanted more. I wanted to be a part of his world, the same way he had become a part of mine without even trying.

Days turned into weeks, and my fascination with Yuki Ishikawa only grew. I attended his games religiously, sitting in the same spot near the front row, and I was always the loudest fan. I knew I probably looked ridiculous, jumping up and down, waving, and shouting his name like a fangirl. But I didn’t care. There was something about him that drew me in, something that went beyond his cold, unreachable persona.

I tried to respect his space, but I couldn’t help myself. Every time he played, my heart raced as I watched him move across the court with such precision and power. He was always so focused, so composed, and despite the intensity of the game, his expression rarely changed. But there were moments—small, fleeting moments—where I thought I caught a glimpse of something more. A brief, silent acknowledgment of my presence in the crowd.

I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it, but every time our eyes met, even for a split second, I felt like I was making progress.

One day, after a particularly intense match, I saw him walking out of the stadium. He was alone, as usual, his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair damp from the shower. I ran up to him, my usual bubbly energy impossible to contain.

"Yuki!" I called out, jogging to keep up with his long strides.

He glanced at me, his expression the same calm, detached look I had come to expect.

"Great game today! You were incredible!" I beamed, feeling a bit like a puppy wagging its tail in front of him.

"Thank you," he said, his voice as neutral as ever.

I skipped a few steps ahead and turned to face him, walking backward so I could keep up. "So, I know I said I wouldn’t bring up the modeling thing again, but I have to ask…have you really thought about it?"

His expression didn’t change, but he sighed softly, almost as if he were tired of my persistence. "I told you. Volleyball is my priority."

"I know, I know!" I said, holding up my hands in surrender. "But you can be great at both! I’m not asking you to give up volleyball. I just think you’d be perfect for this campaign. Besides, don’t you think it would be fun? You’d get to wear some amazing clothes, strike some poses…maybe even smile once in a while."

Yuki stopped walking, and I nearly bumped into him. His eyes locked onto mine, dark and serious. "I don’t smile for cameras."

I blinked up at him, my own smile fading just slightly. His intense gaze made my heart flutter in a way I wasn’t prepared for. He was standing so close, and for the first time, I realized just how tall he was, how much larger than life he seemed up close. His presence was overwhelming, yet I couldn’t look away.

"I…I don’t need you to smile," I stammered, my voice suddenly quieter. "I just need you to be yourself. That’s enough."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The city buzzed around us, but in that instant, it felt like we were in our own little world. I half-expected him to brush me off again, to walk away like he always did. But this time, something was different.

"You’re really not going to give up, are you?" he asked, his voice low and almost resigned.

I grinned, regaining my playful energy. "Nope. Not a chance."

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a chuckle, though his expression remained the same. "Persistent."

"That’s one way to describe me," I said with a wink.

Yuki shook his head slightly, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something—amusement, maybe?—behind his stoic facade. It was fleeting, but it was there.

"Fine," he said, his voice steady. "One shoot."

My eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait, what? Really?!"

"One," he repeated, holding up a single finger. "But after that, don’t ask again."

I was so excited I nearly jumped up and down. "Oh my gosh, thank you! You won’t regret it, I promise!"

He didn’t respond, just nodded once before continuing to walk down the street, leaving me standing there, grinning like an idiot.

As he disappeared into the crowd, I realized something important: this wasn’t just about the modeling gig anymore. Sure, I was thrilled that he had finally agreed, but it went deeper than that. I had started to care about him, really care, and not just because he had the perfect face for fashion. There was something about his quiet strength, his dedication, and his mysterious, closed-off nature that drew me in more than I expected.

I wasn’t just chasing after a model for my fashion line anymore. I was chasing after him—the man behind the stoic exterior. And slowly, day by day, I was starting to break through the ice.

And maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that Yuki Ishikawa—the volleyball star who had stolen my heart—would one day see me as more than just the girl who kept pestering him to model. Maybe he’d see me as someone who could be a part of his world, too.

Because somewhere along the way, he had already become a part of mine.

The day of the photoshoot finally arrived. I could barely contain my excitement, though I tried my best to keep it professional. This was, after all, a big deal—not just because Yuki had agreed to model, but because this was the first real step in launching my fashion line. I had worked so hard to get to this moment, and having him as my first model felt like destiny.

We had rented a sleek, minimalist studio in the heart of Milan, with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in streams of natural light. The setup was perfect—clean, modern, and effortlessly chic, just like I had imagined. My designs, carefully curated for Yuki’s frame, hung neatly on racks, and I was buzzing around, making sure everything was in place.

Then, the door swung open, and there he was.

Yuki walked in, as calm and composed as ever, his presence filling the room. He wore a simple black hoodie and jeans, yet somehow he made even the most casual clothes look like high fashion. His sharp, unreadable expression remained intact, but as his eyes swept across the room and finally landed on me, there was a brief moment of acknowledgment.

"Hey, Yuki!" I greeted him, my voice bright. "Ready to be a star for the day?"

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked over to the clothes I had set out for him and inspected them with a critical eye.

"They’re simple," he remarked, his voice cool.

I smiled. "Exactly. They’ll let you shine. Trust me, you’re going to look incredible."

He didn’t respond, just nodded once, and went to change into the first outfit. I busied myself with making sure everything was perfect—adjusting the lighting, talking to the photographer, and trying not to let my nerves get the better of me. This was it. This was the moment I had been working toward for so long.

When Yuki stepped out of the dressing room, my breath caught in my throat.

He looked…beyond perfect. He was wearing a tailored black jacket over a crisp white shirt, paired with sleek trousers that hugged his tall, athletic frame. The outfit was simple, yet elegant, designed to complement his natural poise and grace. And it worked. Oh, how it worked.

The photographer started snapping photos immediately, capturing Yuki as he moved through the set with a natural ease that surprised even me. His expression remained stoic, his gaze sharp, but there was something captivating about him in front of the camera. He didn’t have to try—he was the look.

I watched from the sidelines, a strange sense of pride swelling in my chest. He didn’t need to pose extravagantly or flash a smile to command attention. He just was. Strong, silent, and utterly magnetic.

"Perfect, Yuki," I called out from behind the camera. "You’re killing it!"

He glanced at me briefly but didn’t say a word. Still, I could tell he was focused, giving this shoot the same intensity he gave to volleyball. There was no half-effort with him, even in something like this. That was just who he was—committed, no matter what he did.

As the shoot went on, I found myself watching him more closely than ever. Not just as a model for my clothes, but as a person. The way he moved, the way he carried himself—it was all so precise, so intentional. And as much as I admired his physical presence, I had come to admire his quiet strength even more. His dedication, his drive—it all made me fall for him a little more each day.

When the shoot finally wrapped up, Yuki changed back into his regular clothes and quietly approached me as I was reviewing the photos with the photographer.

"It’s done," he said, his voice as cool as always.

I turned to him, grinning ear to ear. "You were amazing! Seriously, these shots are going to be iconic. Thank you so much, Yuki. I know this wasn’t really your thing, but you totally rocked it."

He just nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting mine. "You kept your word."

I tilted my head, a little confused. "What do you mean?"

"You didn’t ask me to do more," he said, his voice a little quieter than usual. "You respected what I said."

For a moment, I was caught off guard. I hadn’t expected him to acknowledge that, let alone appreciate it. I had been so focused on getting him to model that I hadn’t realized how much it might have meant to him that I backed off after our earlier conversations.

"Of course," I said softly, my voice losing some of its usual bubbly energy. "I just… I didn’t want to push you too hard. I respect what you’re doing with volleyball, and I didn’t want to get in the way of that."

He studied me for a moment, his dark eyes searching mine as if he were trying to understand something. There was a weight to his gaze, something deeper than his usual cold detachment, and it made my heart race in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

"You’re persistent," he said, almost as if he were thinking aloud. "But not selfish."

I blinked, taken aback by his words. It was the closest thing to a compliment I had ever gotten from him.

"Well…thanks?" I said, a little unsure of how to respond. Then I added with a grin, "I guess that’s just who I am."

He didn’t say anything, but there was a subtle shift in his expression, something softer, more thoughtful. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but in that moment, I felt like we had finally moved past the walls he had built up. Just a little.

"Hey," I said, my voice light again. "I know volleyball’s your main thing, but…if you ever want to do this again, I wouldn’t say no. Just throwing it out there."

Yuki glanced away, and for a second, I thought he was going to brush me off like always. But then, to my surprise, he said, "Maybe."

My eyes widened, and I tried not to let my excitement show too much. "Maybe? I’ll take it!"

With that, he turned and started to walk toward the door. But before he left, he paused, just for a second.

"Good luck with your line," he said, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

I smiled softly. "Thanks, Yuki."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the streets of Milan like he always did. But this time, something felt different. There was a connection between us now, one that hadn’t been there before.

I didn’t just want Yuki Ishikawa to be the face of my fashion line anymore. I wanted to know the man behind the cold, stoic facade. And maybe, just maybe, I was starting to get closer to that.

#ryujin nippon #volleyball #fanfic #japan volleyball team #yuki ishikawa #ishikawa #au

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