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kathaelipwse · 18 days ago

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The Moment I Saw You || C.San

Pairing: Rookie.Idol!Reader x Idol!San

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 10,495 words ; Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Synopsis: They called you the "guitar rookie" — cool, mysterious, and unforgettable on stage. But for San, it only took one performance to fall completely under your spell. What starts as quiet glances and backstage banter slowly turns into secret texting, emotional confessions, and late-night comfort. But fame is cruel, and love in the spotlight even more so. When the hate gets brutal, San does something no one expects — he fights for you.

Author’s Note: This story’s a love letter to that electric spark between two people who meet in the whirlwind of fame and find peace in each other. I adore writing flustered San, loyal San, "ride-or-die" San — so this fic gave me life. Hope you enjoy the slow burn, tension, and soft chaos.

The air in the practice room always smelled faintly of sweat and ambition, a potent cocktail that you had grown accustomed to. Just six months into your solo debut, the buzz around you was a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw talent that crackled through your live performances. In a sea of perfectly synchronized dance routines and polished pop anthems, you offered something different: grit. Authenticity. And a damn good electric guitar.

Your company, a smaller label that had taken a gamble on your unique blend of idol charm and rockstar edge, was cautiously optimistic. Your digital single had performed respectably, earning you a small but fiercely loyal fanbase who appreciated your self-composed tracks and the way your fingers danced across the fretboard during live stages – a genuine rarity in the current idol landscape.

You yourself preferred the quiet hum of anticipation to the deafening roar of immediate fame. It gave you space to breathe, to hone your craft, to let the music speak for itself. Your stage presence was a carefully constructed paradox: cool and composed, almost aloof, yet undeniably magnetic. There was a mysterious charm about the way you’d offer a fleeting smirk after a particularly sharp riff, the way your dark eyes would scan the crowd with an unreadable intensity.

Tonight, however, the quiet hum was about to be amplified to a deafening roar. Tonight was the culmination of a year’s worth of relentless work: the prestigious Gayo Daejun. The air backstage thrummed with nervous energy, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, last-minute mic checks, and the hushed excitement of idols from every corner of the industry.

Your own dressing room felt like a small island of calm amidst the storm. Your black custom guitar, affectionately nicknamed 'Shadow', leaned against the wall, its sleek body gleaming under the soft lighting. Your stylist fussed with the subtle silver chains adorning your black leather jacket, while your makeup artist dabbed at your already flawless smoky eye.

“Ready, Y/N-ah?” your manager, a kind but perpetually stressed man named Mr. Kim, poked his head in.

You offered a small, confident nod. Inside, however, a familiar flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. This was the biggest stage you’d ever performed on. The audience wasn’t just your fans; it was the entire Korean entertainment industry, fellow idols you admired, and millions watching at home.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension backstage thickened. Snippets of other performances drifted into your room – the booming bass of a powerful dance track, the soaring vocals of a ballad. Then, Mr. Kim gave you the signal. It was time.

Walking towards the stage felt surreal. The backstage area was a blur of glittering costumes and anxious faces. You took a deep breath, the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume filling your lungs. The roar of the crowd beyond the heavy curtains was a tangible thing, a wave of sound that promised both exhilaration and potential disaster.

Your name flashed on the monitor, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. This was it.

The lights dimmed, and a single spotlight pierced the darkness, landing squarely on your silhouette as you stood center stage, Shadow slung low across your hips. A hush fell over the arena, a pregnant silence that amplified the frantic beating of your own heart.

Then, you raised your hand, your fingers hovering over the strings. A single, clean note rang out, cutting through the silence. It was the opening of your self-composed track, a raw and edgy anthem about breaking free. The crowd responded with a wave of cheers, but you barely registered it. Your focus narrowed, your world shrinking to the six strings beneath your fingertips.

The first chord hit like a punch to the gut – a gritty, distorted power chord that reverberated through the stadium. The stage lights pulsed in time with the music, casting sharp shadows that danced around you. Your cool composure settled over you like a second skin. Head tilted slightly, you launched into the opening riff, your fingers a blur of practiced precision.

From the side of the stage, hidden in the shadows after the explosive finale of his own group’s performance, Choi San stood catching his breath. Ateez had just delivered a high-octane set, leaving the crowd in a frenzy. He was about to grab a water bottle when a lone figure walked onto the stage. He barely glanced up, expecting another flashy dance number.

But then, the first chord struck.

San froze. The plastic water bottle slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering unnoticed on the floor. His jaw went slack, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t just the sound – though the raw, live tone of the electric guitar was a shock in itself – it was the sheer confidence emanating from the figure bathed in the spotlight.

His heart, which had been pounding from Ateez’s intense performance, now seemed to have vanished entirely, replaced by a strange, hollow ache.

He watched, unblinking, as you moved with a fluid grace that belied the aggressive energy of your music and your soft voice blending well. The way your head would snap back with a flick of your dark hair during a particularly powerful strum, the fleeting smirk that would play on your lips as you effortlessly shredded a solo – it was captivating.

The music surged, a tidal wave of sound washing over the arena. San was oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, the flashing lights, the murmurs of his own members nearby. His entire world had narrowed to the figure on stage, the girl with the guitar, the raw talent that seemed to bleed from her fingertips.

He watched as you stepped closer to the edge of the stage during a particularly intricate solo, your eyes locking with unseen members of the audience. There was a fire in them, a fierce passion that resonated deep within him.

The final chord crashed, echoing through the stadium before fading into a sudden, profound silence. Then, the arena erupted. The cheers were deafening, a testament to the captivating performance they had just witnessed.

You offered a small bow, the corner of your lips tilting into that enigmatic smirk one last time before you turned and walked off stage, disappearing behind the curtain.

San remained rooted to the spot, his mind a complete blank. The echoes of the music still vibrated in his chest. It wasn't just that you were talented; there was something else, something that had resonated with him on a visceral level.

Finally, as his members started to nudge him, concern etched on their faces, San managed a single, breathless utterance, his voice barely a whisper amidst the lingering roar of the crowd.

“…who is she?”

The adrenaline from Ateez’s performance had long since faded, replaced by a persistent, almost unsettling hum within San. Back in their dorm, the usual boisterous energy of the members felt muted, a backdrop to the insistent replay echoing in his mind. He’d excused himself shortly after they’d arrived, claiming exhaustion, but instead, he’d retreated to his bunk, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

The YouTube video title glowed on the screen: “Y/N - Iconic Solo Debut Stage @ Gayo Daejun” He’d found it within minutes of searching, the algorithm already attuned to the sudden spike in interest surrounding the mysterious guitarist.

He pressed play.

The opening chord of ‘[Your Song Title]’ reverberated through his earbuds, sending a familiar jolt through him. He watched, his eyes glued to the screen, as you stepped into the spotlight. Every subtle movement, every confident strum, every flick of your hair was magnified, imbued with a significance he couldn’t quite articulate.

He watched the entire performance again, and then again. A strange tension coiled in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just admiration for your talent; it was something deeper, something that felt intensely personal.

On the fourth viewing, he paused the video. It was a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible – a small, genuine smile that flickered across your lips after nailing a particularly challenging riff. It wasn’t a practiced idol smile for the cameras; it was a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, a glimpse behind the cool facade. San’s thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the curve of your smile as if he could somehow capture the feeling it evoked within him. His chest tightened.

He replayed the solo, the intricate melody and the raw energy of your playing sending shivers down his spine. He’d always appreciated good musicianship, but this… this was different. It wasn't just skill; it was soul. It was like the music was an extension of you, a direct line to something honest and captivating.

A restless energy began to build within him. He needed to know more.

He exited YouTube and opened his browser, typing in your stage name. Information flooded the screen: your full name, your company, the name of your debut single, even a few interviews where you spoke shyly about your music and your unconventional path as a guitar-playing idol. He clicked on every link, devouring every piece of information, piecing together a fragmented image of the person behind the captivating performer.

He learned you were a soloist, which surprised him. Your stage presence felt like it could command an entire band. He scrolled through fan forums, reading comments that echoed his own fascination: “Who is this girl?”, “That guitar solo was insane!”, “Her vibe is so cool.”

Later, when a few of the members had gathered in the common room, their post-show buzz slowly dissipating into comfortable exhaustion, San couldn’t contain it any longer. He wandered in, his phone still clutched in his hand.

“Do you guys know the rookie guitarist from tonight?” he asked, his voice a little too eager.

Wooyoung, sprawled on the couch scrolling through his own phone, looked up, a playful smirk already forming on his lips. “You mean the one you haven’t stopped watching on your phone?”

San flushed slightly, trying to appear nonchalant. “I was just… impressed. Her live playing was really something.”

Jongho, ever the straightforward one, nodded. “She was good. Definitely stood out.”

Hongjoong, who had been quietly sketching in a notebook, looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bro. You’ve watched that clip six times since we got back.”

San’s ears burned. He hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious. He mumbled something about needing to analyze different performance styles.

Hongjoong leaned back, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Analyzing, huh? Or maybe… admiring?” He tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “She did have a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

San avoided his leader’s gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

“Just ask her out already, Romeo,” Hongjoong added, his voice laced with playful teasing.

San’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Hyung! What? No! I just… I was curious about her music.”

The other members exchanged knowing glances, a chorus of suppressed chuckles filling the room. San knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. The image of you on stage, bathed in that single spotlight, the raw sound of your guitar echoing in his ears, was firmly imprinted in his mind. The quiet hum of curiosity had morphed into something far more insistent, a burgeoning fascination that felt dangerously close to… obsession. And he had a feeling this was just the beginning.

The fluorescent lights of the music show backstage buzzed with a familiar, almost sterile energy. A few days had passed since the Gayo Daejun, and the memory of your performance still lingered in San’s mind like a favorite song he couldn’t stop humming. He’d tried to play it cool around his members, deflecting their teasing with awkward jokes and feigned disinterest. But the truth was, he’d spent a significant amount of his downtime rewatching your stage and scrolling through any new information he could find about you. He even found a few fan-made compilation videos of your live guitar moments, each one further solidifying his initial captivated impression.

Fate, or perhaps his own carefully orchestrated movements, had brought them both to the same music show today. Ateez had an early performance slot, and San had been surprisingly subdued throughout their pre-show preparations, his usual playful energy noticeably absent. His mind was elsewhere, a nervous anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. He kept replaying Hongjoong’s teasing words – “Just ask her out already, Romeo” – and a ridiculous scenario where he tripped over his own feet while trying to introduce himself.

He’d subtly inquired about your schedule from one of the staff members he knew, feigning general interest in the lineup. When he learned your dressing room was on the same floor, a few doors down from Ateez’s, a plan began to form – a flimsy, transparent excuse to be in your vicinity. He’d even rehearsed a few potential opening lines in his head, ranging from a simple “Hello” to a more elaborate (and probably disastrous) compliment about your guitar tone.

Now, his heart hammered against his ribs as he stood outside your dressing room, a half-empty water bottle clutched in his hand. He’d “coincidentally” run out of water just as Ateez’s segment wrapped up, and this hallway, he’d reasoned, was the most logical place to find a water dispenser. He leaned against the cool wall, trying to project an air of casual nonchalance, taking slow, deliberate sips. Every distant footstep echoing down the corridor sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. He silently berated himself for his lack of composure. He was Choi San, for crying out loud. He commanded stages filled with roaring fans. Why was this one potential interaction turning him into a stammering mess?

Then, the door to your dressing room opened.

San’s breath hitched. You stepped out, your manager, a slightly harried-looking man in a crisp suit, a few paces behind you, both seemingly engrossed in a quiet conversation. You were dressed in a stylishly understated outfit for your post-performance interviews – dark wash jeans, a slightly oversized band tee, and a delicate silver necklace peeking out from beneath the collar. Your dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of your jawline and the delicate curve of your neck. San’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long.

For a split second, your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral, a polite acknowledgment of a familiar face in the industry. But for San, it felt like a spotlight had suddenly illuminated him. He froze, his carefully constructed facade of nonchalance crumbling into a jumbled mess of nerves and a sudden, intense awareness of his own slightly sweaty post-performance state.

He hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t rehearsed any smooth lines that could possibly convey the impact your performance had had on him. All the witty remarks and carefully crafted compliments he’d mentally conjured vanished from his brain, leaving him with a single, overwhelming thought: it’s really her. Up close, the intensity he’d witnessed on stage was somehow both amplified and softened.

As you drew closer, his throat suddenly felt incredibly dry. He pushed himself off the wall, his legs feeling strangely unsteady, like he’d just finished a particularly grueling choreography session. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled, almost bird-like sound. He winced internally.

“You were…” he finally managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the relatively quiet hallway, and tried again, his gaze fixed somewhere around your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. “You were… amazing. At the Gayo… the guitar part? Insane.” He cringed internally at his utterly inadequate delivery. Insane? Really, San? That’s the best you could come up with?

You stopped walking, a genuine hint of surprise flickering in your dark eyes. You shyly tucked a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear, a delicate, almost unconscious gesture that San found inexplicably endearing. A faint blush, barely perceptible, dusted your cheeks. You lowered your gaze slightly.

“Thank you,” you replied softly, your voice even more melodic and nuanced than he’d expected from your powerful yet soft singing voice. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed. It felt a little… out of place, maybe, amidst all the other amazing performances.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile.

San’s internal monologue was a chaotic scream of flailing limbs and incoherent noises. She doesn’t think anyone noticed?! It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! Tell her! Tell her how it made you feel! Tell her you haven’t stopped thinking about it!

But outwardly, he could only manage a slightly wider, albeit still awkward, smile and a more emphatic nod. “Noticed? Are you kidding? It was… captivating. The way you played, the energy… it was completely different. In a really, really good way.” He finally managed to meet your eyes, and the intensity he felt seemed to momentarily surprise you. He quickly looked away again, suddenly feeling like he was staring.

He wanted to say so much more – to tell you how the rawness of your sound had cut through the usual polished perfection, how your confidence with the guitar had been incredibly inspiring, how he’d rewatched your solo countless times. But the words seemed trapped in his throat, choked by a sudden wave of self-consciousness and the unexpected reality of you standing right in front of him.

He offered another small, slightly less awkward smile, hoping it conveyed at least a fraction of the genuine admiration and burgeoning fascination he felt. You returned the smile, a brief, shy curve of your lips that sent another unexpected jolt through him, settling somewhere warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

Then, your manager, who had been patiently observing the exchange, gently placed a hand on your arm. “We should probably get going, Y/N-ah. The interview with Star News is starting soon, and they’re waiting.”

“Right,” you said, nodding apologetically. You offered San another quick, polite nod, your eyes briefly meeting his again with a hint of something he couldn’t quite decipher before continuing down the hallway with your manager.

San watched you walk away, your ponytail swaying gently with each step, his mind still reeling from the brief but impactful interaction. He’d actually spoken to you. He’d sounded like a complete idiot, but he’d spoken to you. He replayed the exchange in his head, dissecting every word, every glance, the shy tuck of your hair, the soft melody of your voice.

He took a long, shaky gulp of water, the coolness doing little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. He leaned back against the wall again, a goofy, starstruck grin slowly spreading across his face. Choi San, the charismatic performer known for his powerful stage presence and confident charm, was officially a flustered mess. And he had a distinct feeling that this brief backstage run-in was just the beginning of a much more complicated – and potentially exhilarating – chapter.

The weeks that followed the music show took on a surreal quality for both you and San. For you, the unexpected compliment from a senior idol, especially one as charismatic as San of Ateez, had been a pleasant surprise. You’d replayed the brief interaction in your mind a few times, a faint warmth spreading through you at the memory of his earnest, if slightly stammering, praise. You’d even found yourself looking up Ateez’s performances afterwards, a newfound curiosity piqued by his intense stage presence and the powerful dynamic of his group.

Then, the “bump-ins” began.

It started subtly. At the company cafeteria, you’d be mid-bite into your kimbap when you’d glance up to find Ateez at a nearby table, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. More often than not, your eyes would meet San’s, and he’d offer a quick, friendly smile, sometimes accompanied by a small wave. You’d offer a shy nod in return, a blush creeping up your neck.

At music show waiting rooms, their paths seemed to intersect with increasing frequency. He’d always find a reason to approach – a casual “Hey, Y/N-ssi, your performance today was great,” or a lighthearted comment about the chaos backstage. Once, he’d even complimented the unique design on your guitar strap, sparking a brief, slightly awkward but undeniably pleasant conversation about your musical influences.

You tried to rationalize it as coincidence, the inevitable overlap of schedules in the relatively small and interconnected idol world. But a persistent feeling, a delicate dance of anticipation and nervousness, began to bloom in your chest. Every time his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at you, a little spark ignited within you.

You found yourself paying more attention to your appearance on days you knew Ateez would be at the same events, and a nervous flutter would erupt in your stomach whenever you heard their distinct laughter echoing down the hallway.

San, on his end, was far from relying on mere chance. He’d become a surprisingly adept strategist, his internal radar constantly pinging for any sign of your presence. He’d casually inquire about your schedule from friendly staff members, linger a little longer near common areas he knew you sometimes frequented, like the practice room hallways or the studio lounges, and even subtly enlist the help of Wooyoung and Seonghwa to “casually” scout ahead.

His members, initially amused by his sudden, laser-like focus, were now exchanging knowing glances and offering increasingly unsubtle teases. “Looking for your sunshine again, San-ah?” Hongjoong had quipped one afternoon, earning him a playful shove.

Then came the official announcement that sent a genuine tremor of excitement through the industry: a special collaboration stage for the upcoming Golden Disc Awards. And your name was listed alongside Ateez. Specifically, the press release detailed a duet and a joint performance piece that would culminate in a powerful instrumental break featuring your guitar playing alongside Ateez’s signature dynamic energy. And the duet partner? Choi San.

A wave of surprise, quickly followed by a surge of nervous excitement that made your palms sweat, washed over you when your manager relayed the news. A collaboration with a group as globally recognized and incredibly talented as Ateez was a monumental opportunity, a chance to reach a wider audience. But the thought of working so intimately with San, the idol who had sparked this unexpected and rather persistent flutter in your heart, sent a different kind of thrill, a more personal and slightly dizzying sensation, through you.

Rehearsals began a week later, a whirlwind of choreography practices with Ateez’s formidable dance line, vocal run-throughs where your voices surprisingly blended with a unique harmony, and meticulous stage blocking sessions. The song was a powerful, emotionally charged ballad that built to an explosive instrumental bridge, perfectly designed to showcase both Ateez’s dramatic performance skills and your raw, emotive guitar prowess.

During these rehearsals, San’s attention was often, though not always overtly, fixed on you. It wasn’t the intense, unwavering gaze from the Gayo stage, but a softer, more curious observation. When you were carefully tuning Shadow before a run-through, the delicate movements of your fingers across the fretboard seemed to captivate him.

He’d lean against the wall, his usual playful banter momentarily silenced, his eyes following your every adjustment. Once, he’d even asked, his voice genuinely curious, “What tuning are you using for this song? It sounds… different.” You’d explained the drop-D tuning and how it lent a heavier feel to the lower register, and he’d listened intently, nodding thoughtfully.

Between takes, as you’d often hum the melody to yourself, lost in the intricacies of the arrangement, his gaze would linger on you, a soft, almost fond smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, he’d even hum along quietly, and you’d catch his eye, a shared moment of musical connection passing between you.

From his perspective, every small detail about you seemed to be etching itself into his memory. The way your brow would furrow in intense concentration as you worked out a particularly complex chord progression, the way you’d tap your foot rhythmically even when you weren’t playing, the small, almost imperceptible sigh you’d let out after a particularly demanding vocal section.

Even the subtle scent that seemed to perpetually surround you – a delicate blend of warm vanilla and a bright, refreshing citrus – became a comforting and uniquely yours sensory detail that he’d subconsciously started to associate with moments of quiet focus and unexpected smiles.

He started calling you “sunshine.” It began innocently enough, a casual remark during a particularly grueling rehearsal when you’d offered a quiet but encouraging word to a visibly tired Wooyoung. “You’re like sunshine, Y/N -ssi,” he’d said with a genuine smile, and the nickname had stuck.

He used it sparingly, mostly during lighter moments or when he wanted to offer encouragement. But the way your cheeks would instantly flush a delicate pink every time the nickname escaped his lips, the way your gaze would momentarily soften and then quickly dart away, told him it had a deeper, more personal impact.

You tried your best to maintain your professional composure, focusing intently on the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San and the precise timing required for your guitar solo within Ateez’s powerful choreography. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the warmth that spread through you every time San’s gaze lingered a little too long, or the way your heart did a little flip-flop whenever he offered you a genuine, encouraging smile, often accompanied by that endearing nickname.

His presence was a constant, gentle distraction, a warm current that made it harder to maintain your focus but also made the often-stressful rehearsal process feel surprisingly lighter, filled with stolen glances and unspoken understandings.

The tension between you was building, an invisible thread stretching taut with each shared rehearsal and fleeting interaction. It wasn’t just the pressure of the highly anticipated Golden Disc performance; it was the undeniable pull of mutual attraction, a silent conversation conducted through lingering glances, shy smiles, and the shared language of music.

You both knew something was subtly shifting, a delicate connection forming beneath the surface of polite professional interactions. The Golden Disc stage was looming, and with it, the tantalizing promise of a closer collaboration, and perhaps, something significantly more.

The exchange of phone numbers had been a purely practical affair, orchestrated with the efficiency of a military operation by your respective managers under the guise of “seamless rehearsal coordination” for the Golden Disc collaboration. Your contact list now held a new, somewhat official-sounding entry: “San (Ateez) 🎤.” You’d sent a polite introductory text confirming your number, a brief “Hi San-ssi, it’s Y/N. Got your number,” and he��d replied with a simple but friendly, “Got it! Looking forward to working with you, Y/N-ssi :)”. The initial exchange felt formal, almost anticlimactic, leaving you wondering if that would be the extent of your direct communication outside of rehearsals.

However, as the intense rehearsal schedule for the Golden Disc Awards kicked into high gear, the need for direct communication occasionally and organically arose. A last-minute change in the choreography blocking that affected your stage positioning, a question from San about the specific tone you were aiming for during the instrumental break, a quick confirmation needed on shared wardrobe elements to ensure visual harmony on stage.

These exchanges were usually brief and strictly professional, yet each notification that popped up on your screen displaying San’s name still elicited a subtle, almost involuntary quickening of your pulse, a tiny flutter of anticipation that you tried to suppress.

Then came the night after a particularly grueling full dress rehearsal that had stretched late into the evening. You were finally back in the quiet solitude of your dorm room, the distant hum of the city lights painting faint, blurry streaks across your ceiling.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, your mind still buzzing with the complex choreography, the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San, and the soaring melody of the collaboration song that had been looping in your head for hours. You’d changed into comfortable pajamas and were mindlessly scrolling through social media on your phone, a familiar and usually effective way to unwind before sleep claimed you, when your phone vibrated with a new message.

The contact name displayed brightly on your screen read “San (Ateez) 🎤.” Your thumb hovered over the notification for a long moment, a strange and unfamiliar mix of anticipation, nervousness, and a touch of something akin to excitement swirling within you. It was late; you hadn’t expected to hear from him.

San (1:03 am): Were you nervous that night? At the Gayo. You didn’t look it at all. Like you owned that stage from the moment you stepped on it.

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. He was thinking about your debut stage again. It felt like a lifetime ago in the whirlwind of the past few months, yet the memory of the intense spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and the raw, unfiltered energy of your music was still incredibly vivid. You hesitated for a moment before replying, carefully considering your words, unsure of how much vulnerability to reveal.

You (1:04 am): Terrified. Honestly. My palms were sweating so much I thought I might drop Shadow. I just didn’t want to screw up on such a big stage, especially as a relatively new face.

Your reply felt honest, stripped of the cool, composed confidence you consciously projected on stage. You wondered if he’d find it surprising, perhaps even disappointing, that the seemingly fearless guitarist had been battling a storm of nerves underneath.

His response came almost immediately, the speed of it making you smile again.

San (1:04 am): Seriously? You were incredible. You commanded that stage like it was your own. The way you moved, the way you connected with the music… and that guitar solo… still gives me chills every time I watch it. You have such a unique energy.

A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest at his words. It was different from the polite, often generic compliments you usually received from industry colleagues. There was a genuine enthusiasm and a keen observation in his message that felt… real and deeply validating.

San (1:05 am): Next time you’re on a big stage like that, I’m cheering for you from the front row. Promise. I’ll even bring a giant banner with your name on it!! :}

Your heart did a little unexpected flutter at that playful promise. A promise from Choi San, delivered in the quiet intimacy of a late-night text message. You typed out a simple “Thank you :]” but deleted it, feeling it was far too inadequate to express the warmth that was blossoming within you.

You (1:06 am): That means a lot, San-ssi. Really. It’s… reassuring to hear that.

The late-night texts slowly but surely became a more regular, almost anticipated occurrence. They were often initiated by San, usually after both of your demanding schedules had finally wound down for the day, when the rest of the bustling idol world seemed to have finally fallen silent.

They talked about everything and nothing – the unique pressures and unexpected joys of being an idol, their individual musical tastes and surprising shared interests in obscure indie artists, funny and sometimes slightly embarrassing anecdotes from their respective days.

You found yourself genuinely looking forward to these digital exchanges, the quiet intimacy of sharing your thoughts and feelings with someone who seemed to genuinely understand the unique and often isolating pressures you faced in the industry.

San was surprisingly easy to talk to, his digital persona mirroring the warm and playful energy he exuded in person, but with an added layer of thoughtful curiosity. His texts were often punctuated with a liberal use of playful emojis and genuine, insightful questions.

He’d delve into your songwriting process, asking about your lyrical inspirations and the emotions you aimed to convey through your music. He even remembered the name of your guitar, Shadow, and would occasionally ask about it, curious about its history and your connection to it.

You found yourself opening up to him in a way you hadn’t with many others in the industry, the relative anonymity and unspoken understanding of the late-night messages creating a safe and comfortable space for vulnerability.

One particularly hectic afternoon, in the midst of a chaotic day of back-to-back schedules that included a radio interview and a photoshoot, your phone buzzed with a picture message from San. Your initial thought was that it was probably another funny meme his members had sent him.

But when you opened it, your breath hitched slightly. It was a selfie of him, looking slightly tired but grinning broadly, his dark hair a little tousled, holding up a piece of slightly crumpled white paper. Scrawled on it in playful, slightly uneven lettering, adorned with a few charmingly crooked doodles, were the words: “Team Y/N”. He’d even drawn a little stick figure playing a guitar next to your name, its shape endearingly lopsided.

A genuine, unguarded smile bloomed on your face, chasing away some of the day’s accumulated stress. You quickly saved the picture to a private album in your gallery, tucking it away amongst your personal photos, a secret little treasure.

Every now and then, when the relentless pressures of the industry felt particularly overwhelming or isolating, you’d find yourself subconsciously scrolling through your gallery and stumbling upon that silly, heartfelt selfie, and a wave of unexpected warmth and quiet support would wash over you, a tangible reminder of the connection you were slowly building. The late-night whispers in the digital darkness were undeniably weaving a delicate but strengthening thread of something special and undeniably personal between you and Choi San.

The Golden Disc Awards ceremony was a blur of flashing lights, roaring applause, and the nervous energy that permeated every corner of the massive venue. Your collaboration stage with Ateez had been a resounding success.

The ballad, initially a gentle blend of your vocals and San’s, had built in intensity, culminating in the powerful instrumental break where your guitar solo intertwined seamlessly with Ateez’s dynamic performance. The crowd had been captivated, a sea of glowing lightsticks swaying in unison.

Backstage, the atmosphere was electric with post-performance adrenaline. You exchanged exhausted but exhilarated smiles with the Ateez members, a sense of shared accomplishment hanging in the air. San’s eyes had met yours a few times amidst the congratulatory chaos, a soft, knowing smile passing between you that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

As the evening progressed, and the awards ceremony moved onto other performances and announcements, the opportunity for a private moment felt increasingly elusive. Yet, a silent understanding seemed to exist between you and San, a shared desire to acknowledge the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface of rehearsals and late-night texts.

Finally, during a brief intermission, amidst the flurry of idols heading to the refreshment areas or making quick phone calls, San caught your eye from across the bustling backstage corridor. He offered a subtle nod towards a less-trafficked hallway leading towards the emergency exits, a silent invitation.

Your heart skipped a beat. You made a quick excuse to your manager about needing some fresh air and followed him, your steps light with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

The hallway was dimly lit and blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos you’d just escaped. San was leaning against the cool wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his stylish stage jacket. He looked up as you approached, his usual playful energy replaced by a soft, almost vulnerable expression.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You fiddled with the hem of your dress, your gaze fixed on the patterned carpet.

“That was… incredible,” you murmured, breaking the silence, the adrenaline of the performance still coursing through you. “Thank you for… for everything during rehearsals. It was amazing working with you all.”

San pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. “The pleasure was all ours, Y/N-ah. Your playing… it added a whole other dimension to the song.” He paused, then his voice softened. “But you know… tonight… when we were performing…”

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question in your eyes.

You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling both inevitable and terrifying to voice, “You weren’t looking at the audience tonight, San-ssi. Not really. You were looking at me.”

A soft, almost shy smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made your heart do that familiar little flip. He took another step closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah, I was. And you’re right.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. “That’s… that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your hand, sending a jolt of electricity through you. He didn’t take your hand fully, but the light touch was enough.

“From the moment I saw you on that Gayo stage,” he continued, his voice earnest and sincere, “there was something… I don’t know. Something about your passion, your talent… it just… it hit me. Hard.” He chuckled softly, a nervous sound. “And then getting to know you during rehearsals, those late-night texts… it just confirmed what I was already starting to feel.”

He finally met your gaze fully, his eyes filled with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. “I… I really like you, [Your Stage Name]-ah. A lot. And I know this is probably crazy, especially with our careers and everything… but I wanted to be honest with you. I want to give this a real shot. If… if you’re okay with it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the gentle touch of his fingers, the vulnerability in his eyes – it all washed over you, confirming the feelings that had been quietly blossoming in your own heart. The late-night conversations, the stolen glances during rehearsals, the unexpected warmth of his attention – it had all pointed to this moment.

A soft smile bloomed on your own lips, mirroring his. You finally laced your fingers through his, your touch tentative but firm.

“San-ssi,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, “I… I like you too. A lot more than I probably should.” You took a deep breath, your gaze locked with his. “I was… I was falling too.”

A wave of relief washed over his face, his grip on your hand tightening gently. The quiet hallway suddenly felt like the only place in the world, the hushed silence amplifying the unspoken emotions that hung between you. In that dimly lit space, amidst the whirlwind of the idol world, a new chapter had quietly begun.

The initial secrecy of your relationship with San was a fragile, precious thing. It thrived in the quiet moments, in the stolen glances across crowded rooms, and the coded language of late-night texts. Small, tangible tokens of affection became your secret communication.

Notes, folded into impossibly small squares, would appear nestled amongst the strings of Shadow, San’s playful handwriting a stark contrast to the serious intent of his sweet messages. Bubble teas, delivered with a knowing smile by a staff member who’d clearly been briefed, were a small, sweet rebellion against the demands of your schedules. You, in turn, would leave little gifts in Ateez’s studio, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that was growing stronger with each passing day.

But the digital world offered no true sanctuary. The leaked photo, blurry and taken from a distance, was enough to shatter the illusion of privacy. Two figures, walking hand-in-hand under the dim glow of a streetlamp – San’s unmistakable silhouette, your smaller frame – were all it took to ignite the internet.

The explosion was immediate and brutal. Comment sections became battlegrounds, initial curiosity quickly morphing into a torrent of negativity. Accusations of using San for fame were rampant, your talent dismissed, your worth questioned. “She’s just a leech!” one comment screamed. “Riding on Ateez’s success!”

The rigid expectations of idol life fueled the fire. “A rookie dating? Unbelievable!” another user fumed. “She should be focused on her career, not boys!” The attacks grew increasingly personal, descending into cruel insults about your appearance and unfounded rumors about your character. “She’s so plain,” one anonymous commenter sneered. “No wonder she has to cling to someone famous.”

Yet, in the face of this online onslaught, your fans stood firm. They defended your talent, your hard work, your right to a private life. “Leave her alone! She’s an amazing artist!” their voices echoed across the digital space. Surprisingly, a significant number of ATINYs joined their ranks, their support for San extending to his personal happiness. “If San is happy, we should be happy for him,” one ATINY wrote, a sentiment that resonated with many.

Despite this unwavering support, the sheer volume of hate was overwhelming. The negativity seeped into the real world. Your company’s social media was flooded with abusive messages. Your manager’s phone rang non-stop with angry calls.

Then came the chilling delivery. A stark white box. Inside, funeral flowers – white chrysanthemums. A typed note, its words a venomous threat, a stark warning to stay away from San.

The sight of those flowers, a tangible manifestation of such intense hatred, sent a cold wave of fear through you. The joy of your new relationship was instantly poisoned.

San, who had been watching the online storm with growing fury, finally snapped when he learned about the funeral flowers. The image of those stark white blooms, the direct threat against you, ignited a protective rage. He couldn't stand by while you were subjected to such vicious malice.

The playful, loving man you were falling for was momentarily consumed by a fierce, unwavering determination to shield you from the darkness that had descended upon you.

The notification popped up on countless screens simultaneously: “ATEEZ San is live.” Within seconds, the number of viewers skyrocketed. Fans, still reeling from the leaked photo and the ensuing chaos, flooded the chat with questions and worried emojis. San’s lives were usually energetic, filled with playful banter and updates on Ateez’s activities. This felt different.

The camera focused on San’s face, his expression uncharacteristically serious, his eyes holding a raw intensity that made viewers instantly fall silent. He was in what looked like a quiet corner of their dorm, the usual playful clutter noticeably absent. He took a deep breath, his gaze steady and direct.

“Atinys,” he began, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that commanded attention. “And… everyone else who is watching.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the unseen viewers. “Over the past few days, there has been a lot of… speculation and negativity online. Regarding the recent photos that were circulated.”

He didn’t name you directly, but everyone knew who he was talking about. The chat, which had been a torrent of messages moments before, slowed to a crawl, a collective holding of breath.

“I usually try to keep my personal life private,” San continued, his voice firm. “But the level of hate and maliciousness that has been directed towards… someone I care deeply about… it cannot be ignored.”

His jaw tightened. “So, I want to be clear about a few things. Firstly, the hateful comments, the personal attacks, the threats… they have gone too far. My company, KQ Entertainment, is already collecting evidence, and if this does not stop immediately, we will be taking strict legal action against those responsible. This is not a request; it is a warning.”

A hush fell over the internet. The mention of legal action, especially from a company known for its protective stance towards its artists, was a serious deterrent.

San’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Secondly,” he continued, his voice dropping a notch, becoming more personal. “I have seen a lot of unfair accusations being thrown around. Especially towards… her.”

He paused again, taking another deep breath. “So, let me be absolutely clear on this. She did not pursue me. She did not initiate anything. If anyone is to blame for… for us… it is me. I was the one who was captivated from the moment I saw her on stage. I was the one who sought her out. She didn’t confess; I did.”

The impact of his words was palpable. The narrative that had been so viciously constructed online, painting you as an opportunistic rookie, crumbled in an instant.

San’s expression hardened again, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. “Finally,” he said, his voice ringing with conviction. “The person you are all attacking… she is not some fantasy you have created in your minds. She is not some character in a story. She is a real person. She has feelings, she has dreams, she has worked incredibly hard to get where she is.”

He looked directly into the camera, his gaze unwavering. “And yes,” he stated, his voice firm and resolute, each word carrying weight. “She is mine.”

The internet seemed to hold its breath. The usual rapid-fire commentary in the live chat was replaced by a stunned silence. San’s raw honesty, his direct address of the hate, and his unequivocal declaration had landed like a shockwave.

Slowly, tentatively, the tide began to turn. The sheer force of his statement, coupled with the explicit threat of legal action, had a chilling effect. The most vicious hate comments began to subside, replaced by more cautious and uncertain messages. The fear of facing legal repercussions started to outweigh the anonymity and perceived impunity of online hate.

The narrative had shifted, propelled by San’s unwavering defense of the person he loved. The silence on the internet was heavy, pregnant with the aftermath of his words, and the dawning realization that they had crossed a line they might now have to answer for.

The moment San ended the live stream, the adrenaline that had coursed through him began to recede, leaving behind a raw ache of anxiety. Had he said too much? Had he made things worse for you? The uncertainty gnawed at him as he practically sprinted out of the dorm, his members watching with a mixture of concern and understanding. He didn't offer any explanations, his only focus was getting to you.

The drive to your dorm felt like an eternity. Every red light, every slow-moving car, amplified his fear. He imagined you alone, facing the fallout of the scandal, the weight of the hate, and now, the potential repercussions of his public declaration. He cursed himself for not being there sooner, for not being able to shield you from any of it.

Finally, he reached your building, his heart pounding in his chest. He practically flew up the stairs to your floor, his knuckles rapping urgently against your door. Every second felt like a lifetime.

The door creaked open, and there you stood. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and your face was pale, but the sight of him seemed to bring a flicker of relief. Before either of you could speak, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce protectiveness. He held you so close he could feel the tremor that ran through your body.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry for all of this.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Your own voice was muffled against his jacket as you finally spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, San-ah,” you whispered, your words catching on a sob. “You… you didn’t cause this.”

The dam of your carefully held emotions finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, hot and heavy against his shirt. The fear, the anger, the exhaustion of the past few days – it all poured out in a torrent of silent weeping.

He held you tighter, his hand stroking your hair soothingly. He didn’t try to stop your tears; he simply held you, offering a silent reassurance, a solid presence in your moment of vulnerability. He knew words were inadequate. What you needed was comfort, understanding, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.

He held you like that for a long time, until your sobs gradually subsided, leaving behind a quiet hiccuping. He gently pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with a deep tenderness. He brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You managed a small, shaky nod. “Just… scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling you back into his embrace. “I know. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed with you that night. You didn’t talk much, the silence filled with a comfortable understanding, a shared exhaustion. He held you close on your small couch, his presence a warm and reassuring weight. Sleep eventually claimed you both, a fragile peace found in each other’s arms amidst the wreckage of the scandal.

The aftermath of San’s live stream was a strange mix of relief and lingering tension. The most vitriolic hate comments online did indeed slow down, replaced by a hesitant uncertainty. The fear of legal action had cast a pall over the most aggressive antis. However, the underlying prejudice and negativity hadn’t vanished entirely.

In the days and weeks that followed, healing became a slow, deliberate process. You leaned on each other, finding strength in your shared experience. San was a constant source of support, his presence a quiet reassurance that helped to soothe your frayed nerves. You talked, tentatively at first, then more openly, sharing your fears and anxieties. He listened without judgment, offering comfort and unwavering support.

Your company, emboldened by San’s public stance and the threat of legal action, stepped up their efforts to protect you, increasing security and actively pursuing legal avenues against the most egregious offenders. The storm hadn't completely passed, but the intensity had lessened, a fragile calm beginning to settle in its wake. The healing had begun, nurtured by the quiet strength of your connection.

Eleven months. The memory of the scandal’s harsh glare had begun to soften around the edges, like a photograph left in the sun. In its place bloomed a quiet resilience, a steadfast focus on the music that truly defined you. The songs you’d poured your heart into during those months of healing, each note and lyric a testament to your journey, were finally seeing the light.

Your new album, a collection of melodies that whispered of romance and longing, resonated with a global audience in a way that surpassed all expectations. The vulnerability and emotions in your voice, the delicate arrangements, the raw honesty of your lyrics – they spoke a universal language of the heart. Fans, who had witnessed the subtle shifts in your music and your demeanor, intuitively understood the quiet inspiration woven into each track.

You watched, a profound sense of gratitude washing over you, as your album soared up international charts, your name now synonymous with a unique blend of idol charm and genuine musical artistry. The label of “rookie guitarist” had faded, replaced by the recognition of a rising star, your music captivating hearts across continents.

Throughout this whirlwind of success, San remained your unwavering anchor, your most enthusiastic supporter. His encouragement was a constant, a quiet strength that buoyed you through every demanding schedule and nerve-wracking performance. He’d be the first to text after a show, his messages a flurry of emojis and heartfelt praise. The Ateez dorm often echoed with your new tracks, his members offering good-natured teases while secretly humming along to the catchy melodies.

And when your solo concerts began, San made sure he was there. He’d often slip into the venue unnoticed, a face in the crowd, his gaze never leaving you as you commanded the stage. From the shadows, his phone would capture fleeting moments – the intense concentration etched on your face during a complex guitar solo, the radiant smile that bloomed when the audience sang your lyrics back to you, the sheer joy that radiated from you as you connected with your fans through your music. His phone gallery became a secret testament to your talent and the pride he felt.

One night, after an electrifying concert in Las Vegas, the energy between you and the roaring audience a tangible force, San felt an overwhelming wave of love and admiration. He wanted the world to know the depth of his feelings, the sheer luck he felt in having you in his life.

Back in his hotel room, the glittering cityscape spread out before him, he scrolled through the candid shots he’d taken that night. He selected a few that truly captured your essence – the focused intensity in your eyes as you played, the pure joy in your laughter as you interacted with the crowd, your silhouette a powerful presence against the vibrant stage lights.

He opened his public Instagram account, his thumb hovering over the share button. He wanted to express his feelings honestly, openly, for all to see. Finally, he typed a caption, his heart laid bare:

“Watching you shine so brightly tonight, Y/N, fills me with a happiness I can barely describe. Your talent is breathtaking, your passion is infectious, and the way you connect with everyone who hears your music is truly magical. I feel incredibly lucky, every single day, to have you in my life. You inspire me endlessly. ❤️🎸”

He attached the soft, candid photos, a public declaration of his love and admiration. The post went live, and the internet responded with an outpouring of warmth and support. Fans, who had long sensed the depth of your connection, were touched by his heartfelt words and the genuine pride that shone through.

The image of the charismatic idol so openly celebrating his partner resonated deeply, solidifying their perception of your relationship as a source of strength and inspiration. The rise of your star was no longer just your own triumph; it was a shared journey, a testament to the enduring power of love that had weathered the storm and now shone brightly for the world to witness.

The relentless pace of idol life often blurred into a continuous cycle of performances, recordings, and travel. But tucked away in the quiet corners of their shared apartment, a haven carved out amidst the chaos, existed a different reality – a space where the bright lights faded and the masks came off.

Tonight was one of those nights. You were curled up on the plush couch, a worn paperback novel open in your lap, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp. San’s oversized hoodie swallowed your small frame, the sleeves pulled down over your hands. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, secured with a stray hair tie, and your glasses rested on the bridge of your nose, your makeup-free skin looking soft and natural. You were completely absorbed in your book, oblivious to the world outside and the adoring gaze fixed upon you.

San, who had been quietly tinkering with some music equipment across the room, paused, his eyes drawn to the picture of domestic bliss you presented. A soft smile touched his lips. He reached for his phone, snapping a quick, candid photo of you, your brow furrowed in concentration as you turned a page.

Without a word, he opened his phone settings and set the photo as his wallpaper, a private reminder of the quiet joy you brought to his life. You remained engrossed in your book, completely unaware of his silent adoration and the new image gracing his phone screen.

A mischievous glint suddenly sparked in San’s eyes. He moved silently towards the couch, a playful grin spreading across his face. In one swift motion, he scooped you up in his arms, lifting you with surprising ease.

“San!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in surprise as you were suddenly airborne. The book tumbled to the floor, landing with a soft thud.

He carried you the few steps to the bedroom, his grin widening with each flustered protest you made. “Operation: Relocate the Bookworm!” he declared in a mock-heroic voice. With a playful grunt, he gently tossed you onto the soft mattress.

You landed with a soft bounce, your glasses askew, your heart hammering in your chest. You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh my god, San, I’m a virgin I don’t think you’ll fit—”

San froze mid-chuckle, his playful expression instantly morphing into one of utter shock. He stood there, a statue of bewildered surprise, his mouth slightly agape, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by your slightly panicked breathing. Then, a slow dawning of realization crossed San’s face, followed by a flicker of something akin to amusement struggling to break through the surprise.

“…I was trying to cuddle?” he finally managed, his voice a hesitant whisper, a bewildered question mark hanging in the air. He even gestured vaguely with his hands, as if demonstrating the concept of a platonic embrace.

Another beat of silence. Your eyes widened further, the color rising in your cheeks as the full implication of your utterly mortifying statement hit you. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

San’s eyebrows shot up even higher. “…Wait,” he said slowly, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. “You’ve never—?” He trailed off, a slow, knowing smile starting to play on his lips.

Your face flushed a deep, uncontrollable crimson. You became a flustered mess of tangled limbs and stammered denials. “NO! I mean… I’m waiting… I—ugh! This is so unbelievably embarrassing! Can we just… can we just forget I said anything?” You buried your face in the pillows, mortified beyond words.

A soft chuckle rumbled in San’s chest, a sound that held genuine amusement but also a surprising tenderness. He gently sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to carefully pull you into his arms. You kept your face hidden, your cheeks burning like twin embers.

“Hey, sunshine,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s okay. Really. There’s absolutely no pressure, no expectations. You take all the time you need, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He held you close, his arms a comforting and reassuring embrace. He kissed your temple again, a lingering, tender gesture.

A playful smirk tugged at his lips, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “But,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement, “I am definitely teasing you about this forever. You know that, right? Like, for the rest of our lives.”

You groaned into his chest, but a small, reluctant smile finally broke through your embarrassment. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” you mumbled, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, I would dare,” he said, his chuckle deepening. “In fact, I’m already planning the anniversary celebrations for ‘The Night Sunshine Thought I Wouldn’t Fit.’” He punctuated his words with a playful squeeze.

You swatted playfully at his arm, your face still buried in his chest. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” he countered, his voice full of mirth. “Especially the look on your face. Priceless. I should have taken a picture.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can? For posterity?” He made a mock attempt to reach for his phone.

You tightened your grip on his hoodie. “Don’t you even think about it, Choi San.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. “Alright, alright. My lips are sealed… for now. But just so you know, the next time we’re cuddling, and you look even remotely tense…” He trailed off suggestively, raising a playful eyebrow.

You playfully punched his arm again, a giggle escaping despite your lingering embarrassment. “You are the worst.”

“The worst… but you love me,” he finished, nuzzling his face into your hair.

You sighed contentedly, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last vestiges of your mortification. “Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his chest.

“See? Admitted it,” he teased triumphantly. “Now, about that book you were reading… maybe we can cuddle and just read?” He emphasized the word “just” with a playful wink that you couldn’t see but could definitely feel in his tone.

You finally lifted your head, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “Maybe,” you said, leaning into him. “But if you even think about bringing up the ‘fitting’ thing again…”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it… for at least five minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was a testament to the comfortable, playful love that defined your quiet moments together, even the hilariously awkward ones. In the safe haven of their shared home, amidst the endless teasing and the deep, unwavering affection, their unique and tender story continued to unfold, one laugh, one cuddle, and one mortifyingly iconic misunderstanding at a time.

-- The end <33

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ozzgin · 9 months ago

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We have yandere school,, but what about yan! Restaurant? 👀

You've only ever visited this particular restaurant once, but the food was just so good that you can't help but come back from time to time! And, oh.. The workers and manager there can't help but favor you a lot more than the rest ♡

I'm not sure if you meant it in the sense that the restaurant is a regular, normal business, and the staff became obsessed with you, or if the restaurant is quite literally advertised as a yandere service. I went for the latter, for the memes. Content: gender neutral reader, parody?, horde of (adult) yanderes

Yandere!Restaurant provides you with an extensive list of employees to choose from. From grey-haired and soft-spoken, to brash and youthful; the restaurant guarantees you will find your matching server within their impressive catalog.

Alright, where is the menu? Most customers are indeed taken aback when presented with a leather-bound book of blank pages. The gesture is quickly followed by a second, much thinner folder: a questionnaire, and an agreement to be stalked.

You see, Yandere!Restaurant has a particular modus operandi - you provide them with the basics: your full name and date of birth. Everything else will be uncovered by the yandere themselves. Once they have found you, the true serving process begins.

The first part is always the longest, hence their recommendation to book months in advance if you're a new customer. It's the research phase. Your chosen server will follow you around and gather all the needed information.

"No, thank you, it's too sweet for me", you tell a friend offering you some of their snack. From within the shadows, a cloaked figure scribbles down furiously.

The second and final phase is your usual dining experience. You are seated at the table and presented with your dishes. They have been carefully curated to match your taste in that very moment. Maybe you'd recently hoped you could eat your childhood favorite again. Maybe you'd seen a social media post about a trending dessert, and wished to try it out yourself. No matter the reason, know that it has been skillfully uncovered by your loyal server.

"This is..."

You gasp quietly and cover your mouth with a napkin. The taste is exquisite, filling you with a wave of nostalgia. How did they know? This is exactly what you wanted.

Why, of course. It was made with utmost love and attention. Won't you visit them again, (Y/N)?

[More Yandere Scenarios]

#yandere restaurant #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios

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sylusonychinus · 3 months ago

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Protective Sylus

Protective Sylus who insists on knowing your whereabouts at all times, subtly tracking your movements even when he's "busy."

Protective Sylus who showers you with unique, one-of-a-kind gifts, like custom-designed weaponry or rare artifacts, each a tangible expression of his affection and a symbol of his claim on you.

Protective Sylus who despite his aloof demeanor, becomes noticeably clingy when you're within his vicinity, always finding excuses to be near you, his presence a constant, comforting (or slightly unnerving) shadow.

Protective Sylus who monitors your interactions with others, his gaze intense and possessive, a silent warning to anyone who might dare to get too close.

Protective Sylus who, when he senses you're in danger, dispatches Mephisto or the twins with swift, decisive action, his concern overriding any other commitments or responsibilities.

Protective Sylus who, even when he's occupied with important matters, maintains a constant awareness of your well-being, his senses seemingly attuned to your every need and emotion.

Protective Sylus who, though he may not express his feelings openly, communicates his love through actions: ensuring your safety, fulfilling your desires, and subtly marking you as his own.

Protective Sylus who, while not explicitly admitting it, revels in your dependence on him, seeing it as confirmation of your bond and a justification for his overprotective nature.

Protective Sylus who, in his own way, is intensely loyal and devoted, his protectiveness stemming from a deep-seated need to keep you safe and secure within his world.

credit: dollywoona for the dividers :3 author: as you guys have voted have protective sylus :3

#love and deepspace sylus #sylus qin #sylus x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you

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witherby · 14 days ago

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I love your stories!

How do you think Conner would react if he saw someone trying to flirt with Mouse? Would he step in, or just watch how things play out?

Also how would Mouse react to someone flirting with them?

Let's look at Mouse first!

Prior to getting with Kon, they're not particularly romance-forward. They have friendships they maintain and a family they love, but they've never taken a huge interest in a partner. They adopted an "if it happens, it happens" mentality, and because of that, developed a sort of obliviousness to flirting.

"Did it hurt?" Someone asks them, leaning against the wall with a suave smile. "When you fell from Heaven?"

Mouse, completely unaware this is a come-on: I'm from Gotham. Specifically Bristol. :)

If we put someone in front of Conner, assuming he hadn't met Mouse yet, and had them flirt, he would willingly flirt back. He's cocky about his looks — he's hot as fuck and knows it — so he wouldn't hesitate to bat his pretty blues at somebody and kiss the back of a hand to make their heart skip a beat.

When he does imprint on Mouse, what they want is what he wants. It takes him a little while to realize that they might want to want him if they understood that he was fucking flirting in the first place. They weren't rebuffing him on purpose, they're just...ignorant.

"I adore you."

"Aw, thanks! You're really great, too!"

"...My heart skips a beat when you look at me."

"I'm not surprised. I have shadow powers and live in a dark city, which probably creeps you out seeing as you need sunlight to stay strong."

"That's not — look, I love you!"

"I love all my friends and family, too! You're sweet."

Conner can often be found prone on the ground when Mouse isn't nearby and he's not doing hero things. To their credit, Mouse does apologize when they finally put two and two together.

Just because they now recognize Conner's flirting doesn't mean they'd recognize anybody else's, though. Every now and again someone will stroll into Truce Juice and try to get Mouse's number or ask them out on a date. Conner gets endless amusement out of watching his partner initially not understand their come-ons, then gets even more amusement out of the eventual realization and subsequent rejection.

He doesn't feel the need to intervene and posture up to any perceived competition. Mouse is loyal and he trusts them with his entire being. It's also hot to watch them sweep a particularly stubborn or violent customer up into the shadows and toss them out of the café.

#el speaks #littlest wayne au #conner kent #conner kent x reader #kon el #kon el x reader #superboy #superboy x reader

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dollyfiles · 4 months ago

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INTRODUCING.. RAVEN!READER ₊˚⊹♡

barry’s little sister. dealer the girlies trust. deftones. tattoos. addict. grillz. anger issues. silver jewelry. paired with frat!rafe.

RAVEN!READER who is known around kildare for her temper and not being afraid to fight, especially when it comes to protecting her reputation or defending her older brother or her boyfriend rafe. the kind of girl who doesn’t just talk tough—she is tough, getting attention everywhere she goes, making not only rafe, but everyone around her, dizzy.

RAVEN!READER who isn’t made to stay in anyones shadow. starting off by running errands for barry, delivering dime bags and keeping his customers fed, quickly turned into having her own loyal customers by using the advantage that girls in obx are easily overlooked as potential buyers. now she’s become the go-to dealer for the kook girls, someone who makes them feel safe while hooking them up with exactly what they needed.

RAVEN!READER and rafe who ground eachother, giving the other a sense of stability they don’t get elsewhere. in rafe’s eyes, she is untouchable, the only person who's ever truly matched his energy, unafraid to call him out or put him in his place, which only made him fall harder. and even if they fight like enemies, there's no denying they're made for each other.

RAVEN!READER who treasures her black gibson les paul guitar, even if she doesn’t play it often, but keeps it on display in her room like a trophy. she’s currently saving up for her dream motorbike, a matte black one with metallic accents. def sneaks into places she shouldn’t be at. 100% a girls-girl, the most loyal friend you could ever find.

fics

꩜ raven!reader jerking off frat!rafe at a party

꩜ frat!rafe calling up raven!reader for coke again

꩜ raven!reader and frat!rafe fucking in the back of his truck

꩜ raven!reader rejecting frat!rafe infront of barry

꩜ raven!reader throwing a knife at frat!rafe during a fight

.ᐟ credit/inspo for the layout goes out to my beautiful mutual @rafesangelita (check out her stuff, it’s amazing)

#dollys !readers `♡´#raven!reader x frat!rafe ꩜#raven!reader ꩜#rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x reader #raven!reader moodboard #moodboard #!reader introduction

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swanimagines · 9 months ago

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The Umbrella Academy: Imagine being part of Klaus Hargreeves’s cult and him falling in love with you.

requested by anon

Note: nowadays all requests are done straight to asks, this is my old template of posting and I no longer have their asks!

Your life had never been anything glamorous. It felt as if luck had decided to abandon you the moment you were born — your parents leaving you at the doorstep of a chapel shortly after birth, being taken in by nuns in a monastery, having to deal with beatings whenever you dared to question what God supposedly said. Everything was sin, you were expected to devote your life to the Lord without no one asking what you wanted.

When you were a teenager, you couldn’t take it anymore, and you ran away in the dead of the night. You successfully stole clothes as no one would suspect a nun to commit such a sin. And then you just… drifted around, doing work where you could be taken in, sleeping in the backroom of your current workplace, trying to avoid customers the best you could in fear someone would recognise you.

But one day, you met Klaus, and he just… managed to make you feel like you had finally come home for the first time, his demeanor just glowed with hope and safety. Something in him just pulled you in, and before you knew it, you lived in his manor, sitting there with other “children” and listened to this man preaching about the world and its state.

But the shadows of your past found you eventually, and one night you woke up in cold sweat, heart racing, frantically expecting one of the sisters standing there at the doorway, ready to beat you with the Bible. But then the familiar, musky scent of the bedroom filled your nostrils and you sighed, trying to calm down. You still got up from your bed and tiptoed outside, wandering into the small gazebo by the pond and sitting down. You listened to the grasshoppers, the rustle of trees as a gentle gush of wind blew through, and you slowly felt at peace again.

Then, footsteps. You whipped your head around to look and saw your leader slowly making his way towards the gazebo, a soft smile on his face.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Klaus asked, taking a seat across from you. You shook your head.

“Nightmares again,” you mumbled, rubbing your knees. “They just seem to follow me everywhere.”

He sighed, before slowly shifting and making his way to sit beside you. “You’re my favorite from the family, you know.”

You turned to look at him, your eyebrows shooting up. “Oh? Why is that?”

He smiled at you again, before taking your hand. “You’re amazing, clever, loyal, and I… I sense you will do great things in the future.”

You couldn’t help but scoff and let out a little laugh. “Are you sure it’s me you’re talking about?”

He wasn’t laughing, rather his smile disappeared. “Don’t you dare think anything less of yourself than you are.”

You squeezed his hand gently, before shaking your head as tears began forming in your eyes. “I’ve been ridiculed and belittled all my life. I’ve been broken and torn apart for so long, how could I possibly mend myself together to go out there and do something good, something that matters?”

He was silent, and you pulled your hand off his hand to wipe your eyes before you closed them and took in a shaky breath, squeezing the bench.

Klaus looked at you for a moment. Ben had left his side now, understanding the delicate situation that required you two to be alone. A moment ago, he had been teasing Klaus for being so lovey-dovey the moment he sat beside you, and Klaus had tried to remind himself not to swat him, or rather the air through him. But now, there were actually just the two of you, sitting there in silence. Klaus waited for you to speak again for a moment, but then he just couldn’t wait anymore and cupped your cheek, guiding you gently to look at him.

“You’re broken, that’s true. But,” he whispered and wiped a tear away from your cheek, “you can heal, even if it doesn’t feel like that now. And one day, you will thrive again. Our whole family believes in you here.”

And I believe in you the most, because I have grown to feel deeper for you, to love you, he thought, but left it unsaid. If you wouldn’t return his feelings, him just slapping his feelings at you could, and likely would, ruin the moment. And he wanted nothing more than to bask in hope, establish a stronger bond, and wait that maybe one day you’d return his feelings or at least gave enough signs that he would be confident enough to take the jump.

He felt so much, for the first time in years he could feel happiness and euphoria without drugs. Feeling like his “children” were fond of him, but honestly he’d give it all away for you. If his family ever disbanded, he would be happy they went to spread the word of peace to others, but he just hoped you would stay with him. This timeline, being in the middle of the Cold War, being afraid of Russians… it was different. Different atmosphere, even when he knew nothing would happen. Him being able to “predict” some things had gathered the first batch of the family, which had then slowly grown. He would have never believed that one of the people joining his family would be someone like you.

And now, looking into your eyes, his eyes wandered around your face. Your lips.

He took in a breath and retreated from you, before doing anything drastic. “We should go back to sleep.”

He stood up, but you grabbed his hand before he could start walking. “Klaus?”

He turned, meeting your eyes again. Your lips widened into a careful smile as you stood up too and you bit your lip. “Thank you.”

He nodded, offering you a smile as well, and you walked back to the mansion together, and Klaus went to sleep grinning like a schoolboy, knowing Ben was following him with a smirk. And when he took off his slippers and the bathrobe, Ben’s voice chuckled from the darkness. “Well, well. Looks like it went better than you thought.”

Klaus sighed dreamily, sitting up against the headboard of his bed and looked at Ben. “They’re wonderful, the angel in the darkness, the flower in the middle of a burned field…”

Ben laughed, cutting Klaus off. “Yeah, I figured. Your face when you look at them, I wish I could use a camera. Or that we even had a camera, I’d—”

Klaus interrupted him, clearly not even listening. “They’re wonderful, Ben. Simply wonderful. I wish I could marry them on the spot.”

Ben chuckled again. “Well, this is a cult—”

Klaus immediately scowled. “This is not a cult, how many times—”

“This is most definitely a cult.”

Klaus sighed and dramatically slid to lie down, turning his back on Ben and pulling the blanket over him like a child. Ben huffed and shook his head, taking a seat on the armchair by the window and waiting until the morning. He couldn’t wait to see how desperately in love Klaus would grow out to be as his interactions with you would continue.

---

Requests are open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

#klaus hargreeves #klaus hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy x reader #tua #tua x reader #reader insert #gn reader #romantic #my works

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fqntasies · 1 year ago

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Prize - Feyd Rautha x Reader

Summary: The Na-Baron is set to fight in the arena once more; yet his opponent's reveal is a shock to you and perhaps the other Harkonnen as well. Upon his impending victory, your husband claims you as his prize, ravenous, of course.

Disclaimer: connected to my other fics of feyd. I dont write my stories as chapters, but rather time-jumps to various moments in the reader & feyd's story (considering that I write you both as connected through dreams since childhood, betrothed, etc.)

Word Count: 1,988

This was to be the second fight you would witness of the Na-Baron's, a momentous celebratory event that filled arena's and sparked a sense of frenzy among the inhabitants of Giedi Prime. The first you had witnessed took place just months before your wedding ceremony; in part a testimony of the Na-Baron's prowess and strength, a claim perhaps to your hand, if you were to view it as such. The spectacle had left you breathless then, and you were certain this time such a reaction would be warranted as well. If nothing else, the racing of your heart and the thunderous chorus of the crowds stood attest to it. They were like beasts among the stands, delirious for their prince, and loyal to their homeworld above all else, chants in the air.

This particular occasion already felt separate. Opponents were typically drugged enemy houses or military prisoners let loose in the triangular space, as was custom. But not today. You had seen odd glances among the servants, and even whispers from other members of the Harkonnen house along passing corridors. Something had been changed in the lineup. But what? Had a prisoner been injured? Escaped before the fight? When you look to your handmaidens, they give nothing away but reassuring nods, pale skulls angling towards where the battle will commence after but a moment.

You could not deduce; instead aware of the light breeze that clips at the base of your neck, and the blinding light that reigns above. It casts sharp shadows over your party, jutting from the edge of the alcove's decorative ceiling.

You stand from your seat to walk the few paces to the edge of the balcony, the dark silk of your gown sliding across your thighs like rivets of water. It is just a few paces, but you feel as though you have stepped into a new world as the sun lathes you in it's blanket of heat. You press your palms against the stone that greets you, and eyes turn down, fixed at the doors to the far north of the arena. The ring on your finger sparkles brilliantly in the day, and for a moment, the roars around you are deafening.

Then, silence... and there he is.

You see that pale visage stark against the darkness behind him, hands gripping twin blades, and you are rapt with attention. Feyd's shoulders heave with his heavy breaths, armor only enhancing his form. You knew if you were to stand up close, his eyes would be endless black pools, ravenous for the blood that was to spill before him, striking against the milky softness of his skin. He was his own animal. Foreignly alien, and yet yours all the same. Husband.

You blush as his eyes find yours abruptly, and he stalks from the entryway, steps bringing him towards you in the sand, even as he is leagues below. Your mind drifts to just hours before, where the Na-Baron had caged you among ebony blankets in your shared chambers, leaving no escape from the broadness of him in the cool of the morning. Ghosts of his tongue and mouth have you heaving a breath; licking your lips as though parched. You knew you would dream of him again tonight, even as his arms would trap you like a vice in the safety of sleep. It thrilled and frightened you alike.

Feyd lifts his blade in oath above his head, like a promise to the heavens, and you nod in reply as that sharp edge glints in the light. This blood he spills for you. Always for you. As he would for any who dared to come between.

When he turns, he rolls his shoulders languidly with a tilt of his head. Ready to strike. And you shift to look towards the very same gates he had come through moments ago. That's when you pause - a breath catching in surprise.

The harpies - you were sure of it; their angled forms were roped about each other, a strangling mess of light limbs as they were dragged by burly guards towards the center of the sands. An offering before their dark prince. Proposed like some strange kind of sacrificial lamb.

Suddenly you knew - this was what had made everyone so surprised.

Feyd has turned again, his face now determined, set. You can see it in the sharpness of his jaw, like he vibrates with a new kind of rage. It's his declaration of his love. He will destroy the things that sought to destroy them and their bond; greedy creatures who cared not for the destiny set before their master. Only seeking flesh and carnal sustenance.

At one point, members of the Harkonnen house had thought to leash the Na-Baron with the harpy creatures; perhaps thinking such temptations could control him, avenues orchestrated by the Baron himself, or Rabban, though you assumed the former. But they had failed to see the lengths to which Feyd was devoted to you, had never known the dreams you both had shared since before your very meeting.

This was what he offered to you. Power and promise. Heady in the air, and ripe with opportunity.

---

When they were lifeless upon the sands, you meet your husband's gaze again. There is red painting his body like stars in the milkyway; and a gash covers his chest where one of the harpies had caught him in her claws. He sways a bit, almost drunkenly; and a bloodied grin paints handsome features as he picks up a pace towards you, black cloak carrying behind him like a billowing shadow. You know where he is headed, as his form disappears beneath. It sets your heart to a stampede, goosebumps prickling along the flesh of your arms, and you are swift to dart from the cover of your ladies.

He hunts you, a hulking form somewhere below, closer and closer.

You envision the Na-Baron stalking through the main doors as you flit between sunlight and shadows, a rasp low in his chest as he parts his lips to taste the air, bloodlust and craving. A needy hunger. It makes your legs feel unstable as you blindly chase between archways, imagining the ghost of your prince behind you at your neck. Would he grab you, you wonder...? Would such hands that had slaughtered moments ago trap you now? The horror. The wonder. Your fingers grasp fistfuls of your gown, bare feet pressing against the cool of the marble under your padded steps.

You huddle swiftly behind a wall to catch your breath, angling your jaw to listen as you puff air in and out of your lungs.

"I know your here, princess."

You startle in silence, running cold - gosh - that voice. It was a weak point for you, Feyd had learned swiftly (as had you). A dangerous piece of knowledge, used more often than not as a way to keep you in your shared bed, wanton and delirious as he sought you out. You knew he carried a dare in his words now. Try to run, little rabbit. Try and see.

You want him to catch you, you think. Though perhaps not yet. Your mind fights for what to do - envisions him around you, and you battle the fog of your machinations in a fleeting moment - dashing towards a new hall at the opposite side of the room.

His laugh is low and drawn out as you fly from him, turning into a growl. You are nearly through a new door when he has you - twisting your fighting form and pulling you with him into the unfamiliar space, strong fingers gripping at your waist.

Then he is claiming your mouth with his, pulling you down with him and into his lap, arms trapping you like you were meant to be there - precisely so - all tongue and taste; the two of you stumbling against a wall. You moan - preen against him, fitting to his hold like a puzzle piece that was perfectly matched.

The slide of his tongue on yours is wet and heavy - and in the haze of kisses you see his eyes heavy lidded, watching, following a growl and the nip of his black teeth. It has you sighing again, mewling like some wanton thing, and the silk of your skirts are gripped in his hand at your hip, which cranes to push you against him. The other angles your neck, tipping your mouth deeper into his, and you think for a moment there is no where else you could go. No where quite like this where you belong so completely. His touch is so warm, and broad - iron too, you are aware that even if you attempted a form of escape, he would have you again in an instant.

"- My prince."

His eyes flash at your breathy words. You two had danced this game before - pretending it was your first meeting, feigning some kind of unaware strangers scenario, though you were both well aware of the visions that plagued each other's sleep for years.

He couldn't ignore the calling of your soul even if he tried.

"My lady." He sounds debauched as he cranes to attach a hot mouth to the spot below your ear, and you arch further into him, brows knitting together at the sensation; fighting for control. You make that sound again - the gentle whine that makes his eyes nearly roll back in his skull, and he chases it with another lathe of his tongue, and a warning rumble in his chest.

Don't tempt me - he taunts.

You have half a mind to mark him the same.

"You're not leaving this time, sweet one. I still haven't even gotten your name." His words proceed a suck at your bottom lip, and you angle to taste him in the fog that covers your mind. You almost don't understand the words in your haze; but the smile you taste in his kisses brings you back, and you pull away enough to face him, lips detaching from his own with a wet gleam.

"But my lord - you know I am engaged." the rumble he makes is another warning, hips against your own as his hands hold you there.

"Then I shall cut him down like all the rest." There is a pride and a jealousy that glimmers in the Na-Baron's eyes, even in this pretend world the two of you have crafted, and it takes you a moment to snap out of your heady admiration of him, chasing after his tongue with your own as you lean back in. Heads turn this way, and that, the heat of your breaths and the wetness of your kisses filling the silence of the space you've chosen.

Feyd groans - followed by a gentle tilt of your head, and his lips are by your ear, his hand in your hair, a commanding hold - though you know he'd never hurt you.

"I quite think you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, little one?" You pant softly in response, only able to suffice a delicate nod in his embrace, overcome with your desire for him. And that's all he needs to hear, sliding his tongue against yours once more before he's hoisting you in his arms, the fabric of your dress bundling by his hold, baring the soft tenderness of your thighs. It has the muscles in his neck craning with a ragged groan, eyes trailing to meet yours with barely restrained tension. A man at his breaking point.

His swift strides have you clinging tightly to him, nose against his neck, pressed just under his ear. The wafting aroma of his cologne and the sweat and blood of the arena are filling your senses. You know he brings you to your chambers; the grip of his hands and the speed of his steps tell you as much; it makes you taste your lip between your teeth, pressing just so against him.

His prize.

#WE'RE BACK BABYYY #y'all know i couldnt stay away from another feyd fic #enjoy this delicious chapter #gosh i just wanna kiss a man #and feyd's got the most kissable mouth ever its so not fair #feyd x reader #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha #x reader #fanfic #dune #dune part 2 #dune pt 2 #dune 2 fanfic #austin butler #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha x you #feyd x you

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corollaservant · 1 year ago

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Retail Therapy // Dabi x f!reader x Shigaraki (18+)

Synopsis: Working as a sales assistant in a high end sneaker shop is boring. But you're about to be taught otherwise.

Warnings: noncon/dubcon (idk about this one), degradation, humiliation, illegal recording, mentions of crimes, ableist remarks (not from reader), harassment, dumbification

A/N: kinda thought of the LoV as streamers (but not like gamers). thx anon in spam blog for encouraging this dumb idea, idk what this says about us:)

Another boring day at work. But honestly, what were you expecting?

You didn’t know anyone who had fun working in retail. Not that this would be your job forever, as you planned on quitting and you know... try something else. Dropping out of college may have not been a smart move but you were confident that you’d find your path, somewhere, sometime. The store was never busy, the pricing and interior design repelling most passers-by and only attracting a couple influencer kids (you often laughed at the term) and their rich parents or a few unknown athletes in an effort to buy designer and make a better name for themselves. High end clients never showed up in person, they had no reason to, no one shopped at boutiques anymore—all the more sneaker ones.

You would often kill time by watching stuff online (who didn’t), looking at the latest socialite news in various media outlets, the world was going downhill, you thought, as you absentmindedly sipped from your water bottle. Articles wrote about villains, social pariahs, as they’d branded them, parading power by killing innocent civilians ‘for the fun of it’.

Two shadows at the door caused you to look up. Customers? No way. Your heart stopped for a second as both walked through the door. Was this some kind of a twisted game of fate? Who didn’t fucking know them, Dabi and his subordinate, the man he had on a leash, even though he was the supposed boss, Shigaraki Tomura. What the fuck where they doing here?

The taller man, which you knew as Dabi, wore a dark blue jacket with the collars ripped while his patched purple skin stood out. Surgically attached staples (or where these piercings?) moved when he smiled. Despite the menacing appearance, you had to admit he looked quite... elegant? His shorter companion didn't fail to catch your eye either, a hood pulled low over his face and wearing a miserably plain outfit. Under other circumstances, you’d throw guys like them out the store—this wasn’t some charity but you quickly reconsidered, once you remembered their recent streaming. Shigaraki filmed Dabi burning up a whole forest just to kill some time as they laughed. Cool, yeah. Problem was they had accidentally murdered some poor people on a picnic, who they’d later find and film, joking about how ‘today was not the day for a picnic, guys’. The two villains would livestream the whole thing on various platforms, other times they’d upload it later on a channel, where perverse comments encouraged and gave them both views. They obviously had a clear immoral viewpoint on heroes (they despised the filth society had created on false pretense) and never failed to shout it even louder.

‘’Hello, sweetheart.’’ Dabi greeted you, approaching the register. His loyal dog followed close, hands in his pockets and a sly smile.

‘’Me and my...friend would like to check out a few shoes today, we’re feeling generous.’’ The friend didn't sound very friendly.

You regained composure and whispered a ‘’y-yes, sure!’’ as they looked at you. Dabi's eyes diverted to your work uniform, a blazer with exposed bust and a tight pencil skirt (yeah yeah, you knew this was a high end sneaker store but rules were rules and you had to attract the filthy rich somehow...manager's words, not yours)

‘’W-what would you guys like to see?’’ You stammered, their proximity not helping.

‘’Sweetie got a speech impediment?’’ Shigaraki asked no one in particular before Dabi interrupted.

‘’Don’t listen to this asshole, he isn’t getting any so he’s always pissed off.’’ The first scowled but remained silent.

Dabi seemed... kind? You thought as you looked at him and shyly moved to the display shelves.

‘’S–so, could you guys tell me what you’re looking for exactly?’’ You couldn’t believe these two had to come to your place for fucking shoes—somehow the thought of villains having to buy clothes had never really crossed your mind.

‘’We don’t fucking care, sweetheart.’’ Dabi said looking directly at your chest, eyeing your tits. Such a pervert, thinking you wouldn’t notice.

The whole time Shigaraki was on his phone, which he held in a bizzare way, it was known his quirk involved his hands but you never bothered to care, both these guys were murderous and you possessed no ‘quirk’ whatsoever so it really wouldn’t matter if it came down to physical altercations.

‘’We have t–these ones..’’ You lifted your arm up to show Dabi a new pair you got in last week as his eyes travelled to your bent ass, skirt accentuating the curves even more, as he smirked to himself.

‘’T–they collaborated two brands for this.’’ You murmured, not sure he heard you. His presence made you anxious, you knew what he was capable of and definitely wanted to live another day.

‘’Oh yeah?’’ Dabi said. ‘’How much do these cost? They’re fucking ugly.’’

You opened your mouth to retort but settled with a ‘’T–two grand.’’ It came off unsure and hesitant.

‘’These are dead. Two grand for these abominations? Hey Shiggy, come look!’’ He told the man who had been too consumed with his phone to listen to the conversation.

‘’Look at that shit man, can you believe trash heroes buy that for two grand?’’ He questioned as the latter lifted his gaze.

‘’Yeah I really don’t give a fuck, buy your shit and go, I have content to upload.’’

‘’Please excuse him, baby, he’s just a weirdo who gets off on livestreaming the people he decays, don’t worry we won’t take long.’’

Decaying? Livestreams? And why did he call you baby? These guys had to be joking, they were openly talking about murdering people for fun and you suddenly felt sick, your stomach with its contents turned over.

You had been silent, looking at them in horror, while Dabi broke the silence.

‘’Awwh, c’mon now, I’ll be nice. I think I might like these.’’ He said and pointed to a pair of black plain sneakers, they’d suit him, you thought despite the predicament.

You must’ve not reacted at all so he spoke again.

‘’Are you slow, sweetheart? I said I want to try these on, in 15.’’ The tone made you immediately snap out of your thoughts and take a step back—he felt too close through your peripherals.

‘’L–let me check in the b-back for you guys..’’ You apologized, you couldn’t even turn around but somehow got to the storage room. Fuck, of course he had to be wearing one of the largest freaking sizes, your store never brought these as no one ever bought them, what was he, a fucking giant? You were frantically searching through storage drawers and anything scattered you could find across the room but without success, the pair was sold out (was a basic choice) and the sizing available was 13 and below. Shit, you cursed, as you were about to exit, when you saw two figures at the door startling you.

‘’What’s taking you so long? Lost in the hallway?’’ Dabi mocks, as Shigaraki snorts.

‘’I- I– couldn’t f-find the ones you’re looking for.’’ You avert your eyes and Dabi’s smirk wavers.

‘’What does that mean, baby?’’ He furrows his brows. ‘’You should be grateful I even chose this shitty store in the first place. It’s not enough you charge poor customers two grand for shoes I can find in the dumpster, now you’re telling me you don’t have the one pair I actually liked?’’ He raises his tone as he has you practically pinned against the door. You could’ve sworn the other guy's laughing but the room’s spinning and you try to take a deep breath.

‘’I- i’m sorry, guys, p-please let me try to find s-something else- for you, I–’’

‘’No, I think you can just shut the fuck up now. I don’t want excuses from that pretty mouth of yours.’’ His words hurt as you try blinking your tears away—it used to help but not when they’re flooding your eyes like a stream anyway. You feel like this could actually be your end and matter of fact, anyone would know soon enough, as you’d probably also get livestreamed while they’re at it.

‘’Soo.. let me get this straight, you can’t find a proper excuse, you don’t have my shoes, you make me and Tomura wait while you're blabbering some bullshit and you scam stupid cunts for money. Does your boss know he’s hired the dumbest whore on the planet or do you fuck him to keep your job? And for a shitty job like this? You reaally gotta be desperate.’’ He finishes and now the tears are well formed and fall from your eyes, as you sob—you literally sob, ashamed and hurt, these men didn't even know you and here they were throwing words around because of a pair of fucking shoes, you feel useless and embarrassed, as you choke out some ‘I'm sorry’s.

None of them seem to care about your tears or your stuffed nose, snots falling down your chest and staining the work blazer and Dabi continues in an amused tone.

‘’Stop crying, it's pathetic. Be of use instead, will you?’’ He sighs and looks at Shigaraki, who had been watching his phone intently the whole time.

‘’Tomura, how do you think bitches like her pay when they can’t satisfy my needs?’’ He asks the man, who contemplates for a second, kind of clueless and annoyed, interrupted from the live streaming of the rest of the LoV.

‘’Ugh.. I don't know, kill her? Listen man, we don’t have much time, we have to go meet the rest, so whatever it is, make it quick. I want to show my face in Toga’s stream, she has too many hot bitches watching.’’

This man is out of his mind.

‘’Shiggy, you fucking incel, it’s not like you’re going to fuck any of them, so how about you put your scrambled, decayed brain to good use?’’ Dabi responds, all while you’re looking at the exchange horrified, where is this going?

‘’Well...since apparently I’m the smart one here, I’ll tell you both how this is gonna end up.’’ Dabi exhales, he sounds bored but his eyes gleam, he seems amused. ‘’You can’t offer me my shoes? You offer me your body, it’s not like you have anything else going on for you. I fuck you and your little cunt and you–’’ he turns his attention to Shigaraki, ‘’–you’re going to film the whole fucking thing. Should grant you enough pussy, once I let you participate.’’

You want to scream, you really do. But there’s no words coming out, the phone’s too far away, the storage room's hidden in plain sight and there’s two guys ganging up on you so what’s the only thing you do? Beg.

‘’P-please, Dabi, I can—I can help you find something else, we have-’’ You blabber but he cuts you off.

‘’Wow doll, surprised your dumb brain memorized the name. But I don’t blame you, I would too.’’ He’s inching closer to you, as you back off, each step he takes leads you towards the end of the room. The closet touches your back—you’re pinned under him, the shelves hit against your back.

‘’Got the camera on?’’ He tells Shigaraki, without turning to look at him, while the latter scoffs.

‘’Yeah, all set.’’ You can see him holding his phone and wait impatiently.

‘’Now..’’ Dabi says, ‘’take that nasty shirt off, God, who dresses whores like you up? Tits out and everything for the public to see.’’ He says as your shaking hands start unbuttoning the work blazer; you had no shirt under it, it was a hot day and you hadn’t bothered, it’s not like customers were frequent.

He’s so close that your arms touch his shirt as you slowly unbutton it and the blazer falls down your shoulders, your bare tits in full display not just for him but for Shigaraki’s camera to film as well. His eyes rake you up and down, your cheeks stained with tears, your hair disheveled with strands that stick out in opposite directions as your tits quiver on your chest. It’s swift, but you notice how his turquoise eyes widen—not a lot, since they’re heavy lidded and half patched anyway.

‘’Fuck, these look nice..’’ He comments as he brings up both hands to grope them while you gasp. His hands are not as cold as you expected, they’re large, slender and painted black as he starts circling his wrists while still at a fair distance. You moan and he smirks, Shigaraki switching spots to get a better angle.

Dabi closes the distance as his face is on yours, his breath on your mouth and you close your eyes when he laughs.

‘’Aw, did you think I’d kiss you?’’ He says as you whimper frustrated but he continues ‘’Whores like you don’t deserve kisses.’’ He grabs your skirt with both hands and aggressively lowers it as you stumble trying not to fall down.

His words cut deep and you fight the urge to let another stream of tears down your face; you’d been called names in the past, but the way he talked upset you way more than anyone before. Unbeknownst to him, your felt your panties smeared, his warm hands had turned you on—the thought of you being like this disgusted you. You really were pathetic and he’d soon find out.

His hands cupped your clothed cunt as you moaned ‘’D-dabi, please–’’ to which a voice from the back laughed. You had completely forgotten about Shigaraki, the fact that he was watching (and filming) making you want to vomit.

‘’Baby, please shut the fuck up.’’ Dabi says ‘’Tomura, are you getting this?’’ But at this point Tomura was not only getting it but holding the phone with one hand while the other rubbed a bulge on his pants.

Dabi moves your panties to the side, almost ripping them apart and pushes two fingers without warning in your cunt as you choke on a moan. His fingers feel good, too full in a way and he knows how to move them inside, working his way deeper, while they’re already long.

‘’Man, you’re not gonna believe how wet she is.’’ He tells Tomura, who hums and strokes his clothed cock, phone still in his hand.

You’re being moved up and down the shelves, his fingers penetrate your cunt with force as you feel the pressure in your core build up, you think about fucking yourself on his fingers, grinding up and down—maybe cum and have them gone?, but he brings his other hand to your neck and chokes you with precision, blocking your airway immediately: ‘’Don’t think you get to decide when to cum.’’ He says and he removes his stained hands, your arousal is brought to your face as he turns around and proudly shows the camera.

‘’Look at this retail cockwhore guys, pussy dripping from two men she couldn’t sell shoes to!’’ He brags and you crumble, embarrassed and desperate for an end.

‘’D-dabi, p–please don’t say that!’’ You mewl and he looks down at you with pity.

‘Say what? The fucking truth? Aren’t you a little cumslut, yes or no?’’

‘’I– I–am n-not—’’

‘’I said, are you or aren’t you my little cumslut, yes - or - no?’’ He orders as you notice something small and blue igniting from his fingertips and you freeze.

‘’Say it.’’

‘’I- i am.’’ You brokenly murmur, but he needs all the words.

‘’You’re what?’’

‘’Y–your cumslut..’’

‘’I need the name too, camera's on you know’’. His patience wears thin, you can tell by his tone.

‘’I-i-am--Dabi’s cumslut.’’ You look at the camera and with that he finally snaps, turning you over and grabbing you by the waist, his fingers touch your bare back, as he spanks a heated palm on you and you flinch.

‘’Good, now let’s show everyone how cumsluts like you get fucked.’’ He unzips his pants and brings his cock in between your folds.

The sensation is intoxicating, your heat and his pre in between you while your hands are stretched to touch a shelf you can’t reach. You don't even know what you're up against, fuck, you hadn't even seen—

‘’Make sure you’re getting this.’’ is all Dabi says before abruptly pushing his cock inside you as you let out a sharp cry, he’s too big and you can’t take him at once, a pain shoots up your belly as he starts thrusting at a steady pace.

‘’P-please ‘s too much, s-slow d-down!’’ You yell behind you but he doesn’t seem to care, as he grabs your hips harshly and pushes himself deeper, your cunt stretching to accommodate whatever it can and you thank his fingers for the prior mess they made.

‘’Fuuck, feels too good.’’ He groans as he thrusts into you. You hear a sudden whimper and look around to see Shigaraki with his cock out, moving his fist up and down his length—eyes fixated on the spectacle.

You don’t have time to beg him to stop filming because Dabi’s slender hands are toying with your clit, his cock rips apart your insides as pads of his fingers find the bundle of nerves with ease. He teases it—not harshly, as his cock does that for you, but in light strokes, like he’s trying to tickle you and you feel yourself tremble, your cunt twitches and he feels it too apparently, because he groans ‘’Shit, you’re tight, too? Who would’ve expected it, huh..’’ as Shigaraki is starting his commentary on camera.

‘’Take a look guys, this is probably the biggest cockwhore we’ve seen... look closer! getting her loose cunt all fucked like that.’’ Dabi huffs, skin slapping sounds reverberate across the storage, as he continues his pace, cock disappearing in between your folds.

‘’Man, shut the fuck up.’’ He tells the guy behind him, ‘’her pussy’s tight as shit..or maybe I just have a big cock.’’ You can tell he smirks and you moan, it's like he's harsher now, his cruel words while they shouldn't, are bringing you closer and you can’t deny the pleasure he’s giving you, each time he belittles you or Shigaraki for the matter.

You can't even see him, but you imagine him drinking in your pathetic state: desperate, arched back, lifted skirt and abused flesh—frustrated whines and miserable attempts to sink down his cock, even when you know damn well he’s the one setting the pace.

‘’Hey, Shiggy..’’ Dabi groans, ‘’want me to let the whore fuck herself on my cock? She seems soo eager.’’ He tells Tomura, who at this point is solely focused on your ass sinking on Dabi ahead.

‘’S-sure..’’ He breathes out, too horny to care.

Dabi stops moving, cock hard and still inside you, stretching you out regardless, as you pant frustrated. You’d been so close and he stopped once again. Fuck it, you think, you need to get your release somehow.

You take a deep breath and start tantalizing him, cock throbs in your walls while you move and grind your hips back and forth. Dabi hisses, his hands dig in your ass, a pain from a metal on your hips—you’d definitely have marks tomorrow but it feels too good and he lets you, which surprises you.

‘’D-dabi, is she good?’’ A voice calls from behind but Dabi doesn’t answer, he just lets you do your work as you increase your pace, your legs are about to fail you but you raise yourself up and grip whatever you can find in front of you; you can hardly breathe. You think you might make yourself cum and he must be on the verge too, because he grabs you by the hair and spears his cock so deep, you want to scream—but you can't because there's not enough air in your lungs to function. ‘’Enough.’’ He spits and starts drilling himself back at his own relentless pace.

You feel numb but a known sensation spirals under you, fuck, he feels good and you suddenly wish for his hands on your clit so you beg. Again.

‘’D-dabi, please, agh t–touch me..there.’’

‘’Beggars can’t be choosers, baby.’’ He smirks and picks up the pace, if that's even possible, the motion perfect for your pussy to squeeze him in tighter and while he acts all tough, a hand is back on your clit. He wants you to come undone, wants to be the one bringing you to such despair.

‘’D-dabi!, I-I'm-hmn.. g-gonna–’’

Hairs stick to your sweaty forehead, veins pop out your hands as you cum feeling a faint knot snap, you blabber a bunch of incoherent words and tremble, shutting your eyes in shame.

He’d been waiting for this, holding himself back but he wanted your mess, your pathetic orgasm so he can let himself go with a couple final thrusts. He groans, praising your ‘’good cunt– baby..’’ before shooting his load inside—shit, he came inside, you think, this is so wrong but the sensation is tingling, almost satisfying in a twisted way.

A voice interrupts the moment when both of you turn to look at Shigaraki, cock in between a fist and a frown on his face, he seems upset.

‘’Dabi, you idiot, I wanted her too.’’ He says and Dabi looks at you, fucked out and cum oozing from your hole. His cum.

‘’Well,’’ Dabi looks at you, ‘’would my favorite cumslut help a friend in need?’’ he smirks, ‘’Just some head, we don’t have all the time in the world, alright?’’ He smiles as you lower your gaze—fuck fuck fuck, wasn't one enough? What's the point of arguing though, one look at both of them convinces you otherwise.

‘’C-could I please have some water?’’ You try to stall, throat dry and raspy from the sounds made earlier.

‘’Water?’’ Dabi laughs, ‘’nah...it’s too far away. Here, have this instead.’’ He says as he approaches you and swiftly moves his hands up your cunt, gathering his load and your juices and bringing the mix to your mouth. ‘’Open up.’’ He orders and your eyes widen before you realize he sticks his fingers in your mouth, coating your tongue and continues ‘’now, you can suck the incel off.’’

Your mouth isn't dry anymore—it's disgustingly covered in his salty cum but Shigaraki's too impatient to retort and already has his cock poking at your opening. He’s smaller but has nonetheless notable girth.

‘’Mhm..not gonna last, man.’’ He warns but Dabi seriously doesn't care. Indeed, once you're forced to take Tomura in your mouth under Dabi's glare and bob your head up and down a couple times, he pants and whines, cock jerks in your mouth, as a palm with the pinky lifted rests on your head pushing it down his groin. You gag as he stretches your mouth full, the flushed tip scratches down your throat, but soon enough he comes; you can tell by the way he frantically bucks his hips up, so you remove your mouth in tears, when he loses control, this feels horrible. His cum spurts all over the place, some lands on your hair and some on his shirt.

‘’Fuck!’’ He groans, ‘’My shirt’s stained, you whore.’’ His voice is whiny as red eyes narrow. For the first time, he manages to inflict terror upon you, his hand’s about to touch you when Dabi interrupts.

‘’Enough, she’ll give you another one, I’m sure shitty store sells some lame shirts somewhere.’’

Tomura sighs and removes his shirt. He throws it to your face and hisses.

‘’Gross, you can keep it, cumslut’’. You feel tainted and humiliated, some fresh tears wipe semen off your face, when Dabi speaks up.

‘’Tomura–’’ There's still hope in your eyes, as you turn to him.

‘’She's about to put in on Depop, you know.’’

Dabi and Tomura smirk and you wordlessly get up, something plummets inside (your heart?), as you wipe tears inside your elbow, the only clean body part of yours.

It’s been hours since the shift ended and they left the store, blowing you a kiss but you’re curled up in bed as you anxiously scratch your knees. You feel dirty. Empty. You remember Dabi’s hands on you, Tomura’s shirt and load in your hair, which was later thoroughly washed to the point clumps fell off, when a message appears on your phone.

It’s a message request and it reads:

How’s my favorite cockwhore doing?

You suddenly feel very nauseous, how did they even find you? Your hands are shaking as you pick up your phone to unlock it, only for a new request from a different account to pop up:

1 attachment sent.

You take a deep breath as you try to think rationally. Don’t cry. Crying doesn’t erase it. Don’t cry.

This could be worse, you finally convince yourself. This could’ve been livestreamed.

#mha x reader #dabi x reader #mha fanfiction #shigaraki x reader #todoroki touya x reader #mha smut #dabi smut #bnha x reader #tw noncon #tw dubcon #tw degradation #tw dumbification

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kaces-graham-crackers · 6 months ago

Text

Stirring the Quiet - (7) Tangled Thoughts, Clear Hearts

Jenna Ortega x Reader

Summary: Days have passed since the run-in with Jenna's friends, and Y/N is still reeling from the unexpected "grilling." With the fall festival next weekend, there's excitement but nerves, too. Amid taco nights and family teasing, Y/N's mind keeps circling back to Jenna and where things might be headed. But just when Y/N thinks they’ve got it figured out, a simple text from Jenna hints at something more—if Y/N's ready to take the leap.

Word Count: 3.8k

The familiar chime of keys jingling in my hand as I unlocked the doors to The Daily Grind felt like the start of any other morning. Wilma and I stepped inside, the café still bathed in the soft, early morning glow. It was peaceful, calm—before the chaos of the day began.

Wilma flicked on the lights and headed straight for the kitchen. “I’ll start on the pastries. You got the coffee?”

I nodded, already moving toward the espresso machine. “On it.”

The morning routine was easy, familiar. It helped distract me from the whirlwind of thoughts that had been swirling in my head since the run-in with Emma and Melissa. I knew why they’d grilled me that day—testing my character, sizing me up to make sure I wasn’t playing games with Jenna. The whole thing still made me laugh a little, now that the intensity of it had passed.

But still, it left an impression.

Wilma popped her head out of the kitchen, eyeing me as I spaced out again. “You good? You’re staring off into space like you’re waiting for something to happen.”

I shook myself out of it. “Yeah, just thinking about the other day.”

Wilma raised an eyebrow. “You mean when Emma Myers and Melissa Barrera came in? You still stuck on that?”

“Kind of,” I admitted, pausing to lean against the counter. “I know they were testing me. You know, for Jenna. Just wanted to see if I had good intentions or whatever.”

Wilma smirked, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sounds like they take protecting their friend seriously.”

I nodded, a small smile creeping up. “Yeah, I get it. But they really threw me off. I wasn’t expecting it.”

She chuckled, disappearing back into the kitchen. “Well, it sounds like you passed the test. Guess they know you’re not a player.”

“Yeah,” I muttered to myself. “Guess so.”

Even though I knew they were just looking out for Jenna, it still weighed on me. Jenna was a big deal—bigger than I’d ever thought. And having her friends throw me into an interrogation, even under the guise of acting, made me realize how seriously they took her happiness.

And now, here I was, not just thinking about what Jenna might feel—but how I felt too.

I busied myself with brewing coffee and prepping the counter for the first wave of customers, trying to focus on the normal rhythm of the morning. But it was hard to shake the weight of it all. I didn’t mind that her friends cared so much. In fact, it made me admire Jenna even more, seeing how loyal and protective her circle was.

What I couldn’t figure out yet was how I fit into that picture.

Sure, Jenna had shown interest—at least, I was pretty sure she had. The lingering touches, the way she looked at me, the way she’d said I was different. All signs pointed to something more than friendship. But there was still that little voice in the back of my head, the one that nagged at me, questioning everything.

Would this really go anywhere? Did someone like Jenna, with her fame, her life in the spotlight, have room for someone like me? And even if she did, could I handle it? The attention, the scrutiny—it was all so far from the life I was used to.

I wiped down the counter, trying to shake the thoughts away, but they clung to me like stubborn shadows. As I finished prepping, Wilma popped up beside me, holding a tray of fresh pastries.

“You’ve been in your head all morning,” she observed, her tone light but probing. “Wanna talk about it?”

I glanced at her, shrugging slightly. “It’s just... everything with Jenna. I don’t know, Wilma. I feel like I’m overthinking it.”

Wilma raised an eyebrow, placing the tray on the counter and leaning against the wall. “Overthinking? What’s there to overthink? She likes you, right? And from what I can tell, you like her.”

I sighed, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, but it’s not that simple. I mean, look at her life. It’s so different from mine. I’m just a barista, and she’s... well, she’s Jenna Ortega.”

Wilma gave me a sympathetic smile. “Y/N, you’re not ‘just a barista.’ You’re you, and that’s why she likes you. You don’t have to fit into her world perfectly. If anything, she’s probably looking for something real, something outside of all the Hollywood craziness. And that’s what you give her.”

Her words made sense, but there was still that lingering doubt in my chest. “I guess. I just don’t want to get my hopes up, you know? I’ve been burned before.”

Wilma’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a hand on my arm. “I get it. But you can’t let fear of the past ruin something good now. Jenna seems like she’s really into you. You just have to trust that and see where it goes.”

I nodded, appreciating her support. “Thanks, Wilma. I just... I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Just be yourself. That’s all you need to do.”

I smiled back, feeling a little lighter. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was overthinking things. Jenna had been clear about wanting to spend time with me, and her friends had given me the third degree—which, in a weird way, was a sign that they cared about her and maybe even wanted to see if I was the real deal. That had to mean something.

The bell above the door chimed, and the first wave of customers started trickling in, pulling me back into the routine of work. But even as I poured coffee and rang up orders, the thoughts of Jenna lingered, like a low hum in the background of my mind.

Later that afternoon, I was taking a quick break in the back when my phone buzzed. I pulled it out, expecting a text from Wilma or one of my brothers, but my heart skipped when I saw Jenna’s name pop up.

I unlocked my phone, and the message made my heart flutter.

Jenna: Hey, what are you doing this next weekend? There's a fall festival in town, and I thought would be fun to check it out. Want to go with me?

A festival? The thought of walking through a fall festival with Jenna, surrounded by cozy autumn vibes, sounded perfect.

I quickly typed back, immediately.

Y/N: That sounds amazing. I’m totally down. What day were you thinking?

A few seconds later, my phone buzzed again.

Jenna: Saturday afternoon? It’s supposed to have food trucks, live music, and carnival games. We could just hang out and see where the night takes us.

I smiled, the excitement bubbling up inside me.

Y/N: I’m in! I can’t wait. Saturday it is.

After sending the message, I found myself grinning like an idiot, unable to stop thinking about how much fun next weekend was going to be. The idea of spending the day with Jenna, surrounded by the crisp fall air, pumpkins, and carnival lights, felt like something out of a dream.

As I tucked my phone back into my pocket and returned to work, my mind was already racing with thoughts of what the day might bring.

Two days later, I was back in the kitchen with Marcus and Caleb, prepping for a taco night instead of our usual routine meals. Mr. Noodles, as always, was perched on top of the fridge, his eyes darting back and forth between us as if supervising our cooking process. Caleb was working on the seasoned beef, adding his special blend of spices, while Marcus was busy chopping up vegetables, humming some random tune.

The smell of fresh tortillas and sizzling meat filled the air, making the kitchen feel warm and homey. But as much as I tried to focus on cooking, my mind kept wandering back to the fall festival and the fact that I’d be hanging out with Jenna.

“I can practically see the gears turning in your head,” Marcus said, breaking my thoughts. He wasn’t even looking at me, still focused on chopping tomatoes. “Thinking about your big day with Jenna?”

Caleb, always the more thoughtful one, glanced over from the stove. “He’s got a point, Ken. You’ve been pretty quiet for someone with a big weekend coming up.”

I shook my head, trying to brush it off. “I’m just... thinking. And it’s not a big deal.”

Marcus grinned, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Just a ‘casual hangout’ with a mega-famous actress. Totally not a big deal.”

I groaned, rolling my eyes. “You guys are making it sound way bigger than it is. It’s just a festival.”

Caleb smirked, stirring the taco meat. “Sure, but it’s not every day you go to a festival with Jenna Ortega. It’s okay to admit you’re nervous.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed with an incoming FaceTime call. I glanced down and saw it was from Mom. “Uh-oh,” I muttered, grabbing my phone. “Mom’s calling.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Oh, this should be good.”

I answered the call, and immediately, my mom’s face filled the screen, her usual bright smile greeting me. “Hey, sweetie! How’s everything going?”

“Hey, Mom,” I replied, trying to keep the conversation casual as Marcus and Caleb exchanged amused glances. “We’re just making tacos.”

Dad’s voice boomed in the background. “Tacos, huh? Save some for us!”

I laughed, and just as I was about to respond, my little sister Layla’s face popped into view, her excitement practically vibrating through the phone. “Y/N! Marcus told us you have a date with Jenna Ortega! Is it true?”

I shot Marcus a glare, and he just grinned innocently, continuing to chop vegetables. “Seriously?” I mouthed at him.

Layla’s squeal of excitement pierced the air. “I knew it! You’re going on a date with a movie star! This is so cool! Can you get her autograph for me?”

My face heated up, and I rubbed my temples, trying to keep calm. “It’s not a date, Layla. We’re just hanging out.”

But before I could explain further, Mom’s face appeared on the screen again, her smile even bigger now. “Ken, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad you’re getting out there again. It’s about time.”

Dad chuckled in the background. “You better make a good impression. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be the one.”

I groaned internally, feeling the weight of everyone’s excitement. “Guys, please, it’s not like that. We’re just going to a festival. No big deal. Casual hangout”

“Right,” Marcus chimed in, clearly enjoying this. “Just a casual outing with one of the most famous actresses in the world. Totally normal.”

Layla squealed again. “Y/N, this is awesome! You’re dating someone rich! Can you imagine all the fancy places you could go?”

I facepalmed, the teasing from my family getting worse by the second. “Layla, please. I’m still figuring things out.”

Mom chuckled, her voice softening. “We’re just happy for you, sweetie. You deserve to have fun.”

Layla was still practically bouncing off the walls. “You have to tell me all about it, okay? Even if she’s not Tom Holland, this is still huge!”

I sighed, finally giving in. “Fine, I’ll tell you about it. But seriously, it’s not as big of a deal as you’re all making it.”

Dad grinned, giving me a playful wink. “We’ll be the judge of that.”

As the teasing continued, Caleb and Marcus were grinning from ear to ear, clearly loving every minute of my embarrassment. Mr. Noodles, meanwhile, had managed to sneak closer to the plate of cheese, and Marcus had to shoo him away quickly.

After a few more minutes of chaotic family chatter, I finally ended the call, feeling both exasperated and oddly comforted by their excitement.

I turned to Marcus, narrowing my eyes. “You just had to spill the beans, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, not even pretending to be sorry. “Hey, where’s the fun in keeping secrets?”

Caleb chuckled, handing me a taco shell. “Don’t worry, Ken. We’re just happy for you.”

I sighed, taking the taco and rolling my eyes. “You guys are impossible.”

Marcus raised his taco in a mock toast. “Here’s to your ‘casual hangout’ with Jenna.”

I couldn’t help but laugh despite the embarrassment. Deep down, though, I was already feeling a mix of excitement and nerves about the weekend.

Whatever was going to happen, it was clear that my family—and Mr. Noodles—would have plenty to say about it.

Later that evening, after the chaos of dinner and the endless teasing had died down, I found myself curled up on the couch with Mr. Noodles resting comfortably on my lap. His steady purring was a welcome comfort after the whirlwind of emotions the past few days had stirred up. I absentmindedly scratched behind his ears as I scrolled through my phone, trying to unwind.

It wasn’t the festival yet, but the anticipation still hung in the air, making it hard to focus on anything else. My mind kept drifting back to Jenna, replaying every conversation, every moment we’d shared. Was I reading too much into things? Or was there something real between us?

My phone buzzed with a notification, and I glanced down, expecting it to be another message from Marcus with more teasing. But to my surprise, it was a text from Jenna.

Jenna: Hey! Hope you’re free this weekend. I was thinking we could check out this new art exhibit downtown. I heard it’s really cool, and maybe grab some coffee after?

A smile tugged at my lips. It wasn’t a festival or anything grand, but the idea of spending time with her, doing something as simple as visiting an art exhibit, felt… right. I quickly typed a response, trying to play it cool even though my heart was doing little flips in my chest.

Y/N: That sounds great! I’d love to. What time were you thinking?

She replied almost immediately.

Jenna: How about Friday around noon? We can make a whole afternoon of it if you’re up for it.

Y/N: Sounds perfect. Can’t wait!

As soon as I hit send, a wave of nervous excitement washed over me. It wasn’t just about hanging out with her anymore—it felt like something more.

I spent the rest of the evening thinking about how things had shifted between us, from casual coffee shop chats to this. It was strange, but in the best way possible.

Friday came faster than I expected, and by the time I was getting ready, the nervous excitement had hit full force. Caleb and Marcus, of course, were no help as they hovered around, watching me like vultures.

“So,” Marcus started, leaning against my bedroom doorframe with a grin. “Big day with Jenna, huh?”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my smile. “It’s not a date.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Caleb said, smirking as he fluffed a pillow on my bed for no reason at all. “But if it were a date, hypothetically, you’d want to look good, right?”

I glanced at them both, trying to suppress a laugh. “Hypothetically.”

Marcus gave me a once-over and nodded. “Well, you’re looking date-ready to me.”

“Guys, it’s just an art exhibit..”

“Uh-huh.” Caleb exchanged a knowing look with Marcus. “Whatever you say, Y/N.”

I sighed, grabbing my jacket and throwing it over my shoulder. “Okay, I’m heading out before you two drive me crazy.”

Marcus gave me a mock salute. “Good luck, sis. You’ve got this.”

“Thanks, I guess?” I muttered, shaking my head as I headed for the door. Mr. Noodles meowed from his perch on the windowsill, watching me go with what I could only describe as mild disinterest.

When I arrived at the art gallery, Jenna was already waiting outside, dressed in a casual yet effortlessly stylish outfit, as always. She spotted me and waved with that signature smile that always made my heart skip a beat.

“Hey!” she greeted as I approached. “You ready to be blown away by some modern art?”

I grinned. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We spent the next couple of hours wandering through the exhibit, making comments about the more abstract pieces and laughing at our completely amateur interpretations. Jenna’s knowledge of art was impressive, though she played it down, explaining how her mom had always taken her to galleries when she was younger.

It was easy being with her—comfortable, even when the conversation dipped into deeper topics. As we moved from room to room, I couldn’t help but feel like this was the kind of moment you didn’t get often—something simple, but meaningful.

After the exhibit, we grabbed coffee at a nearby café, sitting by the window as we sipped our drinks. The conversation flowed as naturally as ever, and before I knew it, hours had passed.

So,” Jenna said, her tone a bit more serious as she swirled her cup. “I’ve been meaning to ask... how are things going? You know, with The Daily Grind, and everyone?”

I looked at her, sensing that she wasn’t just asking about my day. “Things are... good. Busy, but good. And you?”

Jenna smiled softly, her eyes meeting mine. “Same. But it’s been nice... having someone to talk to. Someone who gets it.”

I felt a warmth spread through my chest, a feeling that seemed to be happening more and more whenever we talked. But there was something different in the way she said it this time. Her gaze lingered on mine, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw something flicker in her eyes.

Before I could respond, Jenna shifted slightly in her seat, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Her voice had a softer, more hesitant edge to it.

I tilted my head, intrigued. “What’s up?”

She bit her lip, almost like she was searching for the right words. “You remember when we first started hanging out? It felt... I don’t know, casual. But lately... I’ve been thinking it’s something more than that. Maybe it always has been, and I didn’t want to admit it.”

My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to process what she was saying. Was she about to say what I thought she was? Was this actually happening?

“I know I’ve been careful about keeping things... low-key,” she continued, her eyes still locked on mine. “But I’ve realized I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to overthink everything just because of how complicated my life is.”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely above a whisper. “What are you saying, Jenna?”

Jenna let out a small, nervous laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I guess what I’m trying to say is... I like you, Y/N. More than just a friend. And I’ve been trying to figure out if you feel the same way, or if I’m just imagining things.”

I blinked, stunned for a moment. Of all the things I’d imagined happening today, this was not one of them. Jenna Ortega, the girl who had been the subject of all my daydreams for the past few months, was sitting across from me, confessing her feelings. For me.

A grin spread across my face as my nervousness faded. I leaned in, gently placing a hand on hers. "You're not imagining things, Jenna," I said softly, my heart racing. "I’ve felt the same for a while. I wasn’t sure if I knew fully or was ready for it."

Jenna’s eyes widened in surprise, but a bright smile broke across her face. “Really? You’ve... felt the same?”

I nodded, my own smile growing. “Yeah. I didn’t want to push anything, especially since I know your life is crazy and complicated. But... yeah. I like you, Jenna. A lot.”

Her smile softened into something more tender, wrapping her fingers around mine and holding my hand. "I'm really glad you said that."

For a moment, we just sat there, the world outside the café falling away as we looked at each other. It was like everything had shifted between us in the span of a few sentences, but in the best possible way.

“Does this mean...” I started, trying to piece together what this meant for us. “That we’re...?”

Jenna laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. “Let’s just say we’re taking a step forward. I don’t want to rush anything, but I also don’t want to hold back anymore.”

I nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. “I’m okay with that.”

We both sat back, the tension in the air replaced by something lighter, something that felt like the start of something new.

“There’s something else I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Jenna said, her tone shifting to something more serious.

I tilted my head, curious. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, fiddling with her bracelet for a moment before looking up at me. “I’ve been offered a pretty big role. It’s... out of the country, though. And it’s long-term.”

My stomach did a small flip. “Out of the country? For how long?”

Jenna sighed. “Six months, maybe longer. It’s a dream project, but I didn’t want to bring it up until I knew for sure. And now it’s official.”

I blinked, trying to process the information. “Wow. That’s... amazing, Jenna. But... six months?”

She gave a small nod, her eyes searching mine for a reaction. “Yeah, I know. It’s a lot to take in. I don’t even know how to feel about it yet. On one hand, it’s such a huge opportunity, but on the other...”

I didn’t know what to say for a second, my mind racing with thoughts. “You’re going to take it, right?”

Jenna looked down, biting her lip. “I think so. But I wanted to tell you first. I didn’t want to just... disappear without you knowing what was going on.”

I sat back, taking in her words. It felt like a heavy shift, something neither of us had been expecting. Six months was a long time, and part of me wasn’t sure how to feel about it. But at the same time, this was a huge step for Jenna, and I knew how much her work meant to her.

“I’m glad you told me,” I said, my voice steady. “It sounds like an incredible opportunity. I’m proud of you.”

Jenna smiled softly, relief washing over her face. “Thanks. I just didn’t want you to think I was... leaving, you know?”

I nodded, understanding the unspoken weight behind her words. This wasn’t just about the project; it was about us—whatever this was it was getting serious. And while the news felt like a curveball, it didn’t change how I felt. Not in the slightest.

“Well, we’ll figure it out,” I said, offering her a reassuring smile. “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out.”

Jenna’s smile grew, and I saw a flicker of hope in her eyes for the first time since the conversation started. “Yeah. We will.”

#x female reader #jenna ortega x reader #x fem!reader #x y/n #slow-burn #wednesday addams x fem reader #tara carpenter x female reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x female reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #kaces corner #kaces masterlist #Stirring-The-Quiet

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midnightsun-if · 2 years ago

Text

DEMO — Chapter One: Part One [34K Words] — 11/12/23

FAQ || PINTEREST || SPOTIFY || DISCORD

Aurelian Academy, the pinnacle of evolution within the supernatural world; the first landmark to be erected after the Dark Ages— the time when supernatural races still lived within the shadows of the mortal world.

You’ve been prepared to go for your entire life— all one hundred years of it. Being the youngest child of a ruling vampire clan didn’t give you much choice in the matter. Going to Aurelian meant taking the next big step in your immortal life regardless.

Will you be able to prove yourself to your parents? To your siblings? Will you be able to uncover the mysteries that surround the ancient school?

Or will everything vanish as the midnight sun approaches?

Create your character. Customize your name, potential nickname, gender (male/female/non-binary), sexuality, appearance, and hobbies. (Note: The MC is a Vampire and is 100 Years Old.)

Choose from 3 Classes— Charmer, Shadow-Kin, or Warrior.

How does your character feel about humans? Are they simply ants that you don’t bother with? Potential allies? An intriguing conundrum?

Do you enjoy the modern world? Or do you miss the simplicity of the past?

Romance 1 of 8 potential romances.

Explore Aurelian Academy and uncover the secrets that litter the ancient halls. Just make sure you don’t miss class while doing so.

Koda Kingston — [He/Him] — Bear-Shifter — He’s a mass of muscle and warmth, eyes filled with good humor and overall joy. Might not have a lot going on upstairs, but he’s definitely got the spirit. [Male MCs Only]

Scarlett Voltaire — [She/Her] — Vampire — Cold as ice, ruthless to any that oppose her, with a flair of heated contempt at the people who annoy her, Scarlett is the middle child to the oldest ruling family within the vampiric race. [Female MCs Only]

Cyrus/Cyra Aurelia — [He/Him or She/Her] — Phoenix — Heir to the Eclipse Throne; they’re the eldest child of House Aurelia, Founders of Aurelian Academy. They’re the pinnacle of what an heir should be: dutiful, strong-willed, and loyal above all else.

Quinn Grant — [He/Him or She/Her] — Wolf-Shifter — An individual that’s been whispered about within the halls of your home; a prospected mate in the event that both your warring families wish to unite. Now that you’re meeting them, you may be able to see if that’ll ever become a reality.

Caden Randall — [He/Him or She/Her] — Phantom — Appearing on a random night five years before, they’re not exactly what someone comes to expect when thinking about a phantom: scared of their own shadow, fretful, and a complete neat freak. They’re tasked with ensuring your stay at Aurelian Academy goes smoothly.

Sloane Addams — [He/Him or She/Her] — Wolf-Shifter — A wolf-shifter without a pack, disgraced in the deepest way possible, they don’t seem to be that overjoyed at the prospect of attending Aurelian Academy, but that doesn’t mean they’re not set on proving themself and finding a pack once more.

Blake Herrera — [He/Him or She/Her] — Demon-Hybrid — Your best friend (and potential FWB). With a flirtatious air, a rebellious spirit, and an affinity at finding trouble, they’re a demon that takes a bit to get used to.

Reginald/Regina Presley — [He/Him or She/Her] — Human — A scholarship student to Aurelian Academy; the first of many that may be attending. With a thirst for knowledge, along with a devil-may-care attitude, they’ll try their best to fit in. Of course, that’s easier said than done. As they’re the first human to ever be admitted as a student.

PINTEREST (OTHER) || MALE ROS FCS || FEMALE ROS FC || FAMILY FCS || ROS SKIN TONES

#midnight sun #interactive fiction #romance #supernatural #modern fantasy #interact if #if wip #hosted games

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kana-daydreams · 11 months ago

Text

𝐦𝐫𝐬. 𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧

summary: a day in which you get mistaken for the general's wife.

𝐏𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Omg!! What a cute couple?!

I’ll tap that.

Is that their kid?

Goals.

Your left eye twitches and your face contorts into an embarrassed scowl as your ears are subjected to listen to the irking, hushed comments of strangers being hurled—left, right and centre— in your direction.

Were those people visually impaired?

Why in the world did they think you and this...this abomination were a coup—

“Ooo, ice cream! Can we, can we?!” A bubbly voice chirps from beside you and you glance down at the young child, a boy no older than seven, whose hands grip both yours and Warumono's in a tight grasp as the three of you amble along a sidewalk, like a cute happy family — a reality very, very far from the truth.

The only reason you were a part of this 'family' was due to the boy. And only the boy. A poor soul you'd happened to chance upon during your usual patrol, cuddled in the arms of the abomination, lost, and refusing to part ways with him. And his stubbornness, in turn, leading you to tag along, concerned about leaving his welfare in the hands of evil.

Your gaze follows the boy's across at the ice cream truck stationed to your right.

“Don’t you think you've had enough sugar for the day, sweetie?” You plaster on a soft smile, referring to all the treats both you and Warumono indulged him in on your way to the police station, as a way to cheer him up for getting separated from his parents.

“Yeah, but I want ice cream." His chubby cheeks puff from a pout.

You give him a look of uncertainty. “I don’t know…we really should be getting you back to your parents. They must be very worried about you.”

The boy looks at you, a sheepish look shadowing his features, before casting a longing look in the direction of the truck and at the faces of other children lighting up in excitement when they each receive an ice cream cone. And his own face takes on a crestfallen look. “I know…”

His disappointed tone and sad pout ache your heart. It reminds you of your Mugi and Sora back at home any time they didn't get their way. Instantly withdrawing your word, helpless against their puppy-dog eyes.

And therefore with your weak resolve against pouting, adorable baby faces, you begin to have second thoughts about your suggestion. But before you can make an offer, another voice annoyingly beats you to it.

“If we get you ice cream, will you quietly let us take you to the police station?”

The boy perks up at Warumono’s question, brown eyes seeming to sparkle in his direction. “Mhm!” And with his newfound glee, the boy tugs both you and Warumono by the hand in the direction of the ice cream truck’s concession.

Momentarily, you find yourself giving a waffle cone that towers three scoops of ice cream tall to the boy. “Be careful, now.” You say as he retrieves the cone from your hands. Advice immediately gone down the drain when the cone miraculously slips from his grasp, after he manages to take a single lick, and plops to the ground.

The boy's face scrunches. His brows pull into a sad frown and his lips quiver before he releases a surge of sobs, snot and tears.

His crying draws the attention of the others around you along with Warumono's, still in line waiting to retrieve his own order. He watches as you crouch down to the boy’s level, wiping a handkerchief at his tears and snotty nose, frantically attempting to calm him down.

“Poor thing.” Warumono directs his attention at the middle-aged man behind the open window of the ice-cream truck. And watches as he then disappears further into the truck, reappearing after a few minutes with two cones of ice cream similar to the one he'd ordered earlier for the little boy, together with his own.

“Here, take this. On the house.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, son. Y'er a loyal customer." He smiles a toothy smile. "I don’t mind givin’ freebies to ya, and y'er pretty wife and kid you've gotcha over there."

A beat of quiet settles between Warumono and the older man.

Wife? He arches a brow and spares a glance to his left in your direction.

He wasn't sure how to perceive the man's words. As a compliment or an insult?

Warumono returns his attention to the man, retrieving the ice creams from his hands.

"She's not my—"

"Next!"

Interrupted from clearing up the man's misunderstanding of the relationship between you and him along with the child, Warumono makes his way over to you and the boy you'd escorted over to a nearby bench, still sniffling and hiccuping from his misfortune.

“Here.”

You peer up at the ice creams in his hands and arch a brow in question, considering you didn’t order any.

"It's for you and the kid." Warumono supplies. “The old man gave it to me for free.”

“Really?” You take an ice cream from him, giving it to the child, his crying instantly subsiding, before taking the other for yourself.

“Yeah."

"Wait, did you threaten him?" Your eyes narrow in suspicion.

Warumono looks both unsurprised and unbothered by your bold assumption.

"No." He wipes away a dot of ice cream on the child's nose who giggles in response. "It's because I've got a pretty wife and kid."

“Well, that’s nice of him." You smile. "I love free...wait, w-wife?” Heat courses up your neck, and flares on your face when your brain registers his words. “What do you mean wife?!”

#𓇻 kana's misc ddrms #warumono san x reader #warumono x reader #kyuujitsu no warumono san #mr villain x reader #mr villain's day off

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magic-shop-stories · 2 months ago

Note

mafia au where they react to reader getting hurt ? (my tumblr has been messing up so i apologize if it was sent twice)

💌 Reply:

Hey there, THANK YOU for your request, I loved the idea - tho it's my first time writing mafia AU in any fandom. I hope this is what you wanted and is to your liking. And don't worry! It's kinda funny, bc I got an almsot similar mafia request the same day, however I think it wasn't you xD I hope you have fun reading 💜

BTS MAFIA AU! HEADCANONS

↳MAFIA BTS × READER

~ CONTENT WARNING~

dark themes = violence, psychological manipulation, (intense) power dynamics

(mafia-style vengeance), possessiveness, strategic brutality, protective obsession

NAMJOON

cold rage

strategic vengeance

quiet devotion

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Silent Storm

freezes mid-sentence when he sees your injury

cigar in his hand crumbling to ash

voice drops to a whisper, glacial and lethal

“Who. Was. It.”

not a question = a death warrant

secretly blames himself for your loyalty

Controlled Chaos

calm before a calculated storm

orders his men to lock down the district

every exit, every alley, every shadow belongs to him now

“Bring them to me alive. I want to teach them manners.”

ACTION

Interrogation as Art

drags the culprits to his underground vault

no screams, no theatrics = just logic

“You harmed what’s mine. Let’s discuss… consequences.”

uses their own secrets against them

psychological annihilation

breaking their will with psychological precision

leaves them begging for death

Strategic Retribution

ruins lives with paperwork (not bullets = for you he makes an exception)

burns their operations to the ground

not before rerouting their funds to your account

texts you a screenshot:

“For your trouble.”

Your Security Overhaul

replaces your guards with his most ruthless enforcers

assigns you a 24/7 shadow

“You’re not leaving this penthouse until I redesign the world.”

AFTERMATH

Caretaker

tends to your wound himself

hands steady but jaw clenched

“This shouldn’t have happened. I miscalculated.”

guilt is a silent third person in the room

Philosophy & Promises

reads Marcus Aurelius aloud while disinfecting your stitches

“‘The best revenge is to be unlike your enemy.’ But tonight… I’ll make an exception.”

Sleep-Watch

sits vigil by your bed, laptop open to surveillance feeds

murders a rival via encrypted email while brushing hair from your forehead

DIALOGUE

“You are my equilibrium. Disturb you, and I dismantle the universe.”

to a trembling underling:

“If she dies, you’ll wish I’d only killed you.”

whispered against your temple:

“Forgive me. I’ll burn heaven itself to keep you safe.”

JIN

charm

cunning

vengeance served with a smile

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Masked Fury

laughs, sharp and cold

inspects your wound

“Yah, who dared scratch my masterpiece?”

his grin doesn’t reach his eyes

his eyes are glacial, calculating

Deadly Composure

lpours himself a drink

exhaling slowly

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure they regret their life choices.”

ACTION

Theatrical Retribution

invites the culprits to a “truce dinner” at his penthouse

serves champagne laced with arsenic

toasting: “To poor decisions!” (they collapse)

Psychological Warfare

leaks their secrets to their families

ruining their reputations

sends you a bouquet with a note:

“Roses are red, revenge is sweeter. Sleep well.”

Overprotective Protocol

assigns his most loyal hitman as your shadow

“His name’s Kimchi. He’s great at gardening.”

Kimchi’s specialty is burying bodies

AFTERMATH

Mother Hen Mode

force-feeds you homemade jjajangmyeon

fussing over your bandages

“Eat. You’ll need energy to watch me ruin more people.”

Guilt in Disguise

jokes about your “clumsiness”

but stays up all night reviewing security footage

“Next time, I’m wrapping you in bubble wrap. Worldwide Handsome brand.”

Secret Softness

leaves a custom first-aid kit by your bed

filled with painkillers, chocolate, and a tiny knife

“For emergencies. Or snacks.”

DIALOGUE

“You hurt my favorite toy. Now I’ll play with you.”

to you, while stitching your wound:

“If you die, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”

whispered against your ear:

“Next time, let me do the stabbing. I’m prettier when I’m covered in blood.”

YOONGI

silent rage

calculated cruelty

love that bleeds in the shadows

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Dead Calm

freezes when he sees your injury

eyes narrowing to slits

his voice is a whisper, colder than a winter grave

“Who. Touched. You.”

the room chills; even his men step back

Assessment

runs a gloved thumb over your wound

analyzing it like a broken track

“Shallow. Clean. They wanted you alive to scare me.”

his smile is venomous

“Mistake.”

ACTION

Methodical Vengeance

Intel First

hacks into city cameras, traffic cams, even smartwatches to trace every step of your attackers

finds them in 47 minutes

The Studio

drags them to his soundproofed studio

outfitted with chains, scalpels

a vintage record player blaring Schubert’s "Death and the Maiden."

Interrogation

uses a soldering iron to brand their skin with musical notes

“This is fortissimo. Let’s see how loud you scream.”

Finale

records their confession

edits it into a symphony of screams

sends it to their boss

texts you: “Track 8. Your lullaby.”

Strategic Annihilation

burns their drug shipments

poisons their cash flow

leaks their ledgers to the feds

leaves their leader’s severed hands in a piano bench with a note:

“Play your swan song.”

AFTERMATH

Surgeon

stitches your wound himself

hands steady but jaw ticking

“Don’t move. I’m not a fucking nurse.”

Guilt in Silence

sits in the dark

cleaning his gun

when you find him, he rasps:

“Should’ve been me. Not you. Never you.”

New Rules

implants a GPS tracker in all your clothes

“Try to remove it, and I’ll cuff you to my bed. Permanently.”

HIDDEN SOFTNESS

Midnight Watch

sleeps on the floor beside your bed

back against the door

wakes at every sound, gun in hand

Gifts of War

leaves a diamond necklace on your pillow

stolen from the rival boss’s vault

“Wear it. Reminds them who you belong to.”

Secret Ritual

plays Clair de Lune on the piano

fingers trembling

“You’re my only quiet. Don’t take that from me.”

DIALOGUE

to the traitors:

“You don’t get to die until I’m bored.”

to you, bandaging you:

“Hurting you is like cutting my own veins. I’ll bleed the world dry before I let it happen again.”

whispered in the dark:

“You’re my fucking heartbeat. If they stop you, I stop everything.”

BONUS Youngi as the consigliere who writes symphonies of violence? Chef’s kiss. He’d 100% use a metronome during torture

J-HOPE

radiant rage

choreographed/well planned vengeance

a smile that hides daggers

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Smiling Fury

his grin doesn’t falter when he sees your injury

it sharpens

eyes glinting like polished steel

he tilts his head

“Who made you bleed, baby? Let’s dance.”

his voice is sing-song, but the room tenses

even the air feels charged

Controlled Chaos

claps twice, summoning his men

“Lock the exits. We’re throwing a party.”

the word “party” drips with menace

ACTION

Theatrical Retribution

Stage Setup

lures the attackers to an abandoned theater

rigged with spotlights and explosives

Performance

forces them to fight each other in a grotesque “dance battle” at gunpoint

“You wanted attention? Spotlight’s on you!”

Finale

drops a chandelier on the last survivor

humming “Blood Sweat & Tears” as it crashes.

texts you a video with the caption: “Encore?”

Strategic Flair

floods their warehouses with neon paint (his signature color)

ruining millions in product

“Now their drugs match their personalities, toxic and tacky.”

leaves their leader’s severed tongue in a glitter-filled envelope

“For lying to me.”

AFTERMATH

Overprotective Mode

assigns you a 24/7 guard detail dressed as backup dancers

“If they can’t pirouette and shoot, what’s the point?”

installs panic buttons in your jewelry

“Press it, and I’ll waltz in. Literally.”

Guilt Masked as Energy

drowns his worry in hyperactive planning

rearranges your safehouse into a pastel fortress

“New decor! Bulletproof doors. And they’re blush pink!”

Secret Softness

plays “Chicken Noodle Soup” on loop while disinfecting your wound

“It’s… calming. Shut up.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Dancefloor Trauma

reveals he once used his dance crew as a hit squad

“We pirouetted past security. Knives in our socks.”

Flashback Triggers

finds you practicing a old choreography he taught you

freezes, then snaps:

“Never do that again.”

later admits:

“That routine… it’s how I lost my first love.”

DIALOGUE

to the attackers:

“You messed with my rhythm. Now I’ll break your beat.”

to you, tightening your bandages:

“You’re my only melody. I’ll silence anyone who tries to scratch the record.”

whispered in your ear, voice breaking:

“If you die, I’ll forget how to smile. Don’t take that from me.”

BONUS

He’d 10000% coordinate his bullets to match his outfit!!!

JIMIN

deadly ballet of cruelty and devotion,

love and vengeance = pirouette in perfect harmony

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Tears and Tremors

freezes when he sees your wound

eyes pooling with tears

“Who did this to you?”

his voice cracks

trembling hands hovering over your injury

then, like a switch flipped, his tears dry

his gaze turns arctic

“Never mind. I’ll ask them myself.”

Silent Fury

walks to the nearest mirror

adjusts his blood-splattered collar

smiles, a hollow, chilling grin

“Time to dance, boys.”

ACTION

Seduction

Lure

sends the attackers a bottle of champagne with a note:

“Let’s talk.”

signs it with a lipstick kiss

Performance

greets them in a silk robe

swaying to jazz

“You hurt my heart. Let’s… discuss.”

offers them drugged wine

Revelation

as they slump, he strips to a tailored suit underneath

“Surprise... You just kissed death.”

Punishment

Elegant Brutality

uses ballet ribbons to bind them to a grand piano

plays Swan Lake while slicing their tendons in rhythm

“This is plié. This is relevé. This is agony.”

Artistic Finale

carves a heart into their leader’s chest

fills it with rose thorns

“Love hurts, right?”

texts you a photo:

“Made you art”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Care

bathes you himself

scrubbing blood from your skin

“Mine. Only mine.”

his grip bruises

his kisses are feather-light

Guilt-Driven Obsession

rearranges your entire schedule

"No more outings. No more risks. You’re my treasure, locked away forever.”

Night Terrors

wakes screaming

clawing at invisible threats

pulls you into his arms, sobbing

“I’ll kill the world. I’ll kill myself. Just… stay alive.”

HIDDEN SOFTNESS

Secret Sanctuary

builds a hidden garden for you

filled with white roses

“No blood here. Just us.”

murders a henchman for stepping on a petal

Guilty Gifts

leaves a diamond choker on your pillow

stolen from a rival

“Wear it. It matches your new scars.”

Fragile Confession

dances with you in the moonlight

lips brushing your ear

“If I lose you, I’ll forget how to be human.”

DIALOGUE

to the traitors:

“You thought I was pretty? How cute. Pretty things bite.”

to you, bandaging your wound:

“I’ll carve my apology into their bones. Is that enough?”

whispered in the dark, voice breaking:

“I’m a monster. But you… you’re my holy ground.”

TAEHYUNG

charismatic chaos

psychological warfare

love that thrives in the unexpected

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Eerie Calm

tilts his head

studying your wound like a curious child

“Hmm. This is new.”

his voice is honey-sweet

his eyes darken, pupils dilating

“Did they enjoy hurting you? I’ll ask them… slowly.”

Chilling Charm

grins, adjusting his suit sleeves

“Don’t worry, jagiya. I’ll make their death fascinating.”

ACTION

Masquerade

Infiltration

disguises himself as a medic to enter the rival gang’s hideout

flirts with their leader’s sister

slipping her a poisoned rose

“For your beauty..."

she collapses mid-laugh

Mind Games

forces the attackers to play Russian roulette

but every chamber is loaded

“Life’s a gamble! Let’s see if you’re lucky.”

records their screams and loops them as their ringtone

Grand Finale

locks the survivors in a room with a “gift”

a bomb disguised as a vintage wine crate

texts them:

“Pop the cork! 🍾”

Strategic Cruelty

replaces their drugs with crushed glass

“Customers love extra crunch.”

sends their families personalized condolence letter

before the victims die

“I’m thoughtful like that.”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Obsession

moves you into his penthouse

walls lined with surveillance screens

“Now I can watch you and the sunset. Romantic, right?”

Guilt-Fueled Whimsy

buys a zoo’s worth of exotic pets “to cheer you up.”

lets a panther sleep at the foot of your bed (not a real one but the biggest black dog he can find)

“His name’s Marshmallow. He’s great at security.”

Nighttime Rituals

bathes you in champagne bath

scrubbing away blood with gold-leaf soap

“Only the best for my masterpiece.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Trauma Trigger

finds you humming a lullaby he’d forgotten

his mother’s song (lost her in a turf war)

snaps, smashing a vase

“Never. Sing. That. Again.”

later, soaks your hands in milk to heal cuts from the glass

Secret Sacrifice

takes a bullet meant for you during a deal

laughs, blood staining his teeth

“Jokes on them. I look good in red.”

DIALOGUE

to the enemies:

“You thought I was playful? How cute. Playtime’s over.”

to you, stitching your wound:

“Hurting you is like breaking a rare vase. I’ll glue them back together… piece by piece.”

whispered against your neck, voice trembling:

“If you die, I’ll forget how to breathe. So don’t.”

JUNGKOOK

feral protectiveness

raw rage

a love that’s as brutal as it is tender

IMMEDIATE REACTION

Silent Storm

his body goes rigid when he sees your injury

nostrils flaring like a wolf catching blood-scent

he doesn’t speak

just picks up his aluminum baseball bat

spins it once

cracks his neck

“Stay here!”

he growls, voice low, guttural

“I’ll clean this up.”

Calculated Rage

texts you a single emoji an hour later: ⚾

when you call, he answers mid-swing

“Almost done, baby.”

ACTION

Brutal Efficiency

Hunt

tracks the attackers to a scrapyard

no guns, no knives

just the bat

breaks knees first, so they can’t run

“Gotta level the field.”

Interrogation

forces them to kneel on shattered glass

“Who sent you?”

he already knows

just wants them to say it

Message

carves “PROPERTY OF JK” into their leader’s chest

leaves him breathing but mangled

dumped on the rival boss’s doorstep

Strategic Terror

floods their headquarters with stray dogs

trained to attack on command

“Meet my puppies. They’re hungry.”

slashes tires on every car in their flee

replaces brake fluid with gasoline

“Drive safe”

AFTERMATH

Possessive Care

cleans your wound with whiskey

hands steady but jaw clenched

“Don’t. Move.”

wraps you in his leather jacket

still warm and reeking of iron

Guilt in Motion

stalks your every move for weeks

installs motion sensors in your house

“You’ll know if a fly sneezes.”

Night Watch

sleeps on the floor beside your bed

bat propped against the wall

wakes at every sound

“Just me. Go back to sleep.”

HIDDEN DEPTHS

Training Trauma

finds you lifting weights in the gym, mimicking his routine

snaps, slamming the dumbbell rack

“Stop. You’re not me.”

later, teaches you self-defense moves

hands trembling

“If I’m not here… you’ll know what to do.”

Secret Ritual

leaves protein bars in your bag

each with a note:

“Eat. Stay strong.”

(eats one himself every time he leaves you alone)

Fragile Confession

after a nightmare, he curls around you, voice breaking

“I’m not a hero. I’m just… good at breaking things.”

DIALOGUE

to enemies:

“You don’t get to die until I’m bored.”

to you, changing your bandage:

“You’re my fucking heartbeat. Stop skipping.”

whispered against your hair, voice fractured:

“I’ll break the world. Just… stay whole.”

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