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onceuponaoneshotfanfic · 1 month

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As Long As No One Knows, Then Nobody Can Care

I'm Bright Baby Blue, Falling Into You

Chelsea!Roy Kent x Coach's Daughter!Reader

2.6k words

Warnings: Language, lying/sneaking around, kissing, no Ted Lasso characters except for Roy, fluff & flirting

You floated up to your bedroom late that night. And the next morning when you came down for breakfast. And while you walked next to your dad through the parking lot.

It had been a perfect evening. After a bit of making out with Roy, he wrapped his arm around you and let you lean on his shoulder for the rest of the movie, unabashedly glancing at you during all the romantic moments that were nothing compared to the look in his eye. After the movie, he walked you to your car, kissing you against the car door and promising to see you at training the next day.

And see you he did. When you followed your dad into the coaches’ office, Roy caught your eye from the changing room, where he stood holding his kit. He offered you that fucking smirk, raising a cool eyebrow at you before slipping his shirt on.

Fuck, he was going to be the death of you.

You spent the morning organizing some paperwork for your dad while the men were on the pitch, pretending that you weren’t thinking about Roy Kent and the way he’d kissed you. Once you finished, you joined your dad on the sidelines, wondering it was obvious that you were struggling more than usual to keep your eyes off of Roy. You smiled as you watched him run up and down the pitch, feeling your heart skip a beat every time you heard his booming voice.

“You alright?” Your dad’s voice interrupted your drooling. “You’ve been actin’ all dreamy all day.”

“Yeah,” you stammered out, quickly averting your eyes to literally any other player on the pitch. “Just fine, Dad.”

That seemed enough for him. For now, at least.

Once training ended for the day, you made your way to the boot room with a question from your dad for the kitman. Finding no kitman and only shoes, you took a moment to lean against a cool wall and close your eyes, trying not to dwell too hard on the image you’d just gotten of Roy wrapped in a towel after a shower. It was always a sight that left you flustered, but now that you knew what kissing the man felt like, the scene was something close to torture.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?”

Roy’s voice had your eyes snapping open. “Nothing,” you lied, both relieved and disappointed to see him fully dressed now. “Heading home, then?”

He shrugged and glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was nearby. “Got that Nike thing,” he reminded you. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, clearly thinking, before opening his mouth again. “Don’t suppose you’d want to come.”

That Nike thing. His Nike photoshoot, for advertisements that would probably follow you all over on billboards and in magazines. But yeah, sure, “that Nike thing”.

“Really?” You couldn’t hide the surprise in your suddenly squeaky voice. You’d hoped Roy would ask you out again, you were desperate for this to be more than just one perfect makeout session during a Nora Ephron movie, but this wasn’t what you expected.

His face was clearly amused as he nodded. “Sure,” he said softly. “Need someone there who’ll tell me if I look fucking stupid. What d’you say?”

What you wanted to say was that he’d never look stupid. What you wanted to say was that you’d go anywhere, do anything, as long as he was there too. But thankfully, you had some semblance of self-control that allowed you to answer, “Sounds fun, Kent.”

It was arranged in quick whispers. You’d meet Roy at his flat, and he’d drive you both to the studio. Afterwards he’d treat you to dinner as a thank you for joining him. Both of you were fighting smiles by the time you’d finished making your plans for the strangest second date you’d ever heard of.

“Don’t feel like you have to dress up for these fashion people,” Roy added before he turned to leave. “Wear what you like.”

A part of you initially thought this was his roundabout way of instructing you to dress up, to not embarrass him in front of the chic photographers and stylists that would no doubt be there. But when you saw the gentleness in his eyes, you realized it was something different. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place in his world; he wanted you to feel like you belonged there. And damn, if you didn’t want to belong in his world.

After the two of you said goodbye with the tiniest kiss in the world, Roy slipped out of the boot room, taking your gaze with him. A Nike photoshoot with Roy Kent. You were going to a fucking Nike photoshoot with Roy fucking Kent. The thought had you wanting to spin in circles and squeal like a child. Instead, you simply met your dad at the car and half-listened to his chattering all the way home.

Once you were in the privacy of your room, you scoured your closet for the right outfit. You settled on a short, simple dress, one that you usually saved for nights out with friends or dates. After a touch of makeup, you listened carefully at your door for your parents. While jeans could slip by them easily, something like this was a bit more conspicuous.

“You’re all dressed up. Special plans?”

Oh, hell. Why couldn’t your dad catch you last night, when you were in jeans? Why did he have to catch you tonight, with your tiny dress and your hair all done?

“Just going out with the girls,” you lied, lied, lied. “Grab some dinner, maybe hit a club.” You nodded, trying to act nonchalant, like you weren’t sneaking out to see one of his players.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Alright, love.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, careful not to muss your hair. “Have fun. Make good choices.”

The words your dad had sent you off with since you were a teenager rambled in your head as you drove to Roy’s. He would not like this choice. Lying to your parents, seeing Roy Kent outside of football, letting him kiss you and, if he wanted to, even more than that.

But when Roy greeted you with an impressed “Fuuuuuuuck” and a dizzying kiss, you found that you really liked this choice. A hell of a lot.

Over the years, you’d been to tons of team picture days. You’d seen your dad take photos with fans. You had waved at photographers on game days. You weren’t new to the fame that came with professional football, not by a longshot.

But you’d never dated a professional athlete and gone to a photoshoot with him.

Roy sat still in the makeup chair, eyes on your reflection in the mirror as the makeup artist worked on his already perfect face. You relished the way his gaze roamed your figure, the way he was clearly trying not to smile and make the makeup artist’s job harder. When she pulled out the mascara, Roy narrowed his eyes.

“Do I want to wear fucking mascara?” he called to you playfully.

“You do,” you teased with a wink. “Very hot.”

Roy nodded to the makeup artist. “You heard the woman. Mascara time.”

Watching Roy do his photoshoot was nothing short of entertaining. Lights flashed blindingly as Roy took different poses, looking gorgeous as ever in black Nike trackpants. A young woman kept scurrying up to you, asking if you needed coffee or anything, nodding curtly every time you assured her you were fine. The scene in front of you was enough of a treat. The photographer tried to get the midfielder to smile over and over again, but all Roy would give was a scowl; luckily, Roy Kent looked damn good with a scowl on his face.

“Come on, Roy,” the photographer urged as Roy held a football between his hands and quirked an eyebrow. “One smile.” He glanced over his shoulder at you, perched politely in a chair some assistant had brought you. “For your girl,” he tried.

The corner of Roy’s mouth tugged upward for a fraction of a second before he narrowed his eyes playfully at you. “Do you want to see me fucking smile?” he teased.

Pretending that your face wasn’t on fire at being called Roy’s girl, you shrugged. “Dunno, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile. Might be ugly as hell.”

When Roy threw his head back in a surprised laugh, the chuckling photographer started clicking away, capturing the rarest sight of all: Roy Kent’s real smile. Fuck, some part of you hoped they’d use one of those pictures for the ad campaign. But a selfish part of you wished they wouldn’t, so that you could keep his smile all for yourself, locked up in your heart and memories, away from any and all prying eyes.

It was late by the time the photographer shook Roy’s hand and wished you both a good night. Roy took your hand in his with ease, as though he did all the time, and led you out of the studio and back to his car. He paused, hand hovering over your door’s handle, before glancing at you.

“D’you still want to grab some dinner?”

His voice was sharp and gruff, almost as if he was expecting a no, but his eyes were asking you to say yes. It was a pattern you were already beginning to recognize: when he wanted something, when he hoped for something, Roy hardened himself, anticipating rejection and disappointment, the two things you didn’t think you’d ever be able to give him.

“Of course,” you assured him with a small smile. “I really worked up an appetite, sitting there and watching you pose.”

He chuckled and let his shoulders loosen a bit. “Right. Better feed you before you have your dad make me run laps all fucking day.” He took your hand in his. “C’mon.”

With the late hour, the streets weren’t too full, and with Roy keeping his head dipped, no one noticed the Chelsea superstar wandering down the road holding the hand of his manager’s daughter. Still, your heart was pounding. All it would take was one person to recognize either one of you, to snap a photo of Roy and his mystery woman, and all hell would break loose. But feeling Roy squeeze your hand as you turned a corner made you feel like it might be worth it. He might be worth it.

“Anything sound good?” he asked, nodding towards the rows of pubs and restaurants.

Your eyes flickered from spot to spot, wondering how full these places were and how easily Roy would be recognized. Finally, your eyes landed on an unassuming little hot dog cart across the street. Its dull neon sign and tired-looking vendor looked like the perfect opportunity to avoid unwanted attention. With a squeeze to Roy’s hand, you nodded towards it.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “A fucking hot dog?” His mouth widened into a smile. “You’ve spent too much time eating stadium food, you know that?”

“I’d like to not walk into a crowded restaurant with Chelsea’s superstar,” you mumbled as Roy guided you across the street.

“Good point,” he chuckled. He gave a quick nod to the cart vendor. “Whatever she gets, just make it two.”

You quickly gave your order, never letting go of Roy’s hand as he stuffed a few bills into the man’s hand, mumbling something about keeping the change. Hot dogs in your free hands, the two of you wandered down the road a bit until you came across a park. Roy nodded to a nearby bench, secluded and tucked into a dark corner. A tree offered ample covering, letting in only twinkles of starlight and a couple of rays of moonlight. The two of you sat, close enough that your thighs were touching, and began munching on your simple dinner.

“How’s your hot dog?” Roy asked, his mouth half full of food.

Some part of you liked how comfortable he seemed next to you; you wondered if he was like this with all his dates. You sure as hell hoped not. “Good,” you answered after swallowing a particularly large bite. “Although, I’ve gotta say, this might be the weirdest second date I’ve ever been on, Kent.”

He quirked a thick eyebrow at you. “Date? Who said anything about a date?”

The teasing glint in his eye saved you from any sense of humiliation. “Oh, fuck me,” you laughed, throwing your head back.

Roy’s smirk grew as he shouldered you playfully. “Oi, not on the second date, princess.”

“Prick,” you mumbled, leaning close and planting a kiss on his cheek. “Eat your fucking hot dog, Kent.”

For once, Roy did as he was told, although his cocky grin remained. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he opened his mouth again. “How’s school?”

“It’s school,” you answered simply. “I go to classes, I see my friends, I do my writing. Boring and normal. Not exactly exciting stuff to someone who plays in the Premier League.”

He shook his head. “When your whole life is this one fucking thing,” he explained slowly, “then normal is pretty fucking interesting.” His soft eyes found yours. “Especially when it’s your normal.”

“My normal is reading fucking books and professors telling me why my writing sucks and having debates with twenty-year-olds who turn their noses up at my opinions in class, only to approach me at a pub that weekend,” you scoffed. “Your normal is playing football in front of sold-out crowds and dating models and doing Nike photoshoots.” You nudged his foot with yours. “You looked good, by the way,” you added. “In your photoshoot.”

Roy took your empty hot dog wrapper and balled it up along with his own. “It’s kind of weird, doing that shit,” he admitted. “But at least the photographer was pretty cool.” He studied your face carefully. “Sorry if he made you uncomfortable,” he added, his voice quickening. “With that whole ‘your girl’ thing.” He cleared his throat.

“It’s fine,” you assured him, your cheeks suddenly hot. “Just the risk I take hanging out with you, I guess.” Another kick to his foot, to assure him that the atmosphere between you was still light and playful.

When you looked at him, his face was hard, but not cold. Thoughtful was perhaps the best way to describe it. “It is a risk,” he said slowly. “Us seeing each other.” As he spoke, he reached out and took your hand, intertwining your fingers together. “But if I’m being fucking honest, it’s a risk I’m glad to be taking with you.”

Oh, hell. Your mouth went completely dry as Roy’s words hit your ears and your heart. In the time you’d known him at the club- and now in private- you never thought of Roy Kent as the romantic type. He had dates, not girlfriends, and when he did have girlfriends, the stunning women tended not to stick around for very long. And while he wasn’t vulgar in the changing room, he wasn’t a prude either. He’d roll his eyes and mumble something about his latest fling and joke about how whoever was questioning him would kill to be in Roy’s place. And you’d sit in the office wishing you could be in some model’s place with Roy. Roy Kent was a player, and it didn’t seem like he wanted the game to end anytime soon.

Yet there he was, his words soft and gentle, his wide eyes asking if you were okay with what he just said. Something that implied that this was a little more than a few stolen kisses and a pair of hot dogs in the park.

“Worth the risk,” you murmured quietly, so quiet he almost didn’t hear you.

But he did hear you. And your words had a small smile appearing on that beautiful face. A smile so perfect you couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing it.

Taglist:@gee72sstuff@book-of-roses@kissykissymouth@emmy2811 @hart-kinsella @klaine-92@dearvoidgoodnight@misshall14@issieruby@royal-sunflower@kissmekent@veryprairieberry @itswhateveripromise @slaymybreathaway @darkmagazineblaze @larascorneroftheworld @infinetlyforgotten @caught-the-feels @rae4725 @sisinever @cskidjgsjaoaknayan52782

#roy kent bright baby blue #Chelsea!Roy #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent imagine #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction

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sgdlr-asdfghjkl · 4 months

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Link Click Musical Masterlist 🔍🌟

#音乐剧时光代理人# <- 'Time Agents Musical' main tag, pictures tab - shows majority of stage pictures in chronological order, updates from official Encore Musicals show up here too.

Tips: 1) Visit the OP's profiles! They usually post more than the one photo you can see in a thumbnail. And it's easier to browse & save pics through the profile.

2) Even though you can scroll the pics tab indefinitely, without a weibo account you won't be able to easily access older posts, as they'll get buried under the user's newer posts (there's a roundabout way mentioned in my guide). So I recommend to visit this tag frequently, if you wanna be sure nothing is hidden away 🔍 Daily or once in a 2-3 days will be enough imo, it's not very crowded tag ^^

3) ⬆You can also check videos in this tag, the orange tab has 10 most recent clips from the musical (other one has the most popular ones).

接着奏乐接着舞Musicals (Encore Musicals) <- official profile of a theatre that runs LC stage, they post the cast schedules, photos/behind the scenes clips, whenever new actor debuts, there's a special guests or a cast member has a birthday. They also report when an actor goes on a health break. Tip: all LC actors can be found in the pinned post (you'd need OCR 'image-text' tool to copy their names from pics though)

Encore Musicals Bilibili account <- theatre's official profile on a major cn video-sharing platform (more bts clips)

动画师lan <- bonus link to studio LAN profile, that's where they post the mysterious animation frames~

校医来啦 <- profile of a chief producer of LC Musical, Chen Xiaoyi

兮兮兮辞_ <- profile of an executive producer of LC musical

Metablue赛博蓝 <- bilibili of a music producer, she did videos about working on LC musical songs

🌟Actors

their personal weibo profile & actor specific hashtag (the 'diamond tag', you find the most stuff here)

Lu Guang

Wang Minhui - @王敏辉Black 王敏辉

Wu Yihan - @音乐剧演员吴以瀚音乐剧演员吴以瀚

Guo Hongxu - @郭虹旭_GHX 郭虹旭

Du Guangyi - @杜光禕杜光祎

Zhu Hanbin - @Keb_朱涵彬朱涵彬

Yin Haolun - @殷浩倫Monster

Yang Haoran - @YANGHRAN 杨浩然hr

Cheng Xiaoshi

Cai Qi - @超级蔡淇超级蔡淇

Shu Rongbo - @舒荣波-Bobi 舒荣波

Ji Xiaokun - @原来是纪晓坤啊纪晓坤

Teng Chunpeng - @滕春鹏tcp 滕春鹏 (cw: heel injury pic is the only post on his @profile ><, just visit the tag)

Ding Xingchen - @D丁星辰丁星辰

Cao Muzhi - @曺牧之曹牧之

Bai Zhuoming - @丿日亻卓钅名白倬铭

Wang Yifei - @王逸飞_V 王逸飞

Jing Yanqiao - @井彦乔JING_ 井彦乔

Guo Hongxu - @郭虹旭_GHX 郭虹旭 (yes, he plays both)

Qiao Ling

Cai Lu - @蔡璐_Katherine 蔡璐

Deng Xianling - @邓贤凌邓阿凌邓贤凌

Wu Hanglu - @吴杭律吴杭律

Feng Xinyao - @冯鑫垚smile 冯鑫垚

Xian Dongyue - @嘀嗒_强东玥强东玥

Zuo Yiping - @左一平儿左一平

Qian Anqi - @钱安琪麦麦钱安琪

Yan Lehuang - @闫乐湟乐乐闫乐湟

Lu Hongbin/Cheng Xiao

Zhang Jiahao - @张嘉豪music 演员张嘉豪

Li Zexi - @李泽熙Zenith 李泽熙

Xu Fangxing - @阿星-许放星许放星

Zhi Bowen - @智小少总是不靠谱智博闻

Zhou Bobo - @就叫我波波好了周波波波波波

Zhang Zhiwei - @张智伟_

Song Yuanming - @教练我zen勒想打球！宋元明

Gaoer Jinbaoyin - @高尔金宝音高尔金宝音

Lin Zhen/Cheng Xiao's mom

Hong Guo - @红果其实是洪果音乐剧演员洪果

Liao Jingyuan - @廖婧媛LJY 廖婧媛

Guo Zhenyan - @郭珍艳Miki 郭珍艳

En Yu - @恩妤Ura

Shen Tian - @音乐剧演员沈恬音乐剧演员沈恬

Yu Mengying - @于梦滢yummy 于梦滢

Zhu Jiayan - @朱佳艳Rio 朱佳艳

Zhang Ruishu - @_张睿姝_

Zou Ziyue - @-Zou醉是子月邹子月

A few actors for supporting cast don't have a tag bc they seem to be newbie actors and/or have very small online presence

Tips: 1) Without a weibo account you can scroll through the actor's tag only up to abt 45 most recent posts. The actors perform in multiple plays (duh) so non-LC photos will show up too.

2) Imo the most optimal method, so the limits won't stop you is: go to the main 'LC musical' tag and see what's new. Check schedule for the cast lineup in a recent performance. Go to the actors' tags to see what's new.

3) Sometimes there are 2 performances on a same day, with different actors. So don't be surprised if you find mixed lineups under one date.

4) Mostly QL and Lin Zhen's actresses post behind the scenes photos on their personal profiles. Don't bother looking up the guys accounts, unless it's a holiday or their b-day >< From what I remember, only Wu Yihan posts abt his cat. Zhang Jiahao and Zhou Bobo post selfies sometimes. Ji Xiaokun posts his own photography (he's good!).

5) Google translate, however broken, is enough to translate the captions, so use it for context✨Ppl sometimes give their reviews titled 'repos' from the stage they've seen 🙏

6) You'll find more musical related clips under the actor's tag, than in 'LC musical' main tag. It's usually in an actor's fancam, but not always. Useful when you like an actor or there was a particular moment you want to see from a different angle🌟👌

7) The clips tab (one in the middle) under the actor's tag has no time limited access. You can browse and watch the videos without issues!

______________________________________________________

I'll try to add missing tags when the actors debut 💪 And if you find any mistakes or a broken links, please let me know 🙏 For those who read it all, here's a present ;>

光时 <- bonus Shiguang ship tag, they're just like us fr (but way more horny on main), there's lots of art, from cute fluff to nsfw djs >>

OKAY that's all I have🎉

#link click musical #shiguang dailiren #weibo #link click #there are many links to click actually 🤓#masterlist #niebo brainrot talk #text post

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life-winners-liveblog · 4 months

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oh! Oh! Is it story time? Ooooooo I have so many stories!! Like One-Tété Lohkay(One titie Lohkay. This will be explained in the story) from my island!

One-Tété Lohkay was a young woman born into slavery on a plantation on the Dutch side of the island of Sint Maarten. She was considered rebellious because she repeatedly tried to escape from her 'owners'. During one of Lohkay's attempts to escape, she was caught and taken back to the plantation. The plantation owners ordered one of her breasts cut off as punishment for her rebellion and as a signal to the other slaves. From then on she was known as “One-Tete Lohkay”.

The legend is that Lohkay permanently fled the plantation after she regained her health and lived in the hills. At night she gathered food and supplies from the Industry, Saunders, Sint Peters, Marigot Hill and South Reward estates. Her determination and courageous character make her a remarkable heroine and a symbol of freedom for Sint Maarten/St.Martin. Lohkay is honored and celebrated in St. Martin/Sint Maarten on Emancipation Day for her perseverance and courage.

In 2006, a statue of One-Tété Lohkay by sculptor Michael Maghiro was unveiled and placed in the center of the Cay Hill roundabout. The statue depicts Lohkay running with a bundle of sugar cane on her left shoulder and a band around her chest, a representation of her resistance and strength. The statue was unveiled by then Commissioner of Culture Louie Laveist on Emancipation Day 2006. At that time, July 1 was not yet a public holiday on Sint Maarten. During Hurricane Irma in September 2017, the statue was damaged and was stored in the artist's studio. On February 18, 2021, the restored statue was returned to its original location and unveiled in a ceremony.

-🌺🪸🥀(Sint Maarten is the Dutch side, Saint Martin is the French Side!)

Scott: A story of escaping from slavery? Uh-

Grian: Why the breast? That seems like an odd place.

Scott: I am not sure? Rivendell abolished privately-owned slaves back in the first reign so I don't really have much knowledge on the subject... You know, it was the historical figure Penelope to abolish it.

Scar: Privately owned?

Scott: Well technically slaves owned by the Emperor himself still existed after the end of the first reign but they also were abolished when the second reign ended... But your story was more of a history so maybe I can also talk about some Rivendell history?

Grian: You were Already doing that Scott.

Scott: Oh! I was wasn't I? Uhhhh, oh! Well, when Penelope abolished privately owned slavery in the 96th year of the first kingdom-

Scar: so close.

Grian: You know all of that by memory?

Scott: I was a prince, I had to perfectly know Rivendell history.

Grian: That's fair I guess.

Scott: When Penelope abolished slavery a group of slave traders-

Grian: Human traffickers

Scott: Yes... they rebelled and attacked the capital with an army of mercenaries and slaves, the resulting siege lasted 2 years and caused the death of many and the sickness of even more including empress Penelope herself who became extremely ill and almost died. Penelopes first born was still a teen and was incapable of taking the throne and so the crown was given to a close cousin that had no skill in reigning. The rebellion was eventually stopped on the 98th year but the damage to Rivendell, the passing of Penelope on the 101th year and the political changes brought by the fallout of the rebellion caused the beginning of the second reign.

#asks #trafficblr #traffic series #scott smajor #grian #goodtimeswithscar

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lucyandthepen · 10 months

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last eden - ii . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn't know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, i think! word count: 9k

A/N: i have not properly proofread this as i finished kinda editing at like 2am in what felt like a fever dream so if you see any mistakes, shoot me a quick message!

Going home is a traumatic experience, to say the least. You don’t actually get to leave the venue right away because, try as you might, you can’t escape the iron grip of the security guard who’s all but glued you down to the ground. You can’t do anything except watch the van speed off while a bunch of fans try (in vain) to follow it. You might have tried to follow it, too, except you already know you’re swimming in boiling water with the current viewing public (plus a couple of really miffed guards) and you might have gotten trampled on anyway.

You end up spending the next three and a half hours down at the police station. At first, you’re worried that they’re going to take your picture or something, but since you don’t have any kind of criminal record — well, until now — you end up waiting the entire time just to hear the chief of police grumble about how it’s too early for this kind of mess and why do all of these girls do all these crazy things for boys that don’t even know them. You don’t say much for the ten minutes it takes him to write your report and lecture you about how strong, young people should do something more substantial with their time and try to pick up skills that will help the community and sharpen one’s mind in pursuit of wisdom, which is really just a roundabout way of saying stop jumping idols. You leave the station with a heavy heart and a new strike against the justice system.

The bus stop is a no-go for you; it’s surely packed with fans who’ve no doubt spent the rest of the morning skipping class, eating breakfast, and probably talking about how outrageous you had been. The subway probably isn’t an option, too, so you end up taking a cab all the way back to your place, except you don’t actually have enough money to pay for the entire fare, so you’re forced to alight four streets away instead. You walk for about twenty minutes before realizing your body is crying in outrage for food; you hadn’t fed yourself at all this morning, save for the ten or so sips of water you had in the back of the M! Countdown studio.

With less than 10,000 won in your pocket, you end up just going into the nearest 7-11 and buying a triangle gimbap to avoid passing out completely on the street. You eat it just as slowly as you walk, partly because you want to savor it, but mostly because you want to avoid having to look Heehyeon in the eye.

Heehyeon. She probably knows everything. No, scratch that — you know she knows. She spends so much time on the internet that you’re sure she’d have her mind fused with a robot if she had enough money. Plus, she’d specifically told you not to do anything dumb, so of course she’d have kept an eye out for the actual dumb thing you really did.

When you arrive at your apartment, you linger behind the door. For some reason, you think about knocking, even though it’s your place and you have a key. You feel unfamiliar and unwelcome — pretty much the effects of ostracising yourself from the general public with just one dumb decision. Even though you decide there’s nothing for it except to face it head on, you try as much as possible to be silent when entering, hoping that Heehyeon has decided to skip out on all things digital today and just take a really long nap.

Of course, with the trajectory of your luck today, it’s no surprise that she’s sitting at the table with her laptop open and a half-eaten apple in her grasp, her free fingers scrolling quickly through what you assume to be the longest comments section ever. Her expression is tired — not sleepy tired but about-to-give-up tired. She doesn’t even have to look up for you to assume a guilty expression while you linger by the doorframe that separates the small kitchen from your living room.

“So what’d you get?” She asks, tone flat.

“A really long lecture and a couple of scratches on my forearm,” you try to sound light, but your attempt only causes the mood to darken a little more. “I didn’t have to pay a fine, or anything…”

Heehyeon glances up at you. You can tell she’s deciding whether or not to comfort you or chew your head off. Luckily, she’s intelligent enough to create a third option under the correct assumption that choosing either of the first two approaches would only end in tears for everyone.

“There’s still some pizza on the counter.”

It’s silent as you extract a slice from the box; the sound of the chair scraping against the floor raises the tiny hairs on your arm and the back of your neck at how loud it is. You don’t eat yet, though; you watch Heehyeon click click click click away, chewing on your bottom lip. It feels like a time for confession, but you’re not even sure where to begin. Before you can open your mouth to really say anything, she beats you to the punch.

“For future reference, when I say ‘don’t do something stupid,’ I mean—”

“Yeah,” you swallow hard. “You mean ‘don’t try to rip someone’s arm off in an attempt to get them to remember you.’ I know.”

“Okay, good. I’m just checking because this isn’t like back then in Greece where police didn’t exist.” She peers over her screen at you, expression unreadable.

“Rome was a better time, though.“ It had been a simpler time. No one had to wear socks with sneakers. You didn’t need an 8 to 5 job. Most importantly, Mark was in love with you. Your lower lip trembles at the memory.

“You all died in a natural disaster,” she reminds you. “But yeah.”

You two lock eyes properly for the first time, and something bubbles up in your chest. You’re not sure what gives you away; maybe it’s your flushed cheeks, or maybe it's the shaky inhale, or even the dangerous flutter of your eyelashes, perhaps. Whatever it is, Heehyeon has her laptop monitor down and is reaching over to clasp your hand in hers just before you burst into tears.

She doesn’t say anything, knows that words won’t really work right now. She just lets you cry it out, and you spend what feels like an hour shifting between weak hiccups, broken sobs, and unholy wails. You only really slow down when you feel like your throat is on fire already, and you have to sluggishly reach into your bag and dig out the water from earlier. Heehyeon’s thumb skates across the back of your hand idly as you try to make up for all the fluids you’ve lost; you even end up sloshing a good amount of the water down your front.

The passing of ten or so minutes sees you in a better state by a fraction; your eyes are puffy and your lips are swollen, but at least your lungs are processing a better amount of air now, and your nose, albeit being congested, has stopped running so much. It’s at this time that you find you still know some words, so you manage to blubber them out to your roommate.

“H-he looked at me like I wasn’t e-even human,” you choke out. “His f-f-face was so — I’d never seen him like th-that. He was mad — no, he h-hated me!”

“_____________, stop it.” She says firmly, and you’re not sure if she means stop saying that he hated you or if she means that you should stop crying, which is what you’re already threatening to resume. “You and I both know that your approach won’t win any congeniality awards this year, but he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even know y— okay, I’m sorry, I just meant —“

She’s torn between exasperation and pity as another sob resurfaces, and it takes her at least fifty I’m sorry’s and one trip to the fridge to get you another bottle of water to settle you back into silence. At this point, you’re cried out; your entire being is begging for sleep and you can no longer breathe through your nose.

“But you’re r— right.” You hiccup defeatedly. “He doesn’t even know me. I don’t know how to even get close to him. I just want to give up.”

Heehyeon lapses into silence, and a small voice in the back of your mind tells you she’s biting her tongue. She knows you won’t give up, but you can see she wants to support this decision. A part of you resents that, but in this state, you can’t help but feel like she would be right. Not trying would be a lot easier than trying.

“This just… means that you have to go down a different route. Try another less aggressive, less crazy way.”

“Everyone there must have thought I was crazy,” you groan. When she chooses not to say anything, she only confirms it. “What are they saying? Now, in the comments — what are they saying about me?”

“Nothing out of what would be ordinary.” She tries to spare you, her hand already pressed hard on her laptop, but you manage to move it away from her and turn it to face you instead. For a moment, Heehyeon looks like she wants to stand up and leave you in case you throw a fit, but she remembers she owns half the place, and the result of this is her half-standing before stopping and sitting back down again; she knots her fingers together nervously as you skim down the page she has open. The text isn’t surprising, but it’s not like the knowledge of that soothes your tattered spirit anyway.

NCT’S Mark ATTACKED BY SASAENG FAN

After NCT’s M! Countdown pre-recording today, Mark of NCT experienced a distressing event. As the idol group was about to leave CJ E&M Ent. Building, an unknown sasaeng fan broke through security and tried to abduct him. Area management was quick to apprehend her, and she has been taken to the appropriate authorities. Staff members quickly confirmed with us that Mark is safe and uninjured. His members are currently with him.

NCT will appear on M! Countdown for their special comeback stage tonight at 6PM to perform their newest title track, Favorite (Vampire).

TOP COMMENTS

[+1113, - 17] Ah seriously… it’s 2021 and sasaengs are still like this? Stop wasting your time on your oppas like this and study for your exams… stupid.

[+743, -122] NCT is really this popular. While I don’t condone any sasaeng activity, you can’t deny this is the result of being this famous…

[+556, -98] I was there when this happened. Really, it was crazy. She really looked like she was going to rip his arm off. I thought for sure he would die. So embarrassing…

[+89, -77] Desperate f***s. Haha. Does she really think Mark will fall in love with her like that? Ah,, really. It’s kind of funny. Dumb b****.

[+179, -2] The security should really be tighter. ㅠㅠ Mark-ah, don’t be discouraged!

Your insides have disappeared; there’s this dry hollowness in your stomach that allows you to push the laptop away without a word. Your pizza is still on your plate, but the crust is stale now and the most prominent topping on it is your tears. It’s a good thing that you’re not that hungry anymore.

“They… can’t be expected to understand,” Heehyeon tries carefully. You don’t say anything in response because you know she’s right, but it doesn’t make you feel much better. It also doesn’t make you feel much worse because, really, how much further down can your heart go? “I know you don’t really want to hear this right now, but I think it would be better if you just stayed low.”

“I know that.”

“Okay. I’m just — you know. I’m just saying.” You can tell she’s run out of comfort to offer; she’s no longer sure what to expect from you now that you’ve hit the top three on the checklist of what she had prepared for, which was (1) cry, (2) hate yourself, and (3) look at netizen comments that never promised anything good. You know that she’s willing to play it by ear and try to help, but you’re too tired. You had been up at the crack of dawn for virtually nothing, and you just wanted to crawl in the dark hole you called a room, sleep for ten years, and eventually die.

Except even that wouldn’t be an escape for you. Not really. Just another fresh start into a harder life.

When you stand, Heehyeon does too, and she holds out her hands carefully like she’s worried you’re going to keel over. You both know she doesn’t have the strength to actually carry you, though, so you bear with the sluggish, lead-like feeling your limbs seem to be constrained by and trudge into your room.

“I’ll turn up the air conditioning,” she says, breaking the silence. “I know you don’t like getting sticky when you sleep.”

You open your mouth, but nothing but a pitiful sound comes out. She waves it away, knowing what you mean. You’re thankful she’s this sensible at the best of times.

“For what it’s worth, __________, I—” she checks your expression again, just in case, before she continues. “I’m sorry this happened to you. But if there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you’ve never failed to make it work. I believe in you, even if you don’t really believe in yourself right now.”

Another sad noise escapes you, and Heehyeon nods in understanding, giving your arm a little squeeze before leaving to tamper with the temperature controls.

You should have noticed how dark the sky was today.

You should have, but you don’t because you have too much on your mind today — too many things to do. The main street is a fifteen minute walk from your house, and you have to be home by noon. There’s simply no time to take note of the weather.

You have to be more careful of where you step these days. The town had never fully recovered from the quake of 62, and the cracks in the pavement had deepened when the rainy season had started up; shallow, murky puddles now pepper the road, and you weave around them while trying to avoid any human collisions.

Everyone around you is wearing thicker, heavier clothes now. The turn of the season is near. It’s probably why the sun isn’t beating down on you, even if it’s close to its high. You tuck your limbs closer in as you cross the road, watching your feet to ensure you don’t slip on the rocks when you hop on them. There’s about a ten-inch interval between each one, and you have to make sure you land on just the right spot where your foot can fit. One misstep means a sandal drenched in sewage.

For some reason, Via dell’Abbondanza isn’t as crowded when you arrive there. For a main street, it’s a little too quiet. You can hear the harmony of sighs coming from the different stalls lined up on either side of the road. Not much good business today, then, you think.

You make a point to jingle your relatively small coin purse as you approach one stall. A flurry of limbs reveals the merchant’s son just standing up, trying his best to look attentive. He’s about your age. You’ve only seen him a few times as a child, and even fewer times as you grew up; when you left the merchant’s side of town to get married, you’d forgotten him, along with every other boy and girl that lived in that area. You’re sure you know his name, but you can’t quite place it; you know his father more, as he’s usually who greets you with fresh produce every week.

You express your mild surprise at seeing him by saying, “You’re father’s not well today?”

“Gout’s acting up again,” he answers. The lives of the somewhat rich weren’t always fabulous, you guessed, but you had never stayed long enough to really find out. “It’s just me today. What can I get you?”

“I’ve got a list.” Your eyes sweep over the goods, spread out before you, and you absently hand it over along with the sack. Tanned hands move swiftly, making sure to fit all the produce your tiny pouch can handle. “Do you have anything sweet?”

“I’ve got some fresh apples,” he offers, hand hovering over a bright red pile of fruit.

“Maybe something a little more special.”

He pauses for a moment before abandoning your sack, only half-filled with produce, to go to the back of the stall. Two minutes of rummaging results in him extracting a tiny bag from a box and spilling its contents onto his palm. Even in the grim light, they shine like gold pieces — small, round things rolling around in his hand. You lean forward to take a closer look.

“What are they?”

“Honey drops. Some men from India came with them last week. They say the Greeks love it.” His fingers curl in a little. “What do you need something special for?”

“It’s for my son. We’re celebrating his birthday today.”

The merchant’s son doesn’t say anything anymore; he turns his palm sideways and lets the honey drops fall into your pack. You stand in silence as he finishes off your list, tying the sack neatly up with the rope again. When you’re digging around for the money, though, he speaks.

“You were very young when you got married.” It’s not what you’d have expected, but you nod in response all the same. “Your father… he was upset. My father said he didn’t see your father for at least a month here. He let your brother manage the goods.”

“He was more upset that he didn’t get the dowry he was expecting out of me,” you say, tone rather clipped.

“So, it’s true, then? You ran away with a farmer. That’s what people say.”

“People still talk about it?” You frown. “It’s been years. I love him. I don’t regret it.”

“I never said — I’m sorry if you felt like I was criticizing. I’m not. I just didn’t—” he sighs. “I just think it must be nice.”

“To be gossiped about?”

“No. To marry for love.”

A dull silence follows, and you’re not sure how to react to his words. Instead, you ask, “How much?”

“Just twenty denarii.”

“And the honey drops?”

“You just take them,” he shakes his head. “For your son. Think of it as a gift for him.”

You offer him a small smile before counting out the silver pieces carefully. He cups his palm under your hand, skin brushing briefly against yours as you tip the money to him. Something like electricity runs up your arm and hits the back of your neck, and you both draw back sharply, looking sheepish.

“Thank you. Give your father my best,” you say, rubbing your neck.

“I will. Have a good day.”

Even though it’s noon when you get back, you can’t find the sun; the wind that blows against the back of your neck is hot and dry, though. Your son’s face is flushed when he runs to the door to meet you, but at least he doesn’t look uncomfortable; his eyes are wide with excitement. At the age of three — well, four today — he’s got too much energy trapped inside his tiny form, and he constantly tries to release it by running the perimeter of your tiny home. As you sit at the table, he resumes his crusade, sometimes standing on his tiptoes by the window and yelling “Domitian is our savior!” You’ve never figured out where he’d learned that, but you know it always tires him out a little faster, so you just let him be.

Around what feels like his hundredth time around the house, he sticks his head out of the window again. Instead of screaming the same praise for the emperor, he ends up saying, “Papa’s home!” Your head snaps up, and, sure enough, there’s a playful little knock on the door not a minute later. Your son almost trips over his chubby legs as he goes to open the door, revealing your husband, sun-kissed skin covered in a sheen of sweat and a wide grin across his face. More noise ensues as your son lets out a happy squeal at being swept up in his father’s arms and carried over to the table, limbs flailing fruitlessly. His arm collides with the side of your face gently when your husband leans down to press his lips to your forehead, and you let out a surprised laugh at the contact.

“I didn’t think they’d really let you come home early,” you say as your husband sets your squirming son down on a stool before taking his own seat. He starts unpacking the rest of the produce you’d left inside the sack.

“I said I couldn’t miss this special occasion,” he chuckles. “Besides, it looked like it was going to rain, anyway. What’s this?”

He rolls a honey drop between his calloused fingers. Your son stops making a fuss on his own and turns his attention to the sweet, eyes widening.

“Gold?” He whispers. Your husband bursts out laughing.

“Son, if we ever had this much gold, I could give your mother the life she truly deserved.”

“Stop it,” you smile, shaking your head. “You two are all I could ever ask for. I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Frankly, I think that’s me, but let’s agree to disagree.” He flashes you another grin you can’t help but mirror. Your son reaches over and tries to grab the drop when you’re not watching, but your husband is smart enough to hide it in a fist and put it back in the sack where it can’t be reached. “Let’s save that for later. Should we pray first?”

The meal is filled with small talk. You tell your husband about the merchant’s gout. He tells you about one of the men who work with him on the field who had been caught and punished for stealing a bit of barley. You make him promise never to do that, and he pretends to be hurt by your lack of faith in him before making the promise, coupled with a kiss to your palm. Your son finishes his food quickly and goes to the window to yell one more time before asking the both of you if the emperor had greeted him a happy birthday. You assure him of it.

The food and the running around (at least, in your child’s case) quickly makes you sleepy, but your son insists that you both sing him a birthday song before you take him in for a nap. You don’t have that gift, so you let your husband lead, opting to clap along instead. Two minutes later, your son is yawning so widely you can see the back of his throat, and you pick him up to bring him to bed.

“What about the gold drops?” He asks sleepily.

“They’ll still be there when you wake up,” you promise. He concedes and lets you cart him off.

You’d only just seen your son off to sleep when you feel it — the first wave of something. It’s mild at first, but it’s quickly followed by a second, longer one. You stumble out of the room to find that your husband is also standing up, brow furrowed.

“An earthquake?” You ask.

“It could be,” he mutters. “But it—“

The third one is accompanied by a terrifying sound; it’s a deep rumble that passes through the earth under your feet and resonates in your chest. Instinctively, you run forward, and your husband wraps you in his arms. You both look out the window.

No one is on the street now, but you can see a few heads also peeking out of their windows. All their eyes seem to follow the same line, and you quickly direct your own gaze to what they’re so focused on. When you see it, you let out a weak gasp. Your husband’s hold on you grows tighter.

The thick outline of the volcano is different today; more than just its normal conical shape, you see a thick cloud of thick, gray smoke rising up from its tip. The cloud is moving fast — too fast to be something you could shrug off. Your husband seems to think the same thing, because he lets go of you quickly but keeps a hold on your arm, towing you towards the room where your son rested.

He can barely get out the words “we have to leave” before he’s interrupted by the sound of an explosion. You don’t see it, but you feel it instantly; the air grows alarmingly hotter, almost burning your skin. A new smell enters the hot wind; it’s sharp and unpleasant, sticking to the back of your throat.

There’s another tell-tale rumble in the floor, and your son screams in confusion as he sits up in bed. You land by his side, holding him close to you. You say it’s fine, but it’s not.

Another explosion. It’s much louder this time, maybe because people are screaming outside. You’re screaming too, face pressed into your son’s hair. It’s much too hot now. Too hot, like the air is setting you aflame completely.

The last two things you feel are your son’s tears dripping onto your knee and your husband’s form pressed firmly against you. It’s his body that catches most of the impact when the last explosion sounds off and you’re completely engulfed in ash.

When you come back into consciousness, you notice that your shirt is sticking to your back. Despite Heehyeon turning down the temperature, you’d still sweat through the nightmare. She’d been kind enough to leave you a glass of water by your bedside. You throw her a silent thank you as you throw your head back and gulp it down. You drink almost desperately, as if you’re trying to wash the last of the ashes out of your throat.

You ask your boss if you can leave work early when Heehyeon texts you that you have an “urgent package” a few days later. You’re pretty sure it’s for the fansign event. She lets you take the rest of the day off, but she can’t hide her exasperation.

“NCT models for Nature Republic,” she says pointedly. “You get to see them all day.”

“It’s not the same thing as seeing them in person,” you defend yourself.

“You go to a fan sign to see how pretty they are. What’s the difference?”

You feel like telling her that the difference is that in a fan sign, the love of your life is a real, three-dimensional person you can talk to and not a life-sized standee at the front of the shop, but you don’t really want to argue. She had just given you the day off, anyway.

“Just remember you’re working double shifts this Monday.” She says this like it’s a punishment, even though weekdays mean later opening times and less customers. “Sejeong has already covered for you twice this week. It’s a good thing she’s okay that you’re such a big NCT fan.”

There are two big boxes by your door when you get home, your face still flushed from running up the stairs; one has already been ripped open, and a big chunk of what was inside has already been extracted. You can hear the sound of ripping plastic and the regular sigh coming from the kitchen, and you enter it to find your roommate with a cutter in her hand and at least twenty NCT albums spread out across the table. She’s in the process of opening one of them, peeling off the cling wrap and shaking out the papers inside.

“You know you don’t even have to open them, right?” You say slowly. “They don’t stick the ticket inside. They do the draws on the websites, so all you need is the receipt.”

“I know; you told me that,” Heehyeon leans back, tossing the free Genie streaming pass to the side. “I’m looking at the photocards.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“They’re all the same. You shouldn’t have bought it in bulk.”

“I had to,” you frown. “They say it’s better to get a whole range of entries instead of sparse numbers.”

“Well, you also got a whole range of Kim Doyoung photo cards.” To prove her point, she tosses a photo card in your direction. “Oh, and one Taeil card. So far.”

“No Mark?”

“No; it’s what I’ve been looking for.” You think she’s acting really considerate and touching for you until she says, “They’re the ones that make the most money often. Him and Jaehyun”

“You can’t sell my photocards.”

“Why not? You have at least ten Doyoungs right now. What are you going to do with them; make a Kim Doyoung photocard fort?”

You ignore her, taking an album instead and peeling off the wrapping. You leaf through the first few pages, but it’s the Chinese version, and you can’t read it, so you just skip to where all the extra goods have been stuck. When you turn the photo card over, you sigh. It’s just Jaehyun.

You don’t even get through the entire stack that Heehyeon has laid out on the kitchen table before you give up. Obviously, the photo cards aren’t urgent, so you just let her collect them with the Genie passes and move on to the boxes again. You nearly break a nail trying to rip open the other box, but it’s worth it; you manage to get your hands on the receipt, wedged between two albums, and the list of lottery entries for the fansign has been stapled to it.

Heehyeon has given up too, and she stands by the doorway as you scan the numbers. “So how many entries do you get?”

“Depends on how many albums you buy.”

“Well, how many albums did you buy?”

“A hundred and fifty,” you respond, not batting an eyelash.

“You crazy bitch,” she sighs heavily. “We could be living in a better apartment if you hadn’t thrown all your money at NCT.”

“At Mark,” you correct her. You may be a crazy bitch, but you’re also pretty loyal. “Our apartment is great now, anyway.”

“So if you do get a fan sign pass, what’s the plan?”

It sounds like a test or something, like there’s only one right answer to the question. There really is only one right answer, and you let her hear it. “The plan is not to attack anyone.”

“Good. I approve of this plan. But I’d sleep better knowing that I could actually make sure you stuck to it.” Her expression says what she doesn’t verbalize. Unlike last time.

“I’d be lucky to get one fan sign pass, let alone two.”

“Maybe you should let me take the one fan sign pass instead. I’ll give Mark your love.”

You make a motion to throw an album at her, but she doesn’t budge, knowing fully well that you won’t attack her with anything that expensive. She just sticks out her tongue in reply.

The announcement comes up later than expected; Heehyeon’s laptop is out on the kitchen table again after a quick argument about who should clean up the albums (apparently, since they’re yours, you are also responsible in some way; you’d played rock, paper, scissors with her, and had promptly lost). You put up a SuaSua page that autorefreshes the Synnara website while you eat dinner. Heehyeon tells you about how someone at her office had stuck a ripped bag of popcorn into the pantry’s microwave and had caused the butter to explode and leak out of the appliance, leading to the entire floor smelling like burnt popcorn. You ask her if that “someone” was her, and she starts talking about how the weather today was unusually hot.

Synarra’s website crashes for a good ten minutes, showing only a white page with a proxy error, and you realize they must be adding the announcement already. You grab the laptop and yank it towards you while Heehyeon inhales the rest of her rice quickly before moving her chair closer to yours and sticking her head closer to the monitor. A chipped gray nail drags down the screen, leaving a long fingerprint streak, and she says the numbers out loud as you check the list.

“98?”

“No.”

“121?”

“Nope.”

“How about 145?”

She loses almost all of her saliva trying to carefully read out the numbers, but there’s such a short list drawn from a slew of album sales that you’re slowly losing hope. Only about a hundred people will be able to enter the fan sign. You glance back at the boxes by the door, wondering if they’re enough. You’d thought so at first — 150 albums were a lot — but now you’re unsure. Heehyeon says something you don’t catch.

“What?” You ask dumbly.

“I said, do you have 322?”

“Oh-“ You check the first page of the list. Nothing. You’re holding your breath when you flip the page, your eyes more carefully counting the numbers. 317. 318. 319. God, please don’t let it stop there. 320. 321. “Yes, I—”

The paper is snatched out from your grasp before you can complete your poor word choice. Heehyeon’s jaw falls steadily lower as she counts the same numbers and arrives at the magic one.

“You crazy bitch,” she says for the second time today, but it’s less accusing now; in fact, it’s more of an awed whisper. “It actually worked.”

“You’re sure it says 322?”

You both take turns checking, but there’s no denying it. Your number is there. You’re going to the fan sign.

“This is crazy,” Heehyeon murmurs, and she sounds like she really thinks it’s the single most astonishing thing she’s ever seen in all of her lives. “I’d already written out my comforting in-case-you-didn’t-win speech.”

You don’t say anything in response; your mind is much too far away, focused on a week from now, on a day you would see Mark again. It wouldn’t be like M! Countdown. You’d be calmer. You’d be able to explain yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to set things right. It’s a gamble, facing him again, but at this point, you feel like fate is finally starting to take your side, and you’re too high from running with it to think about all the cracks in the road.

Heehyeon takes you to CGV Apgujeong on the Saturday of the fansign a week later. There are a number of fans on the orange subway to Apgujeong station, and you panic momentarily in the fear that some of them might recognize you as That Sasaeng from Hell, but they don’t even pay attention; they’re too busy talking to each other, flipping through their albums and showing each other which gifts they want to give to the members. One of them has a goodie basket, and you tilt your head to read the card attached to it.

Mark oppa, please eat these snacks and gain some strength. Czennies are always with you!

It hits you again that the fan demographic for this group isn’t exactly the work a full time job kind, so they have to call him oppa. When you point this out to Heehyeon, all she does is give you a patronizing look and ask if you’re just jealous that you’re not the only one who can lovingly call him that. You ignore her for the rest of the train ride until she tries to make it up to you by dragging you into a coffee shop and buying you a churro.

Even though there are only 100 winners, the crowd at the building is at least five times larger. It’s M! Countdown all over again with the line, except only a select few can really go inside, and the others are just hanging around with their cameras to see if they’ll be able to get a glimpse of NCT. No one bothers you, and you start to realize that maybe less people had seen you in full during The Incident; maybe at that time, you had just looked like a very aggressive blur of pink. It also helps that Heehyeon is chatting to you loudly while dipping and re-dipping her churro into her chocolate so that you can keep your mind off of your building anxiety.

Of course, that dam breaks the moment security says only people with the winning albums can go through the door. Instinctively, you cling onto Heehyeon, and you realize you actually do want her in there with you. She’s the one that has to extract herself from your hold.

“Go on, _____________.”

“I’m terrified,” you admit, fiddling with the sticker on the album that says 322.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Just remember what we talked about.” She leans in closer to whisper. “Keep your cool. Explain yourself. Say sorry for the other day, and give him the thing.”

You make a face. Right. The thing. While fans had brought their little dolls and gift baskets and toys, you had a letter — a stupid, handwritten letter that you tried to explain yourself with in the vaguest way possible (to avoid looking even more like a lunatic than you probably already do) while also begging for forgiveness for your attitude. You aren’t very good with words, so Heehyeon had stood behind you coaching you through what to say. All in all, the letter’s a mess, but at least you’re not going in empty-handed.

The elevator’s the only way to the theater where the fan sign is going to be held, so they let you in by batches. When it’s your turn, you get stuck between the wall and another fan the wrong way, the handle bar of the elevator digging into your stomach. You spend what feels like ten whole minutes like two uncomfortable inches away from Mark’s huge face on the poster that runs along the three walls of the elevator before you arrive at the fifth floor of the building and everyone trickles out of the cramped space. At this point, you’re absolutely nauseated, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the whole handle-punching-you thing in the elevator, or if it’s because you’re growing more and more nervous at the prospect of seeing Mark again.

The auditorium is full when you’re ushered to your seat, and you get to stay near the back, which is elevated so that you can see everything, albeit from a distance. Three long tables have been stuck together on the little stage they have set up in front of the theater screen curtains, and there are nine chairs set up in a row behind them. The sea of fans in front of you houses a good number of pink dots, and you remember what those Jaehyun fans at the M! Countdown pre-recording had said about how you could pick out a Mark fan by the color of their shirt. You’re not one of them this time, though; Heehyeon had told you not to draw any kind of attention to yourself, and a violently fuschia shirt was the antithesis to that advice. You content yourself with miserably counting how many people are wearing pink.

You’re in the 20 or so range when a loud cheer erupts from the crowd, and you start; you had been so busy counting that you hadn’t noticed that the staff and security had taken their place around the stage, soon followed by the NCT members themselves. They enter in a line, waving at the crowd enthusiastically. Johnny, who is leading the line and takes the farthest seat from the starting point, is throwing out a flurry of finger hearts that the crowd goes wild over. When they’re at their places, they do their greetings before taking their seats, and the fans quiet down to listen to Mark, who is starting off the opening ment and talking about how he’s really happy about this comeback.

You lean forward in your seat, your eyes trained on only him. Mark looks different today from when you last saw (some would say attacked) him. Today, there are no traces of make-up on his face, no hair products in place. His skin looks dewy and bright, and he’s wearing glasses, perched just on the edge of his nose. They move when he scrunches his nose as he laughs, and he has to push them back to keep them from falling when he leans forward to look at the other members down the line. The white shirt he has on is a little too big for him, but it looks comfortable. Seeing him on stage for a performance is different, you realize. He looks so… at home like this. So normal. So happy.

It makes your heart ache even more.

There’s nothing to do but wait for your turn, and it’s a long time until then. The process goes on a per-row basis to avoid a messy and overcrowded stage, and you watch as fans enter the line one after another, stopping to chat with each member. Some of them have obviously done this before — at least, enough times to be comfortably chatting and laughing with members who remember them. Others are a little more starstruck, and they come off the stage crying, their tears spilling over on their albums — more specifically, Johnny’s face, since they usually have the books open to his photo.

The more people that go up, the more unsure you are of this whole scenario. You wish you could be the kind of fan that they would remember fondly, but most of the members hadn’t even seen you properly when you’d run up to Mark. Probably the only person that would remember you apart from him would be Doyoung, and your only interaction with him had been him trying to pry you off his friend. Chances are, you’re going to end up like the other kind of fan that just broke down during the course of the fan sign, but maybe not for the same reasons.

When the row in front of you is led to the stage, you start feeling sick. You think it’s because you’ve been sitting too long, but, deep down, you know it’s you fears eating away at your insides, and this is only confirmed when you’re advised to stand, and you actually raise a hand to your mouth, pressing two fingers against your lips tightly just in case your churro decided to make a reappearance.

The walk to the stage is horrendously long, and even though you know the other fans are too busy leafing through their signed albums, you feel like you’re under scrutiny. The staff make sure you go up one by one to avoid some kind of traffic jam, and when it’s your turn, you feel your knees go weak. You’re not sure what you look like, but you can’t look that great. The staff at the front of the line asks you to hand over your album and follow the other fans, who’ve had to kneel in front of the idols. You’re inwardly thankful, because there’s almost no strength left in your calves.

The first member in line is Taeil, and he greets you quietly and without fuss. The staff member hands him your album, and he asks for your name. You barely manage to choke it out, and it’s embarrassing when he has to ask for it again. It’s worse with Yuta, who’s so intimidatingly attractive that you actually feel the need to scoot backwards onto your knees. He even asks you to spell out your name because your voice has gone too small.

“You seem so nervous,” he laughs. “Is this your first fan sign?”

“Um,” you answer unintelligibly. “Sorry?”

“No, no. I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. But don’t be nervous in front of us. We like seeing our fans happy.”

“Yes. I’m… happy.”

He spares you an amused glance as he’s finishing up his signature. You don’t know what’s so funny, unless you look paper-white and that somehow sets his funny bone off. Luckily, Taeyong isn’t the excessively talkative type — at least, not the kind that makes you feel like you’re under a lamplight in an interrogation room — and the only thing Haechan asks you is if he should call you “noona,” to which you also smartly reply with “uh.” You can’t remember when his birthday is; all you can think about is trying to keep consciousness. He just writes “noona” next to your name, anyway.

When you get to Jaehyun, you truly feel like you’re going to throw up. Mark is right beside him, talking to another fan animatedly. You hear him say something about ghost pepper noodles. He can’t take spicy food, you remember. Your head is light, and the room is spinning, and is that a halo around Mark’s head?

“You must like Mark, huh?”

When you look back at Jaehyun, it looks like a bright light is shining behind his head as well. He only spares you a quick glance, his entire body leaned forward to sign your album carefully. You lick your lips, unsurprised to find them bone dry.

“I — sorry,” you say quietly, and he laughs easily, signing across his torso in the picture. You briefly consider that these people have a weird sense of humor.

“No; it’s fine. Mark has so many fans, doesn’t he? It’s because he’s really talented and humble.”

“You’re… talented and humble too,” you mutter carefully. He chuckles again.

“Thank you. What did you say your name was again?”

“______________.”

He scrawls it messily above his signature before tilting his head back to look at the overall effect of his handwriting vandalizing his own photo. The last stroke of your name just touches his forehead in the picture. “_____________, I hope you continue to love and support Mark and NCT, then.”

Jaehyun pushes your album to the side towards Mark, but your hands are already outstretched to receive it. There’s this long, awkward pause where you’re just cupping thin air and he’s just staring at your hands, and you want to apologize again, except you’re not sure what to apologize for. He just bursts out laughing again, and takes your hand in his to shake it so you don’t look foolish. There must be a lot of static in the air, because the moment your palms make contact, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, as if you’ve been weakly electrocuted.

He must feel it too because he draws back quickly, and his eyes, previously crinkled with laughter, are now wide and alert. On you. Your stomach drops as an unmistakable expression of recognition reforms his features. His jaw drops.

“Hold on—“

You’re screwed. He must recognize you from The Incident. You open your mouth, but you don’t even know what to say, and before you even have a chance to form a word, the girl beside you inches closer to kneel in front of Jaehyun; the staff behind him is motioning for you to move faster. All you can do is shoot him one last pleading look before you move in front of Mark, and he’s still staring at you, a little dumbfounded, as you side-crawl further away.

Mark is talking to Doyoung, unaware of the hold-up you’ve caused. They’re sharing a joke, and Mark’s laughter rings in your ears. You actually feel yourself drowning out all the noise around you and focusing on the sound of it. All you can hear is that laugh, coupled by the erratic beat of your heart that feels like it’s about to rip through your chest.

It happens again — that slow-motion, tunnel vision thing you’d felt right before you’d rushed towards him last week. You think it’s nerves at first, but you quickly realize it’s your body warning you of an impending disaster.

He turns to face you, his eyes a little glassy and unfocused from laughing. He doesn’t recognize you for a moment, slim fingers already reaching out for your album and uncapping his pen. It’s only for a split second, really, but you lock eyes in that small span of time. The realization seeps through his gaze as his memory feeds him the information you fear the most.

Mark drops his pen at the same time that he pushes his chair back; the movement is so sharp and violent that the table he’s sharing with Doyoung and Johnny scrapes forward, hitting your chest — not too hard, but enough to knock a little wind out of you. The members look up in alarm at the noise, and it’s only aggravated by Mark’s loud voice hitting all four corners of the auditorium.

“It’s you—!”

Doyoung is the second to recognize you, and he stands up, looking still disoriented but mostly angry, and he jabs his index finger in your direction as if he wants everyone to know you’re the one Mark is referring to.

You don’t know what to do; you put your hands forward, but this just seems to cause an even larger riot. Staff are by your side in a second, and this burly guy grabs you by the elbow and hoists you up. A vague memory of him as the same guy who’d grabbed Mark after the pre-recording pings in the back of your mind, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You go up without resistance, but your gaze is still fixed on Mark, who is now just staring back at you in alarm, half his body hidden behind another security guard who’s shielding him, as if he thinks you’re just going to propel yourself forward and strangle the life out of someone.

Everyone at the table is standing now; even the fans are on their feet, looking livid. Suddenly, everything in your field of vision swims, and you feel the tears spilling over your cheeks, leaving hot, wet streaks of make-up that can’t look attractive.

“Mark,” your voice comes out weakly. “Mark, please. Please — just listen—”

Even if he were to really listen, you don’t have time; you’re already being dragged away by the staff, and they take you through the fire exit to avoid a bigger scene. This entire time, you’re looking back at the table, and you’re trying to call out Mark’s name, but he’s refusing to look your way now, shakily taking his seat as the staff realigns the tables. The only time you stop yelling is when the fire exit’s door slams shut.

It doesn’t take long for you to sober down, and you try telling the staff you weren’t planning on doing anything weird, but they aren’t taking any chances. Two big guys keep your arms practically pinned to your sides as they escort you to the first floor, where building security had called up the police again. You at least feel a little lucky that they don’t parade you out up front where everyone can see you.

You desperately want to call Heehyeon, but they’ve confiscated your phone and your wallet, so you just sit in the back of the police car, trying not to scream. You hadn’t even done anything, but he’d panicked anyway. You’d already spent your time regretting The Incident, but this, by far, was its worse effect. If you ever showed up in front of him again, you’d probably be given a real restraining order.

No one talks to you at the police station; they’re so busy trying to deal with other cases of misdemeanor here and there that they actually just let you sit by the door for twenty minutes. You could leave, but you don’t; you’re not taking any more chances right now. Eventually, you’re led into a temporary holding cell next to a shoplifter, and you’re suddenly glad they’ve confiscated your valuables.

It’s quiet, save for the footsteps of the shoplifter that’s pacing agitatedly. She keeps forgetting she doesn’t have a watch and actually checks her bare wrist every so often, as if she’s waiting for someone. You let out a long sigh and press your back against the wall for a second before you realize you don’t know what’s been near it, and you shoot up straight again, your features morphing to express disgust. Your cellmate snickers.

Heehyeon must know something’s wrong already. By now, everyone’s left the auditorium, and it won’t take a public service announcement for her to catch wind of something bad happening in the fan sign. She’d have to ask security about you, then wait for a cab to get to the police station. If she’s as smart as you think she is, she should be outside trying to bail you out of your overnight stay.

Your spirit lifts for the first time since the fan sign as you see the officer that apprehended you come back into the holding areas. He stops in front of your cell, gesturing for you come forward before getting the keys to unlock the cell.

“You’re letting me go?” You confirm, watching him struggle with the keys.

“Your friend paid your bail,” he drawls out the word friend, like he’s disgusted by the idea that Heehyeon is paying for your release. “He’s signing the papers outside.”

He?

You’re nothing short of confused when you exit the holding area, and your eyes immediately scan the police station for Heehyeon. There’s no sign of her though.

The only person you recognize is NCT’s Jaehyun, standing taller than almost everyone in the room, grinning and gesturing for you to come over.

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object-headed-characters-yes · 10 days

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Day 8- Role Swap

Click and RGB swap; Click regrets his decision. Very much regrets it (I’m still thinking about their interaction, so this one-shot happened.

(Some tags: role swap, resentment, angst, betrayal)

A possible to-be soldier in his old world, a hero in this one, yet denied the heroic end to his journey in this world of make-believe.

He refused to let this he end of his journey, as he’d been told it was. He refused to accept that this was how it ended.

Broken and bleeding, clothing in tatters.

Click thinks that he demanded another chance. A do-over, as it were, to change this outcome. It must have been allowed, for She was amused by his words (Click rankles at the amusement; he should have succeeded, not lost as he had). But Click was allowed to try again, but unlike before, he was not the hero. He was instead tasked with finding one instead, which was not what he wanted but what he got.

Click’s body was no longer human, either. It was a rigid, mainly inorganic body. A facsimile of a soldier; a tin soldier whose body was made up of weapons that he had used on his initial journey. As much as Click disliked being put in this position, he still existed, and that allowed him to attain the goal from before, just in a roundabout way.

First, he needed to find a hero.

He went back to the world he’d come from, and took his time choosing the person he would bring back with him. Click didn’t want to have to try again, especially if he may not have another chance from Her if the hero Click found failed as he had.

Click was drawn to an actor, who had flair and a presence on the set that brought attention to him versus the others. This man handled himself with a cool air of confidence and preciseness that would aid him well in the world of make believe. The longer Click watched the actor on set, the more he believed that this man could be a good candidate. Even more so when Click observed that the man appeared to do well at close quarters parrying and joking prodding with a bamboo cane between takes. This would mesh well with Click’s preferred long-range attack style. He would be able to avoid striking then man should he agree to what would likely sound absurd, especially coming from someone who looked as Click now did.

Most unfortunately, Click didn’t have time to follow the man around outside of the set to be sure of his assumptions; already Click had taken too much time to find someone to bring back with him. So, a few days after observing the man, Click followed the actor home. And once it was clear they were alone, Click made himself known to the man.

Click-click-click.

“I say, where in the dickens did you come from?!” The man practically yelped, putting a chair between himself and the tin soldier that was suddenly just there. He reached a hand to his head, fingers tangling through a short mop of wavy hair. “I’ve gone and hit my head, haven’t I?”

It was a rather entertaining reaction to something inexplicably appearing from out of nowhere when one thought they were all alone.

Click greeted the wary man with a tilt of his fake head, not bothering to explain that his eyes were the six golden buttons on his chest, and three mouths could spilt open along the trailing black decoration between the buttons with sharp teeth.

Later.

If and when it was necessary for this would-be hero before him, should the actor choose to play along.

Click-click-click.

“Is that normal for you to be making that noise?” The man asked. “It doesn’t seem natural, you know. How is it that you’re moving? Is this some kind of new hazing within the studio?”

More chatter than Click had seen from the man when he’d been in the studio, as the actor had mentioned.

No matter.

There wasn’t enough time to pick someone else, now that Click had shown himself to the man. Before the actor could ask even more questions, Click spoke.

“Do you want to be a hero?”

Click had regrets.

Many, many regrets, really.

But choosing this current hero?

The biggest regret of Click’s entire life (or death, whichever way one wanted to look at it).

This hero was not who he appeared to be, this hero.

Click should have known better than to choose someone based off how they acted on the job, versus how they acted when eyes were off of them.

This hero was utterly insufferable.

The man ran his mouth ceaselessly, whether or not Click had any answers in-between. Despite wanting nothing more than to hate this hero who had taken on the role Click had held before, this hero was frustratingly capable of getting through dicey situations (at times with intervention from Click himself when the tin soldier deemed it necessary). Click had gotten some grim amusement out of the first time he used his rifle made up of his arm to fire on some Fears that had surrounded himself and his hero.

The hero?

“I say, that was quite a shoot of a surprise.” He just laughed (nervously) and tipped his boater hat to Click in thanks. Then the hero tapped his bamboo cane to the ground alongside the remnants of the Fears shot down. “What good aim, too. Though I don’t suppose we could be a tiny bit more careful about possible ricochets?” The hero lifted his suit coat out to the side to proffer the hole that had gone through the fabric during a dodge.

“I missed you, didn’t I?” Click responded indifferently, as his arm shifted back to an arm, metal hand flexing. “With all of your scrambling about as well, I might add.” Smoke finished curling out from his multiple mouths on his chest, and out the mouth of the fake head. Click’s mouths twisted in ire when the hero came closer, the man not having to stoop to look at Click’s golden button eyes.

“That you did, and for that, I’m grateful.” Swinging the cane up over his shoulder, the hero hummed thoughtfully. “Where did you say we were headed before that interruption?”

“…the Market.”

“I see. And from its name I gather that there are goods to trade and such?” The hero looked around, then turned back to Click, a frown slipping across his face. “Something the matter, Click?”

“Nothing.” The three smiles twisted into cooked smiles when the hero’s eyes studied him closely. “All is well, with the Fears dealt with.”

“If you’re certain…” The hero replied dubiously, staring at the immobile tin soldier’s face, before falling into step alongside him as Click continued on whatever path that apparently would lead them to the Market.

This hero made it to the Market after all.

What a surprise.

Click wondered how much longer this hero would last, with the close calls that had been had on the way here. Yet onward they travelled, until something became clearer than ever before that Click felt he’d noticed but hadn’t really paid much heed to.

This hero was a damned coward, the bravado, the confidence a front to hide a crippling fear of inadequacy to fulfill the role of ‘hero’ he had agreed to when he accepted Click’s offer.

But infuriatingly, luck was on the hero’s side, though it was through Click’s weapons and precision at shooting the enemies that helped the hero be that lucky. Click could count a few times where, had he not intervened, the hero would have been overtaken, and fail as Click had failed. This hero would be doomed to be twisted to fit this world’s inhabitants, no longer human, but something else.

Maybe even a monster.

Already the hero had lost his suit coat, the braces over the dress shirt fiddled within an inch of its life. The cane was twirled absently through the dark journey to the market (hitting Click several times; it didn’t hurt, but it was rather irritating).

Click was uncertain how much longer the hero could go on should the tin soldier choose to stop assisting him, stepping in to prevent injury and schisms. But if this hero could get to the end, Click believed that he could cut in last minute to fulfill the role of ‘hero’ that had been denied to him.

Time would tell…except Time wasn't easy to pin down with how often Time moved about.

After a visit for new amour (and surviving the hero’s inane chattering about the logistics of it all), they were off from the relative safety of the Market. The hero would have to last until the end, and it was to be seen if he could manage it without Click’s continued interference, and the knowledge that the hero’s bravado and calm was false.

It was simply too much to deal with, Click decided, coupled with the hero’s incessant chattering that continued on, that led Click to his decision not too far from the safety of the Market. With an excuse of needing to gather more material than intended, Click backtracked to the Market with the unwitting hero.

The hero only realized what was going on when he suddenly noted that he no longer had his guide.

Where had the tin soldier gone?

Onward without him?

From the shadows nearby, Click watched dispassionately as his hero was slowly overwhelmed by Fears and Doubts. Turning away, Click waited until the deed was done. He doubted that there would be much left of the human that had come here to the world of make believe with him.

Click waited, until a shiver ran through him as a shadow loomed over him. Click kept his golden button eyes forward in the dark as he spoke.

“He wasn’t the hero I thought he would be. A coward of an actor who hid behind a grandiose guise and ceaseless chattering like a telly someone left on. His cool and calm demeanor in the face of danger was a lie made manifest here time and time again.”

A twinge of guilt that rose was crushed when Click saw the former hero collapse nearby after being seen to by Her. Seeing as he was in one piece, Click assumed this meant he would be allowed to find another hero, since he was still standing. Click stared down at the former hero, unbothered by the static pleas that rose from the now-television headed monster that lie on the ground near the Market entry, a trembling hand held out toward Click.

The tin solider turned away, abandoning the former hero behind him to whatever fate this world would bestow upon him from that point forward, as there would be no returning to his old life. Click needed an actual hero and not a coward; Click needed who the former hero had been when he was acting.

The next time Click passed through the Market with a new hero, his former hero now went by the name ‘RGB.’ Click avoided him, and told himself that it wasn’t guilt that kept him away from RGB.

It was better that way, for both of them.

#the property of hate #the property of may #tpoh fanfic one shot #tpoh click #tpoh rgb #Moar fic yee

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d-criss-news · 2 months

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langfelder: Alan Cumming Is Not Acting His Age on Broadway

Night 2:

I haven’t produced in NYC since 2019 and this was my first time ever producing a concert on Broadway.

Thank you Alan for putting your trust in me. My husband, John Carrara, for always rallying behind me. And Erica Rotstein and Sean Gorski for showing me how to do the thing along with Heather Shields, Tom Smedes, Rick Miramontez, Gerilyn Shur, Judith Schoenfeld, Riccardo Benavides, Marie Assante, Mia Pelosi, Steven Showalter, Sydney Beers, everyone at Days of Wine and Roses, Roundabout’s STUDIO 54, Henry Koperski, Eleanor Norton, Chris Jago, Alphonso Horne, Riley Mulherkar, and all our friends and family for coming out to create a second full house. It was the best time! More soon! 📸 JD Urban

#darren criss #jacob langfelder #cole escola #alan cumming is not acting his age!#instagram #march 2024

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boytickler35 · 6 months

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Freddy grinds his teeth as Nevel smugly explains his current plot to shut them down and Freddy hates to admit it, but this time it’s air-tight. He actually owns the iCarly web page and there isn’t much any of them can do about it.

Carly and Sam stand with him facing Nevel. He can feel Sam fuming and he is worried she is going to commit a felony, which isn’t new. Carly just seems distressed and he feels sort of numb. They’ve been fighting Nevel off for years and now it all ends like this?

“I will give it back on one condition.”

“I’m not kissing you,” Carly says immediately and Freddy nods along because she shouldn’t have to.

“I don’t want a kiss from you, Carly Shay. You didn’t want one from me all the times I offered it to you and now you will rue the day!”

Carly looks a little startled and honestly, he is too. Nevel has been trying to kiss her for almost as long as he has been messing with them and now that he has the perfect can’t-be-refused opportunity, he turns it down? That is next level spite.

“So what do you want then?” His voice wavers a bit as he asks it and when Nevel’s eyes fall on him, he squirms a little.

The other boy crosses the small distance between them and brushes up against him as he announces, “I want you, Freddy Benson.”

His brain short circuits because gross, Nevel, and also why?

“Deal.”

Sam takes less than thirty seconds to decide as much, and his jaw drops. He looks at Carly, both in shock and for help but she shifts uncomfortably and asks, “For how long?”

“Carly!”

“Two hours. Less time than we spent together the first time we met.” Nevel’s voice is slick and persuasive, and it’s obviously working.

Carly looks at him helplessly and he feels sick to his stomach as she says, “It isn’t that long, Freddy. I had to deal with him on the shame date for longer.”

Nevel interjects and pushes, “Do I have a deal then?”

“Don’t I get a say in this?”

All three people in the room reply with a resounding, ‘no’, in unison.

“Wait-” he says, but the girls are already out the door, which Nevel closes behind them and looks at Freddy who feels empty- there’s a feeling of betrayal that he isn’t sure he knows how to deal with, combined with a dread of being left with Nevel.

“You still lose. iCarly will continue.”

It’s the only thing he can think to say because honestly, he’s confused. Nevel had them, and he gave it up?

The other boy ignores the statement, or maybe starts explaining in a roundabout way.

“I am going to start my own show, iNevel.”

Freddy rolls his eyes. “And you need a tech person.”

“No.”

Freddy blinks. “No?”

“No.” Nevel clarifies. “I need a partner.”

With a delicate finger beckoning, Nevel begins leading him down into the basement.

Freddy hates basements. He hates the one at the apartment, he hates all the ones he has been locked in over the years, he has no reason to suspect he will like this one.

Downstairs is a simple studio, it has none of the bells and whistles that the iCarly studio has. A simple camera, and a stage against an odd brick wall. It’s odd because it’s just there… The wall is in the middle of the room, so it isn’t load bearing. It seems like it was just created for a backdrop. On the wall is a mount of some kind. It looks a bit like a trophy plaque. It’s made of wood, but has nothing on it except three holes arranged in a triangle.

Nevel motions for him to follow around to the back side where there is a seat set very far forward and the three holes.

“Sit.” Nevel commands and Freddy frowns but does. Nevel moves back to the other side of the wall and then the holes get bigger.

“Put your head and feet in.”

Freddy grumbles but he does, a moment later sitting uncomfortably with his head and feet sticking out. He doesn’t think he has ever seen his feet this up-close before. Nevel shifts something and Freddy realizes the plaque opened somehow and is now closed around him.

There is a camera now pointed at them, the light flashing to indicate it is recording.

“Welcome to the first iNevel broadcast where today we have Freddy Benson, the tech wiz of the iCarly channel. Like many of you, I too watch the weekly live streams, and I too have had my fair looks at the feet of the most famous tech nerd in Seattle and like many of you, I also fell in love.”

Freddy’s brain freezes up because what?

“And even though I have them all to myself, I thought it would be better to share them with all of you.”

He notices a monitor set up where he can see the comments section of the stream which is blowing up. They… really like his feet. He feels his toes curl at comments about licking them and worshiping them, but tickling comes up the most often and that makes him cringe.

“So today, we are going to tickle these feet all stream. You post in chat what you want to see, and Freddy will get to pick what happens to his pretty feet.

“This is so messed up,” Freddy groans as the comments continue to fly.

It doesn’t matter what he says though, because it changes nothing.

“Alright Freddy Benson, pick. My fingers on your handsome feet for three minutes, or this brush for one minute?”

Nevel holds up a plastic brush. It’s intimidating, but Freddy growls. Nevel may have him here but he doesn’t have to play along. He isn’t about to make this easy for the punk.

Unfortunately, Nevel seems to have anticipated that and when it becomes clear he isn’t going to get an answer, Nevel’s fingers lay into his feet with no warning. The fingernails aren’t sharp, not like Sam’s when she scratches him, but sharp enough to light up every nerve in his foot as they pass over it, driving Freddy wild.

It feels like it takes forever for the tickling to stop but as soon as it does, Freddy feels the brush make contact and like lightning, starts thrashing and squirming. He tries to kick but the stocks that hold him prevent any movement of his feet other than flicking his soles up and down at the ankles which he does in a desperate but ultimately futile attempt to protect his poor feet from their tickling.

When it stops, he’s gasping for breath as Nevel asks, “Do you want your soles tickled by my fingers for three minutes, or your toes for one?”

“Soles-” Freddy gasps out, not even really thinking about the fact that he is consenting to the tickling just knowing Nevel will go for his toes otherwise and that can’t happen.

He does regret the decision right away though as the nails return to their abuses of his soles. Nevel goes so far as to grab one sole in a headlock and press his thumb and index finger together before drilling into the perfect center of his sole. He can’t even throw his head back to laugh because of the headstock and the total lack of movement adds to the heightened tickling.

“Toes for thirty seconds or brushes for three.”

Freddy pales and Nevel smirks and says, “Tick-tock Freddy Benson. You know what happens if you don’t decide.”

The brush was terrible, but his toes- this is impossible!

“Umm- toes!”

He curses himself the second he says it because Nevel does nor spare his toes at all, going right at them with feverish delight and even though Freddy tries to clench his toes, it isn’t anywhere near enough to dull the sensation to something manageable.

“Tell us a story about your feet, or tell us how you take care of them to keep them so perfectly ticklish.”

Freddy blushes and then says, “I don’t really think I have any stories about them being tickled so I guess I apply lotion before I go to sleep and after I shower.”

Not by choice, another of his mom’s many weird idiosyncrasies. It isn’t just to his feet, it’s everywhere and it does mean he doesn’t have dry skin like other people have to deal with.

“Really? No guy has ever seen these feet and given them a good tickling? What a shame.”

Freddy thinks Nevel might be flirting with him but luckily he isn’t given much time to think about that because the next challenge is up almost right away. “Feather five minutes or brush for three?”

“Feather.”

There is no way a feather is that bad and as Nevel brings the fluffy part down on his sole, Freddy smirks, confident for the first time because he feels it, but it isn’t nearly as ticklish as any of the other things.

His victory is short lived because Nevel flips the feather upside down and goes at him with the point of it which Freddy decides is like a worse finger nail. It’s pointer, and more tickly, there’s only one of them which is a relief but not much of one.

Five minutes of that give Freddy plenty of time to see the error in his ways and it feels like much longer than five minutes. Nevel is also cooing softly to him but Freddy can barely hear over his own laughter which is a mixed blessing.

As soon as it finishes Nevel says, “People must have liked my feather work because it might be back for round two. Feather between your toes for three minutes, or brush under your toes for the same time?”

“Feather?”

At this point he isn’t sure there is a right choice but once the feather saws between his squirming toes, he can’t help but hope this was the right one because that would mean something could tickle worse than this, and Freddy isn’t ready to contemplate that possibility.

Nevel doesn’t even have to do anything fancy… not that Freddy is sure there is a fancy way to tickle someone but Nevel just saws the feather back and forth and that is more than enough to keep Freddy in hysterics with milliseconds of peace when Nevel moves the feather to torture a different pair of toes.

“Brush under your toes for one minute or on your soles for five.”

Freddy groans because he is almost tempted to let it happen to his toes but that would be madness so he reluctantly says, “Soles.”

“Desperate to protect those toes, huh? I can’t wait to get at them more.”

Nevel’s teasing is the least of his worries as the brush bristles assault his soles and Nevel makes sure to cover his whole foot this time, heels up to the balls of his feet. Only his toes escape and while Freddy is happy for that, the rest is pure torture. Especially since Nevel never keeps things predictable, he always targets a new area or changes the speed just enough that any mental prepping Freddy tries to do is totally pointless and the five minutes feel closer to five years.

“Give Nevel ownership to your feet and let him sign them, or five minutes with the brush.” Nevel smirks when he finishes reading and taunts, “I know what I want.”

Freddy grumbles and says, “Sign them.”

“That isn’t it, Freddy Benson. You have something else you need to say.”

He wrinkles his nose and says, “Nevel owns my feet? You are doing what you want with them anyway, so what does it maThEHR!”

“Careful or you’ll make me write it sloppy and then I’ll have to start again.”

Freddy tries his best to hold still but the cool, damp pen tickles- maybe not worse than the brush or the feathers, but different and still terrible. There’s a few moments where Nevel blows puffs of cool air on his sweaty feet that have him ready to jump out of his skin as well. He has no doubt that tomorrow morning when he has to wash the message off that he will feel a rush of shame, but that sounds like a humiliation for later.

“Get your toes kissed, or sucked?”

Because apparently there is still humiliation for today to deal with. He has no idea which he is supposed to pick so Freddy blushes and says, “Kissed I guess.”

It sounds less invasive but Nevel seems all too delighted to work his way down the line and leave a sloppy, wet kiss on each toe which has Freddy giggling and feeling conflicted about not totally hating or being disgusted by the feeling.

It occurs to Freddy how messed up this is, making him pick what form of tickling he has to suffer through. He has to choose, or Nevel will do both, but there is a humiliating level of having input into it at all. Instead of a passive position, he is forced to take an active part in it. He doesn’t want Nevel’s mouth anywhere near his feet, and yet here is choosing to have his toes kissed by his nemesis.

“Fuzz thread? Or lickled?”

Freddy blinks for a moment and then says, “Thread?”

He has no idea what the thread is, but he can only guess which two words are put together to create lickled and he is all too happy to avoid that.

The thread Nevel pulls out is exactly as advertised, pink and fuzzy and for a blissful moment, Freddy fails to understand its true purpose because it doesn’t look like it will be too bad on his soles. And then Nevel laces it between his toes and he realizes what a grace mistake he made, “No- Lickle- lickle!”

But too late the murderous thread slides between his big toe and it’s neighbor and he can hear Nevel taunting him but can’t really make it out because the fluff between his toes sawing back and forth is new levels of maddening.

If he had been curious about what Nevel said, which he isn’t, he ends up getting an answer anyway in the form of Nevel’s warm, wet tongue on his soles and that, combined with the thread, nearly causes him to pass out from sensory overload.

Nevel gives him a break after that and Freddy feels weirdly thankful to his tickler for it because he isn’t sure he could have gone back into another round of it right away. Of course, it doesn’t last nearly long enough and Nevel is quickly giving him the next choice.

“Lotion or oil?”

Freddy frowns and then says, “Lotion?”

He isn’t sure what the point is but judging from Nevel’s look of glee, there is one, or he’s just happy for any excuse to touch Freddy’s feet. He pumps a generous amount into his hand and then starts to massage it into Freddy’s soles, taking more time than Freddy thinks is necessary. Once finished, Nevel continues by asking, “Fingers for five or brush for three?”

Freddy sighs and says, “Brush.” At this point, he figures the shorter tickle challenges he takes, the more chances he has for non tickle ones to pop up and that might keep him sane through all of this.

It’s only after the brush makes contact that he realizes what the point of the lotion is and that he’s made a terrible mistake because if the brush was murder before, the frictionless surface of his now lotioned feet make it doubly so. He had assumed it couldn’t get any worse, but the way the brush just slides across his soles with no effort at all means that it tickles even more and even faster and Freddy is howling but still totally trapped and now more ticklish than ever.

It isn’t even the brush, every tool is far more menacing with the lotion all over his feet and the only minor consolation is Nevel won’t put his mouth on Freddy’s feet over the oil which isn’t much of a prize.

Eventually, he stops paying attention to the options and just picks the first one each time, too tired to try to figure out which will tickle less.

Freddy is nearly hysterical when the stream ends, tears sting the corners of his eyes and sweat has dripped into them, making them sting. He feels the pressure on his ankles and neck let up and he pulls himself out. He reaches for his socks, eager to get them on and get out of this whole, humiliating ordeal when Nevel grabs his hands and leads him over to a couch where he pulls Freddy’s still bare and very tingly feet onto his lap.

“No way- no more tickling.”

The horror of saying the word has worn off after having it done to him for an hour straight but Nevel’s hands grasp his soles and instead start massaging them, leading to a groan of pleasure from Freddy.

“I meant what I said. People will pay good money to see these feet tickled. The stream made several hundred, and I will of course be sending half of it your way.”

Freddy’s eyes widen, both at the amount made, and the fact that Nevel is just giving him a cut.

“I told you. I was looking for a partner, not a tech person.”

He flushes a darker red as Nevel continues.

“I have had a crush on these feet for a long time, and maybe on the boy who owns them.”

Deflecting, Freddy replies, “You would have a crush on yourself.”

It’s awkward to use all of that to escape the idea that Nevel might have a crush on him.

He feels two wet kisses placed on his big toes and turns an even darker shade of red. “On air I might, but I don’t think so off air, at least not until you let me.”

The world is truly a messed up place if Nevel Papperman would be sweet talking him, and Freddy might be falling for it.

“You have a crush on Carly,” he says, hoping to get Nevel to admit this is all bull.

“I did. But then I saw you. At first it was strictly a foot thing but then I realized that you have something she doesn’t have, loyalty. Imagine if you gave that to someone who appreciated it, instead of trading you to me for two hours without more than three minutes of thinking about it?”

“I don’t know that you’ll be loyal.”

“I will prove it. Over time at least. You’ll see.”

Freddy rolls his eyes here and says, “Or I’ll rue it?”

Nevel shrugs. “I can’t say. I have no plans on getting revenge on you if you don’t, but you already know how appreciated you are by your friends.”

Freddy doesn’t have a reply to that. Nevel massages his feet until the phantom tickles are finally gone, he talks a bit, not seeming to mind that Freddy gives no replies. Some of it is about Freddy and is cute feet, which is awkward. Some of it is about things he realized he admired about Freddy, which is more awkward because it’s compliments no one has ever given to him. Mostly it’s idle chatter about nothing in particular and it’s strange that Freddy is more at ease here, knowing he can just relax and Sam isn’t going to come attack him or Carly isn’t going to need his help in some scheme.

Nevel lets him out shortly after and the whole way home, he thinks it all over in his head.

iNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNeveliNevel

Freddy, sweaty but happy glances at the camera, his feet are currently being tickled, and he’s exhausted but they are over seven hours into the tickle live stream. Nevel’s set up a monitor so Freddy can watch the comments, something he’s come to love doing. It’s beyond anything he’s ever imagined, but honestly, he wishes it had happened sooner.

#ticklefic #ticklestory #ticklishboys #ticklishfeet #sfw tickling community #tickle content #tickle thoughts #malefeetstory #ticklecommunity #malefootstories #icarly #freddy benson #nevel papperman

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