floravkhl

a/n : I’ll mostly write smut / fluff stuff, but there will be some angst stuff here and there. Also, english it’s not my first language, however my level is C1

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･emoji code

Fluff : 🤍 Smut : 🍭 Angst : 🖤

LNGSHOT :

Woojin :

🤍 — What’s up, hotshot?

Avatar :

I will write for : Lo’ak, Neteyam, Jake.

Neteyam :

🖤🤍— Forbbiden love (series) : part 1 part 2

Cortis :

Martin:

🖤🤍— Martin, play dat beat (series) : part 1

Suits :

I will write for : Harvey Specter, Mike Ross.

Weakhero Class 2 :

I will write for : Yeon Si-eun, Ahn Su-ho, Park Hu-min (Baku), Go Hyun-tak (Gotak), Geum Seong-je, Na Baek-jin.

Bloodhounds :

I will write for : Kim Geon-woo, Hong Woo-jin, Kim Myeong-gil, Lee Doo-young.

Business Proposal :

I will write for : Kang Tae-moo, Cha Sung-hoon.

Others :

Bada Lee

Doctor Slump — Yeo Jeong-Woo

Blackpink — the whole group

Actors :

• Park Bo-gum

• Woo Do-Hwan

• Lee Sang-Yi

• Park Ji-hoon

• Song Kang

• Cha Eunwoo

Summary : Michael told you you’d be in the music video for “You rock my world” so why are they searching for actresses?

Gens : fluff ig

A/n : I love Chris Tucker yall bye. Requests open

The first time Michael brought up the You Rock My World video around you, he was lying across the couch in the studio lounge with a fedora tipped over his eyes while you flipped through a magazine beside him. The room smelled like coffee, expensive cologne, and the stale air-conditioning that never worked properly at Record Plant. He sounded casual when he said it. Too casual.

“They’re casting for the video next week.”

You looked up. “Oh? Finally.”

“Mhm.” He smiled lazily beneath the hat. “It’s gonna be cinematic. Real film energy. Chris is in it. Marlon’s in it. Real smooth.”

“That’s exciting.”

“It’s gotta feel believable though,” he continued. “Chemistry is important.”

You didn’t think much of it then. Michael talked about chemistry constantly when it came to performances. Chemistry with dancers. Chemistry with cameras. Chemistry with lighting. He obsessed over details nobody else even noticed.

So you nodded and turned the page.

Then he added, “They’re testing actresses.”

Your hand stopped.

“…Actresses?”

“Yeah.” He sat up slowly, removing the hat. “For the club scenes.”

You blinked at him. “I thought I was doing it.”

Silence.

And suddenly he wouldn’t look at you anymore.

Instead he reached for a bottle of water, twisting the cap unnecessarily slowly. “Well… I just thought maybe it’d be easier with someone who does this professionally.”

A strange feeling settled in your stomach.

“Michael.”

“What?”

“You literally asked me three weeks ago if I wanted to do it.”

“I know, I know, but the director was talking about dynamics and—”

“Who is it?”

“Nobody.”

“Michael.”

He sighed. “Her name’s Vanessa.”

The name hit immediately because you knew exactly who Vanessa was.

Everybody did.

Vanessa was always around the studio, always giggling too loudly at Michael’s jokes, always touching his arm a second too long. She practically glowed whenever he entered a room. Even the assistants whispered about her crush.

And Michael knew.

That was the worst part.

“You’re joking,” you said quietly.

“It’s not like that.”

“She likes you.”

“She likes everybody.”

You laughed once in disbelief. “Michael.”

“She just fit the vibe they wanted.”

“The vibe.”

“Yeah.”

“The vibe of a girl who’s in love with you?”

His expression hardened slightly. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” You stared at him. “You asked me to do it first.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because I need chemistry on camera!”

The second the words left his mouth, the room went silent.

Your face changed instantly.

Michael noticed it too late.

“…Wow,” you whispered.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“So I don’t have chemistry with you?”

“No—”

“You’ve been with me for two years.”

“You know what I’m trying to say.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

He stood up, frustrated now, pacing the room. “You’re taking this personally.”

“Because it is personal.”

“It’s work!”

“Then why pick the one girl everybody knows wants you?”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

You stared at him for a long moment before grabbing your bag from the couch.

“Fine,” you said quietly. “Use her.”

“Baby—”

“Use whoever has more chemistry with you.”

Then you walked out.

———

The day of the shoot was torture.

You almost didn’t go.

But one of the costume girls—Sandra—had begged you to come because she missed you and said the set would be boring without you.

So there you were.

Standing in the middle of a massive club set in downtown Los Angeles while fake smoke curled through flashing lights and everybody rushed around preparing cameras.

The second you walked in, heads turned.

Not because you were famous.

Not because you were dramatic.

But because you looked stunning without even trying.

Low-rise jeans, fitted black top, glossy lips, your hair falling perfectly over your shoulders. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that made people stare before they realized they were staring.

Chris Tucker noticed first.

“Oh HELL no,” he yelled across the set, making several people laugh. “Michael, you got THIS at home and hired somebody else?!”

You burst out laughing despite yourself.

Michael, standing near the monitors, froze.

Chris walked toward you dramatically, clutching his chest. “Girl, you are fine.”

“Chris—”

“No, no, let me speak. This is injustice. This is a crime against music videos everywhere.”

A few staff members nearby laughed in agreement.

“I’m serious,” one makeup artist added. “She should’ve been cast from the beginning.”

Michael shot them all a look.

Chris immediately noticed.

“Ohhh, somebody mad already.” He grinned.

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m working.”

“Mhm.”

Chris turned back to you. “Come sit with me since apparently people on this set make poor decisions.”

And somehow that became the theme of the entire day.

Chris stayed beside you constantly.

During lighting setups, he sat next to you making jokes until your stomach hurt from laughing.

During breaks, he brought you snacks before anyone else could.

At one point he leaned over dramatically while Michael rehearsed and whispered, “If he don’t cast you after today, I will.”

You nearly choked laughing.

The crew adored it.

And unfortunately for Michael… so did you.

Because Chris made you feel noticed.

Wanted.

Chosen.

Meanwhile Michael spent half the day trying not to look at you and failing miserably.

Every time he glanced over, Chris was making you laugh again.

Every time he passed by, someone was complimenting you.

“You look incredible today.”

“Seriously, camera would love her.”

“She and Michael naturally match better.”

Michael heard all of it.

Every single word.

And Vanessa heard it too.

Which only made her clingier.

During one take she kept touching Michael’s chest between scenes, smiling up at him while makeup fixed his collar.

You saw it.

Michael saw you see it.

And then Chris leaned close beside you and muttered loud enough for Michael to hear:

“She doin’ a lot.”

You snorted.

Michael’s jaw tightened instantly.

The breaking point came about two hours later.

Chris had his arm around the back of your chair while telling some ridiculous story involving Eddie Murphy and a fake monkey when Michael stormed over.

“I need to talk to you.”

You looked up calmly. “About?”

“Now.”

Chris raised both brows dramatically. “Ohhhhhh.”

“Chris,” Michael snapped.

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’!”

Michael looked at you again. “Come here.”

You followed him only because you didn’t want a scene.

The second you stepped into the empty hallway outside the set, he turned around.

“What is this?”

You folded your arms. “What is what?”

“You and Chris.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“He’s all over you.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it.”

You laughed sharply. “That sounds familiar.”

His expression darkened.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, Michael. Explain it to me.”

“He keeps flirting with you.”

“So?”

“You’re with me.”

“And Vanessa’s what? Part of the lighting department?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because it’s acting!”

“And Chris is joking.”

“He keeps touching you.”

“And she keeps touching you.”

“It’s for the video!”

“You literally said you needed chemistry.”

“I do!”

“And she conveniently already likes you.”

“That has nothing to do with anything!”

“Really?” You stepped closer. “Because everybody on set can see it except you apparently.”

Michael rubbed a hand over his face in frustration. “You think I want her?”

“I think you like being wanted.”

That hit him directly.

He went still.

“You love attention,” you continued quietly. “You love girls staring at you. You love people wanting you. And maybe you didn’t think about how humiliating this would feel for me because you’re so used to everybody competing for your attention.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

“No it isn’t.”

“You picked a girl who openly flirts with you over your own girlfriend.”

The silence afterward felt heavy.

Michael looked away first.

And suddenly the anger drained out of him, replaced by something worse.

Understanding.

Because now he got it.

Watching Chris flirt with you all day had made him insane.

Watching other men stare at you had made him furious.

And that was with someone you weren’t interested in.

Vanessa was different.

Vanessa wanted him openly.

And he had dismissed your feelings like they were irrational jealousy.

“…Damn,” he muttered softly.

You crossed your arms tighter. “Yeah.”

Michael leaned back against the wall, finally quiet.

Then after a moment he sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked at him skeptically.

“No, really.” His voice softened completely. “I get it now.”

“You didn’t before?”

“I thought you were overreacting.”

“And now?”

“I wanted to punch Chris in the throat.”

You accidentally laughed.

Michael pointed immediately. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

“You were jealous?”

“Yes.”

“Chris Tucker?”

“He’s funny.”

You laughed harder.

Michael groaned dramatically. “See?! That’s exactly what I mean.”

The tension finally cracked slightly between you.

He stepped closer carefully.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

“I know.”

He looked genuinely miserable now.

“You should’ve been my first choice,” he admitted quietly. “You were. I just… got nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“You’re real to me.”

Your expression softened slightly.

He continued, “With you it’s not acting. And that scared me a little because cameras catch everything.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does in my head.”

You shook your head. “So you picked a girl obsessed with you instead.”

“When you say it out loud it sounds terrible.”

“Because it is terrible.”

He sighed again. “I know.”

Another pause.

Then:

“I want you in the video.”

You looked away immediately. “No.”

“Baby—”

“No. Now it feels like pity.”

“It’s not pity.”

“You’re only saying this because we fought.”

“I’m saying it because I was stupid.”

You stayed quiet.

Michael stepped even closer, voice lowering.

“When you walked onto that set today… I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

You didn’t respond.

“Everybody else noticed too.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.” His eyes softened. “The point is I hurt you when I should’ve chosen you from the beginning.”

You looked at him finally.

“And I swear to God it wasn’t because she likes me.”

“But you liked the attention.”

He hesitated.

“…Maybe.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I’m trying.”

Another long silence stretched between you.

Then Michael reached carefully for your hand.

“You belong with me in that video.”

Your chest tightened slightly.

“You already filmed scenes.”

“I’ll reshoot them.”

“Michael—”

“I mean it.”

“That’s expensive.”

“I don’t care.”

You searched his face for even a hint that he was only doing damage control.

But he looked sincere.

Completely sincere.

“You’d really redo everything?”

“For you? Yeah.”

Your voice softened despite yourself. “Even the dance scenes?”

“Yes.”

“The club scenes?”

“Yes.”

“The close-ups?”

“Yes.”

“…Chris is gonna clown you.”

“He already does.”

You smiled slightly.

Michael immediately brightened when he saw it.

“There she is.”

“Don’t.”

“I missed you.”

“You saw me all day.”

“Not the same.”

You rolled your eyes but he could see you weakening.

Then quietly:

“I don’t want to feel second place.”

His expression changed instantly.

“You never are.”

“Today I was.”

Michael shook his head immediately. “No. Today I acted like an idiot.”

You stared at him for a moment before finally sighing.

“You really wanna redo the video?”

“I’ll start over tonight.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you love me.”

“…Unfortunately.”

He grinned suddenly, relief washing over his face.

Then, before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you tightly.

“You scared me today.”

“You deserved it.”

“I know.”

“And Chris was enjoying it way too much.”

Michael groaned into your shoulder. “Please don’t mention his name right now.”

You laughed softly for the first time all day.

And somewhere back on set, Chris Tucker’s voice echoed through the hallway:

“MIKE?! YOU DONE APOLOGIZING YET?!”

Summary: Michael's insecure about the age gap between you and you're trying to comfort him.

Gen: angsty, romance

A/n: the movie was so good bro, I went and saw it 2 times at the cinema alr. Also, requests are open😝😝

The tabloids had been ruthless for weeks. Not that this was new for Michael Jackson. Cruel headlines followed him everywhere, constant and unavoidable, but this one seemed to linger longer than the others.

“Pop King Dating Woman Half His Age.”

“Father or Boyfriend?”

“Michael Jackson Mistaken for Her Grandpa.”

You hated them. Not because they embarrassed you — they didn’t — but because you saw what they did to him.

At first Michael laughed them off with that soft little chuckle of his, shaking his head as he folded magazines shut and tossed them aside. “People say anything,” he’d mumble. But after a while, you noticed the quieter things. The way he stared too long at mirrors. The way he tugged baseball caps lower over his face whenever the two of you went out. The hesitation before he reached for your hand in public. And worst of all, the way he stopped believing you whenever you called him beautiful.

Rain tapped softly against the windows of Neverland that evening, turning the whole house silver-blue beneath the storm clouds. The fireplace crackled low while old vinyl records played faintly somewhere in the background. Michael sat curled into the corner of the couch in gray silk pajama pants and a loose white button-down, one leg tucked beneath him. The TV was on mute, some entertainment program flashing photos of the two of you at a charity gala from earlier that week.

You walked in just in time to read the subtitles across the screen.

She’s young enough to be his daughter.

Your stomach twisted.

Michael reached for the remote too quickly, fumbling it from his hands before finally shutting the television off altogether. Silence settled heavily between you.

You crossed the room slowly. “Baby…”

“I’m fine,” he said immediately.

Too immediately.

He wouldn’t look at you.

The firelight danced across his face, catching the exhaustion beneath his eyes. At thirty-nine, Michael was still heartbreakingly beautiful, but lately there was a fragility to him that made your chest ache.

You sat beside him carefully, the couch dipping under your weight. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then quietly, almost too quietly, he asked, “Does it embarrass you?”

Your heart cracked open instantly. “Michael—”

“They laugh at you because of me.” His fingers twisted nervously together in his lap. “I hear them. I see the headlines. Sometimes when we go places people stare at you like…” He swallowed hard. “Like you’re wasting your life on someone old.”

Old.

God.

You turned toward him fully. “You are not old.”

He shrugged faintly, still refusing to meet your eyes. “Compared to you?”

“You’re fourteen years older than me, not eighty.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him before disappearing just as quickly.

“You could have anybody,” he whispered. “Someone younger. Someone normal.”

“There’s nobody else I want.”

“But one day there might be.” His voice cracked slightly. “And I keep thinking… what if you wake up one morning and realize they were right?”

The vulnerability in that sentence nearly destroyed you. Because this wasn’t Michael Jackson the icon speaking. Not the legend. Not the King of Pop. Just Michael. A man who had spent his entire life being picked apart by strangers until every insecurity bled openly.

You reached for his hands slowly, giving him enough time to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. His fingers slipped into yours almost desperately.

“Look at me,” you said gently.

He hesitated before finally lifting his eyes to yours. God, those eyes. Still soft. Still enormous. Still carrying that wounded little-boy sadness hidden underneath everything.

“You wanna know what I see when I look at you?” you asked quietly.

His lashes lowered slightly.

“I see the sweetest man I’ve ever known. I see someone who stays up all night helping children he’s never even met. Someone who cries during movies and laughs at his own jokes and dances in the kitchen when he thinks nobody’s watching.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I see someone beautiful,” you continued. “Not despite his age. Not despite his scars. Just beautiful.”

Michael looked down again quickly, already overwhelmed.

“You know what I don’t see?” you whispered.

He shook his head once.

“An old man.”

A quiet breath left him.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “You walk into rooms and everybody notices you. You’re young and bright and…” He shook his head helplessly. “Then there’s me.”

“Michael.” You moved closer until your knees touched his. “Do you have any idea how loved you are?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You lifted one hand to his face, fingertips brushing gently along his jaw. He melted immediately, like he always did whenever you touched him with tenderness instead of worship.

“I love your hands,” you whispered. “I love the lines around your eyes when you smile. I love your voice in the morning. I love the way you hold me like I’m precious.”

His eyes closed.

“And I love that you’re older,” you admitted softly.

That made his eyes open again in surprise.

“I do,” you said with a small smile. “You’re patient with me. You make me feel safe. You listen to me. You understand people in a way men my age don’t.”

Michael stared at you like he genuinely couldn’t process what he was hearing.

You brushed a curl back from his face. “I don’t want somebody younger,” you said softly. “I want you.”

The room fell silent except for the rain. Then suddenly his eyes started shining.

“Oh, baby…” he whispered shakily.

You barely had time to react before he pulled you into him. Not graceful, not composed — just needy. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist while he buried his face against your neck, holding you with heartbreaking intensity. You felt him exhale slowly against your skin, like relief, like finally setting down something unbearably heavy.

“I love you so much,” he whispered. “You don’t even know.”

“I do know.”

“No…” His voice turned fragile again. “You don’t understand what you do to me.”

You held him closer, stroking softly through the curls at the nape of his neck. For several long moments he simply stayed there quietly, breathing you in. Then eventually he pulled back just enough to look at you again.

And something had changed.

The insecurity was still there — you knew it wouldn’t disappear overnight — but underneath it now sat certainty. Deep, unwavering certainty. The kind people spend lifetimes searching for.

His thumb brushed across your cheek almost reverently. “You really mean that?” he asked softly.

“Every word.”

Michael stared at you for another second before finally smiling. Not the practiced public smile. Not the dazzling performer grin. The real one. Small, warm, completely in love.

And somewhere deep inside himself, something settled permanently into place. Because for the first time in years, maybe ever, Michael stopped wondering if he was enough.

The next morning you woke up alone, which wasn’t unusual. Michael kept strange hours. Still half-asleep, you wandered downstairs expecting to find him at the piano or curled up somewhere with coffee and music playing softly.

Instead one of the staff smiled at you. “Mr. Jackson left early this morning.”

You frowned slightly. “Early?”

“He said he had something important to do.”

You smiled to yourself. Probably another surprise trip for sick children or some secret project he hadn’t told anyone about yet. Classic Michael.

But what you didn’t know — what you couldn’t possibly know — was that at that exact moment, Michael Jackson sat inside a private jewelry showroom in Los Angeles nervously tapping his fingers against his knee while staring at rows of engagement rings.

Terrified.

Certain.

And completely, utterly in love.

Neteyam Sully x Avatar! Fem! Reader!

Summary : What happens when his mother doesn’t approve of your secret relationship?

Gens : Angst,

A/n : I’M SO GLAD YALL LIKED THE FIRST PART💔 I hope you enjoyed this part as much as you enjoyed the first one.

Part 1 Part 2

The forest swallowed you whole.

Branches closed behind your back as if Pandora herself were sealing the wound you had just opened. The glow of the clearing faded with every step you took, bioluminescence dimming into shadow as you moved deeper, farther—away from him. You did not run. You walked.

Each step felt deliberate, like a vow carved into stone. Your chest ached so badly it felt hollow, like something vital had been torn out and left behind in the Sully home. Neytiri’s words echoed with cruel clarity, looping endlessly in your mind.

Half-loyal. A reminder of loss. When he bleeds, you will leave.

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as tears blurred your vision. You hated yourself for crying. Hated that part of you wanted to turn back, wanted to feel Neteyam’s arms wrap around you again, strong and unyielding, as if he could shield you from everything—including his own mother.

But that was exactly why you couldn’t. You loved him too much to stay.

⸻

Neteyam felt it the moment you crossed the tree line. It was not a sound or a scent—it was absence.

Something vital vanished from the air, and his chest constricted so sharply it stole his breath. He took a step forward without thinking, eyes darting to the entrance of the forest.

“No,” he whispered.

He moved instinctively, muscles coiling, ready to run after you—but Jake’s hand caught his shoulder.

“Neteyam,” Jake said softly. “Give her a moment.”

“No,” Neteyam snapped, wrenching free. “She’s leaving.”

Neytiri turned sharply. “She should.” That was when he broke.

He spun toward her, eyes blazing, grief and fury tangling into something raw and dangerous. “You drove her away.”

“She chose to leave,” Neytiri shot back, though her voice wavered.

“She left because you cut her open and called it protection,” he said, voice shaking. “You were cruel.” Silence fell like ash. Neteyam didn’t wait for permission.

He ran.

⸻

The forest blurred as he sprinted, feet pounding against the earth, breath ragged. “Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking as it echoed through the trees. “Please—stop!” No answer. Panic clawed its way up his throat.

He followed your scent desperately, heart hammering with every possibility his mind conjured. What if you were hurt? What if someone else found you? The thought of anyone touching you—seeing you broken like this—made something dark coil in his chest.

Protective. Possessive. Terrified.

He searched until dawn bled pale gold through the leaves. And found nothing.

⸻

You hid where the cliffs rose sharp and unforgiving, overlooking a stretch of glowing forest far below. It was quiet there—too quiet. The kind of silence that made your thoughts scream.

You survived on fruit and water gathered from memory alone, hands moving on instinct while your mind stayed trapped in that room, replaying everything.

Neteyam’s face when you touched his arm.

The way his voice broke when he said your name.

Jake standing up for you—she’s an Avatar, just like me—and how it still hadn’t been enough.

You curled into yourself at night, wrapping your arms around your torso like you could replace the warmth you had lost. You cried quietly, ashamed of the sounds you made, terrified the forest might hear you and carry the truth back to him.

I love you, you thought over and over again.

That’s why I’m gone.

⸻

Back at home, Neteyam unraveled slowly—and then all at once.

He barely slept. When he did, he woke gasping, hands clutching empty air. He snapped at Lo’ak. Ignored training. Let his arrows miss targets he could hit blindfolded. His jealousy turned inward, corrosive.

Every unfamiliar scent on the wind made his pulse spike. Every rustle in the forest sent his hand to his weapon. He imagined you alone, unprotected, and the thought tore at him until his chest ached.

Jake tried to reach him.

“She left because she thought it would protect you,” Jake said quietly one night.

Neteyam shook his head. “She should’ve trusted me.”

Neytiri watched from a distance, guilt creeping into her bones like poison. She told herself it was necessary. That she was protecting her son.

But the sound of his muffled sobs at night told her otherwise.

The seventh night came without warning. The forest stirred differently—subtle, electric. Neteyam felt it before he understood it. He lifted his head slowly, breath catching.

You were there.

Standing at the edge of the clearing like a ghost pulled from memory. Thinner. Exhausted. Eyes shadowed, but still you. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then he was running.

He crossed the distance in seconds, hands gripping your arms as if afraid you would vanish again. His breathing was uneven, tears spilling freely without shame.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Don’t disappear like that.”

Your resolve shattered instantly.

“I thought leaving was love,” you sobbed. “I thought if I stayed, I’d ruin you.”

His hands slid to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks desperately. “You are the only thing holding me together.”

He pulled you into his chest, arms locking around you with a ferocity that bordered on fear. You clung to him just as tightly, sobbing into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back like you needed to anchor yourself to him.

“I choose you,” he whispered fiercely. “No matter what.” This time, he didn’t hide you.

He took your hand and walked you home in full view of the stars.

Summary: When MORE VISION's rising soloist Y/N collaborates with rookie group LNGSHOT, playful chaos follows.

Gens : fluff

A/n : should I continue this with a dating era or Louis fic?

Woojin learns two things very quickly.

One: Y/N is nothing like how idols usually feel in real life.

Two: He is absolutely, deeply unprepared for that.

When Jay Park himself walks her into the LNGSHOT practice room, clapping Woojin on the shoulder like this is all casual business, Woojin almost forgets how to bow.

“Be nice to her,” Jay says with a grin. “She’s my pride these days.”

Y/N laughs. “Don’t pressure me like that.” Her laugh isn’t loud—but it sticks.

Woojin bows properly this time. “I’m Woojin. Please take care of us.”

She smiles at him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

That’s it. That’s where it starts.

⸻

Woojin isn’t the loudest in the room—that’s Ohyul and Louis, always—but he is playful in quiet ways.

He steals Y/N’s beanie during a break and pretends he has no idea where it went.

She squints at him. “You’re sitting on it.”

He smiles innocently. “Am I?”

“You’re terrible.”

“I try,” he says, handing it back.

She laughs, and Woojin feels like he won something.

The members clock it instantly.

“Woojin only jokes like that when he’s comfortable,” Louis whispers.

“So basically,” Ryul adds, “he’s gone.”

Woojin hears them. He does not deny it.

By the dorm vlog, Woojin feels weirdly at ease. Y/N sits on the kitchen counter while Ohyul burns toast for content. She films everything, giggling when the smoke alarm almost goes off. Woojin hands her water without asking.

“You’re very attentive,” she says, accepting it.

He shrugs. “Habit.”

She leans closer. “To everyone?”

He hesitates. “…No.”

She looks at him for a long moment, then smiles softly. Later, while the others argue about whose room is messiest, Woojin sits next to her on the couch.

“So,” she says, lowering her voice. “You’re quieter off-camera.”

“Only when I’m thinking,” he replies.

“About?”

He glances at her. Looks away again. “You ask dangerous questions.”

She laughs. “You’re cute.”

His heart does something stupid.

The shopping vlog is loud—Louis dramatically modeling sunglasses, Ryul pretending to be a stylist—but Woojin sticks close to Y/N. Not hovering. Just… nearby.

She holds up a black skirt, turning to him first without thinking.

“Honest opinion?”

He takes his time. “It’s simple. But it fits you. Like… confident.”

She beams. “You always explain things nicely.” She puts it back. Woojin notices.

He doesn’t say anything—but the image of it stays in his head longer than it should.

The jealousy hits later.

Another idol guest joins filming—friendly, charismatic, laughing easily with Y/N. They joke, stand close, take selfies. Woojin smiles politely. Teases like usual.

But when the idol places a hand on Y/N’s shoulder without asking, something tightens in his chest. He goes quiet. Y/N notices instantly.

“You okay?” she asks, falling into step beside him.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just tired.”

She hums. “You’re not great at pretending.”

Later, she gently moves away from the other idol and stands next to Woojin again.

“Some people forget boundaries,” she murmurs. “I don’t like that.”

Woojin swallows. “I’m glad.”

She looks at him. “Me too.”

⸻

They don’t let him suffer alone.

“You’re buying her something,” Ryul says.

“The skirt,” Louis adds.

“You looked at it like it personally offended you,” Ohyul finishes.

Jay Park just laughs when Woojin accidentally lets it slip.

“You like her,” Jay says easily. “Do something about it.”

Woojin exhales. “I’m trying.”

⸻

He buys the skirt. And flowers—not too many. And a basket with snacks she once mentioned liking.

When he asks her to meet him, his hands won’t stop shaking. She notices.

“You okay?” she asks gently.

He hands her the basket. “You said you liked the skirt.” Her eyes widen.

“I joke a lot,” he says quietly. “But I’m serious about this. About you.” Silence. Then she smiles—the soft one, just for him.

“I was waiting for you.”

His breath catches. “Really?”

She nods. “Really.”

He hesitates. “Can I…?” She doesn’t wait.

She leans in and kisses him—gentle, warm, unhurried.

Woojin freezes for half a second—then kisses her back, smiling into it.

When they pull away, he laughs breathlessly. “I wanted to do that.”

“You still did,” she says.

From behind a wall:

“WE KNEW IT!”

“I CALLED IT!”

“GET A ROOM!”

Woojin groans. Y/N laughs, lacing her fingers with his.

They’re playful together.

Quiet jokes. Shared looks. Woojin teasing her just a little more confidently now.

And when the cameras are off, he kisses her again.

Just because he can.

Martin!Cortis! X Fem!Reader

Summary : Your ex uses ur voice as a sample long after your breakup

Genre : angst

A/n : I saw this idea on another fic, I can’t find the user (If u do find it comment so I can give credits💔) and I kinda wanted to do it in my style so yea. Also this is part 1, com if u want part 2😛

The beat has been finished for days. That’s the problem.

Martin keeps reopening the file anyway, like if he stares at it long enough it’ll confess something he doesn’t already know. The studio smells faintly of stale coffee and overheated electronics. Outside, the city glows—alive, relentless, loud—but in here, everything revolves around a single waveform. Her waveform.

A thin, imperfect line nestled between bass and reverb. He zooms in.

There’s the breath. He left it on purpose. Any other producer would’ve cut it, cleaned it, erased the humanity. Martin didn’t. He sharpened it instead, like preserving a fingerprint. He presses play.

Her voice slides in, barely there, like it’s afraid of being noticed. It hits him in the chest every time.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it’s familiar. The exact tone she used late at night when the world felt smaller. When fame was still hypothetical. When he wasn’t always checking his phone, counting streams, answering managers instead of her. He rubs a hand over his face.

“Don’t,” he mutters to himself.

But he listens again.

He remembers recording it. She didn’t know. She was sitting on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, rambling about nothing. He’d been half-listening, already distracted, phone glowing in his palm. He hit record without thinking. Back then, it felt harmless.

Now it feels like theft. Still—he doesn’t remove it. He can’t.

Because when the beat plays without her, it sounds wrong. Hollow. Like a body without a heartbeat.

Martin tells himself this is art. That memories exist to be transformed. That once something becomes sound, it belongs to the music—not the moment.

But deep down, he knows the truth.

He kept her voice because it’s the closest thing to having her back. The breakup replays in fragments.

Her standing by the door. Jacket already on. Eyes red but dry, like she’d cried herself empty.

“You’re never here,” she said.

“I’m doing this for us,” he replied, already defensive.

“For you,” she corrected. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

He remembers saying her name like it was a solution. It wasn’t.

She left quietly. That hurt more than screaming ever could.

————————

The livestream starts like any other.

Martin slips into the role easily. Hoodie up. Chains catching the light. Casual confidence he learned to weaponize. Fans flood the chat, hearts and fire emojis stacking faster than he can register.

He runs through a few beats. Safe ones. Ones that don’t require him to feel anything.

Then he hesitates. The cursor blinks. His chest tightens.

He thinks about how she used to sit behind him in the studio, legs draped over the arm of his chair, humming along to unfinished tracks. How she always knew which ones mattered.

He clicks play. Her voice fills the stream. The reaction is instant. The chat shifts tone—less hype, more curiosity.

“WHO IS THAT”

“nah that voice crazy”

“why does this feel personal 😭”

“martin what is THIS”

He keeps his expression steady, but inside, everything fractures. Because he hears it now—not as a producer, not as an artist—but as someone who loved her. He hears how close she was to the mic. How comfortable. How unguarded.

Someone clips it. He knows because his phone vibrates again and again on the desk, lighting up like a warning signal. He should stop it. He doesn’t.

When the beat ends, silence stretches too long.

“Just a vocalist,” he finally says, shrugging. “Hired her.” The lie lands flat. He ends the live early. The clip goes viral anyway.

—————————

She’s half-asleep when the message comes in.

The room is dark, curtains barely shifting with the night air. Her phone buzzes once, sharp and invasive. She groans, reaching for it without looking.

Then she sees the name.

Martin.

Her heart stutters.

For a split second, she wonders if she imagined it. If grief finally crossed into hallucination.

Then the message loads.

Martin :

Heard that?

No hello. No apology. No explanation. Before she can respond, another notification pops up—a link. A clip. Her stomach twists as she presses play.

The sound hits her like a punch.

She knows her own voice. The way it softens at the edges. The way it cracks just slightly when she laughs. The breath she always forgets to take.

She hears herself before she understands.

Her chest tightens. Her eyes sting. He didn’t just use her voice. He used that voice.

The one meant only for him. She sits up, pulling the blanket around herself like armor. The comments scroll beneath the clip—people dissecting her tone, praising it, speculating about who she is.

She feels exposed. Stripped. Anger rushes in, fast and furious, because sadness would break her.

She types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Then she sends one sentence—precise, controlled, devastating.

Y/n

funny how you couldn’t hear me when I was there, but you needed my voice once I was gone.

She doesn’t wait for a reply. She locks her phone and stares at the ceiling, heart pounding, knowing he’ll understand exactly what she meant.

The message lands like a bruise he didn’t know he had. Martin stares at it, breath shallow. He rereads it until the words blur. She didn’t curse. She didn’t yell. She didn’t have to.

Because she said what he’s been avoiding since the day she left. He opens the beat again. Her voice plays.

This time, it doesn’t comfort him.

It accuses him.

Neteyam Sully x Avatar! Fem! Reader

Summary : What happens when his mother doesn’t approve of your secret relationship?

Gens : angst

A/n : ughhh my first ficc😜 no, my baby Neteyam is not death bro stop💔 his death was unnecessary af so enjoy. Also, should I leave it like that or continue it?💔 I thought of continuing it so yup

Part 1 Part 2

Pandora never truly slept.

At night, the forest softened—but it did not rest. It glowed and breathed and listened, every leaf humming with quiet awareness. Neteyam moved through it with practiced ease, bare feet silent against tangled roots, body low and controlled. This was not the recklessness of a boy sneaking out.

This was the precision of someone who knew exactly what he was risking.

Every step away from the Sully home felt like pulling a thread tighter around his chest. Duty, family, responsibility—he carried them all without complaint. He always had. But there was one truth he carried that no one knew.

You.

You waited in a small clearing hidden between ancient trees, where the bioluminescent plants clustered thickly enough to drown the ground in soft blues and violets. Your avatar body glowed faintly, muscles tense with quiet anticipation. Even after all this time, you still felt that strange pull in your chest whenever you stood alone in the forest—caught between belonging and not.

You were an Avatar, like Jake. Fully conscious. Fully aware.

And fully in love with someone you were not supposed to touch.

When Neteyam stepped into the clearing, your breath left you in a quiet rush.

“There you are,” you murmured.

His eyes softened instantly, all the tension he carried melting away the moment he saw you. He crossed the distance between you in long strides, hands gripping your arms, grounding himself like he needed proof you were real.

“I thought you might not come,” you admitted.

“I would crawl through ash to reach you,” he replied quietly. “Do not ever doubt that.”

His forehead rested against yours, queues brushing. His breathing was uneven—too fast for someone who had just walked through familiar forest. His hands slid to your waist, firm and unyielding, holding you as if the world might try to pull you away.

Neteyam kissed you slowly.

There was nothing careless in it. No hunger for the sake of it. He kissed you like a promise—deep, reverent, filled with everything he never said aloud. Like he was trying to memorize you in case this night became the last one he ever had.

Your fingers curled into the leather of his chest strap, holding on just as tightly.

“You shouldn’t keep sneaking out,” you whispered against his lips. “If she finds out—“

“She won’t,” he said immediately.

But there was a flicker in his eyes that told you he wasn’t sure.

You leaned into him anyway, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. “One day,” you said softly, “we won’t have to hide.”

His arms tightened around you—too tight.

“One day,” he echoed, but his voice lacked conviction.

The forest shifted.

Neteyam felt it instantly.

His entire body tensed, muscles coiling like a drawn bow. His hands left your waist, one sliding subtly toward the knife at his thigh.

“Behind me,” he whispered.

Your heart jumped. “Neteyam?”

Before he could answer—

“Neteyam.”

The voice came from the shadows, sharp and unmistakable.

Neytiri stepped into the clearing, her silhouette framed by glowing leaves. Her bow was in her hand, not raised—but ready. Her eyes locked onto her son first, then slid slowly to you.

And stopped.

The air went heavy.

“So this is where you go at night,” she said quietly.

Neteyam straightened immediately, stepping fully in front of you without thinking. His body blocked her line of sight, broad shoulders squared, chin lifted—not in defiance, but instinct.

“Mother,” he began, carefully. “I was going to tell you.”

Her gaze never left the space where you stood behind him. “Tell me what?” she demanded. “That you lie in secret with an Avatar while your family sleeps?”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“We never meant to disrespect you,” you said softly, stepping just enough to be seen. “We were careful. We—”

“Silence,” Neytiri snapped.

Her eyes burned into yours now, sharp and assessing. “I warned you. I told you to stay away from my family.”

Neteyam turned his head slightly. “Do not speak to her like that.”

Neytiri’s eyes widened, something wounded flashing beneath the anger. “You defend her?”

“I defend what is mine,” he replied, voice low and unshaking. “And I choose her.”

The words hit the clearing like a blow.

For a moment, Neytiri looked at her son as if she no longer recognized him. Fear crept into her expression—raw and unfiltered—and it sharpened her voice into something cruel.

“You will come home,” she said finally. “Both of you. Now.”

The forest seemed to recoil as you followed her back, every glowing plant blurring together as dread settled deep in your bones.

⸻

Jake was already awake when you arrived.

He took one look at your face—pale, tight, eyes rimmed red—and his heart sank.

“Sit,” he said firmly.

Neytiri did not.

“This ends tonight,” she said, pointing at you. “She will leave.”

Neteyam’s fists clenched so tightly his hands trembled. “No.”

“She wears our form,” Neytiri continued, voice sharp with fear barely held in check, “but she is not Na’vi. She will always be half-loyal. Half-rooted.”

The words felt like they were peeling you open.

Jake stood abruptly. “Enough.”

Neytiri turned on him. “You do not understand.”

“I understand exactly,” Jake said firmly. “She’s an Avatar. Just like me.”

Silence fell.

“You trusted me,” Jake continued. “You chose me. And I didn’t stop being human just because I loved this world.”

Neteyam stepped forward, eyes blazing. “She is not temporary. She is not weak. She is the strongest peson I know.”

Neytiri looked at you again—and this time, fear twisted into something uglier.

“You will never give him what a Na’vi woman can,” she said coldly. “And when he bleeds, you will leave. That is what your kind does.”

Something inside you shattered completely.

Neteyam lunged forward. “Enough!”

You touched his arm.

Just once.

A silent plea.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I never wanted to hurt him.”

And before anyone could stop you—you turned and walked into the forest.

Alone.