Pairing: soft!famous!chris x lowkfamous!reader
Warnings: nothing really. fluff... maybe ?
Summary: She wrote about boys like him. Beautiful in that easy way. Tragic in the ways they’d never admit. He read stories like hers.
The kind that felt like someone had cracked open his chest and written down everything he didn’t know how to say. Two strangers. One story. It was always bound to begin somewhere.
｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★ ｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★ ｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★｡ﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ★
It started the way most things did- late at night, with the blue glow of his phone lighting up the dark.
Chris couldn’t sleep. Again.
His brothers were already passed out across the hall, the house humming with the quiet kind of stillness that only came around 3 a.m. And there he was, thumb mindlessly swiping through Tumblr. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for — maybe a laugh, maybe just something to distract him from the thoughts he didn’t feel like unpacking.
Not just any fic — her fic.
He didn’t know it yet, but the words were going to stick with him. Crawl under his skin. Stay there.
No one ever really saw you.
In real life, you were quiet — the kind of quiet people mistook for cold. You let them. It was easier that way.
Online, you were someone. Your words meant something. People reblogged your fics like they meant the world — and maybe, to some of them, they did. But none of them knew who you really were. None of them knew the face behind the username.
And you liked it that way.
Until he showed up in your notifications.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris started following you.
You clicked on it, you always do. That's when Chris's face popped up, your lifelong best friend, your best friend who you saw only every time he came to Boston since he got famous. You weren't sure if it was real, not until you saw the picture. The blurry picture of him skating in the dark. He had only sent that picture to you. But of course, like the girl you were. You had to make sure, so you DM'd him.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: ?
@ uruser: sorry it's just...
@ uruser: r u the real chris?
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: yes 🙄
That confirmed it. The way he talked, you knew. Then you got another notification.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris liked your post
It was one you had posted a while back, the day they went to their first state for the tour of 2025. That post was pure smut. Very visual smut. And that made you confused.
That's not something Chris would do.
He’d grown up right in front of you — the same kid who got a nosebleed during recess and cried because he thought it made him look weak. The same guy who texted you after every show, no matter what city he was in, just to ask how your day was. Sweet, sleepy-eyed Chris with a soft spot for strawberry milk and sad playlists.
But the Chris who liked that post?
That version of him felt... different. A little darker. A little older. The version you'd only allowed to exist in fiction. In your fiction.
Because that fic? That fic wasn’t just spicy. It was personal. Too personal. The kind of personal that came from knowing someone in real life.
The way you described his voice, the weight of his hands, the rhythm of his laugh — all of it was him. And not just public-him. Not internet-him. Your Chris. Your late-night-on-FaceTime, showed-up-to-your-birthday-with-cupcakes-even-though-he-hates-parties, once-held-your-hand-during-a-panic-attack Chris.
The version of him the world didn’t know existed.
And now he was in your likes.
You sat there, staring at your screen like it had personally betrayed you. Because if he kept reading — and the algorithm loved recommending your own stuff to mutual followers — then it was only a matter of time before he saw all of it. The fluff, the angst, the filthy little drabbles where you gave him all the things you were too scared to say out loud.
You typed out a message. Then backspaced. Typed again. Deleted it.
@ uruser: do you like… read fanfiction?
The reply came fast. Too fast.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: idk i guess
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: it’s kinda fire ngl
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: i read this one last night and it lowkey messed me up
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: i saved it lol
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: yeah idk it was good
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: it felt… real
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: like the author- you, actually knew me or some shit
You closed the app. You had to. Before your fingers betrayed you and typed out a confession you weren’t ready to make.
And you wrote him anyway.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The fic. The way it was written. Like whoever wrote it had cracked open his chest, scooped out all the tangled feelings he didn’t know how to say, and laid them out in a story that somehow made them beautiful.
He'd read it three times now. Every line.
And it wasn’t just the sex — though, yeah, that was… intense. But it was the quiet stuff that got him. The way his character hesitated before kissing her. The way he touched her like he was scared she’d disappear. The way he said things he’d never said out loud but had thought.
It freaked him out a little. In a good way.
The whole thing felt too real to be fiction. Too specific. Like someone had been watching his life behind a curtain. Like someone knew him. Not Famous Him. Not "the cute one from the videos" him. Just him.
He almost wanted to message the author. Ask them how the hell they wrote him so well. But he didn’t.
Instead, he stayed in that weird, quiet obsession — refreshing the blog every few hours, scrolling through their posts, getting lost in their mind like it was a place he wasn’t supposed to be but couldn’t stop visiting.
There was a softness in the way they wrote. A kind of bruised hope. Like they’d been hurt, but still believed in magic. It reminded him of someone.
But he couldn’t place it.
You didn’t write for hours after that.
Which, for you, was unheard of. Writing was how you survived—how you breathed. But now it felt dangerous, like every keystroke might confess something you weren’t ready to admit. Not to him. Not to yourself.
Your fingers hovered over your laptop keys, paused at the top of a blank doc you had titled Untitled - Draft 37. And all you could see were his eyes. His name in your notifications. His name under likes. The word saved.
You’d written those stories thinking he’d never see them. Thinking he’d never look at you that way. Because he never had. Not really.
Chris had always seen you as the smart one. The creative one. The dependable one who brought extra batteries for the camera, who knew how to make him laugh even when he didn’t feel like smiling. But he’d never seen you like that. Not the way you wrote yourself into his world. Into his arms. Into his bed.
You reread the message thread for the hundredth time.
“it felt… real. like the author—you, actually knew me or some shit.”
He didn’t sound mad. Or creeped out. He sounded… thoughtful. Maybe even moved. But still, your chest burned with embarrassment. If he kept scrolling, it was only a matter of time before he found The One. The fic. The one that started with:
“She told him everything, except the thing she needed to tell him the most- that she’d been in love with him since they were sixteen.”
It was the most honest thing you’d ever written. And the most unspoken.
You slammed the laptop shut.
Maybe it was time to delete some things.
Or maybe… maybe it was time to finally write the truth. Not in metaphors. Not behind a username. But in a message.
@ uruser: chris… can i ask you something?
Your finger hovered over send.
You didn’t send the message.
Your thumb hovered, your heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to punch its way out. And then, like a coward — like a sane person — you swiped out of the app and turned your phone screen-down on the bed, like that would make it all go away.
You stared at the ceiling. Let the silence wrap around you like a too-warm blanket, itchy with panic and possibility.
Because if he saw that fic — The One — you were screwed. Absolutely, unequivocally doomed. You could delete it, maybe. Archive it. Hide it under a read-more and cross your fingers that the Tumblr gods kept it buried. But that felt like cheating. Like hiding a version of yourself that had been brave enough to say it — even if it was fictionalized and buried under tropes and fake names and an ocean of tags.
You sat up. Opened your laptop. Typed in your URL.
Drafts. There were too many of them.
There it was. That one. The one with the confessional line that lived rent-free in your head even after you posted it. The one where you’d laid yourself bare and then hit “publish” at 2:46 a.m. and immediately wanted to take it back.
“She told him everything, except the thing she needed to tell him the most — that she’d been in love with him since they were sixteen.”
Your mouse hovered over “delete.”
Because despite the panic burning under your skin, despite the heat blooming in your cheeks at the thought of him reading it, part of you didn’t want to hide.
Part of you — the smallest, most traitorous part — wanted him to see.
You slammed the lid shut again.
This was fine. Everything was fine. He probably wouldn’t even get that far. Maybe he’d forget about your blog entirely. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe the algorithm would work in your favor for once in its cursed life and recommend him someone else’s stuff.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: wait… did you write the one with the rainy night and the hotel hallway?
Your blood turned to ice.
That wasn’t the confession fic — but it was close. Too close. That one was practically a prequel. It was yearning in dialogue form. His hands, for god’s sake. You wrote about his hands like they were holy.
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: bro 😭
You didn’t even know what that meant.
You buried your face in your hands. Groaned. Thought about blocking him. Thought about throwing your laptop into the ocean. Thought about running.
@ uruser: please don’t scroll too far lol
@ tumblrcaughtmeitschris: too late
But the next message didn’t come. Not for a minute. Not for five.
Opened a blank draft. Titled it: Untitled - ohmygodimscrewed.
And you did what you always did.
Untitled - ohmygodimscrewed.
She’s terrified. More than she’s ever been before. She knows she shouldn’t feel this way, but she does. Every word she types is a gamble, a small, quiet hope that maybe — just maybe — someone would understand. But not him. Not Chris. She’s scared of how it would change things if he found out the truth. Because once you say something out loud, it stops being just a thought. It becomes a reality. And reality? That’s terrifying.
Her fingers hover above the keyboard, knowing she’s about to spill a confession she’s kept hidden for so long.
She’s always loved him. Always.
It’s just... easier this way. The quiet love, the unspoken words. Easier to write about him than say it out loud. Easier to give him away to fictional girls who don’t have the same baggage, the same memories. Easier to pretend it’s not real. But it is.
She doesn't know what to do with it.
How do you tell someone you’ve loved them since you were sixteen? How do you tell them, when they still see you as the reliable one? The friend? The one who was always there but never noticed? The one who shows up with cupcakes and jokes to keep him from feeling alone? How do you show him what’s been living inside you for years, quietly building, until it feels like it’s going to explode?
Maybe if she could stop writing about him like this… Maybe if she could just… not think about it anymore. But how? How do you stop writing when he’s the only thing that fills up your mind?
She sighs, the cursor blinking at her like it’s daring her to finally face the truth.
But she can’t. She doesn’t want to.
So instead, she writes the only thing that feels true:
“Maybe one day, she’ll be brave enough to tell him.”
A/N... sorry this is short, the next one'll be long tho I promise
