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[sukunaloverr]

၇୧ ⠀ᅟ𓈒⠀ ɑᥒᧁel⠀⠀w͜i𐓣gs ⠀⠀⁺

♡ . yuho ⋆˙⟡

ᛝ ⤷ ゛newjeans stan ˎˊ˗ ◞ 17 !!

[sukunaloverr]

gold lights ୨୧ mama awards 2025

sukunaloverr˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

synopsis: at the 2025 mama awards, y/n and bang chan’s onstage glances turn into backstage tension neither of them can resist.

𑣲 paring: bang chan × y/n

𑣲 word count: 64

𑣲 genre: romance, celebrity AU, idol × presenter, slow-burn that turns heated, backstage tension, mutual pining, flirty chemistry, and a soft fade-to-black moment.

the lights were blinding — the kind that made the stage look like heaven and the audience look like a sea of stars. you adjusted the cue card in your hands, exhaling quietly as the camera’s red light blinked on.

“please welcome our next performers,” you began, your voice smooth and steady, “stray kids!”

the crowd roared. and there he was.

bang chan stepped into view with the rest of his group, all smiles, dimples deep, hair styled to perfection. he greeted the audience, but his eyes—

yeah, his eyes flicked to you.

just for a second.

but long enough to feel like he’d memorized your entire face.

you smiled politely back, the kind of smile presenters give idols every day. except it didn’t feel like that. not when his gaze lingered for a beat too long, not when he dipped his head in a tiny, almost secret acknowledgment.

and not when your heartbeat decided that now was a great time to audition for a drumline.

you stepped offstage to make room for their performance, but as you passed him—barely a few feet apart—someone from staff brushed between you. chan leaned slightly, just enough so only you could hear him.

“you’re doing great tonight.”

your steps froze for half a second.

you turned your head, whisper-light, meeting his eyes.

“you too,” you murmured, trying not to melt on live television.

his grin grew—soft, boyish, devastating.

“see you after?” he asked, low enough that it wouldn’t get picked up by any stray mic.

heat rushed to your cheeks. “we’ll see.”

he laughed under his breath, like he’d already read the yes behind your answer.

later, when the winners of the category you were presenting were announced, stray kids’ name lit up the screen. the room exploded.

they filed back onto the stage, trophies in hand. chan stepped up to the mic, thanking stays, the members, staff—

and then, eyes glimmering, he glanced over to where you stood beside the stage camera.

“and… thank you to the presenters tonight,” he added, his tone suspiciously warm for something so general.

the members shot him looks.

chan pretended not to notice.

you bit your lip to hide a smile. cameras or not, he caught it—and winked.

the backstage hallway was quieter now, but something in the air still buzzed—maybe leftover adrenaline, maybe the way bang chan kept looking at you as if the stage lights weren’t the brightest thing he’d seen tonight.

you walked side by side, close enough that your arms brushed every few steps. neither of you pulled away.

“you really impressed me tonight,” he said suddenly, voice low in that way that made your stomach twist. “you looked confident. beautiful.”

the word hung between you, heavy, intentional.

you felt it everywhere.

“beautiful?” you repeated softly.

he glanced at you, eyes dark and warm. “didn’t stutter, did I?”

you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

a staff member walked by, calling congratulations to him, and you both stepped aside—chan’s hand sliding lightly to your waist to guide you.

his touch was warm.

steady.

and it lingered.

when the hallway cleared again, he didn’t move his hand right away.

“you okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing the fabric of your outfit like he had no idea what it was doing to you.

“i’m fine,” you whispered. “just… surprised.”

“surprised by what?”

“you’re being bold.”

he laughed under his breath, the sound low and close to your ear. “trust me… I’m holding back.”

your pulse jumped.

the two of you reached an unused dressing room, the door slightly ajar, a slice of warm light spilling into the hall. chan paused beside it, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same unreadable—no, very readable—look.

“we can talk in there,” he said. “if you want some privacy.”

privacy.

the word alone sent heat rushing through you.

you stepped inside first. chan followed, closing the door with a quiet click that felt louder than anything the award show had played all night.

the room was small, dim—just a mirror lit around the edges and a couch pushed against the wall. you turned toward him, opening your mouth to speak, but he took a slow step forward.

“you’ve been driving me crazy since the moment you walked on stage,” he murmured.

your back met the dressing table lightly as he approached, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“chan…”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “just tell me if you want me to stop.”

you didn’t.

god, you didn’t.

your hand slipped up to his chest, fingers curling at the collar of his jacket. “i don’t want you to stop.”

he breathed out—relieved, hungry, something in between—and leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours.

“good,” he whispered.

his lips brushed your cheek first, slow and warm.

then the corner of your mouth.

then—

the kiss landed soft but sure, his hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer. you felt him smile a little against your lips, like he’d been waiting all night for this moment.

things deepened quickly—your fingers at the nape of his neck, his grip tightening at your waist, the kiss turning warmer, deeper, more urgent. his breath came out uneven as your mouths moved together, the room filling with the soft sounds of closeness, need, restraint stretched thin.

“if we keep going…” he murmured against your lips, “i won’t be able to pretend this is nothing.”

you whispered, “i don’t want it to be nothing.”

his eyes darkened, jaw tightening as he searched your face. your backs hit the couch a moment later, his hands steady on your hips as he pressed his forehead to yours.

the rest of the night blurred—warm hands, soft gasps, whispered promises and teasing touches as the lights outside dimmed and the door stayed closed.

what exactly happened past that point…

well, that stayed between you and him.

A/N: Hey guys umm i fucking hate this it's terrible but they if you like it then i love it so um leave request in the comment if you wanna have a fanfic byee

[sukunaloverr]

After The Last Note

Idol!Niki x Fem!reader

●Tags: ni-ki, enhypen, after practice, late night feelings, idol au, slow burn, friends to lovers, soft touches and tired eyes, holding hands in the quiet, comfort in silence, city lights and gentle smiles, unspoken connection, mutual pining but calm, warm hands cold night, 2am conversations, the kind of love that doesn’t need words, just soft glances and quiet hearts.

●Word count: 2.5k

●Summary:After late-night rehearsals, you find yourself sitting outside the studio, exhausted and restless. Ni-ki, the youngest member of ENHYPEN, joins you, and a quiet, intimate connection grows between the two of you — shared glances, intertwined hands, and unspoken feelings that linger long after the music stops.

You first noticed him on one of your earliest days as an intern, fumbling with camera settings and battery packs while the studio buzzed with energy and music. Studio 3 smelled faintly of sweat and floor polish, the echoes of sneakers on wood bouncing between mirrors. Ni-ki was already there, hoodie half off, hair damp, stretching in that impossibly fluid way that made it look like he belonged to the rhythm of the room.

At first, you didn’t speak. You hovered near the corner, trying to find the right angle with your camera while avoiding drawing attention. He caught your reflection in the mirror and grinned — the kind of smile that was small but full of light. “You can come in, you know. I don’t bite,” he said.

That was the first thing he ever said to you. You stammered something that sounded like a “thanks,” and moved closer, camera in hand.

Over the next few weeks, a rhythm formed. You would arrive early to film snippets of practice, capturing every slip, every tiny triumph, while he silently noticed from the other side of the room. He didn’t speak much — idols are taught to guard themselves, to maintain a certain image — but little gestures began to accumulate: a nod when he saw you with a drink, a smile when you weren’t looking, a wave when the other members left the room for a short break.

You started leaving things for him: a fresh towel near the speaker, a cold drink beside the barre, or a quiet, whispered compliment when he caught you watching. It wasn’t grand; it was small and simple, just enough to show that someone was paying attention. Slowly, you realized you were waiting for these moments more than you wanted to admit.

Months passed like this. Ni-ki became a quiet constant, his presence both energizing and calming. The way he moved was mesmerizing — precise, controlled, yet somehow effortless. And in the rare moments when he stopped, when the music paused and he caught his breath, he seemed almost human, almost vulnerable in a way the public never saw.

It was one of those nights — the kind that makes the city feel like it’s holding its breath. You were sitting on the curb outside the studio, hoodie zipped up, camera bag beside you, playlist looping softly in your ears. 2:13 a.m. The streets were empty, lit only by flickering streetlights and the faint glow from passing cars.

The door clicked open behind you. Ni-ki stepped out, hair still damp, hoodie draped over his shoulders. His expression shifted from tired to surprised when he saw you.

“You’re still here?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

You shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and warm. “Me neither.”

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. The city felt quieter with him there. You noticed little things — the faint scent of fabric softener mixed with the remnants of studio sweat, the way his body relaxed against the cool curb, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he exhaled.

Neither of you spoke for a while. The world existed only in the hum of distant traffic, the occasional rustle of leaves, and the faint click of your camera as you fidgeted with it. Then he reached over, gently turning the camera toward himself. “Take one,” he said, smiling. “For proof that I survived today.”

You lifted the camera. The flash lit up his face — tired, peaceful, real. When you lowered it, he was looking straight at you.

“What about you?” he asked. “Who takes your pictures?”

You laughed quietly. “No one. I’m usually behind the lens.”

He hesitated, then lifted your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours as he positioned the camera for another shot. “Then let me,” he said softly.

The touch sent a quiet warmth through your chest. His thumb brushed gentle circles on the back of your hand. The shutter clicked twice. You didn’t move your hand away. Neither did he.

“You’re cold,” he murmured.

“Not really,” you whispered, though your hands trembled slightly.

He smiled, the kind of smile that lingers. “I like when you stay late,” he said quietly. “It makes the night feel… less heavy.”

You looked down at your linked hands. His eyes, soft and tired, met yours, and in that brief silence, everything felt significant. “I like when you don’t notice me filming,” you admitted. “You look happy when you dance, like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

He laughed softly, almost shyly. “Maybe I am. But when you’re there, it feels like I’m coming back.”

You stayed like that for a long while, fingers entwined, hearts quietly synchronized, the world narrowing until there was nothing but you two, the soft glow of streetlights, and the remnants of music echoing in your mind.

Eventually, he leaned closer, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I feel… safe when you’re around,” he confessed, voice barely above a whisper. You could feel his warmth radiating into your skin.

Your heart fluttered. “Me too,” you breathed.

The city was cold, but it didn’t matter. Every casual touch, every small movement felt magnified in the quiet of the night. You laughed softly together over small things — mispronounced song lyrics, a camera flash that startled him, the way your backpack kept sliding off the curb. Each laugh drew you closer.

Time slipped away unnoticed. When it was finally necessary to leave, he stood with you, your hands brushing, your fingers reluctant to separate. He walked you to the bus stop, his arm occasionally brushing yours. The bus headlights illuminated his face, soft and golden.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked, voice quiet, almost hesitant.

You nodded. “Only if you promise the same.”

He laughed softly, but it didn’t hide the tenderness in his gaze. “Deal.”

As the bus pulled up, he caught your hand again — a fleeting grip that left both of you with a quiet ache of something unspoken. Then, reluctantly, you let go. You watched him until he disappeared into the shadows of the studio entrance.

That night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the warmth of his hand, the quiet intimacy of shared silences, the way he looked at you like you were the only other person in the world. Back at your apartment, you stared at the crumpled rehearsal pass in your hoodie pocket — a tiny token of a night that felt infinite.

You sent a short text: Made it home safe.

Almost immediately, his reply came: Good. Sleep well. See you tomorrow.

And just like that, the world felt lighter, quieter, and somehow infinitely warmer.

You didn’t know what it all meant yet — whether it was friendship, something more, or just the fleeting magic of a late night — but you knew one thing: this was only the beginning.

Authors note: Hey guys this is my first ever time writing at all and i'm so scared of what people are going to think this took me like a month to write this i think i actually don't even know fr but i hope y'all like it but in the notes if i should continue this and feel free to share some tips byee x

[dearlizzies]

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

[sukunaloverr]

like girl get uppp!