Synopsis: You’re a worn-out diner waitress, living a quiet life under financial strain while caring for your elderly grandparents. That is, until a chance encounter with a famous boy band turns everything upside down. Desperate to repair their image after a wave of scandal, their manager offers you an unusual deal: pretend to be Rafayel’s girlfriend to silence rumors of him being a womanizer.
Reluctant but tempted by the life-changing money, you agree - leaving behind your hometown, your job and the only family you have, to move into the band’s lavish villa. Suddenly, you’re living alongside the chaotic personalities of five very different men.
But what happens when you find yourself unexpectedly entangled with all five of them with emotions you never meant to feel?
Pairing: all LaDs men (together) × (F) Reader (non-MC)
Content: Set in an alternate universe where the LaDs men are a boy band known as Deepspace. The story takes place over several months. In this story, the characters are aged down compared to their in-game counterparts:
Zayne (21) - the leader, the one who keeps everyone in check
Rafayel (19) - visuals (the face of the band, stylist)
Caleb (21) - choreography
Sylus (23) - composer (instrumental lead)
Xavier (18) - (main) songwriter, the "maknae”
Thomas - the band's manager
(other in-game side characters may appear in later parts)
Tags: boy band AU, slice of life, forced proximity, OOC, fake dating, humor, suggestive themes, drama, slow burn, eventual romance, explicit dialogue (sexual references, non-graphic), mentions of sexual harassment/inappropriate behavior (non-graphic), why choose/reverse harem
a/n: This is going to be a longer series with an unknown set of parts.
The large neon sign flickers, a stubborn signal that the diner is still open despite the early hour and it makes your shoulders slump. Inside, the lights are dim. You wish you could switch them off entirely, lock the doors and head straight home to bed for some much-needed rest.
Beyond the windows, the night is still. There’s only the faint rustle of leaves in the trees, maybe the distant hum of a passing car’s engine.
“Looks like it’s going to be a quiet night,” says Jerry, the head cook, as he leans over the pass and peers out at the empty diner.
Who would choose to spend their time in a diner at 2 a.m. on a workday? Most people are asleep, tucked beneath their sheets, wrapped in the comfort and quiet security of home.
The diner where you work as a waitress is classic American style: a black-and-white checkered floor, red leather booths and tables that stay sticky no matter how many times you wipe them down. A jukebox stands silent at the far end. The walls are lined with photos of famous celebrities, retro posters and faded bumper stickers.
It may not look like much, but the diner never really rests. Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week - save for the holidays - it draws in all kinds of people. There are the regulars who show up every morning for breakfast, the groups of men who crowd in to chug down beers while shouting at whatever game is on the sports channel and the high school kids who treat it as their go-to hangout because the food is decent and cheap.
Then there are the truck drivers, rolling in at all hours, stopping for a hot meal before heading back onto the highway.
The town sits right along the highway, making the diner a natural stop for travelers passing through.
There’s a small parking lot out front for cars, but off to the left stretches a much larger one, reserved for lorries. Behind the diner stands a motel - a tired building where drivers can rent a bed for a few hours if they’re sick of sleeping in their trucks. It’s also the kind of place where teenagers sneak off to hook up, or where unfaithful husbands disappear for the night.
That’s why the diner stays open. And no matter how long you stare at the flickering neon sign outside, it’s never going to change to “closed”.
“Those bags under your eyes have gotten worse,” Jerry points out.
All you can do is sigh. You know you look like a panda.
“You’re working yourself to the bone,” he goes on. “You should be out there, enjoying life - spending time with friends, making bad decisions. Not stuck in here, breathing grease and serving old geezers.”
You’ve been working at the diner for about three years now. You started at sixteen as a part-timer and after graduating high school, you stayed on full-time. Truth is, you’re almost always here, mostly on the night shift. It lets you look after your elderly grandparents during the day and the pay is better.
But recently, a coworker went on maternity leave after having her first child. In her absence, you took on even more hours. As if ten-hour days weren’t already enough, now you’re lucky to get three hours of sleep.
“You sure you don’t need some help in the kitchen?” you ask, steering the attention away from yourself.
Jerry waves you off. “I’ve got it. You sit back and relax while you can,” he says, ducking into the kitchen and busying himself with prep.
You close your stinging eyes and lean against the wall by the pass behind the counter. Sitting isn’t an option - if you do, you’ll be out in seconds.
The bell above the door rings.
You crack your eyes open. Through your blurred vision, you make out five tall figures stepping inside and heading for a corner booth at the far end of the diner. You don’t go over right away. You give them a few minutes, under the pretense of letting them look at the menu.
In truth, you’re just trying to gather yourself, willing your legs to move.
“Tell me why we’re here instead of in bed,” the ash-blond man asks, yawning as he rubs his heavy-lidded eyes. “We should be asleep.”
“I agree,” says the man with raven-black hair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Are you guys seriously not sick of the caravan by now?” the purple-haired man pouts. “You didn’t have to come. Sylus and I could’ve handled the midnight rendezvous alone.”
“This isn’t exactly my idea of a nightly rendezvous,” the man in dark sunglasses mutters, glancing around the diner with a raised brow.
The purple-haired man pulls off his face mask and beanie.
“Rafayel, put those back on,” the man in the hoodie says, a note of concern in his voice.
“Relax,” Rafayel drawls, the word stretched with mockery. “We’re the only ones here. Besides, I bet the waitress is some tired old lady who has no idea who we are.”
“What can I get you?” you ask, stepping up beside the table, notepad and pencil in hand.
You try to sound casual, but there’s a faint edge in your voice.
When it comes to customers, you’ve learned the routine: the practiced smile that never reaches your eyes; the soft tone, the polite nods, the small compliments, even the quiet laugh at jokes that were never funny to begin with. All for the tips. Because working yourself to the bone doesn’t necessarily mean you’re making good money.
But tonight, you just can’t do it. You’re too damn tired to pretend.
All eyes turn to you, clearly not having heard you approach.
The purple-haired man flashes a wide grin. “I’d like to order you, cutie,” he says, his tone dripping with mischief.
“If it’s not on the menu, it’s not an option,” you reply flatly.
“Do you have anything sweet?” asks the man with glasses, pulling down his white face mask.
“I can check with the kitchen about waffles or pancakes. We also have milkshakes,” you say, your voice monotone.
“I bet you make a sweet milkshake,” the purple-haired man adds, his gaze lingering on your chest.
The owner had deliberately given you a uniform a size too small. The fabric clings uncomfortably, the chest so tight the first two buttons won’t close, and the rest look ready to pop at any moment. You have to be careful when bending, at the risk of revealing your ass; the hem is far too short for comfort.
The ears of the man with glasses flush faintly at his friend’s comment.
You fix the purple-haired man with a sharp glare, but he only looks confused, as if he can’t understand why his charm isn’t working.
“Don’t you know who we are?” he asks, gesturing to the group.
You fold your arms, unimpressed. “If you think your fame means anything here, forget it. It’s not even worth a free side of fries.”
“I like a kitten with claws,” chuckles the white-haired man, taking off his sunglasses to reveal striking red eyes lit with amusement.
“I can bite, too,” you shoot back.
“Careful,” he replies smoothly. “Wouldn’t want to get us even more worked up.”
“Just bring us five milkshakes, please and thank you,” the man with purple eyes cuts in, his tone apologetic.
Without another word, you turn on your heel and storm off.
You don’t notice the purple-haired man’s gaze following you as you walk away, his attention lingering on your ass, so distracted he nearly tips out of his seat.
A while later, you return with five chocolate cake milkshakes. You set them down as quickly and carefully as you can, avoiding eye contact, then hurry off without sparing the men a second glance.
A sudden tune drifts from the jukebox, filling the diner with an unexpected burst of sound.
“Come dance with me, cutie,” the purple-haired man calls after you.
You march back over, mop in hand, stopping a few steps in front of him.
“This is Mrs. Mop,” you say flatly. “I’m sure she’ll make a better dance partner.”
You toss it toward him and he catches it just in time before hitting the floor, staring at it in disbelief as you turn and walk away. Behind you, you hear his friends laughing.
“I don’t get it,” he mutters, propping the mop against the wall before slumping back into his seat.
“She’s clearly not interested. Let her be, Rafayel,” says Caleb.
“I’m not surprised,” Xavier adds quietly as he sits beside him.
Later, you’re quietly grateful when Caleb is the one who comes up to the counter to pay. You don’t expect the hundred-dollar tip he leaves behind, especially not after your attitude.
When the five of them finally leave without hesitation or any last words, you let out a sigh of relief.
“Why are we back here?” Caleb asks, glancing toward Rafayel.
The five of them are seated in the same booth again. Only this time, it’s lunchtime and the diner is packed. The group lowers their heads, speaking in hushed tones.
“Thomas is going to be mad that we snuck out,” Xavier says quietly.
Rafayel doesn’t respond. His attention is fixed entirely on you as you move through the diner, weaving between tables with trays of food balanced in your hands.
“Are you ready to order?” he hears you ask a group of teenagers in the booth beside them.
“I’m on a diet - I can’t have fats, dairy or gluten,” one girl says dramatically. “What would you recommend?”
“Water,” you reply without hesitation.
You hear the group of men chuckle, but you ignore it. You know they’re here. Their attempt at disguising themselves doesn’t work on you; they stand out too much to blend in.
“You know the slight predicament we’ve found ourselves in recently,” Rafayel says eventually.
“You mean the predicament you’ve found yourself in, which just so happens to involve the rest of us?” Zayne replies coldly.
Rafayel ignores him. “I may have found a solution. One that involves cutie.”
—————————————————————————————————————
“Grandmama! Pops!” you call as you step through the front door, which opens straight into the kitchen. You kick off your shoes as you go. “I’m back!”
You set the shopping bags on the counter and move through the open doorway, only to stop dead in your tracks.
By the window sits your grandfather in his usual spot, settled in his wheelchair. On the couch, five men are crammed together, as they try, and fail, to fit. And in the armchair sits a man you don’t recognize, while your grandmother calmly pours tea into mismatched mugs, setting out a plate of biscuits.
“Y/N, you’re finally back. You have visitors,” your grandma says with a warm smile, completely unbothered by the strangers filling the room.
“Hey, cutie,” Rafayel says, lifting a hand in an enthusiastic wave.
The others offer polite greetings.
You rub your temples. “I’m almost afraid to ask what’s going on.”
“Mr. Thomas and his boys have something to discuss with you,” your grandmother replies, taking a seat at the dining table.
The man in the armchair stands. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Thomas, manager of the boy band Deepspace.”
You step forward and shake his outstretched hand. “You’re the manager?” you say, glancing at the group on the couch. “My condolences.”
Thomas coughs, clearly trying to hide a laugh and sits back down.
You drag a chair over from the table, turn it around and sit on it backward, leaning across the backrest.
“Before I explain why we’re here,” Thomas says, “I need to ask you a personal question… Are you single?”
“That makes things slightly easier,” Thomas mutters. “I’ll get straight to the point. I don’t know how familiar you are with the band, but over the past few months, we’ve been dealing with some backlash - bad publicity tied to Rafayel’s…friendliness with women.”
Rafayel slumps lower into the couch, looking guilty.
“We’ve been trying to fix things - shut down the rumors and speculation. Rafayel came to me with a potential solution. One that we…need your help with.”
“Me?” you ask, caught off guard.
“Are you familiar with the concept of a ‘rent-a-girlfriend’?” Thomas asks.
“Isn’t that basically a service where women get paid to accompany men on dates?” you reply, still unsure where this is going.
Thomas nods, relieved he doesn’t have to explain. “Exactly. What I’m asking is for you to act as Rafayel’s girlfriend - to counter the rumors that paint him as nothing more than a playboy.”
You blink. “Don’t celebrities usually date other celebrities? Singers, actresses, models…”
“Often, yes,” Thomas admits with a sigh. “But Rafayel is in trouble precisely because he’s been too friendly with too many celebrities.”
Rafayel shifts slightly but says nothing.
“He made a good point,” Thomas continues. “If it becomes public that he has a girlfriend, especially someone outside the industry, it won’t just quiet the rumors. It could actually improve his image.”
“Or,” you say sharply, fixing Rafayel with a glare, “he could learn to keep it in his pants.”
“Hey, I didn’t do anything,” Rafayel protests, pouting.
“Rafayel is…eccentric,” Zayne cuts in calmly. “A social person who attracts attention wherever he goes. The press exaggerates, twists things, sometimes for attention, sometimes because they’re paid to.”
“Unfortunately,” Sylus adds, “now that Rafayel’s been labeled a womanizer, people are starting to assume we’re all like that.”
“And that’s another reason we can’t use a celebrity for this,” Thomas says. “It would look staged. And if it backfires, it could make things even worse.”
“Bad press is still press,” you mutter, feeling a flicker of sympathy.
Still, you have no desire to get dragged into something this messy, this public. “I can’t help you.”
Thomas sighs, “We thought you might say that.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a piece of paper, handing it to you.
Your eyes widen. You’ve never seen that many zeros in your life.
“Here’s the deal,” Thomas continues. “We’ll do everything we can to protect your identity. Any social media posts will be controlled, the press handled carefully - no face, no personal details that could expose you. We’ll create a story about how you and Rafayel met, and how the relationship started. In exchange, you’ll stay with the boys until their next debut. The amount on that paper is your payment - half upfront, half when it’s over.”
“If you’ve still got your V-card, we can add another zero,” Rafayel chimes in cheekily - only to yelp when Caleb pinches his side and Sylus smacks him upside the head.
“You’re a few years too late,” you reply dryly, not even looking up from the number in your hand.
Your family could really use this money.
Your grandparents are all you have left. You glance at your grandfather - ever since the construction accident, he’s been bound to a wheelchair. Not paralyzed, but unable to stand for long, let alone walk. Hospital bills, rehabilitation, medication… and the caretaker who comes by a few hours a day because he’s too heavy for you or your grandmother to manage - it all eats away at what little you earn.
Your grandmother should be enjoying retirement. Instead, she still works part-time at the dry cleaners.
You didn’t go to college like everyone else - not just because you can’t afford it, but because you can’t leave them behind.
“Still…I can’t help,” you say, crumpling the paper into your fist. “I have a job. I have my grandparents. I can’t just get up and leave.”
“Don’t you worry about us, dear,” your grandmother says gently, resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder.
You turn to her, stunned. “Are you really okay with this?”
“Mr. Thomas explained everything before you got here,” she replies. “I may not understand all the details, but it sounds like these boys need your help. And if there’s one thing I’ve always taught you, it’s to help those in need.” She smiles softly. “Besides, it might do you some good - to get out there, be around people your own age. Opportunities like this don’t come often.”
You hesitate, then turn to your grandfather. “Pops…you’re really fine with me living with five men?”
He’s been quiet the whole time, staring out the window. He slowly turns his head toward the couch, eyeing the group.
A smirk spreads across his face.
“I think it’s these boys who should be wary of you, Firecracker.”
