ELECTRIC LOVE Conceal (Ryan) x Fem!Reader
synopsis: you meet ryan at an afterparty, that one conversation turns into a life long love story.
warnings: smut, semi-public sex, drinking, fluff, overstim if you squint, swearing, lmk if i missed any :)))
wc: 3.2k
based off of this request <2
The bass from 2hollis's set still echoed in your ears as you slipped into the dimly lit loft in downtown LA. It was one of those exclusive after-parties that popped up after hollis’ shows—invite-only, packed with the boyliife crew, a few industry heads, and random beautiful people who somehow always found their way in. Hollis had killed it tonight, blending those glitchy hyperpop drops with rage beats that had the crowd losing their minds. Now, the vibe was winding down into something more intimate: low lights, pulsing electronic remixes playing softly, and conversations buzzing over expensive drinks.
You sat at the bar, sipping on a coca cola, you shouldn’t have come tonight— having an important shoot at 6am tomorrow, and it being already 3am was a bad idea. You sigh as you sit at the bar idle, all your friends were off to hook up with some random-famous-important people to get ahead in the industry.
Your eyes scan the crowd, landing on the DJ booth where hollis, roman, nate and— one more person was standing? Your eyes immediately landed on him, his hood was covering the top half of his face, he was laughing about something with roman, his smile seemed like it shined the darkly lit room, the corner of his hood revealed his eye brow slit.
You subconsciously continue to stare at him, unable to remove your eyes from him for some reason, like some magnetic force was dragging you to him— suddenly, you make eye contact. He looks at you as he sips on his redbull, his eyes dont move away from you.
Giving a small smile towards his way, He holds your gaze for what feels like forever, that small smile of yours hanging in the air between you like an invitation. Then he tilts his head slightly, says something to Roman that makes the group laugh again, and starts walking toward you.
Your heart does a stupid little flip. You try to play it cool, turning back to your Coke, stirring the ice with the straw like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But you feel him before you see him—the shift in the air, the way the space next to you at the bar suddenly feels warmer.
He slides onto the stool beside you, hoodie still up, but now that he’s close you can see his eyes properly. light, sharp, a little tired around the edges like he’s been up for days making music. There’s that eyebrow slit you noticed earlier, and a tiny silver hoop in one ear catching the low light.
“Didn’t expect to see a Coke at a party like this,”
he says, voice low and smooth, a little amused. He nods at your glass.
You laugh softly, shrugging.
“Early call time tomorrow. Six a.m. shoot. I’m already regretting every life choice that led me here.”
His mouth curves into that smile again—the one that lit up the room from across it.
“Model?”
“Yeah,” you admit, glancing at him. “You?”
He shakes his head, taking another sip of his Red Bull.
“Nah. I was the one yelling over Hollis’s beat earlier. Conceal.”
You knew that. Of course you knew that. His guest verse had been the highlight of the night for you—raw, melodic, effortless. But you don’t fangirl. You just nod, like it’s new information.
“I liked it,” you say simply. “A lot.”
His eyes flick to yours, something softer in them now.
“Thanks. Means more coming from someone who looks like they’d rather be sleeping than stuck here.”
You laugh again, and it’s easier this time. “You have no idea.”
He leans an elbow on the bar, angling his body toward you. “Then why’d you come?”
You think about it for a second. Your friends dragging you out, the FOMO, the way these nights sometimes feel like the only real ones in a city full of fake. But mostly, tonight, something told you to say yes.
“I don’t know,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Maybe I was supposed to.”
He doesn’t laugh or brush it off. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s trying to figure out if you mean it. Then he nods, slow.
“I’m Ryan,” he says quietly, offering his hand.
Not Conceal. Ryan.
You take it. His grip is warm, firm, lingering just a second longer than polite.
“Y/N,” you reply.
And just like that, the party fades a little. The music, the crowd, the fact that you have to be up in three hours—it all blurs. Because he’s asking you about the shoot tomorrow, and you’re asking him how long he’s been making music, and he’s telling you about staying up until sunrise tweaking one snare that wasn’t sitting right. You’re laughing at the way he describes it, and he’s watching your mouth when you laugh like he doesn’t want to miss it.
Hours pass like minutes.
At some point, he pulls his hood down. His hair is messy, dark strands falling over his forehead, and you realize he’s even more beautiful up close—sharp cheekbones, soft lips, that slit in his brow making him look a little dangerous in the best way.
You’re both leaning in now, knees brushing under the bar. His hand rests on the edge of your stool, close enough that his fingers graze your thigh when he gestures.
“You should go home,” he says eventually, voice low, almost regretful. “Get some sleep.”
“I know,” you whisper back.
But neither of you move.
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone. “Give me your number.”
You do.
He types it in, saves it under your name, then looks up at you.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” he says. “After your shoot. Make sure you survived.”
You smile, sliding off the stool. Your legs feel unsteady—not from drinks, just from him.
“You better.”
He stands too, closer now. For a second you think he might kiss you. You want him to. But he just brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek.
“Night, Y/N.”
“Night, Ryan.”
You walk away first, forcing yourself not to look back. But you feel his eyes on you the whole way out.
When you’re in the Uber, head against the cool window, your phone lights up.
Unknown number:
you made it out alive. good.
now go sleep.
i already can’t stop thinking about you.
You smile so wide the driver probably thinks you’re insane.
You type back:
same.
And just like that, you know this is only the beginning.
—
The next morning, you drag yourself out of bed at 5:15, eyes burning, skin still carrying the faint trace of last night’s perfume and warehouse smoke. The shoot is brutal—outdoor, December chill biting through the thin silk dress they have you in, photographer barking for “more sultry, less tired.” You nail it on autopilot, but every lull between setups, your mind drifts back to him.
To Ryan.
To the way he looked at you when you said maybe I was supposed to come tonight. Like he felt it too.
Your phone stays silent through hair and makeup, through the entire shoot, through the drive back to your apartment. You tell yourself it’s fine. He’s probably asleep. Artists keep vampire hours.
By 3 p.m. you’re on your couch in sweats, scrolling mindlessly, trying not to check your messages every thirty seconds.
Then your phone buzzes.
Ryan:
you survive the shoot?
or did they kill you with wind machines and bad coffee
You smile so hard your cheeks hurt.
You:
barely. died twice. resurrected for the final looks.
how’d you know about the wind machines
Ryan:
i’ve been on enough sets with friends. they’re evil.
you free tonight?
Your heart actually skips.
You:
just got home. was gonna nap and order thai
but i’m flexible
Ryan:
let me cook for you instead
nothing fancy. my place. lowkey.
You stare at the message. He’s asking you over. The day after meeting you. Your brain runs through every cautionary tale, but your gut says yes before you even type.
You:
send the address
i’ll be there by 8?
Ryan:
perfect.
door’s open if i’m still in the studio. just come up.
You spend the next few hours pretending to nap but mostly overthinking outfits. You settle on something simple—black baggy jeans that sit just low enough, a navy blue tank top, hair down and messy like you didn’t try too hard. Minimal makeup. You want him to see you, not the runway version.
His place is a converted loft in Arts District, exposed brick, huge windows overlooking the city lights starting to flicker on. The door’s cracked like he said. You push it open and music hits you immediately—some lo-fi beat with distorted vocals, quiet but immersive.
“Ryan?”
“Back here,” he calls from deeper in.
You follow the sound past a living room with a worn leather couch and stacks of vinyl, into what’s clearly his studio—monitors glowing, MIDI keyboards everywhere, fairy lights strung along the walls giving everything a warm haze. He’s hunched over a desk in a black hoodie, different one, headphones around his neck, spinning in his chair when he sees you.
That smile again. God.
“You found it,” he says, standing. He’s taller than you remembered. “Come in.”
He pulls you into a hug like it’s natural—like you didn’t just meet last night. You breathe him in: clean laundry, faint weed, something warm and boyish. Your arms wrap around his waist without thinking.
“Hi,” you murmur into his chest.
“Hi,” he says back, voice soft. He doesn’t let go right away.
Eventually he pulls back, eyes scanning your face. “You look tired.”
You laugh. “Thanks.”
“I mean it in a good way. Like… cute.” He brushes his thumb under your eye gently. “Hungry?”
You nod.
He leads you to the kitchen—open plan, island with stools. There’s already garlic sizzling in a pan, red sauce simmering. He pours you a glass of wine without asking, a Red Bull for himself.
“Pasta okay? It’s basically the only thing I can make without burning the place down.”
“Pasta’s perfect.”
You sit at the island watching him move—chopping basil with quick precision, tasting the sauce off a wooden spoon. He talks the whole time: about a beat he’s been stuck on for days, how Hollis keeps blowing up his phone about a collab, how he hates LA traffic but loves the sunsets from this window.
You tell him about the shoot—how the stylist kept pinning the dress tighter even though you could barely breathe, how one of the other models spent the whole day name-dropping agencies.
He listens like last night, leaning on the counter toward you, eyes never leaving your face.
Plates hit the table, actually a coffee table in front of the couch because he insists it’s comfier. You eat cross-legged on the floor, backs against the couch, some playlist he made humming low in the background.
Conversation slows. Comfortable silence. You’re both done eating, wine glass empty, his Red Bull can crushed in his hand.
He turns to you.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you left last night,” he says quietly. No smirk this time. Just honest.
Your breath catches. “Same.”
He reaches over, tucks your hair behind your ear again like he did outside the party. This time his hand stays, thumb tracing your jaw.
“Can I kiss you now?”
You nod before the words come out. “Please.”
He leans in slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. His lips brush yours—soft at first, testing. Then deeper when you sigh into it, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer.
It’s not rushed. It’s warm, deliberate, like he’s savoring it. Your hands find his chest, fingers curling into his hoodie. When you finally break apart, foreheads still touching, you’re both breathing harder.
“Stay tonight,” he whispers.
You swallow. “I want to. But… slow?”
He nods immediately, no hesitation. “As slow as you need.”
You end up on the couch, tangled but clothed, his arm around you while you watch some random movie neither of you pays attention to. Your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His fingers drawing lazy circles on your arm.
At some point you fall asleep like that.
When you wake up hours later, the city’s asleep outside the windows, and he’s carrying you to his bed—careful, like you’re something precious. He tucks you in, climbs in behind you, arm draped over your waist.
“Just sleeping,” he murmurs against your hair.
You lace your fingers with his.
“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Just sleeping.”
But you both know it’s more than that already.
And you’re not scared of it.
—
The weeks turn into a blur of him.
Ryan’s loft becomes your second home: mornings waking up to his arm heavy across your waist, afternoons curled on the studio couch while he works, nights cooking terrible experiments in the kitchen and laughing until your stomach hurts. He flies you out to his shows when your schedule allows—backstage passes, his hand on the small of your back while he introduces you as “my girl” to Hollis, Roman, Nate, everyone. You meet him in New York for a quick 48 hours when you have a job there, and he waits outside the agency in the cold just to kiss you hello.
Every touch is electric. Every kiss is deeper than the last. You make out like teenagers on every surface of his apartment—kitchen counter, shower wall, against the massive windows overlooking the city—but you both keep pulling back, savoring the ache. He whispers against your skin that he wants it to mean everything when it finally happens. You believe him.
You fall in love quietly, completely. He says it first one night, half-asleep, lips brushing your shoulder.
“I love you.”
You turn in his arms, kiss him soft and slow.
“I love you too, Ryan.”
And you do. More than you thought possible.
The night it finally breaks is mid-January.
The warehouse in LA is packed to the walls, air thick with sweat and smoke machines. Hollis is headlining, Ryan’s guest set just ended, and the crowd is still screaming his name. You’re pressed against the barrier in front, body thrumming, wearing the tiniest black mesh dress he picked out himself—no bra, no panties, just thin straps and sheer fabric that leaves almost nothing to imagination. Every time he looked down at you from the stage, his eyes darkened like he was already fucking you in his head.
When he jumps down after his set, he doesn’t even pause. He pushes through security, grabs you by the waist, and kisses you right there in front of hundreds of people—hard, claiming, tongue sliding deep like he’s starving. Your hands fist in his damp hoodie, and you feel him already rock-hard against your stomach.
The crowd whoops and whistles, phones up, but neither of you care.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls against your mouth, voice raw from performing. “I need to be inside you right fucking now.”
You’re already soaked, thighs slick just from the way he’s been looking at you all night. You nod, breathless. “Then take me.”
He doesn’t ask twice.
He drags you by the hand through the crush of bodies, past VIP ropes, toward the far side of the warehouse where massive subwoofers stack towers like black monoliths. The bass is brutal here—every drop hits like a physical force, vibrating through the floor and straight into your bones. Strobe lights slash red and purple across the crowd, so fast and chaotic no one can focus on anything but the music.
He slams your back against the nearest speaker stack, the impact jarring, the relentless thump of bass pounding directly into your spine. Your legs wrap around his waist instantly as he lifts you, dress riding up to your hips, exposing you completely to the hot air and anyone who might glance over.
But no one does.
His mouth is on your neck, biting hard enough to mark, one hand shoving under your dress to grip your bare ass while the other works his belt open with frantic urgency. You reach down to help, fingers shaking, pulling him out—hot, thick, throbbing in your hand.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groans when his fingers slide through your folds, spreading your wetness up over your clit in rough circles that make your hips jerk.
You whimper his name, nails clawing at his shoulders. “Ryan—please—”
He doesn’t tease. He lines up and thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke, stretching you open so suddenly your breath catches on a silent scream. The bass drop hits at the exact same moment, the vibration pulsing through the speaker into your back and around his cock buried deep inside you.
It’s too much and not enough all at once.
He starts fucking you hard—no slow build, no mercy. Every thrust slams you against the speaker, the relentless bass amplifying each impact until you feel it in your teeth, your clit, your fucking soul. Your legs lock tighter around him, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper.
People are dancing right next to you—bodies brushing your arms, someone’s drink sloshes against your thigh—but the lights are blinding, the music deafening, and no one sees the way he’s pounding into you like he’s trying to split you apart.
“Look at me,” he snarls, grabbing your jaw, forcing your eyes to his.
You do, and it wrecks you—his pupils blown wide, sweat dripping down his temple, that slit brow furrowed in pure concentration. He looks feral. Possessive. In love.
You come hard and sudden, whole body seizing around him, walls fluttering and clenching so tight he curses low and filthy against your lips. You bite down on his shoulder through his hoodie to muffle the scream, tasting salt and skin, every pulse of your orgasm timed perfectly with the pounding bass.
He doesn’t stop—fucks you through it, harder, chasing his own release with desperate snaps of his hips. His hand slides between you, thumb grinding rough circles on your oversensitive clit until you’re sobbing into his neck, coming again before the first one even ends.
“Mine,” he growls, voice breaking. “All fucking mine.”
You feel him swell inside you, thrusts turning erratic, and then he buries himself as deep as he can and comes with a guttural groan—hot, thick pulses filling you while his whole body shakes against yours.
For a long moment you just cling to each other, panting, trembling, the music still raging like a storm around you. He stays inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you slick with sweat.
“I love you,” he whispers, raw and wrecked. “So fucking much.”
You’re crying a little—overwhelmed, undone—and you kiss him slow and deep, tasting salt and him.
“I love you too.”
Eventually he lowers you, legs shaky, fixing your dress with gentle hands even though his eyes are still dark with hunger. He tucks himself away, zips up, then laces his fingers tightly with yours.
You walk out together through the thinning crowd, his arm around your waist like he’ll never let go.
No more waiting.
You’re his.
Completely.
Taglist: @alebrasil0101 @datgirlwholuvsanime33 @theirlgarfield @soundlyluckygunslinger @meliorsm @cowsforkenji @itsagoodluckkiss @pearlyrenae @antihumandih
a/n: OH MY GODD i struggled writing this so bad, i rewrote everything a million times </2
