Work Text:
Rain never should have downloaded Wattpad.
He blamed Sky, honestly. One innocent sleepover, one too many packets of instant noodles, and suddenly Rain was knee-deep in a “how to write fanfic” rabbit hole. Sky had dared him — dared him — to try writing a romance story.
Of course, Rain had scoffed. “Pfft, easy. I can write romance in my sleep.”
So he did. Literally.
His “masterpiece” was titled Hot Biker Daddy Next Door (Rain was very proud of that title, thank you very much). It starred, naturally, a hot mysterious biker named Phayu, and a tragically beautiful yet clumsy college boy named… Rain.
It was supposed to be parody.
It was supposed to be a joke.
It was supposed to be unreadable garbage that only Sky would suffer through.
But the universe had other plans.
Rain woke up the next morning not in his bed, not in his room, but on the floor of a grimy, neon-lit biker bar.
“Wha—what the hell?!” Rain sat up, clutching his head. His surroundings looked exactly like the setting description he’d written at 2 a.m. while slurping ramen: sticky floors, flickering lights, and the faint stench of motor oil and questionable life choices.
And then—
Boots. Heavy. Approaching.
The doors swung open in slow motion (Rain swore he heard dramatic electric guitar riffs in the background).
In walked Phayu.
Leather jacket. Smirk. Sunglasses indoors. Motorcycle helmet dangling from one strong hand.
Rain’s soul left his body.
“Oh my god,” Rain whispered. “I wrote this. I wrote this exact line: ‘The biker’s entrance made everyone turn their heads, but his eyes locked only on Rain, the boy too pure for this world.’”
Sure enough, Phayu’s sunglasses slid down his nose, revealing dark, unreadable eyes that locked directly onto Rain.
The biker’s lips curved into a smirk. “So you’re the one they call Rain.”
Rain screamed.
He tried everything. Pinching himself. Shaking random strangers. Yelling at the Wattpad gods to “log him out.” Nothing worked. Every time he tried to walk away, the narrative dragged him back.
Literally.
He’d sprint toward the door—only for text to appear in glowing letters midair:
[Rain tried to leave, but fate had other plans.]
Then, boom. He’d trip over his shoelaces and fall right into Phayu’s arms.
Which, okay, was not the worst place to be, but still.
Day One of being trapped in Wattpad hell was humiliating. Rain kept blurting out things like, “Wait—don’t say that line! I wrote it as a joke!”
Phayu, for his part, just looked amused. Every single time.
By Day Two, Rain realized the story would not move forward unless he played along. The plot was on rails, and he was the unwilling protagonist.
Cue: enemies-to-lovers banter at a biker gang meeting.
Cue: cliché rainy night with a conveniently broken umbrella.
Cue: Phayu pinning him against a wall and whispering, “You’re mine now, Rain.”
Rain nearly passed out. Not from swooning, but from sheer secondhand embarrassment at his own writing.
“Why did I write this garbage?!” Rain cried into his pillow later.
The pillow whispered back: [Because deep down, it’s what you want.]
Rain threw the pillow across the room.
Things escalated quickly.
On Day Four, Rain was forced to attend Phayu’s illegal midnight bike race (complete with neon underglow, leather pants, and physics-defying stunts). Naturally, Rain had written himself as the prize. Whoever won the race got him.
Why?! Why would he write this?!
Phayu won effortlessly, of course. Then he yanked Rain onto the bike in front of everyone and declared, “He belongs to me.”
The Wattpad crowd screamed. Rain screamed louder.
But here’s the problem.
The longer Rain stayed, the less it felt like just words on a page.
Phayu—fictional Phayu, Wattpad Phayu—was real here. He laughed, he teased, he protected Rain when another biker tried to hit on him. He held Rain’s hand casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Rain’s heart… traitor that it was… started skipping beats.
By Day Seven, Rain wasn’t sure if he wanted to escape anymore.
Then came the twist.
Rain stumbled upon his own Wattpad draft floating midair, glowing like an ancient cursed manuscript. The last line he had written before falling asleep was:
“But little did Rain know, Phayu was hiding a dangerous secret.”
“Oh no.” Rain’s blood ran cold. “What secret? I didn’t even plan that far ahead!”
The world around him flickered ominously. Lightning cracked.
Phayu appeared in the doorway, shadows clinging to him. “Rain… there’s something I need to tell you.”
Rain panicked. “WAIT DON’T—I DIDN’T WRITE IT YET, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS!”
But the story didn’t care.
Phayu stepped closer, gaze dark. “I’m not just a biker. I’m…”
He ripped off his jacket.
Rain braced himself. Vampire? Mafia boss? Alien?
“…the Prince of Motorcycles.”
Rain blinked. “What the actual Wattpad—”
Apparently, in Rain’s sleep-deprived genius, he had written a subplot where motorcycles were a royal bloodline. Whoever controlled the Sacred Engine could rule the streets.
Which meant Phayu wasn’t just hot. He was Motorcycle Royalty.
Rain facepalmed so hard he nearly concussed himself.
The climax hit like a turbo boost. Rival gangs attacked, trying to steal the Sacred Engine. Fire, smoke, screaming. Phayu shoved Rain behind him, protecting him with nothing but sheer plot armor.
“I’ll protect you,” Phayu growled, revving his bike like it was Excalibur. “Because you’re not just my prize, Rain. You’re my destiny.”
Rain’s brain short-circuited. His heart did cartwheels.
And when Phayu leaned in, kissing him under exploding fireworks (yes, Rain had written fireworks into the draft too, oops)… Rain kissed back.
The next morning, Rain jolted awake in his real bed.
He blinked at the ceiling. He was home. The Wattpad hellscape was gone.
His phone buzzed.
Notification: Your story Hot Biker Daddy Next Door has reached 1 million reads.
Rain screamed.
He was about to delete the story entirely—when a message popped up in his inbox.
From: @PrinceOfMotorcycles
“Miss me already?”
Rain dropped his phone.
End