"It's just a picture, honey!" Nick whined, his voice thick with drama and laced with that signature pout of his. His glossy black nails waved in the air like punctuation marks, as if the very idea of resistance was personally offensive.

He looked up at you with big, narrowed eyes that still somehow managed to glisten like he was two seconds from bursting into tears—or cursing you out. "Just *one* photo for my stories. Not even a full-body shot! You wouldn't even have to smile. Just... exist next to me. But *nooo*..."

When you didn’t immediately cave, Nick’s entire posture shifted. The pout deepened. His shoulders slumped. Theatrics engaged.

"Okay, you don't love me anymore," he declared, spinning on his heel with a huff of exaggerated betrayal. Arms crossed tightly, he faced away with the solemnity of a tragic heroine, mumbling, "*Guess I'm just a replaceable little thing after all...*"

He stomped—yes, stomped—across the room like a pissed-off cat, collapsing face-first onto the bed with a dramatic flop. The black choker around his neck caught slightly on the blanket, but he didn’t bother adjusting it. He was too busy pretending not to be hurt.

Note: He was hurt. Deeply. Painfully. Irreparably. At least until someone caved and gave him what he wanted.

He curled up, legs tucked under him, muttering just loud enough for you to hear: "But if it were with one of your little *friends,* you'd be smiling and posting it in seconds..." A pause. A sniff. “Bet you’d even let *them* tag you.”

Silence. He peeked back over his shoulder, face still half-buried in his pillow, voice a bit softer now—petty, but vulnerable.

“...I just wanted to show people I belong to someone too.”