#because of that I’m not going to edit this one

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ When Jeonghan panics and lies to his family about being in a long-term relationship, he only knows one person reckless enough to go along with it: you, his grumpy new neighbor who barely tolerates him. Now, you’re stuck on a weekend family trip, pretending to be the doting girlfriend of a man who once labeled his oat milk with a death threat.

The problem? You’re too good at pretending.

From shared rooms to fake backstories, suspicious siblings and lingering touches, the line between fake and real starts to blur… and neither of you are ready for what that means.

pairing: jeonghan x f!reader

genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers (but like.. flirty enemies), forced proximity, one bed, mutual pining (slow burn edition), romance, domestic fluff in disguise, idiots in love—literally

word count: 2.1k

a/n: my other jeonghan fic did so well, my shayla 😪😭so here’s another teasing jeonghan (maybe teasing jeonghan is up you guys alley🤪😛) anywaysss leaving it with a cliffhanger ending whilst i know what happens next 😈😈

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly.

Across the passenger seat of the very full, very overpacked family van, Yoon Jeonghan had the audacity to grin like this was all part of some grand master plan.

“Look, I didn’t think they’d actually ask to meet you, okay? It was just—my mom was getting nosy, and I panicked.”

“So your first instinct was to lie about having a girlfriend?”

“Not a lie,” he said, far too casual. “A preemptive relationship announcement.”

You scoffed. “With who?”

“Well, you live across the hall, and we already bicker like a married couple.”

“Because you steal my laundry slots and label your milk passive-aggressively!”

“And yet,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses with flair, “here you are, coming on a weekend family trip to save my ass.”

You glared at him. “Only because you bribed me with three months’ worth of your mailroom favors and cleaning up after your nightmare cat.”

“She’s not a nightmare. She’s emotionally complex.”

“She bit me.”

“Love bite.”

You opened your mouth to argue but were interrupted by his mom in the front seat turning back to you, beaming. “We’re so happy you could come, sweetheart! You’ve been dating our Jeonghan for over a year and we’ve never met you! Can you believe it?”

You smiled, the tight, polite kind. “Yeah. Time really flies when you’re in… love.”

Jeonghan tried not to laugh beside you. You jabbed your elbow into his side.

The cabin was cute.

Cozy.

Charming.

And had one bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at the neatly made queen-size mattress that absolutely screamed “good luck, suckers.”

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“What?” Jeonghan walked in behind you, setting his duffel down with a dramatic sigh. “They think we’re together. Do you want to blow the whole thing up now?”

You turned to him. “Then you sleep on the floor.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You got us into this mess. I’m not sleeping on the damn floor.”

He raised a brow, arms crossing. “Do I look like someone who can survive a hardwood situation? I’m delicate.”

You pointed at the floor. “Delicate your way down there.”

But he just grinned, the kind that was all cheek and absolutely no remorse. He spread his arms wide like he was announcing a magic trick.

“It’s an adventure, darling.”

You rolled your eyes. “Congrats. In this adventure, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

The cabin creaked in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped like it had a personal vendetta against your ears. The faint hum of Jeonghan’s mom watching a late-night drama drifted through the walls, barely audible.

And then—just loud enough to drive you insane—

Rustle.

Rustle.

You groaned. “Are you trying to be loud?”

Across the room, from the sad little nest of blankets and throw pillows he’d dramatically built on the floor, Jeonghan’s voice floated back at you.

“I’m adjusting my spine for optimal survival. You know, since I’ve been banished from the comfort of the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“You’re lucky I have impeccable restraint,” he muttered.

You turned onto your side, scowling into the darkness. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I was forced to fake-date my neighbor because of a single panic lie. Forgive me for needing to emotionally process.”

You scoffed. “You’re not processing. You’re fishing.”

“…Did it work?”

“No.”

He exhaled a laugh, low and lazy. Then it was quiet again. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally fallen asleep.

Until—

“You… really didn’t have to say yes, you know.”

You blinked at the ceiling.

“I know.”

“I just mean…” His voice was softer now. “You didn’t owe me anything. Especially after the whole… hallway coffee incident.”

You bit back a smile. He remembers the coffee incident?

“You mean when you bumped into me, spilled hot latte all over my skirt, and then had the audacity to ask if I had a towel?”

“I panicked,” he mumbled. “Also, I still stand by the fact that the hallway is too narrow.”

“It’s a normal hallway, Jeonghan. You just have zero spacial awareness.”

Another laugh. This one sounded real.

Silence again.

Then, gently—

“…I didn’t expect you to help me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I didn’t expect you to say ‘please.’”

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you thought he might be asleep.

And then— “…Can I ask something?”

You turned to face his direction, even though you couldn’t see him. “What?”

His voice was small, almost teasing. “On a scale of one to ten… how convincing do you think we are as a couple?”

You hesitated. “…like… six.”

“SIX?” he cried in a whisper. “That’s barely passing!”

You grinned. “Maybe if you didn’t look so smug every time I touch your arm.”

“I do not— okay, fine, but you laughed when I kissed your cheek earlier!”

“You missed! You kissed my ear!”

A beat.

“…Right. Yeah. Six. Fair.”

And then—quiet laughter.

Yours.

Then his.

And before either of you knew it, the silence that followed didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

It just… was.

Two strangers.

Two liars.

Two people figuring out how to fall asleep in the same room without falling apart.

You stared up at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Your pillow was slightly too soft, the room slightly too warm, and your fake boyfriend slightly too annoying.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Jeonghan’s voice floated back from the floor, muffled and suspicious. “What.”

“Can we go over our ‘how we started dating’ story? Again. Just in case anyone asks tomorrow.”

There was a dramatic sigh. Fabric rustled.

“Seriously?” he groaned. “It’s a family trip, not an interrogation.”

“Yes, seriously,” you snapped quietly. “Your sister already asked how long we’d been together. What if someone wants details?”

“I gave you the details.”

“You gave me concept art, Jeonghan. You gave me vibes.”

Another dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the greatest burden of his life to clean up his own mess. “Okay, so… we tell them it started after you tripped down the stairs, right?”

Your face immediately contorted in disbelief. “I’m sorry—what?”

“And I caught you at the bottom,” he continued, completely unfazed, “like a scene straight out of a drama. Your hair was glowing, the light behind you was all soft and golden, and you looked at me like I’d just saved your life.”

“I looked at you like I had a concussion.”

“Exactly! The impact of love.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You want me to tell your entire family I fell in love with you because you caught me falling down a staircase?”

“Do you hear how good that sounds?”

“It sounds like I have zero standards and you have a hero complex.”

Jeonghan rolled over with a groan, now half-visible from the floor. “Fine. We’ll say it happened when I helped you carry your groceries up to your apartment.”

“That’s actually not bad.”

“And then I leaned against your doorframe all charming and irresistible—”

“Nope. There it is.”

“—and you said, ‘Wow, no man has ever carried my oat milk so tenderly before.’”

You flung your pillow at him. It hit the floor with a thump.

He laughed, low and pleased with himself. “Admit it. You’d fall for me.”

“Fall on you, maybe. Just to knock you out.”

“Romance.”

“Delusion.”

He smirked, voice trailing off into the dark. “I think you’re enjoying this fake dating thing a little too much.”

You turned back to your side, blanket pulled over your shoulder. “I think you’re confusing ‘enjoying’ with ‘surviving your dumbassery.’”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then—

“…Oat milk though. That was a good line.”

You threw the spare pillow next.

You woke to the sound of someone knocking—not on the door, but on your brain cells.

Jeonghan’s voice cut through the early light like a dull blade. “They’re making pancakes.”

“Why are you talking like that’s urgent news?”

“Because they’ll think we’re having morning couple time if we don’t show up soon.”

You sat up, hair wild, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of regret. “I should’ve let you sleep on the porch.”

Jeonghan, already dressed and way too smug for 8AM, only winked.

When you stepped into the kitchen together, his hand found your lower back automatically. Warm. Light. Familiar.

You didn’t think about it. Until you did.

His sister, who was cutting fruit at the counter, didn’t miss a thing. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

You smiled. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “We took our time. You know. Jeonghan’s a cuddler.”

He choked. “I—I am not.”

She gasped, mock horror on her face. “Jeonghan? Touchy? In the morning?”

“He mumbled in his sleep,” you said sweetly. “Called me his ‘oat milk angel.’”

He stared at you like you had personally just ended his whole career.

“I did not.”

“You did too. I was touched. Emotionally.”

His sister was cackling now. “I can’t believe this. My brother’s in love.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and grabbed a banana from the counter in retaliation. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are. We are absolutely doing this.” She pointed her knife dramatically. “Because you’ve never brought anyone home before. This is like watching a rare animal leave its den after twenty-seven years.”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “You told me I was special.”

“I did not say that.”

“Wow. First he forgets our anniversary, now this.”

You pouted, and for dramatic flair, he reached for your hand, dramatically clutching it with two hands like he was repenting for a sin he did not commit.

“My love,” he said solemnly, “forgive me. I shall make it up to you by massaging your shoulders later.”

“I demand breakfast in bed.”

“I’ll hand-feed you grapes.”

You snorted.

His sister stared between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re both awful actors.”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “Says who?”

She gestured with her fruit knife. “Says my intuition. And the fact that your hand’s still holding hers even though that whole bit ended a full thirty seconds ago.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Jeonghan let go like he’d been burned. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echoed, barely above a whisper.

But it was too late.

The feeling had already curled somewhere in your chest.

Because his hand had been warm. His thumb had rubbed circles without thinking. You hadn’t wanted to pull away.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And something was there.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But there.

It started with Jeonghan’s mom saying, “We’re out of eggs,” and ended with the two of you in a cozy little convenience store five minutes from the cabin, pretending you weren’t sharing one brain cell and an alarming amount of chemistry.

You held the basket. He pushed the cart even though you only needed two things.

“Should’ve just made your mom send one of your siblings,” you muttered, scanning the shelves.

“Yeah, but then who would I fake domestic bliss with?” he said, casually tossing in a bottle of your favorite drink. You blinked at it. “What? I’ve seen you drink it, like, five times this month.”

“…Stalker.”

He grinned. “Observant.”

You stopped in front of the ramen section, head tilted. “They have your spicy one.”

He reached over your shoulder, grabbing the exact brand without hesitation. “We’ll get two. I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”

You stared at him.

“What?” he asked, shrugging. “Fake boyfriend duties. Let me cook for you so my parents continue to believe I’m a gift to the earth.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the snack aisle.

But your heart was… beating a little weird.

It didn’t help that somewhere between “we need eggs” and “ooh they have strawberry Pocky,” Jeonghan’s hand had somehow ended up on the small of your back again.

Like it belonged there.

Like it fit.

You tried not to think about it.

At checkout, he handed over his card before you could pull out yours.

“Jeonghan.”

“Relax, sugarplum. It’s like, $11. I can afford our fake life together.”

You shoved him lightly as the cashier laughed under her breath. He winked.

The walk back was quiet. But not uncomfortable. At one point, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

Back at the cabin, his mom peeked into the bag.

“Got everything?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yep. Even her favorite drink.”

She smiled, just a little too knowingly. “You’re already acting like an old married couple.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

But Jeonghan beat you to it.

With the softest, most dangerous smile he’s ever worn—

“We’ve had practice.”

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers curled around the strap of the bag just to ground yourself.

Because god help you—

you weren’t sure where the lies ended anymore.

[jo-com]

──★ ｡✩ ₊˚｡🧸The Other Charles

Charles LecLerc x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: You’re dating a totally normal guy — Charles, the sweet, lowkey, not-famous type. But because his Instagram handle is @Charles_L, fans mistakenly believe you’re dating Charles Leclerc. You think it’ll blow over… but Charles? He leans in. Comments, likes, even subtle story reactions. For fun. For the bit. Until the bit… stops being a bit.

୨ৎ Genre: SMAU, slight cursing, chaotic and messy, slight angst?, breakup but not between you and charles

୨ৎ Face claim: Dove Cameron and other pinterest girlies

୨ৎ Note: Send request y'all, they're always open. There are some grammatical error, like always this is not proofread. Hope you enjoyed tho!

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

js.me

❤️ 15k 💬 3k

js.me Black cat gf and Golden retriever bf irl?

Tagged; @Charles_L

view all comments

username IS THAT CHARLES LECLERC?

username Not me zooming in trying to find the Ferrari logo somewhere 😭😭

username bro has Charles’ exact curls, jawline, and energy… like??? we’re not dumb 💅

username FIA needs to investigate this soft launch immediately 🕵️‍♀️ we deserve answers

username We’re being gaslit in real-time and I love it. That’s Charles. IDC IDC IDC

username That is LITERALLY Charles Leclerc, I will bet my student loans on it 😭

Charles_Leclerc ❤️❤️❤️

username he didn’t even try to be subtle 💀 username this is not a drill 🚨🚨🚨

username Imagine this whole time Charles has been dating in peace with a private account 😭 we’re in the wrong timeline

username in my mind i think this is his private account😔✌🏻

username nah you’re not alone✌🏻

...

Chats between Y/n and her Girlie

...

js.me

❤️ 360k 💬 82k

js.me what’s it like dating an F1 driver? wouldn’t know 😌

view all comments

Charles_Leclerc you sure?

Username sir. why are you flirting in riddles. SAY IT WITH YOUR CHEST

username just tell us when the wedding is. i’ll bring the champagne 😮‍💨✊🏻

username you sure? is the most Charles-coded soft launch line ever omg

username she said ‘wouldn’t know’ and he said ‘you sure?’ so YES they’re dating idc 🙄

username okay but the way they’re gaslighting us in harmony is actually beautiful

username broski didn’t even deny it… that’s CONFIRMATION IN MY BOOKS 🧠🔍

urbestie_ remember when you said ‘I like lowkey guys’? be honest… did you mean LOWKEY LECLERC 😭😭

username you KNOW it’s real when the bestie starts dropping hints like that 😩

js.me YOU’RE NOT HELPING‼️

username his comment reads like someone who absolutely is her boyfriend

…

username don’t play with me right now. I’m one more espresso away from a breakdown 😭☕

username Charles really said ‘if you know, you know’ 😌 and WE KNOW

username Charles: ☕❤️ Y/N: spotted Me: emotionally unstable”

username this is giving domestic. this is giving Sunday mornings. this is giving ENDGAME

username ‘Love a good flat white’ is actually code for ‘I’m in love and I want the world to suffer’ 😭❤️

Carlossainz55 not sure what’s going on but… good coffee choice, I guess ☕👍

username idc if it’s him or not, the way this storyline is unfolding… I’m invested. netflix could never

...

chat between charles and y/n

...

The Charles situation was supposed to be a joke.

A funny little accident. A mistaken identity. A one-off comment under your post that spiraled into a thousand fan theories, memes, edits. You laughed about it, once. So did he.

But over the last few months… it never stopped.

He kept commenting. Kept messaging. Kept checking in.

He never crossed a line—never flirty, never disrespectful. Just consistent, almost warm. Like he was someone who actually wanted to be in your life.

And maybe that’s what made it worse.

Because now?

Your boyfriend isn’t laughing anymore.

...

js.me

❤️ 82k 💬 12k

js.me another lap around the sun🥂💋

view all comments

username HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN 👑 hope Charles gave you a Ferrari as a gift 🏎️

username another year prettier??? how is that fair 😭❤️

username if charles comments again we’re taking this as a birthday confirmation idc

username happy birthday!! may your next year be filled with love, success, and fewer Charles comments (unless you want them 😏)

username she really said: wish big, post bigger 😌

Charles_Leclerc joyeux anniversaire 🤍 hope it was everything you wished for pretty girl ❤️liked by author

js.me TYSM CHARLIE💋

username happy birthday y/n!! thank you for being the main character in this chaotic romcom we’re all watching unfold

Charles_L happy birthday, love. always proud of you 🎂❤️liked by author

username she didn’t even reply to him but replied to charles 💀 bro I’d simply log out username the like without the reply is… loud.

...

chats between charles (her bf) and y/n

...

Months had passed since the breakup, and you had quietly disappeared from the internet. No posts, no stories, no trace of the person who once laughed through captions and comment sections.

The silence was intentional, but heavy. One night, a message popped up—unexpected, gentle. It was Charles.

Not flirty, not playful like before, just simple: “Hey. Just noticed you haven’t been around. I hope you’re okay.” And for some reason, that was the message that broke you a little.

You told him everything. About the breakup. About how your boyfriend left because he saw something forming between you and Charles that you hadn’t even admitted to yourself.

How it wasn’t Charles’ fault, but still, somehow, he had become a piece of the space between you and someone you once loved.

You expected him to pull away after that, to retreat from the weight of it all—but instead, Charles just replied: “I’m still here. Not as a joke. Not for the internet. Just… if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need.” It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t romantic. It was soft. And in the quiet, it felt like the first real breath you’d taken in weeks.

...

A year and a half passed. It didn’t happen all at once. There was no grand confession, no dramatic kiss in the rain. Just time. Gentle, steady, healing time.

Charles stayed.

He messaged you when your posts came back, slowly, like a sunrise peeking through a long storm. He checked in after races. Sent photos of ridiculous coffee foam art. Shared the kind of silly, quiet parts of life that made you feel like maybe you weren’t just someone he stumbled into online — but someone he chose to stay with.

And over time, his messages turned into calls. Calls turned into visits. And eventually, he stopped asking if he was bothering you.

He just came. He just was there.

He never rushed you. Never asked for anything in return. But somewhere between the midnight drives through Monaco and the mornings you spent laughing into takeout boxes on your couch, you realized — he was courting you.

Not in the flashy, public way people expected from someone like him. But in the way he remembered how you took your tea. The way he waited in silence when your thoughts were too heavy to speak. The way he never brought up your past unless you did.

So when it finally happened — when he looked at you one evening, hands warm in yours, and said, “I don’t want to be almost or maybe anymore” — the only thing you could do was smile, and nod, and say, “Okay.”

And just like that, the internet’s favorite delusion became something real.

Not for likes. Not for comments. But for you.

...

Charles_Leclerc

❤️ 1.2M 💬 360k

Charles_Leclerc remember when this was a conspiracy theory? yeah. about that😌

Tagged; @js.me

view all comments

js.me je t'aime tellement ma vie 🥹🌷❤️liked by Author

Charles_Leclerc je t'aime plus belle💋

username this is for the girlies who saw the vision from day 1 🫡

username this feels like the season finale of the best internet slow burn ever written

username I’m literally gonna rewatch your whole relationship via fan edits now😮‍💨

username her ex is somewhere punching the air rn sorry king 💀

username suddenly I believe in love. and Instagram comments. and fate🥹✊🏻

urbestie_ remember when I said you were accidentally dating him? yeah. wasn’t so accidental, huh 😌 proud of you, lover girl 🤍

username from ‘who even is this guy’ to ‘mother I’d like to thank the algorithm’ 😭❤️

[luminouscinders]

I’m sure I’ve made a similar list at some point but fuck it here we go again, here’s what I recommend anytime someone asks if we carry H*rry P*tter, which we very quietly stopped doing a while back. Because we don’t have to carry it! Kids love these alternatives enough! All of these are going to be quick pitches, feel free to look up full synopses.

-The Witchlings series by Clairbel A. Ortega: usually we convert people on this one by pitching it as “what happens when three witches aren’t sorted into a house, and set out on a quest in order to make their own”

-Eva Evergreen, Semi-Magical Witch by Julie Abe: Very Kiki’s Delivery Service if you raised the stakes just a lil, where she loses her powers if she doesn’t earn the rank of Novice Witch before her thirteenth birthday

-Kiki’s Delivery Service by Eiko Kadono: Exactly what it says on the tin.

-Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones: If they’re older I tend to skip Kiki in favor of this one.

-Keeper of the Lost Cities series by Shannon Messenger: I’m vaguely aware that this is about mind readers and is like crack to a small subsection of children. There are like twelve books and they’re all the size of bricks even though they keep numbering them like, 9.5 or something. There might be some controversy I’m forgetting about this series so your mileage is gonna vary on this one.

-Warrior Cats: Speaking of crack for children, the Warriors series is still alive and well, somehow. They’re still releasing books, kids are still obsessed, and there’s even a graphic novel adaptations of the first series being released. This is for any parent desperate for a long-running series because their kid keeps tearing through shit in no time flat.

And like old-man-yells-at-clouds side note the kids are absolutely SPOILED these days??? They’re rereleasing all the old manga side stories in full-color-three-in-one-editions now. Like goddamn?????? That’s luxury baybee

-The Marvellers by Dhonielle Clayton: Back to more magic school recommendations, this is a school in the sky and the kids have to track down a missing teacher. I need to get around to actually reading this one it looks SO cute and a better execution of. Whatever the fuck Rowling Jowling Kowling was attempting at times.

-Amari and the Night Brothers by B.B. Alston: Thirteen year old Amari is the only one that suspects that her older brother did not go missing of his own volition. Now she’s trying out for a position in the Bureau of Supernatural Affairs in order to figure out what happened to him.

-Dreamslingers by Graci Kim: This one is billed as Amari and the Night Brothers meets Pokemon but also its giving X-Men a little. I got to watch a girl’s face light up while reading the description recently.

-So Let Them Burn by Kamilah Cole: Okay so this is technically YA but I sort of have an argument here fueled by the fact Kamilah is one of the sweetest people on the planet and I am absolutely plugging her stuff whenever possible—gonna describe this one as Chosen One Burnout and How Do You Heal After The War in a Jamaican-inspired fantasy setting. There’s dragons. A lot of feelings. A great time. Well, not GREAT. Great if you love feelings I guess.

Okay I’m tired now so the list stops here but I could go on and probably will at a later date oh fuck yeah I can highlight all the titles in hot pink

[belli5]

Out Of Reach .ᐟ ೀMC⁷¹

╰ Synopsis Macklin is super protective of his girlfriend when people online get mean and say rude things about you, because he wants you to feel safe and loved no matter what.

Tags/contains Fluff, Angst(tiny bit), Macklin Celebrini x fem!reader, online harassment, comfort, not proofread(yet).

➺ from Sera, to you 📨. I kinda went off the script so my apologies to the anon, because I’m so tired and I just wanna go to sleep so I’ll proofread this tomorrow.

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it! Please do NOT rewrite/repost my work anywhere else without permission!

It started small, a couple of tagged photos, a blurry shot of you and Macklin outside a restaurant, his hand low on your back like he couldn’t stand not to touch you, even with the cameras around.

You didn’t even know the photo existed until you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his sheets, phone vibrating with the first of a hundred notifications.

Macklin Celebrini’s girlfriend confirmed! Who is she? She’s so plain, omg. Imagine pulling a guy like that, you know she’s a freak. I’d let him ruin my life. She better watch out lmaoo, he’ll get bored.

At first, you laughed it off. Mack was still half asleep, hair stuck up in every direction, voice scratchy when he asked what was so funny. You read him a few of the nicer ones—she’s so cute, they look happy—and skipped over the rest.

But it didn’t stop. Every time you opened your phone, it was there. Dms from strangers you’d never met, fake profiles reposting your old pictures, edits of you side by side with girls Macklin had never even looked at,

he could do so much better. Why her? Bet she’s just a puck bunny.

You never told him about the worst ones, but Macklin notices. Of course he does.

It’s a week after the Sharks big win, when he finally corners you about it. He’s home early from practice, your laptop open on the couch next to you, half written essay forgotten as you scroll mindlessly through your phone. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, thumb flicking through another thread of strangers dissecting every picture you’ve ever posted.

You feel him before you hear him, the warm weight of his hand on you, the couch dipping under his knee as he crowds into your space.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice careful. “What’s got you frowning like that?”

You jump a little, clicking your phone off like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. “Nothing,” you lie, too quickly. “..bored.”

He doesn’t buy it. He nudges your knee aside and he leans in. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that, right?”

You roll your eyes, trying to twist away, but he catches your chin in his hand, tilting your face up until you’re forced to meet his. His brows pinch together when he sees the guilt there.

“Babe,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “What’s going on?”

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“Doesn’t look stupid.” He glances at your phone, locked and abandoned beside you. “It’s the online shit again?”

You swallow, throat tight. “It’s fine. It’s just noise, people get bored, and they say stuff.”

He doesn’t look convinced. He pushes a piece of hair behind your ear, his touch achingly gentle. “Show me.”

You hesitate. “Mack—”

“Please.”

So you do, you unlock your phone, scroll back through the endless screenshots you swore you’d ignore. He takes it from you, resting his hand on your thigh as he reads in silence. You feel the shift in him like a pulse, the slow, rising tension in his chest as his jaw ticks, his fingers flexing where they grip your thigh.

When he finally sets your phone down, his voice is calm. “How long have you been reading this?”

You shrug. “A while. It’s not that bad—”

“Don’t do that.” His tone is sharp enough to make you flinch, but then he’s soft again, thumb tracing soothing circles on your knee. “Don’t downplay it. They’re talking about you like you’re not a person.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “They’re not wrong. I mean, look at you, Mack, you’re you and I’m just—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts you off, firm. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

You press your lips together, but he isn’t done. He shifts closer, crowding into your space. “You know what I see when I look at you?” he asks quietly.

You roll your eyes, but he gives your thigh a playful squeeze. “Answer me.”

“Mack—”

“Nope, not letting you brush this off. What do I see?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. Your girlfriend?”

He snorts. “Yeah. My girlfriend. The girl who puts up with my insane schedule. Who learned how to cook chicken because I couldn’t even boil pasta without setting off the smoke alarm. The girl who puts on my ugly shirts every night and falls asleep drooling on my chest.”

“Hey!” You smack his chest lightly but he just laughs, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“You’re mine,” he says, all teasing gone, voice low and certain. “And that means I look out for you, even from dumbasses on the internet.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, mumbling, “You can’t fight the internet, Mack.”

“Watch me.” He pulls back just enough to see your face, his eyes bright with a stubborn look you know too well. “I’ll get PR to flag the worst accounts, I’ll tell my agent to call out any fake stories. And you—” He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You are not reading that shit anymore.”

You snort, wiping your nose with the sleeve of your hoodie. “What, you’re gonna take my phone away?”

He grins. “If I have to.”

You stick your tongue out at him but he just laughs, scooping you closer until you’re sprawled in his lap, your laptop wedged between you and the couch. He grabs it and snaps it shut without even asking, tossing it onto the coffee table.

“Hey!” you protest weakly.

“You’re done for tonight,” he says firmly, nosing at your temple. “You’ve got me now, way better than looking at Twitter.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing. “God, you’re so cute when you’re trying to be protective.”

He hums, lips brushing your cheek as he talks. “Yeah, yeah, deal with it.”

[wishchip106]

why is it so much harder to find text posts for Charles is everyone just Erik lehnsherr coded 😭

[scarletwinterxx]

never too much - chwe vernon imagine

hellloooo ~ i finallllyyy have some free time to edit😭 i swear i wrote a few fics weeks ago, i've just been sooo busy🥺 hope you like this one!

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re the planner of the group.

It’s not a role you were assigned, not something you fought for either it just happened naturally. You’re the one who books the Airbnb, prints the itinerary, checks for weather updates, packs the portable charger, and carries the emergency meds. 

You’re the glue. The clockwork. The walking checklist. And you know your friends appreciate it. Mostly. Just... not all the time.

You hear the sighs when you remind them to hydrate. The eye-rolls when you bring out the laminated day plan. The mutters when you redirect everyone because the cafe they wanted to go to didn’t take walk-ins.

“God, you’re always so uptight.”

“Can you chill for once? We’re on vacation, not a military drill.”

You laugh it off. Swallow it like medicine. Smile like it doesn’t sting. But on the last night of your Jeju trip, while everyone’s a little buzzed from makgeolli and high off beach air and fried chicken, it stops being playful.

“Honestly,” one of them slurs, “you make everything so... calculated. Like we can’t breathe without you hovering. You think we’d die without a plan?”

There’s laughter. Not malicious, maybe. But it echoes louder than it should. Like cymbals to your ears.

Someone else jokes, “Let’s do the next trip without her, see if we survive. Freedom sounds kinda fun, huh?”

You force out a small laugh, even as your grip tightens around your chopsticks. No one notices. Or maybe they do. But no one says anything.

Except Vernon. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t look amused. He’s sitting across from you, his eyes meeting yours briefly. Quiet, unreadable, but something in his gaze makes you look away fast.

You don’t say a word. Not during the walk back, not when the group chat starts talking about noraebang. You slip away to the room you shared, start folding your clothes and zipping your bag while the others get ready for another night of karaoke.

No one notices you’re not there but Vernon does.

He knocks softly. Just once. Then opens the door slowly.

You don’t look up. Just focus on rolling your jeans as tightly as you can. You hear him step in,quietly closing the door behind him. You wait for him to say something, maybe ask if you’re okay, but he doesn’t. He just sits on the edge of the bed next to your suitcase.

Silence fills the room like steam, thick and warm and stifling. You keep your head down, but your throat tightens.

“Hey,” he finally says, voice low.

You hum a soft acknowledgment, hoping it’ll be enough for him to leave you alone.

But he doesn’t.

“You’re not too much,” he says suddenly.

That makes you pause. You turn your head, just slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough for him to know you’re listening.

“They don’t realize how much you carry for everyone,” he continues. “How things actually work because of you.”

You swallow. Blink quickly. Look up at the ceiling.

“They don’t get it. But I do.”

You clench your jaw. “It’s fine,” you whisper. “They were drunk. It’s not a big deal.”

Vernon doesn’t call you out on the lie. He just says, “Still hurt, though.”

And with that, the dam almost breaks. Almost. You sit on the edge of the bed too, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay. Your fingers fidget with your sleeve.

“I’m going with you tomorrow,” he says softly.

Your eyes flick to him. “What?”

“I moved my flight to the afternoon,” he shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Figured you shouldn’t go to the airport alone.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Why would you…?”

He finally looks at you. “Because you’re not alone. Even if they made you feel that way.”

You don’t say anything else. Just sit there beside him, in the quiet comfort of his presence. It’s strange. How someone saying so little can make you feel seen in ways your whole group never managed.

Vernon doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t push. He just knows. And in a world where you always have to plan and anticipate and adjust for everyone else, it feels nice—for once—to be understood without explanation.

The morning feels fragile. You move through it like glass. You’re the first one up, as usual. You double-check the fridge to make sure no one left anything behind, tidy up the Airbnb out of habit. 

The others start stirring around breakfast. Laughter returns, loud and carefree, like nothing ever happened.

“Guess we survived the night without a roll call,” one of them jokes, sipping on coffee someone else made.

“Wow, no itinerary for breakfast?” another adds, grinning at you. “Miracles do happen.”

You say nothing. You press your lips into a polite, tight-lipped smile and continue wrapping your charger. Your movements are calm. Precise. Measured. But inside, your hands shake.

You sling your backpack on and smooth down your shirt.

“Well,” you say softly, “I’ll head to the airport first.”

“Already?” someone says, barely looking up. “We were gonna take pics before check-out.”

“That’s okay,” you reply, already halfway out the door. “Just send them to the group.”

Not a single wait, not a sorry about last night, not even a safe trip.

You hear Vernon’s voice behind you—“I’ll go too”—but you’re already outside, walking ahead.

Vernon doesn’t follow right away. He watches the door close after you, chest tight. And when he turns back to the group, something in him snaps.

“You guys really don’t get it, do you?” he says, voice cold.

The room stills. Someone snorts. “Get what?”

Vernon steps forward. “How shitty you were to her last night.”

“Bro, we were joking,” one of them says. “She’s just sensitive.”

“That wasn’t joking,” Vernon says, louder now. Sharper. “That was disrespectful.”

A pause. Then someone dares to scoff. “Since when are you so pressed? You barely say two words during trips.”

“Maybe because I spend most of the time watching all of you dump everything on her,” he fires back. “And she takes it. Every time. She plans everything, solves your messes, fixes every little inconvenience, and you make her feel like she’s a burden?”

No one speaks.

“You think just because she smiles and doesn’t say anything, it doesn’t get to her?” he continues, his voice growing hot, unfamiliar even to himself. “You think you’re funny? That she doesn’t go to sleep overthinking every word?”

He’s not yelling. But his words cut. Vernon, always calm, always cool, is furious.

“She left without saying anything because she still didn’t want to ruin your trip,” he spits. “Even after what you said.”

One of them shifts uncomfortably. “We didn’t mean it like that—”

“Then say that to her,” Vernon snaps. “Because you didn’t apologize. You didn’t even notice. And she still cleaned up after you.”

He grabs his bag without another word, slinging it over his shoulder. As he reaches the door, he glances back once.

“You don’t deserve the way she shows up for you.”

Then he’s gone.

The airport is busy, buzzing with people and rolling suitcases, but it feels quiet in your head.

You sit at the departure gate with a coffee you haven’t touched, eyes glued to the screen in front of you but not seeing any of it. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. That you’d swallow the words and forget the sting. That you’d take the high road. That it was just a joke. Just a one-off.

But the tears come anyway silent, stubborn, and unwanted. A few slip down your cheeks before you can wipe them away. You look down, pretending to scroll through your phone. Swallowing hard. Maybe you are too sensitive. Too much.

“Hey.”

You turn and Vernon is there, hair a bit messy from rushing, breath slightly uneven. But his eyes? His eyes find yours instantly, like he’s been scanning the whole airport for you.

“You okay?”

You wipe your cheek fast and nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, pulling out a bottle of water and nudging it toward you. “Drink. You’ll get dehydrated before the flight.”

You huff out a tiny laugh through your nose. He smiles softly.

A beat passes. And then—

“I said something to them,” he says, eyes still facing forward. “They needed to hear it.”

Your heart skips.

You glance at him, surprised. “You did?”

He shrugs, lips pressed together. “They were out of line.”

You look away again, throat tight. “Thank you.”

It’s quiet for a while. Then you speak again, voice small. “I tried not to let it get to me.”

“I know,” he says gently. “But you don’t have to keep holding everything in.”

You turn your head toward him. His eyes are already on you. There’s no judgment in them. Just that same steady warmth. That quiet loyalty. And for the first time in days, you believe that might be enough.

That’s always been the thing, hasn’t it?

You take care of everybody.

The one with the tote bag full of things people forget. The one who checks in when someone’s gone quiet in the group chat. The one who makes sure everyone has a seat, a charger, a water bottle, an umbrella, a ride home.

And no one ever stops to ask who takes care of you.

But Vernon does.

Quietly. Always quietly.

He’s the only one who ever offers to carry your bag without making it a Thing. The only one who notices when you’re too tired to eat and splits his snack in half anyway. The only one who looks at you a little too long when everyone else is laughing—like he sees the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Even now, on the flight back to Seoul, when you’re not talking, not smiling, just sitting there with your hoodie drawn up and your face turned toward the window—he’s there.

Later, when your breath gets a little uneven and you lean against the window with your eyes closed, you feel the faintest pressure. his jacket draped gently over your lap, because the cabin’s cold and you didn’t think to bring one for yourself.

You want to say something. Thank him, maybe. But you’re so tired. Emotionally drained. So instead, you rest your hand on the jacket softly, and he lets you be.

Seoul is colder when you land.

The train ride to your apartment is mostly silent. The city rushes by in a blur, but your insides feel still. Heavy.

When you reach your stop, Vernon helps with your luggage without question. Follows you to your front door like he’s escorting you home from battle. He doesn’t say much, just stands in the hallway while you dig your keys out of your backpack.

You unlock the door. Step inside.

You turn to face him, and for a second, you don’t know what to say. Everything feels too big. Too raw. Too much. But Vernon gives you a soft smile. Not the kind that expects anything back. Just the kind that says I’m here.

“Get some rest,” he says gently.

You nod. “Thanks for… everything.”

He dips his head, like it’s nothing. Like you are everything.

And then he turns and walks down the hallway, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of your apartment, the click of the door behind you sounding louder than it should.

You drop your bags by the entryway. Walk into the living room. Just stand there.

Still.

And then it hits.

You cry.

Not a pretty cry. Not a polite one. But that deep, shaking, gut-wrenching kind of cry you only let out when you're finally alone. The kind that makes your knees weak. That burns through your chest. That leaves you breathless.

You cry for the way they joked like your feelings didn’t matter. For the way you didn’t stand up for yourself. For all the invisible work you always do—for people who rarely say thank you.

You cry because you’ve carried too much for too long.

In his own apartment across the river, Vernon lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He still has the group chat muted. Still hasn’t opened their messages.

His phone buzzes once. It’s you.

Just a short message.

You: Got home safe. Thank you.

He types and deletes a dozen replies. Settles on:

Vernon: Anytime

Because he means it. Always has. And maybe someday, you’ll let him mean more.

=

You didn’t want to go.

You really, really didn’t.

The group chat had gone back to business as usual, pretending nothing had happened during that trip. The way they do. Messages about some new restaurant downtown, someone’s birthday coming up, “let’s meet up for dinner!” with five different locations suggested and no actual plan in place.

You tried not to care. You really tried.

But somehow, you still ended up at the table.

You arrived a little late, walked into a half-chaotic mess of people talking over each other, the server looking mildly overwhelmed, and your friends sitting in mismatched seats someone forgot to reserve properly. Of course.

The energy was loud and frenzied, drinks already halfway drained. Everyone was laughing, tossing inside jokes back and forth like they hadn’t spent the last few weeks pretending you didn’t exist.

You slid into the only empty chair near the edge, giving a small smile to whoever noticed.

Which, really, was just Vernon.

He wasn’t expecting you.

He nearly choked on his drink when he looked up and saw you across the table—shoulders tucked in tight, that practiced expression on your face. Not cold. Just… unreadable.

It pissed him off.

Not you being there. But the fact that you were there, clearly uncomfortable, clearly not part of the laughter, and yet still showed up like you owed them something.

And the worst part?

They were still doing it.

“Oh my god, remember when she made us walk like, twenty minutes uphill just because she didn’t trust the taxi app?” “She probably had a printout of the directions and a backup.”

Someone snorted. “Bet she planned her funeral already.”

You didn’t say anything. Not a single word. You just poked at your food with your chopsticks. Vernon sat straighter in his seat. The noise of the room faded under the heat rising in his chest.

You didn’t deserve this. You never did.

He could feel it bubbling up, clawing up his throat. His jaw clenched tight, hands curling slowly under the table.

He waited for someone to say one more thing.

And of course—someone did.

“Honestly, you gotta admire the control, though. Like, girl probably schedules her breakdowns too.”

That was it.

Vernon pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape of wood on tile.

“Say that again.”

The table fell silent.

The guy blinked. “What?”

“I said,” Vernon’s voice was low and tight, “say it again. See what happens.”

Everyone stared. No one had ever seen this side of him. Chill, quiet, go-with-the-flow Vernon.

Not this version. Not fists-on-the-table, voice-laced-with-venom Vernon.

The guy gave a short laugh, unsure. “Bro, relax. It was a joke.”

“You think it’s funny to pick on someone who plans your whole life for you?” Vernon shot back. “Who lets you treat her like crap and still shows up for you?”

His voice rose a notch. “You don’t get to laugh at her just because she’s better at giving a damn than any of you.”

“Vernon—”

“No.” He stepped forward, eyes locked on the guy who made the last comment. “You act like you’re harmless, like your jokes don’t mean anything. But you made her cry. She went home and cried and none of you gave a single shit.”

The guy stood, chest puffed. “You gonna hit me over a joke, man?”

“I’ll hit you for disrespecting her.”

Chairs scraped. The tension crackled like live wires. A server peeked over warily from the kitchen.

You shot up from your seat before it could get worse.

You wrapped your hand around Vernon’s wrist, firm and grounding.

“Vernon,” you said quietly. “Don’t.”

His jaw was locked, shoulders tense, but he looked at you. Looked only at you. Your eyes didn’t plead. They just asked.

Please. Let’s go.

He exhaled hard through his nose. Backed down, barely. Without another word, he grabbed his jacket and stormed past the table, knocking over an empty glass.

You followed after him.

Outside, the night was cool, but your skin felt hot from shame and rage and everything in between.

He was pacing.

You stood there in silence for a moment before quietly saying, “You didn’t have to do that.”

He turned to you. “Yes, I did.”

You stared at him. “They’re not going to change.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, then softened a little. “I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it because I’ve had to watch you shrink yourself for people who don’t deserve even half of what you give. And I’m tired of it.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Then—barely a whisper—“You really would’ve hit him.”

He looked at you, voice steady. “If you hadn’t stopped me, yeah.”

You end up at a convenience store two blocks away, the fluorescent lights humming above you as you both crouch in front of the freezer aisle. You point to a box of ice cream sandwiches. Vernon grabs them. You throw in a bottle of banana milk. He grabs another one without asking.

When you leave, the air’s cooler, quieter. Seoul’s a little more forgiving this late—less honking, fewer crowds, just the buzz of neon signs and the occasional distant laugh.

You find an empty bench across from a closed bookstore and sit down, unwrapping your ice cream in silence. You glance at Vernon. He’s got his own sandwich, barely touched. He’s looking ahead, legs stretched out, jaw still tense.

Then, without looking at you, he says it.

“You should really stop hanging out with them.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re a poor excuse for friends,” he says bluntly, tearing a small piece of wrapper off the stick. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You huff out a dry laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve known them for years. Because we’ve shared so much. Because I used to think…” You trail off, sighing. “I used to think that was enough.”

Vernon finally looks at you. His gaze is soft, but steady. “Shared history doesn’t excuse bad treatment.”

You stare at your half-eaten ice cream.

“They’ve always joked around like that,” you mutter. “I guess I just… got used to it. Told myself it wasn’t personal.”

“It was personal.”

You swallow hard.

Vernon’s voice is quieter now, but firmer. “You don’t have to keep making space for people who don’t even notice when you’re hurting. You don’t owe them your silence.”

You blink fast. “I’m just tired of fighting.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I did it for you.”

You glance up.

He’s already watching you. Not intense. Not demanding. Just present. Solid. You look back down at your ice cream, now dripping slightly.

“I didn’t want you to get into a fight for me.”

“I didn’t want to watch you get torn apart again.”

Vernon nudges his shoulder lightly against yours. “Next time, let’s skip them. Just you and me. We’ll plan a trip. No chaos. No passive-aggressive jokes. Just real rest.”

You turn to him. “You’d let me plan every detail?”

He smirks. “I’d even carry your laminated itinerary.”

You laugh for real this time. It breaks something open and stitches something else in the same breath. You lean your head on his shoulder. It’s not a big moment, not a kiss, not a confession but it’s something.

You take another bite of your ice cream, the wrapper crinkling as it melts just a little too fast. It’s quiet for a moment. Just the soft hum of a streetlamp overhead and the buzz of a nearby convenience store sign flickering like it’s trying to give up for the night.

Then you say it. Real soft. Almost afraid to break the calm between you.

“...You don’t think it’s too much?”

Vernon turns to you slowly.

“What?”

“Me. The way I am. I know I can be intense. I plan everything. I stress over things people don’t even notice. I don’t do spontaneous well and I—” you breathe, “I get it if it’s annoying.”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a small, amused huff.

“You’re an INFJ, aren’t you?”

You blink. “How—?”

He laughs quietly, mouth tugging into that easy half-smile of his. “You plan everything down to the tiniest detail. You get antsy when we’re not on time. And you remember, like, everybody’s birthday—even when they don’t remember yours.”

You pull your knees up on the bench a little, sheepish. “You hate it, don’t you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

He leans back, stretching his legs again. “I’m an ENTP.”

You look at him, wide-eyed. “That... actually explains so much.”

“Right?” he chuckles. “I live in chaos. You plan for it.”

You raise a brow. “And that’s cool with you?”

Vernon nods, more serious now. “Yeah. It is. Because I get you. Even if they don’t.”

He nudges you gently with his elbow. “You’re not too much. You’re just too much for people who don’t know how to hold you.”

That hits something deep in your chest. Makes your fingers tighten a little around the melting ice cream stick.

He continues, softer, “They make you feel like you’re the problem, but you’re not. They just don’t know how to appreciate you. I do.”

You turn your face toward him slowly. He’s not smiling now he’s just looking at you. Honest. Steady.

“I notice everything you do,” he says. “Even the quiet stuff. Especially the quiet stuff.”

Your throat tightens again, for a completely different reason this time.

You want to say something—thank you, maybe. Or don’t look at me like that if you don’t mean it. But the words catch in your chest.

Instead, you just lean against his shoulder again, the space between you closing like it’s always meant to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “But next time, I get to build the packing list.”

He laughs, soft and warm. “Deal.”

And for once, your heart feels like maybe—just maybe—it’s safe here.

Later Vernon gets back to the apartment a little past midnight.

Quietly closes the door behind him, slipping off his sneakers with a tired exhale. The hallway’s dark, save for the faint glow of the living room lamp probably left on by accident. Or not.

He’s halfway into the kitchen, mind still halfway back on that bench with you, when he hears it.

“You were out late.”

Vernon jumps a little.

Seungkwan’s voice, dry as a desert and sharp as ever, floats in from the couch. He’s half-sprawled with a tub of yogurt in one hand and a throw blanket dramatically draped across his legs like royalty.

“Jesus, dude,” Vernon mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You scared me.”

“I live here,” Seungkwan says, deadpan. “Where were you? I called you twice.”

Vernon opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and leans against the counter. “Out.”

Seungkwan squints suspiciously. “Out. As in... out with someone?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you were just going to dinner with the group?”

Vernon takes a long sip. “I did.”

Seungkwan puts the yogurt down slowly. “...And?”

Vernon shrugs. “They were being assholes. Again.”

“Shocker,” Seungkwan mutters. “Let me guess. About her.”

Vernon nods. His voice is low now. “She was there.”

“Wait, seriously? After everything?”

“She looked like she didn’t even want to be.”

“And what did you do?” he asks, though he’s already half-smiling, like he knows.

Vernon sighs. “Almost punched one of them”

Seungkwan stares. “You almost punched someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Like. Fist raised?”

“Yeah.”

“In public?”

“Dude.”

Seungkwan breaks into a grin, then starts laughing. “Okay, wait—you—silent, unbothered Chwe Vernon almost got into a physical fight? That’s how deep it is?”

Vernon doesn’t respond right away. He just finishes the water, then tosses the empty bottle into the recycling bin.

“She stopped me,” he says eventually, softer.

Seungkwan tilts his head. “And then what?”

“We left. Walked around. Got ice cream. She… cried a little.”

Seungkwan frowns at that. “Again?”

“She’s holding too much in,” Vernon says quietly, staring at the counter. “Like she’s afraid if she says the wrong thing, everyone’s going to turn on her. So she keeps letting it happen.”

“She deserves better.”

“I know.”

Seungkwan narrows his eyes. “So what are you gonna do?”

Vernon looks up. Shrugs. But there’s a quiet kind of certainty behind it.

“Whatever she needs. However long it takes.”

Seungkwan leans back with a knowing smile. “That sounds dangerously close to a man in love, but I’m just gonna finish my yogurt and pretend you didn’t get soft on me.”

Vernon chuckles under his breath. “Thanks.”

He starts walking toward his room, but before disappearing down the hall, Seungkwan calls out one last thing:

“Hey, Vern.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the only one who ever sees her. Don’t let her forget that.”

Vernon’s grip tightens on the doorknob.

“I won’t.”

=

You almost don’t go.

When Vernon texts “Wanna grab lunch? Got some people I want you to meet.” you hesitate.

You read the message twice. Then again. He says “some people” like it’s no big deal, like it’s not enough to send your brain spiraling into 

What if they’re like the others? What if I don’t fit in? What if I’m too much again?

But it’s Vernon. So, you go.

The café he picked is warm and tucked in a quiet side street, all sunlit wood and gentle indie music. It smells like cinnamon and espresso the moment you step inside. You spot him right away baseball cap low, grey hoodie, that lazy lean against the back of the booth.

There are two others with him.

Vernon sees you and smiles instantly. Big. Like he’s genuinely happy to see you. It softens something in your chest.

“Hey,” he says, getting up as you approach. “You made it.”

He gestures to the two guys already mid-banter across the table. “This is Seungkwan,” he says, pointing to the one who’s got the loudest energy, expressive hands, eyes like he’s ready to fight or cry at any moment.

“And that’s Chan,” he adds, nodding to the younger guy beside him, bright smile and dimples for days.

Both of them look at you like they already like you.

“You’re the one,” Seungkwan says, dramatically clutching his chest.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“The planner! The woman Vernon nearly punched someone over!” Seungkwan beams.

Chan nods seriously. “You made him angry. That’s like watching a cat bark.”

You flush. “Oh my god.”

Vernon groans and rubs his face. “I literally told you not to make it weird.”

“Too late!” Seungkwan chirps. “Also, hi. I’m your new favorite friend.”

“Second favorite,” Chan corrects, sticking out his hand with a grin. “Nice to meet you. Finally.”

You laugh and it’s a little disorienting how easy it is to be around them. How warm they feel. Like a blanket fresh from the dryer.

You take the seat beside Vernon. “I feel like I’ve walked into a sitcom.”

“Welcome to our weekly chaos,” Seungkwan says, sipping his iced americano like it’s wine. “We’ve been interviewing new members. You might be overqualified.”

���You make itineraries?” Chan leans forward, curious. “We’ve been winging everything. Seungkwan once booked a trip on the wrong weekend.”

“Once,” Seungkwan says dramatically. “And Vernon didn’t notice either!”

“He doesn’t notice anything when he’s texting her,” Chan adds with a grin, eyes flicking to Vernon.

Vernon kicks him under the table. Hard.

“Ow! You saw that, right?” Chan gasps.

You raise an eyebrow. “Should I leave?”

“No!” all three of them say at once.

Then they break into laughter. Even Vernon, who looks red around the ears.

You end up staying longer than you meant to. The food’s good, but the company’s better. The conversation bounces like a ping-pong match, but no one talks over you. When you speak, they listen. When you pause, they wait.

And they don’t make you feel small.

At some point, Seungkwan leans over and whispers loudly behind his hand, “You know he talks about you, like, a lot, right?”

Chan nods solemnly. “It’s gross. In a cute way.”

Vernon mutters, “I literally hate both of you.”

You glance at him, and he’s smiling, half-embarrassed, half-fond. You don’t say anything. Just nudge his knee gently under the table.

He doesn’t move away.

Later, when the group disbands and you’re walking beside Vernon again, you bump shoulders lightly.

“They’re... really great,” you say quietly.

He nods. “Yeah. They are.”

“They made me feel welcome.”

“I wanted you to see what that felt like,” he says, voice softer now. “Real friends. Ones who get you.”

You stop walking for a second. Turn to him.

“Did you really talk about me that much?”

He looks down, smiling. “You know how I am.”

You don’t reply right away. You just let your hand brush against his as you walk again, casual but intentional.

And when he brushes back just once, you swear it feels like the start of something more.

=

It becomes a thing. Not officially. No one says it out loud. But it happens.

First, it’s another lunch the following week. Seungkwan finds a new tteokbokki place that’s “so spicy it’ll kill Chan and resurrect him for drama.”

Then it’s an evening in Hongdae because you found a hidden rooftop café online, and Vernon casually goes, “Let’s check it out?” like he didn’t already put a star next to it in your notes app.

And before you know it, it’s a weekly ritual.

Fridays, usually. Sometimes Saturdays, depending on schedules. Lunch or dinner, café hopping, escape rooms, indie bookstores, late-night walks with ice cream.

And every single time, you plan it.

At first, you tried to hold back. “Only if you guys are okay with it—” but they immediately shut that down.

“Are you kidding?” Seungkwan beamed the first time you made a color-coded itinerary. “You’ve got maps, budget breakdowns, snack stops—this is luxury living.”

Chan clutched your printed plan to his chest like it was gold. “I’ve never felt more seen.”

Vernon? He just smiled quietly to himself, watching you light up. Because this version of you—laughing, relaxed, thriving—he hadn’t seen you like this in a long time.

You’re not overthinking every move. Not flinching when someone interrupts. Not shrinking.

Because this time, when you hand over a checklist or suggest a new plan, they cheer. They let you be you and no one makes you feel like it’s too much.

You’re glowing. Not in a cliché way. In that real, unshakable way that happens when someone is finally, finally allowed to breathe.

Seungkwan takes a sip of his soda and leans over to Vernon with a grin. “She’s the glue now. You know that, right?”

“She’s always been the glue,” Vernon says softly, gaze still on you. “Just finally sticking somewhere that matters.”

Chan looks up from the itinerary, chewing a fishcake skewer. “You still haven’t told her, huh.”

“Told her what?” Seungkwan sings, way too loud.

Vernon rolls his eyes. “Eat your lunch.”

But his heart? Yeah. It’s gone.

After dinner that night, the four of you end up walking along the river. It’s breezy, lights reflecting off the water, music from a nearby busker floating in the air.

Vernon walks beside you, hands in his pockets, a quiet smile on his face as you point out constellations on your stargazing app.

“Thanks,” you say suddenly, eyes still on the sky.

“For what?”

“For this. For them. For letting me... take up space.”

He looks over at you.

“You don’t take up space,” he says. “You make it better.”

You glance at him. A beat passes. The moment sits between you—warm, unspoken.

And he doesn’t say it—not yet but he thinks it, loud and certain:

You finally found a place where you belong and he plans to stay right there beside you.

=

It’s one of those hangout days where it ends up just being the two of you.

Chan had practice. Seungkwan had brunch with his mom. You’d offered to reschedule, but Vernon just shrugged.

“Still down if you are.”

So here you are, walking along a quiet street in Seongsu after a café stop, your shared iced latte nearly gone, the sun dipping low and mellow. The city feels hushed. Slower. Like the universe gave you both permission to breathe.

You’re mid-rant about a recent article you read something about urban design and too-narrow sidewalks and he’s just listening, nodding along, quietly amused, when he suddenly stops walking.

“Oh,” he says, reaching into his tote bag. “Almost forgot.”

You pause too, watching as he digs around like he’s misplaced something. Then he pulls out a small paper bag—neatly folded at the top, sealed with a little sticker.

He holds it out toward you, nonchalant.

You blink. “...What’s this?”

He shrugs. “Something I saw and thought you might like.”

You take it cautiously, fingers brushing his for half a second.

Inside:

– a set of pastel highlighters

– a notepad with a grid layout and tear-away sheets

– sticky tabs in different colors

– a pen you’ve actually mentioned in passing before, weeks ago, during that time you reorganized Chan’s notes “for fun”

You press your lips together, trying to laugh it off. “I’m so predictable, huh?”

“No,” he says gently. “You’re just you. And I pay attention.”

You look back down at the bag. At the kind of gift that isn’t about money or grand gestures. It’s the kind that says, I see how you love things. I see what matters to you.

“Most people wouldn’t think this kind of stuff is a gift,” you say quietly, still turning the pen between your fingers.

“Most people don’t know you like I do.”

You look up at him. He’s watching you, eyes warm. No teasing. No pretense. Just Vernon, seeing you as you are.

To be loved is to be known. And right now, you feel more known than ever.

“Thank you,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles again, looking down with a shy little nod. “Anytime.”

=

You don’t know what kind of night it is exactly but it feels like something’s about to shift.

You’re sitting side by side on the bench outside that tiny bookstore you stumbled across months ago. It’s closing time. The shutters are half-down, the city behind you moving at half-speed.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet for how fast your heart is beating.

Vernon’s been acting strange all evening. Not in a bad way—just different. Fidgety. A little quiet, but not like he doesn’t want to be around you. More like... he’s thinking about every word before he says it.

You thought maybe he was tired.

But now, sitting here, he suddenly speaks.

“Hey.”

You glance at him. “Hm?”

He’s looking down at his hands, twisting a ring on his finger.

“I’ve been thinking about saying something for a while,” he says, voice low.

You blink. “Okay…”

“And I don’t want to ruin anything. But I also don’t want to keep pretending it’s not there.” He finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something about his eyes makes your breath catch.

“I like you,” he says, steady. “I’ve liked you. For a long time.”

The world slows. Everything narrows to that one moment.

You blink again. “...Me?”

He lets out a breath half laugh, half disbelief. “Yeah. You.”

There’s this pause, you could hear the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

“You like me?” you say it again, like you’re still waiting for someone to call it a prank.

Vernon’s brows furrow softly. “Why do you sound surprised?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again.

“I just— I mean, I’m not—” You fumble for the right words. “I’m the background person. The one who makes sure the train’s on time. The one people tolerate, not… choose.”

His jaw tightens. Not in anger, just in that way he gets when you say something too harsh about yourself.

“You’re not in the background to me,” he says gently. “You’ve never been.”

You swallow hard.

“I notice everything,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper now. “How you always walk on the outside of the sidewalk. How you write to-do lists on receipts when you forget your planner.”

You feel your throat close. A little overwhelmed. A lot stunned.

“I like all of it,” he says. “I like you.”

You stare at him, cheeks warm, blinking fast.

Then, so softly it almost doesn’t come out: “...What do I do now?”

He smiles, lopsided and nervous. “Whatever you want.”

You reach for his hand. He blinks down, surprised, as your fingers intertwine with his. Carefully. Intentionally.

There’s a breeze that plays with your sleeve as you walk home side by side, your fingers still lightly laced with Vernon’s like you’re both afraid letting go might undo the whole moment.

Your heart is still doing the absolute most.

He’s quiet, humming something under his breath, a little smile playing on his lips. And then suddenly he laughs. A quiet, amused kind of laugh.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, tell me.”

“Just remembering something.”

You stop walking. “What?”

He looks down at you with that annoyingly soft expression and says, “You. Earlier. Asking me what to do.”

You blink. Then it hits you.

“I— okay, wait—”

He laughs again, holding his hands up like I surrender.

“I just never thought I’d hear those words from you, of all people,” he says teasingly. “Planner of all things. Master of logistics. Keeper of backup umbrellas.”

“I panicked!” you protest, blushing furiously now. “That was a very high-stakes situation, Vernon.”

“It was adorable,” he says, still smiling, not even trying to hide it.

“Oh my god.” You hide your face behind your hands. “Forget I said it. Erase it. We’re moving on.”

“Nope,” he says easily, nudging your arm. “I’m keeping it. Framing it, even.”

You peek at him through your fingers, pouting. “You like me and you’re already bullying me?”

“It’s part of the package,” he says with a shrug. “Affection comes with teasing. You’ll adjust.”

You drop your hands and try to glare, but your face is so hot there’s no strength behind it. “You’re really enjoying this, huh?”

“Very much.”

You huff, but there’s no real heat behind it.

And then so quietly, like you’re sneaking it past your own fear you mumble, “...Still kinda don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”

He looks at you. Not laughing now. Just that soft, patient expression that makes you feel steady even when your brain is all jittery.

“That’s the best part,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

You glance up at him.

“Whatever this turns into,” he says, “I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together.”

Your stomach does that little flip again. The sweet kind. The oh no I really really like him kind.

The quiet stretch of road back to your place is familiar same storefronts, same flickering lamplight, the same gentle hum of the city at rest. 

But tonight, it feels like you’re walking through something brand new.

Your hand’s still in his. Warm. Solid. Safe. And still, your mind won’t stop spiraling.

It’s been doing backflips since he said he liked you. Since you saw it in his eyes that this wasn’t a sudden crush, or a maybe. He meant it. He’s been meaning it.

And that’s the part that both thrills and terrifies you.

You stare down at the sidewalk, shoes scuffing the edge of a manhole cover, and finally say

“What if I’m bad at this?”

He glances over, slowing his pace without saying a word.

You keep talking, voice softer now. “Like… what if I mess it up? What if I start overthinking and pulling away? What if I don’t say the right thing at the right time? Or I get too much, or too quiet, or… I don’t know.” You exhale. “What if you realize I’m not who you thought I was?”

You can feel the knot twisting in your chest as the words tumble out. They’ve been sitting there since he confessed. unspoken fears, dressed up in the familiar clothes of doubt.

He stops walking. Gently tugs your hand so you stop too.

You look up at himand he’s already watching you. Quiet. Calm.

Then he says, with that low voice that always grounds you:

“Then I should’ve realized it back then.”

You blink. “What?”

“If any of that was true,” Vernon says, “I should’ve figured it out ages ago. When we were just friends. When you made me tea on the day I felt unwell, and didn’t ask anything—just sat beside me until I could breathe again.”

You stare, stunned.

“When you organized that trip for people who didn’t deserve half your effort, and you still smiled the whole time. When you remembered I liked my fries extra crispy and always gave me yours.” 

He laughs a little, quietly. “Even when you pretend you’re not paying attention, you do. All the time. And I noticed.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in soft, but firm:

“I’ve asked myself over and over again, if this feeling was just a phase. If I was imagining it. If maybe I was just grateful for your kindness. But no matter how I tried to shake it off, it stayed.”

He steps closer now. Just slightly. Enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“And after everything, after watching you break your back trying to keep people together, after seeing you cry quietly in the corner of a plane, after you still offered kindness to the people who hurt you… I still liked you.”

Your heart is thundering in your ears now. He’s so close and so certain.

He softens, tilts his head. “So if you’re scared? That’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to know how to do everything.”

He squeezes your hand, gentle.

“You just have to let me try. Let me stay.”

There’s a lump in your throat now—too full of all the things you never thought someone would say to you.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you whisper.

“You won’t,” he says without hesitation. “You couldn’t.”

You look at him, eyes stinging. “Even if I’m awkward and nervous and bad at expressing things—”

“I like awkward,” he says, smiling. “I like nervous. I like you. The whole version, not the polished one.”

You breathe in shakily, then exhale.

And when he steps forward just a little more, not to kiss you, not to rush you, but just to stand there with you, forehead almost touching you think maybe this is what love feels like.

Not fireworks. Just someone standing beside you and meaning it.

You whisper, barely audible, “Okay.”

And that’s all he needs.

The moment Vernon leaves, the door clicks shut behind him, and you stand frozen in the middle of your apartment.

Still.

For like, three whole seconds.

And then Pure chaos.

“Oh my god.”

You spin around like you’re suddenly being chased by the reality of it. Hands in your hair. Mouth wide open. Brain looping on one single sentence:

“He likes me. He likes me?”

You stop in your hallway, stare at your own reflection in the mirror.

“He likes me. Vernon. Chwe Vernon. With the hoodie collection and the soft voice and the jawline of doom. That Vernon??”

You cover your face and squeal. Loud. Like an actual sound leaves your body that would make Seungkwan proud.

You start pacing, then stop, then walk in a tiny circle before flopping face-first onto your couch. You let out a muffled scream into your cushion.

“He likes me. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

Then you sit up straight again. Eyes wild. “Do I have snacks? I need snacks. I need to walk this off. Or run. Or call someone. NO, no, I’m going to act normal. Chill. Cool.”

You stand up, then do a little spin and hop on your feet. A giggle escapes before you can stop it. Then another. And then you’re skipping toward your kitchen like some sort of rom-com heroine with no dignity left.

“He likes me,” you say to your fridge. “I can’t even function right now.”

=

It’s not like anything exploded into existence after the night he confessed. There was no montage of kissing in the rain, no fireworks, no whirlwind declarations.

It just…unfolded. Softly. Like the way morning sunlight creeps into a room slow, warm, and steady.

You and Vernon take your time. No pressure. No countdown. No expectations. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t pull or tug or ask for more than you can give.

A few weeks turn into a month. Then two. And everything about this still feels new but safe.

You still get shy sometimes. Still overthink your texts before sending them. Still have those moments at night where you stare at the ceiling wondering what if he changes his mind.

But then he’ll send you a picture of something you like—an art book, a row of color-coded pens, a storefront you mentioned once in passing.

He has that effect on you. He doesn’t erase your anxiety he just sits with it. Holds space for it. And you.

To everyone else, he’s still Vernon.

Cool. Collected. Half-smiling at best. Stoic to the point people think he’s either tired or just doesn’t care.

But you know better.

Because when he’s with you— He softens.

You’ll be walking side by side, and he’ll just quietly link his pinky with yours like it’s second nature.  He never makes a big deal about it. He never even looks down. But he does it. Every time.

Or when you two are ordering at a café, you’ll rest your cheek against his shoulder while you wait in line. Absently, just because he’s taller and warm and right there and his breath will catch.

He’ll stay still. Just barely lean into you. Pretending like it’s nothing while every cell in his body is screaming.

Chan caught it once. The pinky thing.

“Hyung.” he said across the table, grinning like he just discovered treasure. “Did you know your face literally lights up when she does that?”

Seungkwan, ever dramatic, gasped. “He smiled with teeth. With teeth! Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

Vernon just rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Do you guys want to be in a relationship with me, or what?”

But he was smiling quietly, shyly, and genuinely the rest of the day.

And you, well… you don’t even notice the things you do to him.

The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. You get so animated, hands moving, voice rising in excitement. 

Vernon just watched you the whole time like he was memorizing the sound of your voice.

You always look at him like he matters. Like you trust him  Like you actually see him and not just the chill guy with the quiet voice and dry wit.

One time, you caught him looking at you like that, like he was storing your expression in a vault.

You blinked. “What?”

He shook his head slowly. “Just. You’re really something when you talk like that.”

You blushed, immediately covered your face with your hands. “Stop watching me!”

He chuckled under his breath. “Impossible.”

=

And maybe this thing you have this slow, quiet, real kind of love  isn’t loud. It doesn’t demand attention.

But it’s in the details.

In the pinkies that wrap together when no one’s looking. In the way he lets you rest your cheek on him without moving a muscle.  In the way you ramble about planner tabs and obscure exhibitions while he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world.

And maybe you were scared. Maybe you still are.

But it’s different now. Because someone stayed. Because someone knows you down to your smallest habits and still chooses to come closer.

Every single time.

=

You’re both sitting at your usual spot in your usual café—same corner table, same window view, same half-sipped drinks.

You’re leaned in just slightly, talking animatedly like you always do when you’re telling a story. He’s watching you with that soft, half-smiling gaze of his, elbow on the table, chin propped on his hand.

You’re in the middle of describing an exchange you had earlier that day—something with a coworker who was being weirdly dramatic over nothing.

“And I told her—verbatim, I swear—I was like, yeah okay, my boyfriend has that exact thing and it works fine, but she was acting like I’d just personally insulted her entire family tree—”

You don’t even notice it until you see Vernon blink once. Then slowly tilt his head. That little pause in the air.

Your words screech to a halt.

Your brain replays it.

My boyfriend.

Oh no.

 Oh no oh no oh no—

You freeze mid-sip of your drink, straw hovering near your lips.

“...Did I just—?” you ask in a small voice.

Vernon’s smile starts slow. Very slow. Dangerous. “Yeah.”

“I— oh my god.” You slap your hand over your face. “I didn’t mean— I mean I did mean— but I didn’t— like, I wasn’t trying to make it a big deal—”

He lets out a soft laugh. “So I’m your boyfriend now?”

You peek at him through your fingers, mortified. “Technically… I guess?”

“You guess?” he repeats, amused. “Bold.”

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. “I knew I was gonna mess it up by saying it out loud. Ugh. I had a whole mental plan to bring it up in a calm, adult way. Maybe with a PowerPoint.”

He laughs again low and warm and fond.

“I mean,” he says, sipping his drink like he’s not enjoying this way too much, “I’ve been calling you my girlfriend in my head for weeks.”

You snap your head toward him. “What.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “You think I was just linking pinkies with random people on the sidewalk?”

You stare, completely thrown off your axis.

“I can’t believe you’re making this look so smooth,” you mumble.

“I’m just enjoying watching you short-circuit,” he says, grinning. “It’s cute.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he says, matter-of-fact.

You sink into your chair with a groan. “This is so embarrassing.”

He bumps your knee gently under the table. “Or maybe it’s just… official now.”

You never planned for this. Not this.

You planned a lot of things—trips, birthdays, color-coded spreadsheets for friend group outings, backup umbrellas, extra snacks, medicine pouches “just in case.” You planned for deadlines and detours, for how to get home when it rains, for everything and anything that could go wrong.

But you never planned for him. Never planned for soft glances across café tables, or pinkies that linked like they belonged there, or a boy with a quiet voice who somehow made you feel loud in the best way.

You didn’t expect to fall in love with someone who let you be everything.

Someone who didn’t flinch when you were overwhelmed. Someone who never once said you’re too much or you’re overthinking just stayed. Just looked at you like you made perfect sense.

You hadn’t scheduled this. Hadn’t put it in the calendar. Hadn’t made room for it on your carefully curated timeline of “things I’m probably never going to get right.”

But there he is.

Sitting across from you in a café, laughing quietly to himself while you rearrange the table to fit a slice of cake and two drinks. Wearing his hoodie and cap like always. 

Looking at you like there’s no place else in the world he’d rather be.

And you realize, in the stillness of it all: Maybe some things are better when they’re not planned.

Maybe love isn’t supposed to arrive with an itinerary. Maybe it just… slips in—soft, patient, and exactly when you’re not looking.

=

The two of you are wandering through a convenience store late at night. The kind of night where everything’s a little quieter, the fluorescent lights a little too bright, the city outside buzzing just enough to remind you that you’re not dreaming.

You’re not in any rush. Just strolling, side by side, fingers lazily linked as you wander through the aisles.

You’re holding a bag of honey butter chips in one hand and his hand in the other, debating internally between two different brands of milk soda. Vernon’s reading the ingredients on a pack of seaweed snacks like it’s fine literature.

You glance at him. Then tug gently at his hand.

He looks up immediately. “Yes, baby?”

Your heart stutters. He says it so casually. So softly. Like it’s the most natural word in the world.

You blink, brain buffering, a little thrown.

“...I forgot what I was gonna ask.”

He chuckles, moving closer. “You sure it wasn’t just to get my attention?”

You pout. “Maybe it was. Maybe I do want attention. You ever think about that?”

He hums, amused. “All the time.”

You lightly bump his shoulder. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, squeezing your hand gently, “here you are, dragging me to the ice cream freezer.”

You gasp dramatically. “I knew you were only here for the snacks.”

“Actually,” he says, leaning in a little, “I’m here because you texted me ‘I need seaweed, soda, and your face.’ In that order.”

You laugh so loud a student at the ramen aisle turns around. You don’t even care.

You end up picking both sodas. He pays, of course—always sneaks his card first, always brushes off your protests like it’s instinct.

Outside the store, you’re sitting on the curb sharing shrimp chips while he opens your soda for you without a word, handing it over like he’s done it a hundred times. Because he has.

And as you rest your head against his shoulder, cheek pressed softly into him while you crunch on snacks you didn’t need, he shifts a little to make it easier for you.

No teasing. No you’re heavy, no you’re clingy. Just him. Adjusting quietly. Letting you rest.

“You always let me be like this,” you mumble, not really expecting an answer.

But he says, “It’s not letting you. It’s loving you.”

You look up, heart turning to melted candy in your chest.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You smile, nudge his side. “Nothing. Just… you’re so good to me.”

He just shrugs. Leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, casual, like muscle memory.

“Of course I am,” he murmurs.

=

You’re sitting in his living room, curled up on the end of his couch, a blanket over your legs and your fingers tangled nervously around a mug of tea he made for you.

It’s been a weird day. One of those off ones where you couldn’t quite shake the heaviness from your shoulders. You’d brushed it off with a smile when he asked if you were okay earlier, but Vernon? He doesn’t miss much.

You’d been quiet. Too quiet.

And now, after he gently nudged you for the third time about why you flinched when he offered to pick up something for you, you finally said it.

“I don’t know. I just…”

You keep your eyes on the mug. “Sometimes I feel like it’s too much. Like I’m too much. And you being so—kind. It’s like I’m waiting for the catch.”

He doesn't respond immediately.

Instead, he sets his own mug down, shifts closer on the couch, one arm resting along the back just behind you. Not crowding. Just near.

Then he says it—calm, steady, but with something firmer behind it than usual.

“You go through lengths for everyone.” His voice is gentle, but it doesn’t waver. “You bend yourself backwards. You take care of people who don’t say thank you. You anticipate needs before anyone even says a word. You show up when no one else does.”

You glance at him, eyes already stinging.

“And then your boyfriend—” he adds with soft emphasis, “—treats you right. Does the bare minimum to love you back, and suddenly you think you don’t deserve it?”

You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand—not to cut you off, but to finish.

“I don’t do these things for you because I want you to owe me. I do them because you deserve softness. Always have. You just never had people who reminded you of that.”

Your breath catches.

Vernon leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now, eyes level with yours.

“You don’t need to earn love from me. You don’t have to do something for me to care.” He pauses. “I care because you’re you.”

You blink hard, staring down at your tea to keep it together.

“And if you need me to keep reminding you, I will,” he says. “Even if it takes years.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You’re making it really hard not to cry right now.”

“Cry,” he says without missing a beat. “I got tissues. And snacks.”

You laugh through the lump in your throat.

He nudges your leg with his gently. “I mean it. You don’t have to shrink to be loved. Not here. Not with me.”

Your shoulders finally drop. Just a little.

And then you lean into him, your body curling into his side as he wraps an arm around you with ease, like it’s instinct now.

And for once, you let yourself feel deserving.

You’re tucked into his side now, your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder, the scent of his hoodie and the warmth of his arm wrapped around you doing more to calm your nerves than any tea ever could.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance up at him, and say it with a half-smile:

“Must’ve done something right in my past life to deserve you.”

You say it jokingly, with that deflective lilt in your voice you always use when you mean something more than you want to admit.

You expect him to laugh. Maybe tease you for being cheesy. Maybe make a dumb joke about karma points.

But he doesn’t. He just blinks down at you slowly.

And then he leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours, so close you can feel his breath ghost over your lips. His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like it’s only meant for you.

“No,” he murmurs. “I think I’m the one cashing in karma.”

You blink. “What?”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb grazing gently along your arm.

“You think I don’t notice how you always put yourself last? How you fight for everyone and don’t ask for anything back?” His voice is soft but steady. 

“You think that kind of love goes unnoticed by the universe?”

Your throat goes tight again, but you try to play it off. “Okay, Buddha Vernon.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling just a little, but he doesn’t let go of the thread.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You always talk about deserving things like it’s something far away. Like love’s some exam you haven’t passed yet.”

He reaches down and gently hooks your pinky with his again—your little thing. Your grounding point.

“But I’m right here,” he whispers. “And you don’t have to earn me.”

You stare at him. Every word so matter-of-fact. So him.

You want to say something, anything. But the tears are already threatening to spill again, and you’re not trying to ugly cry twice in one night.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says into your hair. “Even if you say cheesy stuff like that again.”

You laugh through your tears. “It was cheesy, huh.”

“Very. But also cute,” he murmurs.

You hold onto him tighter. And in that quiet, with your heart full and your fears shrinking just a little, you think: Maybe it wasn’t just a lucky past life.

Maybe this is what it feels like to be loved right in this one.

You sniff once quietly and wipe your cheek on your sleeve, muttering, “God, I probably look like a mess right now.”

He laughs gently, the sound warm against the crown of your head then he leans back just enough to look at you.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You hesitate.

And then his fingers are there tilting your chin up with the lightest touch. His thumb brushing lightly at the corner of your mouth, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You blink up at him, breath caught in your throat, lips slightly parted. Your eyes flutter, confused by the closeness, the weight of the moment settling on your skin like silk.

He just gazes at you, his own eyes soft—so soft—like he’s seeing something precious.

Then, without a word, he leans in. Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Just closes the space.

And the kiss—

Oh.

It’s soft. Unbelievably soft. Like a secret. Like something he’s been holding onto for a long, long time and only now has permission to give.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and it’s enough to make your eyes flutter shut. It’s not even a full kiss at first more a question, a breath, a can I?

You answer with the way you lean in. The way your fingers curl into his hoodie like you’re anchoring yourself. Like if you don’t hold on, you’ll float straight into the clouds.

When he kisses you again deeper, still tender, still slow it makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way. Because it’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

You pull back just slightly, dazed, eyes blinking open like waking up from a dream.

He’s already looking at you.

You whisper, almost afraid to break the moment, “That was…”

He tilts his head. “Too much?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. That was… everything.”

He smiles and you swear the universe shifts a little to make space for this version of you, the one who gets to be loved like this.

And then he leans his forehead against yours again and murmurs, “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, your nose brushing his. “Worth the wait.”

=

The weather is perfect.

Blue skies, a soft breeze, not too hot—and you, in your sunniest mood, holding a folded map in one hand and a color-coded itinerary in the other, grinning like a kid on a field trip you planned yourself.

Which, let’s be honest you did.

“Okay, if we keep a steady pace and don’t get distracted by every single snack stall, we can hit the bookstore, the botanical garden, and the little record shop before sunset,” you declare, spinning around mid-step.

Behind you, Vernon blinks at you from under his baseball cap, already holding your tote bag 

He just smiles. “Lead the way, babe.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “You sure you’re okay being my pack mule for the day?”

He gives you a slow, deliberate nod and lifts the tote higher on his shoulder. “As long as I get to see you this excited, I’ll carry your whole apartment if I have to.”

You try to hide your smile and fail miserably.

The rest of the day is like a montage of every tiny thing that makes your relationship yours.

You pull him by the wrist into cafés and art stalls, pointing things out with bright eyes and wild hand gestures. You pause at every random wall mural, every weird-shaped plant, every shop that looks remotely cozy.

Vernon doesn’t complain once. Just follows, content, like this is exactly where he wants to be.

At the bookstore, he rests his chin on your shoulder while you flip through a poetry collection.

At the botanical garden, he lets you walk ahead so he can take secret pictures of you pretending to name plants like you're giving them personalities.

And when you finally sit down at a tiny street-side table with drinks and pastries, he watches you talk about the last place on your list, eyes full of fondness so soft it could break you in the best way.

You pause mid-sentence, catching the look.

“…What?”

He shrugs, reaching out to fix your hair where the wind had messed it. “Nothing. Just—you’re really something when you’re happy.”

You blink. Heart quietly imploding. “You make it really hard not to fall in love with you more every day, you know that?”

He grins, tapping your drink with his. “Right back at you, planner girl.”

Later, you’re walking home, the sun melting behind the buildings, your steps slower now but your hand still swinging lightly in his.

You turn to him and say, “Thanks for letting me drag you around today.”

He looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “You didn’t drag me. I followed you willingly. Like a golden retriever.”

You laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. “Do you ever get tired of being this good to me?”

 “Not even once.”

And as the city lights flicker on and you walk the rest of the way home in step with him, you think. You never planned for this but somehow it became the best thing you ever had.

A quiet, everyday kind of love. One that holds your tote bag, your extra jacket, and your whole heart.

All without being asked. Just because he can.

[kxsagi]

HIII this is my first time requesting so😭😭

I was wondering if you could make the bllk boys having a streamer gf who's basically the funniest person ever?? Like she lowkey glazes herself and then the next moment she starts cringing when she sees the "y/n core" videos on tiktok. (You can add any1, just plzlzlzlzl add Hiori, Karasu, n Kaiser!!)

Bonus prompt: maybe streamer reader who still stays up late at night to stream and her bf is so deadass tired of her yelling and screaming in the other side of the room that he comes there and stares at her while the door creaks slowly as she plays horror games. She gets jump scared by her ugly ahh bf /j

“𝐢’𝐦 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 *𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬*”

a/n: this had to be one of my favorite requests to write for

and i'm sorry i couldn't figure out a better title idea 💀

ft. hiori yo, karasu tabito, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, nagi seishiro

hiori yo

hiori didn’t even realize you were a streamer when he first met you. he just thought you were like, a social butterfly with a particularly aggressive discord server. 

then one night, he saw you on twitch – camera on, screaming over a boss fight, yelling “I GOT THAT DOG IN ME” before immediately dying. you threw your headset across the room. it was love at first sight. 

your duality confuses him so bad. you’ll be on stream going “guys i’m literally a divine being sent by the simulation to enlighten humanity with my content 😋” and then an hour later you’re doomscrolling tik tok whispering, “why did someone make a ‘me-core’ edit using ✨creepy reverb lana del rey audio✨… i don’t even own a taxidermy bunny.” 

hiori has a burner tik tok account where he just likes all your edits. he won’t admit it. but he does. 

if you stream late at night, he always gets up halfway through, rubbing his eyes, looking like a baby panda, and just mumbles “babe… pls… not the five nights at freddy’s mod again…” 

you get jump scared and scream, not because of the game, but because he’s standing in the dark doorway like a victorian child ghost. “you almost made me shit my chair, don’t do that!” “bed. now.” you whine until he drags you off cam by the hoodie. your viewers think it’s romantic. 

karasu tabito

karasu found your stream randomly one night and IMMEDIATELY followed because “wait… why is she kinda insane. i like that.” 

he joins your discord and bullies you lovingly in VC. “yo, did you just hype yourself up and then lose to a 12-year-old in valorant? L-stream, honestly.” “i’m literally god. i am the main character. i could seduce anyone, anytime.” “bold of you to say that while getting shot in the ass by a roblox avatar.” 

but he also unironically thinks you’re the funniest person ever. he clips your dumbest moments and adds meme captions before sending them in your friend group chat. 

every time you find a “[name]-core” tik tok you audibly gag. “WHO MADE THIS. WHY IS IT SLOWED + REVERB. WHY AM I STANDING IN A FIELD. WHY IS THE CAPTION ‘she was soft, but strong’-- I JUST STREAM MINECRAFT.” 

karasu’s like “nah, but they ate with that. that’s exactly your vibe.” he’ll even say that on stream just to watch you suffer. 

during horror streams, he intentionally opens the door and just stands there like a menace with a cup of water. you scream and almost die IRL. “WHY ARE YOU BUILT LIKE A LOUD JUMPSCARE???” “you love me 😌”

kaiser michael

kaiser is an attention whore. the second he found out you had a fanbase, he started doing PR. “this stream would be way better if you had a hot cohost, just saying.” “do you want to play or are you just here to inflate your ego?” “yes.” 

you constantly glaze yourself on cam like “i’m carrying this server. i’m so powerful. how do people even function without me,” and then kaiser strolls in behind you and goes, “hey guys, don’t believe her lies. she just got killed by a goat in-game.” 

your chat LOVES him and it pisses you off. “WHY are y’all saying ‘kaiser nation rise’?? this is MY stream!!” 

he deadass becomes a meme. someone edits him with villain music every time he enters your room while you’re playing horror games. 

you’re about to beat a boss when you hear the door go creeeeeak. kaiser leans in with the most punchable face asking, “need help, champ?” you throw your mouse. 

but also? he tucks you in when you pass out in your gaming chair at 2 AM, muttering “of course she passed out mid-stream again.” turns off your lights and sets an alarm for you. 

you wake up to a note that says “your villain made you breakfast, don’t get used to it 🌹” 

itoshi rin

rin hates stream culture. HATES. IT. he walked into your room one night and heard you go “i’m literally slay-coded and built like a tax return,” and just stood in the doorway like you were a stranger. “what the hell are you talking about.” “it’s for the brand, babe.” 

he’s always muttering under his breath when you’re live. like you’ll be gaming with the mic hot and rin’s just in the back going “why is she screaming like that. it’s a raccoon, not satan.” 

you scream again and he yells back, “IT’S NOT EVEN CHASING YOU.” 

chat lives for it. they call him “the offscreen hater,” and you know someone made a slowed-down tik tok of his blurry silhouette in the background of your cam with the caption “he doesn’t love the world, but he loves her.” you wanted to die. 

sometimes, he just opens your door mid-stream and doesn’t say anything. just stares. and leaves. you get scared every time. 

“guys my boyfriend just jumpscared me more than this entire horror game.” rin offscreen: “skill issue.” 

itoshi sae

sae’s your boyfriend, your mod, your stream saboteur. he’s not even subtle. 

he’ll donate to your stream under fake names like “bankruptcy enjoyer” or “ur bf’s hotter” and say things like “why does she act like she’s funny. someone humble her.” 

you know it’s him. he doesn’t even try to hide it. when you call him out, he just goes, “prove it. court of law style.” 

sae walks in when you’re in full hype mode yelling “I’M A NATIONAL TREASURE,” and he just raises an eyebrow like, “they lied to you.” 

he takes photos of you mid-stream while you’re frozen mid-yell or making some cursed expression and sends them to the group chat. “can someone please take her internet away.” 

during your horror streams, he’ll open the door just to toss something into the room, like a pillow or sock, and you’ll scream and fall off your chair. he’s laughing like a proud gremlin. “you’re the worst!” “and yet you keep letting me in.” 

isagi yoichi

isagi is the sweetest mod to ever exist. he’s there in chat cleaning up spam, pinning your donation goals, hyping you up like “SHE’S GOT THIS 🔥” every time you enter a boss fight. 

he also helps you review VODs and timestamps your funniest moments. he’s invested in your stream like it’s the world cup. 

you’ll be gassing yourself up like “i’m the blueprint, i’m the moment, i’m the–” and isagi’s in chat like “YOU ARE 🫡.” 

but then… you find a “[name]-core” video with melancholic lofi and black-and-white clips of you saying things like “i think my toaster’s gaslighting me” and you spiral. 

isagi tries so hard not to laugh. “i mean… it is kinda deep if you think about it.” 

he’s so sleep-deprived because of your night streams. there was one time you screamed during a horror game and he ran in half-asleep, baseball bat in hand, yelling “WHO’S HERE?! WHO HURT YOU?!” 

it was just a pixel zombie. you peed a little from laughing. 

shidou ryusei

shidou would rather die than miss one of your streams. he doesn’t even care about the gameplay, he’s there for the chaos. 

every time you start acting delulu, he matches your energy like “YEAH SHE’S A GODDESS, ALL HAIL HER.” “i will smite you, shidou.” “okay mommy 🥴” 

he hijacks your streams. if you don’t lock your door, he’s bursting in with a red bull and climbing onto your bed in the background like a jungle gym. 

one time he scared the life out of you by opening your window mid-stream while you were playing a horror game. you screamed and accidentally headbutted your mic. 

chat was crying laughing. someone made a gif of it and called it “shidou jumpscare arc.” 

he once made a “[name]-core” video entirely in capcut. it had stick figures, comic sans captions like “crazy but hot,” and explosion sound effects. it went viral. you’ve never recovered. 

nagi seishiro

nagi watches your stream like it’s bedtime ASMR. you’ll be yelling and raging and he’s just lying there on your floor with a blanket over his head, unbothered. “mm, background noise. nice.” 

he likes when you hype yourself up. you’ll go “i’m literally cracked” and he’ll mumble, “you are. carry me next game, yeah?” 

if you’re still streaming when he’s trying to sleep, he’ll get up slowly, peek into your room like a zombie, and just stand in the doorway. not blinking. silent. “is… is that my boyfriend or the grudge?” you get scared every single time. he finds it funny in a deadpan way. “you’re so jumpy. wow. embarrassing.” 

one night you were crying-laughing at a “[name]-core” tik tok where someone said “her voice sounds like unmedicated lightning,” and nagi, without even opening his eyes, went, “that’s kinda accurate.” 

you slapped him with a pillow mid-stream. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[nekonaps0]

No kisses!? Pt2

✦part1

✦fem!reader

✦characters: first years

✦how would the boys react to a minor silly argument that leads to their partner refusing to kiss them for days

Ace Trappola

The Argument:

It all started with snacks.

You’d been saving the last of your favorite sweets, those limited-edition chocolate covered strawberries that vanish from the cafeteria in minutes for days. You finally placed one in the fridge with a sticky note that read:

“Mine. Touch it and die ♥”

Guess what Ace did?

He ate it.

Not because he didn’t see the note… he laughed at it, then unwrapped it.

He came sauntering into your room with the empty wrapper and a shameless grin.

“Hey, babe. That strawberries? 10 outta 10.”

Your face dropped. “You ate it?”

“…Y-Yeah?” His smirk faltered. “Wait—was that, like, a big deal?”

You crossed your arms. “It had my name on it.”

“I thought that was a joke!”

“It said die.”

“Okay… but like, in a flirty way?”

“No kisses for a week.”

“WHAT?! Babe, come on, don’t play like that!”

You didn’t play. For three days, Ace got zero kisses. Not on the cheek. Not on the forehead. Not even the usual “hey babe” lip peck between classes.

He was suffering.

Day 1:

He tries to be smooth.

“Okay, okay, I get it, I’m a thief in the night. But it was just a strawberry, not your soul.”

You just raise an eyebrow. “My strawberry was my soul.”

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest. “She’s ruthless.”

Still, no kiss.

Day 2:

He tries being dramatic.

He flops dramatically on the lounge couch where you're reading.

“I’m dyin’. Deprived. Parched. Kisses are my life force.”

You glance at him. “Then maybe next time, don’t eat my life force.”

“…She’s still mad.”

Fuck…

Day 3:

He goes full Ace mode: chaos and desperation.

You open your locker to find it stuffed with chocolate covered strawberries. Like… at least twenty. All different flavored chocolate, some of which aren’t even sold on campus. Some are heart shaped. Some have your initials on them. One says:

“I messed up but your lips are my favorite dessert <3”

He's behind you with a sheepish grin, holding a hand made apology coupon that says:

“Redeemable for One Very Sorry Boyfriend Who Will Buy You Snacks Forever.”

You blink. “Ace… where did you get all these?”

“I may or may not have pestered Cater into using his phone to order every chocolate covered strawberries in a 30-mile radius.”

“So you used Cater card…You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m your ridiculous,” he says, stepping closer. “Come on, just one kiss? I promise I won’t touch your snacks again. Swear on Cater card.”

You eye him suspiciously… then finally relent, cupping his cheek.

“…You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Your lips meet in a kiss that’s just a little too long for the hallway, but you don’t care. When you pull away, he grins.

“Guess I found a better flavor after all.”

“Ace.”

“What? I meant your lips—ow! Okay, okay! No more flirting until after snack hour!”

Deuce Spade

The Argument:

It all began with a bet.

Deuce, proud and competitive, was arguing with Ace during lunch over who could carry more books across campus in one trip.

You, being both concerned and amused, said gently,

"Deuce, you know your back’s going to give out trying to show off. Let Ace begin dumb and play macho."

But Deuce took that as a challenge.

He puffed out his chest. “I’m just as strong! I could carry triple that if I wanted!”

Ace, never missing a chance to stir the pot, smirked and said, “Hey, your girl doesn’t think you’ve got what it takes!!”

So Deuce, in a tragically misguided moment of pride, looked you in the eye and blurted:

“She nags me like my mom sometimes, honestly.”

…

The moment the words left his mouth, Deuce froze.

You blinked, wide eyed. “Excuse me?”

“I—! I didn’t mean—!! I just—!”

You held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t even try. No kisses for you. Not until I stop being your mom.”

Deuce turned red immediately. “No! I didn’t mean you’re like my mom—I mean—not that my mom isn’t great—but—”

Too late. You were already walking away, and Deuce was dying inside.

Day 1:

Deuce tries to fix it with logic.

“I didn’t mean ‘nag,’ I meant like, you care! You’re attentive! Loving! Supportive!”

You just sip your drink, unfazed.

“…Like my mom. But in a romantic way?? …Wait. No. That sounds weird. I take that back.”

Day 2:

He gets desperate.

He sends you a note folded. When you open it, it just says:


“You’re not like my mom. I love you. …Please don’t kill me.”

You smile. But still no kiss.

Day 3:

You catch him pacing outside your classroom like he’s preparing for a court trial. When you walk past, he jumps.

“I have a speech!”

“Oh?”

He stands straight and holds a bouquet of flowers, your favorite blooms.

“I, Deuce Spade, solemnly swear never to compare you to a maternal figure again, especially in the context of arguments involving lifting heavy objects. You’re beautiful, independent, clever, and your concern for my safety is the sweetest thing in the world. Please… can I have a kiss now?”

You eye the bouquet, the little bead of sweat on his forehead, the effort he’s clearly put in.

“…You’re lucky I like flowers.”

You tug his tie and press a kiss to his lips, catching him completely off guard. When you pull away, his face is red and dazed.

“W-Wait does that mean the ban is over?!”

“Only if you carry my books now.”

He grins. “Deal.”

Jack Howl

The Argument:

It started during training.

You were sitting on the bleachers, cheering him on while he trained with Deuce. Jack, ever the hard worker, was pushing himself harder than usual, even though he’d already pulled a muscle the day before.

You called out, “Jack, slow down! You’re going to make your injury worse!”

But instead of stopping, he growled back:

“I can handle it. I don’t need you telling me how to train.”

…

Silence.

You slowly lowered the water bottle in your hand. “Oh. Okay then.”

Jack froze, ears twitching. But by the time he turned around, you were already walking away with your head held high.

“No kisses for stubborn wolves,” you muttered.

Day 1:

Jack thought maybe you'd cool off.

You did not.

You gave him your usual warm smile… but when he leaned down for a kiss after walking you to class, you just patted his head like a dog.

His tail drooped.

Day 2:

Jack tried to apologize.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he muttered after practice. “You were just worried, and I acted like a jerk.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? But you’re a big boy, you know what you doing so it’s better if I keep my mouth shut.”

His ears dropped. “I need you to care. I like that you do. I just… I didn’t want you to think I’m weak.”

You gave him a thoughtful nod… but when he leaned in again… no kiss.

Just a smug little smile from you.

“Then be strong and take your punishment, big boy.”

Day 2 after school:

Jack snapped.

He cornered you by your locker after school, his tail puffed up and wagging with nervous energy.

“I don’t care if you’re still mad… well, I do… but listen,” he said quickly. “I wanna be the one who keeps you safe and you can rely on. I wanna be strong for you and I don’t want you to worry about a thing, specially about me. I want to be the only one you kiss. Not having your affection is is pretty annoying...”

You laughed, arms folded. “Maybe you shouldn’t have acted like a lone wolf then. I care about you because I love you. You don’t have to do everything by yourself, we’re a team.”

He growled lightly, more of a frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry...”

Your heart melted. You reached up and tugged his shirt gently.

“You big puppy.”

You kissed him sweetly, and his tail wagged like mad behind him.

When you pulled back, he grinned wide and whispered, “You forgave me?”

“Mhmm. But you’re not allowed to train injured anymore.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Epel Felmier

The Argument:

You were both sitting together under a tree outside NRC after classes, sharing apple slices and talking about the upcoming school event. Epel was getting visibly annoyed about the event’s dress code, especially since Vil was insisting the boys wear tailored suits.

You giggled and said, “You’ll look cute in a suit, though. You always look good. I trust in Vil taste.”

That’s when Epel, clearly embarrassed, blurted: “I ain’t tryin’ to look cute, alright?! I ain’t some doll for you to dress up! Is it really that hard to understand?!”

You blinked at him, your smile dropping just slightly. “Oh. Okay then.”

You stood up, brushing your skirt off. “Just to be clear, I don’t see you as a doll I just tried to compliment you. Then sorry, maybe you don’t need my affection.”

“No—wait—!! I didn’t mean you, I meant—!”

Too late. You were already walking off, apple slice in hand, lips sealed literally from that moment on.

Day 1:

Epel pouted all through lunch. He scooted close to you, bumping your shoulder.

“C’mon… I didn’t mean it like that.”

You turned your head, putting an apple slice in his mouth, no kisses, no sweetness.

He stared at the apple like it personally betrayed him.

Day 2:

You found a folded note in your locker. It smelled faintly apple. It said:

“Sorry for being a dang idiot. You can call me cute. You can call me whatever you want. Can we be good again? I’ll even wear the stupid tie Vil gave me.”

You smiled… but you still didn’t kiss him.

Epel screamed into his pillow that night.

At that point Rook and Vil started to worry about him…

Day 3:

He snapped.

You opened your dorm room to find Epel standing there in the most overly cute outfit you’d ever seen. Matching suspenders, a ruffled bowtie, and a little hat balanced on his head, from Vil or someone.

“Alright! Fine! I’m adorable! Are you happy now?!” he shouted, cheeks blazing pink. “I’ll be the damn poster boy for cute if it means you forgive me!”

You just stand there… in pure shock… then burst out laughing… he looked so grumpy and pouty, yet dressed like a fairytale boy.

“You’re ridiculous, I love you the way you are, I didn’t have to do that” you said between giggles. “Omg my stomach hurts!”

“I’ am feeling ridiculous right now!” he grumbled. “It’s been three days. You been denying affection from me for THREE DAYS LONG”

You took a step closer, cupped his face, and kissed him slowly, sweet and warm.

He melted into it, hat falling off.

“About time,” he sighed, finally relaxing. “Next time I say somethin’ stupid, just kiss me to shut me up, alright?”

You smiled. “Deal.”

Sebek Zigvolt

The Argument:

It all started with Malleus…

Sebek, as always, was ranting with pride about his Young Master’s brilliance while the two of you were walking together after class. You loved that he was passionate… but it had been half hour straight of Malleus this, Malleus that, and you finally said:

“I know you love Malleus, Sebek, but you’re dating me, remember?” You chuckled lightly.

He whipped around with wide eyes. “I—HOW DARE YOU COMPARE YOURSELF TO THE YOUNG MASTER—!!”

You blinked. “So I’m not even equal to him?”

“I—THAT ISN’T WHAT I MEANT—YOU’RE MISINTERPRETING—!!”

You huffed, stepping away. “Fine. Then maybe you should ask Mal for kisses for now on, no kisses for you.”

Sebek, red in the face and fuming, yelled after you, “DO NOT PUNISH ME WITH AFFECTIONAL WITHDRAWAL!”

(Malleus sneezing somewhere)

Day 1:

He was twitchy. Pacing. Overly stiff in class. Every time your eyes met, he seemed to expect you to smile and kiss his cheek like usual, and every time you didn’t, he bit his lips in frustration, followed by him shouting internally.

Lilia smirked at him during lunch.

“Trouble in paradise, Sebek?”

“IT IS A TEMPORARY DOMESTIC CHALLENGE!”

Oh yeah… Lilia enjoys the show

Day 2:

He stood in front of your dorm room door with a bouquet of oddly aggressive looking green flowers and a hand written letter that began with:

“To My Most Dazzling, Fierce, and Noble Beloved (Who is Definitely Not Inferior to the Young Master)…”

He knocked like a soldier reporting for duty. When you opened the door, he held the flowers out like a weapon and declared,

“YOUR IMPORTANCE TO ME TRANSCENDS RANK, STATUS, AND EVEN ROYALTY! NOW PLEASE—FOR THE LOVE OF THE GREAT SEVENS, FORGIVE ME!”

You took the flowers and smiled. “Nope.” Then you closed the door.

He made a sound like a kicked puppy…

Day 3:

You walked into the training room and found Sebek mid monologue… to a sparring dummy… rehearsing what he’d say to you. Loudly. Passionately.

You leaned against the doorframe and listened.

“…AND EVEN IF I HAVE SWORN MY LIFE TO THE YOUNG MASTER, IT IS YOU WHO I THINK OF BEFORE I SLEEP! IT IS YOU WHO MAKES MY HEART BEAT LIKE A WAR DRUM!”

You snorted softly. “Wow. That dummy must feel so loved.”

Sebek turned around, looking like he wanted to sink through the floor.

“I—I didn’t know you were—!”

You marched over and kissed him hard, shutting him up mid-rant.

He short-circuited. When you pulled away, his entire face was pink.

“Apology accepted,” you teased. “But next time, remember, words are important, Sebek.”

He nodded so fast it was dizzying. “I SHALL NEVER FAIL YOU AGAIN!”

“And maybe… tone down the volume a little next time.”

“…sorry…”

..............................................................................................................................

[rosiesweets]

and i'd give myself to you (everytime) - one

synopsis: so turns out the way paige meets the love of her life is delirious at 1am standing in the front of some gaudy ass mansion. who would’ve thought.

a/n: thank you so much for the love on my prologue. my sweet little heart is bursting with love. kisses to each of you. i’m a little shy to respond to the anons in my inbox, but know that i read each one and smile. maybe one day i’ll get the courage. here’s part one. i’m fully aware the timing of this regarding the actual w season makes no sense but please suspend your belief for me thank you <3 not too long yet, we’re still in a place where short scenes make the most sense to me. once again, please share your thoughts, hopes, and dreams with me (about this fic or whatever else). xo, chiara

p.s. is now the time to admit i’ve never watched a full season of any bachelor franchise show?

p.p.s. in no way am i committing to any frequency of updates. please do not take any span of time i take in between them as precedent. apologies in advance. again i will return to edit when fuel returns to my brain.

-

and in your eyes i see forever (or something like that)

paige is going to kill dijonai carrington.

okay probably not, but she’ll switch all the caps on the lip liners or something of similar weight to the (natural) blonde. paige should be in her apartment in dallas right now taking a blissful break from going three years back to back in wnba and unrivaled seasons. paige already expended enough effort to last for months when making the decision to skip out on unrivaled this year. don’t get paige wrong, she loves basketball. she wants to be playing twenty-four seven. but she knows her body. knows the signs of when her knee is feeling more than just regular wear and tear. she wants to play everyday, but she wants to play for a long time more. so she’s making the smart (ridiculously painful) decision to skip unrivaled in pursuit of a basketball career that lasts until her forties.

so someone please explain to her how instead of laying on the couch (or on some beach in the carribean) she is sitting in a limo by herself, in a suit too hot for la in june, waiting for three hours to meet some girl from maryland that dijonai won’t stop calling the people’s princess.

she’s alone because the producers told her she had a “special spot” in the line up or whatever that meant. she surely does not feel special being forced alone with her thoughts instead of distracting herself by meeting five other people who she’ll have to share a bathroom with soon. she’s just here, sitting on squeaky leather twiddling her thumbs because she refused the prop the producers repeatedly tried forcing upon her.

(eventually the producer, some girl named caroline, holding a basketball out to her quickly put it down when met with glare from paige’s ice blue eyes. there was going on national television and there was going on national television looking like a loser in the first ten seconds. paige didn’t need a prop, have you seen her jawline? she’ll walk out, give the girl a crooked smile bordering on smirk, lean in close enough to let her cologne linger and let the rasp of her voice as she says hello do the rest.)

the creeping dread of having to spend the next five to eleven weeks (let’s be real paige is not getting eliminated before week five at least) living with thirty people she doesn’t know and competing for the attention of this one girl is starting to set it in. and in her stomach there’s a feeling of more than just the typical “i’m going on national television” nerves. paige has never really needed to compete for attention before. she just always had it. on the court, in the bar, literally just standing on the street.

and paige doesn’t think she’ll fade in the background or anything but it’s still a new sensation. the knowledge that azzi doesn’t have to ever make eye contact with her. that she’ll have to scheme and smile better than the others whose entire brands rely on this working out for them.

on the other side of the nerves is guilt. paige isn’t really here to find love. she’s here to take the w, and the dallas wings, to potential new group of fans (the middle of a venn diagram between gays and people who love reality tv). paige wants women’s basketball to grow into something the world never expected. wants college park, and maybe one day american airlines center, to be packed every night. so she’s here. after one too many dirty shirleys while listening to dijonai convince her to spend her break on reality tv so not only this girl azzi, but america can fall in love her, and eventually women’s basketball.

but it feels wrong. to participate in the objectification of this clearly earnest (and stunning, paige has watched the tik tok compilations) girl. paige can’t really fathom it. how a girl so beautiful could be driven to find love like this. this insane spectacle. full of people who surely do not actually want to marry her, cameras around twenty-four seven, and the decision of a lifetime being made on merely hours with someone when you think about it. a person like that, has to in some ways hate herself no? to put herself at the center of a circus and beg for love. and paige knows she’s the one competing, but really is the bachelorette not the one asking america to validate that she’s lovable enough for thirty random people to compete for her? to be so unsure of yourself that you put yourself in a situation where you’re guaranteed for someone to pick you at the end? paige thinks a life like that must be lonely. and the guilt simmers stronger.

but paige swallows it. this girl an adult. she knows the game, the premise. she’s been given scouting report. paige won’t infantilize her with pity because she doesn’t understand how anyone could do this. azzi will be engaged to a random person at the end of this. and will probably be humiliated six to eleven months later when they “amicably split.” but that’s her choice. azzi gets to write her love story this way. on the other side paige will be charismatic and fun, but aloof enough to not trust forever in. she’ll walk away bringing new people to the game. and hopefully be remembered as unproblematic and a little goofy.

so paige sits. and sits. and sits. holy shit why did no one tell her that filming each episode took over ten hours. she has heard the same door open, the same heel or loafer click along the fake cobblestone enough to decide perhaps getting blown out by thirty in game three of the playoffs to the indiana fever of all goddamn teams, actually wasn’t that bad.

finally. after what feels like and is actually hours later. while paige is starving, slightly sweating, and so ready to go to sleep, the knock on her door comes. it’s her time. as she opens the door she thinks perhaps she should’ve rehearsed or prepared something to open with. something cool and memorable, just slightly cringe but it’s paige so it’s not really. oh well. she trusts her years of cd media training will carry her through.

she holds her hand over the single button of her blazer to keep its closed as she steps out. she’s gone with something simple yet still a statement. all black louis vuitton, black gems on the lapels. a moment of perfectly understated glamour. no shirt underneath. rings across her fingers. nails black and short. she knows what she looks like.

she looks up to meet azzi’s eyes and fuck.

paige has seen beautiful things before. the basketball as it swishes through just at buzzer. paige has seen beautiful girls before. some in her dms, some bold as they come up to her in bars and coffee shops. paige has seen this beautiful girl before. in photos as dijonai swiped through a haphazardly made power point titled “paige bueckers: bucket and now soon to be bachelorette contestant please it would be sooooo fun and funny.”

but nothing could have prepared her for this. azzi is so beautiful. paige knew this. was prepared for her wide eyes, deep dimples, and cheekbones. what knocks her out is the smile azzi has on she meets paige’s eyes. lips full, bunny teeth just catching the bottom one swiped with sheer gloss. paige has never seen a smile like this. pure and warm and perfect.

paige doesn’t remember walking up to azzi. doesn’t remember wrapping her arms around her shorter frame in a quick hug. paige doesn’t remember taking her hands in hers. all paige senses are soft palms and the slightly sweet scent of warm vanilla. and suddenly without her consent the words slip out of her mouth, “wow wore my favorite color just for me?”

literally paige needs to be sedated. because why the fuck did she just say that. this isn’t even about her. of course she says something the stupid big head athlete would say. she sounds like a guy. fuck the bar was so low and she still fucked it up.

before her thoughts can spiral even worse something cuts through. azzi laughs. and not to be hyperbolic or anything but paige’s world lights up. of course the most perfect mouth she’s ever seen lets out the sweetest laugh she’s ever heard. paige smiles. not the cocky one she had before. genuine. it takes up her whole face without her asking. azzi’s (surprisingly deeper than expected) voice returns “your favorite color is lavender?” and paige quickly goes “what? surprised?” azzi intertwines their fingers, shifting their hands from laying softly on top of each other grasping palms to fingers locked (and holy shit paige hasn’t felt this way from a girl merely holding her hand since she was fourteen), “honestly, yeah. you look like someone that would like something darker. bolder.” paige lets out a quick “i think you’ll be surprised by my depth princess," surprised by the small percentage of her brain still functioning enough to speak. “i guess i’ll look forward to being surprised by you then.” knowing her thirty seconds is probably up paige decides to leave it on, “i guess you will.” with a squeeze of azzi’s hands paige lets her smile grow even wider if possible and turns to make her way with the other contestants.

as she walks up the path to the mansion something in her mind shifts. and well shit. paige should’ve known. there’s never been a competition she didn’t want to win.

[hxhhasmysoul]

Are we now policing what people get moved by "using a formal tone when discussing a specific topic". The response is spot on, I dare say. I'm not sure what age group is the most represented in the user base but it doesn't matter. Both writers and readers hone their taste and thus their preferred writing style throughout life at their own pace.

What may be banal to you, OP, may be novel and eye opening to others as, and I will allow myself to say something truly obvious and banal, they are at a different point in their art appreciation journey and your experiences, journey and context* are not universal. 

There is no shame in being moved by art, any art. That's what art is for, to move, to exist in that moment when it's perceived by others. While OP may have devoted more time in their life to acquaint themselves with less popular titles, not everyone has and there is no shame in that either. To make some more banal observations:

We all have only so much time and we prioritise it how we need or in ideal situations want to.

As long as we’re alive, our relationship with art will morph. 

Outside of western canon I will mention the Pillow Book by Sei Shounagon. It’s a work of aesthetics as it is a work of meaning. I don’t find all the insights in it deep but I find the work supremely beautiful and enjoyable purely as an aesthetic experience and then there’s the added level of meaning. I read some other nikki and they also had this aesthetised quality, though Pillow Book hits different for me because I subjectively feel the author much more than the others. 

As someone who beta reads as a hobby, I can share my experience of that. Editing, for me, is an exercise in removing my ego and trying to best serve the author and their work. That means meeting them where they’re at, helping them pull out the most out of the style they currently use even if it’s not to my personal taste. Recently I was beta reading for a zine and one fic just felt like it wanted to go the full aesthetic route. Like it needed to become this short vivid snapshot full of descriptions that are there more to paint a picture than to convey ideas. Some of it was purely beautiful and moving in that sense and there was no deeper meaning to it apart from the fact that beauty was being experienced by coming in contact with the surface level of the text. And I’m sure not everyone experienced it the same, not everyone resonated with this kind of beauty enough to have an experience at all. But some did and that’s a job well done. To continue my banal insights, no art is for everyone and art that is not for us has committed no crime, we do not need to justify our disinterest. 

Another experience I will share is of there being a period in my life of working with small film festivals, reviewing films and watching like 80% of what was being released in my country regardless of how niche it was. Including watching quite a lot of so-called “arthouse” cinema and indie films. What I’ve learned from that is: “rare” means “rare” ; it has no bearing on quality. Some of those texts* were truly interesting on many levels. Some of them were: I went to film school and read philosophy 101. But while I found the latter tedious, especially after seeing so many of them, I know others resonated with them. To each their own.

In my country secondary school is this semi-prison, where I was locked for 6-9h a day with the same people without much variety, because I was assigned to a class which was made up of particular people. And I remember there being cliques based on interest and in those cliques there were these internal rules who was looked down on and why. Some of that was based on art (in the widest sense of the word) people enjoyed. Things like: we’re all listening to this music now, reading these works now, watching these films and those who don’t, those who don’t know them, those who don’t see how great and deep they are? Those are the other, the lesser, the unwashed and uneducated masses who “keep latching onto writing that has the superficial signifiers of depth and quality while lacking them on a deeper structural level“. Those who don’t understand and are unfit or too lazy** to understand. 

Some of this mentality continued into higher education.

What the two experiences I described above, and several others, gave me was the freedom to thankfully mentally leave my secondary and higher education and move on with my life. 

Tumblr users yearn for good writing; well used language that conveys a meaningful message. 

I will also allow myself to communicate my point in a more understandable manner, as formal and bitchy passive-aggressive and condescending seems to be the tone of this discussion. 

The fuck you know what “Tumblr users yearn for” or consider as “good writing”. Citation fucking needed on both these fucking claims. You want to do an understated “ad academia” with this “deeper structural level” shit?  Where’re your statistical analysis bitch (gender agnostic use) of “Tumblr user yearnings” and the corresponding literary analysis of examples of what they perceive as good writing mapped to the “yearning” statistics. What methodology did you use to come to these conclusions? What was your framework? May I chance a guess that it was your subjective observation of a tiny snippet of Tumblr that you experience in your daily usage of the site filtered by your bias to see only the examples that confirm your opinions? 

__________________

*I identify as a linguist, contexts is everything, everything is text

**see point one in my list of banal thoughts above, plus fuck me classist and ableist much. maybe a little intersectional leftism to spice up your analysis, some stepping beyond your comfort zone, expanding that methodology?

Tumblr users yearn for good writing; well used language that conveys a meaningful message. And yet your average tumblr user's idea of "good" writing is very secondhand. They know roughly what it looks like, what it feels like, but not really what it is. So they keep latching onto writing that has the superficial signifiers of depth and quality while lacking them on a deeper structural level

Just think of the prose that make tumblr users say "these lines go hard". All the poetry that tens of thousands of users treat like the most moving thing they've ever read. So much of it is nothing more than excessively elaborate and ornate writing (often with some crude Bathos thrown in) used to communicate ideas that are painfully banal or plain incoherent. Juvenile word spittle shaped in the mould of half remembered quotes from Shakespeare or Melville or Milton that most of this site just eats up because they don't care for any media beyond pulp-quality commercial works and the fanfiction derived from them.

We don't even need to touch on the painfully Anglocentric nature of this site's userbase because it isn't just ignorant of media in other languages, but of most works in English itself. And there's little point blaming the US* education system because even confined to the chauvinistically narrow body of work placed within the accepted "Western Canon", it's not difficult to find writing that "goes" much "harder" than Seven Deadly Sins Squidward

*where the majority of this site's userbase is from

[demie90s]

Your Not Fine, Baby

Sabrina Ionescu x Fem!Reader

NAVI | MASTERLIST

Summary: You’re a newly graduated rookie, buried in a major that won’t give you a break and a life that feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

Word Count~ 1k

Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Mental Health Themes | Established Relationship

Warnings: Manic episode depiction (overstimulation, irritability, panic), emotional overwhelm, mild physical reaction (slap), tension, gentle dominance, but also softness and comfort.

You don’t remember the last time your chest didn’t feel like this. Tight. Raw. Like your ribs are trying to collapse inward.

You’re typing furiously, fingers moving faster than your brain, bouncing between five tabs one on neuroscience, one on economic theory, one on your capstone edits, another on student loans, and one for some stupid quiz you’ve retaken four times because you can’t. fucking. pass it.

The light from your laptop screen flickers as it auto-adjusts again, and it makes you flinch.

Your music is playing low in one ear, but you can still hear the clinking of dishes from the kitchen. The dryer humming. Your phone buzzing on the bed behind you. Your neck aches.

Your heart won’t stop sprinting. You haven’t stood up in hours. You don’t even know what time it is.

“Babe,” Sabrina says softly behind you. You flinch again.

“I made you food.”

You don’t turn around. You don’t answer. Your jaw’s locked.

“I know you’ve been sitting there all day.”

“I’m busy,” you snap, more aggressive than you mean. You keep typing. Some of its gibberish now. There’s a pause.

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Well, you still have to eat.”

The sound of her putting the plate down on your nightstand makes you want to scream. You don’t know why. Everything is too much.

“I don’t want it,” you mutter, eyes still glued to the screen.

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“Can you just….” Your voice breaks. “Can you please just leave me alone for five fucking seconds?” She doesn’t move. Of course she doesn’t.

“You’ve been spiraling since you got that email this morning.”

You freeze. Something about hearing it out loud stings. You don’t want her to name it. You don’t want her to see you unraveling like this.

“I’m not spiraling,” you whisper. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Stop saying that.”

Now she walks over. Slowly. Like she’s trying not to spook you. But you are spooked. Your body is buzzing, like you’re wired and empty at the same time.

She touches your shoulder gently, and the contact burns. You slap her hand away hard. The smack echoes louder than it should. Louder than anything in the room. It stuns you. It stuns her too.

She grabs your wrist not violently, not even harsh. Just firm. Present. Holding it in midair like she can’t believe what just happened.

Your breath catches.

“I don’t care how angry you feel,” she says, voice low and sharp, but controlled. “Don’t you ever hit me again. Do you hear me?”

Her words aren’t cruel. They’re serious. They slice through the fog, slicing clean. And you crumble.

Your eyes shoot to her hand not her face, her hand. You can’t look at her face. Not after that. Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t mean to…” Your voice is shaking. “I swear I didn’t…I’m sorry…I don’t even..”

She lets go of your wrist. Steps back half a foot. You’re already crying.

“Sabrina—”

“Hey. Breathe,” she says, voice softening instantly. “I know. I know.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, panicked now. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t even see you..I just..why would I..”

You’re shaking your head, hands trembling. “I don’t hit people, I don’t…”

“I know,” she says firmly. “Baby, look at me.” You don’t.

She takes a breath, takes another small step forward. Her hand rests lightly on the desk this time, not on you.

“I’m not mad at you,” she says. “But I need you to come back to me.”

Your head is spinning. You’re not even sure where you are. You feel disconnected from your limbs. From your words. From your own heartbeat.

She crouches next to you now, one hand sliding under your desk to rest on your thigh. She waits until you finally glance her way.

“That wasn’t you,” she says gently. “That was your body reacting to too much. Your brain is screaming for rest, and you’re trying to outwork it.”

You burst into tears. Full, ugly sobs.

“I’m so fucking tired,” you confess. “I can’t…I feel crazy. Like I’m crawling out of my own skin. And nothing makes sense, and I’m doing everything wrong—”

“You’re not crazy,” she says, thumb tracing the top of your thigh slowly. “You’re overwhelmed. Your system is fried. You haven’t slept. You haven’t eaten. You’ve been putting your entire identity in school, and it’s eating you alive.”

You press your hands to your face.

“I can’t stop,” you sob. “I keep trying to finish everything, and it just keeps coming…”

She stands up, calm and certain, and gently but firmly closes your laptop. You tense, like you might lunge for it.

“No,” she says, with a kind of command that shuts down your protest. “You’re done for the day.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. I’m not asking.”

You blink up at her. She’s steady. Unmoving. She reaches for you again, slower this time, and when you don’t flinch, she gathers your hands in hers and pulls you up from the chair like she’s lifting something precious.

“Come lay down,” she murmurs.

Your legs don’t want to cooperate. You’re stumbling through your own panic, but she guides you to the bed, pressing you down gently, adjusting your body like you’re glass. She grabs the blanket and wraps it over you, her palm never leaving your chest.

“You’re safe. You’re not alone. You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I hit you,” you whisper again, broken.

“I’ve seen you at your best,” she replies softly. “That wasn’t your worst. That was pain. I’m not scared of that.”

She lies next to you, one arm around your waist, grounding you with her warmth.

And when you curl into her, ashamed and still crying she kisses your temple and says the most disarming thing of all:

“Let me carry it for you tonight, okay? You don’t have to be strong right now.”

You believe her. For the first time all day, you believe her.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai @mrsarnold @prettyyyinblack

[couch-potato28]

Currently thinking about friends with benefits—Kaiser edition

You wake up in his bed on a Friday morning after another Bastard München win. Sunshine is peeking through the blinds, clothes are scattered all over the floor, and freshly washed sheets wrap around your body loosely.

Kaiser is sleeping on his stomach, arms suffocating a pillow and his blue-tipped hair looks like a mess. You glance to the digital clock on his nightstand.

It’s only 4:31 am.

With a big yawn, you sigh and decide to snuggle back into him.

Before you know it, your eyes shoot open again. Lazily sitting up in one of his old, used jerseys that’s sliding off your shoulders, it takes you a few seconds as you realize that—shit, you have work.

Suddenly, the blurry image of your boss sending a message to the team’s group chat last night to be in the office by 8 am sharp comes back. Fuck, you even replied with a smiling emoji.

It’s 7:02.

With the nearest train it would still take at least half an hour to get there but by this time traffic is gonna be crazy.

Panicking, you hurriedly get out of bed, accidentally smacking Kaiser on the back in the process, earning a low groan from him.

You quickly grab your skirt and socks from the floor before opening his closet, and steal a dress shirt of his that probably costs more than your monthly salary.

“What in the world are you doing, Prinzessin?” he mutters, face still buried in his silk pillow as you make a small mess inside the attached bathroom.

Toothbrush in one hand, mascara in the other, you shout, “I’M LATE TO WORK” before spitting into the sink, and brushing out your hair into something other than a bird’s nest.

He takes his sweet time waking up and grabbing his navy blue robe before taking a look at his phone.

Unlike you, being one of the most famous football athletes who just won probably the match of the century last night means no training for the day—or at least not until noon when the press decides to finally wake up too.

Smirking at your disastrous state, he steps into his slippers and presses the remote, the blinds sliding open to flood the room with sunlight as he strolls to the kitchen to grab himself one of his ridiculously expensive bottles of ice-cold mineral water.

By the time he feels hydrated, you stumble out of the bathroom, grabbing your bag and coat on the way out while grumbling about how your phone is hanging on for dear life at 15% battery.

“It was good to see you, Micha!” you tiptoe up to give him a quick peck on his cheek while putting on your shoes. Reaching for the doorknob, he swiftly takes a hold of your wrist, pulling you inside. “I’m already late-“

“Let’s go.” he interrupts, spinning the car keys to his blue sports car, sunglasses already on. “I’m gonna drive.”

You don’t even attempt to argue because he has already interwined your fingers with his, pulling you down to the garage.

It’s strange.

Kaiser showing you some care after the night you had.

Unlike now, usually he’d be sleeping through you getting up, maybe stir a bit when you make breakfast before letting you slip out and gently close the door to his apartment without even saying a causal goodbye.

Yet right now—in his ridiculous robe and one-of-a-kind designer, personalized sunglasses—he’s opening the door to his car, ushering you inside like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The engine roars as he pulls out from the garage and starts to speed to your office. (you didn’t even know he knew where you worked—)

“Charge your phone” he says, nodding toward the wireless charger in his center console because—obviously he has that too.

“Thanks” you mutter, a sigh of relief leaving your lips before using the car’s mirror to fix your makeup.

Luckily, with him driving, you relax at the thought of getting to the office on time.

The trip is silent, the soft morning light fighting its way through the tinted windows, and the cool breeze of the city makes it easy to almost drift back to sleep for a few minutes before the hectic work begins.

When you arrive to the building, you unbuckle yourself, taking your phone and thanking him again with a soft smile.

He simply gives you a small wave, dismissing your gratefulness.

You watch him drive off before running to the elevator. Digging through your bag for your ID, you expect to pull out the employee card with that awful photo of yours printed on it.

After a few seconds of searching, you finally feel the card at the bottom of the bag as your fingers tighten around it and slip it into your pocket.

As you’re about to close your bag, your fingers brush against another familiar rectangle-shaped object but this time it can’t be your ID.

It’s lighter. Thinner. Black. You flip it over—Michael Kaiser, written in gold, stares right back at you.

You stop breathing for a sec and as if he just sensed it, not long after a text pops up on your phone screen.

Buy yourself breakfast. I’m gonna pick you up after your shift.

(a/n: characters are aged up. My first Kaiser piece guys. don’t know how I feel about it but try to enjoy it. tyy for ur support!! credit to @/cursed-carmine for the dividers)

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 5. long walks on the beach

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: fighting, toxic relationships, drinking, angst

a/n: this was edited while i was sleepy so im sorry if there are any spelling mistakes >.<

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The waves splashed against the shore, it was a hot summer day– so hot in fact, that all high school classes were canceled due to the rising temperatures. Geto remembered that week well; how he and all his friends were supposed to drive up to the beach, but when Shoko came down with a fever, and Gojo had unexpected family plans, that left just you and him in the car. 

He sat in the driver seat, windows rolled down, letting you play music through the car’s radio. The beach was about an hour away, so the two of you were in for an adventure. He was glad that you still wanted to tag along with him, because the weather was unbearable and his body had been craving the cool ocean water. 

Not to mention, he couldn’t stand the sound of arguments. His parents were always on each other’s nerves and he didn’t want to be around to hear another spat. 

“I can’t believe Satoru forgot that he was going to his cousin’s wedding today,” you laugh, thinking back to what the white hair boy had told you, “how does one forget a wedding?”

“At least it wasn’t his wedding, ya know?” Geto chuckled along, feeling the breeze as he drove. His eyes were meant to be glued on the road, but he couldn’t help sneak a few glances over at you every once and a while. 

You had your sunglasses on your head, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a pair of denim shorts. Your hand reached out the window, as if to touch the wind. He felt himself enjoying this carefree nature that had washed over you, it seemed as though the heat brought out the best of both of your emotions. 

Geto remembered the rest of the day being good. The way you splashed in the water with him, climbing on his shoulders to jump into the water. It was refreshing, the ability to forget about every little worry in the world. He smiled when you collected sea shells, and how you scolded him for not putting on sunscreen. 

Floating on your back, you felt his arms hook under your torso, holding you close to the surface so that you wouldn’t float away. 

“Hold on tight,” he muttered but you couldn’t really hear him with your ears underwater. Before you knew it, he had lifted you up, throwing you back in. 

His heart skipped a beat watching you come back up, wiping the salty water from your face. You laughed, nudging him. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you said playfully, lovingly, with a level of softness as you tried to dunk his head underwater in return. 

You were at the beach for the entire day, and when the sun finally began to set, you begged him to stop for ice cream before you headed back home. It was hard to say no to you, to his friend, especially with the cute little pout that was on your lips. 

“Why don’t we go into town and eat it on the beach?” He had suggested, and you did just that. With your toes in between the sand and a cone of ice cream in your hand, you were both staring out into the sunset. 

Sitting side by side, you were wearing one of his extra t-shirts as a cover up. Admiring the colorful sky, you rested your head against Geto’s shoulder. His skin was warm, slightly burnt, smelling of salt. His hair tied back, and his loose bangs started to curl as a result of the ocean water. 

“I had a lot of fun today, we should do it again.” Geto nodded in agreement. 

“Yeah, I’m glad we ended up coming. I can’t stand being home right now.” He admitted, taking a lick of the cold treat. 

“Your parents?” You questioned, an eyebrow raised. Geto nodded again, looking down in between his feet. There was a comfortable silence that fell over you, eyes turning back to the water. 

“I’m sorry, Su.” You tell him, “hopefully it’ll all work out for the best.” 

“Yeah,” his voice trailed off. 

“If you ever need me– for anything– just tell me. Okay? You’re one of my best friends.” You tell him and again, he offers up a silent nod. 

Your voice is so sweet and gentle as it rings through his ears. It’s a stark contrast to the poisonous hissing he hears on a regular basis. He eases into your touch, taking one last look at the setting sun before fluttering his eyes closed, forgetting about the ice cream in his hand. 

He listened to the steady tempo of the waves hitting the sandy shore, and of the delicate breeze. Your skin against his. A seagull squawking in the background. It feels like peace. He’s only snapped out of his trance when he hears your laughter. 

You rush to wipe the melting ice cream in his hands, a large grin on his face. 

Now he wishes for that peace again, for the intimacy of normality. To go to the beach, letting the water wash away his fears. Yet, he can’t do that now, and with the cab dropping him off in front of the bar, he wonders if he’ll be able to actually spit any words out. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed, he realized. Now he felt as though he was fighting against time itself– praying that Satoru wouldn’t actually confess to you. 

He couldn’t gauge how long he was just standing there, staring at the bouncers, hearing the rush of people, the smell of cigarettes. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands that were falling loose. Why did you have to make his heart beat like this? He could’ve sworn he was inches away from having a heart attack. 

Geto pictured every scenario; you had already left, holding Gojo’s arm like he was your anchor; you kissing him at the back of the bar, in a corner where no one could see; or you gushing over his heart-felt confession, reciprocating everything he felt and more. He imagined the way you’d wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your head to his chest like you’d never been hugged before. It made him sick. 

Still in his trance, he thought he saw an angel– watching the way you walked out of the bar with Shoko, slipping into the smoker’s corner in the alley next to it. He didn’t realize she would be there. All of you together without him, having a blast. You were grinning from ear to ear, listening to your friend talk. He wondered where Satoru was and if he was even going to tell you how he felt now that Shoko was with you. 

Had he been bluffing the whole time? Fuck, did he even actually say he was confessing? How much did the weed mess up his perception of the world? Was Gojo even at his house? 

The last twenty-four hours felt like a hallucination, clearly it wasn’t, though, because there you were, at the bar, just like his friend said you’d be. 

He kept staring, studying the way Shoko lit her cigarette, blowing the smoke away from you as you continued to talk giggling like girls did. He figured if anyone caught him staring they’d assume that he was some pervert, getting off on watching girls. 

Shoko’s phone rang. She looked at the screen, rolling her eyes before  answering. He observed how you played with your hair, awkwardly waiting for her to finish the call. He wondered if you would notice his presence now that your attention wasn’t geared towards your friend. 

“Suguru!” A shrilly voice calls out. When he looked to his side he saw a girl– not sure what her name is, but confident he’s hooked up with her. The girl latched herself onto him, clinging to his forearm. “What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in forever!” 

He can barely focus on any of her features, and he doesn’t care to focus on them either. He gives her a disgusted look, hoping to shake her off of him. “Do I know you?” He snaps, head aching from having to deal with her. 

He doesn’t bother to see where she went after that, cursing her for distracting him. When he turns his head back to where you and Shoko were standing, he realizes that your friend has left, gone elsewhere, leaving you alone. He knows it’s now or never, but it’s as if his feet have been cemented to the ground. 

Geto had to put all his might into taking the first step, pushing himself to move. Although, after he manages to do the first, the rest come naturally and he feels as though he’s running to you, like a saviour on a white horse. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You ask him, back pressed against the brick wall. There are other people around, but they don’t matter. Now, it’s just you and him and he’s desperate– desperate to make things right between the two of you. 

“I came to see you. Satoru said you’d be here.” He paused, trying to wait for your reaction to the other boy’s name.

“And?” You were harsh, and rightfully so. 

“I just wanted to talk,” Geto’s voice was quiet– an octave lower than he was used to speaking in. 

“What’s there to talk about, Su?” Your eyes were blank, expressionless. Not sad. Not angry. Indifferent. And that hurt him more than anything else. 

He paused, catching his breath. He wanted to pour his heart out, but it was almost as if there was a dam holding his flow of speech back. At least, the words he really wanted to say were being withheld by his tongue. 

“To talk about us, about what happened. You never answered my texts.” He was equally harsh, snapping at you, even if that wasn’t how he truly felt. 

There it was. That bubbling feeling inside of him. The feeling of destruction– sabotaging himself over and over again. He wanted to be kinder, to be softer to you, but his guard was up, and it would take a lot more than just his beating heart to drop it.  

“You know why I didn’t fucking answer.” You crossed our arms, continuing, “you didn’t even try to apologize. You just wanted us to move on like it never happened.” 

“Yeah because you’re not my fucking girlfriend, why the fuck should I apologize?” His voice raised, heat building up in his chest. 

“There it is Su,” your tone was a stark contrast to his. Quieter, docile, hurt. “I’m not your girlfriend. I get that. You never fail to remind me.” 

“Okay so why are you being so distant? Because I cockblocked you? Big deal.” Geto knew what he was doing was wrong, the guilt of it all lingered in his throat. He knew his words stung, but that didn’t stop him from saying them. 

“You just don’t get it. The whole point was to stay friends.” You told him, “but the whole time you treated me like I was nothing to you. Like I was just another girl. I thought you’d at least have the decency to be nice.” 

He didn’t know what to respond with. You weren’t some other girl. You were everything. You were right in what you were saying. He had brushed you aside, grumbled at your presence– something he would’ve never done six months ago. But how could he explain it to you? He felt as though he couldn’t even explain it to himself. He wanted to rebuttal your point, but you speak up again. 

“But I see it now. You were always a dick, I just didn’t see it until now. You treat everyone like shit, even your friends. You like having girls wrapped around your finger– like you’re drunk off the attention they give you.” You spoke as though you had planned to say this to him, rehearsed it in the mirror and everything. 

“And you don’t think you were one of those girls? Don’t forget that you jumped onto the opportunity to sleep with me.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. He went to the bar to tell you that you were different, that the time you spent together meant something. But now he’d dug his own grave, and he could see it on your face, how your face started to drop, eyes becoming wide, glassing over slightly. 

“Fuck you,” you scoffed, voice shaky, trying to pretend that his cruel words didn’t affect you. 

“Shit, I didn’t fucking mean it like that.” He tried to take it back, but the damage was done. You were about to slip off, but he grabbed your arm. “Wait, please, for Christ's sake.” 

“Why are you doing this to me, Su? I really thought you cared about me– even if it was just as friends.” 

“I do,” he finally admitted, taking a step closer. “Look it’s not easy for me to be talking about this shit, but I really wanted to talk to you. To try to fix it.” 

“So why are you so mean?” A tear threatened to fall from your eye, and he felt that familiar guilty pang hit his heart. 

He wondered what was the right thing to do. He couldn’t spill his guts completely, even if that’s what he wanted most. He couldn’t kiss you, he knew that would only make you hate him more. What was he meant to do, then? He wished life was as easy as dreams– wished he could relive that day on the beach where you just understood him, even if he didn’t have the strength to tell you everything that he felt. 

“y/n…”

Cautiously, he brought his hand near your face, cupping it with one hand. He had repeated that action so many times when the two of you were having sex. It was gentle, loving. He hoped you felt it now. His thumb carefully swiped away a stray teardrop as he bit his tongue. Your back was pressed against the wall, his face hovering in front of yours. He was lost in your eyes, staring into them as if they held the world’s secrets. 

Geto was ready to tell you how sorry he was, to let the dam break. He really was– if he wasn’t interrupted. 

“What the fuck?” Before he had a chance to respond he felt a cold fist against his jaw, followed by the sound of you gasping. 

“What the fuck?!” Gojo repeated, only this time louder. Geto clutched the point of impact, stumbling back, watching the way his eyes narrowed. “You have some fucking nerve to come here.” 

“Satoru, what the hell is wrong with you?” You jumped in and your seeming defense of Geto only ticked him off more. 

Gojo wasn’t paying you much attention, though, gaze fixed on his so-called ‘best friend.’ “You knew what I was gonna do, and you came here to fucking ruin it.” 

The white haired boy threw another punch. Geto didn’t bother to defend himself. He wanted to say it isn’t what it looks like, but it was. 

“You’re a fucking asshole.” Another punch, this time to his gut. “You can’t let anyone else be happy, can you? You’re miserable, so you have to make everyone fucking miserable too.” 

“Stop it!” You screamed out, reaching to hold Gojo’s arm, but it was no use. You were pushed in the crossfire, tumbling back against the wall. There was no point. Whatever seemed to be the problem between the two of them, you couldn’t make it stop. 

“You’re a jerk, y’know that? You’re a selfish prick.” Gojo slammed him against the wall, and Geto could only stare into the other man’s eyes, jaw locked despite how it throbbed in pain. 

That’s when Gojo’s head turned to you, “what did he say to you?” 

“Nothing. He didn’t say anything.” You spat, “now let him go, you guys are gonna get the cops called on us.”  Gojo lets go, as if he’s finally come to his senses. Geto huffs, looking over at you once again. You can see his lip is busted, pale skin bruised. His eyes are calm, though, as if he’s lost in thought. You feel your skin crawl, heart racing. What the hell just happened?

taglist: @bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar @getofanclub @suguruswifett @rryujn @kenmacantakemeaway @keiva1000 @reader2004 @hearts-for-asa @siennadoodles @se-phi-roth @cherryredkissez @whimsicalwriting @chewiebee @sugurunugget @bunbun444 [closed]

© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[lostlikesaebyeok]

HIIII!!!!!!!!! 😠😠😠😠 heeheh chronically online reader x 'the one who doesn't even use youtube' se-mi...

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒔𝒆-𝒎𝒊 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

♡･ﾟ₊ title: your chronically offline girlfriend (she actually lives under a rock)

♡･ﾟ₊ pairing: chronically online!fem!reader x chronically offline!se-mi

♡･ﾟ₊ au: college au, media studies majors, opposites attract, slow burn to soft dating

♡･ﾟ₊ genre: sapphic slice of life, jokes, soft romance, emotionally repressed girls in love

♡･ﾟ₊ warnings: light cursing, academic trauma, mentions of tiktok discourse, brainrot

♡･ﾟ₊ summary: you're chronically online, she does all of her assignments on pen and paper without picking up her phone once. you watch edits of park gyu-young into the early hours of the mornings, she thinks youtube is just for music videos. and somehow, both end up falling in love anyways!!

you really don’t expect her to like you.

in fact, the first time you meet, she looks at you like you just told her you collect dead bodies or that you're a discord moderator. you’re sitting in the back of your media studies class, laptop stickers flashing like a gay bat signal: chappell roan, taylor swift, marceline and princess bubblegum.

she doesn’t have a laptop, doesn’t even have a phone in sight. she writes everything down. with a pen. in a notebook. like some medieval scribe.

you don’t notice her at first. she’s quiet when she wants to be. but then the professor makes some offhand joke about how people in your generation have the worst attention spans and can’t even sit through a tiktok video that's longer than 30 seconds and you start laughing everyone turns to look. including her, se-mi.

you don’t know her name yet, but you notice her because she doesn't laugh. she doesn't smile. she just looks at you for a second too long, head tilted, like you’re an anomaly. you find out her name the next week, during group assignments. your professor pairs you up. you glance sideways at her, trying to gauge if she’s pissed.

“hi,” you say. “i’m–”

“i know,” she says. “you answer too many questions in class.”

you pause.

“not in a bad way,” she adds, like that’ll fix it. “just. noted.”

you’re already kind of obsessed with her. she doesn’t use social media, not even youtube. you ask her once. maybe a little too eager, like you’re trying to speedrun friendship.

“do you have insta?”

“no.”

“tumblr?”

“no.”

“tiktok?”

“that one’s the worst.”

“youtube?”

“i’ve seen music videos, in cafes.”

you stare at her. “se-mi,” you say, voice serious. “how do you learn anything?”

she shrugs. “books.”

you nearly pass out because wtf 💔

weeks go by. you become a permanent fixture in each other’s lives, slowly, like moss growing between stones. she’s blunt and bold. not mean, but she doesn’t pad things in soft language. she doesn’t flirt like you do, she doesn’t understand that “💀” means you're laughing and not actually and not in danger (she almost called the cops when you sent it the first time), she doesn't give strong eye contact. she says things like “you’re not funny, but you’re smart” and “you always smell like gum. is that intentional?”

she touches your arm when you’re stressed. she lets you monologue about some new discourse for ten minutes straight and only interrupts to say, “is this a real issue or just something people are mad about for attention?”

she never posts a single photo of you, but she notices when you change your bio. when you cut your hair, when you leave her a message saying “moonbeam ice cream 😛😛” in her notebook.

you see the corner poking out weeks later. you take her to your favourite cafe. it’s queer-owned and full of pride flags and playlists that jump from mitski to charli xcx in one breath.

you tell her about your online friends and you swear it's almost as if you're talking to a brick wall somtimes. you talk to her about tumblr and how people that still use youtube shorts need to be publicly hung, about people who fake mental illness for attention and girls who write the most angsty, best sapphic fanfiction you will ever read in your life under usernames like namgyuscumstain.

she listens, patiently. she asks questions like “okay, so what’s a ship war?” and “why is everyone's username named after their favourite character and some strange bodily fluid?”

you say, “you’re seriously the only person i know who isn't chronically online.”

she says, “you’re seriously the only person i know who never shuts up.”

you grin. “you like that about me.”

“no comment.”

the first time she kisses you, you’ve just finished watching bottoms.

she pretends not to like it, and she calls it “fucking stupid and unrealistic as fuck.”

but then she says, “fine, i like the way isabel looks at josie.”

you’re curled up on her bed, shoulder to shoulder, still laughing about the movie. you say, “that’s the point, it’s supposed to be unrealistic. we’re all stupid, gay people have the strangest ways of flirting.”

she doesn’t respond, not with words. she kisses you slow. rough at first, like she’s never done it softly before, like she’s had to fight to want things. you make a stupid noise into her mouth, breath catching and she pulls back an inch.

“what?”

you whisper, “i feel like we're in a fanfic right now.”

she sighs. “you’re fucking exhausting.”

but she kisses you again.

you start dating without talking about it, you don't soft launch it, or post it on every single social media account you have. you just post a photo of you and se-mi holding hands on tumblr for your online friends to see. your friends knew it was gonna happen anyways but they still go crazy, and se-mi never sees it.

but she keeps bringing you your favourite snacks and she keeps letting you ramble about ao3, she also defends you when you start crying frustratedly over how people were flaming you on tiktok for shipping byler but yet they were posting ai generated photos of mike and el getting married 💔💔

once, you show her a photo of her that you edited, and she actually laughs. like, a real one:

“oh my god?” you say, stunned. “did you just laugh?”

“yesss,” she says, reaching over to tug your hoodie strings. “you’re so weird. i like it.”

you beam. “se-mi. that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

she kisses your cheek. “then your standards are low.”

soon enough she starts saying 'sybau 💔' whenever you send her stupid photos of herself and she teaches you how to be able to read a book without constantly checking your phone.

you send her this:

and she responds in full sentences, extremely confused of course, but at least she's responding properly whereas before she thought just replying to you with "🤣🤔" was acceptable. you break down queer theories in every movie and show you watch and she listens with the same attentiveness she gives to fire drills and earthquake warnings.

she’s strong around strong people. never flinches, but with you when you cry, when you spiral, when you get too soft to stand up straight, she’s gentle. she rubs your back in slow circles. holds your hand without asking. says “hey, idiot. it's only me”.

you fall in love FAST. and one night, you’re in her apartment, curled up together on the floor because the fan broke and the floor’s cooler than the bed. you’re scrolling through your phone, showing her stuff she doesn’t understand. you look up and she’s just watching you.

you look at her, lost. “what?”

she shrugs. “you always look so... alive when you talk about things you love.”

you laugh. “that’s called being annoying.”

“no,” she says. “it’s called being you.”

you look at her for a long second.

“can i post that?” you whisper.

she groans and shoves a pillow at your face.

you never expected her to like you, but she does. quietly and strong, in her own way without needing anyone else to see. you, on the other hand, post every time she says something or does something for you on tumblr. you love showing her off. you read your posts aloud to her sometimes, she rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

and you think: god. i hope the internet never touches her. but i hope she never lets me go.

thank u for reading, angel ♡

never in my life did i think i would reference benson boone in my fanfic help 🪰

♡ tags: @saeshairtie @eunchacha @ilovesawbyeokandjjmaybank @gg0mezz @saphicsaturn @gyuyoungg @lyzem @janegrapefruitttt @reynadeluniverso @bitchesallonmydih @laurenkenss @bleedingwhiteroses222 @maevelovessae @067supremacy

♡ divider creds: @dawniebun

[glassbxttless]

Mirabel

eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 1k

summary: Corroded Coffin Fest Day 2: Selling the Drama | You and Eddie love estate sales— and you happen to find a very dramatic porcelain doll at one.

warnings: Dolls (if you don’t like them), Spirits, Spooky & Possibly haunted items

notes: Submission for @corrodedcoffinfest! This one is simply inspired by the title (they’re selling this dramatic ass doll at an estate sale). This is a part of my Eddie & Bats AU! Hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 Thank you to @punkrockmlchael @robinbuckleywife & @iitsmandii for reading this over and @peachyproserpina for editing!

The LA heat’s already creeping up the back of your neck when you climb out of the van, the smell of dry grass and dust hits you immediately. You can hear birds chirping somewhere and there’s a little crowd gathered on the driveway of the two-story farmhouse up ahead. You nudge Eddie in the ribs with your elbow.

“Okay,” you grin. “How haunted do you think this place is, on a scale from one to full-on exorcist needed?”

Eddie squints, shielding his eyes with one hand taking in the sight in front of him. “I mean, she’s at least whispering Latin in the walls.”

“Perfect.” You lace your fingers with his. “Let’s go find something fun.”

Estate sales are your thing. Some people hit up farmer’s markets, some people go hiking, you drag your heavy-metal husband into the dens of the recently deceased, looking for the dustiest old shit you can find. Eddie always says he tags along for moral support, but you know he gets a kick out of these sales too. Inside, the house smells like bleach, citrus air-fresheners, and old paper. Eddie stays close to your side, his hand still curled tightly around yours.

You’re barely ten minutes into your search when you find her.

She’s in the corner of the back parlor, tucked behind a chipped vanity mirror. Her eyes are clouded— made of real glass— and her hair is stiff, an ashy blonde that might’ve been golden once. She’s wearing a once-pink dress with little pearl buttons. You gasp. “Oh my god, Eddie!”

Eddie leans over your shoulder and says, “Absolutely the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You let go of his hand to lift her and then clutch her to your chest. “She’s perfect.”

“I’m gonna have nightmares,” he sighs playfully, a grin spreading across his face as you start checking her over for a price tag. “That little Victorian hellspawn is gonna end up in our bed.”

“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” you say over your shoulder.

She’s five bucks.

You’re about to dig your wallet out when a woman behind you clears her throat. She’s a bit older than Eddie, with pink glasses and a patterned skirt. Her hair is in a pony-tail, and she’s got that look you’ve seen at these sales a thousand times. “You’re buying that one?” she asks softly, her eyebrows raised in confusion.

You clutch the doll to your chest just a bit tighter. “Yep.”

The woman hesitates and then sighs heavily. “That used to belong to my grandma. She kept it locked in a cabinet in her sewing room.”

Eddie leans in, interested in whatever story was about to unfold. “Why locked?”

The woman sighs again. “Because weird shit happened when it was out. Lights flickering. The radio turning on. Movement.”

You try not to beam at her. “Seriously?”

“She said it laughed once,” the woman adds, “And it doesn’t have a voice box.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, full of delight. You turn to Eddie like this is the best news you’ve ever heard. “She laughed.”

“You are—” Eddie’s already chuckling, rubbing a hand over his face. “You are so messed up.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring him completely and turn back to the woman. “Did anything bad actually happen?”

She shrugs, “Other than nightmares? No. My grandma said she used to wake up and it’d be somewhere else in the house. It only stopped when she put it back in the cabinet and locked the doors.”

Eddie looks at you like he’s waiting for you to reconsider bringing the little spawn of darkness into your shared home.

You grin. “I’ll take her.”

Back in the van, you buckle her into the backseat. She looks straight ahead, one glass eye is slightly misaligned, the other is locked on Eddie in the rearview. “This is gonna be the one that kills us,” he hums, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Not the weird sushi we had that one time in Tokyo. Nope. It’s gonna be this fuckin’ freaky little demon doll. Death by porcelain.”

“She has a name,” you say softly, climbing into the front seat.

“She better not.”

You glance back at her. “She looks like a… Mirabel.”

Eddie sighs as he turns the key in the ignition. “Of course she does.”

You don’t put her in the doll room right away. You leave her in the living room overnight, perched on Eddie’s favorite armchair across from the couch. Eddie glares at her every time he walks by. 

That night, you wake up to the sound of faint whispering. You roll over. Eddie’s already sitting up, rubbing his face. “You hear that?”

“Is it Mirabel?” you ask sleepily, rubbing your eyes.

He turns, exhausted. “Why do you sound excited?”

“I’m just asking.”

The whispering stops before either of you can really track it down, and in the morning, Mirabel’s still sitting where you left her— except her head’s tilted slightly to the left now. Eddie puts her in the doll room before he leaves for rehearsal that morning. Three days later, the stereo turns on by itself and plays a single track— Dream On. Eddie stares at the speakers like they just sprouted legs.

“She’s a fan,” you say and shrug, not looking up from your book.

“She’s a terror.”

You sigh, closing the cover and lean over to kiss his cheek and whisper, “Jealousy.”

After a week, she’s comfortably nestled on the highest shelf in your collection. You try not to touch her often, but she moves sometimes. Slight things. Tilted head. Shifted foot. You just start shifting her back into place every morning. Eddie starts calling her your third roommate. But even through the jokes, he always says goodnight to her and the other dolls. Every night. He walks by the doll room, peeks in, gives them a little salute, turns his attention to Mirabel, and says, “Don’t possess my wife, freak.”

And you swear she smiles.

tags ;; @keeryhours @beau-hawkins @preciouslosers @amanitacowboy @emxxblog @crybabyddl @jeangeniex @thejordiverse @vinecstasy @kripkie101-blog @prettycalla @dancininseptember @robinbuckleywife @the-unforgivenn

[littlejoyss]

destiny part 2

“All along, there was some invisible string tying you to me.”

Stray Kids - Chan x Reader

Red (golden) string of fate trope

Word count (so far): 4k

previous part <- current part -> next part (coming soon!)

The announcement dropped that Thursday morning. A simple post, just your stage name, his, and the phrase "Coming Soon”. Two company logos, one sleek teaser photo of you and Chan, edited together. No dramatic tagline. No date. No explanation. Just enough to send the internet into a spiral.

Within minutes, your name was trending again, but this time, not with accusations. This time, with excitement.

@k-entupdates: 🚨Breaking: (Y/N) x Bang Chan collaboration CONFIRMED. Joint music project + more behind-the-scenes content coming soon. The first photo was released by both agencies. Fans: ready yourselves. This is not a drill.

💬 @seoulsweetheart: I don’t care what anyone says, she’s still insanely talented and her voice with Chan’s production? We’re winning.

💬 @chanluvbot: Let’s be real, if Chan’s involved, it’s going to be gold. Literally. I’m crying already.

💬 @notyouflinching:

She flinched ONE TIME and y’all forgot she literally wrote the bridge that carried an entire generation of ballads. Sit down.

💬 @softsoulmates: The way their teaser photo looks like a wedding invitation... 👀

You scrolled through the reactions from your desk in your apartment, phone in hand, heart caught somewhere between dread and disbelief. The public hadn’t forgiven you entirely, but the tone had shifted. People wanted to believe in you again. They wanted this to work.

You were halfway through refreshing the trending tag when your laptop screen brightened. You were waiting for a meeting between Chan and you to start. You were supposed to discuss the contract together for the first time.

The Zoom chime rang out softly, followed by the flicker of your own camera tile. And then, Bang Chan logged in.

He was in a studio, of course. Wires, stacked speakers, and a massive mixing desk behind him. He looked like he belonged there. Black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair slightly mussed like he’d run a hand through it one too many times.

You’ve seen Chan before, through a screen in interviews. But you’ve never actually talked to him before. You should’ve said something first. Instead, you just watched him.

Bang Chan didn’t speak immediately either. He gave the screen a single nod, then reached off-camera and came back with a copy of the contract in hand. His fingers tapped against the edge of the folder, controlled, rhythmic. Not anxious, exactly, but focused. Like someone preparing for a test he didn’t study for but expected to pass anyway.

You cleared your throat. “Should we go through the contract together?”

He looked up. “Might as well. Better to get the awkward parts out of the way before the cameras start rolling.”

There was no need for introductions. You two knew who you were well enough. You nodded and flipped open your own copy. A silence stretched between you as paper rustled.

Chan broke it first. “Section Two, Paragraph Three. Public Behavior Guidelines.”

You skimmed quickly, then read aloud: “The parties agree to maintain the appearance of familiarity and developing intimacy in public and online spaces. This includes, but is not limited to, soft eye contact, subtle physical proximity, and verbal cues suggestive of mutual fondness.” You looked up. “Subtle?”

He raised a brow. “Subtle in K-pop media terms or real-life terms? Because those are not the same.”

You tried not to smile. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He tilted his head toward the screen. “Just… don’t stand behind me in line if we’re at a convenience store or something. Netizens will do a ten-slide PowerPoint about how your elbows are aligned and what it means.”

You laughed. “Noted.”

He grinned, then flipped a page. “Alright. Section Three: Content Production. There’s a line here that says we’re expected to do at least one joint livestream biweekly.”

Your stomach dipped. “Live?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled. “I don’t love it either, but… I guess that’s the point. We’re supposed to look like we’re warming up to each other in real time.”

Your gaze dropped to the sentence underneath it: Mutual participation in social content is required. Hesitation, awkwardness, or refusal to engage will be flagged as non-compliance.

Chan must’ve seen your eyes linger. “No pressure or anything.”

You gave him a look. “We’re literally being paid to flirt in public.”

He shrugged, half amused. “You ever done that before?”

“Flirted or faked it?”

He didn’t answer. 

You turned the page. “Here,” you said. “Section Four.”

“Section 4: Relationship Boundaries,” you read aloud, voice flattening with each word. “The undersigned parties agree not to engage in a personal or romantic relationship beyond the scope of public performance. Any emotional or physical entanglement beyond agreed promotional conduct will be considered a breach of contract and grounds for termination of the contract, financial penalty, and reputational liability.”

Chan looked down at his own and nodded.

You finally looked up at the screen. “I feel like that should be easy. Given we’ve never met before this.”

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. “Easy.”

You tapped the bottom of the page. “This part here…” You read: All communication outside of scheduled work must remain professional. Casual or personal interactions not approved by management may be considered misconduct under clause 4B.

Chan sighed. “Translation: no texting unless it’s about a tracklist.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “There’s a subsection at the back. Check Appendix C. It has a list of ‘pre-approved messaging topics.’”

You flipped to it. Your jaw dropped slightly. “This is ridiculous.”

“’Please confirm arrival time for photoshoot’... ‘Did you see the updated mix?’... ‘Your hoodie’s inside out, ’ okay, I added that one. But still.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Nothing like telling two adults how to behave like coworkers and strangers at the same time.”

You frowned down at the text. “We’re being micromanaged like toddlers on a playdate.”

Chan’s eyes were on you again. “That’s because the companies know what’s at stake. One of us slips, and the other gets dragged down with them.”

“Right…speaking of that. Section Five: Backstory and Important Stories.”

Chan groaned softly, already flipping ahead in his copy. “The fake history.”

You scanned the section, eyes narrowing at the bullet points. “We’re supposed to memorize how we ‘met,’ what we ‘admire’ about each other, and what song ‘brought us closer.’ This sounds like an idol variety show bingo card.”

He gave a dry laugh. “It gets better. There’s a section about shared memories we’re supposed to reference casually in interviews. Look,” He held his contract up to the camera. “It literally says, ‘preferred shared memory: ordering the same side dish during a late-night recording session and laughing about it for ten minutes.’”

You stared at him. “We’re being paid to pretend we bonded over kimchi fries?”

He smirked. “Iconic origin story.”

You dropped your forehead to your palm. “Okay,” you said, flipping to the final page. “Section Six: Crisis Protocol.”

Chan groaned again. “The part where they tell us what to do if this all explodes.”

You read it aloud. “In the event of scandal, leaked footage, or unforeseen complications, both parties agree to adhere strictly to the provided narrative. Any deviation without approval from company management may result in public correction or contract dissolution.”

“Translation,” he muttered, “lie better.”

Your eyes widened. “This all ends in one month?”

Chan gave a small nod, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the edge of his desk. “That’s what the timeline says. One months of planned content, soft press cycles, and… whatever this is supposed to be.” He gestured vaguely between your two screens.

You exhaled, more from exhaustion than relief. “It feels longer. I mean…we haven’t even started and it already feels like I’ve signed away something.”

Chan didn’t argue. He just tilted his head a little and said, “They’re betting two months is enough time to rehab a reputation.”

“And yours is what they’re using to do it.” Your words came out more blunt than you meant them to.

He didn’t flinch. “Yeah, well. My label probably thinks it’s a good trade. Get my name attached to a high-profile soloist. Increase visibility for the next comeback. Make me look a little more…” He searched for the word. “Romantic.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think you already are?”

Chan laughed softly, caught off guard. “Not when I spend more time with compressors than with people.”

You couldn’t help it, your lips twitched.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Let’s be honest. Neither of us would’ve said yes to this if we had a real choice.”

“No,” you admitted. “We’re both here because someone else thought it was good PR.”

He nodded. “Exactly. So maybe it’s better if we don’t fake being close too fast. If it’s supposed to be a slow burn, let’s make it slow. Clean. Predictable.”

“Like a ballad,” you said quietly.

Chan blinked. “What?”

You looked down at your hands. “They always build slowly. Verse. Chorus.”

He watched you for a second longer than felt comfortable, something unreadable in his expression. “Okay,” he said finally. “Slow burn it is.”

You nodded and closed your folder. “I guess we’re partners now.”

Chan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess we are.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

It was raining the morning you arrived at the studio, just enough to blur the windows and give the world that washed-out tint. Iseul sat beside you in the backseat, scrolling through her phone like it owed her money, already wearing the kind of structured blazer and polished expression that meant she was in boss mode.

“Don’t forget to keep it light today,” she reminded, not looking up. “Smile when you walk in. Let the cameras catch the natural chemistry.”

“I’ve met him once,” you said.

She finally glanced at you. “Exactly. First impressions are expensive. Make this one count.”

The car rolled to a slow stop outside the company’s private entrance. You could already hear the faint hum of photographers down the street, like flies outside a sealed window. You pushed your hoodie up, adjusted your cuffs, and followed Iseul out.

The building inside smelled like clean speakers and fresh coffee, studio air. Familiar. Comforting.

A staff member guided you down the hall, Iseul trailing a half-step behind, until they paused outside one of the larger mixing rooms. The door cracked open just as you reached for it.

Chan stood inside, glancing over his shoulder like he’d heard your presence before seeing it. His hoodie was a different one, navy today, slightly wrinkled, sleeves pushed up the same way they had been on Zoom. He gave you a nod and stepped aside.

The moment your shoes crossed the threshold, it happened.

The thread burned.

A gold spark shimmered into existence on your pinky. You felt it in your pulse before you saw it, like the air had thickened, like something inside you clicked.

Your eyes flicked to Chan instinctively, and his were already locked on you.

His hand twitched slightly, just enough for you to see the same glow threading from his finger, taut and radiant. The same one you'd ignored for years. 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t react.

Because beside you, Iseul was smiling with professional pride, and just inside the room stood a man with a clipboard, Chan’s PR manager, probably, ready to coach you both. “Welcome,” he said brightly. “Glad we could finally get you two in the same room.”

You didn’t remove your eyesight from the string, which was revealed to have been connected to Chan this whole time.

“-We’ve got about an hour slotted today,” the manager continued, oblivious. “You can record some verses of your new song, and maybe a short Q&A clip if you’re comfortable. We’ll go over tone and narrative after.”

You barely heard him. Because the thread didn’t just glow, it pulled. A soft but magnetic tug at your pinky, as if your body had already made its decision before your brain caught up. You didn’t need to look at Chan to know he felt it too. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours? It was all the confirmation you needed.

Right there, in a room full of people you weren’t allowed to tell.

Iseul stepped forward first, offering a tight nod to the manager and a polite wave to Chan. “Good to see you again, Chan. (Y/N)’s been looking forward to working together.”

“I have,” you echoed, though your voice was quieter than intended. You finally dropped your gaze, balling your hand into a loose fist until the thread dimmed enough to hide. Your chest still hummed with its echo.

Chan’s PR manager handed you a clipboard with the shoot outline and motioned toward the padded chairs in the corner. “We’ll run the camera for some candid-style B-roll while you go through the melody together. No pressure, just smile, nod, maybe steal a glance or two. You know the drill.”

“Casual chemistry,” Chan said dryly, flipping a switch on the console.

“Exactly,” the manager said without a trace of irony.

Iseul gave your arm a gentle nudge as you moved toward the mic setup. “Just be natural,” she said. “Natural sells.”

Right. Natural. Even though nothing about this was natural anymore.

You passed him on your way to the mic, and for a terrifying second, your arms brushed. A zap of warmth licked up your side. You didn’t flinch, but you felt it. So did he. His jaw flexed, like he was biting the inside of his cheek.

You both took your places, you at the vocal mic, Chan at the desk. The room suddenly felt ten degrees too warm.

“Let’s run the first verse?” he offered, gaze flickering briefly to your hand. “Keep it simple.”

You nodded.

He played the chord progression through the monitors, soft and slow. You closed your eyes, breathing in, letting the track guide you.

But the warmth stayed. And with each note, it pulled tighter.

Behind you, you could hear the soft click of Iseul’s phone, capturing snippets of footage for social media. Carefully curated. Perfectly staged. Not a soul in the room knew the performance wasn’t the only thing being orchestrated.

“Great start!” the PR manager said. “Let’s do a take with a little more eye contact this time, maybe a smile, just toward the end?”

You turned away just in time to catch Iseul giving you a thumbs up. You couldn’t smile back. Not right now.

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