#but by god... i can make ONE exception can i not...?

[thatonegrimm]

Hi! Forgive me if requests are closed, I was a little confused if they’re open or not but may I request Saja boys(separate) x fem(or GN) reader where she does the current boyfriend prank of them?

No worries at all—they’re open! 💌 If requests were closed, I’d have a big “CLOSED” sign somewhere, trust me 😅Thanks so much for the ask—and here you go! ✨

Saja Boys x GN Reader – “Current Boyfriend” Prank

Summary: You’re making a TikTok. You call him, keep your voice casual, and ask: “Hey… what’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

--------------------------------

🧿 Jinu

He picks up on the second ring, already sounding a little breathless.

“Hey, you okay? Everything alright?”

“Quick question,” you say lightly. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Silence. Heavy. Echoing.

You can practically hear the gears grinding to a halt in his brain.

“Your... current boyfriend?”

His voice drops half an octave. Controlled. Carefully neutral. A dangerous kind of quiet.

“Is this a quiz? Or... a warning?”

“Neither.”

“A spiritual riddle?”

“Nope.”

There’s another long pause.

Then, very calmly:

“...Do I need to open a portal?”

You choke on a laugh. “It’s a prank!”

He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for three realms.

“You scared me,” he mumbles. “I thought I was getting replaced by a newer model.”

“You’re irreplaceable.”

“You didn’t sound like it.”

He sounds betrayed. You feel a little guilty. Only a little.

--------------------------------

💪 Abby

He answers immediately, all sunshine and loyalty.

“Hey, babe! You need something?”

“Yeah,” you say. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

There’s a small pause.

“...Your current what?”

“Boyfriend.”

“As in... me?”

“I think so. I forgot.”

You hear him suck in a breath. Then he starts pacing.

“Okay, wait. Did I mess up? Did we break up? Did I miss a DTR text?? Is this about the fridge again?”

“Abby—”

“I can fix it! I’ll clean the kitchen right now. I’ll burn the kitchen. I’ll make a new kitchen—”

“It’s a prank, love. For TikTok.”

He stops dead.

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“I was literally Googling how to win someone back mid-call.”

You laugh. He groans.

“I hate how fast I panicked.”

“I don’t. It was cute.”

“Rude.”

--------------------------------

📚 Mystery

He picks up with faint static in the background. You hear wind, maybe a crow.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” you say sweetly. “What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Silence.

Not the awkward kind. The ancient evil stirring kind.

“...There is no current.”

His voice is low. Hollow. Like a locked door clicking open.

“What do you mean?”

“There is only me.”

“Mystery, it’s a prank—”

“Who did you ask this before?”

“What?”

“I need names.”

You start laughing nervously.

“Okay, wow. Chill. TikTok challenge. You passed. You’re The Boyfriend™.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

Then a quiet:

“Good.”

You check your phone later. He’s deleted all your contacts except his.

And added three crows to your favorites.

--------------------------------

💋 Romance

He picks up mid-humming, already smiling.

“Darling! Say the word and I’ll serenade you right now.”

“Okay. What’s my current boyfriend’s name?”

He goes quiet.

Not sad. Not mad.

Scandalized.

“Current?”

“Yeah.”

“As in... I have competition?”

“No, it’s a prank—”

“I knew it,” he mutters. “I felt the shift in the air. My aura’s been off. I sensed betrayal.”

“Romance.”

“I should’ve worn tighter pants today. And a shirt with buttons. I’ve gone soft.”

“ROMANCE.”

“Is it someone I know?”

“It’s YOU.”

“Oh thank GOD,” he gasps. “I was five seconds away from dropping a diss track.”

You roll your eyes. He’s already planning one anyway.

--------------------------------

🔥 Baby

He picks up like you interrupted something important.

“What.”

“What’s my current boyfriend’s name again?”

Pause.

A long one.

“...Why’d you say ‘current’ like that?”

“No reason.”

“Nah. Say it again. Say it slower.”

“You’re being weird.”

“You’re being dangerous.”

“It’s just a TikTok—”

“So if someone else answered this before me, are they still alive?”

You start laughing.

“Baby—”

“Don’t Baby me. Send location. I’ll bring a lighter.”

“It’s a joke!”

“I don’t share,” he growls. “And I don’t like people playing with my title.”

You go quiet.

Then softly: “Your title?”

“Boyfriend,” he says, dead serious. “Not current. Permanent.”

Your face is on fire.

He hangs up.

Texts you 30 seconds later:

You’re mine. Post it. Let them know.

--------------------------------

M-List

[confessionsandcreampies]

sexual dynamics of the jujutsu kaisen boys

gojo satoru – all-powerful, all-possessive, all-consuming. he doesn’t fuck you. he devours you. grinning, teasing, whispering “you can take more, right?” as he pushes deeper. he acts all jokes and play, but he’s so serious about owning you in bed. he wants to hear you sob his name. wants to fuck you until you’re babbling and grabbing at nothing. he’ll tie your wrists with his blindfold, mouth at your neck like he’s starved, and then kiss your forehead after, brushing sweaty strands from your face like he didn’t just ruin you. he’s obsessed. and he masks it with charm. but when he’s on top of you, panting? he shows it. dynamic: playful god-tier dom. teasing, possessive, overwhelming. spreads your legs like it’s his divine right.

nanami kento – controlled, methodical, ruinous. nanami fucks with intention. every thrust, every kiss, every flick of his tongue is calculated to make you fall apart. he keeps his tie on. unbuttons just enough. lets you pull at his shirt while he whispers praise with that deep, stern voice. “you’re doing so well for me.” he holds eye contact when you cum. makes you cum again. and again. until your body stops listening to you. aftercare? five stars. gentle touches. a soft bath. strong arms. but during? he’s pure dominance in a pressed shirt. dynamic: service dom. patient, intense, and refined. fucks you like it’s the only task on his schedule.

sukuna – sadistic, obsessed, dangerous. he fucks like you’re his prey. no exceptions. no safe words. no mercy. just pain-pleasure. he’ll bite, choke, slap, and if you’re a brat? that makes it more fun. he has a need to break you. make you cry, make you beg. and when you finally give in, sobbing and wrecked? he coos in your ear like he’s proud of his little toy. but he’s watchful, like he’s cataloging every whimper, every flinch. you live in his palm. and if anyone else touches you? he’ll make you scream so loud the walls bleed. dynamic: sadist dom. dangerous, controlling, obsessive. pain is foreplay. possession is law.

fushiguro toji – feral, filthy, corrupted violence in a pretty body. oh baby, he’s a fucking problem. he drags you into his lap and spreads you open without asking. his hand is around your throat, his mouth is at your ear, and he’s saying things no one should say in public. “don’t look at anyone else. you’re mine. say it.” he’ll fuck you like a threat, like it’s the last thing you’ll feel before death. and somehow, it’s the best you’ve ever had. he degrades with his mouth but praises with his hands. you’re shaking, breathless, messy and he just grins. dynamic: ruthless dom. feral, primal, rough as fuck. no decency, no hesitation. just dark, filthy pleasure.

fushiguro megumi – repressed, emotional, surprisingly dominant. he’s quiet. careful. doesn’t talk much, but his hands? his hips? they say everything. he holds back like he’s scared to hurt you until you moan for him. then he snaps. buried in you deep, eyes wide, breath shaking, fucking you with everything he’s been holding back for years. he blushes when you say his name. but if you call him ‘good boy’? you won’t walk for days. he might not say it, but he wants to be wanted. and once he knows he is? he’ll never let you go. dynamic: silent switch. tension-loaded. emotion-driven. fucks like he’s trying to tell you “i love you” with his body.

itadori yuji – eager, soft, giving, and so filthy when praised. he’s a pleaser. he eats you out with purpose. moans into your thighs, holds your hips down when you try to squirm away. “wait, baby. just one more, yeah? you taste so good.” he praises you like you’re a goddess and fucks you like you’re his salvation. but if you praise him? tell him how good he feels? how big he is? he’ll go dumb. you’ll break him. he’ll fuck you with pure desperation. dynamic: subby dom. praise-powered. giving, hungry, obsessed with your moans. will do anything to make you cum.

[crispy-bonnie]

this one in particular is about three characters i tried to get the love route for (except for washford), but failed to because god dammit i said something wrong i guess.

not really very spoilery, but i will add the tag and add a cut upon request if needed

picture this: you've accidentally got some of the dateables to hate you. you didn't mean to, but they do anyway, under the impression that you're just a piece of shit and that you hurt them intentionally. of course, you still have other items who are friends with you! some are even lovers, so you are pretty alright!

however, while you're doing some quests for others, you'd be forced to talk to the ones who hate you. every time you go up to one, they jab at you, berate you; they do anything to make you feel hurt... and you do.

so what do you do? of course, you stop interacting with them entirely. you don't even bother trying, seeing as no matter what you do to be civil, they do nothing but bash on you. you figure that talking to them just hurts more, both you and them, so you leave them to their solitude.

you need clothes to wash but washford hates you? that's fine; you can just take dirk on a trip to the laundromat.

does your floor need a quick vacuuming but hoove can't help but make salty remarks? well, you got yourself a broom (plus dolly would appreciate if you tried to preserve the dust a little bit more).

did your power go out during a storm and you know you're not welcome at the breaker box? you have a friend of yours come over to fix the power, or you just resort to using your phone; you're not picky.

it becomes a routine for you to avoid them, and they're bored out of their mind. hoove hasn't gone out to see everyone in a while, washford doesn't have anything to base his mournful poems off of anymore, and the breaker box seems to be relatively static (considering that the regulars have been too busy making plans with you to even think about visiting). it sucks, and it's starting to drive them crazy.

now what happens next? it's really up to the imagination. i personally can't think of anything that would be a good ending for this, but y'all can drop some ideas in my inbox or write up your own interpretation.

[bioticgoddess]

It tells me they agree the Accords should be followed and enforced.

The Arachnid-Arachophobe Accords:

1. Outside is their world/domain. They leave me alone and I'll leave them alone, provided we are both minding our own business. This means they don't climb on me and I won't squish them (realistically I'm going to shriek and probably just brush them off in a panic but I know how fatal a fall can be when your skeleton is external.). Obviously warning me away from something important to them with aggression is going to make me fucking run if they are of appropriate size so y'know, go off.

2. Inside belongs to me [humans]. This includes houses, cars, motorcoaches, etc. I appreciate their assistance in managing pests that have infiltrated the inside. However, if they reveal their presence to me then I cannot guarantee their safety or continued existence. This specifically means crawling across something in my line of sight, hanging out too near my bed, dresser, or my person. Note: If I see webs but not the spider then we are Kosher and at most I will take down the web when cleaning but not kill the spider.

Exceptions: A) Sheds, garages, storage units and other liminal/transitional indoor-outdoor spaces that are separate from the overall living area are fair game. This is Neutral territory where we may both come/go as we please and should ignore one another, provided then don't make their home in or on an item of mine then we are fine (especially my bicycle).

B) Shoes. Spiders, I know these are dark and probably kinda damp little caves. Like some Aussies I know, I will continue to beat and stomp on my shoes before putting them on. DO NOT LIVE IN THEM. They are not yours and I don't want you crawling on my feet or biting me.

C) My computer...don't make a home in it please dear God. However, if any creepy crawlies do....kill them. If I could or knew how, I would provide a tribute for your work in that regard.

D) Pet spiders. I won't touch you no matter how much your chosen/assigned housemaid and butler insists. Carry on about your business and if you crawl on me, know that your human was warned not to let you do so MULTIPLE TIMES. If I panic it's on them, not you, and I will endeavor NOT to hurt you.

Note on Exception C: I lived somewhere that had really bad roaches shortly after college - I did not pick said apartment. We couldn't get rid of them and they started living in our large electronics...so everything not a cellphone, e-reader, or tablet. This included my laptop. They wanted the warmth and we're eating the adhesives used in its construction. Once crawled out from a fan vent when I was using and I nearly chucked said laptop across the room. At one point I noticed we had a lot of spiders in/around the building too and this was true of the place we lived next. They were working overtime and I hope those spiders got some kind of reward at some point.

[flowergirl1243]

out of step - [part one]

SUMMARY: When a ballerina steps into the fast lane, and a Formula One driver slows down just long enough to fall for her.

PAIRING: lando norris x ballerina!reader

part one

EPISODE ONE: THE GALA ⟶ Early March, preseason

ynusername posted a story

Liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren and others lando I was told this wasn't a black tie event. They lied 🕺💀🔥

user1 help where is he

user2 this man's always off doing side quests

It starts with a near disaster.

Lando’s moving too fast, champagne in one hand, phone in the other, laughing at something dumb George sent, when he nearly collides with someone in the narrow hallway behind the gala ballroom.

Not just someone.

Someone in a silk dress, pale pink and shimmering like moonlight. She steps back before he can crash into her, nimble as anything, barely blinking.

“Oh, shit, sorry, sorry,” he blurts, clutching his drink like it’s the most precious thing in the room (second most, she’s winning).

She blinks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. But then she smiles. Really smiles. It’s soft and bright and just a little crooked.

“It’s okay,” she says gently, tilting her head. “You looked very determined to sprint through that wall.”

Lando laughs, nervous and loud. “Didn’t mean to almost take you out, I swear.”

“I believe you,” she says, hands clasped in front of her like a ballerina in rehearsal. “You don’t look like a villain. Just…enthusiastic.”

He grins. “That’s generous.”

She shrugs, teasing. “You did apologize three times. That’s more than most.”

“Lando,” he says quickly, offering his hand before he can overthink it. “Norris.”

“I know,” she says, accepting it. Her touch is light. “You’re a bit hard to miss.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that good or bad?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Her smile softens. She doesn’t let go of his hand right away. Neither does he.

“I’m Y/N,” she adds. “I dance with the Royal.”

He nods like he understands, even though he very much does not. “So like…ballet ballet.”

She giggles, ducking her head. “Yes. Ballet ballet.”

“That’s insane,” he says, stunned. “Like…the toes? The spinning? Swan Lake type beat?”

“Exactly,” she says, amused. “Except tonight, I just smile at people and try not to get sequins in the wine.”

He’s grinning again. “Well, you’re doing amazing. 10 out of 10 sequins-to-wine ratio.”

Her eyes sparkle. “And you? F1 driver crashing into innocent women at black-tie events?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he blurts.

Her eyebrows shoot up, delighted. “Oh?”

“I mean,” he fumbles. “I didn’t, just—”

“You’re adorable,” she says, laughing now, and it’s so unfair that she’s this graceful and this funny.

Lando blinks. Then laughs, full and too-loud and startled. “I swear, I’m not usually...this.”

She raises one elegant eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“Chaos,” he offers, holding up both hands like a confession. “Pure, grade-A chaos.”

She giggles. Honest-to-god giggles. “Well, it’s very…charming. In a hurricane kind of way.”

He relaxes a little, then catches up to the fact that she is very beautiful. Not just “pretty in a nice dress” beautiful, but “you’d-paint-her-in-a-museum” beautiful. Pale pink dress, soft eyes, hair pinned in a bun that somehow makes her look like both royalty and a Disney character. Her shoes are delicate and glittering and he thinks they might be terrifyingly expensive.

They’re quiet for a moment. A good kind of quiet.

Then Lando blurts, “Do your feet hurt all the time?”

She gives him a startled look, then bursts out laughing. “Yes,” she says. “All the time. They’re a nightmare. I have a bag of frozen peas in my freezer named Gerald.”

“For ice?”

“For ballet-related emotional support,” she says, mock-serious.

“Gerald sounds like a top bloke,” he replies. “He and I would get on.”

She smiles again, warmer this time. “And you? Do your arms hurt from all that steering?”

“That,” Lando says, hand over his heart, “is deeply offensive. We do much more than steering.”

“Right, right. You press pedals, too.”

“Oh my god,” he says, scandalized. “I’m being bullied by a ballerina.”

She grins, impossibly radiant. “You’re holding your own.”

He shrugs. “I’m doing my best. You’re kind of intimidating, though. You haven’t stopped smiling once and I feel like I’ve aged three years.”

“You’re sweet,” she says gently, with a tilt of her head. “And clearly not used to being off the track.”

“Off the track and out of my depth,” he agrees.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, stepping past him, slow and deliberate. “I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

He turns to watch her go. “Wait,” he calls after her. “You’re just gonna leave me here after nearly making me fall in love with you?”

She glances over her shoulder. Her smile is devastating. “Lando,” she says sweetly, “that sounds like a you problem.”

And then she disappears around the corner, pink silk fluttering behind her like a ribbon in the wind.

Lando doesn’t move for ten full seconds.

Then, quietly: “Oh, I am so screwed.”

The floor was too polished.

That’s what Y/N would blame later, the floor, not the dress, not the nerves that hit every time someone glanced at her like they were trying to place her name.

It happened quickly. One second she was stepping down from the stage where the patrons had all just been introduced, a blur of lights and applause and polite nods, and the next, her heel caught on the hem of her gown.

It wasn’t a dramatic trip.

Not one of those cartoonish arms-flailing faceplants. No, this one was subtle, graceful even, just enough of a stumble to tilt her forward, to send her off balance.

Just enough to make her heart skip.

And just enough for him to be there.

Strong hands caught her at the waist, one quick step forward and suddenly she was pressed against a very warm, very solid chest. She could smell something clean and sharp, cologne and champagne and maybe the outside world.

“Careful,” came the amused voice, low and British and far too close to her ear. “You almost fell for me.”

Y/N's head snapped up.

Lando. Of course.

He was already grinning.

She blinked, stunned for a moment by how close they were. His hands were still at her waist. Her hands were on his chest. His bowtie was crooked, and his hair looked like he’d run a hand through it ten times too many.

“I didn’t fall,” she said quickly, cheeks going pink.

“You didn’t hit the ground,” he corrected. “Because I caught you.”

“I was fine.”

“You were definitely mid-trip,” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “I swooped in like a knight in shiny loafers.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I am not—”

“Blushing and defensive,” he said, taking a slow step back but still watching her like she was the best thing he’d seen all night. “Deadly combination.”

Y/N adjusted the hem of her dress, refusing to meet his eyes. “If I had fallen, I would’ve landed in a perfect fourth position.”

“Oh, of course,” he said solemnly. “A true professional. But still, lucky for you, I was there. Strong reflexes. Great balance. Heroic, really.”

She looked up at him then, lips curving. “Do you always flirt with girls who nearly break their ankles at fundraisers?”

He gave her the smuggest smile. “Only the really graceful ones.”

Y/N smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need smoothing. Her heart was still racing, not from the almost-fall, but from him. From the way he was still looking at her like she was both a miracle and the punchline to a joke he was desperate to hear again.

“You can stop staring now,” she said, aiming for calm and landing somewhere near breathless.

Lando tilted his head, grin not fading. “Can I?”

“Yes,” she said, turning slightly, trying to regain composure. “The show’s over.”

“Well, then I’d like a refund,” he quipped, falling into step beside her as she started walking again. “That was a very short performance.”

She side-eyed him, trying not to smile. “You’ll get your money’s worth next time I fall down the stairs.”

He laughed, open and delighted, and she could feel it settle into her chest, warm and oddly comfortable.

“I like you,” he said easily, too easily, like it was a fact and not a surprise even to himself.

Y/N blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“I didn’t know you ten minutes ago,” he shrugged. “But now I do. A little.”

She arched a brow, amused. “And what exactly do you know?”

Lando pretended to count on his fingers. “Let’s see. You’re elegant, slightly dangerous in heels, and devastating with your comebacks. You pretend not to be flustered when you are. Also, you smell very nice.”

She paused, thrown by that last one. “Do I?”

He looked over, and for the first time, his teasing dropped just slightly. His voice softened.

“Yeah. Like something expensive and… calm.”

Y/N didn’t reply. For a second, neither of them did.

Then—

“I still didn’t trip,” she murmured.

He grinned, pleased that they were back on familiar ground. “You’re sticking with that story?”

“Absolutely.”

“Bold. But incorrect.”

“I’m a ballerina,” she said primly. “We don’t trip. We redirect momentum.”

Lando let out a laugh that made her want to grin, but she held firm. Barely.

“Alright then,” he said, stopping at the edge of the ballroom where the music was starting again. “Redirect momentum with me sometime?”

She blinked. “Was that a very weird way of asking me out?”

“I’m trying to speak your language,” he said, grinning. “Was that a yes?”

Y/N hesitated just long enough to keep him on his toes.

Then: “If you promise not to trip over your own ego.”

He put a hand to his heart, mock-wounded. “That’s going to be tough.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, and stepped past him, into the crowd. But not before glancing back once, just once, over her shoulder.

He was still watching her.

Of course he was.

The phone rang late that night, soft and unexpected. Y/N glanced at the screen and smiled when she saw Lando’s name. She swiped to answer and settled onto her bed, the quiet of her room wrapping around her.

“Hey,” she said, voice low and easy.

“Hey yourself,” Lando replied, sounding relaxed, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Didn’t think you’d pick up this late.”

“I wasn’t really doing anything important,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You?”

“Same. Just scrolling through memes and pretending to be productive.” He chuckled. “So, what’s new with the most graceful woman I know?”

Y/N laughed softly. “You’re sweet. Not much, just rehearsals and trying not to trip over my own feet.”

“That sounds about right.” He teased gently. “Maybe I should give you some tips on balance.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a grin she knew he couldn’t see. “Last thing I need is you knocking me over.”

“Hey, I’m a professional. I only knock people over accidentally.” His tone was light, casual, but somehow warm.

“Accidental chaos. Sounds familiar.” She paused, then added, “What about you? How’s the ‘deliberate chaos’ going?”

“On point,” he said. “Mostly on the track, but I’m working on it off the track too. Starting with not embarrassing myself at galas.”

“Big improvement already.” She smiled at the thought. “Though you did make a memorable entrance.”

“Memorable, yes. Graceful? Not so much.” His laugh was easy. “Speaking of grace, maybe you can teach me a move or two sometime.”

“Only if you promise not to break anything,” she teased.

“No promises,” he said, grinning through the phone. “But I’ll try.”

They both laughed, the kind of comfortable laughter that comes from familiarity.

“Well,” Y/N said, “don’t keep me up all night with your chaotic charm.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sleep well, Y/N.”

“You too, Lando.”

They said goodnight, and the line went silent, but the warmth lingered, like a secret only they shared.

Hello, my lovelies! I'm back again with a new series, woo!! I hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist or removed! Also, if you only want it for this series or just my work in general! Love you all!

[screaminglygay]

Professional distance (my ass)

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: you start driving your younger sister to therapy, you don't expect the real challenge to be resisting her therapist.

word count: 4.7k

warnings: mild language, themes of mental health and therapy, bad flirting, mentions of self-worth and responsibility, a healthy dose of yearning:D

an: to everyone who’s sent requests - I see every single one and I’m so grateful for your ideas and support. I’ll be writing them throughout the summer, so stay tuned and thank you for reading!

☀️ Summer with A masterlist ☀️

The waiting room is quiet except for the soft hum of the AC and the sound of your sister nervously picking at the edge of her sleeve. You nudge her knee gently with your own.

"Hey," you murmur, offering her a small smile.

"If this therapist doesn’t vibe right, it’s okay. We’ll try someone else. No pressure, okay?"

She exhales shakily and nods, though her hands are still fidgeting.

You continue, light but sincere, "Worst case scenario, she’s a weirdo who makes you draw your feelings with crayons. Best case… she’s actually helpful and everything will get a little bit better."

That earns a little laugh, which feels like a victory. You loop an arm around her and pull her in for a quick side hug. She leans into it, her forehead pressing against your shoulder.

"You’ve got this, Ellie," you whisper, pressing a kiss to her head. "I’ll be right here when you’re done."

The door opens behind you before she can answer, and a soft voice says, "Elena? Hi, I’m Dr. Wanda Maximoff."

You turn, and- oh.

Okay, wow.

She’s beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, soft eyes, a calm, composed presence that makes you shift a little straighter. Her hair is perfectly styled, her voice warm and level, and she’s wearing a blouse that does deeply unfair things to your focus.

You stand with your hand out, easy smile already in place. "Hi. I’m her sister. Thank you for seeing her."

Wanda takes your hand in a gentle shake. Her skin is warm. "Of course. It’s nice to meet you."

You watch the two of them disappear down the hallway, and you can’t help but think, yeah… we’re in trouble.

Forty-five minutes later, Ellie walks back out with pink in her cheeks and a calmer step than before. You put your phone away and stand, watching her approach.

"So?" you ask, walking with her toward the exit.

She shrugs, but she’s trying not to smile. "She’s nice. Like… really nice. And she doesn’t talk down to me. I actually talked more than I thought I would."

You bump your shoulder into hers, "that’s what I like to hear."

"She said I did well. That I should be proud." Ellie glances at you. "And she asked about you."

You blink, "me?"

"She said you seemed very… supportive," she teases with a smirk.

You grin, "did she now?"

Ellie groans, "oh my god, don’t flirt with my therapist."

You throw your hands up, mock-offended, "I didn’t! I just said hi!"

"Uh-huh." Your sister knows you too well.

You nudge her again, laughing, "I´m just being nice."

Ellie rolls her eyes but leans into you anyway as you walk down the steps to the car. You unlock the doors and both slip in, and for a moment, there’s a quiet stillness. She’s staring out the window, a thoughtful look on her face, and you glance at her before speaking again.

"I know I say this a lot," you start, voice softer now, "but I really am proud of you."

She doesn’t look at you, but her shoulders rise like she’s holding in emotion.

"And I know when I say it all the time it might sound less… important," you continue, "but it’s not. I mean it every time."

Ellie turns to look at you now, eyes a little glassy.

"I’m really happy your session went well," you say, smiling at her gently. "But I understand you want someone else to talk to so… You deserve to feel safe, and seen."

Ellie blinks rapidly, "you’re being weirdly perfect right now. It’s gross."

You snort, reaching over to ruffle her hair, not really caring she´s almost an adult now, "yeah, yeah. Let’s go home."

The next week you pull up to the same office building, Ellie next to you sipping from a smoothie you grabbed on the way.

"You sure you’re good?" you ask.

She hums around the straw, "yeah. Just gotta pee first."

"Again?," you tease.

She hops out of the car and hurries into the building ahead of you while you trail behind, phone in one hand, sunglasses perched on your head. You’ve barely had time to sit down in the waiting room when you hear a familiar voice.

"Is Elena here?"

You look up. God. She’s in another dangerously well-fitted blouse today. Burgundy, soft silk, her hair tucked behind one ear. Her tone is professional, her posture easy, but the moment your eyes meet, something crackles.

"She is," you answer smoothly, standing. "Just in the bathroom."

Wanda nods politely, "I see."

You shift, hands in your pockets. “Thank you for being so… patient with her. This is like… our fourth try. Every other therapist made her feel weird or shut down. It’s been hard."

Wanda’s expression softens. "That’s not uncommon. It takes time to find the right match."

"Yeah, well," you say with a small grin, "I’m just glad you’re making her feel safe. It means a lot. To both of us."

There’s a pause. A quiet kind of understanding settles between you.

"You two are very close," Wanda says gently.

"She’s my little sister. It’s been just the two of us for a while now. I think she gets tired of me hovering," you say with a smirk, "but that’s the job."

Wanda smiles, and something flickers in her eyes, warmth, maybe. Curiosity.

You tilt your head slightly, grin sharpening. "I should probably thank you with something more formal. Do therapists accept bribes in the form of coffee?"

Her brow lifts, but her smile grows, "not usually, no."

"Shame," you say, just as Ellie steps out from the hallway.

"I’m ready," she says, tossing you a look like she knows what you’re doing. "Okay, thanks, sis," she says, then adds with extra emphasis, "I’ll see you later."

You smile more innocently this time and just nod, "see you later. Dr. Maximoff." You give her last smile for now. Your sister snorts and disappears into the hallway with Wanda, who glances back once at you, just for a second longer than necessary.

And you smile to yourself. You’re definitely in trouble.

You and Ellie have made a little ritual of it now, smoothies on the drive, music just loud enough to sing over your nerves, and a whole playlist Ellie insists on cueing up just right so she doesn’t walk into her session with sad girl energy. Even though it wouldn´t be a bad thing.

You drop her off at the front again, waving as she disappears into the building. Usually you hang around in the parking lot, scrolling on your phone or grabbing a coffee from the coffee shop nearby. And it was ritual that neither of you mind. And you weren´t really upset since you got to see such a pretty lady like Dr. Wanda Maximoff herself.

Another week later you’re halfway across the street, sunglasses on, when you spot her.

Wanda.

She's in line at the coffee shop, where you often came to, dressed down this time, dark jeans, flats, and a tucked-in navy blouse. She’s holding her phone in one hand, eyes skimming the menu above the counter.

You walk up to her, "didn’t think I’d run into you outside your natural habitat," you say-

Wanda glances up, mildly startled, then her lips curve. "It’s just coffee. Even therapists are allowed that."

"Really? I had this theory you only drink existential potion with a bit of widsom."

She huffs a quiet laugh, and it’s adorable, even if she tries to smother it,"funny."

You offer an exaggerated shrug, "I have to use my charm somewhere. Otherwise it just leaks out."

Wanda doesn’t respond immediately, just tilts her head at you, lips pressing together like she’s trying very hard not to smile.

"You’re still being professional. Even away from your office? That’s commitment."

"I try," she says dryly.

"Impressive," you murmur. "I’d be more impressed if you told me your coffee order, though. For future bribery purposes."

She narrows her eyes at you, "I thought I told you, bribery doesn’t work on me."

"Oh, I know," you say, taking a step closer, eyes flicking from her hand to her amused expression. "You’re far too composed for that. But I also know you’re currently analyzing me, aren’t you?"

Wanda takes a slow sip of her drink, keeping her expression unreadable. "You’re charming, confident, and used to getting your way with a well-timed smile. You flirt to test boundaries, not to disrespect them. It’s calculated, but not cruel."

You blink, "whoa…"

She shrugs lightly, "occupational hazard."

You recover quickly, tilting your head with a slow smile. "Well, I hope you can also tell I don’t just… let things go that easily."

Something flickers behind her eyes at that, interest, maybe. She hides it fast, covering it with a sip of her coffee. Still, the tiniest smirk curls the corner of her mouth.

"I’m sure you don’t," she says smoothly. Then, almost teasing, "have a nice day, (Y/N)."

That smirk widens just a little when she sees the reaction her saying your name does to you.

You grin, "you too, Dr. Maximoff."

She nods and starts to turn, and you casually call out, "almond milk latte with one pump of vanilla, right?"

Wanda glances back over her shoulder and rolls her eyes.

"What can I say? Occupational hazard."

That earns you a soft, amused laugh she doesn’t quite manage to suppress. She shakes her head as she walks away. You’re not crossing the line. But you’re dancing on it and she’s dancing right back.

Once again Ellie sits beside you on the curb outside the coffee shop, fidgeting with her phone while you wait for her session time to come up.

"You okay?" you ask, nudging her with your elbow.

She sighs, resting her chin on her hand, "yeah. Just… more nervous today, I guess."

You glance over at her, chewing her lip, shoulders tense and place a reassuring hand on her back. "Hey, no pressure, okay? If you just sit the whole time, that´s okay too."

She doesn’t say anything, but she leans into your side a little.

Ellie hums, "I feel like not going, but I know I should."

"You know you´ll feel better, you always do." You softly say.

Ellie hums once again, "I wouldn´t go if you wouldn´t be here."

"Oh I know."

"I´m glad you do tho. At least I don´t have to walk home."

"So now I´m just taxi to you?" That makes her laugh, then you glance at the clock. "Come on, sweetheart. Go do your brave thing."

Later, after the session Ellie gets in the car with a light step and a kind of glowy calm around her.

"Go well?" you ask.

She nods, buckling her seatbelt, "Wanda was really understanding and helpful with her methaphors"

"I´m glad."

Ellie watches you for a second, her eyes narrow.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing," she says. "Just… do you always smile like that when I say her name?"

You raise an eyebrow, "like what?"

"Like you’ve got a crush in a high school and you just spotted her across the cafeteria."

You laugh, "Ellie-"

"I’m just saying. You’re subtle, but I´m not blind."

Next session, mid-conversation in Wanda’s office Ellie hesitates, pulling her sleeves over her hands, "can I ask you something?"

Wanda’s tone is calm, encouraging, "of course."

"Let’s say… hypothetically… there’s this woman."

Wanda tilts her head, smiling slightly, "alright."

"She likes someone. A lot. But she’s scared they don’t really see her because… well, she acts all tough. Like a jock. Real confident, sarcastic. But inside she’s, like, soft. An actual marshmallow."

Wanda’s brows lift with interest. "So, she thinks the person she likes might not notice the vulnerable side of her?"

"Exactly," Ellie says. "And she flirts. Like, all the time. But she’s scared to be real because what if the other person just thinks she’s joking?"

Wanda’s expression softens, "well… I’d tell her to be honest… carefully. To show the vulnerable side when she feels safe. To let the person she likes see her. Because no matter how charming someone is, people can tell when it’s real."

Ellie nods, thoughtful. Then Wanda pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly, but there's amusement there too.

"This is about your sister, isn’t it?"

Ellie bites her lip and shrugs. "… hypothetically?"

Wanda exhales a slow breath, hiding a small smile behind her hand, "I see. You two are truly sisters."

Ellie tilts her head, "what’s that supposed to mean?"

Wanda chuckled lightly and gestured for them to continue, "let’s get back to you, shall we?"

Ellie later slides into the passenger seat, tugging the seatbelt over her chest and giving you a look that's way too smug for someone who just left therapy.

"What´s up with that smile?" you ask, starting the engine.

She shrugs, "nothing." She leans her elbow against the door, looking out the window with a faux-innocent tone. "I was just trying to figure out how someone like you might… I don´t know show her true self, since I´m understanding myself better, I figured you should do the same. So I simply just ask the one and only."

Your jaw drops, "you didn’t."

She grins, "I might’ve."

"Oh my God, Ellie."

"Relax! I didn’t say it was you. I was just describing a certain type of woman who might wear tank tops too tight on purpose and smirk a lot."

You glance at her with mock scandal, "you're trying to psychoanalyze me with your therapist’s help?"

"I would never," she says, putting a hand over her heart. "I’m just looking out for your emotional well-being."

You snort, "oh right."

Some days later you tap your fingers against your thigh while the line moves slowly forward. Something about the quiet hum of the place, the soft clink of ceramic cups, and the smell of espresso is making you more fidgety than usual. You glance over your shoulder. Then again. When you finally turn around, you spot her again, Dr. Wanda Maximoff, halfway through the line, her hair shining in the light, eyes glued to her phone.

Your breath catches for half a second. You try not to grin. You step to the barista. "I’ll pay for the lady in the black top," you say casually.

The barista glances over, "you know them?"

"Uh-huh." You pay. No big deal. Just a small, innocent coffee. That’s all.

Wanda doesn’t look up until she’s called forward to order and the barista says, "You’re all set. Your drink’s been paid for."

She blinks, "oh?"

The barista points, "by them."

Wanda follows the gesture. Your eyes meet. You raise your cup in silent greeting, smirking just enough to get under her skin. She stares at you for a long moment, her lips parting like she’s about to say something. Then, to your surprise, she walks over.

"I’m starting to think you’re more trouble than you look," she says lightly.

You lean back against the chair, eyes warm. "And yet, you came over."

Wanda exhales, a soft puff of a laugh, "maybe I was curious."

You raise your brows, sipping your coffee. "Careful, Doctor. Curiosity can be dangerous."

Her lips twitch, "so can charm."

You grin, "I wouldn’t know. I’m just a supportive sister making small talk with my sister’s therapist over overpriced caffeine."

Wanda leans slightly forward, her eyes scanning you like she’s doing more than just looking. "Do you always deflect with humor?"

That stops you for half a second. The coffee cup stills in your hand.

"That’s a real question," you say, laughing, half-caught off guard.

She smirks and tilts her head, waiting for your asnwer, that she already knows.

You tilt your head, thoughtful for a beat. "Maybe. But sometimes I just think life moments are too heavy not to laugh through it."

She hums, "that’s… fair."

You sip your drink again, a little slower now, like the air between you shifted. Not tense. Just more… present.

Wanda glances at your cup, then back up. "So, what is this little moment to you?"

You don’t even hesitate, "definetly a date." You smirk at her.

She blinks, "this is what you call a date?"

You shrug, playful. "Two attractive women, coffee, soft lighting, emotionally probing questions? Sounds like a date to me."

Wanda leans back with a smile that’s far too amused for her usual clinical composure. "Interesting definition."

"Oh, come on. What would you call it?"

"An ambush."

You laugh, "you’re not running."

She raises an eyebrow, "not yet."

You grin wider, satisfied, "so, you’re saying there’s a chance."

She shakes her head, but the fondness in her eyes lingers, "you’re relentless."

"And you’re still hereee," you chuckle, stretching the word with a teasing grin.

Wanda sips her drink again, not looking at you this time, "maybe I’m just being polite."

"Mm," you tilt your head, eyes still fixed on her. "I don’t know, you don’t seem like the type to do anything just out of politeness. Especially not sit through my very charming advances."

She raises an eyebrow, finally looking at you again, "is that what this is? Charming advances?"

You gasp, mock offended, "you wound me, doctor. I’m doing my best."

"I can tell," she says, her tone still calm, measured, but the corner of her mouth betrays her, tugging up just slightly.

You lean in a bit, elbows on the table, voice dropping into something softer, "I know I joke a lot, but I’m not… messing around."

That earns you a pause. Her eyes flicker, searching. You can see it, how part of her wants to keep the wall up, to gently but firmly redirect the moment. But another part of her… is just enjoying this.

"I’m not supposed to enjoy any of this," she murmurs.

"But you are," you whisper back.

Before she can respond, your phone buzzes. You glance down and see Ellie’s name light up the screen. Your smile falters, just for a second. Wanda notices.

"Go be a good older sister," she says gently, nodding toward your phone.

The way she says it, soft, but knowing, catches you more off guard than the text itself. You look back up at her, blinking.

"Right," you clear your throat, "yeah. Duty calls."

You grab your coffee and stand, still a little stunned by the shift. Wanda’s gaze lingers on you, unreadable now.

As you turn to leave, you glance over your shoulder and shoot her a softer smile. "Thanks for the not-a-date."

She doesn’t respond right away, just watches you. Then, finally, "drive safe." You nod, then head out the door.

Weeks passed like clockwork. Drop-offs. Pick-ups. Quick coffees. Soft smiles. Glances that lingered a little too long. Your routine with Wanda had become a rhythm a familiar song that played each time you brought Ellie to her session. The flirtation had grown playful, easy. And maybe a little dangerous.

Today felt the same, until Wanda opened her office door and as Ellie went out Wanda waves her hand at you.

"(Y/N), could I ask you to stay for a moment?"

You blink, surprised, nodding as you went it, when the door close you speak up, "so we gonna finaly talk about a date, hm?"

Wanda’s lips curve up slightly, but she leans against the table with that same unreadable calm. "I’m here to talk to you. About Ellie. She said it might help her… to have me speak with you."

Your smile falters, warmth settling into something more serious, "oh, of course."

She pulls a chair beside yours, angled just slightly. "She asked me to talk to you because she wasn’t sure how," Wanda starts, gentle but direct. "She’s been carrying something. And she’s afraid you’ll dismiss it or reassure her… instead of really hearing it." Wanda sits down, on her chair.

You straighten a little, heart tightening, "what is it?"

"She’s worried about you," Wanda says. "Not in a way that suggests you’re doing something wrong. But… she feels like she’s taking up too much space in your life."

You blink, frowning, "that’s ridiculous. I want to be here. She’s-"

"I know," Wanda interrupts softly, hand resting on her knee. "But that’s part of the problem. She knows how much you love her. She knows you'd move mountains for her. And she’s grateful, she really is. But… she feels like you're putting your entire life on hold. Like her healing is coming at the cost of your freedom."

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, "I don’t see it that way."

"I believe you," Wanda says. "But she does. And it’s heavy for her to carry, the idea that she might be holding you back. That because it’s just the two of you, you’ve felt like you have no choice but to be the strong one all the time."

You glance down at your hands, flexing them once in your lap, "she’s all I’ve got."

Wanda’s voice softens even more, "that’s exactly why she’s scared of being the reason you lose yourself."

You nod slowly, "I never wanted her to feel like that."

"I know. That’s why I agreed to talk to you. So you could hear it without her breaking down trying to say it herself."

You let out a quiet breath.

"She’s trying. And so are you. But she needs to feel like you’re living your life too, not just existing to keep hers stitched together."

You nod, pressing your fingers to your brow, "I should talk to her." You glance at her. "You’re good at your job."

She smiles, wry and warm, "I try."

You nod, pushing yourself up. But just before you open the door, you glance over your shoulder. "…Thanks, Doc."

Wanda raises an eyebrow, playfully, "you can still call me Wanda."

You give her a tired, affectionate smile, "okay. Thanks, Wanda."

Then you step back out, into the hallway, where Ellie waits, pretending not to look anxious, even though her fingers are twisting the strap of her bag. The drive is quiet for a while. You don’t turn on the radio. Just the soft hum of the engine and the muted sound of traffic outside. Ellie’s curled into the passenger seat, legs pulled up slightly, her head against the window. You glance at her every few seconds, hands firm on the steering wheel.

Eventually, she speaks. "I didn’t mean it like… I don’t want you around."

You exhale gently, "I know. Wanda told me."

She looks at you, visibly nervous.

"She said you asked her to talk to me. Said you were worried I’d just brush it off if it came from you."

Ellie shrugs a little, "you always joke when stuff gets heavy with yourself. Or change the subject. Or pretend you're fine." You nod, "I guess I do."

There’s a quiet beat before you pull into a quieter street and park under a big leafy tree. You turn the engine off and sit in the quiet stillness.

"I never saw it like that, El," you say softly. "That I was giving up anything for you. I just wanted to be the one thing you didn’t have to worry about. The one constant."

"I know," she whispers. "But sometimes it feels like you're holding everything together and forgetting you're allowed to want things for yourself too. We came from the same fucked up parents, so we both need therapy."

That makes you laugh, fair point. "I guess that is true, yeah." Then you look over at her. "And I do want things."

She turns her head once again, one eyebrow raised, "like what?"

You shrug, half a smile, "... buy a motorcycle, a dog, a wildly inappropriate amount of chocolate."

Ellie snorts, "okay, serious things."

You hesitate, then say, quieter, "a life that’s more than surviving. Something real. Someone real."

She watches you for a moment, then leans her head against the seat, "that’s why I think you should go for it," she says.

You blink, "go for what?"

Ellie doesn’t look at you as she smirks, "ask her out."

"… ask who out?"

She turns slowly, eyes narrowed in the most sarcastic way she can muster. "Hmm, I don’t know. Just someone you’ve been making eyes at for weeks. Subtle as a truck."

You scoff, grinning, "okay, rude."

She smacks your hand lightly. "Come on, you’re not even trying to hide it! You go all heart-eyes when she says your name."

"I do not!"

"You literally look like a school girl!"

"I´m just being polite!"

Ellie rolls her eyes dramatically, "just ask her out, dummy. She likes you too. I can feel it."

You lean back with a groan, dragging your hands down your face. "Great. Now I have my little sister coaching me through my love life."

Ellie crosses her arms, smug, "well, someone has to make sure you don’t die alone with your motorcycle and dog."

You chuckle, the weight in your chest lifting just a little. "Fine," you say, nudging her arm. "But only because you’re such a convincing therapist."

"Damn right," she grins. "Now buy me a smoothie and we never speak of this again."

"Deal."

You both laugh, the kind that sounds like something settling back into place.

Another week passes. The routine has become something comforting - morning traffic, Ellie’s music in the car, Wanda’s smile at the door. You don’t say it aloud, but things feel…lighter. Like whatever storm the two of you had been walking through is finally easing into something warm.

Ellie’s session is about to end when you glance at the clock and stand from your spot in the waiting room. Your heart’s thudding a little louder than you’d admit. When the door opens, Ellie walks out with her usual post-session softness, tired but calm. You meet her with a smile.

"Mind waiting in the car for a sec?"

Ellie raises a brow, but then realizes, "oh- of course!" She winks at you and head out.

Wanda appears in the doorway, immediately sensing the shift. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," you assure, gently. "Nothing’s wrong. Ellie’s doing amazing. You’re amazing, honestly. I just… I wanted to talk to you for a second."

Wanda steps aside, gesturing for you to come in. Inside the office, it’s quiet, comfortable. Wanda stands near her chair, arms crossed gently, gaze curious but cautious.

You breathe in, "I know this isn’t how things usually go. And I don’t want to make anything weird for Ellie or mess with boundaries. I just… wanted to ask you something."

Wanda tilts her head slightly, "go on."

You smile, trying not to fidget, fuck this is harder than you thought it would be, you exhale softly, "would you like to go on a date with me?"

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Wanda blinks, "oh."

"I mean- no pressure," you add quickly, hands lifted in surrender. "Just… you are really phenomenal."

She arches a brow, amused despite herself, "phenomenal?"

"In every way," you say, voice softer now. "And if it doesn’t work out after one date, that’s okay. But… I know it will."

Wanda exhales a short laugh, shaking her head as if trying to hide the smile creeping up, "you’re confident, aren’t you?"

You grin, "like I said… I’m not backing down."

Another quiet moment. Her expression shifts, not flirty this time, but thoughtful. Then she nods small, but real. "Alright," she says, "one date."

You´re suprised, "really?"

"Really," she replies. "Though I’m starting to think Ellie’s not the only one I’ll end up analyzing."

You chuckle and back toward the door, "we’re a package deal."

As you exit the office and walk back to your sister, "well?" Ellie stares at you.

You try to hide the grin spreading across your face.

Ellie narrows her eyes. "No. No, no, no- don’t you dare try and be cool right now- well?!"

You turn to her, grin slipping free, "she said yes."

Ellie gasps, "WOOHOO!" She fist-pumps the air and nearly knocks over her water bottle in the process. "Yes! My matchmaking era!"

You laugh as she cheers again, pounding her hands on the dash with unfiltered joy.

Back inside the office, Wanda hears the muffled noise through the door and smiles quietly to herself, shaking her head.

Then suddenly, Ellie’s voice cuts through the joy like a knife, "wait a minute."

You glance over, "what?"

Ellie turns toward you slowly, horror blooming in her expression. "Holy shit. Does this mean I have to change therapist again?!"

Thank you for reading!:)

[thatonegrimm]

Hi Grimm! I asked for the oppa fic and I love it! can i/we get a sequel where they call you noona? Take your time and take care of yourself!

Thank you!! 😭💖 I was literally messing around with this at like 3am trying to get the tone just right! I honestly think it makes a great sequel 👀 Your ideas are so dangerous. Keep them coming. LMAO

“They Called You Noona?!”

Sequel to: You Called Them Oppa?! Summary: It starts casually. A slip, a tease, a title. But the moment one of the boys calls you noona, something shifts—and now you’re the one spiraling while they pretend like nothing happened. Except… they know exactly what they’re doing.

------------------------------

It started innocently.

You’d been wrangling them all day—prying spicy chips from Baby’s fingers before a stage fit, convincing Mystery not to melt the lighting rig after it “offended him,” and threatening Romance with a clipboard if he didn’t stop adjusting his shirt mid-interview.

Abby had broken a chair trying to “fix” it. Jinu had stress-checked the schedule six times. Someone (probably Baby) had drawn fangs on your tour binder.

You were tired. Done. One breath away from collapse.

And then Jinu—sweet, responsible, secretly-evil Jinu—walked over, pressed a heat pack gently into your hands, and murmured:

“Take it easy, noona.”

The word hit like a rogue soundwave. Soft. Warm. Devastating.

You froze.

The boys didn’t.

Romance turned like he’d been summoned by fate. Abby blinked in real time. Mystery’s eyes narrowed—just slightly. Baby actually stopped chewing.

The air changed.

And you realized—you were not going to survive this.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not now that they'd figured out exactly what to call you.

And worse? They knew it worked.

------------------------------

🧿 Jinu 

He looked just as surprised as you.

His mouth moved before his brain could catch up. That soft-spoken instinct of his, slipping out like a reverent truth:

“Take it easy, noona.”

And then he froze. Like he’d accidentally summoned a god.

“I didn’t mean— That is, I meant the heat pack, not—noona— That wasn’t—!”

You raised a brow.

He backpedaled. Physically. Emotionally. Existentially.

“It’s cultural!” he insisted. “Respectful! You’re older! Technically!”

“You called me noona,” you said, slowly, like if you repeated it he’d glitch again.

He flinched.

“Once,” he whispered.

“Twice,” you corrected. “Just now. And then when you panicked.”

He stared at you like you were holding a weapon.

Maybe you were.

He scrambled for a counterargument—anything—but his brain was lagging.

“It’s just a title,” he muttered. “It’s not like I—”

“Like you what?”

He flushed so hard his ears turned red.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

You leaned in.

“Say it again.”

He made it three steps before walking directly into a standing mic stand.

Somehow, that was still less painful than your smile.

Later, when you passed him a checklist without looking, his hand hovered a little longer under yours.

He didn’t say it again. Not right away.

But the next time he did—it was quiet. Careful. Intentional.

And he said it like it meant something he wasn’t ready to name yet.

------------------------------

💪 Abby 

He was helping you carry gear. You were trying to be strong about it—pretend your back wasn’t aching, your shoulders weren’t sore.

He noticed anyway.

Took the weight from your hands without asking. Lifted it like it was made of foam.

“Let me handle it, noona. You’ve done enough today.”

You stopped walking.

He didn’t even notice until he glanced back and saw your expression.

You blinked once. Twice.

“What?” he asked, confused. “Did I say it weird?”

“You said noona.”

“Yeah?”

He said it again—soft, like he didn’t understand why it made your spine straighten and your ears go red.

It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t teasing. Just natural. Like he’d been saying it in his head for weeks and it finally slipped.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast.

Later, he caught you staring. Not at him—at your own hands. At nothing.

“Want me to stop saying it?” he offered.

You meant to say yes.

You didn’t.

“You look like you’re short-circuiting,” you said instead.

He grinned.

“Then we match.”

That night, when he passed you a water bottle and whispered “Thanks, noona,” under his breath, it felt less like a nickname and more like something you'd been waiting to hear without realizing it.

And you didn’t stop smiling for a while after.

------------------------------

📚 Mystery 

You didn’t even hear him enter the room.

One moment you were muttering about scheduling conflicts and headset malfunctions, and the next—

“Let me,” he said, reaching past you to grab the file.

And then, barely above a whisper:

“You’re tired, noona.”

It wasn’t even a tease. Just… a quiet observation.

You froze.

Turned.

He was already gone.

The word hung in the air like smoke, soft and unshakable.

You stood there longer than you’d like to admit.

When you finally moved, you found a sticky note on your clipboard.

“Eat something. You’re shaking.” – Noona privileges: enforced.”

You stared at it. Blinked.

Then your phone buzzed.

New calendar event: “Noona said rest time.” Location: Behind the speaker stack. Bring snacks.

You groaned. You smiled.

Later that night, you caught him watching you from across the venue—shadowed, still, unreadable.

You didn’t say anything.

But you held the sticky note in your pocket for the rest of the week.

And when your name appeared scrawled into the corner of a fogged-up mirror—next to one word, underlined twice—you didn’t ask questions.

You just touched the glass and smiled.

------------------------------

💋 Romance 

Romance was born to say it.

He said it like a sigh. Like a secret. Like he’d been waiting for the right moment his entire life and this was it.

“You’re working too hard, noona. Let me steal you away.”

Your brain short-circuited. You blinked at him like he’d just hexed you.

“Don’t,” you said automatically.

“Don’t what?”

“Say that.”

“Say what, noona?”

You swore you saw sparkles behind him. Like his ego had summoned confetti.

“You’re not younger than me,” you snapped.

“You’re in charge. That counts.”

“No, it doesn’t—”

“You scold me. You bring me snacks. You adjust my mic pack like a concerned girlfriend.”

“Manager.”

“Girlfriend energy.”

You tossed a folder at his head. He dodged. Smiling.

“Say it again and I swear—”

“What? You’ll punish me, noona?”

You left the room.

Your face was still burning twenty minutes later.

And when he passed you in the hallway, he didn’t say a word—just winked.

You didn’t sleep that night.

And the next day, when you tried to be serious, tried to remind him to stay focused, he leaned in and murmured:

“You’re cute when you try to be stern, noona.”

You dropped your clipboard.

He caught it. With both hands.

And said it again—softer.

------------------------------

🔥 Baby

You were mid-argument. About schedules. Rehearsals. Or him sleeping in the prop van again.

“You think rules don’t apply to you,” you snapped.

“They don’t,” he muttered, arms crossed.

“You’re lucky I haven’t buried you in paperwork.”

He snorted. Then, under his breath:

“You’re acting like a noona.”

You stopped cold.

He did too.

A beat. Two.

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged. Unbothered.

“You’re bossy. You glare a lot. You pack my lunch sometimes.”

“That was once.”

“And it was perfect.”

You stepped closer. “You want me to bury you now?”

“Noona, please.”

You flinched.

He smirked.

“You like it,” he said, voice low. “Don’t lie.”

You shoved his shoulder. He leaned into it.

“Say it again,” you challenged.

He raised a brow. “You threatening or begging?”

You turned and stormed off.

He popped another chip in his mouth and grinned to himself.

And later, when you said his name across the hallway and he answered with—

“Yeah, noona?”

You almost walked into the doorframe.

He saw it. Didn’t say anything.

But the smirk on his face said enough.

------------------------------

Now they all say it sometimes.

Not constantly. Not enough to raise questions from staff or fans. Just enough to keep you perpetually on edge—wondering when it’ll slip out next, wondering if you’ll flinch or smile or both.

Noona in the morning, when you hand out coffee and they brush their fingers against yours like it’s normal. Noona when they’re teasing you in the green room, leaning too close with half-lidded eyes and smiles that don’t belong on a rehearsal day. Noona when they’re tired, when their walls drop, when they forget to perform for the world and just look at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense.

They don’t overuse it. They don’t need to.

They’ve weaponized it into something gentler—something intimate. It’s not just a word anymore.

It’s a promise. A provocation. A door you’ve accidentally left open.

You should tell them to stop.

You really should.

But you don’t.

Because somewhere deep down, in the part of your chest you keep padlocked for professional reasons, you don’t want them to stop.

And worse than that—

They know. They all know.

------------------------------

M-List

[canyonmoonchild]

⊹ Slow Burn

Pairing: firefighter!harry x bartender!reader

T.W.: mild language, firefighting references, alcohol, otherwise fluff

Words: 2,405

Synopsis: when a dare from the crew pushes Harry to finally ask out the bartender who stole his heart, a clumsy confession sparks a slow-burn romance neither of them saw coming.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

🌷Masterlist

current taglist: @catmomstyles3 @multiplefandomstan @vikiii07 @sittinginthegardern @triski73

***

I'm dog-tired. Sixteen hours on shift, half of that spent hacking my way through a kitchen fire while smoke clawed at my lungs. The other half, clearing debris from a ceiling that decided to collapse right after we'd gotten everyone out. I should be home, showering off the soot, falling into bed. But the second I push open the door to the bar, something lifts in my chest. The smell hits me first — stale beer, fryer grease, and a faint, sweet edge that I've figured out comes from her baking cookies for the regulars. I breathe it in like oxygen.

Then I see her.

She's behind the bar, wiping down glasses, that easy smile lighting up her face while she chats with a regular. She leans forward, hair slipping over her shoulder, laughter bubbling out of her like it's the easiest thing in the world.

And just like that, I'm awake again.

There's a spark inside me every time I see her — steady and warm, a reminder that the world can still be soft, even after a day that tries to burn you alive.

Of course, the guys clock me in a heartbeat.

"Christ, Styles," Jack snorts as I slide into the booth. "Close your mouth before you catch flies."

I shoot him a glare, but it's half-hearted.

"Give it a rest," I mutter.

Ben's snicker is sharp enough to cut glass. "One of these days, mate, you're gonna combust. Right here. In the bar."

"Shut it."

They don't. They never do. That's part of the deal — you run into burning buildings together, you get to roast each other alive afterward. Still, their teasing hits a raw spot tonight. I know they mean well, but God, I wish I could just... ask her. Except what if I wreck it? What if I ruin the easy way she smiles at me, the warmth in her voice whenever I walk in?

I try to focus on the music, the low hum of conversation, anything to distract myself — but my eyes keep drifting back. She moves so gracefully, balancing a tray of pints, laughing with another customer, and I feel like I'm staring straight into the sun.

Jack claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, yanking me out of it.

"You know what, Styles?" he says, voice full of mischief. "I'm sick of this."

"Of what?" I ask, wary.

"Of you mooning over her like a lovesick Labrador. Enough."

Ben cackles, raising his pint. "You'd sooner charge into a four-alarm fire than talk to her. It's tragic, really."

My cheeks burn. "Piss off."

Jack grins, eyes sparking. "Alright. Here's the deal. I dare you — before we leave tonight, you ask her out. Properly. None of this polite-chit-chat nonsense."

My stomach drops to my boots. "Are you kidding me?"

Ben leans forward, like a shark that's smelled blood. "Dead serious. You don't, you're covering our tab. Every pint."

My jaw drops. That's half a paycheck gone.

"Or," Ben singsongs, "you could grow a pair."

They're all looking at me now, waiting. I run a hand over my face, heart pounding so loud I'm surprised no one else hears it.

I've charged into fires, crawled through pitch-black basements with nothing but a hose and a prayer — but this? Asking her out? Terrifies me in a way nothing else ever has.

Still, Jack's grin softens a fraction. Underneath all the ribbing, I know they've got my back. They'd pick me up if I fell. Hell, they'd carry me if they had to.

I sigh, staring into the foam on my beer.

"Fine," I say, voice so small I barely recognize it. "I'll do it."

The whoops and cheers from the table make me want to sink through the floor, but somewhere under all that panic, there's a flicker of hope — fragile and fierce. I let it settle in my chest, and I take another sip of my beer, steadying myself for whatever comes next.

My pint glass sweats under my fingertips as I watch her move. She's behind the bar, towel in one hand, stacking glasses on the overhead rack like she's done it a thousand times — effortless, graceful. There's a faint smile on her lips, the kind that lights me up no matter how brutal the day's been. She leans over to chat with one of the regulars about weekend plans, a warm laugh spilling out of her. It punches me straight in the chest. I swallow, heart pounding like a five-alarm bell. God, Styles. Just stand up.

My palms are sweaty as hell, my knees going wobbly under me. I can still feel the grime of the fire shift clinging to my skin, but none of that scares me half as much as walking over to her right now.

Okay. I try to rehearse it in my head, real quick, while the guys are busy heckling me.

"Hey, you wanna grab coffee sometime?" — no, too basic.

"Hey, I'd really like to take you out" — too much?

"Wanna get dinner?" — shit.

It all evaporates the second I push away from the booth. Jack's whistling behind me, Ben straight-up clapping like I'm going to accept an award. Someone else tries to hide behind their beer glass but I know they're watching, all eyes trained on me like a live show. Great. Thanks for the subtlety, lads.

I roll my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and step toward the bar. She glances up, smile going even warmer. Those eyes — so bright, so goddamn kind — almost make me lose my nerve on the spot.

"Hey, Harry," she calls over the music, raising her voice so I can hear. "Rough shift?"

The jukebox is blaring something from Led Zeppelin, so I have to lean closer. My head spins, partly from the beer, mostly from how close she is. I catch the scent of her perfume — light, sweet — under the fried food and dish soap in the air. Someone shouts "Line two!" from the kitchen, a phone rings, and a regular a couple stools over knocks his beer clean off the bar. Another bartender rushes by with a towel, the whole place buzzing with life. And I'm just... standing here. Frozen.

She tips her head, waiting. "Everything okay?"

Say it, Styles.

I clear my throat. "So — uh." Shit. There goes the entire speech. "Look, this is gonna sound stupid, but..." Her eyebrows arch, curious, not unkind. "...the guys dared me to ask you out."

My stomach drops through the floor. Brilliant, Harry. Just brilliant.

Her laugh is soft, surprised, but not mocking. "They dared you?"

"Yeah," I blurt. "But — I mean, I wanted to anyway. For, like... a while. So I figured I'd just... go for it."

Her smile shifts, growing softer, warmer, and my heart damn near stops.

"You wanted to ask me out," she repeats, like she's tasting the words.

"Yeah," I manage, voice cracking like a kid. "I'd — really like to take you out. If you'd want that."

For one horrifying second, I think she might say no. I see the whole nightmare play out in my head — the awkwardness, the teasing, the way she'd have to keep serving me drinks after shutting me down — But then she nods, a spark in her eyes.

"Yeah, Harry," she says, gentle but certain. "I'd like that."

Something inside me lets go all at once, a rush of relief so strong I almost forget to breathe. Behind me, I can hear the guys absolutely losing their minds, cheering like idiots. I don't even care. She said yes. She said yes.

A rush of relief barrels through me so hard it feels like a backdraft letting out. My shoulders drop, my lungs finally work again, and for a second I just stand there, blinking, as if I misheard. She said yes. Did that really just happen?

My face must be giving me away because she grins at me, eyes dancing.

"About time you asked, firefighter," she teases, still half-drying a glass in one hand.

I choke on a laugh, cheeks flaming. "Yeah — uh — sorry it took me... you know. Forever."

She leans in a bit, voice warm. "So, when's our date, Romeo?"

Every carefully rehearsed answer goes straight out the window, again. "Uh — maybe coffee? I mean, dinner? Whatever you want—"

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that makes the entire bar seem to fade away. "Dinner sounds good. You free Thursday?"

I nod so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. "Thursday's perfect."

"Perfect," she echoes, and reaches for a napkin, scribbling her number down and sliding it across the bar. Her fingers brush mine, and something explodes in my chest — hope, happiness, a bit of terror, all tangled together. She looks me up and down, smirking. "Don't be late, Styles."

My grin feels too big for my face. "Wouldn't dream of it." Then she glances over her shoulder as a bell dings, another customer waving for a refill. She gives me a quick wink before getting back to work, like she hasn't just completely rewritten my entire world in thirty seconds.

I stand there for a second, trying to steady myself, napkin clutched in my sweaty hand like it's pure gold.

Then the whooping starts. Jack nearly jumps out of the booth, yelling, "About damn time, Styles!" Ben pounds me on the back so hard my teeth rattle, while the others raise their glasses like I've just saved a baby from a burning building. Someone buys me a fresh pint, crowning me "the hero of the night." They're loud, they're ridiculous — but under all of it, I know they're proud of me. And weirdly, I'm proud of myself too.

I glance back toward the bar. She's still working, moving fast, but every once in a while she looks up and gives me that smile — soft, warm, the kind that makes me feel like I'm standing somewhere safe.

The bar is still buzzing — music pounding from the jukebox, someone shouting about a game on TV, the scent of fryer grease swirling with dish soap and beer — but somehow everything feels lighter. Easier. Like I can finally breathe.

I catch Jack trying to retell the story already, dramatizing the moment I nearly fainted. I laugh, letting them run with it. Because I know — no matter how many times they spin this story — I'll never forget the truth of it: I asked her out. She said yes.

And for tonight, that's enough to make me feel like the luckiest bastard on earth.

***

Thursday night rolls around faster than I'm ready for. I swear I've scrubbed every inch of myself twice, picked out three shirts before settling on a plain blue button-down, and even polished my boots like I'm going to a bloody inspection. Jack and Ben caught me pacing the locker room before I left, and gave me a mock pep talk worthy of a halftime speech — half teasing, half trying to calm me down.

By the time I'm standing outside the cozy Italian place a couple blocks from the station, my hands are sweating like I just walked through a house fire.

She shows up right on time, and honest to God, I nearly forget how to breathe. She's wearing a simple dress, nothing flashy, but it hugs her just right and she's done something different with her hair, soft waves that frame her face. I'm so used to seeing her in a bar apron with her sleeves rolled up, that it feels like a punch straight to my chest.

"You look..." I stammer, fighting to keep my jaw from dropping, "...incredible. Wow."

She laughs, cheeks flushing pink. "Thanks, Harry."

I open the door for her, and we slip inside. The place is warm, a little cramped in a cozy way, candles flickering on checkered tablecloths. A couple families chatter around us, clinking forks, soft Italian music humming from an old speaker. It's nothing fancy, but it feels right.

Once we sit, I try to steer the conversation, but my nerves nearly get me — I keep worrying about running out of things to say, going blank. Luckily, she puts me at ease, asking about the station, about funny calls we've run. I tell her a story about a cat in a wall, and she snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her water.

A few times the conversation dips into these gentle silences, and my stomach seizes, but then she just smiles, like she doesn't mind, and starts up again.

Our hands brush when we both reach for the bread basket, and my heart stutters so hard I'm sure she hears it. There's a moment where our eyes meet, lingering, and everything around us goes fuzzy for a second.

Then, of course, I ruin it by smacking my water glass over with a clumsy elbow. Water goes everywhere, and I'm about ready to crawl under the table, but she laughs, grabs a napkin, and helps mop it up.

"Smooth, firefighter," she teases, flashing me a grin that melts me down to the bone.

By the time we finish, I feel lighter than I have in ages. She's easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, and somehow manages to make even my worst nerves fade. I surprise her by bringing up a tiny detail she'd once mentioned at the bar — that she'd always wanted to try learning to make pasta from scratch — and her eyes light up in a way that makes me want to remember everything she's ever said.

Afterward, I offer to walk her home, even though it's a few blocks away, and she doesn't hesitate. Outside her building, we stand awkwardly for a second, the night buzzing around us — traffic, a faraway siren, the faint smell of garlic from the restaurant clinging to my shirt.

She smiles up at me, soft and warm, and suddenly the moment feels simple, natural. I lean in and press a gentle kiss to her lips, a little clumsy, but honest. She kisses me back, laughing just a bit when we pull apart, and I'm pretty sure I'm grinning like an idiot.

"See you soon?" I ask, breathless.

"Definitely," she says, and steps inside, giving me one last look that sends a shock through my entire body.

I walk back to my truck on air, replaying every second, already counting the hours until I can see her again.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Hiii 🌷 this one-shot is a bit shorter than my usual because I’m testing the waters with writing fluff for the first time! I’d love to know what you think — feel free to drop me a comment if you enjoyed it 💗 also, can we talk about how crazy AI is for making this banner? 😂

[lush-escape]

Damn Dog

Jason Todd x gn!reader

just something short and cute where you have to explain your split lip. this is 100% based off of something that happened to me today. my dog's fat head split open the inside of my lip

“Who did it?”

Jason's standing right behind you as you stand at the kitchen island in the manor. You purse your lips together and wince at the pain.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” You answer quickly. Too quick for Jason's liking.

“Bullshit.” He keeps his voice level. “Who did it?” He asks again, this time his voice is tight and serious. You know he won't be asking again.

“It's not a big deal.” You respond, but you still refuse to look at him. 

Your split lip, bruised and swollen now, stood out painfully on your face. You refused to tell anyone how it happened knowing the teasing that would commence if you did.

“It is.” Jason's hand is on the back of your neck. Not painful or rough or demanding. Grounding, for himself, a way to keep his nerves in check.

“Except that it's not.” You respond as you turn around. Jason's hand moves with you, staying on the base of your throat now. His thumb trails over the middle of your collarbones.

You look up at him through your lashes. You can't even close your mouth with how fat your lip is.

“Just tell me,” Jason's quiet, on the verge of begging. “So I can go find whoever do this and-”

Your knees are a little weak at the protective tone in his voice. You know you have to tell him now.

“Dog.” You tell him quickly.

Jason tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing.

You close your eyes and sigh.

“It was Dog.” You say again and open your eyes to look at him again.

“... Dog?” Jason asks. The dog he found on patrol that he named Dog, the one he said he was only going to hold onto until the shelter opened in the morning.

That was three weeks ago.

“He headbutted me when we were playing.” You explain.

Jason's lips form a tight line and he bites the inside of his cheek to hold in his laugh.

“Let me get this straight-” he starts.

“Oh god,” you groan.

“Dog headbutted you in the mouth and split your lip open?”

You nod.

“Oh, doll,” his Jersey accent draws out the pet name making you roll your eyes at him. “What am I gonna do with ya, huh?”

You shrug, “I dunno…” you pout for a second until the good side of your mouth quirks up into a lopsided smile, “Kiss me til it's better?”

“Yeah? That the answer?” Jason smirks at your answer, lowering his head.

“Yeah, I think so.” You answer as you lean forward until your lips gently meet his.

[misspermitted]

I’m so unbelievably feral for the idea that, while the rest of the Saja boys are singing to the audience in Your Idol, all of Jinu’s verses are directed towards Rumi. I mean, in all fairness, the entirety of Your Idol is filled with jabs at Rumi and Huntrix, but while the others are singing to the audience directly counteracting Huntrix’s influence, Jinu is just talking to Rumi. Actually just the pure fact that Jinu 100% wrote Your Idol right after singing Free with Rumi drives me insane.

In fact, it makes me so insane I’m gonna meta analyse the entire song right now:

The Pop Industry Commentary

Let us begin with the base level analysis that we shall build off for the stuff that my shipper heart goes feral for:

So naturally the entire point of this song, which is why it’s such a good villain song, is to straight up just tell everyone watching that they’re planning to kill them and the audience not giving a fuck because of the power of celebrities. But what makes this song extra awesome is that it’s also essentially explaining about how teach member’s k-pop trope has manipulated the audience.

Abby and Escapism

Like you got Abs McGee going:

“Keeping you in check

Keeping you obsessed

Play me on repeat kkeuteobsi (endlessly) in your head”

Which is SO COOL because it totally fits with what we’ve seen from Abs. Which is that both Mira and Zoey get repeatedly distracted by him and stare at him (“keeping them obsessed, playing endlessly in their head.”) And one of his only lines is “I know they would (follow us in here), that one keeps looking at me” ie. keeping them in check.

Then his next line:

“Anytime it hurts

Play another verse

I can be your sanctuary”

Really clearly explains how him being, literally, eye candy distracts from things being serious. And further, a meta commentary on using media and simping over pretty abs to escape from life and things that do matter.

Romance and Parasocial Relationships

Then you’ve got Romance’s lines are:

Yeah you gave me your heart

Now I’m here for your soul

Now we don’t see much of Romance but what we do see is really interesting, and very much expands on my interpretation of him. Which is mainly his interactions with Mira (namely, staring) which the movies actual audience went crazy about as cute and romantic.

And that’s really funny because that’s totally what Romance supposed to be. He’s supposed to be the soft sweet one who people transfer onto and trust “Look at him looking at her, surely he’ll get a redemption arc” (he doesn’t)

Making me think this audience reaction was 100% intentional is Romance’s next lines:

Nae hwangholui chwihae (intoxicated with my ecstasy) you can’t look away

Don’t you know I’m here to save you

God the fun meta commentary on K-pop and fandom culture in this song and movie is so awesome. Like Romance being a whole satire on the one band member that has a relationship and gains peoples trust by sharing their personal life. This movie is so good!!

Mystery and Making Celebrities Superhuman

I won’t fully go into Mystery because I’m only analysing the movie song and not the full song which gives him more lines, but my reading of his small amount:

No I’m the only one right now

I will love you more when it all burns down

More than power, more than gold

Is that he’s about the celebrities that are put on a pedestal and have to remain carefully mysterious to stay there, whose fans do literally anything to try to impress them. I could go into how him being Zoey, the established people pleaser’s favourite is a really interesting exploration of who the act of “pedastal”-ing celebrities appeals to, but that. Is. Not. The. Point.

The point is that, in this song, the Saja boys are taking to the audience about, essentially, how they manipulated the hell out of them.

The only exception to this rule is Jinu, and this is because he isn’t a satire of K-pop bands. Jinu’s character is a narrative foil for Rumi.

Jinu’s Lines as Directed Towards Rumi

Now the counter argument to Jinu actually singing to Rumi is that he’s “just singing his master’s song/on behalf of Gwi-Ma). And at some points this is true, especially in the latter half of the song, ie.

I will set you free

When you’re all apart of me

Where “me” is clearly Gwi-Ma. (You may notice the “free” mention here. We shall address the little jabs at Rumi throughout this song in p2).

However there are other parts, particularly the first half, where Jinu is clearly not singing for Gwi-Ma because his tone is wildly different. At least in my opinion.

I saw a comment that really succinctly summed up the tone of Your Idol as someone who has already gotten what they wanted. They’re not asking for the audience’s adoration, they’ve already got it. They’re literally just bragging about it. And you’ll see that’s congruent with my interpretation of the other Saja boys who are just explaining how they’ve gotten such control.

Jinu is the only one who actually asks the audience to do something. And it doesn’t actually make sense that he does:

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher?

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Why is he asking the already enamoured audience to listen? Why is he asking them to give him their desire when they clearly already have? Why is he saying that he “could” be their idol when he already is? It’s a completely different tone from the others’: “You gave me your heart” and “You can’t look away” and “I’m here to save you”

Also the phrase “listen cause I’m preaching to the choir” really doesn’t seem like something you’d say to the choir. Just saying.

Let’s Just Assume Because it’s Fun

In all fairness, no matter how much I try to justify it, I can’t actually prove that he’s singing to Rumi But let’s just head canon it because then we get to have some fun.

So Jinu’s first chorus is:

I’m the only one who’ll love your sins

Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin

Listen cause I’m preaching to the choir

Can I get the mic a little higher

Give me your desire

I can be the star you rely on

Yeah I’m all you need imma be your idol

Now what I love about this is firstly, Jesus Christ the “I’m the only one who’ll love your sins” is so close to “I understand what it’s like to have patterns, I’m the only one who will.” Which is crazy shit. But also so clear in how shame is isolating and Jinu purposefully uses that tactic against Rumi to isolate her while also believing it himself.

Like before that first interaction with Rumi Jinu tells Gwi-Ma he’ll use Rumi’s shame to isolate her from her friends. And his “I’m the only one who understands” is absolutely the first step in doing that. And it works. She questions her order and feels isolated as hell.

But that tactic slowly morphes into something that actually makes Rumi and Jinu healthier, love and acceptance. While Gwi-Ma’s whole thing is seeing your sins and guilting you, Jinu sees Rumi’s patterns and accepts her. And in Free, which Jinu sings like right before writing this one, it gets explicitly stated that Rumi felt like the only time she’s felt like she could breath and like she could be more than her sins is with Jinu.

Jinu’s lyrics here is such an interesting response to “Free” in that he is saying, from this reading: “We can’t fix our sins, but I love you for them.” And, especially with him exposing her in front of her friends, “I’m the only one who will love your sins.”

In fact, it could be said that the entire of his chorus is him saying that Rumi is worshipping a false idol as a hunter. That she is a demon not a hunter. That he can be the code she follows, “the star you rely on.” That what Rumi desires, to “fix” them both, is wrong. Which, though incredibly concerning, is also not wrong. Rumi does realise that the hunter code is wrong, that the thing she is protecting is wrong. That she doesn’t need to be fixed. To a certain extent, Jinu’s points about Rumi and him always being demons, that she can’t fix it, is correct.

I love that if you read the lyrics in this way, you can hear the frustration in some of his lines. Like “Give me your desire” and “No one is coming to save you!” Taken in the context of his lines in Free, where he says that no one sees him the way she does, that it feels right to let her in, that he wants to be free with her, but doesn’t sing along to her chorus about healing what is broken and fixing him. And their later argument where he says that they can’t be fixed.

Why would he be singing to her?

What is also interesting is that Jinu clearly doesn’t expect Rumi to be there. When he hears her voice you see panic flick over his face. So why would he be singing to her?

I think this really gives a bit of insight into Jinu’s character as someone who is way more comfortable singing his feelings then saying them. And someone who is so scared of rejection. Almost every time him and Rumi have a conversation she gets the last word and he is usually quite frustrated with himself about it.

But he doesn’t want to be vulnerable with anyone. Even if he could communicate his feelings he’s incredibly hesitant to because he has been told for 400 years that he’s a terrible person and is both certain and terrified or rejection.

So when Rumi gets mad at him, like in their third meeting or in the argument before this, he leaves before she can say anything else. And probably cries like the boy failure he is. But the entire point of Your Idol is to counteract Huntrix’s influence so he can say what he wants to. About how he doesn’t like the hunters code, about how he wants Rumi to join him. And it’s actually incredibly useful song wise.

I also keep in mind with this headcanon that Jinu wrote this song after Free. Incredibly internally conflicted.

I had other things to say about Baby’s part and all of the subtle digs Jinu put into the song but this has already been insanely and unnecessarily long so, part two incoming for that (maybe).

[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 😊🌻

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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.

[writtinymdni]

✨️ His Girl in the Shadows ✨️

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🚩 Chapter One: She gets the camera, I get the bruises

📖 Summary: Mingi’s girlfriend is waiting in the lobby. But he’s upstairs with you—his personal manager—fucking you like he can’t get enough. You know this is wrong. You know what you are to him.But the moment his hands are on you, the guilt fades, and the ache wins.

❗Warnings: NSFW 🔞 | unprotected sex | emotional cheating | dom!mingi | power imbalance | possessive behavior | guilt | reader knows it’s wrong but gives in | toxic dynamic | swearing | rough sex | choking (light) | aftercare (subtle) | mild degradation

⚠️ NSFW After the Cut

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She’s waiting for him in the lobby. Full face of makeup. Designer heels. A custom dress that hugs her body like a promise. Her lips are red. Her smile is ready for the cameras.

She’s the woman the public knows. The one in all the headlines. The one in all the photos. The one they say he loves.

But right now, Mingi’s cock is buried deep inside you — not her.

You’re bent over a dressing room table, knees shaking, panties pushed to the side.

Your blouse is still on but your dignity is long gone, left somewhere between his first kiss and the moment you stopped telling him no.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

But fuck, you can’t stop.

Because neither can he.

"God—don’t do that," he growls when you squeeze around him, breath hot and trembling in your ear. His hands grip your hips like he’s holding himself together. "You'll be the death of me"

You’re already dizzy from how deep he is. From how fast he moves. From how your guilt coils around your lungs like a vice.

“She’s waiting,” you whisper, voice broken, shame creeping up your spine like cold water.

“She is.” He thrusts harder, deeper, like he wants to fuck the thought of her right out of you.

“She’ll hear us,” you gasp, biting your lip as the table creaks beneath you.

So will the reporters.

So will the staff.

Anyone could walk in.

“Then shut up,” he hisses, slamming into you again. “Stop talking and we won’t have a problem.”

His mouth crashes against the side of your neck, teeth grazing your skin like punishment.

He doesn't kiss you — not really. He claims. Marks. Leaves pieces of himself in places no one else can see.

You reach back for him — desperate, shaking — and he swats your hand away.

“Don’t,” he breathes. “You don’t get to touch me.”

Your stomach sinks.

You should hate him for that.

You should stop this.

But your body betrays you every time.

The table rocks violently as he pounds into you, one hand fisted in your hair now, yanking your head back just enough to hear every whimper you make.

The sting burns. You welcome it.

Maybe if it hurts enough, it’ll feel less like betrayal.

He’s relentless. Each thrust brutal, sharp, like he’s trying to drive the guilt deeper into both of you.

Your legs shake, slick dripping down your thighs, body tightening around him like it’s the only thing it knows how to do anymore.

You come with a strangled sob, choking on his name, the orgasm ripping through you like regret.

You try to stifle the cry but it still spills out — loud, raw, ugly.

And still, he doesn’t stop. Not even when you start to cry.

His release comes with a guttural moan, his forehead falling to your shoulder, sweat dripping down his temple.

For a moment, the room is silent — except for your shallow breaths and the sound of your heart breaking.

Then he pulls out. Zips up. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t say a word.

You stay bent over the table, thighs sticky, body shaking. Your heart still beating in your throat. Eyes burning.

He doesn’t look at you as he leaves. Just fixes his jacket and walks out like nothing happened.

You fix your skirt. Wipe your face. And follow him out two minutes later.

Like nothing happened.

Like you’re not breaking.

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You step out into the hall. Walk past staff and makeup artists who smile like nothing’s wrong. No one knows what you just did. No one can smell the sex still clinging to your skin. No one sees how wrecked you feel.

But then you see him.

Mingi.

Standing just outside the lobby. His hand is on her waist.She laughs at something he said, head tilted back like a dream. And he smiles at her wide and bright, like he’s never known anything else.

They pose for the cameras.

Reporters click their shutters.

A perfect couple.

Flawless.

Public.

Loved.

And you?

You’re in the background.

His secret.

The woman he fucks and forgets.

You stand there, frozen. Watching him hold someone else like he didn’t just break you in half ten minutes ago.

And then he glances up and saw you.

For a second, something flickers in his eyes

guilt, maybe.

Recognition.

Or regret.

But he doesn’t move.

He just looks away.

Smiles for the cameras.

Like you never existed.

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a/n: this is my first ever fanfic 😭 thank you for reading! likes, reblogs, tags, screams, or quiet lurking are all welcome 🩷

🌹Chapter Msterlist:

● Teaser

● Chapter One: She gets the camera, I get the bruises.

● Chapter 2

📢 Announcement: Posting date for Chapter 2 (July 5, 2025 8pm kst)

🚩 Chapter 2 teaser:

Yunho’s coming—and he’s not as innocent as he looks. He’s just been patient. Until now.

❤️ Taglist: @yungistiny @yeosrewind @crazyhappycat @lunamonchtuna

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

“Living with Modern! Sukuna…”

Title: Modern! Headcanons without curses

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x GN! Reader

CW: Possessive behavior, mild threats of violence (not directed at Reader).

—Sukuna absolutely hogs the bed. Sleeps like a king in the middle, one arm over you like a you-move-you-die weighted blanket.

—He pretends to hate when you steal his hoodies but secretly gets flustered every time. “You’re not cold. You’re just annoying.” Then he wraps a blanket around you too.

—Cooking together? Total disaster. He tries to help but gets bored and starts tossing ingredients like weapons. You ban him from the kitchen — and he only listens when you pout.

—But he’ll randomly appear with your favorite snacks, tossed at you with a “Here. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

—He texts like a menace. No punctuation. All lowercase. Sends you cursed memes at 3 AM. Occasionally drops a “u up?” just to be annoying.

—Refuses to follow anyone on social media — except you and Uraume (maybe also Jin and Yuji). And you caught him lurking on your stories the second they go up.

—If someone flirts with you in your comments? They disappear. Or worse, they get a reply from him: “They’re taken. Try again and you’ll lose your account.”

—You once found him quietly petting a stray cat. He threatened to kill you if you told anyone. Now the cat lives on your balcony and he feeds it every night.

—He secretly keeps a photo of you in his phone — unedited, taken when you weren’t looking. It’s his favorite. He doesn’t know why. He’ll never say.

—When you fall asleep on him, he goes completely still. Won’t move. Won’t breathe too loudly. If anyone dares disturb you? He’s ready to commit murder. Again.

—Sukuna doesn’t say “I love you.” He says:

“Tch. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“I’ll kill anyone who makes you cry.”

“You better be here when I get back.”

He knows it can be seen as aggressive, but he hopes that you would understand.

—You once told him “thank you” after a rough day. He didn’t respond. But later that night, you found your favorite candy and a note that just said: “…Whatever.”

—He doesn’t like crowds, so your ideal dates are at home: horror movies, ramen, music playing low while he lounges shirtless on your couch like a spoiled cat god.

—He pretends not to care about your hobbies, but you’ve caught him reading the book you recommended. Twice.

—When you’re sick, he’s somehow weirdly good at taking care of you — grumbling the whole time. “You’re so needy. Eat this soup. I didn’t poison it. Probably.” And is well seasoned.

[writing-munchies]

Date Everything Self Aware & Obsessed AU PT.2— Eddie & Volt, Mac, Hoove

AN: A quick little something for 200+ followers, thank you all so much! That being said, I've had a panic attack and multiple breakdowns today, so my writing may not be my A-game, but I did write angst, so I might have cooked. Sorry for any mistakes as English isn't my first language:-]

WC: 1K

When you’re talking to Lux, even though you started off with hating them, they’ve kinda grown on you by now. You’ve started to spend so much time with them, they were just so fun now! Their jokes actually started to land and make you laugh really hard as you kept going through their dialogue every day, you, like any other player, usually forget to visit objects after getting their love or friendship ending. Volt & Eddie are no exceptions to this, sadly. Watching you aim those glasses at Lux every day, using at least one charge every day instead of coming to their show once, did piss them off. 

Eddie slammed his drink down on the counter with a huff as Volt rolled his eyes, the sound of Lux’s obnoxious laughter was drowning yours out and honestly, at this point it’s became so much. Volt has noticed how… agitated, when he- they both realized what they were. What you were. The fact that you’ve been romancing almost everyone didn’t sting as badly as finding out that nothing happened to the ‘MC’, you, the real human, just forgot about them or deemed their story done, without any say from them. 

Volt was pulled from his musings with an audible sigh from Eddie, “Hey,” he spoke softly, his hand caressing Eddie’s neck, “I’m sure we’ll find a way to get their attention back, we are the electricity! How hard can it be if Dorian, of all people, managed to mess up their game one time?” Volt’s heart sunk at Eddie’s gaze, he’d never saw his other half this… grim, before.

“It’s not about getting them back, Volt. Why did they forget in the first place? Were we too muc— did we do something wrong?”, his voice was gravelly, almost shaking with grief, as if they’d lost them. In a way, they were grieving, they were grieving the loss of your giggles when they flustered you, how you’d look at them like they were everything— they felt your gaze on them; it warmed their skin like the sun they never saw. 

The next time you’re talking with Lux, excited that it was most likely your last conversation before their route ended, you pressed on. All smiles until the power cut out. It was so instant you felt a little winded, the whole game just went dark, Lux disappeared, only the empty chat box in its usual place. Your heart actually picked up when you heard, “Ah, live wire! We’ve missed you…”

Mac feels empty. Not in the emotional way, oh boy they are full of emotions about you in that regard, they just… feel abandoned, tossed aside. They were one of the first to realize they were actually in a game and the puppet talking to them was controlled by a being so complex their CPU ran hot thinking about what you looked like. Your voice, whether a cough, sneeze, a coo at them or a comment about what they said, made their heart swell a thousand times more than when you double clicked. Though, you were save scumming, they found that term on the internet, trying to test every kind of ending you could get with them. Really, they are flattered and flustered that your attention was so fixated on them but, they hated the way you sounded when you kept picking the answers that lead to a hate end. There’s no way they’re letting that happen.

The next time you open their dialogue to finally get the hate ending and finish this god-damned challenge you forced on yourself, now though, Mac seems downright elated to see you. You… hurt them pretty badly, and yet they’re acting like nothing happened. Did you bug the game by how much you save scummed? You felt yourself freeze when Mac asked, “Hey, what do you say to being mine forever? Save the hassle for both of us? Oh, I’m overheating with the thought of hearing you say I love you to me!”, there’s only one option you can click, it reads, ‘Of course, I love you, Mac!’, your mouse moves on its own. 

Hoove knew he wasn’t an easy object, he never claimed to be one! He needs trust from a person he could even think to call his lover. When he realized what he was, when he saw just how hard you were trying over and over again, his heart warmed. He felt loved, yes he heard your disgruntled groans and huffs when you got his bad or friendship ending again, yes he wanted oh so terribly to reach out to you himself, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know how. When you stopped visiting him after a while, it felt like his heart was slowly sinking down to his stomach in this grueling pace. Every second he didn’t hear your adorable noises, your laugh, how you got up to get water and talked to your pets or to yourself about something to do with your real life, he felt like his heart could burst right there. Your very being consumed his, and yet, he just couldn’t break himself from his code. One time, you got so frustrated, he heard you crying. You probably had so much more going on and this was the thing that broke the dam, but… he couldn’t help but blame himself. He is too difficult to love, isn’t he? His vision blurred as he felt you closing the game, the tears threatening to fall any moment as he looked down, suffocated in a prison he couldn’t escape.

 His ears perked up when he heard you getting closer after a week or too, his heart doing jumping jacks inside his ribcage as you aimed your dateviators at him. In this state of euphoria is when you abruptly saw the love ending screen. You were confused but so happy, you saw a sprite you’ve never seen of Hoove before, his eyes full of tears but his smile wide, his dialogue read, “Finally…you’re here, again. I’m not wasting any chances anymore. Come here, to me.”

[aahsokaatano]

It's kind of a frustrating ability.

I can't extend it to protect someone else, or even really control it. One time I gave an entire presentation to my 8th grade class, only to realize at the end that no one heard it, because time had stopped to give me time to get away from a bee that had somehow ended up in the classroom (turns out I have an allergy that I wasn't aware of).

I've made the best of it, though. If the universe wants to give me a get-out-of-jail-free card, then I'm not going to complain (too much). I just wish that there was something I could, y'know, do with it.

And then everything stopped while I was walking to work one morning. I could tell immediately - the rain froze in place, and the people around me stopped moving. Great, okay, what is it this time? Car skidding out of control? Lightning about to strike? Mugging about to go wrong?

Except... I couldn't see anything around me that seemed to be the issue. I kept going, down the block, and then the next four, weaving through the people frozen like statues and grimacing at the weird sensation of walking into stagnant rain.

I walked until I hit the edge of the city, but nothing changed, and my stomach sank. This couldn't be good.

I ended up just going back home - partly because I wasn't sure where else to go, and partly because I wanted my bike. It seemed I was going to have to really cover some ground to get away from whatever this was.

But when I sat down and balanced on one foot, the other resting on its pedal, I hesitated. Something bad was about to happen. Something that was big enough to cover at least half of the city, and probably more. And I was going to... run away? Hadn't I always bitched and moaned about how frustrating it was that my power wasn't good for helping other people, just myself?

Maybe this was my chance to actually fucking do something, for once. After all, I had all the time in the world.

Biking around the city was pretty fruitless, until I thought to look up. And there I finally found them - two small shapes, way up in the sky, clearly caught in the middle of a super-powered tussle. Irritatingly high, in fact. Why does it seem like all the people who end up doing the super hero/super villain shit end up flying? It's very inconvenient for the rest of us!

Whatever they were doing was about to destroy the city, clearly, so I needed to break up the catfight somehow. And to do that, I needed to get up there.

Machinery doesn't really like working outside of time - hence the regular old bicycle - but I can make it happen with enough patience. And god knows I've got plenty of that. Good thing, too, because first I had to read up on how to operate a crane, and those things are fucking complicated. Then there was the issue of moving one close enough to the idiots to be useful (more carefully than anyone has ever moved a crane before, because I couldn't exactly ask people to move out of the way), and getting the arm in position... Let's not even get into how sketchy it felt climbing the arm up towards the idiots.

But I did it, some how. I was still quite a ways below them, but a lot closer than I had been on the ground. This close, I could at least identify the idiots. The hero was actually from the much bigger city a short ways away - I guess we technically count as part of their territory, but they weren't usually seen around here, which meant that it was probably the villain who had tried some shit. She wasn't even one of the heavy hitters that was on the news with some kind of regularity; in fact, the most recent story on her had ended with a group of aspiring teenage heroes shutting her down.

She must have upped her game since then, if whatever was about to happen between these two was going to destroy my city. Not that I have any particular claim over it, I'm not a hero myself, obviously, but shit, I live here. I'd like to continue living here! And that can't happen if these idiots level the place!

It was a little difficult to work out exactly what was happening from my awkward angel below them, but I eventually pieced together that the hero's palm, glowing with energy, was millimeters above some kind of contraption that the villain was holding. Seemed as likely the culprit as anything else. And if I was wrong, then I would just have to try something else.

The best tool always has been, and always will be, a big stick, and you can quote me on that. It's what started our distant ancestors on the path of becoming human, and it's what I used to knock the stupid hexagon-box-thingy out of the villain's hands. It dropped right down towards me, and I did not catch it, because I was still holding my stick with one hand, and hanging on to the crane with the other.

Didn't really matter, though, because suddenly things were moving again.

" - end your... What the fuck?"

"Hi!" I waved cheerfully, causing the idiots to look down at me in shock. Which, fair. From their perspective, I - and a huge crane - had basically just appeared out of nowhere. "Both of you need to stop, 'kay?"

"Who are you?"

"No one important," I shrugged. "But you guys were about to destroy the whole city, and that would really suck, because I live here and also my favorite coffee shop is here."

"What did you do?" the villain demanded, looking around frantically for her device.

"Stopped you both from doing something stupid. You're welcome, by the way."

"How?" the hero asked. They looked even more confused than the villain.

"Oh, it wasn't easy! Took the equivalent of several weeks, which is the longest I've ever had by far, it was a very weird feeling, but I got here in the end. Now please go finish your fight somewhere else, I'm gonna be so late for work."

I turned and started shimmying my way back down the crane, ignoring the questions being shouted at me.

After all, I was on the completely wrong side of the city now, and I did have to get to work.

You were born with a strange power. Whenever you are in immediate danger, time freezes until you move out of the way. One day, time freezes, but no matter how far you go...it doesn't unfreeze.

[sharieb]

Could we please have a cute pre-relationship fic where Non-MC is tired for whatever reason and while the LI is taking her home, she ends up dozing on his shoulder?

Sleepy Ride Home

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Fluff

Setup: After a long day, you ended up falling asleep on the boys' shoulders during the ride home. How would the boys react?

The quiet hum of the Farspace shuttle filled the cabin, smooth and low. He had personally made sure this one was routed discreetly, no unnecessary stops, no unwanted company. Just the two of you, seated across the aisle on a late return trip.

You’d argued at first. "I can get home myself."

But now, with your body swaying slightly from fatigue, you didn’t resist as you slid closer to his side. Your head gently fell against his shoulder, and you murmured something too quiet to understand.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

Then, with the same calm he used to command fleets, he shifted ever so slightly to brace you better. She’s asleep. On me. If someone had told high school me that this would happen one day, I wouldn’t have believed it. Hell, I barely believe it now. Back then, I used to make excuses just to be near her. Sat behind her in physics because I liked the way she mumbled her notes. Volunteered to tutor in things I didn’t even study, just to steal five minutes of her time. And she never saw it. Never saw me. But I never stopped wanting her. Even when she had eyes for someone else. Even when I became the one people called commander instead of Caleb. She still gets under my skin the same way. Makes me forget how to breathe when she smiles. Makes me want things I keep buried so deep I forget they exist. And now she’s here, asleep, trusting me with all that weight she always carries. I want to hold her closer. But I don’t. Because if I do… I don’t think I’ll be able to let go again.

He tilted his head just enough so it didn’t bump yours. And looked straight ahead. And rested there with you like he had all the time in the world.

The black-windowed car was silent except for the soft thrum of tires on wet asphalt. You sat beside Sylus in the plush backseat, the city lights sliding past like lazy stars. "You didn’t have to call a private car," you murmured, eyes heavy. "I could’ve just taken a taxi."

Sylus let out a soft, amused scoff. "And risk you falling asleep on some stranger’s shoulder instead of mine?"

Your brain was too foggy to process the flirtation. You just leaned your head back, then let it tip sideways.

Onto him.

Sylus froze.

His breath caught like you’d just pulled a knife on him. Then he slowly, painfully slowly, relaxed into it. Tch. You’re lucky I like you. Unbelievable. She actually fell asleep. On me. What part of this screams safe? Comfortable? ...God. I didn’t even move when she leaned in. What the hell’s gotten into me? This was supposed to be a one-time escort. A favor. She said she was tired, and I figured I could keep her out of trouble. That’s all. But now she’s curled into my shoulder, and I’m memorizing the shape of her breathing like a damn idiot. I’ve wanted her for months. Knew it the moment she called me out and didn’t flinch when I snapped back. Knew it when she touched my wrist during a mission, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. She doesn’t even know. Not really. If she did, would she still fall asleep this close to me? ...Damn it. Don’t wake up yet.

He adjusted his arm so your cheek rested more comfortably on the fabric of his jacket.

After that, he didn’t breathe too hard. Didn’t dare move.

Not when you trusted him like this.

The subway car swayed gently, its lights flickering now and then. You sat beside Zayne in the nearly empty compartment, exhaustion pulling you downward like gravity had doubled just for you. "You should’ve let me walk," you muttered, slumping slightly in your seat.

He shook his head. "Your legs were giving out halfway through the outpatient clinic. The train’s safer."

You didn’t argue. Not when your eyelids were already fluttering closed.

The screech of the rails turned into background noise, steady and oddly soothing. And without realizing, your head tilted, then slowly landed on his shoulder.

He tensed. Just a bit. Just long enough to register that yes, you were actually leaning on him, and no, he wasn’t going to do anything to stop it. She really fell asleep on me. Just like that. ...She trusts me that much? No. Don’t read into it. But still, She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch away. And she always smells like tea leaves and that damn lavender balm she carries around. I know that now, apparently. I shouldn’t let this get to me. I’ve carried unconscious patients before. It's not that different. Except it is. Because she’s not just someone from the clinic. She’s the one I look for in every room. The one whose voice I somehow always hear, even when I’m buried in reports. And now she’s here, sleeping on my shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. I’ve liked her longer than I’d admit out loud. But… maybe this is enough for now.

He shifted the bag in his lap so he could reach across and tug your coat tighter, making sure the draft from the sliding subway doors wouldn’t wake you.

And he didn’t move the whole ride.

Not once.

Not even when his arm started going numb under the weight of your head.

The cab was quiet, the soft hum of the engine mixing with low jazz on the radio. He lounged beside you, one arm stretched along the backrest behind your shoulders like he always did, half teasing, half dramatic flourish.

"You know," he mused, watching the lights flicker across your face, "You’re going to fall asleep on me at this rate. And I won’t even charge you."

You offered a tired smile. "Guess I’ll owe you a coffee."

"Mmm, I’ll settle for a kiss on the cheek."

You didn’t respond.

Because your head had already dipped sideways, gently coming to rest against his shoulder. He blinked, genuinely caught off guard.

Then, softly, he smiled. A real one this time. Not the flirt, not the performer. Just him. Hah. She actually did it. She fell asleep on me. Guess I win the bet I made with myself six weeks ago. ...She’s beautiful like this. No… not in the way I always say it. Not the rehearsed lines or the practised praise. This is different. I’ve been watching her for longer than she thinks. Every time she brushes her hair from her face. Every time she looks up at my sketches and asks questions, like they matter. She doesn’t know she’s the reason I’ve been painting softer things lately. She doesn’t know the record I bought last week reminded me of her laugh. And now she’s asleep, warm and close and real. If I move, I’ll ruin the moment. If I breathe wrong, I’ll wake her. So I’ll stay right here and pretend she’s mine, just for tonight.

He reached down and adjusted the scarf around your neck, tugging it closer. Carefully. "Sleep, darling," he whispered. "I’ll make sure the stars stay out of your way tonight."

The night bus was mostly empty, filled only with the soft buzz of overhead lights and the occasional mechanical hiss of the doors.

You sat next to Xavier, both of you tucked in a corner seat near the back. Your head had been nodding for blocks, fighting sleep like it owed you something. "You should close your eyes," he said quietly. "I’ll wake you at your stop."

You gave a noncommittal hum. Then your head gently dropped… and landed on his shoulder.

Xavier didn’t speak.

He only sat there, still and warm, letting the moment settle over him like a blanket he didn’t expect but never wanted to take off. She’s asleep. She leaned on me without a second thought. She’s always doing that, looking at me like I’m safe. I don’t know when it started. When I started watching her out of the corner of my eye, every time she entered a room. When her voice became the one I could still hear after my worst shifts. When her smile became something I needed. I don’t sleep. Haven’t, really. Not since everything changed. But when I’m near her… I rest. And now she’s here, breathing steadily against my shoulder, and I finally understand why people chase peace like it’s something rare. Because I’ve been chasing her. And right now, right here, I think she’s letting me catch her. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Your breath evened out. And for the first time in weeks, he forgot he was tired.