#i can never see him without thinking of you- and you should know that

[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!

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(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.

[motzglorp]

You think Soap has ADHD energy? Meet the missus!

Everyone knows that Soap gets distracted easily when he doesn't have anything to focus. Outside of missions he gets restless and if he is bored he shouldn't be left without supervision.

They made it to the safehouse, got a good night's sleep and had another day to spend until transport was ready and would be on mandatory leave for the next two weeks. So of course they were talking about their plans.

Price had promised Kyle to show him his cabin by the lake and nobody commented on the faint blush under his beard or how Kyle's touch lingered a bit longer than usual. To be honest Soap and Ghost were betting on who would catch the kissing first.

Ghost didn't have plans so he was actually contemplating taking Soaps offer to stay at his house for a while.

"Honestly, ye should see what ma bonnie made of that place. Real cozy now." Soap was talking away, not noticing the other three staring at him.

"Come again? Your whatnow?" Asked Kyle.

"My Bonnie? The missus? Ma wife? You forgot about my wife?" Johnny seemed to be undecided whether to be angry or confused.

"Soap... You never told any of us. You mentioned a bird now and then. You mean to tell us it was the same one the whole time? You been stable? Since when?"

Now that made Soap think. "Ah mean.. known her forever. Stable for some years now, as stable as we can be. Proposed last summer we just didn't get around actually speaking the vows." He looked a bit sheepish. "Ah never told you? Sure 'bout that?"

Price didn't know how to react, other than: "You better marry her as soon as you are in the same country. If she hasn't left you by now she will never and you need to make sure the paperwork is all set up, just in case."

"And you should probably introduce us, so she won't be scared if one of us appeared on your doorstep." Kyle added.

"Actually, we can do that right now, we have a satellite connection."

Johnny was still trying to remember if he really had forgotten to mention the most important person in his life to the other most important people in his life, so he just acted on autopilot when Kyle shoved a tablet in his hands, starting a video call.

They all gathered around the screen, watching as the lights flickered and a disheveled face came into view, round face, sleepy eyes, hair sticking in every direction.

"Tha' you babe? You alive?" Johnny immediately had a smile plastered on his face. "Alive and kicking, didn't even get shot. Listen, sorry I woke you, wasn't my idea. But remember we planned our wedding to be with all friends and family and my captain could stand in for you dad since he is not invited and all and. Maybe I forgot to tell them.. about you.. like.. ya ken?" He sounded not as nervous as someone should sound who forgot his fiancé as soon as he was away.

You just blinked. "Johnny... Are you serious?" It was hard to tell if you were angry or not. "Okay, I just want to know: Did you forget because you already did it in your head or because you forgot to remember?"

"Bit of both? Bit like you forgot to tell your sister." Johnny admitted, grinning.

You giggled "Oh that was fun. Well, when she talked to me again. Oh, I should call her." You got up, apparently already forgetting you were on a call, looking for something. They could see your bedroom, organised chaos, plants, some pictures of Johnny, all in all a cozy home.

"Have you seen my laptop?" You wondered, confused when you heard a snort from Ghost. "What.. ooh... Hi there. You must be Ghost, yeah? Good thing you wear that mask, I am terrible with faces. And you are Gaz, right? You're pretty. Johnny he is so pretty, why am I marrying you again?"

"Because you love me and nobody else can tolerate either of us so we are stuck with each other?" came the answer like a well used banter.

"True. I do love you. But I also haven't slept for two days because I was building something. A surprise. When are you home? Don't tell me, just text. Please. Bring the boys. Oh, Captain Price, could you marry us? Or is that just a Ship Captain thing? Might be, I never cared, but that would be very practical. Give me a week to get everyone together and we could have the ceremony in the backyard, I can wait with the new greenhouse, so we would have the space." You were making notes on something that looked like a pizza box, lost in thoughts already.

You seemed to have forgotten you were still on the call, writing down things. Until you heard Price laughing, unable to hold it in any longer.

"Oh, I drifted. Sorry, didn't take my meds, I promise I'm better at this when I sleep. So.. are you coming to the wedding or not? And bring my future husband with you, in case he forgets again."

You were not angry at all. One of the reasons they worked was that you never got angry with each other about stuff like that. You knew each other for too long to try and change or 'fix' the other. If there was a problem or hurt feelings you would address it and work on a solution.

Ghost just looked at Soap. "You really found that one girl with even less ability to focus, did ya?"

Johnny just nodded happily, "She is absolutely perfect."

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ LIKE LIVING

dad!hwangjunho x mom!pregnant!reader

based on this request

words: 1.3k

warnings: adoption. pregnancy. childbirth. season three spoilers. soft domestic life<3

a/n: might be the last request i write like this—junho discovering the baby with his girlfriend/wife—because it’s starting to feel a bit repetitive. however, if you guys want small scenes of what dad!junho looks like when the baby’s older, I’M DOWN FOR IT OKAY. you can also find more in: still ours. new dad.

enjoy! :)

you and junho met in winter, years ago—you were at the same café. it wasn’t the first time you saw him there, but he always passed through, coffee in hand, never staying long. never long enough. until one day, you went for him. right after he took his coffee—

“hey!” you had said, a little louder than intended. because the way he looked at you—he seemed on guard. not afraid, just ready. like he’d been waiting for this moment but didn’t know from who, or why. “sorry,” you added quickly, stepping a little closer—not too close, just enough so you didn’t have to raise your voice. “just—i see you, often, there,” you said, pointing awkwardly to the café window. “and […]” you were awkward. painfully awkward. and he was just there, listening to you, eyes steady like he hadn’t talked to anyone in years. “so yeah,” you said, because the silence was too much. “i’m sorry. i probably don’t have time for this anyway.” your lips pressed into a tight line as you turned and slipped back into the café. but maybe two days later, he sat beside you. coffee in hand.

“the light is really good,” he said.

and from there, it just… went. small coffee dates. soft mornings. you told him about the films you loved. he told you he read sometimes. you told him he should think about himself more. he told you he couldn’t. and still—you helped. without meaning to, you helped so much. he found comfort in you. a shoulder when he was too tired. his hand finding yours when he got anxious. his palm at your back to ground you in crowded rooms.

you grew safer and safer with each other.

so safe that one day, he asked you to marry him. so safe that he told you about his brother—not everything, but enough. so safe that he showed you his wound. so safe that he explained. so safe that he rested his head on your shoulder and cried. so fucking safe that when you handed him a positive pregnancy test, saying nothing, he didn’t even hesitate—he just looked at you, confused, and then hugged you so hard your feet left the ground. “oh my god—” he breathed, voice full, body shaking. “we’re having a baby.”

and you nodded, crying, just because you were happy. he moved with you through your pregnancy—slow, careful. his hand would brush your belly even before it started showing. his lips too, gentle and quiet. “hi there,” he’d whisper at night, like a lullaby. “talking to you early so you get to pick favorites.” you pinched his ear.

“ow, hey— that hurts!” he gasped, as if a tiny pinch could kill him. it was around three months in. you were craving rice and sauce, early morning. junho was already up, making breakfast. when he heard your footsteps in the hallway, he turned around.

“hi love,” he said softly, moving toward you like it was a dance he’d practiced for years. “slept well?” his lips brushed your temple. his hands rested over your belly. you nodded, still sleepy. “need to grab a few things from the store. you wanna come before it gets crowded?”

“oh yes please.”

you went, got what you needed, paid. really, it was such a small, normal thing—barely took time. but when you returned—oh god. you stepped inside, slipping off your shoes, and junho was already moving with the grocery bags—until he froze.

“june? you okay?” you asked, coming closer—only to freeze too. “what the—” your hand found your belly, as if to make sure it was still there. he didn’t speak. just opened a black envelope that had been left by the door.

inside: a golden card. player 222. winner. your eyes jumped from the baby, to the card, back again.

“just—it, oh my god.” you breathed, steadying yourself against junho’s shoulder. his hand found your waist, holding you tight—but his eyes were on the card. he pulled it out. a credit card. and then he looked at you—lips parted, eyes wide, searching for answers he knew weren’t there. “is it from the fucking games?” you asked. he nodded. unsure, but still—he nodded.

you couldn’t even believe it. your free hand covered your mouth. his hand—the one not holding your waist—moved to your cheek, brushing tears you hadn’t even noticed were falling. and junho—he was speechless. he always had something to say, even if small. but now, nothing. you just stood there. with a baby that wasn’t yours. with another one not yet born. his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed, like even they had run out of words. minutes passed. you breathed out.

“okay,” you whispered, wiping your tears. stepping back to meet his eyes. “okay. so… what do we do now? how much is on that card?” and junho—he already knew. he’d seen it before. the kind of money gihun walked away with. and from his face, you could tell—it was a lot.

you moved eventually. junho strapped the baby to his chest, walked beside you, checked the balance on the card. and you just looked at each other. fucking stared. two days later, you used it. for diapers. for the little girl who’d been left at your door.

you had talked—god, you’d talked so much. sleepless nights, whispering about what this meant. you were three months pregnant. in six months, you’d have two babies. the one thing that was clear: the money from the card, knowing where it came from, would be for the baby. only the baby.

you asked for help—how to manage two. leaned on your parents, your sister. junho apologized, knowing no one from his side could help. you asked your friends. good ones. the ones who didn’t hesitate. you filled out paperwork. because the baby didn’t have any. you named her—hyejin.

it was like meeting your baby early. way too early. but you were okay. because you knew. because you had time to prepare. even if, some nights, it was hard. even if you felt distant. disconnected. but then—love arrived. quietly. in the middle of the afternoon, when she fell asleep on your chest. at night, when she cried and junho was holding her, but she still wanted your voice.

junho kept taking care of you. you were still pregnant, still heavy, still tired. he massaged your ankles when they hurt, even with hyejin drooling all over him. you laughed.

“she’s drooling, you know?”

“no way??” he gasped, fake offended. “yah, that’s not fair!” you squealed, kicking your feet lightly. careful not to disturb hyejin. “you’re not fair—” he muttered, hand over his chest, pretending to be wounded. “i’m pregnant. i have every right.” he laughed through his nose, the quiet kind of laugh that meant he was totally defeated. oh, and junho—he didn’t hesitate with her. held her like she was the most fragile, most precious thing. maybe it was instinct. maybe guilt. maybe just love.

sometimes he whispered, “you’re so safe, baby.” other times, he said nothing at all—just held her. watched the sky shift through the windows. and you—pregnant, heavier each day—watched them. and you loved her. not because you had to. not because you chose to. but because love came anyway.

then the delivery came. quietly. middle of the afternoon. hyejin was at your dad’s—he insisted. the due date was near and you needed rest. then you felt it. the warm trickle down your leg.

“junho—” you called, not loud. not scared. just needing. hours later. crying. sweating. clinging. she came. alive. strong.

you still remember junho’s face when he held her—wrecked with wonder. “she’s here,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “you did it.”

they’re different, your daughters. hyejin is quiet. watchful. like she’s already survived too much, even if she won’t remember it. she clings to junho’s hand when the world gets loud. buries into your lap when strangers come too close.

your newborn is louder. impatient. she wants warmth, milk, everything, now. but her eyes—god, her eyes. they look just like junho’s. wide and calm and full of something still.

some days, it feels like a miracle. other days—it just feels like living.

masterlist

[mikkies]

「 AKO AY DAHAN-DAHANG NILILIBING NANG BUHAY PA. 」

Chance x Fem! Clothing Designer! Reader (no mentions of she/her)

warnings: none that I know of, but any mentions of itrapped should be a warning on it's on

notes: didn't know what to do with this since the nonnie didn't specify so I made it comfort fic for Chance (idk what possessed me). Again, Chance's characterization is thanks to @/telamonisms.

YOU THREAD THE needle without thinking, hands moving with practiced ease.

The cabin is quiet—only the gentle scrape of fabric and the subtle hum of power laced into your fingertips as your design takes shape.

A half-drawn coat begins to materialize on the mannequin beside you, unfinished and waiting.

He watches you from the corner.

Not intrusively. Never that.

Just… watches. Silently. His head tilted, shades masking whatever storm might be behind those eyes.

The low gleam of his clockwork headphones matches the silver glint of his skin, soft under the filtered cabin light.

“You're makin’ that for me?” he finally asks, voice smooth but teasing.

You don't look up from your sketchpad. “Depends. You gonna try and run off before the sleeves are done again?”

A quiet laugh—low, sheepish. It's not the first time he's done it.

He has a tendency to disappear, just before things feel too real. But he always comes back. Chance always comes back.

“I didn't mean to,” he murmurs, and the shift in his voice draws your eyes.

His cocky grin falters around the edges. He's standing straighter now, but his hands are clenched behind his back, as though he's holding something in.

Or maybe holding himself together.

You nod toward the chair beside your workstation. “Sit.”

He obeys without hesitation.

That’s something you’ve noticed about him—how quickly he listens when it's you.

Others have to push, pull, beg to get anything from him.

But you? You ask, and he’s there.

Always.

You glance at the fabric folded over your lap. “You never tell me what style you like.”

“Anything that makes me look good,” he says, quick and cheeky again.

You smile faintly. “You already do. That’s not what I asked.”

A pause.

Then, softly—like it slips out before he can stop it: “I liked the old suit. The one I wore… before.”

Before him.

Before everything.

You stop drawing.

He’s not looking at you. His fingers twitch, gripping the brim of his fedora.

You’ve seen him shoot with flair, strike with smug precision, play games with a laugh that covers how hard he shakes afterwards.

You’ve patched him up more times than you can count. But he never talks about before.

Until now.

“I kept wearing it even when it got torn. Even when it didn’t fit right no more. Didn’t want anyone to touch it. Like…” He hesitates.

“Like maybe if I kept it on, he’d still see me the way he used to.”

Your voice is quiet. “Did he?”

Chance goes silent.

You set your tools down and kneel in front of him, gently pushing his shades up to rest on his fedora.

His eyes—normally hidden—are glassy and uncertain.

“I’m not him,” you say.

“I know.”

“I won’t lead you anywhere you don’t wanna go.”

He bites his lip, trying to smile like it’s all just banter. “What if I do wanna go? What if I’d follow you anyway?”

You reach for his hand. “Then I’ll make sure it’s someplace safe. Someplace that won’t hurt.”

He looks at your fingers—calloused from sewing, glowing faintly with the hum of creation—and touches your wrist with the same reverence someone might give something sacred.

“…That coat you’re making,” he says, softer now, “you gonna put your mark on it?”

“Already did.” You gesture toward the embroidery on the sleeve. A tiny threadlike sigil, glowing just faintly.

He stares at it like it means the world.

You add, “So no one else gets to claim you again.”

He laughs, and it sounds like he’s finally exhaling.

“Damn,” he breathes, pulling you into his arms and burying his face in your shoulder.

“Y’know, for someone that makes clothes, you’ve got a way of fixin’ hearts too.”

You hold him tighter.

Because you know the kind of love Chance gives—raw, loyal, doglike. The kind that lingers, even when it shouldn’t.

And you’ll show him that maybe, just maybe, this time…

He gambled right.

[normystical]

NOT facts. these are platonic situations. i don't see how you can be so convinced that the interactions between jax and pomni and between gangle and zooble are inherently romantic. it's friendship. it's like you guys don't know what the phrase mean. it sincerely disgusts me how you think that friendship cannot ever mean anything to anyone. it's probably why friendship is so overlooked in fandom. it's probably why there's never any aromantic representation. why every single time there IS aro rep, you guys just erase it or consider them partnering or on the spectrum instead. you can love without it being romantic. there are so many different kinds of love, but people like OP here narrow it down to romance. as someone who is aromantic, it sincerely hurts. my best friend means a lot to me. is my world, my everything, my soulmate. but i would be SEVERELY unhappy if i dated him. and if you think i'm lying when i say that, you're aphobic. even if you weren't, it's still kind of sick. i don't like how i need to whip out the fact i'm aro to prove a point, anyway. it should be a given that there's so many different ways to love a person. but alas, for something so queer, fandom is SHOCKINGLY close-minded.

If @gooseworx said that, then what is this???

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm??????

🤨🤨🤨

[justboredtingz]

The Kissing Game || JJK Edition

Just a little smooching with the jjk men :) i left out some boys but if you want the others i can do that for you huhuhuhu~ guess who you’re kissing before the endddd :))

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✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

You’re not exactly sure how it came to this.

One minute, you’d been sitting around with them trading teasing jabs, laughing too loud, feeling a little too warm from whatever you were all drinking. The next, someone had dared you to let yourself be blindfolded. To trust them enough to give up your sight and guess who was kissing you.

You should have said no.

But here you are, a smooth strip of fabric tied snugly over your eyes, your heart hammering so hard you think they can all hear it. Every shuffle of footsteps sounds closer than it probably is, every breath feels like it might be right at your ear.

You’re stood with your back against the wall, fidgeting your fingers. You can sense them moving around you, their voices low and amused, a little too pleased with themselves.

You wet your lips, trying to steady your breathing.

This was supposed to be harmless. A game.

But now, every inch of you is strung tight with anticipation, because any moment now, someone will lean in, their mouth will find yours, and you’ll have to figure out who it is by the way they kiss you.

You swallow, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap.

God help you—this might be the most dangerous thing you’ve ever agreed to.

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Your back presses to the cool wall, the blindfold tight over your eyes. Every breath feels too loud. A featherlight touch grazes your jaw—a fingertip, tracing a lazy curve as though he’s sketching exactly where his mouth will go.

You feel him lean in close enough for the tips of his hair to brush your cheek. He smells fresh—mint and something just a little sweet, like he finished a sweet treat right before approaching you.

A soft exhale fans your lips, and then—nothing. A beat of charged silence, like he’s grinning, waiting to see if you’ll squirm.

When he finally kisses you, it’s with an easy boldness that makes you want to sink into the wall. He starts slow, a teasing pull at your bottom lip, before he drags his mouth away just barely, letting them drag against yours featherlight. He’s teasing, you can feel the intensity behind his eyes watching your reaction.

Then he’s back, lips pressing harder, tongue slipping past yours with a playful flick that leaves your pulse hammering. One hand cups your cheek, thumb smoothing along your jaw, while the other coasts down to the small of your back to draw you closer.

He kisses like it’s a game he’s already won—taunting you with the practiced way he tilts your chin up, the sly little hum he lets out when you can’t help the sound that escapes you.

When he pulls back, your lips feel warm, tingling from the way he’d stolen every bit of air. You can almost feel the smirk he doesn’t bother to hide.

“…Gojo.”

A laugh curls against your cheek, soft and triumphant.

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You hear the measured rhythm of his steps before you feel him. Steady. Grounded. The warmth of his body draws closer, and a large palm settles flat against your chest—broad, reassuring, a quiet reminder that he’s here and you’re safe.

No teasing. No testing. Just a calm exhale as he leans in.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels what you could define as perfect—sure and anchored, lips firm without being forceful. There’s no uncertainty in it, no performance. Just the simple honesty of a man who never does anything halfway.

He tastes faintly of dark roast coffee and smells of something clean, like the faint trace of aftershave on his collar. One hand shifts to cradle the side of your neck, steadying you as though he knows you’re already trembling a little.

When he parts your lips with a careful tilt of his head, the kiss deepens by degrees. One so unhurried, almost solemn in its sincerity. He doesn’t chase or tease. He just kisses you thoroughly, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to claim this space between heartbeats.

When he finally eases back, his thumb sweeps along your throat, a silent question. Your body feels heavy and warm, every nerve soothed under the deliberate steadiness of his touch.

“…Nanami.”

A breath leaves him, softer than a sigh, and for a moment his hand lingers as though he isn’t quite ready to let you go.

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There’s an unsteady weight in the air, thick with something so earnest it leaves you anxious.

His breath wavers near your ear, shaky in a way that makes your heart flutter. A careful hand hovers, then lands lightly against your ribs, feeling the frantic rise and fall of each breath.

When he leans in, you brace for hesitation, but instead he kisses you with a focused gentleness that surprises you. His lips are warm, tentative, moving slowly as if he’s determined to get it exactly right.

The first pass of his tongue is cautious, tasting you in a careful sweep that makes your chest tighten. He pauses, breathing you in, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, gathering confidence with each muffled gasp you give him.

You catch a whiff of something coppery at the edges, like iron and rain, but it’s not a bad smell.

One hand finds your waist, flexing uncertainly before settling in a light grip that never quite becomes possessive. When your lips part fully for him, his tongue tangles with yours in a slow, searching glide that feels almost reverent.

Every few moments, he breaks the kiss to draw a shaky breath against your cheek, only to return again, as if he can’t help himself. He needs to go back for seconds, for thirds.

When he finally pulls away, your mouth feels swollen and tender, every nerve alight, your head fuzzy.

“…Choso.”

He doesn’t speak, but the soft, unsteady sound he lets out says everything.

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You don’t hear him come closer, steps as light as a cats, but the heat coming off of his body tells it all, a heavy certainty pressing in until your breath goes shallow.

A thumb drags lazily over your lower lip, testing your resolve. He doesn’t bother with pretense. Just the slow curl of a smirk you can somehow sense in the darkness.

Then his mouth finds yours in a kiss so precise, so thoroughly confident, your whole body tenses.

His lips part immediately, tongue stroking yours in a coaxing rhythm that feels both indulgent and commanding. He tastes of spiced warmth—smoke and something like clove, rich and intoxicating.

His free hand drops to your hip, sliding around to the small of your back and pulling you in until there’s no space left to hide. He uses his own lips to tilt your head up, it’s a smooth motion that leaves you at the perfect angle for him to deepen the kiss, claiming every inch of you he can reach.

He doesn’t rush. Each pass of his mouth feels deliberate, like he wants to brand you with the memory of this. Your body arches helplessly under the heavy press of his hips, and a quiet, dark laugh vibrates against your lips when you whimper into him. This kiss is deep, sensual, a kiss you would only give to someone you’re making love to, and it leaves you shaky.

When he finally pulls back, your lungs burn with the need to breathe, but he doesn’t let you go—just draws his thumb along your lip with lazy satisfaction.

“…Geto.”

He brushes a last slow kiss to your throat, a promise you feel all the way to your toes.

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You feel the sudden drag of heat along your skin as a big hand settles firmly at your thigh.

For a moment, he just stands there, his breath rough against your temple, as if savoring the anticipation.

Then he moves. One powerful arm scoops behind your knee, hauling you up against his chest. A startled sound tears from your throat as your back thuds against the wall and your leg hooks over his hip, grabbing at his shoulders for balance.

His other hand grips the curve of your ass in a possessive hold that makes your heart lurch.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s nothing short of ravenous. He doesn’t ease you in, just parts your lips with a low growl and claims you with a slow, hungry slide of tongue that leaves you gasping.

He tastes earthy and dark, like salt and smoke, and the scrape of his teeth against your lower lip sends a sharp ache low in your belly.

Every time you try to pull back, he drags your hips closer, grinding you down against the hard line of his body. The heat coils until you’re trembling, your hands fisting in his shirt for balance you can’t seem to find.

He doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth with a punishing thoroughness that makes your head spin.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you’re left panting, your legs locked tight around him. You have to catch your breath before you can speak:

“…Toji.”

He rumbles a pleased sound in his throat and swipes a large thumb across your lips, wiping the saliva left behind.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

The moment he steps near, the air thickens, charged with something primal that makes your pulse trip over itself.

Two fingers drag up the column of your throat, slow and unhurried, tracing your frantic heartbeat. When they close into a sure, unrelenting grip, your breath shudders out in a ragged gasp.

His other hand slams to the wall beside your head, his body crowding yours with a dominance so absolute it makes your stomach clench.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t warn you.

His mouth crashes into yours with a brutal certainty, teeth scraping at your lip as he forces you open. The first stroke of his tongue is a hot, invasive claim that leaves no room for resistance.

You’re unsure of what exactly you’re tasting, but the faint sweetness of something warns you not to crave it.

Your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to push him back or pull him closer, you can’t tell which. Every attempt only makes his grip on your throat tighten, cutting off the air until your senses spark white behind the blindfold.

When you finally go pliant under the weight of his kiss, he hums low in his chest, pleased. Each sweep of his tongue is a challenge, a deliberate corruption that makes your knees threaten to give out.

When he tears his mouth away, you drag in a ragged breath, every nerve burning.

“…Sukuna.”

A dark laugh ghosts over your cheek, and he doesn’t loosen his grip.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

You’re trembling when you finally reach up, fingers clumsy, and pull the blindfold away.

Your vision swims for a moment, adjusting to the bright light—and then you see them.

All of them.

Standing in a loose semicircle, watching you with expressions that make your pulse skitter and your mouth go dry.

Gojo is the first to break the hush, a wicked smile curving his lips as he leans back against the wall, arms folded, white hair gleaming under the lights. His gaze slides deliberately over your kiss-swollen mouth before meeting your eyes, glinting with amused challenge.

“So,” he drawls, voice low and edged with a husky note he doesn’t bother to hide, “who kissed the best?”

Your throat works around the sudden dryness, heat pooling low in your belly as your gaze drifts over each of them—Nanami’s steady, watchful stare, Choso’s flushed cheeks, Geto’s knowing smirk, Toji’s heavy-lidded hunger, Sukuna’s predatory amusement.

You swallow hard. You can still feel each of their mouths on you—taste them, almost—your body thrumming with the impossible knowledge that whoever you name is about to claim you all over again.

Gojo tilts his head, blue eyes glinting. “Be honest,” he purrs, and you know by the wicked slant of his smile that he’s already decided how this is going to end.

“Because whoever did…” His voice lowers to a dark promise as he pushes off the wall, closing the distance until he’s towering over you again, gaze locked to your lips.

“…is taking you home tonight.”

The silence stretches, hot and electric, as you draw a shaky breath—your heart thundering in your ribs.

And when you finally open your mouth to answer, you know exactly what you’re inviting.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

[formulafanfics13]

hiii!! i love your fics so much!

could you write an oscar one with a best friend and she’s getting married to someone else but for whatever reason isn’t really happy in the relationship (which oscar can tell even if she’s never explicitly said) and at the wedding he objects which means it can’t continue that day and his objection turns into a long-winded confession thing

I Object - OP81

Masterlist

Summary: On your wedding day, just as you're about to marry the man everyone thinks is right for you, Oscar Piastri — your best friend — stands up to object. He confesses he’s been in love with you for years, that you're not truly happy, and that he can’t let you marry someone else. Overwhelmed, you walk away from the altar and kiss him in front of everyone.

Warnings: Angst, public confrontation, runaway bride trope, emotional confession, disrupted wedding. Romantic drama.

The church was beautiful. Golden, blooming, ridiculous. A cathedral of candlelight and fresh roses, drenched in silk and violin music. Every pew was full. Every breath hushed.

You stood at the altar, veil pinned delicately into place, eyes glossy and unfocused as the officiant read words you weren’t really hearing.

The man beside you smiled. Your fiancé. The one everyone said made sense. The one who ticked all the boxes. The one who wore the right shoes and said the right things and asked the right questions on cue. And yet, your hands were shaking.

Somewhere in the third row, Oscar Piastri was staring at you like the world was ending.

He’d been quiet all morning. Didn’t join the groomsmen photos. Didn’t toast at the rehearsal dinner the night before. Just floated on the edges like a ghost in a suit, watching everything like he was collecting evidence for a future crime scene.

Because he knew. Without you ever saying a word. He knew you weren’t happy.

Not in the way that mattered. Not in the way you were supposed to be when you were about to tie your life to someone else’s.

He knew the difference between content and in love. He knew what your laugh sounded like when it wasn’t filtered through politeness. He knew you loved yellow tulips and hated lace sleeves. And when you walked down the aisle in a dress that wasn’t you, to marry a man who wasn’t him, something inside him snapped.

The officiant kept reading.

“-if anyone here should object to this union-”

The words echoed. And then...

“I do.”

It cut through the cathedral like a blade.

Everyone turned. You froze. Your fiancé’s mouth dropped open. And there, standing in the aisle, voice louder than it had ever been, stood Oscar. Suit slightly wrinkled. Face flushed. Hands at his sides. And a fire in his eyes that didn’t flicker.

“I object,” he said again. Louder. “I-fuck-I object.”

Gasps. Someone dropped their program. The groom took a step forward. “Oscar, what the hell are you-”

“Because she’s not happy,” Oscar snapped. “Because she’s not fucking happy. And I don’t care if no one else sees it, I do. I have.”

Silence.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. He took a shaky breath, stepping closer. “She doesn’t love you. Not like that. Not enough to spend forever pretending. She’s scared. She wants something safe and simple and stable, and that’s what you gave her. But it’s not what she wants. Not really.”

Your chest was rising too fast.

“She laughs like she’s holding her breath when she’s with you,” he said, eyes locked to yours. “And she picked a wedding dress that she thought your mother would like. And I’ve watched her shrink down to fit a life that looks good in photos, but makes her eyes dimmer every fucking day.”

Your fiancé was speechless.

And Oscar? He just kept going. Like once it started, he couldn’t stop. “I know because I’ve known her my whole life,” he said. “I know her real laugh. I know she cries when she’s angry and hates slow walkers and eats M&Ms by colour. I know she’s scared of being difficult, so she goes quiet instead. I know she writes letters she never sends. I know she’s in love with love, but she’s never let herself actually feel it.”

Your knees were trembling.

“And I know I’m a fucking coward,” he said, chest heaving now. “Because I’ve been in love with her since we were seventeen and I never told her. Because I thought if I just stayed close enough, maybe it would be enough. Maybe being her best friend would be enough.”

Everyone was watching. No one moved. Even the goddamn priest was silent.

“I thought if I kept my mouth shut, she’d be happy,” he said. “But she’s not. And I can’t-fuck-I can’t watch her marry someone she doesn’t love just because it’s neat and it’s right and it’s what she thinks she deserves.”

He looked at you again. Full. Raw. Nothing left to hide. “I’m not the right guy. I don’t have the polished job or the rich family or the perfect timing. But I would worship you. I would never let you feel like you had to shrink yourself to be loved. I would tell you I loved you every single fucking day for the rest of your life, and I would mean it.”

Your bouquet hit the floor. You hadn’t realised you’d dropped it.

Oscar’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry I waited this long. But I won’t wait forever. Not if it means watching you spend your whole life pretending.”

He took a step back. “If you want to marry him, I’ll shut up. I’ll sit down and I’ll let it happen. But I had to try.”

Silence. Stillness. And then you moved. You stepped down from the altar, veil sliding from your hair. Your shoes clicking on marble. Your hands still trembling. Your fiancé didn’t stop you. He didn’t say a word.

You walked straight to Oscar. Your best friend. The boy who always looked at you like you were impossible.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Tears spilling over. “Say it again,” you whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“Say it again.”

He swallowed. “I love you.”

You grabbed his face and kissed him so hard it nearly knocked you both over. And somewhere behind you, the wedding guests burst into chaos.

[thewinter-eden]

You Live Like This? - PT V

Series master list PART 2 INFO

pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: home invader!Chris makes good on his promise to rob your ex to avenge your painful breakup, only to find that you're already there trying to collect your belongings. In order to keep your ex-bf from including you as an accomplice in his inevitable police report, you have to pretend you don't know the robber who keeps flirting with you. (plus like a lot more)

warnings: camping, murder, Ateez mentioned, mature

word count: ~3k

The officer asked you a few questions regarding your whereabouts last night, and after you spent nearly thirty minutes letting him watch your dash cam footage that caught you entering your tent and not leaving until early morning, he offered his condolences and sent you on your way.

Making a mental note to thank your brother for insisting that you install the camera in the event of accidents or carjackings, you secure yourself into your vehicle, crank up your music to calm your shaken nerves, and hit the road.

It’s not grief that keeps your mind on Woosung for the next few solitary hours, but disbelief.

Murdered.

Strangled with a rope and thrown into the lake.

A man you had known intimately, had shared a home and a bed with, cold and dead in a black vinyl bag somewhere.

It doesn’t make you miss him, or reminisce on your good days the way you keep expecting to. It doesn’t even give you the slightest hint of vindication to know that someone who hurt you so badly got punished like this.

You don’t care about that, not anymore.

The strong emotions don’t come.

It must be shock that keeps your eyes locked on the road in a haze, your heart in a numb state of confusion.

You’d seen him just last night.

You’d spoken to him last night—sending him away with a mild threat and watching him leave with the fear that he might sneak back into your camp after dark to harm you.

You never dreamed that he would be the one who had been attacked.

Had he even made it back to his camp? Had he been stolen out of bed? Had his girlfriend watched him die, or had she woken up alone and confused?

You can’t imagine.

It doesn’t even fully process that he’s gone.

When you pull up to the first gas station of the day, you half expect to see him step out of the next car.

While you’re paying for a sandwich and a pack of cigarettes, you expect the next jingle to be him walking into the store, leering and sneering and ready to bully you just for thinking you’re better than him.

But he never comes.

He’s gone.

He’s dead, and your brain can’t make sense of it.

Shouldn’t you be crying?

Shouldn’t you be distraught, or guilty for being mean to him on the last day of his life, or remembering all the soft kisses and sweet words you had once shared?

Maybe there’s something wrong with you.

“We heard what happened.”

You hadn’t even heard them get out of their cars. You’re sitting outside the convenience store, chewing on a sandwich that tastes like paste, squinting up past the glare of the sun to see Chan and Hyunjin staring down at you.

“Oh, hey guys.” You greet emptily. Should you act sad?

Are you wrong for only feeling perplexed?

Chan pulls up a chair with a metal scrape and sits down. Concern swirls in his brown eyes, fixing on you like your moments from falling apart. “Are you okay?”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Yeah, I’m…” Are you okay? “I think so.”

He reaches out and covers your hand gently with his. It’s gentle. Comforting. “I know he was an ass sometimes, but I’m sure it still hurts.”

It doesn’t really hurt. Maybe it will later. Can you say that without sounding cold and apathetic? “It’s…shocking.”

Hyunjin peers at your sandwich, choosing to express his sympathy in a more removed way that doesn’t make you feel like you’re suddenly on suicide watch. “That looks terrible. There’s a fast food joint across the street, some of us are going over there to grab some burgers. Let us get you something.”

You shake your head, even though your sandwich tastes like congealed mayonnaise and stale cheese. “That’s okay—”

“Seriously.” Hyunjin pulls out his phone. “If you’re doing all the driving by yourself, you should eat something better than that. You want a cheeseburger? Fries?”

Your stomach grumbles, your nasty lunch suddenly the worst thing you’ve ever eaten. What were you thinking, buying a sandwich from the back of a gas station refrigerator? “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

He waves you off. “I sent them your order. Let me throw that away.” He gathers up the remains of your food and garbage and disappears inside the store.

Chan sits with you, his hand still comfortingly on yours. “It’s also okay to be okay, you know.” He says quietly. “I expect he was kind of a stranger to you by now.”

That feels right.

Woosung was a stranger to you.

He wasn’t the man you fell in love with, or even the man you loved through frustration and flaws.

He was a completely different person.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Chan’s eyes land on the unopened pack of Marlboros. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

You’re confused, following his gaze. Had you bought those? You must have.

Vaguely remembering pointing them out to the cashier, letting her scan your ID, you let out a slow breath. Maybe you are in shock. “I don’t. I quit.”

His eyebrows lift, features concerned. “When did you quit?”

It’s so long ago that you have to think back. “Years. After college. It started when my grandmother died, and then…” why did you buy them? “I quit after I got myself back on my feet again. A long time ago.”

He’s quiet for a minute, and then he reaches for the pack. “Can I hold onto them for you? I’ll give them back if you ask, but…” he’s careful, expression turning serious. “You’ve been off them for a long time.”

You don’t stop him when he slides them into his pocket. The moment they’re out of sight, you breathe a sigh of relief.

Had you really almost fallen back into a bad habit, just like that? Without even realizing it?

After all the discipline it took to get yourself free, you would have thrown it all away over something you can’t even understand your feelings for?

Your name breaks the silence, and you glance up into his worried eyes. “You look pretty spacey there, babygirl.”

That’s fair.

You’d thought you were fine, but you’re moving like molasses. You hadn’t even realized you’d gone through the motions of purchasing a controlled substance. You’d picked up a sandwich that you never would have bought in your right mind.

Spacey is an accurate assessment.

You don’t even have the mental energy to feel confused or frustrated by the old nickname.

“Did you kill him?” The question leaves your lips in a breath.

Chan blinks. Blinks again. “No.” His face reddens, hand tightening over yours. “No, I swear. On my life, I didn’t. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

You didn’t think he did, not even when you asked.

But to be fair, he’s the only criminal you know. You shrug blankly. “Had to ask.”

He frowns, leaning closer, your name on his lips again. “I don’t think you should be driving. I’m serious, you don’t look too good.”

A huff hisses past your teeth, tasting like stale bread. “You want me to sit here until I can feel my hands again?”

Chan glances down at your fingers, now more concerned. “Let me drive for you today. Please? You look like you might fall off the highway. Like, you wouldn’t even realize it until you notice your car’s upside down.”

You laugh.

The picture is funny.

And since you can’t even remember how long you’ve been sitting here, it might not be too far from the truth.

“You’re traveling with your friends, Chris, you can’t drive me.” You don’t know how you feel about getting in your car with him, even if you do have the same destination.

He shrugs. “We’ve got plenty of drivers to rotate. If you don’t feel comfortable with me, one of the other guys can do it. I just don’t think you should be behind a wheel like this.”

He’s right.

You’re as good as drunk like this.

It’s a miracle you made it this far.

Hyunjin appears then, pulling up another chair. “Oh are we carpooling? That’s fun, I can drive for you.”

You shake your head, loath to inconvenience all these guys who have already been so needlessly kind to you. “No, no, I can—”

Hyunjin gives you a withering stare. “You realize you look like you’re not even on earth right now, right?”

Your gaze switches to Chan, who doesn’t even try to argue that statement to defend you.

You must be more of a mess than you realize. “Okay,” you relent finally. “Only to the next pit stop.”

One of their vans pulls up in the parking spot in front of your table, and before the engine even switches off, most of Chan’s crew spills out into the parking lot. You count four of them, and when you realize that’s not the right number, your eyes travel to the gas pumps, where the other van is sitting, refueling. Minho and Seungmin sit in the front seats, eyes down, presumably on their phones.

“We bring food,” Felix announces, laden with paper takeout bags that smell a hell of a lot better than your first attempt at lunch. Jeongin is behind him with another armload of food.

You’re in a haze as Jisung and Changbin push two more tables over to yours to make room for everybody, barely processing as the other van pulls up and parks, and Minho and Seungmin join you.

“Hey.” Jisung scoots a chair close to you on your other side, sitting down with worry written on his face. “We brought you food. You hungry?” His hand touches your shoulder, a comforting squeeze.

You’re not alone.

You feel completely lost, but at least you’re not alone.

When you slide your hand from under Chan’s you find him frowning down at the burger that has appeared before him. His hand remains on the table where you left it, a space still cupped beneath where yours used to be, until he closes it into a fist and drags it into his lap like it offends him to look at.

You mutter a distracted thanks as Jisung removes a burger and fries from a bag and sets them down in front of you.

“Yeah, of course.” He smiles and digs into his own lunch.

“So…” Felix glances at you cautiously, holding a fry between two fingers like he’s afraid to eat it. “Is it wrong to just keep going? Like, someone died and we’re still just going to a concert.”

Changbin shrugs, taking a huge bite out of his burger. “It’s not like we knew the guy.”

Jisung’s eyes go wide, elbowing him hard enough to nearly knock the burger out of his hand. “Hyung,” he snaps with a sharpness that surprises his friends. “For real?”

Changbin stares at him, ketchup smeared on his fingers, shocked. “What?”

“The man who died was her ex.” Chan explains quietly. “Let’s be more respectful.”

Changbin’s expression turns apologetic as he looks at you. “I didn’t realize. Sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Felix adds softly. “I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Just stop talking about it.” Jisung urges, pushing your carton of fries closer to you when you don’t reach for any of your food.

You don’t mind them talking about it. It’s not like you can really comprehend what happened anyway. It all feels too surreal to hang on every word. “It’s fine. You can talk about it.”

“Are you still going to the concert?” Seungmin asks you, and they all go quiet to listen to your response.

You hadn’t intended to change your plans. Maybe you should. A very small, very selfish part of you refuses to let Woosung ruin any more of your life.

You’re a horrible person.

“I’m still going.” You tell them. “But it’s horrible what happened.”

Chan watches you, expression soft. He pulls his eyes away for a moment to eat, and then drags them back to you when you’re still not moving.

Before he can say anything, Jisung leans over to you. “You should eat something. Are you sure you should be driving? Why don’t you let one of us help you? I can —”

“I’ve got her.” Chan’s voice interrupts abruptly. “I already told her I’d drive for her today.”

Jisung’s eyebrows lift in surprise as he meets Chan’s eyes over your head. They’re quiet for a moment, like they’re communicating in silence, and you choose to take that moment to sip at your drink instead of throwing out some useless argument against them inconveniencing themselves for you.

They won’t listen anyway.

You wouldn’t listen.

Not when you’re like this.

“You sure?” Jisung asks, uncertain. He glances at you, watching you finally reach for your food with listless movements.

“I’m sure.” Chan responds firmly. “Eat your lunch.”

The guys have started talking again, picking their way cautiously through conversation topics that won’t exacerbate your delicate state of mind, but you’re not listening.

It feels like something has changed.

Maybe you’re too out of it to be judging the situation properly.

But it feels like a shift happened somewhere.

A shift that involves Jisung being pushed back out of your space, and Chan stepping back in.

You must really be in shock.

“What’s your favorite Ateez song?” Jisung asks you, scooting his chair closer despite the hard look Chan gives him.

You don’t even have to think about it. “I’m Still Here,” The fast food is so much better than the gas station sandwich. A touch of clarity seems to return to you with every bite. “The Japanese version.”

He makes a noise of approval. “That’s a good one. What do you like so much about it? I’m partial to Cyberpunk myself.”

“It’s a sweet song,” you explain distractedly. “And I like Seonghwa and Wooyoung’s vocals in it.”

Jisung nods agreeably. “It’s interesting that you like the more ballad type songs. I actually do a little songwriting myself, and I’m working on this one—”

“Jisung.” Chan cuts in again. “Let her eat.”

There’s a harsh protectiveness in his tone that drags your gaze to him, finding him already looking at you. He nods to your lunch. “Eat. We’ll get on the road when you’re done.”

When lunch is over, and the guys have disposed of the trash and separated the tables again, Chan pulls your keys from your hands. You feel numb, standing in the parking lot as they bustle around you.

The vans start with nearly synchronized rumbles, air conditioning immediately kicking on in the vents, music pounding from the radios.

Chan’s hand lands on your shoulder, but he’s looking at his friends. “I’ll text you when we’re ready to stop at the next fill up.” He tells Minho, and then glances at you. “I’ll be right back.”

With waning focus, you watch him seek out Jisung, pulling him aside. They speak quietly, both trading glances at you, and you think you see frustration flicker across Jisung’s face. Chan’s demeanor turns almost apologetic, and the next look he throws your way is more gentle.

Jisung runs a hand through his hair, shoulders tense. It takes him a second to respond, and then he’s nodding at Chan, pulling away from the conversation, mood darkened as he crawls into the back of one of the vans.

Chan looks distressed as he watches him go. He scrubs his hands over his face and sighs into the summer heat, accepting a pat on the shoulder from Changbin with a nod.

When he comes back to you, his features are lowered in a discomforted frown.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, unsure what just happened but inconceivably worried by the slump in his posture.

Managing a smile for you, Chan puts his hand to your back and guides you to your car. “Yeah, everything’s fine. You ready?”

He opens your door for you, helps you shuffle some things out of the passenger seat to make room. When he settles himself behind the wheel, you feel lost again.

There’s a crack in your windshield you hadn’t noticed.

And grime streaked across the upper corners.

You should have washed your windows.

Chan connects his phone to your car, pulling up a map on the display. “You want music?”

“Yes please.” You sound pitiful, your voice small and diminished.

He doesn’t comment on it, instead queuing up an Ateez playlist, and shifting the car into gear.

“Why didn’t you let Jisung drive me?”

His jaw works tightly, steering out onto the road and getting onto the highway before answering. “I wanted to do it.”

Even in your haze, or maybe because of it, you can’t make sense of the situation. “I thought you would want him to do it.”

“Changed my mind.” He utters gruffly.

Because apparently any form of consistency is impossible for him.

“Great.” You mutter. “Let me know when you change it again.”

His hands tighten around the wheel, the leather squeaking beneath his grip. “I’m sorry.” The words bite past his teeth. “I shouldn’t have thrown him at you. I thought he would be a better option than me.”

A better option than him.

“You’re not my fucking matchmaking service.” You grumble. Maybe if you were in a better state of mind, you would be smarter than to insult the person who is taking the task of driving from you, but you’re overwhelmed by confusion. “You shouldn’t have assumed I was looking for options.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”

the music fills the silence.

He lets you sleep.

When you blink awake again, late in the afternoon, still seeing roadside scenery flashing past the window you’re leaning against, you feel more like yourself.

The conversation from before you drifted off returns to you with uncomfortable regret, and as you pull yourself upright, you realize that you had been unfair.

He’s driving for you.

He’s caring for you.

He never promised you forever, but you needed him today, and here he is.

As uncertain as you feel, as hurt as you felt, that makes a difference. What would you have done if he hadn’t stepped up today?

Driven into oncoming traffic?

Swerved off the road on accident?

Been left bleeding and stranded in the middle of nowhere, without anyone knowing what happened to you?

He could have stuck to his belief that he’s no good for you, and kept his distance, but he didn’t.

He’d seen that you needed something, and he’d stepped up.

You didn’t even ask him to.

“Chan.” Your voice is hoarse with sleep, and you scramble to tame your tangled hair and smooth down your clothes, as though it will somehow make you more presentable.

He reaches wordlessly for the center console and picks up a bottle of water that hadn’t been there when you fell asleep, handing it to you.

It lands in your hands with cool weight, and makes you feel worse.

“Thank you for doing all this.” You say meekly.

He nods. “No problem. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.” You crack open the water and take a long sip. Ateez is still streaming softly from your speakers, turned to a low volume that wouldn’t disturb you as you slept.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to lighten the mood. Doesn’t try to make you feel better. Doesn’t try to make conversation.

“Your past never scared me, Chris.”

His head turns toward you, and you catch the surprise on his face in the reflection of the radio display.

“Call me stupid. Dumb as fuck. I’ll own it. You’ve got a hell of a rap sheet for questionable decisions, but I never thought it made you a bad person.”

He snorts, to dispel the tension or to mock you for your comparably questionable choices, you don’t know. “You have bad taste in men.”

“I know.”

“Daddy issues?”

“Fuck you.” But you’re smiling. “My parents are great. They’re watching my dogs for me.”

His hands relax around the wheel. “I just don’t want to make trouble for you. If I ever get caught for what I did, it would reflect badly on you.”

“I would miss you in prison.”

Chan chokes on a laugh. “Oh, you would?”

“I’d come visit you. Cry into a filthy phone and get hepatitis. Put my hand on the glass and wait for you to do the same.”

The grin that splits his face is every bit the reward you were hoping for. “Wow, that’s romantic.”

“I’m in shock. I’m vulnerable. Say something nice.” You take another innocent drink of your water and watch him from the corner of your eye, just happy that he’s laughing now.

“You are majorly fucked in the head, you know that?”

“Swing and a miss, Chan.”

“I’d put my hand on the glass for you.”

“Strike two.”

“Oh, so it’s romantic when you say it, but when I say it I’m striking out?”

“Try something original. Piggy backing off of mine is cheating.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re in shock and vulnerable, babygirl. Go back to sleep.”

to be continued

< last part

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[hystericalend]

hello hello im back on my sieun has an all-girl friend group in university hc and today i offer: how exactly i think sieun got dragged into the group in the first place

(more here and here if ur curious abt my previous yapping)

so. sieun has this one early morning lecture that heis always on time for because he wants this particular seat. it's not too close to the front but not so far that he can't hear the professor, perfect distance from the windows etc etc. he picked his seat the first day and has sat there every single lecture since. that's his seat.

there's this girl that sits next to him. she greeted him brightly on the first day and introduced herself, initiating some polite small-talk. he didn't totally give her the cold shoulder (his friends have softened him up enough in that respect) but he's not exactly friendly either.

then one day, sieun shows up late to class, (very rare for him, but that morning a certain someone wouldn't let him leave their bed) but when he gets there, his seat is taken. there's a boy he's never seen before sitting where he always does, very obviously pestering the girl sitting beside him. aka. the girl that is always sitting to sieun. this boy is leaning into her space, greasy hand on her arm, talking and talking and talking despite the very obvious signs that she is not interested. she looks uncomfortable, almost scared and they're not friends, and sieun has barely spoken a word to this girl beyond lending her a pen once or twice, but...

he walks up to them, stares down the guy and without any introduction or greeting just says "that's my seat."

the guy is obviously like ?? uhm hello? but sieun doesn't stop glaring and just repeats. "you're in my seat. move."

and (if it isn't already obvious) mr seat stealer is an asshole, so all he does is laugh and just say: "last i checked there weren't assigned seats. go sit somewhere else."

but sieun doesn't budge. he stares the guy down, pen in hand, and says "move."

the guy makes a show of finding him stupid, huffing and muttering curses under his breath, but it doesn't take much more before he's averting his gaze and standing up to slink away.

when sieun slides into his seat after he's gone, the girl immediately pulls up close and goes omg omg thank you SO much he was so creepy and wouldnt stop bothering me you're a lifesaver. sieun just looks at her straightfaced and is like "ok".

despite him being dry af the girl takes the incident as the ice-breaker to start talking to him so whenever they meet in class she's always like "morning sieun-ah!! how are you??" and despite him him not matching her energy in the slightest (he always responds "fine" and sits down without another word) she isn't deterred and keeps making the effort to be friendly to him.

then one day after class has wrapped up she goes "hey sieun-ah, you know? i feel like i never got to thank you properly for you saving me that day.. you should come with me to a cafe or something and i can buy you a drink!"

and ofc sieun is like "no. it's fine." but like we saw with suho and yeongyi and then with baku and eunjangz he just gets... dragged along anyway.

so he's at the cafe with her sitting down drinking their coffee and some of her other friends happen to come in and see them and are like OMG WHO IS THIS CUTIE?? IS HE UR BOYFRIEND??

and before sieun even gets to shut it down the girl is immediately like no!! i'm just buying him a drink bc he saved me from the creep i told you guys about <3 and hearing that the girls immediately clamber to sit with them and gush over sieun like omg!! that was so nice of you!! she told us about you, you're yeon sieun right? engineering? and sieun is just like... yea...

he ends up staying there for almost an hour getting peppered with questions from all the girls about increasingly personal information, and it's overwhelming yes, but? they're actually really nice? when he answers most of their questions with a blank stare they don't press or get pissed abt his lack of energy they just.. fill the silence with their own answers, making an effort to get to know him without being overbearing. they also make it no secret they think he's cute as hell.

"you have this whole grumpy cat thing going on," one of the girls says. "but i can tell you're really warm-hearted."

sieun goes home that day with 5 girls phone numbers in his phone that have personally-picked strings of colourful emojis affixed to their contact names and he's.....

not mad about it.

when he sees main girlie again the next time they have their morning lecture together she goes "hey me and the girls are going to study in the library after this do you want to join?" and sieun just goes "sure"

(suho is working today and won't be free for hours. he has time to kill anyway)

she looks surprised when he says ok, but it quickly changes to a bright smile and she goes "awesome!! ill text the girls"

when they go to study hall and get their stuff open on the table, he can't help but expect something similar to his past group study sessions. i. e. him studying, and all of his friends doing anything but and disturbing him heavily in the process.

but the girls?? actually study?? like yes they laugh and chat for a bit but they don't bother sieun and do their fair share of notetaking between the scrolling and gossip. i mean of course it makes sense that they care moderately about being good students considering them having gotten into university (a very presitigous university at that) but sieun is kind of impressed. he misjudged them a bit, he thinks. and they're... actually kind of nice to be around.

so sieun just. keeps being around them.

once it becomes very clear that he isn't resistant to their friendly advances the girls eagerly pull him into the fold. he gets added to a groupchat (to which he reads, but never replies) and attends weekly cafe dates and bi-weekly study sessions in the university library. he very quickly becomes close with all of them, as a group and individually, softening up more and more. when they're at their weekly cafe date filling each other in about the latest gossip about who's in the talking stage with who and what happened at the party last weekend sieun actually makes the effort to ask "who?" "what happened?" and the girls lose their minds bc sieun-ah!! you care!!

and its nice. ofc he's still friends with eunjangz (and something more than friends with suho) but they're all on different paths, and he doesn't get to see them nearly as often as he did when they were going to school together. he wasn't lonely at university (he could never be lonely again like he used to be now that he has people waiting for him and constantly blowing up his phone) but his days studying at university are quiet. it's nice for them to have a little colour.

and if anybody dares to fuck with them, they won't know what they're getting into.

(+ bonus ++ suho and eunjangz seeing sieun get notifications from people who have pink hearts and glitter emojis in their contact names like?? who tf?? and sieun is like oh thats _____ from uni. and they're like?? SINCE WHEN ARE YOU FRIENDS WITH GIRLS??

baku immediately wants their numbers ("just one sieun please!!!!"). juntae and gotak are just baffled by the fact sieun was able to make friends other than them. suho acts like he's not jealous even though he very much is.

sieun decides then and there that his two friendgroups should NEVER meet.)

[somethingvicked]

Missed by the Emperor

An Emperor Geta one-shot.

warnings: female reader, cursing, violence, mentions of whipping, Geta being Geta.

Geta woke up in a good mood. The other day he had taught you how to suck his cock and you were such an eager little student, ready to do exactly what he told you.

Naturally, he hadn’t been able to help himself, he had to discipline you a little. After he had cum in your mouth he told you to hold his seed in your mouth, without swallowing for a little while, enjoying seeing you trying to keep everything inside, and the near gag. He had almost expected you to spit it out but you had held it, your cheeks puffing out like a beaver.

That had made him laugh and then he had ordered you to swallow it all. You had and then he had sent you on your way, knowing you still tasted him on your tongue.

He rose from his bed, waiting for you to come with his breakfast. He had pretty much dismissed all other personal maidens, except you.

There were still those that cleaned his chambers, washed his clothes and linen, and filled his bathtub,   but those were lower maids that had no personal contact with him.

Everything else was done by you.

That’s why he was completely surprised when there was knock on the door and the guards let in another maid, carrying his breakfast tray in her hands.

Geta didn’t understand anything. Where were you? Were you sick? That was the only reason he might accept for you not to serve him like you usually did.

”Good morning, your majesty,” the maid chirped and he immediately got angry.

You never spoke before he had spoken to you – you had manners, you knew he was the emperor and the etiquette was that he would speak first.

”I can’t remember myself addressing you, so why are you speaking?” he said coldly and the maid’s eyes widened.

”I’m sorry, sir,” she said, curtsying before placing his breakfast tray on the table.

He got up, grabbing a robe and the strange maid hurried up to him, obviously expecting to dress him but he only glared at her and put it on himself before taking a seat at his table.

”Where’s Y/N?” he then asked as he continued to glare at the maid.

”Y/N?” the maid questioned and then smiled. ”Oh, her! Well... the housekeeper sent her to do something else today, they were a couple of servants short elsewhere.”

Geta felt the anger rise inside him. The head maid thought that was her decision, did she? He would have a talk with her.

As he broke his fast the new girl walked to his wardrobe. ”What would you like to wear today, sir?”

Geta slammed his hand on the table. ”Didn’t I tell you not to speak to me before I address you?” he growled, and the girl paled, nodding.

Him yelling at her seemed to have done the trick, because she was quiet for the rest of his meal, busying herself with making his bed.

When he looked at her he got irritated again, though. She didn’t do it like you did, the sheets weren’t straight and the covers weren’t folded perfectly.

”You’re useless,” Geta told her coldly. ”Get out. Make sure Y/N gets here when she’s back. And your head maid, I want a word with her.”

The maid nodded and then hesitated. Then she swallowed and seemed to decide on something.

”I... I can serve you in other ways, your majesty. I know Y/N has. But I can do that too. It would be an honor to serve you. I think I’m better at it.”

She walked up to him and dared put a hand on his arm, stroking lightly.

Geta rose from the chair with such a force it fell backwards, slapping the maid with every ounce of strength he had in his body, the impact so great that she fell backwards to the floor.

”How dare you?!” he roared. ”How dare you put your filthy hands on me, you little...!” he couldn’t even come up with a fitting enough name. He couldn’t exactly call her ’whore’ or ’slut’ when he had called you that.

”I should hang you for that!” he added, the maid holding her cheek which had turned beet red, tears brimming in her eyes. ”Or at least chop of your hand!”

She was scared now, that was obvious to see. And he enjoyed it. How dare she touch him? How dare she think that she was better than you? That she could just... replace you to Geta?

”Guards,” Geta called. ”Bring this dirty bitch to the dungeons.”

You came inside the palace, aching in every part of your body after washing clothes all day. That wasn’t your usual job so you weren’t used to it, not to mention, your hands and feet were red and pruny from the hot water.

You just wanted to fall into bed and sleep until tomorrow, but you couldn’t help but wonder if Geta had noticed you were missing.

That morning the head housekeeper had called you, giving you a lecture about how maids weren’t suppose to sleep with the Emperors, and how ashamed she was of you.

You had dared asked her what she expected you to do, when the emperor decided to have you? How could you tell him 'no'?

"You clearly led him on, making him want to sleep with you, why else would he?" she had hissed at you, a few drops of spit landing on your cheek.

And to teach you a lesson she ordered you to work with laundresses today, no contact with emperor Geta.

You protested, saying that Geta had made you his personal maid. That was now your job.

”I’m your boss,” the housekeeper snapped at you. ”I decide what the maids do. If you don’t obey what I say, your employment here is at an end.”

What could you do?

Instead she was sending Liliana to Geta. A new girl, coming from a better family than you, and, truthfully... more beautiful.

Liliana had smirked at you, and you just knew that despite what the housekeeper had said, she would try to seduce Geta.

Would she succeed? Would he forget about you?

That thought had followed you all day, and it was still on your mind now when you walked into the servant quarters, longing to lay down on your bed and rest.

But instead the housekeeper came running up to you, anxiety and fear written all over her face.

”There you are. Emperor Geta has requested to see us. In his chambers. He... he’s not happy.”

You frowned. ”What’s wrong?”

”I... I don’t know. But he’s very upset. Liliana... she was brought to the dungeon this morning.”

You couldn’t help but feel a smug satisfaction. Hadn’t you told her? But she refused to listen, thinking she knew best.

You didn’t say anything though, thinking yourself too good for that kind of games and followed her as she half-ran to Geta’s chambers.

The guard let you in, and as soon as you met Geta’s gaze you could tell he was furious. Not with you, though.

”So,” he said, looking at the housekeeper with cold, calculating eyes. ”You think that your word means more than mine, do you? That you can just switch out the maid I personally asked to serve me? Is that it?”

The housekeeper turned white as marble and you bit your lip. You really shouldn’t enjoy this as much as you did.

”N-no, your majesty,” the housekeeper stuttered out, trying to say something else but Geta raised his hand, silencing her.

”And to make the matters worse, the other maid you sent in here had no manners – touching the emperor of Rome without permission? Trying to seduce me? Thinking I would fuck her?! Is that who you thought would serve me better than Y/N?”

He glanced at you and then the housekeeper, she now trembling.

”I... I didn’t tell her to do that, sire,” she whispered.

”No, but she did, and she’s under your supervision, isn’t she? Or she was. That little tart is now in the dungeon and she will be severely punished for what she did. As will you, for thinking your word meant more than the emperor’s. What do you think fitting, Y/N?” he asked, turning to you.

You hesitated. A part of you wondered if you should be sorry for Liliana and your employer, maybe even asked for leniency for them.

But... you didn’t feel bad for them. You had told the housekeeper it was a bad idea, that Geta had made you his personal maid, and that going against him was not wise. She hadn’t listened.

And Liliana... you couldn’t feel sorry for her. She had acted like a fool, going against every rule. A maid couldn’t just touch the emperor if he hadn’t given you permission. And trying to seduce him out of the blue? That was more than foolish, it was asking for trouble.

And Geta would punish her, no matter what you said. So you took a deep breath. ”Maybe... a whipping?” you suggested and Geta grinned, nodding in agreement.

”Very good. A whipping it is. Then she will be dismissed, not setting her foot in this palace again, on the pain of death. And you!”

He now turned to the housekeeper. ”Your word means nothing, but you seem to have forgotten that. You are dismissed too. And I will make sure that every household and establishment within in Rome will know what a disgrace you are. You’ll beg to empty chamber pots and dig latrine pits! Guards! Make sure this woman collect her things and is out of the palace faster than 'quick'!”

The housekeeper now cried, but she didn’t protest, shambling out of the door, leaving you and Geta alone.

He walked up to you, not giving his usual order for you to strip. ”What have you done today instead of attending me?” he asked, his voice dark. ”Attending someone else?”

Was he jealous?

”No, sire. They made me do laundry,” you replied, and Geta nodded, until he saw your hands.

”That won’t do. How are you going to jerk my cock with those hands?” he said, tutting his tongue.

”I suppose I can use my mouth,” you told him with a careful smile, hoping he wasn’t in too dark a mood for jests.

He snorted, thankfully. ”Now you’re thinking like my good little whore. I... I’ve missed her. You.”

Your eyes grew big and you fought with everything in you not to gasp.

”I... I missed attending you today as well, sire,” you admitted.

Geta gestured for you to sit down on his sofa. That had never happened before, unless you were sitting on his face.

He then pulled the rope hanging by the door, to call a servant. You wondered why, you were here with him, were you not?

As a male servant came inside Geta told him. ”Fetch a healing ointment from my physician and bring it here.”

Geta turned back to you as soon as the servant had disappeared. ”You may serve me just as well with your pretty mouth, but I don’t want anything distracting you when you join me watching that bitch get whipped tomorrow.”

”You want me to join you, sire?”

”Of course I do. I want you to see what happens to little tarts that think they can replace you to me,” he told you as he poured a cup of wine, no two!

He didn’t even seem to notice what he said, but you did.

Oh yes. The emperor had certainly missed you.

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[lvl109]

raison d'être.

a caleb xia summer fic. rule one: no unnecessary touching.

summary.ᐟ university au. all the lis are friends. no evol au. featuring some npcs (ex: tara, yvonne, etc.) fake dating at a beach house to get over an ex that isn't even yours? much more likely than you think. don't forget your sunscreen and sandals.

tee says.ᐟ and they were roommates... oh my god, they were roommates.

content ahead: non!mc reader, loser caleb shenanigans, yvonne as the inner voice of reason, and the realization that this summer might just be the most insane thing you've gotten yourself into. much to sylus' well known delight. wc: 3.3k.

day one of the holidays and you’re already off to a terrible start.

you sleep through all your alarms, waking up solely to the blaring sound of your phone ringing and a few notifications from your beloved other half reminding you to pack accordingly. you groan and turn over in your sheets, batting at your phone uselessly before managing to grab it and press it to your ear.

“hello…?”

“i’m outside,” a cheerful voice answers, and you pull your phone away from your ear to glare at the screen offendedly. no one should be this happy at… 

you squint your phone more closely and huff. nine in the morning.

“who is this,” you mumble, turning around to bury your face in your pillow. “and why are you so happy so early in the morning. are you even human.”

“that’s no way to greet your loving boyfriend so early in the morning. do you want me to cry?”

you flop over in your sheets and send a deadpan glare to your poor ceiling.

“we have rules, caleb.” you frown when he laughs and eventually kick your blanket off to patter around and get ready. “stick to them.”

“just teasing,” he hums and you roll your eyes. “did sylus text you at ass in the morning, too? i swear he doesn’t sleep yet always looks like he snatches a full eight hours. don’t know how he does it.”

“never mind how he does it, why are you outside my apartment so early?” you peek through your curtains like a disgruntled housewife and squint against the sunlight. true to his word, he’s leaning against his car with his phone to his ear. “i was gonna carpool with sy.”

“but we’re dating now, remember? wouldn’t it be weird if we arrived separately?” 

you frown and move from the window. you hate to admit it, but he’s right.

“also… sylus knows about the situation,” caleb adds with a disturbing amount of calmness, and you trip over air on your way to the bathroom. it makes you cuss up a furious storm, and you can faintly hair his surprise as you pick your phone up from where it fell. 

“you what?!”

“i caved! he’s so… you know that thing he does when he knows you’re hiding something and squeezes it out of you? it’s so scary,” he whines, and you can see the pout on his lips without seeing him. you storm into the bathroom to brush your teeth and glare at your reflection in the mirror. “please don’t be mad… i’ll take the blame for everything if it goes south—”

you spit out toothpaste and frown. “this entire thing was your idea to begin with!”

how could you face your best friend now? you can practically see the shit-eating grin on his face, the gears in his head spinning meticulously, and it’s all you can do to not bang your head on the countertop.

“i bought breakfast in hopes of winning you over,” caleb continues sheepishly, making you squint at your phone incredulously. “it’s your favorite, too…”

you frown once again, grumbling to yourself petulantly. “bet that idiot told you just so you could bribe me out of bed even faster.”

“what? no, i remembered your order from that time we all went cafe hopping.” a short pause. “is that creepy?”

you purse your lips in thought. “yes. you're a creep. hang up, i’m gonna shower.”

“can i come with?”

you hang up before he backtracks and embarrasses himself any further. within the next few hours, you've changed, lugged your suitcases out front, and set out on the road towards impending doom.

the drive to the beach shaves ten years off your lifespan.

breakfast was great, though. he truly had remembered your order down to the amount of milk and sugar in your coffee, and you hum appreciatively as you take a sip. out of the corner of your eye, you see him smile at your response, to which you’re quick to remind him to keep his eyes on the damn road.

four hours and three terrible karaoke sessions from your driver later, and the beach house finally comes into view. you can’t stop the look of awe on your face.

it’s right near the water, beautiful white and baby blue paint reflecting the easy sunlight. it looks straight out of a house hunting magazine, and if you squint, you notice a few others exactly like it and a couple shops further down the shoreline. it’s a property brothers’ dream, you can’t help but think, momentarily forgetting your wiles as you take in the view.

“our lovebirds have arrived!”

your smile drops and you sigh. short lived and curt. typical of your best friend, of course.

he’s quick to make his way over your side as caleb puts the car in park, rushing over to your side with the giant grin you knew he’d be sporting. it’s almost sinister in real life, knowing he could be plotting anything for your evident demise, and you scowl as he throws an arm around your shoulders in greeting.

“sweetheart,” he says easily, and you groan and rest your head on his shoulder. “good for you to make it safely. how was the trip? tara and vonnie?”

“they're coming later.” you think of tara’s excited babbling and yvonne’s list of pre planned beach-related activities at the mention of your two friends—until you see the smug smile on his own lips.

“just out with it already,” you grumble, pinching his side when you hear him laugh. “i know he already told you. don’t make this harder than it already is.”

the both you glance back at caleb, who busies himself with unloading the trunk. you can hear the cogs turning in sylus’ head, thoughtful tapping against your skin giving him away, and you cross your arms to wait for his verdict in silence.

“i’m just curious as to how he managed to convince you,” he finally says, and you deadpan glare at the ground in response. “i thought you hated him?”

“i don’t even know him that well to hate him,” you counter through a hushed hiss, glancing back at the car in case he heard anything. “but he was going to grovel on his knees and probably would never leave me alone if i said no, so—”

“so you’re into begging,” sylus raises a brow, and promptly cackles as he steps back to avoid your slap. “kidding! just kidding. mostly. but i’m just saying this now, none of this works out in your favor.”

“i know,” you grumble, sighing when the trunk slams close and you hear footsteps approaching from being you. “that’s why we have a contract.”

in an attempt to regain some control, you'd drafted the weakest contract you'd ever seen with barely any time to spare. just thinking about it makes you want to bury your head six feet into the sand. caleb had looked at you like you were crazy when you'd brought it up, violet hues narrowing in confusion at why he'd need to sign a piece of paper to date someone, and you'd just glared at him until he'd grumbled his assent and sloppily signed the bottom of the paper. 

fake date, you'd reminded him testily. ground rules needed to be set if you were going to spend your summer attached to the hip of someone who didn't know how to move on. 

sylus raises his brows so high you swear they nearly reach his hairline. “so they do teach you things in that place after all,” he says incredulously, now earning him a smack to his shoulder. “a contract. that's so cute. i'm placing a bet that it'll be broken within the first month.”

“your faith in me is much appreciated,” you utter dryly. sylus snickers and squeezes your shoulder affectionately.

you'd missed this. missed him, even if it meant being clowned relentlessly. his presence is a familiar sense of grounding even on shifting sand. at least if this blew up in your face, he had a funny story to tell of his ridiculous best friend to his grandchildren. you let yourself burrow into his arms and breathe in the salty air. you wouldn't let caleb ruin your vacation. you were here to enjoy yourself. 

a voice clears his throat behind the two of you and you resist the urge to complain. “hope i’m not interrupting anything, but these bags won't carry themselves.”

the two of you look back to caleb staring already, his brows slightly furrowed with a suitcase in both hands. sylus just grins easily, directing you to the front door with a final squeeze to your shoulder before going over to help him. before you leave the two of them, your grip tightens around your shoulder bag as she's all yours, no one's taking her from you in the unmistakable cadence of mirth is the last thing you hear before you stalk off, the sound of sylus laughing wafting out behind you.

the interior is almost enough to make you forget your troubles. it's more hotel than beach house on the inside with its mix of coastal decor and open beam structure, white and blue accents littering couches that looked soft to the touch. white linens part for floor to ceiling windows that filter everything in a warm glow, opening the vast living and dining space to a peek of the ocean just in view. out of the corner of your eye, you spot a grand staircase leading up towards what you assume were the bedrooms.

your breath leaves you in an awed rush as excitement fills you up once again, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. when you blink back into focus, the sound of voices pull you further into the house.

the kitchen space is just as warmly decorated, but your attention is drawn to its current inhabitants sitting at the island. one of them notices your presence mid conversation, a smile tugging at her lips as she lights up and waves you over.

“hi!” her smile is warm as she gets up to greet you, brown eyes shining over clear frames. she's tall when she hops off the high chair, her sandals quiet against the tiled floor as she offers her hand to shake. “you must be the mysterious best friend.”

you blink nervously and shake her hand, the sound of her bracelets clinking under your embarrassed laugh. “yes. that's me, i guess—sorry we haven't met, university and all—”

“uni’s a massive bitch, don't apologize on its behalf.” she waves off any apologies, guiding you further into the kitchen. “we just got here a few minutes ago and sy said that his surprise guest was here, so i figured if it had to be anyone—it had to be you.”

her smile is sweet, genuinely interested as she looks you over. “wait, introductions. super sorry.” she points to herself, “theo. theodosia if you're my mother, teddy if we're cool, but any other variation of my name is alright. tee is the current one i've grown fond of. short and sweet.” theo inclines her head with a even sweeter smile, “and that's zayne. not short, but definitely the sweetest.”

their faces are familiar. you recall them from the rare times sylus would post on instagram in photos that were too cute to have been taken just by himself. you recognize her smile and the quiet fondness zayne held for the both of them, fully on display as theo does the introductions for them. you'd truly vomit if you didn't already think they were cute.

“he talks about you a lot,” zayne offers up his own conversation. wire frames settle on the bridge of his nose as well, pushed up before he continues to speak. “amongst other things. it's good to finally meet you in person.”

you nod with a weaker smile. “all good things, i hope. it's good to finally meet you both.” adding wryly, “thank you for ensuring he doesn't die alone. now he'll stop meddling with my love life.”

theo cackles, utterly delighted at your dry humor, and zayne does his best to tamp down a laugh of his own. it makes you let out a breath, though. they don't know. you don't know whether to laugh or cry about sylus keeping your dilemma a secret. probably in prolonging your suffering. maybe it'd make for good bedside laughter.

the front door bangs open with a loud shout, clamoring and bickering immediately breaking the good atmosphere. you jump in surprise, head whipping towards the commotion. sylus’ laughter is loud, ducking past caleb struggling between keeping the door open, pushing your suitcases through the foyer, and probably strangling the life out of your best friend. 

“stop it—i swear to god—hold the door open, you asshole!”

“that's no way to treat your beloved host now, is it?” sylus looks up to find the three of you mingling in the kitchen and brightens significantly, promptly abandoning the suitcases entirely to flit over much to caleb’s immediate dismay. 

“introductions were made? great, wonderful.” he leans over for a kiss, to which is happily delivered from both partners. “i hope no embarrassing stories were shared.”

theo brightens almost immediately, turning to face you. “remind me to tell you how he asked me to be his girlfriend. remind me.” she ignores sylus’ instant complaints and just smiles innocently. “it was so cute. he was so nervous.”

this is what you'd come here for. your smile is genuine now in the face of gaining dirt on your usually collected friend, opening your mouth to begin to pry for more information when the sound of a tired groan emits from the living room.

the four of you pause to look at caleb sprawled on the floor, a heap of sweat and exhaustion surrounded by your suitcases. being the closest to him, you force down your disgruntlement and walk towards him with sylus’ gaze boring holes into the back of your head, crouching down and poking his cheek.

“hey.” you clear your throat. no response. “caleb. get off the floor.”

he lays motionless on the ground save for the rise and fall of his chest. his eyes are closed, lashes settling on his cheeks, and you swear you see the faintest splash of freckles across his skin. if you were a weaker person, you'd call it cute. but you're not. 

mustering up your courage and letting your dignity pool on the ground at your feet, you let your brows furrow in what you hope is a convincing show of concern. your thumb brushes against his cheek with uncharacteristic softness. 

“caleb?” your voice is gentle. caring. his eyelids flutter a bit, his lips just barely keeping a smile at bay. murderous rage flares up inside of you but you keep it classy. one of you has to. “baby, get off the floor. you're blocking the door.”

caleb’s eyes blink open immediately. sylus’ chokes on a poorly hidden laugh. and as if your luck couldn't get any worse, two more figures stand at the open entry.

“aw, cute! why didn't you say anything about getting a boyfriend?”

more than anything, you wish for the ground to swallow you whole.

it's a full house now. with caleb moved (pushed, more like it) out of the way, three additional cars in the driveway bring tara and yvonne, rafayel—another face you recognize from social media, with xavier and emcee being the last to trickle in through the doors. greetings and hugs are exchanged as old friends are introduced to new ones, chatter flitting above your heads.

yvonne stares at you the entire time, her expression a clear sign that she wants to talk. your smile wavers slightly. there was little in this world you feared like the wrath of a medical student. 

offering something of a parting smile to caleb, who you'd been in conversation with alongside rafayel, you grab tara from where she'd been examining the decor and lead them both into what you hope is a secluded area far away from the living and dining area. the faint smell of laundry detergent and linen spray hits your nose as you pry a random door open. without thinking twice, you usher them both in and shut the door, leaning against its surface with a sigh.

tara blinks slowly. yvonne continues to stare. so you crumble.

“i can explain—”

“you're dating caleb?” yvonne sputters out over your weak attempt, her eyes widening in disbelief. “caleb? the same caleb who you couldn't even sit next to without immediately moving? the same caleb you swore had it out for you? that caleb?”

at the same time you open your mouth to explain again, tara’s expression grows comically horrified. “you're dating cal—mph?!”

you press your hand against her mouth as her exclamation gets a bit too loud for your liking, wincing at the volume. “...yes. i… i am. but it's new, alright? it hasn't been for long.”

yvonne narrows her eyes. “you said you couldn't fathom how someone could ever want to date someone like him. you called him weird and creepy.”

tara nods. “heavy on the creepy part. plus, like, isn't he in love with his best friend? how in the world did he land you?”

you resist the urge to bang your head against a hard surface for what seems like the nth time. “sylus wanted us to get to know each other,” you lie weakly. “and we just… started talking. and then he asked me to be his girlfriend, and…”

i almost killed him. “i said yes,” you finish lamely. “nothing special happened. we're just figuring things out. that's all.”

“wow.” tara’s expression is torn between looking impressed and a bit confused. “well. you know what they say about boys and beaches!”

your heart lurches. ���what do they say—”

“you called him baby in the foyer earlier.” yvonne’s nose wrinkles slightly. “blink twice if you're being held hostage.”

you nearly burst into tears. she had no idea. “i'm not being held hostage,” you grumble petulantly. “i was mostly talking out of my ass. he's not that.. bad once you get to know him.”

that was an hour ago. now, after watching caleb haul your suitcases up to your designated room, you close the door behind you and whirl around to face him, spitting out completely contrary words before he can even speak.

“i'm going to kill you and then throw your body parts into the ocean. that is not a threat, that is a iminent promise.”

caleb doesn't even blink. much to your steadily increasing disbelief, he smiles, settling his hands on his hips. “do you think it worked?”

you want to smack him so bad. because the stunt he'd pulled an hour ago worked better than you thought it did. meeting the girl who had been the object of his (previous? past? you didn't even know anymore) desire had been one of the most nerve wracking experiences of your entire life. at least she was sweet and seemed genuinely happy for the two of you. it was her boyfriend that kind of made you uncomfortable, but you had chalked it up to him not really being a people person.

“fuck you,” you seethe in response, snatching your carryon from off the floor to turn on your heel and storm into the bathroom. “i'm using all the hot water.”

“don't be cruel, c’mon, i'm sorryyy—”

he grabs your wrist before you slam the door in his face, his expression softening into one of true concern. “i didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. i just saw their car and… just acted. no more stunts after this. scout’s honor.”

you look down at where his larger hand nearly engulfs your entire hand. caleb looks down as well before inhaling sharply and letting out an awkward laugh. “right. rule number one. sorry.”

no unnecessary touching. you roll your eyes, turning your back to him. “i don't care what you do. if you're going to embarrass me, i'd just like a warning. my friends are here, too.”

you slam the door shut before he can say anything else.

previous: teaser 𑁍 up next: rule two 𑁍 full masterlist

[joelsgoodgirl]

Give You What You Like

Part 2: Just A Mess

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: E/ 18+ MDNI

WC: 4.6k

Summary: You were never supposed to see Joel Miller again. You'd traded your body for pills years ago, and it had ruined you. Even after you'd found your way to Jackson from Boston, he'd still managed to end up back in your life.

Tags: afab reader, sexual themes, oral sex (m receiving), dry humping, penetrative sex, degradation, mean!joel, drugs for sex, alcohol use/abuse, drug use/abuse, age gap (joel is 50s/60s, reader is 20/30), joel's pov

A/N: I really wasn't going to post the second part until Monday, but f*ck it, I love these two too much to keep them to myself. Please don't forget to comment, it feeds authors! I made a playlist to listen to while you read that fits the vibe well. You can listen to it here. Each chapter is titled after a song.

AO3 Link Masterlist

You weren’t exactly prepared to face this today. Not this far into your “recovery”. Recovery from loving him, recovery from the alcohol, recovery from…life. 

You stared at Tommy like he’d told you he’d shot your puppy. 

“Are you sure?” You ask, even though you knew this wasn’t something he’d joke about. 

He gives you a nod, his expression a mix of concern and caution. 

“He’s okay?” You ask, your voice wavering a little. 

“A little worse for wear, but yeah, he’s fine.” Tommy sighs, his lips a fine line as he looks over you. “Maria told me, about all of it.”

Your heart fractures just that much more. She promised not to tell. But Tommy is her husband. You’d never keep anything from your own. “I’m sure you think less of me now.” You say dejectedly, avoiding his eyes.

“‘S not my place to judge you. My brother on the other hand…” He trails off, frowning at you. “I’m sorry he did that to you.”

You cringe outwardly, your lips turning to a grimace. “He didn’t do anythin’ I didn’t ask for.” It comes out harsher than you mean. 

“You still love him.” He says it as a statement, not a question. 

You deflate further, a sigh ripping its way from your chest. “Yeah, well I really don’t want to, but here we are.” You snap, irritation rising as he reads you too well. 

He raises his hands, his expression placating. “He’s different now. You should talk to him.” 

“Is this why you came here? To try and fix my poor broken heart? I’m not interested right now, Tommy. I need time.” The thought of even seeing him now made you stomach turn, 

Tommy shuffles in place, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Come by for dinner this week.”

“Will he be there?” It’s accusatory, sarcastic and bitter. He’d heard what you said; ignored it. 

Tommy shakes his head, sighing heavily. “You can’t avoid him forever. I just want what’s best for you. Both of you.”

“Yeah, well I will as long as I can.” Your hand is on the door, ready to shut it. “He was never supposed to be back in my life, Tommy. I need to move the fuck on.” 

“It was ten years ago.” His voice bites back, fueling your anger even further. He was tired of seeing the sadness in your eyes, especially now knowing his own blood had caused it.

You want to scream at him, terrible words you’d never be able to take back. You settle for something less. “I was a kid, Tommy. But this is on me, too. Let me deal with my own shit and keep the fuck out of my business.” You close the door without another word. You hear him sigh on the other side of the door before his footsteps sound down the porch. 

Alone.

Again.  

He knew he’d fucked up the moment you walked out his door the first time.  But those big beautiful eyes pleading with him for an escape had made him a weak man. Those beautiful eyes with a bruise forming under one of them, a split in your lip where the blood was still drying. 

He tried to be mean, tried to get you to see this wasn’t the path you wanted to go down. Tried to give you cold looks, make himself bigger to intimidate you. But of course, it hadn’t worked. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

And then you’d kept coming back. Offering more than someone so young should be offering him. And he’d gotten weaker. 

He’d given you enough pills that he was starting to come up short on ration cards and cigarettes and booze. You’d offered him everything you’d had. 

Then you’d offered your mouth. How was he supposed to say no when you looked so desperate. He cursed himself internally as you begged. 

“Please, I want to.” You said, your eyes so wanting it made him weak. Yet his cock still stiffened in his jeans, his throat still dried at the thought of those pretty eyes looking up at him while you took him into your mouth. 

And he tries to talk you out of it; he wants to talk you out of it. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t want to taint something so innocent. But then you step closer and palm his cock and it was all over for him. 

He’d hoped his mean words would be enough to drive you off, but he watches as you shift, your pupils dilating when he calls you a slut. Like you liked it. 

He paced his apartment after you left, anger and guilt bubbling in his chest as he replays the way he’d come down your throat, the vision of your watery eyes sending another wave of lust through him. 

He didn’t want to get attached, he knew you were too young. Yet he’d still handed you those pills with the harsh reminder to have a proper payment next time. 

Next time. 

He didn’t want there to be a next time, but he did. He’d felt powerful and wanted. Not that Tess didn’t want him, but not the way you did. Tess knew too much about him and yet not enough. And he loved her in some sort of his own way, though he’d never admit it and neither would she. He craved something sharper, something with a blade instead of comfort. Something that made his gut churn and his cock harden. 

Maybe he was sick. Maybe the fungus had somehow wormed its way in without actually taking over. Making him want to be mean, be horrible. Making him want to tear you limb from limb and watch you come undone under him. But of course it hadn’t, not the way he wished it had. He wanted his lust, his need, to be out of his control. Not proof of how lost he was in the harshness of this new world. 

You fall back into the bottle like an old lover, drowning in it until you can't think. 

But you still think about him with bile rising in the back of your throat at the mere thought of him being so close. 

You were never supposed to see him again. You keep repeating that fact in your head as you tip the bottle to your lips over and over.

You’re brooding now, your lips set in a fine line as you mull over the options in your head. You could leave, but giving up the safety of Jackson was not an option. You could stay and ignore him, but knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever. The only option that made sense would be to stay and confront him. Tell him you’ve moved on and want nothing to do with him. 

You stop with the lip of the bottle pressed to your lower lip, ready to take another drink. 

The sick thought of a life with Joel slams into the forefront of your mind against your own will. Being tangled in the sheets with him again, much older and wiser now. 

Early mornings, the sun barely shining through the kitchen window. You’d be at the stove making breakfast while he tends to the baby. A life filled with so much warmth it greys your memories.

You’re up and running to the bathroom before you can process it, violently rejecting half the alcohol you’d drank. You rest your head against the cold porcelain, panting heavily as your head spins. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until you have to catch your breath, sucking in a lungful of air as you sob. Every fiber of your being feels sharp, your body overestimated and hot. 

You’d never broken down like this, you’d never allowed yourself to fall into the dark hole that is your future. Especially scenarios that involved Joel. 

You try to collect yourself, taking a  few deep breaths, but the tears won't stop. 

You curse out loud, a broken and angry cry. 

You don’t want to feel this way. That weak, pathetic girl who gave into heartbreak so easily. That wasn’t you anymore. 

You push yourself up off the tiled floor, finding your balance, making quick work of brushing your teeth clean.  You make your way back into your living room, a determination you’d never felt before swelling up in your chest. 

Youpre going to talk to him. 

Today. 

Right now.

You grabbed your coat off the rack, almost angrily shoving it on as you build your courage. 

One arm in. 

You’re going to tell him what, exactly? 

The thought causes you to pause halfway putting your arm through the other sleeve. 

What were you going to tell him, exactly?

Going into this blind wasn’t a good idea. You shove your arm the rest of the way though, slowly zipping it up as the options rattle though your head. 

The sickness inside him grew the longer he used you. A darkness that consumed in him the inside out. 

He craved you. Well, not you, exactly. The release, the power, the need. He was addicted to the way you started to relax further around him. 

It made his head spin. Alarm bells in his head anytime you were around. 

Then he’d seen that look in your eyes. 

A dangerous, all consuming heat. 

The first three months were easy. Two to three days a week with his cock down your throat. On your knees with such a pathetic look in your eyes it made him sick with need. 

So sick he needed to see you undone to ease the pain. 

You fell back onto your heels, wiping the cum from the corner of your mouth as he stared down at you, his heart twisting in his chest. 

“Up here, girl.” He pats his thigh after he tucks his cock away, watching the bewildered look in your eyes as you stand on shaky legs and straddle his thigh. His hands grip your waist like a lifeline as he pushes you down on his thigh harder, pushing the muscle up into you. 

You double over, your head falling against his shoulder. The whimper you let out almost breaks him. “Needy little thing. Bet that little pussy is just drippin’ for me, ain’t she?” He mutters as you begin to grind yourself against him, your breath fanning over the thin material of his tee. 

“Gonna come just from humpin’ my leg like the dog you are?” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he refused to be kind. Knows a delicate thing like you couldn’t take the kindness from him without running with it. Because despite what you were doing, he still wanted to keep some semblance of innocence. 

He rocks you back and forth, his grip tightening as you gasp and moan into his ear, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. It unfortunately brought him peace knowing you were just as affected as he was. 

His name slips past your lips and you’re coming, your forehead digging into his shoulder blade as you cry out. 

No words exchanged after, just the baggie of pills, one less than he’d usually give you. 

If you noticed, you didn’t say anything. 

Your feet carry you down the streets as you get lost in your thoughts. You aren’t exactly heading for Joel’s, you’re just walking. Thinking.

You’re lost in your own memories of the times you spent with him. You’re playing them over and over again, playing the look in his eyes over and over. He’d never looked at you with softness, never with care. 

Not until the day he’d fucked you properly the first time. You’d seen the flash of something in his eyes as he’d come, staring down at you. 

A flash of adoration, of care. A softness that jarred you so deep you had to choke back your tears. 

You swallow as you shake yourself out of the memory, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Anxiety pulling at your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs.

You realize where you are a moment later. Three houses away from his. 

You steel yourself as you straighten your jacket, the cool summer night chilling you enough it sends a shiver up your spine. 

You march ahead, the alcohol you’d consumed early slowly leaving your system. You had a clear head now. 

You knew what you wanted to say.

You’re knocking on his door before you can think, stepping away as you hesitate. You can only hope he isn’t home. 

The door swings open, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You feel your throat tighten, your eyes widen, your stomach drop. 

He stares back at you with as much shock, his lips parting as he takes you in. Your name leaves his lips on a breath, a question that’s gone unasked. 

“Hi.” You say, your eyes flicking up to his after studying his face for a moment, your voice soft and unsure. 

“I thought you were dead.” He says, his voice sounding more angry than he means it. It almost sounds like an explanation. But all the regret and guilt bubbling in his chest made him choke on his words. 

It almost physically jostles you, your eyes flashing with a multitude of emotions. Anger, hurt, fear. A looping cycle until you can speak. “Well, huge disappointment, ain’t it.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” He sighs in exasperation, running a hand down his face. “Tommy told me you were here.”

“I don’t even know why I’m here.” You admit, scuffing your shoe across the coir mat in front of his door. 

He stares at you for a moment more, his mind processing finally seeing you after so many years. Of course he’d had a few days to prepare, but never did he think you’d show up at his door. 

Not after everything that happened. 

“Do you want to come in?” He finally asks, breaking the silent tension. 

You visibly relax, looking up at his face again. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to talk.” 

“S’what you deserve.” He adds quietly as he steps aside. 

Walking into his bare home felt too much like walking into that apartment all those years ago, anxiety rising in your throat. It wasn’t exciting anymore, not like it had been toward the end. 

You pause in the foyer, turning back to him as you swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry.”

The words stop him in his tracks, back turned to you, his hand still on the doorknob. When he finally turns around, his eyes don’t leave yours. “It’s not you who should be apologizing.”

You shake your head at him, wrapping your arms around your waist. You want to scream at him, want to cry. “I know I shouldn’t, but I’m still gonna.”

He takes a step forward, and it takes everything in you to not do the same, your body still somehow drawn to his after all these years. “I was- I’m still an awful man, darlin’. I don’t deserve your apologies. I should be the one grovelin.” 

He sounds…broken. It tears you apart against your own will, there’s something in his voice that speaks of even greater loss than the last time you’d seen him. Expected in this world, but never an invited experience.

“Guess we both got things we regret.” You say, a slight bite to your voice you don’t mean. 

It’s like you physically watch him build his walls, his body stiffening as the silence stretches. 

“That’s not what I meant, Joel.” You say, the few seconds of silence becoming too much. “Fuck, that’s not what I meant.” You can feel the panic rising, knowing that if this was it, this was it. 

“But I do.” 

“You’re destroying that girl.” 

He sets his coffee cup down harder than he means to, his eyes flashing up to Tess. “I ain’t doin’ anythin’ she ain’t askin’ for.” It’s been close to six months of this mess now. And he’d had his cock buried your cunt more times than he could count. He’d claimed it had been for him the first time. And it had, but the thought of having you come wrapped around him had pushed that sickness to the forefront of his mind. He needed it now. 

Tess just shakes her head at him, her arms crossed under her breasts. “You know that’s not my point.”

“Then what is?” He bristles, clenching his jaw. 

She knows this isn’t a fight she’ll win, but she still needs to make the point. “She needs to start paying.” 

“She is.” He snaps, his eyes down on his cup, his chest tightening. 

“No, Joel, you are.” She practically snarls, discontent rising in her throat. “You’re gonna hurt her, Joel. Shit, you already are.” She’s watching her best friend, her practical other half, slip to a place she knows she can’t pull him from. 

His anger rises further. She’s right. He knows she’s right. But he can’t bring himself to let you go. “She’ll start paying.” He says with finality, meeting Tess’s eyes. 

But they both know you won’t. 

“I’m going to end it.” The words come out before he can stop them. “Gotta job.” He adds gruffly. “We’ll be gone at least a month. We leave next week.” 

Tess stares at him for a moment, her brows furrowing further. “You need me for this one?” 

He’s taken aback by the vulnerability in her voice. His eyes flick back up to hers, seeing that sad look in her eyes. A look of forgiving admiration. “I’ll always need you, Tess.” 

Those two little words send you spiraling in an instant, your world suddenly shifting. Your eyes flick back up to his, the same pain reflecting in them. “You don’t mean that.” Your voice is weak with tears you refuse to let fall. “Please tell me you don’t mean that.” 

“Don’t you?” He asks, his voice lowering just enough it’s almost a growl. He doesn’t know where the anger is coming from. Guilt piles on his chest like a thousand bricks after he sees your face drop. 

“I don’t.” Your eyes don’t stop searching his. “I did, at one point. Only thing I regret was not doin it right.”

“There was no right way.” He says; cracks in his walls. He steps toward you again, continuing past you to the kitchen. He’s pulling a beer from the fridge when your brain catches up and you follow him. 

“So you regret it all?” You ask, your voice steeled as you try to swallow your emotions, the conversation going a way you’d not thought it could.

His beer bottle hits the counter hard when he sets it down, his eyes landing on yours in return. “I regret the goddamn exchange. I don’t regret fuckin’ you.” He’s frustrated, you see it in the tension in his shoulders. “Christ.” A rough hand musses his curls as he threads his fingers through them. “I regret lettin’ it get so far that you got hurt.” 

His admission almost startles you, watching his forehead crease as he realizes what he’s said. “That was inevitable.” You both know it’s true, but it’s the first time you’ve heard it said aloud. 

His sigh is laden with guilt, self deprecation. “I was awful to you. I don’t get it, why’d you keep coming back?” 

It’s progress; the question. It’s talking. It’s admitting it wasn’t all about the pills.

“It was an escape. You knew that from the beginning.” You admit, shuffling a little, putting space between you again before he’s tilting his head toward the fridge, lifting his beer, your small nod enough of an answer.

He’s pulling out what looks to be a bottle of mead, the silence stretching as he contemplates your answer. You happily accept the glass he pours. 

“I wasn’t expecting it to end the way it did. I don’t think either of us did.” You break the silence as he leans back against the counter, still caught up in observing each other. 

His shoulders rise and fall in a slight shrug of agreement and acknowledgment. It’s all you get. 

“What are we doing here, Joel?” Your words are defeated, fingers clutching your glass like a lifeline. “I just want to know where we stand.” 

“You came to me, darlin’.” He points out rightfully. You had, but you were at least expecting something from him too. 

So you tell him that. 

“I don’t know what I want.” He says gruffly, his eyes flashing with an emotion you can’t identify. Something you’d never seen in him before. 

“Friendship?” You offer, but then grimace. “Sounds like we’re breaking up.” 

His answer is too quick for you, your throat constring. 

“We weren’t ever anythin’ to break up.” 

You swallow thickly, your courage swelling. “Why do you deny it? Even all these years later. We know it wasn’t just about the pills anymore.” You watch him stiffen, shuffling on his feet. 

“I’m not the type of man for that. I don’t do love, I don’t do relationships.” He’s harsh, the words biting at you and tearing you apart. 

“You did Tess.” You want to get a rise out of him, get him mad. You want him to yell, you want to yell. 

His eyes flash with something that nearly knocks you off your feet. A deep regret mixed with longing. You’ve seen that look in so many others. It instantly deflates you, your face falling in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Joel.” You mutter, sincerely. “Look, I don’t want to fight, I just want to figure this out so we can move on. I need closure. I never thought I’d get it, but I’m getting a second chance and I need you to just talk to me.” Your voice edges on desperation as he empties his glass, his eyes fixed on the floor. 

“What do you want from me?” 

You heave a sad sigh, sitting down at his kitchen table, he does the same after a few moments. “I don’t know, Joel. An apology? An explanation? I know I said something I shouldn’t have said, but why’d you leave?” 

“I had a job. Took me out for nearly three months. Wasn’t supposed to be that long.” He grumbles, his eyes watching his glass as he swirls the alcohol around in it, not taking another drink. “I looked for you.” There’s a thread of vulnerability in his voice. 

Your eyes snap up to his, shock registering on your face. You’d given up after two months, sneaking out with a group to try to find a better life. It had somehow worked, it had eventually led you here to Jackson. 

“Why?” 

The question leaves him quiet for a few long moments before he finally looks up at you. “I don’t know. I still don’t. I’m bad for you, darlin’. Nothin’ good can come of stayin’ ‘round me.” A heavy sigh before he continues. “I fail everyone. People get hurt around me all the time. I can’t do it to you. Again.” 

Your stomach flips at the sadness in his voice, the way his eyes won’t meet yours. You want to reach for his hand, you want to comfort him. But you’ve never been that for him. Comfort.

You’re a mess, grinding your hips down onto his as he slaps your ass again. 

He’s got you bare from the waist down, grinding against his erection in his jeans. 

He wanted you like this, dripping and needy, begging for him to fuck you. 

And you love every second of it. The imbalance. Him still fully clothed while you’ve only got your ratty t-shirt on. 

“There ya go, good girl.” Joel growls into your ear, lips barely brushing your skin. “Know how much you like ridin’ me. Make yourself come and you can have my cock.” 

Another whimper, a pathetic little sound as your clit catches on the seam of his jeans just right, each roll of your hips skyrocketing you toward your orgasm. 

“I’m so close.” It’s mumbled against the fabric at his shoulder, your nose digging into his collarbone. 

Another slap to your ass sends you careening over the edge, practically soaking the front of his jeans. 

“There ya go, baby.” He mutters, his hands on your hips dragging you through your mess. 

You preen at his soft tone, your body shuddering as you ride your high. 

He’d gotten kinder in the five months you’d been doing this. He still held harsh words over you, but there would be flashes of moments where you saw flashes of something softer. 

There’d be days like today. 

Harsh movements and words melting into softness. He’d even started taking you to his bed. 

You curl yourself around him when he stands, nuzzling your nose into his neck as he carries you to his bedroom.

Thankful today was one of those days. 

You bounce on the mattress when you let go, trying to hide how much it was affecting you. How it made something warm swell in your chest, slowly growing with each passing day. 

You’ve got your shirt off in record time, watching him remove his clothes. He was meticulous with it, making you wait as he neatly undoes every button. 

You know he likes watching you squirm. Likes having that much power over you. 

He tuts at you when he goes to pull off his belt. “Made a goddamn mess on me.” 

You can’t help but smirk, letting your legs fall to expose yourself more to him. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.” 

A snort leaves him before he can stop it, a cocky smirk on his face. “Quite the mouth on you today, darlin’. Need me to stuff it full?” 

A shake of your head as you scoot up the bed while he kicks off his boxers and jeans is enough of an answer for him. He kneels on the bed, tapping your ankle. “Uh uh, pretty girl. You’re riding it tonight.” 

You waste no time clambering to your knees, too eager for your own good. 

He clicks his tongue at you again, his eyes filled with mirth. “Little slut likes ridin’, don’t she?” 

You gnash your teeth playfully, straddling his hips when he finally lays back. You sink down with no preamble, taking him to the hilt. 

It always hurts, but you crave it now. A cruel reminder of how this man was carving his way to your heart. 

He lets you move the way he knows you need, his hands finding their home against your hips. With only the sound of skin on skin  filling the room. 

You’re the first to break the silence when pushes his hips on one of your downthrusts, a gasping cry of his name. 

He grits his teeth as your pussy flutters around him, thrusting up harder into you. “That’s my good girl.” He pants, his teeth against your neck. 

You’re coming before you realize you’re about to, your head falling back as you cry out his name over and over. The single word repeating in your head through your bliss.

His. 

His good girl. 

He’s shoving you off of him before you can register, your back hitting the bed. He kneels between your legs, his cum painting your pussy and lower stomach with just a few pumps of his fist. 

He cleans you up with his mouth, bringing you to orgasm three more times. 

You both know it’s for selfish reasons you’re doing this now. 

But you don’t talk about it. He’s given you the same amount of pills for almost two months. Since the first time he’d fucked you properly. 

It’s the first time you fall asleep in his bed, curled up.

Alone.

Again.

[mikkies]

「 TODAVÍA PUEDO SENTIR TU TACTO INCLUSO EN LA OSCURIDAD. 」

Chance x Fem! Clothing Designer! Reader (no mentions of she/her)

warnings: mentions of itrapped (he should be a warning on its own).

notes: thanks for the title help AHEM AHEM... sighhh... ANYWAYS PART 2 OF THIS exploring the way Chance is towards the reader (reader is eerily similar to Itrapped yet so different)

HE’S SITTING ON the edge of the porch, one arm resting over his knee, the other cradled against his side where the wound hasn’t finished healing yet.

You’ve offered to re-stitch it properly—said he was healing wrong, that it was gonna scar messy—but he waved you off with a lopsided grin and a “scars build character” quip.

You let him sit with it. Not because you agree.

But because some things he needs to choose on his own.

It’s late. The sky glows a dull orange from the breach hanging far over the forest, never fully night here, never fully day. The whole world stuck in between, just like him.

From inside the cabin, you watch his silhouette as your fingers work without thinking, threading ribbon through a jacket collar you’ve been trying to finish for weeks now. It was meant to be for him—like most things you make lately. But you haven’t given it to him yet.

Because something's off.

Not new. Just... growing.

He flinches when you touch his shoulder now. Laughs a little too loud when you tease him.

And when you patch him up, he never looks you in the eyes anymore.

That used to be your favorite part. The way he’d smile down at you—cocky, always pretending he didn’t need your help—but grateful. Silent. Loyal.

Now? His loyalty feels heavier. Like it’s chained to something you can’t see.

You don’t realize you’ve stopped working until you feel your magic dim under your skin.

The jacket falls silent across your lap.

And you finally go outside.

He doesn’t turn when he hears the door creak open. He just says, “...You ever feel like someone's haunting you, even when they ain't dead?”

You pause in the doorway.

“I think,” you say carefully, “there are worse things than ghosts.”

Chance chuckles. It’s humorless. “Yeah. Like still loving the person who put the knife in you.”

You move slowly, taking a seat beside him on the porch. You don’t speak right away. Just sit, close enough he can feel you, but not touching.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then,

“You remind me of him.”

That’s the first time he’s said it out loud.

You turn your head. His expression is unreadable—shades reflecting the broken sky.

“iTrapped,” you say.

He nods.

“He didn’t build anything,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t make things the way you do. He didn’t even fix his own mistakes. Just... left ‘em. Let me clean ‘em up. Let me follow him into worse and worse messes like some stupid stray. And I did. ‘Cause I thought that’s what love was supposed to feel like.”

He laughs bitterly.

“‘Die for me,’ he said once. I thought it was a joke.”

You say nothing.

“I played every game he asked me to. Lost things I’ll never get back. He told me I was lucky, and I believed him. Even when my luck ran dry and my hands were shaking and I couldn't even tell which pain came from the game and which came from him. I loved him.”

Chance grips the side of the porch railing hard, metal groaning beneath his fingers.

“And then I met you.”

You look at him.

“I thought maybe I was finally over it. That what I felt for you was new. Real. But sometimes you touch me and it’s like I’m back there again. And I hate that. I hate that my body doesn’t know the difference between someone hurting me and someone holding me.”

Your chest aches. “Chance…”

He finally looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And it’s terrified.

“You’re kind. And soft. And strong in ways I don’t know how to name. But you’ve got the same patience he did. The same way of watching me. The same quiet hands, same soft voice when I bleed. And I’m scared that I’m doing it again.”

Your voice shakes. “Doing what?”

“Falling into someone else's gravity.”

You want to say he isn’t. That this is different. That you are different.

But that wouldn’t be fair.

Because he's right.

You are patient. You do patch him up. And maybe, maybe, he was never taught the difference between affection and obedience.

Between care and control.

Between you and iTrapped.

So instead of trying to prove him wrong, you say:

“I won’t make you stay.”

He tenses.

“I won’t ask you to prove yourself. Or test your love. I won’t drag you into things you don’t choose. If you ever feel like I’m becoming him—walk away. I mean it, Chance. You are not leashed to me.”

His breath catches.

“But,” you continue, voice quiet but unwavering, “if you do stay, I need it to be because you want to. Not because you’re afraid to be alone.”

He doesn’t answer.

He just leans into your side, carefully, like he doesn’t trust his body not to shatter from it.

“I don’t wanna lose you,” he whispers.

“You’re not going to.”

“Even if I see him in you sometimes?”

You reach out, gently sliding his shades up onto his forehead. His eyes are tired. Red-rimmed. Honest.

“Then I’ll stay long enough for you to see me instead.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it for months.

And finally—finally—he rests his head against your shoulder. Not like a loyal dog.

But like someone learning how to be human again.

[bloodmale]

O6 : IDGAF WARRIOR ( word count : 681 )

You really, really despised studying. There was nothing enjoyable about it. But you couldn’t just ditch even if you wanted to. You’re pretty sure Yeong yi and Beomseok would skin you alive if you did. But god was the most boring thing ever.

At the start it was bearable, you’d ask questions about topics that confused you—whether it’d be math, science, or english—Sieun would explain them all. You had to give him credit, he was intelligent to say the least. But it was like studying with a robot. He never made jokes, never looked at you, never even gave you a smile. He had to hate you. Why else would he be so cold?

“How long has it been?” Your face was smushed against the table beneath you. Exhaustion practically embedded itself om your face. “An hour.” Sieun didn’t even spare you a glance, yet you still shot up at that response.

“It can’t be an hour?! I’ve been writing down formulas for decades!” You aggressively tapped against the notes displayed on the table. Sieun shot you a glare at your noise, his eyes practically yelling ‘shut up’. You looked back down in embarrassment, muttering a quick apology.

“Can we take a break, I really think my brain might crash from all the information I’ve taken in.” You expressed, hands moving to rub your forehead. “Seriously, I think I’m getting a headache.” You groaned, but it all fell on deaf ears—not a single reaction, not even a hum to prove he was listening. At this point you were debating whether he was an absolute bitch or not.

“Are you even listening?” You hated being ignored, especially when he was sitting right in front of you, and he could definitely hear you. You had assumed he was just quiet, more introverted that’s all, but it was getting annoying now.

“I thought you wanted tutoring lessons.” His tone was flat, barely held anything behind it—annoyance nor fatigue. “I do!” You interjected, though Sieun didn’t seemed convinced by the look on his face.

“Then finish getting through this chapter.” The way he said it—sharp and quick—you couldn’t argue. You thought you should be glad that someone was pushing you to actually succeed, but it irritated you instead. He didn’t have to be so rude about it, all humans deserve a break, and you were human after all!

Yet in the end you were stuck—reading whatever unit Sieun suggested you focus on and writing until you felt your hand cramp at just the thought of lifting a pen.

The sky was dim by the time you finished getting through mostly all of yours notes of the day. You never felt more exhausted than you did today. You swore steam was escaping from the top of your scalp.

Sieun seemed to still be focused on his assignment; an earpiece covering one ear with his body was hovering over his notebook like he was shielding it. How the hell was he not tired? You felt your head ache at the mere thought of reading more than five pages.

“Sieun,” you tapped a finger lighting on his notebook. “It’s getting late, I’m gonna leave okay?” You sat up without waiting for an answer. You were already tired beyond belief, and seeing Sieun work so diligently on his papers made it worse.

Sieun just looked up at you, his eyes stayed glued on your moving body—watching you pack away all your things. He didn’t wish you a farewell, he just watched as you left, and of course you noticed. Though from how distant he was it didn’t offend you anymore. You simply didn’t care; a goodbye from him was the last thing on your mind.

The only thing you could think of when you left was how strange he was. You didn’t know if he was being an asshole on purpose or if he was like that all the time. You had made a mental note to yell at Beomseok about this, because now you were more upset at the thought of studying with Sieun than studying in general.

masterlist prev chap next chap

notes , first written chapter kinda nervy… sorry if this lowkey sucks i made this with barely any sleep💔 spare me

TAGS : @randomheyl @ant-onie @screamertannie @jvhoonie @ceeisatlumon @ruruyinn @stxr-lilac @bblgeum @surfeitstar @xiaojunns @lunaryoongie @bblgeum @nubyeol @cielopain @runaaclou @kimchisouplegend @tojirin

[voidfanatic]

Berdly, the joke vs. Berdly, the "problem" (and his contrast with Susie)/(ref)

My favorite type of Berdly content is the one where he gets treated as a person. And no, this is not a hot take or anything, someone has said this before and this is just a room temperature take at this point.

I get it, he's the funny side character who is pathetic and that people laugh 'at' not 'with' most of the time, that's true. But I would be lying if I said it doesn't piss me off when he gets that treatment only and only that treatment by a big part of the fandom.

I will start by recognizing that yes, he thinks that everyone loves him when they don't, he's an asshole and annoying. I get that too, but it does get to a point...

He is often the butt of the joke, the punchline. The jokes that include him mostly show him dying because haha funny Snowgrave, getting beaten up by someone way cooler than him like Noelle or Susie, or just his presence being the punishment for someone else (Kris, the Soul, hell you can count Noelle and Queen there too). Don't get me wrong, I laugh at those same jokes too, and pretty frequently. But, again, it gets to a point, and that point is where half or more of the content involving Berdly as a character starts to feel disingenuous.

Because of course his "death" is funny, he was annoying, and now looks like frozen chicken! Noelle and Kris probably enjoyed doing it too... Clearly, Susie or Noelle beating him up is funny also! He obviously wouldn't understand by words, so they need to take it out on him physically. And, obviously, who would unironically have a meaninful or casual relationship with him? It must be a punishment, nobody would genuinely want to hang out with him by choice.

This line of thought is not only about fandom, this also applies to the canon in a different but similar way.

You all can flame me for this or whatever, but Berdly is dangerously similar to Susie. Yes, he's less charismatic, yes, he's more annoying, but people often forget that Susie is a former bully who struggled with relationships because she was lonely and isolated from other people due to being denied the opportunity of showing her kinder, true self.

Is Berdly the kindest person ever? Hell no, but neither was Susie. Please don't take this the wrong way: Susie is one hell of a character and she has grown so much. The thing is, why did she grow as a person in the first place? Because people like Ralsei, Kris and Noelle guided her, trusted her, and gave her the opportunities to do so.

Berdly isn't the most tragic character by any means, but the fact that nobody even tried with him is what keeps his attitude as foolish as it is.

And no, Noelle didn't help, because she has her own problems and she just goes along with whatever out of pocket thing Berdly says or does. Actually? Nobody around him helps or cares, really. He doesn't get treated seriously by people in the fandom AND in universe. His classmates dgaf, wich I get as he's not their responsibility, but the adults around him who should care don't really care either. Let's see: his parents won't show up for him; Rudy literally beefs with him; Toriel, who mind you, took the time to get to know Susie and offer her help, just brushes him off as annoying for doing his literal job; Alphys just goes along with his teacher's pet tendencies without even liking the apples that he gives her; and Ms. Boom doesn't bother to learn his actual name while probably being the only one who actually listens to him ranting about videogames aside from Kris and Noelle. He literally lived with all of them for his whole life and, still, none of them care enough.

Of course Berdly is egotistical, loud, annoying, proudly incorrect, and borderline delusional: nobody tries to correct his behaviour! Everyone just brushes him off as the "weird annoying kid who doesn't get the complexities of non verbal social cues", because they never bothered with him. "Oh, this kid feels lonely and isolated because he's severely neglected and his new smart persona that he created to cope drives everyone away...? Well, too bad, because he's too unlikable for us to help him actually".

Of course Susie is more likeable and can get treated seriously unlike him! She's awesome, but she was also given several opportunities at the start of the story, she has more screentime, and she gets treated like an actual person by the rest and not like a undesirable hot potato that everyone throws at eachother to avoid.

Berdly is just a lonely kid that's easy to complain about because nobody helped him learn. It's easy to go and say that nobody likes him because, aside from Kris, Ms. Boom and maybe Noelle, it is true. It's easy to point and laugh at him because he lies to himself about people actually loving him and giving a shit about him. It's so easy, maybe way too easy sometimes.

Damn, I'm not even trying to moralize literal memes about a fictional teenager, I literally laugh at them too. It's just that, sometimes, I look at the petty ones made to hate on his character and think "man, what a fucking shame" while not-so-metaphorically grinding my teeth. May be my Berdly fan-self talking tho.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for catboyJupiter behind the cut, who asked for "accidental clone acquisition" with anybody's clone and is getting “baby clone and all associated trauma". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

A kid in the situation Tobias is in, he means. 

“Okay,” Tim says, exhaling slowly. “How about I get you another apple and some peanut butter for now, then. And I’ll see if there’s anything else in here that might taste good with peanut butter, too.” 

“Thank you,” Tobias says in that same very small and quiet voice, then sniffs again and scrubs at his eyes again too. Tim feels like he should hug him again, but doesn’t feel capable of doing it without upsetting the kid worse. He puts a hand on his shoulder for a moment, stiff and awkward, and squeezes it briefly. 

Tobias sniffs. 

Tim retreats and goes looking for anything that looks like it’ll taste good with peanut butter. He finds some bananas on the counter and a box of strawberries and some abandoned celery sticks in the bottom drawer of the fridge, and gets the promised apple too, and just . . . makes up another little snack for the kid on a clean plate with a couple heavy spoonfuls of peanut butter in the center and celery-divided sections of neatly-sliced fruit arranged around said peanut butter. Tim’s not really artistic, but he can copy a basic pattern, so it’s not hard to lay the slices out in tidy layered rows and use the celery as dividers to minimize the metaphorical stream-crossing of the different fruit slices and make them look at least alright. Not artistic, but . . . 

( Kon was artistic, if you could get him to admit to it. Creative, and good with his hands, and full of so much he was just trying to figure out how to SAY, and never feeling like it was something he SHOULD be saying or ever knew how to or where to start with or . . . )

Tim stops thinking, because he’s not thinking about anything that’s going to help Tobias right now. 

Tobias is the only thing he needs to be thinking about right now. Possibly the only thing he ever has the right to think about again, after what he’s done to the poor kid; after he’s made such a fucking mess of the kid’s life. Made such a fucking mess of the kid’s existence, because Tobias is always going to know that existence only happened at all because Tim couldn’t handle his own shit. Because his best friend who he might’ve been a little hung up on died, and the girl he was definitely hung up on died, and one of his other best friends checked out of his life and then died too, and his dad died, and they all went in such awful, awful ways, every single one of them–awful and sudden and vicious and UNFAIR, every single one–and now . . . 

Now Tobias is here, and that’s even more awful and unfair. So, so much more awful and unfair. 

It feels sudden and vicious too, but it’s something that Tim did to himself over the course of weeks and months, something Tim did to Kon’s memory and grave, something Tim did to Tobias before the kid was even born. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have suggested a named that started with “T”, he thinks. Maybe he should’ve thought of a better snack than peanut butter and fruit. 

Maybe he should’ve gone to therapy and not done this. 

But he can’t ever actually say that, because Tobias already thinks he only exists because of “something bad”. Already thinks he is “something bad”. So if Tim says things like that to him, Tobias is going to keep thinking he’s the problem, think he shouldn’t exist, think things would be better if he really did find some god or spell or something to scoop his own soul out of his body and shove Kon’s into it, like it’s somehow not his body just because Tim is an absolute bastard with no boundaries and just the pathetic remnants of some already admittedly flexible moral standards and absolutely no coping mechanisms whatsoever left. Like he’s not a real person just because a bad person made him. 

Like–like he’s–like he’s bad, and he shouldn’t exist. Like he’s something no one wants to exist. 

It would, again, have been so much easier to deal with the half-Kryptonian supervillain, Tim thinks. At least the supervillain would’ve actually blamed him for this. At least the supervillain would’ve hated him for this. 

Tim can’t believe he did this to someone. He can’t believe he did this to someone with Kon’s face. 

He can’t believe he did this to Kon. 

Like Kon was just–an experiment. Like he was just his DNA. Like he was just a basement lab and some LexCorp-branded files and grave-robbed DNA. Like he was replaceable. 

Like replacing him like this wasn’t the worst possible thing he could’ve done to Kon. 

Another Black Zero at least would’ve punished him for that. 

. . . Tim really did mean to stop thinking. Especially about things that aren’t actually any use to Tobias. 

He could punish himself for the rest of his life, but it wouldn’t do anything to make Tobias’s life any better. 

Tim finishes arranging the last circle of fruit, gives the place a quick lookover while forcing himself not to obsess over any perceived imperfections–lets himself adjust a couple of particularly crooked slices, but that’s it–and then takes the little plate over to Tobias, who’s already staring at him with big wet eyes again. 

Or just hasn’t stopped staring at him with big wet eyes, more likely. 

“. . . it’s for me?” Tobias checks the same way he did before, his voice a little wobblier about it this time around. Tim is the worst person alive, but that’s not a useful thought right now. Punishing himself isn’t useful. Hating himself isn’t useful. 

Tobias needs him to actually be useful. 

Tobias needs him to do a lot of things that Tim doesn’t actually know if he’s capable of doing, but he doesn’t really have a choice about figuring something out. 

“Yes,” Tim says. “Have as much of it as you want. Don’t force yourself to eat it all if it’s too much, but if it’s not enough, I’ll make you more.” 

Tobias sniffles, ducking his head so his hair hides his eyes. Tim is the worst person alive, but being the worst person alive isn’t useful right now. 

“Let me get you something to drink too,” he says, stepping back from the counter and retreating across the kitchen for a glass of water. They’re out of milk and he thinks kids aren’t supposed to have too much juice, and kids definitely aren’t supposed to have soda, and starting with water is probably going to be easiest on Tobias’s stomach anyway. Safest to start with, if nothing else. 

He can’t believe he did this to Kon. 

That’s not a useful thought right now, though.