#ddeonu

250925 | PRADA SS26 | MILAN

ꔫ ⠀⠀⠀ofc anon!! i hope u like them 🍓

꒰ ꒱ྀི sunoo gifs

⠀ 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ⠀⠀⠀⠀like / reblog to use 🪽 ⠀ 𐂯 ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ◝ ⠀

requested by @aloveminsalade "Hey hey~ How are you doing, sweetie?? Sorry if I misunderstood (English isn't my first language 😖), but I saw your reply to a comment where you said you wanted to write longer stories, and I was wondering if I could request a slow-burn fluffy one-shot about Sunoo and Reader, in the style of Cindella Closet (I love that jdrama 😔 I highly recommend it!!) I love your enha dad series, but since I love your writing and have been thinking about a story like that with Sunoo, I really wanted to make this request!!"

You’ve always believed that people like you existed on the edges of rooms.

Not invisible, no, that would be easier. You were seen, just not noticed. Like background music in a café or a potted plant near the window. Present, harmless, quietly existing.

That belief follows you into adulthood.

It follows you into the cramped apartment, where the uneven lighting makes your reflection look unfamiliar. It follows you into the office where your heels click too loudly, and your blouses never seem to sit right. It follows you into mirrors, into fitting rooms, into every comparison you never asked to make.

And it definitely follows you into the elevator on a rainy Tuesday night.

You’re soaked, hair frizzed, tote bag heavy with paperwork, mascara smudged just enough to make you look like you tried and failed. The elevator doors slide shut with a tired sigh, trapping you inside with the scent of detergent and rain.

And then—

“Hey.”

You flinch.

The voice is warm. Soft. Almost… sunny.

You look up.

He’s standing in the corner, cardigan draped loosely over his shoulders, umbrella folded neatly at his feet. His hair is damp, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, eyes bright like he’s just discovered something delightful, except that something is you.

“I think,” he says carefully, “your shoelace is untied.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

You glance down. He’s right, one small, embarrassing detail in a long list of things that feel wrong today.

“Thanks,” you mumble, crouching awkwardly.

“No problem.” He smiles, then hesitates. “Um… do you want a tissue? Your mascara—”

Mortification burns hot.

You straighten too quickly. “I’m fine.”

The lie sits between you, heavy.

He doesn’t push. Just nods and offers the tissue anyway, placing it gently on the elevator railing like an olive branch.

“I’m Sunoo,” he says. “By the way.”

“…Y/N.”

The elevator hums.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. That surprises you.

When the doors open, he holds them for you.

“Same floor?” he asks.

You nod.

And somehow, that’s how it starts.

Sunoo becomes a constant before you realize it.

He lives two floors below you. Works odd hours. Always smells faintly like fabric softener and citrus. He notices things, tiny, inconsequential things no one else ever seems to.

“You changed your part,” he says one morning in the lobby.

You freeze. “I did?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “It suits you.”

Your cheeks warm. “Oh. Thanks.”

Another day, he catches you tugging at your sleeves in the elevator.

“You don’t have to hide your hands,” he says gently. “They’re nice.”

You laugh awkwardly. “You’re weird.”

“I get that a lot,” he grins.

But he never says things that make you feel exposed. Just… seen. In a safe way.

It’s disarming.

One evening, you come home late, shoulders slumped, spirit frayed thin. You barely register him until he’s offering you a convenience store bag.

“I made too much,” he says. “Ramyeon. Want some?”

You hesitate. You always do.

But you’re tired of eating alone.

So you say yes.

That becomes a ritual too.

“You know,” Sunoo says one night, sitting cross-legged on your floor while steam curls between you, “you always look like you’re bracing for impact.”

You nearly choke.

“What?”

“Like,” he gestures vaguely, “you’re waiting for someone to tell you you’re doing everything wrong.”

You stare at your cup.

“That’s… accurate,” you admit quietly.

He hums. “Want help?”

“With what?”

“With not feeling like that.”

You laugh bitterly. “Is that something you can fix?”

“No,” he says easily. “But I can walk with you while you try.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You don’t know when you start telling him things.

About the way clothes never feel made for your body. About the promotions you don’t apply for. About the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like every offhand comment you’ve ever received.

He listens. Really listens.

And then one day, he says, “Come with me.”

“To where?”

“Trust me.”

You should say no.

You don’t.

The shop is small. Warm. Full of mirrors that don’t feel cruel.

Sunoo drifts through racks as he belongs there, fingers brushing fabric with fond familiarity.

“You don’t have to buy anything,” he assures you. “Just try.”

“I’m bad at this,” you warn.

“That’s okay,” he says. “So was Cinderella.”

You snort. “I don’t think fairy godmothers wear cardigans.”

“Hey,” he grins, “don’t underestimate cardigans.”

He hands you pieces you would never choose yourself. Soft silhouettes. Colours that make your skin glow instead of disappear.

In the fitting room, you stare at your reflection.

You don’t look transformed.

You look… revealed.

When you step out, Sunoo’s eyes widen, not in shock, not in judgment.

In recognition.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

Your throat tightens. “There who?”

“You.”

You blink hard.

No one has ever said that to you before.

From then on, change comes gently.

Not overnight. Not magically.

But you start standing straighter.

You stop apologizing before you speak.

Sunoo never pushes. He celebrates every step like it’s monumental.

When you wear a dress to work and text him nervously, he replies instantly:

You look like yourself. And that’s more than enough.

When you cry over a bad day, he brings ice cream and lets you ramble.

When you doubt everything, he reminds you of what’s real.

Slowly, dangerously, you fall.

Not in a dramatic way.

In a quiet, terrifying, tender way.

You realize it one night, watching him laugh over something stupid, eyes crinkling, hands animated.

You love him.

And loving him makes you want to be brave.

It rains the night you tell him.

You’re on the rooftop, city lights blurred, your heart pounding louder than the storm.

“I like you,” you say. “More than a friend.”

He goes still.

For one awful second, you regret everything.

Then he steps closer.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admits softly. “But I didn’t want to be someone who rushes you.”

Your breath shakes. “I’m still scared.”

“That’s okay,” he says, reaching for your hand, not gripping, just offering. “We can go slow. As slow as you need.”

You lace your fingers with his.

The warmth is grounding.

“I don’t need glass slippers,” you whisper.

Sunoo smiles, eyes shining. “Good. They look painful.”

You laugh, leaning into him as the rain falls.

For the first time, you don’t feel like you’re standing on the edge of something fragile.

You feel like you’re home.

(Sunoo's POV)

Sunoo has always been good at noticing things.

The way a hemline wants to fall but doesn’t. The way colour changes under different lighting conditions. The way people shrink when they’re afraid of being too much, or worse, not enough.

That’s probably why he noticed you so quickly.

Not because you were loud, stunning, or commanding the room.

But because you kept folding yourself inward, like you were afraid the world might snap shut if you took up the space you deserved.

And God, that made something ache in him.

He tells himself he’s just being kind.

That this, walking beside you, offering suggestions, smiling encouragements, holding silence when you need it, is something he’d do for anyone.

But that’s a lie.

Because when you step into a room, Sunoo’s attention sharpens instinctively. Because he memorizes the way your confidence fluctuates day by day. Because he feels proud when you stand a little straighter and irrationally angry at anyone who makes you doubt yourself again.

Because when you smile, really smile, it feels like a reward he didn’t know he was working toward.

The second makeover happens on a quiet Sunday.

You text him first.

Are you busy?

Sunoo stares at his phone, heart doing that ridiculous little leap it always does when your name lights up his screen.

Never too busy for you, he types. Then deletes it.

I’m free. What’s up?

You hesitate before replying.

I have a presentation tomorrow. And I feel like if I wear my usual stuff, I’ll disappear.

Sunoo exhales slowly.

Come over, he writes. Let’s not let you disappear.

He tries not to look too pleased when you arrive.

You’re wearing oversized knitwear again, sleeves pulled over your hands, hair loosely tied. Comfortable. Safe.

He knows that look now.

“You ready?” he asks gently.

You nod, but your eyes are uncertain.

Sunoo grabs his jacket. “Today’s not about changing you,” he says as you walk. “It’s about translating you.”

You blink. “That sounds… suspiciously poetic.”

He laughs. “I dabble.”

The shop he takes you to this time is brighter. Clean lines. Structured pieces. Clothes that speak quietly but confidently.

Sunoo watches you more than the racks.

You hover at the entrance, like you’re waiting for permission.

He steps closer. Lowers his voice. “I’ll be right here. Okay?”

You nod.

And you try.

Watching you in fitting rooms has become Sunoo’s quiet agony.

Not because of anything inappropriate, he’s careful, respectful, always averting his eyes when you emerge half-ready, but because of the moment after.

The moment you step out fully dressed, bracing yourself.

Waiting to be wrong.

This time, you’re wearing tailored slacks and a soft blouse tucked just enough to define your waist without screaming for attention. The colour warms your skin.

You look… capable.

You look like someone who knows what she’s doing.

Your hands twist nervously. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Sunoo’s chest tightens.

“No,” he says firmly. “It’s honest.”

You look up at him, startled.

“This is what you look like when you stop hiding,” he continues, voice gentle but sure. “You don’t overwhelm a room. You ground it.”

Your eyes glisten.

Sunoo looks away before he does something reckless, like reach for your face.

He tells himself again: Go slow.

After that, you start inviting him in more.

Not just to shops, but into your inner world.

You ask his opinion before buying clothes. Send him mirror selfies with captions like Is this me or am I pretending?

He always answers honestly.

It’s you on a brave day. It’s you when you’re tired. It’s you experimenting.

He never says better. He never says fixed.

And every time you trust him, something inside him tightens further.

Because he wants to be more than a guide.

He wants to be chosen.

The third makeover isn’t planned.

It happens in your apartment.

You’re sitting on the floor, surrounded by clothes, expression frustrated.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you sigh. “I like some of these pieces individually, but together I just feel… fake.”

Sunoo crouches beside you.

“Can I try something?” he asks.

You nod.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

He rearranges outfits on the bed. Pair old favourites with new pieces. Suggests rolling sleeves, changing shoes, and adding structure instead of hiding.

“Try this,” he says.

You disappear into the bedroom.

Sunoo waits, heart in his throat.

When you step out, his breath catches before he can stop it.

You look like yourself.

Not dressed up. Not transformed.

Just… aligned.

You glance at him nervously. “Well?”

Sunoo swallows.

“You know,” he says carefully, “the hardest part about style isn’t knowing what looks good.”

“What is it?”

“Believing you’re allowed to look like you matter.”

Your lips part slightly.

The silence stretches.

Sunoo feels dangerously close to crossing a line, but then you smile.

Soft. Real.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods because if he speaks, he might say too much.

The pining becomes unbearable after that.

Because now you laugh more freely around him. Sit closer. Lean into his space without realizing it.

Because you look at him like he’s safe.

Because he is.

And because safety feels terrifyingly close to love.

Sunoo lies awake at night, replaying moments.

The way you absentmindedly fix his collar.

The way you call his name when you’re unsure.

The way your confidence blooms in small, radiant ways.

He wants to tell you that helping you discover yourself has only made him fall harder.

But he’s afraid.

Afraid that loving you too loudly might undo all the quiet strength you’ve built.

So he waits.

The day of your presentation, he waits by his phone like it’s a lifeline.

When your message finally comes, it’s short.

It went well.

Then another.

I didn’t hide.

Sunoo exhales, chest light.

I knew you wouldn’t, he replies.

You send a picture, just your reflection in an elevator mirror. Calm. Steady. Confident.

Sunoo stares at it for a long time.

You don’t look like someone trying to be seen.

You look like someone who knows she deserves to be.

And that’s when he realizes something terrifying.

He didn’t fall for you because you needed him.

He fell for you because you grew.

That night, you come over.

You sit beside him on the couch, knees brushing.

“I think,” you say slowly, “I’m starting to like who I am.”

Sunoo smiles, warmth flooding him. “I’m really glad.”

You hesitate.

“And I think,” you continue, voice softer, “you’re part of why.”

His heart stutters.

He turns to you fully now.

“I need to tell you something,” he says quietly. “But only if you’re ready to hear it.”

You meet his gaze. Steady. Brave.

“I am.”

Sunoo takes a breath.

And finally, finally, lets himself step forward.

(Sunoo POV)

Sunoo doesn’t ask you out the way people do in movies.

There’s no dramatic confession, no fireworks, no sudden, overwhelming declaration that forces you to respond before you’ve had time to breathe.

Instead, he says—

“Do you want to try… us?”

Quietly. Carefully. Like he’s placing something fragile between his palms.

You blink at him on the couch, knees still brushing, the city humming softly outside the window.

“Try?” you repeat.

He nods, lips curved into a nervous smile. “No pressure. No expectations. Just… spending time together. On purpose.”

You consider him for a moment. He doesn’t rush you. He never does.

“I’d like that,” you say finally. “I think.”

The relief that floods him is almost dizzying.

“Yeah?” he asks, softer now.

You smile. “Yeah.”

And just like that, you’re dating.

Dating you feels different from what he expected.

There’s no sudden shift. No dramatic line crossed.

It’s just… more intentional versions of what you already were.

You text him good morning now.

Sometimes with selfies. Sometimes just a simple I’m awake.

Sunoo saves everyone.

You start walking together more, side by side, steps unconsciously syncing. Occasionally, your hands brush. Sometimes they don’t.

He lets you set the pace.

Because loving you quietly feels like the right thing to do.

Your first date isn’t labelled as one.

You say, “Do you want to come with me to the bookstore?”

And he says yes like it’s the easiest decision he’s ever made.

You slowly wander through aisles, fingers trailing over spines. You show him books you love but never talk about. He watches the way your face softens when you read the blurbs.

“You look really happy,” he says.

You glance at him, surprised. “I do?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Like you’re not worried about being watched.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s because I’m not.”

That makes something warm settle deep in his chest.

At the café, after, you sit across from him, feet tucked under the chair, sleeves rolled up. You don’t hide your hands anymore.

Sunoo notices everything.

He falls for you again every time you let yourself exist without apology.

When you talk about your day without minimizing it.

When you choose clothes because you like them, not because they're going to disappear.

When you laugh without checking the room first.

Sometimes, he worries.

Not that you’ll leave, but that you’ll think he loves you because you changed.

So one evening, as you sit on the floor sorting laundry, he says—

“I hope you know something.”

You glance up. “What?”

“I didn’t help you become someone else,” he says carefully. “I just… reminded you of who you already were.”

Your eyes soften.

“I know,” you say. “But thank you for staying long enough for me to see it.”

He looks away, pretending to focus on folding, because his chest feels too full.

Your first kiss happens accidentally.

At least, it feels that way.

You’re watching something dumb on his couch, shoulder pressed to his. You laugh, then yawn, then rest your head against him without thinking.

Sunoo freezes internally.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loudly. Doesn’t want to scare you.

Minutes pass.

Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve.

And then you tilt your head up.

“Can I…?” you ask quietly.

He nods immediately. “Yes.”

The kiss is soft. Hesitant. Barely there.

Like testing warm water with your toes.

Sunoo’s hand lifts, pauses, then rests gently at your waist, only when you lean closer.

The kiss doesn’t linger.

But it stays with him all night.

After that, affection becomes something shared, not assumed.

You sit closer. Lean into him more often. Sometimes you hold hands. Sometimes you don’t.

Sunoo never takes more than you offer.

He learns your tells.

The way you fiddle with rings when you’re overwhelmed.

The way you seek his sleeve when you need grounding.

The way your voice softens when you feel safe.

He loves you most in those moments.

Quiet ones. Unremarkable ones.

The ones no one else sees.

One evening, you try on an outfit you’ve put together yourself.

You step out of your room, nervous but proud.

“Well?” you ask.

Sunoo looks at you, and this time, he doesn’t see doubt waiting to be soothed.

He sees confidence asking to be witnessed.

“You look like someone who knows where she’s going,” he says.

You smile, glowing. “Even if I don’t?”

“Especially then.”

You step closer. Hug him. Fully. Without hesitation.

Sunoo closes his eyes, resting his chin lightly against your head.

He thinks, This is enough.

He doesn’t say I love you right away.

Not because he doesn’t feel it.

But because love, to him, is something you build, not declare.

So he shows it instead.

By walking you home when it’s late.

By remembering your coffee order.

By sitting with you when your confidence wavers again.

By loving you when you’re quiet, uncertain, tired.

And one night, when you curl against him and murmur—

“I feel like myself with you.”

He finally whispers back—

“I love you.”

You don’t startle.

You don’t panic.

You smile.

“I love you too.”

And Sunoo thinks—

This is what a happy ending looks like.

Not glass slippers.

Not transformations.

Just two people choosing each other gently.

Every day.

⭑.ᐟ ────── late night fall night w Sunoo, 0.2k words, skinship, kissing, toothrotting fluff, f!reader, idol au!, establish relationship, proofread but still may have mistakes.

Fall had finally arrived, which meant walking in the cold air surrounding the Han river just after 9pm with SUNOO. It was a date of sorts. His practise had run later than intended, make something out of it as meetings between the two of you were scarce due to his tightly packed schedule. 

You hoped you wouldn’t freeze as you were bundled up as best you could, scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, hands scraping for warmth inside the pockets of your jacket. Sunoo dressed the same except with the addition of gloves. The neon glow of the bustling city illuminated the two of you as you walked side by side, arms looped, cars filling the comfortable silence. You enjoyed the simplistic “dates” like these, late at night, without the fear of being hounded by saesangs. 

“Next time we should just meet up at a cafe, somewhere warm, my hands are about to fall off.” 

You complain, shivering. 

He rolled his eyes, 

“I told you to bring gloves but no!” 

Scolding but his actions said otherwise, hands gently pulling yours from the confinements of your pocket. Encasing them with his as he began rubbing them together as a way to make heat from the friction, hands warming by the second. 

         He uncased your hands deeming them warm enough, letting them go limp by your sides, intertwining your fingers, he brought your hand to his mouth to place the most delicate of kisses upon his favourite spot. His lips tickled the skin, face now heated despite the cold. Both of you feeling warmer than before.

⭑.ᐟ ────── authors note: thanks for reading! jungwon drabble out soon, reblogs & likes r appreciated. requests are open!

PAIRING: kim sunoo x reader

GENRE: contemporary romance, idol au, slice of life, drama, fluff, skinship, teasing, forbidden love, first meetings, strangers to lovers.

SYNOPSIS: You met Kim Sunoo once at Terminal Two. Not in the way love stories usually begin, but in the way real ones do — rushed, accidental, yet unforgettable.  He was just another boy lost in the blur of arrival boards and security lines.

Until he wasn’t.

It was the panic in his eyes, the mask half-hiding a face the world recognised — pulling him into a quiet corner, away from the crowd, the chaos, and the cameras. That day, he wasn’t an idol — he was just someone trying to disappear into the crowd. You helped him without a word — no names exchanged, just a quiet kindness.

Years passed. Life moved on. But Seoul brought him back to you — not under departures this time, but beneath the hum of a convenience store light, looking at you like he remembered. 

And though neither of you boarded that flight together, something stayed suspended in that sacred stillness of the terminal.

Fate has drawn you back to the same place. Maybe this time, he won’t disappear.

⊹ enha4everr’s note ⊹ so i read somewhere that sunoo is the most mature member, so i wanted to bring a piece that can reflect a different side of our ddeonu <3 sorry y’all the synopsis is so long :( also - desire:unleash is so good!! my favourites are helium and too close :)