quimerala

[quimerala]

Revendo a segunda temporada de Masterchef, meu Deus como eu achava isso normal? Esse jurados presunçosos, ignorantes, parecem que tão tratando bicho. Podem falar que eles estão sendo exigentes, mas uma coisa é agir com exigência e outra é desprezo, queria ver se eles tratariam assim alguém do mesmo status

[quimerala]

Joguei todas as minhas anotações do cursinho fora e agora preciso delas para o ciclo básico do curso

[quimerala]

Chan's NSFW Alphabet

Content Warning: This piece contains explicit sexual content, suggestive themes, and mature language.

[7.9k words]

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A=Aftercare; what they’re like after sex?

He’s soft in the aftermath, softer than you ever expect. As intense as he can be in the moment, after, it’s like he’s rewired for gentleness. His first instinct is always to pull you close, arms wrapping around you as if he needs to feel your heartbeat against his to come down, to remind himself you’re real, that you’re here. His hands slow, smoothing over your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again. Kissing you wherever his lips can reach—your forehead, your jaw, your shoulder. It’s instinct. Care. Protection. He holds you like he’s afraid the world could take you away if he lets go too soon.

He’s the type to guide you gently to the bathroom, turning on the shower and making sure the water’s just right before pulling you in with him. His hands roam, but they’re softer now—more reverent than hungry. He’ll wash your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, and the way his thumbs brush against your temples feels like a silent apology for every rough moment that left you breathless. His hands on your body are slow, tender, tracing over marks he left behind with a mixture of pride and guilt. Too much? he’ll murmur, eyes searching yours, needing to know you’re okay, that you wanted all of it as much as he did. And when you tell him you’re fine, that you loved it, the relief in his eyes is always soft and a little shy.

But it’s not just about you. Aftercare is his grounding, too. He needs to feel safe in it, in you. Sometimes you’ll catch him quieter than usual, thoughtful, his fingers brushing over your skin like he’s reminding himself you’re still with him. Because for him, sex is never just physical—it’s emotional, consuming. He gives so much of himself, and sometimes afterward, he needs you to hold him just as much as he holds you. He needs that reassurance. The kisses. The softness. The slow heartbeat of comfort between you.

He loves those moments in bed when you curl into him, legs tangled, your head tucked beneath his chin. When his hand is resting on your hip, fingers tracing slow circles against your skin. When you whisper soft things, simple things, that make him smile against your hair. He loves feeling like this is the safest place either of you could be. Because it's not just about soothing sore muscles or soft kisses—it’s about being seen, wanted. Being cared for. And needing you to know that he would do anything to make sure you feel that, every time.

B=Body part; their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s.

He's always been proud of his arms. Maybe it's vanity, or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing the results of all those hours in the gym. The way his muscles flex when he lifts, when he holds himself up, when he holds you up. There’s strength there, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s the way you look at them. The way your eyes drag over his skin when his sleeves are rolled up, the way your hands instinctively find their way to his biceps when you kiss him, like you need something solid to anchor yourself. And when he's got you pressed against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, your back arching as he pushes deeper—he feels it then. The way you cling to him, fingers digging into his arms, trusting him to hold you there, to keep you steady, trust messes with his head. Makes him want to hold you tighter, lift you higher, fuck you harder. He wonders if you notice how his grip gets firmer when you moan, when you beg him not to stop. He wonders if you know how much power you have over him in those moments.

But it's your hips that ruin him. Always has been. The shape of them, the softness of skin beneath his hands. The way they curve under his touch, perfect, made to fit his grip. He loves how they feel when you straddle him, how they rock against him slow and teasing, driving him insane until he’s gripping too hard, holding you still so he can thrust up into you, deep and rough. Loves the way they look when you're bent over, jeans hugging you tight, shirt riding up just enough to tease him with a glimpse of skin. It makes him want to drag you back against him, hands gripping your waist, pulling you close until you can feel exactly what you're doing to him. And when you’re bare, nothing between his skin and yours, and his hands slide over your hips, thumbs dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, he feels like he could lose his mind. Like he wants to.

There’s something addictive about the way your body moves under his hands. The way you react when his fingers grip tighter, when his teeth graze your skin. How you arch into him when he presses closer, how you whisper his name when his hands slip lower. And when you catch him staring, when you smirk and ask him what he's thinking, he never knows how to answer. Because the truth is, he's always thinking about you. About your skin, your hips, the heat of you beneath his palms. About all the ways he wants to touch you, mark you, claim you. It's constant. And you know it.

C=Cum; anything to do with cum, basically.

He's not particular about where he finishes, but the first time he came inside of you? That was different, unforgettable. The way you gasped as he pushed deeper, filling you completely, the slow drag of his cock as he spilled inside you, thick and warm. The way you moaned, soft but wrecked, like you could feel every drop. And when he pulled back, watching it drip from you, sliding down your thighs, soaking the sheets—it did something to him. Something primal. It wasn’t just about the release, it was about the claim. The fact that it was him, that he was the only one you'd let do this, ruin you like this, mark you from the inside out. The thought of it made his head swim, made his hands grip tighter, hips stutter harder, made him groan low and rough because it was messy, intimate, his.

It’s the possessiveness that undoes him the most. The knowledge that when you walk the next day, you’ll still feel it, still feel him. That you’re carrying the proof of how deep he was inside you, how hard he came for you. And it makes him want to do it again. Want to keep filling you until you’re too full, too sensitive, until you're begging him to stop but still pressing closer, still asking for more. It’s a dangerous game, the way it messes with his head, how much he craves it, how much he craves you.

And when you cum around him, it’s almost worse. Better, but worse, because feeling you fall apart like that—tight, pulsing, clenching so hard around him it makes his vision blur—it's addictive. It makes him chase it every time, makes him desperate to feel it again. He’ll work you with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anything to pull those sounds from you. The ones that tell him you’re close, the ones that tell him you trust him enough to let go. He remembers how you told him you liked it, how you liked his fingers circling your clit just like this, how you liked the stretch of him filling you slow, deep, until you couldn't take it anymore.

And when it happens—when you cum so hard your whole body trembles, when you bury your face into his neck and moan his name like it’s the only thing you know—he doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, slow and deep, wanting to feel every second of it, wanting to draw it out. And later, when he pulls his fingers from you, slick and wet, he won’t be able to resist tasting you. His tongue dragging over his skin, slow and possessive, before he presses it to your lips. He loves when you kiss him after, when you taste yourself on his tongue, when you look at him like you know exactly what he’s done and exactly what it means. Like you know you're his, and you're not running.

D=Dirty Secret; pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs.

He touched himself to the thought of you way more than you think when you first started seeing each other. More than he'd ever admit. It wasn’t even about the things you'd done—because back then, there wasn’t much to go off of—it was about the things he imagined. The way you laughed, the way your lips curled when you teased him, the way you’d glance at him with eyes that made him wonder what it’d be like if you looked at him like that in bed.

It was the accidental brushes of skin that haunted him the most. Your hand on his arm when you laughed too hard, the way your thigh pressed against his when you sat too close, the scent of your perfume lingering on his hoodie after you borrowed it one night. Those small moments would burn into his thoughts long after you’d left, the ghost of your touch lingering like a temptation he couldn’t shake. He’d close his eyes and imagine what it would be like to have you under him, gasping his name, fingers tangled in his hair. He wondered how you'd sound, how you'd move, how you'd fall apart for him.

There were nights when he couldn’t sleep, thinking about you. Nights when he'd give in, fingers tight around himself, groaning your name under his breath, imagining it was your hands, your mouth, your body pressing him to the edge. And sometimes, it wasn’t even about the sex. Sometimes it was the thought of you smiling at him, soft and sweet, the thought of your lips brushing his, slow and hesitant, until it wasn’t. Until it was deeper, messier, until you were pulling him closer and begging for more. Those were the moments that undid him the fastest.

And now? Now that he knows how you sound when you fall apart, now that he knows how you taste, how you feel, how you look when you're bare and breathless beneath him—those thoughts still haunt him. Because no matter how many times he has you, the memory of wanting you like that, aching for you in secret, lingers, and maybe that's the dirtiest part of it. That even now, when you’re his, he still remembers how it felt to crave you in silence.

E=Experience; how experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?

He's experienced, but not in the careless, shallow way that comes from chasing numbers or meaningless encounters. His experience is deeper, layered with intention. It's not about how many bodies he’s touched, but about how deeply he’s learned to understand them. He pays attention—not just to the obvious reactions, but to the subtleties most people overlook. The sharp inhale when fingers trace too close to a sensitive spot, the way your breath catches when he kisses somewhere unexpected, the tension that curls in your body when you’re holding back a sound you don’t want to let slip. He’s learned to listen, to read bodies like language, every sigh and shiver telling him a story. For him, it’s about presence. About being there in every second, in every movement, watching, learning, adapting. He doesn’t rush, never assumes, every encounter is a slow conversation, and he’s fluent in the language of skin and breath, touch and pause.

But with you, it feels different. You strip away his confidence in ways that are as thrilling as they are terrifying. No matter how much he knows, how much he’s learned, you still manage to undo him. There's a hunger in him when it comes to you, but it's not reckless, it's patient, intense. It’s the kind of hunger that makes him want to learn you in ways that don’t stop at the surface. To figure out how your body responds to the slowest kind of teasing, how it breaks when he pushes you just a little harder. He’s observant, but with you, it’s more. He craves knowing every inch of you, every weakness, every trigger. He wants to figure out the exact pressure it takes to make you arch into him, the exact pace that makes you lose your breath, the words that make you tremble and fall apart.

And the best part? You're still a puzzle he hasn't quite solved. He loves that. Loves the thrill of discovery, how there’s always something new to learn about you, something he missed, something he could try again, slower, deeper. Like the way you gasp when his lips find that one spot behind your ear, how your fingers clutch at his shoulders when his hands stray lower, how your hips roll up when he takes his time kissing across your stomach. He loves that you keep him on his toes, that you're not easy to figure out, how every time he thinks he knows you, you shift beneath him, tease him with another secret he's desperate to uncover.

And maybe that’s what keeps his desire for you sharp, burning. It’s not just about the physical—it’s about the connection, about knowing you on a level that feels like more than just touch. Like emotion, like trust, like you’re letting him peel you open slowly, layer by layer, and find something new every time. And God, the way that keeps him wanting. The way it makes him crave you, again and again, like it’s the first time, every time.

F=Favorite position; this goes without saying.

There’s something about you straddling him that undoes him completely. The way you settle over his hips, confident but still soft beneath his hands. He loves how your body feels beneath his fingertips, the way your skin warms under his touch as his hands roam your thighs, your waist, gripping just enough to feel you shiver. The view from beneath you is one that stays with him—how you move, how your head tips back when he thrusts up into you, how your fingers press into his chest or clutch at his shoulders when the pleasure spikes. And when you lean forward, lips brushing his ear, whispering what you want, it’s like setting fire to him. He’ll groan low, hands tightening, hips pushing up to meet yours, chasing every sound you make. He loves how you take control but still melt for him, how you ride him slow until he can’t stand it and flips you over, mouth hungry, hands rough.

But there’s a part of him that craves the other side of it too. The rougher edge. The way it feels to bend you over, to grip your hips tight and fuck you hard, just how you like it. Kitchen counter, edge of the bed, a wall he’s pressed you against too fast to think—anywhere. There’s something primal about it, how his hands grip, how your body yields to him. He loves the way you lose yourself in it, the way you moan his name when he’s deeper than you can handle. When you reach back, your fingers brushing against his arms, scraping down his thighs—it’s an unspoken plea for more, for harder, and he’s helpless against it. The sound of your gasps, the way you tremble, the heat of your body pressing back into him—it all sticks with him, stays under his skin, replaying in his mind for days after.

But more than anything, it’s the way you look when you're lost in it that he can't shake. He loves watching your face shift when pleasure hits, seeing your eyes darken as you fall apart for him, loves when you're beneath him, legs parted, taking him deep while your hands clutch his shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you grounded. He loves holding your hips steady, fingers biting into your skin just enough to leave marks you'll feel the next day, a reminder of him long after he's gone. And when he’s got you from behind, one hand gripping your waist, the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, it drives him to the edge. You like when I fuck you like this, yeah? he'll ask, voice low, rough, and the way you whimper, body trembling under his, is enough to break him.

But it’s not always rough. Sometimes it's slow. Sometimes it's you on top, moving at your own pace, guiding him with the roll of your hips and the press of your hands. He’ll just lie back, eyes locked on yours, worshiping every sound you make, every flush of your skin. His hands will rest heavy on your hips, grounding you, guiding you, letting you take him exactly how you want. And when you fall apart for him like that—when he feels it in the shake of your thighs, sees it in the way your head tilts back, lips parted—it’s like nothing else. That’s when he feels it the most. That hunger, that need. That’s his favorite. Watching you fall apart because of him.

G=Goofy; are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc?

He’s not always serious. There are moments where he’ll break the tension with a smirk, a teasing comment. Like when you're so breathless you can barely speak, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear to murmur something that makes you laugh, even if you're gasping for air. Didn’t know I could make you sound like that,he’ll tease, grinning against your skin.

But his humor is never careless. It's light, intimate, a way of easing you deeper into comfort. A way to remind you that even when things are intense, it’s still him. The man who worships you, who wants to make you feel good, who wants you to laugh in his arms as much as you moan.

I=Intimacy; how are they during the moment, romantic aspect.

For him, intimacy isn’t just about sex. It’s about the moments before and after. The lingering touches, the way his hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlaced as he kisses your temple. It's about the silence that feels comfortable, like you’re speaking without words, it's about brushing your hair out of your face, or kissing the crease between your brows when you frown. It’s about whispering, it's okay, even if you didn’t realize you needed to hear it.

During the act, he’s all about connection. His eyes on yours, his hands exploring every inch of skin like it’s the first time. His voice, low and soft, murmuring, fuck, baby... 's so good, as though it’s still a surprise to him. Because with you, it always feels new. Always feels deeper.

J=Jack Off; masturbation headcanon.

He thinks about you when he touches himself. Always. Even when you're not there, even when it's been days since he last saw you, it's still your name on his lips, still your face behind his eyes. It's the way you look when you're beneath him, flushed and gasping, your lips parted and body trembling. It's the memory of your skin, how it feels under his hands—soft, warm, responsive. He imagines the curve of your back when you arch into him, the sound you make when he thrusts just right, the way your nails dig into his skin when you're close. Sometimes, he closes his eyes and pictures the exact way your mouth feels on his, the heat of your breath, the desperation in your kiss. Other times, it’s less about the physical and more about the ache of missing you. About wanting, needing, about how empty his hands feel compared to the feel of your body.

And sometimes, it's not even about release. Sometimes, it's about remembering. About trying to trace the shape of you with his fingers, to mimic the way your hands move on him, slow and teasing. To recall the rhythm of your hips, the way you guide him inside you with a breathless gasp. It’s about holding onto that feeling, keeping you close even when you're miles away. There are nights when he’ll lay there, hand moving slow, not for the rush of it, but just to think of you. To keep you in his body, to feel you in some small, fleeting way. There’s a frustration in it too, in knowing it’ll never be enough. That no matter how tight his grip, no matter how good he imagines it, it’s nothing compared to you.

And he’s not ashamed to admit it. If anything, he wants you to know. Wants to say it low, rough, right against your ear. I thought about you last night, he'll whisper, voice heavy and dark. had my hand around my cock, but it wasn’t enough. ’s never enough when it’s not you. And there’s a look in his eyes when he says it, one that makes it impossible to ignore the pull between you. The hunger. Because when you hear that, when you know he's been aching for you, craving you, it’s impossible not to feel the same heat curl low in your stomach, to not want to be the answer to his need, the thing that undoes him completely.

K=Kink; one or more of their kinks.

He likes control, but it’s deeper than just holding you down or pinning your wrists. It’s about understanding you, about knowing you so well that he can read every shift in your breath, every tremor in your body. He loves figuring out what makes you tick—what makes your pulse race, what makes your back arch, what makes you gasp his name like it’s the only word you know. He loves edging you close, pulling you back, drawing out every second of your pleasure until you’re trembling and begging for more. It’s not cruelty, it's worship. It's about showing you how good it can feel to give in to him, to let him take control of your body, your pleasure, until you're coming apart in his hands.

And it’s not just physical restraint, either. It’s the way he looks at you when you're already falling, that sharp, heated gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. It's the soft commands, the hold still, or don't cum yet, hold it for me, baby said with a voice so low and certain that you can't help but obey. It’s the way he loves tying your hands, not to restrict you, but to intensify everything. To make every kiss, every brush of his fingers, feel like it's lighting you on fire. When you can't touch him back, when you're left to feel every single sensation without distraction, it hits harder, deeper. And he loves watching you lose control beneath him, trusting him to take you apart, trusting him to know exactly how to piece you back together. That trust is sacred to him. It’s what makes it all feel so raw, so intimate.

And marks. God, does he love marking you. It's almost a ritual. The way his teeth sink into the soft curve of your shoulder, the way his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises that bloom the next morning. There's something about knowing his hands were there, that his mouth left its claim, that drives him insane. The marks are for him, but they're also for you, a silent promise, a lingering touch that stays long after he’s gone. Sometimes, he’ll catch you off guard, slipping his fingers under the hem of your shirt just to feel the faint outline of a bruise. His thumb brushing over it gently. And when he kisses them, it’s soft, reverent. A murmur of mine pressed against your skin like a prayer, a vow.

It’s possessive, yes—but not in a way that cages you. It’s deeper than that. It’s about connection, about knowing that you chose him, that you trust him enough to let him leave pieces of himself on your skin. It’s about the quiet intimacy of carrying his touch with you, even when he’s not there. And it’s about you knowing exactly who you belong to when you catch a glimpse of that mark in the mirror and feel your stomach twist with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice. Because every mark is a reminder. That you’re his, that he’s yours.

L=Location; favorite places to do the do?

Anywhere with a door that locks. That’s his baseline. It’s not about the thrill of getting caught—it’s about the freedom of knowing you’re his, completely, without interruption. The privacy of a locked door gives him the space to be selfish with you, to take his time or take you fast, depending on the moment. Dressing rooms, dimly lit and narrow, where he can press you up against the mirror, his hand firm over your mouth, muffling every gasp. The backseat of the car, windows fogged, his hands spreading your thighs wide while you arch into him, gasping as the engine hums beneath you. And hotel rooms... there’s something about that anonymity. A different bed in a different city, where it feels like you can be reckless, where he can press you against cold windows overlooking dark streets, where he can pull you into the bathroom and have you against the counter with the mirror watching every move. The urgency of it is intoxicating. The rush of getting lost in you somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere that doesn’t belong to either of you, makes it feel sharper, hungrier. Like something forbidden, something stolen.

But nothing compares to his bed. His sheets, his scent on the pillows, the way the walls feel like they know every secret you’ve whispered to each other. It’s not about the location. It’s about what it means. His bed is where he can worship you without distraction, without hurry. Where he can take his time pressing kisses along your skin, learning the way you breathe when his tongue traces down your stomach, the way your fingers curl into the sheets when he slides inside you slow, deep. There’s a quiet intimacy there, the kind that feels almost sacred. The way he can feel you fall apart beneath him, trembling, breathless, soft. The way he can lay you back and touch you until you're shaking, until you're saying his name like it’s a prayer. That’s his favorite, because it’s not just sex there. It’s something deeper, closer. It’s knowing he can take you apart and hold you after, gather you into his arms and press a kiss to your temple, feeling you safe and warm against him. And nothing—no car, no hotel, no shadowed corner—compares to that.

M=Motivation; what turns them on, gets them going?

You. Always, endlessly, you. It doesn’t take much, not with you. Sometimes it’s just the way you look at him—like you know exactly how you affect him, like you're already imagining the things you want him to do to you. The way your gaze lingers on his mouth, the way your breath catches when he touches you, when his fingers trail along your waist or his thumb brushes against the soft skin of your neck. The sound of his name on your lips, soft and wanting, is enough to set his pulse racing. And when you tease him—when you sit just a little too close, your leg brushing his beneath the table, when your fingers trace slow, meaningless patterns on his arm, when you look at him like you’re daring him to do something about it—that's all it takes. Suddenly, he’s picturing your legs wrapped around his waist, picturing his mouth on your skin, picturing you gasping his name into his ear. It’s fast, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

But sometimes it’s the simplest things that hit the hardest. The way you laugh, bright and careless, and the curve of your mouth when you smile at him like he's the only one who matters. The way you bite your lip when you're nervous, soft and hesitant, and all he can think about is ruining that lip, making it swollen and sensitive beneath his teeth. Sometimes it’s the curve of your hip beneath your shirt, or the way you stretch, unaware of how much skin you’re showing. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear, or the way you glance at him when you think he isn’t looking. It’s the smallest, quietest moments that undo him completely. And once the thought is there, it sticks. Suddenly, he’s craving you, needing to touch you, needing to hear you gasp his name. Needing to see you fall apart beneath his hands, his mouth, his body. And you? You never even realize the effect you have. That’s what makes it worse, or better, depending on how long he can stand waiting.

N = NO; something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs.

He’s open-minded, always willing to explore, but some lines are absolute. Anything that risks hurting you beyond what’s safe, anything that lingers longer than pleasure allows, is off the table. He’s protective by nature, sometimes to a fault, and the idea of pushing too far, of leaving marks you don’t want or doing anything that makes you hesitate, sits heavy in his chest. He doesn’t want you flinching when you remember his touch. He doesn’t want you pulling away from him, even in your mind. Pain, discomfort, fear—those things don’t belong in the space he’s created for you, for both of you. And if something feels like it could risk that, he stops. Without question, without hesitation.

But it’s deeper than just the physical. It's about trust. It's about knowing that you feel safe with him. That no matter how dark or intense things get, you trust him to take care of you. And if he senses even the slightest doubt—if your body tenses, if you hesitate for even a second—he notices. His hands still, his eyes searching yours. Is this okay? he’ll murmur, voice low and soft, his breath ghosting against your skin. He’ll ask as many times as it takes, because more than his own desire, what he wants most is for you to feel safe. To know, with absolute certainty, that you can say no and it will be heard, respected, accepted without question.

Because t’s not just about pleasure, but connection. About building something that feels unshakable, where you're free to fall apart but never expected to hold more than you can. Where you can trust that every mark is one you want, that every boundary is one he’ll honor. And if there’s ever a line you don't want to cross, it won’t even be a conversation. It’ll be understood. For him, the only thing worse than not having you is hurting you, and he’ll never let it come to that.

O=Oral; preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.

He loves giving more than receiving, loves it in the way a man loves knowing he’s unraveling you with his mouth. There’s something about the intimacy of it, the rawness. The way he can feel you shake against his tongue, the way your thighs clench when his mouth is relentless, and the sound of his name gasped in the dark. That’s worship to him. That’s where he feels most connected.

And he doesn’t do it just for the sake of it, he does it to ruin you. Slow, deliberate, patient. He loves making you wait, pulling you back from the edge until you’re begging, until you’re panting his name, eyes wide and glassy. And when you cum, trembling under his hands, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping, pushing at his shoulders because it’s too much, too good. That’s when he finally looks up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark. And he always kisses you after. Lets you taste yourself on his tongue, because he wants you to know what you do to him.

Receiving? He loves it, but it’s not a need. It’s a reward when you want to give it. When you sink to your knees and look up at him like you want to worship him the same way he worships you, and when you do, he let's you know how it feels. Low groans, whispered curses, his hands threading into your hair, he’ll tell you how good you feel, how perfect your mouth is, how close you’re driving him to losing control.

P=Pace; are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual?

He can be slow, excruciatingly slow. The kind of slow that drives you mad, that has you gasping and begging for more. He loves that, stretching out the moment until you’re trembling. Until every stroke feels deeper, heavier, until you're so desperate you’d say anything for him to speed up. He likes hearing you beg, your voice soft and wrecked, like it’s breaking you apart.

But when he’s rough, he’s relentless. Hard, fast, like he can’t get enough of you. Like he needs to feel you clench around him, needs to hear you cry out his name with every thrust. There’s something about that pace that feels like losing himself completely, letting his desire take over until neither of you can think, and when he’s in that mood, he holds nothing back—hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll feel it the next day, teeth biting at your neck, words rough and ragged in your ear.

But it’s never just one or the other. Sometimes he starts slow, teasing, making you feel every inch of him. And then, when you’re already on the edge, when your nails are clawing down his back, he speeds up, brutal, until you’re falling apart beneath him.

Q=Quickie. their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.

He loves them. The way they ignite a spark inside him, making everything feel more intense, more urgent. It’s like every touch, every glance, is a silent command to get closer, to not waste another second. Quickies are thrilling, a kind of madness that he can’t get enough of. Whether it’s in the dressing room at the mall, your body pressed up against the cool tiles of the wall with his hand slipping under your skirt, his lips hot against your neck as he whispers your name, or at his place, when the door barely closes behind you and he’s already got you pinned against it, tugging at your clothes in a frenzy. It’s fast, desperate, as if you’ve both been waiting far too long for this moment, and it can’t wait any longer.

There’s a rush to it, a sense of danger, of living in the now. Every time feels like a stolen moment—like you’re grabbing time by the throat, demanding it not slip away too soon. It’s reckless in a way, but it never loses its sense of purpose. He never lets it be careless, never just rushing through it without thinking. Even in the heat of the moment, he still wants you to feel the weight of his desire for you. He wants you to unravel for him, to let go in his arms even if there’s no time to savor it. He wants to hear you gasp his name, even if it’s muffled against his shoulder, your hands clutching at him desperately as the world around you fades away.

But afterward, no matter how rushed, there’s always a moment of softness. It’s like the calm after the storm. He’ll pull you close, his lips tender on yours as he deepens the kiss, as if trying to remind you that the rush was only a small part of what he feels for you. His hand will brush over your hair, or gently cup your face, his thumb softly tracing your skin as he murmurs, you okay? It’s not just about the physical; it’s about making sure you feel wanted, needed, cherished. Even when it’s messy and wild, even when it’s quick and urgent, he wants you to know that you’re always his priority, that no matter the speed of it, you’re never just a moment. You’re everything to him, and he needs you to feel that.

R=Risk; are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc?

He’s not reckless, but there’s an undeniable thrill he gets from pushing boundaries. It’s not about throwing caution to the wind; it’s about exploring the edges, testing the limits of what you can handle, and what you’re willing to give. He loves the idea of pulling you deeper into his world, showing you new sides of himself—and of you—that you didn’t even know existed. There’s an intensity in it, an almost magnetic pull that drives him to keep finding those lines, those sweet spots where desire and fear blur together. Every time he asks have you ever thought about this? his grin is teasing, playful, but also laced with something far deeper. Something that says he’s serious about this exploration, about what’s possible between the two of you.

And when you respond, when you say yes, it’s like an unspoken agreement between you both, a silent promise to dive headfirst into whatever it is he’s suggesting. It could be a new position, a new place, or even a new way to touch each other. His mind starts racing with ideas, with ways to make it happen, to give you the experience you didn’t know you craved but can’t wait to try. But he doesn’t rush, not when it comes to this. If there’s hesitation in your voice, a flicker of doubt in your eyes, he slows down. He talks you through it, taking the time to ensure that you’re comfortable, that you feel safe in every sense. His words are gentle, calming, designed to reassure you that no matter what, he’ll be there, guiding you through every moment. And when you’re ready, when he knows you’re ready, he takes you to the edge.

For him, the risk isn’t about danger. It’s not about throwing yourself into the unknown without a safety net. No, it’s about trust. It’s about the two of you discovering new facets of pleasure together, creating new experiences that bring you closer. He loves the challenge of learning what you need, how to push you just enough to make you surrender to him, to make you fall apart beneath him in a way that feels new every single time. It’s the dance of knowing when to push and when to pull back, and how to make every moment feel like a deep exploration into uncharted territory.

S=Stamina; how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last?

He can go for hours if you let him, no question. He’s not in any rush—slow and steady, or hard and relentless—he’s built for both. But what really gets him going is the challenge of endurance, the intoxicating repetition of taking you to the edge, over and over again, until you're trembling beneath him, spent and gasping for breath. He loves the power of it, the way your body reacts to him, how your need builds with each round. He’ll push you until you think you can’t go any longer, only to start again when you’re just beginning to catch your breath, ready for more. The stamina is a game to him—one he loves to win, even if it means making you beg for him, make you ache in the best way possible.

It’s not just the physical stamina that drives him, though. It’s the emotional aspect too, the way you cling to him, the way the connection between you both deepens with every touch. His hands caress you in ways that speak volumes, his lips trailing soft praises as your bodies sync, becoming one in a way that has nothing to do with time. For him, it’s about the journey—the buildup, the moments in between when he whispers your name into your skin, when he kisses you slow and deep, making sure every single second counts.

U=Unfair; how much they like to tease?

He’s a tease, the kind who knows just how to get under your skin. He loves making you want, loves seeing the way your body reacts to the smallest touch, the way your breath hitches when he’s close but not quite close enough. His hands will skim over your skin, just enough to make you ache, but never enough to truly give you what you need. His fingers will trace the waistband of your underwear, dipping into places that make your pulse race—but he’ll stop just before you beg for more. It’s maddening, but that’s exactly what he thrives on—the sound of you, desperate for him, the way you gasp his name when the tension in your body hits a breaking point.

But he’s not cruel. When he’s teased you enough, when he sees the way your body trembles and your mind loses control, he gives in. And when he does, it’s like a release, a reward for your patience. When he finally pushes you to that edge and lets you fall, it’s worth every second. Because by then, you’re already undone, and he’s the one who made it happen. He loves knowing that, loves that he’s the one who can bring you to that point of no return and hold you there, just long enough to make you ache for him even more.

V=Volume; how loud they are, what sounds they make?

He’s vocal, and not just a little. There’s a rawness to him that comes out when he’s with you, a deep, guttural groan that escapes him every time you clench around him, every time he pushes you closer to the edge. His breathing is ragged, shallow, and each time he moves inside of you, each thrust is met with a soft curse—words that spill from his lips like a prayer, praising you in ways that make your head spin. He tells you how good you feel, how perfect you are beneath him, how much he needs you. He doesn’t care who hears—he wants you to know exactly what you do to him, how you make him feel.

But when you fall apart, when you’re gasping for air and your body trembles with release, he wants you to hear him too. His breath hitches in his chest, his groan turning into a low, broken sound, like it’s being ripped from deep within him. It’s like an echo of your pleasure, a conversation between your bodies—a back and forth of moans, gasps, and soft words exchanged in the heat of the moment. With him, sex isn’t something silent, something to be hidden. It’s a loud, messy exchange of sound and feeling, a testament to the way you both fit together in every sense.

X=X-Ray; let’s see what’s going on in those pants;

He knows exactly what he’s working with—and he knows the effect it has on you. There's a quiet confidence in the way he moves, the way his eyes meet yours when you catch him looking, when he's half-dressed and you can't help but stare. It’s not cocky, it’s just knowing. He’s thick and heavy, the kind that makes your legs shake just from the thought of him, and he relishes in that power. There’s a sense of satisfaction in the way he watches your breath hitch when he presses against you, just to feel you squirm. And when you reach for him, his hand catching yours before you can go any further, he’ll warn, low and dark, you know what that does to me, his voice rough with desire.

But it’s not just about the size. It’s about the effect he has on you. The way you react to him, the way your body responds to his every movement. He can tell when you’re thinking about him, imagining the way he feels inside of you, the way your body trembles just from the thought of him. And when he slides his hand down, brushing over the outline of his cock in his jeans, he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your fingers twitch, wanting to touch him. He knows exactly what you want, and he knows how to tease you until you can't think about anything else but him.

Y=Yearning; how high is their sex drive?

His sex drive is high, but it’s not just the physical need that drives him—it’s the need. The deep, emotional desire to feel you close, to have your body pressed against his until neither of you knows where one ends and the other begins. It’s not about quick satisfaction; it’s about the craving for closeness, for intimacy that goes beyond just skin on skin. He wants to make you feel wanted, needed, cherished. His desire for you is insatiable, not because he needs release, but because he needs you. Every part of you—your body, your voice, the way you make him feel like he’s the only one who could bring you to that point.

And when he’s away from you, when distance stretches between you, it gnaws at him. He craves your touch, your warmth, the taste of your skin against his lips. Late-night calls become whispered confessions, teasing words shared in the dark, thoughts of what he would do to you if he were there, what he wants to do to you. When he's not around, the need for you only intensifies. And sometimes, he sends you a picture—damp from the gym, a shirtless tease, sweat glistening on his skin, sweatpants hanging low, and nothing else. Miss me?, he’ll ask, voice low, knowing full well the answer. Because he knows you do. And he can't wait to come home and make you show him just how much.

Z=zZz; how quickly they fall asleep afterwards?

Afterward, he never falls asleep right away. He needs to soak in the afterglow, to hold you close, to breathe you in and remind himself that you’re real, that this moment is his, that you’re his. His fingers trace slow, lazy circles across your back, his lips grazing over your shoulder, your forehead, wherever he can reach. He’s not distant; he’s there, grounding himself in the softness of you, in the way your body rests against his. It’s a quiet connection, a moment of peace after the storm, and he savors it.

And in those moments, when the room is dark and the only sound is your breathing, he’ll murmur things into your skin—soft words, whispered like secrets, things he doesn’t always say aloud. Can't believe you're mine, you know this?, or I could stay here forever, his voice low and warm, like a soft, tender promise. It’s his way of letting you know that even in the quiet aftermath, he’s still there. He’s still with you, and he always will be. Only when he knows you’re settled, safe, warm, and content in his arms, does sleep finally claim him. But even then, he’s not far—his body curled around yours, his arms wrapped around you like a promise that he’ll never let go, even in his dreams.

[quimerala]

1 semana de aula e eu já tô pensando "pra quê que eu tenho que saber isso?"

[quimerala]

A experiência de ser caloura é tão humilhante meu deus nunca apanhei tanto na vida quanto tô apanhando desses circulares

[quimerala]

Simplesmente linguística e fundamentos para fonoaudiologia

Primeira aula na USP amanhã dios mio

[quimerala]

Primeira aula na USP amanhã dios mio

[quimerala]

the way , i love you

[ 필릭스 ] ✷ ‎aftercare with your boyfriend !

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!felix ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. domestic fluff , established relationship. 9OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LIBRARY ⟢ cw. suggestive , kisses , close proximity , intimacy. ┆ 🖇️ ⋮ [ 6 / 8 ] drabble .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated <3 asks are only open until the last week of february, so please read my guidelines beforehand !! send in a dm, reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading <3

the warm glow of the bedside lamp casts a soft, golden haze over the room, pooling in honeyed ribbons along the sheets, the walls, the tangled mess of limbs still recovering from the storm of passion moments ago. the air is thick with the scent of vanilla and faint traces of your boyfriend's cologne, mingling with the lingering warmth of skin against skin.

his breath is steady, deep—like the rolling tide pulling back from the shore—his chest rising and falling in tandem with yours as he holds you close, the quiet aftermath settling over both of you like the softest lullaby.

but his mind? oh, it’s a storm of worry.

"did i hurt you?"

he whispers, his deep, accented voice brushing against the shell of your ear, laced with genuine concern. his arms tighten around you just a little, as if anchoring you back to him. "tell me honestly, please. if i was too much, i—"

"you were perfect," you mumble, your voice drowsy, melting into his hold.

felix exhales, relieved, before pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "good," he murmurs against your skin, lips warm and reverent.

"because i really, really like making you feel good. like, a lot. i think it’s my new favorite hobby."

a tired, breathy laugh escapes you. "it’s been your hobby for a year, lix."

"okay, but now i take it very seriously. like, professional level," he counters, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "might start a club. 'felix’s lovers of the year' club. but there’s only one spot available, and it’s exclusively for you."

you huff, burying your face against his collarbone. "that was terrible."

"yeah, but did it make you smile?" he peeks down at you, expectant, hopeful.

you try to fight it. you really do. but the way he’s looking at you—with that stupidly bright, gummy smile and those galaxy-swirled brown eyes—makes it impossible.

"maybe," you admit, soft and quiet.

felix grins, victorious. "mission accomplished."

his fingers start trailing slow, absentminded patterns over your back, gentle and soothing. he’s always like this after—the perfect mix of soft and playful, as if making sure you know how much he loves you in every way possible.

then, suddenly—

"oh my god, you're so warm," he groans dramatically, shifting slightly. "like a human heater. i think i’m melting. i’m dying. this is the end for me. tell my members i love them."

you snort. "you’re the one clinging to me."

felix gasps, betrayed. "how dare you? i am protecting you. keeping you safe and loved and cozy. it's my duty as your incredibly hot and responsible boyfriend."

"incredibly hot and responsible?"

"yeah," he says, grinning as he nudges his nose against yours. "and sexy. don’t forget sexy."

you roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips twitch. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, you love me."

"unfortunately."

felix lets out a loud, exaggerated gasp before launching a merciless attack of feather-light kisses all over your face. "take that back!" he demands between kisses. "take! it! back!"

you squirm, giggling. "lix—stop!"

"never," he declares dramatically, but his kisses slow, turning softer, lingering—one on your cheek, one on your nose, another ghosting over your lips before he finally presses a deep, warm kiss to your forehead.

silence stretches between you for a moment, comfortable and laced with something tender.

then, felix sighs, pulling back just enough to study you. "you’re really tired, hm?"

you nod sleepily, and his expression softens even more.

"stay here, i’ll clean you up," he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face with the utmost care. "i'll get you water, too. and snacks, in case you’re hungry. and a blanket, even though you’re already roasting me alive."

"felix, you don’t have to—"

"ah-ah-ah." he presses a finger against your lips. "let me spoil you, baby. just this once. or actually, every time. no takebacks."

you give him a sleepy, fond look, too tired to argue, and he grins before slipping out of bed. the room feels colder without him, but the sound of him humming softly as he pads around—his deep, velvety voice weaving through the space—is comforting.

a few moments later, he returns, armed with a warm towel, a glass of water, and a packet of biscuits.

he sets everything down carefully, then kneels beside you with a comically serious expression. "okay, love, time for your felix-certified aftercare package. step one, hydration." he hands you the water.

you take a slow sip, and he nods approvingly.

"step two, gentle clean-up." he dabs the warm towel against your skin, so careful, so attentive. his lips twitch into a playful smirk as he wipes your thigh. "damn, i really did a number on you, huh?"

you groan, swatting at him weakly. "shut up."

he cackles but finishes up with feather-light touches, pressing a kiss to your knee for good measure.

"step three, snacks, in case my lovely, adorable, stunning baby is hungry." he offers you the biscuits with an expectant look.

you take one, nibbling on it slowly. "thank you, muffin man." you laugh.

"anytime, only the best for my baby," he murmurs, before climbing back into bed and pulling you close again, this time wrapping you entirely in his warmth.

his lips graze your temple, soft as a whisper. "step four, cuddles. and kisses. and telling you how much i love you until you fall asleep."

you hum contentedly, feeling sleep tug at you. "sounds like the best step."

felix grins, stroking your hair gently. "mhm. now, for my final and most important job…" he leans in, lips just brushing your ear before whispering in the deepest voice he can muster:

"sleep well, pretty."

and just like that, wrapped in his warmth, surrounded by his love, you do.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @ashtxrie @sxungchqn @minlixyaoi

guess who almost lost track of the mastertag adds !! not me

[quimerala]

˖˙ ᰋ ── you, blanket forts and heated kisses

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff!! (and some heated kisses lmao)

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: hiii! this is a continuation of this fic right here! you don't need to read that one to understand this, but they're taking place in the same universe. enjoyy and let me know what you think!! <33

“Let’s build a blanket fort.”

Said Hyunjin randomly on a stormy day, right after kissing you stupid and taking away your ability to think.

Unfortunately for him, you later engaged in an activity far different from the one he suggested, so different that he forgot all about his initial idea for the remainder of the week.

Until now, when you’re found in the same predicament – your beloved has come over with the biggest smile, elated to see you after spending the past month apart. Everything was fine and dandy until the sky suddenly darkened and it started pouring, trapping you both inside the apartment and cancelling all plans you might’ve made outside.

At least this time, the harsh weather took pity on your unfortunate soul and allowed the power to stay on.

“Alright, so it says here we can use chairs, a table, or even the couch for our fort.”

“Did you seriously pull up a wikihow article?”

You turn to him, a little embarrassed at being caught, his genuine laughter making heat rush to your face at an alarming pace. No words escape you and he coos, dropping the big pillows he got from your bedroom before stepping over them to hug you from behind, holding you close while his lips pepper sweet kisses from your cheek down to your neck.

“That’s adorable, baby.” Hyunjin nuzzles your neck, placing one last kiss on your cheek before resting his chin on your shoulder. “What else is your little article recommending?”

“Don’t make fun of me.” You whine, attempting to turn around in his arms with no success, quickly settling on hiding your face and embarrassment in your hands, just so he won't see them.

He’s laughing again, tenderly spinning you around by your hips so you’re face to face. “I’m not, baby. I’m just curious why you thought I don’t already possess all the knowledge we need.” He points to his temple, after prying your hands away from the beautiful face that has started to appear in his dreams almost daily.

“Alright, Bob the builder, knock yourself out.” You nod towards the mess he’s made on the floor, to all the pillows, blankets, and sheets he’s stolen from your room. His wish to build a fort made a lot of sense if you take into consideration his ferret nature he always denies. The tiny animal thrived on alone time, hid away in a secluded place away from everyone.

He gasps, bringing his hands to his chest as if he could really fool anyone into believing he’s actually offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an artist! An architect if you will! That guy has nothing on me.”

Giggling, you can’t help but get closer to kiss his pout away, bringing his smile back instantly. “Of course, you are love. The best of them all.”

“Are you making fun of me?” And just as it disappeared, his natural pouty lips can’t help but jut out.

You shake your head, amused at how the tables have turned. “Never.” Then, with the softest touch, you intertwine your fingers and begin dragging him along to the materials he abandoned in the middle of the room. “I’ve never built a fort before.”

“Never?” The look on his face is incredulous, pulling you by the hand to his chest to tenderly kiss your temple, feeling clingier than usual. “Let’s get down to business then.”

Turns out, building a blanket fort is as easy as reading a wikihow article, especially when your Loverboy does most of the work and knows exactly what to use to make it all happen. With the tripod he left at your place, you balance the sheets, keeping them up and creating the perfect opening to your little den of comfort and secrets. Your U-shaped couch was sturdy, assisting your building activities with the many ornamental pillows that became trusty pillars.

You don’t know how much time passed, absorbed into your current task, laughing away with your beloved and teasing each other in good fun. At some point, you get distracted and as he’s ranting away about something that happened at practice, one of your soft pillows collides with the side of his head. Hyunjin stops dead in his tracks, words dying on his tongue as he slowly stands from his crouched position while you try everything in your power to not burst out laughing in his face.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” You feign innocence, gingerly hiding the pillow behind your back like nothing has happened.

Hyunjin stares you down, the intensity in his gaze almost making you confess. Almost. The obvious glint of mischief in his eyes tells you he has an unused card under his sleeve, one you should not ignore.

Without another word, he stretches his arm and beckons you closer with two fingers, obviously expecting surrender. And the pillow that has now become his number one enemy.

When you shake your head and smile brightly, he pauses for a total of five seconds before stepping closer to take matters into his own hands. That’s your cue to flee, so you run in the opposite direction, laughing loudly when he follows and you begin chasing each other around the apartment like little kids.

He’s letting you get away, pretending to be slower and clumsily stumbling over his feet just so your laugh can continue warming his heart, providing the flowers in his chest with the sunshine needed to bloom to maturity.

Then, out of nowhere, he manages to sneak behind you, arms circling your middle and pulling you to his chest with ease, lifting your feet off the ground as both of your laughter blend beautifully. Hyunjin begins attacking you with kisses all over your face and you stop pretending you want to get away, melting into his embrace and fully accepting your fate.

“Caught you.” He says in a sing song voice, over the moon at having you in his arms once again.

Your hands move over his, pillow falling to the ground with a soft thud as you lean back, head on his shoulder to reach his plump lips and press numerous kisses over them. When you move to pull away, one of his hands instantly comes up to cup your cheek to keep you there, tongue sneaking past your lips cheekily. The air shifts instantly as he hugs you closer, kissing you as he needs it to keep living, strong arms serving as an anchor while your body’s buzzing like you’re intoxicated, tingling all over.

Summoning all of your willpower, you manage to pull away from him for the briefest moment. “Just because I let you.”

Hyunjin smiles but you have a feeling it’s an automatic response, his brain not actually processing any of your words as he dives back in, impatient to feel your lips on his once again.

Kissing Hyunjin was always an experience, full of love and passion that had you weak in the knees – but kissing him after not seeing each other for a while felt like the air in your lungs was running out and him, out of the kindness of his heart, kept you alive by sharing his breath with you.

You turn in his arms, just like earlier, but oh so different, one hand gripping his tank top while the other sneaks its way into dark hair, pulling lightly to deepen the kiss which makes him groan lowly. Hyunjin’s grip on your hips burnt, your whole body on fire as he explored it to his heart’s desire, handling you in the exact way one would a priceless sculpture, a work of art he couldn’t look away from no matter how hard he tried.

He tasted divine, and his cologne made you dizzy, just like everything about him did. Without warning, he begins moving, pushing back and guiding your body expertly, biting down on your bottom lip right before breaking the kiss, to your great disappointment.

“Baby.” His voice is hoarse, breath shaky, a nervous laugh escaping him at the look on your face. “Our fort.”

With a groan, you ignore him in favour of placing sweet, open-mouthed kisses up his neck. “You have been driving me crazy with that fort of yours, Hyun.”

His grip on your hips is a warning, sending you mixed signals as he can’t resist but connect your lower halves, needing you as close as possible while he tilts his head back with a heavy breath. “And here I thought that was my irresistible personality.”

You grin, looking up at him while holding onto his biceps for support. “Nope, only your blabbering mouth.”

The tension dissipates as he laughs, eyes wandering and pupils blown even as you tear yourself from him and exhale, trying your best to calm down before going back to the fort you’ve both worked so hard on.

In the end, after weeks and weeks of waiting, you and Hyunjin are finally in your very own blanket fort, giggling like two children who have somehow forgotten what has just transpired a few moments ago.

“This is nice.” You hum, resting your head on his shoulder, glancing at the fairy lights he somehow managed to hang up. You’re both sitting cross-legged on some pillows, surrounded by snacks and blankets.

“I told you I got this. I didn’t need any help or tutorial.” He puffs out his chest, obviously proud he impressed you.

You nod, eyes almost fluttering shut, his bare shoulder surprisingly comfy. “Good job, Bob.”

The words barely have time to escape before you get a pillow to the face, the soft feathers getting into your mouth and startling you awake. You’re frozen in place, not realizing what happened until Hyunjin starts laughing next to you, delighted at the stunt he just pulled.

You push his shoulder, biting back a smile and he laughs harder, toppling over while hugging the pillow to his chest. A part of the sheet gets caught under him and before you know it, the whole thing collapses on top of you, trapping you under along with all the decorations and food neither got to enjoy.

It’s silent for a second before your laughter joins his as you reach to help him sit up, only for him to lose his balance and fall over you, feeling a little claustrophobic under the restrictive sheet. Holding himself up above you with his bulging arms, eyes two crescent moons and engulfing the whole room in a light that could only be produced by him, you move to squish his cheeks together. Lovingly, of course.

“I love you so much, my little liar. But I’m revoking your architecture license.”

Fortunately, Hyunjin didn’t look disappointed in the slightest.

[quimerala]

Amanhã simplesmente vou conhecer o maior complexo hospitalar da América Latina 😭😭😭

[quimerala]

to hold you close

hyunjin x reader. established relationship and fluff. this is a tribute to falling asleep next to your lover. it’s just sickeningly sweet and domestic because i miss being in love. enjoy reading x (not proofread)

autumn. you remember it as clearly as the sound of your name. it should have been your fourth date with hyunjin, but you were terribly sick. an unyielding cold caging your body in fits of coughing, and a faint, fluctuating fever. still, hyunjin insisted that he’d like to see you.

“i won’t be much fun,” you had told him over the phone, looking at the pile of used up Kleenex by your side.

“i’ll be fun enough for the both of us. plus, i miss you.” his voice was cheeky, teasing, and you remember chuckling despite yourself, warmth pooling in your chest like saccharine syrup dripping down your ribcage. you felt it even as sickness pressed heavy against your lungs, even as your skin felt like a burden to carry. you felt him.

“i miss you too, my personal jester,” you joked, and hyunjin did not reply for a while. quiet, save for the faint sound of his breathing. the truth is hyunjin has not felt like a sane man since he has known you. you’re rambling over how terrible the cold feels and yet, all he seems to think of is the simple word you used. absentmindedly. my, you said. hyunjin would sacrifice the sun if it means you’d keep calling him yours.

and so, hyunjin came over later that night. finding you in your “least prettiest state”, you argued, and yet, he still looked at you with that same shining glaze coating his eyes. like he was beholding the world’s eighth wonder. like he could pluck the stars out of the sky one by one just to give them to you, with a huge smile on his face too, no matter how tedious of a task, no matter how long it’d take.

you put on a horror movie, the scent of pumpkin spice wafting in the air, though you could not smell the candle hyunjin brought with him. you insisted he’d get sick and yet he refused to sit away from you. his shoulder pressed to yours, your head leaning against his forearm.

that’s when it happened— falling asleep together for the very first time.

you woke up to your chests pressed against one another. somewhere during the night he had pulled you atop him, his hands cradling your back so gently it made you wish to weep.

you understood then, when he tenderly kissed the tip of your nose and sniffled right after, that you’d love him a lot. that there is no other path for you but to love him. that there is a home for you to build in the empty pools of his collarbones, a place to rest against the ridges of his arms.

it terrified you. it thrilled you all the same.

—

winter. it is one of the coldest nights of the year. you’ve spent most of it hunched over on your desk, finishing up an urgent report for tomorrow. hyunjin tried to stay awake for as long as he could, humming and drawing, watching a show and flipping all over your mattress. still, sleep caught him, took him away from you before you could kiss him goodnight.

you are in your bed, you almost cry when your head hits the pillow. today has been tiring and excruciatingly long. silent tears slip down your cheeks. the covers do nothing to ease the cold.

then, hyunjin stirs.

your breath hitches. did you wake him?

slowly, blindly, his hand pats the empty space between you. then, he touches your arm—pulls you close, tucking your head beneath his chin. his breathing is slow, steady, his pulse faint beneath your ear. he sighs, almost in contentment, before melting into your hold.

he reached for you in his sleep. you don’t understand how someone can love you in their slumber. in their instincts. in their dreams. did your name write itself into his memory like it did in yours? “yes”. he’d tell you the next morning. “you are all i dreamt about.”

—

spring. the air is warm and light, and there are blooming lilies on top of your bed-drawer. but you can’t smell them. it is cruel for the breeze to be this soft and for you to be this hurt.

fights with hyunjin are very rare, so rare that when they happen it feels excruciating, like a punch to your gut, like a knife slipping right beneath your heart— not killing you. worse.

it wasn’t even a fight. just pent-up frustration from you guys’ respective jobs. still, there is a raft between your bodies. a wide space that stretches and stretches and stretches. you think it’d be easier to cross an ocean than to reach out for him.

but then, his cold feet touch yours. and your heart jumps in your chest, twirls and falls and soars once more.

hyunjin swallows, his throat dry, his tongue tied. you shift. and then, as if something snaps, you hug him. he doesn’t realize a broken sob has escaped his lips, soaking your neck with his tears. “i’m sorry angel,” he whispers, and you nod, over and over. “i’m sorry too baby,” you say, pulling him closer.

what a waste it would have been to sleep apart. to deprive your souls of the rest that is him. he’ll be here tomorrow too. you’ll wake up in his arms and you’ll be okay.

—

summer. the windows are wide open, the salt of the ocean seems to settle upon hyunjin’s skin. he smells like the waves and your sunscreen.

it is too hot. too humid. the breeze playing with your airbnb’s curtains does nothing to ease the scorching heat. but hyunjin insists on sleeping near you. so do you. it’s because you understand his need that you’ve been dating for five years now. that a huge diamond rests on your ring finger.

his arm drapes over your waist lazily, his skin is sticking to yours but you don’t mind. you’ve gone beyond minding these mortal nuisances with hyunjin. not when you feel like your souls are kneaded from one dough.

it’s a midday nap. a tradition in all your travels. your fingers touch one another gently. “sleepy?” he hums and you nod, pressing your lips to his collarbones.

“you feel nice,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy, “you feel like summer. you feel like myself. does that make sense?”

his nails graze your bare back, lazy, affectionate.

“it does,” you reassure. “to know me would be to know you.”

your words are the last thing he hears before dozing off. there is a safety in that, in knowing you’ll be there too when he wakes up. as you always are. he’ll tell you he loves you then. though you already know it. don’t you?

[quimerala]

Bed Wars | J.WW

+ summary: after spending countless hours building a house for your boyfriend... you're suddenly met with his bed placed right next to yours? what the hell man! + pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader + word count: 800~ + content: fluff, established relationship, they're just playing minecraft lol, reader likes to bicker.

[ᝰ.ᐟ] happy valentine's day!!! thought i would post something small to celebrate since i didn't post for last year's valentine's day. also i would like to (unfortunately) thank @cherry-zip for bullying me into posting this on time! hope you enjoy, thanks for reading! <3 (borders made by @enchanthings !)

"C’mon dude,” you groaned, staring at the sight in front of you. “I made you a house for a reason!”

Wonwoo’s response? Moving his bed right next to yours. 

“Well, I want to sleep here,” he stated simply.

You let out an annoyed sigh, arms crossed. “Like, seriously? The colors don’t even match!”

Wonwoo only giggled, enjoying your frustration with him. “What are you talking about? My purple bed goes perfectly with your pink one. Also, what if a creeper spawns in my house—how will you ever hear my cries for help?”

Your eye twitched at his insistence. God, he was so annoying. “Now, why would a creeper spawn in your house?” 

“You never know, I’ve seen it happen before.” 

“Fine. I’ll move out then,” you said, quickly destroying your bed and leaving the house. You weren’t even bothered enough to take anything from your chests.

The two of you continued playing in silence for a few minutes. It’s not like you were actually mad or anything… but it was fun to start a meaningless fight with Wonwoo. 

In the meantime, you explored the surrounding biomes in hopes of finding a suitable place to make a new house. Well, more like a camp. (Your house was way too pretty for you to simply abandon.)

After a few more minutes of silence, Wonwoo began to message you in the game.

[gam3bo1: where are you :(]

[gam3bo1: i miss youuuuu]

[gam3bo1: answer me!]

“Are you mad at me?” He asked, turning to look at you from his monitor, eyes filled with faux innocence.

You scoffed. “Oh, no. Not at all. I just love how you’re completely ignoring the fact that I built a whole house for you, and yet, you insist on staying in my house!”

Wonwoo let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, it's not my fault my house feels so… lonely.” 

You rolled your eyes as he spoke, but he didn’t stop there. Who would’ve known that he was going to be this pouty.

“Look, our babies miss you too.” He waved you down to look over at his screen.

To your disappointment, curiosity got the better of you. “This better be–” Your voice cut off at the sight of your pets. 

All of your in-game pets–the dogs, cats, and even the random parrot you found in a jungle biome a few weeks back–were all sitting obediently inside your home. Wonwoo had conveniently placed them all in front of his bed, having them turned to look at the empty space–where your bed used to be. 

You narrowed your eyes upon realizing the little stunt he was trying to pull on you. “You’re trying to manipulate me into going back home!”

Wonwoo gasped. “I would never do such a thing!”

After a few moments of pure laughter, you finally gave in. You could never stay mad at him for too long. 

“...Fine, I’ll come back.” You huffed out, finally turning back to your monitor and making your way back home.

As you neared your house, something new caught your eye.

Behind your house, was a small, heart-shaped garden. The ground was tiled in a red-and-pink checkered pattern, carefully placed block by block. Peonies and roses filled the garden’s corners, their colors nicely decorating the huge heart in the middle. In front of the heart sat a small seating area just for the two of you.

“Oh.”

“I made it while you were ignoring me,” Wonwoo said, his voice suddenly next to your ear.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard. It was… annoyingly cute.

You continued to move around, stepping onto the checkered flooring and admiring the little details he had placed all around. It was cute.

“...You built me a garden?” you asked softly.

Wonwoo hummed. “I might have had help from a few tutorials, but yeah. I wanted to make a spot for us.” 

And unsurprisingly, your stomach did an embarrassing flip.

Wonwoo went back over to his desk, quickly moving his player to sit on one of the chairs in the garden. Following him, you sat down in the chair in front of him, and before you could even say anything he beat you to it.

“I just thought our shared house could use a little extra love. You know, since we obviously live together.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands as Wonwoo laughed triumphantly beside you. He just had to ruin the moment! 

“Now c’mon, let’s go to bed,” he said as he pressed ‘Save and Exit’. By the time you reached the main menu, Wonwoo was already pulling you away from your desk.

“I’m never building you anything ever again,” you muttered, body betraying you as you leaned into him on your shared bed.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “And yet you still let me sleep next to you.” 

You wanted to argue, but sleep was already pulling you away. “Mhm, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

[quimerala]

A Brie do Sesc-Flamengo só levanta jaca. 4 chances de fechar o set e a querida pipocando

[quimerala]

Meu Deus do céu, Cauã Raimond é um colírio pros olhos e uma afronta à atuação

[quimerala]

breaking the ice - chwe vernon scenario

scrolled through tiktok too much now i'm simping over vernon🫠

for my other svt fics, check them here

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

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The cold air inside the ice rink nipped at your skin as you pulled your coat tighter around yourself. You weren’t much of a sports fan, but when your cousin, Chan, practically begged you to come watch his game, you couldn’t say no.

"It's gonna be fun! Just come once, and if you hate it, I won't ask again," he had insisted over the phone.

And that's how you found yourself in the bleachers, watching a group of guys in bulky gear chase a puck across the ice. You weren’t clueless—you knew the basic rules—but you weren’t about to start screaming at referees like some of the other fans. You were here for one reason: Chan.

The game was intense, fast-paced, and honestly more interesting than you expected. You followed your cousin’s movements as he skated past an opponent and passed the puck to a teammate. The crowd roared when the puck was slapped straight into the goal.

You clapped, smiling as Chan pumped his fist in the air. That’s my cousin, you thought proudly.

Then, your eyes drifted to the player who had taken the shot. Number 16. He skated back toward Chan, giving him a nod of acknowledgment before the two joined the rest of the team.

You squinted.

The name on the back of his jersey read "Chwe"

You weren’t sure why, but something about him stood out. He wasn’t showy like some of the other players who thrived on the crowd’s attention. He barely reacted after scoring, just gave a small nod before skating off.

"Who’s number 16?" you asked the girl sitting beside you, who had been squealing nonstop.

She gawked at you. "You don’t know Chwe Vernon?!"

You blinked. "Should I?"

She looked at you like you had just committed a crime. "He's literally one of the best players on the team! And super famous! His family's Korean-American, and he's been playing since he was a kid. How do you not know him?"

You shrugged. "I don’t really follow hockey."

The girl sighed dramatically. "You’re missing out. He’s, like, effortlessly cool and insanely good."

You turned back to the rink, watching as Vernon—Chwe Vernon, apparently—glided across the ice. Effortlessly cool, huh? You weren’t convinced.

After the game, you waited for Chan outside the locker rooms. The hallway was filled with people—some reporters, some fans, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the players.

When the team finally emerged, Chan spotted you instantly. "Hey!" He grinned, walking over. His hair was damp from the shower, and he still had a towel draped around his neck. "So? Did I impress you?"

"You did great," you said, ruffling his hair, making him groan. "Proud cousin moment."

"Good. I need you to come to more games for good luck."

"Don't push it," you teased.

Before he could respond, someone else walked past you—number 16. Vernon.

Chan called out to him. "Hyung!"

Vernon turned his head slightly, slowing his pace. Up close, you noticed how sharp his features were. He had this laid-back, unreadable expression, like nothing ever surprised him.

Chan gestured toward you. "This is my cousin, the one I told you about."

You arched a brow. "You talked about me?"

Chan ignored you. "This is Vernon."

Vernon gave you a short nod. "Hey."

That was it. Just one word. No handshake, no smile.

You crossed your arms. "Wow, you’re a real talker, huh?"

Chan coughed, trying to stifle a laugh.

Vernon just blinked. "Not really."

You stared at him, waiting for him to say more. He didn't. This guy was something else.

"Well, okay" you said your name, breaking the silence. "Since we’re introducing ourselves and all."

He nodded again. "Cool."

You squinted at him. "Do you always talk in one-word sentences?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering your question. "Depends."

You exhaled sharply, turning to Chan. "I’m leaving. This guy’s impossible."

Chan laughed. "That’s just how he is."

You gave Vernon one last glance. He wasn’t unfriendly, just... different. Quiet. Detached.

And yet, something about him made you curious.

A few days later, Chan texted you.

Chan: Come to our next game. You: Why? Chan: Because I bet Vernon you wouldn’t come. You: …You bet on me? Chan: Yeah. He said you wouldn’t bother. I said you would. You: What do I get if I show up? Chan: The satisfaction of proving Vernon wrong. You: Tempting. Chan: Also, if I win, Vernon has to buy me dinner. So do it for me.

You sighed, staring at the text. You weren’t the type to back down from a challenge. Contemplating for only a few moments before shooting Chan one last message saying you'd go.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d get a reaction out of Vernon this time.

The next game rolled around quicker than expected. You hadn’t initially planned to attend, but the thought of proving Vernon wrong was too tempting.

So there you were, sitting in the bleachers again, this time with a smirk on your face as you spotted number 16 skating onto the ice.

Chan was the first to notice you. From where he stood, he shot you a triumphant grin, raising his fist in victory. You lifted your hand in a mock salute, acknowledging the win.

Vernon, on the other hand, took a bit longer to spot you. When he did, you could swear there was a brief flicker of surprise in his usually impassive expression. His eyes met yours for a split second before he coolly looked away. No reaction, no acknowledgment—just Vernon being Vernon.

Oh, so that’s how he wanted to play it? Fine.

The game started, and as expected, it was intense. You found yourself getting more invested than last time, especially when Chan assisted in another goal. But what caught your attention the most was Vernon. He was ridiculously fast on the ice, his movements so fluid and effortless that it was almost unfair to the opposing team.

By the time the final buzzer rang, their team had won. The crowd erupted into cheers, and even you found yourself clapping.

Chan was practically bouncing when he ran over to you after the game. “Ha! Told you! I knew you’d come.”

You smirked. “Enjoy your free dinner.”

Before Chan could respond, Vernon walked up behind him. His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead, and he looked as composed as ever despite just finishing a game.

“You actually showed up,” he said, voice neutral.

“I did.” You crossed your arms. “Surprised?”

He shrugged. “A little.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Not gonna admit you were wrong?”

He blinked, considering. “Nope.”

Chan burst out laughing. “He’d rather die than say that.”

You turned back to Vernon. “Well, I did come. So now you owe Chan dinner. Hope you have deep pockets.”

Vernon sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess I do.”

You weren’t sure why, but the idea of Vernon being slightly inconvenienced by this bet made you a little too satisfied.

Chan clapped a hand on Vernon’s shoulder. “Since I’m getting a free meal, you should come too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

Chan nodded. “Yeah, you’re the reason I won the bet. Might as well let you enjoy the victory too.”

You glanced at Vernon, half-expecting him to protest, but he just nodded. “Up to you.”

You weren’t sure if he genuinely didn’t care or if he was just going along with it because Chan said so. Either way, you weren’t about to back down.

“Fine,” you said. “Let’s go.”

You ended up at a small Korean barbecue place not too far from the rink. It wasn’t fancy, but it smelled amazing. Vernon, true to his word, paid without complaint, though you noticed he didn’t exactly look thrilled about it. You didn’t feel bad in the slightest.

As the food started cooking, Chan filled the silence with his usual chatter. You had always liked how easygoing he was, able to carry conversations without effort.

“So,” Chan said, turning to Vernon. “What do you think of my cousin?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “What kind of question is that?”

Chan grinned mischievously. “I just wanna know. Vernon’s not really a people person, so I’m curious.”

You turned your gaze to Vernon, expecting some deadpan answer like “She’s fine” or “She exists.”

Instead, he looked directly at you and said, “She’s different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering his words. “Most people try too hard. You don’t.”

You blinked. That was… surprisingly insightful.

Chan nodded approvingly. “That’s a compliment, by the way. Vernon doesn’t say much, but when he does, he means it.”

You studied Vernon for a moment. He was still as unreadable as ever, but now you were intrigued. “Well, thanks, I guess.”

Dinner continued with casual conversation, mostly dominated by Chan. Vernon remained quiet but occasionally chimed in with a dry comment that made you laugh more than expected.

By the end of the night, you realized something strange.

You didn’t dislike him.

In fact, you kind of wanted to see what it would take to get a real reaction out of him.

A week later, you got an unexpected text from Chan.

Chan: You’re not gonna believe this. You: What? Chan: Vernon just asked if you were coming to the next game. You: …You’re lying. Chan: I’m dead serious. He just asked me out of nowhere.

You stared at your phone, processing.

Vernon? Asking about you?

Interesting.

You: Tell him to ask me himself. Chan: LMAO you’re evil.

A few minutes later, another text came in.

Unknown Number: Are you coming? - Vernon

You smirked. So he finally cracked.

This was going to be fun.

Sitting at your desk, you stretched your arms, feeling the exhaustion settle into your bones. The clock on your laptop read 11:47 PM, and you still weren’t done with the reports your supervisor had asked for last minute.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You hadn’t expected your internship to be this demanding, but then again, you had never been the type to slack off. If you were going to do something, you were going to do it well.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

Vernon: Heard you were busy.

You blinked. Of all people, he was texting you? You smirked, quickly typing back.

You: Look at you, sending full sentences. I’m impressed.

A few seconds passed before the typing bubble appeared.

Vernon: I can type. You: Could’ve fooled me.

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip. Was it bad that you found this amusing?

You weren’t expecting another text, but then—

Vernon: …You gonna come next time?

Your eyebrows raised slightly. So he did notice you weren’t there.

You debated your response, then decided to push his buttons a little.

You: Why? Did you miss me?

This time, the reply didn’t come immediately. You wondered if you had caught him off guard.

Finally, after a minute—

Vernon: Maybe.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You: …Huh. Didn’t expect that. Vernon: Yeah. Me neither.

That made you pause.

You had been joking before, but now… was he actually admitting something?

You stared at your screen for a moment before shaking your head. No way. This is Vernon. He doesn’t just say things like that.

You decided to test the waters.

You: Careful, Chwe. Almost sounded like you like having me around.

This time, his reply came quicker.

Vernon: Don’t get ahead of yourself. You: Good night, hockey boy. Vernon: Night.

Setting your phone down, you exhaled. That was unexpected.

And oddly… kind of nice.

A few days passed, and you found yourself back to your usual routine—internship, assignments, barely enough time to breathe.

You hadn’t planned on going to the next hockey game either, but then Chan called. "Please," he whined over the phone. "Vernon’s been weird since you didn’t come last time."

You frowned. "Weird how?"

"I don’t know! Just… quiet."

You snorted. "Vernon’s always quiet."

"Yeah, but this time it’s different. Like he’s thinking about something."

That made you pause.

"Are you telling me you think Vernon missed me?" you teased.

Chan groaned. "I’m saying something’s up with him, and I think you should come see for yourself."

You hesitated. You really didn’t have the time, but… now you were curious.

"Fine," you said, "but if I show up and he acts the same, you owe me coffee."

Chan laughed. "Deal."

When you stepped into the ice rink the following evening, the familiar chill made you shiver. You spotted the team warming up, Chan already waving at you from the ice.

Your eyes flickered to Vernon.

He was stretching near the goal, looking as calm and composed as ever. But when he turned his head and spotted you in the stands, something shifted in his expression. It wasn’t dramatic—just a small pause, a barely-there flicker of acknowledgment.

Then, as if nothing happened, he looked away.

You smirked.

Yeah. He definitely noticed.

As the game started, you found yourself watching him more closely. He was fast, efficient, never wasted movement. But every now and then, when there was a break in play, you swore he glanced in your direction.

By the time the game ended, you were already preparing a sarcastic remark for when you saw him.

Chan met you outside the locker room first. "Told you he was acting weird."

You shrugged. "He looks the same to me."

"Trust me," Chan said, "for Vernon, that was basically a full-blown confession."

Before you could respond, Vernon appeared in the hallway. His damp hair fell over his forehead, his usual quiet presence making him seem effortlessly cool.

"You’re here," he said, stopping in front of you.

You crossed your arms. "You sound surprised."

He met your gaze. "A little."

You tilted your head. "Miss me?"

Vernon exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You always ask that."

"And you never give me an answer."

He paused, then—

"Maybe."

You blinked. Well that was new. Before you could say anything, he walked past you, heading toward the exit. But as he did, he spoke just loud enough for you to hear

"See you next game."

You stared after him, lips slowly curling into a smile.

Another game day.

The rink buzzed with energy as another game night rolled in. The usual excitement from the crowd filled the air, fans from both teams eager to see their favorites go head-to-head.

Vernon adjusted his helmet as he skated onto the ice, his mind focused—until Chan nudged him.

“Look,” Chan said, nodding toward the stands.

Vernon followed his gaze, and there you were.

His brow furrowed slightly. He wasn’t expecting you. Usually, you’d give Chan a heads-up if you were coming.

“Guess she had time after all,” Chan muttered, but there was something in his tone—something suspicious.

Before Vernon could ask, his eyes flickered to the opposing team warming up. That’s when he saw it. You weren’t just watching the game. You were standing near the barrier, laughing. With him.

Lee Seokmin.

Forward for the rival team. Loud, energetic, and way too familiar with you.

Vernon’s grip on his stick tightened slightly as he watched Seokmin grin at you, leaning against the boards like this was some casual meet-up and not a competitive match.

Chan turned to Vernon, eyes wide. “Did I miss something, or do they know each other?”

“I don’t know,” Vernon said flatly, but now he really wanted to.

After warm-ups, the team headed back to the locker room. Vernon kept quiet, but Chan wasn’t letting this go.

“Okay, seriously,” he said, shoving his helmet into his bag. “What is going on? Why is my cousin talking to Seokmin?”

Joshua, another teammate, overheard and raised an eyebrow. “Wait, your cousin? She knows Seokmin?”

“I don’t know!” Chan said, exasperated. “She didn’t tell me anything.”

Vernon untied his skates, processing. He wasn’t sure why this bugged him, but it did. You weren’t the type to be friendly just for the sake of it—so if you were joking around with Seokmin, there had to be history there.

And for some reason, that annoyed him.

After the game, which ended in a close win for Vernon’s team, you were waiting outside the locker room.

Chan wasted no time. “Alright,” he said, crossing his arms. “Explain.”

You blinked. “Explain what?”

He gestured toward the rink. “Why were you laughing it up with Seokmin before the game?”

You gave him a look. “Because we’re friends?”

Chan’s eyes narrowed. “Since when?”

You sighed, already predicting this reaction. “We used to date. A long time ago. Now we’re just friends.”

Chan’s jaw dropped. Vernon, standing next to him, simply blinked.

“…You dated him?” Chan asked, as if the words didn’t make sense together.

“For, like, five months. It wasn’t that serious.”

Vernon finally spoke. “Why’d you break up?”

You turned to him, surprised he even asked. “We were better off as friends.”

Vernon’s expression didn’t change, but he held your gaze for a beat longer than usual.

Chan, still recovering, groaned. “I feel betrayed.”

You laughed. “Relax, it’s not that deep.”

Seokmin’s voice interrupted. “Are we talking about me?”

You turned to see Seokmin approaching, still in his team jacket, his ever-present grin in place.

Chan groaned louder. “Oh my god.”

Seokmin laughed, nudging you. “Did you tell them how you used to cheer for my team?”

You smirked. “I left that part out.”

Chan looked like he was about to collapse. “This is so much worse than I thought.”

Vernon, still quiet, glanced between you and Seokmin before saying, “So you’re just friends now?”

You nodded. “Yeah”

He doesn't say anything after that but you could tell there was definitely a reason. And you weren’t going to let it go unnoticed. Meanwhile, Chan was still staring at you like you had just confessed to some deep, dark secret.

“Wait, wait, wait.” He held up a hand. “You mean to tell me that all this time, you and Seokmin—”

“Dated?” Seokmin finished helpfully, grinning. “Yeah, man. Keep up.”

Chan dramatically pressed a hand to his forehead. “How did I not know this? How did no one tell me?”

You shrugged. “We broke up before you even joined the team, and it wasn’t that serious. Plus, you were busy with your own stuff.”

Chan looked genuinely offended. “I feel like I should have felt it or something. Like a disturbance in the Force.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, Jedi.”

Meanwhile, Vernon was watching the entire conversation with his usual unreadable expression, but something about his posture was different. He was listening.

Seokmin clapped a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re just slow.”

Chan smacked his hand away. “I’m not slow, I just—ugh! This is so weird!”

You smirked. “Why? Because you hate the idea of me dating anyone or because it’s Seokmin?”

“…Both.” Chan groaned. “This is, like, finding out your best friend and your worst enemy were secretly besties behind your back.”

Seokmin gasped. “Worst enemy? I thought we were friends!”

“You’re my rival, not my friend,” Chan shot back.

Seokmin patted his shoulder. “Rival is just another word for friend who won’t admit it.”

You stifled a laugh as Chan let out another dramatic groan. But while Chan was too busy overreacting, Vernon was still quiet.

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “You good, hockey boy?”

His eyes flickered to yours, and for a second, he hesitated. Then, in his usual calm voice, he said, “Just surprised. That’s all.”

Seokmin grinned. “Vernon, don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

Vernon blinked at him. “Why would I be?”

Seokmin shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

For a fraction of a second, you swore you saw a flicker of something in Vernon’s expression. Annoyance? Amusement? Something in between?

But, as always, he kept it cool. “Not jealous.”

“Sure,” Seokmin said, clearly not convinced.

You smirked, deciding to push Vernon a little. “I was a great girlfriend.”

Vernon’s eyes flicked to yours again, this time holding your gaze.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice unreadable.

You tilted your head. “Yeah.”

A slow, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Seokmin looked between the two of you and let out a low whistle. “Huh. Interesting.”

Chan narrowed his eyes. “Don’t say it.”

Seokmin grinned. “I think your cousin has a new favorite hockey player.”

Chan groaned for the fourth time. “I hate everything about tonight.”

You just laughed. But the thing was—Seokmin might not have been entirely wrong.

The night air was crisp as you stepped into the parking lot with Chan and Vernon. The game had ended, and while the rivalry on the ice had been intense, the real battle had been you versus Chan’s endless questions about Seokmin.

Vernon had offered to drive both of you home, claiming it was “on the way,” but you were starting to suspect he just wanted to witness the soap opera unfolding in real time.

Chan, still in full interrogation mode, walked beside you. “Okay, but seriously—how did it even start?”

You sighed, exasperated. “I already told you, Chan. We dated, we broke up, we’re friends now. That’s it.”

Chan scoffed. “That’s not it! I need details. Like, who made the first move?”

Seokmin’s grinning face flashed in your mind. “He did.”

Chan gasped dramatically. “Seokmin made the first move?! What did he do, trip over his own skates and land in your lap?”

You laughed. “No, idiot. He was actually really sweet.”

Vernon unlocked the car and got in without a word, letting Chan get it all out of his system before the drive even started.

As soon as you all settled inside, Chan still wasn’t done.

“So let me get this straight,” he continued from the passenger seat, twisting around to face you. “You, my very strong, very independent cousin, voluntarily dated a hockey player?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Chan. I, a normal human being, dated another normal human being. Groundbreaking.”

Chan shook his head, like this was the biggest scandal of the century. “You always said you’d never date an athlete.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “Which is why I’m never dating a hockey player again.”

Vernon, silent up until now, suddenly coughed beside Chan. Both you and Chan turned to him.

Vernon kept his eyes on the road, shifting gears like nothing happened.

Chan squinted. “You good?”

Vernon nodded, completely unfazed. “Yeah. Just dry air.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Uh-huh.”

Chan threw his hands up. “Okay, now I really need to know what went down.”

You sighed dramatically. “Do you really want to hear about my tragic love story, or do you want Vernon to get us home in one piece?”

Chan hesitated before reluctantly turning back around. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

From the driver’s seat, Vernon finally spoke again—his voice smooth, unreadable.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes still on the road. “I bet it isn’t.”

Something about the way he said it made you glance at him again. Maybe it was just your imagination. Or maybe, just maybe, Vernon was thinking about how you might not keep that promise after all.

The hum of the engine filled the car as Vernon smoothly maneuvered through the late-night traffic. The city lights blurred past, casting fleeting shadows across his face. You sat in the backseat, arms crossed, while Chan sat in the passenger seat, still digesting your revelation about Seokmin.

"Okay," Chan started again, shifting to look at you, "so you’re telling me you went from hating the idea of dating an athlete to actually dating one?"

You groaned. "Chan—"

"No, no," he interrupted, waving his hands. "I just need to understand the timeline. When did this betrayal happen?"

Vernon let out a short breath, which you swore sounded like a laugh, though his face remained unreadable.

"You make it sound like I committed a crime," you said, rolling your eyes. "It was, like, a year and a half ago."

Chan gasped. "A year and a half ago?! That recently? And I’m just finding out now?"

"Look, it wasn’t a big deal," you said. "We went on a few dates, had fun, realized we were better as friends, and that was that."

Vernon, still focused on the road, finally spoke. "You broke up with him?"

You glanced at him through the rearview mirror. His voice was as calm as ever, but something about the way he asked made you curious.

"Technically, yeah," you admitted.

Chan groaned again. "Of course you broke up with him. You probably made him think it was his idea, too." Seokmin had been a little blindsided, but you weren’t about to admit that.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," you said, smirking.

Chan turned back to Vernon. "See? This is why I tell people not to mess with my cousin. She’s too powerful."

Vernon finally looked at you through the mirror, his gaze unreadable. "Yeah," he murmured, "I can see that."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach flip.

Chan, oblivious, continued his rant. "But seriously, what did he do that made you swear off hockey players forever? Did he forget your anniversary? Get too competitive?"

You shrugged. "Nah. I just don’t want to deal with the whole team rivalries, constant traveling, always being second to the sport thing. Hockey players are a lot of work."

Vernon coughed again.

Chan turned to him, frowning. "Dude, do you need water?"

Vernon cleared his throat. "I’m fine."

You smirked. "Are you sure? You seem… distracted."

Vernon glanced at you briefly before returning his focus to the road. "Just listening."

"Hmm." You leaned back. "Well, anyway, I learned my lesson. I’m sticking to normal people now."

Chan snorted. "Normal people?"

"Yeah. You know—guys with normal schedules, normal jobs, no risk of getting concussed every other week."

Vernon’s hands flexed on the steering wheel.

Chan laughed. "I give it two months before you go back on that."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because," Chan said, smirking, "you like the chaos too much. Admit it, you love being involved in hockey drama. You thrive on it."

You gasped, pretending to be offended. "Excuse me! I am very peaceful."

Vernon finally spoke again, his tone deadpan. "Sure."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Are you siding with Chan?"

"I mean," Vernon said, shrugging, "you are sitting in a hockey player’s car, after attending a hockey game, while arguing about hockey."

Chan burst out laughing. "Oh my god, he’s got a point."

You huffed. "Okay, fine. Maybe I tolerate the chaos. But that doesn’t mean I’ll date another hockey player."

Vernon didn’t say anything but when you glanced at him through the mirror again, he had the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips.

Like he knew something you didn’t.

The rest of the ride was quieter. Chan was scrolling through his phone, occasionally making dramatic sighs about his “betrayal,” while Vernon drove smoothly through the streets.

At one point, you rested your chin on your hand, watching the buildings blur past. Despite the chaos of the evening, there was something… nice about being in Vernon’s car. He was steady, dependable. Even with Chan’s endless commentary, he never seemed irritated. Just patient.

When Vernon finally pulled up to Chan’s place, your cousin unbuckled his seatbelt and sighed dramatically. "Alright, I guess I’ll forgive you. For now."

You smirked. "Gee, thanks."

Chan opened the door but paused, glancing between you and Vernon. Then, with a knowing smirk, he said, "You two have fun."

Before you could question him, he hopped out and disappeared inside.

You scoffed. "What was that about?"

Vernon hummed. "Not sure."

But he definitely looked like he knew. with Chan gone, the car suddenly felt… quieter.

Vernon shifted slightly, one hand resting on the gear shift. "Where to?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

"Your place," he said simply. "Where is it?"

"Oh." You gave him the directions, and he nodded, smoothly pulling back onto the road. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t awkward, though. Just… different.

"So," Vernon finally said, glancing at you through the mirror, "never dating a hockey player again?"

You smirked. "That’s the plan."

"Hmm." He didn’t sound convinced.

You tilted your head. "Why? You don’t think I can do it?"

Vernon let out a small breath—almost a chuckle. "I just think… you might change your mind."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what makes you say that?"

He slowed to a stop at a red light, then turned his head slightly, meeting your eyes.

"Just a feeling," he said simply.

You held his gaze, searching for something—anything—in his expression. But, as always, Vernon was unreadable. Calm. Completely in control.

Yet, for some reason, your heart did a weird little flip.

You scoffed, looking away. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but I’m done with hockey boys."

Vernon tapped his fingers against the wheel. "Mm."

The light turned green, and he pulled forward. And though he didn’t say anything else, the ghost of a smirk lingered on his lips.

When he finally pulled up in front of your building, he put the car in park but didn’t move to unlock the doors yet. Instead, he rested his wrist on the steering wheel and turned his head slightly toward you.

"You sure about that?"

You blinked. "Huh?"

He kept his gaze on you, calm and unreadable. "About being done with hockey players."

You scoffed. "Yeah, I’m sure."

Vernon hummed, like he wasn’t convinced.

Your eyes narrowed. "Why? You think I’m lying?"

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. "I think people say things they don’t mean all the time."

You frowned. "Well, I do mean it."

Vernon tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. Then, after a moment, he said, "Wanna bet?"

Your brows shot up. "Excuse me?"

He leaned back, resting his arm on the car door. "Bet me that you won’t date another hockey player."

You let out an incredulous laugh. "What are we, twelve?"

Vernon just raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine. What’s at stake?"

His lips curled slightly—barely noticeable, but there. "Winner gets whatever they want."

You raised a skeptical brow. "Like… money?"

Vernon shook his head. "Nope."

"Then what?"

He exhaled through his nose, thinking for a second before saying, "Bragging rights."

"That’s it?"

"That’s it," Vernon confirmed.

You squinted at him. "You’re really so confident that I’ll cave and date another hockey player?"

Vernon didn’t even hesitate. "Yeah."

Something about his unwavering confidence made you cross your arms. "Okay, fine. It’s a bet. I will never date another hockey player again."

Vernon nodded. "Cool." Then, finally, he reached over and unlocked the doors.

You narrowed your eyes. "Wait. What happens if I win?"

His lips twitched slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Then you get to rub it in my face."

You smirked. "Oh, I will."

Vernon just shrugged, like he wasn’t worried in the slightest.

That irritated you even more.

"Goodnight, hockey boy," you said, reaching for the door handle.

Vernon’s response was so quiet you almost didn’t catch it. "Goodnight," he murmured. Then, as you stepped out, he added, "See you around."

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.

Like he already knew how this was going to end.

Like he was just waiting.

The bet was stupid.

You knew it was stupid the second you agreed to it, and yet… it bothered you. Not because you thought you’d lose—because you wouldn’t. There was no way you’d fall for another hockey player.

No, what bothered you was Vernon’s confidence. The way he’d looked at you, calm and collected, like he already knew how this would play out. Like he wasn’t guessing, but rather waiting.

And that? That was infuriating.

So you did the only logical thing.

You ignored it.

For an entire week, you threw yourself into work, into your internship, into anything that would keep you too busy to think about Vernon or his stupid, smug little bet.

And it worked. Kind of.

When you arrived at the rink, you told yourself you were not looking for him.

You weren’t scanning the ice, weren’t checking the players warming up, weren’t—

Oh.

There he was.

Vernon stood near the bench, adjusting his gloves, looking annoyingly good in his gear. He wasn’t flashy like some of the other guys, but he had this effortless kind of presence—calm, confident, and completely unbothered.

Which only made you more bothered.

You turned back to Chan. "I hate you for bringing me here."

Chan grinned. "Love you too, cousin."

A whistle blew, signaling the players to line up, and as Vernon skated past, he glanced toward the stands. His eyes found yours immediately.

And then—he smirked. Like he knew you’d be here.

Your stomach flipped, and you immediately turned to Chan. "I take it back. I really hate you."

Chan just laughed. "No, you don’t."

The game started, and you did your best to focus. But it was hard when you were hyper-aware of one player in particular and every time you told yourself you were imagining things, that Vernon wasn’t paying any special attention to you.

He’d prove you wrong.

A glance before a faceoff. A lingering look after a goal. A subtle smirk every time he skated near your side of the rink.

And the worst part?

You knew he was doing it on purpose.

By the time the game ended, you were fully prepared to never attend another one again.

You tried to ignore Vernon.

You really did.

But ignoring Vernon was impossible when he wasn’t ignoring you.

Every game you attended, he’d look for you. Every time he saw you, there was a smirk, a glance, a knowing look that said I’m still winning.

And the worst part?

You caught yourself looking for him too.

It was small things at first—wondering if he’d be at the team hangouts, noticing when he was not at practice, catching yourself staring a second too long during games.

You were slipping.

And you hated it.

You were officially avoiding Vernon.

It wasn’t obvious avoidance. You weren’t hiding behind corners or diving into bushes when you saw him. No, you were subtle.

You stopped showing up to games as often. You made excuses whenever Chan invited you to team hangouts. You even started leaving early when you knew Vernon might be around.

And for a while, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

Because Vernon wasn’t stupid.

And unfortunately for you, he was patient.

He wasn’t mad you were avoiding him. He wasn’t giving up.

He was just waiting. Waiting for you to stop fighting yourself. Waiting for you to let yourself have something good. And somehow that was worse because you could handle anger.

But patience?

Patience made you want to give in.

It happened at a café. You were minding your own business, fully immersed in your laptop, when suddenly a chair scraped against the floor in front of you.

You looked up and there he was.

Vernon.

Sitting across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You blinked. "What—"

"You’re avoiding me," he said.

You scoffed. "No, I’m not."

"You are."

"I’m busy."

Vernon nodded. "Sure."

You clenched your jaw. "I am."

Vernon took a sip of his coffee, completely unbothered. "You were at every game before. Then, suddenly, you’re not. Feels personal."

"It’s not," you lied.

"Right."

You exhaled sharply, tapping your fingers against the table. "Is this why you sat here? To call me out?"

"Partly," Vernon admitted.

"And the other part?"

He tilted his head. "I missed you."

Your brain short-circuited. "Excuse me?"

Vernon shrugged. "It was more fun when you were around."

You stared at him. "Are you messing with me?"

"Nope."

"Vernon."

"Hm?"

"You’re being weird."

He smirked. "Or maybe you just don’t know how to deal with me being serious."

Your stomach flipped. Okay. This was dangerous territory. He was right and your brain can't process the situation, you're so used to his one word remarks and nonchalance. But this feels like something your heart isn't prepared for.

You forced a laugh. "Nice try, but I’m not falling for it."

Vernon leaned back, watching you closely. "You sure?"

You clenched your jaw. "Yes."

"Okay," he said easily.

After a while he did leave you alone, even though he wanted to stay and banter with you some more because these days it seems that his main source of entertainment is to get under your skin. Coach called for a meeting. After a quick goodbye you find yourself alone again.

Later that day though, Chan came to your apartment. The moment you saw Chan, you regretted telling him anything.

Because instead of sympathy, he just grinned.

"You’re doomed."

You glared at him. "I am not."

"Vernon likes you."

You crossed your arms. "He does not."

"Okay, and you like him."

"Chan."

"You’re in denial."

You groaned. "Can you be normal for once?"

Chan ignored you. "You realize Vernon is going to win, right?"

"He isn’t."

"Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that."

You threw a pillow at him.

It happened at the worst possible time. You were at another game (against your better judgment), sitting next to Chan, when the unthinkable happened... Vernon scored.

And you.... you cheered. Loudly. Enthusiastically.

And worst of all?

Vernon heard.

He turned immediately, locking eyes with you from across the rink.

Vernon, still looking at you, winked.

You were still recovering from what happened during the game. The team had won, meaning the energy in the rink was electric. Fans cheered, players celebrated, and you?

You were debating leaving immediately before Vernon found you. But before you could execute your escape Chan grabbed your arm. "Oh no. You’re not running away."

You scowled. "I’m not running. I just have things to do."

"Like avoiding Vernon?"

"Exactly."

Chan shook his head, dragging you toward the locker rooms. "Nope. You’re gonna face your feelings like an adult."

"I am an adult. And my adult decision is denial."

"That’s not how it works."

"It’s worked for me so far."

Chan ignored you, you hear the pushing open of the locker room door before Chan screams "Hey, Vernon! Your biggest fan is here."

You smacked Chan’s arm. "I hate you."

"Hey."

Vernon.

Standing right there, fresh out of the shower, towel around his neck, still slightly damp from the game and he's looking directly at you.

Chan grinned. "I’ll leave you two alone."

You turned sharply. "You traitor—"

But he was already gone. You were going to kill him. You thought but first you had to deal with Vernon.

"Good game."

Vernon smirked. "I could tell. You were very excited when I scored."

You rolled your eyes. "It was an automatic reaction."

"Right."

"It’s called sportsmanship."

"Uh-huh."

You exhaled sharply. "You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?"

"A little," he admitted.

You crossed your arms. "If you’re expecting me to confess I like you, it’s not happening."

Vernon hummed. "You just did, though."

Your jaw dropped. "I did not."

"You said, ‘if you’re expecting me to confess I like you,’ which implies there’s something to confess."

You blinked. "I hate you."

Vernon grinned. "No, you don’t."

You clenched your fists. "This is a nightmare."

Vernon tilted his head. "So… when are you taking me on a date?"

You nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"You lost the bet, right?"

"I did not lose the bet!"

You were completely and utterly screwed.

You should have known he wouldn’t let you get away with avoiding him because, a few days later, he showed up outside the building where you were doing your internship. You nearly dropped your bag when you spotted him standing near the entrance.

"What the hell are you doing here?" you hissed, marching up to him.

Vernon looked amused. "Visiting."

"Visiting who?"

"You."

You stared at him. "Why?"

Vernon shoved his hands in his pockets, looking far too casual. "Because you’re avoiding me."

"I am not avoiding you."

"You are."

You groaned. "Why do you do this?"

Vernon tilted his head. "Because it’s fun."

"For who?"

He smirked. "Me." You were going to lose your mind. You were seriously debating throwing your very heavy tote bag at him and his smug face.

Vernon glanced past you into the building. "So, this is where you spend all your time now?"

"Yes," you said firmly. "Because I’m busy."

Vernon nodded. "So busy you don’t have time for a date?"

Your brain short-circuited.

"What?"

Vernon shrugged. "A date. With me."

You blinked at him. "You’re joking."

"I’m not."

You stared. "You do remember the bet, right?"

"Yep."

"And that I refuse to date another hockey player?"

Vernon nodded. "Still waiting on that to work out for you."

You exhaled sharply. "I’m not dating you."

"Yet," Vernon added.

"Ever."

"We’ll see."

"STOP SAYING THAT" you all but scream at him, the way he's looking at you right now is making you want to pull all your hair out.

Vernon smirked, taking a step closer. "Admit it. You like me."

You scowled. "I will never admit that."

Vernon hummed. "Okay."

Too calm.

Too smug.

You knew he didn’t believe you and somehow, that was infinitely worse. You had spent days trying to push down the realization that you might actually—God forbid—like Vernon. And somehow, in those same days, he got worse.

Not in an annoying way.

No.

Vernon had started being… sweet. Not the obvious kind. Not the cheesy, over-the-top, grand gestures kind. But Vernon’s kind.

Small things.

Subtle things.

Things that made you notice how well he knew you. Like how he always made sure you had a seat at the games, whether you said you were coming or not. Or how he started bringing you coffee without asking, without a word just sliding it in front of you at the rink like it was normal.

Or how, when you stayed late at your internship, your phone would buzz with a single text:

Vernon: Don’t walk home alone. I’ll pick you up.

(And when you argued, he’d just show up anyway.)

It was infuriating.

Because it was working.

And somehow, you were losing the bet in real time.

It happened after a late game.

You weren’t supposed to go. You had convinced yourself you wouldn’t go and yet you find yourself sitting at the bleachers again waiting for the game to finish.

You blamed Chan. (And also yourself.)

You stayed after, waiting for Chan, when suddenly a hoodie dropped over your head. You startled, pulling it off. "What the—"

You turned and Vernon was there. He looked at you, completely unaffected. "It’s cold."

You blinked. "I—what—"

"Just wear it."

You hesitated, staring down at it.

It was his hoodie.

Still warm. Still smelling like him.

And for some reason you put it on. You didn't put up a fight, didn't say another snarky remark. You just put it on. Vernon nodded, satisfied, then leaned against the wall next to you.

Neither of you spoke. For the first time, it wasn’t teasing, wasn’t banter.

It was just—quiet.

"You know," Vernon said suddenly, "I like you."

Your breath caught.

You turned to him. "What?"

Vernon exhaled, tilting his head to look at you. "I like you."

Just like that. No hesitation. No we’ll see. No denial.

Just the truth.

You swallowed, avoiding his eyes now. You put your hands inside the pocket of his hoodie, toying with your fingers as you look at anywhere but him.

"You’re just saying that because you want to win."

Vernon shook his head. "I already won."

You stared at him. "You did not—"

"You’re wearing my hoodie."

You opened your mouth then closed it.

Because damn it—he was right.

And the worst part? For the first time you didn’t want to fight it.

After that, it's like everything was normal again. For Vernon, not for you. You had not recovered from Vernon’s confession. Mostly because he didn’t bring it up again. No teasing. No rubbing it in.

He just—let it sit which somehow made it worse because now, you were the one thinking about it.

About him.

About how easy it would be to just… give in.

And then one night, after another late shift, you walked outside and found him waiting leaning against his car. Hands in his pockets.

Like it was normal.

You sighed. "Vernon—"

"I know," he said. "You didn’t ask me to come."

You stared at him. "Then why did you?"

Vernon shrugged. "Because I knew you’d be tired."

Your chest tightened. You swallowed. "You really like me, huh?" you say, voice barely a whisper but he heard you. He heard you loud and clear.

"Yeah."

You like Vernon.

You like Vernon not just in a haha, he’s annoying but funny way. Not just in a he’s hot but I’d never admit it way but in a real, terrifying, no-going-back way and the realization hit you so hard that you had to physically sit down.

Chan, ever the menace, noticed immediately. "Oh no. It happened, didn’t it?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I hate my life."

Chan cackled. "I knew it."

"You are not allowed to tell anyone."

"Are you kidding? I’m telling everyone."

You shot him a glare. "Chan—" "Kidding. Relax. Your secret’s safe."

You exhaled. "Good."

Chan smirked. "But, uh… you might want to tell Vernon soon."

You blinked. "Why?" Chan pointed behind you.

And when you turned Vernon was standing there and he's looking right at you.

You froze. Vernon didn’t.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly. "So."

Meanwhile Chan slowly walks backwards to escape the scene and leaving you to your devices.

You swallowed. "So?"

"You like me." he smirks. The man had the audacity to smirk and it sends something right through you. Either you want to run away from or run away with, you're not so sure.

You let out a sharp breath. "Don’t start."

Vernon hummed. "You do, though."

You ran a hand through your hair. "Vernon—"

"It’s okay," he said. "I already knew."

Your stomach flipped. "Excuse me?" you look at him wide eyed

Vernon shrugged. "I was just waiting for you to admit it."

You stared at him. "You’re insufferable."

He grinned. "And you like me anyway."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "This is the worst day of my life."

Vernon chuckled. "Is it?"

You hesitated because no it wasn’t.

It was actually… kind of nice.

Finally letting yourself feel it.

Finally stopping the fight.

Finally looking at him and knowing he had been waiting for you all along.

You sighed. "Fine." Vernon raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

You crossed your arms. "Fine. I like you. Happy now?"

Vernon just smiled.

"Yeah."

And then he walks closer to you, only a step away. Close enough you can smell his shower gel and fabric softener but far enough to give you space if you needed it.

Then he laced his fingers through yours. He did it like it was normal. Like he had been waiting to do it this whole time.

You stared down at your hand in his. Warm. Steady. Unwavering.

And suddenly you felt stupid.

Because what now? what, he got what he wanted? You admitted it. You said it. He won. Was he going to smirk, say told you so, and just… walk away?

You pulled your hand back, crossing your arms. "What now?"

Vernon blinked. "What do you mean?"

You scowled. "What now? You’re happy? You win?"

Vernon tilted his head, confused. "Win what?"

You huffed. "The bet. The whole stupid game you’ve been playing. Congratulations. You made me fall for you. Now you can go back to your cool, mysterious, hockey star life and leave me alone."

Vernon frowned. "What?"

You threw your hands up. "I mean, that’s how this goes, right? You chase me, I resist, I finally give in, and then boom—you’re over it."

You scoffed. "See? Silence. I knew it. I knew—"

"I’m not leaving."

You froze.

Vernon’s gaze was steady, unreadable, but there was something serious in his tone.

You swallowed. "What?"

"I’m not leaving, I'm not going anywhere. Where do you think I'm going?" he asks, confused

You hesitated. "Why not?"

Vernon exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because I like you. Like, actually like you. This wasn’t just some game for me."

"It wasn’t?" you mumble

"No."

You shifted on your feet. "Are you sure?"

Vernon laughed a quiet, breathy sound, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking. Then he reached out—gently, carefully—and hooked his pinky around yours. And somehow, that tiny, stupid action made your chest feel like it was about to explode.

Vernon looked at you. "I’m sure."

And just like that—

You didn’t know how to fight him anymore.

After that night, Vernon didn’t change.

He didn’t start being overly sweet. He didn’t suddenly turn into a rom-com boyfriend who sent you flowers and love notes.

No.

He was just him.

Still showing up.

Still waiting outside your internship, still tossing his jacket over your shoulders, still holding your hand in that quiet, casual way that made you wonder how you had gone this long without it.

And maybe…

Just maybe…

You were finally starting to trust it. To trust him because he wasn’t going anywhere and for once you didn’t want him to. The moment you realized you weren’t fighting this anymore—weren’t fighting him—a strange kind of calm settled over you.

Vernon was still holding your hand. Still standing close. Still watching you with that infuriatingly patient expression like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to catch up.

It should have been a big moment. A grand, cinematic, fireworks-in-the-background kind of thing.

But instead—

"OH MY GOD."

You and Vernon both jumped, heads snapping up just in time to see Chan standing there, eyes wide, mouth open.

Your idiot cousin pointed an accusing finger at your intertwined hands.

"WHAT IS THAT?"

You blinked. "What is what?"

"THAT!" Chan gestured wildly. "You! Him! HANDS!"

Vernon blinked at him, unfazed. "Yeah, we have hands."

"OH MY GOD."

You groaned, trying to yank your hand away out of pure instinct only for Vernon to tighten his grip. Subtle. Calm. Like he was telling you, No. Don’t let go just because he’s here.

You hesitated. Then…

You didn’t let go.

Chan screamed.

"I need a moment," Chan announced, dramatically collapsing onto a bench like he had just received life-altering news.

You rolled your eyes. "Chan, it’s not that serious."

"NOT THAT SERIOUS?" Chan clutched his chest. "You—you and Vernon—I mean—when—HOW?"

Vernon just stuffed his free hand in his pocket, watching Chan with his usual unreadable expression. "You good?"

"No," Chan wheezed.

You sighed. "You’re being dramatic."

Chan sat up abruptly, eyes narrowing. "Oh? I’m being dramatic? Says the girl who SWORE she would NEVER date another hockey player?"

Your face burned. "I—okay, yeah, I might’ve said that, but—"

"SO WHAT IS THIS THEN?" Chan gestured wildly at you and Vernon.

You opened your mouth—then closed it because what was this?

Vernon didn’t let you think for long. "We’re dating," he said simply.

You choked. "Vernon!"

Chan’s jaw dropped. "YOU ARE?!"

Vernon turned to you, unfazed. "We’re not?"

You floundered. "I mean—I—are we?"

Vernon shrugged. "You like me. I like you. We hold hands now. Feels like dating."

Your brain short-circuited.

Because… that was it? That easy?

Chan looked between the two of you, unimpressed. "This is the weirdest way I’ve ever seen two people start dating."

You groaned. "I hate both of you."

Vernon smirked. "You like me, though."

You scowled. "Don’t push it."

Chan stood up, rubbing his temples. "I need time to process this."

You crossed your arms. "It’s not that deep."

Chan snorted. "Not that deep? Please. The entire team is gonna freak when they find out."

Your stomach dropped.

"The team?"

"Oh yeah," Chan smirked. "Good luck keeping this quiet."

Vernon didn’t seem fazed at all. But you?

You were doomed.

Chan had seen a lot of things in his life.

He had seen Vernon score impossible goals in the last seconds of a game. He had seen you single-handedly shut down an entire group of guys trying to hit on you at a party. He had seen Seungkwan lose his mind when they ran out of his favorite snacks at the dorms.

But this?

This was a new level of shocking.

He had come over to your place after practice, expecting a normal night of hanging out. Maybe some bickering, maybe some teasing—nothing out of the ordinary.

What he did not expect was to walk into the kitchen and see Vernon standing behind you, arms loosely wrapped around your waist, casually resting his chin on your shoulder while you scrolled through your phone.

And even more shocking?

You were letting him.

You. The queen of personal space. The same person who once smacked Chan for putting his feet on your couch.

But now?

You were just standing there, completely unbothered, letting Vernon be all up in your space like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Chan froze. "WHAT AM I LOOKING AT?"

You barely glanced up. "Hey, Chan."

"No." He pointed an accusatory finger at you. "What is this?"

Vernon blinked lazily. "A kitchen."

"VERNON."

"What?" Vernon was so calm it was infuriating.

Chan sputtered. "You’re—you’re literally all over her, and she’s letting you?"

Vernon hummed. "Yeah."

"YEAH?"

You sighed, turning your head slightly to look at Chan. "Why are you acting like this is a crime?"

"Because YOU used to YELL at me for even TOUCHING YOUR SHOULDER!"

You shrugged. "You’re not Vernon."

"EXACTLY!"

Chan ran a hand down his face, groaning dramatically. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I need a second."

Vernon just looked at him, completely unfazed.

"You’re acting like I’m holding her hostage," Vernon said, resting his chin back on your shoulder.

"Okay," he breathed, pressing a hand to his chest. "I need—I need to sit down."

You rolled your eyes. "Drama queen."

"No, YOU DON’T GET IT," Chan huffed. "I spent YEARS watching you destroy men for breathing near you, and NOW YOU’RE JUST LETTING VERNON CUDDLE YOU IN THE KITCHEN?"

Vernon smirked. "Would you rather I kiss your cousin in the kitchen?"

Chan stared at him, deadpan. "I will throw you in a snowbank."

Vernon just shrugged, unbothered, and looped his arm around your waist again. And when you didn’t move away—didn’t fight it, didn’t act like it was a big deal—Chan lost his mind.

"I CAN’T BE HERE."

And with that, your cousin stormed out of the kitchen.

You laughed, shaking your head. "He’ll be fine."

Vernon just smirked, squeezing your waist slightly before pulling away.

"Yeah," he said. "But this is fun."

And honestly?

He wasn’t wrong.

The first time Vernon kissed you, it wasn’t in some dramatic, romantic moment. It wasn’t after a big fight or some emotional confession.

It was a regular night. The two of you had just finished getting dinner, and he had walked you to your door like he always did.

No pressure. No expectations. Just… Vernon being Vernon.

And as you turned to say goodnight, he just looked at you for a second—head tilted, hands in his pockets, gaze steady as ever.

Then, so casually it almost felt like an afterthought, he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours.

No rush. No hesitation. Just… easy.

And instead of pulling away, instead of overthinking it you kissed him back.

Because, for once in your life you weren’t scared. You weren’t running. You weren’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You were exactly where you were supposed to be.

And Vernon?

He had been waiting for you to figure that out all along.

The apartment was quiet.

Dim lighting from the bedside lamp cast a soft glow across the room, the kind that made everything feel warm and safe. Outside, the city buzzed with life, but inside, within the walls of your shared space, it was just you and Vernon.

And Vernon was clingy.

Not in an obvious, dramatic way. Not in the way some people whined for attention or made a big show of it.

No—Vernon’s clinginess was quiet, subtle, and completely inescapable.

Like now.

You had barely shifted an inch when his arm—already wrapped snugly around your waist—tightened.

"Where are you going?" His voice was low, raspy from sleep.

You sighed. "I wasn’t going anywhere."

"Good."

His hold on you relaxed slightly, but he didn’t let go. He never did. Vernon wasn’t the type to smother you with affection in public, but in private?

He was relentless.

He had to feel you. Had to know you were there. Had to keep you close, even in sleep which explained why your legs were tangled together, his arm was curled around your stomach, and his forehead was resting against the back of your neck.

The warmth of his breath tickled your skin.

You shivered and, of course, Vernon noticed. He let out a quiet hum, nuzzling even closer.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

Without a word, he pulled the blanket higher, tucked it around you both, and pressed himself closer.

"Better?"

You smiled. "Yeah."

Vernon sighed, his lips barely grazing your shoulder. Silence settled between you. The comfortable kind. The kind where you didn’t need to say anything because just being there was enough.

But then you felt it. The way his fingers started tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. Soft. Thoughtless. Completely natural.

It was so Vernon.

Always the same quiet gestures. Always the same small ways of showing affection. You reached down, lacing your fingers through his.

Vernon stilled for a second, then—without a word—he intertwined them properly, squeezing once before relaxing again.

And for a while, that was it.

Just the sound of your breathing. Just the warmth of him against you. Just the steady, slow rhythm of two people who fit together perfectly.

But then Vernon spoke.

"…You’re my favorite."

Your heart skipped a beat.

You turned slightly, catching the sleepy, almost shy expression on his face.

You raised an eyebrow. "Favorite what?"

"Just…" His voice was a little hoarse, a little soft, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it out loud. "My favorite everything."

Your breath caught.

Vernon never said things like this. Not because he didn’t feel them, but because he didn’t need to.

He showed it instead.

Through the way he waited for you after your internship, even if it meant sitting outside for an hour. Through the way he always pulled you closer in his sleep, like he was scared you’d disappear. Through the way he remembered the smallest things, like how you hated sleeping with socks on or how you always curled up a certain way when you were tired.

He didn’t have to say it.

But he did anyway.

Because you needed to hear it.

You swallowed, heart too full, too warm, too much.

"You’re such a sap," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice cracked just a little.

Vernon smirked, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"You like it."

You huffed. "Maybe."

He chuckled. Then, before you could say anything else, he tilted his head forward, pressed a lazy kiss against your jaw, and mumbled—

"Go to sleep."

And just like that—

You did.

[quimerala]

Acho tão coisa de rico ficar triste porque os pais tão divorciando. Tipo assim, quando foi minha vez minha familia já tinha tanto problema que isso foi só um pequeno acontecimento na nossa lore

[quimerala]

Top piores experiências da vida: receber visitas QUE VOCÊ NEM CONVIDOU na sua casa enquanto você está de tpm. Pqp mano, o pior é que esse povo não se toca, eu quando vou na casa dos outros não fico enchendo o saco desse jeito não