#I made this sketch of this a while back like late in the middle of the night on a whim

[mc-tummy-blur]

Got a headcanon where Jack, when he’s not on his joy, bites his thumb in irritation. Mainly used as a reference to the Shakespeare meaning of biting one’s thumb (either flipping someone off or challenging them to a fight), with him being an actor and all. Also could be a way for him to stim, both ideas can coexist

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[archivegyu]

masterlist

invisible string

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

There’s a golden softness to late afternoons in Seoul. The kind that melts into the floorboards and sneaks into the corners of rooms. In Seungcheol’s apartment, it spills in through the wide living room windows, lazily painting everything with that hazy warmth only spring can offer. It catches in the ridges of your coffee mug, glimmers against the silver edges of your ruler, and warms the back of your neck as you hunch over the center table.

The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of your laptop fan and the occasional scribble of your stylus across the screen. Your project , fills the display in layers of blueprints and notes. Post-its clutter the table’s edge, reminders of measurements and deadlines, and in the middle of it all, there’s you; oversized hoodie, glasses slipping down your nose, hair pulled back in a lazy bun.

And next to you, lying belly-up with a kind of careless peace you envy, is Kkuma.

She lets out a little huff, tail twitching as if in a dream. You reach over to scratch behind her ear with your free hand, lips twitching into a tired smile.

This is what most of your evenings look like lately. Half-finished sketches, cold takeout, and a drowsy dog keeping you company while your best friend dances himself to the bone in some faraway practice room.

You hadn’t meant to stay here long. When Seungcheol first offered his spare room, you’d told yourself it was just for a few months — until your life calmed down, until rent became less of a monster, until breathing felt easier.

But the months stretched, and the apartment never stopped feeling safe. He never made you feel like a guest, either. It wasn’t his place. It became yours too. The kind of home that smells like coffee and fabric softener, where the walls are filled with memories neither of you ever had to say out loud.

The front door clicks open a little past eight.

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The soft shuffle of sneakers on tile. The familiar thud of a duffle bag hitting the entryway floor. Then the drag of tired footsteps across the wood, slow and heavy, like gravity itself decided to cling to him today.

“I’m home,” he calls, his voice quieter than usual. Rough around the edges.

Still, you smile without looking. “There’s kimchi fried rice on the stove.”

He pauses, then: “Did you cook or order again?”

“Define ‘cook.’”

He laughs under his breath. A real one. Not the polite, camera-ready kind.

You finally glance up and find him standing a few feet away, hoodie soaked through, bangs sticking to his forehead, sweat glistening at his collarbone. Exhaustion clings to him like second skin, but his eyes are gentle, warm when they land on you.

“You’re still working?” he asks, nodding toward the screen.

You shrug. “Final review is next week.”

“You said that last week.”

“I meant it then, too.”

He shakes his head, kneels to pet Kkuma. She perks up, tail wagging in sleepy little thumps against the floor.

“She’s spoiled now,” he mutters. “Doesn’t even greet me at the door anymore.”

You hum without thinking, eyes drifting back to your screen. “She likes people who feed her on time.”

He snorts. “I’m taking a shower. Don’t pass out on the floor again.”

You raise a hand in lazy salute, already tuning back into the chaos of your canvas.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

You’re fast asleep by the time he finds you again.

Curled up on the center table, cheek pressed to your folded arms, a pencil still tucked between your fingers. Your laptop screen has dimmed to black, casting the room into a warm hush. Kkuma lies beside you, paw resting near your knee like she’s been guarding you all evening.

Seungcheol exhales quietly from where he stands in the hallway, towel slung around his shoulders. His hair is still damp, shirt clinging slightly to his skin from the shower. His body aches from practice, but his chest aches for something else entirely.

He steps forward, careful not to wake you. There’s something fragile about the scene; the way your face is turned toward the window, the way your brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, like the weight you always carry has finally slipped off for just a moment.

And God, you still wear that hoodie he gave you two winters ago— fraying at the sleeves, too big for your frame, swallowed by the fabric.

He kneels beside the table.

“You weren’t supposed to fall asleep like this,” he murmurs softly, reaching to brush a stray hair out of your face.

You don’t stir. You never do, not when you’re this tired. It’s something he’s learned from the years. How you give everything you have until your body stops you. How you always say you’re fine even when you aren’t. How you carry the weight of the world in silence.

He hesitates, then gently scoops you up in his arms. You sink into his chest instinctively, head resting against the hollow of his shoulder. You smell like shampoo and his vanilla lotion you pretend not to like.

Your fingers twitch once in your sleep, curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

And that’s what does it; that tiny movement, that subconscious reach for him. Like something inside you knows, even now, even half-asleep, that it’s him.

He carries you to your room, nudging the door open with his foot. Lays you down slowly, carefully, like you’re something precious. Something breakable. His fingers linger on your wrist for a second too long before he pulls the blanket over you.

Then, without thinking, he reaches up and grazes the back of his knuckle along your cheek.

“Night, pretty girl,” he whispers, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even your dreams deserve rest.”

He closes the door quietly behind him.

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Back in the living room, Seungcheol sinks into the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. The quiet presses in; thick and full of everything he’s never said.

Kkuma climbs up beside him, paws light on the cushion. She flops down, tail flicking once, then still.

He chuckles softly, leaning back. “She’s gonna burn herself out before she even graduates.”

Kkuma yawns.

“She doesn’t take care of herself unless someone makes her. It’s annoying,” he says, his voice softer now, gentler. “But… I wouldn’t want anyone else to be the one who reminds her.”

Silence stretches between him and the dog.

“You know, I’ve been trying to ignore it. For years, maybe. Told myself it was just comfort, or familiarity. Like she’s just… always been here.”

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

“But it’s not that. It’s never been that.”

His voice wavers just a little.

“I’m in love with her.”

There. He says it. Not to you. Not to anyone who can answer. Just to the only soul in the room who might understand.

Kkuma lifts her head slightly, ears twitching.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he continues, his eyes growing distant. “Maybe it was when she stood up to my bully. Maybe when she shared her candy and said I could have the red one.”

A soft laugh escapes him, short and breathless.

“Maybe I’ve always known.”

He reaches down and pets Kkuma’s head again, more to ground himself than anything.

“I don’t know what she’d say if I told her. I don’t know if she’d laugh, or freeze, or leave.” His voice turns quiet. “But I’d rather have her here, like this, than risk losing her at all.”

He looks toward your closed bedroom door.

“So maybe I’ll just wait a little longer.”

The city hums quietly outside the windows. And in this in-between, not quite night, not quite morning; he sits in the golden aftermath of everything unsaid, gently held by the thread that’s tied you to him all this time.

[kill4luvina]

"Fucked Around and Found out"

Vampire!Ony x Nerd!Reader (Fem)

Onyakapon ain't the type to get caught up in relationships—he's always been about casual hookups, bouncing from girl to girl, never sticking around long enough for anything real. But that all changes when he meets you. Over the years at Oak Ridge High, he’s never met anyone quite like you—to the public eye your the sweet, innocent & quiet girl nobody pays any mind to. He believed it too, Until one night at a wild house party, he sees a whole different side of you.

Warnings : SMUT, Ony & Reader are both drunk, Unprotected Sex, Choking, fingering, manhandling, biting & death (reader turns into a vampire at the end), reader has nipple piercing, spit kink, Oral (m receiving), mating press, reader is a slut for ony, breeding, creampie, Telepathy, cockdrunk reader, ooh girll, and so much more.

Onyakapon only sees you during Art Studio on Fridays, the one time he decided to stop by on a sunny day instead of going home after his last lecture. He sat next to you, and charmed his way into becoming your friend—complimenting your art and literally just talking to you about anything.

Today was like any other Friday, he walked into the studio with McDonald's. Catching your attention as you greeted him. "Why’d you get McDonald's?" you tilted your head, addressing the elephant in the room.

"So, you don’t want some?" he asked, making you laugh and shake your head. While eating, he couldn’t help but notice you got your hair and nails done.

You adjusted your glasses on your face as you picked up your phone, realizing you were running a little late. "I gotta go, me and my friend are going out tonight. I’ll see you next week?" you smiled, your braces making you even cuter to him.

"Mmhmm, be safe," he said, and you nodded before leaving.

He sat there for a minute, looking to the side, and noticed you left your drawing. He pulled it closer and realized it was a few different sketches of him, with his name drawn in the middle. There was a cute note at the bottom with your number & Instagram.

Ony’s homeboys had noticed the change in him since he met you. He didn’t really talk to or about any other girl but you. It was like his brain didn’t even register that today was his 3rd time seeing you, but he felt so comfortable around you. The weekdays were now just him, doing his schoolwork and making art.

A shocking change, due to his history of hooking up with girls every other day. Once in a while using them as a snack when they didn’t meet his standards.

This new change made being a vampire difficult, rather then killing girls he found peace in buying extra rats for his snake and him as well. Which wasn’t enough but would get him through the day.

But today, after what you said, he felt like he needed to get back in the game. And what better way than hitting up a house party? One hosted by his homeboys, Eren and Connie. Being asked to help set up Ony was there hours before the party even started.

His homeboys pressured him into drinking, three shots in and the three of them killed six girls. Two girls each boy, Eren and Connie leaving Ony to take care of the party as they rid the girls bodies.

Around 10:30, that's when you walked into the living room, completely catching his attention. You made your way over to one of your friends as she poured some Don into your mouth, both of you giggling, already tipsy from earlier.

"Y/n?" you heard Onyakapon’s voice as you turned around, slightly startled. You walked over to him, and he chuckled. "I never knew I'd see you at something like this." “fr? i go out a lot actually.”

Smiling you quickly turned to get the bottle of Don. He’d let out a light huff as he felt you get comfortable on his lap pressing your pussy against his lil big friend through the fabric of his sweats. “y/n?..” “yess??” you’d giggle before looking for something on you.

You’d pull your phone out and start recording. “say aahh.” he’d hesitate before opening his mouth as you pour some down his throat. You’d giggle more as you pressed your head against his, triggering his telepathy ‘he smells too good.’ hed hear making his eyes flashing a glint of red.

You looked so different, your deep side part sleeked to the side framing your face as the straight hair fell a little past your waist. Your pink and cheetah prink nails, matching with the very short pink crop top that barely covered your tits. Your jean skirt that barely cover your ass didn’t help the fact you had no panties on. 

‘when is he gonna touch me…’

All with cute Jordans that matched the pink of your outfit. You play with his chain will in his lap, as he finds himself playing with your pierced nipples through the thin fabric of your tight top. Picking you up in the same position, he’d walk you upstairs to the second floor where no one else was allowed.

“No panties?” He’d almost choke on his words, spreading your thighs open, noticing you were already soaked. About to go down on you,  he found himself watching your head bop up and down his dick slowly, swallowing as much of him as you could at a time. “fuckk— “ 

His eyes rolling back the moment you locked eyes with him for a second, head falling back as his hands quickly reached for your head. “Mamas—sloooo uw! the fuck down!” he’d almost whine. You had him in a vulnerable state nobody had ever, in his years of living. 

This only encouraged you to take him deeper, and faster drooling all over his dick. Your eyes watering as you messed up your make up with saliva. You’d pop him out of your mouth for a moment stroking his full length. Mentally trying to process how you were gonna handle all 9 ½ inches. 

Without hesitation you went back to work, hands moving in the opposite direction of eachother as your sucked at his tip. Something about the way his dick touched the back of your throat left the poor boy completely overfilling your mouth with cum. 

‘s’muchhh… n he looks so good all fucked out.’ 

Not even a second after you pulled away he was completely hard again. The way you looked up at him making his dick twitch and pupils turn red. The alochol in his system not helping, as he watched you pull your shirt off.

The eye-contact for a moment giving him complete control of your mind. “C’mere, mamas,” he'd smirk. Watching your eyes flicker a pretty pink, with cute heart in your eyes as your crawled towards him. Your mind completely blank as you followed instructions you could only hear through your thoughts.

‘i want a kiss..’ you’d find yourself thinking.

Eyes flickering back to normal as you now found yourself in his lap, kissing him. His right hand completely wrapped around your neck, that looked so small compared to his hand. The kiss getting deeper and hotter by the second has he started to grip you neck a little tighter, your eyes rolling back as you felt his left hand finds its way from your ass to your fat wet pussy.

The sloppy kiss getting messier as you whined and moaned trying to catch your breath, your head spinning as you got dizzy. “Wanna be a slut right?” he’d pull away to say, sliding to fingers deep in your pussy as tried everything to kiss him again. “Onyy” you’d whine feeling his grip loosen, but his fingers get deeper. 

‘too, gooodddd!’

The sloppy sound of pussy filling the room as his fingered you, with your pretty moans to harmonize with it. He’d watch you cum, your legs shaking as you let out a cry quickly resting your head against his shoulder. 

Before you knew it, you were in arched up in doggy a quick slap to the ass bringing you back to reailty. “What are you?!” you’d panic feeling him push agains’t your wet entrance making you wonder why you even cared anymore. 

‘i just wanna get fuckedd by himm’ you’re brain would spin trying to pull if even just an ounce of concern, but it what no where to be found. You felt completely safe in his hands, his dick slamming into your sloppy cunt. Your eyes rolling back, as your completely forgot your question and worries. 

“I’m- a vampire.” he’d answer, making your quickly turn to face him as smiled showing off his fangs as he watched confused reaction. Fear wanted to consume you, but you were too fucked out and drunk to care. To be honest, you found it hot making your pussy clench and swallow him deeper. 

“fuuckkk, you like that ma?” he’d asked, slowly starting to move as your pussy gripped him tighter making him lightheaded. “pussy too good, you not going anywhere.” he’d think aloud as he sped up the pace. The sloppy slaps and wet sounds mixed with both your moans and his groans.

“Right! THERE!!” you’d cry out, arching deeper and fucking back into him as you felt him hit a spot you never knew existed. Your brain going completely blank, the only thoughts remaining being how well he was fucking you. Eyes rolling back as your pull at the bedsheet trying not to run from it. 

To your rescue, Onyakapon notice his red eyes only glowing brighter and in three seconds you were in mating press. Too fucked out to even question how that was humanily possible, because it wasn’t. His strokes speeding up not helping matter as your started to cry, tears filling your cheeks out of pure bliss.

‘Sooo, close!’

“You about to cum mamas?? Mm?” he’d say, almost making you realize he had been reading your mind all along. Until he pulled back for a moment, slapping your pussy earning a yelp from you. Before going right back to fucking every braincell out of you. “Say aahhh!” he’d smile his heavy lustfilled eyes meeting yours. 

Not even being able to control yourself your mouth opened. “aahhhhhh” you’d obey as he spit in your mouth. “Swallow.” he’d command, no longer being controlled you did and you enjoyed it. Your final straw was when he quietly whispered “good girl” in your ear and started kissing you. 

You squirted, harder then you’ve ever in your life crying into the kiss as he quickly pulled away biting your neck hard making you physically cry even harder. Trying to push him away as you felt blood pouring down your neck. The mixed pleasure and pain not even allowing you to realize he came in you. 

His cum completely painting your walls white, as your lifeless body fell to the bed when he removed his fangs. Ony  hovered above you, admirring his masterpiece as he whispered loving affirmations. Cooing as he watched you open your pretty eyes, pink pupils staring up at him as you batted your lashes. 

Little did you know, you were his no matter what and he has just marked his territory on your whether you liked it or not. But, he had a feeling you wouldn’t mind especially now you could keep up with him.  

"And our happiest days would be spent Picking off all your friends And they'd see A love this deep Won't stay buried"

[slutzforbueckers]

dear april- p.b x f!reader

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: angst?

synopsis: what happens when two people— two very different people— meet and fall in love?

a/n: i hope yall like this im not good at angst 😭also i listened to dear april by frank ocean while writing this so its lowk based off that song.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you never wanted the attention to be on you, you never liked the feeling of all eyes being on you. sometimes you felt like a shadow in your own life. moving through the world unnoticed, quiet, an afterthought in every room you stepped into. you never cared for the attention, never fought for the spotlight, never asked to be more than what you were. you never wanted that, at least not until you met paige.

paige buckers, the golden girl, the prodigy, the name whispered on every sports analyst's lips. paige was the type of person who made you believe in fate, in destiny. she shone so brightly that sometimes you wondered if you'd burn just by standing too close.

you met her on a rainy afternoon, the kind where the sky wept for hours, soaking the streets and forcing people to rush from place to place with their heads down. you had just left the library and you were waiting for your uber to take you to your job.

you had been sitting on a bench outside the library, watching the rain fall, your sketchbook balanced on your knees. you had been lost in a drawing, charcoal smudged across your fingertips, when you felt a presence beside you.

"what are you drawing?" a voice had asked, clear despite the heavy downpour of rain.

you looked up to find paige standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, her backpack slung over one shoulder. she was wearing her team hoodie, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. you recognized her instantly, but you pretended you hadn't.

"nothing special." you turned your attention back to your drawing, not wanting to stare for too long. you silently hoped she'd go away, you couldn't figure out why someone like her would bother to stop and talk to you. she didn't go away, instead she took a seat next to you, peering over your shoulder at the sketchbook in your hands.

"can i see?" her voice came out smooth, unlike yours which had a slight shake to it. you hesitated for a moment, then slowly passed it to her. paige looked at you for a second before turning her attention to the paper. it was a sketch of the library in front of you. she ghosted her fingertips over the details, careful not to smudge anything. "that's really good, you must see the world differently."

she handed you the sketchbook back, her eyes meeting yours. you shrugged, your fingers picking at the rips in your jeans. "maybe. i appreciate the beauty in things around me."

paige went quiet for a second before she spoke again, her voice softer and a little less confident. "i like that."

you fell together slowly, then all at once. paige, who spent her life surrounded by noise, found something quiet and steady in you. and you, who had always felt like you were watching life from the sidelines, were suddenly in the game. late night drives, secret kisses in empty gyms, stolen moments before and after paiges practices—it was yours. no one else mattered in those moments, just you and her.

you could remember the first time paige had let her guard down. it was the middle of the night, and you had driven out to the lake just outside of town. paige had been quiet the entire drive, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“talk to me,” you whispered when she finally parked the car. you reached over and ran your fingertips over her clenched jaw, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. paige exhaled slowly, staring out at the reflection of the moon on the water.

“sometimes,” she opened her mouth but shut it, not being able to gather her thoughts enough to speak. you waited patiently, staring at the side of her face until she spoke again. “sometimes i feel like i don’t even belong to myself. like i’m just…existing for other people. coaches, my teammates, my fans. everyone has a version of me that they want me to be— sometimes i forget who i am when i try to be me.”

you reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “and who are you when you’re just you?”

“i don’t know,” paige went silent, her chest closing with vulnerability. she took a deep breath and turned to you. “but when i’m with you, i feel like i can breathe.”

but the world wasn’t kind to love like yours. paige’s career was on the rise, she had cameras in her face, expectations weighing on her shoulders, and a future that didn’t leave room for any hesitation. and you? you were just you. no flashing lights, no one screaming your name, no crowds waiting for you, no bright future carved out in headlines. that didn’t stop you though. you tried— god, you tried.

paige whispered promises into your skin, holding you tight like she could keep you both frozen in time. “you’re the only thing that feels real,” she admitted one night, her voice raw, forehead pressed against yours.

you remembered all the amazing moments you had, moments where everything felt perfect, like you had carved out a piece of the universe just for the two of you.

you had snuck into the school’s basketball court, it was nearly 3 in the morning but neither of you could manage to fall asleep. so you sat on the bleachers, a smile on your face while you watched paige dribble a ball lazily.

“i’ll teach you how to shoot,” she said suddenly, jogging over and tugging you onto your feet. you laughed out a squeal and shook your head.

“i have terrible aim, p.” you caught the ball she bounced at you, rolling it around in your hands.

paige rolled her eyes with a smile on her face. “that’s why i said ill teach you.”

“here,” she stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, guiding your hands into the right position. “i got you.”

in that moment you believed her but reality was cruel. paige couldn’t keep hiding, she couldnt keep her love for you a secret when the world expected you to be someone else. rumors started, people whispered, and paige—paige hesitated. she let go, just for a second. a second was just enough to make you feel like maybe you had imagined it all.

and in the end, that was all it took. just a second.

it had been months since you last saw her. you hadn’t planned on going to the game, you told yourself you wouldn’t. but something pulled you there anyway, the same way the ocean calls back the tide. you sat near the back of the stadium, expecting to be far enough away that you went unnoticed. the noise of the crowd faded into a dull hum as you watched paige move across the court, fluid and effortless, like she was meant to be there.

you thought you could handle it— just watching, just being one of the hundreds of faces in the stands. but then it happened. paige looked up, just for a second, her gaze sweeping the crowd, and her eyes met yours.

you felt your breath catch in your throat. paige froze for just a fraction of a second, barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you did. you saw the paused in her step, the look of familiarity in her eyes, the way her fingers tightened around the ball before she forced herself to move.

for a moment, it felt like the whole work had stilled. like there were no cameras, no roaring fans, no expectations. just the two of you, locking in a moment of memories neither of you had been ready for.

maybe she would find you after the game, maybe she wouldn’t. maybe you had become strangers again, orbiting around each other but never colliding.

or maybe, in another life, in another version of your story, paige wouldn’t have hesitated.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

[peachpitfics]

Cruel Summer

Fandom: Bridgerton

Summary: Following your romp with Benedict Bridgerton in his art studio, he asked your brother for your hand! Now you're on your honeymoon, and you're getting a little bored, posing for him. A lady must find ways to amuse herself!

Length: 2.1k

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Content Warnings: Oral sex (male receiving), Penetrative vaginal sex, unprotected sex, light bondage, food play.

a/n: This is an anonymous request for a continuation of 'Guilty as Sin'.

Bridgerton master list (tag list)

Benedict Bridgerton escorting you to view his artwork, at his private studio, was just the beginning of your story. After sneaking around behind your family’s backs for a small while, Benedict gathered enough courage to ask your eldest brother’s permission for your hand. This seemed strange to the y/l/n family, not one of them had ever seen the two of you together, which showed how much attention was paid to the middle child. Benedict made sure to ask you in the Bridgerton drawing room, just before family tea, for everyone to see. He made such a big to-do, confessing his love to you, before every member of the Bridgerton family in attendance. It felt particularly safe there, amongst people who took interest in who you were as a person.

It was bittersweet to have siblings who offered their time, their attentions, and their hobbies freely. You learned so many new things from each of them, from pall-mall, to sewing, even horse riding.  In six months, you were married and moved into the Bridgerton house for the meantime, until after your honeymoon. You would never outright tell Benedict you did not want to move out, but he felt it, he knew.

“My love” Benedict whispered, shaking your shoulders gently. Honeymooning in Paris was something the two of you had instantly agreed upon. So far, two weeks of sleeping late, making love, and eating copious amounts of divine food was your only concern. Of course, there were a lot of other lovely things Benedict had planned for your honeymoon – river boat rides and romantic dinners, every moment between locations filled with fine bread, wine, and cheese.

“Yes, my love?” You grumbled, rolling away from him, clearly having not had enough sleep.

“You must wake up, it is midafternoon!” Benedict exclaimed with a chesty laugh, rolling you back into him and tickling your sides. You howled with laughter, pushing him away playfully, leaning up to distract him as only you knew how. His lips were warm and wet against your own, seductive, and luscious.

“You must come downstairs! The housekeeper has left us a feast and I wish to paint my gorgeous wife” Benedict slid his hands around your naked body, lifting you out of bed as you groaned.

“Again?!” “My darling, I’ll be painting you until death takes me” Benedict chuffed, sliding sideways between doorways and down the stairs to the sitting room.

“What if death takes me first?” You smirked back, figuring you had him cornered here.

“I have made God promise I am to go first. And even so, I’ll have every detail committed to memory and these paintings and sketches of you now to keep me company” Benedict squeezed you in his arms, he didn’t like to joke about parting ways, in any sense. It was his truest nightmare, his deepest fear.

Benedict set you down in the sitting room and gestured to what he and the house keeping staff had readied. Paint, canvas, a staging area - littered around the room were bowls of fresh fruit, bottles of wine, candles surrounded by plates of cheese, oil, and bread. You relaxed back against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, cupping your breasts sweetly. You giggle a little, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. He nodded to your position for the rest of the day, a chair with the back faced to a very high window, casting a streak of sunlight down upon the spot.

There you sat, for hardly an hour before your mind began to wander, circling Benedict in your mind like a shark in open water. You had learned to become comfortable being nude for long periods of time these days, however Benedict had learned nothing of your persuasion or power when your attentions were dashed. Your movements started slowly, daintily taking your hands to your knees, and spreading your legs wide upon the chair. Resting a little, relaxing your back and cupping your own breasts. Your fingers gently grazing your nipples. But nothing, no attention from your husband. He sat close to his canvas, squinting into the detail of his work, his realm of perception clearly inhibited. With a huff and a light moan, you continued to palm at your own breasts, fingers trapping your nipples in a pulling motion- you decided to pretend Benedict wasn’t here. Suddenly, taking notice, you watched as his brush left the canvas, his mouth hung open a little and he removed his glasses, almost tossing them to the floor.

“What are you doing, darling?” He mumbled, swallowing hard. Your hands ran down your mid-section, over your belly and down your thighs sensually, soft mewls slipped from between your lips. Benedict loved the sounds you made.

“I’m just amusing myself, continue on with your painting my dear” Your replying comment was nonchalant in the best way. Benedict almost looked offended that you would suggest he could go back to painting.

“How do you suppose I paint, while my wife ravages her own body before me?” He blinked at the audacity of you.

“Well, dear one, this is what you have chosen for this afternoon’s activities… Now, you must endure” You smiled, sliding your hand between your legs, dipping your finger in the wet warmth there. Benedict shuddered, wishing any part of him were exchanged with your finger.

If there was anything you had learned about Benedict in the last six or seven months, it was that his desire for you was consistent and all encompassing. Benedict watched on as your fingers circled your clitoris, you moaned and exhaled gently - his paint brush never did return to the canvas. Beads of sweat formed on his brow line, the hot, French summer finally taking its toll in the late afternoon. You reached to the small stool next to you, extracting the tiniest jar of honey. You looked into Benedict’s eyes, holding the jar above your body, dangling your head back and pouring a steady stream of honey over your chest. The sun glistened, reflecting little pools of light off your sticky, sweet skin.

Taking your finger, you swept up your belly from your navel, placing your finger on your tongue in clear view of him, and that was his very last straw. Benedict threw his paintbrush to the ground, thrusting himself up and out of his chair, to march across the room to you.

“What do you think you are doing, wife?” Benedict’s voice rasped, his eyes were so dark, the colour had all but gone.

“Playing, my love” You replied cheekily, sucking another nip of honey off your finger. He all but growled watching your finger slip between your lips, his breath quickening in sheer lust for you.

“Are you punishing me for getting you out of bed?” Benedict’s face was so close now, his nose tip to tip with yours. There was such tension in his jaw, his teeth clenched hard in his fierce need of you. You fluttered your lashes back at him, refusing to answer with your words.

“Do you have even a semblance of an understanding of what you are doing to me? This is unbelievably cruel,” He breathed heavily down on you, desperation flooding his body and adrenaline surging behind, “You can’t begin to imagine the things I want to do to you right now” His stubble gliding across your ear and cheek, making you shudder.

“Show me then,” You challenged, “You are my husband after all”.

Benedict’s hands slowly moved to his shirt, shedding it, and throwing it somewhere behind him. He acted with a sureness and a strength you hadn’t yet experienced, but it was drawing you in. Undoing his pants, Benedict took his hard member into his hands, stroking himself against your chest, lathering it in honey. His other hand wove into your hair, tangling the perfect hold, bringing you forward.

“Oh. Goodness. Seems I’ve made quite a mess of myself… Wife, help me clean it up” He smiled smugly down at you.

 Something feral, untamed, was unleashed inside you, your eyes darkening, “Certainly, my lord”. As your tongue reached out to meet his tip, his head lulled back in pleasure, his hand still wrapped around the base of him. Your lips parted slowly, encasing his first inch, and swirling your tongue around to suck the honey from him. Benedict exhaled headily, his breaths deep, but quick with the slightest grunt mixed in. The way he sounded, even now, made you wetter and wetter.

There was something maliciously keen in Benedict’s eyes as he watched from on high, your pretty mouth sucking all the honey off him and then some. His body gently rocked forward, his hand heaving your head forward, onto him in a more perverse manner. His head hung back in greedy caution, grasping to the very last straws of his gentlemanly nature as you sunk to the base of him, your tongue wriggling slyly underneath.

His fingers grew taut in your hair, reefing you backwards. His laugh was low, both impressed and challenged by your ministrations. In the next moment, Benedict had hauled you up and over his shoulder, he was charging up the stairs, mad with temerity.

Entering the bedroom, he threw you down on the bed, scrambling for any piece of material in reach, he began ripping. Four pieces of silk fabrics in his hands, he loomed over you in profound ownership. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, Benedict taking each wrist and ankle, tying them to each to their respective corner post of the bed.

“There” He stood, hands on his hips, proud of his work, “There’ll be no more of that”. Clearly touching yourself had had a dire effect on Benedict’s work ethic.

Kneeling between your thighs, his naked body unjustly out of reach, Benedict’s supercilious smile sick with goofy dominance. He thumbs over your folds, his finger descending, extorting whines of pleasure you never knew existed within you. Broad strokes of the most painful, unapologetically evil gratification. Benedict’s tongue flicked over his lips hungrily.

“I need you” The words escaped you violently, the thrill of his touch, his charming smile becoming all too much for you. He ignored you and continued another moment or two, reducing you to a begging mess beneath him.

“Shall I oblige you, my marvellous bride?” His grin was jubilant and all knowing, his hands came down on your wrists, pressing them into the bed. Benedict’s brutal, familiar kiss sown into your lips permanently, as he pushed inside of you with surprise.

“Y/n” He groaned, growled with unrepentant lust. Your eyes cast wide, the length of him stretching you mercilessly while he thrust in and out. His villainous face claiming your entire consciousness as he used your body to his pleasure, decadent facial expressions, and damnable sounds he was delivering straight to your right ear.

“You feel unimaginably perfect” Benedict groaned, your moans joining in alongside his.

Hands grasping for silk to hold onto, you longed for your own release, grinding your hips back against Benedict’s. His movements became more ferocious, keeping up with the sounds you were making. Frenetic energy began to move through your body, your ravenous thirst for him finally quenched. Every muscle in your body engaged in vivid contortion, Benedict pressing into you as deeply as he possibly could before his own body found its own powerful release.

Covered in sweat and honey, you laid tangled together for a moment before Benedict recalled your wrists and ankles were tied. He chuckled with giddiness, sitting up to admire his knots.

“You look fantastic like this, perhaps we should do this more often” He suggested sweetly. His thumb caressed the side of your face, your panting, tired body unable to give a response. Benedict littered your face and neck with loving pecks.

“We could be one person and I still would never be close enough to you. No amount of time with you will ever satisfy me. You are the centre of my world” Benedict whispered gently. Every day you were reminded of the intoxicants his poetic mind dabbled into every sweet thing he said to you.

In another instant, Benedict had sprung from the bed, running downstairs. You laughed, thinking he must be returning with some of the food the housekeeper had left strewn about his romantically planned afternoon. Instead, Benedict returned with a new canvas and his implements. Your mouth fell open all on its own, blinking furiously in his direction as he set himself up off the side of the bed.

“If you could just stay there, like that, that’d be great!” Benedict’s grin, excruciatingly exquisite, and concocting. He held himself with such pride in his agendum, cockiness seemed to fill the room in a potent manner.

“BENEDICT!?” You squealed, tugging frantically on his bindings, your laughter filled with rich resolve.

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

tagging: @cringycat24 // @blckbarbiedoll // @freyagallileaevans // @junkie05 // @rosabeetroot // @flamewriterr //

If you'd like to be added to this tag list, please let me know!

[strayingawayy]

i've loved you in scribbles and silences...

...the one where the silent creator meets the effortless muse

{ @jeonginsleftcheek requested a fic w/ reader as popular kid in class and hyunjin as the shy piner. i hope i did this justice, sweetheart 💌 word count: 1900 words approx}

hwang hyunjin was not the kind of guy you could just ignore.

even in his silence, he commanded attention, not in an intentional way, but in the way that made people naturally gravitate toward him. maybe it was his presence, lean and elegant, draped in effortlessly cool outfits that looked straight out of a fashion editorial. or maybe it was the way his sharp, expressive eyes always seemed lost in thought, like he was seeing something beyond the walls of the classroom, like he understood the depth lying in the professor's words in a way none of you ever could.

or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he looked like a literal prince but behaved like an artist stuck in his own little world, constantly sketching by the window instead of paying attention. not that your professors minded. after all, he was an art major for a reason.

one thing was that hyunjin didn’t talk much in class. he wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t the type to insert himself into conversations either. people knew him, of course. the hot, mysterious art guy. the one who made lazy doodles look like renaissance masterpieces. the one who unintentionally broke hearts just by existing.

and then. well then there was you.

if hyunjin was the quiet presence in the corner, you were the center of attraction.

popular, passionate, hardworking, you weren’t just well-known, but well-loved too. a lethal combo. you had this energy about you, the kind that made people want to be around you, like standing in your orbit made their lives more exciting. balancing academics, extracurriculars, and a good social life, you made it all seem effortless.

and hyunjin?

he had been hopelessly, pathetically in love with you since the first semester.

but like he’d ever say it out loud.

he wasn’t delusional. he knew how different the two of you were. while you thrived under the attention of others, he was perfectly content sitting in the background, watching you shine from afar, his lips curling and eyes crinkling in the corners when you'd crack a joke that would have the entire class rolling over with laughter.

maybe that’s why his sketchbook was filled with you.

your laughter, frozen mid-motion like a memory, because it probably was. your hands, caught in the middle of an animated conversation. your eyes, wide with excitement when you spoke about something you loved. he'd hoped that one day you'd have that look in your eyes if you'd ever talk about him too.

god. he was so gone for you.

and it was getting out of hand.

because lately, his friends (ahem han jisung and lee felix) had started catching on.

"you're ridiculous," jisung had said one evening, watching hyunjin rip yet another drawing out of his sketchbook, crumpling it up. "just tell them."

"or don’t," felix added, flipping through hyunjin’s abandoned sketchbook like it was a diary. "just keep pining like a tragic 19th century ahh poet."

hyunjin groaned, yanking his sketchbook back from his friends. “they’re way out of my league.”

jisung rolled his eyes. "dude. you do know you're one of the hottest guys in college right?"

"careful ji, your bi confusion is on full display," seungmin says, only dropping into the conversation with a one liner before grabbing a donut off the table and leaving a flustered jisung stammering.

"that aside, yeah, if anyone has a chance with them, it's you mate." felix nodded, as if stating a fact, munching on a donut himself.

hyunjin scowled. “that’s not the point. they’re not just like, cool. they’re brilliant. they’re like, fuck,” he waved his hands wildly, searching for the words. “the human embodiment of shooting stars and ambition and-”

"oh my god" jisung clapped his hands dramatically. "he’s waxing poetic now."

felix gasped. "he's down bad. we need to stop him before he bends shakespeare over with his words."

hyunjin groaned, shoving his face into his ink stained hands and immediately regretting it. “i hate you both.”

but unfortu-fucking-nately, they were right.

maybe it was time he did something about it.

...

hyunjin was NOT going to half-ass this.

if he was going to confess, he was going to do it right.

so, naturally, he spent two hours spiraling over what right even meant, another hour staring at pinterest's idea of proposals for no reason, and then another seventeen hours crafting the most romantic, heartfelt, artistic confession ever.

his plan?

a huge, mural sized drawing.

of you.

obviously.

because, in his mind, there was no better way to show his feelings than through art.

the plan was simple:

1. sneak into the art room where you often kept your paintings too.

2. place inside the room, a breathtaking sketch of you.

3. casually bring you there and let the art do the talking.

4. pray you didn’t laugh in his face and pat his shoulder mockingly.

it should have gone smoothly.

but this was hyunjin.

and nothing, nothing, ever went smoothly when it involved his feelings.

...

the moment he finished the drawing, he knew two things:

1. it was the best thing he’d ever drawn in his life.

2. he was going to pass out from nerves.

but whatever. it was done. he just had to get you to see it.

so, the next day, he walked up to you, heart pounding, palms sweaty, already regretting everything, and blurted out:

“hey-wamma-see-something-cool?”

you blinked, mouth half-stuffed with the infamous campus canteen donuts, bottom lip covered in chocolate frosting (it was still one of the most breathtaking things hyunjin had ever seen in his life, he noted) “uh. sure?”

without thinking, he grabbed your wrist when you stood up (oh my god, he grabbed your wrist, what was he thinking, jisung was gonna scream when he told him this) and practically dragged you down the hallway.

"hyunjin, where are we-"

"just trust me," he muttered, swallowing hard, his cheeks already flushing when you spoke his name so tenderly, as if you hadn't dozens of times before in classes and group projects.

when he finally shoved open the door to the art room, he braced himself for the big reveal as he placed his fingers over the cloth covering the canvas.

"i- w-words fail me when i need them most. that's- probably why you don't hear me talk too often. and probably why i'm an art major instead of like- in mass communication or something. pfft can you imagine- anyway. (god he was rambling, he was rambling and you were smiling). just...just see for yourself yeah? please?" he said almost pleading. when you nodded, he inhaled deeply, like he was about to reveal the meaning of life itself ,and pulled the cloth off in one dramatic swoop.

hyunjin froze, his eyes widening.

no.

oh hell no.

staring back at him was a giant, fat, fucking cat drawn messily. big, googly eyes. a grin that was more terrifying than friendly, and nothing remotely close to being romantic. he can't believe a cat doodle was gonna get him rejected.

his entire drawing was gone and in front of him was a fat ass cat one covered by the same cloth he had used.

hyunjin’s soul left his body.

this was not happening.

you stared at the board. then at hyunjin. then at the board again.

“…hyunjin,” you said slowly. "i mean- it's. it's cool as fuck yeah-"

“nononono-there was-” he turned, searching every corner of the room like his drawing might miraculously reappear. “i drew something else. i swear it was romantic. it was you of course it was romantic-”

“-you drew me?“ you asked, a small teasing, curious smile on your face.

he turned back to you, ears burning, palms sweaty. “yes. i mean. yes.”

your teasing expression softened. “so… you were confessing?” you asked, expression almost hopeful.

hyunjin opened his mouth, closed it, then ran a frustrated hand through his short, blonde hair. "this is not how this was supposed to go."

you suddenly glanced to the side, eyes widening. “wait… is that it?”

hyunjin followed your gaze, spinning on his feet, and there it was.

his drawing.

propped against an easel in the corner, untouched, perfect.

the second you saw it, the teasing stopped.

your expression shifted, eyes widening, lips parting slightly, the kind of reaction that made hyunjin feel like time had paused.

because it wasn’t just a drawing of you.

it was you.

the way you laughed, the way you looked when you were deep in thought, the way your eyes shone when you talked about something you loved, it was all there, put into the strokes and shadows and scribbles like a love letter without words.

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

hyunjin swallowed hard. “…so.”

slowly, you turned to him, something unreadable in your expression.

"i-" he stammered, his voice cracking. "i just- gods-i wanted to do something... something that was real, something that would... show you how much i..."

his throat tightened. there it was again. the words that refused to come. the weight of his feelings choking him with each failed attempt to articulate it. he couldn't bring himself to say it. his head hung in shame, eyes fixed on the floor, desperate to escape the vulnerability that was threatening to suffocate him.

and you weren’t making it any easier. you were still looking at him with that unreadable expression. he felt like he was unravelling in front of you, a mix of fear and hope and something else twisted in his gut. why were you so quiet?

then, finally, your lips parted.

"hyunjin," you murmured, your voice soft, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "this is... the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me."

hyunjin blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he prayed silently.

"really?" he asked, a little too desperately, the hope in his voice clear.

you nodded, stepping forward slowly, and the world felt like it was holding its own breath as you closed the distance between you. hyunjin stood frozen, unsure.

"you really see me," you whispered, your gaze locking with his. "all of me. even the parts i don’t really show...like...the little mole below my lip."

hyunjin’s heart skipped, a new rush of warmth spreading through him as he dared to meet your eyes again. "i do. i see everything. and it’s... perfect. you're perfect."

the words barely left his mouth before you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek with a softness that was foreign but not unwelcome.

his breath stopped, and for a moment, everything in him screamed to pull away, to shield himself, but all he could do was blink slowly and lean into your touch.

"i’m not good with words either," you whispered, and before he could react, you gently placed your lips against his.

the kiss was tender, the kind that spoke volumes even in its softness. hyunjin’s breath caught as he melted into it, his hand reaching out instinctively to touch your arm, as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he didn’t hold on tight enough. when he realised he needed you closer, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

and as you both smiled into the kiss, hyunjin knew that words didn't have to be exchanged further. you understood each other. through brushstrokes and gestures that would take you down the road of life together.

somewhere above the classroom, felix and jisung screamed as they watched it all go down through the cctv camera while the security personnel snored beside them.

[shuastar]

KISS 'ER UP (HVC) pt. 2

pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 12.8k warnings: SMUT (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), p in v (wrap it b4 u tap it even if vernon doesnt), boob worship?, heavy-ish make-out; unrealistic meet-cute, vernon being cute a/n: guys holy shit this took so long but its FINALLY done. i feel like i always end by long fics with smut but at least it ends well.......... anyways, send me requests now that i'm done w kiss 'er up!!! as always, ty guys sm for reading this <3

previous ; masterlist

In 3 weeks, you go to 6 home games. 

Which, in retrospect, is absolutely crazy because that’s averaging two (2!) games per week in the brunt of design finalizing and fashion week scrapbooking and planning with your team. 

And now, the one you’re sitting at seems to up your count from six to seven games in 3 weeks. Which means that your assistant will be calling you sometime next week asking if you ever finished finalizing the fashion week scrapbooks and tulle selections (only one of which you’ve actually finished. The other…. Well, let’s just say that it won’t be seeing the light of day for a while). Which also is part of your explanation to why you are busy multitasking between texting Yena, your assistant, on the last flap stitches for your fold-over bag for the F/W collection, gluing pieces of fabric and drawing cut-outs and print outs and colors down onto your scrapbook, and watching the actual baseball game and participating in half-assed and quarter-minded fanchants that seem to have no soul in it. 

All in that exact order. 

And it’s even harder to balance (especially your phone that teeters precariously off your knee because your actual table is too full of food, beer, and your scrapbooking trash pile) when your phone chimes with a familiar notification. 

new message from vernon⚾️🐈

You almost choke on your beer that was travelling half-way down your esophagus, coughing violently and trying not to get drops of Cass onto your scrapbook. 

For the first time in almost fifteen minutes, you raise your head, swiveling to try and see where the hell Vernon is texting you from because not only is it the middle of the seventh inning but it’s also the middle of his game. 

And he never goes on his phone during games. 

vernon⚾️🐈 yo u see that last play?

You roll your eyes at his text. Yo? Really? But also, typical Vernon. Almost three months – texting, calling, showing up to games, post-game chicken runs, and the occasional late-night movie theater run at Coex – made you accustomed to his rather nonchalant way of saying hi. Those including (but definitely not limited to) yo, hey, bro, dude, whats up, lol, and show cat now as in your actual feline pet, not your pussy (which you thought at first was what he was implying and almost blocked him before he clarified with a photo of his own cat that you were too scared to open for the first three minutes, thinking it was an unsolicited dick pic). 

You pause before you reply, placing the glue stick down. 

you yea obv

It’s a lie. A blatant one at that. But you feel bad telling Vernon hahaha no lol was too busy working on my pfw scrapbooking and model calls to be focused on ur game im at. 

So yeah. You lie.

But Vernon texts back in record time. 

vernon⚾️🐈 no u werent

You roll your eyes. 

you i was watching

vernon⚾️🐈 liar!! too busy lookin down @ ur sketches to watch me hit that ball outta da stadiummmm

you ur literally lying

vernon⚾️🐈 no im not but u wouldnt know bc ur too busy

you i have pfw stuff to sort out sue me

vernon⚾️🐈 ah so u admit that u werent paying attention

You don’t get a chance to reply before the speakers above your head crackle to life, stadium static breaking over the announcer’s booming voice:

“Now up to bat, our very own number twelve, VERNON CHWE!” 

All of the vowels in his name are stretched way too long but most of the call of his name is drowned in the thundering cheers and applause of the Diamonds fans crowding up the stadium. 

You jolt at the sudden screams, blinking up from your stupid silly grin at your phone. 

And just like that, the messages stop. 

Your phone is still perched on your thigh and the glue stick is loosely rolling under the pressure of your palm, face-down. Vernon’s already walking to the plate, bat slung over his shoulder like it’s just another Tuesday. You should focus back now. On the deadlined layouts and layering. But you can’t. Not when it’s Vernon batting.

He’s got that practiced swagger – not cocky, just calm – like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he knows he’ll hit that ball well enough for second base. If not second, then definitely first. Under the stadium lights, the noise, the pressure, the blaring commentators, none of it touches him. His helmet shifts slightly when he adjusts his grip. From where you’re sitting tonight, just behind the catcher – the peripheral of all batters – you can see his neck tilt  as he grounds his feet. And you think, for one half-second, his eyes flit towards your section. 

You swear he sees you. 

You swear he knows. 

It’s annoying. 

It’s gut-wrenchingly annoying how good he looks standing there, chewing his gum like he’s in no rush at all. How he looks straight out of a baseball webtoon with his chestnut brown hair, tapping his bat once, twice, against the plate before he takes his stance. 

You pause your unconscious gluing. Your thumb sticks to a piece of lace organza. You don’t notice. 

The pitcher winds up. 

Vernon never flinches. 

And then

CRACK!

The sound is loud. Clean. Like the air itself snapped in half. 

You can see Vernon grin. 

You don’t even register the crowd erupting until half a second later, after the ball flies – high, hard, fast, promising – slicing through the humid air like it’s trying to give Vernon more time to run.

And him? Vernon? 

He doesn’t jog. He sprints. 

But you can see it – the calm – in the way he lets his helmet tilt back just a bit as he works his legs, pumps his arms. You can see it in the way he lays down his bat before he’s off. Calm again, like he knew – oh, he knew – that he’d make it. Like he saw the ball arcing across the midfielders’ heads before he even swung the bat. 

He rounds first so quick even his teammates cheer. 

He glances to the dugout. 

And you swear you see him glance at your section. 

A calm grin. Wide, so Vernon. 

Yeah. Definitely glances towards your section. 

Second base. 

He slides a little as the caught ball soars through the air from the outfielders towards second base. As his cleats touch down, it kicks up dirt, staining his white uniform. 

The ump signals safe. 

The crowd roars in approval, losing it. A couple of girls in front of you are screaming his name, hands shaking as they zoom into his victorious face, still on the ground, dusting himself off. 

You blink again. It hits you how much you’ve been staring. 

You shake your head, as if that will force your brain to refocus. 

You glance down at the mess of notebooks, pens, glue sticks, scissors, food, and beer on your table. 

The sigh is almost reactive. 

So is the blush that creeps onto your cheeks when you look up at Vernon, inching towards 3rd base, ready to steal, and his face is suddenly projected on the jumbotron, lips tilted up, helmet pulled down over his eyes as he looks determined. 

____________

Your home studio is a mess. 

Your apartment is a mess, actually. 

Not, like, a mess-mess, but the kind that only happens when you realize that you’re three days past a deadline, too stubborn to ask for help, and still choosing the color layering for a dress you told Yena you would have finished last week but technically still working out. 

Fabric swatches from the one Myeongdong fabric shop are draped across your studio couches, your coffee table in the living room is covered in opened sketchbooks, torn-out magazine pages, a slightly crusting bowl of tteokbokki you swore you would clean up after you scarfed it down last night. You haven’t. And until this color layering problem and the PFW designs start coming together, the most it’ll move and clean is probably just sit idly in the kitchen sink. 

There is the familiar bi-bi-bing!! of the giant JBL speaker in the corner of the living room as you cross your house to get to the studio-slash-sewing-slash-design-slash-procrastination room. Your playlist automatically hums to life in the background, WOODZ’s voice humming through the surround sound. It’s familiar – the same song you always put on when you’re trying to feel like a calm, collected, creative designer instead of a sleep-deprived maniac fighting for your life against the Fall/Winter collection because you’re indecisive and fashion, right about now, feels like the worst possible career choice you could have ever made. So many decisions! So little time! Yet so many deadlines!

You’ve lost your jean shorts for thin wide-leg sweatpants the moment you entered. The house is cold, like it always is, because you tend to forget to turn the AC off before you rush off to another meeting. And your off-shoulder crop top has already been decisively exchanged for a baggy shirt that you think is from your college ex-boyfriend but you’re not too sure, which is why you still have it. Your hair is barely holding in a claw clip, but you can’t bring yourself to waste ten precious seconds of your fingers not gluing, sewing, cutting, or slamming down against the table. 

It’s methodical, the way you work now, far away from the game and thus, as an extension, from Vernon: cut, glue, sew (if needed), stare at your work for ten seconds, drink your whiskey, realize it’s empty (again), pour yourself another sip because if you pour yourself more than a sip, you’re going to end of drinking yourself to miss another deadline. 

The drink burns, just enough to make your brain hum, and you pretend that the slight buzz will help you make your choices. 

You lean over the sketchbook laid out on top of your work desk, tapping a pencil against the edge of the page. The problem really has never been about the silhouette – you’ve had that nailed for weeks. It’s the layering. It’s always the layering. The trench you thought would be the centerpiece looks too heavy for the fall piece of the collection and too thin for the winter piece. So you switched it out with the asymmetrical drape coat. Except then, the metallic piping doesn’t translate to print. And you still haven’t decided on whether the main F/W bag should be a fold-over or a cross-body tote like the MiuMiu one three seasons ago. And don’t even get started with the color dilemma. 

Yena begged you to pick either beige or cream. You decided, in a fit of uncontrollable indecisiveness, to pick beige and cream. Now you’re stuck and beige is starting to look like cream and cream, beige. 

You flip the page, irritated. Try sketching something else. A structured jacket? Maybe another wool cape? Fur? But everything feels too soft. Too already-done. Nothing that makes you feel anything. Nothing that would stop someone mid-video at a show and look. 

You glance at the folded-up ticket stub from the game earlier, thrown carelessly on your desk with your phone and singular credit card when emptying your pockets. 

You haven’t heard from Vernon since he texted you a 👍after the Diamonds won 13-2. 

Not that it matters. 

But it does. 

And you do think about him as you sketch – completely unintentionally, which makes it like three times worse. As your pencil glides across the bumpy sketch book, your brain wanders to how calm he looks when the stadium is the loudest and even your heart is pounding. How, last week during the media conference after a game, the sleeves of your S/S line jacket looked, pushed up his forearms as he waved the reporters good-bye from the locker room. How he paired the platform knee-high boots and the slightly cropped leather jacket, all from your F/W line last year, almost perfectly with some ragged jean shorts and the most enticing little striped shirt that did nothing to hide his god-given collarbones that you couldn’t help but imagine on the runway. 

He’s got this way of showing up in your head when you’re just starting to forget he exists. Like now. In the quiet. With the whiskey sitting in the warmth of your stomach and your body wrapped up in your own tired, tangled, teasing thoughts. 

You sigh. 

Your pencil pauses over the page. Your eyes flicker down and you want to almost scream at the sketch that grins up at you. It’s him. Except, not the eyes, nose, mouth, or any of his facial features, actually, but still, him. The way his hair messes up in the front, his silhouette etched so gracefully onto your sketchbook page – the wide shoulders, sloping waistline. 

You curse under your breath. 

Another sip of whiskey that burns down your throat. 

Your phone buzzes against the hardwood desk. 

You ignore it – probably Yena.

Then, it buzzes again. 

You reach over slowly, ready to roll your eyes at Yena’s incessant texts. 

Until you don’t. 

Until you see his name, blinking up at you like the broken streetlight from your not-date-date three weeks ago. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u awake?

You stare at the message. Then at the clock. 

It’s 12:04 AM. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wyd?

you designs 

And then against all notion of rational thought, you snap a photo of your sketchbook. 

[attached]

Vernon responds in seconds. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wait  thats lwk really cool

you nice to know my work is appreciated

vernon⚾️🐈 would u ever design smth for me?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. The whiskey sits too warm in your stomach now. 

you why? u tryna be a fashion icon now/?

vernon⚾️🐈 smth like that j think ur designs look cool

There’s a lull there. You’re not too sure what you’re supposed to respond with. A smiley face? A thank you? A heart? 

Another buzz. 

vernon⚾️🐈 r u still up?

you its been like 5 min yes ofc

vernon⚾️🐈 im at the batting cages

you okay….. and?

vernon⚾️🐈 do u wanna maybe come

You stare at the last message longer than you mean to. The cursor blinks in the text box as your thumb hesitates above the keyboard. 

It’s stupid. 

It’s so stupid. 

So so so stupid. 

It’s past midnight, you’re barely sobering up from the whiskey, you’ve been sitting cross-legged on your studio floor for hours surrounded by scattered swatches, rejected sketches, the remainders of your brain. You should say no. 

You should absolutely completely say no. 

But. 

But the memory of him late at night during the not-date-date still lingers in your mind, cruising around your nerves to send the scent of his cologne down your spine. You can’t mistake the way you wait for his text like a dog for food. It’s pathetic, really. 

And you can’t help it. 

you address??

vernon⚾️🐈 [location shared!]

You’re scrambling now. First for a better shirt – a Ganni one that’s a size too big on you but you refuse to return because it was the last one left in stock in-store. Next for shoes – vintage Nikes that you bargained for in Japan. And then for the smallest purse that fits your wallet, lipstick, and your phone. And your car keys! 

The door slams behind you and you’re in the elevator even before you can fully hear your door lock beep. 

It’s a little past 12:30 AM when you arrive at the batting cages. It was more of a battle trying to find a parking spot than squeezing your Range Rover through the narrow alleyway. The city streets are quiet, though, and the night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the car, the low hum of the city lights and Gangnam in the distance. The flickering lights from the batting cages cast long shadows, their glow almost surreal in the emptiness of the night. 

You take a deep breath, listening to the steady thwack! of baseballs connecting with a bat. 

Vernon’s the only one there. 

He’s caged inside one of the batting cages, bat in hand, duffle bag thrown against the bench. He looks focused as he takes another swing. The Adidas zip-up is loose on him, riding up when he swings, waistband of his boxers showing bolded words: wasted youth. 

His body moves with fluid grace under the bright lights, the way he lines up each shot is almost hypnotic. You pause for a moment, watching him, fingers curled around the openings of the metal cage. Watching him – the way his body shifts, the subtle flex of his arms as the bat connects with the ball, the way he frowns when it doesn’t hit just right. The sound of it is satisfying, the crack echoing in the quiet night air. The zip-up hands from his shoulders, the fabric moving with the flow of his motions and you can barely make out a black undershirt – a tank, probably. 

For a few seconds, you forget why you’re here. Why you’re watching him hit ball after ball, too focused on the bat to realize you’ve arrived. It’s just him, bat in hand, hitting ball after effortless ball – and you admire it: how smooth he looks, how natural it seems, how he seems made for this. 

But then, he falters. 

Notices you standing behind him, eyes training on his body. 

He pauses mid-swing, letting the ball die in the machine. His eyes flick over you quickly – your oversized shirt, your bag that swings from your shoulder, your hair. He doesn’t say anything but his mouth curved up into the smallest of smiles – of smirks?

“You actually came,” he says, voice carrying a playful tone, like he wasn’t entirely sure you would. 

He sets his bat down in the bat rack, the soft clink of the metal against the wood the only sound between you two. 

He wipes his hands against his black sweatpants. 

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag on the bench when he opens the cage door for you. “You texted me in the middle of the night. Worried you were going through a mid-season crisis or something.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you grab a smaller bat that sits next to his now. “You’re lucky I make all my bad decisions after midnight.” 

Vernon chuckles, low and easy. “Nah, not a crisis. Or a bad decision. Just wanted to see if you could make contact after all that high talk.” 

You give him a look, rolling the bat in between your hands. 

He’s tall. Close. Built. His shoulders hide the other cage’s light from hitting your face and he grins down at you like he’s known you for your whole life. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk way too much for someone who’s supposedly nonchalant?”

He just grins, hands in his pockets, shrugging. 

You sigh, moving your hands to the grip of the bat, walking up to where the fake grass turf was the barest. You’re familiar with the weight of a bat. You’ve been a baseball fan, even though Vernon acts like he’s teaching you everything from scratch. 

The machine whirs when Vernon flips a switch, and from the dark hole of the pitching machine, the first pitch comes launching your way. 

You wait. 

Swing. 

Hit. 

Crack!

The ball soars into the net, the thwack! echoing in the empty batting cage. 

It’s quiet for a moment. You think Vernon’s switched the machine off again. Or maybe it’s a lull the universe has granted. 

Vernon lets out a low whistle. “Not bad.” 

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Not bad?” 

He lifts a shoulder, teasing grin. “You could do better.” 

You scoff, turning your attention back to the machine, now whirring back to life, for the next pitch. The rhythm of it is steady. You can understand why Vernon does this. Ball after ball, the occasional miss, the occasional perfect hit. Every crack! thwack! makes you feel like every ounce of stress in your body leaves your pores in spindles of smoke – evaporated. 

Vernon stands in the back, letting you hit and hit and hit. 

Then, after a particularly good hit, he finally speaks again. 

“Here.” 

You barely register him stepping forward, machine turned off now, befor ehe’s suddenly behind you. His presence is like a magnet, pulling you closer as his hands move to adjust your stance. 

And you try to focus – you really, really do – but it’s hard when he’s standing so close to you – chest brushing against your back, warm, solid. 

“Try shifting your stance a little,” he says, voice low. And his hands are moving from his sides to your sides, inching up your waist before you can react. His touch is gentle, fleeting, adjusting your posture with the slightest pressure. His touch is steady, unhurried, but it sends a shock and tingle up your spine anyway. 

You swallow, trying to focus on gripping your bat so that it doesn’t clatter to the floor. “I’m already hitting fine,” you mumble. You’re scared to look up. 

“Could be better,” he retorts, and you don’t have to turn around to know that he’s ear-to-ear grinning. 

His hands move up from your waist to your shoulders. Down your bare arms to rest on top of yours on the grip of the bat. His hands are warm against your skin and you hope to God that he can’t feel the goosebumps that rise with his touch. The pressure of his hand around yours is mind-reeling and his breath is warm near your ear as he murmurs

“Relax this a little. You’re too stiff.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat at the proximity, at the feel of his broad chest pressed against your back as he reaches around. He’s so focused on your swing, helping you improve, but all you can think about is how he feels against you. 

His hands leave yours to your shoulders, gently pressing down. “Relax.” 

“Maybe I like being stiff.” 

Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh. “You sure about that?” 

When he sees your hands tightening against the bat, he puffs out a sigh of air, leaning in again. His cologne is subtle but warm – something clean, fresh, with a hint of pine? Musk? Vanilla? Something that lingers. It mixes in with the scent of your detergent and it’s all you can think of. 

His fingers slide down, adjusting your grip over the bat. His hands are infinitely warmer, covering yours completely, and the way he’s guiding your movement is too natural for your brain to wrap around. You feel your breath get lodged in your throat. You don’t know what’s happening.

His chest is flush agaisnt your back, body pressed against yours, mumbling something into your ear but you can’t bring yourself to comprehend it properly. His hands on your waist, wrist, his height, build, it completely envelops you. The proximity of him makes your pulse race and your lungs tighten and you pray that he can’t feel your beating thumping heart through your wrist pulse point. 

“Better?” he murmurs. 

You try to say yeah, but your voice barely comes out. So you just nod instead. 

You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, and something inside of you screams – in want, desire, guilt, something in between? His hands hesitate for just a fraction of a second – one on your hip, the other on your wrist. 

And you’re not too sure how the next part happens. But somehow, between his fingers brushing against yours and the way he’s angled just slightly towards you, breath hot on your neck, cologne invading your senses with no mercy, you turn your head at the same time he glances down. 

Or maybe he was already looking down. 

His eyes are dark, soft in a way that makes your throat tighten. His lips part, a breath leaving him that you can’t quite make out. It’s not a sigh, not quite a word. It’s something in between, laced with an emotion heavier than the tension that stretches taut between you. You don’t know if he’s waiting for you to pull away, stumble out of his grasp like he’s burned you, or if he’s looking for a sign to make the next move – stoop lower to move forward, not hold back. 

Your heart stutters. 

The moment stretches thin. 

His eyes flicker down to your lips and then flicker back up to your eyes. They’re hesitant, as if he’s wondering if this is the right thing. 

You swallow. “Vern–”

Your eyes widen in surprise, name cut off before the breath in your lungs even leaves you completely. 

Because he’s leaning down, lips crashing down on yours, slow, deliberate, soft. It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. 

You would be crazy to pull away. 

Instead, you melt into it. The bat clatters to the floor with a muted th-th-thack! and on hand goes to tangle in his hair, pulling him down further. The angle is awkward – you’re half-turned around, one arm stretched up to pull him down, one hand resting against his that sits on your waist, lingering. He’s pressed up behind you, chest against your back, slouching down to fully reach your lips. 

And then something clicks. 

You twist to face him fully, hands finding their way to the collar of his jacket, fisting the fabric as you rise on your tip-toes. 

Vernon doesn’t hesitate anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, so slowly that it raises the hair on your skin and sends shivers up your spine as he pulls you in closer, flush against his chest. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. 

He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s been waiting to do this. 

And you don’t have any more thinking capacity left in you to be embarrassed when you let out a breathy little sound from the back of your throat that sounds a little too much like a whimper, hands finding their way to the back of his neck, pulling him down more. Now both of his hands are on your lower back, your waist, grip so firm, so warm, as he pulls you in, lips moving in sync with yours. 

Everything else fades. The far-away sound of the bat hitting the ball, the dying hum of the machine, the soft murmur and chirp of the night – everything becomes – feels – secondary to the feel of his lips on yours. You can taste the faint tang of the lemon electrolyte drink he was drinking on his lips, feel the strength in his arms as they basically hold you up on your tip-toes like he’s not letting you go. 

You break apart. 

You don’t want to. 

But it’s getting harder to hold your breath. 

So you pull back, back down on your feet, breaths coming out heavy, now eye-to-eyes with Vernon’s collarbones. You look up. 

Vernon looks down at you with this expression that you can’t quite place. His pupils are blown wide– dark against his hazel rings – lips parted slightly as he catches his breath. You’re still pressed so close to him that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. You swallow. 

And then Vernon lets out a small little laugh, lips stretching to paint the silliest smile on his face, forehead meeting yours. His big hands are warm and calloused against your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing over your skin. 

His forehead stays pressed to your for just a beat longer. You feel like passing out when he whispers fuck, y/n, under his breath like a secret – barely a whisper, barely above a breath, like saying it any louder might break the moment. 

You’re still catching your breath, dizzy from how fast everything shifted, how the entire world seems to narrow down to just the space between his lips and yours.But when your eyes flutter up to meet his – dark, hooded, unwavering – your breath gets harder to inhale. 

When your gaze drops to his lips again, Vernon moves – pounces, almost. 

He surges forward, lips on yours again. Except, this time, harder – needier. There’s no hesitation now – no caution, no prudence in the way he grips your hips, body moving you – walking you – backwards until you feel your back hit the cold metal of the batting cage. It startles you, eyes fluttering open because when had you gotten this far, and you gasp, the noise stuck in your throat. 

Vernon doesn’t stop. 

His tongue swipes against your bottom lip so carefully, so softly, teasing. Nd when your mouth parts slightly, it’s like something inside of him snaps. 

Suddenly, his head is tilting, hands cupping your jaw as yours scrunch his collar, deepening the kiss – messy and hot – his body caging yours against the cool chain-link fence. 

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but let him devour you. His tongue dances with yours – slides, twists – deliberate and sure. And when your hands move to tangle your fingers through his slightly wavy hair, slowly trailing down to the nape of his neck, clutching like you need him to keep you upright, he groans. Deep and low and rumbling in his chest, eaten up and swallowed by your greedy mouth. 

It’s visceral, the way you grab at each other. The way his body presses into yours and yours against the fence, like he can’t get close enough – like the two of you might combust if even an inch of air dares to exist between you. A ball of heat knots deep in your stomach as his hands roam – one firm against your waist, the other sliding up the curve of your back, underneath your loose shirt, fingers kneading against the flesh. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like every pent-up look and almost-touch finally snapped him clean and the wire-tight tension – now he’s unraveling. 

When his teeth bite down gently against your bottom lip, you whimper. It’s soft, barely even heard because his kisses mute it. But Vernon hears. He curses softly – muffled against your moving lips – as he tilts his head, insistent on coaxing just another sound from your throat. It’s instinct now – how you arch into him, how his hands are strong to support you as you start to get tired of standing on your tip-toes, how your hand slides up into his hair and tugs. 

Vernon groans. It’s louder this time, coupled with a breathy little whine. 

And suddenly, his hands are just lower than your hips, his lips separating from yours for a second to whisper 

“Jump,” against yours

before he’s kissing you again. 

And you do. Jump, that is. 

And when you jump, legs wrapping around his slutty waist, his hands are under your thighs, pressing you firm against the fence. You can’t stop yourself. You’ve already crossed some invisible line, and all that matters to you is him. Vernon Chwe. The way he feels, the way he presses up closer against you, the way he’s just as desperate – maybe even more desperate – for this than you are. 

It helps that you haven’t had any sort of sexual relationship for a year and a half now. 

Now pressed up against the fence, your arms steady around his neck, Vernon’s hands tangle in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His hold is firm, possessive, with a hint of softness and tenderness that sends a wave of heat through you. With a gentle tug, he has you looking up at the open night sky. His mouth moves from yours to your neck, lips trailing messy kisses along your skin. It has you letting out soft gasps as his teeth graze your skin, lightly nipping, pressing open-mouthed kisses afterwards to soothe. The sound of your heart is a rhythmic thud in your ear – everything is building, growing, more desperate. Especially as Vernon lightly bites against your ear. 

You can feel the firmness of his chest as it presses against you, breath hot against your skin, and every move he makes – shifting you further up, pressing another kiss, whispering something you definitely do not have the brain capacity for – sends another thrill down your spine.

“Vernon,” you murmur, voice echoing in the empty cages. 

At the call of his name, he pulls away from decorating your neck with the hues of the darker side of the rainbow, looking up at you with dark and hooded eyes. You can almost see the desire swirling through them. But his lips curve into a faint smile. 

“Hm?” 

He gives you a peck on your lips before kissing down your jaw. You swallow, head thrown back still against the fence, body supported by Vernon and Vernon alone. But when you don’t respond right away, he pulls back again, hands moving to hitch you up more securely, fingers brushing your bare waist where your shirt had ridden up during the mess of kisses. When you look down, he’s staring up at you with furrowed, worried brows. 

“‘S this okay?” he asks quietly, voice rough and strained. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, hands moving from his shoulders to brush through his hair shakily. You let out a breath that feels more punched out of you than anything. “Yeah,” you mumble, leaning forward so that your arms drape over his shoulders, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you rest your cheek against your arm. You feel Vernon’s hands tighten around your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks. You can hear his heartbeat. Almost. 

You nod. “‘M fine. This,” you let out a small laugh, “This is more than fine.” 

Vernon is quiet before he speaks again. And you can’t quite see his face, you can imagine his small smile. 

“Okay, okay, okay. Cool, Cool. That’s – um – that’s fire,” he mumbles. Rambles, actually. 

He’s cute. 

You let out a laugh – a loud one – at that, tapping his arm to signal to let you down.

“Fire? That’s all you have to say to that?” You tease, landing back on the floor with shaky legs, still clinging to Vernon, arms winding around his neck. You stare up at him and he looks down at you like you just dotted stars in the night sky. You’ve never had someone look at you like this. 

His voice is lower when he finally speaks again. “More than fire.” He grins, forehead coming to rest on yours as his arms wind around your waist. “Definitely more than fire.” 

You giggle. It’s weird how quickly he makes you feel like a schoolgirl and not a fully-grown adult with a life outside of swooning over him. But your teeth take your bottom lip prisoner again. “Yeah?” 

Vernon exhales a short breath. “Yeah.” 

When you giggle again, Vernon groans – half in embarrassment, half in he doesn’t know what. “You drive me crazy,” he mumbles under his breath, detaching himself from you with great reluctance. 

When he steps away, letting your arms fall to your sides, you watch as he sets the bats back on the rack, shouldering his duffle, shoving his phone into his pocket. He glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips when you cross your arms, waiting. For what? You’re not too sure yourself. Maybe for him to kiss you again? Maybe for him to lead you out and drop you off at home? You stand there awkwardly now, not quite ready to leave, not quite sure how to stay. You stand there, pretending you don’t wish his lips are back on yours. 

Vernon walks up to you, the swing of his duffle bag lazy, eyes soft but unreadable under the dim lights of the cage. He stops right in front of you, not touching (and good thing because if he did touch you, you wouldn’t be able to let go), but close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his body. 

“You drove here, right?” he asks quietly, glancing back at the nearly empty parking lot behind the fence. 

You nod slowly, your voice soft. “Yeah.” You glance down at your feet, embarrassed now for some weird reason. 

He hesitates, lips parted like there’s something more he wants to say. Then he shifts his weight, eyes flickering from yours to the path out of the cages. “You okay to drive?”

You shrug. “I mean… probably.”

That earns a soft, knowing chuckle from him. “That’s not reassuring.”

You’re still floating a bit. Still warm from his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, his voice in your ear. Still trying to remember how to stand on your own feet. And Vernon looks unfairly composed in comparison. Like he’s turned the volume down on whatever chaos just happened between you – but it’s still written in his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair, the way he keeps looking at you like you’re a goddamn fever dream.

He steps forward and reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours like you’re dating or something. “C’mon,” he says, tugging gently, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

The night air is cooler outside of the cages. The heat of the moment is behind you as you walk towards your car, parked rather haphazardly by a streetlight, hand-in-hand, Vernon glancing down at you every once-in-a-while. He has this silly little smile plastered on his face that makes you smile too. Makes you smile more. 

When you finally reach your car, Vernon lets go of your hand, stepping around to the passenger side. When he opens the door and peeks in, for a split second, you think he’s about to jump in, drive with you back home. 

But then he pulls back, grinning, shouldering his duffle, hands in his pockets. 

“Messy,” he comments. 

You click your tongue, pulling open the driver’s side, sliding in. Your hands hover near the handle before you grip it. 

You don’t want to say anything else, lest you break the moment – heavy, thick with everything that just happened. 

So, naturally, Vernon does. “You’re okay to drive though?” 

You smile, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, unless you wanna file a police report about a girl you were making out with in the cages.” 

His lips twitch and you know he picked up on your tone. He leans against the driver’s side. “Think it’d hold up in court?” 

You laugh. “Depends. I might argue that you instigated it.” 

Vernon scoffs, one arm on the top of your car. He’s so close again. “Can’t. Won’t hold. I clearly said jump. That’s consent and delegation.” 

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

“Okay, criminal.” 

You both laugh, tension broken, and it feels good. Cathartic, in a way. But overall, good. His smile lingers longer this time, teeth catching on his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say something. Or like he’s trying not to leave. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you back?” he asks. His voice is gentler now. He hesitates before his hand darts out, fingers gently brushing the fallen strands of hair from your face. “I can follow you, even. Just to make sure you get home okay, y’know?” 

Your heart tugs a little. It’s so stupid how sweet he is. Stupid, stupid, and so so so endearing. Even if it sounds just a little bit creepy.

But you smile, grabbing his hand before it gets shoved in the depths of his pockets again. “You tryna be my stalker now?” 

Vernon shrugs, fingers folding over yours sweetly. “Eh. Takes one to know one, right?” And then he smiles – all teeth and boyish with ruffled hair – and it makes you laugh. 

“Are you calling me a stalker?” 

“Nah. You’re my Kiss Cam partner. ‘S a little diff’rent.” A pause. “I’ll still follow you though,” he says, a little quieter now. “Not all the way – just out the lot. Make sure no one’s creeping out here this late.” 

You squint at him dramatically. “Is this your creepy way of saying you want to make sure I don’t crash my car?”

“It’s my gentlemanly way of saying I don’t trust you behind the wheel when your brain’s still halfway up that fence.”

The laugh that is forced out of you is as dramatic as incredulous. “Vernon Chwe!” You blush red under his laughter. 

He watches, one hand still on the frame like he doesn’t want to walk away just yet.

Before he closes the door for you, you glance up and grin. “Hey, if I do crash, just know my ghost is gonna haunt you in a very flirty and inconvenient way.”

Vernon laughs, full and warm this time. “Can’t wait.”

He shuts the door gently, taking a step back. You turn on the engine, stealing one last glance at him through the window, now rolled down. 

He watches you for a second. “Text me when you get home?” His request is quiet, small, almost like he expects you to say no. 

Your foot leaves the gas pedal. 

You look at him. Really look at him. And you know if you don’t kiss him again right now, you’re going to regret it.

You reach out, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, and you tug him down to you. He doesn’t resist. His lips meet yours again – this time slower, but also faster. A peck. Small, short, and sweet. Just in case you get too addicted too quick. 

When you break apart, he looks dazed. Like you just punched the breath out of him. 

“I’ll text you,” you whisper. 

You steal one last glance at him before rolling up your window.

He waves you off with a crooked grin, walking slowly back to his own car as you back out of the lot. And even in your rearview mirror, you can see him watching, waiting until you’re safely out onto the road.

You pull away, your cheeks still aching from smiling.

Five minutes later, at the first stoplight, your phone buzzes in the holder attached to the AC. 

vernon⚾️🐈 text me back when ur home j so i know ur ghost isnt gonna flirt me into crashing too 

You bite your lip, smile stretching wide and helpless across your face. And you can’t control the incoherent squeal that leaves your lips. 

God, you’re so screwed. 

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

It’s almost 9PM when you get his text. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u @ the studio?

you sadly yes how did u know r u stalking me or smth

vernon⚾️🐈 maybe  i j finished training j checking in

His little typing… bubble doesn’t go away for another couple of seconds and you just know that he probably deleted what he was going to send to you. 

you im j working how was training?

vernon⚾️🐈 the same did u eat?

you …no BUT im fine deadline mode

vernon⚾️🐈 what kind of monster forgets to eat

you a very talented one that also missed her deadline last week? making a masterpiece rn

vernon⚾️🐈 so dramatic

The conversation lulls when he doesn’t send anything for a minute or two. You curl yourself against the armrest of your work chair, sewing and fabric forgotten on your work table. 

vernon⚾️🐈 do u want me to bring u food?

you only if it comes with radish!! this time!!!

You hope the exclamation points hide how red your cheeks are and how your body almost vibrates with nerves – or maybe excitement? – as you reread his text. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u think id mess that up twice?

you call it intuition

vernon⚾️🐈 wow no faith in me

you i have complete faith in ur batting avg j not ur side dish memory

vernon⚾️🐈 cold i hit a homer AND remembered ur drink last time

you ok fine ur batting .500 in food service tbh thats hall of fame numbers

vernon⚾️🐈 lmao im omw w surprise food dont sew ur hand off!!!

you ur coming NOW??!

vernon⚾️🐈 lol yeah unless u dont want me to.. i can hang the food on ur door and go

you u can stay IF ur not annoying

vernon⚾️🐈 roundabout way to tell me to leave..

you no u can stay depending how good the food is

vernon⚾️🐈 depending on how good u look in wtv ur making rn

you bro vernon

vernon⚾️🐈 👀 do u call every guy u make out w “bro”

you omg shut up and hurry up

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

You’re bent over your work table, one knee pressed close to your chest, the other crossed flat against the seat, when you hear the quiet doorbell to your studio echo through the empty rooms. 

In the quiet of the studio, above the city hustle and bustle, the doorbell rings loudly, decrescendoing into a whisper of an intrusion. 

You don’t turn immediately – hands busy pinning fabric on the mannequin in front of you. But you know it’s him. He texted ten minutes ago that he was almost there and knowing Vernon, he probably stood stock-still in front of the door, maybe pacing, trying to psych himself up to press the doorbell and double checking if he was at the right address for five whole minutes. 

“It’s unlocked!” you call, voice only slightly muffled by the pins in your mouth as you (attempt) to thread a thin leather string through the bodice only to have it bunch on one side. You hear the door click open, hinges creaking quietly from down the hall. Soft footsteps that stop right in front of the raised entry-way are followed by a couple of shuffles as he takes off his shoes, sliding into the slippers that you set out an hour before. 

When you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the entry hallway with a plastic bag in his hand, a black hoodie half-off, slinging off his shoulder, over an ab-showing workout shirt, and cap flipped backwards. 

A ridiculously loud laugh is torn from the back of your throat and you almost fall off your chair at the way Vernon’s face twists in confusion. 

He lifts a hand. 

“Hey,” he greets, low voice soft in the quiet of the studio, mingling with your playlist playing through the speakers. 

“Hey,” you say. 

His eyes sweep over you, then the chaos you’re sitting in – bolts of fabric stacked and pushed away to the dark corner next to your desk, three sewing machines pushed up against the right wall, your own sewing machine humming with a lazily blinking lights, and unfinished sketches taped to the window in front of your desk, a flood-over from the wall-taped sketches. 

He lifts the bag in his hand with the cutest grin you’ve seen. If you were a weaker woman, you would have blushed. “Saved your life. Again.” 

You roll your eyes, motioning him inside your main studio. “Maybe save the gloat for after I eat.” 

He steps inside, brushing past the hanging yards of tulle that you thought you would use but never ended up actually using so you hung hurriedly on the fabric rack bolted high against the wall. He pads over to you and when he sets the bag down on the nearest slightly-clean table, you can smell the scent of his cologne – clean, vanilla, a little spicy and musky. It’s faint, like he put it on hours ago, but the way it still lingers makes your head hurt because he smells exactly the same from that night. He glances around your studio like he always does when he comes here, like he’s trying to memorize all the new wall-taped sketches and discarded fabric pieces. 

He points to a sketch taped on the window, right above your table. “I like that one. Is it new?” 

You pull your hair back, twisting it up into a bun before clipping it off with a claw clip. “Maybe. It will be if I actually finish it.” 

He looks down at you with his brown eyes that look a little bit darker in the dim lights of the studio. It’s a beat too long. You feel it. Like there’s something unspoken sitting right behind his teeth and he’s not too sure whether he’s allowed to say it or if you would both benefit from him swallowing it down whole. 

You can’t stand his gaze – not if it feels like he can read your mind (even the thoughts that are definitely not suitable). So you open the bag to distract yourself. 

The first thing that greets your hungry eyes is two packets of cellophane-wrapped containers of white radish. 

“Okay,” you hum, unwrapping the cellophane carefully, “you did remember the radish.” You lick a droplet of radish juice off your thumb, glancing at Vernon with a grin. “Color me impressed.” 

He shrugs, sitting on your work bench like he’s done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I’m learning,” he mutters, leaning back on his hands. He watches as you open containers, throwing plastic lids into the large garbage can by your desk. The soft pop! of plastic lids fill the space and you can’t help but push some containers of o-deng and pajeon towards Vernon to let him open those as you crack apart two sets of chopsticks, (un)gracefully moving to the floor. Your chopstick shovels a good chunk of crab meat and egg fried rice even before your crossed legs can touch the hardwood floor. 

It’s quiet, aside from the music in the background and your murmurs of holy shit this is so good in between rapid bites. 

Vernon watches you for a while in silence, legs spread out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. His chopstick is untouched – like he takes more pleasure out of watching you eat than eating it himself. 

“You okay?” he asks eventually, noticing a stall in your hurried shovelling of food. 

You glance up at him from your half-empty fried rice bowl. You blink. “Yeah? Just tired.” 

He nods, eyes dropping to your bare legs tucked under you, the way your quarter-zip dips too low on your chest. He clears his throat and looks away fast – too fast. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, setting the bowl and chopsticks down, studying him in all of his post-training, showered, deliciously-smelling glory. You can’t help but stare – at his face, his arms, his chest, everything. And then at his slightly-drooping eyes and slight dark circles that seem to shadow over more in the dim studio lights. 

“You don’t have to stay,” you say softly, poking his leg. “You probably have practice tomorrow.” 

His response is as immediate as it is confident. “I wanna stay.” It makes you blush – the way he says it like he can’t lie to you even if he tries. 

You hum, legs pulled up to your chest and try not to stare the way his forearm flexes when he runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter, now that you focus on it. Maybe he cut it. Or maybe he’s training you for his inevitable decision of buzzing it all (he mentioned it to you in passing once and you had laughed at him). The silence stretches again, comfortable, but pulsing, like something’s about to break through the thick wall. 

Vernon looks away to the side, mouth opening. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says suddenly, like it somehow fell out. 

Your breath catches. 

He’s looking down at the floor now, jaw tight. His legs move to sit criss-cross, like this is a serious conversation. “Since the cages,” he starts out quiet – more quiet than you’ve ever heard him – “It’s been…” he pauses, “kinda driving me crazy.” 

You swallow down the breath caught in the back of your throat. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he says, finally glancing up. If this were any other conversation, you could have giggled over how blushed his cheeks are. “And I didn’t wanna – fuck – I didn’t wanna make it weird, y’ know?” He searches your eyes like it’ll have the words he needs to finish his sentence. “But then you didn’t really text me after – no, like you did but not really – and I thought, I dunno, maybe – maybe – I–”

Before you can even understand what’s going on, you’re on your knees, leaning forward so that you’re staring him in his eyes with some sort of unfamiliar ferocity. 

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say, hand lingering on his knee. Your quarter-zip falls off your shoulder from the sudden movement. “Vernon, I just didn’t know what to say. Hey, I missed an entire traffic signal because of how good you kissed me seemed a little cliche and stupid.” You crack a grin. 

Vernon lets out a soft laugh, ears tinting pink. When he looks up at you, brows pulled, lips parted like he’s trying to figure out if this is real, it gets harder for you to breathe. A shaky hand goes up to touch his face – fingers brushing his cheek, thumb grazing under his eye, lingers on the sharp cut of his jaw. His fingers curl around the hem of your quarter-zip, pulling you forward, steadying you with firm hands on your thighs when you jerk forward, falling into his lap. 

“Oops,” Vernon murmurs, but the shadow of a smile ghosting his lips gives him away. And it makes your heart beat out through your ribs. 

“You…” you never get to finish that sentence because you find yourself leaning down to kiss him. 

And when your lips meet his, he melts into it. 

It starts slow. Softer than it was the first time. His mouth opens under yours, and he tastes like the strawberry drink he brought for you, like the past week of restraint cracking open. You sink into him, arms circling his shoulders, and he shifts to pull you onto his lap.

Your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel his hands hesitate at your hips. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, slightly hoarse.

You nod. “More than sure.”

And then it unravels.

He kisses you like he’s waited years, not days. Like he memorized the shape of your mouth from that night and has been replaying it on loop. Your hoodie is tugged over your head, and his lips trail over every inch of skin he can find. He leaves kisses down your chest, over your ribs, as you unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers and way too much anticipation.

You're still perched on his lap, his hoodie long gone, your fingers tangled in his hair when he starts kissing down your neck again – open-mouthed, biting. The low hum of the studio surrounds you — the soft buzz of the desk lamp, the rustle of fabric under your knees, the faint warmth from the space heater in the corner.

"Vernon," you whisper.

He groans softly against your collarbone, your name dragging from his lips like a prayer. His hands skim up under your quarter-zip, fingers grazing your sides with a reverence that has your spine curling. His hands inch up, up, up until he meets the softness of your–

“Fuck, no bra?” Vernon groans, hands stilling on your chest. His lips part from your neck for a second. 

You giggle, leaning into his touch. “Maybe I took it off when you said you’ll come,” you whisper into his ear, watching in sinful delight as he blushes at your words, pushing your quarter-zip up until it’s up over your head. When he throws the quarter-zip to some random corner of the studio, he freezes, eyes frozen on the way your nipples harden in the open air, your hair as it runs down your shoulders, hands kneading your tits like they are made for him. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers. His mouth goes down before you can even respond with anything, lips circling a nipple as two fingers go to tweak the other one. His tongue is warm against your skin, rolling, lightly biting, sucking. It’s crazy – the way he knows what you want before you even say anything. It drives you absolutely crazy. 

"Wanna taste you," he murmurs, voice low, thick.

Your breath catches. Your eyes meet his. There’s something unshakably tender about the way he’s looking at you — like this has been haunting him. Like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll fill him.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are slow, tender, trailing down your sides as he eases you onto your back, bare skin meeting the plush fur of your carpet. A scarf — forgotten on the floor — is swept aside, discarded like all other distractions.

The round carpet you brought home from Taiwan softens the ground beneath his knees. You’d chosen it because it reminded you of moonlight, round and pale and slightly worn. Now it presses into the bones of his legs as he settles between yours like he's found the only place he's ever needed to be.

He leans in close, breath ghosting warm over the sensitive skin of your thighs. And then he begins.

One kiss. 

Then another. 

And another.

Soft at first — reverent, almost — each one carefully placed along the inside of your thigh. His mouth is warm, and his lips linger like he's trying to imprint the shape of you onto himself. He pauses to breathe you in, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands smooth up and down your legs. One hand wraps beneath your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles while the other curls possessively around your hip.

Every kiss climbs higher, closer, and your hands instinctively grip at his hoodie, still bunched around his arms — the fabric wrinkles between your fingers, grounding you while everything else begins to blur. He looks up once, eyes dark and earnest, gaze locking with yours like he’s checking if you're still with him, still his. You nod, a breathless motion, and he smiles — just barely — before ducking his head again.

When his tongue finally finds you, it’s slow — intentionally slow. One long, deliberate lick that makes your breath stutter and your back arch from the couch. His mouth settles against you like a man starved — greedy, hungry, but still worshipful. The way he moves feels like he's memorizing you with every stroke — cataloging the way your thighs tense, how your breath catches, the exact sound you make when he sucks just right.

You whimper his name, and his body reacts — shoulders twitching, hips shifting, a soft gasp breaking against you like he feels it too. His fingers dig into your hips as if anchoring himself, but you can feel the restraint — like he’s holding back from tearing the rest of your clothes off and burying himself inside you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, desperate, the words barely coherent.

He doesn’t. 

He can’t.

When your thighs start to tremble, he groans — the sound guttural, animal — but he doesn’t slow. His arms tighten around your legs, pulling you in closer, locking you into place like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never dared to say aloud. Your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and his response is immediate: a full-body shiver, a muffled moan into your skin that makes your toes curl.

And when your warning comes — a breathy, broken gasp of please or I’m close, you’re not even sure which — he holds you tighter. He pushes his tongue deeper, faster, more insistent, drinking down every sound you make like he's parched.

You fall apart on his tongue, crying out his name as your whole body tightens, then trembles, then shudders in release. He doesn’t stop. Not right away. He keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, lapping at the aftershocks like he wants to make sure every last wave of pleasure is felt. You twitch beneath him, hypersensitive and dazed, and finally — finally — he pulls back.

His chin is wet, glistening. His lips are pink and swollen, slightly parted like he’s still catching his breath. There’s a dazed, wrecked look in his eyes — the kind of haze that only comes from witnessing something divine.

He blinks up at you like he’s trying to remember where he is, and then, with a hoarse little laugh that barely makes it past his throat, he wipes the back of his hand over his chin and whispers, “You taste like fucking heaven.”

But it’s more than just lust in his eyes.

He looks at you like he’s just been undone. Like your pleasure unstitched something in him he can’t sew back together. And for a long moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing — still uneven — and the soft rustle of fabric as he leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh again. Slower this time. Calmer. 

Like a benediction.

Like thanks.

You lean up, breathless, cheeks a deep red, tugging him by the collar of his shirt. "Bed," you whisper. "Come here."

His pupils blow wide, as do the rest of his eyes.

You giggle as you grab his hand, scrambling up to your shaky feet, and pull him toward the bedroom — the small tucked-away space past your sewing machine and half-stuffed closet. The lights are soft inside, fairy lights strung in lazy arcs across the ceiling. The bed is already messy, the comforter folded halfway down, pillows too soft to hold structure, the rest of the room packed with machines you don’t need this season and bolts of fabric that didn’t really pass your test. 

He pauses just inside the doorway, hand still in yours, taking it in.

“Holy– the hell?” he mutters.

You blush. “Take your hoodie off.”

He does — slowly, deliberately — and lets it fall to the floor as you sit on the bed, pulling him between your legs. He cups your cheek and kisses you again, deeper now, heavier. And when you lie back on the comforter and he climbs over you, settling into the space between your thighs like he was made for it—it feels like every part of you says finally.

The bed dips under his weight, comforter cool against your back, but the heat radiating from Vernon is all-consuming.

He’s still above you, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth — hand braced next to your head, the other dragging up your shirt so slowly it’s unbearable. Your skin prickles under his touch, goosebumps chasing every inch he reveals.

"Can I?" he murmurs, thumb brushing just against the waistband of your now-ruined panties. His voice is low, a little wrecked already.

You nod, but your voice is thin. “Fuck, please.”

His eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he pulls your panties down slowly, your legs going up to let him trail his fingers down your bare thighs to throw the panities to a random corner of the room. You reach up, tug at his waistband — a silent demand — and he complies, standing just long enough to strip down to his boxers. When he returns to the bed, all warm skin and toned muscle, you think, this is going to ruin me.

He kisses down your chest, slow, reverent. Your brain is gone in seconds, and then his mouth is on you — warm, wet, tongue swirling in lazy circles that have you arching off the bed. One of his hands grips your waist while the other moves between your legs, pressing over your soaked panties with a hum.

"You're shaking," he whispers.

"You’re taking your time," you shoot back breathlessly.

He chuckles — and then shifts lower. And then… he just looks at you. Drags his hands up your thighs and stares like he’s seen God and she’s spread out on her own damn bed.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You’re beautiful."

You reach for him again, desperate, and he finally gives in, grinding down against your bare core with a low groan. His hips rock once, twice — and you both hiss at the contact. Then he pauses.

“I don’t— I didn’t bring—”

“S’ okay,” you breathe. Your fingers reach for his, eyes never leaving his. “You’re clean, right?” 

He nods almost dumbly, staring at you with toussled hair and parted mouth. 

You gasp in a breath, smiling. “S’ fine, then. I have an IUD.” 

And then it’s like something clicks into place in his brain because his eyes bulge a little as he leans down, biceps shaking, brushing hair out of your face. His next words are almost reverent. “Raw?” 

You hum, kissing his jaw greedily. “Raw,” you whisper teasingly into his ear. 

And then he’s kissing you hard. His hands are a little shaky — not with fear, but with need. Like he’s been dreaming of this for months. Like if he doesn’t get inside you now, he’ll die wanting.

And when he finally does — when he pushes in, slow and careful, your legs wrapping around his waist again — you both go still.

Vernon buries his face in your neck.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “You feel— fuck, you feel so good.”

Vernon pauses once he's fully sheathed in you, a low, guttural breath escaping his lips.

"Shit—" he mutters, his voice trembling as his arms brace tightly around you. His forehead presses against yours. "You okay?"

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your fingers locked at the nape of his neck, body trembling beneath him. It’s a lot. He’s thick and long, stretching you more than you remember, and the sudden fullness has you gasping for air, your walls fluttering around him.

"It’s… it’s been a while," you whisper, biting your bottom lip. "You're just—bigger than I thought."

He groans — actually groans, a sound pulled straight from his chest, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to lose control.

“Fuck—don’t say that. I’m already barely holding it together.”

You laugh breathlessly, cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to move yet. Just stay.”

And he does.

Vernon stays perfectly still, despite the way his hips twitch against yours every few seconds, like his body is begging for friction. One of his hands gently cradles your jaw, the other slips between your bodies to softly stroke your waist, grounding you.

“Just tell me when,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.

You focus on breathing, adjusting slowly. He kisses you — slow, deep — his lips pulling moans out of you with nothing but gentleness. And all the while, he whispers against your skin: "You’re doing so good." "I missed you." "You feel unreal."

Your body slowly opens for him, easing into the stretch. The sting dulls into something that makes your toes curl, the kind of pressure that has your thighs trembling with need again.

Finally, you nod, pulling him closer with your legs. “Okay… Move.”

He groans again, this time low and wrecked. He starts to rock his hips, just the smallest roll — and you moan, sharp and high-pitched. His hands tighten on your waist instantly.

“Still good?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He listens — slow thrusts at first, hips rolling in a deep, steady rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. His movements are fluid, controlled, like he’s making love to you with everything he’s held back for months. The stretch is still there, just enough to make every motion feel heady and overwhelming, but now it feels good — so good, it makes you tremble.

Every few strokes, he stops just to kiss you again — like he needs the anchor, or maybe just can’t believe this is real. His mouth trails over your neck, down to your chest, over the curve of your breast.

When he bites gently at your collarbone, you arch, your body clenching around him without warning.

He chokes out a moan.

“Fuck, you keep doing that and I’m not gonna last,” he warns, sweat dampening the strands of hair at his temple.

“You feel—” You gasp when he shifts just right. “—so deep, Nonie.”

Your hands claw at his back, and he picks up the pace just slightly. He’s still holding back — you can feel it, the way his body’s taut above you, trembling like he’s restraining every instinct.

But it doesn’t matter — every slow, deliberate thrust drives you wild.

“Touch yourself f’ me” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you fall ‘part f’ me.”

Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and the added pressure unravels you. Your moans get louder, body jolting beneath him, and he watches, completely entranced — pupils blown wide, lips parted, sweat glistening across his chest.

Then, you tighten around him again, crying out his name — and he curses, loud, hips stuttering.

“You gonna come?” he pants.

“Close— I’m so close, just—don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you through it, deeper now, pace unrelenting but still somehow careful — so damn attentive even when he’s right at the edge.

You break first.

The orgasm hits you like a wave — your whole body curling, vision blurring, mouth open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around him, and you shake, pulling him down with you.

And that’s all it takes.

He lets go, hips slamming into you one final time, face buried in your neck as he moans your name against your skin. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you as he pulses inside you and white hot fills you, so thick and heavy that when he pulls back just slightly to brush a kiss against your sweaty neck, dribbles of white roll down your thighs and it has you whimpering into Vernon’s shoulder. He’s panting through it like he’s never come that hard in his life.

The room goes quiet — just heavy breathing, soft whimpers, and the distant hum of the fairy lights above.

Vernon doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds you. Kisses your cheek. Your shoulder. Your lips.

When he finally pulls out and lies beside you, you take pride in the way his eyes linger at the mix of cum that you can feel run down your thighs. 

He nuzzles you. “Sorry. Clean you up in a bit, yeah?” 

You just hum, wearily moving to wrap your arms around him, nodding. 

He curls around you instantly, one arm slung over your waist, the other brushing your hair off your face.

You’re both still trembling.

“Was it okay?” he whispers again, quieter now. Almost scared.

You turn your head to look at him. “It was perfect. Worth the wait.”

He exhales, relieved, and buries his face in your neck again — smiling against your skin.

“…You sure it didn’t hurt?”

You snort. “I’m a big girl. I can take some good dick.”

Your pulse speeds up when he laughs loudly.

Your breathing starts to settle before his does.

Vernon’s arm is still around your waist, skin sticky against yours, his chest rising and falling fast as he stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to replay every second in his head. You can feel the tension still lingering in his muscles — not from arousal anymore, but from something softer. Almost nervous.

You turn your head slightly, your cheek against the curve of his shoulder, and whisper, “You okay?”

He lets out a breath. A beat too long of silence follows.

Then—

“I just… don’t want you to think I came here for that.”

You blink.

When you look up, his face is flushed again — not from sex this time, but embarrassment. His brows are pulled slightly, lips parted like he’s not sure if he should’ve said anything at all.

“I know it was kinda fast. And maybe it doesn’t make sense but—” He pauses. “I like you. I mean, I really like you. And this—tonight—wasn’t about just… getting in your pants.”

You can’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips, even through the exhaustion threading through your bones. If Vernon was any closer, you swear he could hear the way your pulse pounds in your ears from sheer delight. You nudge him gently with your nose, closing your eyes blissfully. “If you were just trying to sleep with me, you wouldn’t have held me like that.”

Vernon goes quiet again. His arms tighten around you just a little.

“…Okay. Good.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to his chest — right over his heart. It’s racing, still.

He exhales through his nose and shifts onto his side, finally facing you fully. You melt into it without hesitation, curling up instinctively in the circle of his arms as one hand moves to brush your hair back from your forehead.

But now that you’re still — fully come down, the adrenaline gone — the weight of everything else starts creeping in. Your eyelids feel heavy. Your limbs ache in that dull, familiar way that says too many hours, too many nights, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. That and your lower back protests every time you move even a millimetre, which you can probably blame on Vernon.

Vernon notices.

He tilts your chin gently and looks at you closely.

“Hey… when was the last time you properly slept?”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “Don’t ask me that right now.”

He frowns immediately.

“Baby.”

You decide to keep the way you internally scream and your heart races in your chest at the pet name a secret from him forever.

“I didn’t forget or anything,” you lie poorly, burying your face against his collarbone. “I just had deadlines. And fittings. And I didn’t know you were gonna show up and ruin me—”

“Ruin you?” he says with a breathless laugh, even as his hand cups the back of your head. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you.”

“You did,” you murmur, yawning mid-sentence. “But not complaining. Maybe all I needed was to get dicked down to stitch the rest of the sequins on that fucking skirt.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters affectionately, pulling the comforter over your shoulders. “But you hafta sleep.”

You hum softly, letting him shift so he’s slightly propped up, your head resting on his bicep. He runs his fingers down your spine — absent, steady, soothing — and your eyes flutter closed despite yourself.

“I was gonna leave after I dropped off the food,” he suddenly says. “Swear to God. But then you opened the door looking like that and all my good intentions evaporated.”

“Your fault then,” you mumble sleepily. “You seduced me.”

He chokes on a laugh. “I seduced you?”

“Mhm.”

There’s a beat of silence. His hand stills against your back.

“…You really tired?”

You nod, the motion barely there. “So tired.”

He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer, like he’s trying to wrap himself around you completely. Your bare legs are tangled, bodies pressed together under the covers. The fairy lights above your head glow softly, the only thing illuminating the room aside from the moonlight slipping through the sheer curtains.

“Whaddaya want in the morning?” he whispers. “Something warm? I’ll order before I leave for training.”

“Training?”

“Yeah. We have morning training for the game tomorrow night.” He pauses. “You coming?”

The slight uncertainty in his voice makes you smile. “‘Course. Wouldn’t miss my boyfriend’s game for the world.”

He laughs again, but this one’s softer, his chin nudging the top of your head. 

“Boyfriend?” he asks, brow raising. 

You nod. “Mhm. Think you deserve a title after dick that good.” 

Vernon lets out a loud laugh that echoes through the room – all high-pitched and throaty. “God.” 

And then he turns quiet. 

“You know,” he murmurs after a few seconds, “this bed’s really small.”

You nod against him. “Told you.”

“And we barely fit.”

“Mhm.”

“…Kinda like it though.”

You peek up at him with one eye, a smirk playing at your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a gentle kiss to your nose. “Means I get to keep you close.”

You nuzzle in again, your heart suddenly too full for your chest. Safe. Sleepy. Wrapped up in the arms of someone who likes you exactly how you are, late nights and all.

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper.

He squeezes your hip. “I’m glad you let me in.”

And then, just before sleep takes you under:

“…You drooled on me a little.”

“Well, you came in me so I think that makes us even,” you retort, already falling asleep, especially with the rhythm of Vernon’s hand patting your back. Before you know it, everything – even Vernon’s soft breaths – goes mute, your body relaxing against Vernon’s firm hold. 

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed, still vaguely warm, congee in the microwave, and a messily-scribbled note on one of your cat post-it notes you keep on your work desk. 

morning babe. i’m off to practice. i know you told me to wake you up but thought you’d appreciate more sleep than a kiss goodbye from me (gave u one tho). i’ll see you later, yeah? call me when you have time. 

- HVC

You press the note close to your chest, eyes welling up in tears that you’re not too sure are from hormones or something else. Your emotional parade is cut short when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a name that has you laughing out a watery laugh. 

vernon⚾️🐈 is calling…

: ̗̀➛ ​🇰​​🇮​​🇸​​🇸​ ❜​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇺​​🇵​ @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows ; @itsclda ; @luminouskalopsia ; @kiachiako ; @81evermore ; @daaaph-lol

[radio-fmm]

Dear Luffy

Luffy x fem!reader

2k words, sfw

Sanji finds out about your crush on Luffy, would he be able to keep the secret?

Masterlist | Pt. 2

Sanji’s heart dropped to the depths of his stomach as he stood still in the middle of your room, a piece of paper in his hands

Truth was he didn’t wanted to be in this position, as incriminating as it looked

You had lost your glasses that morning. You had been looking everywhere but to no avail, the task becoming quite difficult without them too. Of course Sanji being the gentleman he is, offered to help you look starting with your bedroom

Big mistake

His eyes bore at the letter in his hands that had wrinkled under his unrelenting hold. Luffy’s name spelled at the top with dear attached to it with your handwriting makes his eyes drop out of his skull

You like Luffy?

Of course you do, Sanji then recalls all those times you decided to stay up later to accompany him on his night watches so he ‘wouldn’t fall asleep’ face beaming. How you were always, without a doubt, the first to jump on his crazy ideas and adventures. All of the times he had catch you sneaking around the kitchen late at night, only to then find out that Luffy send you for snacks for him to eat knowing he wasn’t allowed. That look of adoration he’ll catch in your eyes when looking up at your Captain

It was unmistakable

“Sanji! I found them!” - Your voice echoed trough the hallway and the cook curses, without missing any more seconds he hides the letter on its rightful place under your pillow and drops to his knees, hopefully he’ll look as if he was innocently searching under your bed he didn’t

The sound of the doorknob followed by his name makes the blood rush to his ears, heart thrumming in his chest as he prays he can meet your eyes like a normal person, trying not to think about the huge secret he just read about

“Thank god my darling!” He gets up at the speed of light, he’s surprised he didn’t passed out from the harsh movement

Immediately you feel something is wrong

Sanji stands in the middle of your room, eyes darting in every direction, clammy hands fiddling with his cigarette, a nervous smile on his features

“Are you ok San-“

“Fantastic! Why wouldn’t I be?-“ Slowly and desperately, the blonde makes his way out of your room, fumbling every step and almost falling along with your dresser that was tucked on the corner of the place -“Anyway, I gotta go back to the kitchen, dinner won’t cook itself!”

Finally he reaches the handle and disappears, his heart pounding and mouth dry

“Nami was right, he’s kinda weird…”

Shit shit shit, he feelt dirty, invading a ladys privacy like that? Unforgivable. What panicked him the most tho, was not what he knew or how he found out, no no no

It was the fact that he knows he won’t be able to shut his mouth about it. Sanji is a bad liar, specially lying to beautiful ladies, and as it turns, there’s 2 very much noisy ladies aboard The Sunny

Shit

His mind in a reverie, shaky slender fingers scavenging for another cigarette as he made a bee-line to the kitchen

“Mr. cook” Robins calls, echoing trough Sanji’s head, a shiver running down his spine as he looks up to her, head resting on her palm, prying eyes examining his every move

“Oh! Tigress, didn’t see you there” he fakes a smile as better as he can, hoping she wouldn’t ask any questions

“Did y/n find her glasses?” There’s a squint, very small and almost undetectable when she mentions you, waiting for a reaction from the poor blonde cook

He sweats, heavily “Ah yes! She did” a painfully fake giggle scapes his mouth along with the smoke he was keeping in. They both stare at each other, as if waiting for someone to do or say anything… after a while Sanji excuses himself to the kitchen, knowing he’ll be safe once he steps in

Very loud, very incorrect buzzer

His relief is short lived as he enters the kitchen and he catches a glimpse of Nami. She was working on some maps, ponytail and glasses on sketching the day away. Sanji’s blood runs cold

You see, there’s a difference between being questioned by Robin and being questioned by Nami, the latter lacking as certain touch when it comes to her words… and being the queen of noisy

“Nami swan” he drags the last word as in disbelief, she has never in the time they had sailed, worked on her maps in any other place that isn’t her office

The navigator’s head snaps. Completely unaware of the panic petrifying him at the entrance “Oh hey Sanji! The sun hits the kitchen at this hour, better light” she points to her work before getting back to it

Surely he could make it right? Cook for the whole crew without spilling a syllable of what he had read, sounds easy enough

Again, very loud incorrect buzzer

“LUFFY?” Nami’s voice echoes trough the walls, her maps long forgotten as the poor poor cook stood mortified in front of the half cubed vegetables for the soup he was planning to do

Turns out the navigator was far more preceptive than he thought. Sanji was reciting every single detail of what happened within 30 minutes of him just smoking like a psycho and cutting vegetables in terrible cubes

“You can’t tell anyone! She would never forgive me for accidentally snooping around” he begs, resuming his meal prep

“Whatever, that’s not the important part! We have to do something with this” she presses the matter with wide eyes

“No”

“Yes!”

“Darling we-“

“We should what?” Both of the very loud crewmates remain frozen, eyes wide and mouth agape as the Captain himself stands at the door, nostrils open as he takes in the aroma of the soon to be dinner, behind him walks Robin, a sly smile on her lips

Silence, deafening silence

“What were you talking about?” Of course the archeologists pushes the matter, already knowing something was stewing between the two

“Nothing” both culprits answer as they resume their individual tasks that had been forgotten

Robin is no fool, she notices how both steal panicked glances at her Captain who is just completely lost on the dinner cooking up in front of him to notice. How Sanji, the best cook she had ever had the chance to encounter is messing up steps as he fights to make the soup. How Nami kept re drawing the same set of mountains on the map

The tension was no joke

“Captain, did Mr. Shooter showed you the impressive fish he caught this morning?” Luffy brightens at Robins words

“WHAT? I have to see it! Bet it would taste delicious!” In a blink, Luffy has left the kitchen enticing a relieved sigh from the cook that does not go amiss for anyone

“You two are going to tell me what’s going on”

That damn soup was taking way too long, Luffy was bouncing up and down impatiently, stomach loud with hunger. You being the good friend that you are decided to try and get a snack, maybe a little flutter from your eyelashes would get Sanji to budge and let you take something before dinner. The Sunny was rarely quiet, the sound of the oceans waves crashing on the ship a sweet melody that had you skipping happily. As you neared the kitchen, you stopped in your tracks as a set of voices reached your ears, was there a meeting or something? Weird, Sanji doesn’t like a lot of people around when he’s cooking

Curiosity got the cat, you rest your ear flat against the door trying to make out the conversation behind it

“… a letter… it was an accident… she really likes him… he has no idea… you know how Luffy is…”

Oh

A surprised gasp leaves your mouth before you can catch it, hands run to your mouth as you stay put before the door, brain scrambled as it glues the pieces together

Someone found your love letter

The sound of heavy heels approaching the door takes you out of your daze as you scurry away like a cat, running away from the inevitable. You hear Nami call your name but the embarrassment doesn’t allow you to turn as you scape to your room

Closing the door behind you with a loud tud, you run to your bed and find the letter under your silky pillow, your face turning red as you imagine one of your crewmates reading your words. You can hear your heart in your ears before you reap the letter, the sound deafening on your quiet bedroom. How pathetic you felt, like a spec of dust on a shelve with your feelings in your throat

Of course you were a no show for dinner, worried faces on Sanji, Nami and Robin who decided to leave you alone, the damage already done they didn’t wanted to pester you any more than they already had

You were a very shy person when it came to this kind of things, which was funny considering you were usually a very confident and outspoken person, but feelings? they were too much for you, opting by writing them down which you now see as probably a bad habit. You curse for the millionth time staring up at the ceiling in hopes the ocean would leak in and take you away, spitting you on the other side of the world. A couple of nocks on your door stop your train of thought, you don’t answer making the person on the other side impatient, so they opt to just open your door

Luffy stares at you for a moment as so do you, he didn’t know what was happening thank god

“Are you ok? You didn’t came down for dinner” something Luffy didn’t joked about was food that’s for sure

“Yeah I’m… just a little tired”

He grimaces, a rare look on the strawhat boy it makes you wince

“But you need to eat” he retorts

“I’ll eat later Luf, don’t worry”

He stares again, big chocolate eyes looking you up and down, a contemplative hmm vibrating from his chest. You remain frozen, still too embarrassed to even meet his eyes for more than 5 seconds

“You know you can tell me anything right?” Luffy had this amazing ability of always finding the correct words, your face falls and you swear your pulse had accelerated enough to be audible. You sit with his statement, and you feel troubled. Of course he’s right as he always is, it makes you feel stupid to even think about being embarrassed about having feelings, but you steal a glance at his face and the red in your cheeks remind you why are you feeling so mortified

Remind you how dear he is to you

You would hate yourself forever if you were to ever ruin this, this friendship and trust with your Captain. You value that above all else even if it means hiding during meals

“Yes, of course Luf” you smile, a hurtful kind of smile that makes the rubber boy grimace even more

“I can eat with you if you want”

“I said I am tired”

“Yeah but like, if you are up for it later” his genuine concern bends your will, not being honest to him burns like acid

“I’ll let you know if I go to the kitchen”

Finally Luffy gives you the most beautiful bright honest smile, then he just disappears

This whole situation was so stupid, why were you embarrassed about feeling feelings? How dumb. If someone would’ve told you how difficult it would be to deal with love at sea, maybe you would’ve thought a little more about becoming a full time pirate

Of course you went down to eat your dinner later that day, of course Sanji happily warmed it up fro you and of course Luffy joined you

And of course he ate half of it

Pt.2

[maxispixels]

HANPICKED

PART THREE.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

1.8k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy?

CW: mention of a funeral

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve.

Your weekend had been busy with all the chores you let pile up during the last few weeks, and you were almost relieved to go back to the flower shop, and only have to sit on a stool for a few hours. Maybe make some commands and other stuff but hey, at least you were paid for it.

The green storefront greeted you cheerfully, and you turned the closed sign into an open one. The bell rang to welcome you, and you made your way to the old radio post in the corner of the shop. It still worked better than yours, despite its age, and the worrying amount of dust you didn’t dare to touch.

You quickly managed to get to BBC Radio 3, playing some classical music at that time of the morning. It made you feel like you were in a fairytale, tending to your flowers. Definitely made your job a lot nicer than it already was.

And just like that, you started to work, starting with cleaning the front window. 

Then it started to rain. You cursed the sky, ruining your hard work. You went back inside and started to water the potted plants, before changing the water of the ones in vases. 

The first customer of the day passed the door while you were in the middle of pouring water. “Good morning,” you welcomed with a singsong voice, still turning your back to the door. “One second and I’m yours.”

“Oi that’s interestin'.” A deep voice you’ve learnt to recognize resonated over the orchestral going on in the background. You almost spilled your water.

“You again?” You turned to face him. He had a small umbrella this time, but it didn’t protect him well from the rain. He put it in a corner carelessly. 

“Happy to see ya too.” He tilted his head. “Wot are ya doing there watering the flowers? They’re dead.”

“They’re cut flowers. They’re in their prime.”

“Prime? They’re on life support, yeah.”

You sighed. “What do you want?”

“No more how can I help you?” he imitated your tone, and you cringed. “An’ wot’s up with the music? Anything better than this? Are ya tryin’ to lure yer customers to sleep or som’thin?”

You rubbed your forehead. “You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t be mean, I came ‘ere with a gift.” He cooed. 

You raised an eyebrow, expecting the worst. “What for? We still don’t accept bartering.”

“I said a gift. I’m not tryna get anythin’ from ya.” He pulled out a couple of yellow flowers from his sleeve.

“Oh, lovely. Wildflowers. Did you pull those out of someone’s garden?”

“From a rich bloke’s ledge, if that makes ya feel better.” You rolled your eyes. “Picked these myself. Your daffodils are too posh. Thought you could use a change, somethin’ wild.”

You looked at his outstretched hand, holding the small, damp golden flowers. Buttercups, you thought. They were small, and reminded you of a kid picking flowers for their mother. It made you feel a little nostalgic.

Your hands gently grabbed them from his, careful not to brush his fingers. You still felt how cold his hands were, from being outside in the rain. 

“Don’t work your little brain too hard. M’just payin’ back for the daffodils the other day.”

You nodded. That was… Nice. “They’re… fine, I guess.” You said a little too quickly before placing the buttercup in a small water cup on the counter. Maybe you’ll sketch them later. You already had a couple of drawings for each plant from this shop, but you didn’t have a sketch of buttercups. 

You leaned back against the counter and eyed him as his gaze followed the shelf of flowers. “Why d’you needed the daffodils for anyyouway?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

His eyes went back to you, from the other side of the shop. “I might tell ya if  ya let me change the radio.” 

Your eyebrows knitted together. “...Fine?” 

It took him more than ten minutes to find what he wanted, and your patience was running low. “Careful with the antenna—”  scolded as he tugged it at an alarming angle. “I know what I’m doin’!” He insisted. You groaned, your face buried in both your hands.

The statics and random bits of voices slowly let place to something else. Distorted and muffled noises broke through the radio, followed by loud drumming and rugged vocals. He gave you a satisfied grin. “There it is.” You grimaced. The shop felt less like a peaceful garden and more like a dingy London club for a moment.

“What is that?”

“The best pirate radio in all of London. Proper punk, none of that watered down crap they put on the BBC.”

You frowned. “Pirate radio?” You mumbled. “Isn’t that… Illegal?”

He grinned at you like you said something adorable. “Course it is. That’s the point.”

You shifted on your legs, glancing nervously at the door. You quickly turned down the volume.

“No fun,” he pouted.

“Are you gonna talk now?”

“What was your question already?”

“Are you serious?”

“About what?”

There was no way he wasn’t being dumb on purpose, testing the limit of what patience you had left. “Why’d you nick the flowers?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes. “Why’d ya care? I just paid you back anyway.”

“I don’t. But I’m curious—it’s so weird to steal flowers. Especially since you just showed me that you were more than able to pick wild ones. Why get in trouble? For daffodils?”

“Well... it was for... an... important thing?” He mumbled, looking up at the ceiling, then letting his gaze trail down to some carnations.

You raised an eyebrow. “An important thing?” You couldn’t help but smirk as you saw the tall, punk, scary, grown man avoid your eyes like a kid. “What important thing? A girl?” You covered your mouth, feigning shock. “A boy?”

He gave you a look. His brown eyes fell back on you, and you swore they softened for a moment. You found yourself stumbling to hold his gaze. It made you weak in the knees, and you couldn’t figure out why.

“Does it matter?”

You shrugged. “I’m not judging.” You tilted your head, grinning. “Come on, tell me—you owe me an explanation, ay? For all the trouble you caused.”

He gave you a half-smile—was it shy or sad? You couldn’t tell. It threw you off balance. “Or don’t. You don’t have to.” You corrected yourself.

“No big deal. T’was just for a funeral.” He shrugged again, his tone casual, but it didn’t match the weight of his words.

Oh. The realization hit you like a slap. “Oh... I’m sorry. I... I didn’t know.” You muttered, your words suddenly too quiet.

“Don’t make that face.” He seemed to be the one teasing you now.

You blinked, not even realizing the puppy eyes you were giving him. Sad and guilty, like a kicked dog. God, you felt like such an idiot. You’d been nothing but rude to him up until now. Stupid, really. The whole situation was so absurd—here you were, feeling bad for a punk, in a flower shop, with a crazy bassline blasting in the background.

“No, I’m really sorry, I was awful. Fuck, can I do something for you?” You mumbled sheepishly, feeling a little off-balance.

“Mpf, don’t get all like that.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the shift in the dynamic. “I liked it better when you were all feisty. Or all nosy about my love life.” He smirked at you, and the cheeky look on his face made you want to wipe it off. 

You just let yourself fall back onto the stool, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. The shrill sound of police sirens suddenly blared through the air, startling you. You quickly realized it was coming from the radio, and your eyes flicked to the man, who was grinning at you, clearly amused by your reaction.

The static on the radio cracked as another song kicked in, something about police oppression, though the quality of the recording and the poor reception made the lyrics nearly impossible to understand.

“See, they don’t put this on the BBC.” Hemused, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. “This, this is fockin’ brillant.” 

You’re persuaded he’s distracting you again from the matter at hand. You let him. 

“They still put out some stuff on the BBC, though.” You argued. “The other day, I was trying to relax and there was some punk crap that started playing. Almost broke the old radio.” You were careful to not tell him you actually, kind of, a little enjoyed it.

“Breaking your shit is punker than anything you could’ve played on it.” He retorted.

“So you don’t like anything that plays on the common channel?” You tilted your head—you wondered if he would’ve liked the song that came up the other time. To you, it didn’t sound so different from what he was playing now. 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes I do, I’m not saying it’s bad, just it’s watered down. They never put extreme stuff. Or unknown stuff, you get me?”

You didn’t. You let him talk and geek out about punk music for a while, occasionally asking questions to keep him entertained and not at all to keep hearing his smooth deep voice. 

You zoned out, watching his lips move, his piercings catching the light of the shop. You had the time to count all of them. Eight. A ring in his left ear, three along his right ear, a horizontal piercing at each eyebrow, another ring at his right nostril, and one to the left of his bottom right lip. The cool metal contrasted beautifully with his dark skin. The lines of his face were deep and you found yourself wanting to reach for them. There was just something so sculpted, so intriguing about his bone structure. You just wanted to sketch him. 

“And that’s why community organizing is so important.” he finished.

You blinked, scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t give you away. “That’s... cool?”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “Do you have a scooby what I was talking about?”

The way you looked at him was enough of an answer. He chuckled and shook his head. “Got it. I have to go anyway. You know, protests to attend, stuff. Capitalism ain’t gonna stop itself.”

“Wait—what’s your name?” you called as he turned on his heels.

He paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. It hit you both at once that you’d never exchanged names. He grinned, the kind of grin that made your stomach do a little flip. “Might tell you if I come back.” 

With a wave, he grabbed his small umbrella, before he stepped out into the rain, leaving you alone with nothing but the punk music crackling on the radio for company.

Part four.

[throatgoat4u]

late on the first day

word count: 0.6k

summary: it’s the first day of senior year, and dotty's already running late. of all classes, it had to be for your favorite class—art. just when you think things can’t get any worse... they do.

warnings: none :)

a/n: i lowkey already made this a like a month and a half ago but like............ yeah.... also this won the popular vote on what au i should release for next and so yeah. idk why i never put the intro to this au out but oh well. also, the reader's name will be dotty. also, the taglist is not official and is just a taglist of people who commented/reblogged the moodboards i had created so yeah! enjoy!

toodles sluts :)

you sprinted up the stairs, heart pounding as you weaved your way to the 2½ floor where the art wing was tucked away. there was no way you could be late—not on the first day of senior year, and definitely not to your favorite class. art had always been your escape. ever since you were little, you’d been an artist at heart, constantly sketching, coloring outside the lines (literally), experimenting with oil pastels, acrylics, and your personal favorite—watercolors.

but being the “art kid” had its downsides. while other girls were out at parties, shopping sprees, or obsessing over boys, you were lost in your sketchbook, shading imaginary worlds. it didn’t take long for people to notice how different you were. the teasing started small but grew sharper over the years, each comment isolating you a little more. by the time middle school ended, you were already used to being alone.

losing your best friend when she moved to another state only solidified it. since then, solitude had become your constant companion. but art? art was still yours. and that was why you couldn’t be late today. not when it was the one place you actually belonged.

you slipped into the classroom just as the bell rang, heart still racing from the mad dash up the stairs. scanning the seating chart at the front, you were relieved to find your assigned seat in the back corner, far from prying eyes. but that relief evaporated the moment you saw who you’d be sitting next to.

christopher sturniolo.

your blood ran cold. of course, it had to be him. chris wasn’t just popular—he was the most popular guy in school. every girl wanted him, and every guy either wanted to be him or be his best friend. there was no in-between. it didn’t help that he was the star of the hockey team, the golden boy who had secured a spot on varsity as a freshman and led the team to state championships every year since. he had it all: the looks, the talent, and, of course, the girl.

eva—the captain of the cheer team and the only girl who could possibly match his popularity. together, they were the school’s golden couple, envied and admired by everyone. chris was untouchable, living in a world completely separate from yours. he didn’t know you existed, and you were pretty sure he never would.

but you had noticed him.

in middle school, you had the biggest, most ridiculous crush on him. it started in sixth grade when he held the door open for you that one time, and it didn’t fade until the end of eighth grade. you were completely obsessed with chris sturniolo. you had filled an entire sketchbook front to back with drawings of him—his smile, his eyes, even the two of you together in scenes that only existed in your imagination. you remembered sketching his face more times than you could count, lost in a fantasy where he actually knew who you were.

but to him, you were nobody. just another face in the crowded hallways. he didn’t even know you well enough to recognize you as the girl who ate lunch in the bathroom or hid under the bleachers—just like everyone else did.

you tried everything to get over him that summer, finally deciding to write him a love letter, just like laura jean in to all the boys i’ve loved before. you poured your heart out in perfect penmanship, sealed it in a beautifully customized envelope with the prettiest wax seal you could find, and tucked it away in your love letter box, where it would stay forever, unread and forgotten.

or at least, that was the plan. but now, sitting next to chris for an entire the entire year? yeah, this was going to be a problem

taglist: @freshloveee. @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan. @heart-sdiary. @sturnshood

[moralesmilesanhour]

teamwork (makes the dream work...?) epilogue

summary: they ass is NOT doing homework 🤣

wc: 1k+

A/N: That's a wrap, guys! tysm for reading and enjoying!

prev 'if you believe in me'

“Miles, what is this emo shit you got me listening to?” you laughed.

Miles was currently in the middle of an imaginary drumming solo next to you, with two mechanical pencils as drumsticks. Once the final cymbal crashed, he turned to you to respond.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s emo, that beat goes crazy. You done with your conclusion yet?” 

You rolled your eyes.

“No, but I’ve got all my body paragraphs together.”

“That shit is due Monday,” the boy adjusted his glasses, “Mr. Padilla don’t do extensions.”

Shutting your laptop in protest, you got up and stretched your arms. “Can we take, like, a ten-minute break?”

Miles smirked. “The last half hour felt like a ‘break’, but sure.”

The smirk fell from his face when he noticed you staring at something on his desk.

“Aye, don’t touch nothing–”

“Is this me?”

Too late.

Miles’ notebook was already in your hands, flipped to a page full of sketches of your face. There were little lines scratched out next to each sketch, as if he were measuring the proportions of your eyes, nose, ears... 

His lines were sharp and geometrical, as always, but they softened at your hair and lips. Speaking of lips, there was an oddly-detailed sketch of them off to the side. He’d even managed to include the suggestion of gloss.

You looked up to see Miles standing in front of you with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. 

“You done invading my privacy yet?” 

“Nope,” you placed a finger on the page. “How long did you need to stare at my face for this?”

You held back a laugh when he tensed visibly.

“Not long enough for it to matter,” he deadpanned, finally snatching the notebook out of your hand. “It was just a study.”

“Oh, so you’ve been ‘studying’ my lips? Got it.”

Miles’ eyes flickered down at them as you spoke before he returned to his spot on the bed. “Whatever. Break’s over.”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” you teased as you followed him, “the drawings are nice! You made me look prettier.”

The boy looked at you like he wanted to say something - to argue - but he remained silent. You elbowed him playfully in the side.

“What, you think I’m ugly, then? I’m telling you, Morales, one day we gon’ fight–”

“No,” he interrupted.

“Complete sentences, please,” you mimicked, laughing when the boy sucked his teeth in response.

“Fine. No, you’re not ugly, and I like drawing you. Can we move on?”

With a triumphant smile, you finally cracked open your laptop again. “Yes, yes we can. I need your genius powers to proofread this for me.”

Miles leaned in to get a good look at your screen, hitting you with the crisp scent of sports deodorant and some generic brand of lotion. You watched his eyes dart back and forth as he read your work out loud to himself in a low mutter. While he read, your gaze drifted away from the screen and landed on his side profile. His ears were now delightfully occupied by tiny gold studs that you would’ve missed at a farther distance. Past his jawline at the nape of his neck, a thin gold chain peeked out at you from beneath his black graphic tee.

Your eyes met Miles’ the moment you brought them back up to his face, amusement playing on his features.

“Yo, are you good? There something on my shirt?”

“Nope,” you shook your head. “Go back to reading.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m done. I just said you need to switch these two body paragraphs so they flow better.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” he laughed, dimples on display. “I’m scared I’mma get my face stolen one day. Do you stare at everybody like that?”

A beat of silence passed as you considered whether to say something bold a second time, if not just for a reaction.

“...Nah, it’s just you.”

Miles blinked, the smile dropping from his face. “Huh?”

“You’re nice to look at, and I can’t draw you in my notebook to make it last longer,” you tilted your head comically. “Staring will have to do.”

Like clockwork, the boy’s hand shot up to his ear to toy with his piercing. He glanced out of the window. 

“The sun’s setting, you should really get that essay done,” he blurted out before narrowing his eyes at you. “What’s so funny?”

You had a hand over your mouth to stifle the laughter. “I’m sorry,” you giggled, “it’s funny when you’re nervous.”

Miles scoffed.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you sang, beginning to type your conclusion paragraph.

There was no response. 

Your typing slowed as the silence grew long, feeling Miles’ eyes on you until you finally stopped to look at him quizzically.

“Yes?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

He leaned in closer until your noses were in danger of brushing each other, looking determined despite the rapid rise and fall of his chest. You met his gaze with a challenge.

“Well? You just gon’ sit there?”

Miles couldn’t hear anything above the heartbeat pounding in his ears, his eyes squeezed shut as he closed the distance between you. 

No one told him that kissing would feel this weird.

For one, your lip gloss wasn’t half as sticky as he’d anticipated it to be, tasting like artificial fruit flavoring. Your sweaty palm came up to rest on the side of his face and kept him anchored as his breath stuttered. Having no idea where he would put his hands (another thing no one had explained to him), he kept them flat on the mattress for support as you deepened the kiss and he leaned back. 

Your hand was gripping his chin now to guide his face. Having kissed at least two other boys before, you had a vague idea of where it was supposed to go. Unlike the other two, Miles was tense, almost unmoving, despite being the initiator.  

Miles’ head buzzed when you pulled away, chuckling softly.

What the hell was so funny? The boy felt white hot blood rapidly coursing through all of the veins in his body at once. He thought he might start floating, like a hot air balloon. Or explode. Or vomit. Preferably the first one.

“Are you okay?” you asked, dropping your hand. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

He blinked slowly, three times. “Yeah, I’m…fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. That was, um…” 

Hand on the neck. “Interesting.”

“A good interesting, I hope,” you laughed.

Miles tilted his head, a small grin spreading across his lips.

“I don’t think I’d mind doing that again.”

Handing the boy your phone, you said, “I think you’d need my number for that.”

-

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"CAN I...?"

Another fic with him because I need him so bad isn't funny anymore, please just one chance Dave PLEASE I love him

I hope you like it!

You and Dave had been friends for quite some time.

You had gone to each other's houses on countless occasions, but in the last few weeks something had changed between you.

Your best friend ignored your messages and when you were together he would quickly look away from you, as if he was trying not to pay you more attention than necessary.

That's why, tired of that strange situation, and taking advantage of the fact that you were alone in his room in the middle of an afternoon of studying, you decided to leave the notebook on his bed, where you were doing your homework, to look at him.

He turned around when he heard the knock, his blue eyes went from the notebook to you for a moment.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, putting a hand on his chest. "You scared me."

"We both know that's not true," you said, crossing your arms. "Spit it out."

"What?" –he questioned, staring at you intently-

-You've been ignoring me for weeks, Dave –you reminded him, as if he didn't already know- if I've done something that has offended you, I'm sorry, okay? But I can't go on like this –you confessed- I miss my best friend

He left the pen he was holding on the table, while he turned his desk chair around to focus fully on you.

-Sorry, it's just been a few rough weeks and I… –he swallowed hard- yes, that's the reason I've behaved like this

-You're a very bad liar –you murmured, holding his gaze- I know you too well to know when you're being sincere and when you're not, and now you're not –you paused for a second before asking in your most reassuring tone- What's wrong?

He lowered his head for a moment, before focusing on the slippers he was wearing.

-I… -he swallowed nervously- before I tell you, promise me it won't affect our friendship

You raised an eyebrow

-Are you gay? –you questioned, he frowned and shook his head vigorously-

-What? No!

-It wouldn't be a problem if you were –you added- there are a lot of boys in our school who…

-I like you –he interrupted you, making you open your eyes wide-

You blinked a couple of times quickly, as if your ears had gone bad, and you hadn't understood him well.

-What? –you asked, dazed, staring at the way his blue eyes shone-

-I like you –he repeated, looking away somewhere other than you- I'm sorry, I… I wanted to tell you before, but I didn't want to… -he took a deep, shaky breath- I was afraid this would end our friendship

-Nothing is over, Lizewski –you affirmed- you will always be my friend, no matter what

-No matter what happens –he repeated in a low voice-

Now it was your turn to ask

-Since when? –you wanted to know, he tilted his head, sketching a shy little smile that made you want to get up to kiss him-

-I don't know for sure –he confessed- but I think it was since we were paired together in the science project –he explained- Do you remember? you invited me over to your house to do it, and then when it got late you insisted I stay for dinner and the night –he looked up at you again- you were wearing green jeans, a white t-shirt and a black bow to hold your hair back –he listed blushing with embarrassment as he remembered all the details- you were… -he swallowed nervously again before finishing- you were very pretty

-Oh, Dave, I… -you started, but he stopped you with a nod-

-It’s okay if you don’t feel the same –he said- I… I feel better now that you know –he confessed- it was too heavy a burden to carry alone

-I was going to say that I feel the same for you –you confessed, this time you were the one who blushed and he stared at you with his beautiful blue eyes- I’ve never felt this way about anyone –you confessed- and I think… -you pressed your lips tightly before saying- I think I’m in love with you

-Really? –he asked hopefully, as he stood up and sat down next to you on his bed slowly-

-Yes –you whispered, his closeness making all the barriers you had built around yourself to protect yourself from his charm fade away little by little- Are you…?

-Yes –he interrupted nervously- yes, I think so –he said making both of you smile- Can I… -he looked down at your mouth before fixing it on your eyes again- can I kiss you?

-It's not that you can –you whispered unable to take your gaze off his pink lips- it's that you have to

His lips connected with yours delicately, as if he was making sure that this was real, that you were in front of him and that this was really happening.

You returned the kiss following the movement of his lips, at the same time that you placed your hands behind his neck, catching several curls of his brown hair between your fingers.

He sighed into your mouth as you lightly pulled him closer. You felt like you were going to melt just from hearing him.

He pulled away from you to catch his breath, the lenses of his glasses fogged up and his lips swollen from the kisses you had given each other. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of each other.

-It seems that I'm not the only one who had dreamed of this moment -he mocked, sketching a half-smile-

You shook your head as if it were hopeless, before hooking your arms behind his neck again, bringing him closer to you.

-It's possible -you ventured- now kiss me, Dave

And that was exactly what he did

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Behind Closed Doors (A Daichi Sawamura Ficlet)

Synopsis: Despite the rowdy beginnings of your relationship, you and Daichi Sawamura (the sweetest of husbands and the best father a child could wish for) were going strong. So far, didn't seem to slow down—your love wasn't faltering or fading away. This man was your ride-or-die. Your future. Your everything. Until your daughter's kindergarten called with unsettling news—the suspicion of domestic abuse inside your household.

Pairing: Daichi Sawamura x afab!reader

Warnings: minors do not interact | miscommunication | mentions of nsfw and explicit themes | mentions of kinks | mentions of adult toys | mentions of domestic abuse (NONE IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING) | profanity | established relationship/marriage | post-time-skip spoilers (asahi & daichi) |

Author's notes: I yearned to write something for Daichi and I came up with a story this ficlet eventually spins from. But IDK if anyone would be interested in reading it haha? But yeah. I think that Daichi's very well-kept-up goody-two-shoes police officer persona hides a freaky motherfucker that loves to get down to business. And if he gets a wifey who matches his freak? He's worshiping the ground she walks walking on. Also, he doesn't strike as dom—he just needs a wifey who can also come with freaky, kinky shit. Someone defying him and going against his rules would actually be a huge turn-on for him. So no—Y/N isn't a sub and their kinky fucking DOESN'T leave the bedroom.

Warning: This was written in one sitting and is not proofread.

Word count: 3K

It started with a call in the middle of the day. You'd been at work, just wrapping up an order of baked goodies when your phone buzzed in your back pocket—usually, you didn't pick up calls amidst a busy noon shift. Upon seeing the number of Haruhi's kindergarten teachers, you realized it wouldn't be the case.

"I really need to take this." - You muttered toward your co-worker, wishing the customer an amazing day. - "It's Hari's teacher. Might be important." "Go for it!" - Ren, your long-time friend and co-worker called out as she checked what little pastries you still had. - "Let's hope the little bean isn't sick." "Yeah, hopefully."

Mrs. Chiba sounded strange—she was a woman around your age, usually gentle, bubbly, and energetic. Her engaging personality was perfect for a kindergarten teacher and the kids loved her. This time, her voice was flat, almost careful. Too gentle as she invited you for a late-afternoon meeting. It was serious and acute—she even specifically asked for Daichi's presence. That hadn't ever happened before. You'd usually come to the meetings separately depending on what was on the agenda—if Daichi had overtime or other plans? Your time to shine. It also applied the other way around. You worked as a unit, ensuring everything went smoothly, always watching each other's back and rotating on the clock as needed.

Walking back into the chaos of your workplace, you exchanged a few confused texts with Daichi, arranging the details—when'd you meet, where'd meet, and most importantly, who'd take care of Hari for the afternoon. Just like every once in a while, you'd ask Uncle Asahi to step in. As per usual, Asahi agreed the moment you asked for his help, ever the knight in shiny armor. Asahi and your six-year-old were actually a dream team—she always spoke so highly of all the fun activities Asahi came up with. They'd both be in their element inside Asahi's little fashion design studio—Hari could sketch into hallelujah with various super-expansive fixes and Asahi created a few pieces based on her drawings already.

Your stomach grumbled with nerves as you waited for Daichi in front of the kindergarten. You were looking at your phone with a slight furrow—Asahi and Hari just made it to his studio, sending you a goofy selfie. The man was furrowing while Hari pulled her mouth open with her index fingers, showing off her missing front teeth. Don't worry! The text under said. When you're done, we'll all go for some ramen. Hari can't wait! That was Asahi for you—a supportive, gentle giant. Putting the phone away with a sigh, your eyes trailed toward the man who was walking toward you at a measured, authoritative pace. Fuck. You still couldn't believe that you pulled Daichi Sawamura.

Standing tall at 5'9 with a broad and impressive build, Daichi became the embodiment of discipline and unwavering dependability after nearly ten years of working in law enforcement. He carried himself with effortless confidence—his posture always straight, movements precise, and presence reassuringly firm. The occupation of a police officer and years of hard work sharpened his instincts, toughened his physique, and honed his ability to command a room without raising his voice.

His features sharpened with age, giving him a strong jawline, faint lines of stress near his eyes, and the kind of gaze that sees right through people. After a decade spent as a police officer, his brown eyes beamed with quiet intensity—calm, calculated, and capable of dark amusement when called for... burning like ambers whenever he looked your way, his gaze dancing on your body. Despite five years of marriage, his eyes still adored you like the night you first fooled around. He kept his jet-black hair shorter and neater than a few years back, but he still let it slightly tousled—framing his face in an infuriatingly attractive way.

His shirt and trousers suited him almost too well—the trousers hugging his thick, muscular thighs so fine it nearly made you groan and the issued shirt stretching over his broad shoulders and sculptured chest, begging to be torn off. "There you are." - Your husband chuckled as he approached you, stealing a gentle peck off your lips—his seemingly stoic face lighting up a smile that'd melt an iceberg. And fuck, Daichi's voice—deep and measured, dripping down your ears like honey. - "Hi, wifey." "Hi, hubby." - Giggling along with him, you'd steal a quick peck too. It became your daily ritual—mutually greeting each other with lovey-dovey pet names that made one's teeth rot.

"Did you speak with the teacher yet?" - He asked, putting on the black tailored blazer he'd gotten as a birthday gift from Asahi. - "Any idea what's this about? Is Hari okay?" "Mhm. She's with Asahi. Look." - You'd pull out your phone, showing the picture of the duo to Daichi. His eyes immediately softened, a soft grin unwittingly tugging on his lips. - "We agreed to meet up for ramen once we're done here." "That sounds... heavenly." - Daichi groaned. - "I had to pull through my lunch break today. Also—Yuto won't forget this, I had to take a few hours off my holiday subsidy on short notice and he wasn't happy with me." "Awh, I'm so sorry to hear that!" "C'mon. Always remember that you and Hari are my priority. A few hours of overtime won't stop me, baby." - Kissing your cheek, Daichi's palm settled on the small of your back—he led you toward the entrance.

The meeting had already started off on a strange note. Clearing your throat, you straightened and watched Mrs. Chiba sitting over the table. Her expression was serious, stoic, and... something was off. Secondly, you've been called in alone. That was the first red flag.

Whenever you got called in together (this wasn't your first rodeo), Daichi was usually the one to handle these kinds of things—he was great with the teachers, always polite, and always reliable. For Mrs. Chiba to insist on meeting with you first, one-on-one, without him felt... off. But still, you didn't question it. Maybe it was about something small—you tried to fool yourself as you sent the woman a nervous smile. Maybe there was an upcoming event, a parent volunteer request, hosting a BBQ... something. Anything.

Sitting primly across Mrs. Chiba, your hands were folded in your lap, ready to listen. She watched you for a moment, exhaling softly before speaking. Her eyes traveled to your wrist—it was covered with a noticeable mark reminding you of your and Daichi's last... rendezvous. You'd cover it up with an innocent smile. "Mrs. Sawamura... There's no easy way to say this, but... your daughter has alarmed us about a potential domestic abuse situation."

Her words flew right through your head at first. You froze, your breath hitched and your eyebrows knitted slightly. Oh. Did she notice something at school? Were some of her friends in danger? You panicked a bit, trying to keep it together. The gravity of the meeting, the situation, hadn't dawned on you yet. "Did she... notice something about her friends? Was the telling stories again? Mrs. Chiba, you know that Hari's a kid with a very vivid imagination..." - As you've said, you weren't a stranger to getting invited to the kindergarten along with your husband—this wasn't your first rodeo. "It regards you and your husband, Mrs. Sawamura." "I—what?" - The world seemed to tilt ever so slightly, your breath growing shallow as you pressed on the bruise on your wrist a bit tighter. That's why Mrs. Chiba noticed it—she was looking for it.

But... Daichi? Your Daichi? The man who actively and openly worshiped the ground you walked on? The man who still at you like you hung the stars, five years into your marriage? The same Daichi who cried when your baby's first into the womb, who read bedtime stories in ridiculous voices just to make your baby girl giggle? That Daichi?

... An abuser?

"I know this is a lot to process." - Mrs. Chiba continued, her voice gentle and careful. - "We don't know how serious it is or how long the... the situation lasts." - The abuse. She meant to say the abuse. You simply stared at her and let her speak softly, carefully... you were absolutely fucking baffled. Usually, you'd stand by Daichi's side—you'd be screaming, fighting for him and his innocence. But frankly? Mrs. Chiba caught you off-guard. "As a mother, you'll surely understand—it's my duty as a teacher to ensure my pupil's well-being and a safe home environment. Especially when the matter regards young children." "Yes, yes." - You nodded, trying to sort your thoughts. But it was impossible. - "I understand, but..." "We know Mr. Sawamura personally and we're aware that your husband is a police officer. Your daughter brought him in for last month's job fair and spoke very highly of him. However, because of Hakuri's recent behavior and stories, we felt compelled to act. That's why I contacted you today. If Mr. Sawamura is applying any sort of violence—whether mental, physical, or even economic—we are ready to help you and your daughter out of this situation."

A panicked scoff of disbelief left your mouth. Oh. That's when it clicked. Oh, no. You knew exactly where this was going, covering your mouth preemptively as your eyes hung on Mrs. Chiba, your head nodding along in silence.

"The details Hari provided were... concerning." - She continued, tapping her pen into the desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm. - "According to her testimony, there are multiple pairs of handcuffs and other movement-restricting devices hidden inside a certain closet inside your home."

Your soul left your body as you closed your eyes, whining silently. It needed to be said that your reaction could've looked like someone saved after years of torment—but thankfully, this wasn't your nor Daichi's case. This was about the closet incident. The one that happened right before Noya, Daichi, Asahi, and Hari's fishing trip. The moment when Daichi's life and ancestors flashed in front of his eyes when your daughter found the closet unsupervised and unlocked—the handcuffs, ropes, see-through lacy lingerie... and more. An enormous parental mishap—over which you and Noya descended into hysterical laughter. Daichi'd explained, albeit horribly and he was lucky that Hari was as gullible as she was.

And, well... Hari had snitched—probably just shared her discovery with a teacher, not thinking much of it...unwittingly putting your husband's entire career and your marriage in jeopardy.

"She also mentioned that lately, your husband doesn't shy away from calling you names..." - Mrs. Chiba added, her expression darkening—yet another nail to your coffin. It happened on the same morning, half an hour apart. Another mishap, just a slip-up. Hari was supposed to be dead asleep. Once, you weren't careful enough and didn't take all possible precautions just for it to turn out like... this. - "She mentioned he uses particularly degrading terms, such as... 'whore' and 'slut'."

Now, you nearly choked on air. Your entire face was warming up, gentle sweat running down the side of your face, eyes widening, and heartbeat stuttering.

Oh, this was bad. So, so bad.

Not because it wasn't just wrong—it was horrifyingly accurate.

You and Daichi did have handcuffs... many of them, a whole variety. Honestly? You also had ropes (varying colors and materials—velvet soft, rough, short, even rolled on a spool) and you couldn't believe your daughter didn't mention that too... when she was at it.

And the name-calling? Well... That was... A very specific part of your private life. One that you never intended to let slip out. Daichi and you could rejoice and congratulate one another Hari didn't overhear the names you called your husband in the heat of the situation.

This was stupid. So fucking stupid. Just one huge misunderstanding. You had to fight to keep the laughter in, clearing your throat, your eyes swelling with tears as you tried to stay serious. You were sweating, genuinely sweating. "Mrs. Sawamura..." - Mrs. Chiba pressed gently, watching your reaction closely. - "If there's anything you'd like to share..." "May I call my husband in?" - You interrupted, gasping for air, still battling the urge to lose it. - "I think we can explain everything."

The moment Daichi walked in, it was over. You were dead. Gone. He looked confused, like a deer in the headlights, repenting preemptively... worried. His eyes slid to you, teetering on the edge of losing it. Your shoulders shook as she tried—and failed—to hold in the absolute hysteria bubbling inside you.

The look on Daichi's face when he was called in? Priceless. He walked in all serious—brows furrowed, stance firm, his usual commanding presence in full effect, and despite all that, he came across as a Bambi in the headlights. He probably figured Haruhi had gotten into a fight or broken a school rule.

But oh. Oh. He had no idea what was coming.

"Mr. Sawamura..." - The teacher began, folding her hands on the desk, her voice steady and professional. - "We wanted to speak with you today because we have concerns about your home environment." Daichi's frown deepened. He wasn't catching the drift. - "Concerns?

Despite your best efforts to keep it in, you let out a choked, strangled noise. Not a sob. But the kind of suppressed laughter that could only come from someone trying to keep it together desperately. Daichi glanced at you briefly—confused, worried—but you couldn't look at him. Your cheeks turned a few shades darker, droplets of sweat ran down your forehead, and your eyes trained to the tips of your shoes. Your entire body trembled with the force of the laughter you could not, under any circumstances, let escape.

Mrs. Chiba continued, giving Daichi a deep furrow. Her eyes jumped from your discombobulated form to confused Daichi sitting beside you. - "Haruhi shared information that raised a few red flags for us. She mentioned your household contains multiple pairs of handcuffs, as well as other devices designed to restrict movement..."

You squeaked. You actually squeaked. Daichi, meanwhile, went rigid. His entire body tensed. The shift in him was instant—his jaw clenched, hands forming into tight fists in his lap, sweating profusely.

Oh, fuck.

"Oh?" - Daichi finally said, voice tight, controlled. "She was quite detailed with her testimony." - The teacher went on, reading from her notes. - "Saying, and I quote, 'They were hidden inside a closet'." - Mrs. Chiba looked up at him, pausing.

A slow, horrible realization dawned on Daichi and crept up to his expression. Oh. Oh, fuck. The closet. The one he'd forgotten to lock after your latest entanglement. Shit.

"... And your daughter also mentioned they all belong to you. Even specified they're used by police forces." - Daichi nearly perished when the words left Mrs. Chiba's mouth. He knew the pair she was talking about—he knew it well, intimately. It was your favorite. The pair he'd stolen from the station a few years ago—because of your batting, wide pretty eyes. You'd mentioned (again and again) that they looked... enthusing. So, naturally, Daichi got you a pair—as any loving husband would.

His ears turned bright red, fingers twitched as he stared at his daughter's kindergarten teacher utterly mortified. You snorted. You couldn't help it. You were dying, perishing. Why? Because the look on Daichi's face was a mix of sheer horror, regret, and 'oh my god, my child had ruined my dignity and my life'.

"And there's more." - Mrs. Chiba continued as if it wasn't already bad enough. You, already knowing what was coming, buried your face in your hands. - "She also mentioned that you frequently call your wife degrading names, Mr. Sawamura. Specifically a 'whore' and a 'slut'." Daichi's soul left his body. You were wheezing, actually fucking wheezing. And suddenly—the waterworks broke. Your shoulders shook violently, and your entire body convulsed as you collapsed forward onto the desk, crying.

Not from fear. Not from distress. But from the sheer level of mortification and embarrassment. "Oh my god." - You gasped between hiccups of laughter, gripping your stomach. Daichi's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again... And nothing came out. He was stunned into silence.

Mrs. Chiba, meanwhile, looked deeply concerned—eyeing your breakdown with a careful hesitation. - "Mrs. Sawamura?" You waved your hand at her, trying to catch your breath. - "It's fine—it's fine—I just—" - Another choked laugh. A gasp. A snort. Daichi groaned next to you, dragging his hands across his face. His ears were burning. - "Fucking hell." - He muttered.

"Mrs. Chiba... This is all a misunderstanding." - You finally managed to squeeze out, your words half-giggled and barely coherent. Mrs. Chiba seemed deeply skeptical. - "... Is it?" "YES." - Daichi interjected quickly, finally snapping out of his stupor. - "It is. I—we—ugh..." - A pause followed. Then a deep sigh. Then, with the most pained expression known to a man, he started explaining.

"Y/N... I mean, Mrs. Sawamura, my wife..." - He was stumbling on his words so much that Mrs. Chiba furrowed again, leaning back into her office chair. - "She's the best thing that ever happened to me. And Hari's the greatest blessing in our lives. We love our daughter more than anything and every day, we are providing for her, making sure she has everything she needs. But we're... human, Mrs. Chiba. Even though we try our best to be the best parents, mishaps happen. Some are bigger than others. Therefore, let me just say... The handcuffs aren't for police work, but private use."

Daichi couldn't believe the words leaving his mouth. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking seconds away from throwing himself out of the window. There was silence. Absolute silence while Mrs. Chiba processed the confession. Then, she blinked, her face turning crimson red. You howled.

"... Oh." - Her eyes widened. Then, finally, it all clicked. - "Ohhhh... I see." A beat of silence followed. "This is so fucking embarrassing." - Daichi groaned while as kept on wheezing, convulsing—Mrs. Chiba who leaned her forehead into her hands, was laughing along now despite being embarrassed.

The meeting, for the lack of a better word, was an absolute disaster. Some secrets were better kept behind closed doors.

[00lunect]

★JD with Braces: Take 6★

Translation:

At night…

JD (in thought): I feel ridiculous… I better get some ice cream and go back to bed…

So, here we have the official Take 6! ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧. It was originally going to be a different scene, but after a minor scare where I thought the drawing had been deleted, only for me to recover the sketches by the grace of God, I decided that this new replacement drawing would be Take 6, while the original Take 6 will become Take 7.

And yes, I know not much happens in this Take and that the only character we have is JD, but I wanted to use this Take to practice some things and pose others. The practice would be in the facial expressions. I wanted to try making some different faces because I feel like the characters don't express themselves enough in my art, so I did this mirror thing. I also wanted to try making JD have a slightly more prominent beard. I honestly don't know if I nailed it. I really need to figure out how to improve the facial hair. (⁠─⁠.⁠─⁠|⁠|).

But anyway, I'll talk about the technical part when we're done. Because it's time to talk about the Lore! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

So, yeah, this scene, while simple, shows something new that JD will have to deal with now that he has Braces: his appearance. It doesn't exactly seem like it, but JD actually cares about his looks to some extent. I mean, he WAS in a boy band. Of course, looks are important to him! And look, he's aware that he might not be the most good-looking of his siblings. He's not physically handsome or cute like his younger brothers, and he's not exactly the charming type in personality either, but he always made an effort to have something to offer in the looks department and live up to boy band standards. He cared a lot about his hygiene and physical health (visible physical health, which is why he postponed getting his braces several times, as he didn't think they would look very good), just keeping some tiredness and dark circles under his eyes from staying up late practicing new choreography or writing songs in his teens at bay. However, those were things easily fixed with a little makeup. Nothing he couldn't keep at bay.

But when he left the Tree, he stopped worrying about those things too much. It wasn't exactly necessary for him to look good anymore, because who was going to see him? Who was going to judge him? His plan was to spend time in the forest with a bunch of animals and explore the Neverglades at his leisure, so aside from avoiding dying or eating something poisonous, he stopped paying attention to his appearance. His little brothers weren't there to watch him go days without a bath and imitate him when he rolled in the mud, and there weren't any fans who would start gossiping or saying nasty things just because his armpits smelled.

Of course, JD wasn't a complete pig. He still maintained a minimum level of hygiene (what was possible in the middle of the forest), trying to bathe when he could and keeping his hair clean and combed. He also tried to brush his teeth occasionally, but only had enough toothpaste for a few weeks before he had to improvise with other things and then the whole underbite issue came to kick him in the ass two or three years later. However, things like his clothes, hairstyle, and even hair removal were left aside. He didn't mind walking around with his clothes all ripped and torn (as long as they served the purpose of covering him and protecting him from cuts and heatstroke), his hair badly cut with his machete, and his beard growing out, only shaving when it got too hot or bothered him. When he returned to the Troll Tree and believed his brothers were dead, this continued. He spent most of his time in the Neverglades and rarely traveled to civilization to look for things, so many Trolls saw him as a kind of oddball wanderer who came around from time to time. At most, his appearance became halfway decent when he got new, more weather-resistant clothes, and only because his old ones were already in tatters.

However, when he received the letter from V&V about Floyd's rescue, he got a bit more motivated about his appearance. At first, he was going to go find his little brother, as hairy as his body had been, but after looking in the mirror when he went back inside Rhonda's to finish brushing his teeth and get going, it occurred to him that the extra hair might make it difficult for his little brother to recognize him as John Dory. The truth was, the beard made him look even more like a different Troll, so he shaved like he hadn't done in years while Rhonda took him to Mount Rageous, and thus ended up with the appearance Floyd had given him at the diamond.

After the rescue and reuniting with his brothers again and of course being more present in civilization, John Dory continued shaved his beard often because he no longer wanted to be that wild, mangy troll who lived in the Neverglades. He bathed more often and started using more deodorant (yes, he'd stopped using it completely before, but when he had Rhonda, he started using a little again because his favorite girl had a sensitive nose), and he also started styling his hair properly to at least look presentable. Sure, he didn't groom himself as much as he had in his boy band days, and unsurprisingly, his younger brothers looked MUCH better than him, but he still put effort into his look and anything that people would look at and that he could actively do something about.

This went out the window when he started his dental work.

It's not that he neglected his hygiene again, no. It's just that things like shaving and styling his hair became exhausting once the pain in his mouth became unbearable, even with the medication. Once he was put on bed rest after his braces were installed, he no longer had the will or energy to try to fix himself. He was just exhausted and in pain all the time, and the only thing he could really do for himself was escape from his brothers when it was time to take his medicine and brush his teeth as instructed after every meal.

He also hadn't seen himself much after his braces were installed. The Bunker didn't really have many mirrors, except for the one in the bathroom, but JD didn't look in that thing much when he brushed his teeth. However, after some of the brothers settled inside the Bunker and Bruce started visiting occasionally, they put a slightly larger mirror in an empty spot for anyone who needed to check themselves out. JD walked past it a lot, but he didn't look at himself in it either until one night a week or two after he got his braces.

Once again, he'd snuck out to steal ice cream from the refrigerator. Even after taking his painkillers, JD couldn't sleep and his swollen face was throbbing, so he went in search of something comforting. Along the way, he stumbled upon the mirror again, and that's when he finally looked at himself.

And he looked terrible. His beard was starting to grow back, his hair was a mess, his bags under his eyes were so dark he could see them even in the dark hallway, and his face was unpleasantly puffy and flushed with pain. He looked like shit, just like he felt. But seeing it and analyzing it was a real blow to himself. Seeing himself as a piece of sh!t made him feel worse in a way, even if he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He tried, as he had done before, to take it in stride and ignore it. You know, just take the feeling and sweep it under the rug. Still, it wasn't the first time he'd been self-conscious about his appearance.

So he smiled in the mirror to cheer himself up, but immediately regretted it when he saw those stupid braces peeking out. John Dory looked genuinely ridiculous with that mess in his mouth. He looked horrible, it made him LOOK horrible, and it made him FEEL horrible.

He felt embarrassed. And people had seen him like that? Ew.

That really brought his spirits down. In fact, remembering his whole situation brought his spirits down a lot. The pain, the swelling, the tiredness, the bitter taste that still lingered in his mouth from his medications. It only took that small slip in his self-esteem, and suddenly his brain was pummeled with all the stress and exhaustion of the past few days.

And so, in the darkness, JD's colors became a little dull, and he felt sad. He didn't realize his colors, but he did realize what he was feeling. And he was pretty sure he felt a little worse than when he got up, so he decided to get his ice cream right away and go back to bed.

The next day, his brothers noticed he was feeling less energetic than usual, and Branch was the first to notice the dullness of his colors. Obviously, everyone was concerned, but there was nothing wrong with John other than the usual, according to the doctor. The dullness in his colors was simply a delayed response to stress and discomfort, nothing serious. John Dory would be bright again once he got through this phase of his recovery.

…

Probably.

But anyway, that's about it. (⁠・⁠∀⁠・⁠)

Wow, this post was even longer than the last one, haha. I guess I had more to share despite the simplicity of the drawings. Speaking of which, I'm sorry, but when I thought I'd completely deleted the original scene, I felt sad, so to process it, I decided to make the replacement take of John having mild self-esteem issues because I wanted to project my grief of losing my art onto someone, and that someone was John Dory. And you won't believe it (or maybe you will), but I made these drawings in just one day, although I guess it shows. Literally I started the sketches last night and finished them this afternoon, so excuse me if they didn't turn out so well or didn't have much to offer.

Or maybe they did. Actually, this drawing of JD blushing turned out really nice (without the dark layer so his colors can still show up, but I didn't remove the mirror thing. Sorry. XD)

And in case you were wondering or didn't notice, yes, JD loses a bit of color in his drawings. Here's the last image without the dark layer so you can compare.

But don't worry about him! The guy won't lose his colors or anything. It's just his troll biology responding to the whole situation he's in. ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ As I said before, he'll eventually be brilliant again once his face stops being a throbbing mass of flesh and his brothers have something to say about it, but that'll come later.

For now, I'll just enjoy making Johnny's life miserable. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠). And I know you'll enjoy watching it all.

And yes, I made John Dory have some self-esteem issues. It's not something too big that affects him all the time, but it's something that bothers him from time to time. I don't know, it's something I've been thinking about for a while. Like, back in Brozone's time, he was just "The Leader." The guy who led and was in charge, which isn't... much for a character. If you compare him to his other brothers' roles, they had more play in that regard because they had other things to offer within their roles, while John was just the guy who was supposed to guide them. And that's it. For the rest, I like to think the guy had nothing he could give people. His voice was standard for a Troll, his appearance was the same, and he was moderately charismatic and sociable with people. He could write songs, yes, but that could be done by anyone else who didn't necessarily have to sing with them.

They're Trolls, hell, anyone could make a song. So the whole boy band thing seems to me more like... doing a reality show. If that makes sense. It's just listening to what a bunch of normal Trolls sing, but more outlandish to attract people and hook them. And I don't think John Dory would have seen himself as interesting enough for that, even if he came up with the boy band idea. That's why he would have taken the role of Leader, because he was the oldest, and well, it was his duty to take care of his siblings, right? It sounded like something even someone not very interesting like him could do. Because people wouldn't be too interested in him talking about camping or nature, right?

Well, no, so it stayed that way, but deep down, it felt a little weird without anything special. And then the whole looks thing comes down. Part of the idea of a boy band is that everyone is good-looking, right? And forgive me, John Dory fans, but compared to the rest of Brozone and from a Troll perspective (in my opinion), I don't think John is that attractive. XD I mean, I love John Dory and all, but in my headcannons and for the Trolls, John is like that guy you'd find on the corner in the neighborhood trying to fix his perpetually broken-down car. Same with Clay, but even serious, he still has charisma. Plus, anyone would love someone who knows their way around the dance floor.

So Braces JD has a bit of low self-esteem, guys. He's very aware of how he looks these days, and while he usually ignores those feelings, you already know what its like. Those intrusive thoughts are like maggots in rotten flesh. >:v

But anyway, that's all for now, so I hope you enjoyed this new Take. ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧. Here are Take 1, Take 2, Take 3, Take 4, Take 5, Designs and Take 7

Thanks for reading!

[lovelynim]

TickleTober2024/Day 29 - Help

Genshin Impact - Alhaitham x Kaveh

Alhaitham was a good roommate. And a good junior too. And a good partner. Kaveh never denied any of those. He, in fact, acknowledged them almost on a daily basis.

He also acknowledged the fact that Alhaitham could be a big, sharp and burning pain in the ass when he wanted to. Out of stubborness, attitude or for whatever other reason the scribe deemed fit for his tantrums, as Kaveh would call these episodes.

Gladly, there was one thing he could rely on whenever he needed to stir Alhaitham back to the right track: he was ticklish. No matter how important his titles sounded or how big his muscles got, ever since Kaveh found out about this trait of Alhaitham back in the Akademiya, he always made sure to use it properly to his advantage.

And, to help him exploit such feature, Kaveh would always rely on Mehrak’s help. At times, Kaveh felt like he could count on his relic even more than the people around him. Of course, they were all helpful and caring in their own ways, but Mehrak…

“Release me now,” Alhaitham muttered, his brows furrowed and hands tightly clenched into a fist.

“Apologize first,” Kaveh ordered, his arms crossed in front of his chest while making sure Mehrak’s energy remained focused around Alhaitham’s wrists, securing his hands behind the scribe’s back. “Or face the consequences, ‘Haitham.”

“I did nothing wrong, senior,” Alhaitham snapped, adding an extra bit of attitude on that last part. Kaveh clicked his lips, sighing. The hard way, then.

Alhaitham leaned away from his senior when Kaveh walked over him and straddled his lap, but his back was soon met with the soft couch’s cushions, leaving him ultimately cornered, trapped and at Kaveh’s mercy. 

“Well,” Kaveh shook his head, feigning disappointment and trying his best to hide how excited he got whenever he could abuse Mehrak’s functions to overpower Alhaitham, “first: you spilled coffee over my sketches.”

“H-hngh!” Alhaitham groaned, almost as if in pain, when Kaveh poked both sides of his ribcage at the same time, one index finger prodding at each of his sides and moving up and down his torso. Oh, archons. “K-Kaveh, you-”

“Second: you forgot to wake me up in the morning like I told you to and made me get up late.”

“W-wahait, yohohou didn’t wahant to get up!” Alhaitham protested, but there was no judge in this trial, just him, Kaveh and Mehrak. He giggled nervously, his legs kicking as Kaveh clawed at his hips, making him grit his teeth while a crooked up smile pulled at his lips.

“And last, but not least,” Kaveh smirked, leaning a bit closer, “you forgot to kiss me goodbye before going to work.”

Alhaitham widened his eyes. Kaveh was the one hurrying over the house all morning, how was he supposed to kiss him?!

“But th-”

“Nah-ah,” Kaveh interrupted, wasting no other second before shoving his hands under Alhaitham’s arms and tickling him there. Alhaitham threw his head back in a loud fit of laughter, trying to break free with no avail. It was useless to fight if Kaveh was counting with Mehrak’s help, “we already had that talk. You’re wrong, I’m right. Now, let me remember what other bad things you did while we are at it…”

A/N: I want to say that I'm sorry if this one feels a little off. I wrote it after/in the middle of a mental breakdown and it took a toll on me lol

[kenzidaydreams]

The Space Between (part 3)

Jayvik x female!reader

Content: Touch Aversion, Use of Y/N, Mutual Pining, Slow-Burn (kinda), Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, me making up science stuff, mutual care

Summary: Y/N learns that touch can mean safety, especially when she’s in Viktor and Jayce’s arms.

Word Count: 900

Author's Note: Hi! This is the final part of The Space Between. I hope y’all enjoyed reading it, idk how to open up my requests but I’m gonna figure it out and if anyone has one, please send it in!!! Also, I’ve just been writing fanfic for myself in my notes app for a while now, so I got more shit to post if y’all want it lmao.

Part 1 Part 2

ーーー

Jayce started leaving notes on her workstation. Nothing dramatic—just scribbled observations or half-jokes in the margins of her schematics. “You’re the only one who noticed the voltage echo. I’m stealing your brain.” Sometimes he added little sketches: a spark crystal with a happy face, a tiny doodle of her with safety goggles too big for her face.

She kept every one in a drawer in her desk.

Viktor showed affection differently. With precision. Deliberation. When her hand ached from holding a soldering wand too long, he gently took it in his and rubbed the muscles loose. When her hair tangled during late-night experiments, he combed through it with a patience that made her want to cry.

**

In the weeks that followed, it became routine.

Not just the experiments or the long hours or the notes passed between hands—but them. Something built not on urgency, but on trust. On choosing softness again and again, even when the world outside demanded steel.

No one spoke the word relationship aloud. It didn’t feel necessary. What they had was lived, not labeled.

It was the quiet nights, the shared meals, the shared cot. Y/N would nestle next to or between them now without hesitation, fitting perfectly like a missing piece finally found.

Touch had become safe. Familiar. Craved.

And when her thoughts spiraled—when the past crept in like smoke under the door—she never had to speak it.

Jayce would reach for her hand, anchoring. Viktor would draw her close, resting his forehead gently against hers. They didn’t ask her to explain. They just stayed.

**

That next night, they didn’t sleep in the cot.

Jayce, bold as always, suggested they go back to his quarters. “The cot is fine,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I’d rather not wake up with Viktor’s elbow in my ribs again.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “That was your knee in my spine.”

Y/N snorted. “I vote for beds. Plural or otherwise.”

Jayce’s smile faltered for just a second—unsure.

Then she reached out, took both of their hands, and gave a small nod.

“Let’s go home.”

Jayce’s bed was large enough for all three, barely. She lay in the middle, Viktor’s arm tucked under her head, Jayce’s hand resting lightly at her waist.

“Is this alright?” Jayce whispered, his voice softer than she’d ever heard.

She turned toward him, nose brushing his.

“More than alright,” she said, and kissed him.

Not with fire, with certainty. Slow, deep, and sweet.

Jayce froze, then melted. His hands tighten on her waist, grounding himself in her touch like it was more important than air.

When she pulled away, Viktor was watching—eyes dark and tender. She turned toward him, heart pounding, and cupped his jaw gently. He leaned into her palm like it was a vow.

He kissed her with warmth and reverence, lips brushing hers like he couldn’t quite believe it was allowed. She leaned into it without hesitation.

After, she laid between them in stunned silence, heart almost bursting.

They didn’t speak again that night. Words were unnecessary. She fell asleep with Viktor’s heartbeat under her hand and Jayce’s breath at the back of her neck.

The next day thunder rolled across Piltover and the lab hummed with soft light. Jayce stood at the window, watching the lightning dance. Viktor sat beside her, working one-handed on a schematic with his other hand entwined with hers.

She watched them both and felt her chest swell. “I love you,” she said. It slipped out, quiet. Unintentional. True.

Jayce turned immediately, eyes wide, and Viktor stilled, lips parting slightly in surprise.

But neither hesitated.

Jayce crossed the room in two strides, kneeling to kiss her hand. “I love you, too.”

Viktor turned her palm in his, brushing a kiss to its center. “Without question.”

**

The physical affection grew—not in urgency, but in presence.

They kissed her cheeks, her temple, her shoulders. Not always with passion—sometimes just in greeting. Sometimes just because they could.

They never rushed her.

Not even when her hands trembled with want and fear all tangled together. Not when she whispered, “I don’t know how far I can go,” voice barely there, eyes filled with uncertainty.

Jayce kissed her fingers and murmured, “Wherever you stop, we’ll be right there with you.”

Viktor rested his forehead to hers. “Love is not a threshold to cross. It’s a path. And we’ll walk it at your pace.”

She hadn’t expected her tears.

But they didn’t recoil. They just held her as she cried, whispering sweet nothings.

**

Do love continued to bloom like ivy—persistent, winding its way around everything.

The relationship wasn’t perfect. There were days when Viktor’s work consumed him, when Jayce got snappy under pressure, when Y/N doubted her place between them.

But they talked. They listened.

They made space for each other. For her.

And in time, the ache that had once lived beneath her skin—tight and coiled and defensive—unwound.

It didn’t disappear. But it softened.

They were all still learning. Still growing. But Jayce and Viktor? They were her home.

And she no longer flinched.

She reached.