#ITS FINALLY DONE YOU GUYS HOLY SHIT

[unpassive-viewer]

Watching breaking in the olympics has been awesome as a former hip hop dancer, but holy shit. For every person who doesn't know how breaking even works and doesn't think it's a sport, there's ten more who are excited about the men's competition, but absolutely ragging on the women's competitors. My head is actually spinning.

If you don't know about breaking, I need to explain some things:

The breakers all know one another already, and all respect each other. This includes between the m&f categories. Nicka (silver medalist - women's) and Phil Wizard (gold medalist - men's) have literally competed as a duo.

The breakers that you think "are better than everyone in the finals" already went through the qualifying trials. They also compete with all the medalists, they also tried out for the olympic teams. They did not make it.

To that end, every battle is its own battle. They may have done poorly in the qualifying trials, but have beaten the now-gold medalists in other competitions. It's not like swimming where Katy Ledecky will pummel everyone else in the race unless she has an exceptionally off day.

Related to point 2 - breaking was born in the Bronx. It was also born in the 1970s. Being mad that the demographics don't reflect who you think should be dancing, or being mad that the dance isn't "in touch with its roots" is like being mad that someone modified the recipe for ginger beef. Some of the guys who were competing today are old enough that they were dancing with the same people who invented the sport. I promise that they have crazy respect for how it began and all of its influences.

Related to point 3 - breaking requires originality. It is a foundational element of the sport to evolve and be creative. It's a sport, but it's also an art form.

Dancing for three rounds in three separate battles is a lot for any dancer. If you think some of them looked like shit toward the end (I disagree, but whatever) it's because they are tired. Not to mention there were heat warnings in Paris! They still have more athletic ability in their left pinky finger than I've ever had in my whole body - and I was someone who also did street dance!

The music wasn't decided ahead of time, but the DJs were playing very very popular breaking songs. All of the competitors already know how they go, so if they were scoring low in musicality, it's not because they panicked not knowing the song.

The athletes have sets made up already, they're not freestyling. They adapt them to the music, but unless they blank in the middle of the competition, they already know which skills they want to show off. (I'm editing to clarify that some of them did freestyle, but for the most part it was after they felt like they'd done what was going to get them points)

I really doubt that anyone on tumblr is going to care, but Instagram users can't read and YouTube is full of bots. I'm so excited that I got to watch my sport in the Olympics, but my lord people cannot behave.

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

𝐒𝐎 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐖・h.j.

🎸 — you don't think jisung cares about you enough to tell your fans you're dating, fucking. he proves you wrong when he pulls you in on stage, and kisses you in front of everyone.

♟️ — paring・hanji x reader // genres・suggestive, band members with benefits, han writing hold my hand for the reader // words・1.5k // warnings・illusions to sex, kissing on stage, cursing and general crude language, han is kind of an asshole in the beginning, but he makes up for it, kinda silly kinda sexy, a little bit of my weird awkward writing style.

a/n・ ngl it was kinda crazy rewriting this. i wrote this near the very, very beginning of my old blog and i found it rotting in my drafts bc i never got to re-upload it...then i re-read it and remembered why... (why did i never use proper punctuation holy shit) but yeah i had fun writing them on stage ngl also what do we think of the new layout/theme?? (guys im still @lixies-favorite-cookie :))

"So you're okay with fucking me before the show, but telling people we're together—that's where you draw the line?" you spit, narrowing your eyes at a frustrated Han, stress-sweating as he wrestles with his guitar strap, huffing when it gets caught on a tuft of his hair.

He's flustered, cheeks flushed and red as he cards his fingers through his hair, untangling the rogue strand from the slider. It's a Han Jisung staple: rushing right before a performance because, before he can actually get ready, he has to hear the setlist 143 times, chat with the sound tech about his new gaming system, and—his personal favorite—drag you into the bathroom to screw the daylights out of you.

He calls it: jisung's good luck fuck™

You haven't decided if you love it or hate it.

He huffs, giving you an agitated look, "We really don't have time for this, the show starts in 5 minutes." He continues tuning his guitar, testing a few strings.

"You seemed to have plenty of time when your dick was inside of me!"

He buffers, his ears flushing red as he fumbles a loud, off-tune string.

The crew freezes.

"Jesus, just put your damn bass on, y/n." He mutters, his entire face painted dark red.

You clench your jaw, crossing your arms and rolling your eyes. The crowd roars from behind the velvet curtain, anticipating, your now, very soon arrival. He's right, you do need to get ready. Though, that knowledge doesn't make the crack inside your ribs any less painful.

It was futile arguing with him—if he wanted to, he would.

There's no wound getting on stage couldn't fix.

It's already an hour into the concert and the adrenaline still hasn't worn off, thrumming hot through your veins. Han's guitar explodes, threading its way into your last string fluidly. You whisper into the mic, your voice low and seductive, rolling over his riff like whiskey and wine.

The crowd goes wild, stomping so loud it makes the platform shake. Han eats it up, running across the stage and high-fiving a throng of women right before the final riff.

You finish the song with a dark, crisp chord that vibrates through the stadium with a bitter hiss. You're both gasping into the mics when everything's said and done, exchanging exhausted looks. You look over, watching as sweat drips down his forehead, making his hair stick to the back of his neck. The same thing is happening to you.

It's scorching up here, but it's worth it.

Han pants, scrunching his brows as the camera zooms in, tearing his IEM's out. You're both smiling, wobbly and slightly off center, but smiling nonetheless.

Then, he looks at you.

He's looking at you like he's plotting something, like he's in love with you, and like he's about to do something monumentally stupid all at the same time.

Whatever he was thinking, you were down.

Suddenly, the next song erupts from the speakers and he turns to you with a smile.

Han wrote the lyrics to this song after, finally, putting a label on the whole bandmates-with-benefits thing you two had going on.

It was three in the morning when you found him slumped over the bathroom sink, steam slipping out of the glass shower panels. He was butt-naked, a white towel slung over his neck, catching beads of water trickling from his wet hair. It was clear that he was troubled, a tight knit forming on his eyebrows as he stared at the single sentence written on his notebook.

First, you laughed at him for not putting clothes on before grabbing his notebook. Then, you spent the next three hours working him through his writer's block.

It was then, with your hair disheveled and mascara smudged underneath your eyes, he realized he was completely, irrevocably in love with you.

And in a typical Han Jisung fashion, he wrote a song about it

And, also, in typical Han Jisung fashion, he hid that song and his stupid feelings away from you, until, well, now.

You give him a 'what the fuck are you doing?' look before, right as he practiced, he slides towards you, plucking the first dramatic chord. You anxiously flick your eyes over his face, then the crowd, then back to him again.

"Numerous trials and errors and fights,"

A thousand eyes are watching him, and yet, he's only worried about yours. You stand there, looking both very awkward and very pissed, not knowing what to do with the bass hanging off your shoulder. He just smiles.

"Every time I see you cry

I feel like drowning in the dark

You said it's fine, but no, I'm not 'Cause all I want is you, not your tears

눈물이 마를 때까지

I wanna make you the happiest one, no fear"

His gaze never falters as he takes the final step forward, dropping his guitar and pushing away his mic. You were a mess—hair caked to your forehead by sweat, eyeliner streaming down your face from your tears, but, to him, you were as beautiful as you have always been.

It was just you and him in that stadium, when he cups your cheeks, and whispers—

"So baby, hold my hand now"

Then, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard, with so much passion it makes your knees go weak, melting into his arms. Confetti cannons explode around you.

There was no mistaking who he belonged to now.

When he pulls away, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are swollen and he just can't keep his shit-eating grin off his face. Tiny, colorful paper flutters around you, falling onto his shoulders and in his hair. It was magical, all of it was utterly magical.

It takes you a solid fifteen seconds to realize that there are other people in the room.

Forty four thousand to be exact.

He turns to the crowd, throwing his hands up into the air and finishing the song like nothing happened.

Han has been studying music for about as long as he has been alive, and in all of his 24 years of living, he has figured out three things.

One, music was the language of the heart. Two, music can only be created through passion. And three, his heart never stayed silent when he was with you.

[thefreakandthehair]

you could be bad, but I wanna find out.

written for @steddiemicrofic ‘guard’ | wc: 532 | rated: mature | tags: goalie!Steve Harrington, fan!Eddie Munson, alternate universe- no upside down, different first meeting, meet ugly (but it's still cute), bars, alcohol mention, description of sexual activity, humor, big mouth!Eddie Munson, long-suffering besties Gareth and Jeff

The bar is buzzing with excited fans, humming with an energy that makes Eddie feel looser and lighter than the Budweiser ever could. Surrounded by a sea of black and red jerseys that line the long, narrow bar, Jeff and Gareth laugh and shake their heads. 

Eddie hasn’t stopped rambling since the Blackhawks won, and he has no intentions of stopping anytime soon. 

Not after a win like that— a shutout win that tore the roof off of United Center. 

And certainly not after the Blackhawks goalie guarded the net like it was his treasure and he, its dragon. 

Sure, it helps that Steve Harrington is definitely the most beautiful man to ever grace an ice rink, but it’s the competence that gets him. Watching Harrington bend and stretch his limbs into pretzel-like shapes, coming up with the puck and an unhinged grin, really gets his motor running.

“I mean, did you see him?” Eddie asks for maybe the tenth time since sitting at the shiny, shellacked bar. “Jeff, you get it, right? You see what I’m seeing, right?” 

“I see a guy who’s really great at his job, and I see another guy who sounds insane. Guess which one you are?” Jeff snorts into his beer and takes a sip. 

“Gareth, buddy, surely you can understand where I’m coming from. Remember the first time you saw Lars Ulrich?” Eddie turns, knocking his shoulder against Gareth’s. 

“Duh, dude,” Gareth leans forward and yells in response, the bar erupting into cheers and more drunken celebrations. “The difference is that I wanted to be Lars Ulrich. You want to fuck Steve Harrington.” 

Eddie clutches his chest in feigned offense and feels himself being pushed against the bar as the building fills up with what must be the final wave of fans leaving the stadium. The bartender nods behind him with a knowing smile and passes a draft beer over Eddie’s shoulder into a large, veiny hand. 

“Okay, fine,” Eddie concedes, resting his own drink on the bar. “You’re right. The way I would fuck Steve Harrington is obscene. I’d let him violate whatever obscure, unknown Bible Belt laws he wanted. He's a ride I wouldn't survive. The wheels would come right off.”

“Uh, Eddie?” Jeff tries to interrupt but Eddie’s having none of it. 

“Nope, I’m not done. That split save? The way he guarded his crease? And for a fucking 36-save shutout? Holy shit.”

“Ed—” Gareth tries but Eddie steamrolls him, too. 

“What is it you call it, Gare? A competency kink? Well, sure. Fine. Call it what you want, but he’s so good at what he does. I need him in a way that would disappoint my grandmother, and not just because she was homophobic."

A hand— the same hand that had reached over him to grab the glass just a few minutes ago— pats him on the shoulder and when Eddie turns around to see who the fuck is touching him, he nearly falls off of the wobbly stool.

Steve Harrington grins, a drink in one hand and the other still resting on Eddie’s frozen frame. 

“I think your grandmother would’ve liked me,” he shrugs. “I have a way with families.” 

[vinnyvamppp]

may i perchance request rex x fem!reader x eve? like set s1 where instead of cheating, rex learns to COMMUNICATE with eve and they start picking up girls together #couplegoals

Two's Company, Three's Dangerous

Note: I love this??? Its healing the annoyance I felt for Rex in season one. This is my canon now. (Mark in the bg LMFAOOO)

Warnings: Suggestive themes & flirtation, Strong language, Corny Dialogue (I cackled), Mild Sexual Tension, Changes For Plot Convenience, Threesome dynamic, etc.

Synopsis: Three’s not a crowd—it’s foreplay. When Rex and Eve decide to start pulling girls together, they don’t expect you to walk in and flip the game on its head. Now you're all tangled in teasing, tension, and a whole lot of trouble they can't stop chasing.

Rex Splode x Atom Eve x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,196

It starts the same way most of Rex’s ideas do: loud, impulsive, and almost immediately a bad idea. “Look, all I’m saying is—it’s not cheating if we’re both in on it.” Rex lounges on Eve’s couch, tossing popcorn into his mouth like he’s solving world peace instead of pitching a threesome. “You’ve gotta admit, you miss flirting.” She shoots him a look. “I miss the fire.” That makes him pause. “I miss feeling like I was… chasing something. Not just bad guys, but possibility. Something new.” She shifts slightly. “Now we suit up, save the world, come home. Lather, rinse, repeat. And I love you, but…” He quirks a brow. “You’re bored.” “I’m craving something,” she admits. “And I don’t know what it is, but it’s not this.” Rex sits up, tossing the remote aside. “So let’s find it. Or her. Whatever the hell you’re talking about, we’ll chase it together.” She blinks. “You’re okay with that?” “Eve.” He gives a crooked grin, head tilting. “You think I’d turn down the chance to pick up girls with you? This could be the best idea I’ve ever had.” She narrows her eyes. “Your best idea was a flamethrower guitar.” “Exactly.” He claps his hands. “We’re overdue for something fuckin’ unhinged.” Three bars and a rooftop mixer later, Eve is regretting everything. Everyone they meet is either desperate, oblivious, or already half in love with Rex before they realize Eve is part of the package and not just a bystander. He’s charming, yeah, but in that loud, golden-retriever-who-sells-vape-pens way. And Eve, despite herself, tries. She leans in. She smiles. She even lets Rex do that thing where he says they’re “taking applications.” Nothing. And then you show up.

They stared, completely enamored. You exuded a boisterous confidence that demanded attention. The smooth sheen of your skin glistened under the dim lights, while your hips swayed slightly with allure. Your hair framed your delicate features, and the sound of your heels clicked loudly against the bar floor as their vision tunneled. The most striking detail, however, came from your eyes. Though your appearance was delicate—almost cute—the intense glare held within them was distinctly predatory. You don’t look at them right away. You order your drink, slow and unhurried, like you’ve done this before—like you enjoy making people wait. You don’t need to scan the room to know you’re being watched. Until your gaze drags over Rex first, unimpressed, then lingers on Eve for a little too long. You can feel the energy shift, like a current humming between you three. Rex elbows Eve lightly. “Holy, shit. Target acquired. Did you see that?” Eve snorts into her drink. “You’re imagining things.” “Nah, nah—don’t gaslight me, Eve. That was a full-body scan. I’ve watched less intense security checks at the airport.” “She’s gonna eat you alive,” Eve murmurs, lips curving. “That’s half the fun.” You finally turn, catching their eyes in one lazy glance. You take in the matching drinks, the too-casual spacing between them, and the subtle lean of Eve’s leg angled toward Rex’s. The way they’re utterly entangled in one another yet insistent with their gaze.

It starts small. A glance that lingers too long. A hand reaching for a drink at the same time, knuckles brushing, and neither of you moving away. Eve’s smile grows when you mirror the way she tips her glass, when your tongue flicks out to taste the rim like hers just did. Rex catches it, that silent mimicry, and his gaze drags across both of you—lazy, appraising, and somewhat hungry. No one says anything, but the air feels heavier with each breath. You cross your legs; Eve mirrors you.

Rex licks his lips. You’re not touching, not yet, but tension is definitely pressing in between the silence and the smirks. Rex’s hand slides lazily across the back of Eve’s chair, fingers brushing her bare shoulder like he’s just resting them there, but there’s nothing casual about the way she shifts into the contact. It was a performance. Despite their prior arguing, the two shared heated kisses, all to entice.

Your voice cuts through the teasing. “So,” you say, smiling slowly to yourself, “you two scouting or just bored?” Rex grins like he’s been caught red-handed. “Depends. You offering a distraction?” “I’m offering nothing,” you reply, sipping your drink. “But I am very curious.” Eve watches you now, like really watches. The way your confidence settles around you like a silk robe. The way your eyes flicker, assessing and amused. You’re dangerous in a way that doesn’t need powers. “What are you curious about?” she asks. You lean in slightly as if sharing a secret. “You two always argue like a divorced couple, or am I just lucky tonight?” “Oh, fuck you—“ Rex sputters. Eve just laughs—low and unexpected. It startles her, that you got under her skin so fast. That she wants to hear more. “You’re quick,” she says. “And you’re not subtle,” you reply, tapping her glass. “Next time you flirt, try not to stare at my mouth the whole time.” Rex whistles. “Okay. Damn.”

Eve just blinks. Slowly. Then exhales, smiling like you’re a puzzle she’s already halfway solved. “What’s your name?”

You tell her. Rex repeats it under his breath like a prayer. “Goddamn. Even the name’s hot.” You toss him a look. “Careful, I bite.” He grins. “Yeah, well, I bark, whimper, and fuck. Match made in heaven, right?” Eve sighs into her cocktail. “Please stop talking.” You slide off the stool, slow and deliberate. “I’m not a prize,” you say. “But I might be worth the chase. So, earn it.” You lean in, pressing a kiss to Rex’s cheek—mock-sweet, just enough to short-circuit him while your fingers drag slowly down Eve’s wrist, leaving a shiver in their wake. Both of them wear matching smirks, the kind that try too hard to cover how rattled they are. Without waiting for a word, you turn on your heel and strut toward the exit, leaving heat in your wake and satisfaction in your step. You’ve had your fun. For now.

Rex insisted on a steakhouse. Eve tried to veto it. You suggested sushi just to see who’d squirm harder. In the end, you’re all at a loud fusion place with flashing neon and absolutely no privacy. Perfect. “So,” you say, picking at an appetizer with elegant fingers. “What’s your strategy? Good cop, bad cop? Hot mess and stone-cold killer?” Eve smirks. “I’m not cold.” “You’re ice in heels,” you counter, and she looks… pleased? Rex coughs. “And I’m the hot mess?” “You’re wearing sunglasses indoors.” “I’m mysterious.” “You’re hungover.” You’re winning. Every line lands. Every glance makes Rex stammer or Eve flush. You lean forward, drink in hand, and say things with a smile that could kill. You never touch them, but the way you look at them? It’s almost worse. Eve watches you, not even pretending to hide it anymore. She likes the control you have. Likes the way you disarm her without even trying. She finds herself mimicking your posture, drinking when you drink. She’s leaning too close. And for once? She doesn’t care. Rex, on the other hand, is falling apart. “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “You’ve roasted me for two hours straight, and I still want you to like me.” “I do like you,” you say sweetly. “I just like watching you sweat more.” Eve hides her laugh in a sip of water. As the night winds down, Rex finally blurts, “So… do we get a second date?” You lean back, fingers tapping your glass. “You haven’t earned it yet.” He groans. “But,” you add, sliding your phone across the table, “you could try again.” You stand, this time with intent. Eve’s eyes follow every move. You brush past her chair, fingertips grazing her shoulder—not enough to be a promise. Just enough to be a reminder. Then you're gone. Again. And they are left there, dazed and enchanted. Rex slumps. “She’s gonna wreck us.” Eve smiles, slow and dangerous. “I hope so.” A/N: I cringed a few time too, I know, but to be cringe is to be free 🐎

[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

[livfastdieyoung69]

sighh thinking ab frank castle w a fellow vigilante who has similar vibes to black cat, deadpool, etc. (basically just a catty bitch with a tragic backstory, what’s new)

franks just enjoying his coffee at the same shitty diner he always goes to, watching the world go past for his ten minutes of daily peace when she plops down in the booth across from him.

he’s not really sure what’s going on, or who this lady (this smoking hot lady, holy shit) is, so he just takes another sip and raises his eyebrows at her.

a manicured nail, sharp and black, points at him.

“i know who you are.”

“‘scuse me?” he sets the ceramic cup on the table, leaning back against the sticky booth.

“you’re that, uh,” her finger is waving around at his chest and he can smell the mint of her gum. “that skull guy.” when she finally conjures her answer her hand falls flat on the table.

“listen, lady,” he’s trying to deflect, but he’s looking around the place in an urgency that could only mean she’s right. “i don’t know who the hell you are-“

her hand comes back up, palm to his face. “don’t worry. i totally stand for it. very overthrowing the government chic.”

now he’s even more confused, but before he can tell this lady to piss off, the place is raining with bullets and she’s diving under the table like she’s done this before. he’s next to the table, grumbling cuss words under his breath. seconds away from pulling himself together and dealing with this shit, she grabs his jacket and tugs herself forwards with it.

“are they here for you or me?” he stutters out an answer of how the hell is he supposed to know, because who the hell is this woman and why would anyone be after her? “i have every government agency you could possibly imagine on my ass, and then like, two more. been a crazy week!”

he pulls her up from under the table, and basically yells in her ear to get to the kitchen. she’s way too calm to be unexperienced in this, army crawling in a pair of heels.

“these pants were way too expensive for this,” she complains but when that absolute hunk of a man lands himself directly over top of her and wraps an arm around her, forcing her to go faster, all further complaints disappear.

he can feel her pulse on her wrist when he tugs her up again before they tumble out the back door, and thinks maybe the whole calm thing is a hoax. her heart is beating out of her chest, and she hasn’t even broke a sweat.

they book it to his shitty stolen car and frank drives as fast as he can without being too suspicious.

“you alright?” he asks her, finally breaking the silence half way out of the city.

“its whatever.” she rolls her eyes and diminishes it with a wave of her hand. “as long as i can get this scuff off my damn shoes. why, i seem new at this or somethin?”

“pulse felt like your heart was about to jump out your throat.”

“oh, yeah, its just like that all the time. i’m a failed science experiment, basically. that’s why the government wants me. well- not really, the people that experimented on me also made me kill a bunch of people, but like…same-difference.” she shrugs and continues picking at her nails like it means nothing.

this lady just keeps getting more and more baffling, so he just keeps his mouth shut and lets the radio play a little louder.

he’s been stuck with her ever since.

[cup1drul3z]

★ — My bloody valentine | FINAL

CW: Stalking, Angst, Smut, TOXIC yuri, death, murder, 1980s, mention of blood, depression, homophobia, masturbation, dub-con, size kink if you squint, mommy kink, corruption, virginity, fingering, this shit is dark - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

A/N: the idea i had in mind was way more grusome then what i decided so here you guys go

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your mom was working late. Your brother was out. The TV buzzed softly in the background—something black and white, forgotten. You sat at the kitchen table, half-focused on a crossword you weren’t really solving, a warm mug cupped between your hands.

You felt still for once. Not okay—but calm. Balanced, if only barely.

Then—

BANG.

The front door slammed open so hard it rattled the hallway mirror.

You flinched.

“HELLO?” Vi’s voice roared through the house.

You stood up fast, knocking your chair back. “Vi?! What the hell—?”

She was already storming down the hallway, fists clenched, chest heaving.

“You think you can lie to me?!” she shouted. “Smile at me in the halls like nothing’s wrong while you rot in that freak’s arms?!”

You backed up, heart racing. “Vi, you need to leave.”

She ignored you, stepping closer. “You think I don’t see it? The glassy-eyed shit? The way you look over your shoulder every ten seconds? Sevika’s not protecting you—she’s erasing you.”

You shook your head, voice cracking. “You don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“I do!” she screamed, voice tearing. “I know you. I know the real you.”

You tried to retreat farther, but your back hit the kitchen counter.

Trapped.

“I miss my best friend,” Vi snapped. “Not this little Sevika-worshipping echo chamber who lets herself get branded like she’s nothing.”

And then— She grabbed your wrist.

Hard.

Trying to pull you out of the kitchen. Trying to fix you.

Something inside you shattered.

You screamed—high, ragged—and your other hand grabbed the closest thing it could find.

A kitchen knife.

And without thinking—

You swung.

Vi gasped.

You opened your eyes.

She was staring at you. Mouth parted. Blood already soaking her hoodie, spilling between her fingers where she clutched her side.

She looked so confused.

Like she didn’t believe you could’ve done it.

You stared in horror, the knife trembling in your hand.

“I—Vi—I didn’t—”

She stumbled back, hitting the edge of the table, then slid down to the floor with a choked breath.

You dropped the knife.

Your knees hit the tile with a sickening crack.

And then you started to cry.

Not from guilt.

But because part of you knew—

This was always going to happen.

And part of you wasn’t sorry.

Not even a little.

The kitchen was quiet now—too quiet for what had just happened.

Vi’s body lay crumpled on the cold tile floor, blood seeping into the grout. Her eyes were half-lidded, her mouth slightly parted like she’d been caught mid-sentence.

You stood against the counter, still shaking, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold your own body together. Your breathing was fast. Shallow.

The front door creaked open—

And Sevika stepped inside.

Jinx followed right behind, skidding to a stop as her eyes landed on the body.

“…Holy shit.”

She stared for a second too long, then slowly walked forward, boots echoing on the tile. She nudged Vi’s shoe with the tip of her foot.

“Maybe she’s still alive?”

Sevika stepped forward silently, crouched beside the body, two fingers moving to Vi’s neck.

A beat passed.

Another.

She looked up at you, face unreadable.

“She’s gone.”

That’s when it hit.

Your knees buckled.

You dropped to the floor, hands gripping your hair as you screamed—loud, cracked, like something animal was trying to claw its way out of your chest.

Jinx flinched. “Shit—shit, hey, hey—”

“My life is over!” you sobbed, rocking on your knees. “She’s dead, I killed her, oh my god I killed her—”

Sevika stood, walked over, and pulled you into her chest with surprising gentleness.

“Breathe,” she murmured, one hand stroking your back, the other steady on the back of your head. “Just breathe. It’s done.”

“I didn’t mean to—I swear I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know you didn’t.”

Jinx hovered nearby, looking between the two of you and Vi’s body, pale and tense.

“So… what the hell do we do now?” she asked.

Sevika met her eyes. Calm. Cold.

“We get rid of it.”

Your sobs hitched.

“What?”

Sevika pulled back, cupping your tear-streaked face in her hands. “You listen to me, okay? You panicking helps no one. We need to move her. We clean up. You forget this happened.”

“I can’t just forget—I killed someone—”

“She tried to drag you out of this house,” Sevika said, voice sharp now. “She put her hands on you. It was self-defense. But no one’s gonna care about that once they see her lying dead in your kitchen.”

You stared at her.

And somewhere, in the back of your brain—

The survival instinct kicked in.

The part of you that loved her.

That trusted her.

That wanted to stay.

You wiped your face with shaking hands and nodded once.

“Tell me what to do.”

The woods were quiet—eerily so. The only sound was the dull thunk of shovels biting into the cold dirt and the occasional grunt as one of you threw another heap of soil aside.

You, Sevika, and Jinx stood in a small clearing behind the school football field—far enough out that no one would wander by. The earth was half frozen, making it harder, heavier, more real.

The hole was almost done.

Vi’s body—wrapped in an old tarp—sat a few feet away, lifeless and silent.

You didn’t look at it. You couldn’t.

Sevika shoveled like she’d done this before.

Efficient. Quiet. Focused.

You were next to her, hands blistered, heart numb. You hadn’t spoken since you left the house. You were too afraid of what might come out.

Jinx, further down the pit, finally broke the silence.

“You know, Sevika,” she said, huffing as she leaned on her shovel, “you’re a little too good at this.”

Sevika paused mid-swing. You stopped breathing.

She turned slowly, eyebrows raised.

You looked at Jinx, wide-eyed, panic bubbling just under your skin.

And Jinx just grinned.

“Relax,” she said with a snort. “I’m just fucking with you.”

You let out a sharp breath that almost turned into a sob.

Sevika shook her head once, quietly annoyed, and went back to digging.

Jinx stretched dramatically, shovel resting on her shoulder. “Still. If I ever drop dead, I know exactly who to not piss off.”

“Jinx,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her eyes.

She looked over, still grinning—but it softened a little.

“Hey. You didn’t do this alone. Okay?”

You nodded slowly, your gaze flicking to Sevika’s back.

But the hole kept getting deeper.

And your hands—your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Seven Years Later.

The morning sun filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of the kitchen window, casting golden streaks across the wide-planked floors and the chipped enamel sink. The house smelled like fresh bread and cinnamon. Outside, birds chirped in the trees, and the wind moved gently through the evergreens.

Your hands were covered in flour.

You hummed as you shaped the dough on the counter, the sleeves of your worn linen dress rolled up to your elbows, hair loosely pinned back. A record played somewhere in the living room—Fleetwood Mac, soft and steady like a heartbeat.

The house was rustic. Hand-built. All wood and stone and shelves lined with wildflowers and mismatched mugs. Isolated. Peaceful.

Safe.

Sevika would be home soon.

She always came home by five.

You had dinner halfway done already—she liked the roast crispy on the edges, and you always made sure to time it right. You didn’t use timers anymore. You just knew.

The old dog dozed by the back door. A kettle hissed softly on the stove.

You glanced over at the framed photo on the windowsill.

It was sun-faded now.

You and Sevika. Arms around each other. Smiling.

It looked normal. Sweet, even.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Like there wasn’t blood in the dirt somewhere no one ever found.

The town didn’t ask questions anymore. Not about you. Not about her.

People whispered—maybe. But never loudly.

Not here.

Here, you were just Mrs. S.

You pulled the bread from the oven, set it to cool, and leaned on the counter as a truck engine rolled up the gravel drive. The crunch of tires on stone. The slam of a door.

And then—

She stepped into the kitchen.

Same leather jacket. Same scar. Older now. A little more tired. A little more settled.

You smiled softly. “Hi, baby.”

Sevika leaned in and kissed your cheek. “Smells good.”

You reached for her hand out of habit. Her knuckles were rough, cold from the outside air. You squeezed them.

“Missed you.”

She kissed your temple.

“I’m here now.”

And outside, the trees swayed gently.

And the ghosts of your teenage years stayed buried under seven years of soft soil and pretty lies.

@glittzygorilla @vxtanne31 @leeidk87 @spinback-kiva @half-of-a-gay @alessabriel @h3rprinc3zz @koralinebox

[love-byers]

i had the misfortune of ending up on mileven tiktok by accident and found some gold

dude. how many times do we have to say its not the fact that they're standing next to each other. its the fact that they're standing next to each other when all the other characters are paired off with their significant other with significant space between them. they are SANDWICHED between two couples that they have numerous other parallels with. like you have to be playing dumb if you think we're just saying byler is endgame because they're in the same proximity. and WDYMMMM MIKE ISN'T EVEN LOOKING AT HIM why does that matter?? the whole point is that they're all looking forward at the fucking apocalypse beginning. nancy and jonathan weren't looking at each other, joyce and hopper weren't looking at each other. why does that matter?? and holy shit watching them try to analyze media is hilarious. the byler commenter was very concise an respectful and ofc the mlvn has to be backhanded. no, the 2 minute scene of mike saying i love you is not random, it's actually meticulously crafted so that we're able to tell mike is lying...

uhh because WILL IS THE MAIN FUCKING CHARACTER OF SEASON 5 AND THE WUOLE POINT OF AN ENDING SHOT OF A SEASON IS TO FORESHADOW THE NEXT SEASON???

do they think we're making this up???

he is the center and lead of season 5 and his arc is going to tie the whole series together. but nah they just paired him with mike and left him in the background on the hill just because el needed to be in front. they could've done a million other set ups where it actually comes off that mike and el are a team and in love and want to work together. they could've had those couples together and then had will alone or behind them and done a close up like they did with el in the actual scene, but no, he had to be with mike. and not only is he with mike, he and mike are paired off together and CENTERED. the CENTER of season 5 is CENTERED in the final shot of the season and he is standing with his long time best friend who he is desperately in love with. and all of this is foreshadowing for season 5, which if you've forgotten, is all about connection and finding belonging with others.

"People talk about mythology and The Upside Down, and all that is huge, but the magic of S5 are the characters who find a sense of belonging with other and through that connection, become heroes."

"[Season 5] It's about a group of people who question their value, who find each other, and who find superpowers in connection."

remember when mike beat himself up and questioned his value as a person because he feels weak and powerless and stupid next to el and then will gave him a painting where mike is a literal knight in shining armor and and confessed his own feelings about how mike holds everything together and makes him feel like he's better for being different and gives him the courage to keep fighting and how he'll always need mike and that finally made mike feel reassured

yeah...

alright you guys have to be lying. you can't think of a single reason why people would ship byler?? not a one??? you know what actually, you're right. why on earth would people ship two characters where one is canonically in love with the other, they've been best friends since the first day of kindergarten, they are always a duo, they have a special friendship compared to the others, one said asking the other to be his friend is the best thing he's ever done, one thinks home isn't the same without the other, they hold hands, put their arms around each other, always look out for each other, etc etc ETC. no yeah i don't see it

was the person who confirmed this named mike wheeler...

no yeah we just say random things. those of us using the knowledge we gained in film school/creative writing school to analyze a form of media are just saying random things. i just love making shit up!

mlvns are so silly lol like they really think they know more about film/writing than people who STUDY IT AND DO IT FOR A LIVING

[sturniololuvz]

hii!! i'm not sure if you've wrote something like this before, but i just thought of it! the triplets little sister (maybe 15 or 16) is getting ready for prom and the triplets see her in her dress for the first time. i thought this would be really cute! i love all of your work!

thank you!! i love the way you like worded this request! 🩷 made my heart happy

“She’s All Grown Up”

The apartment buzzed with energy.

Y/N had been locked in the bathroom for the past hour, curling her hair, touching up her makeup, muttering something about false lashes and how if one more person texted her about the limo, she was going to lose her mind.

Chris paced outside the bathroom, arms crossed. “How long does it take to get ready?”

Nick leaned against the wall, grinning. “You can’t rush greatness.”

Matt snorted. “Or a teenager on prom night.”

“Shut up,” came Y/N’s voice through the door. “You guys are not allowed to see me until I’m ready.”

Chris rolled his eyes but secretly smiled. He remembered when she used to wear light-up sneakers and cried when she had to get rid of them. Now she was talking about eyeliner shades like it was a foreign language.

A few more minutes passed. Then…

“Okay,” she called, voice nervous but excited. “Ready.”

The bathroom door creaked open.

And the world paused.

She stepped out slowly, dress shimmering with every movement. It fit her perfectly — elegant, soft, and totally her. Her hair curled in delicate waves, makeup done just enough to show she tried, but still looked like herself.

Nick blinked. “Holy shit.”

Chris’s jaw dropped. “No.”

Matt put a hand on his chest like he’d just been personally attacked. “You’re joking. You’re not allowed to look like that.”

Y/N looked at them nervously, holding the sides of her dress. “Is it too much?”

“Too much?” Chris walked toward her slowly, wide-eyed. “You look… grown. Like, grown grown.”

Nick shook his head. “You look beautiful.”

She blushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Really?”

Matt smiled, soft and proud. “Really.”

Chris exhaled sharply, eyes still on her. “You’re gonna make everyone at that prom look stupid.”

“Especially your date,” Nick added. “If he doesn’t treat you right, he’ll be answering to us.”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “You guys are so dramatic.”

“We’re brothers,” Matt said, taking out his phone for pictures. “It’s our job.”

Chris leaned in and adjusted the strap on her dress. “You sure you wanna go to prom and not just stay home with us and eat pizza?”

She gave him a look. “Nice try.”

Nick pulled her into a quick hug. “We’re proud of you, Y/N. You’re growing up. Just… maybe not too fast, okay?”

She smiled and squeezed him back. “Deal.”

The boys watched her leave for prom with her friends — proud, a little emotional, and definitely ready to interrogate her the second she got home.

Because no matter how grown she looked in that dress, to them…

She was still their little sister.

It was close to midnight when the front door finally creaked open.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of a movie playing in the living room. Nick was half-asleep on the couch, one leg slung over the armrest. Matt was scrolling on his phone, and Chris had been pretending not to check the time every five minutes.

But the second they heard the door — they were all alert.

Y/N stepped in, hair slightly frizzy from the dancing, makeup smudged just a bit, and her prom dress long gone. In its place was a hoodie (Chris’s), fuzzy socks (probably Nick’s), and the tired look of someone who’d had a long but good night.

Chris sat up. “Hey, hey, Cinderella’s back.”

Y/N smiled sleepily and kicked off her shoes. “Hey.”

Matt leaned over the back of the couch. “Well? Tell us everything. Was it fun?”

She nodded, flopping down between Nick and Matt. “It was good. Kinda boring at first. But the music got better. The food sucked, obviously.”

Chris dropped down on the floor in front of them. “And your date?”

She raised a brow. “Was fine. Chill. Nothing to interrogate. He was nice.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Nice how?”

“Nick,” she groaned, laughing. “Nice. Like, he opened doors and made sure I had water after we danced. He was cool.”

Chris leaned back on his hands. “Did you have fun?”

She looked at him — eyes softer now, almost vulnerable. “Yeah. I did.”

Matt grinned. “You looked really happy.”

She gave a small shrug. “I felt really pretty. Like… for real. Not just dress-up. It was weird, in a good way.”

Nick reached over and ruffled her hair. “You are pretty. Even like this.”

“Especially like this,” Chris added, motioning to her hoodie and tired eyes. “This is the real you.”

Y/N leaned her head on Matt’s shoulder, letting out a slow breath. “I’m glad I’m home.”

Nick pulled a blanket over her. “Told you you’d miss us.”

She smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “I always miss you guys.”

Chris watched her snuggle into the couch, her guard slowly dropping.

“You know,” he said, quieter now, “when you came out in that dress… I really felt like I was watching you grow up.”

Her eyes opened slightly. “Did that make you sad?”

He thought for a second. “A little. But mostly proud. You’ve turned into someone really amazing.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

“You’re still our little sister though,” Matt added. “Even if you go to prom. Even if you move out one day.”

Nick smirked. “You’ll always be the kid who cried when her grilled cheese was cut the wrong way.”

“Hey!” she protested, laughing through a yawn.

“Just saying,” Chris said with a smile, “you can grow up all you want. We’re still gonna be here.”

“Always,” Nick echoed.

“Forever,” Matt added.

Y/N’s voice was soft now. “I love you guys.”

Chris leaned back, watching her drift off. “Love you more.”

They stayed there — brothers and sister, wrapped in a quiet kind of love — while the movie played and the city outside kept moving.

But inside, everything was still.

And safe.

⸻

[dovveri]

sun-kissed

bachelorette masterlist - part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 5 • part 6 • part 7

synopsis: an unexpected arrest deters filming for day 4 so instead, y/n and sana spend the day together. almost like a date?

warnings: mentions of child pedophilia! suggestive, cursing - i forget to tag that alot bcs its in all my fics but just assume its always there oop

w/c: 5.2k

a/n: okay this took me way longer than it should’ve to write but i think it’s maybe my favourite chapter so far… or maybe i’m soft rn 🤭 enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

could they have made any less of a scene?

the sirens have stopped but the blue and red lights continue to blaze as you stand in shock with the rest of the contestants while the cops raid the mansion.

sana had been taken away by the producers as soon as the police cars had pulled up.

when they're finally done checking the mansion, they walk out a cuffed wonsik. his head is down, refusing to look at any of you, hands behind his back as he's shoved into the back of the police car.

none of you had a clue what was going on, you were all enjoying the third rose ceremony and nothing could've predicted where this night had led you.

eventually, after the police have long driven away, the producers return with sana who looks a little shaken up. you head towards her immediately, wrapping your arms around her shoulders, but she can't seem to face you, eyes blank as she follows the producers instructions for everyone to come back into the mansion.

"sana? sana?" you're trying to get her attention, shaking her slightly.

she snaps out of it with a blink, looking up at you in confusion, "hm?"

"you okay? kinda lost you back there."

"mm yeah i just- it was just really unexpected."

"what was?"

she nods her head towards the producers who are now standing in front of the leftover contestants preparing to make an announcement.

"okay guys so we only just found this out but wonsik has been arrested on charges of owning child pornography, engaging in pedophilic acts, and sexual assault of a minor. the police have searched the house and confiscated all of his items and any incriminating evidence they could use in court. as you all know, we do conduct background checks on all contestants before they are accepted onto this show, and we apologise that this incident has been overseen. we won't be editing wonsik's arrest out of tonight's episode, but he has obviously been eliminated. we'll take tomorrow off filming to allow you all a small break and please do let us know if you have any concerns moving forward with filming."

what the actual fuck?

as soon as the producers are done with their announcement everyone is talking on top of each other, trying to figure out just what the hell happened and how this happened under everyone's noses.

"did you know?"

"holy shit i never saw that coming out of him-"

"man its always the quiet ones that are the most fucked up-"

you turn to sana in shock, feeling much like how she had looked just a little earlier. "sana?"

she's still a little distracted when she looks at you, "hmm? i'm tired y/n. let's go back home?"

you're nodding quickly, leading her away from the aftermath to the quiet cool of the outside air. you wave down your driver and quickly lead sana inside, stuttering out directions to your villa and sitting back, sneaking a glance at sana who's looking out the window with glazed eyes.

the drive back is silent save for the low hum of the engine. you're a little surprised when sana shuffles closer to you, linking her arm through yours and placing her head on your shoulder, still not saying anything.

you take her hand in yours, interlock your fingers, and lean your head on hers. the rest of the short drive is spent like this, the silence is thoughtful, but not awkward.

even as you arrive back at the house, your hands never leave each other's, you lead her towards your shared bathroom and brush your teeth side by side. only letting go of each other when you both go to start your nighttime skincare routines.

sana has a much more intricate routine than you because of her obsession with all things health-related and her need to take care of her skin well. so you finish earlier than her, mumbling a quick goodnight while she's still bent over the sink and moving past her to retire yourself to bed.

you close all the blinds, intending to have a full night's rest and wake up late tomorrow because filming was cancelled, climbing under your sheets and sighing at the feeling of soft fabric against your skin.

your eyes are slowly drifting shut when your door peeks open, and sana's slipping in, closing the door behind her, shrouding the room in darkness again. she tiptoes to the edge of your bed, lifting the cover and sliding inside, cold feet come to entangle themselves with your legs, shuffling close as you get a whiff of her night serum, the sweet, tangy smell of mandarin subtly descending upon your senses.

"this is okay right?" she's murmuring against you, you're lying face to face, eyes sleepily open while your eyes readjust to the darkness, making out the soft curl of her eyelashes and the perfect slant of her nose.

you hum against her, sliding an arm over her waist and pulling her closer, resting your foreheads together and closing your eyes comfortably.

you think she's drifted off to sleep after a few minutes, but she speaks up in a whisper, barely there, you wouldn't have heard her if you weren't almost lip to lip, "y/n?"

"hm?"

you feel the soft breath of her sigh against your lips, "i... i should've known... he- i could've put him away faster- i gave him a platform- he was on national television and oh y/n, kids the kids he took advantage of could've seen him on tv and thought-" she's slowly panicking the tone of her voice getting shakier as she spirals and allows herself to voice her thoughts out loud for the first time, "-thought that he was in the right that it was okay that there were no consequences and then i kissed him oh my god i kissed him y/n and what kinda message does that send like-"

"sana sana baby shh, shh c'mere-" you're pulling her into you, tucking her head under yours and she starts crying and shuddering, hands twisted at the collar of your shirt.

"i just- like what's worse is i actually liked him-"

"mm no no sweetie stop stop. listen no-one knew what he was okay? it's not your fault you fell for him you can't blame yourself for that. he literally came here with the intention of making you do that you were just another one of his unlucky victims okay? and look, once this gets out on the news he's not going to have that platform anymore okay? in fact he'll probably hate that he came on here because he's going to be even more infamous than if he had stayed anonymous. we can only be real and truthful going forward so that those poor kids are validated in their feelings. he's going to be put away for a long long time now and he's not gonna have the chance to pull any more of that shit okay?"

she's sniffling into your shirt, listening to you talk and soothe her. you continue whispering sweet reassurances into the night, waiting for her to calm down.

she sniffles again, finally looking up at you, eyes red and snot dribbling out of her nose, your heart aches, "can we go out tomorrow? just us, like old times."

you smile at her request, nodding and pressing a gentle kiss onto her forehead, "of course baby. we can go do whatever you want. i promise i'll be yours for the whole day."

she's smiling, thanking you softly and closing her eyes. you wait to hear the her breath slow into quiet even snores before you stop stroking her hair, just holding her against you and closing your own eyes. drifting off to sleep with the adorable mimimimi sound she lets out only when she's exhausted and sleeping well.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

the next morning the both of you wake up around 10am, a comfortable time that allowed you to sleep-in, but not so much that you'd miss out on the entire day.

some producers stop by to check in on sana and go through a small debrief of everything that's happened and what they have left to film in the show.

you can tell she's still a little on edge and wants to get away from everything as fast as possible so you politely ask the producers for time off today and to leave the both of you alone until tomorrow since no filming was happening anyway.

eventually, they're leaving and sana's throwing on casual white pants, a light cardigan on top of a knit button-up, sunnies, grabbing her prada handbag and she's ready to go.

you're lucky you have so many things at your disposal, even multiple cars in the garage to pick from as you grab a random set of keys and click unlock. spotting a white convertible respond with its headlights flashing twice and leading sana towards the car, hopping in. sana's mood has already improved greatly, bubbling with excitement as she lists off some names of a couple restaurants you could try in town for lunch. you smile at her nodding along and humming as you start the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the valley road, turning on the radio and laughing at the way sana almost jumps out of her seat, neck craning up, eyes closing, letting the wind sprinkled with a hint of sea salt blow through her hair, breathing in a deep breath of satisfaction.

you know you're meant to keep your eyes on the road but it was empty anyway and sana looked so so beautiful. you traced the slope of her nose, down to the curve of her lips as she smiles, the sharp lines of her jaw, and the smooth plane of skin at her neck.

she's peeking an eye open at you, laughing when you realise you've been caught, her giggle high and airy. you loved her so much. and it was getting harder and harder to say that to her without it meaning something a little more.

you're pulling into town soon, she's babbling excitedly and pointing at things that interest her with the curiosity of a child, you're trying to find parking and smoothly drive into an angled spot just in front of the restaurant you had both decided on.

you're jumping out of the car and running to the other side to get her door, and she's giggling and smiling when you take her hand, pressing a sweet kiss to her knuckles, and helping her out of the car.

you enter the bustling shop hand in hand, smiling kindly at the waiter who greets you and ushers you to a table situated next to a large window, allowing a picturesque view into the bay area with a couple fishing boats coming back in after an early morning.

you continue your act of chivalry, pulling out her chair before she sits, and then walking over to take your own seat across from her.

you both glance over the menu enjoying the hum of a busy eatery.

"do you know what you want yet y/n?"

the words on the menu were quickly meshing together, lots of french and seafood terms you wouldn't be able to take a first guess at the meaning of. you pout and shake your head.

she giggles at your antics, "it's okay i'll order for us." she's waving over the same waiter who greeted you at the door, then listing off a few menu items, her french sounding poised and elegant, though you knew she had not-so-secretly spent a year obsessing over french ballet and had even taken up a few lessons herself, only to realise she was much too clumsy to continue it. she had thanked your mutual friend mina for the gracious lessons but resorted to attempting to learn french as an outlet for her obsession.

"-leave out the pickles in everything. and that'll be all thankyou."

your heart picks up a little at the small gesture. you despised anything with pickles in it, and she knew that, making sure you wouldn't have to pick out any of those sickly green slices.

you smile in thanks when the waiter leaves with your order, only to come back quickly afterwards with a bottle of chardonnay which she pours into two elegantly carved wine glasses she's brought along with her.

you raise your eyebrows at sana, questioning the alcohol, but she only sits forward, propping an elbow up on the table and leaning her head into it with a smile.

"day drinking?"

"what? i'll drink yours if you don't want it."

you roll your eyes at her affectionately, taking the glass and sipping, humming at the sweet and tangy bitterness that fills your mouth.

she copies your actions with a beam, setting her glass back down and licking her lips. you follow the action.

"is there anything else specific that you wanted to do today?" you're asking her, taking another sip from your glass.

"mm, not really. i don't mind as long as i'm with you."

"glad to know you're feeling well enough again to flirt."

"oh always with you baby. you're the only one for me."

"that's a bold faced lie and you know it."

she pouts at that, and you can't help yourself, leaning forward and pressing lightly on her bottom lip.

"stop that. put that back in there."

she licks your finger and you hiss, pulling away quickly in mock disgust while she laughs, "please you've made me suck on your fingers and now you're grossed out?"

the waiter decides to come with your first dish at that exact moment, a light dusting of pink on her cheeks when she overhears sana's comment, you don't fare much better when you flare up in embarrassment, hastily wiping your finger on your skirt and babbling out a loud thank you to the waiter.

you glare at sana who's trying her hardest not to laugh, no shame whatsoever, shaking in her seat at the effort of keeping it in, her lips pursed and eyes twinkling.

"you're so going to get it when we get back." you mumble as you stab into a mussel on the plate in front of you.

"awwwwh poor baby's embarrassed, don't worry, mommy will make it better."

your fork drops at the term and you feel yourself going extraordinarily red. she's laughing now, loud and boisterous, drawing the attention of a few onlookers and you throw your napkin at her, whining and slinking back into your chair trying to hide your face.

it's a few seconds after you've folded you arms across your chest and tucked your chin in, willing the heat in your cheeks to go away while staring into your lap, that sana's stopped laughing.

she picks up a mussel with her fork and holds it out to you, leaning forward onto the table again, eyes bright making an 'ahh' sound.

you turn your head, not giving her the satisfaction of paying her attention, but she's persistent, "c'mon y/n. i'm sorry i won't tease anymore i promise."

it's no surprise that you can't resist her, rolling your eyes and opening your mouth, accepting the fleshy piece of seafood and chewing. she's smiling and poking her own piece to put in her mouth, humming at the taste and making sure it was to your liking as well.

the rest of lunch is spent like this, playful and fun, it's good to be able to feel like yourselves again after all the hectic film shooting.

you're standing up to grab the bill after you're both finished when sana shakes her head at you, "i got it already don't worry."

"huh? what do you mean?"

"i told the waiter earlier in french so you wouldn't know. just let me treat this time? i still haven't really been able to thank you for coming along with me for this."

"what? sana this was like... a one hundred dollar meal at least. don't be silly let me pay you back."

she's humming and putting her cardigan back on, standing up and walking in front of you, "pay me back by winning something for me at the arcade?"

you sigh, grumbling along as she giggles at you, taking your hand and leading you out of the restaurant, thanking your waiter who still looks a little off-put by you, and walking down the street to where you had spotted the small arcade earlier.

you purchase a hefty amount of arcade tokens and get straight into all the classics. sana just barely won air hockey against you, jumping and whooping with every goal, you have to take off your jacket midway through the game, sweating as you try and focus on hitting the little puck. you get her back on the dance machines though, you can't keep in the laugh when she somehow ends up sprawled on the floor, limbs tangled and missing every following beat.

you cycle through the arcade, speeding through mario kart and midnight run, shooting with abysmal accuracy at the gun games, trying your hand at some of the more unique japanese arcade games they have (which sana completely destroys you at), and eventually ending up at the wide variety of claw machines.

sana's pulling you towards one with spy x family collectibles, and you furrow your eyebrows in concentration as you try to get the small anya keychain for her.

she's giving you instructions from the side of the machine, trying to give you as much perspective as possible before the time runs out and the claw drops. you wait with baited breath as it grabs the keychain, comes back up with a whir, and then... the keychain falls out at the bump at the top of the machine.

you don't even hesitate when you push in another token, determined to win this one thing.

sana's with you the whole way, her reactions only getting more and more expressive with each loss.

you're probably on your 9th try, the claw grabs onto the keychain, lifts it up, and with a whoop the keychain's falling successfully into the claim box. sana's caterwauling and jumping into your arms and you lift her up in glee, spinning her around once before setting her back down. you bend down to pick up the keychain, presenting it to sana with a flourish, and then she's kissing your cheek and squeezing you against her in a hug, thank yous spilling out of her in rapid succession.

you giggle against her, hugging back, relishing in the contact.

after you exchange your arcade tickets for prizes, you head down towards the docks, stopping for some ice cream before making it to the boardwalk.

there are a few other couples doing the same thing, and when you nod politely to an elderly couple holding hands, you're hit with the abrupt realisation that you and sana must look like a couple right now. unless people were homophobic, then you'd just be a couple of close friends, maybe roommates.

you're suddenly hyperaware of the sweat starting to collect on your palm, releasing her hand and wiping it on your skirt when she looks at you with a cocked head, mid-lick of her ice cream cone, eyes wide.

you switch your own ice cream cone to your other hand so it looks like you had an excuse to let go, avoiding her questioning gaze.

eventually you both decide to sit down at the end of the boardwalk, legs dangling over the edge and looking out across the bay. there weren't any boats currently docked in so you had a clear view of the blue vastness in front of you.

sana's leaning in and looking up at you with puppy dog eyes.

"...what?"

she doesn't speak, her eyes darting down to your own ice cream cone and back up.

you roll your eyes and hold it out for her.

she's grinning and sticking out her tongue to lick a long strip along the side of your cone, humming in satisfaction.

"wanna try mine?"

"i'm okay thanks."

she's pouting and you can't have that so you lean in and lick some of hers, cringing at the overly sweet taste of artificial fairy floss but the smile she gives you afterwards makes up for it.

you both sit back and enjoy the light afternoon breeze, a calming presence after the hectic running around you did at the arcade.

"i missed this." sana speaks up first.

"me too."

"things have been pretty crazy with the house. i'm really glad that you're here with me though."

you turn to her and smile, "i'm glad you let me come."

"of course. the home visits later on are gonna get a little crazy. every season those are always full of drama."

"do you know who you want to end up there yet? your final four?"

she hums, thinking for a little, "still not really. we have... nine- wait no, eight since wonsik's a pedophile. so jacky, eunji, jihyo, momo, jun, jiwon, nayeon, and dae."

"it's a good mix i think. they all have different types of chemistry with you."

you're distracted by a buzz on your phone, taking it out and opening your messages.

miyeon: y/n!!!!! i just saw the news about wonsik! its everywhere rn r u guys okay?

"who's that?" sana's looking at your with a curious lilt in her voice.

you hesitate to respond, knowing how she reacted the last time you and miyeon were together.

"oh just my uncle. he's asking what to get my mum for her birthday later. you'd think he'd know since they're siblings but..." you trail off, typing a quick response back to miyeon.

y/n: it was crazy no one saw it coming! the producers called off filming today.. probably so they can deal with all the legal disputes that'll come up bcs of this

you tuck your phone back into your jacket, ignoring the new messages you get. you could respond to miyeon later. today was meant for you and sana.

sana's sighing and leaning her head on your shoulder, "wish i wore swimmers. it's such nice weather and the water looks soo good."

"we can head back and go for a swim in the pool if you want? we haven't had a chance to use it yet. may as well get the most out of being the main character on this show."

she's up in seconds, grinning, all fatigue gone as she practically prances back towards the car, only turning back to yell at you to hurry up.

you beam at her, running to catch up, laughing and smiling, just the two of you.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

sana's yelping when you cannonball into the deep end of the pool, splashing her with cold water in your wake.

"y/n!!"

you break the surface grinning and laughing, trying to splash more water on her.

"sto- stop! y/n oh my god-"

"hurry uppppppp! it's not cold if you get it over and done with!"

"no! i need to put on sunscreen first!"

"sunscreen? it's 4pm!"

"there are still UV rays at this time! i don't want to die from skin cancer and if you're a good girl you'll get out and let me put sunscreen on you too."

you narrow your eyes at her while she's lathering her legs with the white cream.

you decide to ignore her, diving into the pool and resurfacing a few times, splashing around by yourself while she takes her sweet time. to be honest, you're glad for the coolness the pool offers you, when sana first stepped out in her pale yellow bikini, you had felt your cheeks blush all the way up to the tips of your ears. you'd avoided her gaze quickly, instead opting for racing her outside and jumping in right away.

now that she wasn't watching you though, you couldn't help the way your eyes drifted over to her. she had finished with her legs and was now applying lotion to her arms. you traced the outline of her-

"y/n!"

you startle in the water, and she's looking at you curiously when you make a sort of weird strangled sound and water goes swashing around. "y-yeah?" you clear your throat, hoping you weren't as red as you felt.

"can you help with my back? i can't reach." she's looking at you with a dangerous pout, eyes pleading.

you mumble incoherently as you swim towards the shallow end, stepping out of the pool and grabbing the sunscreen bottle from her, gesturing for her to turn around while she grins at you.

you squirt some of the lotion onto your hand, rubbing it diligently into her back. you knew how much she cared for her skin, and even though you cared significantly less for your own, it mattered to her so you had to make sure you did a good job.

the problem arose when you started reaching her lower back. the pressure you've been applying becomes considerably less when you realise just how close you are to sana's ass. sana's very very attractive ass, only emphasised in these bikini bottoms.

"feeling shy y/n?"

"s-shut up."

"you can do my ass too if you want y'know. it's not like it's anything you haven't felt before."

you can picture the cheeky smirk on her face while you recap the sunscreen bottle after you're finished. and really, you just felt like you had to do something about that so before you know it, a hand's coming down and smacking her, a loud resounding slap followed closely by sana's yelp.

you're jumping back into the pool, trying to push the image of her cheeks rippling in the most perfect way to the very back of your mind.

when you break the surface again with a bubbly laugh she's still standing by the side of the pool, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face.

"did you just spank me y/n?"

you stick your tongue out her in defiance, sending a splash of water her way.

"oh you are so dead!" she's jumping in now, and you're scrambling away trying to put as much distance between you two as possible. but she closes in quickly, tackling you underwater and pulling you down so you're both submerged.

you're grinning and then you're laughing, but not in a good way because her fingers are at your sides tickling you and digging into all of the sensitive points in your body she's discovered over the time you've known each other.

you spend the next few minutes trying to one up one another, droplets of water flying everywhere, noisy screeches and laughs sounding out. you're lucky this mansion of a house was situated in the valleys with no neighbours or you most definitely would've gotten a noise complaint.

eventually, you decide to call a truce, cheeks sore from smiling, stomach sore from laughing. you float onto your back, closing your eyes and letting out a loud sigh in comfort. you can feel sana floating next to you, your heads next to each other, hearts beating in tandem.

she’s speaking up after a minute, "cats or dogs?"

you snort, "i don't mind."

you can hear the whine in her voice, "just pick one."

you hum thinking about it for a little, "whatever suits my lifestyle better i guess. if i'm really busy with work or i have to stay home a lot then probably a cat. but if i have a big backyard or something then probably a dog. knowing me though, i'll probably end up with cats. i'm too lazy to keep up with the energy dogs have."

"not with me though right?"

"what? of course not with you. also, you're not a dog sana."

"people say i look like a shiba inu."

"that's not the same thing."

she giggles a little before sighing, "you suit cats. okay. it's decided. we're getting a cat when we go home."

"huh?!"

she's breaking into high-pitched laughter again and you can only find yourself to be slightly concerned over whether she's being serious or not. you could deal with that at a much later date though. you drift back into a comfortable silence, listening to the sounds of the night wildlife slowly wake up in the valleys next to you.

"y/n?"

"hmm?"

"i love you."

your eyes are opening now, heart rate picking up. there's no reason to panic right? she meant it as a friend. a friend. so why was it so hard to say it back to her? as a friend?

instead, you say, "enjoy our date that much minatozaki?"

she doesn't respond with the same teasing tone you're expecting, "i really did." all honest and pure.

you're gulping, "...me too."

you know she's standing when you feel light waves push against your body, so you lift yourself up, looking at her puzzled, but she only goes to stand in front of you, grabbing your arms and wrapping them around her waist.

you let her, squeezing slightly and dropping your head onto her shoulder, your eyes drinking in the pinks and oranges of the sunset.

"you're not gonna say it back?"

you stiffen behind her, "what?"

"you know what."

she's tightening her hold around you even before you try to subconsciously escape.

you let out an almost-laugh breath, "...i love you too sana."

"was that so hard?" she's turning now, pupils dilated when they meet yours, pink lips slightly parted, noses almost touching.

you're shaking your head no, breath caught up in your throat.

a crinkle appears between her eyebrows, you have the urge to smooth it out, "are you lying?"

another shake of your head.

you feel her breath against your lips as she lets out a soft exhale, the tightening of her hands against your forearms helping ground you, if only slightly.

"i hope one day you'll be able to tell me the truth." you're confused, what was she talking about? "for now i guess this is fine." and then she's leaning in and pressing her lips against yours.

its almost an automatic reaction now. your mouth is moving against hers even before your brain registers you're kissing.

she's sweet, she always is. but this kiss is a little different. it's not filled with passion or heat, not like all your previous kisses that have always led to tangled limbs and heavy breaths. it's soft, tender, like she's trying to tell you something with her lips. you just weren't particularly versed in this form of sana communication yet to be able to tell what that was.

when she breaks away, the sun is dipping behind the horizon, her forehead leaned against yours, breaths coming in shorter after the lack of air.

she shivers a little when a cool gust of wind starts up.

"inside?" you ask.

she nods, letting you go, and following you out of the pool to dry off.

the rest of the night, even when you end up sprawled on messy sheets, sweat coating your bodies and arms around each other, your lips still tingle from her kiss in the pool. you fall asleep dreaming of small kittens, ice-cream, and sana.

[myhornysaga]

mmmm what is that certain incident... do graves and lawyer reader have kids ?? Or.... 👀 👀mmmmmm im watching from the shadowzzz

𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐚𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

A/n: thank you for reading my work anon♡ the secret will be revealed, stay tuned

I'm planning on this chapter be divided in two parts so this is part 1 of this chapter. Songs recommended, in order: people in the front row, end of beginning, angel of the morning.

Tags: mdni, graves x Lawyer wife reader, established relationship, mentions of sex, pregnancy.

Part 2, Series masterlist , M.list

You and Graves had a kid.

A daughter.

She was born with the best of you and your husband Phil.

Just after a year of being married you discovered you were pregnant. Thanks to the little rendezvous the night before your husband was leaving for his 364 days deployment in the middle east.

He was in Marines back then and you worked as a full time criminal lawyer at your father's Firm, one of the three top Law firms specializing in International Laws and Extradition.

You were learning international criminal law under one of the most recognizable lawyers and a dear friend of your father, Mona De La Sierre.

Everything was going smooth, your career was at peak and you were only in your late 20s, till you discovered...

You have missed your periods for 2 months.

At first you had your doubts, no way you could be pregnant right? But its been 2 and half months since you and Phil had- no! Lets not have false hope. A simple pregnancy test will reveal whatever it is!

You sat on the toilet seat of the housing quarter. You had done 3 pregnancy tests and they all came... positive.

And it started.

You couldn't believe you were pregnant. You wanted scream and yell out of happiness and let everyone know Mr and Mrs Graves are having a kid!

You wanted the first person to know about this to be none other than the perpetrator! You couldn't just wait to call him. But you had to wait because you can only call him at night due to different time zones.

Despite staying awake past midnight and 14 calls, none were answered. You tried one last time before giving up and call next day.

The 15th call was answered by someone else.

"Hello? Phil? Babe?", you asked nervously.

"Hello?" The voice said

"Ahem... I'm trying to reach Sergeant Phillip Graves. I'm his wife is he there?" You questioned on the line.

"Uh no maam im sorry but the Sergeant will not be available for four weeks."

"4 weeks? You gotta be kidding me!", you huffed in frustration.

"Thats what im told Mrs Graves."

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

4.5 weeks later.

Location: Marines Reconnaissance Base in [Redacted]

Sergeant Graves had returned to the base after leading a successful Recon mission without any casualties.

"Sergeant!" A marine called out for Graves in his tent, "sir you have a letter from home"

"Just in time", he chuckled as he sat down on his bed after a long and hard few weeks, finally resting on a proper bed instead of a dug out pit.

"The envelope looks big. Look out Graves, this could be divorce papers" one his teammates joked.

"Yeah totally. Chicks throw you divorce paper if you don't talk to em in every two hours. Haha", another one joined in

"Nah boys i don't think its that.", Philip tried to convince.

"Thats what captain Jerome said", another one jumped in and everyone started laughing. While Graves just shook his head while chuckling along and opening the envelope and started reading it.

He stood up straight out of shock, letter still in hand.

"Told ya its them divorce papers", the guys said.

"What is it Graves?", one of them asked in a serious tone now.

Everyone could still see the absolute shock on the Sergeant's face.

His heart was racing out of excitement, "Holy shit boys, im gonna be a father!", Graves said to his teammates.

Everyone in the tent started congratulating him and hugging the man. Some quipped with the question whether the kid is his or- Graves wouldn't let them finish and just hand them the DNA papers, solidifying his paternity.

The letter,

"My love, i hope you are doing well. I tried to reach you several times through call but i was informed that you are not available for 4 weeks.

Its an awful long time to wait to let everyone know. But remember this, i want YOU to be the first to know of this, that you are going to be a FATHER soon!

I checked in with the doctors and its confirmed! I am 3 months in. By the time you arrive, we'll be a family of three my bub.

And before you or your jarhead boys start questioning the legitimacy of OUR child, i will be attaching DNA tests as well, have fun.

So thats that. You are going to be a dad Phil! You better come back in one piece!

With love and warm hugs

Y/n L/n Graves xo".

.

Part 4

[generational-atrophy]

hiii can i request russia, canada, germany and greece seeing their s/o wearing their clothes for the first time? good luck on ur finals :D !!

hetalia russia, canada, germany, and greece seeing their s/o wear their clothes

1.0k words ~ gender neutral headcanons / scenarios

tw: none!

a/n: holy shit tthis request is so old that its a new finals season :sob: guys im trying. ALSO idk how to write greece. but hopefully its ok

Russia

Ivan wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you wore his clothing. Like, he just never expected anyone to ever… want to do that?

Plus, if you’re any shorter than 6’ 5”, his clothes are more like blankets than anything wearable.)

Mornings at Ivan's house were always cold. His dacha had been built long before the invention of home heating systems, and he had always refused to modernize anything he owned.

So, when you finally woke up, you grabbed one of Ivan's jackets to keep yourself warm while you made breakfast. It was huge, on him and you, and lined with fur from animals killed centuries ago.

The house was quiet aside from the quiet sizzling of an egg on a pan. Or at least, it was until you heard the dull thuds drawing closer behind you.

In an instant, Ivan wrapped his firm arms around you, picking you up off the floor for a second.

“G-Good morning to you too,” You tease him softly. All he responds with is a quiet grunt, muffled as he buries his face in your hair.

“Should I make you something too?”

He shook his head, “You are too perfect to be cooking right now...”

“Aww, Ivan...”

”Please wear things like this more often...“ He mumbled, seemingly embarrassed.

”What, your things? Should I steal more jackets?“

“Yes... please...“ He said, and you could feel his smile, even if you couldn't see it.

He just can't get enough of you wearing his stuff. He thinks it makes you two look like a real couple. Then everyone will know that you're his (:

Canada

From the start of your relationship, Matthew had been trying to subtly coerce you into wearing his clothes. It's like, one of his main relationship goals.

So if you did it without him asking, his brain would fry.

“D-Dear, what are you- a-are you...?” Matthew's shaking voice makes it way past your earbuds, which you promptly rip out.

You turn away from your desk to face him, and his face immediately lights up.

”Sorry, I- I didn't have an-“ Is all you sputter out before you're interrupted by a hug that sends you tumbling backwards. He's warm as he curls around you, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

”Oh. Uh-”

“W-Wait, sorry... I- I didn't mean to um-”

“You're f-”

“No- I mean-” He pulls away, letting go of you completely.

“Math-”

“Sorry!”

“MATTHEW,” You finally manage to break him out of his stuttering state, “It's fine.”

He averts his gaze as he stands before you, awkwardly playing with his hoodie cuffs, ”I- I just really think you're um- cute in that...“

”Matt, it's just a hoodie.“

”Yeah but it- it has um... that...“ He points to the maple leaf pattern covering the hoodie. That makes you pause, looking up at him like he said something weird.

“It's just leaves.”

His cheeks immediately turn the same shade as the leaves on his hoodie, ”W-Well! It's better than stars and stripes!“

Seriously, anything that shows that you're showing him over America will make him go crazy.

Germany

Ludwig doesn't have a lot of casual clothes, so you're kind of limited in your “stealing t-shirts for pyjamas” options

And sorry to disappoint, but his stoic demeanour isn't getting majorly cracked even by that.

It was a rare occurrence for Ludwig to let you do anything around the house. He cooked the meals, he cleaned the dishes, he did most of the laundry, and the sweeping, mopping, and literally any other task that had to be done. So, in a moment you thought would never come, you were actually excited to be doing the dishes for him.

But, because of his disaster of a “modern, ergonomic” sink, that meant getting water all over your shirt. And seeing how you were wearing something nice for a date night with him, you only had one choice. Throwing on one of his torn and faded old t-shirts.

After a few minutes of washing the dishes alone, Ludwig took his place beside you, leaning against the counter and watching you intently.

“Yes?“ You prompt him, and he immediately looks a little embarrassed.

”Thanks for doing this.“

”You do this every night, so like, it's fine?“

”Y-Yes, but, I still appreciate it.“ He tells you quickly, before placing a hang on your shoulder. You turn off the water for a moment, plunging the kitchen into silence again.

Before you could register it, you were pulled closer to him. 

“You should wear my things more often…” He mumbled before leaning down to kiss your cheek.

“Buy more normal person clothes then.”

Then he pulled away with a groan, “OK, the moment is over.”

Greece

Heracles probably didn't even notice until you said something. Anytime he's looking at you, your clothes are the last thing he registers.

”Oh, wait... uh- sorry,“ You blurt out once you look down and remember what you're wearing, ”I forgot to ask if I could...“

He looks over you as your hands fidget with the hem of his oversized t-shirt. The design said something in Greek, but all you could make out were the words ”FOOD“ and ”CATS” (It was more important that it was comfortable than stylish.) For his part, he looked completely disinterested in whatever you were saying.

“If you could what?” Heracles asks, his tone dry and tired.

“If I could wear your shirt...”

“Oh,” Then he glances over your direction, barely looking over his tea, ”Yes, I see that now.“

”Do you... care?“

”No.“ He says as if what you had just asked was as obvious as the colour of the sky. Despite that, it didn't seem to bother or excite him in the slightest.

He might find it a little amusing when his clothes don't fit you, but generally he doesn't care. He believes strongly in the idea that ”What's his is yours, and what's yours is his.“

Because of that, he'll steal your clothes too. And he might rip them. Oops.

[v3ng34nc3-w4yn3]

"The odds are ours."

Remy Lebeau x fem!reader

A/n: HERE IT IS!! it got delayed twice but its here!! thank you for all the love, for making this possible. Here's the FINAL part of the main series. To answer your question..no! the series is NOT over! i plan to continue this in little oneshots! tiny extras! now, without further ado! here's the last part! as usual, Angst/Comfort. Enjoy!! <3

Summary: When wade wilson dragged you into the mess you were miserable, mourning and utterly heartbroken but now, after following Wilson and Howlett around for hours, watching them fight you finally get your end of the deal. Seeing a man you thought you'd never see again.

───────��────────⋆༺𓆩🂱𓆪༻⋆─────────────────

To say you were pissed was an understatement, you were livid.

You should have stayed. Ran back to the face you’ve been so familiar with for just a few hours. The very face that handed out a clean, fresh start. To forget the pain of the past, to live on with him.

But luck never favoured you. 

..Neither did gravity.

You learned that when your back slammed into a car. The force of it sent white hot pain up your spine and you could barely resist the urge to curl up and scream. First you leave behind a solid connection and now your ribs are broken. Nice.

Wade groans, hoisting himself off the car while Logan just..slumps.

“Holy shit that's deadpool!!”

“And wolverine!!”

..well, at least they don’t recognize you. You're half thankful, half offended.

“You're damn straight it is! Fox killed him. Disney brought him back! They're gonna make him do this till he’s ninety!”

Wade points his finger at Logan. Amusing the children and earning a scoff from the older man. You get a brief meeting of this..Peter guy that Wade has been yapping on about. He seems..sweet. Really sweet. That's a nice change. 

- - - - - - -

You follow the ketchup and mustard pots to the street. Seriously, the pain in your ribs is killing you. You’re almost tempted to ask Logan to carry you..or play dead.

That’s when you see him, the phony bastard. Paradox.

“No! Piss off! You’re too late!” 

He yells at all three of you, waving his arms until Logan snaps at him.

“You’re fuckin’ done.”

“Why was Thor crying!?”

 Wade jumps in, pointing an accusing finger...Well, now you just have to get a word in.

“Why’d you send him to get me!?”

You point to Wade. Seriously..why are you tangled up in this mess?

“How dare you! No one comes back from the void! I didn’t send him to get you! It was his idea!”

Paradox lets out a frustrated little huff. Logan speaks up, interjecting with an almost comedic growl.

“Tell that to Cassandra Nova.”

Oh, right on cue. The beam of orange tears into the empty space. The sound of boots and..it’s the man from before. The one Logan punched real hard. God you just want to see Remy again. 

“Paradox, we have a problem.”

His head twists to the side, A shuddering snap of bones occurs before Cassandra Nova steps out. Tossing the corpse to one side. She speaks, her tone is playful. Like she's bantering with Paradox.

“You tried to kill me.”

You tense up. Just the sight of her makes you feel cold. God, you wish you could just go straight back to Remy. The portal is open. The void is there. You can see it. Hell. Fuck it. 

You move to rush forward, not even paying attention to the conversation ahead..

“Now shoo. Mummy and daddy are having a conversation.”

You’re forced backwards, Flying back alongside Wade and Logan. At Least they’re cushioned by a car. You, on the other hand, smack to the ground with an obvious thud. You don’t have as much strength as you like, You can’t pull through, not like this. Your brain feels fuzzy, your eyelids are heavy and with one last curse from Wade..you fall unconscious.

- - - - - - -

The Fire is warm on your skin. It’s comforting. A familiar scent of burning wood and..Tobacco. Your head rests against the warmth of another body.

You jolt. You don’t even realise someone else is there, neither do you realise your surroundings.

The library. In the mansion. Your home.

You look up. You dread to see what you’ll find. Memories itching to tear from your weary bones. Begging for freedom against the confines of your mind..

But a familiar face stares back. Eyes soft with affection.

“Remy–”

The words die in your throat. You just stare. He takes your hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. Its soft, a gesture you could never scrub from your mind even if you tried.

“Mon amour..”

He coo’s so softly. It’s a sound you’ve missed. Before you can stop yourself. You throw your arms around his neck. WIthout missing a single beat, he wraps his arms around your waist.

“I–I thought– I thought I'd never see you again! How— How is this–”

He stops you, pulling you away just to cup your face. He avoids the question. Instead..he gives you a word of advice.

“You need t’move on Chère. Dis ain’t healthy. Holdin’ onto de past.”

It makes you feel sick. Why is he telling you this? Does he not want you to stay?

“But– I can’t let you go–”

How could you? You’ve loved him for years. Your affection never wavered for him.

“I know dat. Trust me, Gambit knows all dat.”

Despite his instance, you couldn’t. Why? Why would you? He was..everything.

“It ain’t gon’ be easy..but you gotta try– Gambit don’t want you stressin’ for de rest o’ yer life..”

He leaned down, his hands resting on your shoulders. Such a foreign feeling but oh..you missed it.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. He pulls away so slowly, like it hurts him to part from you. He’s always been a gentleman, he breaks your heart so softly.

“You deserve good t’ings mon amour..all dat good stuff is gon’ be yours..you just gotta take it.”

The flames in the fire roar. It's sweating hot. Remy seems to panic a little. His brows knit together and he cups your face.

“You’re never gon’ have to carry de burden anymore– everything's gon' go.”

Is it selfish to say you don’t care? It might be. The people, the friends, the history. Gone.

But this place isn’t a home, no without him.

Your Remy. Your Dashing Cajun.

A man who has seen so much but never loves too little.

A fresh, painless start is what you need.

He’ll find you. He always does

- - - - - - -

Your head feels like it's splitting open. God, everything is hurting. Your ribs, your knees, your heart.

Fuck, what the hell happened?

Oh, right..

You sit up, immediately regretting the decision. Pain climbs up your spine, causing you to wince.

“Easy, bub.”

A gravely but surprisingly soft tone comes from the all familiar Logan.

His hand rests on your chest, gently pushing you to lay back down. For a moment, he watches you. Eyes taking in your trembling form. His hand, still resting on your chest, twitches softly. These hands have spilled so much blood yet they’re so tender on the people he cares for. Hah, lucky you. Sneaking into Logan Howlett’s heart, making him play doctor. There's an authoritative yet parental hint to his touch.

He lets you relax before he breathes out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.

“Wade’s playing hero. Said something about a gift to you for all your..hard work.”

You can tell he’s trying not to laugh. A breathy chuckle leaves him as he sits back down in the arm chair.

“How long have i–”

Your voice is..embarrassingly raspy. Seems like it's been out of action for a bit but Logan knows what you're asking him.

“Day and a half at most. You ain’t missed much. We saved his universe and uh..essentially became his roommates. Hah. I see that look. You seriously thought you could get away from ol’ mouth?”

You throw your head back with a groan. Shaking your head. God, first you lose your home and you’re already checking in to a new one? It’s happening way too fast for you to even–

“You think I still have that spare mattress? I can’t remember if i tossed it out yesterday or–”

Wade, completely geared out in costume, casually struts out of that blazing orange portal with..

Remy. 

The Remy you met in that dump–

He’s battered, for sure. A nasty cut lines his cheek and his nose is coated in more of the sticky red liquid. He’s limping. Straining to get inside without toppling over. His usual charm seems to be tossed out the window as he coughs into his fist, shoulders trembling.

“Oh there’s our sleeping beauty! Hi sweetie! Did you have a nice coma? Look what your buddy Wade got ya– and he’s all yours! We can sort out a collar tomorrow–”

He’s obviously making it sound like Remy’s some kind of dog– leashed and collared and to be honest? He might as well be. Look at those puppy dog eyes.

“Chère..”

He breathes out so softly. For a moment..it’s like you’ve known him your whole life. Wade backs up and grabs Logan’s arm. Muttering about needing to “find the mattress.”

You rush forwards, stumbling slightly and without thinking you crash against the Cajun’s chest. It’s so warm, so comforting. A breath of fresh air after the polluted heartbreak. He caves immediately. He wraps his arms around you, cradling your head against his chest.

“There's my girl..”

He speaks so softly, like you’ll shatter under his touch. You know you're crying. Pitiful sobs slip past and he hushes you softly like he did that night in the hideout. It breaks his heart to see more tears but he knows it's out of relief. 

There's no need for words, not when he swoops down to cup your jaw, tilting your head up to pepper your forehead in featherlite kisses. 

He came from nothing. Living off the scraps of garbage and the skills he had. You, a version of you, changed his life for the better. He lost you once before and now he’s never losing you again. This is the start of the best new leaf anyone could wish for. Some call it relighting old flames, but is it really an old flame if it never burnt out?

You look up at him, meeting his gaze. Something clicks in your head the minute he leans in closer..

He pauses, he's a breath away from taking your own but he waits..he needs to know you're ready. It doesn’t matter if it takes years. He’d wait a thousand years if it meant he got to return to your loving arms.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait any longer. You meet him in the middle.

His lips are incredibly soft against your own, he tastes like liquor..it's no surprise or a shock. You already knew the taste. It was seared into your mind for good.

He outright groans in satisfaction. You can tell he’s overjoyed by the way he fumbles. He’s not sure where to hold you. It's cute, his hands try to find purchase anywhere they can. They settle on your waist before his arms decide to wrap around you, pulling you in deeper.

He’s breathless when you pull back. Cheeks flushed such a pretty pink. The tips of his ears are red. His brows furrow before he noses your cheek lovingly and presses his forehead to yours.

This is exactly where he wants to be.

He lets out a breathy sigh once more, his gaze meets yours.

“Might need to start hopin’ through portals some more if I get welcomed like dis..”

He laughs softly when you hit his shoulder gently. He pecks your nose in response, squeezing your hips.

“Ah, Behave chère, Remy’s only teasin’..”

Such a fool, but he’s claimed himself as your fool. 

The odds have always been in his favour. And this time, they brought him home.

────────────────⋆༺𓆩🂱𓆪༻⋆─────────────────

Taglist: @techs-stitches @kaidan-z @tetra-stark @aisling1985 @trinswhimsys

Thank you all so much! i love you all SO MUCH!! <3

[sturniolo04]

A little request for you…Chris’s gf , Matt’s gf, Madi and Nick are having brunch at a restaurant. somehow they end up talking about their sex lives and realize how actually different the two brothers are in bed (different styles but both very good), Nick is freaking out the whole time not wanting to hear about it, covering his, screaming and making disgust face and Madi just watches the whole scene laughing as the girls share their experiences :)

A/N: hope you like it love <3

Gf!Bsf!Reader x Gf!Bsf!Reader x Bsf!Nick x Bsf!Madi

It became a tradition at this point, going out to brunch with your best friends Nick and Madi in addition to Chris' girlfriend since you two were super close obviously because of the fact you guys were dating the twin brothers. So, here it is your favorite part of the early late Saturday at 11:30am, sitting with your favorite people in the world.

"hi lovey how are you"

you state as you and chris' girlfriend walks up to madi and nick.

'im good im so happy to see you two again"

madi exclaim coming up and hugging the pair

" i cant say that i see yall every other day just about since you two date my brothers"

nick states simply playfully rolling his eyes as he comes up to hug you two after Madi. Everything was very peaceful once you guys sat down at your designated table for brunch and your guys conversations continued normally. So you're not so sure how you guys ended up on the topic of Matt and Chris' performance in bed.

' no but like matt knows what do with his tongue for real"

"So Matt lives up to his twitch user name"

madi responds giggling

"oh for sure he always so gentle with me even when we had our first time he made sure I was okay with everything"

"do you guys ever have rough sex then"

Chris' girlfriend proceeds to ask engaging in the conversation.

" i mean yeah after a long day of teasing back and forth"

matt's girlfriend giggles at the thought.

" well i can't relate to the gentleness, when me and chris have sex its rough, hot and kinky"

"oh my god"

"i kind of figured that i mean come on its chris"

"no but like dont get me wrong we do have gentle sex-'

chris' girlfriend trails off

"yeah when he's half asleep practically"

madi giggles.

"okay whatever"

" you and chris probably couldnt name a place you haven't done it"

matt's girlfriend chuckles

" uh yes i can"

"then name one"

madi injects as her and matts girlfriend look at her seriously

"uh- oh- a public bathroom"

'you fucking liar"

"we haven't"

"you guys totally have"

" im asking chris"

"wait nevermind there was tara's party we- uh-yeah"

"yeah thats what i thought"

madi states rolling her eyes at her best friend.

"okay but like how-"

matt's girlfriend place two fingers in front of chris' girlfriends face and slowly starts to move them a part.

"oh my god stop it"

chris's girlfriend giggles pushing her fingers down as a pint tint rises on her cheeks.

"well-"

"like 10 inches"

"holy shit"

"anyway what about yours you know"

chris' girlfriend asks.

" same but hella thick"

she states giggling as nick interjects finally losing his appetite completely.

"okay enough talking about my brother penises like what the fuck; lost my fucking appetite"

he exclaims pushing his plate away from him.

"sorry sorry we'll stop"

madi states for the two giggling

"you better otherwise i am throwing up that french toast"

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: Not Embarrassed

It starts as a game.

Marshall swears up and down that he’s not embarrassed by what you call him in the bedroom. Not even a little bit.

You don’t buy it.

So you set out to prove him wrong.

The first test happens over breakfast. You set down your coffee, glance at him over the rim of your mug, and say, “Can you pass me the sugar, Daddy?”

Not a single reaction. He hands it to you like it’s nothing.

Okay. That’s fine.

The next time, it’s at the grocery store.

You make a show of reading off the list, then casually say, “Ooh, Daddy, don’t forget your protein bars.”

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

And so it goes—little moments, here and there. You up the stakes in public, at home, even when he’s on the phone. But nothing shakes him.

Then one afternoon, you’re sitting in his studio, bored out of your mind. He’s been working for hours, locked in a back-and-forth with Royce and Alchemist over a beat. You lean against the couch, watching him, waiting for your moment.

And then you get an idea.

You push off the couch, saunter up behind him, and lean down, lips just barely brushing his ear.

“I’d like to go home, Daddy.”

For the first time in weeks, you get a reaction.

Marshall freezes mid-sentence.

You see the muscle in his jaw twitch.

Then, without missing a beat, he turns to the room and says, “Yo, we’re done. Get the fuck out.”

The guys blink at him. “Wait—”

“I said out.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Royce mutters, “Damn,” under his breath, and the room empties in record time.

Before you can so much as smirk, Marshall’s hands are on you, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. His voice is low, dark, and dangerous when he says, “You think I’m embarrassed, baby?”

You swallow hard.

He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Say it again.”

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Looks like you finally got your answer.

Your heart is pounding.

Marshall is staring you down like a predator that just caught its prey, his hands gripping your waist like he’s making sure you don’t run.

Not that you would.

Not when he’s looking at you like that.

“You started this game,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “Now you’re gonna finish it.”

You swallow hard, the heat in your stomach twisting into something dangerous.

“You think I won’t make you say it right here?” He tilts his head, eyes locked onto yours, daring you to test him further.

You’re not sure if it’s stubbornness or the need to push, but you bite your lip, barely holding back a smirk. “Oh? And what exactly do you want me to say, Daddy?”

His fingers tighten on your waist.

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you. Instead, he pulls you even closer, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “That’s the last smartass thing outta your mouth for the rest of the night.”

Your stomach flips.

Holy shit.

You definitely underestimated just how not embarrassed he is.

And now?

You’re about to learn your lesson.

Your breath hitches as Marshall grips your jaw, tilting your face up so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His blue eyes are dark, intense, dangerous.

“You really thought I’d get embarrassed?” he murmurs, thumb stroking your chin. His voice is calm, too calm—like he’s amused by the whole thing. Like he’s enjoying the way you’re starting to squirm under his stare.

You swallow hard, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. “I mean…”

His grip tightens. Not painful—just firm. Just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“Try again.”

Your stomach flips, the warmth between your thighs spreading like wildfire.

“I—” You hesitate, suddenly aware of just how quiet the studio is. The same space that had been buzzing with voices, laughter, and beats only minutes ago is now dead silent.

Just you. Just him.

Just the tension crackling between you like a live wire.

“I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“Actually what?” His lips curve into a smirk, his fingers sliding from your jaw down to your throat—just resting there, like a warning. “Put you in your place?”

Jesus Christ.

You should’ve known better than to play this game with him. Should’ve known that the second you pushed too far, he’d push back even harder.

“Maybe…” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk widens. “Guess you’re not as smart as I thought.”

Your breath stutters. You’re done for.

Absolutely done for.

And from the way Marshall’s looking at you, he knows it too.

The room is silent, thick with tension.

Marshall’s fingers stay wrapped around your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of exactly who’s in charge. His thumb strokes slow, deliberate circles over your skin, and the way he’s looking at you? It’s pure, unfiltered possession.

“You really thought I’d be embarrassed,” he murmurs, tilting his head like he’s amused by the thought. “Like I’d give a fuck what anyone else thinks.”

You swallow hard.

It’s not like you can answer—not when your body is betraying you, heat curling low in your stomach, thighs pressing together involuntarily.

He notices.

Of course, he does.

Marshall always notices.

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “See, that’s your problem, baby.” His other hand slides down, gripping your hip. “You don’t think before you run that pretty mouth.”

You whimper.

Actually whimper.

And that’s all it takes.

One second, you’re standing there, trapped by his gaze. The next, you’re being lifted, your back hitting the studio couch before you even process what’s happening.

Marshall towers over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his body pressed flush against yours.

“I want you to say it,” he orders, voice rough, commanding.

Your breath stutters. “Say… what?”

His fingers thread through your hair, tugging just enough to make your lips part on a gasp. “You know exactly what.”

Your entire body is on fire, nerves buzzing, heart racing.

You should’ve known better than to test him.

But now?

You’re about to find out just how serious he is.

Your breath is shaky, your body thrumming with anticipation.

Marshall is still right there, hovering over you, his body pinning you down against the couch. His hands are steady, one braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he’s holding himself back.

Like he’s giving you one last chance to back out.

Like he knows you won’t.

“I’m waiting,” he murmurs, his voice low, controlled—dangerously calm.

You lick your lips, swallowing hard. He’s not playing anymore. The teasing, the amusement—that’s gone. Now, it’s just him, staring you down, waiting for you to say it.

The air between you is thick, heavy, suffocating in the best way possible.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

His groan is guttural, like he’s been holding it back for weeks, like the sound was ripped straight from his chest. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers pressing into your skin.

“Yeah?” His voice is a rasp, his nose brushing against yours. “What are you sorry for, baby?”

You bite your lip, pulse hammering. “For…for thinking you’d be embarrassed.”

He hums, the sound deep and approving. “Damn right.”

You shiver.

Then, his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot against your skin.

“Now, let me show you what happens when you test me.”

And just like that, you know—

You really shouldn’t have tested him.

You barely have a second to breathe before Marshall’s lips are on yours—hot, demanding, taking exactly what he wants. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging into your skin like he’s staking a claim.

You whimper against his mouth, and that’s all the permission he needs.

In one swift motion, he pulls you into his lap, dragging you over his thighs so you’re straddling him. His hands slide down, gripping your ass, pressing you exactly where he wants you.

“You like testing me, huh?” he murmurs against your lips, voice thick with amusement and something darker. “Like pushing to see how far you can go?”

You bite your lip, heat pooling low in your stomach. “Maybe.”

His blue eyes darken. “Bad answer, baby.”

Before you can react, he grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to stay locked on his. His thumb brushes over your lips, teasing, controlling.

“You wanted this,” he says, his voice low, almost taunting. “Didn’t you?”

Your breath catches. He’s not asking. He knows.

And you can’t lie—not when you’re already trembling for him.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper.

His smirk is slow, wicked. “That’s what I thought.”

Then, in a flash, you’re on your back again, his body pressing you into the couch, trapping you beneath him.

Marshall leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Now,” he murmurs, his tone sending a shiver down your spine, “let’s see if you’re still so eager to call me Daddy when I’m done with you.”

You whimper.

You’re so in trouble.

The air between you and Marshall is sizzling, heavy with unspoken promises. Your body feels like it's on fire, heart racing in anticipation of what’s to come.

“You think you’re still in control?” he asks, his voice rough, fingers curling under the hem of your shirt. He moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every second.

You swallow hard, every inch of you aching for him. “I—no.” Your voice cracks, a small sound of surrender escaping your lips. The look in his eyes tells you everything you need to know—he’s already taken control.

Marshall leans down, lips brushing against your neck. He’s so close that you can feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing, making you shiver. “Good girl,” he whispers, fingers working the buttons of your shirt with slow precision. He’s taking his time, giving you the space to feel every touch, every shift of his body.

But you’re not sure how much longer you can stand it. The way his body presses against yours, the way his eyes never leave yours—it’s driving you crazy.

“You wanted this,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “You wanted me to take control. And now…” He pauses, lips brushing your ear. “Now you’re gonna listen. You’re gonna do exactly what I say, and you’re gonna love it.”

A soft whimper escapes your lips, and his smirk widens.

“You say you want me to stop?” he asks, as though he’s testing you. You shake your head, unable to find words, your entire body trembling beneath his touch.

“I didn’t think so.” His lips crash down on yours, searing and possessive. His hands roam over your body, exploring, claiming, making sure you know exactly who you belong to.

You can feel the shift in him, the intensity rising with every touch, every word.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his lips barely brushing yours. “Say it again,” he demands.

You swallow thickly, your chest heaving as you fight to catch your breath. You don’t need to think about it anymore. You’ve already made your choice.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper.

Marshall’s smile is dark and predatory. “Good girl.”

And in that moment, you know—there’s no turning back now.

[miraclealignersv]

“I love you” (Joe Toye x Reader) SMUT

‼️RUN IN HERE AND GET YALLS JUICE ‼️

Holy shit holy shit holy shit. It’s a mf Christmas miracle my guy. I haven’t written anything in like two years but here y’all go. This is my peace offering 🤲🏼

Y’all know I’m a Joe Toye hoe. Enjoy lads

As always , this is hella unedited

The wood of the worn out bed squeaked as both Joe’s and Y/n’s bodies moved rhythmically. Joe knew that they had to replace the old bed frame, but there was no time to focus on that, no. Not when His senses were taken over by her. He snapped his hips back and forth, his hips digging deeper  as y/n wrapped her legs around his waist. y/n’s hands held onto him for dear life, her delicate fingers digging into his skin. 

Lips locked together, it was heaven. If it were up to joe toye he would love to stay wrapped in her legs, pulling him close with a perfect view of his girl. Y/n softly pulling away, her soft pants as she bit her bottom lip. It was the perfect view to wake up to. 

Joe could feel himself nearing his desired high, he grunted soflty before snaking his hand where the two of them met at the hips. If he was going to reach that high, he wanted to meet it with her. His lips crashing into hers once again as his fingers around the desired spot, within a few movements of his fingers, it was enough to have y/n breaking the kiss and let out a loud held back moan. Eyes shutting y/n threw her head back and he continued with the pace of his hips and the movements with his fingers.

Joe watched, admired her face. He couldve sworn that in that moment, just then, caught in the haze of pleasure,  y/n was the most beautful thing he had ever laid eyes upon. It was as if time slowed, losing himself as he admired the beauty of his lover, he felt her walls convulsing around him. It was enough to making him lower himself to the crook of her neck, soft moans leaving y/n’s mouth as he adjusted. Taking in her scent, he placed sloppy kisses near her ear, his teeth grzing her neck as the pressure in his body reahced the limit. 

“oh fuck” he moaned, his movements grew faster and uneven as he chased his pleasure. Y/n panted heavily, her moans louder than before as she gripped onto him for dear life. Shutting his eyes, he had the image of y/n a few seconds before, had been burned into his mind. It was enough to semd his senses into overdrive. 

Grunts followed, his mind lost in his pleasure, he breathed heavily as he thrusted into y/n who had tigheted her grip on his shoulders. Without registering, he let a confession slip from his own mouth, “I love you”

With the last thrust, y/n closed her eyes and caught her breath as he placed soft kisses along her jaw. Y/n tried to replay what had happened seconds before, he had said it. He had finally said it. 

He fell on the spot besides y/n, both of them still catching theri breaths as morning light from besides them warmed their skin. Tying to control his own breathing, joe placed his arm over his closed eyes as he processed what he had just said. Its not what he said, its when he said it. 

He mentally cursed at himself, yes he loved her very much, he wanted to tell her before he left for training,he had been aware of these feelings for months. He just didnt want to confess it like this. 

“Did you, uhm, did you mean it?’‘ y/n’s voice interrupted his thought process, her voice soft as she gripped onto the sheets softly. Joe removed his arm from his eyes, and sighed before opening his arm inviting her to lay on his chest. 

“of course I meant it, doll” he whispered as y/n scooted over and laid her head on his chest. She could feel the thumping of his heart, it was racing at about 1,000 miles per hour— just like hers. In that very moment, she could’ve gotten up from that exact position and done front and back flips. She felt nothing but joy and love for the man that just confessed that he loved her.

Joe on the other hand was getting concerned. Either she had fallen asleep or she didn’t appreciate the fact that he had just confessed his love for her. Yeah, he waited months and yeah it took him time to say it. But now he was scared, he kind of wished he had taken that back.

“You alright doll?” He asked clearing his throat, a little dry as a thousand thought ran through his head. Fuck, maybe he should have done this before. And maybe not in the middle of morning sex. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Of course I am, Joe” she sighed, sitting up. He admired the way her messy hair fell onto her face as she wrapped the sheets over her exposed skin. “I love you too” she confessed, a small warm smile on her face. Joe chuckled, he felt the relief wash away as he pulled her into him.

“You not lyin’ are you doll?”

“No baby,” she giggled as she smothered her face in his chest. “I’ve loved you since the first day I saw you.” Joe smiled and felt his heart flutter. He turned to her and placed a long kiss on her forehead.

“Kinda wish it would’ve been more romantic ya know?” He laughed, y/n only giggled and reached up to kiss him.

“It was the most romantic thing ever Joe”