#anyways this cheered me up to no end ty!!

[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

[sallieraptor]

I didn't comment on arcane here so as not to stimulate my brain to fall into a brainrotting spiral and end up being interested in league of Iegends, buuut arcane is so good.

[miyaz6ki]

havent posted in a bit so have this mydei crumb

when you and your husband, mydei, are out at the beach with your three little girls, of course before you go out into the water, you must must must apply sun block!

thats what the blonde man overheard with your daughters anyway—that doesn't apply to him...

under your red, pristine umbrella as you sat down on your beach chair, one of your daughters was directly over your lap as you applied sunscreen on her back while she ate some of the packed breakfast you brought since you all planned on going early.

"mama/papa! why do i have to put it on?" her words slurred the more she stuffed her little mouth with your delicious cooking. "so you won't get those things dada has."

"i can hear you, you know." he scoffs, a smirk growing on his face as he applied sunscreen on your second daughter who only giggled at your remark. playing with the sand below her as she waited for her dad to finish.

"there y'go, princess. go play with your other sister." he gets up and stretches before letting the monster loose (dropped her onto the sand after giving her a forehead kiss)

the small girl cheered as the youngest sat in my lap quietly while you finished tying her hair into two twin tails. "will you also play with us, mama/papa?" her small head turns to you as you fixed the tie on her left twin tail.

"maybe not me, but dada will." as you said that, mydei suddenly looked over surprised. "me? really, babe? y'know i'm not really—" "please dada?!" she put on only the cutest doll eyes she could, and they worked everytime.

before he knew it, you were already done with his sunblock too, and finished tying his hair into a bun. "go have fun, baby." you say before giving him a light push to the sand. "mmh, you'll pay for this." "love you." "love ya too."

he said before running towards the shore whrre the water mixed with the sandy grounds. tackling his daughters into the water playfully.

by the end of the day, he was already buried into the sand, with all three of his girls giggling, and significant other picturing the scene before them. "traitor." he mutters with a smile.

"whaaaaat? i'm just.. capturing the moment." you laughed as the girl only put more grains over him, knowing he could probably easily break out of it.

"hey, build a sandcastle elsehwere, girls!" he roared as the girls only ran a little further and laughed louder, dusting off their small progress of a castle that was over his stomach.

"the mydeimos beat by three little girls."

"our girls, baby. ours."

[amiaclone]

Oh hello! I love the way you write, could you write something like the reader is pregnant by player 333 and he protects her no matter what in the games,ty ✨️

YES IVE BEEN WAITING FOR PLAYER 333

Soo since this is basically just Junhee I’m gonna add a bit more to the plot if you don’t mind!

You were in the first games like Gi hun you didn’t win although you escaped after you lost at one of the games (let’s say marbles) was living with Gi hun for a good while then moved out etc met Lee Myung gi (player 333) got you pregnant did the scam etc anyways you wanted to help Gi hun but not get involved but Front man kidnapped you anyways for fun and well….here you are

Since I like Junhee I don’t wanna erase her so she’s like a spy or sm 😔 a whole different plot but interesting still

Anyways here it is!

Lee Myung Gi x Fem! Reader

You sighed in annoyance as your ex came to bother you about if you were okay or needed anything the usual

You didn’t even wanna be here but be with him? No way!

You won’t lie you *did* need help in a place like this but with him? No way!

“Do you need my extra milk? A place like this isn’t fit for someone like you! Bla bla bla” that’s all he ever said

Myung gi and you used to be one of those lovey dovey couples who you’d think would get married or something…..it could of happened if he didn’t end up with you losing your money and ghosting you

For the money? Meh you didn’t care as Gi hun managed to pay off your debts but ghosting? That was cold you called almost everyday and received little knowledge……yeah he deserves what’s coming to him

Currently it was after red light green light and he was bothering you about a new thing!

“You played these games before and never told me?”

You rolled your eyes “Yeah cause telling someone I was kidnapped and forced to play children games and could die is so believable”

He shook his head “Yeah well things like this aren’t just things you can forget about! How did you leave why did you go back-“

You turned to him rather harshly “Not that it concerns you but I don’t wanna be here just as much as anyone else” you sighed staring at your stomach for a bit your child could die here…..you could die here was it really worth it?

He noticed and stood firm “Well I’ll protect you” you gave him a small glare

“How am I supposed to know I can trust you?”

He shook his head “Don’t be stubborn y/n in your condition if the majority votes to stay….your chances are very slim”

You sighed looking up at the roof “Fine. But don’t think this means I have forgotten anything”

He sighed smiling that you’d agree maybe this is a chance to finally make things up with you?

Cue to the six legged pentathlon

You teamed with Gi hun followed by your ex who’s been following you around the whole time like a lost puppy except the puppy is preventing anything from even looking at or touching said person aka you

So far you agreed to do Jegi as it seemed the easiest

“Don’t you think it’d be dangerous-“

“I’m doing it”

Luckily we barely lived even though In ho/Player 001 nearly screwed it over for us and you all headed out

Once again Myung Gi stood by your side you even cheered with him for passing it he smiled

Oh wait your still supposed to be mad at him you quickly erased that smile with a frown

“Well thanks for protecting me i suppose you’ve been nice…”

“Nice enough for me to finally show you I’m sorry?”

“No”

He mentally groaned he knew he messed up but he really did miss you ghosting you was a big regret but he didn’t want you getting involved because people were trying to kill him!

Well atleast you’re nice enough to try tolerating that’s a start…

Cue to mingle

You haven’t seen Myung for almost the whole game and to be honest you were getting kinda worried you were with Gi hun and the team you formed back in six legged pentathlon

The new number was seven you grabbed onto Junhee a kind girl who told you in secret she was a spy for the government (Cool plot might use it for an oc) who you’ve bonded with the whole time you were here

You ran but someone fell you think it was Young Mi? Anyways just as the door was about to close *He* walked in

Ah typical Myung gi smiled staring at everyone specifically you as he expected to be seen as a hero

Why were you kinda relieved to see him?

Which you agreed he did technically save your lifes you empathised heavily with Hyun Ju banging on the door crying for Young Mi it gave you flashbacks of the first games you didn’t lose anyone typically close you can recall but still a sad time..

Anyways Hyun Ju blamed Myung gi while Myung gi defended himself and begged any of us to agree with him which you did

“I’m sorry about Young mi Hyun Ju but he’s got a point we all would have died”

Myung gi seemed relieved and when you were all walking out walked up to you “Thank you for defending me does this mean we can talk? Oh! Watch your step”

He points at the wall when you were a good distance from it you rolled your eyes

“This doesn’t change anything I just agreed with you cause you were right”

Before he could say anything the last round started

It said 2 and he immediately grabbed you before you could even comprehend who it was luckily he found a random door barely and slammed it shut breathing heavily

“Thanks” is all you could mutter heavily breathing

He smiled

“As long as I’m here I’ll protect you”

And why did you feel comforted by that….

I loved this one smmmm we need more Myung gi fanfics! Hope you likeddd it

[tommiieimagiines]

hihihi

uhm so am i allowed to request again (i don’t wanna spam) 😭😭🙏

and if i am can u pls do a rui x hopeless romantic best friend reader (i’m totally normal about best friends to lovers lmfao)

so like the reader is always yapping about hot guys and it’s a little angsty at first because rui is thinking to himself ‘why did i have to fall inlove with someone that won’t ever choose me’ and then one day a hot guy comes up to reader and asks her out, reader is about to say yes but then she realises that she barely knew him and there was someone (rui) who had been by her side since day one and she figures out who she really loves (RUIII) so she rejects him and when rui asks why she just hugs him and says ‘because your the one i really want’ mwah mwah i feel like such a genius (i really hope this made sense lmao be prepared for a million bestie-> lovers and angst-> fluff rui requests 😼)

thank youyoyoyoyoyuuu!!

hi guys! i’m so so incredibly sorry for how inactive i have been! unfortunately, the fanfic writer curse caught up to me, and i’ve had considerably bad things happen to me! ToT

i had developed a really bad addiction after a recent episode - which may be why i’ve loved to write my characters so miserable, but they get a happy ending in the end - and have recently relapsed after a couple months. i’ve also been struggling with a lot of things, like being bullied again, pressure from theater, classes, autism, parental issues, memory of past trauma, having no friends, things like that. i’ve just been having a really hard time, so writing has been super difficult for me. i’m currently having some of the worst mental health in my life, and am un-recovering from other things i’ve had in the past too, after seeing the results of my recovery. sorry if this triggered anybody, i just needed to get this off my chest, and felt also that i should explain where i have been. you all supporting me has kept me going, and i hope you enjoy this one too! LETS END THE PITY PARTY!!!

in other - not so depressing news - here you guys go!! sorry for OOCness, obviously this is a more dramatic approach to a story! happy ending, j tried to write the inner narration differently for how you two were feeling at the time.. and ty once again for such a great idea, mama ^3^

“I don’t think I could stand to be where you don’t see me.”

If he has to sit here and listen to this one more time, he thinks he’ll go insane.

Rui Kamishiro loves you. He truly does. You’re his best friend, his partner in crime, his-

Never mind.

Rui loves you, but he absolutely HATES your taste in guys, and it’s driving him nuts. Nodding and agreeing can only get him so far before he wants to rip his own hair out, and tonight is no exception.

“I give up! All boys are dumb, I don’t need them!” You lament, resting your chin in your hands. It’s the same song and dance over and over. You swear off boys, you get attention, you get sucked in, and he has to pick up the pieces when it inevitably fails. How many times has he thought about how much better he would treat you now? He doesn’t know. He’d be a classical lover, he’d never speak to you the way those stupid unprincipled high school boys do.

Gross. That’s his best friend, why’d he think that? And when did he start being so self confident? He really outta look at himself in the mirror. What an egomaniac he’s turning out to be.

He shakes his head.

“You do know I’m still a boy, right?” He prods, trying to cheer you up. He knows this situation well, and he knows exactly how to make you feel better. Again he’d pull you out of this, and again he’d watch you fall in love.

He wishes you could be happy. He wishes you weren’t in love with being in love. You’re too pure for true love, love is disgusting, depraved, and unkind. You’re not anything like that.

“I know, I know, but you’re the only good one!” You point, words self-assured. “I don’t need a boyfriend, you do everything boyfriendy for me anyway!”

Ouch. Thanks a lot, that’s exactly what he needed to hear right now. He’s not gonna dwell on that last bit for now, he’ll wait until he’s home. Then he can- he doesn’t know. Cry, or something juvenile like that.

“So I’m back-up-boyfriend?” He masks himself in jest, smiling teasingly at you.

“Eh, maybe,” you snicker, “you’d definitely be cute if you weren’t my friend.”

He turns to his school work sharply, trying to mask his complete and utter despair. Ugh, why does he have to be so dramatic? His own personality makes his skin crawl with disgust and hatred, and that only makes him cringe more. He could think about how obnoxious he is all day. Maybe he should use that go home and cry pass early. He pretends to check the time, as if that isn’t all he’s been doing.

“It’s getting late, after this problem I should get going.” He mutters, scribbling some random numbers into his notebook. You yawn in response, being broken out of absentmindedly scrolling through your phone.

“Ugh, I wish you didn’t have to go!” You drape an arm over his torso, trying to hold him in. He smiles fondly, wrestling to get you off of him.

“I’d have to walk home in the dark then, do you want that?” He knows you’d never let him, and he sees it immediately.

Your face looks knowing, and you let him go right away. It amuses him at first, but quickly fills him with overwhelming pity. You’re so kindhearted it makes him sick. You shouldn’t worry about someone like him, it’s bad for your health.

“Would you like me to walk home with you?!” You shoot up, the idea of him not being safe running through your head. Maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut. How emasculating! He’s not a helpless young girl! He’s just as manly as those boys who you long for, he’s not a puppy to be walked!

God, is jealously turning him into a bigot? He shakes his head once again, this time not just to clear his thoughts. He’s absolutely not letting you walk him home, it’d be mortifying. He takes your attention belly up, you should have a break. Maybe some time to yourself for a change? God, Rui, get a grip.

“I’m fine, I don’t want you out late by yourself either,” he assures, looking at you in haste.

“Ah. You have a point.”

“I always do.” He means more to that, and he wishes he could tell you. He wants you to see that even he knows what he’s talking about. He needs you to see him, just for once. Not as a best friend, or backup boyfriend, just as a regular one. As a lover who dances in the rain, or ties your shoes

He needs to stop. He shouldn’t think about you like that. It’s lecherous.

You two exchange goodbyes, giving him a long hug (much to his horror). He hates how feverish it is it hold you like this, it makes him feel guilty. His body gets hot, his cheeks flare up, his throat feels tight- it makes him feel like a pervert, even if his thoughts are the farthest thing from lewd.

He feels that everything he thinks about you is repulsive, though.

“Be safe”’s and “See you later”’s are passed between you two, and he walks down your front steps, now completely alone. His eyes scan the damp pavement, seeing the golden hues from the sky light the boring rock. That’s how he feels about you, he decides. You’re the sun, and he’s the pavement. He humors himself by thinking that your suitors are the clouds, stopping you from shining your light for him so he can grow weeds in the cracks of his soul. That’s what these feelings are. Weeds.

He wants to live life beautifully with you, he decides. He wants to tie your shoes, he wants to twirl you as you dance.

He wishes he could be the moon. Something of consequence- of importance, but he’s just the pavement. Not the earth, not the stars, not the clouds, or rain, he’s just a man made monster who destroys nature - you - and is walked over by people who do matter.

He should quit being this way, he grumbles, it doesn’t do anybody any good to be so flowery. He’s too girly- too weak. Maybe that’s why you don’t like him. If you’re willing to date anything that moves other than him, that must mean he’s on a completely new level, huh?

That’s what dreaming gets you, Rui. Crushed dreams and embarrassment.

He lets out a pitiful sigh, kicking a pebble with his shoe. He sees a worm in a lawn which reminds him of himself, he sees a couple shopping for a new game which reminds him of you, he sees a convenience store which reminds him that he’s hungry-

His life can be so mundane sometimes, what a drag.

He’s about to reach his front door, when he steps into a puddle. It feels like an appropriate representation of his life right now. A sense of disgraceful hilarity washes over him, and he begins to laugh. He laughs a while, he laughs as he takes his shoes off, he laughs as he peels his button up down, and he laughs as he lays in his bed. How dramatic he could be some times!

He falls asleep quickly. He has a dream about being on stage and forgetting his lines.

He wakes up with a thud, he fell out of bed. How embarrassing. He decides to check his phone.

Weirdo: RUII

Weirdo: wanna hang w me 2day?? u don’t have dance time right??

Weirdo: gonna kill you. WAKE UP

Me: I’m awake, sorry!

Weirdo: finally sleeping beauty

Weirdo: wanna get a snack? i’m simply starved…

Me: When?

Weirdo: an hr maybe…

Me: Okay :) I’ll tell you when I leave.

Weirdo: kay!!

He really doesn’t feel like being social today, but he’d never pass up an opportunity to see you. He’s an obscene degenerate when it comes to you, pouncing on your attention like a sick dog. It’s mortifyingly pathetic.

He gets dressed, throwing on a boring striped sweater. It’s getting colder outside recently, and he’s always ran cold anyway. His hands are shaky and nervous as he brushes his teeth, the anxiousness to see you making his body jittery. He considers breakfast, but quickly shuts the idea down. He doesn’t want to be stressed out - at least more than he already is - when he sees you. Twitchy hands lock his door, and he gets a few feet away before he double checks that he did, in fact, lock it. Pull yourself together, Rui! He screams at himself.

The walk is just as unexciting as he expected, albeit a bit chilly. He’s feeling thankful for the sweater. The breeze runs its hands through his hair, and he’s reminded that winter is coming. He always liked Autumn flowers the best, hibiscus flowers are pretty too, he supposes. It’s nice to have the warmth of the sun soothing his cold hands during summer, for sure.

He trips over a rock on the way, and his pants get wet on the knees. Khaki blends into an ugly brown, and he sighs. How unlucky, would anything go right for him today?

Turns out it will, you look really good today.

You great him at the door, practically buzzing with eagerness. It makes him smile, knowing that you do, in fact, want to see him. Or at least are acting like it. You’re a good friend to him, he’s lucky to have you.

“Rui!” You hug him as a greeting, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. His heart soothes, eyes closing in relaxation. Problems feel obscure and distant when you two are like this, despite his reluctance last night. He can forget about corrupt feelings - or misguided love- and he can just be your best friend. Despite his apprehension to be cared for, he is flattered that you, at least, seem to like him.

“Hey.” He breaths you in, his voice soft. He hopes you don’t notice, it’s embarrassing.

“Hey!” You reply, pulling away. “Big things planned, Rui!”

“What big things?” He asks, amused. “Big things” for you were junk food and shopping.

“Big things! It’s a surprise!” You put your shoes on, and he can’t help but feel jealous as he watches your hands tie them dutifully. He sighs, stretching. He decides to make it a challenge to act normal the whole day. No weird thoughts are going to beguile his mind, he promises himself.

You lock your front door, twisting the knob to make sure that it did, in fact, lock. This fills him with a child-like sense of delight, maybe you two really were similar.

Nah, not possible. You’re too pure - too perfect. Ugh, Rui, no more stupid thoughts.

He watches you check the time, make a face at a nearby bird, and cover your cheeks with your hands. You suddenly perk up, wrapping your arms around him.

“Warm me up, will ya?” You scowl at the cool air, grip tightening. He gulps. It’s weird he reacts like this, considering you two have done things like this all the time. It’s normal, so why does he have to be such a creep? His arms wrap around yours, running his hands up and down to create heat.

“Should’ve worn a jacket,” he chides, “wouldn’t be cold, y’know?” His voice is so casual, like everything is totally fine. It is fine. Fine, fine, fine.

“Gotta look good. I’m on the hunt, obviously,” you joke. It isn’t funny to him, but he lets out a laugh.

“You’re hopeless.”

You two stop at a convenience store first, and you all but sprint to the drinks. He had this ritual down to a science. You grab two different color slushies, and he grabs whatever odd snack catches your collective stomachs eye today. Today the two of you decide to split a cookie, and walk to the counter. The cashier gives you a smirk, and he averts his eyes.

“This it?” The boy cocks his head, and you get the memo. You immediately jump on the opportunity.

“Mhm!” You wink, resting your chin in your hands while leaning against the counter. In all honestly, he wasn’t even that cute. At least, that’s what Rui kept telling himself.

“Don’t worry about it, than. I got you guys,” he waves you off. Score! You think, but he adds. “If I can get your number.” Rui feels like falling into the floor, how awkward! You just scribble it onto a stray receipt, winking.

“Thank you! You’re the sweetest!!” You singsong, skipping along with Rui following suite. You immediately burst into laughter, throwing a fake punch at Rui. “What a weirdo! Like I’d call him over what, 1000 yen?! I don’t even know him, yuck!”

So you did have some sense, he feels like letting out a sigh of relief. You hold your hands out.

“Which one do you want? I got your favorite!!” You look so proud, and he wants to laugh. His “favorite” isn’t actually his favorite, but he’d never tell you that.

The lie started one day in middle school, when the two of you suddenly had a weird craving for slushies. When you picked them out, you had gotten a red one and a blue one, and asked him what he wanted. While he really didn’t like red, he knew you liked blue, so he said red. Now for the past four years, you’ve always ended up getting him a red one, thinking it was his favorite. He’ll deal with it for you. Seeing your blue tongue stick out with brain freeze is better than any sugary drink anyway.

“Red, duh.” He scoffs playfully, taking a sip of it. The taste doesn’t really bother him all that much anymore. It reminds him of you.

You always let him divide the snacks, thinking he gives himself the bigger half. He never does, but he eats slower so you think he did. You skip along, enjoying it.

“Y’know, this isn’t bad. Wish they had the brownie, though. That never does us wrong.” God, don’t make him think of the ‘crack brownies’ - as you two call them. Those are great, and he likes them, so you never miss an opportunity to shove them down his throat.

“Don’t complain. Remember the egg roll incident?” He points, laughing at the memory. You two steer clear of that section now, having gotten sick.

“Ugh, I haven’t thought about that in a while! I’m never eating an egg roll again after that day! Ugh,” you gag.

Moments of silly memories like this make him feel like he’s known you forever. He can’t even remember a moment where he hasn’t loved you.

“Where’re we going now, commander?” He salutes, following the trail of sunshine you left behind.

“Where ever the wind blows us, kind sir!” You salute back, pushing him along. Your constant checks of your phone don’t go unnoticed by him, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“Who’re you texting? Don’t tell me it’s that guy.” He tries to sound casual, knocking his shoulder against yours playfully.

“‘M not a total idiot, I’ll have you know!” You huff, holding your phone to your chest. “It’s just somebody we went to school with a while back, ‘m seeing if I can pull the moves.”

“Do I know him?”

“Dunno, never saw you two talking, so maybe not. He was in my english class, remember, the only class we didn’t have together?”

“Ah.”

You two walk in silence, except for when he yanks you back from the collar so you don’t walk into oncoming traffic, which amuses you greatly. You two soon arrive at the small mall, and he tails you as you run with excitement. You two browse everything, constantly pointing out cute plushies, or interesting keychains.

“Rui, look! Look!” You shake him, pointing to the back of somebody’s head inconspicuously. “Wait don’t yet- Okay, now! He’s turning around! That’s the guy! What a coincidence we see him here, right? Do you recognize him?”

Ha. Yeah, he knows this guy. He definitely knows him. He’s the one who would trip him during passing periods, he’s the one who left flowers on his desk. They make eye contact, and it’s like all of his growth left his body. He’s just the same freak from middle school, he’s still thirteen.

He shudders at the guys smirk, sensing that he definitely knows that Rui knows him. He jogs over to the two of you, and Rui already knows what’s about to happen, due to the lopsided smile on your face.

Damnit, this is the first time he doesn’t think he can act like it’s okay.

“Oh wow, what a coincidence! Must be fate we run into each other like this, ehe…” You giggle awkwardly, a dumb expression gracing your face. It’s painful seeing you that way for anybody other than him, and he looks away awkwardly.

“Must be.” He answers, swaggering closer towards you. Rui thanks whatever God above because - despite his current situation - at least this asshole didn’t go to highschool with you guys.

He looks down at his shoes, and tries to shuffle away, knowing this jackass is about to say something. He’s quickly stopped.

“Who’s this, huh? Feel like a recognize him from somewhere…” He trails off, smirking through his nose as he turns his attention to him. “Have we met before?”

“This is Kamishiro Rui, he’s my friend! He went to middle school with us, remember?” You happily answer for him.

Ha, friend? What happened to back-up boyfriend? He’s a little hurt, to be honest.

He feels bitter, it’s unbecoming- God, he doesn’t care. He should feel bad for getting so angry over it, it’s not like you belong to him. He’s such a freak, getting attached to you like this.

He starts to pick at his fingers, then he plays with a loose string on his sweater. You two continue to chat like nothings wrong, and he keeps thinking. It’s something he’s gotten good at recently.

He stops feeling bad about himself for a second- a split second where he resents you, and wishes his pain upon you. Wants you to know what it’s like to be so disgustingly, guiltily, revoltingly obsessed with someone. In this split second, he can’t even find it in himself to feel guilty about it, which is unlike him. He wishes you felt love like this, that you were as psychotic about it.

But this doesn’t last long, because he remembers that he loves you more than anything. He’s lucky to be your friend. You’re a great friend, you’re an amazing person, you’re the sun, the sun, the sun.

He’s the pavement, he has to remember.

“I’m- I’ll leave you to it, y’know? Fabric store.” He stutters, choking on his voice. You don’t even notice, waving him off.

You do, however, remember to press his shoulder, uttering an absentminded “Okay, Rui, bye,” and he remembers again how perfect you are for doing it subconsciously. He lets himself feel the touch, long after he’s walked away. He deserves it after the trouble he’s reliving.

When he makes it to the fabric store - which he really didn’t need anything from, Nene had gotten some the other day - he can’t help himself from wishing he could just go home. Malls were always overwhelming already, and now his saving grace has the attention of another man. He walks through aisles, but realizes that he now has to buy something.

‘Least he knows that social cue, he laughs bitterly, running his hands across his face in frustration. He’s so ridiculous.

Meanwhile, you were chatting up a storm. It was your first time talking in person since middle school, after all! You feel giddy for a while, but it cuts abruptly. You feel a strange sense of urgency, something’s missing.

Oh, your best friend.

But where had he gone? You’re sure he was just here. You smile apologetically at the cute boy, putting on your best performance.

“Oh, I better go get my friend now. I don’t like walking home when it’s late. Was nice seein’ you, let’s hang out soon, ‘kay?” You singsong, stepping closer. You want to give yourself a pat on the back, you’re so cute.

He rolls his eyes, and you’re hit with a wave of uneasiness. That noise he made sounds strangely dismissive, he’s not the kind of guy to be a jerk though, you must be hearing things-

“Leave ‘im. Between you and me, he was a total freak in middle school. Probably is now, too. Probably likes you or somethin’, total nutcase.” His voice sounds so casual, like it’s not the douchiest thing you’ve heard all day.

You let other men walk all over you, sure. You let them cheat on you, lie, whatever. But you’re not about to stand here and insult Rui. He’s the only untouched thing in your life - the only person who isn’t cruel. He’s so gangly and awkward, but in the best way. You could live a million times and not be able to deserve him, at least you think so. He’s so unusual, and that’s what you love most about him. Little things like not liking loud lights, or liking the red slushies the best, make your heart buzzy with familiarity. He’s the one constant in your life.

You’ve been awfully worried about him recently, though. His particularly (as you like to call it) has gone to the an extreme, and it’s been a battle getting him to eat real food. You’re not blind, you see the way he’s been spacing out, or tapping a little too much. You just thought he’d been overwhelmed. He worries you to death sometimes, but despite all of his own struggles, he always seems to not care about it, deciding to always be there for you instead. Ah, he’s just such an amazing guy - no, not guy, he’s not anything like those other boys you talk to. He’d never insult someone like that. He’s not just a guy, he’s like your person.

Yeah, he’s definitely your person.

Your heart sputters at the thought, and you feel something you’ve never really felt before - save for hugs between the two of you that lasted just a second too long, or words a little too romantic. The feeling makes your mind fuzzy, and your heart hurt terribly with something you could only place as homesickness.

Oh.

“I,” you begin, backing away. “Yeah, I’m sorry but I’ll really be going now-“

“What? C’mon I was just messing with you, even though having guy friend’s kinda weird.” He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah whatever, I’ll call you back,” you say dismissively.

You’re totally lying, you laugh, you’re not calling him back.

He didn’t seem to like that.

“Damn, can’t even joke around with you people. Whatever, weirdo, sorry I insulted your little boyfriend.” The change in tone amuses you.

Yeah, good riddance, pal.

You turn away, walking through the mall with pace. It takes a while, but you spot him watching a pet stores aquarium.

He’s a funny one.

You wave your hands, trying to get his attention. He swallows, knowing that it’s probably to ask him if it’s cool to walk home by himself. Emotions are stupid, and ironically, you both think that at the same time.

“Rui! Rui! Hey c’mon, let’s go home, yeah?” You smile, face feeling warm. It’s a different feeling from when you usually talk to him. He looks at you, a little shocked. He had assumed you were smiling wide because you set up a date, so he turns his head.

“Where is he, huh?” He looks away, back to the fish tank. You shift in place, was he mad at you? You’re a little irritated at the mention of the guy, though, and huff.

“Don’t worry about that. Seems like I only attract douchebags, so I decided to go.” You explain, poking his shoulder. “Hey,” you start, “let’s just walk home, I wanna talk to you about something.” The idea makes you feel dizzy, but you’ll have to illustrate your feelings one day.

You can leave out the “I think I’m in love with you” part, you think.

The two of you walk in an excruciating silence, staring down at the reflection of the setting sun in the puddles. His heart tightens, remembering his earlier comparison. Even now, you’re so perfect. Even if he’s frustrated with you - despite you turning down the guy in the end (he doesn’t know why, he wanted to ask) - even if he’s ready to scream, and cry, and ask you what it is he did for you to be so turned off by him, he still thinks you’re the most heavenly, divine person to ever grace his view. He wants to be where you see him, he wants to be in your orbit.

“You’re like the sun-“ He blurts out, immediately regretting it. He didn’t mean to say that, God, he’s so fucking stupid. He sees you stop walking, smiling that same stupid, dopey, lopsided smile that he’s always so jealous of-

Oh. It’s for him.

He chokes, stopping to meet you eye-to-eye. You look up at him too, laughing giddily.

“What does that mean?”

He sputters, stepping away. “N-no it’s nothing- It was stupid anyway so-“

“No, tell me!” You urge, laughing a little harder. “What if it was something bad, ‘nd you were making fun of me? That’s not nice, Rui!”

“I- Hey-“ His voice goes a touch higher, a defensive tone rising. “That’s not-“

“Then tell me.”

“It’s just,” he breaths, trying to word it in the least creepy way possible. How does convey the fact that he sees you as a divine presence, that he sees himself as a worthless creature compared to you, without sounding like he’s hopelessly possessed by love for you? “I just- you’re so amazing,” he starts, “I thought of this stupid thing the other day when I was walking home - you know how I am - and well, I just thought of you when the sun reflected off the pavement - since it rained, y’know? - and well, it just- Sorry, it was dumb-“ He rambles, covering his face in anguish.

Nobody’s ever put that much thought into you. Sure, you’ve received a few ‘You’re so gorgeous’’s, where you’ve had to wonder where they learnt such a “big word”, but never something as poetic as that. The usual Rui-ratic explanation endeared you to him even more. You look at him, the smile never leaving. He’s just… so Rui. His stupid striped sweater, his half up hair - that you’d begged him to grow out - his eyes, whatever. Everything about him you treasure, and little do you know he cherished you even that more intensely.

“I think you’re the moon, Rui. Or maybe the earth, since I take care of you, hah!” You snicker, stepping closer to him. He takes a step back in return, and you grab his hands to make him stay put. His heart throbs, and he almost goes crashing down.

“I.. I don’t-“

You yank his hands, making him look back up at you. “Hey, Rui, I,” you look at him assuringly, “I wanna say something, and you can’t laugh okay?”

He holds his breath, so do you.

Fuck it, just tell him.

“I think I’m in love with you, Rui.” You gaze at him, the words shooting out faster than you can second guess them.

“I don’t-“ He breaks away, his fists balling up. You messed up, you think, you really, really messed up. “I’m not- I’m not going to- You can’t just say that because you got rejected. I- It wouldn’t be nice to- You don’t love me-“

“Rui,” you beg, grabbing his arm again, “holding hands on the way to school, cuddling while doing homework, knowing everything about eachother, these aren’t-“ You breath, “I’ve wanted somebody to love me for so long, Rui, and I was so blind to the fact that I was loved. But the love that I felt for you, - that I feel for you - Rui, isn’t the kind where I can be- where I can just be so- so normal about those things!” You monologue, saying whatever’s on your mind. You’re the rambling one now.

“I found myself comparing you to these piece-of-garbage dude’s I’m always with, wishing I could just date somebody like you instead! But now I realize that it is you-“

His heart falls into his gut, and he breaks free from you again. His hands move to his face, covering his eyes. His voice is broken and cracky as he begins to cry. “That was- you-“ He pulls you into a desperate embrace, arms holding you like you’ll disappear. “You shouldn’t, you’re wrong.” He sobs, “I’m- the way I love you is- You don’t understand, the way I feel isn’t normal I- My love is disgusting, and horrible, and depraved-“ He shakes, you rub his back. “You are so perfect compared to me, I’d never be able to- I love you so much, more than friends are supposed to, more than anyone’s supposed to at our age-“

“Rui, hey Rui please don’t cry.” You beg, smoothing out the ridges in his sweater. “I don’t- I don’t agree with that, and I can scream that at you, but I’m sure you won’t believe me. You’re not disgusting for feeling emotions different, Rui that’s what I love about you.”

“Stop- stop saying my name like that. It’s too hard to-“

“Rui, I love you. You don’t need to accept it, but I love you. More than being in love, more than being loved-“

“I love you, too,” his voice cracks, “that’s why I’m so scared. I don’t want to ruin a friendship that’s all I have, if this is just- I’m scared I’d lose you in any way, and I can’t live in a world where you don’t see me. I won’t. It’s sounds horrible but-“ He stops as you pull away from the hug, and wipes his face hastily. You put your pinky out, and his stomach drops again.

“C’mon, just like when we were kids. Pinky promise that no matter what, we’ll always see each other. That way you don’t need to worry anymore, y’know? I never break my kissy pinky promises, ever.”

Just like when you two were little.

He locks his with yours, just like you taught him all those years ago. He remembers your shared handshake for theater, he remembers your shared handshake for testing, and he remembers the song you two had to duet for choir - when you have forced him into it for a year. He holds everything of you so dear to his heart, you endear everything about him to you as well.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I see you.”

“I see you, too.”

You two kiss your hands, then bring them down, still interlinked. You stare at him, and he stares back at you. In a moment of profound sincerity, you lean forward, and kiss him. It’s slow and gentle, and you unlock your hands half way through to hold his face, which he mirrors. His heart settles for the first time. You see him. He’s your moon, your earth, you’re his sun, his stars.

He’s suddenly alarmed by a quick pushing off of him, gasping out a “Rui!”

“I-“ he pants, wiping his mouth. “Hm?”

“we’re in the middle of a park!”

[quickstappen]

track 001: end of the beginning

A/N: hello, welcome to another smau i guess, enjoy? this is the real reason why the latest part of carved my name was up so late yall ;) oscar won his first race and i had to do something!! i'm sorry to all the carlos fans, but someone's gotta be the bad guy, yk?

masterlist | next

december 2019

liked by prema_team, arthur_leclerc and others

paola_sainz I can't believe it is time to go, it still doesn't feel real. Thank you for those amazing years together, for the memories and happiness, I couldn't wish for better team, better friends, I love you all and I'll miss you tremendously. Cheers to the next chapter in our lives.

see all comments...

prema_team We'll miss you vice-champ! Make sure to visit when you're around ❤️

↳ paola_sainz of course! I'll visit so much you'll get sick of me ;)

sainzssss_ noooooooo, what???

shithappens what. the. fuck.

carlossainz55 Excited for your new journey! Now you can spend more time in my garage 🔥😎

↳ paola_sainz yeah, im so excited too!

↳ quickstappen this seems... dry

↳ albono_23 right???

ilpredestinatox oh noo! you were the reason i decided to follow my dreams and go to college for mechanical engineering, i can't believe you're not gonna be racing anymore

↳ paola_sainz oh sweetie, i'm so glad you're following your dreams! dm me if you have any enfeneering problems - i can ask around and get back to you ;)

↳ nyoomf1 she's so sweet 🥹

arthur_leclerc I'll miss your annoying face you know? (only a tiny bit)

↳ paola_sainz acting like you won't see me at basically every race anyway (i'll miss you too) 🤍

↳ arthur_leclerc 🤍

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february 2024

liked by arthur_leclerc, jensonbutton and others

paola_sainz does it ever drive you crazy...?

3 years ago i was broken beyond recognition, i lost my purpose and will to carry on, i thought that without racing i was noone. to think that the same girl just sold out her first collection of athletic wear is absolutely crazy, i can't believe how far we've come and i can't wait to see what else we can do

see all comments...

carlando333 girl 💀💀

↳ ilpredestinatox what do you mean, tf

↳ carlando333 Carlos literally just lost his seat for next year

↳ ilpredestinatox well, this is not carlos' page is it? she's not his keeper, she's allowed to be her own person

cuddlyxricc can she like,, read the room?

byelandoo lol, she does not care about the ferrari drama AT ALL

carlove55 are you gonna comment on the carlos situation??

shithappens she looked so happy when she was racing 🥺 i still can't accept that i'll never see her in a f1 car

↳ quickstappen right??

arthur_leclerc i am going to model the next collection

↳ paola_sainz don't know if you've noticed, but i make WOMEN'S athletic wear

↳ arthur_leclerc you just don't want to see me slay

↳ paola_sainz do not say slay ever again

charlosp1 💀

spanishxbabe so Carlos means nothing to you?

jensonbutton So proud! Brittany loves her set 🧡

↳ paola_sainz 🧡

charles_leclerc Knew you could do it Lola 🤍

↳ paola_sainz thank you for believing in me Charlie 🤍

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liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc and others

paola_sainz oh baby, how good to see you again!

(also, charles_leclerc go and win me a race please, i don't know how many forza ferrari sempre's i have left in me)

see all comments...

shithappens i'm sorry, is that a man? with my wife?

quickstappen queen is back in paddock!

arthur_leclerc so the ones with me in them were not good enough to make it, but the random one with him tying you're shoelaces made it?

↳ paola_sainz guess so, try harder next time

screwderriaf1 she's so real for that, Charles for WDC2024

↳ ilpredestinatox GIRL, be so fr rn

↳ screwderriaf1 just let me dream man

carlando333 oh come on! she doesn't care about carlos at all! fucking snake, thinking she's better than him🐍

logansargeant nice of you to visit old friends

↳ paola_sainz we're literally going for lunch tomorrow?

↳ sheilaxf1 they know each other??

↳ lewibear yeahh, since her time at prema i'm pretty sure

charles_leclerc Yeah, no pressure right

↳ paola_sainz you know it ;)

charlosp1 did she really say that she wishes that charles won and not her brother who's fighting for his future this season 💀

redmilton Paola Sainz soft launching a white man in the year 2024 was not on my bingo card

cuddlyxricc sorry but first no comment on carlos' seat and now this? yeah no, not cool

elmatadorf1 traitor! rooting for charles when your brother lost his seat because of him 🐍

madi_races is my girlfriend in a relationship with a.... man??

predestined55 absolutely no honour, not surprised tbh after seeing who she hangs out with 🐍

darth_nando can we please stop mentioning Carlos in every comment section under her posts? it's so unnecessary

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paola's messages:

YouTube, Screaming Meals | now playing:

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↳ 52:14s - - - >- 1:08:11s

paola's messages:

madi's radio: okay look, the text between Spanish speakers.... i do not know Spanish and putting entire conversations through google translate is not the best, so let's just pretend they're in Spanish, yeah?

click here to be added to the hiding in the seams taglist!

DISCLAIMER: i do not know anything about this people, this is not real life, this is just something for fun, i do not know anythings about their life or personalities!

[captain-bubble-wrap]

Happy New Year!! Could you possibly do an imagine about kissing Q at midnight? Ty!!

10:43pm. 

Was it really New Year's Eve already? It was incredible how quickly the year had flow. So much had happened between Quinn and yourself; some for the better and worse. Right now, things were bad again. Not between the two of you, but with the team and with his ability to stay healthy. After healing fully from the high-sticking, you thought Quinn was going to get back to his old self, sniping wristers from the blue line and stacking up points for a back-to-back Norris run. Sadly, he was looking at another two to three weeks of off-ice rest, not counting the time off during Christmas. 

Quinn hadn't traveled to Calgary with the rest of the Canucks and you could feel the effects of Quinn not being with his boys while you sat beside him in his living room. He hadn't said a whole lot today, nor had you pressed him for conversation. If he wanted to talk, he knew you were available. Other than that, you had left him alone. However, it was nearing an hour from the new year and you were itching for something to do. 

"Wanna get dressed up and take a walk downtown?" You turned toward him on the sofa, crossing your legs up under you. You weren't sure how your proposition was going to over, but you would remain hopeful nonetheless. 

Quinn sighed deeply, "Not really. I'm not in a 'going out' mood. I'm sorry, sweetheart." He would look up from his phone and give you a sympathetic glance. It was all over his face that he had no interest in leaving his apartment that evening. Normally, you'd share that same sentiment, but New Year's was once a year, and it wasn't often that Quinn was home for the holiday. You just thought that maybe he would want something to get his mind off the raincloud over his head.

You both had watched the game together. He was tense the entire time, like he was on the bench and completely powerless to command this team. Everything was a struggle, but when they had finally tied it up there was some hope that they could still turn it around. Unfortunately, the score would end with a 3-1 Canucks loss and Quinn shaking his head. This was two games without their captain they would lose, and another two points they wouldn't be going home with. 

Leaving him alone with his thoughts and whatever business he was doing on his phone, you tried to keep yourself awake and the collective mood in the apartment from completely going to shit. Watching any kind of movie was out, because you knew his mind would be elsewhere, but what could you do where it wouldn't be back in the arena, replaying plays and fixing errors? You'd pout as you bounced from idea to idea before you felt your stomach grumble. 

"Wanna bake some cookies?"

This would cause him to put his phone down, like it had been the magic words he didn't know he needed to hear. "I'd actually love that."

You'd give him a warm, beaming smile before hopping to your feet and excitedly hurrying to the kitchen. Now, you nervously hoped that you actually had everything needed for cookies! 

"What do you need me to do?" Quinn would ask, looking at you on your tip-toes, going through the cabinet before finally getting up to help you. 

"Can you grab the eggs and butter? We should have enough eggs.... I hope so anyway!" You remarked nervously. 

"Sure," he replied flatly, taking a moment to scan the interior of the fridge. "Anything else?"

"Nope! That's it for the cold stuff, thank you."

"Mhm."

Quinn would shuffle around to the island, taking a seat while you messed about, adding more and more ingredients to the space in front of him. You knew he was trying his hardest to come off as happy, but you knew he was having a hard time. You wouldn't press him to cheer up, and if he had wanted to go back to the living room, leaving you to finish them, it wouldn't have bothered you.

"Sorry I'm not much help," he mumbled, like he had read your mind. 

"What? Oh, you're okay, baby! I'm glad you're here, that's enough!" Your smile had brought a little glimmer to his eyes while he continued to sit and watch. Quinn had been the only boyfriend you had had where just being in the same space with him brought you joy even if you were both doing different things. You could feel him watching you, making you smile more when you had your back to him. The slight squeak of him moving back his chair had been the only indication that he was on the move. 

"What can I do to help?" He would say, snuggling in tightly to your body, making it near impossible to move anywhere. 

You'd take a minute to think of what you could have him do, but you also didn't want to take him out of his comfort zone. 

"Can you just keep doing what you're doing?"

"Just...holding you?"

"Mhm!" You giggled, reaching for the sack of flour and measuring cups, struggling to reach due to Quinn's grasp. "I'm not asking for too much, am I?"

"Not at all. I just feel guilty watching you do everything." His voice was low, and sprinkled with the sound of depression and anguish. You knew that's how he had felt watching the games he couldn't participate in: hopeless and useless. 

"Well, I can't hold myself," you laughed, overlapping your hands on his at your waist. "You're doing a great job."

Quinn would playfully scoff at you giving him a verbal gold star, but deep down, he was so thankful that you didn't ridicule him when he got in these moods. He knew he could be so hard to deal with and the fact that you took every one of them at stride meant so much. Tonight was no different. 

The minutes would tick by quickly as you measured numerous ingredients into varying bowls before finally combining them into one, homogeneous mixture resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. From time-to-time, Quinn would dip a single finger into the dough, and each time you would softly tap him on the hand.

"Baby!"

"Quality control test," Quinn teased.

"You've said that three times now! Don't make yourself sick!"

He would let his arms fall from around your body, when you hinted that you needed to move away from where you had been standing. He seemed to be in a slightly lighter mood, having peppered you with delicate kisses the whole time you worked. How you loved having him home with you, just doing silly little domestic things like a normal couple did. However, having a partner like Quinn, and his profession, you never took the little things for granted. 

"Okay, fifteen to seventeen minutes," you said, putting the filled pans into the already hot and ready oven. You'd set the timer and walk back to him as he leaned against the counter. Quinn smiled at you, taking your hands in his at his sides. 

"Now we wait?" He asked, blinking slow, like he was fighting sleep despite being awake at this time rather often. 

"Mhm, come on, baby. You look exhausted," you confessed, trying to drag him back towards the direction of the living room. 

"I'm okay. I'm afraid if I sit down I'm going to fall asleep."

You acknowledged the truth in his words before another brilliant idea came to your mind. "Oh! I know! Wait right here, 'kay?"

Regrettably, you'd let go of his hands so you could cross the room and dim the kitchen lights to a low, golden glow. 

"Alexa, play Moonlight Serenade," you'd ask, returning to Quinn's arms. 

"Playing Moonlight Serenade, by Glenn Miller on Amazon Music."

Quickly, the apartment was filled with the crackling of a vintage record recording and the 1940s orchestra that was responsible. It was an easy enough waltz to sway to in the comfort of each other's company, there in the kitchen while the cookies bubbled and baked in the oven. Quinn would smile over your shoulder the whole time, having finally been able to shake off the feelings of failure. 

"Everybody loves somebody sometime~," Dean Martin would croon through the apartment's speakers. "And although my dream was overdue, your love made it well worth waiting for someone like you~

You couldn't help but giggle. It was like the song was saying what you were feeling and Quinn held the same sentiment. Silently, you two would continue to dance together to the love songs of old until the beeping of the timer pulled you apart. You'd both turn to see that the clock also read 12:00. 

"Happy New Year's, baby," Quinn would say first, tipping your chip up towards his awaiting lips. 

"Happy New Year's!" You replied, your lips just hovering next to his. The kiss was long, and sweet and everything you wanted to welcome in the new year with. Neither of you would let the other go for several minutes after, sharing multiple more affections until Quinn reminded you of the cookies.

"I'd really hate for your hard work to go to waste. We can always finish this later," he chuckled, pulling you in for one more heartfelt kiss. 

"Well, we'll have another fifteen to seventeen minutes," you winked, taking the pans out of the oven. "Does that work for you?"

"Oh, absolutely."

[kxsagi]

AHHHHH ur isagi bday story made my heart do a little thing NAKDKAMSKALA

can you write smth about isagi being really good with ur younger sibling ( i just learnt he wanted a little sibling after watching my neighbour totoro 🥺)

“𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭”

a/n: due to it being april 1st and isagi’s b-day, i will be completing mainly isagi requests today! don’t worry, i promise that other requests will be completed as soon as i can, but i want to do something special and different for my man

(art credits go to louvbon on twt)

it started with my neighbor totoro. 

you and isagi were curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over the both of you as the movie played. it was at the part where satsuki was running around taking care of mei, tying her shoes, holding her hand, making sure she didn’t wander off, when isagi suddenly mumbled, 

"i think i’d be a good big brother."

you turned your head, raising a brow. "since when did you want a younger sibling?"

"since just now," he admitted easily, his gaze still on the screen. "or maybe since forever, but this movie just made me realize it." 

you chuckled, nudging him. "so you just wanna be totoro, huh?" 

"well, yeah," he grinned. "but i also think it’d be kinda nice to have a little brother or sister to look out for." 

you hummed, tucking the thought away. it wasn’t until a few days later, when isagi came over to your place and met your younger siblings, that you realized just how serious he was about it. 

as soon as you opened the door, your little brother peeked from behind you, staring up at isagi with big, curious eyes. your younger sister, on the other hand, had no hesitation, running right up to isagi and grabbing his hand like he was already part of the family. 

"are you really a pro soccer player?" she asked, eyes sparkling. 

isagi crouched down to her level, smiling. "yup. you wanna see a cool trick?" 

she nodded enthusiastically, and your little brother, who had been trying to act too cool to care, ended up inching closer, curiosity getting the better of him. 

isagi pulled a ball out of his bag, casually rolling it under his foot before flicking it up to his knee, then his shoulder, before catching it neatly in his hands. 

"whoa!" your sister gasped, tugging on your arm. "did you see that?" 

"that was so cool," your brother mumbled, eyes wide. 

"you guys wanna learn?" isagi grinned. 

and just like that, he was roped into playing soccer in the backyard. 

it started simple, just some passing drills and little tricks to impress them, but soon, it turned into an all-out game. your sister clung to isagi’s side, giggling as he gently guided her foot to kick the ball, while your brother took it way too seriously, determined to score on him. 

"i’m not going easy on you," your brother warned. 

isagi smirked. "bring it on, then." 

you watched as they ran around, laughing and chasing after the ball. your sister cheered for both of them, caught up in the excitement, while your brother fought tooth and nail to get past isagi’s defense. 

eventually, isagi let him win, dramatically diving to the ground as the ball rolled past him. 

"goal!" your brother shouted, pumping his fist in the air. 

"ahh, you got me," isagi groaned, sprawled out like he had just lost the world cup. 

your sister giggled, running over to him. "are you okay?" 

"not sure," he sighed. "might need a hug to recover." 

she immediately wrapped her tiny arms around him, squeezing tight. your brother huffed but plopped down next to him anyway, panting from all the running. 

you sat beside isagi, watching as he sat up and ruffled both their hair, grinning. 

"you’re really good at this," you murmured. 

he glanced at you, tilting his head. "at what?" 

"being an older brother." 

his expression softened. he turned back to your siblings, who were now arguing about who got to keep the soccer ball he brought. 

"yeah," he said quietly, a small smile on his lips. "i think i really would’ve liked having one." 

you leaned against him, squeezing his hand. "well, i think they just adopted you as theirs." 

he chuckled, giving your hand a squeeze back. "guess that makes me the honorary big brother, huh?" 

your sister suddenly tugged on his sleeve. "can you come over every day?" 

your brother nodded. "yeah. you’re cool. you should just live here." 

isagi laughed, throwing an arm around them. "hmm… i don’t know. i do have soccer practice, but…" he glanced at you, eyes twinkling. "maybe i’ll be around a lot more." 

your heart fluttered. your siblings cheered. 

and you had a feeling isagi really, truly meant it.

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[luveline]

hi i just got a haircut and feel very cute :) can i request r getting a haircut and the bau team fawning over it (with derek or spencer it’s up to you)

ty for ur request! this ended up being reader x the whole team, but heavily derek, and more subtly spencer !! fem!reader

cw readers hair was longer, and is now short

You take a deep, slow breath before you open the door that leads to the office. The first thing you see is Derek, to your horror, perched like he's waiting for you on the lip of his desk. 

Hotch must have known the agony with which you'd be subjected sitting across from someone like Derekz and he did it anyway. Handsome, caring, flirtatious to a fault, it was a recipe for heartbreak in the making. You quite like your new haircut; if Derek or the others don't feel the same you'll be mortified. 

You keep your head down as you walk to your desk. If you see Derek's expression, you'll lose all steam. You don't look up until you're close enough to smell his warm, understated cologne, raising a nervous hand to a button on your shirt. 

"Hi, Morgan," you say. 

"Oh, no, baby, we're on a first name basis," he says, raising his eyebrows at you. "Is this a joke?" 

"Am I usually joking?" you ask weakly. 

Derek shakes his head from side to side, crossing his arms over his chest, a ball of kinetic energy like the mere sight of you invigorates him. Safe to say he likes it, safer still when he brings a hand to his jaw and scrubs at it. "I don't even know what to say," he remarks, with all the intonation of a man disappointed. 

He sighs tiredly and pulls his phone out of his pocket, hitting the first button on his speed dial. Within seconds he's been answered, the phone pressed to his ear. "Hey, babygirl. You better get to the bullpen stat. It's an emergency."

"Derek, you'll give her a heart attack!" 

"Am I lying?" he asks. 

"Let up, Morgan," Emily says, coming up behind you to squeeze your shoulders. "It looks amazing. When did this happen?"

"Why wasn't I informed?" Derek asks.

"Oh my god!" JJ cheer-whispers, a stack of case files in her arms as she approaches from her office. "You cut your hair! It looks so good, why didn't you say anything?" 

"It was kind of a spur of the moment decision," you say, flushing from all the attention. 

Derek's still pretending to be mad, though an undeniable appreciation lines his mouth. Frowny brows, poorly hidden grin. 

"Spencer," Emily says, nudging a hyper-focused Spencer in the shoulder where he sits huddled at his desk. 

Spencer looks up from his book and it promptly falls between his hands. He reaches down to grab it in a panic and smacks his forehead on the desk. 

"Spence!" JJ yelps, rushing forward to help him. Her files slide out flat onto his desk as she pulls his head up. "Jesus, Spencer." 

You're about to lend a hand when a familiar and bubbly voice shouts unashamedly across the bullpen. "Oh my god! Y/N? Y/N! Oh my god, you look so pretty!" 

You spin on your heel to offer Penelope a thankful smile. "Pen, you said that before you even really saw it."

"I'm seeing it now, aren't I?" she asks, rushing forward in a cloud of curly blonde hair. The hot pink ruching on her corset top scratches your arms as she grabs you in a sideways hug. "We don't see you for a week and you cut all your hair off?" 

"Hey– hey!" Derek says. "Don't act like this isn't the best thing to happen to this department since Prentiss joined. You were something else before," —Derek nods appreciatively, a low whistle escaping pursed lips— "but now? You better clear your schedule, baby. Me and you are going out." 

"I think he's serious," Emily says, her jaw dropped. 

You raise a hand to your eyes, completely overwhelmed by the chaos. "Is something wrong?" Hotch asks from the balcony, killing your stolen reprieve immediately. You look up to find him watching over you all with a boss brand of disapproval. 

"Haircut," Penelope says nervously, pointing at your face. 

Hotch visually notices your hair. His smile is genuine. "It looks nice," he says. 

"Thank you, sir," you say, well and truly spent. In the best way possible, your team smothers you with love. If you'd known they'd react like this you would've cut your hair a long time ago. 

Except for what it's done to poor Spencer, nursing a sizable red welt atop his eyebrows. 

"You okay?" you ask, bending at the waist to smile at him apologetically. 

The excitement must be getting to him too, his usually pale cheeks kissed by a rosy twinge. "I'm fine." 

"Round table," Rossi suggests where he stands to Hotch's left, "before young Reid passes out."  

[m1ckeyb3rry]

I was wondering if you could make a part 2 to "the instrument"? I got invested reading it was so sad that it ended :(

I don't rlly know what I'm looking for but I loved the plot of that fic and I wanted to see it progress further (´；д；)

Like, it js ended with him giving her flowers, I wanted to see their love bloom more yknowww ಥ_ಥ

(Also is it weird that I see y/n as her own person?)

Synopsis: You were right from the start — Michael Kaiser has always been a dog, albeit perhaps not in the way you first meant it. (part one here!)

BLLK Masterlist

Pairing: Kaiser x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k

Content Warnings: fake dating trope, mentioned/implied/referenced abuse (both child and animal), call me tabito karasu the way i assassinate kaiser’s character in this, relationship dynamics many would consider…interesting…

A/N: EEK i feel like kaiser is so hard for me to do romance with but i tried my best!! and LMAOO this y/n is definitely a very interesting one so i can see why you got that sense 😭 but i’m glad you liked the instrument and ty for requesting 🥹 i hope this is somewhat satisfactory??

Additional: check my pinned post to make sure i have requests open; after reading the rules, please feel free to make your own!

You are quite certain that your mother was involved in this exercise, considering she’s the only one you can think of with a spare key to your house. So, when your phone call to Michael is sent immediately to voicemail, you don’t hesitate in dialing her number, knowing she’ll pick up immediately, as she always does.

The phone rings only once, and then she’s answering. There are voices in the background that are faint and muffled, which means either she’s watching a new drama or your father is watching some sports game. Then you detect the faint sound of cheers, and you conclude it must be the latter. 

“Hello, Y/N,” your mother says. “Did you need something?”

She is very obviously trying to maintain an air of mysteriousness, as if she has no idea why you might be calling her, but the fact that she is putting on such an act makes it all the more obvious that it is just a facade. You’ve known for many years that your talent onstage is not a genetic one, though it does not stop your parents from pretending that it’s something you inherited from them.

“The flowers,” you say. “You put them there, didn’t you?”

She coughs. You don’t know if she’s disguising a laugh or if she’s just taken aback to that extent. Either way, you give her a moment to compose herself, for it’ll be a mess if you don’t. Your mother is like that, after all. If you inundate her with questions, she’ll respond to exactly none of them, so patience is the only method you have if you wish to obtain any measure of success.

“It wasn’t my own doing,” she says finally. You sigh.

“Of course, someone told you to, and I’m sure we both know who,” you say. “What did he say?”

“He meant well,” she says. “Are you angry with him? He seemed to think you might be. Anyways, he just told me to give them to you. It’s his way of saying sorry, I think. Or perhaps of saying something else. I’m afraid I can’t understand him the way you do. It’s magical, really, how you all but read his mind…”

“No one can read his mind,” you scoff. “He’s a convoluted man, and his thoughts are his own.”

“And you despise him because of that?” she prods, in a way that indicates she already knows the answer and is only asking for her personal satisfaction.

“I love him all the more for it,” you say shortly. Somehow, it’s worse saying it to your mother than it was with him. More real, maybe. Unable to be taken back. You don’t want to take it back, of course, but nevertheless, even if you did, you no longer can. It’s out in the world, now, and the world has a strange humor; it takes things one says even carelessly, without thought, and it turns them into undeniable, inescapable truth. 

“Well,” she says. “That is a predicament.”

“There’s no predicament,” you say.

“He believes there is,” she says. “Right before he left, he—”

“Left?” you repeat. The flowers on your counter are arcing towards the sun, their petals unfurling towards the light pouring from your window. It’s a behavior more typical of flowers other than roses, but these roses are blue and they are Michael’s, so it stands to reason that they behave peculiarly. “Where did he go?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she says. “He didn’t mention where he was going, just that he had to leave for a bit. But he looked sad. I mean, it’s difficult to tell with him, given how stoic he is, so I don’t know. Don’t take me at my word and start a fight about it.”

This is all you’re going to get out of her. You’re sure of it; there’s a wavering to her voice that signals she’s out of her depth. It’ll be unproductive and all but cruel if you continue to drill her, so you grit your teeth, squeezing your eyes shut and counting to three in your mind. Frustration is a wasted emotion, especially when the target of your frustration is somewhere far away, gone with nothing but a pot of flowers as a farewell.

That’s what it really is. Not an apology or a confession, but a goodbye. The fact that he thought to do it does mean something, but that meaning doesn’t outweigh the intention. So you make meaningless small talk with your mother and then your father, who she passes the phone to, and as soon as you can, you hang up and call another person, one who might be your only chance at finding the wandering stray that is Michael Kaiser.

Michael doesn’t really have friends, claims he doesn’t need them, but if there is one man who he might deign to bestow that title upon, it is his Bastard München teammate, Alexis Ness. They have been playing together since they were young, and so, if anything, there is an empathy between the two, although Michael will never admit it.

You’ve only met Alexis Ness a few times, at the various events which Michael used to drag you to when your relationship was still in the public eye. He’s never been anything but polite, albeit reserved, and on your third meeting, he gave you his phone number, telling you to call him if you ever ran into trouble. He had left the with Michael unsaid, but the implication had been there. You had thanked him and never called him since.

He’s quick to respond, like he was expecting the call — for all you know, he really was, though you would never ask either way. However, he does not speak first, so there is an awkward pause as you both wait for the other to say something.

“Good morning, Mr. Ness,” you say once a minute has gone by and he still has said nothing. “This is Y/N L/N. You gave me your number once.”

“Ah, Kaiser’s girlfriend,” he says. They have this habit, those soccer players, of referring to each other solely by last name. Your theory is that it’s to create distance, to avoid becoming close to a person who can be stolen by another team at any moment. You can’t fathom any other explanation. It’s a little sad to you, but you try not to judge, because there’s as many or more judgements that can be passed about your own lifestyle and habits.

“Yes,” you say. 

“Are you calling to ask me where he went?” he says. 

“I am,” you say. There’s no point in games. You don’t know Alexis Ness well enough to play them, and he seems to appreciate candidness, so the both of you are blunt in your conversations.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says. “He swore me to secrecy.”

“I see,” you say. It’s disappointing, but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Michael is more than a little paranoid, so of course he took these ridiculous measures to cover his tracks.

“Nothing against you,” he says. “In fact, you should take it as a compliment. It sounded like there’s some messes he needed to clean up before he could bear to face you.”

“He’s horrible at cleaning,” you say.

“I don’t mean literal cleaning,” he says. It’s patient but also mocking. You roll your eyes, a silent form of retribution that he’ll never know of.

“Neither do I,” you say. Alexis Ness exhales heavily. Perhaps you’ve given him a migraine. It’s a particular skill of yours, or so you’ve been told.

“Berlin,” he says.

“Berlin?” you say.

“That’s where he is. If he asks, I’m not the one who told you,” he says, and then he’s ending the call before you can even thank him.

Berlin’s a big city, so Ness’s advice isn’t as helpful as he might’ve thought it would be, but at least it’s a start. Besides, for all his idiosyncrasies, Michael has a few patterns he follows with religiosity, so you tell your agent you’re going on a trip and silence your phone before he can call you and sputter protests about the impromptu nature of the semi-vacation.

The volunteers at the dog shelter tell you that Michael’s been there for the majority of the day. They’ve left him alone because they don’t know what to say; it’s not everyday that a celebrity wanders into such an establishment without so much as a word, and he’s remained relatively harmless, so they’ve continued about their daily business, ignoring him as best as they could when it became obvious he had no interest in speaking to them.

When you enter the kennel room, you find him sitting in front of one with a large hound in it. It has a pointed muzzle, and its tail does not wag at your approach, but it does lift its head and blink at you a couple of times before going back to sleep. 

The cement floor is cold, but still you sit beside Michael, hugging your knees to your chest in a mirror of his position, careful not to touch him, thinking that he is wild enough to flee if you do. The hound lets out a soft breath. You notice that there are pink lines cutting through the black of its fur, marring its wide torso, shiny as the skin does its best to heal.

“She was seized from her owner,” Michael says. “The neighbors called the police one night when things got too loud.”

He’s not looking at you, but it’s obvious you’re the one he meant that statement for, so you shift closer to him, placing one hand on his arm. He flinches the tiniest bit, but when you try to pull away, he reaches up and stops you, holding your hand there, though he still refuses to turn away from the dog.

“Apparently, the guy got drunk and beat her,” he says. “She belonged to his wife, but once his wife died, he became an alcoholic, and that poor dog was the only one there to see it. I’m sure she tried to keep loving him at first, though. Even when she was frightened. Dogs do their best to love you, because they can’t understand that no matter how hard they try, it doesn’t matter. If someone wants to hate them, then all of the love in the world won’t be enough to stop that.”

He’s talking about the dog, but that’s not what he really means. That’s just how he is: he speaks in circuitous riddles to avoid ever saying anything plainly. Flowers and dogs — both are just methods of avoiding what he really wants to tell you.

“We can take her home,” you say. “Give her a different name and a place where she can be happy. Even if something has been hurt before, that doesn’t mean it has to hurt forever.”

His eyes lower, and then he stands, yanking you to your feet. Steadying you when you stumble, he lets go of you abruptly, frowning and turning away from the dog, who is awoken by the suddenness of the movement, flattening her ears against her head and shrinking back.

“She’s frightened of men now,” he says. “Has been ever since she was rescued. Bites every male that comes near her. I can’t blame her. If I were her, I’d do the same. Apparently, that means she’s not really adoptable. Not by us and not by anyone.”

The dog whines plaintively. You offer her the back of your hand through the bars of the kennel. She sniffs it before licking it carefully, and then she thumps her tail against her bed in approval — only one time, though, and then she’s standing, pacing in unhappy circles around the small kennel, which can hardly fit an animal of her size.

“I want her,” you say. “I don’t care if she isn’t adoptable. I want her.”

“Of course you do,” he says. He would sound aggravated, but there is a curious delight dancing in his eyes, a childish sort of joy that so rarely sparkles in those blue irises, so he completely doesn’t. “Of course you want her. You can’t stay away from hurt things, can you? Who told you I was here?”

“No one,” you say. “I figured it out by myself.”

He purses his lips, following after you as you make your way to the front desk. Disapproval rolls off of him in waves, but also something else. Something shriveled and cowering which is fighting desperately to crawl to the surface.

The volunteers are surprised to hear which dog you insist on taking, and they try to convince you to look at any of the more appealing ones — the puppies, or the well-trained retrievers that already have waitlists of potential adopters. You’re an actress, however, so they’ll put you at the top and give you whichever one you want. You tell them you know which one you want already, and eventually they give up on arguing, only frowning as you sign the litany of documents they produce, clicking their tongues and telling you that she’ll be difficult.

You respond that it’s fine. You’re used to difficult things; in fact, you think that you prefer them. They shake their heads and then you are told that your dog — yours, miraculously she is yours — will be ready for you to get her whenever you want.

Michael’s business in Berlin is not yet completed, you can sense it, so you tell them that you will return later and then you chase after his disappearing back, catching him by the sleeve of his coat in a narrow alleyway which leads to a theater.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. He’s gazing at a poster with a woman on it; she’s beautiful, with elfin features and flowing hair the color of gold. She’s also someone you recognize. “Fuck Ness. I know he told you. I’m going to kill him when I get back.”

“Leave him alone,” you say. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever.”

“Do you know her?” you say, pointing at the woman.

“Do you?” he shoots back. He’s crabby now, snapping easily and readily, though you’ve not really done anything to provoke him.

“Yes,” you say. It’s not the answer he had predicted, which you can tell because he whirls to glare at you instead of the movie poster. “Why are you surprised? We’re in the same industry. I was almost in a movie with her a while back, though it fell through because of an issue with the writers. She’s nice enough, I guess. I went to her wedding a couple of years ago, but other than that, I wouldn’t say we’re particularly close.”

“You…went to her wedding?” he says, and then, inexplicably, his fingers are weaving in between yours. It feels like he is holding onto you for something more than affection, so you stand as still as you possibly can, only humming in agreement.

“Yes, I did. Actually, she married her childhood sweetheart, which took everyone by surprise. It was commonly thought that she’d marry one or another of her costars, you see. She’s always been good at creating chemistry…people always say that she can make even a rock seem desirable, that’s how she is,” you say wistfully, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t shove you away, enraptured by the story. “It’s amazing to watch. But isn’t it kind of sweet? That despite how excellent she is at feigning affection, how she could’ve had any man in the world, she chose the boy from her youth? I remember talking to him. He has nothing, no money or connections or investments. She really just married him because he loves her for who she is.”

“Is love really all she wanted?” he says.

“I suppose it’s all that a lot of people want,” you say. “Rumor has it that she's pregnant.”

He stiffens against you. “What?”

“Well, I think she’s a little old for it, but it’s common for women in my line of work to wait until the signs of age are beyond concealment before they have children, so it’s not a shock,” you say.

“Why?’ he says. 

“It’s the industry’s standards—” you begin before he cuts you off.

“No,” he says. “No, why is she — why does she want — why is she pregnant?”

“Isn’t it common for people to start a family eventually?” you say. “By the way, you never answered my question. Do you know her?”

“She’s my mother,” he says. The words are angry, but his tone is forlorn, his hand in yours cold and small. “But I’m — I’m not her son.”

He looks so wretched that you cannot help embracing him, and when he reciprocates in earnest and without pretense, you know that you have done the right thing. His breaths are fast and shaky, though he is not crying, and as much as you wish you had not said it, you believe deep down that it is important that you did.

Platitudes are meaningless. If you say it’s okay or something along those lines, you will be a liar, because the truth is that it’s not okay. You are not the one who can decide if it’s okay or not. You can only remain as you have been, motionless and gentle, stroking his back in the way one settles a restless infant, allowing his fingers to dig into your sides and his looming weight to collapse into you — for his sharpness is not borne of malice but helplessness, however loath to admit it he might be.

“Why?” he whispers. There’s a million questions he could be asking, and none of them are ones you can ever answer for him, but that will not stop him. “Why couldn’t it be me? Why couldn’t she be happy with me? I would have loved her. I would have been her family.”

“A lot of people don’t deserve children,” you muse. “Or love, or many other such happinesses. And still more people cannot understand the importance of these things when they are within their grasp. Your mother must’ve been very young when she had you. It’s easy to be blinded by stardom and glamor and fairytales at that age. It’s easier still to abandon everything for just a taste of the spotlight. There’s a school of thought that fame is impossible to attain without that necessary sacrifice.”

“What about you?” he says.

“I’m not an exception,” you say ruefully. “Any normal person would have hung up on you when you first called, Michael. I’m only lucky in that it was you and not anyone else on the other end of the line. It’s only because I know you that I realized there are more important things in this world than celebrity and popularity. Once I would’ve spurned the thought of obscurity, but now, if I can have you, then I wouldn’t even mind it so much. It’s the same conclusion your mother must have reached.”

“It’s too late,” he says. “She reached it too late.”

“Yes,” you say. “Yes, she did reach it too late, but it’s easier to give this kind of life up once you’ve known it than to never have it at all. That’s the only reason why. She was greedy, and you bore the consequences.”

“It’s not fair,” he says. You’ve never heard him like this. Normally, he’d laugh at the mere thought of such vulnerability, but the gray of the city has clearly twisted him into a wounded and fragile version of himself, prone to shattering, made of a glass that is already jagged at the edges and can hardly keep together because of it. “It’s not fair, it’s not — I hate her, and I hate him, and I hate her stupid new family, and I —I—”

He silences himself, obviously unsure of what to say, and then he holds your face in his hands, giving you a pleading stare. Help me, he seems to beg. Tell me what to do. He is lost, and somehow you have become a map of sorts, or a compass, one which points in a direction he has no choice but to follow.

“Why did you come here?” you say. “When you knew it would hurt you, why did you come?”

“I wanted to remind myself,” he says. “For a second, you even convinced me that I was worthy of being — you know. So I had to come back. I had to see with my own eyes the kind of person I really am. If my mother and my father and my entire damn city hate me, then why should you be any different?”

He’s scared that he will hurt you, and that you will hurt him, and that he will be alone again, as he has been for much of his life. For all his brashness, his bravado, his smugness and his smooth way of speaking in public, he’s never really been anything more than a little boy who’s frightened, who presses against the back wall of his enclosure like that beaten hound did.

“You know that I am different,” you say. “I am not your mother, nor your father. I will leave everything behind but you. In fact, I’ll leave it for you. Tell me to and I will.”

“What if I tell you to quit acting?” he says.

“Then I will retire at once,” you say. “I already have more money than I know what to do with.”

“And if I tell you to move across the world?” he tries, resting his forehead against yours. “Would you do that, despite your entire life being here?”

“Yes,” you say. “I am quick at making friends and learning new things, so I will adapt to it.”

“What about if I tell you to marry me?” he says. His lips are so close to yours that he is speaking against your mouth, but he doesn’t try to kiss you yet. 

“You wouldn’t ask?” you say.

“I don’t ask for things,” he says.

“Naturally, I’d marry you,” you say. “There isn’t anyone else I’d ever want, anyways. We’d have the most beautiful wedding in the world, and we’d only invite the people we like.”

“That’s a short list,” he says. His heartbeat is calming down; it’s a temporary solution, but if it manages to distract him, then you’ll indulge the flight of fancy.

“My parents,” you say.

“Ness,” he says.

“I always knew you liked him,” you say.

“Only because I have to,” he says.

“Anyone else?” you say.

“No,” he says. “That’s it. We can even forget about all of those people, actually. I just want it to be the two of us. Nobody else matters but — but you.”

He’s stuttering as he comes to his senses. These declarations aren’t typical of him, as foreign as French on his tongue, but he’s making them anyways. He’s been fighting the compulsion for a while, you can tell, but it’s hard for him to keep fighting on all fronts of his life. Eventually, one side will give. You are glad that it is your side, that you are the one he has given to, no matter how reluctantly he has done it.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” you say. “All of these are easy for me to do. Ask for something difficult, so that I may prove to you that I am telling the truth, that I mean what I say.”

“It’s not a request, but a condition,” he says.

“You only need to name it,” you say.

“If I hurt you, then you have to run,” he says. “Run so far away that I can never reach you. Even though it’ll hurt me, I want you to run. Even though I’ll beg for you to stay, please leave.”

That’s it, then. The most difficult thing he can imagine a person doing: leaving someone they love. Certainly he is unable to do it. It doesn’t matter if he’s suffering. He’ll suffer longer just to stay by your side, just as he suffered for all of those many years as a child. 

It’s how you know he loves you more than he’ll ever let on. He holds you in such esteem that he’ll let you leave him if you have to, though it’ll indubitably destroy him, destroy him more than staying could ever destroy you. Yet still he is giving you that permission, commanding it, even, because he’d rather destroy himself than let even the slightest harm befall your being.

You can only draw that conclusion because you know that he will never, can never, hurt you. He isn’t saying this as a warning, because it isn’t an inclination that he has. No, it’s a dark and ugly voice in the back of his mind — does it sound like his father’s? You feel that it must — insisting that he will do it, he will. He’ll hurt you. He’s the reason that his mother left and his father became something sick, and he’ll be the reason that you are broken and ruined and torn apart. He’ll do it. He’ll be the one to do it, it’s inevitable, he’ll scratch you with his thorns and gnaw at your remains with his fangs and maybe he’ll even cry during the act but he’ll still do it.

“Alright,” you say, though you want to protest that he is incapable, because it’s clear that he is testing you. Every argument which might fall from your lips, he has heard before, and if you dare utter them one more time, it’ll be the proof that you are lying. The way his thoughts work, the paths that they follow, they are winding and narrow, but perhaps your mother is right — perhaps you are coming to understand them.

“Do you think that I can?” he says.

“No,” you say. “The fact that you worry about it tells me that you won’t. You are better than that, Michael.”

“You really believe that?” he says. “With everything you are, you believe it?”

“I do,” you say.

You almost can’t believe it, but he laughs. Well, calling it a laugh is generous, it’s really more of an exhale, yet one which is unquestionably seeping with amusement, and you’re about to ask him what he finds so funny when he was so close to breaking down mere moments earlier, but he stops you before you can.

“I do,” he says. It’s an odd thing to repeat, but a second later your mind registers why he’s done it, and then the corners of your lips are curving up.

In the streets of Berlin, the two of you are alone; his mother’s poster is your only witness, but if she takes some offense, she remains smiling and silent, her gaze far away as her son — who isn’t her son, he isn’t hers at all, he’s yours and only yours — finally closes the minuscule gap between you both and kisses you fully.

[yourscaryboo]

FELLOW LESBIAN COUNCIL

It has come to my attention about the CaitVi with M*n and I have a few words that thou would like the spew.

Yk how hard it is to get rep in this day and age, we’re either sexualized or like censored, the shit is crazy 😭 like you can’t be in a film without being called a dyke or lusted over.

Like It’s insane! But anyways if you see people saying they don’t get it or like why is it such a big deal when characters get HC as gay or something. 1. They’re straight or 2. Their men. There isn’t no in between sorry to say it but it’s true. Not only that but they’re upset over a LITTLE headcannon. like you’ll got all this straight fanart and goon art but when it comes to us.

It’s suddenly No, you’re a dyke, or you’re ruining a character, or even WITCH 🫵

So excuse us for being upset that you’re tying to make lesbian characters straight, like that’s the only type of rep we have while straight people have everything so I have one word for Straight men, Are you done yet??? You get all these bad bitches in Art/Comics/Ect. Is that not enough???

Like you get more bad bitches than Lesbians or Gays do it’s actually insane, y’all know y’all are the main targets of any type of film so why are you mad about Jinx being gay, if they write Jinx eating pussy that’s okay! At the end of the day who do you see her with the most??

A. men B. men C. men or D. men

If you chose Men, you’d Be correct! Now stop being dickheads to lesbian characters by degrading and making them see worthless when you know deep down half of these characters would whoop yo motherfuckin ass and that’s okay. If Canon straight men get shipped with other men, ITS OKAY. Why? because there is more art with them with women than it is with men.

Can I get an Amen?? 🙏

Now Lesbian Council, someone make a community and let’s get posting gay people and our fanfics, make sure you put in like ages and shit. !don’t want to get cancelled! 🤝

Y’all know, I love you fellow Lesbians and you know I cherish you more than anyone could, so look at me when I say this. You’re beautiful and just because a few CIS men are upset about ONE thing we change about a character I want you to know, we still win at the end of the day and Rizz up the lesbian baddies as you please I’ll be in the back cheering you on. Being like “Go get you some coochie girl!” 📢

Now give your little sis/ big sis a hug! 🫂

I love you pumpkin and the men who are reading this or see, yeah I know what you are, don’t have to lie about having a little sugar in your tank. I don’t judge, if that’s what you want more power to you hunny just don’t be a pd or someone weird, that’s all.

[the-moon-lullaby]

Can you write the boys taking care of you when you're sick headcanons ty

How the HSL Boys Take Care of Candy When She’s Sick

N/A : I am literally digging into my computer for these ones. Turns out I had some requests already written (or almost) but never posted them. So there it is (better late than never I suppose)

Armin

He panics at first. « Wait, you’re actually sick? Like… for real? » He pokes her forehead and gasps « Oh shit, you’re burning up! Babe, don’t die on me! »

Absolutely Googles symptoms and then proceed to immediately spiral into worst-case scenarios « What if this is cancer ? Or the beginning of a zombie apocalypse??? » 

Ends up getting a ridiculous amount of medicine (and most are useless but we appreciate the gesture)  and snacks (most of which she doesn’t even need).

Forces her to stay in bed while he attempts to make (more like reheat) soup. It’s… not great (but the effort is appreciated once again)

Cuddles up next to her despite the risk of getting sick himself. « If I die, at least it’ll be with you. » (dramatic enough)

Plays video games with her if she’s up for it or puts on a marathon of their favorite shows. « Laughter is the best medicine as they say ! …Except for actual medicine. Take that too. »

Dramatically wipes her forehead with a cool cloth like he’s in a medical drama saying stuff like « Stay with me, Candy! » (Alexy definitely made him watch Grey’s Anatomy with him)

Ends up getting sick himself. Complains way more than she did.

Castiel

Sighs dramatically when he sees her curled up in bed after two days of missing school. « Great. You’re dying. What am I supposed to do with you now? »

He acts like it’s a huge inconvenience, but he takes care of her better than anyone.

Texts her to drink the soup her mom made. Might even comes to supervise if she insists that doesn’t feel like it. « You’re not starving on my watch. »

Let her stay at his place. Which is big for him. 

Grumbles about germs but stays with her anyway. Runs his fingers through her hair when she falls asleep.

Keeps her warm with one of his hoodies and grumbles when she calls him sweet. « Shut up and drink your tea. »

Glares at the medicine bottles like they're a personal offense to him before making sure she takes them at the right time.

Plays his guitar softly while she rests (but never admits he’s doing it to comfort her).

The second she starts feeling better, he teases her. « See? You survived. Now get up before I have to start charging you rent for lying around all day. »

Lysander 

Notices she’s sick before she even tells him. « Your voice sounds different. Are you feeling alright? »

Reads up on natural remedies and brews her a custom tea blend to soothe her throat (go farm boy even though this choice of scenario still isn't my favourite)

Wraps her in the softest blankets and insists that she rests. « Your body needs time to heal. Let me take care of you. »

Writes little notes and poems to cheer her up. Leaves them on her nightstand with a cup of tea. ahhhhh

Sings to her in a low, soothing voice when she’s too restless to sleep.

Buy her fresh flowers to brighten her mood. Or something cheerful. Chocolate maybe (but again he might not because chocolate isn’t the best thing to eat when you’re sick. Unfortunately)

If she feels self-conscious about looking a mess, he reassures her. « You’re beautiful even now, love. »

Stays by her side without hesitation. If she tells him he might get sick, he just smiles. « Then I suppose you’ll have to take care of me next »

This man has been husband material since day one like even when it’s HSL headcanons, I feel like writing about a married couple

Kentin 

The moment she sneezes, he’s already got medicine, vitamins, and a humidifier ready to go (even if it's a bit of an overkill)

Checks her temperature constantly. « Okay, you’re at 38°C. That’s fine. But if it goes up, we’re going to the doctor. »

Bring her homemade chicken soup his mom helped him to make (Kentin is a mama’s boy through and through and he definitely asked her how to take care of someone who’s sick), watching to make sure she eats enough.

Tucks her into bed like a she’s made of glass, fluffing pillows and adjusting blankets. « You need to rest properly. »

Is very serious about hydration. There is always a glass of water beside her.

Checks on her in the middle of the night, making sure she’s comfortable.

Kisses her forehead but immediately wipes his lips after lmao. « I love you, but I really don’t want to catch this. »

Nathaniel 

Immediately takes control of the situation. « Okay. Bed. Now. » okayyy sir

He’s practical about it : makes a schedule for medicine, ensures she’s eating well, and keeps things tidy so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

But he’s also gentle, running his fingers through her hair while she rests, pressing soft kisses to her temple.

Brings her fresh fruit and herbal teas to help her recover.

Reads to her when she’s too tired to focus on anything.

Tries to do his schoolwork (and perhaps even hers even if he doesn't tell her) while watching over her but gets distracted checking on her every five minutes.

If she protests about being treated like a child, he just raises an eyebrow. « Just let me take care of you, Candy. »

Absolutely the type to call the doctor if her fever gets too high because it’s better to be safe.

When she starts feeling better, he teases her lightly. « Back from the dead, I see. » But he’s secretly relieved.

This one is for shit and giggles mostly. When I wrote these I always find it hard to make it make sense because they're in high school, how can they take care of Candy since she lives with her parents (like mine would just put me to bed, feed me soup while I was pretending to be a victorian child dying of the pox). But for the request's sake, let's overlook that. Hope you like it my dears and see you soon !

(sooner that you might expect since once I am done editing my drafts, I might go on a posting-spree before I forget again and leave them behind for another year)

[ofhouseusher]

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅ Tis the Season for Drama ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚

pairing: Rhaenys Targaryen x oc

word count: 18.455

summary: holiday au. christmas dinner with the targaryens went great until it didn't (or did it?)

tags: mostly just fluff, a wee bit angsty, a targaryen christmas but make it very lesbian, older woman/younger woman, established relationship, romance, christmas special

a/n: short little feel good christmas fic! better late than never guys. aemma, viserys and luce are alive and happy because i say so. this is modern au of my 'a place for you and me (and our dragons)' fic. also no greens in this au. anyways, merry (very) belated christmas. enjoy <3 continue here on ao3

Visenya Targaryen had never been fond of the holidays. There was something uniquely cruel about a season that wrapped itself in glitter and joy, parading around like it was doing everyone a favor. She could never understand its allure. It was suffocating—a relentless barrage of cheer that only served to remind her of how utterly miserable she was.

Every December, like clockwork, sparkling lights blinked mockingly at her from every street corner, carolers crooned in their off-key desperation, and her inbox flooded with party invitations she didn’t want to attend. Returning home for the holidays was its own kind of torture. She’d walk through the door to find her family in a mid-decorating frenzy, all laughter and tangled string lights, while she stood there like a sullen raincloud.

“Visenya, why don’t you ever bring someone home?” they’d ask as if she didn’t already feel like the human embodiment of an empty chair. Or worse, “Are you still single?” Because nothing says festive like being reminded you’re failing at life according to someone else’s timeline.

And don’t get her started on the romance of the season. Couples skating hand in hand, cozying up by fires, exchanging heartfelt gifts. Every rom-com on Netflix taunted her with happy endings she’d never quite believed in. It wasn’t that she didn’t want love—she did, desperately—but the holidays had a way of turning that longing into a sharp, unbearable ache. 

Her coping mechanisms were predictable: working overtime, ignoring calls, traveling across the world, getting drunk in some après-ski in the Swiss Alps, and binge-watching anything aggressively un-Christmasy. One year, Visenya booked a solo trip to Bali just to avoid the whole charade, only to end up crying into a subpar cocktail as a nearby couple got engaged under twinkling lights. Even paradise wasn’t safe.

For all her efforts, the holidays remained unbearable—a glossy veneer stretched over a hollow core.

That is, until Rhaenys.

She waltzed into Visenya’s life like a wildfire in the dead of winter. Their first holiday after tying the knot was a disaster. Visenya had made it clear she didn’t “do” holidays, while Rhaenys had decided they would celebrate. There had been arguments—heated ones—over everything from decorating the hearth to attending family functions. Rhaenys insisted on tradition; Visenya argued that tradition could go to hell.

Rhaenys, a walking Pinterest board of festive cheer, had declared war on Visenya’s Scrooge-like tendencies. She dragged her to tree-lighting ceremonies, made her wear an ugly sweater, and insisted on decorating cookies together. Visenya resisted every step of the way, muttering curses and pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.

But Rhaenys had a way of melting Visenya’s defenses without her even realizing it. She’d find herself grumbling as she helped hang garlands or bake bread, swearing under her breath the entire time, only to catch Rhaenys smiling at her in that way that made her stomach twist. The first time they attended a family dinner as a married couple, Visenya sulked in the corner with the toddlers until Rhaenys forced her to dance. She had resisted, of course, but Rhaenys didn’t take no for an answer, of course. By the end of the night, Visenya found herself laughing—actually laughing—as they spun around Aemma’s living room like fools.

Over time, Rhaenys chipped away at her defenses. She didn’t demand Visenya change; she simply made the holidays feel less like a burden and more like… home. For the first time, Visenya found herself looking forward to things—lazy mornings in bed with Rhaenys, sneaking kisses under the mistletoe, and watching terrible holiday movies with the kids while pretending not to cry. She even tolerated Viserys’ annual speech about family and togetherness.

Marrying Rhaenys didn’t just change Visenya’s feelings about the holidays—it obliterated them entirely. And right now, their home was a mess of tangled lights, garlands strewn across the floor, and a half-decorated Christmas tree standing in the middle of the living room.

continue here on ao3

[afrogwhocantdraw]

Woo! I've seen alot of sbg royalty aus so I thought I'd share my own

(frog? using aus as an excuse to draw Benlor? That doesn't sound like me, definitely not)

Anyway, in this au Ash's family is the primary monarchy of their little village, Aiden and Ben are from a wealthy family in a different town and end up visiting for one reason or another (I'm not gonna pretend to have properly thought out the logistics of this thing)

Anyway Taylor runs a masonry and Tyler is a knight/guard for the banners but occasionally (especially when Ty is ill) they will switch places in order to make sure they still end up getting the money from the knight job (since their dad died they struggled with money)

Logan works as an "advisor" for the princess- which is basically just Ash's families' excuse for letting Logan stay in the castle with them (him and Ash have a very brother-sister relationship)

Onto the photo! Taylor basically sneaks into a high class party/ball (used as a way to introduce the Clark family to the high society of the town) with Ash and Logan's 'help' (they both told her it was a bad idea but she wouldn't listen to them) and, of course, ends up dancing with Ben (Aiden was promptly cheering from the sidelines)

About a week later, the Clarks are staying at the castle and Tyler is ill, so Taylor is in his job. At some point she needs to go and tell Ashlyn that Logan needs her, she knocks and instead of Ashlyn answering, who else but Ben Clark himself!

@primalmagic @random-gamer1942

[vagueeyes]

here's everything i wrote down for STAGE/FRIGHT - apr 5 matinee.

‼️ spoilers ahead ‼️

ok thank you AGAIN @somuchwatersoclosetohome for letting me tag along. i fully expect this to be a collab between us, so anything i couldn't get (both in terms of observations & references), please feel free to refer to her eventual post!!

the seat this time was in the stalls, so closer to the stage than where i was on mar 27!

a house divided/bcdr:

-seeing gaby french & mark extance come on as theatre attendants! on my first show i didn't recognise anybody other than r&s so now that i did know who's who, it was good to catch this.

-seeing the makeup tape close up was kind of funny lol

-during len's hat & coat routine, on first watch i was kind of just staring at reece (lol), but on this watch, from my angle i could only see len, so it was nice to be able to fully appreciate steve acting this part out!

-(crap now i can't remember if this comes first or the prev bit) during the vincent vomit sketch, i didn't realise tommy mouths along to vincent's lines! iirc they don't do this in the ep so that was a nice surprise!

-was able to watch the screen come down (sideways?) when len disappears - ty @wintersoulwitch for pointing that out!

-the leanne/tommy hug was quite 🥺 this time

the kidnappers:

-reveal of the guest: immediate reaction was - "this man is TALL". louis theroux is definitely someone i've heard of but not familiar with, so a lot of the references went over my head i'm afraid!

-once louis was revealed, he looks back and forth between len & tommy for a long time. when len gets louis to say what he's been in, reece (at this moment i saw him as reece tbh) just smiles at them while biting his index finger. what the hell was that!!

-for a while louis still had his hands behind his back, len reminds him that his hands have been untied 😂 louis & everyone had a good laugh at that

-he did well with the spanish and the trumpet playing actually!

-"it's onnnlyyy a stick of celerehhh!" this one was steve doing a big wave of his hand (the one that's holding the celery iirc?) while delivering the line lol

-at the end when louis bursts out of the wardrobe, the tirade was something like "i was on BBC2, around the same time as THE LEAGUE OF GENTLEMEN. we would've seen each other in the canteen! i'm not a stage actor - i'm a television national treasure. i have 3 BAFTAs as well, i don't need this. my agent talked me into it."

-last line going up the stairs: "mark gatiss was the best one anyway" - len nods in agreement here. does he always do this whenever a guest namedrops mark?

interval:

-while i was queueing in the washroom, two ladies behind me were gushing about steve! one of them mentioned his puffer jacket(!!) and the other said "he's still got it" !!! cute to hear this chat irl lol

-at the 20mins mark, the theatre manager came to the front to announce that there was a technical issue and they were looking into it! definitely everybody thought this was a bit at first, but he assured us that it wasn't.

-he said fingers crossed for 10mins, but it went on for 1hr!!! we theorised that it was either the safety curtain not being able to come back up, or something to do with the video wall. then someone came out to chat to the people behind us, and she confirmed it was indeed the video wall not working.

-at the 1hr mark, the associate director came out to explain that they were going to carry on doing the show as is but that it was going to be "a bit different". which was actually quite exciting!

act ii:

scene started as is. at one point, @somuchwatersoclosetohome leaned over to say the video/screen in the background wasn't on, which i hadn't even noticed tbh! so here's what was missing:

-when goudron explains how he killed his wife, we don't see this happen - we only get the sound effect

-when marcus says "let's bring the video wall down", vincent says "i don't think we should do that" here he pauses and everyone laughs & cheers!! then something about how "video never fucking works anyway!"

-reece definitely flubs whatever new line they came up with, because he says "oh is it my line now?" this kinda gets drowned out by the laughter

-when the stage that vincent/steve is standing on moves, steve seemed to forget to step down so he was startled by it moving!!! 😂😂

-marcus definitely says the "grammar" line twice, not sure if this was reece flubbing or an actual last minute change/edit.

-during the trepanning scene, they do still bring the camcorder(?) on stage and they act eveything out as if the video wall is there - but we the audience have to watch the actors, rather than flick up to the screen.

-same with the self-taping scene. it's all played out as is and we watch the actors act/react. here we felt they amped up the sound for when they think they see something on the screen.

-when abby/gaby leaves the stage, sherrie/miranda does everything as is - but when she leaves the stage, ofc we don't get to see the backstage part. there's like a <1min beat and they drop the head in the centre of the stage.

-everything is as is when sherrie comes back out and is scared off stage, and the abby/marcus part is also the same.

-when abby kills marcus, she picks up the camera and does the 360 around the stage - here we don't get the audience disappearing & the jumpscare on camera. instead, bloody belle comes up in the box (as per) and she does the scream when the light is shone on her! end scene

stray observations:

-good to spot marcus mouthing along to the lines during the trepanning scene! such an ollie moment lol

-some people still stood up to clap during the first curtain call lol

-same audience reactions that i still think are cute: gasps when tommy points the gun at len & reactions to the foot sawing part. the man sat behind me did go "oh my godd" when they do the "will he be long"/"about average for a man his height" line exhange lmao

-i love how much the audience loves hugo!!

-we both wondered how the toby/reece switch was done but forgot to look out for this! too focused on seeing what changes they made to act ii!!

alright that's it for now! might add more about this show later if i can recall. starting the day early bc i've been up since 6am lol it'll be good to go outside and clear my head a bit.

[laurenairay]

A reason to start over new - T. Jost

Summary: It’s been five years since Lucy has seen her ex-boyfriend Tyson. Can his grandparents’ Christmas party fix their broken hearts?

Happy birthday @senditcolton! This is my fic for your birthday bingo – I had a lot of fun with this one! I chose The Hand Touch, Exes to Lovers, Free Space (Resolved Angst), “You’re Too Good for Me”, and Winter Romance, making it a full bingo! Hope you have a wonderful day Nicole.

A massive thank you to @jostyriggslover96 for reading through this!

Words: 3.3k

Warnings: angst, flashback to breakup, some bad language, self-deprecation.

Title from The Reason, by Hoobastank

~

I've found a reason for me, To change who I used to be, A reason to start over new, And the reason is you.

~

“Oh wow, Val and Jim have really outdone themselves this year, haven’t they?”

Lucy glanced around at the Christmas decorations surrounding them, smiling at her mom’s words.

“Full of holiday cheer, as always!” she nodded.

She took off her thick coat and gloves, glad to be out of the icy air, hanging them up on the rack put out for guests.

“Now honey, if it’s too much, you can slip out back and head home, okay?” her mom said seriously, albeit quietly.

“You said that last year. And the year before that. For the last five years, actually,” Lucy mused.

“And I’ve meant it every year. They might be our neighbours, but you are my baby. And my priority, always,” her mom said seriously.

Not for the first time, Lucy was thankful to have the mom she did.

“And I appreciate it. But I’m going to be fine,” she said, smiling fondly.

“Alright, if you’re sure. You just send me a sneaky text if you change your mind though, yes?”

“Yeah, thanks mom,” Lucy beamed.

The Christmas Eve Party thrown by her neighbours was a tradition she’d attended her entire life, and even though she hadn’t dated their grandson in half a decade, Val and John had always insisted that she still came along. A lingering effect of being childhood sweethearts, she supposed.

“Amy! Gary! Lucy!”

The welcome from their neighbours was warm and effervescent as it always was, and soon enough Lucy found herself swept in by conversation and catching up. She may have gone to college in UBC Okanagan in Kelowna for both her degrees, barely away from home, but she’d lived in campus residence for all four years of her bachelor’s degree and moved out of her parents’ house properly into a small apartment near campus for her master’s degree. It would’ve been easy to move home after guaranteed accommodation ended, but Lucy had wanted to keep the independence she had grown to love, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t visit her parents at least every other weekend.

But it was still nice to be able to talk about her accomplishments with the people that she’d grown up alongside, especially now that she was in the final year of her master’s degree and looking like she was on track for starting the PhD she’d always aimed for.

After a couple of hours, she escaped the crowds in the living and dining areas, grateful for the sanctuary of the kitchen. There were a few plates of cookies and other Christmas treats laid out, and Lucy couldn’t resist reaching out for a snickerdoodle…

…at the exact time as someone else.

She jumped in surprise as a large hand rested on top of hers, not realising anyone was next to her, but as she looked up, she couldn’t but to freeze despite the warmth of his touch. Tyson. It was Tyson’s hand touching hers.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry, I…Lucy?”

“Hey Tys,” she managed to breathe.

The familiar curls, the big beautiful eyes, the sweet smile, and now a little bit of stubble? He looked good. Of course he looked good.

Tyson quickly drew his hand away from hers, breaking her out of her thoughts.

“Uh, you have it, I shouldn’t be eating baked goods too much anyway,��� Tyson said, rubbing the back of his neck a little sheepishly.

Lucy pursed her lips and broke a third of the snickerdoodle off, handing it to Tyson with a raised eyebrow. Tyson huffed out a laugh but accepted the offered treat, sending her a small smile of thanks. Fuck, it may have been five years since they broke up, but he really hadn’t changed, had he?

“So, uh, you still come to these parties?” Tyson asked.

Lucy bit her bottom lip but nodded.

“Yeah, your grandparents insist. I hope that’s okay,” she winced.

“Of course it is,” Tyson said quickly, “They always loved you.”

Well that was something at least. Why did this feel so awkward? Sure, it had been five years since she’d seen Tyson, but they dated from eight years – surely they had more than this?

“I don’t usually come to these. Well, I guess you already know that, if you come every year. I, uh, I have the 24th to the 26th off this year, so I didn’t want to miss another Christmas with my grandparents,” Tyson explained.

“I bet Val and Jim were over the moon when you told them,” Lucy mused.

Tyson laughed softly, nodding. “They were. Mom and Kacey didn’t hesitate to come to Kelowna to join us, so it’s a big family Christmas this year.”

“That’s great, Tys. Really. Spending Christmas with your loved ones is important,” she said softly, smiling.

His smile dimmed a little, but he nodded.

“How’s, uh, how’s your degree going? Gramps said you’re doing a master’s now?”

He knew that? Did he ask? Or did Jim just tell him?

“Uh, yeah. I graduated my bachelor's degree magna cum laude back in 2020 and went straight into starting my graduate program there. I’m a paid teaching assistant for my supervisory professor too.”

“That’s incredible, Luce. Still doing Earth and Environmental Sciences?” Tyson prompted.

He remembered? After all this time?

“Yeah, yeah it is. Focusing in on environmental impact assessment for my master’s thesis,” she nodded, a little stunned, “I didn’t think…I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“Of course I remember. You were always so passionate about your studies – it was one of the things I loved most about you,” he said softly.

“Tyson…” Lucy said faintly, trailing off when no words would come.

He smiled sadly at her, shaking his head.

“Sounds like…it sounds like everything was worth it for you,” Tyson murmured.

~

2019

“So you can’t make it over?”

“No, Tys, I can’t, I have labs to do,” Lucy sighed.

“We haven’t seen each other in so long!”

“I can’t just not go to my classes because you want me in Denver! You know this!” she groaned.

“I know, I know, but it sucks.”

Lucy frowned, even though he couldn’t see her. “You’re the one who didn’t come home for Christmas, remember?”

“The schedule didn’t make sense, and I offered to fly you down?”

“Tyson!” she groaned.

He stayed silent on the other end of the phone, a silence that sent an ominous shiver down her spine.

“So where do we go from here?”

“W-What?” she said, confused at the dull tone of his voice.

“Your priority is college, my priority is hockey, and neither of us can compromise. I would never ask you to compromise, just like you wouldn’t ask me. We have different priorities, clearly. So where do we go from here?”

“Tyson, are you really saying what I think you’re saying?” she whimpered.

“Yeah, I think we should break up.”

“We’ve been together for eight years! You’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had, the only guy I’ve ever wanted. And you want to break up, just like that?”

“I don’t want to break up, Luce. But what other option do we have? Neither of us can give the other what we need right now. We have to focus on ourselves, don’t we? For our own careers? You have so much ahead of you and I can’t be there to celebrate it. And you can’t be by my side cheering me on from the stands. I love you, Lucy. But this isn’t working anymore.”

~

“Tyson, why would you say it like that? You think it’s been easy for me?” Lucy asked, throat a little choked.

“No, no, of course not,” he groaned.

“Then what do you mean?”

“Look, forget I said anything, okay? It was really good to see you, Luce.”

Before Lucy could say a word, Tyson walked away, leaving her alone in the kitchen with her head spinning. What the hell was that?

For the final few hours of the party, Lucy indulged in a couple more glasses of wine than she intended, sticking solidly by her parents’ sides. She did her best to keep a smile on her face and ease into the Christmas festivity, even when Laura and Kacey said their hellos, but her mind just kept going back to Tyson.

“We’re going to start saying our goodbyes, okay honey? Why don’t you find all our coats.”

Lucy just nodded at her mom’s suggestion, grateful for the opportunity to escape the crowd. Well, she was grateful, until she saw Tyson sitting on the bench next to the coat rack, face flushed and eyes glassy. He was drunk, at least moderately so.

“Ah, fuck, I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said, voice slurring.

What did he mean by that?

“I’m just getting our coats. We’re heading out,” she murmured, trying to ignore the whoosh in her stomach.

“Already?”

“It’s nearly midnight, Tys,” she said, smiling wryly.

“Well, fuck. Time flies when you’re having whiskey, I guess,” he groaned, putting his empty glass on the bench next to him.

She huffed out a laugh, unhooking the coats when she finally spotted them.

“You look good, Luce,” he murmured, looking up at her through his eyelashes.

“I do?” she blurted.

Damn it.

But Tyson just grinned. “Yeah, you really do. You always looked good, but damn you’ve really settled into your own skin, eh?”

“I love who I am, yeah,” she nodded.

She wasn’t lying, or even placating. Her studies in environmental impact had opened up a whole new side of her she hadn’t even realised was there, and she loved everything about the person she’d become through it. She just hadn’t realised it was obvious on the outside.

Then again, if anyone was going to notice something like that about her, it was going to be Tyson, wasn’t it?

“You’re too good for me.”

Oh fuck.

“That’s not true. Not even slightly,” Lucy said, frowning.

“No? I can barely get a team to keep me, and you’re soaring ahead with your academic career, just like you deserve,” Tyson scoffed.

This was just the alcohol talking. It had to be.

“Tys, those teams are the ones missing out. You’re amazing,” she said softly.

He paused for a moment, before shaking his head.

“If I’m so amazing, why did we break up?”

Because he had to put hockey first.

Because she had to put college first.

Because neither of them were each other’s first choice.

“That’s not fair, Tyson. We were kids when we first started dating. Barely 13 years old. And we were together for eight years! We had an incredible relationship! It just…we wanted different things. Our priorities were different, our passions were different – we might have grown up together, but we’d also grown apart. Your life is hockey and my life is academics, and that’s okay! That doesn’t mean we didn’t have love, yeah?”

The way that Tyson’s eyes filled up with tears made her own eyes water, dangerous lump rising in her throat.

“If I could go back and change it all, I would. I’d choose you. I’d always choose you.”

His soft words tore a sob from her throat and she shook her head. How could he be so cruel?

“Don’t say that. We made the right decision five years ago and you know it,” she whimpered.

Tyson’s face fell at her devastated expression, and he staggered to his feet.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry,” he said sadly.

And yet here she was, broken hearted all over again.

“I should go. I need to go,” was all she could manage to choke out.

“Lucy, baby, please…”

But Lucy just shook her head, clutching the coats in her hands, shaky smile on her lips as the tears finally fell. “Merry Christmas, Tyson.”

~

“So what happened at the Christmas Eve Party that has you all torn up like this?”

Lucy flinched at her mom’s voice, turning her head to see her standing in the doorway to her bedroom.

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“Uh huh, and I’m a fairy princess,” her mom snorted.

Lucy couldn’t help but giggle, earning a fond smile as her mom walked into the room and sat down next to her on her bed. Lucy placed a bookmark in the book she’d been reading to give her mom her full attention. She’d needed a little respite from all the preparations to hold her dad’s family for a late lunch, after all the intensity of having her mom’s family over yesterday on Christmas Day, but she’d found herself reliving her conversation with Tyson over and over.

“Sounds like…it sounds like everything was worth it for you.”

“You’re too good for me.”

“If I’m so amazing, why did we break up?”

“If I could go back and change it all, I would. I’d choose you. I’d always choose you.”

So really, her mom coming up to talk to her was a welcome break from all of that as well.

“If you know it was the Christmas Eve Party then you can take a guess,” Lucy said, shrugging.

“I’d rather hear it from you, when Tyson’s involved,” her mom mused.

Well at least her mom was blunt about it.

“We had a couple of conversations, and it stirred up old emotions, old drama. He…mom, he said he’d go back and change it all if he could. That he’d always choose me. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Her mom blinked a couple of times, lips parted in a surprised, before she coughed out a laugh.

“Well I could never accuse Tyson of being subtle.”

“Mom, seriously. This is stressing me out. I can’t stop thinking about it,” Lucy groaned.

“I think that’s an answer in itself, sweetheart,” she said softly.

“What?”

Her mom stayed silent, just nudging Lucy with her shoulder, and Lucy nudged back out of habit. What did she mean, that was an answer in itself?

“Lucy, honey, if you can’t stop thinking about Tyson choosing you above everything else, that means something,” her mom eventually said with a huffed laugh.

“But how can it? He still has his hockey, and I still have academics. Neither of those are going to change any time soon,” Lucy said sadly.

Because at the end of the day, that was the bottom line of it all. Their priorities haven’t changed.

“Just because your both still have your passions doesn’t mean that they have to be your only love. You can have both,” her mom said firmly.

What?

“How can I have both?” Lucy asked, confused.

“Do you love him?” was all she said.

“What?” Lucy said, surprised.

“Do you love him?” her mom repeated.

Lucy opened her mouth, shutting it again before huffing out a laugh. There was only one answer to that.

“Yeah, I never stopped,” she replied.

“Then you can have both. You spent the last five years missing him, and I know damn well that that boy missed you too - neither of you deserve that for another second. You can have both,” her mom said decisively.

She could have both?

How could she have both?

“You love him.”

“I love him,” Lucy whispered.

“Go get him.”

Lucy whimpered as she looked into her mom’s eyes, but she only saw warmth and encouragement. Her mom was right. She loved Tyson. She loved Tyson and if seeing him again this Christmas had taught her anything, it was that she was stupid if she tried to deny how much she missed him. If she didn’t tell him now, when would she?

“He leaves today. I need to go now,” she said suddenly.

“Well damn, okay then. Put on a sweater and I’ll find your snow boots,” her mom grinned.

Lucy felt like she was in a haze as she walked as quickly down the street as was safe, heart pounding as she spotted Tyson loading bags into his grandpa’s car.

“Tyson!”

His head whipped around at her shout, eyes going wide as he saw her walking towards him. Tyson shuffled down the driveway, missing Jim’s fond smile as he himself went back into the house, and the moment that she was standing in front of him, Tyson cupped his hands over her elbows to steady her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I love you,” she breathed.

Tyson whimpered, but Lucy wasn’t discouraged, not when she saw the wonder that filled his expression.

“You love me?”

“I love you. I love you so much and I can’t stop thinking about everything you said the other night,” she blurted out.

“Luce, I’m sorry, I know I upset you but…”

“No, Tys, it’s okay,” Lucy said, shaking her head as she interrupted, “While I stand by what I said, that we made the right decision at the time, maybe we could make a different decision now?”

“What are you saying?”

She could understand his hesitation, really she could. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t coming out with this out of the blue, after five years of nothing at all. After five years of heartbreak and heartache. But her mom was right – she missed him so fiercely and she couldn’t bear the thought of him not knowing that.

“I want us to start over new. I never stopped loving you, not for one moment. We could have both. We could have our passions and our love, and I hate that it’s taken me this long to even consider that? I miss you and I love you and I know you’re heading to the airport to fly back to Raleigh, but tell me I’m not crazy for thinking we could do this?”

Tyson’s jaw dropped as he processed her long rant, and it was only his firm grip on her elbows that stopped her from giving up hope.

“That was a lot,” Tyson said.

She winced. “I know, but…”

“And you poured out a lot of emotion there,” he interrupted.

Lucy kept her mouth shut this time, as much as she wanted to beg him to say more.

“It’s been agony for five years, for so many reasons, but hearing you say that you love me and you want to give our relationship another shot? I just…”

Tyson trailed off, letting out a long breath.

“I understand if I’m too late,” she murmured.

But Tyson huffed out a laugh, raising one hand from her elbow to cup her face in a gentle motion that had her breath hitching in her throat.

“There is no world in which you’d be too late,” Tyson said softly.

“Really?”

“I love you too, Lucy. I never stopped either,” he murmured.

She couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that tumbled from her lips, smiling back up at Tyson as he smiled at her.

“We’re really doing this?” she asked, giddy.

“Yeah, baby, we are. I don’t know how we’re going to do this, or what it’s going to look like, but we’re both adult enough to know how to put in more effort this time round right, yeah? I’ll fly home for the all-star break, and I’ll fly you out for spring break, and we’ll have video calls that neither of us are going to miss. And everything else. We’re going to make it work this time,” he said, tone serious but face grinning.

“And we’re going to communicate, yeah? When one of us is finding it hard? We’ll find little compromises, as we can’t do the big compromises. We’re worth it,” Lucy added, not caring that her cheeks were aching with her smile.

“Yeah, we are. I love you, so much Lucy,” Tyson grinned.

“I love you too.”

Tyson didn’t waste any time in leaning down to press his lips to hers, their last first kiss.