#i write svt aus

[seungkwanhey]

I have to get more active here 😓 and i actually want to make friends but idk how to 😭😭

[waldau]

Saw your are open for requests, since you write wonwoo soooo soooo well, maybe a little drabble or headcanon about reader and wonwoo first time sleeping (not having sex, just purely fluff cuddle and sleep) together would be good in this rainy season here in my tropical country.

Btw SEATED for the longer fics😁

cuddles — jeon wonwoo | 1,450 words | fluff

TROPICAL COUNTRY ANON MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES I STILL HOPE IT'S RAINING WHERE YOU ARE. i love the rains and i'm sorry i didn't get inspired in time to write something that i like, but i really hope you see this!

gender neutral reader. warnings: reader is a bit unsettled by the sound of thunder (not actually self-projection for once).

“do you have to go?” wonwoo asks as you search for the remote to pause the movie, credits rolling on the screen.

you stare at him, trying to come up with a response. more specifically, you’re wondering if he’s implying what you think he’s implying. “i mean…isn’t it late? and don’t i always leave around this time?”

“you do,” he says, leaning over you to take out the remote that’s wedged between two cushions, and you swear your heart skips a beat. “but you could change that.”

“are you…asking…”

“it’s raining, too,” he says, a hopeful smile on his face. “if you really want to leave, i can drop you home, but i think i’d really like it if you…stayed.”

and that’s how you find yourself by wonwoo’s side in his bathroom, holding a spare toothbrush he handed you as he brushes his teeth. you’re vaguely aware that toothpaste is dripping down your brush and onto your hand as you watch him through the mirror, while also considering the fact that is way too domestic to be doing with someone you’ve been dating for two months.

but you can’t stop thinking about how…soft he looks. his hair is wept back from his forehead, no longer neatly styled like it had been earlier in the day, but still making him look very handsome. he’s wearing an oversized hoodie with sweatpants. you can’t help but wonder what you’ll look like, wearing it.

the thought immediately flusters you so much that you look anywhere but at him, and yet you can see him glance at you through the mirror now.

“want to tell me what you were thinking about?”

you refuse to grace his question with an answer and hurry up with your routine, skin feeling a bit cooler when you’re done washing your face. you pat it dry with the towel wonwoo’s given you, and when you turn around, there’s a shirt and a pair of sweatpants sitting on the counter.

even though it’s just basic decency, making sure you don’t go to sleep in your jeans tonight, it’s still thrilling to see his clothes being perfectly oversized on you. you step out of the bathroom a bit nervously, not having heard any sound from him in the past minute. but wonwoo’s lying on the bed, looking at his phone. when he sees you, there’s a smile on his face. he rolls to his side and watches you shut the door and come over to where he’s resting.

“what is it?” you ask, a little self-conscious. you’re not yet used to the — for lack of a better word — adoring gazes he gives you whenever he sees you. he’s verbal with his affection, too, always letting you know how good he thinks you look, or how happy he is that you’re spending your time with him, but he’s even better with his actions. which is what makes you think this is one of those moments.

“nothing,” he says, putting his phone on the stand.

“then why were you looking at me like that?” you ask, sitting down on the bed and swinging your legs over so that you’re comfortably settled.

“you just…you look really good in my clothes.”

it takes everything in you not to turn and hide your face in the pillow at that. you’re still not used to how blunt he is, and how he means every word he says to you. you’d known this about him before you started dating him, but now that you’re actually dating him, you’re getting to see a side of him you didn’t know existed.

“yeah? maybe i should wear your hoodie, then,” you tease instead.

“i hope you do,” he says, putting his glasses away and getting under the covers, motioning for you to do the same. you swear your brain has short-circuited as you get underneath the covers as well. his covers are as warm as the ones you have at home, and you remember he mentioned he runs cold. same as you, then.

you lie there for a minute or two, getting used to each other’s proximity, before wonwoo speaks up.

“tell me if this is okay,” he says, before inching closer and resting a large hand on your stomach. you can feel your breath catch as his hand inches its way around your waist and pulls you a bit closer. “sweetheart?”

“mhm? i’m fine.” you are fine, but your poor heart isn’t.

“good. i don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to.”

as much as you appreciate how respectful he’s being, part of you wishes he was a bit less cautious. you’re okay with him. you trust him, and he knows it.

“i’m not made of glass, wonwoo,” you say, looking up at him from where you’re resting.

wonwoo takes in a breath and then pulls you into himself, letting your head rest on his chest. it’s only then that you realize his heart is beating fast, probably as fast as yours.

“wonwoo?”

“mm?”

“are you nervous right now?”

“how couldn’t i be? i have such a pretty person in my arms.”

you actually gasp and smack his chest at that. he only laughs — that deep, rumble-like laugh that made you like him so much. “aren’t we supposed to be sleeping? trying to, at least?”

“i’m finding it hard to sleep with you here.”

“…oh,” you say, happiness deflating a bit. “see, i told you—”

“no!” he exclaims, scrambling away enough to look you in the eyes. “i meant— i want to keep talking to you, but i also want to sleep, and it’s unlucky that we can’t do both at the same time.”

your heart flutters at that. “that’s…i wish we could do that, too.”

“good,” he says, settling back down. “then that’s what we’re going to do.” he adjusts the covers so that you’re resting comfortably. you do want to keep the conversation going, but wonwoo is perfectly warm, and the rain outside sounds like pleasant white noise that is lulling you deeper into tiredness.

“do you like the rain?” you ask, hand resting on his chest, gently tracing abstract patterns. like the ones you doodle when you’re on phone calls with him.

when he doesn’t reply for a while, you think you’ve spoken too softly, but then you feel the rumble in his chest as he speaks. “i do. i love how green it gets outside. and i love how it smells, too.”

you want to say the same, but a sudden boom of thunder makes you freeze and grip his hoodie rather tightly.

“sweetheart?” wonwoo asks instantly, concern palpable in his voice. “are you okay?”

“it’s nothing,” you say, but even you know it’s a lie when you don’t let go of the death grip you have on his hoodie.

it’s not even lightning. it’s somewhat of a stupid thing to be afraid of, yet you can’t help but feel helpless when the thunder booms again, louder than it did the first time.

“is it…the thunder? the sound of it? i promise i won’t judge you, sweetheart.”

you sigh. “it’s just…i’m not very fond of thunder. i don’t like how loud it gets. i’m not scared, really, i just don’t like the way it…”

“startles you?”

you nod, not wanting to look at him. you wonder what he’s thinking.

“that’s perfectly fine,” wonwoo says, voice soft as he pulls you closer into himself till his arms engulf your upper body and you’re surrounded only by him and his calm breathing, his warmth that’s currently your anchor. “i used to be scared of dogs because i got bitten once. but i’ve got seol now. you’ve seen her, haven’t you?”

you have. wonwoo’s shown you pictures of his dog back home, and she’s the most adorable thing you’ve seen.

“you’re not any weaker for not liking thunderstorms, you know. everyone has their thing. don’t worry about it when you’re with me. i can’t make it go away, but i can make sure you’re not too scared, okay?”

“are you always this romantic?”

you can feel more than hear wonwoo’s chuckle as it rumbles through his chest. you’ve never felt as safe as you do now, in a thunderstorm. you burrow yourself more into his hold, loving how his arm comes to wrap around your waist.

“sleep well,” he says.

“i—” love you, you want to say, but the words catch in your throat. you mean them with your entirety, even if they might be a bit premature. “you too. i’m so glad i’m here,” you say instead, leaning up to peck his cheek.

wonwoo kisses your head, arm tightening around you. “i’m so glad you’re here, too.”

taglist: @bookyeom @wootify @strnsvt @cloudycaramel @thepoopdokyeomtouched

@minnieminshi @nonononranghaee @hrts4hanniehae @viewvuu @bewoyewo

[shuastar]

KISS 'ER UP (CHV) pt. 1

pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 10.9k warnings: nothing for now; SLIGHTLY unrealistic meet-cute but whatever we pick and choose our battles; DO NOT meet with strangers after only knowing them for a month even if they're ridiculously hot and chwe hansol (I REPEAT DO NOT). a/n: im baaaaaaaaack!! (cue mariah carey) i am so excited to be back with a new story. this one is shorter than my wonwoo one but still (hopefully) interesting and good. ive always been a baseball fan so this is really fun for me to write up, especially with vernon as the player!! this is my first time including text message-ish things inside the story so lmk after the first part comes up if i should change the style into an actual "fake chat" picture thing that the smau's use. anyways thank u always for reading <3 taglist form here!!

previous ; next

Late March was not supposed to be this cold – fleece-lined hoodie under the pink and blue jersey, thick jeans paired with Ugg boots you had stored away for the winter until just yesterday when the weather had suddenly plummeted into the lower degrees, freezing your ass off on the 28th of March. 

The jam-packed stadium – open air – did nothing to chill the cold that was slowly pressing into your bones and the wind-nipped red-blushed cheeks. 

Your leg bounces as you lean over your knees to squint at the pitcher from the other team – Doosan Bears – toss the fat piece of chalk to the ground, a plume of white following in its wake. Your hands are rubbing up and down your jeans as if that would warm you up in this cold. 

The next batter walks out from the dugout and from your seat, you can see each and every strand of hair poking out from under Kim Mingyu’s helmet as he takes his leisurely walk to the home plate. From behind you in the main arena – where you should have been sitting until Kim Chaewon gave you her fucking floor next-to-the-dugout seat because she wanted to sit with her boyfriend in the main seats – a roar of approval echoes through the stadium. And when Mingyu taps his bat against the bruised white of the home plate, stretching his neck as he gets into position, you can hear the very loud singing of his fan chant against the announcers’ commentary of his stats throughout the season (well, throughout the last four games). 

Mingyu is good. He’s tall, strong, and can hit a ball as well as any of the Doosan players combined. You nod in approval and sit back against the chair, picking up your cup of beer from the ground by your feet, sipping as Mingyu lets a ball fly through. 

You can’t help but glance at the scoreboard: 3 to 1. And it’s the 5th inning. If Mingyu can get the ball into a homerun – like what everyone else was chanting behind you – it would bring home at least 3 players and this game would be in your pocket. And seriously. Doosan was falling off this year anyways, so it should only be natural that you should win, especially with last year’s All-Round Rookie of the Year (Lee Chan) and last year’s KMLB’s MVP and MIP (Lee Jihoon and Vernon Chwe). 

You can only watch, only slightly anxious, as Mingyu raises his bat again, squinting against the setting sun and bright stadium lights. 

It’s like a blur. 

You blink once and then the ball is a millimetre from Mingyu’s swinging bat. 

CRACK!!

The bat slams into the ball and Mingyu – as well as the rest of the stadium – watches for one second as it soars in the air. And before cheers can even interrupt Doosan’s boos, Mingyu is off like a flash, feet kicking up dust as he rounds first base, then second, and then third. 

Your jaw unhinges ever so slightly as his ball flies well over even the furthest of Doosan’s outfielders, over their heads and into the mass of Diamond fans at the other side of the stadium. 

The cheers are deafening when the ball lands perfectly in some lucky bitch’s lap, too busy filming herself on the jumbotron to actually cheer for her team. The cheers are heart-pounding when Dino, followed by Joshua, and then Mingyu race into home, their screams of delight mixing in with the fans’ booming fanchants of their names. 

From where you stand, beer forgotten on the ground, hands raised as you almost violently shake the team towel, you can almost read the team’s lips as they cheer amongst themselves. Next to you, another fan screams and screams as the jumbotron switches to the disappointed scowls of the Doosan fans. 

When your throat feels raw from the screaming, you slowly sit down, heart pounding in your ears and grin stretching wide. 

What a way to spend a Friday night. 

Suddenly, the cheers die down, replaced with a familiar sort of music that only rings from the stadium speakers during a specific segment between the 5th and 6th inning. 

Your eyes flicker up to the big screen from their past position trained on the players who were just a couple of steps from the side netting right next to you. 

The Kiss Cam. 

You glance next to you on the left only to see a pretty girl, maybe in her teens, laughing with her friends. You bite your lip, sighing in slight disappointment as the jumbotron shows a pair of people, both flushed from one too many drinks and waving their Diamond towels until the boy seems to recognize himself on the big screen, screams, and then grabs the girl next to him by the collar of her jersey and pulls her into the sloppiest and most drunken kiss you’ve had the displeasure of ever seeing. 

Really, though. If you hadn’t switched seats with Chaewon, maybe you would have heightened your chances for your first ever Kiss Cam experience. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your jersey as the Kiss Cam picks its next victim. You swirl your beer. Five years you’ve been coming to baseball games and not once have you ever been on the Kiss Cam’s lucky victim. 

“Kim Chaewon, I swear…” you mutter, pulling out your phone to text your bestfriend when the stadium suddenly erupts into ear-splitting screams. From the right of you, near the dugout, you hear a couple of chuckles. 

And when you look up at the screen, expecting some romantic little couple kissing, you are met with Vernon Chwe’s god-given face. 

And yours. 

Stretched side by side on the big screen. 

You blink owlishly before your eyes widen and your head whips to the right, only to come face to face with Vernon Chwe’s awkward sheepish grin, also slightly surprised by his sudden appearance on the Kiss Cam.

It feels like your throat is blocked – shoved with something thick and round that cuts off your speech. You don’t think you properly calculated how close you would be to the players in your seat until now. 

Your eyes widen even further as you turn fully towards him, and Vernon – who was casually stretching right outside of the dugout – pauses mid-motion, blinking at the screen before bursting into surprised laughter. When he gives a little wave to the big screen, the stadium erupts and you can hear the high-pitched squeals of teenage girls in the crowd. His teammates are all over him too, hollering and nudging him like overgrown high schoolers and you can hear his laughter and his next few words stringed with disbelief: “Am I on the Kiss Cam?” 

Vernon, bless his baseball soul, just smiles sheepishly, taking off his cap to run a hand through his hair as if that would somehow help him (and you!!) escape the entire stadium’s attention. As he pulls his cap back on, he gives a little shrug as if to say what can we do?, before turning back to the game, just in time for the Kiss Cam to move on. 

The camera moves on. 

You do not. 

Your attention is still fixed on Vernon, even as the camera pans to a different set of people. 

What the fuck just happened?

It seems like you’ve been staring for too long because Vernon turns, only to catch your stare, which makes him grin. You clear your throat (as if anyone is paying attention) and quickly turn your head, trying to cover your burning ears with your baseball cap, sinking further into your seat, your beer conveniently forgotten by your feet. 

When you wished upon a broken star for a Kiss Cam moment, it wasn’t with a player. Not that you were complaining, of course not. But still. You would rather have a Kiss Cam with someone you could actually kiss instead of openly gawking at a dreadfully handsome player as your face is broadcasted to at least ten thousand people plus the players on the field. 

“Hey.” 

Your head snaps towards the voice and you nearly choke. 

Vernon Chwe is against the fence, pulling the side netting down that separates your section from right outside of the dugout,  just a couple feet away from your seat.  

It feels like you lose your breath because holy shit there is no way someone born of natural means can look like the man who is in front of you right now. He could pass for a K-Pop idol or at least some kind of trainee with the way the light hits his cheekbones. His baseball cap is pulled over his messy hair and his baseball uniform is streaked with dirt from when he had slid Babe Ruth-style into 3rd base after Joshua had hit a middle-punt. He grins at you from under his cap like he’s talking to an old friend, not a complete stranger who was just screaming her vocal chords out when his teammate had hit a homerun. 

His arms are crossed against the railing, looking at you – expression unreadable but eyes holding amusement, sparkling with some kind of curiosity. 

“Me?” you ask. You clear your throat afterwards, voice oddly squeaky. 

Come on, Y/n. You’ve done interviews with Vogue before. Get your shit together. 

Vernon nods. 

Well, Vernon Chwe is not Vogue, evidently. 

His hand suddenly appears from its grasp on the ledge, his phone dangling from in between his thumb and middle finger. 

When you lean forward, squinting to see his phone screen, you almost double back, falling out of your seat. Your head snaps up so quickly it almost gives you a whiplash, which Vernon evidently thinks is very funny because you see him stifle a laugh. 

“Figured since the whole stadium thinks we’re a thing,” he stars, voice low enough that it only carries to you, “I might as well ask for your Instagram or something.” 

You blink. “What?” 

His lips curl into a half-smile. 

“Can I get your Insta?” he asks, nodding to his phone. “You know, so we can at least pretend we know each other?” 

“Isn’t that like, I dunno, considered a PR mess or something?” you blurt out, which Vernon also thinks is funny because he lets out a seagull-like laugh and makes a smile rise to your own face. 

Your stomach flips when he smiles though. 

Well, yeah, because he’s so much better looking in person and like a foot from your face, but also because holy shit Vernon Chwe just asked you for your Instagram. 

And, yeah, you’re mutuals with a couple of celebrities. But that’s just a part of your job – design clothes, make clothes, sew in the details, and style it to their (your) taste. But this? This is definitely not work. 

And you’re half of a mind to just pretend and ignore whatever Vernon said, act like you have a sudden bout of memory lapse. But your mouth moves before your brain does and you’re already reaching for his phone, fumbling a little as you mumble a “yeah, yeah sure,” as you type in your Instagram handle. 

Vernon grins at you as you swallow, handing him his phone, now opened to the main page of your Instagram profile. When he grabs it, leaning forward just a little bit, your fingertips brush – just barely – but enough for you to retract your hand back like you are burned by a roaring flame. 

When he glances down at his phone, his brows raise at your follower count. 

“Dude, are you famous or something? Three point five million?” He glances up at you, almost expectantly. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, mumbling sheepishly, “I’m a designer.” 

“Oh cool,” he hums and you know he’s scrolling through your posts before his thumb presses against the bright blue FOLLOW button. “Very cool,” he mumbles. 

And you swear he’s about to say something else but then a whistle blows. Vernon perks up, alert, at his coach’s booming voice, followed by Choi Seungcheol’s call for him. 

He exhales, jumping off of the fence and stepping back, pocketing his phone. 

“Gotta go,” he says. Then, with a grin, he raises a hand in a small wave, “Nice meeting you, Kiss Cam partner.” 

And just like that, he’s gone, jogging to the dugout, laughing through a badly-made-up excuse about having to go to the bathroom or something as Seungcheol narrows his eyes at him. 

You stare at your phone.

The most recent notification is from Instagram:

[vernonline followed you] 

Holy. Shit. 

Despite all your efforts to laugh it off (inside your head), you can’t help but break out into the goofiest, widest, mouth-splitting grin at the notification, staring at it in disbelief. This is definitely different from idols following you after you are asked to style them for an upcoming red carpet event. Or models following you after a particularly good photoshoot. This is Vernon Chwe. The Vernon Chwe that you saw Chaewon fangirl over after he hit two homeruns in one game during last season’s final in-season game. You’re also pretty sure you have his jersey hung up somewhere in your closet, next to the other Diamonds jersey that you forgot to wear today. 

You look up from your phone, immediately tracking the bolded pink 12 that is making his way over to 2nd base for defense. 

You run a hand through your hair, picking up your previously-discarded beer cup, trying to hide the enormous grin that is threatening to break out on your face. 

Kiss Cam partner. 

You let out a small laugh at the insanity of it. 

The whistle blows for the start of the sixth inning. 

And you try to forget about it. Afterall, he’s not the first professional athlete in your following. 

And you do forget about it. 

For a total of three days. 

Because on the third day of successful forgetting, your phone lights up while you’re mid-sketch of your F/W collection that you have planned to release in August. 

1 message from vernonline

You blink at the notification, a strange feeling settling in your chest. 

You never expected him to text you. 

I mean, after three days? You held out hope the night of the game, but he’s a professional athlete, with better things to do than entertain the Kiss Cam girl. 

So you want to ignore it. It’s probably something stupid anyways. Or an accident, which seems more likely – he accidentally swiped up on your story, thinking it was someone else (if he even still followed you). Or maybe he’s drunk and you’re a booty call or something. So you want to ignore it. You really do. Plus, you’ve got to get these designs in by tomorrow morning to your assistant for her to send it off to the company. 

But you find yourself clicking on the notification, tapping in your phone password to click on his icon. 

And you almost laugh at the absurdity of his message. 

Vernon 버논  Hey…so this happened lol [attached]

When you click on the photo, you actually laugh out loud, staring at the image for a second. Your lips twitch as the memory floods back. The picture itself is blurry: your shocked face next to Vernon who is mid-stretch next to the dugout. You can practically hear the crowd’s reaction in your head. 

Except what are you supposed to say to this? You could leave him on read. Except someone about leaving him on read and never ever texting him against makes you just a little bit disappointed. So after a few more seconds of consideration – and saving the photo to your gallery – you tap out a response:

You great. my legacy.

He’s typing out a response almost immediately. 

Vernon at least u looked good on camera i think thats a pretty solid legacy ngl

It’s actually abominable how your heart flutters at the words popping up on your bright phone screen. You look up from your phone, glancing around your dark and empty studio like someone is watching over your shoulder at your messages with Vernon. You feel like a teenager stuck in some really realistic Wattpad-esque rom-com. 

And before you think it over, you send your response, your F/W designs completely forgotten in front of you. 

You real solid if u erase the whole scared shitless portion

You cringe at your own response. You could have definitely said something more intellectual or less awkward than that. 

Again, Vernon’s reply is almost immediate. So fast that you swear he’s staring at your chat screen (like you’re not doing the same thing). 

Vernon: tbh gotta give it to the cameras

You blink.

Vernon: got to talk to u and everything

Oh. 

This was enormously unfair – the effect his texts have on you. He’s such a dork too, asking for your Instagram just because you came on the Kiss Cam together like he’s not a world-class baseball player. But you find yourself smiling silly at your phone, legs curled up to your chest as you type out a response. 

You stare at the screen longer than you should, the words settling into something you should definitely not be overthinking. Your phone feels warm in your hands, thrumming with your heartbeat that feels a little fast under the – no, don’t overthink. The dark of your studio feels a little too quiet. You press your lips together, exhaling sharply before clicking send. 

You u mean u got to text me after staring at my insta for like an hr

A beat. For a second, his bubble doesn’t appear and you swear to God you’ve scared him off or something. You’re just about to unsend your message, praying that he didn’t see it, when his message pops up. 

Vernon: bold assumption i only stared for like 10 min max

You snort, hand over your mouth as you giggle like you’re texting some situationship from highschool. You hate that he’s so funny. 

You: glad u had time squeeze me into ur busy schedule

Vernon: had to shift sum things around but all good being pro is not for the weak

You laugh at that. You feel some weird kind of adrenaline coursing through you as you stand up from your desk chair to migrate over to a more comfortable surface to lounge on. You feel the remnants of your grin tickling the corners of your lips and the rapid beating of your heart as you re-read Vernon’s message. 

It’s worse, you think, because of how casual this seems. Because Vernon’s texting you like you weren’t some fan in the audience who was accidentally paired with him for the Kiss Cam. 

You stare into the dark of your studio, your phone close to your chest. It feels weird. You’ve texted celebrities before. Hell, you could be counted as a celebrity in your own right. You had people (rare) asking you for autographs and pictures. But texting Vernon Chwe? You didn’t know. Something is different. 

Vernon: so r u gna leave me on read or…..

You: seems like u have a lot of time on ur hands mr pro athlete

Vernon: nah

You: obv enough time to find the worst possible photo of me

Vernon: that was all mingyu  plus its like prime meme material the internet’s alr on it

For a second you panic. Because he can’t be serious. 

You: ur lying

Vernon: lmfao obv wouldnt do that to u yet….

You roll your eyes at his text but the corners of your lips betray you, twitching into that stupid silly idiot smile. 

You: i block and report u

Vernon: tragic so u comin to the next game or what

You blink. Once. Twice. Three times. 

He wants you there? 

No, no, no, no, no, no, Y/n. Don’t get ahead of yourself. 

To Vernon, you’re just another fan. Another face in the crowd. Just lucky enough to be caught up in the Kiss Cam with him. 

You: u think i have enough luck for two game tickets in a row???

Vernon: bold of u to assume i wouldnt send u tickets

You: bold of u to assume i want them 

Vernon: guess i am bold then lol

Your breath catches. It’s a joke, obviously, but the way your fingers hesitate over the keyboard, typing something only to backspace and delete every word you’ve written so quickly and forcefully that it actually kind of hurts your thumb. 

You decide on something more neutral. 

You: wdym

Vernon: ill send u season tickets whatever seat u want

You almost fall out of your couch. 

You: wait be so fr rn

Vernon: bro i am

You try to ignore the bro in his message. But otherwise, season tickets? You would have bought season tickets a long time ago, except your schedule tends to change very erratically and you never saw paying upwards of one grand for only being able to attend a handful of games. 

You: so am i paying or what

Vernon: on the house

You: lmfao … wait r u srs

Vernon: deadass as a dead rat 

You stop. There is no way he’s telling you this right now, apart from the whole dead rat thing. Those season tickets cost at leas tone thousand the last time you checked – mostly because Chaewon begged and begged you to buy one so that you guys could attend whatever game you wanted. 

Vernon: lmfao dw players r given four season tickers per season i have 1 left

For some weird reason, your heart flutters at that. He would give you his last season ticket? A girl he met just three days ago? 

You’re ready for this too-good-to-be-true dream to come to an end. 

But just to test your luck, you send one more text. 

You: we’ll see

He doesn’t reply right away. And you’re about to shut your phone off when your phone buzzes with a new notification.

You don’t even need to actually open Instagram to read Vernon’s new text.

Vernon 버논 noted

And somehow, that leaves you smiling like a stupid idiot at your phone for way too long.

For a few days, you don’t bring it up. Neither does Vernon, though he keeps your phone buzzing in the moments you think you’ve finally forgotten about him. You text about completely random things – his god-awful practice schedule (his words, not yours), your last F/W design that you sent off to your assistant only for her to lose the drawing, making you re-draw the design, a weirdly heated debate about whether you should pour the sweet and sour sauce over the sweet and sour pork or if you should dip the pork into the sauce. And all through that, the whole season ticket thing goes unmentioned. 

Until one evening, in the middle of your rerun of Hospital Playlist as you cut through a yard of fabric, your phone buzzes against the coffee table counter. 

1 message from @/vernonline

Your fingers that are curled through the scissors falter, the metal blade hitching against the suddenly-rumpled fabric. 

Vernon: left smth for u at the company ticket booth

You blink. 

You: huh?

Vernon: season pass  pick it up whenever cant have u blaming ur absence at ticket unavailability lol

You stare at your screen. It makes you mad, just a little bit, how he seems so calm while saying the most heart-fluttering things. Or maybe you’re just severely deprived of male attention or something because as you read the texts again, you feel yourself smiling. Again. 

You: u sure about this?

Vernon: too late to take it back now

You: i could be the worst luck ever for your team

Vernon: nah i think ur good luck but we’ll find out

You’re out of reply options. So you just like his last message and slam your phone down on the coffee table, turning to the back of your couch. And you stay there, perfectly still, head buried into the couch cushions, legs tucked into your chest, and eyes squeezed shut as you suck in a breath and then sigh it out aggressively. 

You can’t think straight. 

You side-eye your half-cut fabric laying out on the coffee table. Usually, you never bring back work from your studio. It’s good, mostly. You get to have separate spaces for work and for relaxation – for home. But you had to today. Because Yerin came into the studio moaning and groaning about how the company wouldn’t get off of her ass about your first five designs coming into fruition before the end of this week. So, you brought your work back home, prepared to the moon and back to pull an all-nighter to finish this design. Or, you thought. 

Because, as you sit up, cheek resting against the couch cushions, you realize something. And it comes almost as an epiphany to you. 

Vernon Chwe has materialized in your life as analogous as playing with a big roaring fire. 

And, as of right now, you felt no pain in sticking your hand into the flame. 

Which is why you increasingly start to find yourself riding the jam-packed subway at 6:00 pm to attend his games – at least the ones you could – under the excuse that you enjoyed baseball and what kind of fan would you be if you let the season pass go to waste? 

It’s warmer today, at least compared to the last game you attended. It’s a home game this time – Diamonds’ home turf. Everywhere you turn, you’re met with blue and pink, fans with player jerseys, and dangling diamond keychains designed by the team. 

You slip into your regular seat by the start of the bottom half of the second inning. The plan was to get there by the start of the game, but you had some runway design stuff to go over with the venue company about installing more overhead lights. 

Your phone vibrates between the 7th and 8th inning. 

You don’t even need to check to see who it is, based on the rather unnerving stare you were receiving every so often from the dugout. 

Vernon: ur here

You: whos to say

Vernon: i can literally see u tf

You glance up at that. You’re seated above the other team’s dugout, at a side angle from the Diamond’s dugout, where everyone is sitting right now. You squint to make out the faces of everyone under the shadow of the dugout. 

A quiet scoff escapes your lips. There is no way he can see you. 

You: liar liar pants on fiar

Vernon: thats sum kindergarten shit

You: we listen n we dont judge eyes on the game mr pro baseballer

Vernon: cant ur too distracting

If you aren’t in public, you would have screeched at that text. Instead, you almost drop your phone in the hurry to cover up your bright screen, as if anyone would have cared enough to take a risky peek at your phone screen. 

When you peek at your phone again, Vernon has sent a flurry of crying and skull emojis, as well as a very blurry photo of you taken from, apparently, his place in the dugout. 

You can feel a flush that is definitely not from the beer creep up your neck. 

You: i am not afraid to block 

Vernon: yeah yeah ok wtv

You: do my threats not seem real to u

Vernon: whats ur go to order for chi-maek??

Your brows raise. Chi-maek? Really? In the middle of the game? As you type out your response, you hear the distinct whistle of the ump, calling to start the 8th inning. 

You: spicy glaze and whiskey highball

The scoreboard reads 7 to 4, the Diamonds winning for now. You hum as cheers from your side go up as Dokyeom goes up to pitch, a bright smile on his face as he stretches his wrists. 

Your phone buzzes. 

You check it a little too quick. 

Vernon: whiskey highball is NOT beer but ok solid order but sadly wrong :( 

You: girl what

Vernon: honey garlic w cass draft

You actually let out a laugh at that, attracting the attention of literally everyone around you because who the fuck laughs in the middle of a baseball game. Especially if you’re sitting in the VIP seats above the dugout. But you can’t seem to tear yourself away from your phone. 

You: ur like those basic white girls on pinterest

Vernon: idekwtm

You: what?

Vernon: i dont even know what that means basic is undefeated

You: ok whatever u say 

Vernon: n e ways u wanna test the theory after the game?

Your heart stops for a second. It’s short. Almost a nonexistent murmur of excitement that shoots through you. But it’s enough for you to freeze, swallowing down the sudden ball in your throat. 

You: not a theory  a fact

Vernon: same thing

You: was that an invitation?

Vernon: idk only if it worked?

You should say no. 

That should be the right thing to do. Because who in the right mind goes out for chi-maek after a baseball game with a high-profile baseball player? It’s dangerous. It has the probability of being as big of a PR scare as that one time paparazzi leaked photos of you and your actor sneaky link slash hook up slash friend with a lot of benefits hand-in-hand as you left the hotel he was staying at after a particularly good photoshoot. That ended as fast as it started. 

So why are you typing out this response like your life depends on it?

You: i dont approve of ur draft choice

Vernon: ill adapt

Vernon: wanna meet me at the player entrance?

You: do i like sneak in or smth?? 

Vernon: bruh no ill let the staff know be out 20 min after the end of the game  promise

You like his promise before clicking your phone off, head dizzy, brain hurting as you dumbly look on as the teams switch offense and defense. You watch as Dokyeom hands out strikes like he’s giving out menus at a restaurant and then you watch again as Dino, Joshua, and Vernon round bases, followed by Minghao and Mingyu after he steals two bases. 

Your phone is not forgotten on the table in front of you. 

Until it buzzes as the game winds down. 

You glance at the screen, barely registering the screams around you or the score, heart already beating just a little too fast for something as simple as a text. 

Vernon: 20 min player entrance don’t ditch lmao

A huff of amusement leaves you before you can help it. You lift your phone again, thumbs tapping against the glass as the crowd around you erupts into louder cheers. 

You: yeah yeah dont keep me waiting

A minute passes. 

No response. 

It’s funny because you expect a response. 

But it’s typical, especially during a game. 

So you roll your eyes, dropping your phone back into your lap, pretending to no one that your pulse hasn’t picked up, that your heart wasn’t racing, that the anticipation sitting low in your stomach doesn’t mean anything, and the way your fingers turn cold isn’t an indicator of the sudden rush of adrenaline. 

It shouldn’t mean anything. 

The Diamonds are winning. And that should be enough to distract you. It should be easy to stay focused on the game – it’s the 9th inning for fucks sake. The energy is electric as the team nears almost a 12 point gap between them and the Kia Tigers. It courses through the stadium – through the baseball souls of everyone except for you, it feels like. It’s the kind that makes people jump out of their seats, waving banners and jerseys, calling out players’ names like they’ve worshiped them their whole lives. 

You should be caught up in it. 

But instead, all you can think about is him. 

All you can think about is him – the way he laughed on the call last night, asking if you were coming to the game today, lower than usual, quieter, laced with something unreadable and tired when he asked you so, you coming to the game tomorrow? 

You hadn’t planned on listening. 

Not really, anyways. 

You had deadlines to meet and models to contract for the runway show and fabrics to sew with your team in the studio. 

And yet, here you are. 

The last out is made and the crowd goes wild, jumping in their seats as they sing the team song, voices booming from every stacked corner of the stadium. 

You watch as Vernon jogs off the field with the rest of his teammates after a bow. A small, tiny part of you wonders if he’s going to look in your direction. He doesn’t, obviously. Doesn’t glance up at the stands or cranes his neck at the last minute to look for you. 

You shouldn’t go. 

You should leave. Now. While the stadium is still buzzing with the post-game high, while it’s easy to slip away unnoticed, while you can take back a decision that cannot be taken back after it’s made. 

But you find yourself waiting near the players’ entrance, twenty minutes later – waiting for him. 

You’re debating so hard with yourself that you almost jump out of your skin when the door to the players’ entrance suddenly opens, washing the tunnel with a soft yellow light and the chatter of voices mingling in with the steady sound of water and music. 

Head raised now, you see Vernon step out into the tunnel, duffel slung over his shoulder, posture loose, and mid-laughter at something you think Seungkwan said from inside of the locker rooms. 

God, he looks good. 

He’s not in his uniform anymore – no crisp jersey, no fitted baseball pants, no remnants of the game that just ended, no dirt stains. Instead, he’s wearing a slightly oversized blue sweater, the bold Kenzo Paris lettering stretched across his chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his tight forearms. A pair of relaxed-fit black trousers sit low on his hips, leaving a sliver of skin and the monogrammed Calvin Klein logo to show as he closes the metal door. 

When his gaze lands on you, he slows, head tilting slightly, almost amused. From under the dim tunnel lights and your position against the wall, you can see the water droplets clinging to his damp hair, curly at the edges. 

“You actually showed up,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. 

You cross your arms, cocking a brow, trying to disguise the fluttering of your traitorous heart. “You’re two minutes overtime.” 

Vernon exhales a laugh, shifting his duffel higher on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, pulling your long sleeve top, “gimme a break,” he laughs, “just finished rounding four bases.” 

You click your tongue, but you can’t stop the smile that rises to your face, following him without complaint through the tunnel. “Should’ve finished rounding the last two.” 

He actually laughs at that. “C’mon. Let’s get that whiskey highball of yours. See what the hype’s really about.” 

And against your better judgement, you follow. 

Follow Vernon out of the tunnel and into the open and your fluttering heart.

The stadium is still buzzing as you step outside, although most of the crowd has dispersed into the subway stations. A few stragglers mill around near the gates and the smoking area blows plumes of nicotine smoke from disappointed fans, and the glow of the floodlights cast a long show across the pavement. 

You pull your hood over your head, the night wind biting the tips of your ears and your cheeks as the heat of the screams from the game dies down. Staring at the ground, Vernon’s strides are long and unhurried, allowing you to fall into step beside him as the two of you continue down the sidewalk, away from the glowing lights of the stadium. The streets are quieter now, save for the occasional drunken yells of college students toppling out of bars after drinking one too many glasses of beer. 

“You played well,” you say, mostly to fill the silence, but also because you feel like if you don’t say something, the rest of the night is going to be hell of a lot more awkward. 

“Thanks,” Vernon replies easily, hands shoved in his pockets. “Wasn’t my best game though.” There’s a certain tinge of disappointment in his voice like the expectations are lodged in his chest. 

You glance up at him, brows raised. He better be joking. “You literally hit a triple in the fifth inning.” 

“Yeah, but I hesitated rounding third,” he mumbles, head bowed now. Looking at him like this, under the streetlights, walking downhill to the restaurants below the stadium hill, he looks more tired. “I should’ve pushed for home. Could’ve done it too.” 

You sigh, pushing your hood off of your head to look at him fully. “Could’ve. But reminiscing on it now doesn’t change a thing. You played well.” You smile, nudging him, when you see him start to open his mouth to retort. “Just take the compliment, baseball boy.” 

Vernon gives you a look – amused, a little sheepish, and if you squint in the dark, a little grateful. “Sorry. Habit.” 

You hum, letting the conversation lull for a beat before clearing your throat. “So… do I get to know where we’re going or are you just leading me to an alleyway and then knifing me?” 

Vernon raises a brow. “Dramatic much?”

“I like to keep things interesting.”

He lets out a soft laugh, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a spot a few blocks away. Good chicken. Okay beer.” A pause. You can physically see his brain whirring, eyes narrowing, steps faltering. “Unless I read something wrong and you wanna back out.” He trails off with an awkward sort of laugh that dangerously makes you want to tease him more. 

You roll your eyes at him instead. “Has anyone ever commented on how you dress?” 

Vernon blinks. “What?” His brown eyes look stupidly like large orbs under the yellow lights. 

You gesture to his pants. “Those are good – nice fit and everything. Dunno where they’re from but I like them. But the sweater?” You scrunch your nose as you do another once-over at the blue Kenzo knit. “Mid, at best. Never liked blue.” 

He looks down at himself, then back at you, expression caught between disbelief and amusement. “These pants are yours.” 

“Huh?” Your head tilts. 

Vernon grins, all teeth, canines sinking into his bottom lip. “They’re from your brand. Bought it last week at the department store.” 

You blink. 

It takes a second for his words to register and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped until Vernon stops as well to look back. 

He glances down at his pants like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

You blink down at his pants. 

They are yours – or, well, from your design. The small cat embroidered in silver thread is your marking against the black fabric right on the waistline above the pocket. It’s from three seasons ago, from a collection even you can barely remember. It was a small, limited run – maybe fifty or so copies of all of the clothes manufactured before you had to stop production to release your S/S collection in time to work on your design for the summer red carpets. You had hoped – and still hope – to continue it, especially because it was your first comfort clothing and loungewear line – nothing flashy, nothing widely publicized. The kind of piece that only a handful of people would own, let alone remember. 

But here it is. On him. 

That shocks you more than the fact that the line is still in stores. 

You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure of what to say. 

Vernon watches your reaction, his expression calm, unreadable, with a hint of a smile playing at his lips – like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you right now. Like buying those pants, he knew, would mean more to you than to him. And you swear you hear something like cute whispered from his parted lips…

But that would be ridiculous. Right? Right?

You clear your throat, forcing a scoff, pulling your hood back up over your head before he can see the blush. “Huh,” you mumble, side-eyeing him, “Guess you have some taste.” 

Vernon huffs a quiet laugh, letting you catch up to him. “Guess so.” 

Your heart beats a little faster than it should when you force out the next words. “Still think the blue is not your color.” 

“You comin’ for my sweater?” 

“I’m coming for all of your sweaters. 

“Oh shut up,” he laughs. And in a second, his hand is around your wrist, warm – calloused, yes – but warm, pulling you into a side alleyway and through the door of the first shop. 

It’s frustrating how hard you have to try and force your heart to stop beating at 200 beats per minute. 

When you duck under the very low door frame, you’re met with dim lighting, some kind of old indie rock music playing on a record player, and a flickering old-style TY in the corner playing a muted baseball game from three seasons ago. 

It’s the kind of place that only accepts cash and has their menus laminated but still gently-used, marked with changes in price and menu changes. The kind of place that offers free side menus to the locals and the owner’s favorite customers. 

It suits him. Vernon Chwe. 

He walks in like he’s been here a hundred other times – nods at the owner (a graying man who’s all smiles and hearty chuckles, giving Vernon a gentle pat on the back, congratulating him on the win as he walks past), bows his head when someone calls his name from across the room and waves, and slides into a booth with the ease of a regular after throwing his bags under the table, into the basket. 

You stare at him from the entranceway. 

“You comin’?” His voice is low, easy, barely lifting over the background hum of the restaurant.

You look at him, feet moving before you realize it. He grins up at you as you slide in on the other side. You hesitate for a fraction, though, before you drop your own bag into the basket. 

You don’t know why. 

Maybe it’s the surrealness of it – sitting across from Vernon Chwe, number twelve, professional athlete, rookie MVP his first season, MIP last season, fan-favorite, objectively hot man. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not entirely sure what this is. What it’s supposed to be. 

You met him officially barely four weeks ago. But you’ve known of him for years, ever since Chaewon and Hyunjin, your brother, brought you to the Diamonds’ game six seasons ago. It’s impossible not to know him if you watch even a little baseball – a name that’s followed since his rookie season, a highlight reel you’ve watched more times than you would ever admit. The player that makes other fans curse out loud when he crushes them with a walk-off double during the season. 

And yet, you’re sitting here. Across from him. Like you’ve known him your entire life. 

And even though you’ve sat in front of celebrities – even Cha Eunwoo for God’s sake – nothing compares to this. The rush of nerves you feel as Vernon grins, drumming against the table with his fingers, making you tuck your hair behind your ears like some high schooler. 

“You’re staring,” Vernon says, amused. 

You blink, shaking yourself out of it. It seems like you have to do that a lot when you’re around Vernon. “I am not.” 

“You totally are.” 

You huff, pushing the laminated menu in his hand so you can read it upside-down. You glance up at him from under your lashes. “So,” you hum, “you bring all your post-game dates here?” 

He scoffs, brushing through his hair again, strands falling messily over his forehead. “Nah. Exclusive guest list only,” he jokes, leaning forward just a bit. 

You try to ignore the fact that he doesn’t correct you on date. 

“Ah,” you hum, nodding. “So I should feel honored?” 

“Infinitely.” 

You try to ignore the way his voice dips just ever so slightly when he says it. Try to ignore the way his eyes flicker down at your hands on the table. The way they flicker back up to your face, a little lower than your eyes, before he smiles and glances away. 

“You wanna test your theory?” he asks, gesturing for a server. 

You hum, “Dunno. Are you paying?” 

Vernon sighs dramatically, letting the menu flop onto the table, shrugging. “Guess I have to.” 

“Oh, are you complaining?” you laugh, setting your elbows on the table, placing your chin on your palms, leaning forward. 

When Vernon looks back from asking for a server, you take a small itty bitty sense of pride at how his eyes widen just a fraction before he swallows and leans back a little, a shaky grin rising to his lips. 

“No, never.” 

Before you can respond, the owner swings by, beaming as he sets a small bowl of popcorn between the two of you, small notebook in hand. 

“Hey, welcome back Vernon.” 

Vernon lets him pat his back and ruffle his hair. “Glad to be back, Mr. Cho.” 

The owner glances at you. And then back at Vernon. “The usual?” 

Now Vernon glances at you before he nods. “Yeah. But she wants spicy glaze and a whiskey highball.” He makes a face at you – nose scrunched and mouth turned down – at your order. 

The owner hums, shooting you an approving look. “Good taste. But he’ll probably be adamant about changing your mind.” He claps Vernon on the shoulder, grinning. “Says our honey garlic’s the best in the city.” 

You raise a brow. “So I’ve heard.” 

Vernon just shrugs, all casual as he leans back. “Basic’s undefeated.” 

The owner chuckles as he pockets his notebooks and grabs the menu off of the table. “Well, I’ll let Vernon entertain and charm the shit out of you.” 

And then he’s gone. 

Which leaves you and Vernon alone. Again. Alone against the low murmur of the bar, filled with the steady hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table of five in the back. It’s lowkey. It’s homey. And sitting across from Vernon, it makes your pulse thrum in your wrist. 

“You always come here after a game?” you ask, reaching for a popcorn. 

“Not always,” he replies, leaning back in the booth. “But sometimes. It’s lowkey. Quiet.” 

It is. No one’s sneaking pictures. No one’s gawking, asking for signatures, coming up mid-meal, staying overtime just to walk out with him. It’s the kind of place where people mind their own business. The kind where even the most famous of celebrities can feel a little bit at ease. 

When the drinks arrive, you swirl the ice before taking a sip, letting the burn of the alcohol sting a road down our throat. You clear your throat. 

“You usually invite girls you’ve only met a few times out for chi-maek?” 

Vernon exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You think you’re just some girl?” 

Something about the way he says it makes your fingers tighten so so so impossibly tight around your glass. 

“Well,” you force an easy grin, lifting your head to meet his eyes, only to find that he’s been staring at you this entire time, “I guess I was your Kiss Cam partner,” you whisper out the last part. As if saying it quieter will feel more like a wish. Like it would turn it into a dream you can relive. 

His lips twitch slightly. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Kiss Cam partner.” 

You hum around your drink. “Yeah and you barely know me.” 

He just looks at you, unreadable, especially under this dark lighting. “You’d be surprised.” 

And then the food comes before you can ask him what the hell that means, the scent of crispy fried chicken, coated in glistening glazes filling the air between you two as Mr. Cho sets the plates down with a satisfied grunt. He throws a couple more napkins down before walking off, leaving you and Vernon with two loaded guns: two platters of plates and whatever the fuck he just said five seconds ago. 

You should let it go. Because maybe it’s not that deep, you know? Something he just said to tease you. 

But instead, you blurt out, “What’s that s’posed to mean?” 

Vernon blinks at you, momentarily caught off guard. Then, with a shrug, he reaches for a piece of chicken, biting off a piece before answering, “You know. I pay attention.” 

“To what?” 

“To you,” he says, “Duh.” He says it so simply, so effortlessly, that it takes you a split second to even process the words and decode it inside your brain. He doesn’t even sound embarrassed, doesn’t backtrack, take it back, or try to explain himself. It just hangs. It hangs as he reaches for his drink, as he takes a sip, and as he licks a stray drop off of his lips (which is hotter than you would like to admit). 

“Okay, that’s —” you pause, suddenly unsure of what you were even going to say. 

Vernon smirks, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “What? Am I wrong?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, willing away the sudden creeping of blush red to your face. “No, I just –” you shake your head, reaching for a spicy glaze drumstick to distract yourself. “Whatever,” you huff, “We’re not doing this.” 

Vernon huffs a laugh but doesn’t push. Instead, he swirls his draft beer and tilts his head, gulping down the liquid. 

And the conversation shifts into something easier – safer. 

“You still thinking about doing those bomber jackets?” he asks, tearing a piece of chicken in half with his fingers. 

You tilt your head, now intrigued. “You remember that?” 

Vernon grins. “Sounded cool.” 

“Huh.” You sip your drink. And even though you say to not read too much into it, you know you will. Later. When you’re at home, half-way through your shower. “Yeah. Maybe for the spring-summer collection.” 

“You gonna make one for me?” 

You snort. “I dunno, Chwe, think you can pull one off?” 

“Think I’d look good in anything yours,” he says. Like it’s a known fact. Yours. Anything yours. It tickles the wrong set of nerves in our brain. He’s not even trying to be smooth. Just stating it like he’s commenting on the damn weather. 

And you? 

Well. 

You weren’t expecting that. 

You almost drop your drumstick, stomach flipping before you can even stop it. You open your mouth, ready to fire back some witty response until your eyes land on his pants. Again. 

It seems like you repeat a lot of what you do when you’re with Vernon. 

You point at his pants. “How do you even have those?” 

Vernon follows your gaze, then glances back up at you, a little confused, brows furrowed. “Huh? I bought them. Like a normal person?” 

“Bought them,” you parrot. 

“Yeah? Why?” 

You shake your head, looking down at your plate of finished bones and unfinished chicken. “Just–” you let out a small laugh, “That line was from like three seasons ago. I didn’t even know they still had it in stores. Or– or that people still bought it – wanted it, you know?” 

It’s almost nostalgic, the way you slowly smile at the thought, wiping off your fingers with a wet tissue. You feel the alcohol flush coming on from your neck, traveling up and up to the tops of your cheeks. When you look back up at Vernon, he’s staring at you, something hazy in his eyes, leaning back against the booth, head tilted just a little bit with twitching lip corners. His drink is barely half-way finished. 

The quiet that lingers between you two as you lean back, exhaling as you check your phone for the time isn’t awkward. It’s lighter, easy. Almost too easy. Like the end of the night was scripted to be exactly this – two finished glasses of highball, one half-way finished glass of draft beer, and two plates of stacked chicken bones. And Vernon. Especially Vernon. 

“You done?” he asks, voice soft but carrying through to you. 

You don’t realize how much you’ve drunk until it hits you now, as the conversation lulls and the way Vernon looks at you makes you blush red hot. 

“Mhm,” you mumble, head lolling back against the wooden backrest of the booth. 

Vernon laughs at that, sliding out, grabbing all three of your guys’ bags, slinging them over his shoulder. When he stands, the dim overhead light casting a shadow down his body, you look up, head craning to see his face. 

It’s unfair, really. To look up, half-drunk, to see Vernon’s face. It takes everything in you not to grin deliriously, as if he’s some walking meal, waiting to be devoured. He looks less tired than he did when he first stepped out of the locker room. Or maybe you’re telling yourself that, trying to convince yourself that you’ve impacted Vernon Chwe’s life in positive ways. If not for a long time, then at least for a while. For the hour and a half it took for you to walk down the hill and eat your chicken. 

He outstretches a hand to you. 

You instead grab the table edge, hauling yourself up. 

If you grabbed his hand, you’re afraid you would never let go. 

If Vernon thinks it’s weird, he doesn’t comment on it, instead leading you out the door of the restaurant, your bag in his hand, warmth lingering by your back. 

The restaurant door swings shut behind you and the night air is crisp against your skin, a welcome contrast to the blazing warmth in your cheeks. You stretch your arms above your head, exhaling slowly, slowly, and beside you, Vernon shoves his hands into his pockets as the two of you start walking down the sloping sidewalk. 

Seoul feels different at this hour. It’s calmer, the usual chaos of honking horns, snail-like traffic, and roar of car engines almost silent under the round moon overhead. A streetlight flickers as you pass under it, dimming – if only for a second – the light around you and Vernon, who had almost naturally slipped over to your left side, walking along the road-side of the pavement. 

“I’ll take the subway,” you say, breaking the quiet, more to yourself than anything. As if saying something out loud will break the tension you feel. “Should be fine.” 

Vernon makes a noise that can only be described as a scoff. “You’re not taking the subway.” 

You glance at him, almost blurting out something else. Instead, you settle on, “Why not?” 

“It’s late,” he replies simply, still looking ahead. “You should take the bus.” 

You snort. “How is the bus any better?” 

“It’s above ground.” 

“Oh, wow, really?” You deadpan. 

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching as he reshoulders your bag and his duffle. You want to reach out and take your bag off his shoulder, but you’re afraid it might break whatever you have going on right now. 

“You know what I mean,” he says. 

You do. But you also know that he probably doesn’t see the deeper meaning in his words. At least, not like you do. 

“I can handle myself,” you say, lifting a fist into the air (though rather slowly). “I’m scrappy.” 

Vernon looks wholly unimpressed. “Uh-huh.” 

“You doubt me?” 

“Feel like you’d trip over air or something.” 

You gasp, “No, I would not!” 

“Really?” 

You can’t answer that because at that moment, your foot catches on an uneven part of the pavement (not air!) and you stumble forward. That seems to break you out of your tipsy haze, your eyes widening a fraction and you think you’re about to fall face first onto the brick pavement when, all of a sudden, a firm arm is around your waist before you can even register that you’re falling. The grip is firm, strong, steady, and you can feel the warmth of the palm through your hoodie. 

You glance up. 

And you freeze. 

“So scrappy,” he murmurs, shaking his head with a little smile that plays on his lips that should be illegal to look upon if you wanted your heart from further falling. 

You open your mouth, ready to argue, but whatever you’re about to say dies on your tongue. The way he looks at you – brows slightly raised, lips just barely curved, the streetlight hitting his nose, cheekbones, jaw – sends something off-kilter, almost killing, in your chest. He’s too close (or maybe not close enough), and for the (not) first time tonight, you feel yourself at an actual loss for words. 

What are you even supposed to say? Thanks for catching me? Or would hey, lean down so I can kiss you silly lol! work better in this case? Or maybe a small murmured haha cool work better? 

The streetlight flickers above you again, like it’s counting down your blessings of time before Vernon actually lets go or your brain goes haywire and you actually do pull him in for a drunken kiss in a late-night stupor. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, voice coming out a little weaker than you’d like. 

Vernon rights you. “Don’t drink too much.” It comes out a little scolding but still light. 

“S fine,” you say, “ ‘S not like I’m a pro baseball player or anything.” 

Vernon exhales a quiet laugh, but his grip lingers on your waist a fraction of a second longer before he lets go. “Still. Can’t have you passin’ out drunk on me.” 

You clear your throat, forcing your feet to move again. The bus stop is just up ahead, and with every step, you feel the weight of his presence beside you, the ghost of his lingering touch against your waist. 

The short walk down to the bus stop is quiet. Like both of you don’t really know what to say or even if you did, how to say it. As you slow to a stop, you look down at your feet – the way your ragged jeans drag just slightly across the top of your shoes and the way your trousers let the bright Nike logo on Vernon’s stand out. 

Vernon rocks back on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks at you and then far away, like he wants to say something. 

You don’t push, instead gently taking your bag from his shoulder, slipping your arms through it. 

Suddenly, he clears his throat, looking at the bus stop’s LED sign. “Come to the next game,” he says, casual, like it’s not a big deal. 

You blink at him. “What?” 

“You have the season pass,” he continues, looking out towards the dark road like this is a passing thought to him. Like he doesn’t know that to you, it’s him asking to see you again – an opportunity for you to see him again. And a small (big) part of your heart wonders if he’ll ask you to chicken and beer like tonight. 

Something in your stomach flips. 

And it’s definitely not the beer. 

You hesitate, just for a second. 

Then, finally, you nod. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Vernon nods too, like he’s satisfied with your answer, like he expected you to say yes. Like he would have kept asking until you did. 

Vernon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking toward the road where your bus is approaching in the distance, the headlights bright in the dark and the numbers bold against the windshield. His hands are still in his pockets, his shoulders relaxed, but there’s something unreadable in his expression—like he’s about to say something else but decides against it.

Instead, he nods, the ghost of a pleased smile playing at his lips. “See you at the game.”

For a second you think he’s going to do something. In your drunken stupor, you hope that he’ll lean down, hug you, hold you, kiss you. 

But then he turns to leave. 

And for some reason – some weird, messed up, fucked up reason – you don’t think. You just move. 

And before he can take one more step, you reach out, fingers finding place around his wrist, wrapped in sports tape. It has him startling, jolting at the sudden contact, turning to face you with widened eyes. Then, before your brain can catch up to your body, you close the space between you, fingers falling from his wrist so that your arms can loop around his built waist. Your cheek finds brief comfort against his chest, catching the faint scent of his cologne – or shampoo or aftershave – vanilla and a little floral and musk. 

Vernon stills. Freezes. Stops. 

For a second, he doesn’t react at all. Caught off guard, shocked, surprised, whatever the fuck his unreadable brain is feeling. And then, slowly, to match your arms, his arms come up, hands settling tentatively – very tentatively – against your back. They’re big. Warm. Solid as they gently press you just the merest inch closer to him as he exhales. His breaths are quiet, like maybe he’s been holding his breath this whole time and letting it go in multiple quiet sighs. His chin finds the top of your head, gently resting. Like he’s scared to hold you any tighter. 

So you let him keep his distance. 

“Thanks for tonight,” you murmur against the fabric of his sweater. 

You don’t tell him that you left a project unfinished to come meet him. Or that you needed to get back to your studio two hours ago. 

Instead, you pull back. Because if Vernon is scared of holding you tighter, you’re scared that if you hold him any longer, you won’t let go. 

And then his response comes, quieter than before. 

“Anytime.” 

You step away, at arm’s distance now. You can still feel the lingering warmth where his hands met your back. He looks at you for a beat longer, eyes dark as almonds under the streetlights, mouth slightly parted like there’s something else he wants to say. 

But then the glowing headlights of your bus roll to a stop beside you, glowing bold N1128 blinking against the windshield. And the moment dissolves into the rumble of the engine and the hiss of the doors opening. 

You step down off of the curb, your fingers curling at your sides. 

You give him a smile. 

“I’ll see you.” 

Vernon nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Yeah. See you.” 

And he stands there, still, eyes training ambiguously between you and the rest of the darkened road as you climb into the bus, the card scanner beeping as you press your phone against the reader. And he stands there, still, as you slide into a seat by the window, bag in your lap, as you watch him, standing, as the bus rolls away. And now you watch as he disappears down the street, your heart beating a little too fast, a little too loud, and a little too much in your chest.

Your forehead meets the chilled glass of the bus window, warm breath hot against your hand that supports your chin. Your phone is gripped tight in your hand and the smooth rumble of the bus and the gentle music playing inside does nothing to soothe your thoughts. 

 You swallow, eyes squeezing shut as you try to push out the way Vernon’s chin met the top of your head; the way his hands felt splayed across your back; the way his breath was light against your hair; the way he caught you as he fell. 

This is wrong. 

You repeat it like a mantra inside your alcohol-thickened skull. Your muddled brain. Your disastrous, highschool crush-reverted brain. 

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is wrong. 

And wrong for all the right reasons. 

But a pang of selfishness courses through you when you find yourself asking your own brain why this is wrong. Can’t a girl have a crush? Can’t a girl dream? Is it because he’s high profile? An up-and-coming star? All-rounder? Because you’re different? Infinitely? 

Or because at the end of the day, you feel like he’ll never see you the same way? 

Your forehead bangs against the glass as bone and skin meet the hard surface again. 

And then your phone vibrates. 

You glance down at your illuminated screen. And you can almost scoff – in amusement and ridiculousness. 

Vernon 버논 text me back when u get home safe thx 4 tonight needed it

You squeeze your eyes shut again. 

He really needed to stop texting you like this. 

: ̗̀➛ ​🇰​​🇮​​🇸​​🇸​ ❜​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇺​​🇵​ @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows

[seokminfilm]

angel | lee seokmin

🪄 pairing, lee seokmin x reader

🪄 warnings, non-idol au, biker!seokmin, one-night fling (NOT a one-night stand okay just to clarify), bad boy!seokmin (yes it gets a warning), forbidden romance, angst, one suggestive comment (if you miss it it's not even suggestive), morality struggle, kissing, mutual attraction, seokmin calls reader angel, one mention pinning against the wall (also needs a warning), seokmin is described to be hot, kind of plot-heavy??

🪄 summary, why was the only person who could give you respite in your suffocating, perfectionist world a rogue motorcyclist who kissed you last night?

🪄 author's note, long story short an anon of mine was like "hey you should do racer seokmin" and i was like "wowie yes!" and yeah 😭 this is how it came about! this may not be racer seokmin BUT the only good idea i had was with biker seokmin so....🤷 this may be on the longer side because i'm working on making my fics longer this year....i love the little drabbles i do, but i want smthn more than 1k 😛 anyways enjoy, and thank anon for the idea!

🪄 playlist, 01. riez, stromae | 02. la solassitude, stromae | 03. million dollar baby, tommy richman | 04. dancing in the flames, the weeknd | 06. a lonely night, the weekend

🪄 word count, 2.9k (LET'S GO) | for @kstrucknet

"What determines what's right or wrong?" He asked you, face a few hairs away from yours as you stared up at him, mouth parted just slightly. You didn't know the answer to that question, and you could honestly care less: the man who had your heart and soul ever since you bumped into him on the street now had his slender, very pretty fingers under your chin, lips seconds away from touching yours as he questioned you. Your back was pinned against the brick wall of the sweaty bar, Seokmin just inches away from you.

"How would I know the answer to that?" You echoed softly, sighing as you inhaled deeply. You could taste his cologne on your tongue, and you hadn't even kissed him yet. He was everywhere around you, it seemed.

The man smiled, lips curving into the prettiest thing you've ever seen as he chuckled. His voice was like honey, dripping with something that you were sure was amusement as he shook his head. His leather jacket crinkled with his movements, suave and taunting as your fingers felt the roughness of the material. It was just like him─rough.

"You tell me." You say, feeling a sudden rush of boldness coarse through your veins. Your hands find the back of his neck slowly, fingers playing with the dark hair on the nape of his neck. His breath is hot against your cheek, and you find it drawing you in, closing the distance in what would be your first kiss. Ever.

Even now, the thought was warm, playing on repeat in your head. You were a sheltered kid: your parents were very strict with what you wore, what you watched, how well you did in school, who you talked to─all of it.

From a young age, you knew nothing but good, morally correct things, and were taught to never dabble in things like one-time flings, dressing loosely, or cursing. You were what everyone would call a "good girl"─perfect in everything good, unable to do anything bad.

You were okay with it when you were younger, but now, you couldn't stand it. It made your blood boil knowing how truly restrained you were from living your own life.

"We're going out for the day! Stay indoors, and don't leave unless one of your friends knows where you are!" Your mom's voice comes as a bitter wake-up from downstairs, and you sigh, crashing back into your pillow as your neck burns. It's hot against your silk pillow, as if it's remembering what happened to it last night. If you tried hard enough, you could feel his soft lips pecking at your neck right now.

Sighing, you face the wall, tears brimming in your eyes you grip your pillowcase. It shouldn't hurt so much; it was a one-time thing, something you know you shouldn't have experienced. You were so confident, too─so ready to be defiant all of a sudden and go against everything you ever knew. Where was that confidence now?

As you heard your parents' car speed away, the house finally returned to its quiet state. Finally alone, you could take a breath, standing up as you let some light into your room.

It was decorated nicely, as your parents were well off, but it was devoid of anything that was truly you. It was generic, still resembling a child's room in a way; lavender-covered walls and sheets pulled the whole idea of a nursery together, and you frowned at the massive, pristinely white bunny rabbit still sitting perfectly in the corner of your room.

Silently putting your clothes on, you tugged at your hair, willing yourself to stop thinking of the man you had met last night. Everywhere you looked, you saw something that reminded you of him.

The gold necklace you had hanging on your vanity was scarily similar to the one the biker had worn last night, and you remembered intertwining it around your finger to bring him closer to you. The Mary Janes you had in the corner were identical to his loafers; you were surprised a person like him even had loafers.

Even the blush compact peeking from your bag matched his lips─plump and soft as he kissed your neck over and over.

You were daydreaming about this man, and you didn't even know his name. What would your mom say to that, especially with what type of man he is? What would happen to you if they found out you had been with a guy last night? If you had kissed him?

A knock at your door distracts you from all of those thoughts.

Wary of the unexpected knock, you run towards your window, eyes looking out above your driveway. The sky is still cloudy, dark and brooding from last night's downpour. You can even still see puddles in the street, swirling from the wind gusts dancing through the skies, and the clouds move in a slow migration eastward, painting the skies slowly and softly.

Finally getting a good look at the driveway below you, your eyes widen as you see a sleek black motorcycle expertly parked, helmet missing from the handles as another knock comes on your door.

You recognized that bike. You had just ridden it last night.

He was here? The man you had met last night─the man you had (kissed) last night─was here, at your home. He was knocking at the front door, for whatever reason. Your prayers had been answered, but you also knew that were was only going to be trouble from here.

Quickly slipping on your jacket, you tiptoe down the stairs, still terrified of what would happen if your parents returned. What would they think, seeing a motorcycle they didn't own sitting in their driveway? What would they think was happening to you?

Now standing in front of the ever-so-looming doorway, your hand shakily wrapped around the doorknob, telling yourself that you had one more chance to back away. One more chance to run back up to your room and pretend like no one was home. One more chance to choose to lock the mysterious stranger out of your home and consequently─out of your life.

Why would you take that chance?

You open the door.

"Hey, angel," The pet name comes naturally to him, rolling off of his tongue like it was your birth name. Before you can fight it, your body becomes hot, and you struggle to keep your composure, eyes wide as your voice trembles when you speak. "Why are you here?"

The man looks at you with a smirk on his face, holding up a familiar jacket. That jacket was the one you had left on his bike when he dropped you off at the park just ten minutes away from your house so you could walk the rest of the way there alone. You had forgotten your jacket, though, and your parents questioned you because of it.

"I returned your jacket for you." His smile showed teeth, blindingly white and straight as he handed it to you. It was surprisingly dry and smelled like his cologne. Like (his) cologne.

"Thank you, but─you shouldn't be here." You say, eyes darting down to the ground.

You knew more than anyone that you were going against your parents' rules, and if he knew that you were, he would probably never stop teasing you about it. You had a feeling that he already (knew) that he was risking it being here, and that he was just using it as another way to get high on adrenaline.

"I know that." The man's voice is sure, strong as he smirks at you. "I could care less about your parents, though. Fuck your parents." Hearing the curse fall from his lips so easily made your cheeks burn hot, and he catches onto this, taking one step closer to you to see if you'll back away. You don't, and he chuckles, taking your chin in his hand again.

"Suprised, angel? It's just a bad word." The pout in the mysterious biker's voice makes you want to get closer to him, but you will yourself against it, pulling away as you frown.

"You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be on my porch. I don't even know your (name)." And you were right; you hadn't heard his name once last night, and you kept referring to him as 'the man' when you daydreamed about him. Hell, it was even more embarrassing to be dreaming about a guy you met and not even knowing his name.

"Seokmin. Lee Seokmin, at your service." The man you finally now know as (Seokmin) cheesily bows to you, causing you to give a little giggle as he glances up at you from his position. He stands to his full height again, towering over you easily as he smiles with that self-confident grin. "Now you know my name, angel."

Speechless, you look away, unable to go against him. Why does he make you want to abandon everything you know? You know he's bad for you; you know that he goes against everything that your parents had told you to stand for. It was remarkable, how good Seokmin was at making you hate the life you were in, just to want to be with him even more.

"You should come in," You say slowly, glancing at Seokmin's bike resting in your empty driveway. No one was home at the moment, and all the tattletale neighbors weren't at their houses either, meaning you were truly alone for the first time in what seemed to be forever.

Seokmin could come into your house right now, and no one would even know he was here if he left on time. The feeling that coursed through your veins was dangerous─it was hot, searing like bubbling oil as Seokmin smirked down at you. He was thinking the same thing you were: you could get into big trouble for this, but you were starting not to care if you got in trouble or not.

"Don't mind if I do." Seokmin steps into the lavish foyer quietly, slipping off his shoes and putting them beside your house shoes. The sight was domestic, and it made your cheeks heat up with how quickly you had to bash the idea.

"So," You pause, staring around at your empty house. You trusted Seokmin not to break anything─he was careful with things when he wanted to be, whether it was a glass pot, or your chin in his hand. You preferred to only think about the former. "What do you want to see first?"

Seokmin hums, as if he's thinking of his answers, but both you and him know he was just bluffing. He knew what he wanted to see.

"I wanna see your room, angel." Seokmin smiles at you, and you can't help but giggle, turning your nose to him exaggeratedly as you put on a haughty voice. "Of course you do─you uncouth rascal. What? You haven't seen a girl's room before?" You add sarcastically, and Seokmin shakes his head, grinning at you as his eyes crinkle up.

"I've seen plenty," Seokmin adds lowly, and you fall silent, neck heating up as your brain automatically seeks to read between the lines.

"Oh my god," You finally sigh out, and Seokmin giggles, letting you take his hand as you lead him upstairs to your room. Your hand burns in his grasp, and it shocks you at how much you don't want to pull away. The lingering thought that your parents could be back at any time burns in your mind, and you swallow, trying to push it away.

Once you open the door to your room, Seokmin's mouth is already opening, ready to say something to tease you. "Love the bunny." His tone is saccharine, and you blush, throwing a stray shoe at it as an act of defiance.

"Oh, shut up." Seokmin chuckles behind you, admiring the painted walls and clean carpet as he sighs. "Cleaner than my room would ever be."

Giggling, you sigh, approaching Seokmin again as that fleeting wave of confidence returns to you. Before you know it, your hands slide over Seokmin's shoulders and down his chest, slowly removing the familiar leather jacket from his body. His arms bulge from underneath his white tank top, and you swear you can see the dip of his abs from your vantage point. Seokmin is stunned, throat bobbing as you stare up at him with those boba eyes he can't resist.

"Fuck. Who knew the good girl could throw away her reputation just like that?" Seokmin's voice is teasing, warm and dangerous like lava as he smirks at your newfound boldness.

Shrugging, your lips puff up, pulling yourself closer to Seokmin as you take his chin in your hand, pulling it down to you.

"No one except you." You whisper, voice hot as Seokmin's lips capture yours in a searing hot kiss. It was like last night's kiss─warm, long, and expectant. It was as if he was waiting for something, waiting for you to confirm your want to him.

"You should take me on that bike again," You mumble, the sentence cut off by Seokmin's slow and sweet kisses. "Should I?" He questions innocently, and you nod, pulling away as Seokmin's playful eyes and matching smirk meet your gaze.

"You should. I want to feel the wind in my hair again." You say, and Seokmin smiles, sighing as he holds you to his chest. Even though you two only met just last night, no one would know if you didn't tell them─you looked like two young adults in love, soaking each other up like a sponge does water. You felt like your head belonged on his chest, and your body only felt right when he was hugging you.

"Do you want to feel the wind in your hair? Is that all you want to feel, angel?" Seokmin's question seems simple but has so many layers to it, but you fall silent, heart clenching at his words. What you said was partially a lie: you did want to feel the wind in your hair, but you just wanted to feel anything at that point. Anything would be better than feeling trapped in your life of perfection. You could breathe when you were with Seokmin. On his motorcycle, with your arms around his waist, you felt like you could let go and be who you truly were.

You could scream like a madman from the back of the bike and Seokmin wouldn't judge or laugh at you. He would laugh with you, probably mimicking your scream in a terrible impression of you. Even though your life was at risk in so many ways, you felt like you could trust yourself in Seokmin's hands. He would take care of you. He would love you. He would make you his priority. Not focused on perfection, or how you carried yourself, but just how you were─uncensored and finally free.

"Maybe." You say softly, refusing to have Seokmin see you cry. Blinking the tears away as fast as you can, you study Seokmin's sharp nose and thick eyebrows; you memorized every part of his face from your last meeting, everything down to the little mole on his cheek. Seokmin did the same to you, taking in your wide eyes and perfectly done hair. He adored you, even if he had just met you yesterday night.

Seokmin rarely got attached to people: he had learned to not get attached the hard way too many times, and now, it was just natural for him to lock everyone out. That's all he could do to protect himself from the real world. When you came into the picture, Seokmin did the same, only sticking around to watch over you while you were alone in the shady bar. When you had introduced yourself to him, Seokmin didn't think he'd get so attached to you like he did.

You were so innocent, so untouched by his side of the world─that it only drew him to you even more. So much was expected of you, and you seemed to expect a lot from him too─something that Seokmin had never experienced before. He was something more than just a misunderstood biker to you. You cared about what he did and who he talked to. You cared─you cared so much.

"Are you still in there?" You ask Seokmin softly, smiling as he nods slightly. He was so drawn into his thoughts that it was just as if he was on his motorcycle again, nothing but the night sky to talk to. He could be as loud or as quiet as he wanted to be with you. He loved that.

"Kiss me again." You whisper, pleading softly as your hands go right back to the place they did when you first kissed him. They tousle with the dark hair on the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you as you're now just inches away from his sharp nose. Your eyes lock with his dark ones, and you glance down at his lips, soft and waiting. Waiting for you.

Finally, you close the distance, and you can feel it all again. The sprinkling of the rain on your cheeks. The passing whoosh of cars in the street behind you. The coolness of the brick wall supporting your back. The distant chatter of teenagers in the distance.

And─your personal favorite part─the feeling of Lee Seokmin's sweet lips on yours, warm with life, freedom, and desire.

[nonranghaes]

heads up! werewolf!reader. vampire!wonwoo.

there's something cute about going on walks with you. wonwoo holds his umbrella tight in his hands, the early morning sun thankfully mostly hidden behind clouds now. still, the shade helps him from feeling that burning itch travel across every single inch of his body, so he's happy to clutch an umbrella on a sunny day... even if it does net him weird looks.

you, on the other hand, are a single step ahead of him, happy as can be to be in the sunshine and fresh air again. you've been cooped up in his manor (yes, wonwoo has a manor: you've teased him for being the stereotypical vampire before) due to the onslaught of rain. as much as you love him, you still need some time outside during the daytime to stretch your legs and enjoy the warm sunlight.

no one seems to know how your relationship works, apparently. some people give him an odd look whenever both of you get revealed as what you are, usually mumbling something about being sworn enemies in the process. you joke that you're playing the long con. wonwoo always hides a smile when you do, firmly aware of the gold ring you have on a chain around your neck. it matches the one he wears on his thumb, only on a chain so you don't have to remove it during full moons.

"my love?" wonwoo calls out when you get a little too far from him. you turn with an excitement in your eyes, always so in love with the way he calls you. my love and my dear and my heart. occasionally my wolf. and when he's particularly affectionate (which, to be fair, wonwoo rarely uses terms of endearment since he prefers the intimacy of calling you by given name), you're his moon. just so he can see the way your nose scrunches up when you smile. he nods toward a tree in the nearby, shady enough he could set the umbrella aside. "can we rest for a bit?"

you nod, but zoom on ahead--only stopping for a quick second before you bolt across the street. he chuckles to himself as he follows after you. he lowers himself into the shade after setting aside his umbrella and bag, watching as you stretch out on the grass. you peek up at him, smiling still before you crawl over to him.

"it's nice out," you muse, before dropping your head into his lap. immediately, you begin to lean into his touch as he pats your head. "thank you for coming with me."

he chuckles. "why wouldn't i?"

you just point lazily overhead. "because you can literally always say no to the big ball of death, my little bookworm."

it earns a snort from him. "what?"

"don't you like it?" you grin up at him, content to tease him yet again. "my little mosquito didn't have the same ring."

although he rolls his eyes, he chuckles a moment later. you're a mess, a menace, but you're his and that's all that matters to him. he's easy to predict, though: he pulls a book out of his bag (a trashy novel this time--not the classic literature you've been watching him read through lately), and settles in against the tree while he rests his other hand on your head. when he peeks down at you, you've closed your eyes, fully resting now with him.

how cute. maybe he'll get a treat for you on the way home, just to tease you back.

[hanniedream]

thinking about co-worker wonwoo slow burn au where he's kinda mean blunt and cold and doesn't talk to anyone about anything other than work but he always seems to be slightly kinder towards you and everyone sees it but you (you think he's just shy and quiet and that he's not this mean person everyone thinks he is but it's really only bcs he's somehow always softer when it comes to you). never attends company gatherings unless he knows alcohol would get involved bcs he somehow knows you always get extra excited during these events and will end up drinking beyond your limit (it's totally not bcs he overheard your friends talking in the pantry about how you got shitfaced at a dinner once and was left to find your way back by yourself bcs everyone else was also drunk) and he wants to make sure you get home safely. ofc his excuse would always be "it's on the way" — not that he owes anyone an explanation, and if someone else tries to hitch a ride saying their place is close to yours his answer would always be "sorry, car is full ". would somehow always be seated quietly next to you for the entire event and doesn't engage in the conversation happening around him. he isn't trying to hide his growing feelings for you whenever someone points out how he treats you differently than how he treats others though, he's actually genuinely confused as to what's happening to himself and what all these strange emotions he's experiencing actually meant.

[horanghoe]

unfortunately for y'all, I'm insane

[wooahaeruby]

To all my BSH readers out there.

I have finished another notebook. Now we move onto my third notebook to write in.

Please listen to my aggressive grabbing of the notebooks, I giggled to myself.

My editor is scared :D

[savventeen]

.|X| THANKS FOR PLAYING |X|.

[synopsis] finals are finally over, and all you want is to keep yourself entertained on the lonely train ride home since your best friend crush isn't coming with you. you don't expect to find yourself becoming the main character in a horror story.

[main pairing] >> chan x gn!reader

[other ships] >> implied reader x ot12 friendship, background verkwan, implied minghao/seokmin [main cast] >> reader, chan, [redacted] [supporting cast] >> vernon, seungkwan, minghao [cameos] >> jeonghan, mingyu, seokmin, seungcheol

[rating] >> 16+ [genre] >> texting au, horror, angst, tragedy [status] >> COMPLETE 2023.06.12 - 2023.07.13 [update schedule] >> daily (sometime between 6-8PM PST) [series warnings] >> psychological horror, (supernatural) gaslighting, implied main character death (reader) [tags] >> slow burn (that technically never actually ignites oops), starts off silly, and then quite suddenly is Not, if you're looking for a happy ending this is not the story for you

[story background/set-up] >> (see episode 00)

[series tag] >> #thanksforplayingsvt

[author's note] i decided to split episodes by conversation, so episodes will average 3-5 screenshots, but there are a few with only single images. also, timestamps (when you see them) are very important :) also also, the only physical description about reader is that they have small fingers

[EPISODE GUIDE] .|| 00 ||.

Friday, December 15th .|| 01 ||. [⚡️💛 Channie 💛⚡️🦦🐈] .|| 02 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX] .|| 03 ||. [🗡️🪱 hannie (would still love if a worm)] .|| 04 ||. [🎧🪢 hansOULMATE] .|| 05 ||. [🍊��� sollie’s future husband (evil) (💙)] .|| 06 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX] .|| 07 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX… and 5 others] .|| 08 ||. [🐶🍻 gyubert] .|| 09 ||. [📢🎤 seokminnie] .|| 10 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX… and 5 others] .|| 11 ||. [🐸🍷 haohao] .|| 12 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 13 ||. [🐶🍻 gyubert] .|| 14 ||. [🍊🔪 sollie’s future husband (evil) (💙)] .|| 15 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 16 ||. [🏔🧸 cheollie weollie] .|| 17 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 18 ||. [written - 324 words] .|| 19-1 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX] .|| 19-2 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX] .|| 20 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX] & [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 21 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 22 ||. [🐸🍷 haohao] .|| 23 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 24 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 25-1 ||. [calling: 🎧🪢 hansOULMATE] .|| 25-2 ||. [calling: 🎧🪢 hansOULMATE] .|| 26 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 27 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX... and 5 others] .|| 28 ||. [written ~800 words] .|| 29 ||. [+82 2 XXX XXX XXXX]

After .|| 30 ||. [⚡️💛 Channie 💛⚡️🦦🐈] .|| 31 ||. [⚡️💛 Channie 💛⚡️🦦🐈] .|| 32 ||. [⚡️💛 Channie 💛⚡️🦦🐈] .|| 33 ||. [⚡️💛 Channie 💛⚡️🦦🐈]

Epilogue .|| 34 ||. [Unknown]

Bonus Material Q&A

[minisugakoobies]

Is this Fixer!Wonwoo's enemy or Internal Affairs!Jay's mentor?

Oh, that's Wonwoo's enemy for sure. Hotshot rookie for an agency like the DEA who has been tracking Wonwoo's associates. He's been shadowing Wonwoo for months, which is why Wonwoo ended up at OC's door looking for a hideout.

Now. I acknowledge that I always have a tendency to turn these things into a love triangle and that's probably a bad habit but... I can't get the idea out of my mind that Mingyu knows OC very well. Like he's her ex, still wounded from OC leaving him (that classic cop trope where he's too devoted to his job and his significant other can't deal), horrified to discover that Wonwoo's using her (or is he?), and maybe (definitely) jealous that she's chosen him instead. How far is he willing to go to bring Wonwoo down? 💕

[wavesmp3]

erased | wonwoo bday fic

—

wonwoo finds himself in a memory.

it’s from when the two of you went to the farm two hours out from the city to pick strawberries. “it’s one of my dreams”, you had told him at the start of summer, a sweet sticky drip of strawberry ice cream threatening to fall from the edge of your cone, “i’ve just always wanted to go strawberry picking”.

wonwoo looked up strawberry fields nearby that night.

the day he chose to go, he recalls, turned out to be the hottest day of the summer. a killer day that wonwoo could do without reliving, but then he sees you with your big floppy hat and impossibly bigger smile and forgets all about the sun and it’s relentless heat. you pick another strawberry, the biggest, brightest one you can find, shove it in wonwoo’s face with a sigh of contentment, and drop it in your basket without saying a word. forget the heat, wonwoo just loved this day with you.

the rest of the memory unfolds as he expects it will. you pick some berries, take a break for homemade strawberry shortcake from the farm, and return to the field to pick some more. it’s only when both of you are done picking, when you’ve washed the fresh fruit and are strolling along a path of orange trees, that wonwoo notices that something in this memory is…off.

“do you remember that fight we had in the store by your mom’s place over cheese?” you ask suddenly, fingering through your basket for a strawberry. you find the perfect one, take a bite, and pause to lick the juice from around your lips. wonwoo finds it cute, smiling absently, while wiping your face with a napkin. “the super petty one when she was throwing that party for…”

“for my aunt.” wonwoo finishes for you. he finds a nearby trash bin and tosses the now pink napkin into it. “yeah, i remember that, but—“

wonwoo stops in his tracks. this isn’t how it happened.

“what?” you ask nonchalantly, searching your basket for another strawberry. “did i remember it wrong?”

“yes-well, no, it…” wonwoo trails off, grasping at the faintest sense of consciousness.

“what?” you repeat.

“that hasn’t happened yet.”

and your face the moment he says it… it just crushes him.

how can he describe it? it’s like when you tell a kid that the tooth fairy isn’t real. it’s like sobering up and aging a thousand years all at the same time. it’s like you’ve been pretending something—this—is real for so long you forgot that it’s all in your head. forgot it’s just a memory, wonwoo’s memory. that this moment isn’t happening in real time. it happened a year ago. and that party you mentioned only happened three months after the two of you visited this strawberry field. and that in the summer of this year, you and wonwoo are broken up. and have been for nearly two months.

this is a memory. but in this moment, with betrayal painted all over your face, in every crack and blemish and wrinkle, wonwoo struggles to remember why he wanted to forget it in the first place.

“you’re erasing me.” you say, so quietly and so heartbroken wonwoo barely even hears it. this isn’t part of the memory from the strawberry field. this is real. it’s you speaking to him, staring at him like you did when you broke up. it’s you, or whatever is left of you.

wonwoo can’t even say the words. he just nods.

and now, staring at him, in a memory that isn’t yours, you don’t look betrayed anymore—you look ashamed. “i erased you first didn’t i?”

wonwoo doesn’t even feel angered by the reminder. he just feels so fatigued by it. two months before now and ten months after this memory in the strawberry field, you and wonwoo broke up. you ended the relationship, cut ties, and went your separate ways. a week ago, wonwoo received an email that you were erasing him, a procedure to rid your mind of certain memories. in this case, your memory of him and your relationship.

revenge, wonwoo thinks flatly, still fighting against the fog to remember why he’s getting the same procedure done to him. no, he corrects, redemption.

“say something.” you say at last, right in front of him, basket of strawberries forgotten. literally. figuratively.

and of course, all wonwoo can think to say is, “why’d you forget me?”

he’s been wondering all week.

“why’d we break up?” you counter. it’s not meant in a rhetorical or mean way. it’s a genuine question. this version of you wasn’t the one that parted ways with him.

the memory shifts then. slipping out of his fingers like sand, he doesn’t try grasping after it. but he does think: he doesn’t want to forget that day. he wanted the procedure, yes, but that day he wants to keep. like a memento. like a relic of what used to be.

a new scene materializes. his first run in with you post break up, at a park by the river. he was going for a walk. you were sitting at a bench. he wastes no time, there isn’t enough of it to waste anyways. he runs straight to the bench he found you at that day.

“wonwoo,” you call when you see him approaching the bench.

“why’d you forget me?” he asks again, more fervently, breathless and flushed, hands grasping at your wind breaker with a desperation that he’d find embarrassing if this was real life. but it isn’t. it’s a memory he’s trying like hell not to forget.

“i was just so hurt.” you answer. and of course, this isn’t how this run in actually went. in real life, wonwoo saw you sitting there, stared for a moment too long and then bolted in the opposite direction. “i’m so sorry.”

“what if i don’t want to forget you?” wonwoo can already feel you slipping away. this moment was so short in real life, the memory is fleeting. and the last thing he hears before the river rises up from behind him and carries his consciousness away with the current is

“what if i regret erasing you from me?”

the next memory, is a hard one. the moment he knew it was time to call it quits. that winter had been so cold. it seemed to ice over your relationship. and god, wonwoo held on so hard for all of spring, praying the ice would melt away by summer. but it’s may and your kiss still tastes like freezer burn.

“hold on to something other than me.” you tell him, laying next to him under the sheets. the sun hasn’t risen yet. it’s a sunday. that wonwoo remembers. “hold on to the day we met.” wonwoo does. it was a beach. it was a beautiful day. the water was still freezing. “meet me there again in the morning.”

“but i’ll have forgotten you.”

“wonwoo,” you say with such sweetness and love, it knocks the breath out of his chest, “we fell in love once before. we can do it again.”

“what if it ends the same way? what if we break our hearts again?”

the memory is fading again. wonwoo can feel it getting pulled from beneath his feet. he holds on to that beach. he holds on to that freezing water. he remembers, he remembers, he remembers, he

wake up.

when wonwoo wakes up that morning, it’s like any other day. like any other day except for the odd feeling in his chest urging him to go to the beach, and the voice in his head telling him, “what if it doesn’t.”

[waldau]

Hi waldu!! It’s minnieminshi!! I saw that your drabble requests are open and I was wondering if I could request number 11 from the prompt list with Wonwoo?

I know his blind ass without his glasses would be so cute lol

“Morning kisses that are exchanged before either person opens their eyes, kissing blindly until their lips meet in a blissful encounter.” + wonwoo

mimi thank you for requesting!!! i wanted to write a honeymoon scene for any one of the members and wonwoo seemed the most perfect one for it.

you don’t know if it’s the magic of the cool italian breeze wafting in through the window that’s slightly ajar, the warm covers that feel a bit too warm right now, or the fact that you’re aware you’re sleeping next to your favourite person in the world, that's keeping you from going back to sleep.

scratch that. you know exactly what’s keeping you up.

you pretend to be asleep, and wonwoo continues his ministrations on your skin. you feel him press a kiss to your forehead, his most favourite place to kiss you. as much as he teases you for being shorter than him, there’s nothing he loves more than having you just in reach so he can kiss you, as a way to greet you when he sees you, or as a way of telling you he’s proud of you, or as a way of telling you he’s there for you when you’re down and that you should know it.

you want to wake up and return the favour, kiss his face silly and relish the fact that he won’t ever tell you to stop even if you go a bit overboard, because he trusts you to know his limits. the thought of it makes your heart clench.

he’s no longer your fiancé. he’s jeon wonwoo, your husband, the man you married two days ago before he whisked you off on a surprise honeymoon to italy to spend a week with you. no friends or family or obligations or commitments. just the two of you, happy, in love, together.

so you keep your eyes shut and just feel as wonwoo moves down to your temple, letting his lips linger there. “i love you,” he whispers, and then he moves to your cheek. “i still can’t believe this is real.”

you can’t hold back any more at that. you turn around with your eyes shut and lean up in the direction of his warmth, willing to kiss whatever part of him you reach first.

he chuckles, his voice deep from not being used this early in the morning, and you realize you’ve hit his chin. you try again, and this time it’s the corner of his mouth.

“not ready to wake up yet?” he asks, hand gently combing through the tangled mess of your hair. you shake your head. the covers rustle under his movement, and you feel a gentle kiss on your lips. you blink your eyes open to see wonwoo looking at you with nothing but love, his eyes looking slightly unfocused without his glasses.

you get to wake up to this for the rest of your life. seems like a pretty good deal. the best, even.

[asheyxash]

officially sick, not fever sick, but enough that not even going seventeen is making me focus💀 how did I survive my history project, two hours math tuition afterwards and straight studying for math exam in 3 days while writing aus I have no idea but writers gotta do what they gotta do…so yall im so sorry but updates will come slower than usual as im juggling writing, studying and battling off whatever the shit I have so uh good luck and have a good day to yall! okay but on a side note maybe it was time to get sick cause this is the first time in 2025 and it’s been three months so this is karma ig idk anymore guys but uh just saying, I have four drafts right now that are all in the midst of finishing so yuh😋😋

~kwanniverse🍊

[seokminfilm]

all i want ♫ lee seokmin

♫ pairing, lee seokmin x reader ♫ warnings, non-idol au, rock band au, lead guitarist seokmin, angst, hurt/comfort, secret relationship, kissing ♫ synopsis, seeing your boyfriend on stage just made you want to scream to the world that he was yours.

♫ author's note, angst back to back two times in a row?? god what is going on with me 😭 trust me though this one does have comfort!! saw a instagram reel of seokmin shredding on an electric guitar and it just reminded me that he was in a rock band while in middle school so......this had to happen tbh it's been on repeat in my head all day 😞 anyways enjoy!!

♫ now playing, paranoid (xdinary heroes)

♫ word count, 1.1k | for @kstrucknet

as the venue cleared out after another successful show, you sat at the back of the cafe, face wet with tears as you hid your face from people passing by.

you should be happy right now, you know it: your friends had finally gotten their first big venue tonight, and the crowd loved them. heck, you loved the music they were playing, and you weren't even a big rock fan. you should be jumping with joy and ready to tackle them all with a big hug or high five, but you couldn't bring yourself to even smile.

the eery quietness of the venue did nothing to soothe your churning stomach, and it only made it ten times worse when you heard that familiar voice calling for you.

seokmin was hurrying over to you, still dressed in all black from the concert. his makeup hadn't been taken off yet, and he was still slightly sweaty, face covered in a sparkling sheen as he caught his breath. it still shocked you how pretty seokmin could be after 2 hours of jumping around on a stuffy stage like this.

"hey, i was looking everywhere for you," seokmin sighs, presence now hovering over you as you keep your eyes away from his. you knew if you stared, you'd break, all the tears you'd been holding back finally ready to flow.

"are you ready to go home? i just told everyone i'd take off my makeup and stuff at home. i'm so hungry right now, i could eat literally anything." seokmin laughs lightly, and you still can't bear to look up at him, trying not to let him see your face as you hold your breath.

"baby? hey, are you okay?" seokmin must catch onto your silent treatment quickly, slender, string-ridden hands cupping your wet face as he turns it to face him. once he sees your reddened eyes and flushed face, his eyes widen, dropping to the ground in front of you as he frowns.

"baby, why are you crying? what's wrong?" seokmin's voice is worried, stressed tone apparent as he searches your eyes. you can't bring yourself to speak, shaking your head as seokmin sighs.

"let's go outside, okay? get you some fresh air?" seokmin asks softly, and you nod, letting him stand to his full height and take you by the hand as he leads you outside. the street is quiet now, save for the breeze of cars in the distance and chatter from people walking up and down the sidewalk.

seokmin's hand is still holding yours, leading you down the sidewalk as he sticks his hand in his pocket. he looks ahead, obviously trying not to pressure you to speak, although you can tell he really wants to know what's wrong. he was just considerate like that, letting you take your time when you wanted to tell him things.

the two of you veer into a little park just a few blocks away from the venue, swings barren of children as it's almost ten p.m. it's refreshing, the spring breeze a respite as you and seokmin sit on a bench, finally able to be close to each other without the looks of his band members or your friends.

you and seokmin had been in a secret relationship for almost a month; seokmin and his band members were finally growing in popularity now, and their manager had realized it too, quickly banning many things to keep their band's image clean, one of them including dating.

thankfully, you two were already dating before that ban happened, and seokmin had sworn that he wouldn't let that ban stop him from loving you. you believed him, too, every word of it─it was just so hard pretending like you didn't love him.

you couldn't give him a quick kiss in the dressing room like you used to do without the fear of getting caught, and lord forbid you had tried to hold his hand while leaving venues─people always had a way of seeing things, even if you thought you were being the most secretive you could be.

"is this better for you, baby? does the air feel good?" seokmin asks, breaking the silence you had been comfortable in. you nod slightly, sniffling from the leftover tears as you let the wind beat your face.

seokmin's eyes are trained on your figure, studying your reddened eyes and quivering lips as he turns to face you.

"could you tell me why you were crying? i was really worried about you. i just came from the dressing room and you had tears on your face. did something happen while i was gone?" seokmin presses, eyes worried and face blushed as he holds your hands.

"no, no seokmin, i just─" your voice threatens to break, and you turn away quickly, willing any tears trying to fall to disappear. "i just want you. i want us to be a real thing."

seokmin falters just a bit, eyes falling as he stares at your sad, tear-stained expression. he knows what you're referring to─you've been telling him your desire to make your relationship known to the public every night before you would go to sleep, and he got choked up every time you would dream about the future the two of you would have when he revealed his relationship to the public.

"i know you do, baby. i know you do and i'm...god, i'm sorry─i want to be a real thing, too." seokmin's voice is pained, and he tucks your hair behind your ear, slender fingertips brushing your wet cheek and hot ear as he leans in.

even though the two of you were an official couple, the world around you didn't know it yet. there were rumors, sure, but nothing was confirmed yet. even the other band members had their suspicions, but you two were careful enough to not fuel their fires.

you couldn't care whether you were fueling any fires or not anymore. you just wanted to scream to the world that lee seokmin was yours, and you were his. that's all you wanted.

"give me time, baby. i'm going to let them all know soon. no matter what happens when i reveal the news, we'll be together. no position in a band could ever change that. all i want is you. all i need─is you." seokmin's voice is soft, supporting his comforting words in an even stronger way.

you nod, face now in seokmin's hand as he pushes his soft lips to yours. the light lipstick rubs off on your lips slightly, and you sigh against his mouth, feeling all of your worries and apprehensions disappear.

seokmin is careful with you, treating you like a fragile vase as his hands slowly ghost over your hips. his pace is steady, every kiss ensuring his promise to you.

all i want is you. all i need is you.

[mesanthropi]

[03:59]

choi garam hated phone calls right now, more than anything. because it was most likely going to be his brother calling to check up on him, when things were already cooled down and cooled off. there was no need, was there, when they'd made up?

so when 'rock with you' started blaring from his device, the idol grumbled, quiet despite how much louder he wanted to be right now. the ravenette rolled over, phone getting smacked by the side of his palm. "iseul, not now-" managing to get ahold of the thing, he blinked, trying to adjust to its brightness (it was on max). "... huh?"

it was jeonghan.

"..." hitting that dreadful green button, he put the older on speaker, yawning. "i hope you've remembered it's four in the morning," garam's morning voice resonated throughout the room. but only a hum came from the other line, alongside a few things being put down in the background. the receiving end of the call only furrowed his brows. "hello? jeonghan hyung, you better have a good reason for calling me at the asscrack of dawn."

"just wanted to hear how you were doing," came jeonghan's response from the other side. "sorry, i thought you were in korea with the others. four in the morning?" the younger's small hum of confirmation was enough for him, honestly. he sat up from his bed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. the sound of the older falling onto his bed prompted a laugh. "ain't it ten in the morning for you there?"

"mhm."

"finished already?"

"i wish. but at least i get to look good while i'm tired."

garam huffed, shaking his head in mock disapproval. even all the way from germany, jeonghan would know; this was always his response to such sayings. "good on you, i guess..." he muttered, flicking the switch on to let some light into his eyes. "... hey, when are you coming back?"

"i should be asking you that, choi goyangi," the younger exhaled through his nose upon hearing this. "i was talking to seungcheol and he told me you were in canada?" the ravenette shrugged, looking for his glasses on the bedside table. it was just to let him think, remember the korean translation of what he kept telling joshua. "i'll just be here for today, i'm leaving tomorrow morning. i'm working on something."

there was a click of the tongue on the other side. "you work even in canada?" garam's laugh followed, mildly sarcastic and empty, but held some amusement at least. "just stay safe there, sunshine. before you say anything, yeah, i'm being cautious myself."

"you know me so well," jested the younger, finding the pair and slipping it onto his face. "but yeah. i'll try my best... you go out there and look great, 'kay? slay it, sister." when a few seconds of silence passed, garam snickered, adjusting his hold on his phone. "garam, what the-"

annnnd that was his cue to hang up. thank god.

[lovjiwoong]

every time i plan out an sm au to the ending, i never stick to it, i always get ideas and change things