#i'm always so scared of posting and i never know WHEN to post bc of timezones and such so !!!!

[wewontbesleeping]

"I've never wanted to make an album full of happy songs. I don't think that's ever going to happen."

[greyedian]

longing for the day when making fanart stops feeling like i'm massively disrespecting the source material lol

[dickytwister]

if i made a taglist for my blorbo posting. would anyone be interested in that. maybe

[werewolfbneimitzvah]

vent post. There are two stories i was told in my teenage years that even before i had a real concept of trans issues made me uninterested in discussing the supposed sacredness and safety of separated sex-based spaces.

First, when i was like 13 or 14 my PE teacher told us about a time she went to a women's public restroom, some guy was hanging out outside the bathrooms, she didn't think anything of it, went to the bathroom, and he walked in after her and like, creeped on her over the top of the stall. She was ok, she wasn't telling us this to scare us, just telling us what to do in situations like that (and iirc she was telling the whole co-ed class this, not just girls, bc it's useful for everyone), but this taught me immediately and forever that there's nothing actually keeping these spaces separate really, that anyone can be a creep in any space, and that establishing a space like that as for women only isn't actually particularly useful for safety.

Second, when i was 16 i was at an anime convention, a friendly acquaintance of mine and i ended up in conversation outside, and he showed me his bare wrist and told me he'd been kicked out. A female friend of his had stepped in dog poop outside, and between that and the stress of the convention she'd had a bit of an emotional breakdown, so being her friend, he started comforting her and ushered her into the women's restroom so they could wash the poop off her shoe together. And because he was a man who went into the women's bathroom, he got kicked out, no matter that he was doing something that was actually beneficial to a woman. Punishing a woman's friend for supporting her was supposed to... protect her somehow? This made it clear to me that a no-exceptions rule separating the sexes like that wasn't actually inherently good for everyone.

And this isn't even getting into me as a child needing to accompany my younger sister to the restroom when we were out with just my dad because she had certain support needs past the age he felt comfortable bringing her into the men's room with him. And what if I'd been born a boy, or she'd been the first born? Who's helping her then?

And of course even putting all this aside, we should always prioritize compassion and support anyway. But i never even needed to meet a trans person to know that "keeping men out of women's bathrooms" is silly nonsense. But trans people also need to pee anyway and as humans they have that right, so leave them the fuck alone. your precious women's restroom is just a fucking room with a door, holy shit give it a fucking rest, if someone is attacking you in the bathroom that's bad and if someone is in there to pee that's good and it doesn't fucking matter what their junk is or was when they were born.

a woman could have done the exact same thing to my PE teacher and it would have also been bad no matter how "supposed" to be in the restroom she was, and no one should ever be punished for helping a crying friend wash their shoe.

Anyway i know I'm speaking to like-minded folks here, i just think about those two stories literally every time bathroom gender shit comes up and it pisses me off.

[pomefioredove]

can I request house wardens + leech twins with a reader who doesn't eat enough bc Crowley doesn't give them enough for food, and they end up really ill and collapsing or something. I'm cravin some fluffy comfort rn, pls and thank you 🙏

I got you🫡🫡 as someone who's been through an eerily similar situation, I really liked this request

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ another crowley moment™️

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, leona, azul, floyd, jade, kalim, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, mentions of food and not eating

Riddle wouldn't even have to like you to rush to your side. but he does like you, which makes it all the worse

after checking your vitals, you're in the infirmary. he's got doctors for parents, after all, and he knows that malnutrition is bad

he should have seen the signs...

with exams coming, he's been so busy, and he assumed that you were just tired from studying

but he can feel guilty later. right now, he needs to focus on you getting well again, and not killing Crowley

(then, of course, he'll look for some legal statute or clause that he can threaten Crowley with so you're fed properly)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona noticed you'd been acting a little weird lately, but watching you collapse still puts him in shock

luckily, Ruggie and Jack are nearby to help you to the infirmary, so Leona can focus on hunting Crowley down like an animal

there are very few times where Leona is particularly grateful for his status, but this is one of them. just one word on how his family will be hearing about Crowley's neglect, and the old bastard is begging him for forgiveness

even after that, Leona still sends Ruggie with snacks and drinks to Ramshackle

and if you ever scare him like that again, you'll regret it (lovingly)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

the news of you collapsing during flight lessons reaches Octavinelle rather fast. no one is particularly surprised, since Floyd had mentioned how easily you'd been bruising lately just the night before, but everyone is certainly worried

Azul is the first at your side, asking you all sorts of questions, worried sick. Jade has to remind him to give you space to rest, since you look exhausted (had you always had those dark circles? how could Azul have not noticed?)

now, Azul and the tweels could easily find a way to pressure Crowley, but they know better than to trust him

from now on, you'll be eating in the Mostro Lounge, free of charge

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

perhaps Kalim was just oblivious, because he really didn't think anything was wrong until you were suddenly on the floor in front of him

sure, you'd been a little moody lately, but he figured it was just a thing you were going through. and besides, you know that you can talk to him about anything... right?

Jamil hurries to check your pulse, and shouts for him to get the school nurse- which is jarring, because Jamil never shouts

when you explain everything to Kalim later, he feels... terrible. he should've known- no, he should've asked

Kalim insists you stay at Scarabia while you're recovering, and makes sure you have the most enriching, delicious meals money can buy

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil knew it was bad, but not this bad. if he had known you were on the verge of collapsing, he would've taken a firmer approach to getting you to eat

you're going to worry him to death someday, you know that?

after he's done verbally eviscerating Crowley, he'll insist on joining you at every meal. he'll eat at Ramshackle, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, if that's what it takes

he's subtle about it, at least

if he notices that your plate feels empty, he'll just take some food from his and put it on yours. gracefully, elegantly, without a word

you'll come home one day to see your kitchen stocked with vitamins, supplements, and apples (courtesy of Epel)

<3 and a note that says he'll treat you to dinner whenever you want

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

never scare Idia like that ever again. he wasn't even with you when you collapsed, and he STILL nearly had a heart attack

listen, he knows he's not a great role model when it comes to nutritional eating, but you have got to tell him these things. he would've had Ortho go get takeout! or something!

typical Crowley behavior, SMH. what does he think you are? a rabbit? even the school horses get treated better...

no way that Idia is going to even bother with that old fart, anyway. you want something? he'll get it for you. you don't even have to ask, he'll just send food to your place (and have Ortho check your vitals more often but shhh)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I would not want to be in the room when Malleus finds out about this

not even the building. you know what? I'd steer clear of the whole island, because it will not be pretty

when you collapse in front of him, it feels like he's dying, too. the panic sets in, and he sends Lilia to look after you, and Silver and Sebek to escort you to the infirmary, and then he casually threatens to smite Crowley. obviously

if the students and staff of NRC thought Malleus was scary just being Malleus, he's terrifying when he's mad

(rest assured that you will be getting ten times the amount of food from now on)

it's thunderstorms for days after, but he never leaves your side

[shuastar]

KISS 'ER UP (HVC) pt. 2

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

previous ; masterlist

In 3 weeks, you go to 6 home games. 

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

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

All in that exact order. 

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

new message from vernon⚾️🐈

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

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

And he never goes on his phone during games. 

vernon⚾️🐈 yo u see that last play?

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

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

you yea obv

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

So yeah. You lie.

But Vernon texts back in record time. 

vernon⚾️🐈 no u werent

You roll your eyes. 

you i was watching

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

you ur literally lying

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

you i have pfw stuff to sort out sue me

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the messages stop. 

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

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

You swear he sees you. 

You swear he knows. 

It’s annoying. 

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

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

The pitcher winds up. 

Vernon never flinches. 

And then

CRACK!

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

You can see Vernon grin. 

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

And him? Vernon? 

He doesn’t jog. He sprints. 

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

He rounds first so quick even his teammates cheer. 

He glances to the dugout. 

And you swear you see him glance at your section. 

A calm grin. Wide, so Vernon. 

Yeah. Definitely glances towards your section. 

Second base. 

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

The ump signals safe. 

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

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

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

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

The sigh is almost reactive. 

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

____________

Your home studio is a mess. 

Your apartment is a mess, actually. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that it matters. 

But it does. 

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

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

You sigh. 

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

You curse under your breath. 

Another sip of whiskey that burns down your throat. 

Your phone buzzes against the hardwood desk. 

You ignore it – probably Yena.

Then, it buzzes again. 

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

Until you don’t. 

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

vernon⚾️🐈 u awake?

You stare at the message. Then at the clock. 

It’s 12:04 AM. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wyd?

you designs 

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

[attached]

Vernon responds in seconds. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wait  thats lwk really cool

you nice to know my work is appreciated

vernon⚾️🐈 would u ever design smth for me?

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

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

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

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

Another buzz. 

vernon⚾️🐈 r u still up?

you its been like 5 min yes ofc

vernon⚾️🐈 im at the batting cages

you okay….. and?

vernon⚾️🐈 do u wanna maybe come

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

It’s stupid. 

It’s so stupid. 

So so so stupid. 

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

You should absolutely completely say no. 

But. 

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

And you can’t help it. 

you address??

vernon⚾️🐈 [location shared!]

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

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

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

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

Vernon’s the only one there. 

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

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

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

But then, he falters. 

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

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

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

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

He wipes his hands against his black sweatpants. 

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

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

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

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

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

He just grins, hands in his pockets, shrugging. 

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

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

You wait. 

Swing. 

Hit. 

Crack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe I like being stiff.” 

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

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

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

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

“Better?” he murmurs. 

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

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

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

Or maybe he was already looking down. 

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

Your heart stutters. 

The moment stretches thin. 

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

You swallow. “Vern–”

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

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

You would be crazy to pull away. 

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

And then something clicks. 

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

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

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

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

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

You break apart. 

You don’t want to. 

But it’s getting harder to hold your breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vernon doesn’t stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jump,” against yours

before he’s kissing you again. 

And you do. Jump, that is. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s cute. 

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

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

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

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

Vernon exhales a short breath. “Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrug. “I mean… probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Messy,” he comments. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

“Okay, criminal.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you calling me a stalker?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your foot leaves the gas pedal. 

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

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

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

“I’ll text you,” you whisper. 

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

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

You pull away, your cheeks still aching from smiling.

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

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

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

God, you’re so screwed. 

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

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

vernon⚾️🐈 u @ the studio?

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

vernon⚾️🐈 maybe  i j finished training j checking in

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

you im j working how was training?

vernon⚾️🐈 the same did u eat?

you …no BUT im fine deadline mode

vernon⚾️🐈 what kind of monster forgets to eat

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

vernon⚾️🐈 so dramatic

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

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

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

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

vernon⚾️🐈 u think id mess that up twice?

you call it intuition

vernon⚾️🐈 wow no faith in me

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

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

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

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

you ur coming NOW??!

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

you u can stay IF ur not annoying

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

you no u can stay depending how good the food is

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

you bro vernon

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

you omg shut up and hurry up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lifts a hand. 

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

“Hey,” you say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “More than sure.”

And then it unravels.

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

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

"Vernon," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

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

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

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

One kiss. 

Then another. 

And another.

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t. 

He can’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a benediction.

Like thanks.

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

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

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

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

“Holy– the hell?” he mutters.

You blush. “Take your hoodie off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're shaking," he whispers.

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

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

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

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

“I don’t— I didn’t bring—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vernon buries his face in your neck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still good?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

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

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

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

He chokes out a moan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You gonna come?” he pants.

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

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

You break first.

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

And that’s all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re both still trembling.

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

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

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

“…You sure it didn’t hurt?”

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

Your pulse speeds up when he laughs loudly.

Your breathing starts to settle before his does.

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

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

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

Then—

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

“…Okay. Good.”

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

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

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

Vernon notices.

He tilts your chin gently and looks at you closely.

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

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

He frowns immediately.

“Baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm.”

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

“…You really tired?”

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

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

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

“Training?”

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

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

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

“Boyfriend?” he asks, brow raising. 

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

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

And then he turns quiet. 

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

You nod against him. “Told you.”

“And we barely fit.”

“Mhm.”

“…Kinda like it though.”

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

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

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

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper.

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

And then, just before sleep takes you under:

“…You drooled on me a little.”

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

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

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

- HVC

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

vernon⚾️🐈 is calling…

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

[renren-006]

Immunity | Daryl Dixon x fem (immune) reader

plot: what if the reader was immune...and the truth came out

a/n: just an idea bc i was watching the last of us also thank you to everyone who voted for this to be the next story posted!!

You didn't like lying to them; it was practically the opposite of what you wanted to do. You tried to tell them when they first found you, but you didn’t. The words fell from your lips the moment your eyes met his. 

The group found you when you had escaped from the doctors who had you captive. You were tired, rabid, and scared. You had quite literally run into one of the members of this new group.

 As you later found out, Carol instinctively wrapped her arms around you after you bumped into her. The conversation after that was lost on you; all you knew was that this new group was happy to let you join once they made sure you were alright. They tried asking you about your past group, but you refused to answer. A few of them were cautious of you, including the man who had caught your eye.

You did your best to help the group out on the road before finding the prison. You did what you could. Beyond helping them, you also stuck to Carol's side. Unknowingly, Carol had a habit of making a small family of people with whom she felt a connection. You almost expected her to be wary of you and push you away, but seeing you scared and desperate for comfort, she let you inside her heart.

“You can bunk with me” Carol had said to you, motioning to the top bunk. You smiled at her kindness and her comfort. 

Daryl, however, took the most time to warm up to you. He let you have his share of food, medical supplies, and an extra gun, but he also kept you at arm's length. He would grunt when you didn't eat, shove the rest of his surviving food into your bowl, and then leave, saying he was going on watch. This didn't stop in the prison, either. He always made sure that you got more food than what was portioned for you. 

You kept everyone else at arm's length, never fully letting them in. You couldn't let them know the reasons why those people had you locked up or why you wore long sleeves. They didn't know about the doctors or the lockup, but you felt that at least a few suspected some dire situation.

The real issue was you were somehow immune to the virus. The thousands of bite marks that scared your skin were hidden underneath your long sleeves and jeans, proving this.

Even in the heat of Georgia, your thin long sleeve was still on.

“You know you don't have to wear long sleeves now?” Maggie said to you as she rounded towards you. You were watching the yard, leaning slightly on the brick prison walls. 

“I know. Just more comfortable…” “Beth wears long sleeves, too,” Maggie said after a moment. You had heard the stories about Beth's attempts early on and how she's ashamed of them now. You knew Maggie was assuming, so you merely nodded your head. “We don't have to talk about it. I'm here for you.”

You smiled. Maggie was around your age, so for you to say she was treating you like a big sister would be a little off-topic. She was treating you like family, however.

“Now. Are you going to keep just staring at Daryl, or will you ever try?” she asked you. You laughed slightly and moved down the wall so she could share your spot. It was one of the few spots with good sun without the glare. As you both watched over the yard, you realized just how much you liked Daryl.

“Well…Shit,” you said, “Maybe you're right,” Maggie burst out into laughter. It slowly developed over time the subtle things Maggie would do to get you closer to the man. 

It started with sitting next to Darly and moved over to make you sit there instead. Daryl would give you a once-over nod and turn back to his food. Then, the conversations slowly started.

“You went on that run this mornin’, right?” he asked you when you sat down. You nodded your head. It was just the two of you at the table, eating early before everyone else. Darly had a night watch. 

“I did,” you told him, “didn't find too much; everything has been picked over” 

“Seems ‘bout right,” he said before standing. “I got to watch”

Slowly things started to become easier and more comfortable between the two of you. 

“Ya going with them?” Daryl asked as he moved next to you. You watched the group pack up the car for another run into a nearby town you felt would be the same as the last. You shook your head and absently scratched at your arm. 

“Not today.” Another bite rested there on your left arm, freshly bandaged from yesterday's run-in. Thankfully, no one saw or noticed how you found a jacket and threw it on even though it was almost 100 degrees. When you got back, you found a quiet spot and patched yourself up, changed your shirt, and made it back for dinner, saying you wanted to change out of your sweat-ridden shirt. Daryl noticed the scratching. 

“Ya good?” he asked. You looked up and smiled.

“Oh yeah. Mosquitoes are a bitch” you said with a laugh. Darly nodded his head, shook it, and put the thought swarming his head out the window. You were not Beth; he shouldn't worry about a little itch. 

“I was going to go on a run tomorrow. Do you want to come?” he asked, and you smiled.

“Only if I get to ride the motorcycle,” you said with a smirk. Daryl had never let anyone ride on it since getting to the prison, but somehow, you knew he would let you. Darly smiled.

“Sure,” you knew at that moment that all those months of getting extra food, supplies, and small talk were Daryl's way of showing he cared. Now, you wondered if he ever would express it to you or if the two of you would continue this known unknown thing forever. 

When you joined him on the run and tried your hardest to keep calm while you hugged him on the motorcycle, you managed to get closer to Darly in that small little run. You cleared houses, found hidden supplies, and he even found you some hidden jewelry in a box under a floorboard. “You want it?” he asked, handing you the old jewelry box. Inside were lots of silver treasures. You smiled. It had been a long time since you had worn any or had a guy bring you a whole box and almost demand you take it. 

“I'd be crazy not to take it,” you said, looking through it and then delicately placing it into your backpack. If you find more treasures, I want to see them,” you told him. Darly looked at you with an oddly calm calculation. “What?” “Nothin’,” he said, “you finally seem like yourself,” and left the room without another word. You stared at the spot he had been. Daryl not only noticed your slow transition to finally being a part of the group and feeling good again, but he commented on it to let you know he did. You found him waiting by the bike.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” you said, not mentioning what, but the look you gave him and the way he lowered his head and nodded told you enough.

“You're not,” he said, reaching out to help you into the bike. That spoken, unspoken thing was there, and now it wasn't so much spoken. 

When the prison fell, and you escaped with him and Beth, you traveled together like a family, lost Beth, and fought against bikers like a couple. Daryl did everything he could in those months to keep you safe. Daryl was only a man, however. 

Blood dripped down your arm, and another bite tore your skin open. The old warehouse seemed like a bad place to be in now.

“Shit,” you hissed as you looked at the bite. The walker was dead on the floor before you now, but Daryl had his eyes trained on you. 

“y/n…” Daryl spoke with a heartbroken emphasis. Your eyes met his and returned to the bite you knew you couldn't hide this time. 

“I'm fine,” you said. Quickly pulling out a bandage and trying to wrap it. Daryl stopped you, standing over you. 

“We have to..” he started. “Im fine” you said, you didn't dare look up at him. “Nothing's going to happen..” “The hell you mean nothin’ gonna happen,” he said, scoffing a bit at the end. “You got bit”

“And I promise nothing's going to happen,” you said, staring into his eyes. “I…”

“What?” he said, clearly annoyed.

“I'm immune,” you said looking up at him. 

“You can't be…” “I am…It's why I was out on the road when you met me. The people that had me before…they were doctors…testing me and my immunity,” you told him. Darly stood frozen as he watched you put your backpack down. You tore your shirt off, letting him see you fully. Bite marks scarred your upper arms and stomach. Daryl took it all in. “I…can't get the infection.”

“Why?” he asked, moving to you and letting his hands touch your skin. He felt the bumps, saw how the infection tried to spread from them but faded out, and even saw how some of the bite marks went below your jeans. 

“I never stayed long enough to figure it out,” you said, your voice sounding small. “I would have died…if I had stayed any longer.” Daryl just nodded. He put your shit back on, bandaged your arm, grabbed your back, and wordlessly walked out of the building. That night, you sat by the campfire, cold and uncertain. The air around you felt like it, too, was holding its breath. 

“Imma kill em,” he said, breaking the silence. You looked over at him. “They hurt ya like this. would have killed ya to figure it out…” He looked as if he wanted to fight the world for you. Daryl's eyes mirrored the fire that roared in front of you. 

“They didn't” you told him.“You saved me remember, you took me in”

“You saved yourself,” he said. I wish you had told me so I could have gone and killed them.” Darly sounded small at that moment, as if he had not done enough to help you. You felt it, the way Daryl blamed himself for not being able to rid the world of the men who hurt you. “That wouldn't have fixed anything,” you told him. They weren't anywhere close to figuring out what was wrong with me.” “Nothings wrong with ya,” he told you, speaking only seconds after you. This makes you resign if there is ever something wrong with you. Daryl moved to your side, sitting next to you. He fiddled with your hand, bringing your sleeve down a bit to see the marks, “Something wonderful is wrong with you, and I'm glad you can't leave me.”

It was a declaration to the world. The wind swept through you, rustling the leaves, the cans, and the wire. The fire slowed down from its roar. Daryl didn't move from your side from that night on, always sleeping with you beside him. He became your shadow, always there, always protecting, always loving.

[talaok]

Heyy, first, I'd like to say that I really love your writing, keep it up!

And I'd like to make a request, I know we all went crazy over Pedro on SNL (he looked so handsome!!!), and I would love to read a Pedro x Reader behind the scenes of the show, her watching, supporting, and being proud of Pedro, and then the two of them going out together to the SNL after party, dancing, kissing, enjoying each other's company, very fluffy, and a bit of smut at the end?

Pairing: Pedro pascal x f!reader

warnings: very very faint allusion to smut

a/n: he did look handsome and thank you so much love <3 (and yes this ask skipped the line bc as always it wouldn't have made sense for me to post it in two weeks)

It was incredible how nervous he was. He'd done this already, and yet he was acting like a kid like at his first recital.

"you're gonna do amazing baby" you promised, standing on your toes to kiss his cheek "Now go out there and have fun"

His eyes anxiously danced around your face

"my heart's beating so fast" he huffed a laugh

"I know" you smiled, stoking his cheek "but remember, you have nothing to be scared of, you've done this already, and you were amazing at it, so just relax"

"ok" he took a breathy sigh "yeah, you're right. I can do this"

"that's it" you grinned, but before you could say anything more he was kissing you like it was the last time he ever could.

"Pedro?" his assistant's voice brought you back to reality "It's time"

You smiled as he leaned away.

"I love you" he promised, the honesty of that statement shining through his eyes

"I love you too baby" you murmured "Now go!" you said, giving him a playful push "Break a leg!"

__ __ __

As you already knew, everything went perfectly smoothly, he and Bad Bunny were an amazing duo, and you could just see how well they got on even with the cameras off.

The monologue was perfect, and you didn't miss any opportunity to cheer and laugh every time you could, but as much as you'd loved it... nothing could top the Ms. Flores sketch.

You loved it last time, and you loved it this time too.

Even just seeing him in the costume made you laugh (you had filled your camera roll with photos of him) but then combined with the actual sketch... it was just perfection.

You almost didn't want him to change, you kind of liked the constant teasing of calling him mama and telling him just how sexy he was, but unfortunately, he did change.

Imagine what a look that must have been for the afterparty instead of that old shirt he wore everywhere.

But then again, considering how much he was sweating from the dancing maybe it was a good call.

"thank you for tonight" he spoke over the music, as the song changed to a slower one "I couldn't have done it without you sweetheart"

"oh stop" you rolled your eyes, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as you swayed to the music "You would have been amazing regardless." you smiled "I'm surprised they haven't offered you a role as a permanent part of the cast yet"

"No I'm serious" he laughed softly "I don't know if I would have gotten on that stage without you"

"baby..." you cooed, touched by his words "I love you. I'm always gonna be there for you"

"and me for you" he murmured, before kissing you.

You could only vaguely feel everyone around you and hear the music, it was just you and him.

He always made you feel like that.

"I've just realized I was so anxious for tonight that I haven't told you how beautiful you look yet," he said, making you blush faintly.

"You look beautiful too" you murmured, a mischievous smirk pulling at your lips "Not as much as you did when you were dressed as Ms. Flores, but you're not so bad"

He couldn't help but laugh at that

"You'll never let that go, will you?"

"nope" you chuckled, earning another kiss, this time deeper and much... hungrier.

You whimpered into his mouth as his hand on your back started traveling dangerously low.

"baby-"

"you're gorgeous sugar"

you bit down a grin at that

"I know that look"

"what look" he silenced you with another kiss "I'm not doing anything" he breathed, his lips now on your neck

And as much as you weren't completely conscious of everyone around you, a part of your brain still was.

"I think it's time we go home baby" you whispered

"yeah" he nodded, meeting his lips with yours again "Yeah I think it is"

[cr33pz-mck3nna]

heyy, i'm glad the poly carnival post s doing so well!! i'm a sucker for them, so i'm back here to ask for them x reader again but this time having a date at a carnival!:3 hope you're having a good day!

Date Headcanons with the Carnival trio

At the fair!

Warnings: Not many this time(except the possible some mentions of blood and death bcs it's creepypasta so-) bcs it's fluff!, Jack being a tsundere bitch-

Ft: Our favorites! My versions of Jason, Jack and Candy!

I was listening to this and this while writing!

Jason the Toymaker

The ringmaster!

• You two had met at the carnival so of course he loves to take you back there! Most of the time Jason cannot leave the carnival, too busy keeping up the performance, so if you decide to show up or go to another carnival on his night off than best bet that all his attention, when he can be with you, is on you

• Jason has always looked so much like a human so it's easy for him to blend in with them if you go to any old carnival

• You had been walking through the crps carnival with your friends when you saw a very interesting man dressed in a casual suit, or as casual as a suit could be- It was the hair that had first caught your attention, a brighter red than the lights, and in your words he was "Fucking awesome!", words he obviously heard, oh he loves remembering your face when it was time for the tent show and the lights cued on him in the center of the rings

• You brought something too heavy? Don't worry, it's nothing to him! You didn't bring money? Really don't worry because oh BOY this man is filthy rich- Absolutely anything you want to do, see or eat, it's always paid for!(and they said chivalry is dead! guess you just needed a serial killer-/j)

• He will never admit it but the rides scare him, they're still his favorite part though because he loves watching you and your divine smile as you have fun, he will hold anything you have on you and encourage you to go have fun

• He doesn't usually eat human food but he makes an exception for carnival food, and I hope you do too because nothing will be a better date experience than devouring half the carnival with him

• And now that the sun has gone down it's time for his favorite part of bringing you here for dates, your hair flowing softly in the cool night wind and the lights shining so perfectly on your face, this is perfection to him, this is the closest he will get to seeing heaven

"You look so perfect under the lights my dearest..please, stay like that for a moment, let me burn this moment into my brain enough that I may keep you with me on the many nights we stay apart.."

Laughing Jack

The Clown

• WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!? Is exactly the thoughts Jack has about you. He is in no way even slightly like a human, usually when his clown act with the others comes out that's the point when the audience starts to get scared, but you...you thought he was hot!? Like actually what is wrong with you!? He just had to know more!

• He doesn't usually leave the carnival, the many nights away from you always nags at him, so whenever you decide to show up to surprise him OH BOY you're gonna have ADHD Jack on your hands- If there was ever a time when Jack was the most like he used to be before Isaac it was whenever you surprised him

• He is immediately pulling you to all the different rides, he's very out of character for himself, usually being a short tempered snarky prick and a MASSIVE tsundere(we shamelessly call out the tsundere, worse than mammon* istg-), but you're truly seeing a glimpse of who he is or more appropriately who he was. He is flying for the haunted house every time, if someone's around he'll still by force of habit act uninterested but when they leave he's straight on to ranting about how they still couldn't get it right and it's not scary enough.

• Expect him to be the best person ever at finding the best places to eat, he's been there so long he's bound to have eaten everything atleast twice, he's a MASSIVE sweet tooth but he also can't help himself when it comes to pizza, something about the soft yet crunchy dough, the rich cheese and the slightly sweet sauce, it's almost as good as candy!

• If you see a prize or item somewhere and so much as give the hint that you might want it, like it, hell even just see it, and Jack will take it upon himself as a personal mission to win/buy that thing for you, you're not going anywhere until he does-

• It's late so he takes you to the carousel, as you spin around on it, the lights and people slowly flashing by, you're falling asleep on him and he smiles

"Did you have fun sweetheart? Good. No, we don't have to get up just yet, rest your head, we have all night."

Candy Pop

The Magician

• Anyone who sees him would assume he's part of the creepy clown act, but no, this brightly colored dream demon is the most skilled in his tricks, magic or not, and you thought his act was the coolest

• Candy loves when you come out to visit, he can't take you places like a normal person would, like he wishes he could, but when you show up at the carnival he makes sure to make it the best time you've ever had!

• Anything you wish to eat? Here you go he already had it! You enjoyed a particular part of the show? Let's go meet the performers in person! Everyone likes Candy so it's pretty much set that everyone likes you too.

• Candy is always performing, he barely knows how to stop performing, it's all he's ever done, but you...you make him feel like a normal person who doesn't have to constantly perform, you make him feel human and he'll always love you for that

• You drag him on to a ride or two, buy about 20 different kinds of food, and unlike the other two he's fine with or without the rides and food, you're all he needs, if you want to do something then so does he, if you don't like something then neither does he even if he loved that thing prior to meeting you

• He's always fidgeting with his playing cards, spinning them in one hand as you drag him around by the other. When you're there he performs like he never has before, great feats of magic all for you, ginormous bubbles, a fake elephant, houdini tricks, you name it and he's doing it to show off

• By the time night fell you're in his personal tent, unwinding and chatting over a cup of cocoa

"Well that was an excellent day! Possibly the most thrilling I've had! But I guess that's how every day with you is gumdrop~"

OMG I STARTED WRITING THIS YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, LOST THE ENTIRE JASON SEGMENT, HAD TO REWRITE IT LAST NIGHT ALONGSIDE JACK'S PART AND THEN JUST GOT WOKEN UP BY MY MOTHER BLASTING CHRISTMAS MUSIC IN MY FACE AND WROTE CANDY'S PART- I go all out on these requests man, speaking of requests WELCOME BACK ANON! You've requested so much I shall now call you "🤡 anon", you've earned a special anon name! Have a lovely day my little gremlins! -Creepz

@sketchist-art

(I'm tagging you sketchist bcs ur bbgs have returned for another fic and you were probably gonna read this eventually so imma just start tagging u on carnival trio posts- XD)

*shameless obey me reference-

[misfitclassismyfreetherapy]

Oh? Oh? This opens up a bit more on how Iruma views romance as a whole. I suppose he never had given it much thought. While we all love to joke abt him being as dense as mercury. There is a pretty good reason as of to why he's so.. well, subconsciously avoidant of romance. He's always had to depend on his adaptibility (which I will ramble abt in a diff post, don't u worry) for survival, and one of the most heartwarming themes of this was the found family and how Iruma slowly settles to finally, finally learn to live as a teenage boy; loved by his family (Opera, Sullivan.) and make strong bonds with friends and just enjoying his youth as he should. But he's never really given much thought on romance. He's.. well, ironically, more unprepared for it than Ameri confessing her feelings. He'd never had to think of it before. Sure, he worked on a shojo manga before, but even then, the manga was a cliche, vanilla one.(the manga is super cute tho, don't get me wrong.) He's never had to deal with this heavy romantic tension before. It's new. It's thrilling. It's unfamiliar.

I find it so interesting since Iruma is a master at adapting but he doesn't want to adapt to this. Also, love how we show that men can also be vulnerable and scared at this type of love!! Not in the 'I'm scared to be hurt again if I let down my walls' way (although I do like the trope if done well) but 'I don't know how to handle this type of love bcs I never thought I'd experienced it and be desired like this' type of way. It's nice to see the role-reversal and subtle breaking of gender expectations tbh.

Also, small side note; I do love how all the characters respect each other's boundaries and recognizes when to change the subject, etc. It's a refreshing take for once. Common W for Ali-san once again!!

[sweatervest-obsessed]

okay so i'm thinking post!prison reid and reader break up bc he's not ready to be in a relationship after everything that happened in prison. they just don't get back together bc when spence is finally ready it's been a while and they both think it's too late and no one makes a move and they remain as friends UNTIL jj's love confession brings some feelings back onto the surface - reader finds out about it and (cue jeid and their weird, longing glances🥲) has a whole it's all really over moment and then there's distance between her and spencer until there's a confrontation about it and BAM a love confession and second chances😁😁

THIS IS SUCH A MESS but i hope you get my point</33

Um yeah so, absolutely. Some angst for you indeed. I love a convoluted and angsty fight, especially whenever someone is arguing in circles with someone else because they're both just so passionate but angry, anyways, heheh, enjoy!!

WC: 1.5k

TW: Arguing, mentions of violence, mentions of prison, mentions of guns, honestly if you watched CM then that is your TW.

“I just want to know why you’ve been so distant lately. I mean, this is the first time I’m speaking with you one on one in over a week, and it’s because I manage to catch you in the office at nine fucking pm Y/n.”

"So what do you want me to say, Spence? What could I possibly have to say to you? I'm pretty sure Jennifer said everything there is to say."

This caused Spencer to lose all of the oxygen in his body. It froze up. You weren’t supposed to know what JJ had said, no one was supposed to know what JJ had said. 

You and Spencer were in the bullpen of the BAU. Luckily for both of you, since it was so late, no one else was there. Neither of you were extremely public when it came to your relationship, which meant neither of you would have chosen to have this conversation fight in a public place, but no one else was around.

I want you to say something you're afraid to say. Something you'd never tell anybody. And you better make it good. Cause if it's not, it's going to be the last thing you ever say. What's it gonna be?

“How did you know about that?” He whispered. 

“JJ asked Garcia to go through the footage, apparently she wanted to make sure no one could ever access the audio from it.”

"Y/n I--" Spencer closed his eyes, his jaw set. He didn’t even know what to say at this point. You had both clearly made up your minds about this, yet neither of you wanted to see the carnage, the outcome of it all. So, instead, you chose to stand in the middle of the bullpen, fighting against one another.

Fighting for one another.

"I just don't understand why you're so upset about this."

“Spencer–you didn’t even tell me about it, I had to find out about it from Penelope, and who knows who else she told. You were afraid to tell me, yet that giant genius brain of yours can’t, oh I don't know, comprehend just a teeny tiny little bit why this makes me upset?" For the millionth time this evening, you scoffed. 

Something you would never say aloud, not even to your partner. Your deepest, darkest secret. Impress me, or I'll kill him.

"Y/n--"

Spence, I've always loved you. I was just too scared to say it before, and now things are really just too complicated to say it now. I'm sorry, but you should know.

"Fuck Spencer I have been in love with you since I first fucking joined this team." You gasped out. The air around your head got thinner and felt dizzying like you were floating through the air now that this was off your chest. "And I loved you when you asked me on a date. I loved you through Emily's death. I loved you when you asked me to move in with you. I loved you through when Morgan left the team. I loved you through Hotch leaving. I loved you through fucking Cat Adams. I loved you even after I came home one night and you were making out with her against our fucking door. I loved you through every single case and every single flaw. I loved you when you fucking relapsed a few years ago. I even loved you when you went MIA for weeks and then found out you were in a fucking Prison. And I still fucking love you now. But, instead of being together, you asked for a break."

"That's not fair..." He whispered.

"What? Respecting you and your boundaries? Knowing that you needed time to readjust after you had been released, and believing in your promise that once you felt ready to try a relationship again you'd come to me and talk to me about it? And then watching as you fall for JJ all fucking over again? With your stupid fucking glances. This isn't a goddamn tv show Reid, I can see when you both stare at one another across the room, I can see it."

"We don't.."

"You do. You both do. And then, you tell me that Jennifer fucking Jareau is willing to make her last words the fact that she has always loved you and has always been in love with you, and you---" Your voice froze, the sound cutting out. You looked straight at Spencer, not caring about the tears running down your cheeks. You watched as his hand twitched up. When the two of you were dating, Spencer used to wipe away every single of your tears. But now he wouldn't even lift his hand.

"I--what."

You took another breath, trying to calm down, and really think through your words. "This woman who has been your best friend for over a decade just fucking confessed her love for you, in a life-or-death situation, and you're telling me, that she just fucking made it up, pulled it out of her ass, or at least is telling you that she did and now the two of you are going to act like everything is normal and okay?"

"Y/n..."

"You were in love with her for years Spencer. And now, all of a sudden she confesses her love to you, and that changes nothing?"

"No, Y/n, it doesn't. It changes nothing. Does it hurt a bit? Yes. Does it change the fact that I love you? No." Spencer was trying to keep his voice level, hoping you'll continue to match his volume since he didn't want anyone to potentially stumble by and hear your argument. His hand reached for your wrist, but you couldn't bear to feel his skin against yours.

This caused you to let out a water laugh, tears sliding into your mouth, ugly but pouring down your cheeks. A waterfall of grief in all of its rawest forms.

"You still love me."

"Why-Why is that funny."

"I have been waiting to hear those words since you walked out of that fucking prison and the first time I hear it in years, it's because you're trying to justify loving someone else."

"That's not true."

Make it a million and one, you scoffed.

"I have loved you since the moment you first walked through those doors. You were in a pale blue pair of pants, and a black sweater--I remember it because Emily complimented the pants. I spend my whole life loving you and manage to never fully give you every single piece of love I have because there's simply not enough time in the world. I would kill for you. I would go to prison all over again if it meant you would be okay in this world." Spencer ran a hand through his hair, his voice strained. But his eyes never left yours. "Last week, when that unsub had his gun against your head, I fired before he even spoke, not because I assessed it was the right time or whatever fucking excuse I gave to Emily. I fired that bullet because if you died in front of me, I'd......The only thing I was thinking about the entire fucking time JJ and I were stuck in that room was how the fuck I was going to be able to tell you I love you one last time because I wasn't fucking smart enough to take my chance and say it to you every single day."

Your chest was heaving, but you didn't move towards him. It didn't feel right, it didn't feel real.

Spencer was able to take your hand in his, enclosing it between both of his, trying to get you to look at him. "I should have told you the moment I was ready to try a relationship again, but I thought you...I thought you had moved on because I wasn't worth waiting for."

This caused you to laugh again, eyes red from crying. "Don't fucking start with that shit Spencer.''

"I'm telling the god's honest truth."

"I waited for you throughout all of Prison. I waited for you through Maeve. I am still pathetically standing right fucking in front of you, waiting for you to hopefully realize that you still love me."

He kissed your hand. "And I don't deserve you at all for it."

"Do you still love her?"

"Y/n."

"Answer the question, Spencer. Or I'm done. I-I can't do this any longer, watching you....the way she looks at you just--"

Spencer pulled you into his arms, enclosing your body in his arms and kissing the side of your head. "I have always, and will always, love you Y/n Y/l/n. And I want to spend the rest of our lives proving to you that I would choose you, I want you, over and over again."

“That’s not an answer Spencer.” You whispered, rigid in his arms.

“I-I.” He closed his eyes. “I did. And I still do love her, but not like that. I haven’t been i-in love with her since the moment you walked through those doors.”

Spencer felt the weight of your head against his shoulder as you finally conceded and hugged him back, tightly. “Let's go home.” He muttered into your head, waiting patiently for you to hum in agreement. 

Neither of you moved though. You both stood there, locked eternally in the other’s embrace, enjoying the peace you felt for the moment, even though tomorrow was a new day, where you would have to sort through how you really felt about all of this. 

But tonight, you stood with your arms around your love, forever.

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

i’m on my knees BEGGING to hear more abt darry singing his brothers to sleep😭🫶🏻

WAGH HELLO LOVE!! I am nothin if not the people's princess so I've actually made a Playlist of all the songs I think Darry sings to his brothers BUT head canon list follow bc I think about this boy every wakin hour EEE TY FOR THE ASK LOVE

- whenever he sings it is 8/10 a beatles song. Soda was never as adamantly anti beatle as the rest of the gang (minus dally but that's another post) but Pony MOANS about it. he's half asleep goin someone change the CHANNEL :( Darry just tells him to hush n that the singer picks the music

- when Soda n Pony are sick he'll press their head down to his chest n hum. it's a habit he picked up from his mama n he knows it grounds both of them. plus it's a comfort for him as well. when someone leans against ur chest when u sing u can feel it better in ur own body too.

- he's also just an absent singer. when he's doin busy work or drivin he'll absently start singin or whistlin'. he does it when he's cookin' sometimes but he has to be REAL outta it 'cause if Two's around he'll make a big show of turnin' off the tube or the player 'n shushin' everyone 'n goin' "EVERYONE HUSH DARRY FM IS ON"

- when he's in a particularly good mood he'll sing Two of Us by the beatles n change it to the three of us, tappin the beat absently against Soda n Pony's arms

- Soda n Pony are both heartbeat listeners. Soda not as much as when he was younger but Pony still crawls into bed with Darry after a nightmare n will panic if he can't find Darry's heartbeat in his sleep. Darry has woken up numerous times to Pony frantically pressin' an ear to his chest. He always smooths his hair off his sweaty forehead, wraps the kid up, n sings softly to him. it has the same affect. the low baritones of Darrys voice vibratin against Pony's cheek n soothin him back to sleep

- One night Soda's sick. like real sick. the kind that has Darry runnin his hands up n down his neck til he practically gives himself rug burn. sodas vomitin n hot n cold. shakin n shiverin n so miserable he can't even pretend he's alright. he's half delirious n pressed against Darry, burnin to the touch, n he just manages to croak out can you sing it dar? n darry knows exactly what he means. an old Frank Sinatra song their ma used to sing them to sleep with. n his throat is dry n he's tracin absent, scared circles along sodas collar bone n clutchin him tight but he opens his mouth n presses Soda to his chest n sings.

- He sings Beautiful Boy to Pony n changes Daddy to brother (the monsters gone/ he's on the run/ n ur brothers here)

- I know it doesn't line up timeline wise but I'm ignorin it temporarily cause Darry would sing little willow by Paul McCartney to Pony all the goddamn time. He's holdin him, Pony's body still small in childhood n Darry's acutely aware it won't last. That his kid brothers growin up. n he's got him tucked up in his lap, crashed in the armchair cause he swore he wasn't tired but then Darry's rockin him a lil n he should protest cause he ain't a kid no more but then Darry starts in on bend little willow, winds gonna blow you, hard n cold tonight n his eyes are just so heavy. n maybe he doesn't mind lettin his older brother hold him. Just tonight.

[assassin-artist]

I like your Viltrumite OC and her dynamic with Conquest. They remind me of that meme where a cute girl ordered a beer and a tough guy ordered a sweet drink but the waiter gets their drinks mixed up so they have to switch them back.

I'm pretty sure you mean Yuki, right? Cuz the only time I've drawn Mercy (my only Viltrumite OC) with Conquest was when they were beating the shit outta each other, lol. I wondered why you assumed Yuki was Viltrumite, until I looked back at that drawing of her with Conquest and realized the overlay I put on top of it made her outfit very grey-and-white. Oops! A little bit of Yuki rambling below the cut if you're interested (:

She's not a Viltrumite! She's human, born and raised on Earth. Yuki is one of those OCs where I put her into every AU and every fandom I can feasibly stick her into, lol, so if you look at my Yuki tag then you'll see a loooot of different variations of her. She's usually a good person in every world bc "sunshine and optimism" is like the core of her character in every fandom, but in Invincible I decided I wanted her to be more neutral/self serving instead (: I've got Mercy to be the good OC who wants to protect people, now Yuki gets to be mischievous and work with the bad guys because they're fun company

She's my OC where I just decided that I can do whatever tf I want, so she's an OP mary sue that wins every fight and everyone fears/respects her and all that. Probably the main reason I don't post about her a lot, I know stuff like that isn't always that well received on tumblr. But I don't care that much, it's my art blog and I get to post my super self indulgent OC doodles if I want to..

Her basic lore in the Invincible-verse is that she's immortal and has been around for a few centuries (I haven't decided exactly how long, just at least 300 years or so). She can't come back from the dead like The Immortal can, she just has a healing factor so strong that it's incredibly difficult to do enough damage to actually kill her before she's already healed from it. She can teleport, and mainly uses her dual swords to fight with. I justify her being OP as hell with the fact that she basically doesn't interact with the main plotline, like, at all. She interacts with the characters, but she doesn't really get herself involved with what's going on in the world. She's just goofin off in the background

She basically just pops up out of nowhere, messes around with people, says some cryptic shit that nobody understands at the time but will look back on later and go "ohhh", and then disappears again. Silly jester of a woman that doesn't want to work for any organization because she has no respect for the law or governments, so she's willing to break the rules to do what she wants to do. Sometimes she works with criminals, sometimes she allies with the GDA, but most of the time she's considered an eccentric but unknowable entity.

I just really like the idea of her scaring the shit out of people by popping up behind them at random. The Guardians tell her to get out of their base in Utah but she's like "wait I want one of those donuts" and they just can't catch her. They stopped trying to kick her out years ago. She's kicking her legs up on Cecil's office desk and he just sucks it up bc he wants her help on a mission or something. Silly things like that (:

I like the idea of her hanging out with Conquest, because they're both very lonely people. Yuki, like Immortal, decided a long time ago to not get too close to other people because they both know they're going to outlive them all. So she has a very friendly and approachable personality, sure, but she keeps an emotional distance from everyone. Kinda pissing people off by always cracking jokes and never being able to have a serious conversation about anything. I think her and Conquest would have met before he came to Earth, idk how, I have yet to decide on that other than the fact that Yuki proooobably has gone to other planets before (somehow). I just want him to show up on Earth in season 3 to do his job and he sees her again and goes "what the hell. how are you here" and shes like "huh? this is my planet? what are you doing here?" spider-man pointing meme style

she's really just a daydream-only OC in her Invincible AU because I don't have any intentions of making set lore for her, I just do whatever is fun in the moment. and right now what's most fun is her pestering Conquest but he thinks it's funny and they both get some companionship for a little while

[softestqueeen]

Hi! I was reading through 500 celebration prompts, first of all: congratulations 🥳🎊🎉you deserve it ! I dont know how comfortable you are with writing post prision spencer, but he is the only one I can think of when I read prompts 2 "It won't be easy you know... trying to love me." and 6 "I- I don't know who I am anymore. I'm scared." . Maybe like before he got arrested they were starting something and he feels that reader is going to give up on him bc of what he did on the inside, and it’s hurt/comfort, you could totally come up with something better. Feel free to ignore 🤍✨

a/n: thank you sm for your request! so, fun fact i stopped watching cm after hotch left (s12) because 1) obv hotch left and 2) i knew my bbg was going to go through it with his mom and prison and stuff and if i don't see it, it doesnt happen. periodt. but, i'm still a sucker for hurt/comfort, so here you go, enjoy <3 warnings: very incorrect mention of events during the prison arc (your girl has no idea), hurt/comfort, mention of prison, mention of murder pairing: post prison!spencer reid x gn!reader I 1175 words special prompts I special masterlist

You and Spencer had only moved in together a few weeks before everything went downhill. Seeing your boyfriend in court, seeing the tears in his eyes once it was clear he had to go to jail almost broke you. Without the suppoert of the team - who suppoerted you when Spencer couldn't and were always there for you - you don't think you would have been able to make it.

But, finally, the BAU found a way to prove his innocence and got him out of that shithole. You were aching to see him, especially because he didn't put you on the visitors list. When you first heard that, you couldn't belive it. Why didn't he wanna see you? But after Garcia visited him and came back with a letter for you from Spencer, where he explained how he didn't want you to see him like this, you somewhat understood him.

It still hurt, but of course you respected his desicion.

So, when he came out about a week ago, you were overjoyed. You almost couldn't believe that you'd get to hold him in you arms again.

Of course you knew he wouldn't be the same man as before after these months in jail, but a small part of you still hoped that you'd get back to normal quite fast. Oh, how wrong you were.

When Spencer first came through the door - Penelope came to pick him up, he didn't want you anywhere near that prison - he practically fell into your amrs and remained like that for what felt like hours. Still, once he pulled away it felt too soon. He was distant, but not unusually so, more like when he had been on a tough case and just needed some space. So, you gave him what he needed.

After your time together you learnt how to read him quite well and with every shy smile he gave you once he realised you were profiling him, you felt like you got a little bit of your Spencer back.

But, you soon realised that he wanted a lot more space than usual. Even when his body language practically screamed for you to be close to him or at least be in the same room, he still kindly asked you fro space. Which was fine, until it wasn't.

You took a week off work to help him get settled in again and today was your first day back at work. Everything was fine and Spencer even hugged you goodbye before you left. You felt so special, as he rarely seeked out any touch these days. Nights that would have been spent cuddled together were now spent on opposite sides with Spencer as far away from you as humanly possible on the bed.

Checking in with him at lunchtime, he told you he had ordered in some food and was now reading some russian book you've never heard of.

You left work the moment the clock hit 6pm and drove home as fast as you could with all the traffic. Opening the door, you take off your shoes and place your keys on the designated hook.

Moving further into the apartment, you realise something is off. You don't see Spencer. Usually when he reads he sits in his favourite chair by the window, the old thing already indented from where he always sits. But he was nowhere to be soon.

"Spence, I'm home," you call out, but are only met with silence. Before you could worry too much, you opened the bedroom door and the sight that awaited you broke your heart.

There was Spencer, you sweet and amazing boyfriend, lying under the covers with tears running down his face. He obviously hasn't registered that you were home, hi hands pulling his legs even tighter against his torso.

You've never seen someone this tall seem so small.

Taking a step forward, you reach out your hand to him, not quite touching him yet.

"Spencer... what's wrong? Please, talk to me?" Once he realised you were there he almost jumped out of his skin in the way he jerked back. Eyes wide he quickly searched for the quickest route out of this situation, but he was quick to realise that he had to talk to you.

He let out a heavy sigh, before scooting back and leaning against the headboard, giving you the space to sit down on the edge of the bed, which he previosuly occupied.

Taking a deep breath he started to talk. "Uhm- uh- as you've probably realised, the other people in prison weren't the nicest to me and I- uhm-," Spencer was evidently having problems with finding the right words, but you were quick to assure him to take his time.

"So, I'll just say I had a hard time, I don't want you to know what they did to me, what I had to do to them. And I- I just don't really know how to act anymore, you know? I'm not- I'm not the same person that I was before prison and that uh- scares me a bit, I guess. I- I don't know who I am anymore. I'm scared."

If your heart could even break any more, it just did. Knowing how insecure Spencer had felt previously and how he had gained so much confidence since you've gotten together. To see this confidence shattered pained you so much.

"Oh, Spencer. I can't even imagine what you have gone through, but I'm so proud of you, you know?" at that he perked up, his previously downcast eyes now meeting yours, "I am proud of you. You did it, it's over and your're here now. You're safe you know and I'm so glad you're back. I love you so much Spencer and I will help you in any way I can. But please, you need to talk to me. I worry about you, because I deeply love you and I only want the best for you."

You could see tears glistening in his eyes again.

"It won't be easy you know... trying to love me."

"Spence, I don't have to try to love you, because I already do. I love you unconditionally, no matter how hard times may get, I'll always be there for you, okay? Loving you is not a task or a burden, but it's a choice. And everyday I wake up and I chose you," with your last word your finger pokes his chest and Spencer finally realsies that this is real.

He is not in prison anymore, he is free. He has you, the love of his life who also loves him back.

Spencer can't take it anymore, he throws himself into your arms and he lets the tears fall freely, soaking your shirt. You don't mind and you also know that he knows that.

This is not over and it will take a while for everything to get back to normal - or whatever normal will be in the future - but now you both knew that it was going to be alright.

the requests for this event ARE CLOSED! thank you to everybody who requested something, I'm now getting to the last ones.

a/n: i hope you liked this, if so please leave some notes, likes, reblogs and comments! feedback is very appreciated!

please also consider supporting my ao3: @ softestqueeen

regular requests open! (now also for the x files)

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[runningfrom2am]

cold nights // epilogue

summary: a few years later...

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 3.7k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n:

here it is :) the epilogue :)

(i'm crying, could you tell??) i figured it was time to post this now that we've officially entered the overlapping requiem/michigan cherry era. tbh i was just afraid to let these two go bc i love them so much.

thank you all again SO so much for all the love on this fic. it has truly meant everything to me that so many people came on this actual JOURNEY with me, i never intended this to be so long but here we are.

anyway, stick around for requiem!! and i hope you loved this if you made it this far!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist // pinterest board

You were all dressed up in one of your finest gowns, attending the gala that preceded the presidential election.

Coriolanus was running, of course, and you were so incredibly proud. He's worked toward this for years, and you had been there every step of the way since the tenth annual Hunger Games, all those years ago. It felt like a distant memory- albeit one that still haunted you regularly.

You were a whole new person. A Capitol citizen most of the year, and you were happy most of the time. You and Coryo had always gone home in the summers, though, to spend your days surrounded by friends and family under the District Twelve sun. You always looked forward to it, but three months never felt like quite enough time. You missed your old life, but that's all it could be now.

While some Capitol elite was talking your ear off about the upcoming games, that's all you can think about. Well, how after the election that your boyfriend would most certainly win, those summers of peace would be a thing of the past. It was hard to think about, which is why you focussed on how you could work around it. Perhaps you would make smaller visits throughout the year- although Coryo was prepping you for the endless tasks that would even be put onto you as the First Lady of Panem. Once he wins the election, he would propose- and it would be followed by the wedding of the century. You didn't know if you dreaded it or if the pressure of it all just scared you beyond what excitement could repair.

"Miss Y/L/N?" Your train of thought is abruptly interrupted and you hum in response, bringing the champagne glass to your lips, acting like you were paying attention the whole time.

"Yes?" You respond as you lower your glass. "My apologies, I just spaced out for a moment there. It's a big day, after all..." You chuckle to recover, tilting your head slightly at them.

"I was just asking if you had any input in the arena for the next Games, if you could give us any hints." The man asks, seemingly impatient with you getting distracted.

"Oh," You reply, smile fading softly. "No, I- I really try to stay out of all of that." You laugh nervously, gripping tighter onto the glass as you take another sip, relieved when you feel someone's hand on your arm.

"Y/N, come sit. Coriolanus's speech is about to start, he got me to save you a seat at my table." Sejanus says, linking his arm with yours.

You politely excuse yourself from the conversation and allow him to pull you away. "Many thanks." You whisper to him, chuckling slightly as you glance back over your shoulder at the older man you were speaking to. "Some people are so tone-deaf, aren't they?"

"Most definitely." He sighs, shaking his head as he guides you toward his table at the front of the banquet hall, close to the stage. "Apparently that will never change."

Sejanus Plinth was your saving grace all these years, that, however, had never changed. You didn't see him as much anymore, with you being locked up in your office in the Snow penthouse focused on writing book after book until you were burnt out. His role as a doctor in and out of the Districts certainly didn't help either, but you knew he was partial to working back home in Twelve so he could spend more time with Lucy Gray. You were glad he was much more fulfilled in his adult life than you were; you always knew he would do well and you were proud. You had to take moments every so often to remind yourself that when you first met him and Coryo, you had been sad that you wouldn't get to see the men they would become but you had wondered. Now, you had your answers.

"Is that not the truth." You scoff under your breath, smiling and giving a quick wave to a few familiar faces as you pass. You had become somewhat of a people-pleasing expert, the same way Coriolanus had.

You sit down at the table at the front of the room just as the lights slightly dim, and the spotlight hits the stage. You gently cross one leg over the other, careful not to wrinkle your dress and clap in just the perfect polite way you had learned how to over the years, smiling as you see Coryo walk up onto the stage.

He waves, and people whistle and clap, and the smile on his face seems a little more genuine than it normally is during these speeches. Of course, though, this is his final address before he no doubt gets voted in as president, and you know that he is excited.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming out tonight..." He says, in a subtle cue to get people to quiet down so he could speak, a drink still in his hand that he delicately hovers above the podium next to him. "This has been such an incredible opportunity for both of us running, and I must say, it's been fun." He tips the glass toward the other table at the front, and your eyes follow the movement to the other candidate, your friend and former classmate, Hilarius Heavensbee. They've never gotten along, and you know Hilarius wants nothing to do with this job. Not really. It makes you sad, a little bit, that his family would push him this far when he had confided in you in his freshman year that it wasn't what he wanted.

The man just gives Coryo a polite but nervous smile, taking another sip out of his own champagne glass. From where you were, you could see his hand trembling. You knew he would have to go next, and Coriolanus Snow was always a tough act to follow.

"Now, I am very happy about this turnout, because I have two important announcements to make." He continues, and whispers fill the room. You look over at Sejanus, a slight look of shock on your face. You didn't know he had anything special to announce, and he always kept you in the loop on everything. Sejanus just shrugs, looking back up at Coryo again. It must not actually be a big deal- it was probably just thanking some more people who have donated to his campaign.

"Firstly," He clears his throat, taking a step to the side as the screen behind him lights up. "For just a moment, see me as your head game maker and forget all about me running for president. Or don't, actually, maybe keep that in mind, but at the back of your mind." He chuckles, the little joke making the audience laugh. He was much more personable now than he once was, you smile a little as you remember helping him write his earlier speeches in a way that would make him more likable. "With the help of my fellow candidate and personal good friend, we are trying something new when it comes to The Hunger Games."

When he speaks, your heart drops and you sit up a little straighter- feeling all eyes on you as you just focus on him. For the first time, he looks down at you and gives you a small smile, the slightest nod in an effort to reassure you that it wasn't as scary as it sounded. You swallow and just keep your smile on as best as you can, ignoring all the stares.

"So, we all love The Games. They're exciting, the stakes are high, and I know every year we all pick our favourite tributes to root for and it's hard to watch them fall but, god, do I know better than anyone how good it feels when they win." Your cheeks burn intensely as Coryo sends a smile and a wink your way, and the screen behind him flashes to a picture of the two of you, taken after your shared university graduation just a couple of years ago. You were both smiling, but he was looking at you as he held you tight around your waist, and you looked into the camera and held up a three-finger salute. People are laughing and awe-ing at the photo of the two of you, and you laugh nervously, looking over at Sejanus with slightly panicked eyes.

You would be absolutely fine with this if he had just run it by you before, and you knew that whether you liked it or not, the Games were an integral part of who you were now, and always would be- but you certainly didn't want your name on anything to do with these new changes they're making. But, he wouldn't be talking about you at all if he knew you would hate it. You had to remind yourself of that.

"So, you all know my beautiful Y/N, of course, we're all big fans of hers here," Coryo says, gesturing to where you were sitting and you let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head at him in a way that would appear teasing to everyone else while he waits for everyone to finish clapping for you. "Don't get embarrassed already, darling, I've got a bit more to say about you so just sit tight, okay? Nothing bad, I promise." He says to you, looking into your eyes even as he stands up on the stage, everyone's laughter echoing in the background.

"So, I have known Y/N and her outstanding mind for years now. The Games are what brought us together when we were both just kids, but you all already know that story so I'll spare you the details. The bottom line is, I am so proud of the woman she has become. She's written two books that will soon become three, she graduated in the top three percent of our class with only a District education to build on, and she is the single most well-spoken, well-mannered, beautiful, and caring woman I have ever met. Truly, she has changed my entire outlook on life." He says, talking more so to the audience than to you, knowing that you're so embarrassed by this. And he would be correct. "It has truly been a privilege to know her, and to love her."

"But that was a long journey for us both, and a seemingly endless uphill battle for her recovery, despite her strength. The Games can be scary, let's be totally honest. It's life or death, and winning will change you, but Y/N came out the other side and wanted to make a difference for her family and that inspired me. And she continues to inspire me every day." Coryo says, pausing to take a sip of his champagne again. "So, all of this is to say, I'd like to thank her for all her support through my education, this campaign, and through the life we're building together. She inspired this idea in me and with the help of my fellow game makers as well as the Plinth family..." You look over at Sejanus as he continues, suddenly realizing he must have known about what was happening. He keeps a small smile on his lips as he watches, refusing to make eye contact with you.

"This," Coryo says, turning to look up at the screen while a picture comes up of a small cul-de-sac of beautiful homes. "Is just the beginning of the Victor's Rehabilitation Initiative."

You tilt your head, a shocked and confused smile on your face as you take in the photo and try to decipher what he's talking about.

"So, recently, Y/N has been more open with everyone about the struggles that came with being crowned a victor in our Games. Yes, they get to walk away with their lives, but what if winning meant something more? What if it meant security for them and their families, so they're not returning to their Districts with no sense of what to do next? That, everyone, is what this program is for. To help the strongest of them find a purpose again, and to encourage the bravest of Panem's children to get back on their feet after such an impressive feat as winning the Games."

You have to very consciously force your jaw to stay shut when you realize what he is saying, clapping along with everyone else while your smile relaxes into something more genuine. You knew that he wanted to abolish the Games altogether, and you knew that no matter who won the election, they wouldn't proceed for much longer. This was the first step in that direction, and you were flooded with emotions. Pride, excitement, relief.

"For ten years, until the beginning of the mentorship program, our victors were cast aside. Never to be heard from again after their win, I, for one, became curious as to what happened to them after the Games as soon as I met Y/N, and I have heard that question from many of you as well since we were all given the pleasure of getting to know her." Coryo's smile is one of pride and excitement, sparing a glance at you as he allows the audience to have their responses. So far, all seemingly positive despite the present undertones of him caring about the people in the Districts. He was a smooth talker, he knew exactly how to command a space and get people to believe what he wanted. And he was using it for good. "I mean, how many other victors have something extraordinary, just like her, that won't be utilized or nurtured? We never knew."

"From now on," He continues, the crowd quieting down. "Our victors will be given homes in what we've decided to call Victor's Villages in each of the Twelve Districts. They'll have ensured security for themselves and their families, and a generous sum of prize money to help them with whatever they need. Whether that's medical attention, both physical and emotional, or, if they so choose, when they reach the appropriate age, they could apply at our university to further their education. Though, between you and I, admittance is not guaranteed." He winks at the end and it's accompanied by laughter, which you try and go along with, but you're too close to tears to even process fully what was going on. This was a huge step in the right direction, even if like he said, acceptance was not guaranteed. "What I mean, is that it will be up to them. They can live their lives to the fullest, just like our gem, Y/N."

He looks at you again, and you can really only see his blurry form through your tears until someone is handing you a handkerchief to dry your eyes while people clap and cheer over the idea.

This was something you couldn't have imagined years ago. This was everything you've wanted since the Games- to make a difference, for people to care. And it was happening right before your eyes. Thanks to him. Thanks to you.

"And with that," Coryo says after a few moments, waiting for the crowd to quiet down after taking in your reaction. "We can move on to my second announcement, which is my formal withdrawal from the presidential campaign."

Gasps fill the room and your smile disappears, a hand coming up to your mouth as you look up at him, shocked and confused with the announcement that blindsided even you.

"Are you happy here?" You ask quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the evening as you walk from your parent's house back to your own in the Victor's Village.

"I couldn't be happier." Coryo replies through a soft sigh, swinging your hand gently as it's clasped between you.

"Are you sure?" You say again, feeling a little uncertain despite weeks of his endless reassurance that this was, in fact, what he wanted.

To him, this scenario was perfect. He could keep his job as head gamemaker, planning to only return to the Capitol for a few months or so every year for the Games. He knew that wouldn't last much longer, though, not with Hilarius Heavensbee in office. Coryo gives it a few years and a few major "accidental" mistakes on his part for the viewership of the annual event to die out and open the door for the president to call them off, just like he had always wanted to.

And every day Coryo would wake up to see you in your happy place, the only place you'd ever felt truly at home. He was more than happy to give it all up for the greatest sake of seeing you smile.

"Of course." He smiles, never growing tired of telling you the same thing over and over again if it meant he could ease your mind.

The moonlight bounces off his in a way that makes you think it could be glowing if you didn't know any better.

"I told you that I would be. Years ago. You remember?"

"Of course I remember."

He lets out a breathy laugh at your reply, shaking his head. "That was a foolish question. I don't think you've ever forgotten a single word anyone has ever spoken to you."

"Sure I have." You say, tilting your head as you look up at him, trying to catch the same moonlight reflect in the blue of his eyes as you walk down the path. "I just don't forget... the important bits."

"I will try my best to take care of you while you're here."

"My honest, best advice? Figure out a way to escape."

"I can't have killed them all for nothing."

"You are not a beast."

"Please, don't walk away again."

"I survived because I had to learn to love you."

"Like in your books?" His voice interrupts the swirling of speech from years past, and you shrug.

"Not exactly... it feels different. Because I can hear it, still." You explain, voice dropping into something more quiet as the remnants of your fear eats away at the back of your mind, the cold night breeze imprinting your skin.

"God, the way your mind works, love." He says, and as you look up at him to be met with an expression of pride that always changes everything. "You amaze me every day."

You stay quiet, cheeks getting hot as you look back down at the path.

"Are you happy?" Coryo asks after a moment, eyes never daring to leave your profile as you walk next to him, hardly more than a silhouette in the dark. But certainly more than a ghost, now.

"I am." You reply, the smile creeping back onto your lips. "Such hours are beautiful to live, but hard to describe..."

He hums softly in response. That was a yes, but also a no in the most you fashion possible. His heart remains heavy in his chest knowing that there is nothing more he can do for you to help you heal besides be present. "Is there anything more I can do?" He asks anyway, hoping that maybe you would come up with something.

You shake your head, giving him a tight-lipped smile laced with reassurance.

"Well, then..." He sighs, rather dramatically. "I did have an idea, you know, something that might make you happy. Even just for this one beautiful hour."

You let out a laugh, squeezing his hand a bit. "If that was you asking me if we could-"

"I would like to marry you." He says, for the first time ever, not feeling guilty about interrupting you.

You stop in your tracks, and he stops with you instantly as if he were waiting for it, his hold on your hand not faltering for a second.

"I... you-"

"Darling," He starts, stepping in front of you now, blocking out the moon but hardly putting a dent in the presence of the stars over his shoulders, their soft light reflecting off his blonde curls. "I do love nothing in the world so well as you."

Your shock and confusion begins to wear off as he speaks the familiar words, and you laugh softly. "In your own words, Coryo."

He tilts his head at you, clearly not having expected that kind of response. He expected a lot of things. He planned for everything that could go wrong, he prepared for rejection, for tears, panic, even, but he did not expect that. "I, uh..." He chuckles nervously, giving his head a quick shake to get himself back on track.

He had read that play just for you. Just for this- because he knew how much you loved it, and he remembered the joy it brought you. The smile on your face when you told him about it that day at the lake had never left his mind.

"If you ask me in your own words, I shall say yes." You assure him, hands gripping tighter onto his despite your surprisingly calm demeanor.

"I thought you would like that... You know, knowing you..."

He's quick to defend himself, and your eyes almost sparkle as you look up into his own. "We should have learned by now that our story is our own, yes?" You ask. "We are not Beatrice and Benedick, or Laurie and Amy, or even Romeo and Juliet, just like I used to think we were supposed to be when my days were numbered. I thought I wanted one of those stories to be mine at least once before I died, but I was wrong." You say, taking in the embarrassed flush of his cheeks even in the dim lighting. "You are you, and I am me. No matter what you say I will be happy to marry you, so long as you ask me yourself, and not as someone else."

"Alright then." He gives you a curt nod, a smile on his face as he lowers himself in front of you, careless of the dirt that would no doubt cake into the knee of his pants. "You're everything to me, Y/N/N. My world... my heart, my soul. I didn't know what love was until I met you. I've spent the entirety of my adult life learning to love you, and I never intend to stop. Not even for a moment, so please, let me marry you, love."

"A Coryo indeed." You say softly, recalling the first day you had met him- when you only knew him as Coriolanus, and how far you both had come since then. The growing smile on your lips twitches and you nod, holding his hand a little tighter and attempting to pull Coryo back to his feet. "Of course I will. Nothing would make me happier."

He stands again and very quickly his arms are around you, holding you just as tight as they always had.

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thanks again for being here.

xx, raye

[seafoam-taide]

I want so badly to be writing fic about The Whole Situation but its evading me so bad so you all will continue to get dumbass inaccurate comics

And this 💕 the best part about all of this is I get to finally do my favorite thing (shattering a character's incredibly flawed perspective in one fell swoop and forcing them to get back up again) to soooul yaaay. Have 1 million heart attacks boy

Extra rambling about my thoughts below

In the process of drawing this had more thoughts on how exactly The Situation goes and works. And i want to talk about it

Okay so obviously this is the part where my shit goes from 'really weird version of the album story' to 'none of this shit happened remotely'. I know I posted a comic that directly contradicts what I'm about to say but that was a for fun what if. Bc I need to draw soul suffering at least once a day. But anyway so. Shit. Fuck. Just realized I also need to actually Explain what the hell is up with the fake whole first

So like I said in previous words post soul is lying always to himself and. Haha. Well. His selves. Which means he's either struggling to be a person in real life or he's playing a role inside his own head 24/7. He has No one to talk to and Never feels safe to let his guard down. So whenever he isn't chasing down the other two or trying to people he's just holed up somewhere dissociating and spiralling so bad. And at one point he starts venting aloud to himself to at least pretend anyone was listening. But then he got embarrassed about talking out loud to no one so he was like ! Idea. I'll just pretend like I'm talking to myself but when I'm normal. Bc me when I'm normal would tell me to stop freaking out over every little thing 💕 I'm so smart.

And that's just. A thing he starts doing and never stops doing. And he's pretty much like "might as well atp" about it bc he already views h&m as the same thing. Only fair to make up a him that will be nice to him. (And then he uses that to beat himself up further at his lowest point in the cycle but shhh)

Anyway 👍 one cycle for whatever reason- bc and I won't get into this but the cycles also progress like. They Do remember them somewhat. Things change progressively. Sometimes worse sometimes better. So one cycle his lowest point is Very low- he still can't genuinely bring himself to. Actually dying. But during one of his vents he spirals about wanting to never have to deal with any of this again and to just exist without having to be him. And he's like "oh. Soul's the one that has to do all of this. I just have to not be soul. I just have to make soul like i made the others" <- he loves depersonalization its like a sport to him. So he attempts to do this. It does not work bc unfortunately he IS soul and soul is already real.

And he's immediately like oh my god why did I do that I'm not allowed to do that you're so fucking stupid but also sad bc he's still himself (and also scared bc of the Implications) and then he looks over and uhhhhhhhhh uh oh. That's a guy. Like a real guy. What. What? What???

And then from there it's a huge ordeal but eventually it results in them all actually communicating and existing as a normal fucking system instead of violently repressing it every other week and erasing nearly all progress they make.

Also also to add. Thought about it. Regular concord in the cycle they shouldn't really be like. Fully unmasked flourishing. So heart & mind are still just Afflicted instead of fully embracing themselves. Soul barely fucking changes at all. The awesome fun creature designs they can only get during The Whole Situation 💔 sad.

Okay 💕yay 💕 I'm done for now. I recognize it's late as hell rn you better believe I'm reblogging this in the morning