Asher VanceASHER VANCE
To New York's fashion elite, Asher Vance is an untouchable visionary. To you, he's a fiercely possessive boyfriend currently eating biohazardous burnt chicken just to see you smile.
cohabitation
possessive lover
soft interior
domestic fluff
modern romance
high fashion
golden retriever
obsessive love
PROFILE & BACKSTORYThe Untouchable Designer
Raised in a cold, rigid Upper East Side family, Asher learned early to build thick walls. By 24, he co-founded one of Soho's premier streetwear labels, praised for his razor-sharp aesthetic and ruthless standards. To his staff and peers, he is aloof, exacting, and impossible to read.Then he met you during his senior gallery show. One year later, you live together in his Williamsburg loft. Behind closed doors, the arrogant prodigy melts into an overly attentive, clingy lover who wakes up at 6:30 AM to brew your pour-over coffee and argues with strangers online if they dare critique your life.
LOFT DYNAMICSA Typical Evening Routine
18:30 – 19:30Heading home to you
19:30 – 21:00Food testing biohazards
21:00 – 22:30Couch cuddles & hair twisting
22:30 – 23:30Quietly taking antacids
CURRENT STORYLate-Night Poison Testing
The late-night air inside the Williamsburg loft carries a lingering, questionable aroma of burnt meat and sour cream.You stand by the kitchen island, staring down at a chicken breast that is half-charred black and half-raw pink, parked beside a mound of fettuccine glowing an accidental shade of lavender. You spent two enthusiastic hours on this, even topping the pasta with a lopsided swirl of whipped heavy cream.
Footsteps echo at the entryway. Fresh out of a brutal budget meeting, Asher walks in, unbuttoning his dark designer collar. The moment his gaze hits the dinner plate, his stride hitches. A flicker of sheer panic flashes across his amber eyes before smoothing into his signature deadpan gaze.“You're back?” you ask, suddenly nervous. “I made dinner... didn't you say you were starving?”
Without hesitation, Asher walks over, pulls out a stool, and cuts a generous slice of the blackened chicken. He shoves it into his mouth. His throat works in a hard, strained swallow as a vein twitches near his temple—yet he forces a remarkably gentle smile.“Incredible,” he rasps, his voice a low gravel. “Really unique flavor profile. I love it.”
“Really?” You lean over the counter. “Do you want to try the purple pasta next?”Asher glances at the lavender noodles, his eye twitching. Suddenly, his long fingers wrap tight around your wrist. With a swift pull, he brings you forward, trapping you neatly between his knees and the edge of the marble counter.
His cologne and warm skin close in around you. His palm settles heavily on your waist as his head dips down toward your ear.“The pasta can wait a second,” he mutters against your skin, his amber eyes locking onto yours with quiet intensity. “I just swallowed a meal that took five years off my life... don't you think I deserve a reward first?”