I Just Want You, I Need You.

i just want you, i need you.

NOW YOU SEE ME - c.hs

you can’t say you’re surprised that your boyfriend leaps at the thought of throwing some sensory deprivation into the mix of your sex life, but you’re maybe a little shocked at just how into it he gets.

pairing; vernon x fem reader. genre; smut. plotless smut. MINORS DNI. w/c; 4.5k a/n; smut warnings under the cut. a/n2.0: you ever just think about that one time hhu wore blindfolds on stage? yeah. yeah, me too. a/n3.0: this is half proof read and half not proof read because if i had to re-read the rest i was gonna delete it! so! if there's a typo, no there isn't! <3

warnings; swearing (honestly just assume this is a given with me at this point), blindfolding, nipple play (m rec), finger sucking, praise, handjob (m rec), orgasm denial (m rec), piv sex (not wrapped but it’s est. relationship), slight dumbification (of him<3), face sitting/cum eating implied(f rec), pet-names (baby, sollie, angel, maybe a couple others). dom!reader, sub!vernon. reader is shorter than him.  (if i've missed anything, please let me know!)

“...Blindfolds?” 

“Blindfold. Singular,” you correct your boyfriend, shuffling slightly against the back of the couch. He cocks his head a little but he doesn’t contest it: he just waits for you to continue. “I don’t know. Things got a little… over-friendly at brunch the other day and someone brought it up as something they’d always wanted to try.”

“Huh,” Vernon muses. “Yeah, no. I’d never really thought about it.” 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you assure him, and he rolls his eyes at you, looking back down at his phone. He taps the screen and the familiar jingle to his favourite game sounds through his speaker once more. 

“I didn’t say that,” he says, the corners of his mouth tweaking up almost undetectably. What’s less discrete, though, is the way his bottom lip pinches as he draws it just slightly between his teeth. “You know I’ll try anything once.”

“Anything?” you tease, raising the volume of the TV again now your little intermission seems to be coming to an end. 

“Almost anything,” he corrects. You laugh, and so does he; you bump your foot against his abdomen where your legs are resting in his lap, and his grin stays an extra few seconds on his face. Right up until something in his game obviously gets a little more difficult; then, his brow furrows in concentration and his thumbs start moving deftly across the screen. You turn back to the TV, pretending to pay any attention to the show you put on a little while ago, but your mind starts to drift elsewhere.

Good to know.

Three weeks pass before anything comes of that little conversation. 

For a little while, Vernon was half-expecting you to whip out a sash of satin every single time things got the slightest bit steamy in the bedroom. When he told you he was down to try almost anything once, he really wasn’t kidding — even though you’re yet to deliver on that grand idea, you can safely say that your sex life has gotten a little bit spicier since you brought it up. Nothing nuts, granted. A few restraints, a couple of new toys here and there, but as yet…

No blindfolds.

So when he gets home from work late one evening, yawning his way through the front door to your apartment, it’s honestly faded almost entirely from his mind. Hearing him enter, you come through to greet him in the hallway, eyes landing on Vernon as he’s mid-stretch, his t-shirt riding up to expose a sliver of his toned midriff. Your smile at seeing him only brightens.

“Long day?” you ask, taking the last few steps towards him. Maybe there’s a little extra sway in your hips as you do, but Vernon looks so out of it that you’re not entirely sure he notices. He nods at your question anyway, rolling out a kink in his neck.

“The longest,” he says. “How was yours?”

“Slow,” you sigh, reaching him and slipping your arms around his waist. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” He ducks his head down, pressing a short but sweet kiss to the tip of your nose. You rock up onto your toes to press one of your own to his lips and he smiles against you, humming in the back of his throat. “Can we order something in today? If I try to cook right now, I’ll end up burning the place down.”

“What else is new?” you tease him, pressing small pecks across his cheek and trailing them down his jaw. He clicks his tongue in feigned indignation but sighs anyway, tipping his head to the side; your kisses start to linger, each touch of your lips lasting just a fraction longer than the last.

Your embrace tightens, pulling him flush to you. There’s something really endearing in the way he lets his weight fall against you, only barely steadied by his hands on your hip bones. 

“But before we do,” you murmur, lips tickling at his earlobe. He slackens his jaw, lips falling apart, eyelashes fluttering. You grin to yourself. “I think you need to unwind a little – don’t you?”

Vernon lets out a softly chuckled laugh. “I think you might be right,” he agrees.

You take a few paces back from him, reaching into the pocket of your sweatpants and pulling free a length of silk, running it slowly through your fingers as you lean against the opposite wall. His eyes fall to the pearlescent material before they lift back to your own; all the tiredness seems to have been shocked clean out of him and he stares at you like all his Christmases have come at once.

“Tonight?” he asks. You can practically see his thoughts firing off at a hundred miles an hour in those beautiful, big, brown eyes. Cute. “Really?”

“Mhm,” you nod. Vernon swallows so hard that his Adam’s apple bobs. “If you want to, of cour–.”

“I do,” he says, rushing before you can even finish your sentence. “Shit, babe. Yeah – I do.”

“Come here, then,” you say. 

He does. What a good boy.

“Shirt off.”

He does that, too. In one swift movement, he reaches behind his head and pulls at the collar. His upper half is quickly bare and the discarded article of clothing is little more than a scrunched ball on the hallway floor. He stands in front of you, still gazing down at the silk. You’re not oblivious to the hardness growing in his pants as his breaths get a little deeper and his chest starts staining pink in a blush, but you make no effort to do anything about it. Instead, you twirl your finger once, asking him to turn around, and he spins on his heels so he’s facing away from you.

He's even polite enough to bend his knees so that you can reach without stretching.

“S’that okay?” you ask once your fingers have tied the silk at the back of his head, tugging gently at the bow. He nods, his own hands lifting to make sure it’s secure and in place, that he can’t see anything, before he stands fully upright again. “Not too tight?”

“Perfect,” he tells you. 

You walk around to his front, using this moment to really take him in. His pants sit low on his hips, as they always do, and the waistband of his boxers peeks out over the top of them. He's perfect, you think, licking over your lips at the subtle edges of muscle and every inch of smooth skin. All yours, all for the taking. I can’t wait to ruin him.

“Tell me anytime if you want me to take it off, okay?” you ask, reaching out with one hand to press your palm against his bare chest. He gasps softly at the sudden contact but quickly relaxes into it, almost falling forwards into your touch.

“I won’t want you to,” he chuckles. “But yeah. Of course.”

“Good boy,” you coo. Your thumb strokes gently over one of his exposed nipples, earning you another easily-won sharp intake of breath. A few more careful brushes and it starts to harden under your touch, your intense, hungry gaze unwitnessed by the man already totally at your mercy. His back arches just a little, seeking more, but you stop almost as quickly as you started.

Instead, your hand travels upwards, flat-palmed but agonisingly light. He's burning up, already, the loss of one of his senses so obviously heightening everything else. 

Two of your fingers curl beneath the chain that decorates his collarbones, pulling at it firmly, and he stumbles forwards for real this time. You catch him with your other hand on his waist, holding him in place and looking at his parted, pink lips. 

“D’you trust me?” you ask, and Vernon nods, following the sound of your voice until he’s just inches away from your own mouth. Each of his breaths feels a thousand degrees as they breeze over your face; you can’t help but lean forwards and kiss him. Just once. As a treat.

“With my life,” he whines, chasing you when you pull away. “I’m all yours, babe. Please. Use me.”

You keep your fingers hooked under his chain and use it to guide him all the way to your bedroom. He follows blindly, steps clumsy: he trips over himself a few times, slipping in his socks on the polished floor. He mumbles various unintelligible things to himself each time and you just laugh sweetly back at him, but his gracelessness only delays you by a couple of seconds. The moment you have him in your room, you uncurl your fingers from his necklace and plant both your hands on his waist, pushing him slowly down towards the bed.

“On your back,” you tell him, watching as he lies flat, both his arms fixed at his sides. 

You climb on top of Vernon, for the first time really realising just how much power you hold over him, right now. He is completely at your will. With one hand planted either side of his head, you lean down over him, hovering with your lips just grazing his own. He tries to press up into the kiss but you deny him, pulling away until he falls back onto the bed with a huff.

“You’re gonna behave for me tonight, aren’t you ‘Sol?” you ask, each syllable dragging your lips across his, joining and separating them over and over. “Be really, really good?”

He nods, and when you don’t respond to the nonverbal answer, clears his throat. “Y-yeah. I promise.”

“Only because you know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

“Only ‘cause I want to,” he corrects, swallowing hard again. You grin at him, giving in to the kiss that he so desperately wants. He moans softly at it, again as you lick your way between his parted lips, again still as you suck his tongue into your mouth and ghost your teeth over the muscle. 

It’s spitty and sloppy and needy on both of your ends but Vernon makes a point not to lift his arms from where they’re placed down by his thighs. He kneads at the bedding instead: grasps and releases the sheets, rubs them between his fingers so that he doesn’t completely lose himself in you and do something he shouldn’t. He really is being good, you muse. Showing real restraint. Because you know, and he knows, that he isn’t allowed to touch you until you say that he can.

You sit back from him after a little while, pulling off your own shirt and taking hold of one of his hands. He curls his fingers around yours, so deeply grateful for even this pathetic little touch.

“Here,” you sigh, and Vernon rolls his head back when you place his palm on your side, on the fabric of your bra band but not at the cup. He holds you there, thumb stroking back and forth, and when you lower yourself back down again, he’s so careful in how he tightens his grip so that he doesn’t let go.

You kiss his Adam's apple first, feeling it dip and vibrate with the moan he emits. You travel lower, then, and lower still: over his collarbone, down his chest, before your tongue flits out across one nipple, hardened from the chill in your apartment and aided by the anticipation of not knowing where you’ll touch him next. He whines at the gentle brush, biting down on his lip; you feel how his hips threaten to jolt beneath you, but his concentration is written all over his face and you just know he’s anchoring them down with all his might. You blow a slow stream of cool air over the bud, one hand moving down to toy with the other side of his chest. 

He’s always been so sensitive, here. Always keening and gasping as you tweak his nipples and suck them into your mouth. You tug one between your teeth, at the same time wiggling your hips down to better position yourself over his cock. It’s straining so much against his work pants and you think if he gets any harder, he’ll burst through the seams. A high-pitched whine tumbles through his defences at the combined sensations, and you roll down against him again, again, again until he’s grasping at your bra for dear life.

“What’s wrong, baby?” You ask him, voice low and quiet. 

“Need more,” he says. “Please — fuck. Fuck, I need more.”

You click your tongue at him. “Such a nasty word from such a pretty mouth.” With a frown, you sit upright and press two of your fingers against his lips. He parts them for you but immediately closes his mouth around your digits, suckling on them, licking over them, groaning at the weight of them when you grab his jaw with your thumb and ring finger, pressing his tongue back down in his mouth. “Be good, okay?”

He nods, his jaw a little slack even when you pull your fingers away, a string of his spit keeping you connected until it breaks and falls onto his chin. It stays that way even when you move off him, even when you start unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. He helps, lifting his hips, kicking them off and over the side of the bed, ready to be forgotten, all the while not closing his mouth. You position yourself between his calves, just out of reach of his hands, and trail your fingers over the insides of his thighs. 

“You want more, huh?” you ask, watching as Vernon nods again, so desperately, the blindfold staying secure and unmoving even as the bow at the back shifts against your bedsheets. His jaw is so tense, the muscles at the joint are practically bulging. you’d feel bad for him if he wasn’t so damn pretty when he got worked up.

“Please,” he pants, muscles twitching under your touch. When you lean down and kiss the inside of his thigh, right where that adorable freckle embellishes his skin, he jerks enough that he almost plants his knee into your jaw. “M’sorry — it-… it all feels so much more sensitive today-” he says, all rushed and hurried. You kiss his thighs over and over, licking your way upwards, pecking just below his belly-button and dragging the tips of your nails down his sides. God, his cock is hardly even concealed beneath his brilliant white boxers; he might as well not be wearing any with the outline so clear and obvious. A small translucent patch is even starting to form where his tip strains against them. 

“I know, baby,” you grin. “It's okay. Can we take these off, too?”

He wordlessly lifts his hips up for you again so you can work his last remaining article of clothing off his scorching body. His length bounces free the second it possibly can, thick and leaking, and he groans at the relief of finally escaping the elasticated confines. 

I could just leave him like this, you think to yourself, relishing in everything that makes the man lying in front of you so perfectly himself. Every single hair, standing on end, at attention to you. Every dip and curve and bump and bruise and scar. You could stare at him all day. But he’s growing impatient behind that blindfold, no matter what his perfectly well mannered hands and near-silent mouth would have you believe. As much as you want to just sit here and visually appreciate him, you think maybe it won’t hurt to physically do so, too.

It’s a fair stretch, but you manage to lean over him to open your bedside drawer and pull free a small bottle of flavoured lube. You squeeze a little into your palm, and he inhales a few times: even though you can only see two thirds of his face, you can practically feel him trying to figure out what the fragrance he can smell is, all of a sudden.

“Strawberry?” he murmurs after a moment, and you hum acknowledgement, taking his cock in your hand. He sighs, hips lifting to thrust himself further into the circle your fist makes; you freeze mid-stroke until he settles them back against the bed. 

“That’s it,” you encourage, languidly starting to pump over his length as he lets out more sweet little moans and whimpers, teeth so tight around his bottom lip that the skin around them pales. “Let it out, baby.”

He releases his lip almost straight away, gasping a moan of your name, his fists balling at the bed sheets instead to ground him.

“How’s that feel?” you ask, jerking him off a little faster, moving your wrist in the way you know he likes. When he only nods up at you, you squeeze your fingers just enough that he stutters out a grunt.

“So good,” he sighs, licking out over his lips. “Feels-... feels like heaven.”

You hum, fondly smiling ear-to-ear (not that he can see this, but you both know he’s visualising your face right now whether his eyes are trained on it or not). “Fitting for an angel, huh?”

Over the course of the next few minutes, your speed increases until he honestly can’t quiet the noises you so eagerly want him to make. Alongside the lewd sounds of the lube in your palm sliding up and down his cock, over and over and over, his whimpers and pleas grow louder. He re-grasps the sheets in his fingers, spewing out a string of expletives.

“M’gonna-...” he starts, swallowing hard, and you start to slow your movements just enough to make him hiss. His voice, when he speaks again, almost seems to be laced with panic at the thought of not being allowed to finish. “Please – oh, please, you’ve gotta let me come.”

“Do I?” you ask, pouting condescendingly down at him. He can either hear it in your voice, or he just knows you well enough to have guessed exactly what your face is doing right now. Either way, he groans, his own lips jutting out to match your expression as he throws his head back.

“Please,” he tries again, a little deeper this time. As if he’s trying to be commanding when he begs you. As if he could ever stop you playing with him, like this. (As if he’d ever really want to.)

“Not yet,” you say, slowing and softening more until your movements are barely-there. “Hold on, for me.”

Miraculously, he does. even when you bring him to the edge again and immediately drop your pace — he mewls at you and rolls his head back and almost chokes on the spit collecting in his mouth, but he doesn't let go. It’s taking everything he has, you can tell. The pretty vein that runs up the side of his neck bulges. His forehead grows damp with sweat. His cock twitches and throbs in your hand and is so hard you’re sure it must be bordering on painful for him. But he holds on.

After half an hour, after denying him of his orgasm for the fourth time, you can’t help but feel a bit of pity for Vernon; he looks positively wrecked, writhing with every pump of your fist, his voice dry and hoarse. And maybe it’s a little self-indulgent, when you finally stop teasing him: maybe you can't deny that this is destroying you, too. The weight of him in your hand is satisfying, but the need you have to be stretched out on his cock is almost unbearable. 

You undress yourself as he comes back down from the brink, drying off his forehead on the back of his arm. Your clothes join his on the floor and positioning one leg over his hips, you bend down low to kiss his lips.

He presses up into it so hard he almost breaks his own nose.

“I need you, baby,” you tell him, cupping his cheek. His hands instinctively come to settle on your hips. “I want you to fill me up. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah,” he breathes, just the idea of finally being able to get his dick wet seemingly wiping away the brain matter he uses to form coherent sentences. “I can...”

“Do you want this off?” you ask, fingers playing with the bottom of the blindfold. 

He shakes his head, almost as if he’s offended that you’d ask. “No – please,” he hurries, gripping your hips tighter. “Leave it on. Wanna-... wanna fuck you with it-... wanna know how it feels…”

“Okay,” you agree, kissing the corner of his lips before grinding your pussy down over his leaking cock. The heat between your legs and the slickness of your folds as they drag against his length does something so deeply sinful to Vernon: he reaches up behind your back, pulls you down towards him, buries his head in your shoulder and sounds like he’s about to sob.

“I don’t know how long I’m gonna-...” he tries to warn you, another smooth roll of your hips cutting him off. He groans into your skin, practically drooling for you. “Oh my God – you’re so wet.”

“It's what you do to me, ‘sol,” you laugh.

He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, and it’s your turn to stutter out a breath. His leaking head grazes your throbbing, neglected clit and you don’t have it in you to tell him to keep still. You let him fuck against you for a few seconds longer, selfishly relishing in the momentary fractions of relief, but enough is enough when you need him inside you so badly it stings and you lift yourself away from him, much to Vernon’s dismay.

“You’ll last until I tell you that you can come,” you instruct him. “Do you understand?” 

He swallows thickly and slides his hands down your back, pressing his fingertips into your ass, but he does nod his assent anyway. 

“I’ll try,” he says, slowing his breathing, preparing himself. The poor sweetheart always nearly comes apart the second he feels your walls hugging him.

“You’ll succeed.”

You don’t give him the time to respond as you take his length in your hand and position it at your entrance, slowly sinking down onto his cock, your cunt stretching to accommodate his size. it punches the air out of both of your lungs after the build-up; his sensitivity and you finally now feeling that delicious fullness renders both of you completely silent. You lower yourself until he’s fully tucked away inside you, until you’re sitting atop of his thighs, and suddenly you’re the impatient one. You want to feel him drag against your walls, want to feel him pounding up into you so hard it rearranges your guts. But you’re not that mean. You wait a few seconds for his abs to relax and for his fingers to stop grasping your ass so ruthlessly before your thighs start to work you up and down in deep, long movements.

Truthfully, you’re really not expecting this to last very long at all, so Vernon surprises you when he holds himself together beneath you long enough for the knot to start tying itself low in your stomach. He doesn’t thrust up into you, nor does he bounce you up and down on his length the way he sometimes does. It’s self preservation, really, but you can convince yourself he’s just being on his best behaviour if you want to (but it’s kind of hard to care too much when his gorgeous cock is pressing so deeply into you that you can feel it in your stomach).

“You feel so good, Sollie,” you gasp for him, changing the angle of your hips and feeling his tip graze across the spot that sends your hips into disrepair and your brain into a frenzy. If you weren’t kneeling, you think you’d collapse. “You fill me up so well, oh my God.”

“Mhm,” he nods, squeaky and quiet. His fingers grip your hips tighter, the sharp lines of nails pressing in. You don’t care that it stings: you’re beyond playing, now.

“You wanna come so bad right now, don’t you?” you ask. 

“On-only when-...” he swallows hard, feeling you bouncing a little faster. His chest is all pink and splotchy, his neck sweaty and tense. “When you say I can-...”

“I think you’ve earned-... earned it, don’t you?”

“You think so?” He asks. You nod, forgetting for a second in your bliss that he can’t hear you until he asks again. “You really think I have?”

“Yes, baby,” you tell him, squeezing your walls around him and feeling his hips make that first frantic jolt up to meet your own. You hold yourself still, dragging your nails down his chest, leaving harsh lines in their wake. “Want you to come for me. Want you to fuck me full.”

“Shit,” he whimpers, fucking up into you again. And again, and again, and again. Over and over, faster and faster, holding you harshly in place as he chases after the release you’ve been dangling in front of his covered eyes since he came home from work. Hell, since you mentioned blindfolding him in the bedroom in the first place all those weeks ago. He can’t control himself, head back against the pillows, moaning your name out loud as his orgasm hits him like a fucking train.

You aren’t far behind: by the time his thrusts slow, you’re coming down from your own Earth-shattering high, thighs burning but feeling so deliciously full. He continues pressing into you, trying his best to keep fucking his cum into your hole even though it dribbles out and pools at the base of his cock. You’re bent down over him by the time you’ve ridden out your climax, forehead on his collarbone, feeling him soften inside you but still not pulling himself out.

“You did so good, ‘Sol,” you breathe, easing your fingers behind his head and untying the knot that keeps you from looking into those gorgeous eyes you love so much. He lets you, this time, and the silk falls away onto the pillows as he blinks up at you. His lashes are a little dewy, his eyes glassy and sweet in his post-orgasm bliss. 

He looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, except that can’t be. All of them are right here in front of you.

“That was amazing,” he murmurs, hugging you close. “Thank you, y/n.”

You can’t help but chuckle at him. “Thank you for trusting me, silly.” 

“Always will,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “With my life.”

“Well. Thank you for that, too.”

He slowly pulls himself out of you after a handful of minutes, grunting softly at the loss of your heat and his sensitivity. One of his hands lightly taps against your ass and you start to sit, begin moving off him so you can both go and clean off, but he doesn’t let you get too far.

“Where are you going?” he asks, frowning, his hand gripping your ass harder. 

“Well, seeing as I’m literally dripping cum all over the bedsheets right now-...” you start, raising a brow at him. He tugs you, then, as if to pull your hips up towards him, as if to guide you up the bed. You shuffle slightly, unsure, but when he can reach, both his hands wrap around you and he pulls you up so your leaking cunt is sat right over his waiting lips.

Okay. Maybe now he’s looking at you like you hung all the stars.

“You really are, aren’t you?” he asks, nosing your inner thigh, one hand sliding in-between your legs. An elegant finger plays with his cum, smearing it over your lips, a grin forming on his own when his eyes leave your pussy and lift back up to meet yours. “I’ll be good, baby, I promise. Please. Let me help.”

thank u so much for reading! likes, reblogs, comments + feedback are all always so appreciated<3

The thing about love;

Hoshi (k.s.y) x reader; university!au (ft. Jeonghan x OC)

genre: fluff, angst, humour, one sided pining

warnings: slow burn, swearing, corny jokes, slapping (apologies are given), yelling, alcohol, shitty friends, kind of a mean girl thing (not reader), broken friendships, heavy emotions (at certain points), reader in denial (lmk if there’s anything else)

25.3k words (I will better myself)

masterlist

excerpt: The slap you sent across Kwon Soonyoung’s face sent a reverberating sound across the dance studio.

He looks up, eyes bloodshot and swimming with fury. There’s a hint of a smile on his face for some reason, which you realize may be out of disbelief.

You don’t register anything else other than the rage that accelerates down your own veins. There’s a part of you that wants to do it again when he utters his next words.

“That was a bad fucking idea”

(A/N): FINALLY it's here. Tysm for clicking on this I love y'all tons for the support on all my other work, I hope this one makes the mark too! This reflects more of my personal situations more than you’d think, broken friendships that you’d never imagine to lose hurt like a bitch and I’m so sorry if you’ve gone through this too. Hopefully, Hoshi can give you some solace <3 

Keep reading

If I'm really in your heart, wherever you are, I’ll be there

anything for you.

content: sub!vernon, service top? vernon? but like without the top, fem!reader, oral (reader receiving), praise, cringe romance bc i can’t write romance ew, i think around 1.3k words, not proofread sorry hehe

“i don't even know how to thank you for tonight, i seriously owe you big time.” you sigh, leaning your head on vernon’s shoulder.

you let out an obnoxious yawn. it’s a miracle you’re even standing right now, watching impatiently as the elevator climbs every floor at an agonizing pace.

you had both just come from a dreadfully long concert for one of your favorite artists—one that vernon had never even heard of before. he had only gone because he figured it’d be safer if someone came with you, rather than stupidly going alone like you had planned to do.

it was a good idea that he came along, though. you don't know what would've happened if he wasn't there to shove away unwanted flirty advances or hold you close when people got too rough. his safe presence made enjoying the concert a whole lot easier. you were truly grateful for him.

“don't worry about it. despite what you think, tonight wasn’t some annoying chore for me.“

you perk your head up, gesturing for him to elaborate.

he continues, turning to look down at you, “it’s fun watching you have fun.”

you look at him in disbelief.

“you’re too nice, i don’t get it.”

he opens his mouth but before he can say anything, he's interrupted by the elevator doors sliding open.

“hmm?” you ask, stepping out and waiting for him to follow.

“no nothing.” he brushes it off.

the two of you trudge down the hallway to your apartment. it takes you literal centuries to locate your keys to unlock the door and when you do, you all but collapse inside. he follows in after you, grabbing your forearm to keep you from toppling over.

“you didn't even drink, how are you falling?”

“everything aches, especially my feet. these heels are killing me.”

his eyes flicker down and then back up at you. he starts to get down on his knees and you raise an eyebrow in confusion. looking at you for approval, his hand moves to untie the lace straps wrapped around your calf.

“can i?” he asks.

you nod slowly and find yourself staring back a little too long, admiring the way he looks up through his long lashes.

he breaks eye contact first to finish with your laces, then lifts your foot to take the heel completely off. your hand subconsciously falls to his head for support, tugging lightly on his hair to balance yourself.

he lets out a subtle whimper at your action, causing his face to redden in embarrassment. you smile to yourself in satisfaction, knowing the little inklings you had about his sexual preferences were right.

with one heel off, he switches to your other foot, untying the laces and removing the heel with the same gentle concentration as before. every warm touch he leaves on your skin pulls you further and further into your thoughts, imagining all of the things you’d do to him if he let you.

you were rarely uncomfortable with vernon. in fact, you two were so close that almost nothing flustered you. it wasn’t uncommon to be touchy or even a little flirty, but something about this felt different.. more intimate.

you sigh in relief when both feet are freed, running your fingers through his hair in gratitude. he leans into your touch and looks up at you again with those same adoring eyes.

“feel better?” he asks, glad to be of some help.

“mm, much better. you’re so good to me.”

“of course, anything for you.” he smiles shyly.

“anything?” you smirk.

his hand that is still unknowingly caressing your ankle flexes for a moment. he doesn’t have to think twice about it. he’s known since the moment he’s met you that there wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for you, especially when it came to your pleasure.

“anything.” he vows with absolute certainty.

the word shoots straight to your core. there’s nothing more attractive than complete and utter devotion.

it’s his turn to watch in confusion and then in shock as you hike your dress up to your hips, spreading your legs apart to reveal the large wet patch on your panties.

“you’d take care of this for me then, right?”

he gulps, not able to think clearly while his face is so unbelievably close to your heat.

you furrow your brows in concern, tilting his chin up so he can look at your face and not at the arousal dripping down your legs.

“vern, you good? we don’t have to-“

“no please i want to. need to make you feel good. please.”

you chuckle a little at his sudden eagerness.

“then make me feel good baby, use your mouth.”

he hesitantly reaches out to hook his fingers into your panties, looking back up at you for reassurance.

“that’s it, keep going.”

he carefully slides your panties off of your hips and down your legs, watching as the soaked fabric peels off of your core. a string of arousal connects from your bare pussy to the material, and he swears he could cum untouched from the lewdness of it all.

you take the panties from him and toss them aside, widening your stance for easier access. he moves in closer until his breath tickles your core, lips hovering just centimeters away from it.

he looks up at you, waiting for your permission before he starts, despite being painfully needy.

“go ahead baby, you can taste me.”

his eyes stay fixed on yours as he slowly swipes his tongue through your folds once to test the waters.

he can’t even wait 3 more seconds before he’s moving in again to eagerly lick and suck at your pussy, already drunk off of your arousal.

you lace your fingers through his hair and tug him closer to you, adding more pressure to his movements. he lets out a whimper that goes straight to your core, causing your footing to falter slightly. after jumping around at a concert all night, your legs might legitimately give out at any second.

he notices and brings the weight of your thigh over his shoulder, giving himself easier access in the process. his movements are rough and sloppy, but the pressure is perfect and every time he whimpers, you’re brought closer and closer to release.

“just like that. you’re doing so good for me baby, making me feel so good.”

the praise only spurs him on more and you can tell he’s working hard because of the violent flush all over his cheeks. after the most exhausting night imaginable, he still gives you his all, even as it’s taking every last ounce of energy in him.

you’re overwhelmed with love and arousal at the realization, so much so, that you’re brought to the edge sooner than you expected.

“oh fuck- vern. gonna- gonna cum already.”

he continues with what he’s doing, eyes widening when your other hand also laces through his hair, tugging his face into your heat even more. he lets you use him as you need, following your movements obediently. eventually you’re moving his mouth onto your pussy yourself, roughly grinding his tongue against your clit.

your orgasm hits you hard. it’s a struggle to even stay standing as your entire body threatens to go limp. you can’t tell if it’s from the concert or the orgasm but your vision blurs and your ears ring violently.

when your full orgasm washes over you, you have to push his head away and drop next to him on the floor, catching your breath and regaining your senses.

when you’ve finally gained the strength to speak again, vernon’s already helping you stand up to go shower. he puts your arm around his neck for support, but practically carries you there himself.

“thank you,” you say meekly, “that felt so good vern. you have to be so tired after all you’ve done for me today, i can’t understand how or why you do it?”

“because i want to.” he says, like the answer is obvious.

“well, i appreciate it more than you’ll ever know. i truly don’t deserve how good you are to me, but i’ll make it up to you somehow i promise.”

“you don’t have to. i’d still do anything for you.. no matter what.”

DO YOU DREAM OF ME? - c.hs

the first time you kiss your soulmate, you’ll open your eyes to a world of colour. the problem? vernon hates the thought that he might pull away from you and still see in monochrome.  or, five times he wanted to plant one on you, and the one time you beat him to it. 

pairing ; vernon x gn!reader.  content ; all the tropes. 5 times fic. soulmate au. slight college au if you squint. f2l. fluff, some angst. pining. one (1) hint of suggestiveness if u squint. MINORS STILL DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT.  content notes ; mentions of reader having a(n unnamed) partner & thereafter, going through a breakup due to said partner cheating. reader is maybe implied to be shorter than him but hopefully not too obviously or frequently. alcohol is mentioned & is a key theme in scene #3. pov switch for the final part (necessary for logistical reasons.) PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything. w/c ; 9.6k note ; welcome to thee most self indulgent fic ever lmao. i hope u enjoy this slight break away from what i usually post here (as if my entire brand isn’t writing losers in love. ANYWAY) -- this was very fun and a little bit special for me! <3

“What was your first kiss like?”

Initially, Vernon swears he just didn’t hear you right. It’s dark up here, where you’re hiding away from a party on the roof of his university accommodation and he’s starting to get tired. There’s some sort of siren wailing away in the distance to his left, and on the street below, a gaggle of freshmen are cackling as they walk past the building. His ear closest to you is currently listening to your favourite song. 

All the signs suggest that he simply got it wrong. 

But he doesn’t know if he believes those signs, especially not seeing as when he looks over at you, you’re staring pointedly up at the stars overhead. He doesn’t doubt that you’re giving yourself an ache in your neck in the process, too.

“Hmm?” He asks, taking out the earphone that connects him to you. The other one is still nestled away in your ear and he reaches to gently pull it away. “What was that?”

You still don’t look at him, but you do repeat yourself. Quietly. “What… was your first kiss like?”

“Oh.” 

He was right. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” you hurry to say, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself to block out the cold air that blows across the rooftop. He shrugged it off and told you to take it the very moment your teeth started chattering — almost an hour ago now. His arms are bare, shoulders and biceps only covered by a t-shirt so thin it’s practically sheer, but he isn’t cold. He’s always run hotter than most. “Sorry.”

He nudges you with his knee, silently telling you that you don’t need to apologise. He doesn’t mind — you just caught him off guard; Vernon hasn’t given this any thought in a long time, and he has to really put his mind to coming up with an answer. It was forever ago — when he was eleven or twelve, maybe, with his first ever girlfriend. They dated for a whole two and a half weeks. He doesn’t know if it really counts: the kiss was a dare, after all. 

“Kinda…” He starts, trying to follow the line of your sight, wondering if he can find the exact stars you’re looking at. “She’d just put this weird lipgloss on. It was real tingly. And like, neither of us knew what we were doing? So it… got everywhere. I think I ended up swallowing some, I don’t know. My mouth felt weird after. Thought I was having an allergic reaction.”

You laugh softly at him. “I think that would put me off for the rest of my life,” you say. 

“It almost did,” he chuckles. You hum at him and lean back on your elbows, leaving Vernon more than a little bit confused. He readjusts his hold on his knees, bringing them closer to his chest as he tilts his head down at you in your new position. 

“…why?” He asks, just as you close your eyes and take a deep inhale of the cool air. 

You just shrug. “I guess I just… wondered.”

He nods, and it’s his turn to fall short of a response, but that’s okay. You’ve known each other for too long for these silences to feel uncomfortable. He grew up with you. In fact, he’s reasonably sure he’s told you this story before. He must have done. 

Then he realises, maybe he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know the story behind yours, and maybe that’s just a line the two of you never came to crossing. He knows he told his other friends, back then, because he was the last one in his circle to have a first kiss and he felt like it made him more grown-up, or something. Naturally, he left out the more embarrassing details. But maybe you just told your other friends who weren’t him, and went on with your life. Maybe yours was just… normal. 

Either way, he’s interested now. And there’s no time to ask like the present. 

“What was yours like?” He asks, fiddling with the strap on his wristwatch. You don’t answer straight away; he doesn’t think anything of it, because neither did he, but when he’s still waiting for you to speak a small eternity later, he prompts you again. “Hey, it can't have been worse than mine.”

You snort. 

“You’ll laugh at me,” you say, shaking your head. Vernon furrows his brows and drops his legs flat, twisting to one side to look at you. 

He doesn’t know where you’d get that idea from, but he’s… almost a bit offended by it?

“No I won’t,” he tells you softly. Maybe at first, he might’ve laughed with you, if your story happened to be as dumb as his own. But not at you. Never at. Not when he’s been the butt of the joke in too many friendship circles, for about as long as he can remember. 

You take a shallow breath, pursing your lips. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not…” you start to say, before you clear your throat and try again, this time heading in a different direction. “I don’t know. It’s dumb, I guess.”

“Don’t make me come down there,” Vernon threatens playfully, poking you in your side. You squirm, giggling despite yourself, despite the serenity of the sanctuary you two have found, despite the fact that you, too, were on the edge of falling asleep before your question came out of nowhere.  

He pokes you again, and again, and then starts to tickle your ribs instead. You squeal, swatting his hands away to no avail and you move to sit up, grabbing him by the forearms to physically make him stop. The grin on Vernon’s face is wide and heart-shaped. A warm feeling spreads through him: it has everything to do with the sweet sounds of your slowly dissolving laughter. 

You sit cross-legged across from each other like this for a moment or two. Your knees are touching. Your hands move down his arms until you’re holding him firmly by the wrists. Your eyes lock together: his crease with the sheer force of his boyish smile, while yours are narrowed, daring him to try and wiggle free and attack you again. 

He doesn’t, but for the first time ever, he’s struck with the urge to do something maybe more scary. 

The urge to just… lean in to you. 

It makes his heart do a backflip, in a way that it hasn’t done since he had his last crush. His head goes empty, and he forgets what he was even asking you before: the only thoughts he can muster are ones regarding what your lips taste like, whether they’re half as soft as they look, if you’d lightly touch his shoulder or his arm or his chest or his cheek—

Do you smile when you kiss?, he wonders. Do you sigh? Do you—

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you answer, looking away now and letting go of him. He’s gone so loose in the moments since you grabbed hold of him that when you’re not supporting their weight, his arms fall like two cinder blocks onto his knees. 

True to his word, he doesn’t laugh. He’s surprised by your revelation, sure, but in no way humoured; actually, he feels a little saddened by it, for a reason he can’t put his finger to. He ends up not saying anything, just biting the inside of his cheek; he wants to ask why, but knows maybe that’s a bit of a dick move, and if it’s something you’re sensitive about he doesn’t want to risk hurting you.

But he’s watched people fawn over you for years, and he doesn’t think you’ve ever been short of attention from those who have thought you were attractive. So it can’t be that you’ve been lacking in chances? Surely?

“I thought… maybe I should save it,” you go on to explain. Your hands keep busy by playing with a thread at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, wrapping it around one finger until the skin beneath it pinches before you unravel it again. 

“Save it?” He asks. You nod your head.

“For when I thought I’d found them.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Like I said, it’s s—.”

“No it’s not,” Vernon says abruptly, shaking his head. He holds onto you now, one hand slipping around your back until it rests on the shoulder furthest away from him. You scoff. He squeezes you into his side. “Hey. It’s not stupid.”

He doesn’t like how this admission has, somehow, made his desire to kiss you stronger. He hates that he feels even more drawn to you, a magnet finally finding its opposing pole. It freaks him out a little. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone this badly. 

Red button theory, he tells himself to try and get back on the straight and narrow. If you hadn’t said anything, none of this would be happening.

“It’s romantic,” he says finally, swiping his thumb in small motions over the top of your shoulder. You nod, mumbling a ‘thank you’ (for what, he isn’t sure), and shiver. Vernon doesn’t know if that’s because of his proximity to you or because you’re finally starting to feel the cold. Either way, he takes the initiative to stand up and holds a hand out for you to take so he can tug you to your feet too. You get up with a little hop. 

It’s… devastatingly cute.

“Where are we going?” You ask, brushing off your jeans before shoving your hands into the jacket’s pockets. He’s already on the retreat, walking backwards towards the door that took you up here.

“To get food,” he tells you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That party was dead, anyway.”

It doesn’t cross his mind again until your twenty-first birthday. 

He’s not your soulmate. He couldn’t be. The thought he had on the roof that autumnal night was little more than a passing fantasy; besides, he doesn’t have a thing for you. He doesn’t want to kiss you, or date you, or have you be his soulmate. The reason you work so well together is because you’re just friends; he thinks you’d drive each other crazy if things ever went romantic between you. You bicker with him for sport. He drowns away hours at a time with his headphones clamped over his ears and forgets to answer your texts. It would be a nightmare. 

Not that he’s ever thought about all that. Not actively, or even passively. Not when he should be listening to college lectures instead, for example. Not awake, nor in his dreams. He hasn’t. Not once. 

He swears. 

“You can save it ‘til tomorrow, if you want.”

Vernon bounces his leg nervously, fidgeting with the edge of your comforter as you sit on the floor in front of him, styling your hair for your party. He arrived half an hour ago while you were still waltzing around in your bathrobe, holding a small, neatly wrapped box in both of his hands. It’s several degrees too warm in your bedroom. He feels a bead of sweat roll down his back as you grumble what seems to be a threat at a strand that won’t cooperate. Thankfully, you don’t seem to notice his discomfort. (If you do, he’s grateful that you don’t say anything.)

“But it’s my birthday today,” you pouted, taking the box from him. “Let me finish getting ready, then I’ll open it. Come on.”

His wrist still aches with the pressure you held onto him with as you dragged him up the stairs. Your parents are away for the weekend and the house is all yours, so there’s a speaker blasting your favourite playlist full volume on your nightstand and there’s nobody to tell you to turn it down. He flits his attention between his phone and watching you, but he can’t fully concentrate on either; he’s too nervous that maybe you won’t like his gift, and he’s never been the type to splash out on birthday presents before but this… well, it burned a hole in his wallet, that’s for sure. 

“Okay. Wait here,” you tell him as you push up off the floor, limping on the leg that had started to fall asleep thanks to the way you were sitting. 

“All right,” he says back. As if he’d go anywhere, anyway. 

You grab a hanger from inside your closet and scurry off down the hall to the bathroom. For the first time, Vernon feels like he can actually breathe. He drops his phone onto the comforter between his crossed legs and cradles his head in his hands, telling himself that he needs to get it together. You’ve never not liked anything he’s given you, and you’ve known him now for more birthdays than you haven’t. 

Your friends said you’d love it. So did your mother, with a sparkle in her eye as she held it delicately in her fingers. He has nothing to worry about. It’s only you.

And yet—

“You’ll be honest if it looks bad?” You call from the other side of the door, interrupting how his lips move wordlessly in an endless mantra of self-reassurances. 

Vernon snaps his head up and he clears his throat, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Aren’t I always?” He answers.

You click your tongue, evidently disagreeing, but you pull the handle and take a step into the room anyway. When you see him, he looks exactly as he did when you left, no trace of his anxieties anywhere to be seen on his face or otherwise. 

When he sees you, he feels like the world could end any moment and he’d be okay with that. 

His mouth runs dry and his eyes seem to be stuck open, unblinking, fixated on you in your all black outfit as you stand still as a statue with your hands behind your back. You cough quietly, waiting for some kind of a response other than a dumb stare, but it doesn’t come. 

Eight seconds later… still nothing. 

“Do you hate it?” you fret, because Vernon is a very good hype-man and you’ve never known him struggle to find something positive to say. “All right, uh— okay—”

“No!” He rushes, almost shouting in his urgency to assure you that that’s not the case at all. He scrambles up to his feet, taking a breath, and pushes a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, and he kind of hates how his fingers catch on a tangle even though he brushed it meticulously before he left his apartment. You keep telling him it looks good, though, so he hasn’t been to get it cut. “God, no. I’m sorry. You look amazing.”

It doesn’t sound like much to the untrained ear, but the warmth of his compliments comes less in the words he says and more in the sincerity he says them with. Your face softens, and Vernon can see the way the thoughts of changing into something else fizzle out behind your eyes. He takes a backwards step to try and tempt you further into your own bedroom, and you move in tandem with him, closing that space and coming better into the light. 

“Wow,” he says, swallowing hard and looking you up and down. “I-… wow.”

It’s your turn to clam up, now. You look down at the floor, kicking at the carpet with your toes. “Shut up,” you say. “I’m not...”

“Yes, you are,” he protests, leaving no room for argument as he crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t know who you’re trying to impress but… yeah, it’s gonna work.”

You walk past him with a scoff, barging against his shoulder on your way; he dramatically staggers to the side, rubbing at the impact site, laughing. When he faces you again, you’ve picked the gift up from the end of your bed and are moving to sit on the mattress yourself. Your eyes flicker between Vernon and the empty space in front of you. He takes the hint, settling back down with one foot tucked beneath him, the other still planted on your rug. 

His heart shoots back up into his throat and he stares down at the box, licking over his lips and frowning at how dry they feel. He glances away, lifting a hand to his mouth, running his fingertips over his lips. What would they feel like pressed against yours? He thinks, and then he cringes again. 

You misread his reaction and hesitate with your finger pressed underneath a strip of tape, tilting your head at him. “What’s going to jump out at me when I open this?” 

“Nothing,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. “What do you take me for?”

“The kind of guy who puts glitter in birthday cards because he thinks it’s funny,” you retort, earning a click of his tongue. 

“That was one time!”

“One time too many.”

“I swear,” he laughs, tight shoulders easing, both hands falling to his lap. “No sparkles, no loud noises, nothing jumpy. Cross my heart.“

You eye him a little suspiciously but eventually tug your finger beneath the wrapping and make the first rip in the paper, allowing you to tear into the gift after keeping Vernon on edge for almost an hour and a half. You peel it away and it falls to the bedsheets, in your hands now a small, square box not too dissimilar a shade to your comforter. You look from it, to him, and he thinks you notice how his cheeks are a little darker than they were before. 

He nods at you once and you slowly pull it open. On a plush, velvety bedding sits an elegant, dainty bracelet. A small gemstone is set in the metal of the bar in the middle of the chain. You skim a thumb over it, your breath held.

“Vernon,” you murmur, tearing your eyes away from the bracelet to look at him. Now, even the tips of his ears have grown flushed, but you’re kind enough not to comment on it to avoid spoiling the moment you’re in. “This is…”

“The lady in the store said it was your birthstone,” he says, twiddling his thumbs. “I mean… I’m really just taking her word for it, ‘cause they all look the same to me, but—”

He’s interrupted as all of your weight topples against him, arms thrown around his neck in a hug. He hesitates a moment before he wraps his own around your waist, drops his head to your shoulder and he smiles wider than he thinks he ever has. “Happy Birthday,” he says, dragging his thumb up and down over your hip. 

“Silly,” you scold him playfully, still pressing wholly against him and showing no signs of moving. Your voice sounds thick, a little like you’re tearing up, so Vernon squeezes you tighter. 

“I know you are,” he chuckles. “But what am I?”

You swallow hard, finally now pulling away from the hug but sitting entirely too close for comfort, one knee pressing into the outside of his thigh. 

Your surprise attack has left him dishevelled. With a quiet apology, your fingers innocently try to smooth everything back into place, but Vernon doesn’t hear you say you’re sorry. His pulse, thundering in his ears, drowns it out while also skipping a beat with each little touch. You’re not looking into his eyes as you shyly put him back to rights, too busy working to tame his — at the best of times — unruly hair. 

He’s looking into yours though, and he can’t stop. 

Your eyes, which dart all over to find strands out of place, so your hands can move them to where they ought to sit and lay them down flat. Your eyes, that drop down the length of his throat as you realign the neck of his t-shirt over his broad shoulders. 

Your eyes: the ones crinkled at the corners as you pick the bracelet back up from your bed and admire it under your bedroom light. Your eyes, landing on his, finally, in a silent plea for help. 

“The best?” you answer, now, extending your wrist to ask him to put it on you. He takes the chain from your fingers and unclasps it, slipping it beneath your hand and holding it in place. 

“I know you are,” he says again, but it’s quieter now as he concentrates on trying to reconnect the two pieces. “But what am I?”

When he successfully fastens your gift onto your arm, he looks up to see your watery eyes still staring down at it. He decides this is the time to reveal part two of the surprise. Pulling up the sleeve of his t-shirt, he reveals his own wrist to you, and you now see there’s a matching chain hanging off it. A little stone set in the metal. His stone, presumably. You choke out a laugh around your tears, shaking your head. 

“You got us friendship bracelets,” you giggle, holding your hand next to his and admiring them together. Your skin touches and he feels butterflies erupt in his stomach, which he hasn’t felt around you since…

He nods, breathing a chuckle too. “Yeah,” he says. His heart is pounding. “I guess I did. Is… that okay?”

“I love them,” you insist, leaning forward to affectionately press your lips to his cheek. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Your doorbell sounds downstairs and Vernon’s words die in his throat. Maybe that’s for the best, though; he’s got so much nervous energy rising up inside him and he’s scared it might accidentally force up something he’ll regret saying. You spring off the bed again, fussing in the mirror, and he watches you rush out the bedroom warbling about how you’re not ready for anyone to be here yet. It’s too early. What’s going on? Who is it?

He shifts his legs so both his feet are planted on the floor, letting out a breath he doesn’t remember sucking in. 

I love them. Thank you, you said. 

It’s perfect. 

He groans when he stands up, too, tugging his sleeve back down as he starts to follow after you.

“I know you are,” he mumbles under his breath, hearing your relieved laughter at it just being the FedEx man on your doorstep. It makes him feel warm. Everywhere. “But what am I?”

Five hours later, Vernon is seeing double. 

He has Seungkwan’s hands massaging the tops of his shoulders and there are two Juns sitting across from him at your dining table. He remembers feeling fine around 9pm, distinctly: like nothing he drank was having any kind of effect on him. Like he could walk home on his hands — like he was invincible. Now, after spending exactly five minutes out in the fresh air, he’s blinking four times for every breath he takes and his friends’ voices keep phasing in and out of focus.

“But what if they’re not?” Vernon stresses for the eighth time, fingers clumsily peeling at the label on his bottle.

“And what if they are?” Jun tries. Again. Also, for the eighth time, because apparently when Vernon gets tipsy, his skull gets really really thick and nothing in the world can penetrate it. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

Vernon shakes his head, sitting back so heavily that his chair tips and he sends Seungkwan stumbling into the wall behind them. His friend gives up trying to rub the stupid out of him and settles into the chair at Vernon’s side instead. 

“I don’t know-…”

“If you’re about to say you don’t know what you’ll do if it isn’t them, I’m putting you in an Uber and sending you home.” Seungkwan claps his hand down onto Vernon’s knee for good measure. “It’s not even been a day.”

Vernon groans, threading his fingers into his hair and tipping his head back. “It hasn’t, though,” he whines. “What if it’s been like this since… and I just kept ignoring…”

Jun and Seungkwan exchange a look. An exhausted one. They both know Vernon turns into a complete baby when he’s had a drink and can just about manage a trip to the bathroom without somebody holding his hand, but neither of them have seen him like this before. Neither of them want to see him like this ever again.

Hell, neither of them want to be dealing with him like this right now.

“You’ll never know if you don’t try,” Jun’s (remarkably) calm voice repeats as he pushes up from his seat and glances towards the doorway. His ears lock onto a voice just beyond it, and in an instant, the older man recognises his chance at an exit. He casts an apologetic glance at Seungkwan, who has resorted to rubbing Vernon’s earlobes to try and get him to stop stressing, and he dips out before either of them can argue. 

On his way, though, he throws in a sly little remark. One that raises Vernon’s– and Seungkwan’s– blood pressure to a level that would get them prescribed a week of strict bed rest.

“Besides – everyone can see the two of you were practically made for each other.”

Vernon whips around to face Seungkwan with shock written into every line of his face. It paints perfect full-signal WiFi creases on his forehead; it makes his jaw hang loose. 

“I– what?” Vernon splutters, shooting a hand to the back of his head. Seungkwan hasn’t taken his eyes off the doorway since Jun slipped through it. Vernon doesn’t notice the fact that his older friend’s full genetic line is currently being cursed out. “What does he mean?”

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Seungkwan tries, now acutely aware of the fact that Jun has just given Vernon a nudge he should never have. There’s a fine line between bolstering a friend and straight-up causing chaos. This could get messy. Seungkwan doesn’t like messy.

But… It's too late. 

Before Seungkwan can wrangle him back into his seat, Vernon has broken away from the table and is on the hunt for you. Seungkwan follows behind, doing his best to summon Vernon back, but he can’t. He’s on a mission now. And maybe that mission involves giving in to the thing that eats away at his brain when he should be waist-deep in music theory assignments. Maybe that mission is to finally, after two years, know what it feels like to kiss you. He’s going to find you, so help him God. He has to. 

And yes. He does. He finds you, eventually. As soon as he reaches the top of the staircase, there you are. 

Being pressed into the wood of your bedroom door, wrapped up in the arms of some pretentious looking art student in an oversized button-down and baggy, ripped jeans. Your mouth is covered by theirs, your fingers are threaded through those glossy fucking locks, both of you are laughing breathlessly as you drop one hand and it fumbles blindly to reach for the doorknob. 

Vernon spins away, turning his back as he hears the door click. At this exact moment, Seungkwan comes stumbling up the stairs too and plants his forehead into Vernon’s sternum. 

But his good friend’s skull is not the only thing Vernon is struck with, not the only thing knocking the wind out of him. 

Simultaneously, he’s swept up with the sobering realisations that either this guy is your soulmate, or you’re not the same person you were when you were nineteen. 

It’s eleven o’clock and two years later when he hears your secret knock on his apartment door. 

Maybe it’s luck. Maybe it’s fate. He only took his noise cancelling headphones off a few minutes ago before he washed up and settled into bed; his head has hardly even had time to make a dent in the pillows. But whichever force is at play, the thing that matters is that he hears you and he knows it’s you, straight away. He doesn’t remember how it started, exactly. He thinks it might have been while he was in his exam-season hermit stage in his first year of university and refused to come to the door unless it was something important. 

You’ve been knocking the same way for years now though, and he slides out of bed with creased brows at how desperate your fist sounds as it pounds against the wood. He pulls on an old t-shirt and perhaps the loosest fitting pair of shorts anyone’s ever owned, at least making himself decent before he answers. He’s still tying the drawstring when he gets to the door.

When he looks through the peep-hole to make sure he’s right, you’re drying your eyes on the back of your sweatshirt sleeve. You’re shivering quite violently, and you’ve got a bag on your shoulder that’s weighing you down on one side. Vernon’s heart sinks. He unbolts the door, pulling it open just as you lift your hand to knock again; your knuckles punch the air between you as your eyes land on him, and your bottom lip wobbles in despair. 

You fall into his chest with a sob. Tears start to soak their way through his shirt until it clings to the skin underneath. 

“Hey,” he soothes you, locking his arms so tight around you that there’s a strong chance they’re the only thing holding you upright. 

“I didn’t— know where else to go—” you choke out, your arm trapped between your chest and his as he rests his head on top of yours and pats your back softly. “I’m s-”

“Don’t you dare,” he murmurs, tilting his chin down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’m here. You can always come to me.”

He holds you until your shakes start to subside, trying to talk you through whatever this is with soft reassurances and gentle shushing sounds. When you pull back from him, Vernon guides you into his apartment, flicking on the lamp in his living room so he can see to settle you down on his couch. He throws a blanket over your legs before he sits down himself, pulling your hand into his lap and holding it between both of his own, his thumb moving absently over your knuckles. You’re still crying, but when you shuffle against the seat to be a little more comfortable and finally turn to face him, he finds his voice long enough to ask you what happened. 

“He kissed— kissed someone else,” you tell him, sniffling and shaking your head. 

His blood reaches boiling point in what must be record time and he knows he accidentally starts to grip your hand tighter, but he can’t stop. 

“He what?”

Vernon knows this guy wasn’t your soulmate. You told him, a few days after your birthday. You said everything was still black and white when you pulled back from the first of — what you spared no detail in explaining was — many, many, many kisses with him that evening. But you didn’t care. Not then, and not for the whole time you’ve been together. 

He asked you about it once. About four months in (when he figured things were starting to get serious), late at night, if it bothered you. Whether you were going to keep seeing him. If you still thought about finding your soulmate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what your replying message said. 

I mean, sure, I’m curious. But maybe I don’t need to see in colour. I think being in love is enough :)

So… you were in love. 

With someone who wasn’t him. 

He didn’t speak to anyone — not even you — for two whole days after that. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds with a peak-form George Foreman. He felt like he’d never be able to get rid of the pit that had developed in the depths of his gut. He couldn’t sleep, he could barely eat, he couldn’t focus: it was the worst he’d ever felt.  And, well… Vernon knew it was immature. He knew he was acting like a child. If he could’ve shaken it off, the way he’s always done with so many of the things in his life that have bothered him, he’d have loved to. But he couldn’t.

Besides. Only about four people noticed his silence, anyway. You weren’t one of them; your boyfriend was keeping you plenty busy.

“He went to a club and got completely wasted and he— he—” you say, squeezing his hand even tighter than he’s holding yours. “But-… he says he-…” Hiccup. “Everything. Straight away — his…”

You don’t need to say it out loud; if anything, he’s a little disgusted with himself that he didn’t figure this out sooner. “His soulmate,” Vernon ruefully finishes for you. He groans the words out, feeling rotten to his core. “I’m so sorry…”

Your shoulders start to shake and he wastes no time in pulling you sideways against him, both his arms locked around you again, just like before. 

“It’s so stupid,” you cry, laughing emptily. His stomach turns; he hates this. Your anguish is an assault on his eardrums, especially when he’s got you so close, but he tries so hard not to flinch, not to move away. You need him, no matter how agonised it makes him feel. “I knew he wasn’t mine, but I thought-…”

Your voice fades away to nothing. You shake your head.

“You thought he was happy the same way you were,” he finishes again. You just nod, sobbing harder. “That's not—… stop saying the way you feel is stupid.”

Vernon doesn’t understand how that loser could ever not have been happy with you. How could he dream about going out in search of something more? Hell, Vernon doesn’t think there’s a soul alive better than you — how could anyone stand to just throw you away?

He wonders briefly if you can hear his heartbeat, thundering in his chest with the rage he feels all the way into his bones. You’ve always told him that you admire how chilled out, how collected he is, but Vernon has never felt less calm in his entire life. It’s only as he acknowledges that he has no right to feel like this, that he takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to bring his fever down. You mimic him, trying to do the same, and by the time his pulse starts to settle, you’re back to just sniffling against his shoulder. 

“Stay the night here,” he tells you. It isn’t a suggestion, or really even a request. It’s an order. There’s no room for negotiation. “We’ll go get your things in the morning. I’ll be right there with you.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Vernon gets there before you do. Before you can protest the offers he’s made. Before you can ask him if he’s sure. He knows you, a little too well: he knows these are the words that are going to come out of your mouth next. “I’m with you, okay? Always.”

You sit back from him with a quiet chuckle, wiping your eyes again on your damp sleeve. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” you murmur. “You’re the best— the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He just rolls his eyes at you and shakes his head, standing up from the couch. (I know you are, he thinks. This isn’t the time for jokes, though.) He wishes you knew what you mean to him; how, in his eyes, you deserve the world, presented to you on a shining silver platter. Wishes you knew that he’d give it to you if thought he could carry it. 

“Go wash up,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest at the way your watery lashes flutter when you look up at him. “I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

He locates a spare toothbrush from a travelling kit he’s never used and sets a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants on the heated towel rail, leaving you alone in the bathroom to go about your business. You emerge some fifteen minutes later to find Vernon perched on the edge of his bed, scrolling through an app on his phone. He can’t help but swallow at the way his clothes fit you. How the steam from your shower clings to your skin, casts a heavenly haze around you. He hopes it isn’t obvious. This is about more than his dumb little crush. 

“Were you asleep?” You ask him, nodding towards his comforter, still pushed back on one side. He turns to glance over his shoulder, following the line of your sight, before he looks back at you and shakes his head. 

“Not even close,” he says. “I’d just got into bed when you got here.”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth and nod. Vernon doesn't think you look totally convinced, but he can’t force you to believe him, even if it is the truth. 

It’s unspoken but accepted that you'll sleep in the bed with him; he’s never let you stay on his couch when you spend the night, and you never agree to displacing him even though he always tries to insist he doesn’t mind. You’ve been friends for enough time now that it’ll never be weird to crawl beneath the sheets with him, anyway. At first, he didn’t really like sharing (he’s a bit… particular with how he sleeps, after all), but he got used to your weight on the mattress beside him quite quickly and makes a point to say he always sleeps better with you. 

He hasn’t curled up next to you for the night in over two years. It’s awful, that that’s what he thinks about now as he turns off the lights and you settle down, shuffling under the comforter until he slides in next to you in the dark and you can lay your head on his chest. He knows it’s selfish. He thinks it probably makes him a bad person, too. 

“Do you think—” you start to say, cut off by a long, vocal yawn. Your breath feels so warm through his t-shirt. “If you fall out of love with them… do the colours go away?”

With his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling he can’t even see, Vernon feels his heart shatter beneath the soft cushion of your cheek. He’s suddenly grateful he’s still fully clothed, as if the cotton barrier is the only thing stopping you from getting scratched by the splinters beneath his skin. He wonders if you hear it. It would be an easier explanation for why he doesn’t say anything than whatever his mouth could come up with, that’s for sure. 

“I don’t know,” he says after a few seconds too long. The arm wrapped around your shoulders slips down to your waist and he squeezes you. Briefly, he wonders if it can force your broken pieces back together. 

Vernon knows he would never do this to you. He’d never hurt you this way. Out of everyone he’s ever met, he thinks you’re the sweetest, the kindest, the most thoughtful of them all. The last person he’d ever wish a heartbreak upon. He even used to joke that he’d go to war with anyone who dared to try. 

But now he’s seeing it happen? He feels as if he really could. 

“I just hope you never have to find out,” he follows up, blinking back the thoughts that start to bubble away as your breaths slow down. 

He wrapped a band-aid around your finger when you got a papercut once and you asked him, then, if he would kiss it better. 

When you bumped your head in the playground, the same. 

He’d kiss it all better now too, if he could. He’d show you how you deserve to be loved. 

And he doesn’t just think it, anymore; Vernon knows that this makes him a terrible person. 

“I hope you don’t, either,” you mumble back. “... and I hope we find them soon.”

He’s so proud of you.

Okay, it never took much. He’s been proud of you for every good grade you’ve ever achieved, every doctor's appointment you booked for yourself, every trip to the dentist you stressed over. He’s been proud of you for finishing projects you were struggling with. Proud of you for learning new recipes. For every milestone, personal or professional, it’s the first thing he makes sure to say. 

[ hey, look at u go!!! proud of u :) ]

Now? He’s seen you crawl from rock bottom to the top of the world. It hasn’t been easy. There have been hurdles and barriers and sometimes, sixty foot high walls you’ve had to climb up and over, but you’ve done it. You’re thriving. Every time he looks at you, these days, if you’re not wearing a smile there are at least traces of one in your eyes, on your face, in your voice. Happiness suits you, and he’s so, so proud of you for getting here. 

He knows you’re doing better, because between Christmas and New Year, you asked him if he wanted to come to a party with you. At first, he wasn’t sure; the holidays left his wallet feeling a little light and he’s been on a really good streak of not drinking anything lately, but when you promised that you’d stay sober too, he kind of couldn’t say no. 

[ i just wanna see in the new year with my favourite person ever <3 ]

[ ha. flattery will get u everywhere ]

So here he finds himself, out in the backyard of somebody he’s never met, a can of Coke in one hand and your gloved fingers holding tightly onto the other. You dragged him outside at five minutes to midnight and — though he doesn’t know why — you decided you didn’t want to let go. Vernon certainly wasn’t going to be the one to make you. Your warmth down his left side is settling the slight unease he’s felt all evening while also making him feel tipsier than he’s ever been under the influence of any amount of soju; he thinks maybe this should scare him, but he’s just… so glad he came.

With sixty seconds until the clock strikes twelve, somebody stands up on top of the picnic table in the yard and starts to try and coordinate a countdown. With forty-five, Vernon squeezes your hand, butterflies where his stomach ought to be. With thirty, he takes a long drain of his drink, finishing it as if it’ll give him some courage, maybe, or… he doesn’t know. Zero sugar, zero caffeine — there’s no logic behind his process, just a lot of bubbles and artificially sweetened syrup. All the same, he crushes the can against his thigh and slips it into his pocket to throw away later. That alone relieves a bit of his adrenaline. 

Not enough, but some. 

With ten seconds remaining, the first shout drowns out the white noise in his ears, the chaos of his thoughts. 10. He joins them. So do you. 9. 8. Your voice is the loudest, the most excited sounding. You want this year to be over. You want the rest of your life to begin. 

7. 6. 5.

The crackers are set. Flames dance at the end of the garden on fire lighters, ready to send rockets shooting into the sky. 

Some people here are going to see them as they truly are. Brilliant and vibrant and colourful against the black canvas of the midnight sky. Vernon won’t. Neither will you. But what was it you said to him once?

4. 3.

Maybe I don’t need to see in colour. 

2.

For the first time, he thinks he agrees. The feeling of loving you, even if he never knows green from red, blue from orange? He doesn’t care. He has you. He loves you. That’s enough. 

1.

Happy New Year. 

As if dawn has broken early, the world becomes impossibly bright, pyrotechnics bursting not only over your own heads but everywhere, as far as his eyes can see. After the first few, he permits himself a glance over at your face: there are tears running down it, and his heart stutters, but then he hears you laugh. Brightly, wetly, more resonant than any of the booms and crackles and cheers he can feel all the way down to his toes. 

For whatever reason, Vernon starts laughing with you. 

You pull him closer into a bone-crushing hug and blink your damp lashes against the side of his neck. “Thank you for being here with me,” you say to him, practically shouting to be heard. “I love you so much.”

“I’m always gonna be with you,” he says as you pull back a little. Your arms are still around him. The chain of the bracelet he bought you all those years ago is bitterly cold against the back of his neck. He can’t feel his fingers anymore, all he knows is that they’re resting on the curve of your spine. He thinks he can see something in the way you look at him, so softly and tenderly and yet, in the twitch of your brow… 

Like you’re searching for something that might not be there. 

He knows his gaze moves in a perfect triangle — from your left eye, to your slightly parted, wind-chapped lips, to your right. He knows he stops breathing. He swears you do, too. Something builds — a spark catches, an energy festers, egged on by the curious murmurs of the people around you. 

You could do it, his brain tells him. 

So what if he’s a few minutes late for it to be traditional? Does it really matter? 

But he’s reminded, again, this time with a whizz and a boom and a crackle, that you aren’t his to have this way. His storybook moment fizzles out, the final firework bursting into sparkles overhead. He sees every one of your perfect features brighten in wonder as you tilt your head back to look up at it. Sees it beautifully reflected in your glassy eyes. He has about enough time to commit the image to memory before you clear your throat and finally step away from him, losing all touch for the first time since you came outside. 

One of your friends comes and pulls you into an embrace, before passing you along to someone else, and then someone else again. He loses you in the crowd that rushes to get back in the warm, but he makes no effort to move with them. He just stays out in the dark for a while with his own thoughts for company, shoving his frigid hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He’s happy, though. It’s like you said. 

Being in love is enough.

“There’s just one more thing,” you say as the waitress returns with your bank card and a receipt. Vernon slides you a look as he stands, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair he’s been sitting in. 

He shakes his head at you. “Whatever it is, it better not be edible,” he laughs. “I think this is the most full I’ve ever been.”

In other words, you’ve done enough already. Stop spending money on me. Please. Thankfully, your final surprise is in-keeping with his unspoken rule. 

His birthday rolled around way too quickly. The start of the year has been so chaotically busy; you swear, you’ve hardly seen him since he dropped you off home after the party. You moved out of your parents’ house for the second time a few weeks ago and settling in, unpacking boxes, sorting through clothes and belongings and trinkets has taken you much longer than you care to admit. You’ve been busy at work, too. So has he. Your social calendars have barely lined up at all. 

But you were determined to make plenty of time for him on his birthday. 

To Vernon, this has always just been another day. He’s never cared too much about big celebrations: as long as he can spend some time with people he cares about, he’s happy, and this year he’s managed exactly that. He saw his family this morning, had some friends drop by his apartment later in the day, and now, he’s with you. 

You’ve never been great at the laid-back approach, though. Not with him. How could you be, when he does so much for you, always without even batting an eye? When he deserves to be doted on, and adored, and thoroughly spoiled? It’s the same every year. You make a fuss, he playfully scolds you for it; you and he are creatures of habit. It’ll probably never change. 

This year, you invited him to your new place to open the gifts you’d bought him: the new speaker he kept saying he couldn’t justify buying, a record he looked at in the store a few months ago but never bought, a sweatshirt to replace the one you stole off him on New Years Eve. Some candies he likes. Then, after he finally stopped pouting and sighing that you really didn’t need to go to all this effort, you took him out for dinner, making a reservation for two at his favourite restaurant. 

The pouting continued. 

Only up until your appetisers came out, though. The moment your food was placed down in front of you, his eyes doubled in size and his lips became a little too busy to stay pursed. Your own dinner almost went cold with how fondly you sat and watched him. This year, you even spared Vernon the embarrassment of having the restaurant staff sing at the side of your table. 

All right, you have an ulterior motive, but… it’s the thought that counts, right? 

He holds the door open for you now as you thank the waitress who served you one last time and without him lowering his arm, you step into place beneath it. Tucked up into Vernon’s side, you’re as happy as you’ve ever been. Nervous, too, but… you have a good feeling. 

“Where to?” He asks as you fall into step together. 

“This way.”

You emerge from the shelter of the canopy outside the restaurant’s front door and immediately feel the cool tickle of a snowflake landing on your cheek. They started to fall while you were eating and Vernon couldn’t stop watching through the window, small specks that grew over the hour into big clumps that tumbled towards the ground. He’s always loved the snow, and there’s no real destination for this gift, anyway. You guide him to the left and watch as peace takes its rightful home on his beautiful features. 

“We’ve walked in a perfect square three times now,” Vernon says after a little while of meandering about in the dark, making comfortable small talk and laughing as the champagne bubbles in your stomachs continue to fizz away. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

You wondered how long it was going to take him to notice, or even if he was going to realise at all. Looking up and down the street you’re on, you stop in your tracks, standing beneath the same flickering street lamp that you’ve passed twice already. Your footprints trail both behind and in front of you, neither quite covered yet by the snowfall. You break into a laugh when you notice that the convenience store on your left has closed since the last time you came down this road. 

“I can get a map open, if…” Vernon starts, reaching into his pocket. You stop him, stepping out from under his arm and wrapping your hand around his wrist instead.

“I might’ve told a little white lie,” you confess, 

He halts with his phone only half pulled out, pushing it into his hip for fear of it falling if either of you let go. “What do you mean?” He asks. 

You know he’s probably thinking back to your earlier conversations, trying to figure out which part exactly is the mistruth you’re now admitting to. But whether he gets there on his own or not, he waits for you to answer. 

“I had it with me this whole time,” you explain, readjusting your hold on his covered forearm. His eyes dart downwards, looking at the site of contact, but he quickly lifts them back up to your face. “I was just… waiting for… ”

“What are you talking about?” Vernon asks. 

“Close your eyes.”

You know.

Unfortunately for your best friend, as hush-hush as he’s managed to be all this time, the same can’t be said for the other person he entrusts all his secrets to. A few weeks ago, when you’d called Seungkwan to coordinate timings for Vernon’s birthday plans, he’d accidentally let something slip. It was your suggestion of taking Vernon to dinner that did the trick. 

“Oh, he’s going to love that,” Seungkwan had gushed. You could hear the breadth of his smile down the phone and felt yourself growing hot at the compliment.

“You really think so?”

“Pfft. You could take him to the Eiffel Tower or to a drive-through KFC, and he’d still have hearts in his eyes – because it’s you.”

Of course, he attempted to do some damage control immediately after. Make out that he meant it in strictly platonic terms. But once the idea planted itself in your head, it sort of… made sense. You mulled it over for a couple of days but when you finally asked Seungkwan, deathly serious, if he really thought you stood a chance with Vernon?

He practically screamed ‘yes’ down the phone. 

“The last time you asked me to do this, you killed me at laser-tag,” Vernon says, narrowing his eyes. He surely doesn’t think you’re hiding a plastic gun underneath the coat he literally just watched you don, but he doesn’t do as you ask and you suck your front teeth at him.

“Luckily for you, I left all my weapons at home,” you counter. “Come on, please. Just… trust me.”

“Said that last time, too,” he snickers. But, to his merit, he finally does it. He takes in a breath and follows your instruction. “I swear to God…”

Selfishly, you take a moment to bask in how handsome he really is. His eyes twitch underneath his lids and snowflakes cling to his lashes, moving with them. It’s in his hair, too. On his shoulders. Melting on his cheeks, leaving small wet spots on his face. One lands perfectly on the tip of his nose. You would immortalise this moment, if you could.

It made sense, when you found out, because thinking back? Nobody has ever loved you how Vernon does. He shows it in so many ways – he sends you the songs that he hears and thinks you’ll like, the pretty photographs that he takes when he’s away for work, some variant of a ‘good morning’ text, almost every day. He massages your shoulders, lets you fall asleep on his lap, follows you around like an obedient puppy when you have errands to run just so you don’t have to do them on your own. 

He tries, and often fails, to cook you breakfast when you stay over. He brings you coffees, or lunch. He looks at you like you’re the moon and the stars. People have teased for years that you could be psychically connected. That you were cosmically united. That it was fate for Vernon to move into the house down the street from you when you were nine. To be the only other child your age on the block. 

Two people, perfect for one another, lives intertwined eternally by fate. Or, in other words…

“Are you…?” He asks, breaking the quiet that has only been filled with your cloud-forming breaths. 

“Give me a second,” you breathe. There’s no doubt in your mind.

One. 

You lean forward to kiss him softly, free hand settling against the side of his neck. In the February chill, Vernon freezes, no part of his body reacting to you except for his lips. Though they twitch in a gasp, they press back against yours as if he isn’t even thinking about doing it. As if it’s instinctual. As if he was always supposed to kiss you – as if he’s your…

There it all is, when you finally pull away.

Brown eyes, framed by fluttering lashes that untangle from one another to finally see you, too. Brown, you know, because when you asked your mother to tell you about Vernon’s colours when you were younger, that was the only one she told you, saying everything else might change when he got older. Warm, brown eyes. Glistening with every blink, blink, blink of the bulb above you. Pupils slowly dilating, drowning the colours out of view. You see his lids shoot wide as he realises, as he glances left and right, as he takes this new world in for the first time, too. 

“I knew it,” you say on a stuttered breath, so overwhelmed you could cry. “My soulmate.”

A brilliant smile threatens to split Vernon’s features in two as he cups your cheeks and pulls you back to him, kissing you again, and again, and again. 

“I know you are,” he says against your lips, his bare thumbs pink and cold as they press into your skin. And, before you can kiss him quiet – “but what ‘m I?”

thank u so much for reading, i really hope you enjoyed this. as always, your likes/reblogs/comments and feedback are always deeply appreciated.<3