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🐸 “come here, hold my hand.”
request from my og @tusswrites! "come here, hold my hand.” “you’re washing the dishes.” “…i can do both…” with minghao? please i love this man and I’ll crumble if he says this to me 😭
pairing: minghao x gn!reader word count: 1k+ genre: fluff, slice of life (HELLO IT'S ME) rating: pg tags: pure fluff, physical touch as the love language, mundane stuff, household chores, request prompted washing the dishes so you will have washing the dishes, i try to make up a song warnings: none
a/n: finally found the random inspiration for this drabble that ended up with more than 1k words. purely self-indulgent. bear with me. as someone who always washes the dishes, i want this. bow.
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Minghao is a strong believer in physical touch as a love language.
Popular media doesn’t showcase this all too well because of the image and concept that has been formed around him. Still, physical touch is the love language that remains superior in his opinion. This means being able to reach out to the other person and hold them in any manner, being in proximity to them to express how you feel, and being in the same room with each other regardless of what you are doing.
He says it’s about having something tangible to hold—tactile in his hand and palpable on his body—and how he appreciates having the people around him to physically ground his thoughts and dreams that can soar as high as the heavens allow. It reminds him that he doesn’t just have his rational mind anchoring him down but also something and someone to help make sense of things.
Minghao, contrary to popular belief then, is actually a very clingy person.
Words are not and will never be his strong suit. Yes, he can write. Yes, his words are like poetry, like water flowing through the rough in cascades of emotion, but they only come out when the cup is full. On a day-to-day basis, Minghao expresses his love which can be felt even through the slightest brush of hands.
This is a fact that you learned almost immediately.
He comes home, wordless, whether to his place or your place, and the first thing he does is go in for a hug. No matter where you are or what you are doing, he forces you to stop so he can hug you for who knows how long, deeply, fully, and wholeheartedly—not that half-assed wraparound from the side that people excuse for a hug.
It’s a habit he started during a particularly trying time in his life. He would pull you closer and engulf you in his arms, burying you in his scent as he buries himself in the crook of your neck or the crown of your head.
Naturally, during a particularly trying time in your life this time, you picked up his habit easily and did the same to him.
Scientific studies show that a 20-second hug is enough to release oxytocin that can lower stress levels and improve quality of life. Whatever the research says, you and Minghao do agree that this little practice has made your lives easier and more bearable than they used to be.
Recently though, you always end up missing each other at home. He would come home late nights and early mornings after schedules to find you sound asleep in your bed, while you would wake up a few hours later to his sleeping form recovering from the previous day’s demands. You’d come home one too many days to a space devoid of his comforting presence, and the same could be said for him.
It happens, you think. It’s absolutely normal. Being this busy just means that both your lives are taking a turn for the better, right?
But still, you miss him, despite coming home to each other every day. You miss the simple act of sharing your silence together and you miss the way his touches would simultaneously calm you down but also keep you on your toes.
Today, you couldn’t help but feel lonelier than usual as you set your jacket and bag down to be greeted by a dark apartment room. Based on his last message a few hours ago, Minghao was still in the studio practicing. He sent a selca with the other performance unit boys and you don’t deny how you stared at his sweaty hair and bare smiling face for a minute longer than you thought you did.
But you had a good day at work, where everything just worked out the way you wish every day would, and you absolutely will not let anything rain on your small moment of happiness. No, not even the mess of a room you left this morning and not the pile of dishes you didn't realize remained unwashed this morning.
So you turn on the speakers and press play on a song that has Minghao’s voice fill the empty space. It was one of his unreleased demos for his recent solo EP. It was a shame because this was your favorite from his endless roster of songs—a song where the lyrics talked about how the most mundane of moments could be the most special if you had your love’s hand to hold.
You started on the dishes and got lost in the process almost meditatively in the menial task. It was enough to startle you when you heard your name from behind you. You see him in fresh clothes and slightly damp hair, a clean scent emanating from his presence.
“When did you get home?” You asked in reply to your most favorite voice in the world.
“Just now,” Minghao instinctively reached out to latch onto your waist, easily letting your gravity pull him to you in your natural ritual of finding purchase in each other's nooks and crannies. As if you were two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly, he molds his body against yours with his chest flush to your back and his hands folding on the flat of your stomach.
He breathed in your scent and you felt his smile against your temple. Instantaneously, you relax against his touch as he says against your ear, “I missed you.”
You turn to find his lips, softly pressing yours against them and repeating his words to him. With a smile, you continue your reply with a melody to your voice. “Come here, hold my hand.”
You feel his chuckles with his cheek pressed on yours when he says, “But you’re washing the dishes.”
“I can do both.”
So he does, intertwining one of his hands with yours—albeit awkwardly—and helping you finish the chore in front of you. His soft giggles mingle with yours as you two find a rhythm to washing the dishes among four working hands.
You two stay in this position for a while with the song still playing in the background, the lyrics resounding as you sway in time with the rhythm.
“Come here, hold my hand, pull me in, and let me orbit around your gravity…”
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post a/n: still from my little drabble request game and still accepting requests! all you gotta do is shoot an ask <3
#q tea#random fic to push day!#im actually kinda proud of this one bc i spent a bit of time on it to get it juuuust right#so lemme just share it out here again hehe
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🎥 chemistry read
in which Junhui’s casting director gets a little bit too jealous during a chemistry read
pairing: actor!junhui x afab!casting director!reader word count: 2.1k+ genre: hurt, comfort, nsfw rating: r-18. nsfw, mdni! tags: established relationship, JEALOUSY, fluffy ending, reader is mentioned to be smaller than jun, i claim no accuracy over the movie industry processes nsfw warnings: heavy makeout, petting, voyeurism (if you squint?)
a/n: mainly inspired by lana condor and noah centineo’s chemistry read for “to all the boys i’ve loved before” and it still lives rent-free in my head because it made me feel so, so many things. also my first nsfw-rated fic oh my. took me a while to make sense of where the story was going but it seemed all roads led to this.
credits to @strxwberry-skiess, @diamonddaze01, @haologram, and c for beta reading because this took a village to get out!! thank you bless your souls 🫶
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“Do you believe in the red string of fate?”
“The what?”
“The red string of fate. Have you seriously not heard of it?”
Jun was pulling out all the stops for this one. He had cranked up his charm to the max level evident in the smiles and subtle glances towards her direction. He knew exactly what he was doing.
It was sickening.
You were sitting on the opposite end of the screen in another room. Yes, you chose to go into a separate room today.
“It’s to see the literal on-screen chemistry,” you said. “We can’t have the face-to-face chemistry not translating well on camera.”
Just as well. You’d had enough of them making heart eyes at each other right in front of you anyway.
Today’s schedule was packed with absolutely no time for breaks in between and no time to even sit for a proper meal which you knew you’d only get by the end of the day.
And no time to actually sit down with the actor you were working with—who you were also lucky enough to call your boyfriend.
If you too were an actor, you’d truly believe that Jun was the perfect fit for you. It was something about his carefree presence and easygoing demeanor that turned shy when praises were directed at him no matter how much he deserved it. It was something that made you want to keep rooting for him.
He saw precisely that in you: your unwavering dedication and quiet support, whether in giving him insider tips and tricks to get ahead or letting him run wild with his character at every casting call. It was something he had never seen so strongly in someone during his time as an actor.
“You remind me of my members,” he told you the very first time you had coffee together—as colleagues who were on the verge of becoming something. “They’re my brothers. And I mean that in the best way possible! Not that you’re my brother in the messing around and crazy kind of way,” he quickly added when you raised your eyebrows in question. “I mean in the ‘always being there to stand by your side no matter what’ kind of way.” He sips from his drink nervously. “Don’t ask me to explain please, because I will not stop rambling until I say something even more stupid than I already have.”
You laughed because he’d already rambled more than he usually did. As a casting director, it was your job to match actors to roles that suited them perfectly. But as people, you both could say you did a mighty good job in matching each other’s quirks and freaks.
Professional mode on during work, you two agreed. And you two did very well on that promise.
But bringing her in for the role made it infinitely difficult for you to keep up your end of this deal.
“She’s an old friend of mine! We worked together on one of my very first projects, the small ones I used to tell you about.” He said this when you asked about her. You knew all that already, of course—it was part of your job.
But when the two finally met again in person, you saw it. As a casting director, your professional instincts felt it. You saw it in the way they instantly gravitated to each other, the way their eyes both sparkled, the way their hands naturally connected even after all those years apart.
They were perfect for the role.
And in your head, a small voice continued the thought you didn’t want to touch.
They were perfect for each other.
It was the same voice nagging in your head throughout the duration of the chemistry read. You knew this scene by heart as if you were the one auditioning for the role. You’ve watched how many callbacks and chemistry reads of this scene. And you knew what came next.
After the back-and-forth dialogue was a moment of silence, followed by a lingering gaze, which was sealed with a kiss that escalated to a bed scene. It was a pivotal moment in the film so it had to be perfect.
You’d almost been desensitized to your boyfriend doing such scenes—professional mode on as always. But all that work crumbled the moment you saw their eyes lock onscreen. Slowly, slowly, their faces inched closer together to meet in a kiss.
Your eyes burned. Your fist clenched as you saw his hand fist in her hair. Your jaw tightened when you saw her lips land in the corner of his jaw. And just as he brought her head down on the couch, the director called “Cut!” and you stood up to walk out of the room, not without feeling a stray tear fall down your cheek.
Jun heard the slam of the door and jerked his head toward the sound. That was all it took for him to know what happened.
He wasn't the only one to notice. Jun found the director’s eyes meeting his with a knowing look. “Alright,” the director started. “Well, they don't call it a chemistry read for nothing!” Scattered laughs filled the small room. “Thank you to both of you, that was absolutely amazing.”
The producers took the actress aside for a few words with other managers and staff. Your presence was notably absent.
Before Jun could slip away, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “That was the best read so far,” the director said.
“I know,” and with his eyebrows raised he continued, “I heard the door.”
The director just gave him a lighthearted laugh. “I’m sure we all did. But you know she would agree.”
Jun knew. So while everyone was preoccupied, he glanced at his manager—who already knew what he’d do—and set off to find you. It wasn’t a hard task because he opened the nearest door to the stairwell and found you leaning against the wall.
You met his eyes when you heard the door open, following him and his slight smile until he ended up a short distance beside you with his shoulder against the wall. You were adamant about not wanting him to see you break. You’re a professional, right?
“You know it’s not real,” he starts.
You scoff. “How is it not real when it was right in front of me?”
“Stop that, green isn’t a good color on you.”
“What?” Jarred, you look down at your staple all-black ensemble. “But green’s my favorite color. You told me you liked me in green.”
“Not when it’s green with jealousy.”
It took you two seconds to register what he said. The corner of your mouth twitched involuntarily at the quip. “I am not jealous.”
Jun barely held in a laugh. “Yeah, sure you aren’t.”
“I’m not!”
“Jealous you’re not the one I was kissing?”
“No, I—”
“Jealous you’re not the one I’m holding?” He reaches out and loops his finger through one of your belt loops to pull you closer, closer, until you’re both joined at the hip. He shifts to effectively pin you against the wall with his height. You shiver against his touch when his fingertips graze the base of your neck.
“Now, you stop that,” you breathily let out.
“Stop what?” He asks oh so innocently.
“This.”
“No. Not until I prove to you how real this is.” He grabs ahold of your hand, and places it somewhere you did not expect it to go: right over his clothed crotch.
He was wearing loose slacks, a piece that could easily hide things that need to be hidden. But if there was one thing you did know about Jun is that he gets hard quick and easy and it takes him a while to calm down. With your hand on it, you could feel it was anything but hard.
“You know me. You tell me if that read did anything remotely close to what you do to me.”
You open your mouth to speak, but before you can let out a reply, his lips land on yours. His actions catch you off-guard and you instinctively clutch onto his arms and your last bits of sanity. Just as quick, he breaks away and grabs your hand again to return it to where it came from.
“Keep it here, love. I need you to have the proof in your hands.” He brushes a stray hair from your face, and you see your own desire in his eyes reflected back to you. He leans in, but stops short of your lips, leaving you to chase after his touch. The smirk that followed was telling of his thoughts. He was teasing you. God.
You had no more patience for his fun and games. You could feel the pent-up frustration building. Whether from anger or sexual arousal, the line has been blurred irrevocably. With your free hand, you latch onto his hair and pull him in aggressively into an open-mouthed kiss.
It was at this moment that you both decided to think “fuck it” to all modes of professionalism.
He takes advantage of your open mouth and wastes no time diving deeper. You find yourself reciprocating his kisses, pulling him in closer as if recreating the scene you watched him do but making sure it was imprinted with your mark on him.
“I love you.” You hear it whispered, feel it muttered against your lips. “I love you, and only you,” he continues in between kisses. “I love you.”
And there it is: the proof you could feel quite literally in your hand, at the crux between his legs. If you weren’t too in the heat of the moment, you could almost laugh. He decided to prove his loyalty to you by showing that he did not get a boner during the chemistry read. It was your lips and your hands, and yours only, that could do this to him. It was peak Junhui.
But now, you were only aroused beyond comprehension, apparent in the pit of your core and the slick pooling in your panties. You squeeze him through his slacks and he moans lewdly in your mouth, echoing in the empty stairwell bearing witness to this obscenity.
He starts kissing and licking down your neck as you feel his hands snake under your blouse and your bra to squeeze in return, earning a gasp from your swollen mouth. You fist the hand you had in his hair tighter, fully aware that you are indeed messing it up and you will very much get a word from his stylist about this.
Your ringtone effectively silenced all other sounds you both made before things could go any further. You both stopped to look at each other with expressions that were hard to decipher whether in alarm or in exhilaration.
“Hello?”
You hear your director on the other end. “So have you two kissed and made up yet? Not literally, I hope.”
From the corner of your eye, Jun chuckled. You cleared your throat, but your voice was still a pitch too high when you replied, “Yeah, we’re good.”
“Alright, now come on back here. We have dinner prepared for everyone, including the new girl. We still need to talk about her.”
“Got it, boss.”
“Now, okay? We’ve been stalling for you two.”
Ah, shit. “Okay. On the way.” You dropped the call and looked at Jun leaning back against the wall, whose hair he managed to salvage and whose clothes were almost presentable. You couldn’t say the same for your half-open jeans and messed-up lipstick.
Wordlessly, he pulls you in and helps tidy you up—fixing your hair as you put your clothes back together and wipe off the stray lipstick from your face.
“For the record,” he says as he tucks your hair behind your ear, “whatever chemistry you see on the screen is only because I have you in my head to draw inspiration from. There’s a reason why people close their eyes when they kiss. It’s you I see every time.”
You usually love it when Junhui rambles like this. You still do now, but you also recall his “green with jealousy” line and it fills you with embarrassment.
“It’s just…it looked so real. It felt so real. That was the best chemistry read out of all of them.”
“So I was told earlier.”
“It made me feel so many things.” The exasperation was evident in your voice.
He takes your hands this time and holds them tight. “I’ll make you feel even more things, I’m sure. But I will not let you forget that I will make you feel loved the most. Okay?”
You sigh. You love him. “I love you, Jun.”
“I love you, too.” He raises a hand to press a kiss on your knuckles.
“Also remind me to call building security. I must tell them to delete that footage from the stairwell.”
Jun gives you a quiet smile, one full of mischief. “Not without securing a copy first. For me. Please?”
“I thought we were professionals!”
“We could add professional rule-breakers to that title, you know.”
Hmm. You reconsider his request. Yep, you could definitely match his freak. Perfect chemistry.
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post a/n: inbox is open for requests or additions to taglists!
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🌀 silence is a scary sound
pairing: lee chan x gn!reader word count: 1.8k+ genre: angst, with a tinge of comfort rating: pg tags: established relationship, mostly narrations, not too much plot warnings: stonewalling from chan im so sorry he's not yet ready to talk :(, oh a simple complication miscommunication leads to fall out, and one curse word
a/n: based on a dream i had recently. no wonder i was so unnecessarily stressed at work one morning. text in bold is a verbatim statement from my friend when i told her about it. title lifted from the song of the same name by mcfly; vibe doesn’t fit but the title does!
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The silence in the room could be cut with a knife. The only sounds slicing the thick tension-filled air were the clatter of makeup containers and muffled footsteps traveling across the small space.
You could see Chan's every move through the vanity mirror. You see the skin of his bare back disappearing in the bathroom every so often, the overly meticulous worry he puts into buttoning every single hole on his shirt, and the fussing around for another mirror in the room so he didn’t have to share the one you were using.
A teardrop stains the blush palette on the table. Fuck. You dab your unshed tears away and continue, careful not to ruin your makeup. You two were late already, as is.
It has been around half a week of this dance. You no longer wanted to be a part of it. But given that you have already given promises and commitments to this event’s hosts and your friends, you both knew that this would present inevitable problems. After a brief exchange of a few heated words, it was settled that today would be a go.
When Chan emerged from the bathroom a final time, he looked polished up and ethereal with his white button-up, the sleeves pushed to his elbows to show off the watch that embellished his wrist. He styled his hair in a way that allowed it to fall just right around his eyes. You were so proud of the fact that he managed it himself—as if he would even approach you for it right now.
For the first time tonight, his eyes met yours in the mirror. You were in the middle of applying your lipstick and he just watched you until you finished.
He opened his mouth as if to say something—anything, you beg in your head. Instead, he shuts it and lets out a shallow sigh, one that amplifies the disappointment that was evident in every nonverbal. The silence persists when he steps out of your room.
A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes your lips. Clenching your jaw and blinking away the burgeoning tears again, you finally accept that this is going to be a long and painful day.
You get into your outfit and shoes and jewelry without his help. In spite of how stubborn you both were, you were also tired of chasing someone who did not want to give you the time of day at the moment. Finally gathering your purse, you step out to face reality once more.
He was standing by the door when you faced him and announced that you were ready to leave. He gives you a cursory look from top to bottom, his lips slightly parting as if wanting to say something yet again.
But for the second time tonight, he holds back. What comes from his lips instead is, “Let's get this day over with.”
Tearing his gaze from you, he opens the door to let you out first. No arm was offered, no hand was held. Thankfully enough, he also opened the car door for you, but not without avoiding your scrutinizing gaze. Why act all sweet like a gentleman, you thought, if he won’t even hold a decent conversation with you?
But fine, you give him the benefit of the doubt. You'll let his emotions calm down first and you will yours to do the same—starting with the car ride on the way to the venue.
Because usually your car rides are filled with laughter and liberation, music and mayhem, where you two could simply look at each other and know what to do next. Now, the silence threatened to suffocate you within the small space.
You knew that Chan couldn’t take it either. He opened the radio, tuning in to whatever random station he found first. Despite the chiming tones that signified your phones connecting to the Bluetooth console, no one dared to play a song that could break your cold exteriors.
Not one of you was willing to give in first. Until you did.
“Can we ta—”
“No,” came his cold reply.
You take in another breath, wanting to speak, as if you weren’t already gasping for air from the hurt that has been suffocating you.
“Look, can we at least try to look normal in front of everyone? Unless you want it spelled out that ‘nothing is okay’?”
A beat. He keeps his hands firm on the steering wheel and his eyes fixed on the road. You wager a look at him, but he does not reciprocate.
He pursed his lips, pressing them into a thin line that gave away his frustration—at what, you couldn’t tell at this point.
“Okay.”
Chan was always a man of many words. To see him be this terse is a telltale sign that something is wrong.
But you also knew that Chan was a man who knew how to play his cards right to become the person you needed him to be. So if you tell him to act normal, then he will be normal.
Almost.
He steps out of the car and, in all fairness to him, reaches your side to open the door for you before you are able to step out. Still no help offered, still no hand held—save for the final moment when you were about to enter. Wordlessly, he takes your hand to loop around his elbow.
With this, he gives you a reassuring nod and a smile, one that you could almost believe was genuine enough to make you forget all about what happened—but you could see right through it. You could make it out through the corners of the lips that didn’t reach his eyes, the eyes that held no spark of warmth in them.
But you held out on hope. You can’t not. It was the only thing you could do now.
As soon as you pass through those doors, Chan acts as if it was a normal day. He was all smiles and loud laughs, exchanging handshakes and high-fives with familiar faces. Every so often, he looks at you and offers a small quirk of his lips.
You couldn’t take it. You know that the energy around him drops lower and lower for every glance he shoots in your direction. It made every glance feel like an arrow to your chest.
With this, you give him a small smile and a squeeze to his hand, and proceed to the open bar. A hand on your shoulder catches your attention and you come face-to-face with long-time friends.
“How’s my favorite girl? And how’s your dashing boyfriend doing?”
“Oh, we’re fine!” You begin to detail in small talk about recent happenings in and outside of your quaint shared apartment—except for that one obviously unspeakable thing.
No one needed to know about that.
So you distract yourself with glasses of cocktails clinking and traces of laughter resounding—anything to replace the recent days and nights of deafening quiet.
“Time to go home?” Chan’s voice suddenly appears by your side for the first time since you two parted ways. You almost forget how he got the timing so right. In your opinion, the past few days were almost enough to make it seem like he was a stranger in your room, not the man you have lived with for years, the man who just seems to know you.
It hasn’t been that way recently.
You bid your goodbyes and left. You expected it, too. As soon as you two exited the premises, you feel him revert to his cold demeanor, maintaining his distance and sighing in relief as if the whole affair was a charade to him.
So much for giving him space to calm down.
Making your way down the short flight of stairs, you wobble on your heels and he catches your waist in perfect timing yet again. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, something changes. He finally looks at you—his eyes full of concern and alarm and care.
“Be careful,” he says in an urgent whisper. So this time, he offers you help and he holds your hand. And you don’t care if he is doing it under obligation or a personal inclination for as long as he is doing something.
The wordless dance continued, throughout the car ride home and the motions of the evening before turning in for bed. Just like every night, you feel his absence the most in bed despite him being only less than a meter apart.
Too much has happened today. As vulnerable as you are, you admit a certain defeat and turn to face him. His figure was lying straight on his back, eyes to the ceiling and almost unblinking. He was awake.
You swallow and take a deep breath. It’s the easiest thing in the world almost, finding his hand and holding on to him like a lifeline. You fit your fingers in between the spaces of his and clasp at him.
You rest your forehead on his shoulder, eager to feel a semblance of warmth, familiarity, anything from the man you know you love—hoping against hope that he still loves you in spite and despite.
You don’t feel him clasp his hand back. But instead, he lifts his arm, offering his chest and the crook of his shoulder to you as he usually does.
Relief.
You could almost cry.
But you keep yourself together. Tonight is not right for more emotions to spill over. Tonight, you let your hearts, bodies, and minds rest to take on another day of and with each other.
You fit yourself in his spaces, finding your natural fit against his mold, one that he so willingly offers and adjusts to integrate yourself against him. You are overwhelmingly thankful he still allows it.
As you do, he readjusts his position and you feel his hand resting on your upper arm, the warmth from his hand seeping through to your heart. There is hope.
Yet he still does not look at you.
Sleep threatens to take over. Your heavy eyes start giving in, finally comfortable in the space he still holds for you. But not before you feel his chin rest on your head.
It's a simple act, but it speaks volumes.
You two are never used to silence. Silence is the scariest sound in your shared and sacred space. But in this one gesture, you can almost hear his voice, the one you will always love, speaking the words he just can’t say right now.
It says, "I may be mad, but never at you. I may be mad, but there’s no questioning that I love you. I may be mad, but I will always be by your side."
At least, that’s what you hope he wants to say. You will never know until tomorrow.
So for the first time in a while, in between whatever comfort you find in the unforgiving dread of tomorrow and the unwavering faith of Chan’s constant presence of now, you fall asleep in relative peace.
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🍷 in vino veritas
What better birthday gift can one give than the gift of truth?
pairing: seungkwan x fem!reader word count: 3.4k genre: fluff, smut/nsfw rating: r-18. nsfw, mdni! tags: oblivious idiots in love with each other, mutual pining, literally can’t resist each other once they start, we're still celebrating seungkwan's birthday here, mentions of food, barely proofread pls bear with me warnings: alcohol, allusions to sex, eventual sex haha, making out, dry humping (?) making love, groping, fingering, implied unprotected sex (help idk how to do nsfw tags pls tell me if i missed anything
a/n: this was based on two requests lifetimes ago by rachel @strxwberry-skiess and tara @diamonddaze01. i have a feeling you two don’t remember it anymore haha but i’m tagging both of u anyway. this was also intended as a seungkwan birthday fic that i’ve been revising back and forth and just wasn’t satisfied enough to post until now, hence the setting. i hope this marks the end of my writing drought—i desperately need it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
It started with a sweater and spilled soju.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No, don’t worry about it!”
“But it’s your favorite sweater. I just ruined it.”
Technically, you both did. It actually started with dinner at your place because you owed him. Big time.
A few weeks ago, you dared to be the only one who didn’t bring a gift to Seungkwan’s birthday gathering—and everyone called you out for it. So with the whole party as witness, Hansol and Chan made you promise to give Seungkwan a gift and treat him to dinner to make up for this huge lapse in judgment.
Sincerely, you wish you could slap those two in the face sometimes. But you wouldn’t, of course. They just knew exactly what they were trying to set up then.
You and Seungkwan decided on a simple homemade dinner at your place because according to him, “You never invite me to your place! How many times have you invited those two idiots to your place without me?”
If only you could tell him the real reason why that was always the case.
When the fateful day finally came, Seungkwan arrived at your apartment early to genuinely offer his help, much to your gratitude. He was even gracious enough to bring your favorite yangnyeom fried chicken.
“I knew you’d like it. It’s your favorite,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug when you questioned him with his offering.
In return, you claimed, “Just don’t go expecting me to give you your gift right away. I’m saving it for the end of the night because it’s special.”
He kept saying that “you don’t have to do this, they were just poking fun.” But you were never one to back down from a promise—especially if it involved Seungkwan.
Dinner went by easily. The weather allowed for a window propped open to let in some of the cool breeze that added to what you believe was a nice atmosphere. Your plates had long been empty when Seungkwan made his way to the fridge to get a refill of water. Instead, he let out a cry of disbelief.
“Ya! You have five bottles of soju and you didn’t bother bringing them out?”
You stayed silent. There was a reason why you didn’t bring those out on purpose. It was to avoid incidents like this, because you and Seungkwan—alone—and alcohol was a combination that had never happened before and an equation that you tried to avoid solving for as long as possible.
Fate had other plans today, apparently.
In his usual way, whenever there was alcohol in his system, he turned into the clingy kind of drunk that he was. This time, however, you noticed that he was different somehow. He was braver, louder, clingier. He was never like this when you two were drinking with friends.
As the late afternoon turned to evening, you two found yourselves inching closer to each other with every story and joke exchanged. This time, a particularly effective punchline you delivered had him in a laughing mess, with his hands instantly reaching for you. He just failed to notice the two very full glasses in your hands at that moment.
This was when chaos ensued.
In the aftermath, he looked at you and your obliviousness. “It’s just soju and water. Nothing a quick wash can’t do.”
He let out an audible sigh of defeat. Without thinking, he proceeded to peel off the ruined piece of clothing, revealing a thin white shirt that was barely there—riding up along with the sweater and revealing his torso. The sight got worse as he completely removed the sweater, the shirt clinging to his chest and still wet from the spilled liquid. You tried to avert your eyes as quickly as you could, but Seungkwan had already caught you staring.
“I, uh…” He pulled down his shirt and held the wet sweater in his hand. You cleared your throat and tried to gather your wits.
“I’m a terrible host. Give me that, I can chuck it in the laundry. I’ll get you a new shirt.” You stood to do as you said. You ignored the fact that he followed you all the way to your room, stopping to lean at your doorway as you rummaged through your drawers for a spare shirt.
You ignored how you could feel his eyes on you, probably spurred on with bravery because you had your back turned toward him. If only you could see how intense his gaze was, looking you up and down while weighing the two options in his head carefully.
He broke the silence first with a question you least expected. “You can talk to me honestly, right?”
“Of course, Seungkwan.” You busied yourself with looking for any shirt, trying to buy time to avoid meeting the piercing gaze you knew would meet.
“Were you…staring at me earlier?”
How dare— “Uh…”
“Okay, I’ll start with an easier question. Are you sober?”
“Yes.” You stand to face him, but not quite meeting his eyes yet. “I mean, I am now. Who wouldn’t be after you spill two glasses on your—friend?”
He laughs. “That’s true.” He pretends to not notice that slight hitch in your voice earlier.
“Here’s your shirt.” You hold up the oversized piece of clothing.
He pushes himself from your doorway and walks—in your perspective—at a painstakingly slow pace. His shirt is still a bit wet and still clinging just a bit in all the right places.
He stops right in front of you, a few steps too close to excuse it for a friendly distance. It absolutely was not.
He gingerly takes the shirt from your hand. To your utter surprise, he replaces it by taking your hand in his. You mask your nerves with an equally nervous laugh as you ask him, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. Well, I can tell you that I’m sober enough to clearly know what I’m doing.” He continues even as he slowly intertwines his fingers in yours. “When we were in Italy, they said something during our wine tasting. ‘In vino veritas.’”
You were familiar with this saying. “‘In wine—’”
“‘There is truth.’” He completes the saying, taking yet another step closer. “We didn’t exactly drink wine, but can you still tell me the truth?”
You debate with light speed in your head where and how you want this conversation to end. It seemed there was only one answer the moment he decided to close the distance by settling his one hand on your waist and the other brushing your cheek—the clean shirt long forgotten on the floor.
Your heart was racing, and you knew this wasn’t because of the alcohol any longer. The air was thick with unresolved tension. You both knew what this was. This only happened when the two of you were alone, where awkward smiles and silences helped fill in the undeniable attraction that you both kept denying.
So you swallow your pride and nod in reply, and he smiles at your response before continuing, “So, were you staring?”
“I’m still staring now,” you say as you travel across his torso still wrapped in his wet shirt.
His chuckle turned into a laugh, his beautifully musical and infectious laugh, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “Stop it! I’m losing focus. God, I really didn’t think this through, did I?”
You were nothing if honest, even more so when it came to Seungkwan. He had no problem asking you this question because that’s what he liked about you the most. You weren’t like other people—like him even—who beat around the bush and never mean what they actually say.
“Maybe not,” you say while holding back a laugh of your own.
The smile drops from his face in an instant, his smiling lips closing together in the blink of an eye. When his eyes open, they contain an unspoken depth, his expression changing into something more serious than you’ve ever seen from him before.
“Help me take this off, will you?”
“Why don’t you kiss me first before you demand such things?”
He smirks and claims your chin between his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You two always had that “will they, won’t they” dynamic for the longest time. It seems that tonight, they will. And they did.
The room smelled of sex. It was undeniable at this point to not acknowledge what had just happened between you and Seungkwan. In the heat of the moment and the throes of passion, you had both done things once unspeakable between the two of you.
If only you both knew what constantly went on in your heads the moment you two were separated from each other.
“So, is this the gift?” Seungkwan asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with exertion and his heart still racing at a million beats per minute.
“What?” Your mind was still swimming in stars, still coming down from your high as you curled yourself in his arms and folded against his warm skin.
”This.” He pulls you in closer and tangles your legs with his, endlessly craving for the touch of your skin on his.
You lightly jab his forehead jokingly. “You forget that you initiated all this with your hand-holding and sweet-talking about being honest.”
“Hey, I just wanted a kiss. You gave me so much more.” He nuzzled his nose against yours and, god, you couldn’t get enough of this Seungkwan. If only you knew that this is how he’d be with you, it would’ve been so worth it to tell him how you felt way earlier.
Wait. You haven’t told him how you felt. Not exactly.
But instead, you land your lips chastely on his. “There’s your kiss. Are you happy now?” He nods, but you could see his eyes and his smile being weighed down by impending sleep. He yawns, and you catch it as well and mirror his actions.
“Good night, sleepyhead.” With a final kiss from Seungkwan to your forehead, you both settle into an easy slumber, with both of you feeling lighter in your minds and hearts.
“Seungkwan.”
He stirs, sleep still overtaking his senses. “Hmm?”
“Seungkwan-ah.” You reach up to move his bed hair from his forehead.
“Mhmm?”
And for a moment, you forget what you were supposed to say because you were struck by the beauty of this unguarded version of Seungkwan. You trail your hand from his forehead to the apple of his cheeks, where you feel them move as he smiles.
“Could you turn on the heat? It’s getting a bit cold.”
He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight of you in the near break of dawn, the first light filtering through the sheer curtains and starting to illuminate your room.
In response, as if by instinct, he leaned down to kiss you, much to your surprise. When he broke away, he could still feel the curve of the smile of your lips against his. “Why don’t I keep you warm, instead?”
He pulled you closer, the heat from his hand traveling across and over your body. Just as he predicted, you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you recall the intensity and fervor of last night. But you could care less.
Wordlessly, you take him up on his offer, wrapping your arms around his neck and meeting him in another kiss. Wordlessly, he accepts this as your response and he parts your lips open with his to allow entrance to go in deeper, tasting you for all you are against the ecstasy of your tongue.
While his mouth plays with yours, his hands continue to roam the ebbs and flows of your body, from your neck, your breasts, your waist, and finally tracing the curve of your ass with his hands. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he raises your one leg, allowing it to wrap around his waist.
In this position, your heated core was wide open for his evident arousal. It was as if the events of last night were not enough to satiate your wants, your needs, and deeper down, your true feelings. Your bodies stay flush against each other, skin to skin as if you could not come any closer. You move in sync, accompanied by the gasps and moans, the hitches in both your breaths, as you feel his fingers working their way down there dictating the rhythm that you two would move to while your own fingers clench to fist his hair.
If last night was desperate, needy, almost making up for lost time, this morning was deliberate, languid, almost lazy with the way his lips never left yours to swallow all the delicious sounds coming from your mouth. When he finally filled your awaiting entrance, your bodies felt like a natural fit with one another. Each thrust between your slick bodies felt like a resounding mantra in the stillness of the daybreak—a mantra of unsaid promises and unresolved thoughts spoken through actions with every moment that his lips latch, tug, bite at yours.
The light of the dawn filtered through your room, casting an ethereal glow on your bodies. Yet this morning, you both see nothing but stars. When you both come down from the heavens, you take the time to go to the bathroom, while he takes the time to turn on the heat despite your complaints.
“You’ll thank me later,” Seungkwan said as you returned to his welcoming arms. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you tangled your limbs in his and let sleep take over your senses once more.
By the time you come to again, it’s 9 am. The sun was fully shining through your curtains to the point of almost blinding you. The urge to pee was overwhelming, so you disentangled yourself from the sheets in your sluggish state. Sitting on the toilet, you rub your eyes and feel the aches of your body settle in—along with other realizations.
Like the fact that you were butt naked. In your bed. With Seungkwan.
And you two did not just fuck last night. You made love with him in the wee hours of the morning.
Holy shit.
As you splash water on your tired face, you look in the mirror and see…an unexpected glow. You touch your lips, trailing your hand down your neck and your chest, recalling all the other places where Seungkwan’s hands caressed you. You start to smile, yet it is gone as quickly as it came.
Now what?
With resolve, you step out of the bathroom to face the reality of the morning. What greets you is the sight of Seungkwan propped up against the headboard, checking his phone, with his bed hair and bare chest turning to look at you. He smiles, one that reaches his eyes.
He is so beautiful.
His eyes travel across your naked body, and you suddenly feel shy. You look across the floor for the discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over you and grabbing a clean pair of panties from your drawer.
He just watches you throughout this charade.
“I…uh, went through some of your clothes. Borrowed a pair of shorts. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that's okay.”
“For a moment, I thought you left me. I woke up to an empty bed.”
You stop, fully turning to see the amusement in his expression. “You may have forgotten that this is my room. If anyone should have left, it would be you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you want me to? Leave?”
You don’t answer, afraid that whatever comes out of your mouth will betray your sensibilities. Instead, you sit down on the empty space of bed beside him.
“Are we still telling the truth?”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Always, I hope.”
“You should know that there’s a reason why I never wanted you to come over here in the first place.”
He physically winces, anticipating the worst from that statement. “And that is?”
“Because I don’t think I’d ever let you leave. That’s the truth.”
A sigh of relief. “Come here.” He closes the gap between you by clasping your hand and pulling you back into bed, encircling you in his arms.
You lay there together, your head on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. He’d always been a handsy person—all his friends knew that—but most especially to the people he had taken a particular liking to. His fixation was always different with each person. With you, it was your hair.
“Would you like to hear my truth?” He asks.
You wordlessly nod.
“I’ve always wanted to do that with you.”
“Do what?”
“You know…last night, this morning,” Seungkwan trails off.
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
Your eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “You…never made it obvious or anything.”
“That’s because I’m a decent person who doesn’t act on my primal impulses out of nowhere. Please, you’re too damn pretty and sexy for me to ignore you from the moment we met.”
You slap his chest. “You’re playing. Stop it.”
“I’m serious! It didn’t help at all when I found out that you listened to all the same girl groups that I did. You think I don’t see you when you dance? When you move your damn hips? I have eyes, you know. I’m a simple man.”
“Okay, okay. I see you, girl group enthusiast.” You smiled up at him. “I guess I’ll shake my ass at you more often, then.”
“Oh, please, you will ruin me.” He bites back a grin. “No, but honestly—beyond that,” he said as he looked at you pointedly, “you unlocked this little kid inside me again whenever I was with you, and…I realized I wanted to do more with you. And be more with you. It just grew and grew until it hit me that I just I always wanted you around.”
As if to prove his next point, he meets your eyes and doesn’t let go of your gaze. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You purse your lips to hold back the smile growing on your lips. Your heart was pounding, pondering the consequences of the next few words you were about to say.
“Well, if you say that then another truth I have is that I’ve always held back from you. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that.”
“I did.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it.”
“Why though?”
“I couldn’t trust myself around you.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “Have I not made you comfortable enough around me? Have I not been the definition of a poster boy best friend?”
“Exactly. You think I could let you go if I mess up and start kissing you on a whim? Seungkwan, your friends can be full of shit sometimes. Believe me when I say that a lot of times, you’re definitely the hottest guy in the room.”
“Wow, you must love me a whole lot for you to say something like that.”
“What if I do?”
He stills. “Do you really?”
You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re still telling the truth, aren’t we?” But the truth also gives you away. You look down as your smile falters. “Friendship is always such a fragile thing to break. And I don’t think I ever want to lose you.”
“Like I said,” he says while lifting your chin up to meet his eyes. They were glowing, and you realize it reminded you of your own eyes when you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It was as if you two were reflections of one another—the way you two always were without realizing it. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You could do nothing but smile.
And you hear both of your stomachs growl at the same time. You both laugh, loud, full, and deep-bellied, the only way you two do when you’re with each other. There were never any fake laughs if you were together.
You land a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll make you breakfast. Consider it a gift.”
You stood up to leave the bed, and you wait until it clicks in his head. “So you never got me a gift?” The disbelief on his face was almost enough to move you to guilt. But you had another ace up your sleeve.
“Why don’t you get your ass out of bed first and help me make breakfast so I can give you the real gift?”
He huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I’m lucky you’re telling the truth.” You wink and leave him smirking. In wine there is truth, they say, and in truth there is a newfound sense of freedom he can’t wait to share with you.
#q tea#random fic to push day!#bc im so deep in my seungkwan feels#im this close to writing another one
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Title: Across Continents, Still You
Masterlist
Five years after leaving Seoul to protect Seokmin from a scandal, Y/N unexpectedly reunites with him at a wine festival in Rome, stirring old wounds and unspoken love. Pairing: DK x Y/N Genre: Slice of life, Angst, Drama WC: 5.4k
Y/N had carved out a life for herself in Rome, a far cry from the bustling streets of Seoul where she was born. Five years ago, she landed in the Eternal City for a job opportunity, trading the familiar hum of Korea for the sun-drenched cobblestones of Italy. The first year was a whirlwind of challenges—language barriers, a new timezone, unfamiliar weather, and the aching loneliness of not knowing a soul. But time, as it does, softened the edges. She learned to savor the bitter tang of espresso, mastered enough Italian to banter with locals, and even grew fond of the humid Roman summers. Most importantly, she found a small circle of friends who became her anchor.
Today was her day off, and her phone had buzzed early with a call from her friend Giulia. “Y/N, you’re coming to the wine festival in Greve, right? It’s tradition!” Giulia’s voice was bright, almost demanding, through the speaker.
Y/N laughed, pulling a light jacket from her closet. “Do I have a choice? You lot would drag me there if I said no.”
“Exactly!” chimed in Matteo, another friend, who’d grabbed Giulia’s phone. “We’re meeting at the usual spot. Don’t be late, or we’re starting without you.”
The Greve wine festival was an annual ritual for their group—two women, Giulia and Sofia, and two men, Matteo and Luca. They were locals who’d taken Y/N under their wing, helping her navigate the chaos of her new life. Over time, they’d become her family away from home. Y/N wasn’t a wine enthusiast when she arrived in Rome, but five years of festivals and late-night tastings had changed that. She could now appreciate a good Chianti, even if she’d never admit it to Matteo, who’d tease her endlessly about her “refined” palate.
Y/N drove to their meeting spot, a quaint plaza just outside Greve. The air was warm, carrying the scent of blooming lavender and fresh bread from nearby bakeries. As she parked, she spotted her friends lounging near a fountain, their laughter echoing.
“There she is!” Sofia called, waving dramatically. “Thought you’d bailed on us, Korea.”
Y/N rolled her eyes at the nickname. “And miss Matteo trying to pronounce ‘Sangiovese’ wrong again? Never.”
Matteo clutched his chest in mock offense. “My pronunciation is flawless, thank you very much.”
“Flawlessly terrible,” Luca added, earning a playful shove from Matteo.
The group fell into their usual rhythm, strolling through Greve’s charming streets. They stopped for pizza at a hole-in-the-wall trattoria, the kind only locals knew about, and then grabbed gelato—pistachio for Y/N, always. Luca, ever the photographer, insisted on snapping pictures, teasing Y/N about her “model poses” while she stuck out her tongue for the camera.
Y/N and Luca had a close bond, the kind that sparked whispers among their friends. People often teased them about being “more than friends,” and Y/N knew Luca harbored feelings for her. But her heart, stubborn as ever, wasn’t in it. She cared for him deeply, but romance? That was a door she’d locked long ago. So, they stayed friends, and Luca never pushed.
As the festival’s opening hour approached, the group joined the lively crowd at the entrance. They were near the front of the line, buzzing with excitement. Each grabbed a wine glass, the clinking of crystal signaling the start of their adventure. The festival was a maze of booths, each offering a different vintage, and soon the group scattered, chasing their favorite flavors.
Y/N wandered alone for a bit, her glass catching the golden afternoon light. She sipped a bold red, savoring the way it warmed her chest. As she moved through the crowd, she noticed a cluster of large cameras and a small crew. The sight piqued her curiosity, but what caught her off guard was the language she overheard—Korean. Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It had been years since she’d heard her native tongue in person, and the sound felt like a tether to a life she’d left behind. She smiled to herself, feeling a quiet joy at seeing fellow Koreans so far from home. Maybe they were filming a travel show, she thought, her mind drifting to memories of Seoul.
Lost in thought, she didn’t notice the tall figure in a white shirt until they collided. Her wine glass slipped from her hand, shattering on the cobblestone with a sharp crash. “Oh no, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, crouching to gather the shards before anyone could step on them.
The stranger knelt beside her, his voice soft but flustered in broken English. “No, no, my fault. Sorry, so sorry. Let me help.”
That voice. It hit her like a wave, familiar in a way that made her breath catch. She froze, her fingers hovering over a piece of glass. Slowly, she looked up, and the world tilted. Their eyes locked, and time seemed to unravel.
It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK. Her best friend from high school. Her first love. The man she’d dated when he debuted with Seventeen, only to break his heart two years later without ever telling him why. The reason she’d fled to Rome, carrying a secret she’d buried deep.
His eyes widened, mirroring her shock. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the festival’s hum.
“Seokmin…” Her voice trembled, barely a breath.
The world around them blurred. The chatter of the crowd, the clink of glasses, the distant calls of his Seventeenmembers shouting “DK, where are you?”—it all faded. For a moment, it was just them, crouched on the ground, surrounded by broken glass and unspoken history.
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Flashback
Back in high school, Lee Seokmin was already a star in the making, a trainee under Pledis Entertainment with dreams as big as his heart. Y/N, on the other hand, was just a regular student, her biggest worry being the pile of assignments due every Friday. The two were an unlikely pair, yet inseparable, their lives intertwined by chance and proximity.
It was a Friday afternoon, the school day done, and they walked side by side down the familiar Seoul streets toward their apartment building. Y/N’s backpack swung lightly as she rambled on, her voice bright with excitement. “Seokmin, I can’t wait for you to debut! You’re gonna be so famous, and you know what that means, right? Free food for me forever!”
Seokmin threw his head back, his laugh warm and infectious. “Yah, is that all I’m good for? Feeding you tteokbokki and ice cream?”
“Exactly!” she teased, nudging his shoulder. “You better keep your promise, Lee Seokmin. When you’re a big star, I expect you to buy me whatever I want.”
He grinned, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her heart skip. “Deal. I’ll buy you the whole world if I make it big. Just wait.”
Their closeness wasn’t just chance. They lived in the same apartment building—Seokmin in Seventeen’s dorm with his fellow trainees, Y/N with her family a few floors up. Their friendship sparked years ago when Seokmin, on his way home from practice, spotted Y/N outside their building, kneeling on the pavement, feeding a scruffy street dog with scraps from her lunch. He’d stopped, charmed by her kindness, and offered her a spare water bottle to wash her hands. From that moment, they were glued to each other’s sides. Same building, same class, same wavelength.
Seokmin was a golden retriever in human form—bright, warm, and impossibly kind. To Y/N, he was the gentlest soul she’d ever met, always ready with a smile or a silly joke to lift her spirits. He’d listen patiently to her complaints about school, sneak her snacks during late-night study sessions, and cheer the loudest at her small victories. To him, Y/N was his safe harbor, the one person who saw him as Seokmin, not just a trainee chasing a dream.
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As they grew, so did their feelings. It wasn’t a sudden spark but a slow, steady deepening, like roots burrowing into the earth. They both knew it, felt it in the quiet moments—stolen glances during class, the way their hands brushed when they walked. When Seventeendebuted, and Seokmin became DK, their puppy love bloomed into something real. Y/N was there for it all, from his trainee days as Lee Seokmin to his first stage as Dokyeom. She cheered at his debut showcase, her voice hoarse from screaming, and he’d looked for her in the crowd, his smile brighter than the stage lights.
To Seokmin, Y/N wasn’t just his girlfriend; she was his future. Even as teenagers, he was certain. He’d lie awake in the dorm, exhausted from practice, dreaming of a life with her—lazy mornings, shared laughter, maybe a dog like the one she’d fed all those years ago. “I’m gonna marry you one day, Y/N,” he’d whispered once, half-asleep on her couch during a movie night. She’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.
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Years passed, and Seventeensoared. Their schedules grew hectic, their fame global, but Seokmin stayed true to his word. He spoiled Y/N relentlessly—not because she asked, but because he wanted to. A new scarf when she mentioned liking one in a shop window. Concert tickets to her favorite band. Late-night deliveries of her favorite desserts when she was stressed over college exams. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she’d say, holding up a box of pastries he’d sent.
“I know,” he’d reply, grinning over a video call from some far-off city. “But I want to. You’re my person, Y/N.”
They were each other’s anchor. When Seventeen faced pressure, Y/N was his voice of reason, reminding him to breathe. When college overwhelmed her, Seokmin was her cheerleader, sending voice messages full of encouragement. “You’ve got this, Y/N. You’re unstoppable,” he’d say, and somehow, she’d believe him.
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But then came that night. Seventeen was in the middle of a world tour, cities blurring into one another. Seokmin was in a hotel room halfway across the globe when his phone lit up with Y/N’s name. His face brightened instantly. “Hey, you! Missed me already?” he answered, expecting her usual stories about college or a funny anecdote from her day.
But her voice was different—flat, distant. “Seokmin, let’s break up.”
The words hit like a punch. “What? Y/N, what are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“I just… I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” And then, silence. The call ended. He tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Her number was blocked. Her social media accounts, gone. It was like she’d erased herself from his life in an instant.
Seokmin spiraled. He called her family, desperate for answers, but her parents were vague. “She’s busy with college,” her mother said softly. “Or work. She’s just… busy.” He went to their apartment when the tour ended, heart in his throat, but Y/N was never there. One night, he waited outside for hours, hoping to catch her, only for her father to step out, his expression kind but firm. “Seokmin, we love you. But Y/N has her reasons. She won’t tell us, and you need to stop waiting.”
Reasons. That word haunted him. What reasons? Why wouldn’t she tell him? Why had she vanished without a trace, leaving him with nothing but questions and a shattered heart?
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Present
The world stood still as Y/N and Seokmin stared at each other, the shattered wine glass forgotten at their feet. The festival’s noise—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of conversation—faded into a dull roar. It was as if the universe had carved out this moment just for them, a fragile bubble in the chaos of Greve. Their eyes held a thousand unspoken words, a history that neither time nor distance could erase.
“DK! We gotta go, man!” Na PD’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent, pulling Seokmin back to reality. At the same time, Luca’s voice reached Y/N, softer but insistent. “Y/N, you okay? What happened?”
A festival staff member approached, kneeling to clean the broken glass. “I’ve got this, don’t worry,” they said in accented English, waving them off.
Y/N and Seokmin stood slowly, their gazes still locked, reluctant to break the spell. Joshua, standing nearby, caught sight of Y/N and froze, recognition flickering in his eyes. He knew her instantly—the girl who’d been Seokmin’s world, the one whose absence had left him hollow for months. But the cameras, the crowd, the risk of a scene—it was too much. Joshua stepped forward, his voice steady in fluent English. “Sorry about the glass. Hope you’re okay. Goodbye.” He grabbed Seokmin’s arm, pulling him gently but firmly away.
Y/N watched as Seokmin was led through the crowd, his broad shoulders and familiar silhouette shrinking with every step. Her chest tightened, an old ache resurfacing, sharper now. Luca stepped in front of her, concern creasing his brow. “Y/N, seriously, are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Seokmin was gone, swallowed by the festival’s chaos. She forced a smile, her voice unsteady. “I’m fine, Luca. Just… bumped into someone. No big deal.”
Luca frowned but didn’t push. “Okay, but we’re heading out. It’s getting dark, and Giulia’s starving. You know how she gets.”
Y/N nodded, letting him guide her toward their friends. But her mind was elsewhere, replaying the moment their eyes met. Seokmin had changed—his face sharper, his frame stronger, matured by time and fame. Yet those eyes, so lively and warm, were the same ones that used to crinkle when he laughed at her terrible jokes. He was different, yet achingly familiar, a living echo of the life she’d left behind.
For five years, Y/N had avoided Seventeen. No music, no news, no social media. She’d built walls around her heart, convinced herself she’d moved on. She’d endured the weight of her secrets, the pain of her choices, alone in a foreign city. But seeing him, so close yet so unreachable, shattered the illusion. The heartbreak she’d buried clawed its way back, raw and unrelenting.
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Meanwhile, Seokmin was silent as Joshua pulled him through the festival, the other Seventeen members trailing behind with Na PD. The producer, ever observant, noticed the shift in Seokmin’s demeanor. “DK, what’s up? You okay?” Na PD asked, his tone light but curious.
Seokmin didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the ground. Joshua, quick to deflect, laughed. “He’s fine, just embarrassed. Bumped into a girl and forgot how to talk. Classic DK.”
The members chuckled, and Na PD grinned, letting it slide. “Who gets drunk off wine tastings?” he teased, clapping Seokmin’s shoulder. But Seokmin didn’t laugh. His silence was heavy, a stark contrast to his usual brightness. The members exchanged glances—something was off.
Joshua knew the truth. He’d seen Y/N, seen the way Seokmin’s face had lit up and then crumbled. He knew the devastation Y/N’s sudden departure had caused years ago. Seokmin had never fully recovered, carrying a quiet hope that their paths would cross again. The members had watched him struggle, piecing himself back together while clinging to unanswered questions. Joshua stayed close, shielding him from further probing.
That night, at the restaurant, Seokmin was a ghost of himself, pushing food around his plate. Na PD raised an eyebrow. “DK, you’re scaring me. Where’s the guy who was singing karaoke an hour ago?”
Joshua jumped in again, laughing. “Told you, he’s drunk on wine. Lightweight.”
“Drunk on wine?” Na PD scoffed, grinning. “What is this, a rom-com?”
The table laughed, but Seokmin’s smile was forced, his eyes distant. The members sensed the shift, their curiosity growing, but Joshua’s subtle glances kept them quiet. He knew this wasn’t the time or place.
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On the bus back to their transient house, Joshua slid into the seat next to Seokmin, tapping his knee gently. “Hey. You okay?” he asked, his voice low, meant for Seokmin alone.
Seokmin nodded, staring out the window. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Joshua didn’t buy it. He knew those eyes, the way they hid a storm. But he didn’t push, just rested a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder, a silent promise of support.
Later, in the quiet of the transient house, with the cameras off and Na PD gone, the members gathered in the living room. The air was heavy, the unspoken tension finally breaking. Joshua spoke first, his voice steady. “It was Y/N. We saw her at the festival.”
The room stilled. Every member knew her name, knew the weight it carried. They’d seen Seokmin unravel when she left, watched him search for answers that never came. Now, here she was, in Italy of all places.
Hoshi broke the silence, his tone light but cautious. “Y/N’s in Italy? What, was she hiding from you in Rome this whole time?” He laughed, trying to ease the mood, but Jeonghan nudged him, whispering, “Don’t be insensitive.”
Hoshi shrugged, sheepish. “Just trying to lighten things up.”
Jeonghan sat beside Seokmin, his voice gentle. “So, what’s the plan, DK? You’ve been waiting for this, right? A chance to talk to her?”
Seokmin shook his head, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t know, hyung. I don’t know what to do. Or what to feel.” His voice cracked, raw with confusion. “We’ve got an early schedule tomorrow. Let’s just… rest.”
The members hesitated but respected his words, filing off to their rooms. Seokmin lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness pressing in. His mind replayed her face, her voice, the way she’d looked at him—like she was seeing a ghost, too. Five years of questions swirled in his chest, but one burned brighter than the rest: Why did you leave me?
He exhaled, turning to the wall. “I’m okay,” he murmured to no one, or maybe to himself. “Let’s just sleep.”
But sleep didn’t come. All he could think about was her, and the truth he’d been chasing for years, now closer than ever yet still out of reach.
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The moment in Greve lingered like a ghost for both Y/N and Seokmin, a fleeting collision that lasted mere seconds but unraveled years of carefully buried emotions. It was their last interaction, a brief spark in the chaos of the wine festival, and neither knew if their paths would ever cross again. For five years, they’d built walls around their hearts, but that single glance had cracked them open, exposing the raw, unresolved ache they’d both tried to outrun.
For Seokmin, the encounter was a cruel tease of hope. Back in the transient house, he lay awake night after night, replaying her face, her voice, the way her eyes had widened with recognition. Was she living in Rome? Just visiting? He had no way of knowing, and the uncertainty gnawed at him. The odds of seeing her again in a city of millions felt impossibly slim, yet he couldn’t let go of the fragile thread of hope. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he whispered to himself one night, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we’re not done.” But even as he said it, doubt crept in. What if that was it? A final, fleeting glimpse of the girl who’d once been his everything?
Y/N, meanwhile, fought a different battle. She’d spent five years avoiding Seventeen, steering clear of their music, their faces, their world. But seeing Seokmin up close shattered her resolve. Back in her Rome apartment, she found herself typing his name into her phone, hesitating before hitting search. When she finally gave in, the flood of results overwhelmed her—Seventeen’s global success, sold-out stadiums, awards piling up. Her heart swelled with pride, but it came with a sharp pang. “They’ll never know how proud I am,” she murmured, scrolling through photos of their NANA Tour, their laughter lighting up Rome’s streets. She remembered the grueling days of their trainee years—Seokmin stumbling home from practice, exhausted but smiling, trading normal teenage adventures for endless hours in a practice room. She’d been there through it all, from their debut struggles to the sleepless nights of their early tours. Knowing they were in Rome for NANA Tour, enjoying the city she now called home, brought a bittersweet comfort. But it also hurt, a reminder of the life she’d walked away from.
Life in Rome marched on. Y/N threw herself back into work, her days filled with meetings and deadlines. But the encounter with Seokmin lingered, a quiet undercurrent to her routine. Then, a rare gift arrived: her boss granted her a month-long vacation. She called her parents that night, their voices crackling with excitement over the phone. “Y/N, come home,” her mother urged. “It’s been five years. We miss you. Spend your vacation in Korea.”
Y/N hesitated, her mind flashing to Seokmin’s face in Greve. Could she handle being back in Seoul, where memories of him waited around every corner? But the longing for home was stronger. “Okay, Mom,” she said softly. “I’ll come.”
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Now, here she was, standing outside Incheon Airport, breathing in the crisp Korean air for the first time in half a decade. The familiar chaos of the city buzzed around her—taxis honking, travelers rushing past, the faint scent of street food in the distance. She adjusted her scarf, waiting for her parents’ car, when her eyes caught a massive billboard across the street. It was an advertisement, bold and colorful, and there, plastered across it, was Seokmin’s smiling face. His grin was as bright as ever, those lively eyes staring out at the world. Y/N’s breath hitched, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Of course,” she whispered to herself, her voice tinged with both fondness and pain. “You’re everywhere.”
She stood frozen, staring at the poster, memories flooding back—late-night walks, his promises to buy her the world, the way he’d looked at her like she was his future. Five years ago, she’d walked away, carrying a secret she couldn’t share. Now, standing on her home soil, with his face beaming down at her, she wondered if fate was playing a cruel trick—or offering her a chance to finally face the truth.
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A week had passed since Y/N landed in Seoul, her hometown now feeling like a distant memory she was rediscovering. She spent her days with her parents, playing tourist in the city she once knew by heart. They ate steaming bowls of tteokbokki at bustling street stalls, wandered through Gyeongbokgung Palace like wide-eyed visitors, and laughed over old family stories at cozy restaurants. But Seoul, vibrant and alive, was overwhelming. The biting winter air, the spicy tang of kimchi, the rhythm of the city—it was all so familiar, yet it stirred a deep ache in Y/N’s chest. Everywhere she turned, Seventeen was there. Their songs spilled from coffee shop speakers, their faces beamed from mall billboards, their names lit up restaurant TVs. Each encounter was a jolt of nostalgia, tangled with a guilt that gnawed at her. For five years, she’d carried a secret, one that had driven her to hurt the one person who’d deserved nothing but her love. “I’m such an idiot,” she muttered to herself one night, staring at her reflection in her childhood bedroom mirror. “Why did I think I could just erase him?”
Tonight, unable to sleep, Y/N slipped out of her parents’ house and found herself walking toward the Han River. It was a place etched into her soul, where she and Seokmin used to stroll, sometimes with his members in tow, laughing and chasing each other like kids with no cares in the world. She smiled at the memory of Hoshi tripping over a rock, Seungkwan’s dramatic reenactments of their latest practice mishaps, Seokmin’s arm slung casually around her shoulders. Her laughter faded as she reached the riverbank, the water glinting under the moonlight. Then she froze. A familiar figure stood a short distance away, gazing out at the river, his silhouette unmistakable even in the dim light. It was him. Lee Seokmin. DK.
Her heart stuttered. She could turn back, pretend she hadn’t seen him, and let the moment slip away like she had in Greve. Or she could stay, face him, and finally confront the truth she’d buried. “Is this you, universe?” she whispered, her breath visible in the cold air. “Giving me a chance, or just messing with me?”
She hesitated, then glanced at him again—and her breath caught. He was looking at her now, his eyes wide with the same shock she’d felt in Italy. For a moment, they just stared, the river’s quiet ripple the only sound between them. Then Y/N smiled, a small, tentative thing, and walked toward him. She stopped a few feet away, her hands gripping the railing as she gazed at the water, gathering her courage. Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, her smile steadier now.
“It’s been a while, huh?” she said, her voice soft but clear. “How are you? You guys are huge now, aren’t you? I’ve been here a week, and your faces and songs are literally everywhere.” She laughed, light but nervous, her eyes flickering to the river to avoid his gaze.
Seokmin’s expression softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, we’re doing great. Working on a new song, actually. It’s… been a ride.” His voice was warm, but there was a cautious edge to it. “What about you? How’s life been?”
Y/N’s smile widened, a playful glint in her eyes. “Oh, I’m a full-on Italiano now. Just a tourist in Korea.” She laughed, then softened, her tone turning wistful. “I’ve been living in Rome for a while. Five years, actually. This is my first time back, and it’s… so nostalgic. Everything feels the same, but different, you know?”
Seokmin nodded, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give. They fell silent, standing side by side, the Han River stretching out before them, its surface reflecting the city’s lights. The quiet was heavy, filled with years of unspoken questions. Then, out of the stillness, Seokmin’s voice came, low and raw. “Why?”
Y/N’s heart clenched. She knew exactly what he meant. She turned to him, meeting his eyes for a brief, aching moment before smiling faintly. “I didn’t break up with you because I fell out of love.”
The words hung in the air, a fragile confession that left them both suspended, the truth teetering on the edge of revelation.
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Flashback
Five years ago, Y/N’s world had crumbled in a single moment. She’d just gotten home from college, exhausted from a long day of classes and drowning in stress over a pile of paperwork for a presentation due tomorrow. She slipped into comfy sweats, tied her hair up, and sank into her chair, reaching for her phone to call Seokmin. His voice always had a way of grounding her, no matter how chaotic her day had been. But just as her thumb hovered over the call button, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
Her heart stopped as she opened it. Videos and photos of her and Seokmin—intimate, private moments, stolen snapshots of their love—filled the screen. Below them, a chilling message: Break up with DK, or I release these and ruin his image. Her blood ran cold, her hands trembling. Seventeen was still rising, their name just beginning to shine. She’d seen the grueling years Seokmin poured into his dream—the endless practices, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. How could she let a scandal destroy that? How could she be the reason his world fell apart?
She was only a teenager, scared and unprepared. Acting out of fear, she made a choice. “Seokmin, let’s break up,” she’d said over the phone that night, her voice flat to hide the way her heart was shattering. When he pressed her, frantic—“Y/N, what’s wrong? Talk to me!”—she hung up, blocked his number, and cut him out completely. She knew he’d fight for her, knew he’d show up at her parents’ house, so she avoided him, hiding behind excuses of school and work. After graduation, when a job offer in Rome came, she seized it, fleeing to a new life where she could bury her guilt and try to mend her broken heart.
Present
Y/N stood by the Han River, the moonlight casting a silver glow over the water. Seokmin’s question—“Why?”—still hung between them, raw and heavy. She took a shaky breath, her eyes meeting his, and began to unravel the truth she’d carried for five years.
“That night I broke up with you,” she started, her voice trembling, “I’d just gotten home from school. I was stressed, exhausted, and all I wanted was to hear your voice. But before I could call you, I got a text. From someone I didn’t know.” She paused, her fingers tightening on the railing. “It was pictures of us. Videos. Private moments I thought were just ours. And a message saying if I didn’t break up with you, they’d leak everything and ruin your image.”
Seokmin’s eyes widened, his breath catching. “What? Y/N, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was scared, Seokmin,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was just a kid. Seventeen was just starting to make it, and I saw how hard you worked—how hard all of you worked. The sleepless nights, the practices, the sacrifices… I couldn’t let some stupid scandal destroy that. I couldn’t be the reason you lost everything.”
He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice thick with emotion. “Y/N, I would’ve fought it. We could’ve figured it out together. You didn’t have to carry that alone.”
“I know,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But I wasn’t brave enough. I thought… if I told you, you’d try to fix it, and it’d make things worse. So I left. I blocked you, avoided you, and when I got a job offer in Rome, I took it. I thought I could move on, fix myself. But I never stopped feeling guilty for hurting you.”
Seokmin’s eyes glistened, his jaw tight as he processed her words. “All this time… I thought you just stopped loving me. I kept asking myself what I did wrong, why I wasn’t enough.”
“No, Seokmin,” she said fiercely, turning to face him fully. “It was never about you not being enough. You were everything to me. I loved you so much it hurt. I just… I couldn’t be selfish. I couldn’t risk your dream for my love.”
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “Y/N, my dream meant nothing if you weren’t there. You were my anchor. Losing you… it broke me.”
Her tears fell faster now, her smile bittersweet through the pain. “I guess I just wasn’t brave enough back then. But I loved you, Seokmin. I still do. And I’m so proud of what you’ve achieved. Seeing you everywhere here, hearing your songs… it’s like you’re part of the city’s heartbeat. But I don’t know if love is enough right now.”
Seokmin stepped closer, his hand brushing hers on the railing, tentative but warm. “Y/N, I never stopped loving you either. Not for a second. Every city, every stage, I looked for you in the crowd. Even in Rome, when I saw you… I thought maybe the universe was giving me a second chance.”
She laughed softly, wiping her tears. “The universe is funny like that, isn’t it? Throwing us together in Rome, now here. But I hurt you, Seokmin. I don’t know if I deserve that chance.”
“You were protecting me,” he said, his voice steady despite the tears in his eyes. “You made a choice out of love, even if it hurt us both. That’s not something to punish yourself for. It’s something we can learn from.”
Y/N looked at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. “If we ever meet again… and we’re still looking at each other the same way…” She paused, smiling through her tears. “Then I’ll know. That even after everything, it was always you.”
Seokmin’s hand closed gently over hers, his touch grounding her like it always had. “Then I’ll keep looking your way, until the universe brings you back.”
They stood there, hands entwined, the Han River flowing quietly before them. The city hummed around them, but for that moment, it was just them—two hearts that had weathered years of pain, finding solace in the truth. Whether the universe would weave their paths together again, they didn’t know. But under the Seoul sky, with the river as their witness, they held onto the fragile hope that love, in time, might be enough.
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an: DK looks like total boyfriend material to me! He seems like such a green flag, like a perfect prince. Where can I find someone like him???
#read like a subplot of a kdrama in 5.4k words#this is so wildly good#i loved the buildup to the end#how it all had us anticipating the real reason for the breakup#thats good plotbuilding right there#but also imagine dk's pov#with his smiley personality having to hide that grief for years#lord the PAIN#i like the open ending than a clean cut finish it leaves more to the imagination#been a while since i read a fic#im glad its this one 🙂↕️#chanranghaeys reblog#hani faves
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👼 a regular korean citizen
request from my love, tara (@diamonddaze01)! “one waking up before the other, so they make up their side of the bed and can’t help but tuck in their sleeping lover as they do so” with jeonghan pls and thank u i miss my husband
pairing: idol!active duty!jeonghan x gn!reader word count: 817 genre: fluff, slice of life rating: pg tags: sleepy couple, morning musings, mainly an imagine of sorts, reader is tired bc of work, mentions of active korean military duty are NOT accurate and i do not claim their accuracy so please bear with my descriptions i rly did just make them up as i went warnings: none
a/n: thank u lovely tara! i indeed got out of the dreaded writing slump. and it’s my first time writing jeonghan so i hope i did him justice for u!
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Jeonghan distinctly remembers going to sleep on his own with no one else on the bed. It was a pleasant surprise for him to see you on the other side when he rolled over.
If there was anything he enjoyed most about being an active member of the Korean military, it was that he was not subject to the grueling demands of an idol’s schedule. He could just be a regular Korean citizen—something he hasn’t had the luxury to experience in about a decade.
He couldn’t say the same for you, though, who also worked in the entertainment industry with hours just as long as his used to be. It was evident in the way you were sprawled over the bed, caring less about how you looked and how you ended up sleeping. Your neck was in such an awkward position compared to your body that Jeonghan was so sure you’d wake up with a stiff neck, and he would not allow that.
He knew you were as much of a light sleeper as he was. And as much as he wanted to caress your face or smooth down your hair, he shouldn’t for fear of waking you up from a much-deserved slumber.
But he wasn’t Yoon Jeonghan, part-time troublemaker, for nothing. And he missed you, as he did every day, so what other reason could there be to justify him not holding the love of his life as dearly as he wanted to?
You must’ve been absolutely drained because you didn’t even react at the gentlest of his touches. Jeonghan smiled and continued his soft strokes on your head. A forehead kiss did merit the slightest reaction from you—an automatic one where you seemed to involuntarily lean into the touch of his lips making contact on your skin.
He smirked. If only you could see it and how much it gave away how smug he felt to see you still craving for his touch. He checked the time from the standard military watch on his hand—5:37 am. It was time for him to get up.
He checked his phone, tapping into your work calendar to see your schedule. You still had a few hours of sleep left before your shoot scheduled for 1 pm. That was good, he thought, you need all the rest before another chaotic variety show shoot until whatever ungodly hour of the night.
The military discipline easily merged with Jeonghan’s idol discipline. It may not be the same for all fellow idols on active duty, but others have mentioned how similar both were. It was the implicit and discrete need for order and organization that both disciplines shared. It made sure everything was clean-cut and picture-perfect for idols on screen, and that everyone followed uniform standards with a code of conduct for active soldiers to learn.
Jeonghan was used to it. And such disciplines included even the simplest task of making the bed. He fluffed his pillow, he fixed the sheets he messed up on his side with a military tuck—and you didn’t even budge. You were out cold.
Jeonghan huffed a sigh, running his hands through his short-cropped hair—something he was still getting used to. “Aigoo-yaaaaa” was all he said with all the endearment in his heart.
He shuffled over to your side and, as gently as he could, fixed your sleeping position to avoid that impending stiff neck of yours. He also fixed the clothes already riding up in places because of how haphazardly you put them on. Thankfully, you remembered to remove your makeup before going to sleep this time. He was almost late for duty the last time he stayed to carefully remove it for you while you slept.
Carefully, he fluffed up your pillow and fixed the sheets as much as possible. He opened up the blanket and let it rest on your sleeping figure. He so badly wanted to engulf you in a warm embrace, but he loved tucking you in and seeing your relaxed expression just as much.
He left one final parting gift: a kiss on your cheek. Okay, maybe more than one gift—another kiss, a light brush of his lips on yours.
Jeonghan’s military enlistment allowed him to be a regular Korean citizen. That just gave him more opportunities to spend time with you and treat you the way a regular Korean citizen would. It was a welcome break for your relationship if it meant he could love you without all of the lights and cameras and judgmental eyes in the way.
Walking from the bedroom to the kitchen, he checked his phone once again and opened the calendar app. Peering at the time block for 7 pm later, he made sure his schedule and yours was a free time block. He couldn’t wait to share the wild stories about him and his fellow military men that would have to wait until tonight.
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
post a/n: still accepting requests for my little drabble request game! all you gotta do is shoot an ask <3
post post a/n: svt won TWO daesangs at mama 2024 today!! HUHU i am proud of my bois (∩˃o˂∩)♡
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♡ ︎title: off-limits, on his tongue ♡ ︎pairing: boo seungkwan x afab!reader ♡ ︎genre: smut, fluff ♡ ︎word count: 3.5k ♡ ︎au: brothers best friend ♡ ︎smut warnings: praise kink, dirty talk, oral sex (f. receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, soft dom seungkwan, possessiveness, almost getting caught ♡ ︎1/13 in the Thirteen Temptations Series ♡ ︎ a/n: I really hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! big thanks to @supi-wupi and @chanranghaeys for beta-ing, and all the feedback!

It wasn’t often you came to visit your brother, mainly because he lived over an hour away. Still, work had graciously given you a week’s leave after spearheading a huge project that succeeded, and you figured you could spend that time near the beach, forgetting everything existed. Because of the short notice, you weren’t able to find any suitable accommodation last minute, so he graciously offered up his guest bedroom, reminding you that he had three other roommates and to just keep out of their way.
The only person you knew in that house besides your brother was Seungkwan. He was a very soft-spoken, well-mannered man whom you had known for several years and got along great with. He was someone you occasionally hung out with outside of your brother, and with every interaction, every hug goodbye, you felt your heart swell. Everything about him was perfect. It was a shame that your brother would be appalled if you confessed to having feelings for him.
As you had grown older, you sometimes noticed Seungkwan staring at you a little too long, his gaze lingering on your exposed legs whenever you wore a bikini on a beach outing, and even once when you were changing and he’d accidentally walked into your room. You could see his cheeks grow red as he stumbled out an apology before turning on his heel quickly and removing himself from the awkward situation. You had to admit, you didn’t mind the staring, and sometimes you even provoked it.
However, when you moved away to college, you saw much less of him. You grew distant, aside from the occasional like or comment on a social media post. It was a long run, between pulling all-nighters for assignments and doing group projects with no effort from your team members, but eventually, you graduated with high honours and found yourself a good job closer to home.
As you pulled into his driveway and turned off your car, you could feel your pulse quicken. There was so much unspoken tension between you and Seungkwan that you wondered if there would be a chance for anything to happen while you were here. You pushed the thought away and grabbed your bags from the back seat before making your way up the steep driveway.
“Oh look, the pest has arrived.” Your brother's ragged voice makes you groan as you flip him off, with him reciprocating the gesture before pulling you into a hug and shutting the door behind you.
You met his roommates after toeing your shoes off at the front door: Joshua, who provided a friendly smile and wave from his perch on the couch. Chan, who offered you slightly burnt chocolate chip cookies with a sheepish smile, and Seungkwan, who offered up a smirk and slight wave that had your heart skip a beat. His gaze dropped to your body, dragging slowly over it like he had done all those years ago, making you flush. He’d dyed his hair darker since the last time you’d seen him, and you have to say, it made him look a hundred times hotter.
After some general small talk with the roommates and your brother, you glanced at the digital clock on the wall near the television, noting it was after 11 pm, the red numbers glaring at you. You realised how late it was and excused yourself to the guest room with a yawn, before trudging up the stairs to the guest room Chan had pointed out earlier. It surprised you with its neatness when you entered, given that four men were living in the house. The bed was already turned out for you, with a blue towel draped over the edge of the end of the bed and a lamp that lit up the room warmly. The best part was that you had your own bathroom, so you didn't have to share with the boys. Win-win.
The warm shower loosened your muscles. As you slipped into an old tank top and pyjama shorts from five years ago, you felt any tension slip from your body. Sliding under the covers, you hoped that the power of sleep would wash over you so you could be rested for your presentation in the morning.
It never came.
You tossed and turned, eyes not even willing to stay shut for more than five minutes. Even listening to and watching your favourite ASMR videos wasn't helping. Surely Seungkwan wasn’t the reason you were unable to sleep, it couldn't be. You had hardly seen him in the last few years. But, you couldn't stop thinking about the way Seungkwan had bore his eyes into you the moment you walked into the house, his eyes burning with something you couldn't quite place, but with the way his gaze dragged slowly over your body, you figured it was his hormones at play.
You sighed in defeat and removed your body from its warm cocoon, blindly making your way to the kitchen that still smelled faintly of burnt cookies. It was a wonder they hadn't burned the place down.
The hallway is dimly lit when you creep into the kitchen for some iced water, the soft hum of the fridge filling the calm silence within the household. You didn’t expect to find him already there, leaning against the counter in a loose hoodie, legs hardly covered by his sleep shorts, and his hair sticking out in all directions from what you presume was a deep sleep.
Seungkwan looks up from his phone, his eyes tracing you lazily. “Can’t sleep either?”
His voice, laced with sleep, deep and slightly crackly, hits a nerve deep inside you that has you pressing your thighs together to try and stop the rush of heat to your core. You hated how much he affected you.
You nod, your heartbeat already skipping due to the conversation. You hadn’t seen much of him this trip, but whenever you had, he’d looked at you just a little too long, and almost too slow. It was nearly like he was trying not to think dirty things about you, and losing that battle every single time.
“I thought you were avoiding me,” you murmur, half joking, setting your glass down.
He smirks and steps closer to you. His voice is lower than it was before, almost feeling like velvet-wrapped sin that has your breath hitching in your throat and your pulse quickening. “I was. Didn’t seem to work too well though.”
You try to laugh it off, hoping that his sentence means what you think it does, but your breath catches when his fingers brush lightly against your arm, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch, which didn't go unnoticed by him.
“You shouldn’t be out here dressed like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to your flimsy tank top and short shorts, a mischievous grin spreading across his smug features. “Do you know what you do to me?”
Your silence betrays your answer.
He steps forward into your space, crowding you against the wall. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
You don’t dare say a word, not when he’s this close to you.
He exhales shakily—you aren't sure if it’s out of nervousness or adrenaline coursing through his veins. His hand slowly slides up your waist, almost like he’s taking his time, while the other braces itself beside your head. “I’ve wanted to hold you since the second you walked into this house.”
His mouth hovers by your ear. “But I’m a gentleman… so I’m gonna ask you as nicely as possible before the lust clouds my brain entirely.”
You gulp and close your eyes as you feel his warm breath beside your ear, your mind obscuring with want as he whispers what you had desperately wanted to hear since you had arrived. “Can I put my hands on you, baby?”
You nod fervently, almost too quickly. He clicks his tongue, a smirk toying on his lips once again.
“Use your words, baby.”
“…Yes.”
And then he devours you.
His mouth is hot and skilled, he’s kissing you like he’s waited years just for this to happen. His hands roam your skin gently at first, then progress rather fast to needy, then straight to possessive. He lifts you onto the counter with a low grunt, parting your trembling legs with practised ease.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of you, eyes peeking up at you through his soft, dark locks. “That for me?”
He kisses up your inner thigh, his teeth grazing sinfully along your skin, his smile wicked and almost daring. “I haven’t even started yet, sweetheart.”
You quiver when he skillfully pulls your shorts and panties to the side, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips as the hunger grows in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, but he does dart his eyes back to yours, his pupils completely blown with the lust consuming every inch of his body. It was almost like a silent consent between the both of you, as he moves himself forward to attach his tongue to your cunt like it was his lifeline.
As his tongue finds you, his voice never leaves you, almost like a mantra that he’s repeating and will never get tired of. “That’s it, baby, just like that.”
“God, you taste so sweet.”
“Don’t hide your voice, I wanna hear every sound I pull out of you, even if that means waking up the rest of this house.”
You’re panting and writhing under his wicked tongue, your knuckles turning a dangerous shade of white as you grip the counter like it’ll save you from unravelling. When your back arches and when you cry out his name, he moans into you like it’s his reward. He spends a good amount of time afterwards sucking and licking your sensitive skin and bud, stretching you to a point where your trembles continue despite already orgasming.
Through it all, as you ride out your high, he presses soft kisses to your thighs and whispers:
“You’re never staying in the guest room again.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He doesn’t let you walk. Instead, he carries you princess-style with ease, his plush lips ghosting against your cheek as he whispers, “No way I’m letting you wobble around the house after the way you fell apart on my tongue.”
His room is quiet and cool, neat in that almost perfectionist way that had you questioning if men were as messy as you thought. He gently places you on the bed as if you were made of glass. Despite his gentle gestures, your body was still buzzing with the memory of how roughly he had made you cum no more than ten minutes ago.
“I need you to tell me,” he murmurs, leaning down so that he’s kneeling between your thighs again. “Is this just for tonight… or do I get to have you for real?”
You breathe, your words coming out shakier than you had expected them to, “Yours. I’ve always been yours.”
And he loses it.
His hoodie is off and tossed onto the floor mere seconds after you give him the green light, revealing his toned arms and a chest you knew was hiding under all that fluff and charm. His kisses now? They’re messy and hungry, and the possessive edge returning as it had earlier, like he's been starved for weeks and you're the first tantalising, addictive bite of sin.
“You have absolutely no idea,” he growls against your throat, teeth grazing your sensitive flesh, “how many times I’ve imagined this body spread out on my bed, how many times I’ve jerked off to the thought of you, how often I’ve fucked my hand to get myself over the edge thinking I was inside of you.”
His hands explore your body like he’s learning by feel: a firm but sensual grip on your hips, a teasing drag of fingers over your overly sensitive breasts, nipples pebbling at the cool touch of his flesh against yours. He takes his time removing your clothes, watching how your body reacts and worshipping every inch of you, even the parts you were insecure about.
When you whimper, your thighs rubbing together for some sort of friction, he chuckles.
“You want my fingers?” he coos, sliding two up your inner thigh, seeming like a challenge, but one you weren’t going to argue with. “You’re dripping, angel. You don’t have to beg for anything, but I do like it when you do.”
You whisper his name, afraid that if you speak any louder, you’ll wake up his roommates or, even worse, your brother.
“Louder.”
“Please, Seungkwan, I need you to touch me.”
“There she is,” he murmurs, lips curving as his fingers slide into you with sinful ease. “You’re so damn tight. So good for me.”
And it only gets hotter from there.
He talks you through every single movement he makes, his voice equally as warm as it was filthy, it makes your eyes roll back so far you think you almost see your brain.
“That’s it, ride my fingers, baby.” “God, look at how you clench around me when I say your name, fuck.” “You wanna cum again? Right here, on my hand? Say it.”
When you do finally cum on his fingers, your body trembling and whimpers passing over your swollen lips, he guides you through your orgasm with a breathless, filthy sweetness that could almost make you cum again from the sultry tone alone:
“Good girl. Just like that. Let it all go, I’ve got you.”
And he doesn’t stop.
You’re gasping and whining when he finally rises above you, his toned frame over your own and his perfect cock pressed to your entrance, throbbing with want. His voice softens once again; it’s still dark and still dripping with desire, but now it’s laced with something just a touch more vulnerable than it had been.
“I don’t just wanna fuck you,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the action alone making your heart race and your cheeks burn. “I want to make you feel like no one else ever has.”
He slides himself in slowly, inch by deliciously eye-watering inch, all whilst watching every single twitch of your lips, and every stutter of breath. He groans onto your lips, low and ragged, and only further coiling the rope of heat that had settled deep into your abdomen.
“You fit me so fucking perfectly. Like this was meant to happen.”
He rocks his hips rhythmically into you, deep and steady, while he holds eye contact as he whispers pure sin to you, as if you were the only two left in the universe:
“You take me so well. Every time you squeeze around me, I wanna lose it.” “You’re mine now, right? All mine?” “I don’t care if your brother or the others here find out. Let them. Let the whole house hear who’s making you scream.”
You pull him down into a passionate kiss, and the rhythm of his movements shifts into one that’s more desperate and wet, both of your bodies slick and writhing together in harmony, your moans tangled in kisses, skin slapping obscenely against skin.
In a bold move, he pulls your leg over his waist, hitting deeper inside you than you thought was even possible. You whine at the sudden stretch, almost like you were feeling him inside your cervix. He smirks, knowing he’s got you exactly where he wants you now.
“There it is. That’s the sound I needed to hear from you, angel.”
You cum again without any warning, white flashing across your eyes and your body arching up so high that your chest hits his, your nails digging into his back, likely leaving crescent-shaped marks that would remain for days. He grits his teeth and moans as he refrains from cumming inside you, breathing through his nose to help slow his orgasm down so you could bask in your orgasm glow.
He felt the way you squeezed around him like a vice, and he knew he couldn't hold back anymore, your body making him succumb within only a few moments. With a grunt, he pulls himself out of you just as he starts to cum, painting your abdomen and thighs with his load, his hips stuttering while he pants your name like a prayer. He collapses beside you, pulling you to his chest and kissing your temple like he didn’t just ruin you completely.
After lying in comfortable silence for a while, he gets up and goes to the other side of his room and comes back with a towel and water bottle. He cleans you up with the surprisingly warm towel, kisses every inch he potentially bruised, looking at some of the marks with concern etched deep into his features. You’re tucked under his arm, wrapped in his scent, the room still humming with leftover heat.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, smiling against his skin. “Better than okay.”
He laughs softly. “Good. Because this isn’t just a one-night thing. Not after that.”
You look up. “No?”
He kisses you again, slower this time, more controlled and fuelled with adoration.
“No, baby. That was the first time I claimed you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wake up to the warm sunlight filtering through the curtains, the clean smell of laundry detergent and soft skin, and the soft, rhythmic thudding of Seungkwan’s heartbeat beneath your cheek.
He’s still half-asleep, hair messy and lips parted as he takes in slow, deep breaths. His arms are locked tightly around your waist, almost like you might disappear if he lets go. When you shift slightly in his grip, trying to slip out of his comfortable bed, his grip tightens on your waist instantly.
“Mmm-mm,” he groans, voice raspy and low, sending a shiver down your spine. “Not yet. If you leave this bed, I’ll just drag you back.”
You laugh at his possessiveness so early in the morning, quietly and fondly. “You’re clingy in the morning.”
“I just claimed you last night,” he whines into your neck. “Do you think I’m going to be letting you go this soon?”
He rolls over, pulling you with him, so now you’re straddling his hips, your body bare beneath his oversized hoodie, which he must’ve pulled over you sometime in the night. He grins up at you, eyes still half-lidded, laced with adoration, with possibly a hint of heat.
“You look good in my clothes. Kinda makes me want to take them off you again.”
You try to climb off him, or pretend to just to get a reaction from him, but he immediately grabs your hips with both hands, holding you still. His thumbs stroke slow circles into your thighs, emanating a warmth you hadn't realised was there.
“Stay right there,” he says, voice dripping with lust-laced venom. “I want my morning treat.”
You raise an eyebrow, perplexed and intrigued by his bold moves. “Are you always like this when you wake up?”
“No,” he says simply. “Just with you.”
He pulls you a little further forward so that you’re now sitting more on his chest, your body heating up even more with the slight friction of the pull, and also with the way he’s staring at you, like he’s trying to claim you again. He leans up as far as his body will allow, his mouth trailing up your inner thigh before pausing.
“...Unless, you’d rather I start with a kiss up here first?” he teases, his eyes flicking to your lips. “I could behave.”
You grin, licking your lips and letting a hand fall through his messy strands. “I don’t want you to behave.”
He hums. “Good girl.”
Before you realise it, you’ve been flipped again, your back pressing into the warm spot of the bed where Seungkwan had lain just seconds earlier. His hands are caging your head, and the smirk on his lips has only grown, seeing you in this vulnerable position. Just as he starts to slide down the bed, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. Then a voice.
“Hey, you guys seen my charger? I—wait.”
You freeze. It’s your brother.
“Why is your door locked, Seungkwan? What are you hiding in there?”
You scramble off him like you’ve just been lit on fire, cheeks flaming, trying to tug the oversized hoodie lower over your body in hopes of covering yourself, but failing miserably.
Seungkwan, still lying bare and smug on the bed, calls out without missing a beat: “I’m busy! Try again in an hour!”
You mouth “an hour?!” at him, and he just winks. When the footsteps finally leave, he sits up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist again, lips brushing your neck.
“You should just stay in my bed the rest of the weekend.”
You turn to him, heart thudding. “And after that?”
He leans in closer, voice soft but sure. “After that… you’re mine. For good.”
#YAAAAAY#WHAT AN HONOR TO BETA READ THIS#best believe i was SCREAMING MY HEAD OFF#boo seungkwan boo seungkwan BOO SEUNGKWAN!!!!!!#i want him#alicia did SO WELL IM SO WEAK FOR THIS SEUNGKWAN!!!!#bless 10/10 id do it again#chanranghaeys reblog
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LOVE&LETTER REPACKAGE ୨ৎ celebrating 10 years with SVT!
i said it once, i'll say it again: caratblr is populated by some of the most talented individuals you will find. incredibly lucky to be in the presence of these greats, whose writing change and challenge the ways we think and the stories we tell. here are some of my all-timers. ‹𝟹
footnotes: some of these work may contain explicit content. please heed the warnings when checking them out. all headers are from u/seventeenzone.
from the vantage point of death by @heartepub
when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed.
there is simply no sugarcoating it: viv is a generational writer on this side of the fandom and beyond. this fic is a bullet point in the long list of reasons why. the tale of hades and persephone is time-worn and sometimes tired; viv makes a version of it that is entirely her own in ftvpod. in a way, this reads like a hozier song—haunting gospel, tender folklore, and understated sensuality. spring has come, and it's because viv has brought it in with ftvpod.
to love and to pound by @pochaccoups
There’s something different about Seungcheol since he got you pregnant.
char's work is never short of genius, but this particular piece strikes a balance between intimacy and smut that you are unlikely to find elsewhere. the time spent exploring the physicality of the couple—while also touching on sentiments that just feel so inherently seungcheol—really reminds you why she deserves to hold a username referencing pochaccoups. it bears repeating: char is one of, if not the, best writers you will ever find if you're wanting to read about choi seungcheol.
jeonghan drabble by @seungcheorry
it started with a "love, can i borrow a towel? i forgot mine" the first time he slept at your place; you gave it to him, a silly smile on your lips when he stepped out of the bathroom with your towel around his neck.
there is romance in the mundane, and cherry reminds us of that every so often. her writing has proven to be love letters to the slow days and the stolen moments; this jeonghan drabble is among her best work. there's sentimentality in this piece that manages to weave jeonghan so seamlessly into the seemingly 'boring' humdrum of daily life—proving, once again, that love can be found somewhere between takeout and shampoo.
‘til god breaks this spell by @joshujin
joshua's devotion to you rivals his devotion to his god.
faith is tricky. faith ebbs like the tide; faith finds itself in the oddest of places. some might say faith exists in good writing such as that of trixie's. 'til god breaks this spell is a heart-wrenching exploration of the religions we grow up with, the convictions we grow out of, and the loves we grow around. this is the kind of story that heals something long since forgotten—so, thank you, trixie, for the absolution.
soul like me by @lovetaroandtaemin
You and Joshua have been friends for most of your life, and you thought that you always would be. Turns out, your feelings for each other are stronger than you thought, but love isn't always enough to keep a relationship strong.
to write humane characters in fiction is a feat that ally never seems to struggle with. soul like me bares intrinsic flaws that i'm sure we would all rather forget. it raises a mirror to the people we become when we are hurting and when we intend to hurt. it begs the question: is love the end all be all? the answer lies somewhere in the fic; as for real life, though, ally continues to chart love in all its forms through her writing.
worth it by @chugging-antiseptic-dye
“But I've left no room in my heart to turn back. So if we're wrong, let's be wrong together.”
give a an inch, and she'll take a mile. worth it is reminiscent of the impactful writing one might find from classics like fanfiction.net. to anticipate the ending does not soften the blow. there are no gut punches in this story. just the quiet beginning and end of it all, and the sting that stays in the heartbeats that follow. helpless, thy name is mine, because a is bound to continue with these deep cuts in her future work.
elevatory by @wqnwoos
You were once deeply and irrevocably in love with Kwon Soonyoung, and it’s incredibly hard to avoid that fact when he works literally two offices down from you. It’s even harder to avoid when you’re stuck in a broken elevator with him for hours, and he seems determined to dissect everything that went wrong three years ago.
hana treats soonyoung with a level of respect so rarely seen in fics where he is at the center. the inventiveness of this story is noteworthy, but i firmly believe it's the emotionality that really makes elevatory shine. anybody who has loved, lost, and gained is bound to find something here—whether it is closure, grace, or nostalgia. i, for one, found one of the brightest writers you might ever find on caratblr.
wings against the wind by @diamonddaze01
The tide pulls in. The stars burn on. Neither of you move.
every time i think tara has reached the pinnacle of her writing, she puts out another piece that shows otherwise. what makes wings against the wind a fic worth coming back to time and time again is the setting of it all. their summers could easily be mine, or yours; all of us were sixteen, and eighteen, and twenty-eight once. there is comfort in writing that reminds you that you are not alone in the grand scheme of things. tara is that extended hand, charting the friendship and romance that we lose to the sea.
on call by @kkaetnipjeon
you'd never sleep in an on-call room, but that doesn't mean you won't find other uses for it.
i feel like a broken record who has ranted and raved about mj's writing way too often, but with works like on call, how could i not? this is a stellar intersection of humor, intimacy, and romance, in a setting that is just so utterly apt for jeon wonwoo. i knew this way back when, but this fic has convinced me i'd read 50k words from mj. or her grocery lists, even, if she is ever so inclined. before i'm properly derailed by fangirling: reading on call is the best thing you could do for yourself today.
maestro's muse by @ppyopulii
It’s HYBEHAX’s 10th year anniversary, and as the hackathon’s newest Design Team Lead, you are determined to make this year its best year yet.
jay's maestro's muse is an ongoing series that i can imagine jihoon being proud of. reinventing the form is a challenge few truly succeed at; jay does it, and will undoubtedly continue to do it. the world-building in this is simply lovely, and i'm among the dozens of people who await updates with bated breath.

chunhyangjeon redux by @shinysobi
If I had time, I would learn to love him in a softer way, perhaps, where my hands are bloodied and bruised from trying to hold on too hard.
as someone who has never been particularly well-versed in historical plots, i was pleasantly surprised to thoroughly enjoy chunhyangjeon redux. it might be easy to say that i come from a place of bias—i know how much work ro put into this piece, from ideation to eventual execution. that would be a disservice to the plain and simple fact that this fic is a brilliant period piece with a strong voice and immense soul.
neurosurgeon wonwoo x reader x neurologist jihoon by @thepixelelf
"He's frozen," you tell Jihoon, eyes set on the operating table and the man at the head of it.
there is no fic i think of as often as this. there's one line here—the ending one, specifically—that has quite literally impacted me so much that i continue to revisit this piece half a year (!) after i first found out. this is not an isolated incident; ursa seems to have a penchant for writing fics that truly stick with you. there's a tenderness to her characterizations that you simply can't replicate, which makes much of her masterlist timeless.
wasteland, baby! by @gotta-winwin
they say love can cure infection.
serena, harbinger of heartbreak, was kind enough to preempt me that this fic would rip my heart out of my chest. that did not make things any easier. wasteland, baby! reads like sand in an hourglass. there's a sense of dread that follows you throughout, but it goes hand in hand with hope. it's that heady cocktail of emotion that should convince you serena is worth reading until the end of the world.
golden promises by @diamonddaze01
And so it began. Minghao, who believed in fate, and you, who didn’t.
golden promises is more than just a crash and burn in slow motion. it's the final notes of your favorite song; it's the quiet beginning and end of it all. if you were to look up 'ache' in the dictionary, this fic would be an apt redirection exemplifying the word. while fate is bastardized in this story, it finds a home somewhere else. perhaps in the reminder that tara is fated to write, because golden promises is a fic that demands to be read.
glimpse of us by @gyubakeries
it's all wrong. when mingyu wakes up, a white ceiling presses down on him, the scent of oranges suffocates him, and skin that is brushing against his isn't warm.
you would expect tragedy to shape the form of a fic entitled glimpse of us, but tiya pulls the rug underneath your feet. this fic has a glaring amount of hope despite its heavy angst tag, and i do believe only a write like tiya could strike that balance without it feeling heavy-handed. narrative switches add to the emotional tug-of-war in this piece; redemption is earned, not simply granted. if this is your first glimpse into tiya's work, i urge you to look at the whole picture—it's a gallery worth visiting.
the subtle art of stirring the pot by @miniseokminnies
The kitchen at Quartz and Serenity in New York City runs like a well oiled machine. Then comes Lee Seokmin, the new sous chef, breezing in with a carefree attitude that disrupts your routine. All you've known for the last few years is studying, sleeping, and this kitchen. You try your best to work with the new addition to the chaos but what happens when the pot gets stirred?
if we're talking about the art of something, then let this be the art of writing lee seokmin. bennie nails the buildup and dynamic necessary to execute the tropes in this fic, and it can only come from a place of somebody who knows how to write seokmin. the tension crackles like a livewire in this body of work; much of bennie's writing, i believe, comes to life—whether in a kitchen, a record store, or during a game of chess.
something in the orange by @heartepub
remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love.
it would be a lie to claim something in the orange as anything less than my favorite piece of k-pop fanfiction, bar none. this is the kind of story that you think of years down the line, even after you've left a fandom. i don't doubt i will. in sito, viv weaves a pulitzer-worthy story that simply cannot be boxed into the genre of 'apocalypse au'. this is grief. this is memory. this is what it means to be human, captured in 5k words featuring boo seungkwan. i will scream it from the rooftops, i will reconstruct to hell and back—sito is an absolute headliner.
it gets easier by @mercif4l
fingers off the unblock button or you're gonna regret it, girl.
rowan has a writing voice that is so utterly distinct, i could scroll through the vernon x reader tag for hours and find nothing like this. there is catharsis in hurt/no comfort, especially when done well. it gets easier gives you room to wallow, but it also reminds you of necessary evils that await on the other side of self-flagellation.
hello, darling by @sailorsoons
Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you.
nobody is writing about svt like hali is. her body of work is an outstanding masterlist of alternate universes, spanning genres that touch on the human condition in ways that will leave you breathless. hello, darling is a prime example. the supernatural and thriller aspects of the fic unfold like a jordan peele plot—deliciously tense, intentionally vague, and loaded with suspense.
here, there, and everywhere by @chanranghaeys
This journal belongs to: me. If found, please contact this number. (And please do not read it—unless you want to read the ramblings of a person who fails to deny their feelings for a certain someone.)
here, there, and everywhere is an unashamed love letter to lee chan, from somebody who undoubtedly cares for him. like the song goes, hani knows that love is to share—and there is just so much of it in this fic. in between expressions of devotion and charting of affection through the years, here, there, and everywhere brings us to the very core of what it means to have a bias. overall, a beautiful ode to the man underneath the myth/legend.
not so loud by @daechwitatamic
You've been in love with Lee Chan for almost two years, despite his rejection seven months ago. When you're impossibly coupled up on a friendcation, you're determined not to make it everyone else's problem. Of course, you weren't expecting to have to room with him, and you certainly weren't expecting only one bed…
not so loud is a masterclass in friends to lovers. jo gives all her characters a level of autonomy that makes this fic a living, breathing thing. i remember sending this to four different people the first time i finished it, with a semi-crazed message of you have to read this. that still stands. this piece is gorgeous, not only in how it progresses the relationship, but also in how it resolves it conflicts and brings each scene to life.
MORE & MORE & MORE!
joshujin's we can be all we need (soonyoung)
100vern's while he's gone (soonyoung & vernon)
mylovesstuffs' a song for the ones who leave (vernon)
svtiddiess' the fae in my heart (minghao)
shinwonderful's freedom of choice
vampsol's a cut to remember (vernon)
vampsol's not a bad thing (vernon)
ppyopulii's hoshi + work song by hozier
etherealyoungk's ramen & fate (seungkwan)
shuacore's warm glow (joshua)
miniseokminnies' the boy who lives on the moon (jun)
#honesty hour#i now truly acknowledge that i have a tendency toward impostor syndrome#with a touch of perfectionism and self doubt#esp its been a long long LONG time since ive written anything decent#i easily accept compliments but never truly absorb and believe them for myself#but there must be a sentiment of truth if a person has been saying it multiple times to you#so thank you kae for including me in another one of your rec lists#best believe that i will do right by you and all these amazing authors#hani yaps#hani cries 😭#happy svt day my carat loves
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Colors of Home - 205 subs special
(Lee Seokmin x FemReader)
*slow-burn romance, more bonding over art, cultural understanding, fluff, slice of life PhotographerAU, painterAU NonIdolAU, slice of life Family / Multicultural Fiction*
The day the plane touched down at Incheon International Airport, the skies over Seoul were dull with spring clouds, the kind that teased rain but never fully gave in. Y/N leaned against the window of the airplane, watching as the buildings grew closer and closer. She wasn’t nervous this wasn’t fear. It was something else, something thicker, like the sea breeze from home, wrapping around her chest, warming and choking her at once.
She had left behind the intoxicating lull of Tahiti’s tides, the hum of ukuleles at sunset, and the lush emerald arms of the rainforest that had cradled her childhood. In its place: an entirely new country, a city that glimmered with cold beauty, precise lines, hurried footsteps, and whispered judgments.
She came for art. That was the truth of it. Art had chosen her before she could even walk, painting shells and volcanic rocks with her mother in the garden, dancing with flowers in her hair and acrylic on her fingers. Now, years later, her love for colors, silhouettes, and stories had led her here to Seoul, Korea a city that had been haunting her dreams since she was seventeen.
Korean had come to her like a song at first foreign, then rhythmic, then effortless. She had studied for four years before coming, devouring dramas, music, podcasts, textbooks. People were often in disbelief when she spoke fluently. “You’re so good in Korean! How did you learn?” they’d say, eyes wide with fascination, as if they couldn’t fathom a girl from the middle of the Pacific speaking their language with such ease.
But it wasn’t always admiration. In the first weeks, Y/N noticed how people stared. She had expected it, sure. But the intensity of it sometimes caught her breath in her throat. Some eyes were wide in awe, others filled with quiet discomfort. There was no hiding in Seoul her skin, kissed golden by the sun, her wild curls, her colorful fashion, the relaxed sway in her walk it all screamed foreign. Not in a hostile way. But in a way that made her feel like she was always being watched, studied.
Some even asked to take pictures with her, like she was an exotic statue. “You’re so beautiful… where are you from?” they’d ask. “Tahiti,” she’d say, and they’d blink, unsure. Some knew it, some didn’t. Others would just nod in fascination, pretending.
One afternoon, as she strolled through a quiet Hanok village with her camera in hand, the sound of children’s laughter floated through the air. A small group of kids playing tag stopped suddenly upon seeing her. They whispered among themselves, giggling. One little girl, maybe six years old, walked up shyly, her tiny hands holding a white flower she had picked.
“You’re so, so pretty,” she whispered with the innocence of a child. Then, without waiting, she placed the flower into Y/N’s curls and ran back to her friends, squealing. The group scampered away, their laughter echoing down the alley like chimes. Y/N stood still, her chest tight. That moment lived in her longer than many conversations ever would.
Back home—her temporary home she lived in a modest, sunlit hanok nestled on the outskirts of the city. It had been renovated, but the soul of the house remained: sliding doors, warm wooden floors, and a tiny courtyard where vegetables bloomed in pots. There, her mother waited, always with a smile, always in their native language.
“Māmā,” Y/N called as she stepped inside.
“E aha oe i teie mahana?”(how are you today?) her mother replied, walking out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.
They had agreed: they’d never let the island inside them fade. Even in the bustling city, even among skyscrapers, their roots would remain alive spoken, sung, danced.
Their dinners were filled with laughter. Her mother, plump and warm-hearted, would tease her daughter endlessly. “You’re too beautiful to be sitting alone painting all day. Go find a husband. Give me a grandbaby already!”
“Māmā, please,” Y/N would groan, hiding her flustered smile behind her hands. But her cheeks always gave her away.
“Eaha te huru? (How’s it going?) Don’t act like I can’t see your blush,” her mother teased, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
It was true though. Y/N had spent more time painting than socializing. Her art had bloomed in Korea modern, abstract, infused with the spirit of her homeland and the sleekness of Seoul. But she hadn’t met anyone. Not truly.
Until one day.
A crisp afternoon, the cherry blossoms just beginning to fall, and Y/N was sitting by the Han River with her sketchbook, trying to capture the fleeting pink of the petals. She had noticed him before she truly saw him just a figure with a camera, kneeling on the grass, chasing light through his lens.
He didn’t notice her at first, completely immersed in his craft, moving around trees and benches like a dancer. She watched from a distance, quietly intrigued.
It wasn’t until a breeze tugged at her paper and sent her sketch fluttering toward him that their worlds finally touched.
He caught the paper mid-air.
“Is this yours?” he asked, walking over, his voice soft, his smile kind.
“Yes… Thank you,” she replied in Korean.
He blinked, clearly surprised. “Your Korean is perfect.”
“Four years of practice,” she smiled. “And living here helps.”
He held out the paper. “It’s beautiful. The way you blended the petals with the sky… it feels like a dream.”
“Art is my language,” she said simply.
He introduced himself. “Dokyeom. I’m a photographer.”
“Y/N,” she replied. “I’m a painter.”
They shook hands, and something unspoken passed between them. Not romance at least not yet. But a recognition. Of someone else who saw the world through frames, colors, moments.
And so, their story began not in fire, but in slow bloom. Like an island flower in spring rain.
In the days that followed, Y/N didn’t expect to see him again. Their conversation by the Han River felt like something fleeting a beautiful chapter left on its own. But fate, or maybe art, had other plans.
The next time she saw Dokyeom, it was in an unexpected place: an art gallery tucked away in Hongdae. The exhibit was quiet, curated with precision. Soft lighting danced across the walls, highlighting bold photography intimate portraits of elderly couples, alleyways in shadows, street vendors captured mid-laugh.
She was standing before a striking black-and-white photo of an ajumma selling roasted chestnuts when a voice whispered beside her.
“I thought that was you.”
She turned. He stood with his hands in his pockets, wearing a simple hoodie, a shy smile playing on his lips. There were a few strands of hair falling across his forehead. He looked every bit like someone who never posed, always captured.
“You took this?” she asked, gesturing toward the photo.
He nodded. “I take photos of people who don’t know they’re being seen. Until they’re seen.”
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. It made sense the way he moved with his camera, like a shadow. He was always looking, but never intruding.
“And you?” he asked gently. “Still painting the cherry blossoms?”
She laughed. “Trying. They’re never still long enough.”
That night they walked out of the gallery together, into a Seoul that shimmered with city lights and the laughter of strangers. Their conversations were light at first—art, food, music. He introduced her to street snacks she hadn’t tried yet. She taught him a few words in Tahitian, and he tried clumsily to repeat them.
She liked the way he listened. Not just heard her—but listened. Like he was learning her in pieces.
They began meeting more often. Not every day, not even regularly but consistently enough that something quiet began blooming between them. Sometimes they met at coffee shops and sketched strangers in notebooks. Other times they sat in silence in parks, her painting, him photographing.
One evening, he showed up at her hanok house.
She was surprised. Her mother wasn’t.
“Who’s the handsome boy?” her mother teased in Tahitian, peeking from the window, grinning like a teenager.
Y/N hissed, trying to shush her. “Māmā! Please!”
But Dokyeom smiled politely when introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you,” he said in Korean, bowing deeply.
Her mother, cheeky and warm, replied in broken Korean, “You take care of my daughter or I turn you into fish bait.”
He laughed fully, sincerely and said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Inside, he joined them for dinner. Y/N’s mother insisted he try every dish. She even brought out traditional Tahitian desserts and watched for his reactions like a hawk. The house was filled with overlapping languages Korean, Tahitian, and that universal language of laughter.
That night, after he left, her mother sat beside Y/N, both of them curled up on the floor with steaming tea in their hands.
“He likes you,” her mother said softly.
Y/N stared at the floor, smiling quietly.
“And?” her mother prodded, “Do you like him?”
Y/N didn’t answer right away. She thought of how Dokyeom watched the world, how he saw her not as an exotic muse, not as someone foreign, not even as a symbol. But simply… as Y/N. An artist. A woman. A soul.
“I think I’m scared,” she whispered finally.
“Good,” her mother replied. “It means it’s real.”
Their connection continued to grow. Dokyeom would come over sometimes with film rolls and a nervous smile. She painted portraits of him when he wasn’t looking. He captured candid shots of her laughing, reading, dancing barefoot in the courtyard.
One day, she found a photo tucked inside one of her books. It was a black-and-white image of her, mid-laugh, her curls wild, her eyes half-closed in joy. On the back he had written:
“You’re the only person I don’t have to pose.” — D.K.
That night, she cried. Not because she was sad, but because something in her had finally exhaled. She wasn’t just existing in Korea anymore. She was living.
There were still challenges. Some stares still lingered. Some people still asked her questions that felt invasive. But now, she had carved a space for herself. Her art was beginning to gain attention features in local exhibits, interviews on blogs. And always, in the crowd, Dokyeom stood quietly, cheering for her, proud without needing to say it.
Their first kiss didn’t happen under a sunset or fireworks. It happened on her rooftop, during monsoon season. The sky was gray, thunder murmuring in the distance. They were watching the clouds roll in, sipping barley tea. He reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.
And then, slowly, he leaned in, brushing her lips with his. It was soft, cautious, like asking a question.
She kissed him back, giving her answer.
Years passed, not in a blur, but in rich, vibrant hues—each moment painted with patience and purpose.
Y/N's name began to echo through Seoul’s art community as a master of color and memory. Her canvases told stories no one else could tell riotous sunsets with Polynesian brushstrokes, urban alleys laced with ancestral warmth, portraits of everyday women with goddesses in their bones.
And always, by her side, was Dokyeom.
Their love didn’t explode into the world. It bloomed in secret gardens through unspoken glances, slow breakfasts, and shared headphones on subway rides. He photographed her world with reverence; she painted his heart with wild, unapologetic color.
One morning, under the same cherry blossom tree from their first encounter, Y/N placed a tiny box in his hands. Inside was a sonogram.
He stared, frozen. Then slowly, tears welled in his eyes. “Two…?”
She nodded. “Twins.”
They cried together. Then laughed. Then cried again.
Nine months later.
The house echoed with softness.
Tiny cries. Lullabies sung. The rustle of warm blankets. The gurgle of milk bottles. And over it all, the quiet hum of a love fully grown.
Their daughter came first tiny, radiant, loud. They named her Lee Haewon Keanu.
Haewon, meaning "graceful garden," because Y/N always dreamed of raising her children where love grew wild. Keanu, meaning “cool breeze,” because her daughter’s cry felt like the calm after a storm.
Five minutes later, her twin brother was born, quieter, heavier in weight, his little fingers curled in curiosity.
They named him Lee Ioané Changmin.
Ioané, "strong and steady." Changmin,“bright and clever.”
They were a balance sun and moon. Flame and still water. Laughter and thought.
The hanok had been remodeled to hold more light, more love. There were baby socks drying on windowsills, paints kept above reach, and lullabies playing on soft vinyl.
Y/N’s mother had moved in to help, taking one twin in each arm as she shuffled around the kitchen, humming Tahitian prayers.
“E a hanu'a, a haere noa (Breathe, my precious one, and grow free.)
She still teased Y/N every morning about not giving her grandchildren sooner, but now she’d stop halfway and kiss the babies’ foreheads with tears in her eyes.
“You did well, my daughter.”
In the quiet hours, Y/N would sit on the rooftop with Dokyeom, both cradling sleeping babies on their chests. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.
Sometimes, Haewon would murmur in her sleep in a mix of both their languages. Sometimes Ioané would stir and blink up at the stars.
Dokyeom would whisper, “Look at what we made. Look at who we are.”
Of course, it wasn’t always perfect.
People still stared when Y/N carried the twins down the street some in awe, some with questions buried in glances. Sometimes, strangers asked, “Are they really yours?”
But now, Y/N had grown roots deep enough to never flinch.
“They’re mine. Ours. Both strenghts in baby skin.”
The twins, with their caramel skin and soft eyes, grew up surrounded by diversity in their very home. They learned to say “I love you” in both Korean and Tahitian before they could walk.
At parks, Korean children would run up to Haewon and call her a doll. They’d reach for Ioané’s hand and say, “His eyes look like a painting.”
Sometimes, Y/N watched them play and cried. Not out of sadness, but for the beauty in being whole in being more than one thing.
She painted again. Big, wild pieces. With her babies beside her. And Dokyeom, always, behind the lens capturing every moment with love thick as honey.
One night.
When the twins were almost two, Y/N lay in bed beside Dokyeom, her head on his chest, one leg draped over his. Rain danced on the windows.
“Māmā used to say love is a sea,” she whispered, tracing circles on his skin. “You either sink or swim.”
He smiled. “I think we built a boat.”
Y/N tilted her head up to look at him. “Do you ever think about how far we came?”
He nodded. “Every day. From a girl lost in Seoul, to this...”
She smiled. “To us.”
Years from now, when Haewon and Ioané ask how their parents met, Y/N will tell them it began with petals on the Han River and a boy who saw her not through the lens of difference, but of light.
And Dokyeom will show them the photograph of their mother laughing under cherry blossoms, hair wild, eyes full of fire.
And together, they’ll grow in a home that speaks in three languages, dances in two traditions, and dreams without borders.
Because their story was never just about love.
It was about belonging.
#reblogging for its pure warmth and wholesomeness#if this is how author-nim portrays their culture then im so grateful for them sharing it with us#the writing?? flowed like water poetry and music#two artists meeting? BLESS#no joke this fic felt like a painting#so beautifully written#read this first thing in the morning and im glad i did aaaaa#chanranghaeys reblog
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🍷 in vino veritas
What better birthday gift can one give than the gift of truth?
pairing: seungkwan x fem!reader word count: 3.4k genre: fluff, smut/nsfw rating: r-18. nsfw, mdni! tags: oblivious idiots in love with each other, mutual pining, literally can’t resist each other once they start, we're still celebrating seungkwan's birthday here, mentions of food, barely proofread pls bear with me warnings: alcohol, allusions to sex, eventual sex haha, making out, dry humping (?) making love, groping, fingering, implied unprotected sex (help idk how to do nsfw tags pls tell me if i missed anything
a/n: this was based on two requests lifetimes ago by rachel @strxwberry-skiess and tara @diamonddaze01. i have a feeling you two don’t remember it anymore haha but i’m tagging both of u anyway. this was also intended as a seungkwan birthday fic that i’ve been revising back and forth and just wasn’t satisfied enough to post until now, hence the setting. i hope this marks the end of my writing drought—i desperately need it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
It started with a sweater and spilled soju.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No, don’t worry about it!”
“But it’s your favorite sweater. I just ruined it.”
Technically, you both did. It actually started with dinner at your place because you owed him. Big time.
A few weeks ago, you dared to be the only one who didn’t bring a gift to Seungkwan’s birthday gathering—and everyone called you out for it. So with the whole party as witness, Hansol and Chan made you promise to give Seungkwan a gift and treat him to dinner to make up for this huge lapse in judgment.
Sincerely, you wish you could slap those two in the face sometimes. But you wouldn’t, of course. They just knew exactly what they were trying to set up then.
You and Seungkwan decided on a simple homemade dinner at your place because according to him, “You never invite me to your place! How many times have you invited those two idiots to your place without me?”
If only you could tell him the real reason why that was always the case.
When the fateful day finally came, Seungkwan arrived at your apartment early to genuinely offer his help, much to your gratitude. He was even gracious enough to bring your favorite yangnyeom fried chicken.
“I knew you’d like it. It’s your favorite,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug when you questioned him with his offering.
In return, you claimed, “Just don’t go expecting me to give you your gift right away. I’m saving it for the end of the night because it’s special.”
He kept saying that “you don’t have to do this, they were just poking fun.” But you were never one to back down from a promise—especially if it involved Seungkwan.
Dinner went by easily. The weather allowed for a window propped open to let in some of the cool breeze that added to what you believe was a nice atmosphere. Your plates had long been empty when Seungkwan made his way to the fridge to get a refill of water. Instead, he let out a cry of disbelief.
“Ya! You have five bottles of soju and you didn’t bother bringing them out?”
You stayed silent. There was a reason why you didn’t bring those out on purpose. It was to avoid incidents like this, because you and Seungkwan—alone—and alcohol was a combination that had never happened before and an equation that you tried to avoid solving for as long as possible.
Fate had other plans today, apparently.
In his usual way, whenever there was alcohol in his system, he turned into the clingy kind of drunk that he was. This time, however, you noticed that he was different somehow. He was braver, louder, clingier. He was never like this when you two were drinking with friends.
As the late afternoon turned to evening, you two found yourselves inching closer to each other with every story and joke exchanged. This time, a particularly effective punchline you delivered had him in a laughing mess, with his hands instantly reaching for you. He just failed to notice the two very full glasses in your hands at that moment.
This was when chaos ensued.
In the aftermath, he looked at you and your obliviousness. “It’s just soju and water. Nothing a quick wash can’t do.”
He let out an audible sigh of defeat. Without thinking, he proceeded to peel off the ruined piece of clothing, revealing a thin white shirt that was barely there—riding up along with the sweater and revealing his torso. The sight got worse as he completely removed the sweater, the shirt clinging to his chest and still wet from the spilled liquid. You tried to avert your eyes as quickly as you could, but Seungkwan had already caught you staring.
“I, uh…” He pulled down his shirt and held the wet sweater in his hand. You cleared your throat and tried to gather your wits.
“I’m a terrible host. Give me that, I can chuck it in the laundry. I’ll get you a new shirt.” You stood to do as you said. You ignored the fact that he followed you all the way to your room, stopping to lean at your doorway as you rummaged through your drawers for a spare shirt.
You ignored how you could feel his eyes on you, probably spurred on with bravery because you had your back turned toward him. If only you could see how intense his gaze was, looking you up and down while weighing the two options in his head carefully.
He broke the silence first with a question you least expected. “You can talk to me honestly, right?”
“Of course, Seungkwan.” You busied yourself with looking for any shirt, trying to buy time to avoid meeting the piercing gaze you knew would meet.
“Were you…staring at me earlier?”
How dare— “Uh…”
“Okay, I’ll start with an easier question. Are you sober?”
“Yes.” You stand to face him, but not quite meeting his eyes yet. “I mean, I am now. Who wouldn’t be after you spill two glasses on your—friend?”
He laughs. “That’s true.” He pretends to not notice that slight hitch in your voice earlier.
“Here’s your shirt.” You hold up the oversized piece of clothing.
He pushes himself from your doorway and walks—in your perspective—at a painstakingly slow pace. His shirt is still a bit wet and still clinging just a bit in all the right places.
He stops right in front of you, a few steps too close to excuse it for a friendly distance. It absolutely was not.
He gingerly takes the shirt from your hand. To your utter surprise, he replaces it by taking your hand in his. You mask your nerves with an equally nervous laugh as you ask him, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. Well, I can tell you that I’m sober enough to clearly know what I’m doing.” He continues even as he slowly intertwines his fingers in yours. “When we were in Italy, they said something during our wine tasting. ‘In vino veritas.’”
You were familiar with this saying. “‘In wine—’”
“‘There is truth.’” He completes the saying, taking yet another step closer. “We didn’t exactly drink wine, but can you still tell me the truth?”
You debate with light speed in your head where and how you want this conversation to end. It seemed there was only one answer the moment he decided to close the distance by settling his one hand on your waist and the other brushing your cheek—the clean shirt long forgotten on the floor.
Your heart was racing, and you knew this wasn’t because of the alcohol any longer. The air was thick with unresolved tension. You both knew what this was. This only happened when the two of you were alone, where awkward smiles and silences helped fill in the undeniable attraction that you both kept denying.
So you swallow your pride and nod in reply, and he smiles at your response before continuing, “So, were you staring?”
“I’m still staring now,” you say as you travel across his torso still wrapped in his wet shirt.
His chuckle turned into a laugh, his beautifully musical and infectious laugh, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “Stop it! I’m losing focus. God, I really didn’t think this through, did I?”
You were nothing if honest, even more so when it came to Seungkwan. He had no problem asking you this question because that’s what he liked about you the most. You weren’t like other people—like him even—who beat around the bush and never mean what they actually say.
“Maybe not,” you say while holding back a laugh of your own.
The smile drops from his face in an instant, his smiling lips closing together in the blink of an eye. When his eyes open, they contain an unspoken depth, his expression changing into something more serious than you’ve ever seen from him before.
“Help me take this off, will you?”
“Why don’t you kiss me first before you demand such things?”
He smirks and claims your chin between his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You two always had that “will they, won’t they” dynamic for the longest time. It seems that tonight, they will. And they did.
The room smelled of sex. It was undeniable at this point to not acknowledge what had just happened between you and Seungkwan. In the heat of the moment and the throes of passion, you had both done things once unspeakable between the two of you.
If only you both knew what constantly went on in your heads the moment you two were separated from each other.
“So, is this the gift?” Seungkwan asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with exertion and his heart still racing at a million beats per minute.
“What?” Your mind was still swimming in stars, still coming down from your high as you curled yourself in his arms and folded against his warm skin.
”This.” He pulls you in closer and tangles your legs with his, endlessly craving for the touch of your skin on his.
You lightly jab his forehead jokingly. “You forget that you initiated all this with your hand-holding and sweet-talking about being honest.”
“Hey, I just wanted a kiss. You gave me so much more.” He nuzzled his nose against yours and, god, you couldn’t get enough of this Seungkwan. If only you knew that this is how he’d be with you, it would’ve been so worth it to tell him how you felt way earlier.
Wait. You haven’t told him how you felt. Not exactly.
But instead, you land your lips chastely on his. “There’s your kiss. Are you happy now?” He nods, but you could see his eyes and his smile being weighed down by impending sleep. He yawns, and you catch it as well and mirror his actions.
“Good night, sleepyhead.” With a final kiss from Seungkwan to your forehead, you both settle into an easy slumber, with both of you feeling lighter in your minds and hearts.
“Seungkwan.”
He stirs, sleep still overtaking his senses. “Hmm?”
“Seungkwan-ah.” You reach up to move his bed hair from his forehead.
“Mhmm?”
And for a moment, you forget what you were supposed to say because you were struck by the beauty of this unguarded version of Seungkwan. You trail your hand from his forehead to the apple of his cheeks, where you feel them move as he smiles.
“Could you turn on the heat? It’s getting a bit cold.”
He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight of you in the near break of dawn, the first light filtering through the sheer curtains and starting to illuminate your room.
In response, as if by instinct, he leaned down to kiss you, much to your surprise. When he broke away, he could still feel the curve of the smile of your lips against his. “Why don’t I keep you warm, instead?”
He pulled you closer, the heat from his hand traveling across and over your body. Just as he predicted, you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you recall the intensity and fervor of last night. But you could care less.
Wordlessly, you take him up on his offer, wrapping your arms around his neck and meeting him in another kiss. Wordlessly, he accepts this as your response and he parts your lips open with his to allow entrance to go in deeper, tasting you for all you are against the ecstasy of your tongue.
While his mouth plays with yours, his hands continue to roam the ebbs and flows of your body, from your neck, your breasts, your waist, and finally tracing the curve of your ass with his hands. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he raises your one leg, allowing it to wrap around his waist.
In this position, your heated core was wide open for his evident arousal. It was as if the events of last night were not enough to satiate your wants, your needs, and deeper down, your true feelings. Your bodies stay flush against each other, skin to skin as if you could not come any closer. You move in sync, accompanied by the gasps and moans, the hitches in both your breaths, as you feel his fingers working their way down there dictating the rhythm that you two would move to while your own fingers clench to fist his hair.
If last night was desperate, needy, almost making up for lost time, this morning was deliberate, languid, almost lazy with the way his lips never left yours to swallow all the delicious sounds coming from your mouth. When he finally filled your awaiting entrance, your bodies felt like a natural fit with one another. Each thrust between your slick bodies felt like a resounding mantra in the stillness of the daybreak—a mantra of unsaid promises and unresolved thoughts spoken through actions with every moment that his lips latch, tug, bite at yours.
The light of the dawn filtered through your room, casting an ethereal glow on your bodies. Yet this morning, you both see nothing but stars. When you both come down from the heavens, you take the time to go to the bathroom, while he takes the time to turn on the heat despite your complaints.
“You’ll thank me later,” Seungkwan said as you returned to his welcoming arms. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you tangled your limbs in his and let sleep take over your senses once more.
By the time you come to again, it’s 9 am. The sun was fully shining through your curtains to the point of almost blinding you. The urge to pee was overwhelming, so you disentangled yourself from the sheets in your sluggish state. Sitting on the toilet, you rub your eyes and feel the aches of your body settle in—along with other realizations.
Like the fact that you were butt naked. In your bed. With Seungkwan.
And you two did not just fuck last night. You made love with him in the wee hours of the morning.
Holy shit.
As you splash water on your tired face, you look in the mirror and see…an unexpected glow. You touch your lips, trailing your hand down your neck and your chest, recalling all the other places where Seungkwan’s hands caressed you. You start to smile, yet it is gone as quickly as it came.
Now what?
With resolve, you step out of the bathroom to face the reality of the morning. What greets you is the sight of Seungkwan propped up against the headboard, checking his phone, with his bed hair and bare chest turning to look at you. He smiles, one that reaches his eyes.
He is so beautiful.
His eyes travel across your naked body, and you suddenly feel shy. You look across the floor for the discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over you and grabbing a clean pair of panties from your drawer.
He just watches you throughout this charade.
“I…uh, went through some of your clothes. Borrowed a pair of shorts. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that's okay.”
“For a moment, I thought you left me. I woke up to an empty bed.”
You stop, fully turning to see the amusement in his expression. “You may have forgotten that this is my room. If anyone should have left, it would be you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you want me to? Leave?”
You don’t answer, afraid that whatever comes out of your mouth will betray your sensibilities. Instead, you sit down on the empty space of bed beside him.
“Are we still telling the truth?”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Always, I hope.”
“You should know that there’s a reason why I never wanted you to come over here in the first place.”
He physically winces, anticipating the worst from that statement. “And that is?”
“Because I don’t think I’d ever let you leave. That’s the truth.”
A sigh of relief. “Come here.” He closes the gap between you by clasping your hand and pulling you back into bed, encircling you in his arms.
You lay there together, your head on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. He’d always been a handsy person—all his friends knew that—but most especially to the people he had taken a particular liking to. His fixation was always different with each person. With you, it was your hair.
“Would you like to hear my truth?” He asks.
You wordlessly nod.
“I’ve always wanted to do that with you.”
“Do what?”
“You know…last night, this morning,” Seungkwan trails off.
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
Your eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “You…never made it obvious or anything.”
“That’s because I’m a decent person who doesn’t act on my primal impulses out of nowhere. Please, you’re too damn pretty and sexy for me to ignore you from the moment we met.”
You slap his chest. “You’re playing. Stop it.”
“I’m serious! It didn’t help at all when I found out that you listened to all the same girl groups that I did. You think I don’t see you when you dance? When you move your damn hips? I have eyes, you know. I’m a simple man.”
“Okay, okay. I see you, girl group enthusiast.” You smiled up at him. “I guess I’ll shake my ass at you more often, then.”
“Oh, please, you will ruin me.” He bites back a grin. “No, but honestly—beyond that,” he said as he looked at you pointedly, “you unlocked this little kid inside me again whenever I was with you, and…I realized I wanted to do more with you. And be more with you. It just grew and grew until it hit me that I just I always wanted you around.”
As if to prove his next point, he meets your eyes and doesn’t let go of your gaze. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You purse your lips to hold back the smile growing on your lips. Your heart was pounding, pondering the consequences of the next few words you were about to say.
“Well, if you say that then another truth I have is that I’ve always held back from you. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that.”
“I did.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it.”
“Why though?”
“I couldn’t trust myself around you.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “Have I not made you comfortable enough around me? Have I not been the definition of a poster boy best friend?”
“Exactly. You think I could let you go if I mess up and start kissing you on a whim? Seungkwan, your friends can be full of shit sometimes. Believe me when I say that a lot of times, you’re definitely the hottest guy in the room.”
“Wow, you must love me a whole lot for you to say something like that.”
“What if I do?”
He stills. “Do you really?”
You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re still telling the truth, aren’t we?” But the truth also gives you away. You look down as your smile falters. “Friendship is always such a fragile thing to break. And I don’t think I ever want to lose you.”
“Like I said,” he says while lifting your chin up to meet his eyes. They were glowing, and you realize it reminded you of your own eyes when you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It was as if you two were reflections of one another—the way you two always were without realizing it. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You could do nothing but smile.
And you hear both of your stomachs growl at the same time. You both laugh, loud, full, and deep-bellied, the only way you two do when you’re with each other. There were never any fake laughs if you were together.
You land a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll make you breakfast. Consider it a gift.”
You stood up to leave the bed, and you wait until it clicks in his head. “So you never got me a gift?” The disbelief on his face was almost enough to move you to guilt. But you had another ace up your sleeve.
“Why don’t you get your ass out of bed first and help me make breakfast so I can give you the real gift?”
He huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I’m lucky you’re telling the truth.” You wink and leave him smirking. In wine there is truth, they say, and in truth there is a newfound sense of freedom he can’t wait to share with you.
#SCREAMS WITH YOU#BC SAME#this seungkwan all day every day in all ways#theres a reason why hes my first ever svt bias#this is it THESE HEADCANONS#thank u for enjoying the seungkwan brainrot with me 😭#chanranghaeys feedback
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🍷 in vino veritas
What better birthday gift can one give than the gift of truth?
pairing: seungkwan x fem!reader word count: 3.4k genre: fluff, smut/nsfw rating: r-18. nsfw, mdni! tags: oblivious idiots in love with each other, mutual pining, literally can’t resist each other once they start, we're still celebrating seungkwan's birthday here, mentions of food, barely proofread pls bear with me warnings: alcohol, allusions to sex, eventual sex haha, making out, dry humping (?) making love, groping, fingering, implied unprotected sex (help idk how to do nsfw tags pls tell me if i missed anything
a/n: this was based on two requests lifetimes ago by rachel @strxwberry-skiess and tara @diamonddaze01. i have a feeling you two don’t remember it anymore haha but i’m tagging both of u anyway. this was also intended as a seungkwan birthday fic that i’ve been revising back and forth and just wasn’t satisfied enough to post until now, hence the setting. i hope this marks the end of my writing drought—i desperately need it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
It started with a sweater and spilled soju.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No, don’t worry about it!”
“But it’s your favorite sweater. I just ruined it.”
Technically, you both did. It actually started with dinner at your place because you owed him. Big time.
A few weeks ago, you dared to be the only one who didn’t bring a gift to Seungkwan’s birthday gathering—and everyone called you out for it. So with the whole party as witness, Hansol and Chan made you promise to give Seungkwan a gift and treat him to dinner to make up for this huge lapse in judgment.
Sincerely, you wish you could slap those two in the face sometimes. But you wouldn’t, of course. They just knew exactly what they were trying to set up then.
You and Seungkwan decided on a simple homemade dinner at your place because according to him, “You never invite me to your place! How many times have you invited those two idiots to your place without me?”
If only you could tell him the real reason why that was always the case.
When the fateful day finally came, Seungkwan arrived at your apartment early to genuinely offer his help, much to your gratitude. He was even gracious enough to bring your favorite yangnyeom fried chicken.
“I knew you’d like it. It’s your favorite,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug when you questioned him with his offering.
In return, you claimed, “Just don’t go expecting me to give you your gift right away. I’m saving it for the end of the night because it’s special.”
He kept saying that “you don’t have to do this, they were just poking fun.” But you were never one to back down from a promise—especially if it involved Seungkwan.
Dinner went by easily. The weather allowed for a window propped open to let in some of the cool breeze that added to what you believe was a nice atmosphere. Your plates had long been empty when Seungkwan made his way to the fridge to get a refill of water. Instead, he let out a cry of disbelief.
“Ya! You have five bottles of soju and you didn’t bother bringing them out?”
You stayed silent. There was a reason why you didn’t bring those out on purpose. It was to avoid incidents like this, because you and Seungkwan—alone—and alcohol was a combination that had never happened before and an equation that you tried to avoid solving for as long as possible.
Fate had other plans today, apparently.
In his usual way, whenever there was alcohol in his system, he turned into the clingy kind of drunk that he was. This time, however, you noticed that he was different somehow. He was braver, louder, clingier. He was never like this when you two were drinking with friends.
As the late afternoon turned to evening, you two found yourselves inching closer to each other with every story and joke exchanged. This time, a particularly effective punchline you delivered had him in a laughing mess, with his hands instantly reaching for you. He just failed to notice the two very full glasses in your hands at that moment.
This was when chaos ensued.
In the aftermath, he looked at you and your obliviousness. “It’s just soju and water. Nothing a quick wash can’t do.”
He let out an audible sigh of defeat. Without thinking, he proceeded to peel off the ruined piece of clothing, revealing a thin white shirt that was barely there—riding up along with the sweater and revealing his torso. The sight got worse as he completely removed the sweater, the shirt clinging to his chest and still wet from the spilled liquid. You tried to avert your eyes as quickly as you could, but Seungkwan had already caught you staring.
“I, uh…” He pulled down his shirt and held the wet sweater in his hand. You cleared your throat and tried to gather your wits.
“I’m a terrible host. Give me that, I can chuck it in the laundry. I’ll get you a new shirt.” You stood to do as you said. You ignored the fact that he followed you all the way to your room, stopping to lean at your doorway as you rummaged through your drawers for a spare shirt.
You ignored how you could feel his eyes on you, probably spurred on with bravery because you had your back turned toward him. If only you could see how intense his gaze was, looking you up and down while weighing the two options in his head carefully.
He broke the silence first with a question you least expected. “You can talk to me honestly, right?”
“Of course, Seungkwan.” You busied yourself with looking for any shirt, trying to buy time to avoid meeting the piercing gaze you knew would meet.
“Were you…staring at me earlier?”
How dare— “Uh…”
“Okay, I’ll start with an easier question. Are you sober?”
“Yes.” You stand to face him, but not quite meeting his eyes yet. “I mean, I am now. Who wouldn’t be after you spill two glasses on your—friend?”
He laughs. “That’s true.” He pretends to not notice that slight hitch in your voice earlier.
“Here’s your shirt.” You hold up the oversized piece of clothing.
He pushes himself from your doorway and walks—in your perspective—at a painstakingly slow pace. His shirt is still a bit wet and still clinging just a bit in all the right places.
He stops right in front of you, a few steps too close to excuse it for a friendly distance. It absolutely was not.
He gingerly takes the shirt from your hand. To your utter surprise, he replaces it by taking your hand in his. You mask your nerves with an equally nervous laugh as you ask him, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. Well, I can tell you that I’m sober enough to clearly know what I’m doing.” He continues even as he slowly intertwines his fingers in yours. “When we were in Italy, they said something during our wine tasting. ‘In vino veritas.’”
You were familiar with this saying. “‘In wine—’”
“‘There is truth.’” He completes the saying, taking yet another step closer. “We didn’t exactly drink wine, but can you still tell me the truth?”
You debate with light speed in your head where and how you want this conversation to end. It seemed there was only one answer the moment he decided to close the distance by settling his one hand on your waist and the other brushing your cheek—the clean shirt long forgotten on the floor.
Your heart was racing, and you knew this wasn’t because of the alcohol any longer. The air was thick with unresolved tension. You both knew what this was. This only happened when the two of you were alone, where awkward smiles and silences helped fill in the undeniable attraction that you both kept denying.
So you swallow your pride and nod in reply, and he smiles at your response before continuing, “So, were you staring?”
“I’m still staring now,” you say as you travel across his torso still wrapped in his wet shirt.
His chuckle turned into a laugh, his beautifully musical and infectious laugh, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “Stop it! I’m losing focus. God, I really didn’t think this through, did I?”
You were nothing if honest, even more so when it came to Seungkwan. He had no problem asking you this question because that’s what he liked about you the most. You weren’t like other people—like him even—who beat around the bush and never mean what they actually say.
“Maybe not,” you say while holding back a laugh of your own.
The smile drops from his face in an instant, his smiling lips closing together in the blink of an eye. When his eyes open, they contain an unspoken depth, his expression changing into something more serious than you’ve ever seen from him before.
“Help me take this off, will you?”
“Why don’t you kiss me first before you demand such things?”
He smirks and claims your chin between his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You two always had that “will they, won’t they” dynamic for the longest time. It seems that tonight, they will. And they did.
The room smelled of sex. It was undeniable at this point to not acknowledge what had just happened between you and Seungkwan. In the heat of the moment and the throes of passion, you had both done things once unspeakable between the two of you.
If only you both knew what constantly went on in your heads the moment you two were separated from each other.
“So, is this the gift?” Seungkwan asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with exertion and his heart still racing at a million beats per minute.
“What?” Your mind was still swimming in stars, still coming down from your high as you curled yourself in his arms and folded against his warm skin.
”This.” He pulls you in closer and tangles your legs with his, endlessly craving for the touch of your skin on his.
You lightly jab his forehead jokingly. “You forget that you initiated all this with your hand-holding and sweet-talking about being honest.”
“Hey, I just wanted a kiss. You gave me so much more.” He nuzzled his nose against yours and, god, you couldn’t get enough of this Seungkwan. If only you knew that this is how he’d be with you, it would’ve been so worth it to tell him how you felt way earlier.
Wait. You haven’t told him how you felt. Not exactly.
But instead, you land your lips chastely on his. “There’s your kiss. Are you happy now?” He nods, but you could see his eyes and his smile being weighed down by impending sleep. He yawns, and you catch it as well and mirror his actions.
“Good night, sleepyhead.” With a final kiss from Seungkwan to your forehead, you both settle into an easy slumber, with both of you feeling lighter in your minds and hearts.
“Seungkwan.”
He stirs, sleep still overtaking his senses. “Hmm?”
“Seungkwan-ah.” You reach up to move his bed hair from his forehead.
“Mhmm?”
And for a moment, you forget what you were supposed to say because you were struck by the beauty of this unguarded version of Seungkwan. You trail your hand from his forehead to the apple of his cheeks, where you feel them move as he smiles.
“Could you turn on the heat? It’s getting a bit cold.”
He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight of you in the near break of dawn, the first light filtering through the sheer curtains and starting to illuminate your room.
In response, as if by instinct, he leaned down to kiss you, much to your surprise. When he broke away, he could still feel the curve of the smile of your lips against his. “Why don’t I keep you warm, instead?”
He pulled you closer, the heat from his hand traveling across and over your body. Just as he predicted, you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you recall the intensity and fervor of last night. But you could care less.
Wordlessly, you take him up on his offer, wrapping your arms around his neck and meeting him in another kiss. Wordlessly, he accepts this as your response and he parts your lips open with his to allow entrance to go in deeper, tasting you for all you are against the ecstasy of your tongue.
While his mouth plays with yours, his hands continue to roam the ebbs and flows of your body, from your neck, your breasts, your waist, and finally tracing the curve of your ass with his hands. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he raises your one leg, allowing it to wrap around his waist.
In this position, your heated core was wide open for his evident arousal. It was as if the events of last night were not enough to satiate your wants, your needs, and deeper down, your true feelings. Your bodies stay flush against each other, skin to skin as if you could not come any closer. You move in sync, accompanied by the gasps and moans, the hitches in both your breaths, as you feel his fingers working their way down there dictating the rhythm that you two would move to while your own fingers clench to fist his hair.
If last night was desperate, needy, almost making up for lost time, this morning was deliberate, languid, almost lazy with the way his lips never left yours to swallow all the delicious sounds coming from your mouth. When he finally filled your awaiting entrance, your bodies felt like a natural fit with one another. Each thrust between your slick bodies felt like a resounding mantra in the stillness of the daybreak—a mantra of unsaid promises and unresolved thoughts spoken through actions with every moment that his lips latch, tug, bite at yours.
The light of the dawn filtered through your room, casting an ethereal glow on your bodies. Yet this morning, you both see nothing but stars. When you both come down from the heavens, you take the time to go to the bathroom, while he takes the time to turn on the heat despite your complaints.
“You’ll thank me later,” Seungkwan said as you returned to his welcoming arms. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you tangled your limbs in his and let sleep take over your senses once more.
By the time you come to again, it’s 9 am. The sun was fully shining through your curtains to the point of almost blinding you. The urge to pee was overwhelming, so you disentangled yourself from the sheets in your sluggish state. Sitting on the toilet, you rub your eyes and feel the aches of your body settle in—along with other realizations.
Like the fact that you were butt naked. In your bed. With Seungkwan.
And you two did not just fuck last night. You made love with him in the wee hours of the morning.
Holy shit.
As you splash water on your tired face, you look in the mirror and see…an unexpected glow. You touch your lips, trailing your hand down your neck and your chest, recalling all the other places where Seungkwan’s hands caressed you. You start to smile, yet it is gone as quickly as it came.
Now what?
With resolve, you step out of the bathroom to face the reality of the morning. What greets you is the sight of Seungkwan propped up against the headboard, checking his phone, with his bed hair and bare chest turning to look at you. He smiles, one that reaches his eyes.
He is so beautiful.
His eyes travel across your naked body, and you suddenly feel shy. You look across the floor for the discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over you and grabbing a clean pair of panties from your drawer.
He just watches you throughout this charade.
“I…uh, went through some of your clothes. Borrowed a pair of shorts. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that's okay.”
“For a moment, I thought you left me. I woke up to an empty bed.”
You stop, fully turning to see the amusement in his expression. “You may have forgotten that this is my room. If anyone should have left, it would be you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you want me to? Leave?”
You don’t answer, afraid that whatever comes out of your mouth will betray your sensibilities. Instead, you sit down on the empty space of bed beside him.
“Are we still telling the truth?”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Always, I hope.”
“You should know that there’s a reason why I never wanted you to come over here in the first place.”
He physically winces, anticipating the worst from that statement. “And that is?”
“Because I don’t think I’d ever let you leave. That’s the truth.”
A sigh of relief. “Come here.” He closes the gap between you by clasping your hand and pulling you back into bed, encircling you in his arms.
You lay there together, your head on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. He’d always been a handsy person—all his friends knew that—but most especially to the people he had taken a particular liking to. His fixation was always different with each person. With you, it was your hair.
“Would you like to hear my truth?” He asks.
You wordlessly nod.
“I’ve always wanted to do that with you.”
“Do what?”
“You know…last night, this morning,” Seungkwan trails off.
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
Your eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “You…never made it obvious or anything.”
“That’s because I’m a decent person who doesn’t act on my primal impulses out of nowhere. Please, you’re too damn pretty and sexy for me to ignore you from the moment we met.”
You slap his chest. “You’re playing. Stop it.”
“I’m serious! It didn’t help at all when I found out that you listened to all the same girl groups that I did. You think I don’t see you when you dance? When you move your damn hips? I have eyes, you know. I’m a simple man.”
“Okay, okay. I see you, girl group enthusiast.” You smiled up at him. “I guess I’ll shake my ass at you more often, then.”
“Oh, please, you will ruin me.” He bites back a grin. “No, but honestly—beyond that,” he said as he looked at you pointedly, “you unlocked this little kid inside me again whenever I was with you, and…I realized I wanted to do more with you. And be more with you. It just grew and grew until it hit me that I just I always wanted you around.”
As if to prove his next point, he meets your eyes and doesn’t let go of your gaze. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You purse your lips to hold back the smile growing on your lips. Your heart was pounding, pondering the consequences of the next few words you were about to say.
“Well, if you say that then another truth I have is that I’ve always held back from you. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that.”
“I did.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it.”
“Why though?”
“I couldn’t trust myself around you.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “Have I not made you comfortable enough around me? Have I not been the definition of a poster boy best friend?”
“Exactly. You think I could let you go if I mess up and start kissing you on a whim? Seungkwan, your friends can be full of shit sometimes. Believe me when I say that a lot of times, you’re definitely the hottest guy in the room.”
“Wow, you must love me a whole lot for you to say something like that.”
“What if I do?”
He stills. “Do you really?”
You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re still telling the truth, aren’t we?” But the truth also gives you away. You look down as your smile falters. “Friendship is always such a fragile thing to break. And I don’t think I ever want to lose you.”
“Like I said,” he says while lifting your chin up to meet his eyes. They were glowing, and you realize it reminded you of your own eyes when you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It was as if you two were reflections of one another—the way you two always were without realizing it. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You could do nothing but smile.
And you hear both of your stomachs growl at the same time. You both laugh, loud, full, and deep-bellied, the only way you two do when you’re with each other. There were never any fake laughs if you were together.
You land a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll make you breakfast. Consider it a gift.”
You stood up to leave the bed, and you wait until it clicks in his head. “So you never got me a gift?” The disbelief on his face was almost enough to move you to guilt. But you had another ace up your sleeve.
“Why don’t you get your ass out of bed first and help me make breakfast so I can give you the real gift?”
He huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I’m lucky you’re telling the truth.” You wink and leave him smirking. In wine there is truth, they say, and in truth there is a newfound sense of freedom he can’t wait to share with you.
#RACHELLLLLLL#i missed u#and i missed seungkwan#and i got late to reblogging but in such a bad seungkwan brainrot rn#hence my decision to revisit this fic#and digest ur comments again#bc god i cant believe i wrote this seungkwan#now i want him#HELP#thank u for enjoying this#u deserve to have this dedicated to u my lovely boosadan ✨️#chanranghaeys feedback#chanranghaeys moots
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MASTERLIST IS OUTTTTT!!! 🥳✨️
Ngl, this will be the next major project on my plate and ive honestly been agonizing dreading working on it for months now. I truly hope i do justice to the hype with all the amazing stories that these amazing writers have been cooking up. I'm just as excited as everyone to see what comes out of our collective delulus abt having svt as our coworkers in the ins and outs of corporate life wahahaha THAT’S SHOWBIZ I GUESS
THAT’S SHOWBIZ, BABY! 💼 AN SVT COLLABORATION
Welcome to the high-stakes world of rival medial moguls, The Carat Company and Sebong Corporation. From HR nightmares to boardroom powerplays, the lights are on and the cameras are rolling; our writers are taking you behind the scenes of the industry’s fiercest (and pettiest) workplace battles. Talent Managers Tara (@diamonddaze01) and Kae (@studioeisa) are proud to present: That’s Showbiz, Baby!
[TAG LIST] ✨ Book a conference room now to get exclusive access to every deal closed, memo leaked, and steamy office romance as it drops.
[HR NOTICE] 🔞 Some files in this archive are strictly 18+ and may contain NSFW material. Please review 📊 Key Deliverables and 📝 Meeting minutes for individual content warnings before entering a conference room.
📺 THE CARAT COMPANY.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: routine romance 🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of talent recruiter!seungcheol and freelancer!reader. 📋 Agenda: you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it? 📊 Key Deliverables: humor, romance, pinch of angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food. slowburn -ish, meet ugly, coffee shop romance, feelings realization/denial, seungcheol is a flirty bastard, discussions of freelancing/corporate life.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: Touching Yourself 🤝 Booked by @straylightdream, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and f!reader. 📋 Agenda: After a stressful day on set leaves him wondering if being an actor is really what he wants, he calls you. One phone call leads to both you crossing lines you never imagined you would cross. 📊 Key Deliverables: smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, romance, comfort, angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: depression, anxiety, jeonghan is really going through it, severe stress from a job, alcohol consumption, crying, lots of emotions, mentions menstrual cycles.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: stars in the sky 🤝 Booked by @simpxxstan, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and reader. 📋 Agenda: yoon jeonghan has not a care in the world throughout the day - he’s the prince, it’s his time to reign. a million autographs every day, an unending echo of fanchants, and jeonghan knows he’s the most desired man in the country right now. but when the flashlights dim, the curtains are drawn, and the monsters step out of the dark, there’s only one hand he wants to hold. only one pair of eyes make his heart smile, only one voice lulls him into sleep every night, only one scent he desires to drown in, only one touch that lets him find himself again. 📊 Key Deliverables: co-workers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine trope, angst, smut, light fluff. 📝 Meeting minutes: smut warnings to be added later (mdni!), bickering and verbal banter, no private space, anxiety and panic attacks, online bullying, trolling, breakdown of self-confidence, nightmares, lots of angst really, casual flirting, more warnings to be added later.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Please, Block Me 🤝 Booked by @okiedokrie, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and reader. 📋 Agenda: Joshua Hong, 29, Social Media Manager. Forced to learn whatever meme lingo the kids are saying these days. Got harassed by the Social Media Manager of Queen Quesadilla when he used to work for King Taco; he quit. He works for The Carat Company now, where unfortunately, you followed. 📊 Key Deliverables: TBA. 📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: Typo and Error 🤝 Booked by @gotta-winwin, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and actress!reader. 📋 Agenda: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet… forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, crack, slight angst. 📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), heavy denial of feelings, discussions of fame/film industry.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: Too Far 🤝 Booked by @lovetaroandtaemin, on behalf of Intern!Jun and Secretary!Reader. 📋 Agenda: When your friend suggested letting the new intern in your company's legal department move in with you, you had your doubts. As time went on, though, the two of you grew closer than you ever could have anticipated. The only problem was that you were certain that he didn't see you the same way you saw him. 📊 Key Deliverables: Angst, Fluff, Smut. Roommates to lovers 📝 Meeting minutes: Jun is a loser with jealousy problems, profanity, LOTS of suggestive/NSFW content that Will Be Determined Later, both of these fuckers need to work on their communication skills.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: company benefits 🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of social media intern!junhui and copywriter!reader. 📋 Agenda: you can't really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn't get the memo. 📊 Key Deliverables: smut, romance, angst with a happy ending. 📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food & alcohol consumption, job loss. ex-situationship, forced proximity, so much tension..., nepotism!!!, marketing terms, soonyoung gets his own warning.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Be My Tigress? 🤝 Booked by @svtiddiess on behalf of Marketing Manager!Hoshi and Assistant Manager!Reader. 📋 Agenda: After moving halfway across the world to Korea, you landed a job as an Assistant Manager at Carat Company, a media company known for television production, music management, and digital content creation. Your boss, Soonyoung—though he insists everyone call him Hoshi—turned out to be an absolute whirlwind of chaos. From tiger-themed stationery and tiger-themed office décor to a full-on tiger fursuit, his relentless dedication to his so-called "tiger agenda" has left you questioning your sanity on more than one occasion. (Seriously, what even is a horanghae??) As you adjust to your new life and career, one question keeps nagging at you: how has he not been fired yet? No, really—why hasn't anyone reported this insane man to HR? 📊 Key Deliverables: crack, fluff, slightest of angst, smut, office romance. 📝 Meeting minutes: Tiger agenda is strong in this one, Hoshi is very unserious (and a diva), unrealistic workplace environment, multiple sex scenes, HR pls don't fire Hoshi.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 9: Beyond the Transcripts 🤝 Booked by @joonsytip, on behalf of CEO!wonwoo and Head of Legal!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you again, as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much. Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours. 📊 Key Deliverables: angst, smut, fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, minor accident.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.

🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 10: Prologue To ??? 🤝 Booked by @chugging-antiseptic-dye, on behalf of HR Manager!Jihoon and Operations Manager!Reader. 📋 Agenda: You did not know HR manager Jihoon. You did not want to know HR manager Jihoon. However when fate throws you and an unconscious body to make his acquaintance, you realize that still water truly holds its depths. And maybe diving in head first was not the best decision. Yet, what else could you do? The show must go on. 📊 Key Deliverables: Horror, Murder Mystery, Paranormal, Psychological Thriller, Suspense, Urban, Angst, Hurt/Comfort. 📝 Meeting minutes: POV Switching, Amnesia, Blood, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Injury, Kidnapping, Morally Grey Characters, Mentions of Death/ Murder, Body Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Nightmares, Substance Abuse, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Coworkers to maybe lovers, Ambiguous Open Ending.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 11: Emails I Can't Send 🤝 Booked by @diamonddaze01, on behalf of Managing Director of HR! Jihoon and Planning and Recruitment Specialist! Reader. 📋 Agenda: Jihoon has always been clear: work is work, and co-workers are co-workers. Boundaries keep things clean. Professional. Predictable. As Managing Director of HR at The Carat Company, that's exactly how he likes it. But when a too-charming, too-bright former Sebong Corp employee joins his team, Jihoon is forced to confront the one boundary he may no longer be able to hold: the one between you and him. 📊 Key Deliverables: humor, fluff, angst with a happy ending. 📝 Meeting minutes: epistolary, suggestive for sure, consumption of alcohol.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
📺 SEBONG CORPORATION.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: An Alluring Score 🤝 Booked by @seoloquent, on behalf of Artists and Repertoire Representative!DK and Conductor!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Willing to risk everything, his career included, Seokmin knew you had to be the one in charge of Sebong Corp’s newest feature film’s score soundtrack. The only issue was, you had no physical proof of experience. Despite the doubts coming from executives, your family, and even yourself, Seokmin resolved to help you prove everyone wrong, and showcase your alluring score to the world. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, humor, slight angst, strangers to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: seokmin has a slight issue with boundaries (could be a little annoying), depictions of misogyny, grief, mentions of death (not important character), inaccurate representation of film industry (I did as much research as I could!).
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: LoserBoy vs. HaterGirl 🤝 Booked by @gyubakeries, on behalf of Social Media Intern!Mingyu and IT Specialist!Reader. 📋 Agenda: When Kim Mingyu, the new addition to the Social Media department of Sebong Corp. shows up at your office, requesting you to feature in one of the 'promotional tiktoks' he's been assigned to film, you tell yourself that it'll be your last interaction with the puppy-faced, hyper-energetic intern. A few months, twenty tiktoks, and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar, you can't quite remember exactly why you had wanted to stay away from him in the first place. 📊 Key Deliverables: comedy, romance, light angst, one-sided enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, pining, a dash of slowburn. 📝 Meeting minutes: sexual content, mingyu being a teensy bit annoying, a lot of obliviousness.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: HR Meets Heart 🤝 Booked by @soo0hee, on behalf of HR Manager!Minghao and afab!reader. 📋 Agenda: When you didn't get the promotion you were licking your fingers for, you weren't at all amused. When it was the one person you were sure was out for your every last nerve to get said promotion, you were even less amused. Now stuck with a new boss you loathed you were sure you'd go insane — but what if it's in a different way then you thought.... 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, enemies to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: suggestive, language, alcohol.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Mr. Boo: Coffee, Campaigns, and Confessions 🤝 Booked by @smiley-pansy, on behalf of Marketing Manager!Seungkwan and Brand & Promotions Coordinator!Reader. 📋 Agenda: You and Seungkwan work behind the scenes at Sebong Corporation, a bustling movie production company. When you're assigned to co-lead the marketing campaign for Eclipse Rising—the studio’s most high-profile release yet—your already-close working relationship takes center stage. Through morning coffee runs, chaotic brainstorming sessions, late-night strategy meetings, and a surprisingly sweet team-building retreat, your friendship deepens into something more. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, slight crack, coworkers-to-lovers, (attempt at) comedy. 📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, adorable idiots in love.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: damage control 🤝 Booked by @vampsol, on behalf of and actor!vernon and reader. 📋 Agenda: Hansol Vernon Chwe is one of the most frustrating clients to have on the payroll yet one of the biggest and brightest stars on cable television. He's reckless, carefree, and always dancing to the beat of his own drum. And it is up to you, his new assistant, to hold onto the reigns in time for the press run and upcoming premiere of his hit show's second season. No matter what it takes, or how hard you fall for him in the process. 📊 Key Deliverables: TBA. 📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: homemade dynamite 🤝 Booked by @miniseokminnies, on behalf of actor!vernon and fem!director!reader. 📋 Agenda: Vernon Chwe is a serious actor. That’s how his company, Sebong Corporation, markets him at least. He couldn’t be less interested in that strategy, he’d much rather focus on projects that inspire him. When an email from you, an indie film director that’s been on his radar, comes through his inbox he practically jumps at the opportunity. Trust him on this, okay? It’ll turn out amazing, he’ll make sure of it. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, smut, strangers to co workers to lovers. 📝 Meeting minutes: Vernon causing problems for his boss, deeply inappropriate use of a lake, semi public sex, angst if you squint, feelings of being lost.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Entertaining Pleasures 🤝 Booked by @bitchlessdino, on behalf of Entertainment CEO!Chan and afab!TV Producer!Reader. 📋 Agenda: Chan didn't think he had what it takes and motivation to be a CEO when he rather be the one on stage. It wasn't until he met the most obnoxious TV producer he's ever met that he was committed to being the best goddamn Entertainment CEO they and Carat Company has ever seen. 📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, comedy, smut, enemies to fwbs, fwb to ??? 📝 Meeting minutes: cocky!chan, undermining!reader, poor use of filming/modeling sets and their equipment, lowkey exhibitionism.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: On Your Side 🤝 Booked by @chanranghaeys, on behalf of ceo!lee chan and cfo!fem!reader. 📋 Agenda: Being seatmates with Chan for your senior year back in arts high school changed your life forever. Being estranged and distant friends with Dino, celebrated idol-slash-actor, messed with your head—and your heart. Being the Chief Financial Officer and right hand of Sebong Corporation’s newest CEO, Mr. Lee Chan turned you both into people that barely knew each other. But would you both be willing to stick it through to the end, claiming to be on each other’s side? 📊 Key Deliverables: high school friends to estranged friends to office colleagues to enemies to ??? 📝 Meeting minutes: puppy love and high school crushes, borderline office romance, mutual pining but they’re adamant to antagonize each other.
Read the teaser here. Read the full fic here.
Once again, sign up for the tag list to get tagged for teasers and fic drops. See you in office!
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Commenting fanfiction is the easiest thing in the world once you start doing it.
#yes yes a thousand times yes#yes i come back to reblog such things#and i know i should do better when it comes to this so this serves as a reminder for me as well!
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this love shit sucks! 🎤 chan x reader.
(although he does say, "if we’re still single at thirty…" and doesn’t finish the sentence.) ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 pare ko, eraserheads
includes: friendship, romance; mentions of alcohol consumption, drinking buddy!chan, idiots in love, feelings realization/denial
Cocktail Recipe: The One You Call After Midnight
Ingredients:
1 overflowing cup of shared McDonald's fries (cold, soggy, mysteriously comforting, eaten out of the same crumpled paper bag like you're two raccoons in love denial)
2 and a half shots of bottom-shelf tequila (regret optional, bonding inevitable, courage-enhancing in small doses)
1 splash of "remember that time?" nostalgia, aged to perfection
3 heaping tablespoons of mutual exasperation with dating apps and the people who say "I love hiking" unironically
5 a.m. pancake runs (substitute with waffles during emotional emergencies, or hash browns when one of you is "definitely not crying")
A generous dash of your laugh when he's tipsy and trying to flirt with the bartender (badly, tragically, like watching a puppy chase a car)
1 cracked phone screen from a drunken fall, both of you insisting "it still works!" as you use it to take blurry selfies
4.5 late-night heart-to-hearts, stirred, not shaken, spilling over with half-truths and quiet hopes
Half a teaspoon of lingering eye contact that lingers too long to be innocent
A pinch of jealousy when he hears about your date with that guy who wears too much cologne and keeps calling you "babe"
One whole hoodie you "forgot" to return, now infused with your perfume and his growing confusion
1 emergency Uber ride where you fell asleep on his shoulder and he didn’t wake you
A fistful of inside jokes nobody else understands
A drizzle of the way he says your name when he's tipsy and a little too honest
Instructions:
In a dimly lit dive bar, begin with two and a half shots of tequila. Let the burn fuel a flurry of increasingly unhinged stories about failed Bumble dates, including the time you matched with someone who brought their mother to the first date. Laugh until your sides ache and your cheeks hurt, and then laugh some more when he accidentally spills salt all over his lap.
Fold in the McDonald's fries, ideally consumed while sitting on a questionable curb somewhere, his jacket over your shoulders, your eyeliner smudged but your sarcasm sharp as ever. Bonus points if someone honks at you and he flips them off in your honor.
Add the pancake run. This is not just food—this is sacred ritual. Let the syrupy comfort of carbs at ungodly hours soften the sarcasm into something suspiciously affectionate. Watch him butter your pancakes without asking. Pretend not to notice.
Slowly mix in mutual venting over dating apps. Grind in just enough existential dread to bond over, but not so much that you both give up and start a cult. (Although he does say, "If we’re still single at thirty..." and doesn’t finish the sentence.)
Pour in the eye contact. Let it simmer. Make it weird. Let it stretch one second longer than friendly. (He'll notice. You both will. You'll pretend not to.)
Sprinkle in the laughter that always bubbles up when one of you tries to flirt with someone else and fails miserably. Stir gently until the moment turns from teasing to strangely quiet. Add a drop of "I didn’t like seeing you with him" and swirl it around, but don’t speak it out loud.
Let sit overnight. Preferably on his couch, under a shared blanket that neither of you acknowledge. Feet brushing. Breaths syncing. You pretending to be asleep when he tucks a pillow under your head, his fingers brushing your hair for just a second too long.
Reheat the whole mixture the next morning over texts that begin with: "U alive?" and evolve into memes, in-jokes, and that picture of you both with fry grease on your cheeks. Serve alongside a hoodie that you definitely stole on purpose and are wearing as you text him back.
Optional garnish: One cracked phone screen, a symbol of the chaos you both embody. Neither of you has it together, but the fractures make it easier to see each other clearly. The love slips in through the cracks, doesn't it?
Finally, pour everything into a tall glass rimmed with realization and just a hint of fear. Drink slowly. Sip cautiously. Let the flavors settle as he watches you, mid-laugh, bathed in streetlight and absurdity, and thinks: God, I am so fucked.
Serving suggestion: Best enjoyed when you least expect it—possibly during a shared hangover on his couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells like comfort, old fries, and something that might just be love in disguise. May pair well with strong coffee, scrambled eggs, and the possibility of something more.
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
#ang saket?#gago ang sakit.#lee chan...........#this trope.........#kae clocked me so hard#reeling over a certain loss and this just make it hit home#bro this is so accurate for a lee chan character#i need 5 working days precisely to process this further#but all i know right now is pain and hurt and tears#IT SHOULDNT HURT THIS MUCH REALLY IT CAN BE CUTE IF U SQUINT#this just me in my feelings lemme simmer in it#lecheng pagibig to talaga haha#chanranghaeys reblog
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Dark Gospel (c.hs)
PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader
SUMMARY: After experiencing what you’re sure is a possession, you try to help Vernon get his old self back. Except - Vernon doesn’t want his old self back and you’re not sure you hate the new Vernon either.
WC: 12,779
AU: Supernatural, Thriller, It’s Complicated to Lovers
GENRE: Smut, A Little Angst
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Light discussions of morality - Vernon has killed people and reader struggles with the fact that she doesn’t care more than she struggles with him having done that, a handful of silly rituals, lots of talk about spiritual possession, mentions of death, brief but nondescript mentions of violence, some philosophizing, me making a Protestant minister an asshole - sorry, this is not a read on Protestants, it just made sense for the plot, Vernon being a lil scary at times and pretty unsettling, Vernon is a little obsessive but specifically in a I Will Do Whatever You Want I’m A Scary Puppy way, explicit language, sexually explicit content including vaginal fingering, nipple play, a lot of spit and biting, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, cum eating, multiple orgasms, light breath play/choking. Tbh these two are just… kind of obsessed with one another probably in what would eventually be co-dependant but is not represented here. Also, parts of this are definitely blasphemous like - during the smut scene there’s a lot of religious terms used for description etc. etc so if that bothers you, that’s there. I would classify both of these characters as morally grey, in the grand scheme of things.
A/N: This is the second half of Hello, Darling, despite me swearing I would not write a part II. It is Vernon and the new SVT teaser’s fault. I highly recommend reading the first part of this - I wouldn’t say it can’t be read as a standalone, but it makes more sense with the context of the first fic.
A/N 2: Thank you @daechwitatamic for beta-reading and calling Vernon Spooky Puppy approximately 15 times.
MASTERLIST | ASK | ▷NOW PLAYING: ASCENSIONISM BY SLEEP TOKEN | READ PREQUEL
WHO MADE YOU LIKE THIS? WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? SYNAPSES SNAP BACK IN BLISSFUL ANGUISH TELL ME YOU MET ME IN PAST LIVES, PAST LIE PAST WHAT MIGHT BE EATING ME FROM THE INSIDE, DARLING
SALT BURNS YOUR NOSE. You grimace, realizing you’ve knocked over a candle, the grains of salt charring as the flame nearly goes out. You fix the candle, thankful that salt isn’t flammable. Had it been, the entire circle of salt would have gone up in flames, taking the dilapidated building and everyone inside.
Thankfully, there are only two people inside the building. The term people is a bit generous. You’re certainly human, all flesh and bone, mortal to the very soul. The man occupying the center of the circle, on the other hand, you’re not really sure about.
You glance at Vernon. He’s staring at you the same way he always does, dark eyes like twin flames. He does that a lot now, watching you more intensely than you can ever recall in your years of friendship. You quickly avert your eyes, fighting the shiver that threatens to slither through you.
From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth twitch. Of course he notices the way he affects you. He notices everything about you - swears that he always has, but isn’t afraid to be more obvious now. You’re not sure the validity of that statement, but Vernon seems to enjoy the effect he has on you, and he’s not shy to tell you so.
For now, he keeps it to himself. You’re grateful, standing and walking the circle of salt to make sure it’s intact while you try not to think about all the other times you’ve salted around him. This is your fourth attempt this month, and though you know Vernon can’t cross the salt, it doesn’t seem to do anything else but serve as a messy - and expensive - sort of cage.
Prior to that, your experience with salt and Vernon had been at his apartment that night a few weeks ago when the strange murders in your town had all started to make sense - it had been Vernon eliminating the town of its adulterers. Vernon has agreed to stop that for now, and though most people might not believe the recent college student turned serial killer, you do believe him.
The only thing Vernon seems unequivocally dedicated to these days is you and fulfilling your every demand.
Which is how he ended up in a salt circle now for what must be the eighth ritual you have put him through in a matter of weeks.
Dusting your hands off, you observe your work. You’ve tried salt circles and candles a few times - it had been what you used the night of Vernon’s possession after all - but you’ve tweaked the ritual each time.
Each time is unsuccessful.
Vernon watches you with hungry eyes, leaning back on his palms. His legs are crossed casually, entirely at ease. The only part of him that appears dialed in is his eyes, tracking your every movement, a predator tuned in to its prey.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, turning to your backpack on the floor.
“Like what?”
“You know like what.”
“Like I want to taste you again?” Your stomach flips and your grip tightens on the notebook you pull from your bag. “Fine, I will try not to look at you like that. Proceed with your little ritual.”
“You agreed to it, you know?”
“Like I said.” He sighs, rolling his head back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. “Your wish is my command. And it’s not going to work - I’m just me. Nothing to get rid of.”
“Well ‘just you’ can’t cross a line of salt, the lights flicker when you get mad, and you make dogs and cats go berzerk. So that can’t be true.”
“It’s my new salt allergy. Maybe it’s you the animals don’t like, hmm?”
“Vernon.”
He’s grinning at you when you look at him, that ravenous gaze just as present on his face. “It’s a joke, Love. Feel free to laugh at your convenience.”
Love. Not Lovecraft, like he used to call you, but something new and with weight to it, something intimate, said with a velvet purr that makes your hands sweat. Not darling like the spirit that had - and still might be - possessing him.
You think he is still possessing him, anway. Vernon insists that it’s just him with a new edge, forever changed by that night on Halloween. You cannot imagine it’s just Vernon and not the spirit of the murderer Thomas inside of him. Why else would Vernon have killed those people? Why else would he not be able to cross salt? Why else would strange things happen around him, like flickering lights and eerie feelings?
The way he looks at you makes you want to implode. He watches you with a new sharpness now, desire written all over his face at all times. He’s looking at you like that now, gaze half-lidded and heady. You ignore him in favor of scanning your scrawled script on the paper, memorizing the words you’re supposed to chant. You nod and toss the journal back onto your bag, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans before standing in front of the circle.
Vernon cocks his head up to gaze at you. He looks beautiful like this, his long, silky lashes framing his dark eyes. His face is flickering in shadow from the candles, equal parts demon and angel. Again, you fight the urge to shiver. Instead, you begin walking clockwise, careful not to break the line of salt.
Voice wavering, you whisper, “By salt of earth and flame of will, I break your hold, I bind, I still.”
A chill seeps into the room. You do shiver this time, not from Vernon watching you, but because of the drop in temperature. The kind that feels like breath on the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out on your arms as you go. Upon a complete rotation, you continue the chant but lean down to extinguish a candle each time you reach it, not daring to look at Vernon each time you bend down to blow on it gently. You swear the shadows stretch just a little longer every time the flame dies, curling like fingers at the edge of your vision.
When you reach the final candle, you risk a glance upward. You’re right in front of him, the orange light reflected in his glassy eyes. He gives you a small smirk, and looks at the candle, as though he’s daring you to blow it out. With a deep breath, you do, bathing the two of you in darkness. For a moment, it’s too quiet.
Moonlight filters through a dirty window on the other side of the room. It turns Vernon into an eerie shadow, nearly blue in the pale light. You hold your breath, watching him as he remains in the center of the salt, unmoving. His outline flickers faintly, like an old film reel catching on something sharp. You can sense he’s still watching you, unnaturally still but just as severe as always. Somewhere behind his eyes, something ancient stares back.
“Well?” You whisper, too afraid to raise your voice. “Are you feeling different?”
“I feel the same as I did early, which means I still want to eat you out. So not really.”
You deflate, sitting down abruptly on the ground.
“Tough crowd. I thought that would excite you.”
“Shut up, Vernon!”
He obeys. As sharp-tongued and wicked of mind this new version of Vernon is, he listens to you.
Usually.
Silence falls on you as you sit with your elbows propped on your knees, heels of your palms pressed into your eyes. The force of it makes colors explode behind squeezed shut lids. It feels like nothing is going to work, despite making your entire academic career into occult studies with the intention of applying it to understanding modern culture and shaping psychological theories and studies on human behavior.
For the last few weeks, you’ve spent it going back through all your lessons thus far to take theory and make it applicable. To pilfer through all of your countless books, exams and papers on rituals, culture, and occult through the ages to find something that would work. To find something to explain why Vernon is both Vernon and Not Vernon - anything to convince you that you can reverse whatever this is.
Do you want to?
The voice comes to you unbidden, a tiny part of you doubting exactly what you’re doing here.
Vernon’s voice is soft when he murmurs, “You’ll find something else to try.”
Your hands drop from your face and you stare at him. He looks like an ancient thing, sitting in the dark, but his face is so soft that you fight the urge to crawl over to him and into his lap. You know he would let you - would love if you gave in and did it. His every moment, every look, every word is borderline begging you to touch him, to close the distance between you, to have him again.
“Do you even want me to keep trying?” You ask, exasperated.
He shrugs. “You want to keep trying.”
“What do you want, though?”
“You.”
Your fists close. Open. Close again. “Vernon.”
“You asked me what I wanted. The answer is the same, no matter how much it annoys you.”
“Don’t you want me to solve this? Don’t you want me to find out what happened to you?”
His voice is low when he says, “I already told you, there’s nothing to solve. But if you want to keep trying, then I will. I don’t really care about the rest.” Silence falls between you once more. He sighs, shifting to stand. “Will you let me out of my cage?”
“I don’t know. Are you going to hurt anyone?”
“I told you I wouldn’t. Have I broken my promise?”
He hasn’t. You know it, he knows it. The memory of his promise comes back to you as easily as if it were yesterday: you in his kitchen, chest heaving when you realized he couldn’t cross the salt line. Vernon, trying to lure you back toward him, voice soft. You, screaming that he had killed people, that he was a murderer and not your Vernon.
Since then, he’s assured you if it bothers you that much, he won’t do it. That had, of course, been after he’d lectured you and vehemently assured you that they deserved it, the vitriol coming out of his mouth and the violence he used in his words enough to make you cower against his living room couch, knees tucked into your chest.
That had made him shut up. He’d approached you carefully, hands out like you were going to run. And maybe you should have, but it was Vernon, and you love him, and you weren’t totally convinced any of it was real. So you let him coax you back to calm levels, his voice soft and sweet as he promised you he wouldn’t do anything without asking you. That he’d do whatever you wanted.
He had promised, and he’s lived up to that so far, even if you can tell it chafes him to do so.
Standing, you kick the line of salt, breaking it. He gives you an appreciative hum, stepping through the gap and stretching his limbs. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and t-shirt, the hem riding up to reveal a small flash of smooth stomach. You avert your eyes, shifting from foot-to-foot.
“Hungry?” He asks.
“I guess.”
“Sal’s?”
You nod and follow him out of the room. You’d picked an abandoned house to do this in, hoping that if anything went wrong or you unleashed something worse, that at least it was just you and no one else for miles.
Gravel crunches beneath your boots. Crickets chirp while a pale moon rises in the sky. Removed from the main town where your college lies, you can see the thousands of stars. You crane your neck upward to look at them, slowing your steps as your eyes trace all the familiar constellations: Orion the Hunter, Canis Major, Draco, Scorpius.
Looking back down, you notice Vernon leaning against his car, watching you over the roof. He’s got that same burning gaze but a hint of a smile, refusing to look away until you’re sliding in the passenger seat and shutting the door. When he gets in, he pauses to look at you again.
“What?” You ask into the silence, staring straight ahead.
“You’re beautiful when you’re not afraid of me.”
You frown. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He hums and starts the car. “I wish that were true, Love.”
-
Music pulses loud enough to vibrate your ribs. You hate coming to clubs - especially shitty ones in college towns that don’t really have a bottle section but sort of do, with bottle girls who are all in your English classes and who pretend not to know you when they bring another bottle of champagne to your section.
Chan does not need another bottle of champagne. No one does, really. Vernon’s fraternity brothers are falling over themselves, coaxing girls into their laps to secure one to go home with for the night or sinking heavily into the booth, becoming one with the leather.
One of the boys you don’t know crashes down into the seat next to you. You flinch and he flashes you an apologetic smile, his pupils blown and his goofy grin all you need to know that he’s fucked up. You scoot away from him a little, offering a cautious smile that you hope says I’m awkward don’t talk to me.
Even if he could read, he can’t read body language. He leans over and yells, “You know Chan?”
“Yes. Sort of friends.”
“Nice! We go waaaaaaay back.”
“Cool.”
“So, Sort Of friend. Are you sort of single?”
Thankfully, you don’t have to answer. It feels like the temperature plummets. One second, it’s just you and the nameless friend of Chan’s. The next, Vernon is crouching down on his knees in front of the dude, his eyes fathomless as he levels a stare at him.
“She’s not available.”
“Woah dude. Chill.”
The air shifts. Vernon needs to say nothing more. Lights flash behind Vernon, painting him in violent colors of red and blue and pink. The shadows under his eyes are darker than ever and you feel a tingle go up your spine, though you’re not sure it’s explicitly fear.
When Vernon smiles, you’re reminded of something uncanny, like you’re looking into a void you shouldn’t be. That does scare you, but it scares the guy next to you more, who jumps to his feet and tries to bolt from the booth. He trips as he does, toppling over and slamming into the table in the middle, sending buckets of ice and bottles exploding in several directions.
Everyone jumps up, trying to avoid the carnage, screaming at the guy as he flails in his own destruction. Vernon slides into the seat next to you, back to normal. Nothing in his face indicates the malice that was there seconds ago, easing back into his quiet demeanor within seconds.
“What was that?” You hiss, though you don’t exactly mind.
“That,” he emphasizes, giving you a meaningful look, “was me showing restraint like you’ve asked.”
“What, you were going to murder him?”
Vernon blinks and without missing a beat says, “Wanted to and was going to are different. I told you I would do whatever you wanted me to.” His face hardens. “I meant what I said.”
You lean back, entirely unsure what kind of creature you had dedicated to your every whim.
-
Vernon is pounding on the door. He’s screaming, earth-shattering, heart-stopping screaming. His fists slam against the door with such force that it groans against its frame, hinges shrieking. You scream his name back, bloody fingers scraping against the splintered wood of the door, clawing at it, trying to tear it open, trying to get him out.
The door doesn’t budge. There’s no doorknob. No keyhole. Just a dead piece of wood, locked and unmoving like it was never made to be opened.
Vernon has never screamed like this, never sounded so afraid never-
The door opens with a soft, sickening creak.
Vernon stands there, framed in the dark, unmoving. The shadows cling to him like they’ve grown fond of his shape. You can’t see his face clearly, only the light of his eyes, too still, too glossy. Your chest tightens as you watch him and he watches you, something ancient staring back.
“Vernon?” Your voice shakes.
When he smiles, it’s slow. Too wide. Too many teeth. Rows and rows of them, glistening sharp, stretching too far.
When he leaps, you scream-
You wake up screaming, thrashing your arms as your sheets tangle in your limbs. You finally get them off, falling out of your bed to your hands and knees as you gulp down fresh air. You scramble away from your bed, eager to get away from the claws of your dream, shivering and sweaty and terrified.
In the middle of your room, you sit. You try to catch your breath, staring at the bed where your sheets and pillows have been thrown around during your nightmare. The only source of light in the room is through your window. The moon paints your room silver, the glass open to let in the almost-winter breeze.
On your nightstand, your phone begins to buzz. You stare at it, watching it flash on. You can’t see who's calling, but you don’t move, still frozen in fear. The call goes to voicemail and the phone turns off, dark once more. It’s only a second before it lights up again, a new call coming through.
Gulping, you crawl toward your nightstand, hesitant to come near your bed. Getting up on your knees, you see that it’s Vernon’s name flashing across your screen. You hesitate for a moment, thinking of the rows and rows of teeth from your dream.
He starts calling a third time and you answer it, hand shaking when you bring it up to your ear. “Hello?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I had a weird feeling.”
“Weird how?”
“I don’t know. Are you okay?” You hesitate and you hear him moving on the other side of the phone. “Love?”
“I had a bad dream.”
“I’ll come over.”
“No!” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You feel his trepidation on the other side of the phone. Your hands squeeze your device, knuckles popping. “I mean - can I come there?”
His surprise is just as palpable as yours. “I mean, yeah. Can I come get you?”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to stay on the phone while I drive?”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
The line goes dead and you stare at your empty bed. You don’t know why you asked to go there. Don’t know why it was the first thing you thought of. Don’t know why or how Vernon knew anything was wrong. What you do know is that you’ve been having nightmares almost every night in your bed, and trying to coax yourself back into the fluffy sheets feels insurmountable.
Instead, you slowly get up and grab a few things for Vernon’s. You don’t know what you need. You don’t know if you’re staying. All you know is that you don’t want to be in your bed, where the nightmares come, and that the last time you were in his bed, you felt safe.
And then shortly discovered that he was harboring - or had harbored, if you ask him - an entity somewhere inside him.
Still, Vernon’s apartment is where he’d touched you for the first time, where he had pulled you apart and pried his name from your lips like no one ever had. Where he had pressed his mouth on every part of you, promising that you were his, that you were only his, that he would do anything you asked of him, that he was devoted to you.
Light splashes across your face when he texts you that he’s downstairs. You grab your phone and keys, and a single charger as you do.
Downstairs, Vernon is out of the car and around the hood, hands reaching out to you. You slow your steps but you let him take you by the shoulders, ducking his head so his dark eyes can scan your face. You hold your breath as he does, eyes darting from his intense examination to his lips, where you imagine rows and rows of teeth.
“You look tired,” he murmurs.
“I’ve been having a lot of nightmares.”
He hesitates. “Of me?” It sounds like he already knows the answer, but you nod anyway. He tongues the inside of his cheek and for a second, you think he’s annoyed. You start to bristle, but he softens and nods, dropping his hands to your wrist where he gives you a squeeze. “Come on.”
Despite everything, you follow him. You let him open the door to his car and put you inside, closing the door gently behind you. You let him put the car in gear, his hand reaching across the center console, hovering above your thigh. You stare at his hand for a few long moments, watching it waver.
You want him to touch you. You don’t want to acknowledge what it means that you want him to touch you, despite everything.
You give him a tiny, barely-there nod. His hand drops down softly on your thigh, giving you a gentle squeeze. Goosebumps break out across your skin and your eyelashes flutter, immediately at ease. He starts to drive, the sound of the tires against the road and the engine lulling you into a sense of calm.
Settling against the headrest, you let your eyes close. You don’t want to think about anything but the heat of his fingers on your skin, his thumb brushing back and forth, featherlight and loving. Later, you can think about what it means that you’re here with him. Later you can regret what you’re doing.
Vernon’s apartment appears against a black sky. It looks no different than the last time you were here. He stops in the parking lot and holds a hand out to you. His face is soft, but his eyes are sharp as always. Carefully, you slip your hand into his. It’s warm and firm, wrapping around yours and tugging you gently toward the stairs, keeping you moving even when your trepidation grows and your steps get heavier.
His neighbor's doormat catches your eye. Come in, it says. You stare at it long enough that he notices, turning over his shoulder to glance at it and ask, “What? No joke about vampires this time?”
“Last time I didn’t think they were real.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know what’s real.”
He hums noncommittal as he works the lock with his keys.
Inside of Vernon’s apartment smells like him. You feel a sense of relief, breathing in the smell of bergamot and vetiver, unsure if you had expected sulfur and something rotting. It looks normal as ever inside. Vernon’s home looks lived in, tidy but with pairs of shoes by the door, a blanket thrown across the arm of the couch and a few video game controllers on the coffee table.
Vernon toes off his shoes before drifting toward his bedroom. The doorway is a gaping hole of darkness and you feel yourself hesitate before calming yourself and following him, too nervous to linger alone.
He switches on a salt lamp and soft, orange light fills the room. It helps put you at ease. You drop your stuff on his dresser, phone, charger and keys. You don’t know what else to do, turning to look at Vernon as he pulls the blankets back and sits on the bed, swinging his feet in.
“Gonna stand there?” He asks, grabbing pillows and shoving them against the headboard. He leans back on them, draping his arm across the tops. “Come here.”
“I didn’t come here to sleep with you.” He narrows his eyes. “I meant like sex. I didn’t come here to have sex with you.”
“I know. You came here for comfort.”
Well, yes. You feel hot all over, flushed head to toe with embarrassment. For once, he doesn’t prod you about it, watching you patiently as you scramble over to the other side of the bed and climb in. His sheets are soft and warm as ever, mattress sinking as you slide over next to him.
Before you can get too close, you freeze up. You don’t know where you stand, suddenly. A few weeks ago, he was just Vernon, your best friend. Sure you’d been in love with him and he hadn’t known, but now he does know. And circumstances have changed since the admission of feelings. You haven’t been this close in weeks and-
Vernon wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you to him. You make a small sound of surprise and he laughs, low and deep in his throat. The sound scratches something inside of you, making your toes curl as you stiffen for a split second while he melds you to his side.
Then you melt. He’s warm and smells like he always has, his arm tethering you to him. Tentatively, you rest your head on his shoulder. He shuffles a little so that your head fits perfectly in the crook of his neck, comfortable. You’re pressed close to his side, your hands pulling nervously at the strings of your hoodie.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” His question rumbles through you where you’re leaning against him. His voice is deep and soft, a lullaby. Your eyes flutter and you shake your head. “I would never hurt you. Ever. I know you’re afraid of me but… you don’t have to be.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
You chew your bottom lip. “I’m afraid of me.”
“Explain.”
Vernon is patient. Even this new version of him lets you find your words without pushing you to go faster. You think of how to explain, starting with halting sentences. “You’ve killed people.”
“Three, specifically.”
“Does that bother you?”
He doesn’t answer for a second. “They weren’t very good people.”
“Cheating is bad, but killing them?”
“Ah,” Vernon chuckles without humor. “I think I understand now. Would it make you feel better if I told you all of the bad things they did? Would it change anything to know they weren’t just guilty of adultery?” You don’t answer. “You don’t like that I killed people but what you’re having trouble with is the fact that you want to overlook it and you don’t like how that feels.”
As always, Vernon is on the nose with his guess. He’s always been able to pin down how you feel quickly, and it both relieves you and terrifies you to know that hasn’t changed. Killing people is wrong. You know that. But it’s how unbothered you are that sticks with you, this inability to figure out why there’s a desire to rationalize it, to let Vernon convince you his actions were justified.
“You have an excuse,” you mumble. “You’re possessed by some sort of murderer.”
“I am not.
“I’m just… me.”
“People are complex. Wrestling with your own morality is natural. But I advise you not to let it drive you crazy.”
You snort.
“What?”
“Getting advice from someone who is possessed-”
“-Again, it’s just me-”
“Is kind of silly.”
“Then stop listening to my advice and go to bed, Love.”
It’s the final piece you let him give you for the night, nodding and letting your eyes fall closed. The steady rhythm of Vernon’s heart lulls you into a trance until you’re drifting to sleep with the smell of bergamot and vetiver and no nightmares to plague you.
-
“Why don’t you add salt to your fries, hmmm?”
Veron looks up at you, deadpan. You give him a plasticky grin, grabbing the red pepper to shake over your pizza slices. As he has for the last few weeks, Vernon avoids the salt on his fries. Still likes them just as much as before, but can’t seem to tolerate more than the standard level of seasoned they come.
Cool breeze slithers down your back when someone walks in behind you. Your booth is right by the door, giving you an icy blast everytime a new patron comes in. Vernon already made you give him the side closest to the door, but you’d managed to keep him from demanding the hostess move you somewhere else.
A group of men sit down behind you in the booth. They sit down hard, making the back of your seat lurch forward. You swear, turning to look at them over the shoulder as they spread out like they’re lounging at home all over the table and seat.
Above you, the lights flicker. A low hum rides the air, barely audible, like static through bone. You whip your head around to look at Vernon. His gaze has turned to steel, unblinking and far too still. His fist tightens around his fork until the metal groans, knuckles leached of color. The air feels charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. You whisper his name but the flickering lights continue, drawing the attention of several patrons, all of them craning their neck upwards.
A bulb pops at the table behind you. The men yell in surprise, causing the booth to rock. Your hand shoots out across the table, grabbing Vernon’s hand and squeezing. Immediately, the electrical anomaly stops and his gaze shifts to you, going soft at the edges.
“Are you okay?” You ask, soft.
“Are you?”
“Yes, Vernon. You can’t go all Paranormal Activity every time someone annoys me.”
He frowns at that. “Says who?”
“Says me. Please.”
He sighs and lets his head thunk against the back of the booth. “Fine. I will add it to the list of don’ts, right alongside murder.”
“Ugh.” You let go of his hand and steal a fry. “Enough complaining about the murder rule, Vernon.”
-
Cracking your neck, you look down at the notes scribbled in front of you. Your writing is scrawled and going off the lines in your notebook, getting messier the further down the page you get. You drop the pen, flexing your fingers to try and get some feeling back into them. You’ve been taking notes for hours, your note-taking starting off neat and with organization before devolving into a messy script you can barely read.
Stacks of books sit in front of you. Most are from your own collection, but there are a handful that come from the basement level of the library in plastic covers to protect the integrity of the book, yellowed at the edges and a little more than grimey.
Leaning back in your seat, your spine cracks. You sigh in relief, stiff from spending hours leaned over the table. You’d commandeered a table bigger than you need, spreading yourself out - much to the annoyance and heavy side-eye of everyone else in the library - taking up as much room as possible so no one else would sit next to you.
Several of the boys behind you have already tried to smooth talk their way into the seat. Normally you might let them, but the last thing you need is for them to look over your shoulder and see you’re researching the history of possession and demonology.
Also, you don’t want to give them your phone number, no matter how many times they ask.
A backpack lands on the table in front of you, making you flinch. You tear off your headphones, ready to bitch out whoever it is when you realize it’s Vernon. You stare at him in surprise, watching him pullout the chair and throw himself into the seat.
“Oh my God,” you gasp. “You cut off your hair.”
“Mhmm.” He runs a hand over his hair. It’s barely longer than a buzz cut, dark and fuzzy and soft. “Like it?”
At first, you don’t say anything. You drag your eyes over him, assessing. Today he’s in a leather jacket over a worn baseball t-shirt, ripped jeans and a beat up pair of converse. It’s a quintessential Vernon outfit, but it looks different now - better, even, with the short hair.
“I do.”
“Good.” He winks at you, making your stomach flip. His eyes drift over your shoulder, spotting something in the library that’s caught his interest. “What did you want to meet about?”
“So, I’ve been doing some research.”
His eyes briefly scan the table, a single brow arching. “You don’t say?”
“Shut up.” You throw a pen at him but there’s no real heat to your words. “I’m wondering if I’m coming at this from the wrong angle.”
His dark eyes are looking over you again, but he says, “Yes. You’re looking at it from the point of view of someone who thinks I’m still possessed. I’m not.”
“No. I’m looking at it like you were possessed by a spirit, but I’m wondering if maybe it was a demon.” He snorts and says nothing. “There are some essays and source materials that believe disgruntled spirits eventually become demonic entities. I’ve been looking up rituals on spiritual banishment and purification, but not demonic - are you listening?”
Vernon’s gaze is burning on something behind you. He doesn’t answer, his eyes narrowed and flickering. You lean forward, throwing the cap of your pen at him. It bounces on the table and joins its body, rolling uselessly to the side.
“Vernon.” His eyes snap back to you. “What is so interesting behind me?”
“Have they been bothering you?” He nods to something behind you.
You twist in your seat, turning to look at the table of boys who had sent over one at a time to try and join you. Only one of them looks in your direction, lifting his head and grinning when he sees you’re looking. Rolling your eyes, you turn back to tell Vernon it’s nothing, but he’s already out of his seat and walking around the table.
Eyes like daggers, he gives them a single annoyed glance before he pulls out the seat next to you and drops into it. He kicks out his foot and hooks the toe of his Converse around the leg, pulling you toward him until your seats clack together and you’re thigh to thigh.
Vetiver and bergamot flood your senses, heavenly and heady.
“What are you-”
“Demonic possession?” He purrs, voice turning to smoke. He leans toward you, laying his arm across the back of your chair. “You were telling me I’m a demon.”
“That’s not - why are you sitting so close?”
“We’ve been closer.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I just like sitting next to you.” He taps the page with his free hand, mouth twitching. “Focus, baby. Tell me what you learned.”
You turn molten at the name of endearment. Baby is new. Catches you off guard. You sputter as you try to reach for your notes, suddenly not remembering what books are where, all of the things you just absorbed from them flowing right out of your head.
Vernon makes it even worse. His fingers start to play with the edge of your t-shirt sleeve, fingers occasionally brushing your arm and sending a pool of warmth blooming across your skin. His nearness is intoxicating, thoughts a little foggy.
“Problem?”
“You’re being a little shit,” you shoot back, huffing. He laughs - loudly - making other people flinch. “Stop flustering me. I know you’re doing it on purpose.”
“But you are flustered?”
“Yes, Vernon. Do you want me to tell you what I found or not?”
His voice is warm when he teases, “I’d rather keep making you squirm.”
“Ugh. I am out of pens to throw at you.”
“Sorry. Proceed. You have my undivided attention, I promise.”
Somehow, you manage to get through your messily written notes and your research. It was hard to compile the research, but you feel like maybe you’re on track with your new theory that Thomas, the spirit who had - in Vernon’s opinion briefly possessed him and in your opinion is still there - hadn’t been a spirit at the time of possession, but rather perhaps a demon.
It’s a working theory that because Thomas was bound to his place of death through violent and unresolved emotion, he not only became a disturbed entity, but was warped by his anger and grief, shifting into something darker. Most research on demons was clear cut that they were creatures from another dimension, but spirits aren’t of this dimension either.
Because everything you’ve tried so far for a spiritual dispelling hasn’t worked, you think perhaps Thomas’s spirit had morphed into something more proto-demonic in nature. There isn’t much to go off of, but the structure for your theory is there, even if made from toothpick-weak data and suppositions.
Vernon listens the entire time. His fingers still trace your arm absently, tracing aimless patterns. When you finish and look at him, he seems thoughtful, dark eyes unfocused. When he looks up at you, his smile is small.
“So what do you want to try this time?”
“Maybe a priest-”
He groans and drops his head back.
You quickly continue, “Just to start, okay? I want to test my theory.”
“I’m not a demon.”
“Well, we don’t really know, do we?”
“We already went to a church.”
You pout and he sighs. “When do you want to go?”
-
White paint peels off the church. It’s an old building with crooked, dry rotted steps outside. It’s a small church with a single steeple. You can see the bells just beyond the window, currently silent as the crickets take up chorus around you.
The sign out front is worn and sunbleached. Trinity Cross Chapel is carved across the front, whatever phrase from the Bible written under it long faded. You’d chosen an old Protestant church to test your hypothesis, partially because it was far on the edge of town where the risk was lower if Vernon turned into a demon, and partially because according to the town registry, it was the oldest church in town.
And well - because Protestants were pretty serious about absolving themselves from sin and that salvation alone could only be reached through Jesus Christ himself. Perhaps if anyone could tell you what was wrong with Vernon, it was Jesus.
“This place is a shithole,” Vernon observes, hands in his pockets.
Alright, perhaps Jesus wouldn’t want to help Vernon. You shoot him a glare and plunge ahead, rocks and dirt crackling beneath your shoes. Vernon follows you at a leisurely place, giving the building a critical eye.
“It’s worse for wear,” you admit, heading to the steps. “But it’s old and largely underfunded because when the college was built, the town moved to be centered around the college and not the church.”
When your foot lands on the first step, it cracks and your foot falls through. You yelp but Vernon’s hands are on your waist immediately, his chest pressed against your back as he steadies you. He’s so close that your heart goes from hammering at the fear of falling to thundering over his proximity.
“Are you okay?” His breath fans your ear where he asks, almost a whisper. You nod, a little out of breath. “Be careful. Let me help.”
Gently, Vernon guides you up the rest of the steps. None of the other ones cave in, though they do creak ominously. You scurry inside of the building, eager to get on more even ground before you plunge through the entryway.
Inside smells like mold and wet carpets. You scrunch up your nose, looking at the faded and stained red shag beneath your shoes. Rows and rows of wooden pews line the church, book-ended with walls of stained glass windows. You peer at the imagery as you walk down the aisle, hands hovering above the pews as you go.
The stained glass is lovely. You imagine during the day it’s stunning, the sun hitting each piece to refract into thousands of colors. You recognize each piece of artwork from your study on Christian religions: The Baptism of Jesus, The Lamb of God, Saint Paul with his sword and book, The Resurrection. Each one is meticulously crafted, dark without the sun to bring them to life.
Each piece makes you think of Vernon. There is a haunted beauty about them that has you looking at him sideways as you walk. He seems unaware, craning his head to look up at the old, cracked rafters of the ceiling.
At the front of the church is the chancel with a lectern front and center. Behind the lectern is a communion table, banners with scriptures fastened to the wall, and some seasonal decor. Vernon walks closely behind you, uncharacteristically silent as you head for a man sitting in the front row, head bowed.
“Minister?”
Your voice brings the man out of his reverie. He’s somewhere in his late forties, hair greying at the edges. He has sharp blue eyes and heavy frown lines, his eyes looking you up and down before drifting to Vernon. His mouth turns down as he stands, adjusting the simple robes he has on.
“This him?”
“Him has a name,” Vernon mutters at the same time you say yes.
“Come with me.”
The minister turns on his heel and marches toward one of the side doors behind the pulpit. You hurry after him, Vernon hot on your heels muttering, “You called ahead?”
“Well yeah… what else was I going to do? Walk in and be like ‘yo is this guy possessed?’”
“Might be possessed.”
“So you admit you might-”
Vernon swears. “Love, that is not what I meant. I can’t give you an inch, huh?”
The back offices of the church are stuffy, full of tepid air and dust. You sneeze and Vernon mutters bless you, his tone sharp. You give him a look and he grins, wicked and sharp. “See?” He whispers. “Bless you.”
“Well don’t stand in the hall,” the minister quips.
“Sorry.”
You rush after him where he holds the door to his office open, Vernon still muttering obscenities under his breath - you’re pretty sure he has called the minister five types of cunt by now. The minister leans away from him when Vernon walks by, partially to be safe and partially because Vernon leers at him. You whisper at him to cut it out, hand shooting out to grab his hand and pull him to sit in the seat next to you.
Rounding the heavy desk, the minister sits down. His desk is full of ledges and books, religious imagery covering the walls. It smells damp and stale, making you scrunch your nose. It distinctly reminds you of your grandma's closet with moth-eaten coats and water stains on the carpet.
“Tell me his ailments.” The minister folds his hands under this chin, watching you with sharp eyes. “Be thorough.”
“I have a name,” Vernon growls.
The look the minister gives him tells you he’s taking mental notes. You clear your throat, leaning forward. You reach your hand over to Vernon, resting it on his knee and squeezing comfortingly. The minister’s eyes don’t miss the motion, narrowing when you leave your hand on Vernon’s leg.
“It started on Halloween,” you explain, recounting the ritual and some of the side effects Vernon has experienced since then. Vernon sits in steely silence, his eyes boring into the minister’s head as you talk. You skip over the murders but imply that Vernon has more violent urges. “I was researching and-”
“Leave the research to the professionals, girl.”
That pulls you up short. “I am a professional, sir. Or - well - I will be. I’m an occult studies major, so this is sort of my expertise but-”
“Occult studies major,” he scoffs. “Nonsense. The only study you need is the word of God. Perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place and reeking of sin.” When he says the word sin, he looks at where you’re touching Vernon. “The ritual is nothing. You could not have summoned anything that wasn’t already there. You are possessed by the sin that poisons-”
“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “The ritual wasn’t exactly formal, but it had all the right materials to summon an entity.”
“You know nothing. You come into a house of God with this nonsense talking about rituals and bells because you read them in a book, as though they’re on par with the Word?”
You open and close your mouth, confused at the turn of events. The minister presses on, “Your paganism is just as much as a sin as drinking in an abandoned house and giving into lust and gluttonous pride and other salacious acts. If you are looking for demons, it is the ones you already carry inside of you and must purge through confession and devotion to Jesus Christ.”
“Wow.” You lean back in the chair. Vernon’s muscles have gone taught in his thigh, his shoulders ridgid and his nails digging into the wooden arms of the chair. “This is not at all what we’re here for. By the way - there is nothing wrong with paganism. I would argue that historically most religions, including branches of Christianity, are full of paganism. You have rituals and-”
The minster sits up straight, slamming a hand on his desk. “The truth of God stands apart from the lies of paganism. What I see here is not a victim of a pagan ritual, but two young adults brimming with sin who should confess their sins to Jesus Christ to absolve-”
“Lies of paganism? You can’t erase where things come from, you know? Religions all borrow from one another- symbols, holidays, whatever. One is not less valid than-”
“Only the Word is valid.”
You bring up a hand, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Look, minister, I came here to help if you could identify demonic energies or symptoms in Vernon. This has turned into a religious lecture, and I’m not arguing with you on the semantics of scripture.”
“I sense deep darkness in both of you. You can’t even speak to me without touching him, full of gluttonous-”
Vernon gets up, interrupting the minister. “We’re going.”
“You should beg for guidance and confess-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Vernon growls, leveling the minister with a stare. He bends down to pull you to your feet, his glare softening slightly when he looks at you. “He’s an idiot. You’re having an academic argument, he’s pissed off because he’s popped a boner under his robe and can’t do anything about it because I’m here.”
“I beg your pardon!”
Vernon crowds you against the side of the chair. He presses in close, ducking his head to press his forehead against yours, nose nudging against you. When he speaks, his voice is velvet-soft and barely a whisper. “And he probably hates that he could never fuck you the way that I do and I know all the little sounds you make.”
It feels like the air has evaporated from the room. Vernon’s eyes are only for you, his pupils dilated, completely trained on your eyes. His breath fans your face, his hands pressing against the small of your back as though he can press you any closer to him.
Dizzy, you try to say his name, acutely aware of the minister yelling at the two of you to get out. Vernon gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before turning to look at the minster, a sneer on his face. He looks more terrifying than you’ve ever seen him, but his grip on you is firm. Warm. Strangely enough, safe.
“She’s ten times the brain that you are. Cunt.”
Vernon’s lip twitches like he’s going to snarl. Instead, he turns and heads toward the door, hand shooting down to yours to tug you along. You stumble after him, unable to find words but wanting to stay close. Your heart hammers, mind spinning from how quickly the situation had spiralled out of control. You’d just wanted the minister to do some sort of demon test and-
“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Vernon admonishes, escorting you out of the church. He’s careful with you down the steps, lifting you by the waist to let you skip the last step entirely. He plants you firmly on the ground. “He was a fanatical dick. Maybe next time we do a new wave church or something.”
“You’re going to let me do a next time?”
His mouth kicks up at the side. “I know you’re not done, Love.”
-
Vernon swings his legs back and forth, watching you rub cleanser into your face. You’ve given up on asking him why he likes to sit in the bathroom while you do your skincare. ‘Cause I like you was always the response, or some similar variation. You don’t mind. It’s endearing, and you’ve wanted to have Vernon like this… well, since forever.
Usually, you use this time to talk your way through things you want to try to help free him from possession - lack thereof, he asserts - but tonight you’re quiet. The water is warm as you splash it onto your face, melting the cleanser away and leaving nothing but blotchy, irritated skin.
You pat dry your face, avoiding looking in the mirror.
“What’s wrong?” Vernon’s question is soft. You look up at him, eyes round. “You’re extra quiet tonight.”
“Oh. Thinking, I guess.”
“About what?”
About everything. Somehow, this has become your new normal. You’re not entirely sure what to make of it, or the fact that it’s been weeks and Vernon genuinely shows no other signs of having an entity inside him. It’s more like he is the entity now.
Before, Vernon had always been a little on the sardonic side. But it had been quiet, his sharp words muttered, not spoken, his irritation silent, not voiced. In a way, it was the same way with his feelings for you. He’d revealed that he’d liked you as more than a friend for years, angry at how much of a coward he’d been and how it had taken motivation to make him say anything.
The Vernon who chose hiding and restraint was now replaced with a Vernon who asserted himself and could barely hold back. It was different. Not bad, different, just different. You liked the old Vernon but… you don’t dislike this Vernon, either. He still has the makings of his normal self, still interested in all the same books and video games, content to lose to Mingyu in Fortnite over and over, the same Vernon who likes movies and music and Sal’s Pizzeria.
Vernon gently taps a knuckle underneath your chin, getting your attention. “Tell me.”
“I was sort of wondering if the minister was right.”
He scoffs. “What?”
“Okay maybe not about the sin and everything but more like… I don’t know.”
Vernon senses your train of thought. “You still don’t like that you don’t care I killed people.”
You wince at his words. They are sharp and real and more honest than you can voice. Unable to find the courage to agree out loud, you nod your head.
Gently, Vernon reaches for you. You let him grab you by the biceps and navigate you so that you’re standing between his knees. He squeezes his legs shut, pining you to the spot, albeit gently. His gaze is soft when he looks down at you, his hands playing with your fingers.
“I can’t tell you how to feel,” he starts. “I can tell you… look, let me tell you what those first three nights were like. And why I don’t think I’m possessed, alright? This is just… me. A little different, but me, okay?”
Chewing your lip, you nod. His gaze falls down to where he plays with your fingers. “I definitely was possessed, that first night on Halloween. I have no idea how Soonyoung managed a ritual that was done right.” You pinch him and he laughs. “Yeah, right. You were sort of the linchpin. In that closet, I… felt taken over, like I was suddenly shoved in a box and flooded with emotions and rage and hate but more than that? Fear.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. Then it got sort of quiet and I felt really disconnected. You left so fast and I didn’t even go after you because it felt like I was grappling with myself and I felt a little lost. When I went home is when the real mess started. I had all these thoughts and memories that weren’t mine, all these feelings and images and knowledge. It was overwhelming.”
“Is that why you avoided me?”
“Yes, but I was also just full of anger. Not just at things that didn’t belong to me, but things that did. A lot of it was at myself for wandering through life never voicing what I wanted or never taking action or just sort of… riding in the backseat, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And having the presence of someone else there was like - fuck it was like being in the backseat again. It made me pissed and I just sort of grappled with the spirit for what felt like days until I woke up and I was just… me. But there are random pieces that belong to him, I think. Like sort of an impression?”
“Is the… murder, one?”
“I don’t really know, Love.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I remember seeing him kill that woman he loved and then himself and my first thought was that I could never do that. I could never kill you. Regardless of what you ever did to me, I vowed that I would do anything for you. But on the other hand, it made me so angry to think anyone could do that to someone they cherished. I would set the world on fucking fire for you - how could others not feel that way when they love someone?”
Love someone. Vernon has never explicitly said that he loved you or was in love with you. He’s implied it - talked about you like he loves you or alluded to it. But now it’s out in the open as he speaks, a full admission that you are someone he loves that he would do anything for you.
“And then I saw those people who weren’t only cheating on people who loved them,” he murmurs. “But they were also terrible people. Like full of such shitty things they’ve done and I just… What if those people ever came across your path? Would they fuck you over? Would they cheat on you?”
Panic grips you. Vernon feels you go rigid in his grip and he looks up at you, realizing what he’s said. He shakes his head quickly, tightening his hands on you. “No - sorry. I didn’t do it because of you, that came out wrong. Please don’t - that isn’t what I meant. It isn’t your fault. I just couldn’t stop thinking about how the world would be better without them so I just… did it.”
“Vernon…”
“I swear to you, it wasn’t for you. It was… for everyone? I don’t know. I cannot stand the thought of fucking scum walking the earth like that, so I did something about it.”
“And then you stopped.”
He looks up at you, a bit sulky. “What you want is more important to me. But my point is… I don’t really know what to do with the fact that I don’t care about what I did either. And even if you don’t care, it doesn’t mean you’re a monster or anything. It just makes you the person I want most in the world, still.”
It’s terrifying, this profession from him. To realize that you have this much power over him, this much sway is overwhelming. Pinned between his knees, your thoughts race with no direction, pulled in so many different ways. This kind of love is everything - and yet it scares you. But if you step away from him now, if you pull away in the slightest, you know it’ll do irreparable damage. That it’ll hurt.
“Can we go to bed?” You whisper, daring a glance at him.
Vernon nods, sliding off the counter. As he does, you shuffle backward, but not far enough to be out of reach. He lifts his hands to your face, cradling it gently and angling you to look at him. “I’m me. A little weirder. A little less refined. But I’m me.”
He’s right. You hear the truth in his words and you realize perhaps that’s why you don’t care about the blood on his hands. Because it is Vernon, and he’s yours. You don’t care because you love him, and you’d do anything for him too. Which is why you’ve spent weeks researching a way to free him - from nothing, you’re starting to suspect - and why you’ve not taken a single opportunity to turn him in.
“You’re you,” you agree softly. He smiles and you stand on the tips of your toes, pressing your mouth to his. He makes a surprised sound but you feel his grin grow wider for a split second before he kisses you back in earnest, soft and slow. “Remember what you said to the minister?”
The question catches him off guard, his lips ghost against yours when you break the kiss. “What?”
“That he can’t fuck me like you do.”
Vernon’s grip on your face turns firm. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes flashing. “I meant it.”
“Do it.”
“Yeah?”
You nod, leaning into him. “Show me.”
“Fucking say less,” Vernon growls, pulling your lips to his again.
This kiss is all-consuming, needy. Vernon’s fingers slide to the sides of your neck, angling you to deepen the kiss. Your pulse hammers against his fingers, mouth sliding along his. His tongue presses against yours, hungry. You meet him with equal fervor, weeks of holding yourself breaking though.
Somehow, Vernon manages to walk you backward. You cling to his arms, careful not to trip over your own feet until you’re falling backward onto his mattress. It smells like him - safe. He reaches behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt and yanking it up and over. Propped on your elbow, you watch him. He throws the shirt and then he’s on you again, pushing you back gently so he can climb on top of you, a knee on either side of your waist.
Vernon’s skin is burning hot. Your fingers trace his lines, making him moan into your mouth as he kisses you furiously again. Your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it, a racing rhythm that backtracks the sound of your heavy breathing when he breaks the kiss to pepper your jaw and neck in warm, wet kisses.
Your lids flutter, stomach flipping when he bites down on your neck harshly, soothing the sting with a rough swipe of his tongue. It feels so good, a slow but steady ache spreading between your thighs as he busies himself with sucking fervently at your collarbone.
Slipping your hands around his tapered waist, you scratch your nails up his back, not hard enough to leave marks but firm enough to make him groan and shiver. You grin, arching up into him as your hands explore the muscled planes of his back.
Your hips squirm, canting up against him seeking friction. He laughs, dragging his mouth from your neck to your lips, mumbling, “Need help?”
“Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not, baby. It’s cute.”
Baby. You whine, hips thrashing and he grins before silencing you with a sweet kiss before reaching down to slide a leg open, replacing the open space between your knees with his thigh. A thrill shoots through you when he brings it up to your core, one of his hands dropping to your ass to help grind you against him.
“Come on,” he urges, licking your jawline. “You know you want to.”
You do. You roll your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along his sweats. It’s not nearly enough friction to do anything significant but it still feels good, turning your body static.
Vernon slides his hands under your shirt, bunching up the material as he slides upward to rid you of it. The room is cool, your skin pebbling and nipples tightening at the temperature. Vernon immediately sends a lick of heat through your, dropping down to capture a nipple in his greedy mouth.
“Shit,” you whisper, eyes closing. It feels so good, his tongue swirling lazily around the bud as you grind against his thigh. “Feels good.”
Teeth scrape against your sensitive skin. You let out a breathy sound, eyes rolling back. You give Vernon control easily, letting him work you up. It’s sweltering between your bodies, his skin warm against yours, the air charged. You can barely breathe, head falling to the side as he lavishes attention to your chest, your little rolls against his thigh desperate.
One of Vernon’s hands slips to your waist, firm and sure. He lifts himself off you and you protest but he hushes you with a quick, hungry kiss. His breath is warm against your cheek when he pulls back, shifting to kneel between your legs on the bed.
His fingers find the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and deliberate. The fabric scrapes against your skin soft-slow, like Vernon is unwrapping something sacred. The cool air hits your skin with equal intensity as his stare, dark and focused. There’s no teasing smirk anymore, replaced with a desire so powerful you start to squirm.
Then he’s on you again, mouth crashing against yours, deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kisses you like he’s trying to become one with you, like he needs to taste every sound and whimper and noise you make. You can hardly keep up before his hand presses between your legs, fingers sliding over the front of your panties, pressing into the heat and slick of your cunt through the fabric.
And fuck it feels good.
One of his hands stays there, circling your clit with firm, steady pressure, rubbing the soaked fabric against you. The other creeps upward, fingertips brushing your chest, your collarbone, until it finds home at your neck. His palm settles there, warm and weighty, and you feel him shift his grip just enough to pin you gently to the mattress. It’s not tight, not rough, just present. Possessive. Perfect.
You thrum beneath him, the room tilting on its axis, slow and dreamline. You feel lightheaded, not just from the stimulation building in your core, but from the soft restraint of his hand around your neck. He’s not squeezing just yet, but the pressure is enough to remind you that it’s Venron in control, a promise of more that sends a thrill through you. If you want it.
You do want it. Your hand stretches up without thinking, shaking fingers curling around his where he grips your throat. You give him a gentle squeeze, a plea. His glaze flicks down to yours, searching. He seems mystified by what he sees there for a moment, swearing before he nods once, barely perceptible, before tightening his grip just enough to send a tingle down your spine. Not too much. Not too tight. Just enough to make your body sing.
Vernon presses his forehead against yours, mouth barely brushing your lips. Your breathing is coming harder now, trying to keep up with the way your body is vibrating at his touch.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice gravelly and reverent. He slips a hand under the waistband of your underwear, fingers hooking the edge to pull the damp fabric aside, revealing the slick warmth underneath. He groans softly at the feel of you against his fingers, sticky. You moan and he curses again. “There it is. You sound so pretty, baby.”
That spurs you on. You make more sounds for him, gasping when his fingers circle your clit properly. Your thighs twitch in response, nearly closing around his hand. He tuts, pressing his mouth against your jaw. “Feel good?”
“Yes,” you whine. His grip tightens a bit more. “Yeah. Yeah like that.”
He pecks your cheek and does as you ask, squeezing the barest hint more.
You start to fray at the edges. You feel yourself coming apart, incapable of doing anything but shaking under his ministrations. Having him touch you like this again is good. You don’t want anything else, happy that you’re here again. You don’t care about the cost, don’t care what it means anymore. It’s just you and Vernon and his hand between your legs, pulling a long, drawn out orgasm that has you trembling quietly in his hold.
When you let out your breath, orgasm subsiding, Vernon moves. He lets go of your throat, the sudden loss bringing the blood back, rushing. The room turns on its axis, your eyes fluttering as he shuffles down the bed, his hands pressing your thighs open.
“Vernon.” His name leaves your mouth, hand shooting to grab him by his short locks when he presses his tongue to you. You can barely breathe, shaking when he slowly licks up your cum, not wasting a drop. “Fuuuuck.”
“Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles against your cunt, tongue lazily licking you in circles. “Missed this so fucking much.”
Vernon’s tongue is addicting. He’s messy with it, closing his lips around your clit to give greedy sucks before dragging his mouth down to prod at your entrance. You shake under the attention of his mouth, barely able to do a thing.
His tongue drags slowly, warm and wet as he licks you at his own lazy pace. You realize this is for him. He savors the way you melt in his mouth, the little sounds you make when his tongue flicks back and forth on your clit, the way you cry when he fucks his tongue into your entrance, nose bumping your clit.
It’s maddening. His tongue traces along your entrance, collecting arousal before curling back up to lap at your clit. It feels like your blood has turned into electricity, your veins the conductors, Vernon’s mouth the source. He hums against you, enjoying this as he gives your cunt sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
“Shit,” you hiss. He’s going to make you come again. You’re not even sure that’s his goal. He seems more focused on tasting you, on drinking you in, on running his tongue around and around on your sensitive flesh.
He hums, looking up at you with a mouth full of pussy. You see the gleam in his eye, see how much he wants this, watch as he grins and puts on a show for you, opening up his mouth and holding his tongue flat to your pussy, letting you roll your hips to fuck his tongue.
Vernon nods, little mumbles of mhmmm as you near your high. He lets you take control, riding his tongue until you’re spasming, thighs squeezing his head. He doesn’t care, tongue moving back and forth, keeping you shaking as long as he can until you’re twitching, pushing at his head.
He comes away, mouth and chin slick, lips swollen. You don’t care, grabbing him and dragging him up to you, surging forward to lick across his lips, tasting yourself. He grins and pins you down to the mattress by your shoulders, content to let you taste as much as you want.
“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Want you.”
He curses. “Say it again.” He leans down to your ear, lips pressed against it when he says, “Say you want me.”
“Want you. Only you.”
“Mhmm.” He licks down your neck, biting down when he reaches the juncture of your shoulder.
Leaning up, Vernon kicks out of his sweats. His hands are reverant when he pulls your underwear down your thighs, fabric scraping against your hypersensitive skin. He dives back in, kissing you as he presses his waist against yours, cock heavy and leaking against your thigh.
You reach down, palming him in your hand. He moans, desperate and breathy, breaking the kiss to drop his head against your shoulder. He’s warm and smooth in your hand. He lets you swipe your thumb across the sensitive head of his cock, hips jerking. You spread his precum down his shaft, hand firm. He fists the sheets, hips twitching forward as you stroke him leisurely.
“Please,” he murmurs, breath fanning your neck. “Please.”
Hearing him ask for it nearly makes you pass out. You drag the crown of his cock through your messy folds, slicking him up. He growls when you do it, pressing his cock down down down until the tip catches your entrance. You moan in tandem, you at the pressure of him pushing in slightly, him at how bad he wants it.
Vernon sinks in slowly. You suck in a sharp breath, overwhelmed from the feeling of his cock pressing you open until there’s nowhere left to go. It feels good as he stills, hip-to-hip with you as you adjust. Your mouths tangle again and you slide your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck, tugging what you can.
He gives an appreciative sound and pulls back slightly just to give a sharp fuck forward. You jostle and break the kiss, gasping, spit linking your mouth. His grin is wicked and he licks into your mouth again, starting to fuck into you slowly.
You start to synapse. You feel on firel, burning up from the inside out as Vernon sets a slow but deep pace, pulling all the way out before he drives all the way back in. He grabs one of your thighs, nails scraping as he pulls it up and fastens it around his waist. It changes the angle, makes everything feel deeper.
Everywhere Vernon touches you leaves a mark. He stains your soul, every press of his mouth a promise of ruination, every brush of his hands speaking prophecy into your skin. You feel him write himself into your scripture with each thrust, every pass of his tongue against yours a prayer.
The minister was wrong. You and Vernon have something holier than he could ever understand, a dark gospel unfolding between your moving bodies that only the two of you know the hymns to. How could it be anything but when you feel closer to God as Vernon grips your leg tight, pulling you down to meet each thrust. What is religion, if not the feeling of his moans buzzing through your lips, bringing you closer to revelation?
“Mine,” Vernon promises against your lips. “Mine.”
“Yours.” Your hand slides from the back of his neck around to his chest, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart is hammering, lungs heaving. “Mine.”
“Only yours.”
“You love me?”
You nod frantically against him.
“I need to hear you say it.”
“I love you.”
And you do. You realize that nothing else matters. You don’t care how fucked up the last few weeks have been. You don’t care that Vernon is something a little more than human, maybe something a little less. You don’t care about anything other than the fact that now he’s here, vulnerable with you - only for you.
He picks up his pace. You feel another orgasm coming, all of your nerves pulsing, near overloaded. “I would rip heaven from the sky if you asked.”
“I know.”
And you do know. You see it - feel it in the desperate way he grabs you, the way he fucks into you, frenzied. You feel yourself light up, an imploding star as you come around him, squeezing. He growls out your name, coming undone with you, thrusts messy and wet as you soak his cock.
Vernon’s mouth finds yours, uncoordinated and messy but greedy, gluttonous, needy. You kiss him with equal fervor, uncaring that your mouth feels bruised and swollen, willing to let him tear you apart just to have some fraction of him with you.
He starts to slow, spent and shaking until he’s hovering over you, trembling. Your hands rub up and down his sides gently, calming him down. He breathes heavily, the only sound trapped between you. You tilt your head to the side, pressing soft kisses against his inner forearm.
Eventually, he pulls out, leaving a wet mess and dull ache between your legs. He doesn’t go far, content to tangle himself up in you, pressed as close as he can. His mouth goes to your shoulder, pressing butterfly-light kisses there.
“If I’m a demon,” Vernon mumbles, voice scratchy from use, “you must be my angel.”
“Yeah?” You roll toward him, lifting your hand to cradle his face. His eyes are soft as ever, watching you. Your thumb brushes back and forth over his cheekbone until his eyes flutter shut and he nods. “So are you saying you’re a demon now?”
His mouth twitches but he shakes your head. “Don’t know what I am. I’m just yours.”
“Yes,” you agree softly, gazing at him with stars in your eyes. “Mine.”
-
All the candles are nearly burned to the wick when Vernon enters the church. The flamelight stutters, reacting to him like prey sensing a predator. His boots fall heavy against the threadbare carpet, each step a low, deliberate thud that echoes too long in the still air. His hands are buried in his pockets, but there’s a lazy, cruel confidence in his gait now, a swagger that would have been foreign on the boy who used to flinch at raised voices.
He thinks of that version of himself as dead now.
Old Vernon. Soft-spoken, uncertain, dying under the weight of all the words left unspoken.
This Vernon doesn’t tremble. This Vernon doesn’t hesitate to say what he wants - which is only ever you. This Vernon isn’t afraid to make the world bow at your feet, to crush anyone who would stand in your way.
He’s not possessed. He knows that. He hasn’t been possessed for a while. It doesn’t feel like Thomas left so much as Vernon devoured him. Bit by bit, until there was nothing left of Thomas’s spirit. Now, Vernon is more than he was. Maybe a little less human, he isn’t sure. Something with blood under his nails and your name forever on his tongue.
All his rage, all his violence, all his power? It's yours. It's what makes the constant simmering need to do damage bearable.
Vernon doesn’t knock when he reaches the minister’s office. The door opens with a warning creak, and the man looks up in confusion, wondering who would dare enter his office this late at night without knocking. He realizes who it is and his face twists into a tapestry of anger.
It dies just as fast.
Vernon doesn’t give him a moment to speak. He drives his boot into the desk, splintering the wood with a sickening crunch, sending it skidding into the minister’s chest. The man crumples with a wheeze and a painful shout, papers floating down around him like ash.
Circling the wreckage with deliberate calm, Vernon grins as he watches the man flail, trying to get up, a beetle stuck on its back.
“My girlfriend told me not to kill anyone,” Vernon explains. His voice is casual. Conversational. “Didn’t say I couldn’t ruin you for opening your fucking mouth, though.”
The minister gapes, trying to push away from Vernon. “What are you doing?”
Vernon’s fingers unlace from his pockets. He flexes them, tendons twitching like coiled wire. “Paying you back,” he growls, leaning down, breath hot and too close. “For every time you insulted her while we were here the other night. For calling her study a delusion and making her question herself and her work.”
He seizes the minister by the collar of his robe and hauls him upright like a limp doll. “This time,” Vernon murmurs, voice suddenly soft. Sensual. “I won’t stop at words.”
This time, Vernon’s hands draw blood.
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#okay SO#let me use THIS FIC#to SCREAM ABOUT THIS VERNON AND THIS MC#because whAT THE FUCK#the devotion#PURE DEVOTION#THIS VERNON I SWEAR#VERNON CHWE IM STILL ON MY KNEES#unreliable narrator still on POINT#mc....i get u.....i SO get how u wouldnt care almost#the character development??#the story arc??#the seeming redemption with morally grey actions still present??#HELP ME HOW DO YOU WRITE CHARACTERS THIS WELL?????#i swear this fic is still a fucking MASTERCLASS#i feel like i need a reread of hello darling and dark gospel to full absorb it all#and just bask in the whole world and the story built around such tangible characters#i cant believe i get to read this for free#the emotions you can feel through the fic#the desire and devotion and utter helplessness to someone#youd burn the world for them?? part heaven and the skies?? DUDE HOW DOWN BAD ARE YOU#i cant stop yapping this is so good#hali thank you for this breath of fresh air i needed such a good fic like this so bad#forever a fan of uncommon tropes bc i cant write a fic like this for my life good lord#chanranghaeys reblog#hani faves#HANI FAVES A LOT
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Hello, Darling (c.hs)
PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader
SUMMARY: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you.
WC: 21,558
AU: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller
GENRE: Smut, Angst
RATING 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Under the cut
❀ A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)
A/N 2: I AM NOT WRITING A PART 2 TO THIS ON PURPOSE. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE AMBIGUOUS.
Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.
MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST | READ THE SEQUEL
WARNINGS: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places.
ADDITIONAL WARNING: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you.

COOL WIND TUGS AT THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK, THREATENING TO FLIP THEM OVER. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week.
Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades.
Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact.
Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.
Again.
“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.”
“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?”
“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”
“Convenient.”
For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball.
Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination.
Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?”
“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”
“Again?”
“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”
Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.
The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him.
Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.
If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time.
Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends.
He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point.
It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own.
Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest.
Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder.
Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him.
Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it.
“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.”
“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?”
“You’re so gross.”
“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.”
“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”
He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot.
“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”
You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical.
“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.”
Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”
“Don’t give me that visual!”
His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression.
Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close.
Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable.
Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even.
The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is.
“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life.
“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.”
Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you.
Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world.
Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet.
A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.
College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile.
She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing.
When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless.
You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing.
“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in.
Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.
And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework.
“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.”
“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”
You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.”
“A Friday night for Chan.”
“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”
“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”
“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.”
The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.
“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”
“Not enough.”
“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”
“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.”
You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”
“My halloween party?”
“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.”
He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.”
“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.”
“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”
You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.”
-
“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”
“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.”
It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway.
Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does.
“How do I look?”
“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.”
He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job.
“What are you again?”
“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.”
Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address.
“That’s at a closed down gas station.”
“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.
The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted.
Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house.
If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.
The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes.
Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.
Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land.
The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs.
A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house.
Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside.
Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here.
“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.
It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”
“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?”
“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?”
Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.”
Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?”
Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.”
Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”
“Decidedly not!”
“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.”
Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke.
Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.
“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.”
“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”
“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”
Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into.
“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?”
You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd.
“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”
“Come on, I want to show you something.”
“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”
“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”
Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go.
It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.
Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall.
Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth.
Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot.
Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight.
Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell.
“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”
He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.”
“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder.
Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?”
“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”
“No clue.”
Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home.
“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.
“11:45.”
“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?”
All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?”
“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?”
Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.”
His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”
“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.”
“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.”
“No.”
He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.”
“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.”
“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.”
“Do it yourself.”
“I don’t study ghost shit!”
“Occult! Studies!”
“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.
“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.”
Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine.”
“Vernon.”
His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”
“I’m right here.”
“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”
“What math? You need math?”
“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”
“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.”
Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”
“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”
“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”
“Bring what?”
“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”
“Probably.”
“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.”
“Right.”
“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”
His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.”
Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him.
Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.
“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”
“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.”
“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly.
Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”
“Got it.”
Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart.
Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.
“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner.
Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts.
The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame.
You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing.
Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.
For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety.
“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.”
Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist.
It doesn’t move.
“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”
The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and-
When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm.
Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line.
“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”
“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”
“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”
Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go.
You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”
“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.
People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching.
It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.
Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with?
You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine.
-
The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously.
It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.
You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first.
Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.
Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.
The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor.
Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt.
What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you.
Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter.
[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking?
Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.
“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.”
By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.
On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings.
You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.
Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.
A dead body had been found on campus.
Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!”
Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone.
“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?”
“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.”
“But it worked, right?”
“Have you heard from Vernon?”
“Nah, why?”
“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?”
“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.”
“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”
“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”
“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.”
“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”
“No.”
“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.”
“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.
Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”
You hang up the phone before he can say anything else.
Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing. Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment.
The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving.
Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep.
“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.
Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.
Then, the anger comes.
You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?”
He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.
The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”
Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving.
“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”
Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you.
“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?”
“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”
“You weren’t feeling well?”
He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”
Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.
Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.
“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”
“Why?”
Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.
The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.
“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”
“How so?”
“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”
Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.
“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”
“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”
-
Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.
You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him.
Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?”
“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?”
“I hate chemistry.”
His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”
Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.
Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?”
“You seem different.”
“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?”
“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.”
His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.”
When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him.
Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart.
You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you.
Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together.
“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time.
“How are you going to help me from over there?”
“You could have asked me to move my chair.”
The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken.
This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.
It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it.
Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to.
“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?”
He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”
You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat.
“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.”
“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“Sure.”
Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.
You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down.
Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.
It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here.
Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest.
For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.
Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice.
Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting.
What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh.
In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there.
Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor.
When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”
“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.”
Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.”
“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.”
“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.”
“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.”
“I’m not like that.”
You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive.
“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing.
-
“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.”
“No way?”
Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall.
“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.”
Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”
“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”
“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.”
“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”
“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.”
“Yeah, well. That’s their job.”
Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling.
He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?”
In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.”
Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.
“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.”
-
Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch.
You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.
Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair.
They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him.
But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon.
Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected.
Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party.
Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire.
Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers.
The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky.
“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!”
“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish.
Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.
Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus.
So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.
You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior.
Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.
Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.
A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.
Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week.
Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really.
Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.
Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him.
The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.
Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.
Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?”
“Who?”
“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”
“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.”
“Exactly what I mean.”
“Hey! We are friends, you know?”
You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.
Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back.
Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him.
Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him.
It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead.
“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically.
“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.”
He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”
You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”
Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat.
You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers.
It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap.
You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go.
Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them.
Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.
There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.
Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia.
It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized.
An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once.
Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you.
Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire.
As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe.
Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.
In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.
Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.
Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”
“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.”
“Oh please, like you noticed.”
He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”
You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.”
“Okay, so let’s leave.”
“You look like you were having fun.”
Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket.
“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”
“Alright. Well.”
“I notice everything about you.”
The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see.
It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide.
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.”
The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?”
His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.”
-
Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly.
You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit.
“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?”
The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks.
“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?”
“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?”
“I know, right?”
Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing.
All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.
As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.
Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could.
But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure.
Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen.
Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.
And now someone was killing in the same exact style..
The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?
Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him.
“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray.
“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”
“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”
He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”
“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.”
“Do tell.”
“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.”
“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.”
“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.”
“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”
You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”
“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.”
He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”
“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.”
“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”
“In the house that we were in on Halloween.”
Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.”
He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat.
“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Kind of an insane coincidence.”
He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.”
Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”
“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.”
“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.”
Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?”
“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.”
He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.”
-
The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go.
He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time.
At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.
Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad?
Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing.”
He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.”
“You look nice tonight.”
“You look nice every night.”
“Oh shut up.”
“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.”
“Whatever.”
Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back.
Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing.
People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon.
“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”
The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter.
Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer.
“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?”
“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.”
Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.”
All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.”
Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.
Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know.
“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.”
“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”
“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?”
“About seven years.”
“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”
“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”
“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”
A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”
“No!”
“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?”
“She doesn’t.”
Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.
“Whiskey and coke?”
He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”
Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”
When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”
“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Why?”
He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass.
You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.”
“Different how.”
“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…”
“A little what?”
“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”
“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”
Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.”
You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide.
“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually.
Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth.
You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours.
Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him.
His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?”
“Actually, no?”
His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”
“Hey!”
“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.”
Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface.
“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”
“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.”
Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar.
-
Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated.
He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”
One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home.
“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”
“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.”
“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.”
Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body.
“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”
The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble.
Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.
You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly.
“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.”
You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”
His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body.
It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you.
“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.”
His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”
“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”
“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”
A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression.
Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees.
“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?”
Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently.
“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?”
Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him.
“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.”
You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping.
Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.
He’s not close enough, never close enough.
Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses.
Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back.
Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply.
“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.”
The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra.
Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”
“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.”
“Oh?”
The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous.
“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”
“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”
“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”
You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.
His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further.
“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”
His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath.
“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”
Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?”
“You - you’re - ugh!”
He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?”
“You know what I mean.”
Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.”
Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor.
Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs.
His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring.
The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.
“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?”
It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”
Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.
“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.”
“Umm.”
It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly.
“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.”
“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.”
“Should I stop?”
“No.”
“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.”
Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully.
“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.”
He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you.
When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.”
“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”
His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier.
It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?”
“God, yeah.”
“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.”
“Didn’t think you liked me.”
Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress.
His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.
He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.
You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets.
Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth.
“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”
“Maybe?”
“I’ll help you in a second.”
Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.
“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.”
Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders.
Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully.
Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly.
“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.”
“Want you, though.”
“You’ll have me when I say you can.”
One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.”
You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them.
“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.”
“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.”
“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.”
You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it.
Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat.
He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most.
All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest.
The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you.
“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”
“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.”
His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on.
Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.
A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills.
For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.
“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.
“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.
“Good?”
“Very.”
“Want to stop?”
“No. Unless you want to.”
His gaze darkens. “I don’t.”
“I want more. I can take more.”
He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?”
Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in.
There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch.
Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.
With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.
“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.”
“I want you to feel good.”
“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”
You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.
“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”
“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.”
“Greedy thing.”
“I’m Your greedy thing.”
Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going.
Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max.
“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”
“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.”
Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace.
It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning.
“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”
“No one else,” you agree.
His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out.
Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care.
Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.
“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.”
You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.
-
Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch.
The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.
Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again.
On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-
Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.
Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently.
You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.
You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of.
Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.”
The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-
Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once.
The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt.
Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.
Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.
The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin.
70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.
The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween.
In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.
Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt.
Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet.
With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming.
Your heart hammers.
Your hands shake.
Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there.
Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt.
For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed.
“Why is there salt all over my floor?”
“Cross it.”
“Huh?”
“Step over the line of salt.”
Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.
When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly.
Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door.
Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”
He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?
“Well, do it.”
Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt.
And then he laughs.
“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.”
@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom
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#you mean to tell me i read 21k words in one sitting#with no distractions#ITS BEEN A WHILE#THIS FIC#this fic reads so well time flied so fucking fast#because we got all the versions of vernon i never knew i needed to read#dude.....where do i start#HOW do i start#this fic is insane#this fic made me insane actually#a masterclass in fic writing if you ask me#hali........im so in awe of your brain#it takes so much work to wrote a fic this long and for it to read as if its as short as 3k words#i literally DEVOURED THIS#i can go on and on about THIS VERNON AND MC#but lemme just rave about the writing for this one#impeccable. flawless.#ive been veering away from college setting fics#but this one HOOKED ME SO QUICK#occult studies???? FORESHADOWING#and the subtle inlay of all the instances of foreshadowing WOW#after halloween night everything read with so much tension SO PERFECTLY#because u know thats whats supposed to happen#and THE UNRELIABLE NARRATOR#kept me on my goddamn toes the whole time#the smut??? FLAWLESS#VERNON CHWE IM ON MY KNEES#chanranghaeys reblog#hani faves#AND THERES A PT 2
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🍷 in vino veritas
What better birthday gift can one give than the gift of truth?
pairing: seungkwan x fem!reader word count: 3.4k genre: fluff, smut/nsfw rating: r-18. nsfw, mdni! tags: oblivious idiots in love with each other, mutual pining, literally can’t resist each other once they start, we're still celebrating seungkwan's birthday here, mentions of food, barely proofread pls bear with me warnings: alcohol, allusions to sex, eventual sex haha, making out, dry humping (?) making love, groping, fingering, implied unprotected sex (help idk how to do nsfw tags pls tell me if i missed anything
a/n: this was based on two requests lifetimes ago by rachel @strxwberry-skiess and tara @diamonddaze01. i have a feeling you two don’t remember it anymore haha but i’m tagging both of u anyway. this was also intended as a seungkwan birthday fic that i’ve been revising back and forth and just wasn’t satisfied enough to post until now, hence the setting. i hope this marks the end of my writing drought—i desperately need it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ masterlist . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
It started with a sweater and spilled soju.
“I’m so sorry!”
“No, don’t worry about it!”
“But it’s your favorite sweater. I just ruined it.”
Technically, you both did. It actually started with dinner at your place because you owed him. Big time.
A few weeks ago, you dared to be the only one who didn’t bring a gift to Seungkwan’s birthday gathering—and everyone called you out for it. So with the whole party as witness, Hansol and Chan made you promise to give Seungkwan a gift and treat him to dinner to make up for this huge lapse in judgment.
Sincerely, you wish you could slap those two in the face sometimes. But you wouldn’t, of course. They just knew exactly what they were trying to set up then.
You and Seungkwan decided on a simple homemade dinner at your place because according to him, “You never invite me to your place! How many times have you invited those two idiots to your place without me?”
If only you could tell him the real reason why that was always the case.
When the fateful day finally came, Seungkwan arrived at your apartment early to genuinely offer his help, much to your gratitude. He was even gracious enough to bring your favorite yangnyeom fried chicken.
“I knew you’d like it. It’s your favorite,” he replied with a nonchalant shrug when you questioned him with his offering.
In return, you claimed, “Just don’t go expecting me to give you your gift right away. I’m saving it for the end of the night because it’s special.”
He kept saying that “you don’t have to do this, they were just poking fun.” But you were never one to back down from a promise—especially if it involved Seungkwan.
Dinner went by easily. The weather allowed for a window propped open to let in some of the cool breeze that added to what you believe was a nice atmosphere. Your plates had long been empty when Seungkwan made his way to the fridge to get a refill of water. Instead, he let out a cry of disbelief.
“Ya! You have five bottles of soju and you didn’t bother bringing them out?”
You stayed silent. There was a reason why you didn’t bring those out on purpose. It was to avoid incidents like this, because you and Seungkwan—alone—and alcohol was a combination that had never happened before and an equation that you tried to avoid solving for as long as possible.
Fate had other plans today, apparently.
In his usual way, whenever there was alcohol in his system, he turned into the clingy kind of drunk that he was. This time, however, you noticed that he was different somehow. He was braver, louder, clingier. He was never like this when you two were drinking with friends.
As the late afternoon turned to evening, you two found yourselves inching closer to each other with every story and joke exchanged. This time, a particularly effective punchline you delivered had him in a laughing mess, with his hands instantly reaching for you. He just failed to notice the two very full glasses in your hands at that moment.
This was when chaos ensued.
In the aftermath, he looked at you and your obliviousness. “It’s just soju and water. Nothing a quick wash can’t do.”
He let out an audible sigh of defeat. Without thinking, he proceeded to peel off the ruined piece of clothing, revealing a thin white shirt that was barely there—riding up along with the sweater and revealing his torso. The sight got worse as he completely removed the sweater, the shirt clinging to his chest and still wet from the spilled liquid. You tried to avert your eyes as quickly as you could, but Seungkwan had already caught you staring.
“I, uh…” He pulled down his shirt and held the wet sweater in his hand. You cleared your throat and tried to gather your wits.
“I’m a terrible host. Give me that, I can chuck it in the laundry. I’ll get you a new shirt.” You stood to do as you said. You ignored the fact that he followed you all the way to your room, stopping to lean at your doorway as you rummaged through your drawers for a spare shirt.
You ignored how you could feel his eyes on you, probably spurred on with bravery because you had your back turned toward him. If only you could see how intense his gaze was, looking you up and down while weighing the two options in his head carefully.
He broke the silence first with a question you least expected. “You can talk to me honestly, right?”
“Of course, Seungkwan.” You busied yourself with looking for any shirt, trying to buy time to avoid meeting the piercing gaze you knew would meet.
“Were you…staring at me earlier?”
How dare— “Uh…”
“Okay, I’ll start with an easier question. Are you sober?”
“Yes.” You stand to face him, but not quite meeting his eyes yet. “I mean, I am now. Who wouldn’t be after you spill two glasses on your—friend?”
He laughs. “That’s true.” He pretends to not notice that slight hitch in your voice earlier.
“Here’s your shirt.” You hold up the oversized piece of clothing.
He pushes himself from your doorway and walks—in your perspective—at a painstakingly slow pace. His shirt is still a bit wet and still clinging just a bit in all the right places.
He stops right in front of you, a few steps too close to excuse it for a friendly distance. It absolutely was not.
He gingerly takes the shirt from your hand. To your utter surprise, he replaces it by taking your hand in his. You mask your nerves with an equally nervous laugh as you ask him, “Are you sober?”
“Yeah. Well, I can tell you that I’m sober enough to clearly know what I’m doing.” He continues even as he slowly intertwines his fingers in yours. “When we were in Italy, they said something during our wine tasting. ‘In vino veritas.’”
You were familiar with this saying. “‘In wine—’”
“‘There is truth.’” He completes the saying, taking yet another step closer. “We didn’t exactly drink wine, but can you still tell me the truth?”
You debate with light speed in your head where and how you want this conversation to end. It seemed there was only one answer the moment he decided to close the distance by settling his one hand on your waist and the other brushing your cheek—the clean shirt long forgotten on the floor.
Your heart was racing, and you knew this wasn’t because of the alcohol any longer. The air was thick with unresolved tension. You both knew what this was. This only happened when the two of you were alone, where awkward smiles and silences helped fill in the undeniable attraction that you both kept denying.
So you swallow your pride and nod in reply, and he smiles at your response before continuing, “So, were you staring?”
“I’m still staring now,” you say as you travel across his torso still wrapped in his wet shirt.
His chuckle turned into a laugh, his beautifully musical and infectious laugh, tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “Stop it! I’m losing focus. God, I really didn’t think this through, did I?”
You were nothing if honest, even more so when it came to Seungkwan. He had no problem asking you this question because that’s what he liked about you the most. You weren’t like other people—like him even—who beat around the bush and never mean what they actually say.
“Maybe not,” you say while holding back a laugh of your own.
The smile drops from his face in an instant, his smiling lips closing together in the blink of an eye. When his eyes open, they contain an unspoken depth, his expression changing into something more serious than you’ve ever seen from him before.
“Help me take this off, will you?”
“Why don’t you kiss me first before you demand such things?”
He smirks and claims your chin between his fingers. “Thought you’d never ask.”
You two always had that “will they, won’t they” dynamic for the longest time. It seems that tonight, they will. And they did.
The room smelled of sex. It was undeniable at this point to not acknowledge what had just happened between you and Seungkwan. In the heat of the moment and the throes of passion, you had both done things once unspeakable between the two of you.
If only you both knew what constantly went on in your heads the moment you two were separated from each other.
“So, is this the gift?” Seungkwan asks breathlessly, his chest heaving with exertion and his heart still racing at a million beats per minute.
“What?” Your mind was still swimming in stars, still coming down from your high as you curled yourself in his arms and folded against his warm skin.
”This.” He pulls you in closer and tangles your legs with his, endlessly craving for the touch of your skin on his.
You lightly jab his forehead jokingly. “You forget that you initiated all this with your hand-holding and sweet-talking about being honest.”
“Hey, I just wanted a kiss. You gave me so much more.” He nuzzled his nose against yours and, god, you couldn’t get enough of this Seungkwan. If only you knew that this is how he’d be with you, it would’ve been so worth it to tell him how you felt way earlier.
Wait. You haven’t told him how you felt. Not exactly.
But instead, you land your lips chastely on his. “There’s your kiss. Are you happy now?” He nods, but you could see his eyes and his smile being weighed down by impending sleep. He yawns, and you catch it as well and mirror his actions.
“Good night, sleepyhead.” With a final kiss from Seungkwan to your forehead, you both settle into an easy slumber, with both of you feeling lighter in your minds and hearts.
“Seungkwan.”
He stirs, sleep still overtaking his senses. “Hmm?”
“Seungkwan-ah.” You reach up to move his bed hair from his forehead.
“Mhmm?”
And for a moment, you forget what you were supposed to say because you were struck by the beauty of this unguarded version of Seungkwan. You trail your hand from his forehead to the apple of his cheeks, where you feel them move as he smiles.
“Could you turn on the heat? It’s getting a bit cold.”
He opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight of you in the near break of dawn, the first light filtering through the sheer curtains and starting to illuminate your room.
In response, as if by instinct, he leaned down to kiss you, much to your surprise. When he broke away, he could still feel the curve of the smile of your lips against his. “Why don’t I keep you warm, instead?”
He pulled you closer, the heat from his hand traveling across and over your body. Just as he predicted, you feel the heat rising on your cheeks as you recall the intensity and fervor of last night. But you could care less.
Wordlessly, you take him up on his offer, wrapping your arms around his neck and meeting him in another kiss. Wordlessly, he accepts this as your response and he parts your lips open with his to allow entrance to go in deeper, tasting you for all you are against the ecstasy of your tongue.
While his mouth plays with yours, his hands continue to roam the ebbs and flows of your body, from your neck, your breasts, your waist, and finally tracing the curve of your ass with his hands. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he raises your one leg, allowing it to wrap around his waist.
In this position, your heated core was wide open for his evident arousal. It was as if the events of last night were not enough to satiate your wants, your needs, and deeper down, your true feelings. Your bodies stay flush against each other, skin to skin as if you could not come any closer. You move in sync, accompanied by the gasps and moans, the hitches in both your breaths, as you feel his fingers working their way down there dictating the rhythm that you two would move to while your own fingers clench to fist his hair.
If last night was desperate, needy, almost making up for lost time, this morning was deliberate, languid, almost lazy with the way his lips never left yours to swallow all the delicious sounds coming from your mouth. When he finally filled your awaiting entrance, your bodies felt like a natural fit with one another. Each thrust between your slick bodies felt like a resounding mantra in the stillness of the daybreak—a mantra of unsaid promises and unresolved thoughts spoken through actions with every moment that his lips latch, tug, bite at yours.
The light of the dawn filtered through your room, casting an ethereal glow on your bodies. Yet this morning, you both see nothing but stars. When you both come down from the heavens, you take the time to go to the bathroom, while he takes the time to turn on the heat despite your complaints.
“You’ll thank me later,” Seungkwan said as you returned to his welcoming arms. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, you tangled your limbs in his and let sleep take over your senses once more.
By the time you come to again, it’s 9 am. The sun was fully shining through your curtains to the point of almost blinding you. The urge to pee was overwhelming, so you disentangled yourself from the sheets in your sluggish state. Sitting on the toilet, you rub your eyes and feel the aches of your body settle in—along with other realizations.
Like the fact that you were butt naked. In your bed. With Seungkwan.
And you two did not just fuck last night. You made love with him in the wee hours of the morning.
Holy shit.
As you splash water on your tired face, you look in the mirror and see…an unexpected glow. You touch your lips, trailing your hand down your neck and your chest, recalling all the other places where Seungkwan’s hands caressed you. You start to smile, yet it is gone as quickly as it came.
Now what?
With resolve, you step out of the bathroom to face the reality of the morning. What greets you is the sight of Seungkwan propped up against the headboard, checking his phone, with his bed hair and bare chest turning to look at you. He smiles, one that reaches his eyes.
He is so beautiful.
His eyes travel across your naked body, and you suddenly feel shy. You look across the floor for the discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over you and grabbing a clean pair of panties from your drawer.
He just watches you throughout this charade.
“I…uh, went through some of your clothes. Borrowed a pair of shorts. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that's okay.”
“For a moment, I thought you left me. I woke up to an empty bed.”
You stop, fully turning to see the amusement in his expression. “You may have forgotten that this is my room. If anyone should have left, it would be you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Did you want me to? Leave?”
You don’t answer, afraid that whatever comes out of your mouth will betray your sensibilities. Instead, you sit down on the empty space of bed beside him.
“Are we still telling the truth?”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Always, I hope.”
“You should know that there’s a reason why I never wanted you to come over here in the first place.”
He physically winces, anticipating the worst from that statement. “And that is?”
“Because I don’t think I’d ever let you leave. That’s the truth.”
A sigh of relief. “Come here.” He closes the gap between you by clasping your hand and pulling you back into bed, encircling you in his arms.
You lay there together, your head on his chest as he mindlessly plays with your hair. He’d always been a handsy person—all his friends knew that—but most especially to the people he had taken a particular liking to. His fixation was always different with each person. With you, it was your hair.
“Would you like to hear my truth?” He asks.
You wordlessly nod.
“I’ve always wanted to do that with you.”
“Do what?”
“You know…last night, this morning,” Seungkwan trails off.
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
Your eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “You…never made it obvious or anything.”
“That’s because I’m a decent person who doesn’t act on my primal impulses out of nowhere. Please, you’re too damn pretty and sexy for me to ignore you from the moment we met.”
You slap his chest. “You’re playing. Stop it.”
“I’m serious! It didn’t help at all when I found out that you listened to all the same girl groups that I did. You think I don’t see you when you dance? When you move your damn hips? I have eyes, you know. I’m a simple man.”
“Okay, okay. I see you, girl group enthusiast.” You smiled up at him. “I guess I’ll shake my ass at you more often, then.”
“Oh, please, you will ruin me.” He bites back a grin. “No, but honestly—beyond that,” he said as he looked at you pointedly, “you unlocked this little kid inside me again whenever I was with you, and…I realized I wanted to do more with you. And be more with you. It just grew and grew until it hit me that I just I always wanted you around.”
As if to prove his next point, he meets your eyes and doesn’t let go of your gaze. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You purse your lips to hold back the smile growing on your lips. Your heart was pounding, pondering the consequences of the next few words you were about to say.
“Well, if you say that then another truth I have is that I’ve always held back from you. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed that.”
“I did.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it.”
“Why though?”
“I couldn’t trust myself around you.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “Have I not made you comfortable enough around me? Have I not been the definition of a poster boy best friend?”
“Exactly. You think I could let you go if I mess up and start kissing you on a whim? Seungkwan, your friends can be full of shit sometimes. Believe me when I say that a lot of times, you’re definitely the hottest guy in the room.”
“Wow, you must love me a whole lot for you to say something like that.”
“What if I do?”
He stills. “Do you really?”
You give him a reassuring smile. “We’re still telling the truth, aren’t we?” But the truth also gives you away. You look down as your smile falters. “Friendship is always such a fragile thing to break. And I don’t think I ever want to lose you.”
“Like I said,” he says while lifting your chin up to meet his eyes. They were glowing, and you realize it reminded you of your own eyes when you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It was as if you two were reflections of one another—the way you two always were without realizing it. “If you let me in and let me stay, I don’t think I’d ever leave if you don’t want me to.”
You could do nothing but smile.
And you hear both of your stomachs growl at the same time. You both laugh, loud, full, and deep-bellied, the only way you two do when you’re with each other. There were never any fake laughs if you were together.
You land a quick peck on his lips. “I’ll make you breakfast. Consider it a gift.”
You stood up to leave the bed, and you wait until it clicks in his head. “So you never got me a gift?” The disbelief on his face was almost enough to move you to guilt. But you had another ace up your sleeve.
“Why don’t you get your ass out of bed first and help me make breakfast so I can give you the real gift?”
He huffs. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“I’m lucky you’re telling the truth.” You wink and leave him smirking. In wine there is truth, they say, and in truth there is a newfound sense of freedom he can’t wait to share with you.
#q tea#srb#icymi!#i wanted to q this AFTER i made some revisions#bc holy crap this DID need some proofreading#but what the heck
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