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Vernon isn’t expecting the first nudes he receives to come from his best friend. He’s been in several casual relationships and one serious one, but somehow he’s never gotten nudes from a partner before. It’s a weird realization that only occurs to him as he’s staring at two very beautiful photos of your breasts. He knows they’re yours because, well, they’re on your text thread and you’re also wearing the necklace he got you.
It’s a little gold plum blossom and you never go out without it. So that’s definitely your neck and those are definitely your boobs in that very fitted baby blue bra that’s doing an excellent job of showing and telling. He’s got that much figured out.
What he hasn’t figured out is why you sent them. No intro, no follow up text. Just the two photos in quick succession. Which means you’re waiting on him .
Except he doesn’t have a clue what to say. The last messages on the thread involved him sending you a Spongebob meme and you sending back the eye rolling emoji. And now these.
You could be trolling him. Or you could be entirely serious. He’s harbored more than a little crush on you for a long time now and you’re smart enough to have noticed. Maybe this is your way of letting him know.
He starts to type back a response. Deletes it. Starts over and over again. Deletes every single one.
Nice pics.
Hello??
Nice necklace.
??????
Finally, he just turns his phone over on his sofa and stares at it like it’s going to bite him. Leaning back against the cushions, he keeps it in his periphery, but nothing else comes through. He’s half-hard but doesn’t dare do anything about it.
He waits in this agonizing limbo for who knows how long, until his phone starts ringing and he knocks it onto the floor in his haste. You’re calling him, because of course you are. He’s going to be fine, right? You’re not mad (probably).
Well, you are, but not at him.
“Men suck,” you say abruptly.
“Uh.”
“Well, not you. Obviously not you. But other men really suck.”
Glad to have that clarification. “Okay, continue.”
You heave out a huge sigh. “We’re friends, right?”
“That was my impression.”
The disdain in your voice is easy to hear. “Shut up. I mean, it’s just. Look, don’t judge me too harshly, okay?”
Like he would. He just waits for you to continue, because he knows you will. You always do. You don’t like empty silence.
He hears you take an equally deep breath in before continuing, “I met some guy on an app and I sent him some photos.”
Some guy . All of a sudden it makes perfect sense. Vernon doesn’t exactly consider himself “some guy” when it comes to his relationship with you, which means the photos were a mistake. You aren’t messing with him at all.
You confirm this a moment later when you add, “But the asshole never responded and now I’m fucking embarrassed. Like, what do I even do now?”
“Check your texts,” he says.
“What?”
“Check your texts.”
“He didn’t respond, Hansol.”
“Just…”
“All right!” you huff. “I’ll check.” A moment passes and then he hears, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“ Oh . So he wasn’t being an asshole.”
Shifting the phone to his opposite ear, Vernon asks, “That’s what you’re choosing to take from this?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m sorry for the pictures. I’ll pay for your therapy or whatever.”
A soft laugh escapes him. “Why would I need therapy?”
“Because I’m just so hot?”
Now that does feel like a trap. “Do you want me to respond to that?”
“Yes? I don’t know. Give a girl some validation.”
“Okay. Your boobs are so hot I need therapy now. Like that?”
“A little lackluster.” There’s the sound of something crinkling in the background, followed by another heavy sigh. “God, that was miserable.”
“Was it?”
“Put yourself in my shoes. It’s scary enough to send sexy photos but then to be ignored? That really hurts.” After a moment you add, “Hang on. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was shocked,” he says. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Did you think I was coming onto you?”
“No,” he lies. Then, “Maybe.”
You just laugh. It’s not a laugh he knows how to interpret. Are you happy about his confusion? Do you think it’s funny he’d dare make the assumption? He really can’t tell with you sometimes.
Your mutual friends like to tease you for being uptight, and it’s true you can be a little skittish when it comes to personal stuff, always skirting the edge of honesty. Which is why it surprises him that you’re being so open now.
If you asked Vernon, he’d say he knows you pretty well. But up until today he had no idea you were considering online dating, nevertheless actually talking to someone. He’s always considered himself your closest friend, but maybe he’s not that close after all.
“So…about this guy. You like him?”
He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you say yes. Maybe he’s liked you for months but he kind of figured you knew, at least a little. But if you’re looking at dating other people, maybe you really don’t know. Or maybe you know and don’t care. There aren’t that many possibilities, but there are enough to make Vernon a little crazy inside.
“Not really,” you say, and the fist around his heart loosens its hold a bit. “Honestly, I’m kind of relieved they went to you instead. I didn’t really want to send them anyway.”
“Yeah, right. They’re totally safe with me.”
“Wait, you didn’t delete them?”
Now he panics. Of course he should have deleted them. “Uh–I meant to–I’ll do it right now.”
“It’s fine,” you say with a sigh. “Keep them or whatever. At least someone can appreciate them.”
“I do. Appreciate them.” More than he wants to admit at least.
“Promise me you’ll jerk off to them at least once.”
He’s glad he’s not drinking something, because that would have made him spit it out. “What is with you tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’m single and bored and in a mood I guess.”
Now that he can handle. He’s used to your moods. “You wanna hang out? I can at least help with the bored part.”
“Aren’t you busy? You have to jerk off to my pics, remember?”
“I’ll be sure to do that when I get back. Twice.”
“Thank you.”
“Ice cream and movie?” he suggests.
“Yes, please.”
“All right,” he says, tucking his wallet into his pocket. “I’ll get the ice cream, you pick the movie.”
“I think I have the easier job here,” you say.
You’re not wrong. Vernon tries to think of anything but you as he scans the aisles at the grocery store, desperate to keep his partial boner from becoming too noticeable. If he stands in front of the open freezer case a little too long, well, no one needs to know. He’s just really invested in his ice cream options.
When he feels like it’s safe to move, he grabs two pints in his eyeline and heads to self-checkout. It was just a mistake, he reminds himself as he absently presses the right buttons on the screen. You’re not actually flirting with him.
He tries to scan his driver’s license twice before realizing. Pressing the right card to the scanner, Vernon takes the ice cream and leaves the store. What if you are flirting with him and trying to save face because he never responded? What if ice cream and a movie is ice cream and a movie ?
He laughs at that because what does that even mean?
If you’re trying to seduce him, it doesn’t show. You open the door in your normal casual outfit: a wide-necked t-shirt that you’re fond of and leggings. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except when you turn back into the apartment, he has to fight to keep his gaze off your ass and thighs.
I am not a creep , he reminds himself. And he’s not . He just can’t stop imagining what the rest of you looks like now.
It’s not like he hasn’t wondered before, but now… Do you really expect him to masturbate to your photos later? Is he going to have to spend the rest of the night pretending you didn’t actually say that?
The movie is already preloaded on the screen. He barely glances at the title, his mind too much of a mess to care.
So much so that he tears the seal off one of the pints without even looking at it. Taking a big spoonful of ice cream, he starts to bring it towards his mouth, only for you to panic.
“Hansol!”
He pauses long enough for you to reach over and knock the spoon out of his hand. Ice cream lands on the floor. Normally you’d be horrified by anything touching your rug, but instead you just stare at him, eyes wide. He stares back.
“It has peanut butter in it ,” you explain, with all the intensity of someone preventing a murder.
“It does?” He twists the container around and sure enough, it’s vanilla ice cream with chocolate chunks and a peanut butter swirl. Normally he’s super on top of his allergy, but he’s been distracted ever since you sent the photos.
You hurriedly scoop up the offending chunk of ice cream before it can melt into the rug, taking it and the container into the kitchen. He hears the thunk of it landing in the trash.
“You don’t have to throw the whole thing away,” he protests.
“Not risking it,” is your firm response.
With his ice cream now melting in your trash can, you graciously share yours. The two of you take turns digging out cookie chunks until all that’s left is a bit of melted cream at the bottom of the container.
Hardly a quarter of the movie has gone by when you ask with no explanation, “Do you think I’m stupid?”
He’s not really watching it either, so he shifts his attention to you. “No.”
“Do you even know what I’m talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re not stupid. But I’m assuming you mean the pictures.”
Sighing, you abandon your spoon on the coffee table and lean closer to him. You must have pulled your clothes from the dryer just before he came over because they smell fresh. “I feel stupid. What was I even thinking?”
“It was a little out of character for you,” he admits, trying to study your profile without being too obvious.
“I just figured, you know. Risk and reward.”
“I get the risk, but what was the reward?”
“Sex, duh.”
“With someone you don’t really know?” When you don’t respond, he quickly adds, “No judgment. I just didn’t know you were interested in that.”
“I’m not. Not really.” Huffing, you kick your feet up on the coffee table and sink deeper into the couch. “He was being pushy and I just…”
Vernon can’t remember the last time someone made you do something you didn’t want to do. Your stubbornness is part of your charm, and one of the reasons he never really worries about you. After all, you’d never be coerced into doing something you didn’t want to. Or at least, that’s what he thought.
The main character is having a fight on screen but Vernon can’t recall the events leading up to it. His eyes are taking in the images but his brain is busy pondering what you’ve said.
“Hey, it’s really up to you, but–” He hesitates, hearing his words in his head. Grimacing, he shakes his head. “No, nevermind.”
“ But ,” you prompt.
“No, no buts. It’s up to you.”
“Say it, Han. I won’t get mad.”
“It’s not something I have any right to say.”
“Say it anyway. You brought it up, now you have to say it. You know the deal.”
He does know the deal. Any time one of you starts to say something, you have to finish it. No matter what it is. Even if it’s an idiotic and overbearing thing to say.
Vernon sighs, wishing his brain had reacted before his mouth. “Next time you don’t want to send photos to someone, don’t,” he advises. “If you don’t think they’re worth it, they’re not. Don’t let other people make you uncomfortable. Trust yourself.”
You’re so quiet that he worries he’s completely overstepped. You’ll probably kick him out next. But you surprise him by responding with, “So only send them to people I like and trust.”
“Yeah.”
“Like you?” Your words are teasing but he can’t help but tense.
He doesn’t know how to gauge you right now. You already said you were in a mood, but he’s worried about taking things too far. Worried that your mood might be more fragile than you’re letting on.
But the thought of being honest with you…
“Yeah,” he says softly, almost hoping you won’t hear him. After all, the movie is still playing. You don’t respond for a long time, but he just watches your profile. There’s a slight tensing of your cheek, almost like you’re chewing on the inside of it.
“Han…hypothetically, if I wanted to send photos to someone who would appreciate them…could I send them to you?”
You’re flirting with him. You have to be. Whether you’re just feeling playful or you’re being sincere, he’s the one who has to make the leap.
“Hypothetically, yes.”
Pushing yourself up on your elbow, you face him straight on, brows furrowed as you study his expression. “Hansol, do you like me?”
“You’re my best friend, of course I like you.”
“Don’t give me that shit now . You know what I mean.”
He does. Inhaling deeply, he says, “Yeah. Of course I do.”
“Oh,” you say softly.
“I figured it was pretty obvious.”
Scrunching up your face you say, “How so?”
You’re still playing with him, right? But when you don’t continue, he says, “I'd do anything for you. I do anything for you.”
“But you treat me like everyone else.”
“No, I don’t,” he replies, feeling a rush of indignance. “I always prioritize time with you. I answer every time you call, even when I’m in the middle of work. I listen to your song recs before anyone else’s. I spend over an hour every week trying to find the right memes to send you. I’m relaxed about a lot of things, but not about you.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on in the background, a jumble of voices and noises that he barely registers. “That’s true,” you say finally. “I guess I never realized it, but you do give me a lot of your time. I didn’t mean to take it for granted.”
There’s a thread of worry in your tone, so he brushes his fingers across your knee. He’s never felt taken for granted, not really. Being your best friend is full of rewards. It’s just that sometimes he wishes he could be your best friend and kiss you. But he doesn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.
“I also let you rub my head,” he points out.
“Mingyu rubs it, too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t let him. He just does it.”
As if to test out your newly-granted power, you reach up to stroke the fuzz that’s slowly growing back. When he decided to shave his head, he asked for the opinions of only two people: his mom, who told him he was an adult who could do what he liked, and you. You’d just ruffled his hair at the time and smiled.
“I can’t really picture it,” you said, “so I guess you’ll have to do it so I have a comparison.”
Ever since then, you’ve taken every opportunity to rub his hair like it’s a comforting habit or a good luck charm. He’s gotten used to it.
Your hand traces a path from his forehead to his eyebrows, your thumb smoothing them out before you cup his cheek in your palm. That’s new. You’ve never done that before. It takes all his willpower not to lean into your touch.
“Hansol. Hypothetically, if I wanted to kiss you, would you be down?”
His heart feels like it’s going to choke him. “Hypothetically, I’d like that.”
“Shall we test it?” you murmur, leaning forward.
Even after staring at the plush of your lips for months now, he couldn’t have predicted how good they’d feel. The taste of your vanilla lip balm is the first thing he notices: subtle and sweet, mostly rubbed off from all the ice cream. He’s so used to smelling it on you that it takes him a moment to realize that he’s actually tasting it, which means you’re kissing him.
The movie is nothing but a low murmur as his blood rushes through his ears. He doesn’t even have enough time to decide where to put his hands before you’re pulling away, licking your wet lips.
“So how are we feeling about the hypothesis?” you ask.
“Can we test it some more?”
“And you told me to keep the ice cream,” you scoff.
“To be fair, I didn’t know you’d be kissing me tonight.”
“I had a feeling.”
The way you’re smirking is going to make his brain explode. “Did you send me those photos on purpose?”
“No. It really was an accident. But I’m glad I did it.”
“Me too,” he agrees, tugging you forward.
The second round is even better because now he knows he has the freedom to lean in. To tilt your chin to just the right angle. To run his tongue across the seam of your lips. When they part to take him in, he sighs into your mouth. He’s so fucking lost on you.
You rest your hand on his thigh and his cock twitches in his jeans.
“Wow, you do like me.”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning his head against yours while he catches his breath. “Definitely.”
The way your palm cups him through his pants is something he could get used to.
“How far do you want to go?”
“How far do you want to go?” you ask. “Because I’m on board for all of it.”
“Yeah? Even the weird stuff?” he jokes.
But you just give him a totally serious look. “How weird are we talking here?”
Searching for anything just to throw you off, he says, “Uh, roleplay?”
“Define roleplay. Are you talking maid outfit, movie character, or calling you ‘daddy’?”
He should have known he wouldn’t be able to unsettle you. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”
“What, you think I can’t match your freak?”
“Never doubted you, babe.”
“‘Babe’?” you echo, sounding utterly disappointed.
“Too much? Not enough?”
“Are you a dudebro? Are you going to call me your ‘chick’ next?”
“Okay, woah. I didn’t realize there was a hierarchy of endearments. Clue me in.”
Leaning back on your heels, you hold your hand near the couch. “Babe is here.”
“Baby.”
You raise it a little higher.
“Sweetheart?”
Tilting your head as you consider, you raise your hand a little higher.
“Doll.”
Your hand goes all the way down to the floor.
“Wow,” he says with a grimace. “Worse than babe. Who’d have thought?”
“What else do you have?”
It’s hard to think of endearments when he’s on the spot. It’s also a little tough to think when his dick is hard. But he doesn’t think he’s going to get much sympathy if he points that out.
Wracking his brain, he suggests, “Darling?”
He’s joking, but your face brightens.
“Darling is nice.”
“Are you 60?” he teases.
“No, listen.” Reaching up, you stroke the curve of his jaw. “Hansol, darling.”
It sends a little flutter through his chest. “Okay, I see your point. Bordering on grandparents, though.”
“I changed my mind, I hate you.”
“No, no.” Catching your hand, he presses a kiss into your palm. “I’ll call you darling. You’ll be my darling.”
He’ll call you anything you want as long as it means you’ll be his. It’s overwhelming and honestly a little ridiculous just how much of his attention you command, like you’re the sun and he’s nothing more than a tiny planet caught in your orbit. Even now, even as his kisses trail across your jaw and just under your ear, making you squirm, he feels completely at your mercy.
He focuses on a sensitive point until the skin turns speckled and you’re grasping at his shirt.
“Hansol.”
“Hm.”
“We are not fucking on my couch. I like this couch.”
“I like it too,” he agrees, still sucking little marks in a crooked path down your neck. The edge of your bra is peeking up through the wide neck of your shirt.
It’s smooth black with a hint of lace. Very practical.
You catch him looking. “If I’d known this was going to happen, I would have left the blue one on. But it’s itchy.”
“I’m not complaining.” Running his fingers under the hem of your shirt, he asks, “Can I take this off? Darling?”
“I feel like you’re mocking me.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You would,” you reply, but you still sit up so he can pull your shirt off. It’s an odd feeling of deja vu seeing the little gold plum blossom nestled just above your breasts. He’s certainly stared at the images long enough today to feel like he’s seen them before.
Reaching back, you pop the clasp on your bra and toss it onto the floor. He doesn’t even hesitate before filling his hands with your softness. The weight of your breasts feels divine against his palms; he thumbs your nipples gently, enjoying how they harden under his touch. When he leans to take one of your nipples into his mouth, he’s rewarded with a sweet whimper that seems to surprise even you, because you clap your hand over your mouth.
In response, he sucks harder, wanting nothing more than to elicit the same reaction again. You’re so wound up all the time, closed off to everyone but him. He wants to see you relax completely, wants to see every side of you there is to see.
He blows a gentle puff of cool air over your wet skin and you shift in his arms.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Seungcheol taught me some stuff.”
“Okay. What else did he teach you?”
“I thought you liked this couch.”
You seem to have forgotten all about the couch. Instead, you’re focused on getting your hands under his shirt. The brush of your fingertips across his stomach makes him shiver; he catches your hands.
“Hansol, I want to touch you, too.”
“I know, it’s just–you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted this. You .”
Something flickers across your face. He’s not sure entirely what–softness, understanding–but when you pull him in for a kiss, there’s an intensity in it that wasn’t quite there before.
“Carry me to the bedroom,” you order.
“Carry you?” he asks incredulously. “Do you think I’m Mingyu or something?”
“Well then maybe I should call Mingyu .”
“Maybe you should, if that’s the kind of boyfriend you’re looking for.” It’s only when you stare back at him that he realizes what he’s just said. “I mean, uh…”
“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Hansol, be serious.”
“I am serious,” he insists, meeting your gaze. “It would take an idiot to not want to date you.”
He might be an idiot about a lot of things, but he refuses to let you undervalue yourself for a second. Whatever it takes to prove to you that he’s willing to do damn near anything for you, he’ll do it.
So he tries to pick you up.
“No, Hansol!” You slap his shoulder several times in panic until he releases you. “Are you insane? You almost killed us both.”
“I was going to fireman’s carry you.”
You stare at him with such bewilderment that it almost makes him laugh.
“Oh great, because that’s real sexy.”
“It would be.”
“Yeah, if you were a fireman!”
“Shallow,” he chides. “I was going to throw you over my shoulder and everything.”
“I’m not dying with my tits out,” you say, holding your shirt to your chest as you jump to your feet. “I’ll walk myself to the bedroom, thanks.”
“You’re giving me real mixed signals here,” he jokes, following you like a lost duckling.
Your bed is perfectly made, the sheets folded back so evenly that you could have used a ruler to measure it. It’s just one of the many reasons why your friends say you don’t make sense together. After all, Vernon can’t remember the last time he made his bed. He washes his sheets and considers that good enough. He’s only going to mess it up again.
He’ll have to do better, he thinks, as he climbs up after you. In the short distance between the couch and your bed, you’ve become uncertain again, clutching your shirt.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Do you want to stop?”
He catches the way you bite at your cheek for a moment before shaking your head. “No. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?”
You fling your shirt away almost defiantly in response. Still, he takes a moment to brush your hair back, placing gentle kisses along your jaw, up to the curve of your ear. You shiver when he nibbles on your lobe, fingers clenching the front of his shirt.
“Hansol…”
“More?”
He feels your nod against his shoulder.
He can’t pretend he’s not relieved. When it comes down to it, he’ll do anything you want tonight, no matter how much or how little. But the fact that you trust him, that you want him, is the best thing he can ask for.
He doesn’t miss the way you tense as his hands travel down your stomach, brushing against the waistband of your pants.
“We can stop,” he reminds you.
“No,” you insist. “If it’s you…”
Placing your hands over his, you help him ease your leggings over your hips. That’s when he sees them for the first time. The long, thin scars that haven’t entirely faded and likely never will. His eyes dart up to your face and you’re just looking back at him, chin raised, daring him to comment.
His fingers circle your hips and skitter across your thighs; he keeps his eyes on yours the entire time.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
“Life is hard sometimes.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. It comforts him to see that they’re old marks, long healed. “You have me though, you know that, right?”
“Yeah. We can turn off the lights if you don’t want to see them or whatever.”
You’re being so casual, but he can hear the tension in your words.
“I’m here for all of you,” he assures you, thumbs stroking the gently raised skin. When you sigh, parting your legs a little wider, he takes that as his cue to keep going.
He doesn’t rush. As much as he wants you (and he wasn’t exaggerating about wanting all of you), he has nowhere else to be tonight. All he cares about is making you forget that random guy, forget even the idea of seeking anyone else but him. He wants to prove to you that he can be what you need.
“Lie back for me,” he requests, and you do, settling yourself between your pillows. It’s something he’s always teased you about, your fixation on having far too many pillows, and right now you look truly decadent.
He can feel the damp warmth of your core when he brushes his fingers over the center of your panties; your hips hitch towards his touch.
“Hansol, please,” you breathe.
You’re becoming more impatient, one hand darting down to tug at the band of your panties. He helps draw them down your legs, caressing the uneven skin once more. He gets it now, gets why you’re so closed off to everyone else. It hurts him to know that you’ve been hiding.
Leaning forward, he leaves gentle kisses along your thighs and hips, catching the intoxicating scent of your arousal. His hands trace along your body, gripping, caressing, unable to find their fill of you. If he never gets to see you like this again, well, he wants to remember as much of this moment as possible.
“Tell me what you like,” he urges you.
Hesitation furrows your brow for a second before it smoothes again. “Fingers,” you tell him. “Start slow.”
One day he’ll know your body so well he won’t need any direction, but for now he appreciates that you’re not shy about telling him what you need. He sucks two fingers into his mouth but he needn’t worry; the moment he traces your folds, he can feel just how aroused you are. It’s an easy glide as he gently strokes up towards your clit, watching your eyelids flutter in response.
You’re just so pretty like this, fingers squeezing around the edges of your pillows as he teases your entrance. When he pushes the first finger in, testing, you let out a moan and he feels like he’s been rewarded for good behavior. He wants to hear more. Wants to turn you into a writhing mess, but you said to start slow and he’s a good listener.
So he fucks you like this, finding a steady rhythm until you start to shift your hips up towards him.
“More?” he asks and you nod.
He sucks on his fingers again, mostly just an excuse to taste you. The heady taste of your essence makes him groan.
“Han…” you whine, drawing his attention back to you. “Please.”
He’s not even trying to tease you, but he never thought you’d be so easy to tease. It’s something to explore for next time, assuming there is a next time. If he only gets one chance to unravel you, he wants to do it well.
This time, when he slides two fingers in, you reward him immediately with a high, aching moan. Your hips meet his thrusts and he tries to match your pace, which quickly becomes frantic. Gripping his shirt with one hand, you yank him forward, mouth searching. The kiss is hot, messy.
The glide of your fingers across his scalp makes him shiver. For once he regrets his decision to shave his head, because the image of you pulling his hair while he’s going down on you is enough to make him want to come in his pants.
But first, he needs to see you let go. And you’re already close if the wetness around his fingers is anything to judge by. When he curls them in search of that soft spot to make you see stars, you dig your nails into his arm.
“There, Han, please!”
He obeys, angling his slick hand so he can press against your clit with the heel of his palm.
“How’s that, darling?”
He is teasing this time, only a little, but it doesn’t seem to even register. Not by the way you’re pushing up against him, grinding yourself into his palm. His free hand winds into your hair, holding you steady; your warm eyes are fixed on his, pleading, desperate.
“Gonna come for me?” he murmurs, hearing the hitch in your breath. “Let me see your pretty face, baby.”
And it is pretty, the way your mouth trembles and your soft lips part soundlessly. He can feel your thighs shaking around his hand, the rush of wetness across his slick fingers as he keeps thrusting, dragging you through your orgasm. The little plum blossom trembles above your heaving chest and it fills him with pride that he’s never seen you without it. (And now, it’s the only thing left on you.)
Sighing you ease back against the pillows, breath still shaky.
Vernon licks his palm, unable to resist.
“ Jesus ,” you exhale, eyes fixed on him. “You’re insane.”
“Just for you.”
“Don’t say that cheesy shit,” you respond, but you’re smiling.
This time, when your fingers find the edge of his shirt, he lets you tugs it up. He’s barely shrugged it off to find you already attacking his jeans.
“That eager to see me naked?” he jokes, partially to distract you, but once you’re fixated on something you’re impossible to deter. Knocking his hands away, you slide his jeans over his hips and down his thighs, slinging them back onto the floor victoriously.
There’s a gleam in how you look at him, taking in all of him, and it makes him suddenly anxious. There’s nothing so exposing as being literally exposed, and Vernon can’t help but try and see himself through your eyes right now.
He’s slim, and maybe a bit too slim, now that he thinks about it. Maybe he should be working out more. You’ve never complained about his body before and he doesn’t think you would, but he can’t carry you and if that’s what you want–
You straddle his waist, pushing him down against the bed. He stares up at you, startled.
“I don’t know where you just went, but it wasn’t here with me,” you chide him.
“I was just thinking.”
“Sounds like I need to do something about that.”
You rock your hips over him, smearing your wetness over the front of his underwear. His dick is so hard that he’s ready to beg you for attention, but there’s no need.
Hot lips press against his neck, sucking and scraping in a direct mimic of his earlier actions. You worry the skin until you’re satisfied, moving down to the next spot: his collarbone. As you make your way down his chest, your hips keep rocking, providing him the stimulation he so desperately needs.
By the time you reach his waistband, he’s ready to weep. He’s never been this hard in his entire life.
“You’ve gone so quiet,” you remark, one hand traveling down his torso to grip him through his briefs.
“S-sorry,” he croaks out. “Trying to stay focused.”
“On?”
“On not coming in my underwear.”
They’re soaked from a mixture of his pre-cum and your arousal. You drag them off his hips, tossing them back behind you. He doesn’t even have a moment to feel self-conscious because you’re already stroking him, smooth fingers twisting around the aching head of his cock.
There’s something a little clumsy about your efforts, like you haven’t done this too many times before. Sure enough, when he glances up at you, your lower lip is pulled under your teeth as you concentrate.
Reaching down, Vernon grips your hand, holding it steady for a moment. “A little tighter,” he instructs. “Like this.”
Just like you showed him how you liked to be fingered, he guides your hand for a few strokes. You follow his movements intently, focused on his pleasure. “What else do you like?”
“I don’t mind if you squeeze,” he admits. “The pressure is nice.”
He tightens his grip around your hand as an example, huffing a little at the tension.
“I think I’ve got it.”
When he releases you, you continue stroking him, alternating your grip. A particularly hard squeeze around his tip makes him groan; you press your thumb against the underside of his cock and for a moment stars burst in his vision.
“Hansol?”
“Good,” he gasps out. “Great.”
There’s nothing timid in your movements anymore. Instead, you watch him like you’re fascinated by how easily he’s unraveling, jerking him expertly until he’s shifting beneath you, stomach hollowing from the pleasure.
“Wait– hah .”
“Is this okay?”
“Perfect,” he says, scrambling to catch your hand again. “Too perfect. I’m going to come if you keep that up.”
“That’s the point.”
“You don’t want me to fuck you first?”
You look momentarily confused, like you’d forgotten that part.
“We don’t have to,” he reminds you. “This is great, too.”
“No, I just…really like seeing you like this,” you admit, and it’s enough to make his cheeks hot.
“Shit, uh, I just remembered…” Giving you an embarrassed smile, he says, “I don’t have a condom. I wasn’t expecting…” He used to carry one in his wallet until the Pizza Place Incident, where he accidentally flung a condom across the counter while trying to pay for dinner. Mingyu still mocks him for that.
You roll your eyes. “Do you think this is amateur hour? I wasn’t sending nudes earlier unprepared.”
“Okay, well, show off.”
You fish a foil packet out of your bedside drawer and hand it to him. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah, great. Are you sure you want–?”
Sliding your hand across his hair, you cup his neck, drawing him closer. “We’re done hypothesizing,” you tell him, pressing a hungry kiss to his waiting mouth. “I want you for real.”
“Okay, good,” he says, because he has to say something, and that’s all his brain has the capacity to offer up in this moment. You giggle as you pull away.
Settling on your hands and knees, you glance back at him. “How do you want me?”
How can you even ask that right now? You look so incredibly sexy just waiting for him; he’s afraid to blink in case he wakes up.
“This is good,” he says, caressing the small of your back and down to your ass. “Great, actually.”
“Then hurry…”
He fumbles with the packet, fingers suddenly clumsy in his eagerness.
“Or maybe don’t hurry,” you tease, shaking your ass. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m–just–” He manages to free the condom, rolling it down over his aching length. You’ve settled comfortably into the bed; he tugs your hips up a bit higher. “Still good?”
“Perfect, just–I want you inside me, Han.”
He can’t argue with that.
He’s prepared for you to be tight, based on how you felt around his fingers; he’s not prepared for how you grip him the moment he pushes in. A shared moan fills the room as he fights not to bruise your hips with his shaking hands. He’s not even halfway in and you feel so good around him.
“Hansol, wait–just–” you whimper and he obeys, even though your breathy voice is enough to destroy him.
“Are you okay?”
“Just give me a second,” you tell him, shifting yourself into a more comfortable position. Your walls flutter around him, making him bite down hard on his lip. He’ll do anything for you, of course, but you’re asking for a lot right now. Vernon focuses all his energy on not moving his hips and fucking you until you’re a panting mess on the bed. What his darling wants…
“O-okay,” you say, after seconds that feel like small eternities. “You can m–!”
His control breaks and he snaps his hips into yours, filling you completely. A groan bursts from him, mingling with your choked gasp. “Sorry, I’m sorry!”
Your head dips down towards the blanket. “Fuck, Han…you feel so good.”
He thrusts into you again, gentler this time. “How good?”
“So good. I knew…”
“What did you know?” he prompts, easing into a comfortable rhythm.
“I knew you’d be good,” you admit, trying to shift your hips back to meet his thrusts. “Think about you all the time. When I finger myself, when…I took those pictures!”
Your confessions break him. All his patience snaps; fingers digging into the soft skin of your waist, he pushes deep into you, filling you with every inch of him. It’s all he can do to stay focused.
“Think of you, too,” he murmurs, leaning over you so he can press his lips down your spine, feeling you shiver under him. “All the time. Those pictures made me crazy.”
Your necklace swings with every thrust, the sight of it making him feral. Some other asshole almost got to see it tonight, almost got to see you . He’s good at keeping his cool, but you rattle him so easily. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d do anything for you.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby girl.” You clench down around him so hard that he almost loses it right then. “Fuck!”
“Call me that again.”
“What? Baby girl?” Again, the grip of your pussy almost makes his eyes roll. “Okay–so maybe not darling then.”
“God, it sounds so hot when you say it.”
“Bet I could make babe sound hot, too.”
“Shut up and just fuck me now.”
He pushes forward, enjoying the way your fists grab at the duvet in response. You’re so warm around him, a perfect fit. He’s not a firm believer in fate, but you…you were made for him. The way you feel, the way you taste, the way you pull him into your body–how could you even consider sharing these things with anyone else?
“Hansol,” you whimper, pulling him back to the present. You’re twisting the blanket beneath you, nearly weeping from the intensity of your pleasure. “P-please, I can’t take much more.”
“Just a little more,” he urges, one hand slipping under you. Your swollen clit is tender under his thumb; you twitch against him the moment he presses down.
He’s not doing much better, despite his bravado. He’s been horny ever since you sent those photos and now he’s clinging to the very last of his sanity. But he wants to make you come again, to feel that tight squeeze around him once more.
Trading his thumb for two fingers, he rubs a hard circle over your clit and you wail into the mattress, sounding muffled and distant. Your pussy clenches around him and he swears, the curse breathless and foreign in his own mouth. Groaning deeply, Hansol thrusts once, twice more before he’s completely spent.
You’re still shuddering, clenching weakly around him.
“I’ve got you, baby girl,” he says, trying not to hiss at the overstimulation. You slump into the ravaged pillows, skin dewy.
Vernon eases himself out, the condom slick with your essence. He half-stumbles to your bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Even with the buzzcut he looks messy, wrecked. Tossing the condom, he washes off his hands and face, the cool water a relief against his sweaty skin.
Then he steals a towel and heads back to you, intending to help you clean up as well. Except when he eases himself back onto the bed, you roll into him, tucking your head under his chin. A lot has happened in one evening, but this is what’s going to destroy him. Your soft side is something you keep mostly to yourself, but right now you’re completely relaxed in his arms.
Vernon presses a kiss against your hair. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you say, tracing small patterns across his chest with your fingertips.
“You okay? Need anything?”
“A shower. In a minute.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
You make a small humming sound as you consider his question. “Snacks? I want those honey butter chips you brought last week.”
“Deal.”
“And those crunchy ones that taste like tteokbokki.”
“Okay…”
“And–”
“How about you just come to the store with me after that shower?”
But you just sigh into his chest, filling him with warmth. He waits like this a moment, tucking damp strands of hair back behind your ear.
“Was it okay? Was I okay?” you ask finally.
Vernon sits up so he can look at you better. “Are you kidding? You were amazing. Seriously. Was I okay?”
“Yeah. Better than I imagined.”
“Oh, so you imagined me.”
“Don’t start,” you say, rolling away from him.
“No, I want to hear all about this,” he teases. “How did you imagine me?”
But you don’t respond. Instead, you reach back for his hand. Interlacing your fingers, you draw his arm across your stomach.
And he knows. He knows that you imagined him being someone you could trust– can trust. With all of you.
Vernon settles back against you, kissing your neck. “I imagined us like this, too.”
After a moment you ask, “Were you serious about wanting to date me?”
“Hypothetically?”
“Actually.”
“Yes. It’s a proven fact. I am such a mess over you.”
You roll back to face him with a tender smile. “Shower and snack run?”
“Whatever you want, darling.” When you mumble back, he says, “Speak up for those of us in the back.”
“Youcancallmebabygirl. If you want.”
He pretends to think about it. “I’m still interested in babe.”
Huffing, you start to climb off the bed but he pulls you back into him, ignoring your protests about sticky skin.
“Hansol!”
“I’m kidding. You can be my baby girl. You can be whatever you want.”
“Clean.”
“I guess .”
It’s only when you pull him into the shower and you’re eagerly running your soaped hands over his fuzzy scalp that you say, “Yours. I just want to be yours.”
“Okay,” he agrees, brushing away a bit of soap foam from your cheek. “Does that mean the reverse is also true?”
“Of course,” you insist easily. “It’s a fact.”
It really is, he thinks. Uncontested.