𝕔𝕚𝕔𝕚

💋

Pink, red, pink, red, pink.

You slide the final seed bead onto the straight pin and reach for your jewelry pliers, carefully bending the remainder of the wire to the side before rolling it into a neat circle.

There. All the pieces for your keychains are done.

Now you just need to assemble them. You pop open the container of jump rings and select one, clamping down on one side of the ring with the jewelry pliers. Carefully you pinch the other side with your fingers, and then you pry it open.

It opens the wrong way, stretching into an oblong C instead of the angled opening you needed.

“Stupid pliers,” you sigh, dropping the ring and nudging it out of your immediate workspace.

Chan shifts behind you, chin hooking suddenly over your shoulder, and you glance at him. Of course, he brushes his lips against your cheek in a tiny greeting before nodding towards the mess you’ve spread across the living room table.

“What’s wrong with the pliers?” he asks. You wrinkle your nose as you lean back against him and the front of the couch.

“Technically nothing. These pliers are just harder to open jump rings with, and I left my regular pliers at home.”

Chan’s arm curls around you, resting along your collarbones and just underneath his chin. “Regular pliers? Like just the normal ones that come in a tool kit?”

“Yeah, that’s where I got mine.”

He hums, then presses a kiss to the side of your neck. “Wait here.”

You watch from the floor as Chan rolls himself off the couch and disappears around the corner. A minute of shuffling sounds later, he returns, a pair of regular pliers in hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

“These work?” he asks, and you reach up for him, smiling back.

“Yeah, those are perfect. No, c’mere,” you say, swatting away the pliers and gesturing for him to bend down. “I don’t wanna kiss the pliers.”

Chan laughs and leans down obediently. You cup his pretty face in your hands and kiss him for a lingering moment before pulling back and taking the pliers.

As you settle back to work, you expect Chan to return to his book, but instead he sits directly behind you, legs gently bracketing your sides. His shadow looms over your workspace, a little in the way, but you don’t mind, especially as his hands drift to your shoulders and begin massaging. You hum appreciatively. In return, you feel the soft pressure of his lips on the crown of your head.

“You’re using both pliers?” he asks in surprise as you pinch another jump ring between his pliers and then reach for your own. You nod.

“It lets me get a really good grip on it, so I can open it properly. See? Like this.” With a twist of your wrist, the jump ring opens easily, just the way it should. You set the pliers down and show him the little ring, then reach for the one you messed up. “This one won’t work anymore because I separated the ends. It’s nearly impossible to get it closed again now. Not worth the effort.”

“Huh.” Chan plucks the messed-up ring from your hand, and you let him take it, returning to your unassembled keychain and selecting the silver heart charm. Attaching it to the base of the keychain only takes a moment, and you reach for the pair of pliers again, ready to open another jump ring. But Chan taps your shoulder, voice playful as he asks, “How do I look?”

You glance back to see him with a lip piercing.

No, wait; he’s just slipped the messed-up jump ring over his lower lip.

But it looks like a lip piercing.

And he looks hot.

You stare for a moment at the way the silver curves over the pink swell of his lip. Then you set down the pliers.

His smile falters as you turn around, bracing your palms on his knees as you settle onto yours. “Is it not good?” he asks, almost pouting, and oh the way the ring digs into his pursed lip is sickening.

“Shut up,” you murmur, and then you grab the strings of his hoodie and yank him down.

His pretty mouth crashes into yours. He squeaks, then whimpers, then moans as you tilt your head and kiss him harder. The little ring nudges against your lip, a little spark of cold against the warmth of his mouth, and you chase it with your tongue as you rise up from your knees, pushing Chan back and climbing onto his lap. He’s pliant beneath you, body rolling down into the couch and lips parting to let your tongue in. His hands fly to your hips and just cling.

Another day you might have fun going slow, playing with him and making him wait, but you can’t be bothered right now. He’s whimpering anyway as you lave your tongue over the ring, pressing just enough that the open ends must be digging into his skin. That’s alright. He likes it.

Chan’s fun like that.

“You,” you murmur against his lips, inching your knees closer around his thighs, “look so hot right now, pretty boy.”

His breath hitches. His hands spasm, clutching at your hips. You grin and nudge his chin lightly to the side, giving you better access to that pretty, pretty ring.

You graze your teeth against it, and Chan shudders.

You draw his lip into your mouth and bite a perfect crescent around the ring, and half a cry leaves Chan’s mouth before his voice gives out.

His grip on your hips feels significantly weaker as you release his lip and pull back, careful not to nudge the ring out of place.

“Look at you,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks. His eyes meet yours beneath heavy eyelids, already so dazed from so little. His lip is red now, red and swollen, the curve of your teeth slowly fading from his skin. You run one hand up and rake it through his hair, tugging just enough to guide his head back the slightest amount. He goes so, so easily. “Pretty boy,” you murmur again, and his eyelashes flutter. “My pretty boy.”

“Yours,” Chan whispers. His voice almost shakes, dripping with a silent plea.

You don’t make him wait, mostly because you don’t want to wait.

You lean down and fit your lips to his, tongue curling right into his mouth and his addicting warmth. The ring rides the flow between you as you kiss him deeper and deeper, and from the timing of his whimpers and the twitching of his fingers, you know it’s digging into him. But from the little moan he gives when you pull back enough to tongue at the ring, warm and wet now, you know he doesn’t mind.

And hell if he doesn’t sound pretty.

“Did you know what you were doing?” you murmur between kisses as you trail your way down to his throat, pulling on his hair until he’s perfectly presented for you. You kiss the line of his neck. “Did you know how hot you would look? How crazy you would make me?”

“No,” he gasps. He’s grabbing at the back of your shirt now, fingers scrabbling for something to dig into. Cute. “I didn’t know –”

He breaks off with a tiny, pretty sound as you reach up with your free hand to pinch his lip, right next to the ring. His fingertips drag down your back, nails just barely skimming your skin, and you hiss against his throat and pinch him again. He jerks. His spine arches up into you. but you nip sharply at his collarbone, and he takes the warning well, flattening himself against the couch once more.

“Good,” you murmur, kissing slowly back up his neck. “Good boy. Good, pretty, pretty boy.”

The noise he makes is unintelligible and deliciously, delightfully desperate.

You kiss his open mouth, and his startled gasp melts into a whine as you drag your tongue along the line of his teeth. His nails are digging into your back now, half wrapped in your shirt, but your hands are in his hair, and his grip on you tightens with each sharp tug you give him.

He whimpers as you prod at the ring where it meets the inner curve of his lip. He whimpers again as you pull away, and then he shudders adorably at the feather-light kiss you leave atop the ring.

“Pretty boy with a piercing, huh?” you whisper against his skin.

“Yes!”

His response is so quick and needy that you almost laugh. Instead, you lean in and kiss him again.

This time, you let it be long and slow. Chan melts beneath you, more than he already did, until you’re pretty sure his thighs are shaking. He’s so beautiful. So good.

So you treat him a little bit.

You close your teeth around the edge of the little ring and pull slowly away.

Chan’s breathing hitches, then stutters, as his lip stretches out, the ring slowly scraping along his skin. His whine arcs higher and higher, until –

Plip!

The jump ring pops free, trapped between your teeth, and Chan’s swollen lip snaps back into his mouth with a little wet sound. Oh, he’s beautiful like this, dazed and breathless, head back against the cushions, chest heaving and eyes lidded. A beautiful mix of pink cheeks and red ears and pink lips and red marks and his pink tongue darting out to soothe the pain.

You spit the ring out onto his hoodie. He swallows as you rest your elbows on his shoulders, lingering close, and his mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something.

“You alright?” you murmur, and he nods quickly. But there’s still something on the tip of his tongue. “Go ahead,” you urge, kissing the tip of his nose. “You were perfect. You can talk.”

Chan swallows again. He still hasn’t caught his breath, poor thing. “Um,” he manages. “Where’s the nearest piercing place?”

Cherry-flavored balms were his favorite; you remember he mentioned it when you were using it, absentmindedly staring at you using it for just a little longer than usual.

Clutching the plushie that reminded you of him, you look at the way he swipes the chapstick around his lips, the color slowly giving his lips life, making it look like cherry itself. You can see how he wipes away the excess that sits on top of his lip as he returns your Chapstick.

"Hey," Seungcheol said, the bed creaks as he leans closer to you, too close. That familiar scent of his perfume is slowly etching its way into your clothes and kissing your skin. You try to pull yourself away from getting too close. Anything to get him out of your head.

His hand was trailing yours; you don't move an inch. Your heart settles when Seungcheol finally takes your hand to steal a half-empty cereal box from you.

"You're looking at me again, honey," Seungcheol emphasizes that last word with a tone that shows concern. Your eyes don't focus back in the show. You simply look at him...and his lips—those lips that had a deep shade of red from the tint and the sheen, making it look more plump.

"What? Oh sorry. Didn't know where else…" You look away from him and his lips as your own hide from it; you could almost taste the cherry flavor that you applied to your lips a few hours ago.

Honey was supposed to be a sweet endearment that he gives to his friends; he loves using it whenever you do any of his favors, or he even helps you with anything that you need working with.

'Thanks, honey' or even, 'You can always count on me, honey'.

Seungcheol doesn't like you that way, and you know that the endearment meant little interest, but right now, it's actually getting on your nerves, with just how good he calls you that even when you've listened to voice messages that the two of you sent to each other just for laughs, the endearment he uses as a norm, creating never ending twists around your stomach.

The way your shoulders lightly bump into each other as you adjust your pillow still makes you wonder if it might even mean something more. Would calling you that mean that he feels the same way for you?

"It finally took them a while." You smile when the characters finally kiss. You look away for a moment to look at Seungcheol, who quietly focuses on the scene.

"It's kind of funny how they're so oblivious that they even liked each other."

"They're too subtle about it." You say, "I didn't even know that they were into them until we got into what he was thinking."

You couldn't help but laugh; the male character especially reminded you of Seungcheol, even with the way he quietly follows behind the main character, who complains about their life.

And just like the main character, you couldn't decipher him. Even staying in his bedroom, a space that you've made your home to, there was still something about the way his hand quietly returns to its position of holding yours, as your thoughts that begin to think about anything about him, force itself to pry away from the scenarios where he has unconsciously holds your hand every time the two of you spend time together, buying more snacks for the next weekend.

You try not to think about the way he speaks to you; always so sweet with his words and close to you to whisper stories and jokes as if the two of you should be the only ones listening. Though as the episode comes to an end, you and Seungcheol bid goodbye, you slow your steps, hoping that he would suddenly open the door and give you a kiss that could rival the films the two of you watched, finally melt away the vagueness that runs through your mind 24/7.

If only that were the case. But, in the end, you find yourself in your car, playing any songs from your playlist that show those repressed feelings for your friend. You slowly end up forgetting the ending of the movie. Driving back to the apartment. A message popped up, and then a few more. As you reach your destination, you grab your phone to look at the messages.

Cheol <3 sent you 3 messages.

As you read the message thoroughly, you frown before throwing away your phone somewhere. You're gonna have to tell Chan about this, one of the few people who know your already fleeting feelings for Seungcheol, as he is the only one to ever see you take him home after one night of drinking with him.

He knows something that you don't. You've heard his stories about being in between the two of your antics that always end in quiet apologies and the tint of red in Seungcheol's ear (something you have yet to see). They are always exaggerated, you think to yourself.

"I like him."

"No way, Captain obvious."

The simple reply sends a flying plush of an otter to his head. Chan groans as he grabs the toy, tossing it back at you as you hug it tightly. "Then why are you even asking me? If you like him, just tell him."

You look at Chan before grinning at his current position. Slouched down on the couch as the two of you listen to a movie that has been played for the nth time, only serving as a quiet buzzing noise to accompany the ad games that Chan was playing.

"Well, it's different. How do I know if he likes me? What if he doesn't even like me that way?"

"Dude, he's like the only one who calls you honey so much, it's kind of sickening."

"Okay, but like…" It was dumb trying to refute someone who somehow knows what's up between the two of you, and with the way he rolls his eyes with you.

"Well, whatever, I know he likes you. Who else even goes to pay for dinner in advance for the two of you, as if he already knew what the two of you would get…" Chan said as he tossed his phone away, being dropped somewhere on the couch as it slipped out, and a bang could be heard. A curse left through Chan's mouth as he gets off the couch to grab his phone, rubbing any dust away with his shirt. "Do you not realize how much of a date this sounds?"

It's a wild idea, but the thought that Seungcheol would even take you out, it doesn't even seem real. Movies make it seem so easy for people to like each other. A fantasy that hits you too hard when you realize how daunting it is to even ask someone if you like them.

Chan notices the way you slump on the couch, even focusing on the movie that the two of you didn't even like. Eventually, he pauses the movie, making you look back at him in confusion. "Uh, you're gonna have to tell him eventually."

"But what if he doesn't even like me that way?"

"Right…that's pretty unlikely."

"You always say that." You frown, scooping a handful of popcorn, as you continue speaking with your mouth full. "Name me one time he showed any kind of interest."

"How would I know…" Chan says, "He's always taking you away from everyone, even the guys who like you don't even get a chance." You stare back at the television screen, slightly flushed that Seungcheol would even think to take people away from you.

"But seriously though, you should see the way he looks at you, he looks." Chan grabs the remote before lowering the volume of the buzzing noise of the action scene of the movie. "Plus, you guys hang out all the time; he's sure to develop something."

A message popped up as you continued scrolling.

Cheol <3 sent you 3 messages.

[ Today ⋅ 8:30 PM ] Cheol <3 movie night, you prepare the CD's? they say it's—

A hand quickly steals your phone away, not letting you finish the message that Seungcheol wanted to tell you, "Notice this, the two of you got personal movie nights without us." You look at Chan, who simply tilts his head and grins, and grabs a handful of your favorite cereal.

"Can you not?" You take your phone back from his very light grip as you read the finishing messages. There are even more new sets of text. You smile at the familiar sticker that he uses every time he shows that he's read your replies.

Cherries fill your messages. As Seungcheol is writing his message, you scroll back through the other messages he's sent you. Butterflies always seem to flutter around your stomach and the round of your cheeks to kiss you as he finally sends his message.

See you tomorrow?

"You're smart," Chan smiles, finally playing the film. The scene shows of the main character running as fast as they can, "He's just stupid at giving you the signs."

You find yourself in his bed as he is changing into something more comfortable, before the two of you watch on your laptop, even when there's conflict within you and your brain.

It was always Seungcheol's idea for you to spend your weekends at his house, and you can never really say no to movie night. You weren't opposed to Seungcheol's home. It was much better, much more comfier, had Seungcheol living here…it didn't actually matter, you just preferred it.

"I ordered some food, but if you're still hungry," Seungcheol tosses you a package full of flavored popcorn, and another twist for your stomach, because of course, he would know what your favorite is. Seungcheol never really opposed your tastes, even when he was obvious about his dislikes.

You begin setting up your laptop, another romance movie. You already know that he was next to you when the bed begins to weigh down, and his shoulder lightly bumps into yours.

You remember what Chan told you before he said his goodbyes; something about testing the waters for any clues of interest by wear. You started small, wearing a top that he Seungcheol says looks really nice on you, perfume that is subtle but not overbearing, his favorite scent.

As the movie begins, you know that this kind of silence wasn't going to last forever. Seungcheol quietly talks about how confusing the movie is with the story when you quickly interrupt him.

"Can I ask you something?" You, looking at him, for once, notice something in the way he was looking at you.

"What…" Seungcheol said, slightly fumbling his words. "No, yeah—sure, sure. What's up?"

Seungcheol was very close to you; he didn't wear his cologne, but you could still feel it, the way it kisses your perfume. His skin has a slight tint of red at the tips of his ears, and the ends of his hair seem to have curled up ever so slightly. Even the way he tilts his head, you could see sparkles in his eyes so clearly, it's as if your vision had greatly improved even more.

Maybe you were thinking about this a little too hard. But seeing the way Seungcheol was quietly mumbling quiet words to himself, realizing how long he had actually been staring before looking away and taking a deep breath. He smiles as he looks back at you, a smile that means everything now.

"I want to be honest." You begin, ignoring the movie, becoming a sort of grounding hold as it plays a silent scene between the main character as he stays alone in his home with his dog. "Cheol, you're gorgeous, and everything that you do, even if I think you're doing it in a friendly way, is making me go crazy!"

. . .

The very, very silent moment between the two of you is momentarily interrupted when the movie moves to a more upbeat sound of the song California Dreamin'. Which brings a smile upon Seungcheol that you take a breath, one you didn't even know that you were holding.

Seungcheol puts his hands over his face, holding that position for a few seconds before chuckling, "God, why are we even like this?" Seungcheol mutters to himself, leaning his head on your shoulder. "We really are oblivious, aren't we?"

"Maybe." You sigh, gently lifting him off of you, getting a good look at his face. He wore an embarrassed grin as you swept up his hair. "Dumb, and vague, both of us were..."

Chan knew what was happening between the two of you; you were simply in your own head, fawning and going crazy. If only love were easy to understand, you unfortunately got the confusing kind, though you don't mind it.

After all, seeing Seungcheol ramble on about moments where it should have been obvious to the two of you that there's probably something up, you wanted to shut that mouth up more now that you knew. Your movements were swift as you moved to kiss him on the cheek. The movie conveniently plays Faye Wong's cover of Dreams, which gives you a bit of confidence to quietly kiss the corner of his mouth.

When you pull away, you look up at Seungcheol as he shakes his head, and a smile spreads across his face. "You surprised me."

"I had to shut you up somehow."

"This is how you shut people up?"

"It did work, though," you huff in response.

Seungcheol grins, holding your face up with just his hand on your chin, looking at you and then at your lips, which open slightly at the gentle pull he holds on you. Enamored, you looked very enamored. "I think you need to surprise me more."

"How should I do it then?" Your lashes flutter as his thumb lightly grazes against your bottom lip, the sheer color of pink staining his thumb. You were also wearing his favorite balm.

"You didn't even kiss me on the lips…I think it'd be more surprising." It was then that he quickly stole your breath away, and the taste of cherry begins to overwhelm you. Your back moves away from the headboard as you lie down on the cool mattress, reaching over to pull him closer to you, not leaving any room to breathe.

He is quick in his way when his mouth moves heavy against yours, as well as the way the heft of his arms pushes down to you, closer to the scent of his cologne, leading the chorus of your lips as he lets himself in, his tongue enters, and your lips begin to quiver. It felt good the way he lets you tangle your legs around his hips, giving you easier access to hold you tightly.

It felt like a dream, you wished it didn't end.

"I'm sorry for being like this," he mumbles through the kisses, leaving you breathless as he pulls away to kiss the apple of your cheek, lips trailing to your jaw as he leaves peppered flutters and red stains. "Beautiful," he calls you, kissing your brow.

"Mm," you could only reply, holding onto the black locks of his hair as you let him suck a sensitive spot around your neck. Your body is lightly anchored onto his hips as your hand moves up, feeling him, how he tries to keep himself up and not trap you down with more cherry-flavored kisses.

"Honey, look at me," Seungcheol whispers. You love it when he calls you that.

His lips were flushed as he gave you a long smooch; you could taste the Chapstick that you used a while ago. It feels good knowing that it came from you and no one else. Seungcheol never let you go that day, holding onto you as he whispers confessions only to be listened to by both of you.

You could do this forever.

thank you for reading the confusing kind like, reblog and send me your feedback! ⤷ find me on : ao3 (mellow_wishes) | wattpad (mellow-wishes)

mellow's notes : sort of but not really a cheol bday fic because im like two days late. also i watched chungking express so i thought why not add that one cranberries song and reference california dreamin' hehe

“Vernon, what the hell is going on?” you ask, trying to tug out of his grip, but he just tightens his hand around your wrist as he drags you inside the garage. It’s empty, unusually clean and tidy now that the weekend is over, the two cars standing alone in the near-darkness. “Vernon!”

He finally spins around, hand falling from yours. His eyes burn, chest rising and falling from the adrenaline of the drive – and something else? You swallow and massage your wrist.

“You look at him too much,” he mutters. Your heart lodges in your throat. You choke it back down.

“I – what? What are you – do you mean Chan? Are you still mad about –”

“Yes, I mean Chan.” Vernon steps closer. You step back. “Yes, I’m still mad. I beat him, I was beating him the whole race, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. My teammate.”

“…So you’re not mad, you’re just jealous?”

Vernon takes another silent step. Then another. You backpedal to keep up, but your back brushes against the garage door. His mouth quirks up in a pinched smile that’s anything but cheery. “Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I want my girlfriend’s eyes on me.”

His palm hits the door beside your head.

The bang echoes throughout the empty garage, and just like that, whatever instinct you had to fight is gone. You swallow thickly. His eyes burn dark in the dim light.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you whisper. Your breath catches at the way your own voice trembles.

But Vernon just grins.

“That’s my girl.”

Your breath hitches way too hard. Vernon’s other hand comes up to cup your chin, deceivingly gentle. His touch burns.

“Yeah, you’re gonna make it up to me, huh? Put those lips to work?”

“Yes,” you whisper immediately, palms pressing into the thin metal at your back. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Apologies already, oh, that’s good.” He swipes his thumb over your lips, and your eyelids flutter on their own. When your vision refocuses, he’s closer than before, looming over you. You just stare as your world narrows to him and him alone. His eyes are so deep. His hands are so big, wrapping around your throat and –

Oh. You swallow against his thumb.

The pressure is just uncomfortable enough to make you flinch. The tips of his nails burn at the back of your neck. Your eyes fall shut.

“Yeah,” Vernon breathes. The words flutter over your cheek. “You like that, huh? Dang, you’re so easy.”

Shame rips through you, warming your cheeks and drying your mouth. “I –” you try, but his thumb presses under your Adam’s apple and squeezes the words into a whimper.

“Did I say you could talk yet?”

Uh-oh.

“Oh, relax; I won’t shut you up today,” Vernon murmurs, low voice drawing closer and closer to your ear. “Be as loud as you want. But if you say something I don’t like, I gotta shut you up. Got it?”

Yes, you almost say, before slamming your jaw shut and nodding quickly. You crack one eye open, catch a glimpse of his teeth flashing in a grin, and close it again.

“Good girl.” The pressure on your throat shifts as he starts rubbing his thumb up and down. Up and down. “You know how much I’ve been wanting you? All day? And you couldn’t keep your eyes off of Chan.”

He scoffs over his teammate’s name. Almost spits it. A retort tugs at your tongue – But I wasn’t looking like that, I would never look at anyone but you, he’s just a friend – but you keep your jaw clenched. You know better.

Then Vernon’s lips brush your cheek, and your eyes and mouth fly open with a gasp.

“There we go,” he murmurs. Your breath hitches at the way his voice drips with something like disdain, something that makes your insides curl.

“Vernon,” you whisper, just to say it, just to taste his name on your tongue, just to love him and thank him and beg him for something, but he doesn’t even answer. He just shifts his hand, spreads his palm along your collarbones, and presses feathery kisses across your cheek.

It’s not enough. It’s not enough and he knows. He has to.

Then his mouth settles at the corner of your jaw, and for a blissful moment he’s drawing your skin between his teeth and you’re gasping and clutching at his waist. For a blissful moment, it’s perfect.

Then he pulls away.

His eyes glitter.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Oh, no. His hand disappears from the base of your throat, and your knees threaten to give out with the sudden lack of support. You reach for his jacket, but before you can grab on, his fingers wrap easily around your wrists.

Oh.

Then your arms slam above your head hard enough to rattle the entire door. The sound echoes in your head, almost drowning out Vernon’s words as he purrs against your ear – “I didn’t say you could touch.”

No.

His grip only tightens as you stretch your fingers desperately towards him. “Please,” you whisper – whimper – but he just nips at the lobe of your ear, teeth scraping over your diamond stud and coaxing a shiver out of you. He chuckles. Your cheeks burn. You turn away, as if there’s anywhere to hide, but –

“Stop,” Vernon commands, and your head snaps back embarrassingly fast.

He’s close. So close. Nose bumping against yours, lips only a breath away, the space between filled with a desperate, needy heat that, you realize with a flash of embarrassment, is entirely your own fault.

He grins.

“Cute.”

Something inside you dies.

“But lemme make this clear, okay? You don’t get to touch me.”

The rest of you dies.

“But –” you start to protest – but how can I make it up to you if I can’t touch you? – but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You’re not going to move unless I say you can,” he says slowly, like you need help understanding. His eyes glimmer in the low light. Your shoulders creep towards your burning ears. “You got that?”

“I – yes?” you manage, and he snorts, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“You sure? Try again.”

“Yes, I get it,” you say before you’ve quite realized it. “But, um, how am I supposed to make it up to you if I –”

“If you can’t touch me?”

Your words fall away as Vernon smirks. He shifts both your wrists into one hand, then brings the other to your cheek, tapping out a playful rhythm on your skin.

“Look at that,” he murmurs. “I can touch you without getting in trouble. Huh.”

“Vernon,” you whisper. His eyes are on his fingers, still tapping away, and not on you as he hums in response. You open your mouth to say something else – what, you don’t know – but Vernon’s touch shifts to your lips. Tap. Tap. Tap. Your voice dies in your throat.

“Cute,” he murmurs again, and you might as well be mute. Then the tapping stops, his eyes drop to your mouth, and he tugs at your lower lip instead, pinching and pulling absently as he speaks. It hurts, it taunts, it’s at least something and you should be grateful for it – but all it does is remind you that he’s not kissing you, and that’s infinitely worse. “Yeah, so, I’m just gonna do whatever I want with you, I think. Kinda treat you like a doll. That cool with you?”

His gaze flickers up to meet yours just as his hand drops back to your throat, and the thin rubber band that is your mind gets stretched three directions at once.

“Babe.” Vernon’s fingers press into your skin with the tiniest push and pull, almost like he’s massaging your throat – massaging the thoughts right out of you – and you do your best to exhale like a normal person, but a shaky moan slips out. He snorts, and your cheeks burn. “You’re a freak, you know that?”

Somewhere in the back of your mind there’s a witty retort about how he’s worse than you are. You can’t get to it right now. (Vernon’s making sure of that.)

“Fre-eak,” he sings, tilting your head side to side like a doll. A doll. Oh. You swallow, throat bobbing against his palm, and he just grins, pretty lips stretching wide. “Yeah. Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Then his mouth is – finally – on yours. You gasp, then whine, then nearly choke trying to inhale as he squeezes your throat.

His lips disappear. You cough, the pressure on your wrists growing as your knees threaten to give out. Vernon just chuckles in your ear, husky and breathy and hot. Too hot.

“Can’t even kiss me right, huh,” he scoffs. “You know, I really thought you’d be better at this.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, blinking hard as if it’ll clear your head. “I – I can do better.”

His fingers nudge at the underside of your jaw, tilting your head up to meet his hardened gaze. “You will do better.”

“Yes!”

Vernon examines you for a long moment.

Then he nods.

“Good. Show me.”

And he steps back, dropping your wrists so suddenly that you nearly collapse. You barely catch yourself, braced awkwardly against the door behind you, and look up at him, but he’s just… standing there. Waiting.

Show me.

Somehow you manage to regain your footing. Vernon’s only a step away, but it feels like a mile.

You inch forward. Swallow, take a breath, and take a step. He’s just watching you, his face an unimpressed mask.

If you were braver – more coherent, maybe – you might try something more seductive. Something pretty or flirty. Something he was probably expecting, wanting from you.

But you’re not. So all you can do is lift your hands to his jaw and kiss him.

It lasts all of a second before your back hits the garage door hard enough to make you gasp. You barely realize that Vernon’s mouth is gone, too distracted by the vice grip he has on your wrists, pinning them far at your sides.

“What,” he hisses, his shoulder digging into your collarbone as his lips brush your ear, “did I say about touching?”

“I’m sorry!” you gasp out, distantly realizing that you’re trembling all over. “I thought – I didn’t – you wanted me, to, to –”

“I wanted you to show me that you could obey.” His voice burns your skin. “Clearly, you can’t even do that.”

You inhale shakily. Everything’s hot. Too hot. “I’m sorry. Let me try again –”

“No.”

Everything stops for a dizzying moment.

Then he releases your wrists and grabs your thighs.

He hoists you up, lifting you and shifting your weight against his hips. You try not to cry out, but it’s futile; the sound escapes anyway, a shuddering breath that verges on a squeak. His fingers dig into your skin below the rucked-up hem of your skirt.

“Don’t touch,” he reminds you oh-so-casually, and your arms freeze halfway around his neck. You blink.

“What am I –”

“Behind your back, princess. Yeah. There we go.”

You feel horribly off-balance like this – like you could fall at any moment – but you keep your hands behind your back, clutching your own fingers so you don’t disobey and move. A low hum of approval vibrates against your cheek where you’ve pressed it into Vernon’s neck.

“You want a second chance?” he asks suddenly, and you inhale sharply, nodding and hoping you don’t seem as desperate as you feel. Or maybe hoping you do. “Good. Mess up my neck.”

You lift your head a fraction of an inch. “Mess –?”

“Yep. Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warns, and immediately you drop your lips to the crook of his neck. He grunts. You kiss him again. “Don’t play it safe, baby girl. I wanna walk into the garage tomorrow and I want everyone to know just how good you are for me.”

You cling tighter to your own hands, but obediently your lips part and you swirl your tongue over his hot skin. Then you pull your lips back just enough.

Then you bite.

Vernon’s grip on your thighs tightens quickly enough that you whimper through the skin and muscle clenched between your teeth. He just chuckles in your ear, breathy and cocky, and you bite down harder to keep from letting another noise slip. After another moment, you realize that you really don’t want to break the skin, and quickly you let go, instead coating the spot in tiny kitten licks before shifting higher up his neck and sucking soft, thin skin into your mouth. If he wants you to give him hickies, you’ll give him the prettiest hickies.

Suddenly, he’s walking, moving somewhere in the garage that you can’t see. You press further against him, sucking desperately as though it’ll keep you from falling.

“Time’s almost up,” he says, and though he sounds as stoic and casual as ever, you’re pretty sure there’s a breathy bliss hiding in the back – one that makes you feel a little lick of pride, and a much stronger determination to keep going. You suck and lick and nibble, soothing it all over with kisses, watching dark rosettes bloom over his skin even in the dim light. It’s intoxicating.

Until you break away from his neck with a gasp as something cold and smooth greets the backs of your thighs.

“Time’s up.”

“Wait,” you beg – you only got to one side of his neck, that was unfair, that was so brief – but his hands are already gone from your thighs, your weight is shifting onto the cold metal beneath you, and Vernon’s tugging your arms out from behind your back.

“Nope, you’re done,” he says simply. “My turn now.”

Your mouth opens helplessly, but whatever protest you might have dreamed of saying disappears as he forces your arms above your head and leans over you. Your knuckles knock into something hard, but Vernon’s thumbs force your hands open, wrapping your palms around whatever it is. The cold metal arcs along your back.

You’re lying on his car, you realize with a shudder, and he’s wrapped your hands around the post of the halo.

“Don’t you dare let go.”

“No,” you choke out. You know it comes out wrong – as a protest rather than an agreement – and for a moment you brace yourself, but Vernon must be feeling nice, because he just scoffs and bites harshly on the lobe of your ear. You whimper anyway.

Then he slides away. His hands trail down your arms, over your sides, around your hips and along your legs as he guides your body to lay fully on the thin nose of his car. It’s something of a balancing act, trying to keep yourself centered with your arms locked above your head, but Vernon makes it easier when he steps over the front axle and locks your thighs between his.

He leans on the tires, tilted just slightly back, just enough for your eyes to drag down his torso. His Mercedes jacket usually hides his actual form, but right now it’s fallen open, and the loose tank top beneath hangs alluringly from his shoulders. It doesn’t show much, but it doesn’t hide much, either, and you find yourself staring.

Then Vernon shifts, and the jacket slides off his shoulders. Your eyes widen. You know what he looks like beneath his usual baggy clothes, of course you do, but there’s something about seeing him like this – towering over you, eyes dark, neck mottled, lean muscle shifting under his skin as he tugs his jacket from his wrists and drapes it over a tire – something about this that makes you swallow, bringing your elbows together to try to hide behind them.

Bad idea, of course.

Vernon leans forward just enough to flick your arms open again. Then he leans closer, left arm bracing against the car while he drags the backs of his nails along your cheek. You shiver, but somehow manage not to look away.

“Well?” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows. “How do you think you did? Is Chan’s jaw going to drop when he walks in tomorrow?”

You drop your eyes to his throat for just a moment. There is an impressive amount of purple, even the lingering press of your teeth, but it’s all on his right. The left side of his neck is almost embarrassingly clean.

Vernon’s hand leaves your cheek to prod at his own skin, pressing on hickies and not even flinching. His fingers skim over the bare side of his neck with a click of his tongue. “Feels a little lopsided, babe.”

“Let me fix it.”

But he scoffs. “No. Like I said: My turn now.”

He cradles your cheek then, big palm burning your skin. He thumbs under your eye, his fingers press against your ear, and you let your eyes fall shut and hope that he lets you have this little reprieve.

For a moment, he does.

But then you feel his hand sliding down towards your jaw. He drags over your lips with a sudden pressure, parting them easily. And then his thumb is in your mouth.

Just the tip of it. Just up to the first knuckle. But it’s enough to make your eyes fly open with a gasp.

Vernon’s grinning.

“Look at you, huh? Always so happy to get my fingers in your mouth.” He tugs on your bottom teeth, and you let your jaw fall open. He nods. “You’re always so obedient like this, too. Good girl.”

A whine slips from the back of your throat. Your cheeks burn at the way Vernon’s grin widens.

“Yeahhh,” he breathes, pushing his thumb in further to tease at the tip of your tongue. You whimper shakily. He presses further, the pad of his thumb pinning your tongue down with the lightest touch imaginable. You could probably move away if you wanted. You would rather die. (You want more of him, more of his fingers, more of his hand.) “You’re so pretty like this, you know,” Vernon says, voice lazy like he’s reciting a simple fact. “Spread out. Hands on the halo. One finger in your mouth while you’re clearly desperate for another.”

The heat that tears across your skin must be so visible, because Vernon laughs.

“Yeah, you’re desperate. Unfortunately for you, I don’t have to do anything you want,” he says, and then his thumb slips away, and your lips close on nothing. You almost open your mouth to protest, but then something wet rubs against your cheek.

Vernon’s thumb.

He’s wiping your saliva off. On you.

Your protest turns into a trembling moan.

“Mm, you like that too? Being the rag I clean myself up on?”

You slam your mouth shut. Vernon just laughs, something like disbelief in his tone.

“Wow. I knew you were dirty, but this…”

“Stop,” you beg. Shame is already curling in your stomach and licking across your cheeks, burning in a way where you can’t tell whether or not you like it. Vernon’s eyes feel much the same way, roving over you with a heat that makes you want to curl up and scream.

But you don’t, because Vernon’s trapped you here, against his car, and there’s nowhere else where you’d rather be.

“Freaky, filthy doll,” he breathes, and you almost choke. “You think you can flirt with whoever you want and get away with it, huh?”

“No,” you gasp, the word strangled and weak. “No, I didn’t –”

“Stop lying. You were flirting.”

His hair hangs in his eyes, dark and belittling in a way that makes your stomach twist. You find yourself nodding.

“Say it,” he murmurs, and the words spill easily.

“I was flirting.”

“Use my name when you talk to me, doll.”

“I was flirting, Vernon,” you say immediately, and his eyes glint. He presses his fingers suddenly into your jaw, prying it open, and you can’t do anything but let him.

“Good,” he says simply. “Never do it again.”

“I won’t!” you promise desperately, shaking your head even though you can barely move with the grip he has on you. He just scoffs.

“Cute. I don’t think I can trust you, though.”

“You can!”

His eyes narrow along with his grip. “Can I? Cause you don’t seem to get that you’re mine.”

Your heart skips a beat as he leans in.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, nose skimming yours, “I should make it a little more clear. Once you’ve licked a cookie, it’s yours, right?”

His head dips. Something hot and wet swirls at the hinge of your jaw.

Then Vernon licks a long, slow, filthy path across the curve of your cheek. All the air leaves your lungs as you moan. Your whole body spasms in his grip. He pulls away only to blow over the wet skin, sending a shockwave of cold air across your cheek.

“Vernon,” you gasp, the word barely forming, but he’s not done. He forces your jaw open wider, and spits.

You inhale so hard you nearly choke. You try to close your mouth so you can swallow, but then something else pushes past your lips.

Vernon’s fingers.

“Don’t swallow yet,” he warns as he slides his index and middle finger deeper. “I gotta mix it in.”

Your whine rises into a moan as he circles his fingers inside your mouth, pressing against his own spit on your tongue and mixing it into the saliva gathered at the back of your throat. He’s so far back that you nearly gag, but Vernon chuckles, watching you with a dark amusement as he pulls back just enough to pet over the surface of your tongue.

“You get the point now?” he whispers, eyebrows raised. You try to hum a response, try to nod, but everything’s in shambles. The most you can manage is a pitiful whimper around his broad fingers, and he just grins. “Aw, look at you. Choking on my fingers and my spit. And you just love it, don’t you?”

He presses down on your tongue, and you have to fight not to gag and swallow and disobey. There’s so much saliva pooled in your mouth right now, so much that you don’t know how much longer you can hold on. It’s taking everything in you to focus on not swallowing.

It must show in your eyes, because Vernon chuckles and lifts his fingers. It’s a small reprieve – but only a small one.

“Play,” he orders. You blink dazedly. What? “Play,” he repeats, curving his fingers to scrape along your tongue, and then you get it. You curl your tongue around his fingers, between them, trying not to choke or lose your mind from the thought that you might drown in your own saliva – and the knowledge that it’s mixed with his.

Then suddenly he flicks your tongue aside. His fingers curl, then slip out of your mouth, dragging an obscene amount of saliva with them.

Saliva that he smears across your cheek, sticky and hot and wet and filthy.

“Messy,” he chides, and you shudder, closing your eyes. You can’t. You can’t look at him anymore, not when your throat is trembling with the effort it takes not to – “Swallow.”

Oh.

You do. You swallow, and relief courses through you. Finally you start to inhale.

Vernon’s hand, tacky with spit, closes around your throat, and you freeze. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amused, and then he bends over you and sucks your trembling lower lip into his mouth – and bites.

It’s heaven. It’s hell. It’s something horrid in between. His teeth all but grind against your skin for a moment, before he releases your aching lip and soothes his tongue over it instead. He keeps shifting his grip on your throat, too; tightening and releasing like he’s trying to control your breath. Maybe he is, because somehow, it’s working. You find yourself inhaling and exhaling in rhythm with his pulsating grasp, even as he sucks so harshly on your lip that you think he might pull it off.

He pulls back, teeth dragging off your sore lip and letting it snap back with a soft pop! His hand keeps squeezing, and you keep breathing in tandem with the pressure, even despite the way each exhale ends with a shudder.

“Look at you,” Vernon murmurs, and you whimper just from the sound of his voice. His husky laugh rolls over you and almost coaxes out another embarrassing noise, but this one you manage to swallow (even past the pressure of his palm). “You’re even breathing the way I want you to. You’re so obedient.” He cocks his head, his fingers tighten, and you stop with a breath in your throat. “Huh. Good.” He waits a moment longer. You hold your breath. Your pulse throbs against his thumb, the pressure starts to build, and you squeeze the halo as a thread of panic slips in – but his hand drops away, and you gasp for air, sagging back against the car. It’s warm now, where you’ve been lying on it. “You’re being such a good doll,” Vernon breathes, leaning back. “Let’s keep it up, yeah?”

You nod, staring up at him through heavy eyelids. Oh, he’s pretty like this. Pretty? Hot? Both? Everything?

“So, what do you think? Can we say you know you’re mine now?” he says casually, hands settling on his own thighs but so, so close to your hips. You swallow and nod.

But Vernon clicks his tongue. “Bzzz. Wrong answer, babe. The claim’s gotta go both ways before I can believe you.”

What?

You open your mouth, but that’s as far as you get before Vernon grabs the waist of his shirt and strips it over his head, and part of your brain stops working.

He’s beautiful.

He’s lean and taut, muscles corded and veins strong, his skin smooth and shining with the thinnest sheen of sweat. The subtle lines of his abs catch the light, while his collarbones cast enticing shadows over the soft curve of his pecs.

It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.

But it’s everything.

“Eyes up here, babe.”

You snap your eyes up to his immediately, cheeks burning at the amusement littering his expression. He tosses his shirt into the cockpit over your head as he leans forward, and you inhale sharply. But you can’t pull away. There’s nowhere to go.

He braces his arms on the top of the halo, looming so, so close above you. You’re breathing too fast, but you can’t stop. Not with his dark eyes just inches away.

“Your turn,” he breathes, a hot rush of air on your burning cheeks. You blink.

“My turn –”

Vernon lifts one hand and touches two fingers to the base of his sternum, right between his pecs. Then he slides slowly up, until he settles at the dip above his collarbones.

“Your turn,” he repeats. “Lick.”

Oh.

You swallow. Your mouth is dry, too dry for this. Especially this. But Vernon’s shifting higher, thighs bracketing your waist now, and he’s leaning down, arms flexing where they’re braced against the halo, his chest positioned just over your face –

He stops just as your nose skims his skin. This close, you can smell his cologne; thick and heady with a hint of spice that makes your head spin (as if it wasn’t already).

Your mouth isn’t as dry now, you notice, and the air burns hotter as you realize that you’re salivating. Oh. You’re thinking about how his skin will taste on your tongue, and you’re salivating.

“I’m waiting,” Vernon whispers, and immediately you tilt your chin up and press your lips to the space between his pecs.

He’s soft, is your first thought. No, not soft – smooth. Perfectly smooth. His pecs themselves look softer, gentle swells on either side that tempt your attention, but he grunts and you drag your traitorous brain back to the task at hand.

Lick.

A shiver races down your spine as you part your lips.

He tastes like salt and heat, the thin glimmer of sweat that, you realize with a jolt, isn’t from the weather. It was chilly outside, it was temperate at best when you first entered the garage, and yet now you’re both burning up. Body heat, your brain supplies helpfully, and you almost want to sob but instead you flatten your tongue against his smooth, sweet skin, and you drag.

The groan Vernon lets out is guttural. It’s long and low, vibrating against your tongue, and you can’t just stop at his collarbones. Not when he’s like this. You let go, one hand against the car to push yourself up while your other hand slips into the soft hair at the base of Vernon’s neck, and you trail your tongue up and up and up.

You lick your way right into his mouth. It’s heaven. Or maybe it’s hell, with how hot he is around you and how sharp his teeth are as they graze your tongue. Either way, you don’t think you mind. Your fingers curl tighter into his hair, tugging him down so you can bring your other hand up to reach for his pecs. You can already imagine the give of his skin, how nicely he’ll fit against your palm, how he’ll shiver when you brush your thumb over his –

Vernon’s hand snaps around your wrist. His other hand bites into the back of your neck. The barest tip of your middle finger grazes his pec before he forces your hand back down, and he pulls you away from his mouth, teeth scraping your tongue all the way out.

His eyes burn.

“You had to go and spoil a good thing.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Shut up.”

“Please –”

You gag as Vernon’s fingers hit the back of your throat. Three of them, all at once, with so much force that your head snaps back.

“I said shut up. Geez, you really can’t do anything right, can you?”

Answering isn’t an option. Your throat convulses, tongue trying in vain to alleviate the pressure, as Vernon’s thumb curls under your chin.

Then he starts pushing you down, forcing your back against the car once more. His grip on your jaw is iron. It’s so firm that you have to push back or else your skull will ricochet off the car. Pushing back, though, means that his fingers just wedge deeper into your throat, and it only takes a moment before you’re flat on your back and drained and coughing for your life, free hand scrabbling at Vernon’s steady arm.

“Pitiful,” he grits out, and you want to scream.

But he lets you go.

Well, more accurately, he slides his fingers half out of your mouth, hooking your jaw open and staring down as you pant and whimper and shake. Your arms fall limp against the car. His pupils are so wide that his eyes are black, his gaze mocking and predatory in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You’ve never felt so much like prey: caught, pinned, and eyed like he’s going to eat you alive.

Maybe he will.

Vernon curls his palm around your jaw, fingers still heavy on your tongue, and directs your head to the side. Your gaze settles on his thighs. You close your eyes. Every breath is ragged. Your throat aches.

“Don’t move this time,” he warns. “I know you’re dumb, but you can’t be dumb enough not to understand that.”

Your cheeks burn against the cool metal of his car. You’re not going to move this time. Not at all. Not even to breathe, if that’s what it takes. His fingers slide out, leaving your mouth gaping around nothing – wait. He’s back.

He pinches the tip of your tongue, and you have to fight not to twitch, forcing your mouth to stay lax. He pulls it out of your mouth. Then he lets go. Your tongue falls limp against the side of your mouth, but the tip of the muscle touches something far colder and far smoother.

The car, you realize dazedly. Somehow you manage not to flinch, even as saliva starts to pool in your cheek from the strange, open-mouthed inaction. Even as it starts to creep towards your parted lips. Even as it threatens to spill.

You inhale sharply and only barely keep from jerking as Vernon’s hand settles on your stomach, broad and heavy. Something’s rustling. You can’t see. You don’t want to. His weight settles a little more firmly over your hips, and his hand disappears.

He drags your arms above your head with a ruthlessness that jostles your entire body. The insides of your wrists bump into what must be the spine of the halo. Then he jams your hands together and binds them so tightly with a bulky piece of fabric. He tugs at your elbows, knocking your wrists against the spine, but the knot holds firm.

You’re trapped.

“There we go,” Vernon murmurs. His hand trails down the length of your arm and slides into your hair. He runs his fingers through it, tugging out a small knot, surprisingly gentle. You brace yourself for a harsh tug, but it never comes.

Instead, Vernon backs up, his thighs bracketing yours again. He leans in.

Then his lips ghost along the column of your neck, and the saliva pooled in your mouth spills over. You stay stock still, though you have to fight for it. He kisses slowly up and down the length of your throat, and drool gathers where your cheek meets the car, sticky and wet and filthy. But you don’t move.

“Look at you,” he mutters, low, lips brushing against your throat. “Shameless. Drooling all over the paint job. Makes me wonder what else you’d do for me.”

Anything, you want to say, but that would mean moving your mouth. Are you allowed to do that yet? It’s gross, gross, the amount of saliva that’s just dribbling out of you, but you’re not supposed to move. So you don’t.

“Pretty little thing,” Vernon breathes, air coursing over sticky skin, before biting down harshly at the skin behind your jaw. You flinch, whimpering, and drool just drips from your mouth, torturously slow, dragging down your tongue. It’s awful. It’s almost worse when Vernon releases your skin just to kiss it. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he whispers, “letting me truss you up like a doll and take whatever I want. So willing. But I wonder,” he continues, his hand suddenly kneading your hip, “if you’d let Chan do it, too.”

No, you almost scream, but Vernon’s still going.

“I wonder if you’re just so desperate to be used that you’d let anyone tie you down. Maybe you like the idea, huh? You like the idea of Chan seeing you like this, all filthy and helpless, just a doll for the taking?”

No!

But you don’t move. You whine, skin burning with shame, but you don’t move.

Then a phone starts to ring.

You snap your head up, eyes opening to see Vernon grinning down at you. He’s holding his phone to his ear.

“You think he’ll pick up?” he asks.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.

“No,” you beg, tugging at your hands, but he did a good job. You’re not going anywhere. “Nonie, no, I don’t –”

Vernon’s broad hand clamps over your mouth as he shoots you a look with so much disgust and disdain that it makes your skin crawl.

“Dolls don’t talk.”

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiii –

“Hey,” Chan’s voice says, tinny over the phone. “What’s up?”

Vernon’s grin turns every joint in your body to mush. “Not much. I’m just swinging by the garage. You need anything?”

He sets the phone to speaker. Chan’s voice echoes in the space between you.

“From the garage? Um, no, I don’t think so. What’re you doing there?”

Vernon balances his phone across your collarbones.

Then he removes his hand from your mouth.

“I just felt like it,” he says, eyes burning into yours as he slowly, slowly smiles. Your pulse races in your ears. You can’t move. But at least you just need to stay still and quiet. You can do this. This is fine. You’ll be –

You have to stop yourself from gasping as Vernon’s tongue flicks across your cheek. For a moment you want to glare at him, but then he starts licking at the saliva clinging to your skin – your saliva – and all thoughts beyond oh no and stay quiet fade into obscurity as his tongue slides and swirls and dips.

Chan says something. It doesn’t stick in your mind.

Then you hear your name, and zero in so hard that you miss half the sentence.

“…doing okay? You two looked kinda tense during dinner.”

Vernon’s lips curl against your cheek in a smile. Then he pulls away.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” he says easily, like he’s not on top of you, like your saliva isn’t coating his tongue, like you’re not making out on his car. “She’s with me, actually,” he adds, and panic shoots up your spine. No. No. No, you can’t – “She just ran to the bathroom,” Vernon finishes then.

Oh. You relax, eyes fluttering closed. Vernon’s a tease, but he’s not that mean.

Then Vernon’s thumbs press into your neck.

“Oh, cool. Say hi to her for me?” Chan sounds casual, too casual for the way Vernon’s massaging the sides of your throat, too casual for the effort it’s taking not to gasp and whimper and moan.

And Vernon knows. He smirks and squeezes a little tighter, palms sliding against the back of your neck. “Sure, yeah.”

“Thanks. Oh, by the way, I think she left her purse behind, you guys left so fast.” Your breath almost hitches. You completely forgot. Vernon’s gaze narrows on you as Chan continues, and you want so desperately to grab the phone and hang up but you can’t. “I grabbed it and threw it in my car, so just let her know about that, could you?”

“Yeah,” Vernon says slowly. His fingers curl into your hair, tugging slowly and painfully, but you can’t make noise. Your eyes threaten to start watering. “I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

“Okay, cool. Good job today, by the way.”

“Thanks. Maybe next time you’ll catch up.” Vernon’s teeth clip the skin along your jaw in measured, even bites. Each one stings more than the last, and each one requires a renewed effort not to gasp. The phone is right there.

“Oh, that’s how it is? I’m going to crush you next time. Just for that.”

“Sure you are,” Vernon says in your ear. Don’t whine. Don’t whine. Don’t whine. Then he pulls back. One hand slides around the front of your throat, the other reaches for his phone, and he squeezes so tightly you can’t breathe anymore. Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out Vernon’s words, but your eyes stay locked on his lips as he says something into the phone.

He hangs up.

You gasp for air, shuddering, as his hand falls away. As he leans away, back towards the tires to balance his phone there. Your head spins, vision bordering on fuzzy, your only anchor the point where his thighs trap yours. The memory of his tongue still glides over your cheek, painting you three shades of filthy.

Then suddenly he’s leaning over you again, forearms braced against the halo, bare skin tantalizingly close. A long line glistens between his pecs, trailing up towards his mouth, and the realization that you did that hits you square in the stomach.

Vernon grins as you gape.

“Chan says hi.”

“Vernon,” you plead, but he just tsks.

“Maybe I should have invited him over. I thought about it,” he murmurs, and you shake your head desperately. He raises a perfect eyebrow. “No? You don’t want Chan to see how good of a doll you are for me?”

“No!”

“You didn’t leave your purse behind as an excuse to see him again?”

“No, I swear –”

“Prove it.”

You stare up at him, mouth open, thoughts too scattered to think. He raises an eyebrow.

“Talk,” he says, and the words flow.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I don’t know – I can’t think, I just, please, Nonie, I never meant to, I wasn’t trying, I don’t want – I just – how?” You’re babbling now, you know you are, breath hitching and words slurring together, but Vernon’s still looming over you, and you can’t stop. “I don’t know, please, just tell – tell me what you want and I’ll, I’ll do it, anything – please, please, please please please –”

“Stop.”

Your jaw snaps shut. Your chest heaves. Vernon smirks.

“Dumb little doll can’t think anymore, huh?” he breathes, and a whimper slips past your traitorous lips. His teeth flash in a grin. “Good.”

“Nonie,” you plead. He clicks his tongue.

“Not my name.”

“Vernon?”

“There you go.” He shifts his arm against the halo, reaching down and running the tip of his index finger over your lips. It tingles. You open, reaching up to take his finger into your mouth, but he tsks and flicks your cheek instead. You flinch. “Less obedient than I thought. Wait for permission.”

“Yes,” you whisper, but you catch yourself immediately: “Yes, Vernon.”

He grins and runs his finger over your bottom lip. “Good girl. Now, before I make you beg,” he says, sending a shiver down your spine, “I have a couple questions. And I need you to think very hard about this, okay? I know it’s a lot for your messed-up little brain.”

Your skin is burning. You don’t want to think about how red you must be. “Yes, Vernon.”

“Good. Now, here’s the first question. You ready? Yeah?” he asks as you nod desperately. His finger still traces your lip. “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Do you say that to all the guys? Use names, pretty thing.”

“Vernon! I belong to Vernon.”

“Better. Who owns you?”

You swallow. His voice sounds deeper than a moment ago. “Vernon.”

“Whose permission do you need before you can choke on his fingers?”

“Vernon.” Please, you want to –

“So whose name are you going to be moaning in a few minutes?”

“Vernon,” you whisper, and he grins.

“Yeah. You’re not allowed to say anything else, okay?”

“Okay –”

Vernon flicks your cheek again, and you gasp.

“What did I just say?” he says slowly. Dangerously. You shrink back as much as you can – which is not much. “Forget every word but my name, baby girl. Forget every name but mine. Alright? Is that making sense to your dumb little brain?”

Unfortunately your brain feels horribly, horribly dumb. But you nod. “Vernon,” you whisper. It comes out more shaky than you intended.

But he grins. “Attagirl. Here, take your reward, since you’re so desperate for it.”

His index finger brushes against the seam of your lips – not pushing, just hovering, waiting – and you tilt your chin up and welcome him in.

The taste of him fills your mouth, that taste you know so well and yet can never get enough of, familiar and grounding and transcending all at once. For once, he’s not pushing or prodding; he just lets his finger lie on your tongue, and you’ll take it. He’s not in very far, just two knuckles deep, but it’s enough that you can curl your tongue under his fingertip and slide over his nail.

But that’s as far as you get before he pulls his finger out, leaving your mouth searching for nothing.

“I forgot,” he says, lowering his head to nuzzle right by your ear. The slick tip of his finger tracks along your collarbone. “I said I was going to make you beg.”

So beg you do, pleases spilling from your lips.

But the realization hits as Vernon draws silently back. Cold air floods between you. His hair hangs in his eyes, damp with sweat, but it does nothing to hide the cold, hard disappointment in his gaze.

You swallow while you still can.

“Baby girl,” Vernon breathes, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it, “you are so bad at this.”

The apology you can’t say sticks in your throat. All you can do is whimper and wait.

Vernon’s weight disappears from your hips.

He slips off to your right side, his warmth disappearing completely as he crosses his arms and leans back against the tire. And he just… looks.

And it’s awful.

He feels impossibly far away. Realistically, there’s barely twelve inches between you, but hell if it doesn’t feel like more. So much more. You don’t want to move, lest you incite something worse, but the effort it takes to stay balanced on the nose is exhausting. And you can barely see him right now, which is somehow worse. But is it worth it to turn your head? Or would it bring elongated suffering? You can barely tell where he’s looking right now, though, and that’s the deciding factor.

You turn to look. Your cheek settles in the pool of saliva you left behind.

But Vernon’s staring directly at you, his eyes burning black.

A long, slow second passes.

“Vernon?” you whisper tentatively. He just huffs in response.

“Be patient, doll. You have no right to ask anything of me right now.”

Sorry dies before it reaches your lips. You swallow and keep your mouth shut. A hint of a smirk flits over Vernon’s face, but he’s still watching you.

He drops one hand, fingers brushing the edge of the car.

Brushing the edge of your hip.

Your breath catches. Vernon’s eyes break away from yours, dropping instead to his hand. His touch is feather-light, barely even there, just pure sensation as he circles the bone of your hip through your skirt.

“Vernon,” you start, but his touch vanishes. His gaze still lingers.

“No more talking,” he says, voice low and cold in a way that makes you shiver. “You’ve lost that privilege.”

Three long seconds pass in silence before his touch returns. This time, his fingers hover over your ribs, brushing against the fabric of your shirt and sending sparks racing across your skin.

But it’s not enough. It’s too light.

And he’s not looking at you.

He moves over your stomach, tracing down your shirt and running along the edge. You can’t see his hand, you couldn’t even if you craned your neck, but you can feel it as his fingers dip past the risen hem and ghost over the bare skin of your abdomen. It tingles.

And then it’s gone. Vernon’s readjusting, shifting his footing and the way he’s leaning against the tire, and you realize that your entire body is tense. You force out a breath and will your limbs to relax, but the way his eyes flick up and over your shifting legs does nothing to help.

He reaches out again, and you flinch, eyes snapping shut and shoulders tensing back up as though that’ll do anything to prevent it.

It doesn’t. Vernon’s finger brushes along the inside of your arm, from your wrist all the way down, coaxing your pulse higher and higher, your breath faster and faster –

Then it’s gone. Again. A broken sound crawls out of your mouth. You turn away from him, eyes still screwed shut, cold air stinging your cheek as the tackiness of drying saliva meets the air.

His knuckles drag along your jaw, and then one long finger hooks under your chin and pulls you back. You keep your eyes and mouth firmly shut, your heart pounding.

“Open,” Vernon commands, and you whine but you part your lips. He sighs. “All the way, baby girl.”

Your jaw drops open.

Familiar fingers push a wad of thin fabric past your lips. Your body seizes up. Your eyes flash open just to find Vernon’s gaze locked on your jaw, fingertips systematically tucking more and more fabric into your mouth, his expression purely apathetic. The edge of the white material grazes your nose, and spicy cologne floods your senses with a humiliating realization.

This is Vernon’s shirt.

Something pathetic builds in your throat and dies, smothered by the shirt crammed behind your lips. Vernon grins.

Then he just… pats your cheek.

“Quiet and dumb. It’s a good look for you.”

He shoves at your jaw, and your head snaps away so roughly that you cry out – but, of course, it’s muffled. He’s effectively muted you.

You close your eyes, press your cheek against the car, and wait for the inevitable.

It takes a miserable eight seconds – yes, you counted – before Vernon touches you again. But when he does, it’s not his fingers.

It’s his breath, hot against the column of your neck. Not his lips. Just his breath. Each soft puff of air burns like nothing else. Any second now, he’s going to kiss you, surely – you can almost feel it, the lightest touch of his lips on your skin; or maybe he’ll be meaner about it and jump straight to his tongue –

The tip of his nose touches your jaw.

Then he’s gone.

Your breath shudders out through your nose as the damp material of Vernon’s shirt stifles your groan, part relief and part disappointment.

His shirt. His shirt. You almost forgot it was his shirt keeping you quiet. Is it insane to think you can taste him on it? The curl of his cologne, the tang of his skin, the warmth of his –

Your brain fades to white noise for a moment as his palm ghosts against the inside of your calf. You think you make a sound. You don’t know what. Your eyes fall dazedly open, flashes of the garage wall greeting your return to the physical world.

Vernon’s low chuckle taunts you. His hand runs up and down your leg, never fully resting on your skin, just barely touching the hem of your skirt. Every rapid breath burns your nose. You think you might be shaking. “Look at you,” Vernon murmurs, and you know you are.

For one glorious moment, his hand covers your knee, fingers pressing into the flesh of your thigh.

Then he’s gone, and the heat of your skin clashes with the chill in the air. Your brain spins. A scream of frustration tears into Vernon’s shirt, but only the faintest whisper of it reaches your eardrums.

Vernon laughs again – closer than before.

Then he drags his tongue up your throat.

He presses blunt nails into your thigh.

He brushes a gentle hand through your hair and pulls it hard enough to make you scream. 

And you start to lose track.

He’s everywhere and nowhere, all at once; pressing and touching and licking and biting, but never long enough for it to feel good. Just enough to give you a taste – a tantalizing, torturous taste.

You’re noisy now, so noisy, and so thankful for the gag, even if you can feel the saliva gathering in the back of your throat and it’s taking way too much effort to breathe through your nose. You couldn’t stop now if you tried. Your brain is melting into a desperation that bleeds out in constant, unintelligible noises.

Vernon’s teeth break through the haze for a brief moment, digging into the inner flesh of your bicep, and your moan rises into a scream, your body tensing so dramatically that you swear your hips arch off the car. Not that you know what’s real anymore.

Everything crumbles into oblivion again the moment he pulls away.

Then Vernon’s weight settles across your thighs again, and you moan loudly, desperately, blinking through the sudden blurriness in your eyes. Please, you want to cry; please. Just please. But you can’t, so you just whine and whimper and moan as loud as you can.

Vernon’s low whistle cuts through the noise in your own mind, flushing your cheeks and cutting away your pleading moans. Most of them, at least; a pitiful whimper still lingers.

“Are you about to cry?” he scoffs in disbelief. His thumb drags roughly along the seam of your eye, and through the sudden clarity you watch the sparkling drop on the pad of his thumb disappear between his lips. His mouth curls in a grin. He pulls his finger out with a pop. You swallow and barely manage not to gag. “You are. Geez, did I break my doll?”

You whimper into the ether as the budding tears return, smearing your world into glistening darkness.

Then his shirt nudges a little deeper into your mouth.

Your first thought is panic as you gag on it. Your body spasms without your control, hands tugging at their restraints, but then the pressure lifts – and keeps going. Vernon pulls his shirt from your mouth, the sopping mess that it’s become, and you gasp. Saliva dribbles over your cheek as he tosses it away. Air floods your lungs, scraping almost painfully through your abused throat, and your mouth feels so horribly empty.

So you fill it with the one thing you can: Vernon’s name.

Over and over and over again.

His hum of approval rings in your ears. You keep rambling some semblance of his name, even as his finger drags along your cheek, gathering the fallen spit and tucking it back into the corner of your mouth. Your lips, cracked and stretched and dry, just brush the tip of his finger, whispering Vernon, Vernon, Vernon like your life depends on it.

Vernon leans closer. You can feel him, the heat of his body burning close. Your voice gets louder, raspy and grating almost painfully against the back of your throat, but it doesn’t matter. It’s worth it if it works. It’s worth it if it’s what he wants.

Vernon. Vernon. Vernon. Vernon –

A sudden tug on your wrists makes you stutter.

“Vernon?” you whisper.

Then his lips press to yours, and your brain fades to static.

Finally.

Heat burns against your eyes and trickles down your cheeks as Vernon’s tongue slips easily between your lips. Your breath shudders in your chest. But tension drags through every limb, forcing your body still and obedient beneath him, because you’re not taking any more chances. If he pulls away again –

Something shifts around your wrists, and suddenly they’re free. Vernon’s hands curl around yours and start pulling them down from above your head. Your breathing starts to stutter, gasping into his mouth, and he just nips at your lip.

Your palms brush the smooth warmth of his shoulders. He flattens your hands more firmly against him, fingers pressing between your bones. You whimper, almost trying to pull back – is this a test? A trick? What if he leaves? – but then Vernon whispers against your lips.

“What, are you shy now? C’mon, touch me, princess. All over.”

You whimper. Your fingers twitch against his skin.

“Now.”

Your next breath is from his mouth. His hands fall from yours, landing on the car beside your head with a thud that rattles your skull and shocks you into squeezing his shoulders.

He hums into your mouth, and you squeeze again. Another hum.

You do have freedom.

…You basically have an order.

Touch me. All over.

So you do.

You run your hands up into his hair, fingers curling, tugging him down into you until you swear his tongue reaches the back of your throat. Or maybe it’s his groan, reverberating in the depths of your bones, that does it. Regardless, you want more, you need more, and your hands slip down to spread over his chest.

Soft. Soft soft soft. And smooth, your thumbs pressing into his curves as you dig your nails in near his collarbones. He breaks away from your mouth to hiss in pain, but a whine tumbles from your lips, and he’s back, one hand diving into your hair. You drag your hands further down, skimming your palms over his nipples, and he yanks on your hair so sharply that it has to be pure reflex. His teeth attack your lower lip a moment later, and the heaving of his lungs beneath your touch becomes the only thing you know.

The world disappears. It’s Vernon that matters now, Vernon and nothing else; Vernon and the way he feels above you, under your nails, in your mouth. Vernon Vernon Vernon.

It’s only when salt touches your tongue that you realize you’re crying. Sobbing, maybe, with the way your chest heaves. Your nails dig into Vernon’s back and scrape through taut muscle as your body shakes and your arms start to fail, dragging down towards his hips. He groans again, pressing his forehead against yours, and the shaky tremor of your sobs finally reaches your ears.

Your hands fall to the sides of the car. You hear them hit more than you feel it. Your legs seem to have slipped, too; something cold sits behind your bent knees. The car is vibrating beneath you, unless… no. No, the car isn’t shaking. You are.

“Oh, baby,” Vernon whispers, his voice rough and breathy against your cheek, and then he captures your lips in a brief, gentle kiss.

You can’t even kiss him back. You’re crying too hard.

“Baby,” Vernon murmurs again. Warm palms cradle your cheeks, gentle thumbs wiping under your eyes, and you just tilt your head into it. It’s grounding. He’s grounding. You can’t feel your fingers. “Baby,” he repeats, but this time there’s something urgent to it. “Hey, are you with me?”

You manage to nod, just barely, just once. Vernon’s lips press against your cheek.

“Good. Okay. Stay with me. You did so well, okay? So good for me.”

A tremor ripples through your body. You turn and muffle another sob in Vernon’s palm. His thumb rubs along your cheekbone, slow and steady.

“I’m gonna get off you, okay? Is that okay? I’ll be right here, baby; I promise,” Vernon whispers. His nose skims along your cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. Promise.”

Everything fades for a moment, but you must have nodded, because the weight across your hips lifts. Panic spikes in your chest. You cry out, heartbeat pounding in your ears, but your trembling body won’t move, won’t follow Vernon, won’t –

“Baby, baby, shh,” he whispers as he squeezes your shoulder. His other hand settles over your stomach, resting, just enough pressure to calm the panic. You exhale with a violent shudder. He’s here. “Oh, babe, I’m sorry. Deep breaths. I’m here, okay? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Vernon’s hands slip down, curling around your thighs and your stomach, and then you’re moving. He coaxes you upright, and you settle on the car where he guides you. Your head falls into the crook of his neck. He’s warm. Your tears mar his skin.

“Sorry,” you choke out. His hand cradles the back of your head, smoothing over your hair.

“You don’t have to say sorry. You’re okay. You did so well, yeah? Such a good girl.”

You just whimper and press closer to him. He presses his lips to your temple.

“What’s my name?” he whispers, and you stiffen immediately, breath hitching over Vernon, Vernon, Vernon – but he shushes you, and you stop, breath lodged in your throat. “Okay, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Can you tell me your name?”

Doll sticks to your tongue, but you’re able to drag your mind back long enough to remember your real name. Vernon nods, cheek brushing the top of your head.

“Good job. You’re doing great, okay? I’m so proud of you.”

Doing great. Proud. Good job. You swallow, forcing your arms to curl loosely around Vernon’s waist, and he steps closer. He nudges between your knees and hugs you against the warmth of his bare skin.

“Just breathe with me for a bit, okay?” he whispers into your hair. You sniffle, but you nod. He hums. It vibrates in his sternum, in your ear. He hooks his chin over the top of your head. “Good. Just breathe.”

His chest rises and falls steadily against your cheek, and slowly your hiccuping, stuttering breathing smoothes to follow his rhythm. He rubs gentle strokes up and down your back. Time passes. You’re not sure how much. But eventually he pulls away, just a little, his warm hand cradling your jaw.

“Hey. Are you okay?” Vernon whispers, and you pry your exhausted eyes open. His gaze is locked on yours, drenched in worry. “Like, actually. Did I go too far?”

You take a moment to breathe. Your brain still feels scrambled, but a little more solid now, maybe? Your lips are dry. You lick them, and it stings. But – “No,” you mumble. Then you swallow and clear your throat. Your voice still comes out raspy. “I’m okay. It was – good. Too good.”

“Too good,” Vernon repeats, but the crease in his forehead has smoothed out. “You mean… like, in a good way? Or like, it was too good in the sense that it was too much?”

You blink. His hand is warm against your cheek, and it’s all you can think about. “Good,” you repeat quietly. Vernon’s expression softens. He presses his lips to your forehead and lets it linger. Then he whispers against your skin, barely a breath, “I love you.”

A whine slips out unbidden. You swallow, shy, and lean into his touch. “Love you too.”

“I know.”

Time slips away again. You almost do, too; exhaustion hangs from your bones. But you’re not as sleepy as you are just pure worn out.

“Babe?” Vernon says gently, breath rustling your hair.

“Hm?”

“Can I clean you up?”

Your cheeks burn as you remember his slick fingers smearing against your skin. You nod, but bury your face in the warmth of Vernon’s chest. He laughs softly.

“Yeah, we got a little messy, didn’t we?” he says, tone somewhere between amused and apologetic. It still makes you whine, but he lifts your face from his chest and kisses your forehead. “It’s okay, babe. Can I go get a towel? Will you be alright alone for a minute? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

You nod into his hands. He kisses your lips for a sweet, lingering moment. Then he nudges you back onto the car and moves away, and you regret nodding. At least you can watch him as he walks around the garage. And at least the bench where he lingers isn’t too far.

Oh. The marks you left on his neck are visible even from behind him. And bright red lines stand out along his lower back. Oh…

Your cheeks warm when Vernon turns back to find you staring. He just raises an eyebrow on his way back over, lifting the towel and water bottle in his hands as if to show them off. You smile shyly. He kisses your forehead as he slips back between your knees.

“What’re you looking at?” he asks, setting the towel in your lap with a grin that says he already knows – but also the lilt in his voice that says he wants you to answer.

“…Your back,” you admit. Vernon nods sagely, cracking open the water bottle.

“Yeah? How’s it look?”

You drop your eyes as he picks the towel back up. He turns to the side, then, reaching away from you as he pours half the water bottle over the towel.

“Pretty,” you say to the subtle lines of his abs where they twist with his torso. He squeezes out the towel. Water splatters against the resin floor. The ends of red lines trail above his hip.

“Pretty,” Vernon repeats. He’s busy with the towel still, setting it on the car next to you. The lines are enticing. “Well, you know you made it that way.”

You reach out and brush your finger against one of the lines. Vernon’s breath catches. The muscles in his arm jump. His eyes are already on you when you look up sheepishly.

“That stings, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. You know I like it.”

Vernon flashes a grin before kissing your cheek – the one still tacky with embarrassing layers of drying saliva.

“Open up,” he says, and your breath catches before you notice the open water bottle in his hand. Your cheeks warm instead, and he grins. “Geez, get your head out of the gutter. I’m just trying to hydrate you.”

“Sorry,” you mumble sheepishly. He just taps your chin, and you part your lips obediently to accept the mouth of the water bottle.

“You’re alright. Small sips, okay?”

“Mhm.”

Vernon tips the bottle carefully up, just enough for you to drink at your own pace without being waterboarded. Your first sip is careful. Then as it hits your tongue, you realize how thirsty you are, and Vernon starts laughing as you drain another quarter of the bottle. Finally he pulls it away, thumb running over your lips to catch the little dribble.

“Don’t drown yourself,” he scolds teasingly. “Slow, remember?” You nod, a little out of breath, and he just grins before tilting his head back and draining the rest of the bottle. You stare a little too hard at the way his throat flexes and bobs, and he totally knows, but mercifully he doesn’t comment on it when he’s done. He just crushes the bottle and twists the cap back on, although he does flash you a small smile as he sets it next to the wet towel.

“Let’s get you cleaned up now, okay?” he says, grabbing the towel now, and you nod. “Alright, great. Sorry it isn’t warm,” he adds, one hand gently taking hold of your chin. His fingers are damp. “It’s not ice cold, at least.”

He guides your head to the side, and then the cool, damp towel smoothes over your skin. Your eyes flutter shut. Vernon’s as gentle as he always is, whenever he cleans you up, but a part of you thinks he might be rubbing even lighter than normal today. Not that you’re about to complain. You reach out blindly with one hand, finding his waist and hooking your finger through the belt loop of his jeans. Just to hold him, really. That’s all you need. He chuckles and leans closer.

“What do you think about a warm shower once we get home?” he says, and you hum. He’s wiping over your lips now, so that’s the best answer you can give. He gets it. “Yeah, sounds good, doesn’t it? I’ll throw your towel in the dryer, too. And the blankets, while I’m at it. We can watch your cooking show in bed. Yeah?”

This time, you hum and nod, even if you can’t move much. Vernon laughs under his breath, tilting to reach your other cheek.

“Cool. You deserve it, babe. You did really, really well for me tonight.”

The praise pulls a little smile over your lips. Vernon drops a kiss on it, and you giggle.

“Cutie,” he murmurs. He gently nudges your chin up, wiping carefully over your neck and collarbones. He’s silent until he finishes, and then he brings you back down and lingers. You open your eyes and meet his gaze. He’s concerned again. “Are you sure I didn’t go too far?” he repeats, but you nod.

“I’m sure. It was good,” you say again, tugging at his belt loop like that serves as proof. You still feel like jelly, but at least some of your brain is working again. At least you can remember how you got here.

That thought brings a small frown, though. You tug again.

“Non, I really wasn’t flirting, though. I swear. I would never.”

He shakes his head, setting the towel aside to cradle your cheeks. “I know, babe. I trust you. I wasn’t really mad, either; just pent up from the race, I guess.”

“I know.”

You look at each other for a moment. Then Vernon cracks a small smile.

“You were talking to Chan a lot.”

“Vernon!” you whine, but he’s laughing.

“It’s alright, I know you’re just friends. I was only a little jealous.” He leans in and kisses you. It starts as a peck, but you chase after him for more, and he indulges you for a long moment before gently squeezing your thighs and pulling away for real. He taps his forehead gently against yours with a smile. “Alright. You feeling ready to go?”

You wrinkle your nose, but nod. “Cuddles at home, though?”

“Cuddles at home. Promise.”

“Mkay.”

Vernon smiles and kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you.”

You kiss him back. “I love you too.”

His nose scrunches with his grin. “I know. C’mere, let’s get you down, babe. Then I gotta wipe down the car, and we can go.”

You nod, slipping your hands up to his shoulders and holding on as he lifts you by the hips and sets you on your feet. He steadies you, hands firm, until you nod.

“You good? Alright. Gimme two minutes.”

He kisses your forehead and squeezes your waist before pulling away. You wobble a little, legs not as sturdy as you thought, but brace yourself against the car to watch him scan the garage. His phone gets rescued from the tire and tucked into his back pocket; the crushed water bottle he tosses into a trash can a few steps away. He bends down on his way back to the car, plucking a wad of white fabric from the ground.

Maybe your legs weaken again as he shakes it out, and you realize it’s his tank top. It’s dark with your saliva still, and you half expect Vernon to throw it away – but he tosses it over his shoulder. He catches your eye when he looks up, and shrugs, half grinning.

“What? It’ll be perfectly good once I wash it. I think I might wear it more often now.”

Your cheeks burn at the thought, and you look away, but all he does is kiss your cheek and grab the wet towel beside you. He rounds the tire and reaches up towards the halo, and you turn to watch, only to realize that he’s wiping your puddle of saliva off the silver paint.

Whoops.

The realization must have shown on your face, because Vernon shoots you a grin as he finishes up and pulls away, running the towel down the nose of the car, over the painted 13 and all the logos –

Wait.

13?

Vernon’s number is 12. The number 13…

Oh. Oh, no.

“Vernon, this… this isn’t your car.” Your foggy brain drags itself back together, staring at the number, and familiarity clicks with a dizzying certainty. How did you not notice? You lift your head, turning to Vernon in horror. “This is Chan’s.”

He glances at you, then the car, then back at you. “Yeah?” he says, turning back to the pile of dirty towels with a poorly hidden grin. “That was kinda the point.”

“O-oh.” You clutch at the halo. Your legs feel suddenly like jelly. You were kissing on Chan’s car. Vernon had kissed you filthy on Chan’s car. Crap, you had drooled all over Chan’s car.

A gentle touch at your elbow jerks your head up. Vernon’s draping his jacket over your shoulders, brow just slightly pinched. “You okay? Need me to carry you out to the car?”

“No – maybe,” you concede as your knees wobble. “But that’s not – This is Chan’s car.”

“Yeah.”

“Chan’s car.”

“I did say I was a little jealous.”

You swallow, staring at the paint that Vernon just wiped your saliva off of. Crap. “…How am I supposed to look him in the eye now?”

“Simple. Don’t.” Vernon’s arms snake around your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder with a little huff of a laugh. “Even better, don’t look at him at all.”

“He’s your teammate!”

“Mhm. Exactly.”

“Vernon…”

He chuckles. Then he swings you into his arms, laughing louder as you squeak.

“Just don’t think too hard about it. You’re mine, anyway; you shouldn’t waste thoughts on other guys.”

You roll your eyes, but curl against his warm, bare chest. “You’re lucky I’m tired.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“…Shut up.”

“I love you,” Vernon says, and though his tone is lilting and light, you know he means it. You press a lingering kiss against the dip of his collarbone, then smile against his skin.

“I love you, too.”