Vice;Grip - Chapter 3 - Daechwitatamic (2024)

Vernon was afraid of drowning. All those rocks he carried - they weighed him down, pulled him under. He considered this as rain beat against the windshield of his car, ran down the windows so thickly that he struggled to see the front door of your building through the onslaught, didn’t even see it open and close, had no idea you were already outside until his passenger side door opened and you threw yourself into the car, squealing, wiping rain out of your eyes.

“Can you drive in this?” you asked breathlessly. Above you, the clouds lit up and went dark again. Vernon didn’t answer you; instead he silently counted the seconds until thunder cracked, sharp and insistent, somewhere behind them. Eleven seconds.

“Buckle up,” he said, no irony in it.

Stopped at a red light, he glanced over at you. Watched as you turned to trace a raindrop down your window with your fingertip as it worked its way through fragmented droplets, cast red by the stoplight, by the brake lights of the car ahead of him. Another flash; Vernon didn’t catch the bolt this time, either.

One, two, three…

Eight seconds until the thunder broke.

“Were you scared of storms when you were little?”

You turned to look at him, something quizzical on your face. He kept his eyes on the road, embarrassed. You and him - you didn’t ask personal questions. You didn’t talk about things. Even now, over a year since you’d started hooking up, you kept things strictly business, but for a few hiccups.

It was starting to wear on him, weigh on him. Neither of you had been with anyone else in a year - so what were you doing? Just spinning your wheels?

It was the first time Vernon realized he was angry. With you.

Lightning flashed as he slowed to turn into his building’s lot, the bolt snaking down so quickly he could have imagined it.

Vernon knew it wasn’t fair to be mad at you for not giving him something he’d never asked for.

Thunder cracked again, above the car. Five seconds.

“Actually, yeah,” you said finally, and Vernon startled a little; he’d already forgotten he’d asked the question. “My sister and I used to hide under the bed.”

He didn’t know you had a sister. He bet you didn’t know that he had one, too.

What are you doing?

Inside, his window flashed white, the whole room going greyscale, and then darkened again. The thunder snapped, furious and louder than before, and you screamed a little, then covered your mouth with your hand to hide your self-conscious giggles.

Vernon laughed, then lowered his body over yours and murmured, “Let me help you calm down.”

Three seconds.

The rain beat against the windows in waves, the sound coming from beside his bed and the ceiling in tandem, nature’s surround sound. Vernon slid his fingers through the mess between your legs, sinking two of them deep into your heat just in time for a roll of thunder to drown out your wavering moan. He f*cked you steadily, the way he knew you liked, then shifted to rub circles on that place on your front wall. Your breath caught, your back bowed, your hands fisted his comforter, your head tilted back to expose your throat. The room went white and dark again in a single second, and the silhouette of your pleasure burned into Vernon’s brain like a photo on film.

He moved to replace his fingers with his co*ck before the thunder could answer.

Two seconds.

You wrapped around him - your c*nt squeezing around his length, your arms looping around his neck, your legs wrapping around the backs of his thighs, trying to bring him closer.

He gripped your hips and rolled, giving you the chance to ride him, his hands caressing the backs of your calves as they flexed.

His eyes squeezed shut when he came, teeth gritted as he groaned out his own answer to the clouds’ cacophony. Your hands, gentle in his hair, guided him back down.

He found your hoodie near the foot of his bed, after. He carried it wordlessly to you, holding it out like an offering.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice tiny. Like you were accepting something bigger than clothing.

“You could stay,” Vernon heard himself say, and something inside him started kicking and screaming, panicked and trying to grab the words and pull them back in.

You looked at him sharply, your eyes a little wide. You didn’t do that, you didn’t sleep over.

“Why?” you asked, the word leaving your body with all your breath, almost a gasp.

Vernon felt his lips part, felt his stomach clench. “I -”

The syllable stretched, loomed, filled the room so completely that it crowded out the flash of lightning and the immediate rumbles. Zero seconds. The pounding rain drowned out the roaring in Vernon’s ears.

Maybe he’ll drown, too. Maybe he’ll let himself.

I want you to. I want to sleep next to you.

I need to know what this is. I need to be closer.

I need to kiss you and mean it.

His stomach sank as he watched the way you waited, breath held, for his answer.

“I just meant, because of the weather,” he said, his voice ringing hollow and flat even to his own ears. “If you don’t want to go back out in this - you don’t have to.”

“Oh,” you said, and he wished he could read it, wished he could translate that single sound. Was it disappointed? Relieved?

He couldn’t f*cking tell.

“No, it’s okay,” you said, and you were already moving towards the door. “I think the worst has passed us already.”

10 months ago

whats up for tonight

idk

want me to come there?

i dont think i want anything

??

sorry. shouldnt have sent that one. door’s open if you decide to.

Vernon came into the apartment so quietly, you didn’t even hear him until he was shuffling into your bedroom. The cat leapt from the foot of your bed and wove itself around his ankles twice before darting into the living room.

“You good?” he asked, eyeing how you were curled on your side, watching him in the doorway with a small frown.

“Mhm,” you said, nodding a little, even though it was only a little true. “Just. One of those days, I think.”

He laid behind you first, one arm crossing your torso and pulling you tight against his chest, pressing kisses to the bare skin above your shirt collar at the nape of your neck. The sensation tickled just enough that goosebumps rippled down your arms.

“I can make you want something,” he offered. Or threatened. Or promised.

“Cheesy,” you accused, but a smile played on your lips, and you felt his own smile curve against your neck.

“Watch me,” he said, reaching for your hem. He worked you up with teasing touches and kisses until you were squirming, f*cked you on his tongue and fingers until you were panting, then pulled away, letting the building crescendo quiet into silence again.

“Vernon,” you threatened, sitting up on your elbows and narrowing your eyes at him.

He co*cked his head to the side, all innocence. “Is there something you want?”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you growled.

He smiled beatifically, then went back to kissing your collarbones, starting at the very beginning again. That time when he stopped, you let out an exasperated shout.

He co*cked an eyebrow, as if to ask, yes? but didn’t speak. He waited for you to say it.

It took three more rounds of this - getting you close, waiting you out - before you caved, admitting what he wanted you to admit:

That you wanted it. That you wanted him.

“Please, fine, you menace,” you cried, so frustrated that your chest was hot with it. “I want you to f*ck me - I want you, I want to cum, please, Vernon -”

When he gave you what you asked for, pushing into you in one easy motion that made you cry out and squeeze your eyes shut, your tongue tripped up, telling him a truth you hadn’t meant to.

Instead of I want it, as he set a quick pace, burying himself inside you again and again, you babbled, I want you, I want you, I want you.

The sideways glances he sent you while he got dressed had the question all over them. He may as well have just asked - did you mean it? Did you?

In his absence, you pulled the blankets over your head and pressed your face into your mattress, trying to drown out the question in his eyes, trying to forget the feeling of his lips on your neck, the sound of his sighs in your ears, the taste of his kiss. Your bed retaliated, assaulting you with his smell on your sheets.

I want you.

9 months ago

wyd?

ah, going out with some friends tonight. sorry.

come over after?

i would, but my friend is here from out of town and shes staying with me

bring her

you’re so gross.

next time then. have fun :)

dont smiley face at me chwe hansol

oh god the government name. fine, i take it back

You hadn’t done a girls’ night in over a year; your friends made sure to remind you of this frequently as the night wore on, as if it was singularly your fault. It was different from a night out with Chan and Soonyoung and Seungkwan - different because the shots being pressed into your hands were pink instead of clear; different because no one was handing you beer bottles; different because they wanted to dance, not talk sh*t around a table in the corner.

But you leaned into it, sneaking to the bar between songs to order shots that didn’t taste good, dancing with your friends until your feet ached, until your ears rang, until the colored lights bled together above you, until you forgot that you were annoyed about all of this.

When the lights flashed in warning - the overhead lights, the go away now it’s 2 am lights — you went to close out your card, casting a glance over your shoulder to make sure your friends were all accounted for. They were - mostly still dancing, but a few headed to the table to gather coats.

You were heading back across the dancefloor when you saw them. You spotted Mingyu first - one of Chan’s friends, one of those cross-over friends that knew both Chan and Vernon.

Your stupid heart jumped. Had he come out? Had he somehow ended up at the same club as you? You wouldn’t be able to leave with him, but you’d see him.

That wasn’t something you should want. It shouldn’t excite you that you might get to smile at him across a crowded dance floor. You didn’t like him, this wasn’t a crush.

Besides, crushes happened at the beginning; you’d been hooking up with Vernon for over a year now.

You scanned the crowd near where Mingyu was standing, waiting for the moment that your gaze snagged on a spark of familiarity. It didn’t come, so you pressed into the crowd; at this point in the night everyone was pretty faded, dancing with abandon, unaware and uncaring that anyone could see them - you’d all be leaving in minutes anyway. This one last song should matter, this one last song should seal the envelope on the night with a lipstick kiss.

The spark of familiarity eventually struck, but it came with a flash of warning. It wasn’t Vernon’s big smile or his conversely stoic expression that you recognized, it was his jawline - snapback twisted around, his lips close to some girl’s ear as he leaned in to talk to her.

You looked away quickly, as if he’d feel your gaze and you’d be caught staring, but you couldn’t help but peek again as you kept walking. The girl was laughing, tucking dark hair behind her ear, her eyes eagerly on Vernon’s face.

Your stomach heaved. You wanted to go over there - to slide an arm behind him where it belonged, to smile in this girl’s face because Vernon was yours. Because he was going to text you before he texted her and she needed to know it. Because he let you in when he shut everyone else out and she was everyone else.

Your friends found you then, saved you from yourself, pulled you back to the table to gather your sh*t, trouped outside to find the Uber home.

In the car you all fell quiet, tiredness creeping up on you. Your thumbs tapped anxiously on the dark screen of your phone, and then you opened your messages.

you gonna leave with her?

The lack of response radiated through you, and you felt sick as you wondered why - because he was pissed that you’d even asked? Because he was already busy with her?

Then -

lmao were u at dark horse?

You didn’t answer, too embarrassed, the shame flying overhead to catch up to you for the first time in a while, its wings spread and claws stretched as it prepared to land.

Your phone lit up again.

i honestly wasnt gonna but now youve got me curious

would it be a problem if i did?

No, you thought defensively, a reflex. But he didn’t give you the chance to answer.

and if it IS a problem… why?

“Who are you texting?” your friend asked, craning her neck to peek at your phone. You turned off the screen.

“Chan,” you lied.

Then why?

Because he was yours and he belonged with you - not with whatever random girl he found at the club. Because you wanted to be enough for him, wanted him to be impervious to anyone else’s advances because you were all he wanted.

Because you did like him. Because you felt something for him - something that might have been a crush eight months ago, but was certainly a bigger beast now.

f*ck. f*ck!

Your feet felt like they were plunged in ice, and you closed your eyes, swallowing back panic and nausea.

At home, you lay across your bed while your friend used your shower, turning your phone screen on and off, typing and erasing, your mind dizzy with the war it was waging against itself.

Vernon was a wildfire, catching and migrating, drawing closer and closer. Something in you screamed to take action - start digging a trench, start running if nothing else, just get away get away get away before you’re not just burned but reduced entirely to ash. Something else argued that Vernon’s fire was the only thing that kept you warm, vital for survival against the icy nights that overtook you at their whim.

How to protect your dignity, deny that you need him, deny that you’re trying to keep him all to yourself, without losing him completely?

You imagined him at his place, rereading these messages. You wondered if he was mad, frustrated. You wondered if he felt suffocated by your display of possessiveness.

You’d never answered his why.

You never did. You left it unanswered, and his next three wyd’s went unanswered as well.

8 months ago

sorry. i - - can we just go back to normal - - wyd later? - - i’m sorry - - hey - - it’s not a problem, you can do what you want - - it is a problem because i - - sorry for not answering, hru? - -

Unsent, each. Deleted.

You had Bestie Night with Chan during a deep freeze, your radiator working overtime as you split a bottle of red.

You sketched absently on your napkin as you caught up.

“I dunno, Chan, the co-worker thing always scared me a little. Mom always says don’t sh*t where you eat and I think she’s right.”

Chan, who was head over ass in love with Jinseo in marketing, scoffed at you heavily.

“A romantic situation scaring you means nothing to me,” he said, dead serious. “I think someone asking for your number would scare you.”

You scowled at him, defensive. “We haven’t had enough wine to start the personal attacks.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying. You spook easy. It’s not a secret.”

You stuck out your tongue, went back to your doodle.

“It’s nice to see you drawing,” he said, casually, and you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Are you intent on being a busybody tonight?” you asked, and he laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.

“I’m just saying!” he cried, still chuckling a little. “It’s nice to see! It’s a healthy outlet for you!”

“I’m kicking you out,” you deadpanned, then reached to refill your glass, because if he was in this kind of mood, you were going to need it.

In all honesty, sketching wasn’t really your thing - you weren’t drawn to pencil or charcoal or ink or even digital sketches the way you were drawn to painting. But you hadn’t in so long now you felt almost stubborn about it, like starting again would be the same as admitting something. Like starting again would mean admitting that you were dumb to quit in the first place. It would mean admitting that you’d f*cked away every good opportunity you’d had, and for nothing.

Nothing had even happened - that was the part that kept you up at night, gave you a stomachache. You’d fumbled your entire future, a few years ago, and you didn’t even have a good reason for it - no major trauma, no life-altering crisis. Just your own worthless brain doing everything in its power to bring you low.

You’d graduated from undergrad already knowing you’d been accepted to a great visual arts school - prestigious, even. You’d had to submit a portfolio, had forgone sleep for months trying to make it perfect. But every time you’d tried to move on it - send in paperwork to register or officially enroll, forms for financial aid, any of it - you’d frozen like a rabbit in headlights, too scared to push a single button unless it was the X in the corner of the screen.

Your dad had been sick at the time, that was true. But he’d been okay in the end - just a few touch-and-go months, some hospital stays, nothing worse than that. He was fine now. You weren’t even living at home, didn’t have to deal with it - it didn’t factor in. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t enough to take the blame from you.

And, true, you’d just come out of an episode right before graduating, and found yourself standing among the rubble of what your life had been before the episode started noticing that your two best friends were no longer present - hadn’t waited around for you. But that wasn’t a good excuse either. Friendships faded all the time. Life went on.

“So, are you gonna ask her out?” you asked, hoping to turn the conversation.

“I would love to, but I think if I tried, I would throw up right there in front of her,” he said, and you were pretty sure he wasn’t kidding.

“Text her,” you suggested.

“That seems… so sad,” Chan admitted. “I’ve got to have the balls to just do it. Right? Aish, Lee Chan.” He buried his face in his hands, frustrated with his own cowardice, and you reached out to give his arm a reassuring pat-pat.

“Did you talk to her this week?”

“Yes,” Chan said emphatically. “We took our breaks at the same time on Thursday, and we talked about the cold snap!”

You leveled him with a look. “Have you talked to her about anything besides the weather?”

He pointed at you, expression darkening. “I will not be judged by the likes of you. When was your last date? What year?”

“Wow,” you said flatly, and he began cackling, delighted with himself. “Wow. Just… wow. I truly have nothing else to say to you.”

“Ask her if she’s watched any good shows lately,” you offered. “Then you have something you know she likes to talk to her about.”

“Eeeehhh,” Chan said, which meant I don’t think I like your idea.

You shrugged. “Stay lonely, then, I guess.”

You should have enrolled in the grad program. You should have pursued painting.

Instead, you’d convinced yourself it was stupid - not lucrative for a real career, just hobby-chasing, and you weren’t good enough anyway.

The deadline had passed. You got a job in an office, an apartment, the cat. Life went on. Your bunny-rabbit brain had said hide scared hide scared hide scared and you’d listened, had pushed away the scary thing until it was too late to grapple with it at all.

It was the parallel to now, and maybe the wine, that pushed you to look steadfastly at your kitchen wall and admit, “Actually, there’s something I haven’t been telling you.”

Chan’s smile dropped quickly, and he leaned a little closer, ready to listen.

“I’ve been hooking up with this guy,” you admitted. “For a while.”

Chan’s gaze sharpened and you wanted to flinch. “Only him?” he asked. And then, “How long is a while?”

Shame beat on the window, scratched its nails down the panes line a chalkboard, the screeching sending shivers down to your toes.

“A little over a year,” you mumbled.

Chan’s silence rippled out like you’d thrown a stone into the quarry. He said nothing, just watched you carefully, swirling his wine around in his glass just for something to do.

“That’s a long time,” he said. A long time to keep the secret from me, he meant. A long time to be with one person, you heard behind it.

“I know,” you said, deflating. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just… I knew you’d romanticize it, try to talk about it like it was a thing - and I… I really, really wanted it to stay just hooking up. None of the other stuff.”

He very nearly grimaced when you said this, and it made your stomach sink even further. You knew you were broken, unable to connect, unable to give or receive anything close to love - but to see your best friend react like he knew it too? It sucked the breath out of you.

“And he’s okay with that?” Chan asked, instead of addressing your allergy to feelings. “For a year, just sex?”

You shrugged. You were the one who’d gotten possessive. Vernon had never asked you for more, had never indicated that he might want to shift your boundaries. “Seems like it.”

Chan shifted in his seat, frowning a little. “Well, if you’re on the same page, then I guess… I’m happy for you?”

“Eh,” you said. “Don’t be. I screwed it up. As usual.”

He gives you a look that says don’t do that. You drink the rest of the wine in the glass and reach for the bottle again, but it’s empty.

“Can you fix it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I haven’t tried.”

“Okay,” Chan said easily. “So try.”

When Chan left, you stayed at the kitchen island, pulling out a notebook and pen. You sketched across four pages - flowers, faces, the clock on the wall, the frost patterns on the window.

It wasn’t a paintbrush, sliding through a shade you’d worked to make just right. But it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t terrible.

You picked up your phone.

hey. sorry for the silence - really. that was sh*tty of me. you been okay?

You passed your fingers back over the last page of sketches, feeling the tiny ridges where the pen had pressed. You traced back over a flower - hyacinths, just like your mother used to grow under your bedroom window.

You were prepared to receive no answer; you would have deserved a taste of your own medicine, and you knew it. But it wasn’t much later when an answer came through.

no worries. my place is freezing, our boiler broke. can i warm up there?

You thanked every star in the whole sky that Chan wasn’t there to see your smile at Vernon’s answer. You could never have denied it - the smile said I am feeling something, allergy be damned.

And just after the smile came the bunny-rabbit instincts: hide scared hide scared hide scared.

7 months ago

“I think I’d be happier as a cicada,” Vernon mused, squinting at Seungkwan through the half an inch of vodka rolling like a sea in the glass he held aloft.

Seungkwan’s face dropped into a frown. “Is this, like, would you still love me if I was a worm?”

They were on opposite sides of the tiny, wooden table he usually ate at, the bottle open between them and sweating a circle onto the wood. Vernon dragged a finger through the condensation until the streak ran dry.

“Nuh-uh. I just think I’d be happier.”

The frown deepened. “I can’t tell if you’re being ironic or if I need to be concerned about you.”

Vernon dodged, said something that might make more sense outside of his own head. “What if I dropped out of grad school?”

The vodka in the glass did nothing to blur the flat expression Seungkwan leveled at him. “Now what in the f*ck would you do that for with only four months left? That’s just financially stupid. It’d be like running a marathon and giving up on mile twenty-two.”

“Counter-point,” Vernon said, lowering the glass as far as his mouth, teeth clicking on the rim of the glass, “I f*cking hate it and I don’t see the point in finishing.”

“Money down the drain,” Seungkwan intoned.

“Years of my life down the drain,” Vernon grumbled.

“That actually adds to my point. You’ve invested time and money. Might as well see it through.”

“But for what?” Vernon demanded, finally getting closer to the truth he’s been circling.

“The job opportunities?”

Vernon drained his glass, waited for things to soften just a little around the edges. “I don’t know if I want them anymore,” he mumbled, then made an escape into the kitchen to put another few ice cubes in his glass, to get away from the way Seungkwan’s gaze sharpened as he caught on to how much Vernon meant what he was saying.

The problem was that he had to leave the kitchen eventually, and Seungkwan was waiting, his face carefully blank.

“You don’t want to -?”

“I don’t know,” Vernon interrupted with a grumble. And that was the truth - he just didn’t know. He didn’t know if he’d like his field, didn’t know if he’d be good at it or if he’d find it fulfilling or if he’d hate it and regret his choices and wake up every day feeling just as bored and - frankly - unenthused about his life as he did these days.

And he was tired. He woke up tired every day, fought exhaustion the whole time he was awake, went to bed tired. His eyes ached from wanting to close, his heart screamed for a chance to rest. He was tired of it - of fighting the exhaustion, the apathy. He wanted sometimes (often) to just give in - sleep however long it took. Months, maybe.

“Gonna have to pay your bills somehow,” Seungkwan reasoned. “See? Cicadas don’t have bills,” Vernon argued, and Seungkwan rolled his eyes so hard that Vernon couldn’t help but laugh, leaning sideways against the kitchen’s doorframe as his body shook with it.

Later, after Seungkwan left for the night, Vernon squinted at his phone until the letters held still.

wanna be a cicada with me?

vernon what the f*ck

its a serious question

i mean, maybe??? sleep for seven years, come out and scream for three months, then die? i could get behind this plan

i knew you’d get it. seven years of sleep? bet.

personally i think screaming for three months straight would fix me

exactly.

[ ]

wanna come over?

yeah. omw

“You’re so drunk.”

Vernon squinted at you, unsure if he was hearing judgement in your tone (which would be rich) or if he was projecting (much more likely). “‘S ‘Kwan’s fault,” he muttered, still squinting, even though it really wasn’t Seungkwan’s fault. In fact, Seungkwan had been the one to twist the top back on the vodka bottle and walk it gingerly to Vernon’s freezer, claiming he was just helping tidy up when they both knew he’d thought Vernon had had enough.

Vernon was still seated at his little table, body turned so the wall behind him held him up as he leaned back against it. When you dropped into his lap, his arms came around you automatically, pulling you in tight. You leaned into him, brushing your lips gently across his cheekbones, down his jaw, and then resting your head against his shoulder so that you were almost burrowed in the nape of his neck.

The room swam around him a little, but Vernon flexed his hands against your waist every time it spun too much and it helped him ground himself, helped him remember that if you weren’t spinning then he couldn’t be either.

“They molt, too,” you said, and for a long minute Vernon thought he’d blacked out and missed part of the conversation. But then you ran a hand down his chest, letting it land on his forearm, and clarified, “Cicadas. They shed their skin. I like that part, too. Getting to step out of a self that doesn’t fit now, leave it behind - leave behind physical proof that you aren’t that, now.”

Vernon’s hands flexed around you for a different reason.

He liked that, too - the idea of leaving himself behind, a self he didn’t want to be anymore.

His eyes slipped shut, but he heard himself say, “So, it’s settled, then. We’ll be bugs.”

Your giggle, the light sound of it as well as the feeling of your body moving against his, brought him back a little, and he cracked his eyes open to see you smile.

6 months ago

going out with seungcheol-hyung later. u gonna be out?

yeah - going to maestro with some friends

i dont think hyung would step foot into maestro but i’ll try

Vernon is sharp. Sharp wit, sharp eyes, sharp angles, sharp smile twisting into something leering.

You were chasing lights, trying to track pink beams as they carved paths across the club’s dark walls, when you caught his gaze across the crowded dance floor. He leaned against the bar, watching you, still and jagged, a serrated edge.

You held his gaze long enough for him to know it was a message, then you began pushing your way through the mass of people around you - not towards him, but away, towards the barely lit back hallway that led to the bathrooms.

You knew he’d follow. You didn’t have to check.

When he pressed you into a dark corner, you wrapped an arm around the back of his neck for stability and let your eyes slip closed, let the colors you’d been chasing flow around you as you floated.

“Where’d your hyung go?” you breathed as Vernon traced your silhouette with heavy hands.

“Don’t care,” he muttered.

He tucked his chin low, focused, slid one hand up the trembling inside of your thighs, slipped his fingers past the thin layer of your panties, pushed two fingers deep inside you and sucked in a breath when you moaned out loud, your head falling back against the wall.

“Already f*cking wet for me, so wet for me,” he growled, fingers working you in even, steady pumps that made your walls flutter and your legs shake. “Didn’t even do anything yet.”

You whimpered his name, the muted bass from the club’s main room settling around you like a fog, syncing up with your pounding pulse. You said it again, a little louder, desperate. Somewhere in your mind, you were aware that you could be found, and that piece of you urged him to be quick.

“Hurry -” you gasped, “-before -”

“Hurry?” he laughed, the sound almost mocking. “Why would I hurry? Want to stay knuckles deep in this puss* all night -”

You gasped, your hips bucking, and he groaned out loud, unashamed.

“f*ck, you f*cking gushed when I said that, christ,” he whined, voice suddenly thinner, like it might crack. Like he might shatter, leave more sharp pieces behind.

You shattered before him, trying desperately to keep the long, keening noise buried in your throat as he pushed the pads of his fingers against your front wall, urging out every last shudder.

When he slipped his fingers from you, he paused, face freezing with his mouth stretched into an exaggerated grimace as he tried to work out where to wipe them. It surprised both of you when you surged forward and grabbed his wrist, bringing his sticky fingers to your mouth and licking a stripe from the edge of his palm to his fingertips before taking them between your lips.

You thrilled when his eyes rolled back, when he slapped his spare hand against the wall next to your head to brace himself, when he rutted against you furiously as if you weren’t in plain view of anyone who decided they had to pee right now. He pressed against you, so hard you could feel the heat of him even through his pants, as you laved his fingers with your tongue, mimicking what you’d be doing on your knees if you were in private.

“If I cum in my pants in the f*cking club, I’m going to be so mad at you,” he gasped, and it made you laugh, giving him the chance to pull his hand away, to back away from you desperately, chest heaving. You laughed again, feeling a little victorious.

You straightened yourselves up and made your way back to the bar; you ordered shots and took them in succession. Then, one eyebrow raised, you asked him, “So - want to finish what you started?”

He laughed, teeth flashing. You ordered a ride on your phone. You stood and he trailed you closely as you made your way unsteadily through the crowd. A group of girls tried to pass the opposite way and you had to pause, stopping short as they wiggled past you, sending you grateful smiles. Vernon bumped into your back, his hands finding your waist.

You stayed there, even when the path cleared, feeling his body solid against yours, his hands tight on you, losing yourself in the tidal pulsing of the room, as if the whole club inhaled and exhaled each time the beat changed up.

“What?” Vernon asked behind you. “What is it?”

Everything in your bloodstream - from alcohol to adrenaline to oxytocin to you weren’t even sure what else - spoke for you. Turning just slightly, you asked him something you’d kept caged for months on end.

“When are you gonna leave?”

Shock crossed his face before he could school it. Then, confusion, or something like it, his brows furrowing. “You want me to go?”

“No,” you said quickly, knowing what you’d already said was a mistake, knowing anything else you said could only make it worse, but unable to stop the words that your mouth provided. “No, I didn’t mean tonight. I just. I meant… in general.”

Something cold slid over his face. “That’s not better,” he said, his voice suddenly so even that it sent shivers down your arms. You turned to face him fully; around you, bodies moved, voices shouted, and the music was almost deafening.

You barely noticed any of it.

“I meant -”

“I know what you meant,” he interrupted, angry. You could see it all over him - his shoulders tight, his mouth turned down. “You meant you’re just riding out your sentence with me until I inevitably leave you. Right?”

“I -” No, you meant to say, but he was kind of right, and it was confusing.

He shook his head, took a step away from you. Miraculously, the crowd let him. “This is bullsh*t,” he told you, his voice low and brittle with hurt. “You don’t get to f*cking put that on me - you’re the one who runs in this - in whatever this is.”

He took another step back, shaking his head, obviously disgusted.

“Vernon, that’s not - I do not run -” You couldn’t choose what to argue first; your head swam, and you pressed a hand to your eyes for a second, hoping to clear them. “Why are you so mad?” you asked plaintively, looking at him again.

He laughed, just as mocking as he’d been when he was toying with you in the back hallway. “Why am I mad?” he repeated. “Go f*ck yourself.”

Vernon was always sharp. He left you standing there, bleeding on the dancefloor.