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seungkw1 · 2 months

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the truth is out there — csc

♡ pairing: choi seungcheol x gn!reader ♡ theme: x-files au ♡ wc: 8.2k ♡ warnings: none ♡ a/n: started rewatching the x-files recently and the idea of this popped into my head so i simply had to write it!! also, y/ln refers to ‘your last name’ bc ya know. agent stuff.

‧₊˚✩彡 moodboard by @myhimbomingi ‧₊˚✩彡

When you joined the FBI you didn’t expect to end up working in the basement with a peculiar agent obsessed with all things extraterrestrial, but your new assignment is certainly taking you places you’ve never been before.

10 September 1993 Washington, D.C.

taptaptap

The light knocking on your desk pulls your focus away from the almost-completed report on the screen of your monitor. Most would call report writing the boring part of the job, and while you don’t necessarily disagree your high levels of attentiveness allow you to efficiently plug away at the otherwise mind-numbing task - so, you don’t mind it so much. That is, unless you are interrupted.

“Hey Frenchie, the Bergmeister wants to see you.”

Stifling a sigh, you look up at your bothersome coworker, Soonyoung, who is currently leaning over your desk while eating a sandwich. You grimace as you see the multitude of crumbs he’s managed to drop all over your paperwork in the five seconds he’s been standing there.

“What does he want?” you ask, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“Didn’t say,” he mumbles through the large bite he just stuffed into his mouth.

The Bergmeister is the inane moniker Soonyoung and his pals call your supervisor, Assistant Director Bergman, behind his back. Frenchie is the irritating nickname nearly half the office now calls you, to your face, due to an unfortunate incident involving French dressing and the light gray pantsuit you chose to wear on your very first day on the job. You figured they’d get tired of it after a few days, but that was several weeks ago at this point - and much to your chagrin it seems to have stuck.

You give Soonyoung a very obviously fake grin to accompany your obviously sarcastic response. “Thank you, Agent Soonyoung - helpful as always.”

Soonyoung winks at you. “For you? Anytime.” You imagine grabbing his sandwich and bopping it on his head.

The muted sounds of landlines ringing, keyboards clacking, and fax machines whirring drift past your ears as you walk steadily to Bergman’s office, maintaining a false air of confidence as to mask your anxiety. You’ve never been called into his office alone in the two months you’ve worked for the FBI - you quickly leaf through your mind for anything you’ve done that could be a potential mistake, but you come up empty handed.

Bergman’s door is ajar - you rap your knuckle against it twice as you step inside. He peers up at you through thick, round lenses.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, come in, have a seat - and shut the door behind you.”

The heavy door closes with a deep thunk. As you lower yourself into the chair facing the desk you notice you’re joined by a man you’ve never seen before. He says nothing, but looms in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette.

“I’ll spare you the bullshit, Y/ln,” Bergman starts. He looks more tired than usual. “Have you heard of the bureau’s division known as the ‘x-files’?”

You feel your normally stoic face contort into a confused expression. Whatever you were expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.

“Well, yes, sir… but isn’t that an unofficial department?”

He takes a sip from his styrofoam cup of coffee. “Correct - it’s not official, but I assure you it is very much a ‘functional’ operation.” He all but rolls his eyes at functional.

You shoot a glance at the unintroduced man in the corner, but he remains expressionless. Bergman continues.

“I’m sure by now you’re well aware of the reputation surrounding this subsect and its…proprietor, shall we say.”

You give a single nod. By your second day in the office you’d heard all about the x-files: cases allegedly involving aliens, the supernatural, and all sorts of nonsense you chalked up to pure baloney. You’d also learned of the lone employee who spearheads the whole operation from the bureau basement: Agent Choi. Nobody seems to take him, or it, seriously - so much so that you had begun to doubt if it was even a real department, and if Choi even existed. But apparently, the rumors were true.

“I am not at liberty to discuss the reasons behind this decision,” Bergman tells you, “but all you need to know is that this assignment is significant in nature.”

Assignment?? Surely he doesn’t mean…

“I’m not sure I understand,” you ask hesitantly, “am I-”

“Being assigned to the x-files? Yes.”

Your stomach lurches. You open your mouth to inquire what exactly it is you’ve done wrong, but clearly he anticipated this exact response.

“This is not a punishment - though I certainly know why it might seem that way. But, it’s imperative that we receive reliable insight into the operations of this endeavor.”

You sit there in silence for a few seconds, dumbfounded. “So, you’re asking me to spy on Agent Choi.”

Bergman waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I know how this sounds. And essentially - yes, you will be our eyes and ears into this otherwise elusive project. Choi will know we’re sending you there to report back to us, but we don’t care. We are confident you will succeed in providing us with useful information.”

You wait for him to go on, to elaborate in any capacity, but apparently he’s finished.

“Alright then, so when do I-”

“Immediately,” Bergman interjects. You purse your lips, trying to hide your displeasure.

“Yes sir,” you reply as respectfully as you can muster.

“Great. We’re counting on you, Y/ln.” You glance once more at the smoking man in the corner, but he remains silent.

“Dismissed.”

You walk out of Bergman’s office, still trying to process what the fuck just happened. You have the misfortune of passing Soonyoung’s desk on the way back to yours - he opens his mouth, clearly about to say something annoying again, but you briskly zoom past him before he can get a word out. You make a beeline for your desk, grabbing only your purse and coffee cup before heading toward the elevator.

X-files, here I come, I fucking guess.

—-

Your eyes take a few seconds to adjust as you step into the dim basement. The elevator doesn’t come down to this level - you spent a good ten minutes trying to locate the correct stairwell that would even bring you here. You make your way through a seemingly endless hallway of dusty filing cabinets, forgotten boxes, and broken computers before you find yourself in front of a nondescript door, not quite shut - the only thing signifying that you’ve arrived at your destination being the makeshift paper name plate with S. Choi written in ink. You raise your fist to knock but before you can do so you hear a voice call out from inside.

“Come in.”

You push the door in, its hinges giving you a high-pitched squeeeeak as it opens. You make a mental note to find some WD-40.

The sad excuse for an office is equally dim-lit as the hallway, but it’s a sight to behold: a desk at the center of the room - neat, but stacked with newspapers and case files, a small lamp lighting up the open file in the desk’s center; a bookshelf nearly reaching the ceiling, overflowing with books on seemingly every topic under the sun; archival boxes stacked as tall as the numerous filing cabinets, which are also topped with more boxes; a massive bulletin board filled with articles and photos; but most notably, pinned the wall, is a poster featuring a flying saucer, accompanied with the text I WANT TO BELIEVE.

In the bizarre room sits a dark-haired man typing at his computer, his back to you.

“I presume you heard me coming,” you state.

“From a mile away,” he replies, still typing.

You wait for him to turn around, say hello, anything - but the clickclack of his keyboard continues.

Several seconds pass, but the man says nothing. Apparently, it’s on you to break the silence.

You sigh under your breath. “I’m Agent Y/ln, I’ve been-”

“Assigned to the x-files to spy on me?” he interrupts, eyes still glued to the monitor.

“They told me you’d know that,” you admit.

The typing stops. Choi turns around, the heavy desk chair giving an unpleasant creak as he leans his elbow over its back, finally facing you. His appearance takes you by surprise: strong eyebrows, plump red lips, soft dark-brown eyes - you weren’t expecting to find such a handsome face attached to the man with a reputation for being a “crazy UFO freak”, in the words of your coworkers. He’s much younger than you anticipated too, around your age - and seemingly so… normal. His eyes do a quick scan of your figure - his expression barely changes, but a quick flash of interest tells you you’re not exactly what he expected either. It is extinguished almost immediately.

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” His tone is passive, but you detect a hint of somberness in his words. His warm eyes lock onto yours.

“Name’s Choi, but I’m sure you already knew that. You can call me Seungcheol, though.” If it was anyone else, you’d think it was flirtatious in nature - but you can tell that was not his intention.

“Okay. Well, Choi, what exactly am I to do here?”

An eager grin lights up his face. He rises from his chair, grabs a case file off the pile on his desk, and opens it - throwing it back down onto the desk, facing you.

“I’m so glad you asked.”

You quickly skim the details: a series of disappearances in a small town, all teenagers. So far, no bodies have been found. Local law enforcement has compiled a list of suspects, but they don’t seem to have many leads.

“Okay, so we have a potential serial killer.”

Choi shakes his head. “That’s what the local police think. Which seems reasonable, unless you’re familiar with the location.”

You glance back at the file. Spirit Lake, Iowa.

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s a known UFO hotspot. Sightings have been reported for decades, most notably in 1967 when there were three different sightings - one of which was caught on camera by two different witnesses.”

He hands you a stack of old polaroids. You flip through the grainy photographs, which all appear to showcase an ambiguous but distinct saucer-shaped object in the night sky.

You stare at your new partner. “Choi, this could be anything. Most so-called UFO ‘sightings’ are nothing more than aircraft that are very much from Earth.”

“The U.S. Weather Service officially stated that it was a weather balloon, however no weather balloons were launched within 500 miles that day. There were also no flights - civilian or military - on record for the area that night.”

“And have you considered that this could all just be a hoax?”

“Sure, it could be. But what if I told you that in 1967 there were also three recorded disappearances, all coinciding with the UFO sightings?”

He hands you a separate case file on the 1967 disappearances. All of the cases are closed, as the three who went missing eventually turned up again - unable to account for what happened to them, but otherwise unharmed.

You close the file, setting it on the desk. “So let me get this straight: you think these people were all abducted by aliens. And you think the exact same scenario is happening again, this year?”

“There have been three recent UFO sightings in the area reported, and we have three missing teens. It all matches up.”

You stand there in silence, at a loss for words. Guess everyone was right, you think to yourself. The man is insane.

“Okay, let’s say you’re right,” you finally respond. “How exactly are we supposed to contribute here? Looks like they’ve already exhausted all leads. Why the hell do we need to fly out to Iowa?”

Choi gives a knowing smile. “They found the first girl this morning. Alive. Barely remembers anything, but unharmed.”

“And you want to go catch some little green men.”

“Actually, ‘little green men’ is a misconception - known encounters have widely reported extraterrestrials to be gray-skinned and not that much smaller than us. But anyway, more or less - yes, we’ll be in search of evidence that alien life is making contact with humanity.”

You stand there in disbelief. So this is where you’ve ended up - in the basement with a madman on a wild goose chase. As you’re thinking about quitting on the spot, Choi goes back to his computer.

“Anyway I’ll get us booked for the first flight out of here tomorrow morning,” he informs as he resumes his typing. “Want me to pick you up?

“No, that’s quite alright.”

“Suit yourself.”

You wait for him to say something further, but he doesn’t. You turn to leave. As you approach the doorway you hear the creaking of his chair once more. Looking back, Choi is facing you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Agent Y/ln.”

His expression is sincere. You may be stuck with a madman, but at least he’s not a complete asshole.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

You feel Choi’s eyes follow you as you exit the room.

—

11 September 1993 Spirit Lake, Iowa

The gravel driveway crunches loudly as the rental car slows to a stop. Your partner shuts off the ignition and turns to face you, his left hand still resting on the wheel.

“Ready?”

You glare back at him. “You’re acting like this is my first case, Choi. I’ve done this before.”

You open your door and exit the car before he can reply. You’ve barely gotten started on this investigation, but he’s already on your nerves.

You approach the cottage-style house and ring the bell. A disgruntled-looking woman in her 40s opens the door.

“Mrs. Miller? I’m Agent Choi, and this is my partner Agent Y/ln.” You both raise your badges. “We’re here to speak with Alexandra, may we come inside?”

Mrs. Miller practically scowls at you. “She’s already spoken to the cops three times, leave us alone.” The door slams shut in your face.

You and Choi shoot a look at each other. You hear a voice shouting inside, followed by loud arguing. The door reopens to a young girl, high-school age, with jet black dyed hair, heavy eyeliner, and a nose ring.

“Ignore my mom, she’s a huge bitch,” the girl says as she steps outside, slamming the door behind her. She marches past you. “I’ll talk to you, let’s walk.”

Choi raises his eyebrows at you as he turns to follow the girl. You join him.

“You must be Alexandra,” he says to the girl, who is still walking.

“Alex,” she corrects. The girl finally stops, turning around to face you. “Are you going to take me seriously or are you just going to laugh in my face like the cops did?”

“I believe you,” your partner assures her.

The girl turns to you, arms crossed. “I take it you’re the skeptic then?” Before you can respond she continues. “Trust me, I am too. I’ve always heard all the stories growing up about the abductions in this town, but I thought it was all bullshit. But I don’t know how else to explain what happened to me.”

“Can you start from the beginning?” Choi asks.

The girl sighs. “Yeah, sure. I was driving home from my friend Becky’s house, by myself. It was pretty late, like around 9pm. I was on Campbell Road, I had just passed the old schoolhouse. It was dark as shit and nobody else was around. Then suddenly there was this crazy bright light, it was all around me and I couldn’t see anything. I remember slamming on my breaks, but I don’t know what happened after that. I don’t know how long I was out, but I do remember waking up a few times and I swear I was in some like laboratory or something. I was laying down but I couldn’t move - I could just barely make out some figures standing over me. Then, next thing I know I’m walking down the road again, right where I was driving. No fucking clue how I got there. A deputy found me and took me to the hospital. They told me I was gone for six days. I had to talk to the cops like a hundred times, but there was nothing else wrong with me so they sent me home. And now everybody thinks I’m fucking crazy.”

“Nobody believes you, then,” your partner empathizes.

“The cops think I’m lying and that I ran off with my ‘boyfriend’ for a week,” she scoffs. “I don’t even have a boyfriend. But of course that’s what my mom believes now, so now I’m fucking grounded.”

“I’m sorry,” Choi tells her sincerely.

“Do you have any connections to the others who have gone missing?” you ask.

Alex shrugs. “I mean, we all go to school with each other, but I don’t really know them.”

Choi finds a piece of paper and a pen in his jacket pocket and scribbles something on it, then hands it to the girl.

“This is where we’re staying, if you remember anything else give us a call.”

On the drive back, Choi appears to make a wrong turn.

“You were supposed to go left,” you tell him.

He shakes his head. “I want to check out the location where Alex was taken from.”

“Why?” you ask, “There’s nothing there. When they found the car they towed it.”

“Just want to check it out.”

You can tell you’re not going to get any further answers out of him, so you just sit there in silence, listening to whatever is on the local radio playing quietly in the background. Your stomach starts to rumble, so you glance at the clock: 4:54pm. No wonder, you think to yourself. You hadn’t stopped for lunch, so you were well overdue for a meal. You made a mental note to look out for restaurants on the way back.

“There’s the schoolhouse,” Choi points out a few minutes later. “We must be close.”

The sound of static fills the car as the radio cuts out. You fiddle with the knob, trying to find something else, but nothing is coming in. Guess we’re out of range.

Suddenly, the car goes silent as the engine dies. You’ve barely rolled to a stop when your partner jumps out of the car and starts running back the way you came.

“Where the hell are you going??” you shout after him. No response. With a sigh you exit the car as well. You see him standing in the road, looking at the ground. He turns as he hears you coming, pointing down to the road.

“See the tire marks? This must be where Alex hit the brakes.”

You look at the ground to see the black marks, indicating a car had braked abruptly.

“Our car shut off right as we passed this exact spot,” he says excitedly, jogging back to the rental car. As you follow, you hear him trying the ignition a few times, until the car finally turns back on.

“Look,” he commands as you re-enter the passenger seat. He points to the digital clock on the dashboard: 5:11pm. “What time do you have?”

You glance at your watch: 4:56pm.

“Many instances of alien activity result in residual electromagnetic fields. It’s often been reported that those visiting such sites will experience ‘missing time’, a phenomenon we appear to have just experienced.”

The look on his face is energized - borderline excited. You stare back at him, unenthused.

“Choi, just because my watch is wrong doesn’t mean we time traveled.”

“Then why did the car turn off in this exact spot?”

“It’s a machine, cars malfunction sometimes,” you respond, nearly exasperated. “You’re trying to connect dots that aren’t even here.”

“These events happening in tandem indicate that something abnormal is going on here, Y/ln. You’re choosing to ignore substantial evidence.”

“Oh my god,” you mumble, holding your head in your hands.

Choi shifts the car into drive and makes a u-turn. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said all day.”

He smiles, but says nothing.

On the drive back into town, you subtly watch him out of the corner of your eye. He drives in silence, but you can tell he’s deep in thought - about what, who knows. Despite his ridiculous antics and asinine beliefs, you admit that his passion is oddly inspiring. You find yourself starting to grow fond of your new partner for some strange, inexplicable reason.

You push that thought to the back of your mind.

—

13 September 1993

“Can you hand me the Ramos case file?”

You look around for the requested file, to no avail. You joined Choi in his motel room early in the morning to review case files, which is proving to be incredibly difficult as he is apparently one to haphazardly leave shit all over the room while he is working.

You finally locate the folder and toss it over to him. “You know, this might be easier if the entire place wasn’t an absolute disaster zone.”

“I like to call it organized chaos,” he says proudly.

It has been six days since the second kid, Mark Ramos, disappeared - and Choi is convinced that he’ll be “returned” today, given that Alex was found after the same amount of time. So, much to your displeasure he planned for you two to stake out the location where he was last seen: the parking lot of the gas station corner store where the boy works.

“Wow, that sounds enthralling,” you told him, deeply sarcastically.

As you are wrapping up prepping for the stakeout, the landline on the nightstand rings.

Your partner reaches and grabs the phone, stretching the cord across the room and placing the receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he continues working.

“Choi,” he answers curtly.

You hear a muffled voice on the other end utter a few sentences before he stops what he’s doing. A tired look washes over his face.

“God fucking dammit. Alright, thanks.” He slams the phone back onto the base.

“They just found the kid. We missed it.”

You’re secretly relieved that you don’t have to go sit in a car for hours now, but you keep that to yourself. He’s clearly peeved, and although you’ve never witnessed his bad side you’re discerning enough to know that you don’t want to be on it.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally.

To your surprise, he walks over to the bed - where you’re sitting - and plops down onto it, holding his head in his hands.

You sit there awkwardly in silence for a few moments, not knowing what to do.

“Are you okay?” you finally ask.

Your partner sighs. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just thought we had this one.”

You feel the urge to ask the question that’s been on the back of your mind since you met him, but he seems really dejected - and you don’t want to upset him. Fuck it, you decide.

“Can I ask you something?”

He lifts his head up, resting his chin on his interlaced hands as he looks over at you.

“Sure,” he answers. You find yourself starting to get lost in his big brown eyes, but you force yourself to snap out of it.

“Why are you so obsessed with aliens? I mean - it seems like more than just an interest for you. It seems… personal, almost.”

Choi exhales, closing his eyes. He sits up, leaning back onto his hands, staring into the distance with a sense of sadness in his expression.

“When I was 12, my younger brother and I were very close. We were three years apart, but we had so much in common.

He pauses, lost in thought for a moment. He continues.

“Jinsang and I always shared a bedroom. We had a bunk bed, he slept on the top bunk.” He smiles wistfully. “He loved it up there. Always called himself ‘king of the world’. Even as he got older, he never lost his childlike wonder. He was the definition of pure at heart.”

You listen solemnly. You honestly were expecting some off-the-wall answer from him - you didn’t anticipate that it’d be anything so serious.

“Late one night, I was supposed to be asleep, but I was reading a book under the covers with my flashlight. Suddenly there was a blinding light that filled the room, and a deafeningly loud whirring noise that made me cover my ears. I pulled the blanket off me, but the only thing I could make out was some dark figures standing in the room. I couldn’t see who it was, so I assumed it was my parents. I called out for them, but the figures didn’t move. It was so loud and so bright. I was terrified.

Then - I heard my brother scream. He was screaming for help, but I was paralyzed. Suddenly everything stopped. The light and the sounds disappeared in an instant. I looked where the figures were standing, but nobody was there. I didn’t hear my brother anymore either. I jumped out of bed to check on him - but he wasn’t in his bed. I started to panic. I told myself maybe he had run out of the room, but I knew I didn’t see or hear him climb down. I ran to my parents crying, ‘Jinsang’s gone!’ They searched the house, but he wasn’t there. They searched the neighborhood, thinking he had run away, but he wasn’t anywhere. The police investigation went on for months. They never found him.”

He rests his head back on his hands. You sit there silently, not knowing what to say. Your mind races, trying to process his words: So, he believes his brother was abducted by aliens? He may be strange, but he’s not mentally disturbed, I really don’t believe he would just make something like that up… But what can the explanation be? Is it a false memory created as a trauma response to his brother disappearing?...

“I’m so sorry,” you finally tell him. Without thinking you place your hand on his shoulder - but after a moment you realize how awkward that might be. He’s your assigned work partner - you met him three days ago. But, you feel his tension slightly ease - your touch seems to be relaxing him. Choi lets out a deep exhale and sits up - you quickly drop your hand back to your side. He rests his palms on the bed, just barely grazing your pinky finger. You hold your breath as a spark of electricity rushes through your body - you ignore it.

“Thanks,” he says sincerely. “I know how it sounds to other people. But that’s why I get so invested in these cases. I have to know the truth, Y/ln.”

You sit in silence for a few moments.

“Well,” you finally speak as you get up, returning to the scattered files, “if your theory is correct we have one last chance.”

Choi perks up, a surprised look on his face. He stares at you for a moment, then grins as he processes what you just said. You grin back at him.

“Let’s go catch these sons of bitches.”

— 14 September 1993

Your stakeout plans are back on - this time you’ll be surveilling in the middle of the woods, by the lake, where Mark had disappeared when camping with friends. Choi wakes you unnecessarily early with rapid knocking on your door. You answer in your pajamas, half asleep still. He invites himself into your room as he brushes past you and slams more files on the table. Turning to you earnestly, he begins to recant the game plan.

“Choi,” you interrupt, trying to shut him up. He doesn’t hear you. He rambles on - practically bouncing with excitement.

“Choi,” you repeat, this time louder. He stops, his round eyes animated with enthusiasm.

“Yeah?”

“It’s 6:30 in the morning. We’re staking out the location tonight.”

“And?”

“You could’ve at least let me sleep in til 7.”

“No time to lose!” he says eagerly as he turns back to his work, picking up where he left off. You let him yap for a minute before interrupting him once more.

“Can I at least get some coffee first?”

You head to the nearby shitty diner together, Choi of course working through breakfast. You can tell through his excited state that he’s on edge. This has to go right - it is, according to him, the best chance he’s ever had. You spend the day going over everything, reviewing every last little detail - cooperating with whatever he needs, whether it be tactical or simply supportive. Before you know it the sun starts to go down, and you’re on your way to the middle of fucking nowhere together, to find some aliens.

Choi parks the car on the rocky path near the shore, killing the engine. It’s quiet out here - peaceful. The lake is bigger than you expected, and surprisingly beautiful as it reflects the painted colors of the sun-setting sky.

“Romantic, isn’t it?”

You turn and look at your partner, intending to make some snide remark, but all thoughts in your mind vanish when you see him. The golden tones of the dusk sunrays bring out a beautiful glow in his skin, his brown eyes radiating in the light; you knew he was good-looking, but seeing him this close - he is absolutely stunning.

The logical part of your brain starts setting off alarms - you know you should be feeling uncomfortable in the intimacy of the whole situation (he’s your coworker for gods’ sake!!) but it couldn’t be more opposite. The other part of your brain simply has the urge to lean in and kiss him.

“Mhmm, sure,” you reply, feigning sarcasm, veiling your true feelings.

You chat informally with Choi (“You can call me Seungcheol,” the memory of his words flashes through your mind), conversation flowing naturally as you both talk about whatever comes to mind. You find yourself laughing more often than not, and you find yourself relating to your partner more than you ever anticipated. It’s easy being with him.

Logical brain is absolutely screaming at you right now. There’s no fucking way you can allow yourself to develop feelings for your work partner - you know this.

I’m allowed to like him as a friend, you say to yourself. You’re gonna be working with him for god knows how long, of course you need to get along. But you’re not convinced.

Conversation wanes into the night as darkness falls over the lake. You feel your eyelids grow heavy. Choi notices.

“You can sleep if you want,” he tells you. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. But it’s quiet, dark - and soon you feel yourself beginning to drift off.

VRRROOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

You jolt awake, instantly blinded by the overpowering light surrounding you. A deafening booming noise permeates the air - you don’t know what it is, but it sounds like the rumbling of a thousand jet engines.

You can’t see shit, but you can tell Choi isn’t in the car. You heave open the passenger door, straining to push it open against the rush of wind engulfing the vehicle. Once your eyes adjust somewhat you find your partner about 15 feet away, camera in hand. You look up, but you can’t make out the massive object hovering over the lake - all you can see is five giant blinding spheres of light in the sky.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?” you scream to your partner - but he doesn’t hear you.

Suddenly, everything stops.

The lights, sound, and wind disappear in an instant. Disoriented in the dark, you stumble over to where Choi was standing, but you realize he’s gone - your eyes adjust and you see him sprinting down the lakeshore. In the distance you see another figure, laying on the ground. Choi approaches the figure, kneeling down next to it. You head toward them, but he turns to you and shouts from afar.

“CALL FOR BACKUP!!”

—

The figure on the beach indeed had been the missing boy. The ambulance rushed him to the hospital - but just as the previous two missing kids, he was okay. The next day you and Choi were able to get in and talk to him briefly before being shooed out by the nurse. It was the same story as the others - he didn’t remember anything, but he was completely unharmed.

Three out of three missing people now returned, safe and alive - your business here is done. You can finally get the fuck out of Iowa.

You’re pretty thrilled about leaving, but Choi is ecstatic. You remind him neither of you actually solved anything, but he doesn’t care. He got his photos of whatever the fuck was above the lake that night - it doesn’t answer all of his questions, but nevertheless he got what he came for.

It’s dark by the time you depart from the hospital, driving back to go pack up your things so you can leave first thing in the morning.

Choi parks the car, and you walk back to your rooms. As you approach the motel, he suddenly swings his arm out in front of you to stop you - the door to your room is slightly ajar, the lock broken. Choi draws his gun, and you follow suit. Holding up his fingers, he silently counts down from three. He bursts through the door, sweeping the room. You follow, turning on the light to see the entire room has been utterly ransacked - the contents of your suitcase as well as all the files from your briefcase are strewn everywhere.

Choi pops out of the bathroom. “All clear, but the bathroom window is open - if they were just here, they still might be nearby.” He sprints out of the room, pausing briefly and motioning for you to wait. “You stay here, I’ll sweep the area.” He’s gone in a flash.

You turn around and grimace at the absolute mess left behind by whoever the fuck was here. With a sigh you begin to clean up the mess, starting by gathering all the documents. As you sort through them all to put them back in some sort of order, you note that everything seems to be there. Your personal belongings all seem to be accounted for as well. Whatever they were searching for, they clearly didn’t find it.

Choi reappears in your room, sweating and breathing heavily. He shakes his head in disappointment. “Nobody in sight. Asked the manager if he saw anything suspicious, but he clearly didn’t know shit.”

He removes his suit jacket and throws it on the table before plopping down in the singular chair. He runs his hand through his sweaty hair as he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Anything missing?”

You shake your head. “Not a single thing.”

“Shit,” Choi mumbles under his breath. “They were probably looking for my room.”

You raise your eyebrow at him. “Who-”

He waves his hand at you, interrupting. “Don’t worry about it.”

You are worried about it, but you know he’s not going to elaborate even if pressed.

“Okay. Well, I want to shower and go to sleep, so kindly get the fuck out.” Your tone isn’t angry, you’re just exhausted.

Choi gets up, but instead of leaving he deadbolts the door and returns to his seat.

“Absolutely not, what if they come back? I’ll keep watch.”

You give him the most exasperated look. “Are you shitting me? I don’t need you to keep guard, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not taking that chance,” he insists as he crosses his arms.

You’re stubborn as hell, but in the short time you’ve known Seungcheol Choi he’s done nothing but give you a run for your money in that department.

You roll your eyes. You’re too tired to argue with him. “Fine, whatever. Just give me some privacy, alright?”

Choi salutes you as he turns his chair around. “Roger that.”

You shower and make your way back to your bed. Choi is still sitting in the chair, facing the locked door, his gun and holster sitting on the table right next to him.

“Are you going to be able to sleep in that chair?” you ask. “Looks uncomfortable.”

Without turning, he replies. “I won’t be sleeping.”

“Seriously? You don’t need to stay up all night just to-”

“I’m not sleeping, Y/ln, it’s not up for debate.”

You stare at the back of his head. Sighing, you pull the covers up and go to turn off the lamp, but you pause.

“Choi?” you call out in a soft voice.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He turns his head ever so slightly, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Goodnight, Y/ln.”

With a swift click you pull the chain on the lamp, and the room is flooded in darkness. As your eyes adjust, the moonlight seeps in past the closed blinds, and you can just make out Choi’s shadow as he keeps watch. Protecting you.

Within seconds, you are fast asleep.

—

You open your eyes, the bright early morning sun rays peeking in through the window. You lay there, contemplating going back to sleep, when you remember the events of last night. You sit up abruptly to see your partner still in the chair, still facing the door, awake.

“Did you really stay up the whole night?” are the first words out of your mouth.

Choi turns around, his eyes tired but still alert. He nods.

“Did you know you snore in your sleep? Very quietly - it’s cute.”

“Oh, shut up” you grumble as you get out of bed.

Choi rises and grabs his jacket before heading toward the door. “Get ready, we have to be at the airport in an hour.” The door shuts behind him before you can respond with something snarky.

As you make your way to the parked car with your suitcase, you see your partner waiting for you - zoned out in the driver’s seat.

You yank the driver’s side door open, startling him as he nearly jumps out of his seat.

“Absolutely not,” you tell him sternly. “You didn’t sleep at all last night, I’m driving.”

“I’m fine, Y/n.”

You go to yell at him when you pause, realizing he just called you by your first name for the first time. He must be delirious, you think to yourself.

“No, you’re not. And I’d like to make it back home in one piece, thank you.”

“Y/n-”

“Seungcheol Choi get your dumb ass out of the fucking car NOW.”

The expression that washes over his face looks like that of a scolded puppy. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to shout at him.

“Okay, okay! Fine, you win.” He gets out of the car, walking around to the passenger side. As he opens the door he looks at you, trying to conceal the grin spreading across his face, but failing.

“I like you like this. You should yell at me more often.”

You stare at him, exhausted. “You’re insane.”

“So I’ve been told,” he says with a wink as he disappears into the car.

You sigh for what feels like the thousandth time this week. After a few deep breaths, you reluctantly join your partner in the car.

“And since when do you call me by my first name?” you inquire as you turn the ignition. The car engine comes to life with a rumble.

Choi looks at you, his eyelids heavy. He gives you a sleepy smile as you back out of the parking space.

“I told you you can call me Seungcheol,” he reminds you.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

He gives no response, but shrugs, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. You stare at him for a brief moment. His black curls lay unruly against his forehead, brushing against his long eyelashes. A faint shadow graces his jawline - the result of not having shaved today. The top few buttons of his shirt remain undone; he didn’t even bother with a tie. Once again, you find yourself stunned by how handsome he is. You push that thought away as your attention returns to operating the vehicle. You shift gears and pull out of the lot.

“Take a nap, dummy,” you tell him softly.

—

Not five minutes have passed into your drive before the sound of gentle snoring greets your right ear. You glance over to see Choi positively zonked out in the passenger seat. A grin involuntarily appears on your face - he may be a headstrong pain in the ass, but even the toughest agents eventually fall victim to the cursed necessity of sleep.

The “highway” out of town toward the airport is nothing more than a vacant country road. You drive for at least fifteen minutes without seeing a single other car. In the absence of Choi yammering on about some off-kilter conspiracy theory, or recounting a tale of a previous case that seems too fantastical to be true, your mind starts to wander. The events of the past week replay in your head. Unlike your partner you don’t quite believe you saw an alien spaceship, but whatever it was certainly is making you question a lot of things.

Your musings are cut short when Choi suddenly jolts awake, nearly making you jump.

“Jesus, Choi, you scared me.”

He blinks dully a few times, the gears in his head creaking back to life as he tries to reorient himself. After a brief moment of mild panic he regains lucidity, slumping back into his seat with a groan. He yawns as he rubs his eyes.

“Sorry,” he responds drowsily.

“Did you know you snore in your sleep? It’s cute,” you jest, repeating his words from earlier back to him. After a moment, he realizes.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles - but out of the corner of your eye you see him grin.

You turn the radio on low volume, tuning into the rock station the dial was already set on. A few minutes pass without words, the crooning voice of Mick Jagger supplementing the conversation. Suddenly, Choi perks up, looking in the rear view mirror before turning around to peer out the back window. You glance in the mirror to see a dark car in the distance.

“Finally, some sign of life,” you remark. “I was beginning to think we’d entered The Twilight Zone or something.”

Choi says nothing, but you notice the concern on his face. I wish he would stop being so paranoid, you think to yourself. He turns back around but keeps his eye on the mirror. Not even a minute later he snaps his head back to look out the rear window again.

“Shit,” he exclaims, his voice disgruntled.

You look in the mirror again to see the same car, rapidly approaching as it speeds toward you. Your eyes dart forward again, only to see another dark car up ahead - parked in the middle of the two-lane road, creating a blockade.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Choi, can you please enlighten me as to what the fuck is going on,” you ask nervously.

“Fucking SHIT,” he shouts, not elaborating.

“CHOI.”

“Stop the car,” he gripes, his head in his hands.

You apply the brakes, as you couldn’t keep going even if you wanted to. The car ahead is blocking the whole road, and the trees on either side are preventing you from being able to swerve around it.

The car following you parks, also blocking the road behind you. Two men in dark suits emerge from each car and casually surround the rental. One of them, from the car in front, walks over to the passenger side of your rental - he knocks on the glass twice.

“Get out of the car.”

Choi unbuckles his seatbelt, taking his time, before reaching for the door handle. He pulls the latch and opens the door slowly.

“Both of you.”

Your partner turns to you. “Do what they say,” he says quietly.

You follow the mystery man’s orders. It’s early, but the sun already stings your skin as you step out of the car.

You look at the men, trying to get some sense as to who they are, but you’ve never seen any of them before - you presume they would have nothing on themselves that would give any sort of identification anyway. The men’s guns remain in their holsters, but their hands rest on the frames. You don’t doubt that they would shoot you in a heartbeat if you made any funny moves.

“Open the trunk,” the same man orders to neither of you in particular. His tone is stern, but not overly aggressive.

You make eye contact with your partner. He gives you a slight nod.

You take the keys from the ignition and walk to the rear, inserting them in the lock and turning the key. The trunk lid gives a loud clunk as it pops open. The man signals to the two men that came up from behind you - they approach the trunk, pushing you out of the way as they open it. Choi’s hands clench into a fist, but he doesn’t move.

The men carelessly rummage through the trunk’s contents until they find what they were apparently looking for: Choi’s camera bag. The man opens it and pulls out the chunky Nikon, removing its film.

“Hey, be careful with that!” Choi shouts angrily.

Once the other man finishes fishes out the remaining film canisters from the bag, they put the camera back. They signal to the ringleader - he nods. The other men immediately return to their car.

The man in charge claps his hand onto Choi’s shoulder forcefully.

“Thank you, Agents Choi and Y/ln - very much for your cooperation,” he says smugly. Choi shoves the man’s hand off his shoulder, teeth clenched. Without another word, the man heads back to his car.

“You won’t get away with this forever,” Choi shouts after him.

The man keeps walking. He doesn’t even turn his head as he replies mockingly.

“Keep up the good work, Agent Choi.”

You watch the cocky bastard enter the driver’s seat - both cars immediately take off. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

You know Choi is infuriated, but more than anything he looks absolutely dejected. He leans onto the car, his head resting on his arm in defeat.

“Who were those men?” you ask him quietly - but you suspect he doesn’t know either.

He takes a few moments before he lifts his head, resuming his posture. His saddened eyes lock with yours.

“They’re the sons of bitches who make sure nobody knows the truth. Lying to the public, hiding information even from us - destroying all evidence that UFOs exist.”

He lets out a deep sigh. “I really thought I had it this time. Turns out, I was just really fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” you tell him firmly. Softer, you add, “And I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you about… well, everything I guess.”

He laughs softly. “It’s okay, I don’t blame you. I’m the crazy alien guy in the basement, after all.”

He nudges you with his elbow, his voice friendly. “You know, you’re alright Agent Y/ln.”

You smile. “You’re alright too, Seungcheol.”

His face lights up at the sound of his first name. He smiles back at you warmly.

“Now, let’s actually get the fuck out of Iowa,” he says with vigor.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

—

20 September 1993 Washington, D.C.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Have a seat, Agent Y/ln.”

You sit in the sturdy oak chair across from the Assistant Director’s desk. You are, once again, joined by the nameless man - smoking his cigarette silently in the corner of the room.

“I read your report on the Iowa case,” Bergman tells you as he flips through the open file on his desk.

You wait for him to continue.

“It is certainly… of lower quality than your usual work.”

You hide a grimace. “What exactly was the problem with it, sir? I was very thorough.”

He gives you a tired look. “Yes, of course - but the report itself is not what I take issue with. What I take issue with is its contents. I assigned you to the x-files as a voice of reason - to rein in Agent Choi, not perpetuate his outlandish theories.

“With all due respect, sir, I followed standard protocol. My report gives no indication that I agree with Agent Choi’s conviction that what we saw was indeed a UFO, and that the government is responsible for some larger conspiracy - I simply detailed everything that I witnessed in Spirit Lake objectively as I experienced it.”

Bergman sighs before closing the file. “Alright, Agent Y/ln. You do good work. But next time, maybe try to prevent your partner from chasing after little green men.”

“They’re supposedly gray, actually. According to Agent Choi,” you inform him matter-of-factly.

Bergman stares at you, incredulous. He opens his mouth to say something, but gives up. He waves you out of his office.

“Dismissed.”

[to be continued…]

#ren's fics ੈ♡₊˚•.#fic teaser #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen fics #svt fics #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen scenarios #svt scenarios #s coups #choi seungcheol #scoups #s coups x reader #scoups x reader #scoups imagines #scoups fics #choi seungcheol x reader

254 notes · View notes

sturncrazy · 4 months

Text

LIFE OF THE PARTY PART ONE:

( prt 2 )

- Chris Sturniolo x y/n (fem)

- warnings: mentioning of drinking, language, kissing, some making out

- authors note: this chpt is pretty pg nothing beyond a little heavy kissing….things don’t heat up until the next part. you gotta have some build up yk…

summary: you attended an end of year party for your school with your friends but run into chris who you don’t get along with. someone has the bright idea of starting a game of spin the bottle and your whole night changes…

word count: 2,224 w

—————————————————————————

It was one of the last friday nights of school before your summer vacation started and you were trying to make the most of it by dragging yourself out to a party with you friends. It was a small party, all things considered, with only about 25 other people there, but it was still enough bodies to make the basement setting a bit stuffy for your liking. The room buzzed with voices and shitty rap music from some of the boys being on aux. The dim orangey old lighting made the room feel extra hazy. You sat on a couch surveying the group and fussy with your skirt that was a little too short to sit safely. The group was full of familiar faces from your classes, some more than others. You noticed your friend Madi, who’d wanted you to come here in the first place, already stumbling and slurring a bit in the corner by some guys. Staring down at your lukewarm half empty white claw, you decided to go get something stronger…it would be an awfully long night if you ended up being the sober one. As you headed towards the table with the drinks you bumped into Matt.

“Hey y/n! You okay?”

he asked giving you a half hug. you and Matt had been friends for a couple years now after you’d gotten close to his brother nick. Matt was a sweetheart and always had a reassuring presence.

“Yeah! Hey Matt! Yeah no i’m good just need somethin else to drink”

“Gotcha. Well Chris is lurking over by the drinks so tell him i said to stop being a dick to everyone when you see him” He said letting out a small snort and then running off to catch up with his friend Nate.

Perfect…you’d have to interact with Chris. You couldn’t understand why, but you and Chris never clicked. It was strange since you were so close with both his brothers and Madi, who was basically his sister, was your best friend. But the two of you never got along. He was snarky and condescending. You didn’t like his whole superiority complex. And you knew it was a mutual issue. He always made underbreath remarks about you being a “tight ass.” Even though that wasn’t the case at all, you were just shy. Whatever, doesn’t matter what he thinks you thought to yourself as you built back up the will power to continue your mission to get another drink.

You tried to avoid looking at Chris as you scanned the half emptied bottles of various liquors, all probably snagged from oblivious parents collections, but you could feel his eyes drilling into your skull.

“Another drink already y/n?” Chris snarled at you.

“What? you expecting me to hand you a drink voucher or something?” you spat back still avoiding actually looking at him.

“No need to get all huffy. just thought you’d be shitting yourself after a sip of a claw is all” he snickered at his own comment.

“You know I can drink, Chris. You’ve seen me drink before” You said snagging a solo cup and pouring some juice in it.

“Oh no….do we need to have an intervention is it time for the AA meeting?” he teased, mocking you, as you started to unscrew a bottle of vodka. this made you snap.

“screw you you know what i meant. Don’t give me shit. at least i’m actually fun at parties” you said, finally looking up at him. He stood lazily leaning against the wall. he wore loose fit black jeans that sat on his body casually with air forces peaking out of the bottom paired with a simple white t shirt. a stupidly simple outfit that had no business looking that good. You felt a lump in your throat as you scanned his face. Wide blue eyes, slightly hazy from whatever was in his own red cup he’d been toying with, gazed at you with a sarcastic glint through a curtain of mussed brown hair. You hated the fact that for some reason actually looking a Chris always made your stomach do a little cartwheel.

“Like you weren’t just off in the corner just like me a few minutes ago” he retorted

“What’re you watching me?”

“Just observing my surroundings” he lifted his glass to you in a phony cheers before taking a sip, annoyingly unbothered by your attempted jab at him.

“Well it’s not my fault that the party’s been a little dull” you sulked and let a few too many glugs of vodka slam into your cup

“Don’t blame the party. we both know even if this was a rager you’d be clinging to a wall. You’re not capable of letting loose, but hey not everyone in this world is meant to have fun. it’s why we have like math and shit”

You knew he was doing whatever he could to just get under your skin and it was working. You hated how much you wanted to prove him wrong, but you knew another word out of you in protest would only make him cockier. You slammed your revolting concoction to try to suffocate the things you wanted to spit out at him. Shivering slightly, you made another cup full, aware of the fact that his eyes were still on you. Luckily, in that moment a plastered Madi came bounding over to you with Nick not far behind.

“Y/N cmon we’re gonna start a around of spin the bottle so I can try to kiss the boy from my biology class i was telling you about”

“But shhhhh donttell anyone cause it’s a secret” Nick added drunkly giggling and clinging to madi

“I dunno guys isn’t that game kinda childish” you said mostly fearing the idea of getting stuck kissing some gross slobbery drunk guy

“oh cmonnnnn y/n don’t be boring it’ll be funnnn it’s always fun to stir the pot at parties” Nick continued whining

“Yeah don’t be boring y/n” Chris chimed in, clearly listening in on this whole conversation.

“Chris come on you come too!” Madi said attempting to drag him in

“If i have to watch him kiss anyone i will puke on the spot” Nick said grimacing at the thought

“Yeah i’ll pass” Chris said pulling back

“Ugh whatever, you coming y/n?” Madi asked pleading with you. You hesitated. Chris let out a small chuckle

“What?” you asked him.

“Nothin. Just the day I see you play a game like that i’ll shit twice and die.”

“hmmm. your funeral. yeah madi, let’s go” you said taking your friends hand and shooting him a look. for a second you thought you saw a wave of actual surprise flash across his face.

“REALLY?! YAY!!!” Madi cheered doing a little dance and pulling you to follow nick who’d already darted off to collect other people to play. Chris stood there looking unsure of what to do, but unfortunately Madi saw this too. She grabbed him by the wrist with her other hand yanking him along too

“Cmon chris if you’re such a lady’s man u can’t back out of a little game”

The three of you joined a cluster forming on the floor of people surrounding an empty pink whitney bottle. Chris had managed to break off from Madis grasp, but hadn’t decided to leave the circle. Instead he headed towards a few of his lacrosse friends. You carefully sat on the floor beside Madi as Nick started the game.

The beginning part was boring— mostly suffering through watching other intoxicated teens smush spitty mouths together. you found yourself continually reaching for your little red cup to make the experience more tolerable. It had started to have its effects on you and you were sitting in a blissful bubble of your own fuzzy buzzed state when you became aware of madi poking at you.

“Cmon y/n go! it’s your turn to spin” she slurred as your face flushed hot with embarrassment from delaying the game. you heard chris and one of his friends snicker and you shot him daggers from across the room as you reached for the bottle. You gave it a solid spin and watched it rotating, making you dizzy. slowly it began to end its journey and pick your fate. it stopped. you heard an “oh shit” muttered from close by your side as your gaze followed the direction of the bottle cap…to a pair of white air forces sticking out of black denim. No fucking way. you thought to yourself as you were met by the same wide blue eyes from earlier looking at you. Annoyingly unfazed yet again. Chris.

“Puckerup Chrissy” one of his friends laughed shoving at him

Your body froze as he actually began to move forward towards you. He was close enough you could smell the exhilarating sent of his cologne. Your breath hitched as you realized maybe there was a part of you excited for this kiss.

“let’s just get this over with, yeah?” Chris said before leaning in and giving you a heartless peck on the lips. Your heart sank and you felt a flick of shame and rage heat the back of your neck.

This was only made worse when a few turns further in the game chris landed on a different girl and you watched in horror as they sloppily kissed far longer than a first land in the game was supposed to call for. As he pulled away from her you could’ve sworn you caught him look at you for a reaction. A desire to get back at him bubbled inside of you. When your next turn came you spun the bottle as hard as you could, trying to ignore the jittering mix of nerves and anger in your body. slowing slowing slowing…..stopped. You looked. on the other end of the bottle was Nate. Chris’s best friend. Bingo. The spin the bottle gods had been on your side.

Nate gave you a small smile as you two met in the middle of the circle. You leaned in for a heated kiss which was met by nate eagerly pushing into the early stages of a make out. A series of “oooooo”s let out across the room at your display. You pulled away and were pleasantly surprised to see a disgusted glance from chris. he slammed the rest of his drink and attempted to look distracted.

the rest of the game was taking far too long for your liking as people started having repeats which lead to make out sessions. but you knew the worst would be when the 7 minutes of heaven rounds started for the poor unfortunate suckers who got stuck with the same person 3 times. Your third turn came and you gave the bottle a pathetically weak spin…probably a result of your beverage. it gave a half-assed scooch.

“NO WAY” you heard madi chuckle and to your horror you saw it was Chris…again. But this time there’d be no escaping it with a peck. You’d be counted down for 10 seconds to make out. 10 whole seconds. you’d rather die.

“Cmon Chris don’t mail it in this time pussy” you heard his friend taunt.

If you hadn’t known better, you would’ve said he looked almost nervous as he approached you again. This gave you a strange sense of confidence and you wanted to embarrass him some more. You leaned in and gave him a passionate kiss. Charged by the rage and disgust for him and desire to prove him wrong…or so you told yourself…you felt him freeze on the other side of your lips as the group chanted “SIX FIVE FOUR” but in those last four seconds something shifted. Suddenly his lips relaxed and molded against yours. You felt a him take a small inhale before diving back in with force against your mouth. for a moment you forgot this was ever a game. The two of you pulled apart from one another and you scurried back and started at your shoes in a desperate attempt to avoid any eye contact with chris after that. What was that. Something had felt like it was on fire during that kiss. It felt hungry and desperate. Not like a drunk make out or any stupid game. Mulling over what had happened you lost track of the game until you heard someone say “ok chris your go”

your head shot up. chris’s eyes were on you as he reached for the bottle. you watched as he gave it an oddly light spin. it landed on you.

the room was met with a deafening amount of “whoops” and cheers at the first 3rd land.

the first 7 minutes in heaven land. you thought you would throw up on the spot as your entire body froze.

“Into the closet you two” one of the girls said as she rushed over to open up a door to a dusty looking pocket of a room across the basement. you watched chris stand up and casually saunter over towards the storage space. Hands on your back shoved you forward…probably madi. swallowing, you forced yourself to move your legs hesitantly.

“what’re you afraid i’ll bite you? just fuckin get in” Chris said irritability, causally leaning back with his arms folded in the closet. You headed to the opened door.

—————————————————————————

HERES THE LINK TO PART 2 :

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die-die-mydarling-xx · 1 year

Text

Run Rabbit

Pairing: Vincent Sinclair x GN!Reader

NSFW

Themes: Predator/prey, some fear play, some dom/sub

I probably should have let this sit a bit longer so I could proof-read/edit, but I was too excited to post it! Feel free to comment any advice/mistakes and I will probably edit at a later date.

Your heart raced as you ran through the rooms of the house of wax, dodging the wax figures and various other decorations as you went. You could hear the heavy footfalls of your pursuer, but they seemed to be getting fainter behind you. Out of breath, you ducked behind the old piano in the next room you turned into, feeling safe enough to rest for a few moments as the footsteps that followed you were barely audible. You tried to catch your breath as you crouched in the shadows. Despite being mostly hidden, it was hard to will yourself to stay there; the adrenaline flooding your veins made you want to continue running. You realized suddenly that you could no longer hear the movements of your pursuer. Holding your breath, you carefully listened for any indication of his whereabouts. The sudden, sharp rap of a boot on the wooden floor almost made you cry out. The sound had come from just beyond the doorway to the adjacent room. You wasted no time in scrambling to your feet and out from behind the piano, and just in time because as you did so the figure of a tall man emerged from the doorway. Your heart leapt into your throat as he lunged for you, just barely missing you. You could feel the tips of his fingers brushing against the fabric of your shirt.

You continued running, and the steady sound of heavy footsteps resumed behind you. There was something about the way he chased you, never quite running, but keeping a swift, certain pace. Like he knew he wouldn’t have to work too hard to catch you. The thought sent something of a jolt through you, equal parts fear and excitement. You knew you wouldn’t be able to run for much longer, but you felt a little thrill at the thought of the chase finally ending.

Seeing the door to the basement ahead of you, you made a beeline for it. It opened easily, and the hot air from the workshop below washed over you. You quickly stepped onto the stairs and closed the door behind you. It wouldn’t slow him down much, but you were still committed to prolonging the pursuit even that little bit. Even as you reached the bottom of the stairs, you could hear those confident footfalls starting down after you. Running through the basement, the heat from the fires caused sweat to run down your back, and you could feel yourself beginning to slow. Faster than you expected, you reached a dead end. You quickly turned to run back the way you’d come. He was already there, swiftly moving in to corner you. You tried to duck under his outstretched arms, but this time he was expecting the move and grabbed hold of you. You barely had time to cry out before you were held firmly to his chest, one hand moving to cover your mouth.

You squirmed in his grasp, a futile attempt to free yourself from the tight hold he had on you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he tightened his grip on you slightly. A shiver went down your spine as you felt his hot breath on your ear, and you grasped his wrist as you again tried to twist your way out of his arms. With a low grunt, he twisted you around and slammed you down onto a nearby work table. The surprise of the impact gave him a moment to pull two wicked-looking daggers from a pocket, holding them up for a second so they flashed in the dancing firelight. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the sharp blades, although you knew he wouldn’t hurt you with them. You felt your heart skip a beat as he slammed them into the table on either side of you. It took you a moment to realize you were unscathed, as you heard the material of your shirt rip as the blades pierced it. Instinctively, you reached down to insure that you were unhurt. A large hand stopped you, quickly pushing your hands over your head and holding them there by your wrists. A soft gasp left you at the move.

Vincent was usually so gentle during your intimate moments, often checking in with you and letting you take the lead on many things. You loved that side of him, seeing how he looked at you so tenderly, and how he touched you like he was worried you’d break under his hands. But there was a few times you’d seen him going after victims, and it put some thoughts in your head . . . Seeing how he was so unrestrained, and how easily he could throw most of them around. When you first brought the idea up to him, he’d been a little hesitant. He didn’t want to treat you like he would one of his victims, and he was worried about being too rough with you. But after you’d spent some time easing him into it, you could tell he began to really get into it as well.

It was almost a complete shift in his personality, the way he would manhandle you during these moments. The ease with which he held you down only served to amplify the desire you felt burning in your stomach. With his free hand, he made quick work of your pants, throwing them to the floor. He took a few moments to take in your appearance, flushed from both exertion and excitement, and now partially nude on the table before him. He tilted his head as he regarded you, and you squirmed slightly under the scrutiny of his gaze.

Unzipping his own pants, he pulled out his sizable cock, already hard and dripping pre-cum from the tip. It was clear the chase had excited him as much as it had you. A surprised yelp left you as Vincent grabbed your thighs and pulled you down the table towards him, lining his cock up with your entrance. Usually he would take the time to prepare you, and make sure you were ready to take him, but it was clear he wasn’t going to do that this time around. You let out a moan as he roughly pushed himself into you, feeling yourself stretch around his girth. It burned a little, but the mild pain only added to the pleasure you felt as he entered you. He wasted no time in thrusting into you, setting a fast pace that had his hips snapping against you. As you felt each stroke hit deep inside you, he reached up to hold your hands above your head again.

You loved the feeling of him holding you down or against him as he fucked you. The feeling of being so helpless underneath him made your knees go weak, and you could tell over time that he’d grown to love showing off his strength with you. You let out a choked moan as he hit a spot inside you that made you see stars, and he made a noise like a growl as he roughly fucked into you. You arched your back up into him as he hit that spot consistently, unable to hold back on whimpers and groans of pleasure. The way he just held you there, thrusting into you so roughly . . . like you were just a toy he was using for his own pleasure. You must have clenched around him at the thought, because a second later he groaned into your neck. You could feel his thrusts becoming sloppy, but he kept up the same hard pace as you felt his cock twitch inside you. Suddenly, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. You could feel the warm spurt inside you as he came, and the feeling sent you over the edge with a cry. He thrust into you a few more times, but they were gentler, almost lazy as he spilled the rest of his cum inside you.

A few seconds later, he released your wrists. You could feel the ache where he’d been holding them, and you knew you’d most likely have bruises later. He moved his hands to gently cup your face, looking into your eyes with a slight worry. You smiled at him to let him know he hadn’t hurt you too badly, still feeling blissed out in the aftermath of your climax. You pulled him in for a kiss, and you could feel his relieved smile against your lips.

“Let’s go get cleaned up . . . and I reckon I’m gonna need a new shirt.”

#house of wax #vincent sinclair #vincent sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair imagine #house of wax imagine #house of wax 2005 #vincent sinclair x you #slashers x reader #slashers #vincent sinclair fanfiction #Vincent Sinclair nsft #vincent sinclair smut #house of wax smut #house of wax nsft

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blossomwritesthings · 6 months

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭

pairing: jisung x fem!reader x male oc (afab)

genre: producer!jisung/hairstylist!reader. badboy!jisung. enemies to lovers. twin dynamic. cheating/infidelity au. some angst. smut - MDNI, 18+ only. reader pov.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. thematic elements. just a tad bit of angst in this, but mainly, it's just degenerate shit. cheating is a big part of this. smut warnings below cut!!

word count: 4.1k

summary: the han twins are infamous in south korea for being the #1 duo in the country, with han jisoon gifted in rapping and han jisung in producing. jisoon is the best man a girl could ever ask for- and a wonderful boyfriend. it's just too bad that jisung is the one you truly want out of the two brothers.

18+ warnings: unprotected sex (keep it safe, my friends). kindaa jealousy sex. harddom!jisung. cheating sex. sub!reader. fingering. dom/sub undertones. degradation (slut, whore, etc.). manhandling kink. size kink. humiliation. dumbification. ownership/possession. jisung edges reader a bunch. overstimulation galore. lots of dirty talk. breeding kink!!. subspace. orgasm denial.

a/n: OKAY- SO !!!! 😖 I first got inspired to write this months ago just from watching this edit over and over again. 😩 originally, this was gonna be a chan fic, but I decided to change it to hanji at the last minute, so here we are lol! 😂 honestly, this is kind of an interesting premise for a longer series, so idk... if I'm feeling inspired to, I might expand on this oneshot and make another part to it... lmk if that's smth you guys would be interested in!! 🤎

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). do not copy, spin-off, or write inspired work based off of this fanfic without full permission to do so. ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

"W-We shouldn't be doing this," you gasped out, feeling the rise of your arousal flooding every part of your mind. It overtook all of your senses - forcing you to see stars, making the blood in your veins boil deliciously, casting visions of rainbows across your mind, flashes of effervescent violet and topaz coating your eyelids. "It's... it's not right."

The man between your legs was incessant in his movements, pressing your spine a little harder into the shower's cool tiled wall. One hand clamped down onto your hip, nails digging into sensitive flesh there, as he held you up, continuing to hoist your legs around his waist tightly. His other hand was busy at work between your colliding bodies, thumb drawing messy circles around your clit. It was so fucking puffy and felt like it was engulfed in a vat of flames.

"Why? Because you wanna deny that you're mine? That only I can make you feel this way, only I can fit this pussy so well?" His messy raven locks curled underneath the shower's hot steam, his entire naked form covered in a glistening sheen of suds and sweat and water. "You stay with him- with that prick, but you and I both know that he doesn't bring you to your knees like this- doesn't fuck you as well as I do."

And the worst part about it- was that you knew he was right.

Deep down, in the depths of your heart, mind, and spirit, you knew he only spoke the truth.

That's the thing that killed you the most.

The Han twins were infamous in the music industry - raising their empire of success from the ground up in the basement of their parent's house when they were just young boys in middle school. As they grew older, they only became better at their crafts - Han Jisoon with his rapping, and Han Jisung with his producing.

Soon after their 18th birthday, they made their official debut in the Seoul music scene. Instantly, their first track was a complete hit - sweeping the nation with its catchy rhythm and unique rap lines. It was unlike anything anyone had ever heard, and by the time the twins turned twenty-one, they were on track to be the biggest stars of their generation - overtaking all other duos in the industry and winning all the year-end awards.

You met Jisoon, the singer out of the duo, when you were training to become a hair colorist and he was in his late twenties. One day, a mysterious man came into your salon in Hongdae. Soon after you heard your teacher talk about who he was to some of the other stylists there - you realized that the man you would be working with was none other than the biggest star in the country at the moment.

Instantly, there was a connection between the two of you. His smiles were so warm, the way he spoke to you so soft and delicate, his laugh contagious. His happiness was infectious, and like a drug, you began to think of nothing but him. After work that day, you came home to watch all of his performances and interviews, completely captivated by his persona.

As it turns out, he decided to use your salon for his monthly appointments - and soon, after you graduated with your specialty license in hair color, you became his personal hair colorist.

It didn't take long after that until you two grew a deep connection, and then he was asking for your number before he took you out on your first date together, and the rest... was history.

Honestly, he was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for. He was so fucking kind and sweet and considerate. He wasn't selfish in the least bit and always wanted the best for you. And when you told him you wanted to keep things on the down-low in regards to your relationship, he heeded your wishes. Over the three years that you two had been dating, not a single word had gotten out to the press about your relationship. Sure, his fans speculated about his relationship status, but no one ever came out with any hard evidence of his true girlfriend.

He had even met your parents during Chuseok soon after your first anniversary, much to their delight. He brought over gifts for your mother and spent time out on your father's boat fishing in the early morning even though he hated fishing and always got seasick. Your mother fell in love with him during your trip, and wouldn't stop talking about the expensive rice cakes he had brought her for that holiday season. Your father also took a keen liking to him, saying he enjoyed having a fishing partner, which was your father's way of saying that he approved of your choice of a man.

All of your friends loved Han Jisoon too. Your best friend, Ryujin, was obsessed with your relationship - and was always checking up on the two of you. She was just chomping at the bit for him to propose, and every Christmas that passed, she claimed that 'next year, he'll do it on New Year- I swear to you that he will.'

Jisoon liked to hang out with you and your friends when his schedule allowed him to, and you did the same with his large group of friends. Granted, most of his connections were either famous producers or other popular singers, but still - you liked the fact that he wasn't afraid to introduce you to the important people in his life. Because all of it made you feel important to him.

Not to mention all of the gifts he got you - sending you huge bouquets of your favorite flowers when he was away on tour, and sending you little gifts here and there 'just because.' Like the box of chocolates during a particularly shitty day of your period, or the small teddy bear that was programmed with his voice and said 'I love you,' that he bought for you during one of his promotional business trips to Taiwan.

Overall, he was the best person you had ever met. He was funny and quirky and so fucking entertaining to be around. Not to mention talented- he could write thirty lines of rap within an hour, something you never could get over even after years of knowing him. He was perpetually changing his hair color too, thanks to your help - and for the past year, he had been rocking a dusty blonde look. He also loved to dress in bright colors and wasn't one to shy away from all the new fashion trends.

So... everything must've been amazing, right?

You had a beautiful, unique boyfriend who fucking adored you and practically worshipped the ground you walked on.

So then, what was the problem?

Well, for one thing, the root of the entire bane of your existence was his twin brother, Han Jisung.

With his perpetually messy black hair, onyx eyes, and scowl he always seemed to wear no matter what. You had never seen him dressed in anything other than dark clothes - grays and blacks only.

His temperament matched his outward appearance, with his downright rude personality at times and his snide comments that were always directed towards you. He was an absolute thorn in your ass and he loved being one.

He and your boyfriend couldn't be more different from each other, and you were almost surprised when you first met him after you and Jisoon first started dating. Because... they were such stark opposites of each other it was almost comical.

But Jisoon loved his brother, despite his flaws and all, and since they had an entire career together, you were forced to share space with your boyfriend's other half. When Jisoon would invite you over to the studio late at night to listen to some of the new lyrics he had written, there Jisung was. Sitting at the desk in the recording studio, directing everything and making changes to the track... just brooding for a fight.

When he worked, Jisung was even more serious than his normal day-to-day persona; changing into this silent, man with a menacing kind of aura surrounding him as he sat behind a huge desk in their shadowy recording studio.

You'd be turned on by the sight of it all if you were dating Jisoon - his twin brother.

But as it turns out, life has a funny way of playing tricks on you...

On your mind and heart and everything you had grown accustomed to.

And before you even realized it was happening, your dynamics were changing. No longer was it you and Jisoon against Jisung. Slowly but surely, throughout your relationship, you somehow grew closer to your boyfriend's twin brother.

It started with him being a little nicer to you randomly during your visits to the recording studio, or during the luncheons you'd sometimes attend with your boyfriend and his entire crew.

Han Jisung turned out to be kind of... nice.

Despite all of his flaws and rude mannerisms.

But even so, he was still an asshole, he was still annoying most of the time and a total prick. He liked to get under your skin, and wiggle around in there - teasing you just enough to the point where you were close to blowing up at him. But he always pulled back eventually.

Almost like, he enjoyed the thought of edging you irrevocably, for years on end.

Things came to a screeching halt though, when the twins were on tour and Jisoon invited you to tag along with him to their dates in Japan. Not wanting to deny the offer since you had always wanted to visit the country, you joined him during the four days that he and Jisung would be in Tokyo.

At first, everything was going smoothly.

Their rehearsal the night before their first show went well, and you enjoyed sightseeing with your boyfriend after he was finished with preparations. After the two of you got back to your hotel, Jisoon quickly fell asleep in your shared queen-sized bed, completely exhausted from his busy schedule.

And then somehow, you had found yourself roaming the halls of the luxurious hotel, stumbling upon a small alcove in the back of the spacious place, fit with a self-serve mini bar and a few velvet-lined seats overlooking the glittering night's cityscape.

But the person who was sitting in one of those seats was the thing that surprised you the most, with his black tresses and even darker stare. He regarded you with a tilt of his head, swishing around the ice in his crystal glass that was filled with dark bourbon.

Pathetically, it only took you three drinks in.

Perhaps the red wine they served at the hotel's mini bar was more potent than the stuff you were used to in South Korea.

Or, perhaps you were just as exhausted as your boyfriend Jisoon from spending the day traveling across the city and sightseeing.

But before you knew it, you had somehow migrated onto Jisung's lap, allowing him to place his palms on your ass that was just barely covered by the mini skirt you had changed into to tour the city with Jisoon earlier that night.

"I have a boyfriend, Jisung," you had said, as the man before you leaned in a little closer to your form. Nose coming close to your exposed neck, he had breathed in a deep sigh. Your spine shuttered from how near he was to you. Nearer than the two of you had ever been before. "Jisoon- he- he loves me."

After that, Jisung looked up at you with a raised eyebrow, a dark, familiar look twirling right there in his eyes. He stared on at you in silence, before he let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Oh please- you couldn't give a flying fuck about my brother. Especially not when you're with me..."

The moment his lips had come in contact with your skin, you melted instantly - like a bar of milk chocolate being held over the high flames of a fire. The fire ended up being him, his heat engulfing you as his mouth came around the spot between your clavicle and neck, teeth biting down there slowly, tongue darting out and licking ever so slightly.

"I've seen the way you stare- you're practically begging me to fuck you at any chance that we're together," Jisung had grunted out, his mutterings fanning against your skin and making the butterflies erupt even faster in the pit of your stomach. "Such a little whore- why have one brother when you can have two, right?"

After that, you were trying to push him away. Palms on his muscular chest, you tried to move off of his lap. But his digits just dug in harder to the supple flesh of your asscheeks, and when you moved slightly, you could feel the hardness of his middle gently hitting up into your warm center.

In the end, you couldn't deny the wetness that was slowly growing in your panties. But you could sure try your damndest to forget about it all. "I'm dating someone else, we... can't..." Your voice trailed off after that, as his mouth traced up the column of your neck, pressing light, heart-fluttering kisses against your jawline and the corner of your mouth.

"Too bad you're such a horrible fucking liar then," Jisung said in a low voice, staring into your eyes and giving you that look - the one he always leveled your way when he was officially done with your bullshit. "Too bad I can no longer ignore the wetness that's growing between your legs- ignore the way you press these cute little pussy lips together each time I make you squirm with my taunting."

In the next instant, he was pressing his mouth against yours, swallowing up your groan of surprise, quieting the moans that threatened to slip free from deep inside of you when his tongue danced against yours.

Turns out, he was right.

Without even really realizing it, you had been taunting him.

For fucking years.

With your combativeness, and playful banter. Not to mention, the long stares and shifting in your seat every time he made you feel... bothered.

He was like a powerful magnet, something you couldn't deny the pull of any longer.

Your kiss there on the chair in the hotel alcove turned into something heated and disastrous, and soon, you found yourself locked up in Han Jisung's hotel room - hands pinned against the soft downy mattress as his thick cock ripped you right open. He drew the filthiest of sounds out from the depths of your soul as he pounded into you completely raw, fucking you well into the night. He edged you for hours - just like he did in your regular lives - before bringing you over the brink of five different orgasms.

The sex with your boyfriend Jisoon was good,

but nothing could compare to the way that Jisung made you feel that night.

How filled up you had felt - completely whole in every way possible.

Usually, the sex with your boyfriend was fairly quick, very vanilla, and in the same three positions.

Meanwhile, Jisung had you in all kinds of ways that night - knees, back, stomach. You name it, he somehow coaxed you into it.

And afterward, after he finished coating every crevice and surface of your insides and outsides in his seed and sweat and saliva, Han Jisung helped to clean you up. The two of you lay side by side in his bed for a little bit, soon after he had wiped your skin clean.

No words had been spoken between the two of you then, but you just felt, that nothing had to be said. The deed had been done. You had gotten over the hardest part.

And now... there was no going back.

When you had crept back to the room you were sharing with your boyfriend and laid down beside him just as the clock was about to strike five in the morning, you realized that things were completely ruined.

Nothing would ever be the same again - because no one would ever compare...

To the way Jisung made you feel that night, and how he had made you feel over the past few years, without you even fucking realizing it.

Slowly, as you lay there underneath the covers, hair disheveled and the marks of Jisung's lips littered across your body - your legs and arms and pussy sore from his arduous, heated attention - the tears slipped out of the corners of your eyes unchecked. You stared at the back of Jisoon, your boyfriend, and cried yourself into a listless kind of sleep, void of any dreams or thoughts.

"I'm sorry, babe," you had whispered to his sloped shoulders, just before your eyes had slipped shut in finality in the early morning rays of sunlight for that day. "I'm so fucking sorry..."

Three weeks after they were finished with their Japanese leg of the tour, and back home in Seoul resting before they finished up with their encore concert in America, Jisung paid a visit to the apartment you shared with Jisoon in the heart of Gangnam. Your boyfriend was out for the day, visiting his parents for the rare break that they had in their schedules.

The moment you opened your door and saw him standing there on the step, your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach. But the two of you didn't have to say anything, because you already knew.

Things had been ruined the moment you stumbled upon him late at night in that hotel, all those weeks ago.

That day, you christened every surface of your apartment with your mixed essence. Every place you could imagine, Jisung fucked you on: the kitchen counter, the living room couch, the dining room table, against the front door, in the shower, on the study room's floor, and perhaps worst of all... in your very own bed. The one you had shared with your boyfriend, who was also Jisung's twin brother, for years.

The sex that day was mind-blowing and cataclysmic, as Jisung led you over the brink of so many orgasms, you lost count after the third one. By the time the two of you were finished and the sun was beginning to set, you were so deep into an odd limbo state of mind that you couldn't even form a coherent thought or sentence.

And like a thief leaving in the middle of the night, like a ghost visiting you for only a time, Jisung just kissed you goodbye, promising he'd come back soon, and left you in your apartment right before your boyfriend came back.

He left you as a pile of messy hair, weak limbs, and a murky mind, sprawled out across your bed, completely naked and littered with bite marks and violet hickies. You managed to throw a nightgown on before your boyfriend came home and saw you that night.

You were so fucking ashamed, but no matter how bad you felt about it all, you couldn't stop yourself. And apparently, Jisung couldn't either. You two were drawn to each other, for whatever reason. And no external factor - even the idea of a long-term boyfriend - was going to stop the trainwreck that you were slowly causing with your secret meetings.

Over time, the periods spent with your boyfriend's twin brother bled together into a fever dream of passion and the greatest sex you had ever experienced in your life. Any chance you could get alone with each other, with your boyfriend nowhere in sight, the two of you were fucking...

In the recording studio, during the rehearsal for a TV appearance, at the hair salon you worked at, in the bathroom during a late-night dinner with their company. And soon, you found yourself falling into a weird kind of rhythm with Han Jisung. Half of the time, you spent it with your boyfriend, Jisoon. And the other half, you spent it with Jisung... fucking and delving into each other in all different ways.

Your time spent with the other brother became so intense and all-consuming that you lost track of how long it had been since everything had started. And that's how you found yourself that specific Friday night, with your boyfriend spending the night at the studio working on a recording. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, his twin brother was between your legs.

Jisung had already taken you wholly atop the dining room table earlier that night after you had finished eating the takeout he had brought over. Once you were done chewing your orange chicken and fried rice, the dark-haired man was upon you with a vengeance - ripping off your panties and pushing you atop the wooden table. His fingers had this magic touch to them, and within just a few minutes, with a couple of practiced strokes, he always brought you over the edge in a blinding light of arousal.

After he was finished with you on the table, you two took a shower together and somehow... he ended up inside of you, once again, for the millionth time in a row.

"W-What about Jisoon..." You whined out, head bumping against the tile wall at your back with every hard thrust of Jisung up into you. His cock stretched you out so deliciously, and you ground your hips against his, loving the feel of his hand clamped down on your clit, rubbing at it with a rabid kind of heat. "He... He'll die if he finds out, Ji..."

He flashed you a swarthy, devilish kind of smirk, before he leaned into you, pressing his teeth against your shoulder and biting down on your clavicle. Tongue coming out to press against the purple spot left there, he chuckled lowly. "Oh, just shut up already- I think we're past the point of you giving a fuck about him."

And then you were clutching onto his wet locks even harder, as he drilled his cock so far deep into you, entire galaxies and other worlds flashed across your vision. Gasping out in pure bliss, you moaned out his name breathlessness, your whines getting swallowed up by the sound of the running showerhead above you.

"Yeah, that's right... moan my name, bitch," Jisung coaxed in a deep voice, his thumb drawing figure eights around your puffy clit as his cock fucked the squelching juices back into you. "We both know this - us - is never ending... either you leave that fucker, or he finds me fucking you one of these days and everything turns to shit. Your choice."

You were so fucked out, mind fuzzy with arousal and the pit of your stomach on fire from all of the feeling coursing through your system that you could barely form a coherent sentence. Even still, you managed to crack your eyes open just a tad bit to level Jisung with a serious frown. "N-No... never- don't want to ruin this..." The breath caught in the middle of your throat as the tip of his rigid cock hit that soft spot deep inside of you, making your legs shake around his waist, cunt clenching around his length.

"Then take everything, you slut- be a good little whore and take daddy's cock," Jisung commanded out in a stern tone, pounding into you incessantly and making your ass bounce back and forth against the shower wall. "Open wider for me, baby doll- wanna see this pretty pussy of yours bulging with my cock."

As always, you did what he commanded of you. Spreading your legs wider and hugging them a little closer around his hips, your head shot back against the tile of the shower wall when you felt Jisung's cock prodding into you.

He pushed down on your lower belly, feeling the way his thick cock rubbed up into you so far, he bulged out against the seams and the outline of him displayed deep inside of you. "Oh fuck- such a cute pussy... fits me so fucking well..." Jisung said in a low voice, as he rubbed a little harder against your clit with his thumb. Meanwhile, his dick was reaching all new lengths inside of you, drawing out a flurry of moans from between your lips. "J-Just a little longer... just hold on a little more, 'kay kitten?"

And in the end, you heeded his commands. All of them. You did everything he wanted, because truthfully- you couldn't help yourself. Couldn't deny him, no matter what.

Fin.

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my-own-walker · 9 months

Note

hiiiiii can you do a predeath kyle smut??? take any direction u want i trust you

I'm Freaking Out In My Mind

note: i apologize for how long this took i totally lost this ask in my inbox wtf!

summary: another party, another weekend, and another drink for Y/N, but she can't shake this feeling about one kyle spencer. and, inexplicably, he won't stop looking in her direction.

warnings: p in v, fem!reader, hand stuff, kinda drunk teens

+++

'A guy I kind of hate is here,' I shouted, already pretty drunk. We'd only been at our friend's party for an hour.

'Huh?' Lily yelled back.

I shuffled closer to my best friend and leaned into her, putting my mouth next to her ear. It was admittedly impossible to hear over the deafening rap music playing in the basement. 'I said: a guy I kind of hate is here.'

'Who?' she gasped, raising her eyebrows and turning quickly to face me. She always loved drama.

'Fuckin' Kyle Spencer,' I slurred. The crowded basement shifted, causing people to begin to bump into each other. The guy standing next to me stepped back into my arm. Losing my footing, I stumbled into Lily, nearly pulling her over. Her drink collided with my chest, and a little bit spilled down my shirt. 'I should NOT have had that last beer.'

Lily laughed uncontrollably at my clumsiness. 'We should get out of here,' she giggled, grabbing my forearm.

'Nooooo,' I whined. 'We only just got here.'

'Let's at least go upstairs, okay?' she bargained, pulling me toward her. We weaved through the throngs of people to the painted wooden stairs. I could almost feel how unstable they were under my feet as Lily and I trudged upwards.

I'm not sure what compelled me to do it, but I looked back over the crowded basement as I reached the top of the staircase. My eyes scanned the faces before meeting Kyle Spencer's. I blinked, unsure if I was imagining him staring at me. Before I could even process it, though, Lily tugged my arm harder, urging me to finish my ascent.

It took us a little bit to find a quieter place to settle on the house's main floor. There was a little nook in the living room near the front door. I leaned against the wall, while Lily made a side table a makeshift seat.

Lily was my best-friend-turned-roommate at Tulane University. Well, actually, roommate-turned-best-friend-turned roommate. We'd known each other since our freshman year. We got paired up at random to room together in the dorms. The rest is history.

We weren't huge partiers. We went out when we needed to, like this night, for example. Our friend Leon decided to host a blowout party for his birthday and asked us to attend. He was afraid no one would show up, but quite the contrary was the reality. It seemed as though the entire school had shown up.

'What was it you were saying about Kyle earlier?' Lily asked, taking a sip out of her red solo cup.

'Oh, yeah,' I began. 'I saw Kyle Spencer here. He's in my German class. He's in like Alpha Kappa Kappa or something.'

'Kappa Lambda Gamma. Leon's frat,' Lily corrected.

'Oh shit! That's why he's here,' I replied, mouth agape. There was something about him that made my stomach do flips. Seeing him here was a shock, and I wasn't sure it was a pleasant feeling. I couldn't lie to myself. Kyle was really attractive. He had a kind smile and seemed genuine, but something about him put me off.

'Well, anyways,' I continued, 'I was put in a group project with him and he did like...no work. I think he thinks he's above everything. He just epitomizes all of the worst parts of every frat guy. Cocky, kinda cute, probably rich or something-''

'Uh, wait, shut up a sec,' Lily snapped.

'What?' Lily pulled me closer to her and cupped her mouth to whisper.

'He's like, right there,' she warned, pointing to her right. I shifted my gaze slightly, spotting the blonde boy on the opposite side of the room. His eyes flicked up and met mine again, before returning to his cell phone.

'Lily, you're gonna think I'm crazy, but I swear that motherfucker keeps looking at me,' I said in a hushed tone.

'Yeah?' she challenged. 'No more alcohol for you then...' She took my cup out of my hand and poured the contents into her own.

'No, I swear,' I urged. 'He was looking at me when we walked up the stairs just now.'

'Why would he be doing that?' Lily questioned.

'Damn, I don't know. I mean, I wasn't exactly nice to him when he did no work in German class,' I explained. 'Maybe he hates me now. I just wanted a good grade on the project. It's not my fault he was uncooperative.'

'Maybe he likes you,' Lily teased.

'Oh, as if. Get crucial. He either hates me or he can't figure out who I am,' I groaned. As if on cue, someone cleared their throat behind me. Shivers went down my spine. I turned my head and was met with the most piercing brown-eyed gaze.

'Hey Kyle,' Lily greeted, standing from her side table chair.

'Hi. Uh- mind if I steal Y/N from you for a sec?' Kyle smiled.

'Not at all,' she replied, pushing my arm lightly as she walked away. I cast a pleading look in her direction, but she didn't see. Turning my attention to Kyle, I said a quiet prayer that he wasn't about to yell at me or something.

'I've been trying to talk to you all night,' he spoke lowly, looking deep into my eyes.

'Me? Why?' I stammered. I looked quickly to my left, hoping to find comfort in Lily's presence nearby, but instead, she was nowhere to be found.

'I just feel like I need to get to know you or something,' he explained. 'We got off on the wrong foot.'

'I- like, I'm sorry I'm just a bitch about my grades and-'

'No, no,' he interrupted. 'Don't worry about it. I get it. I can tell you why I acted like that in class.'

'Oh, you can, can you?' I challenged, leaning back against the wall again, slightly more comfortable with the interaction.

'Yeah. Honestly, I hate that fucking professor,' he laughed. 'It's hard to want to try in that garbage class.'

'I don't disagree with you on that,' I giggled. 'Gotta take it, though.'

'Damn you, language requirement,' he declared, shaking his fist in the air. I laughed harder than I wanted to at that. I had never seen him so animated.

'It's definitely a drag.'

'Do you wanna, I don't know, maybe go somewhere more quiet?' Kyle suggested. 'That sounds creepy, I just mean-'

'No, yeah, I'd like that,' I grinned.

Kyle and I elected to walk to my apartment. It was the closer out of the two of our places to the party. I shot Lily a text on the way there, letting her know what was going on.

We got to my place and settled in on the couch. I turned on some music to ease any tension, but it seemed unnecessary. His charm was really working on me, as embarrassed as I was to admit it to myself. Our conversation on the way to my apartment flowed so naturally. He made me laugh until my sides hurt.

'This is a nice couch,' he muttered, running his hands over the upholstery next to him. I cackled loudly.

'Yeah?' I laughed. 'I stole it off the side of the road. Cleaned it, of course. Loved the color. Purple's my favorite.'

'It's soft, I don't know,' he giggled. 'I'm just a fan of couches.' He shifted uncomfortably and shook his head at himself.

'You're insane,' I chuckled. We sat in silence for a second, just looking at each other. The question on my brain was killing me, so I broke the silence to ask. 'So, Kyle. What's your game here?'

'Game?'

'We have not said more than two words to each other over half the semester, but somehow, you're in my house. On my couch,' I explained. 'Why are you suddenly talking to me tonight? And why is it working?'

'Listen, Y/N,' he began, leaning forward to better meet my eyes. 'I'm so tired of the frat act. This is going to sound weird, but I felt like I wouldn't be able to win you over.'

'What do you mean?'

'I'm some blonde guy that wears frat polos and khakis. I hang around with douchebags,' he continued. 'You're, like, so fucking cool. You're so above all of the college social politics. The bullshit I deal with every day.' I couldn't help but scoff at his words. I pulled my feet up from the ground to sit cross-legged on the sofa and turned to face Kyle entirely.

'You got me all wrong,' I urged. 'I just get up, go to class, and come back here. I'm not trying to be some sort of edgy mysterious bitch.'

'No, that's not what I'm saying. God, I think this is the alcohol speaking, but I don't care,' Kyle interrupted. 'You're cool without trying. That's the thing. You just have it all figured out. And I know you're above all the frat garbage. You know it, too. I see the way you look through me.'

'Kyle, that's not-'

'I wanna be someone you've never seen before,' Kyle professed, leaning forward to put a hand on my knee. 'I want you to know the guy behind what you see.'

I will admit that I hadn't given Kyle the time of day. His aloofness in class, coupled with his style of dress and fraternity status made me turn my nose up entirely at him. Did he not help in class? Or did my inner feelings toward him make themselves clear, stifling him in turn?

'Gosh, I'm sorry, Kyle,' I spoke, barely audible. I cleared my throat, placed my hand over his, and continued. 'I think you're lovely.'

'You do?' he replied, taken aback.

'Tonight has been really great. You're really great,' I added. 'No guy has made me laugh like you have.' I leaned into his face and pressed my lips to his. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths started playing. Kyle relaxed into my touch and scooted closer to me, wrapping his arms around me.

'I was so scared you'd reject me,' Kyle giggled, pulling away. 'I was freaking out in my mind, sure you'd laugh in my face.'

'Dang, I must've been a bitch in your imagination,' I chuckled, proceeding to reconnect my lips with his. He leaned forward even more, guiding me to lay back, positioning himself on top of me. I pulled at the hem of his shirt, encouraging him to take it off. He pulled the fabric off smoothly and threw it across the room.

Kyle's body was way more athletic than I had imagined. The muscles in his toned shoulders were apparent. His biceps were large and the veins in his arms protruded oh-so deliciously. His strong hands found their way to my top, and without thinking, I sat up slightly to tug it off.

Suddenly feeling exposed, being in just my bra in the front room, I stopped kissing Kyle. 'We should move to my room,' I whispered. 'Just in case my roommate comes home.'

'I don't know that I can wait,' he rumbled, stooping down to pepper kisses up and down my neck. It was in my best interest to protest, but the feeling of his soft lips upon my breasts put me in a trance. I felt my way down to his pants and palmed his erection through the fabric. He whimpered at the touch.

I undid the fastens on the pants, and Kyle took the work of pulling them off of himself. I took that time to take my own jeans off, tossing them behind me. He stopped to regard me in just my underwear. He chuckled and shook his head.

'What?'

'You're so fucking hot,' he breathed. I continued kissing him and put my hand down his boxers.

'Okay?' I asked. He nodded in reply, inhaling sharply when my fingers wrapped around his cock. I pumped his erection, reveling in his moans and whines.

'Fuck,' he spat. I removed contact, making Kyle grunt loudly.

'One sec,' I whispered, reaching back to the side table next to the couch. I fumbled with the drawer, opening it to grab a spare condom. I handed it over with a smirk. 'For you.'

'Thank god you remembered,' he sighed. He slid his boxers down and opened the package with his teeth, guiding the rubber over his member. Then, he pulled my panties down and guided my legs apart. I yelped when I felt his dick enter me. It was much larger than I anticipated.

'You okay?' he panted, beginning to hit his stride.

'Mmhmm,' I affirmed through gritted teeth. I threw my head back, feeling my walls tighten around him. His thrusts got deeper, hitting the innermost parts of me. We both grunted, gasped, and moaned at the contact.

‘Shit, I’m gonna come,’ Kyle groaned. He stroked a few more times before coming with a whimper. I felt warm spread in my middle. He pulled out and stood to clean up. I laid on the couch for a moment, watching his toned back ripple as he pulled his boxers back on.

He handed me my own underpants upon his return, a shy grin on his face, and a pink flush in his cheeks. I chuckled at him as I slid them back on.

I stood to meet him, kissing him again. ‘You wanna, uh, go to my room now?’ I proposed. ‘You can sleep over.’

‘God, Y/N Y/L/N inviting me to stay,’ Kyle said, shaking his head. ‘I cant believe this is my life.’ He kissed me again, wrapping me tightly in his warm embrace.

+++

This was supposed to be done last night but whatever I forget and I lose track!!

#evan peters #evan peters fic #ahs #evan peters x female reader #evan peters x reader #evan peters oneshot #kyle spencer imagine #kyle spencer x reader #kyle spencer x y/n #kyle spencer #ahs coven

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suneeater · 1 year

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the haikyuu guys + their icks

➳ushijima, oikawa, iwaizumi, daichi, asahi, sugawara, hinata, kageyama, semi, bokuto, kenma, kuroo, shirabu, terushima, tsukkishima, tanaka, nishinoya

✎a/n: this is supposed to be silly, we need things to post until we get some requests rolling in and this was fun to write so!

✰warnings: n/a

𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐦𝐚.

he is completely socially unaware and cannot tell when people are flirting with him so he just lets it continue and accidentally leads people on, REGULARLY

𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚.

he still follows instagram models and regularly likes all of their photos. he also responds with "why" when someone asks if he's single instead of just saying no

𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐮𝐦𝐢.

he has a man complex. im obsessed with this man but he is rude to strangers in public bc he thinks you'll think it's hot when really he's just embarrassing you. he also manspreads severely.

𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐢.

he has a weird amount of back hair which isn't a problem itself because it's just the human body except he tries to shave it by himself so now his back is just weird uneven patches of hair and he insists he doesn't need help. he also mansplains really bad

𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐚.

gives unprovoked and backhanded compliments all the time for literally no reason, also uses large amounts of your nice soaps

𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐡𝐢.

i genuinely cant think of any icks for him i love him so much he's perfect sorry. his ick is that he cannot make a mistake ever

𝐤𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦𝐚.

he moans like a fucking blobfish. he also always has a tummy ache because he's a grown man who consumes too much dairy, and he gets indigestion and is always BURPING. watches family guy at full volume and cackles at it

𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚.

can only fall asleep if bluey is on

𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚.

he leads you on and then rejects you, then after a few months hits you up again acting like nothing happened

𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐮.

constantly tells people 'actually, that's DR to you'

𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚.

he talks down to you like a child sometimes and insists on doing tasks for you not out of the goodness of his heart but because he's convinced you'll do it wrong by his standards

𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐚.

he only listens to rap music and thinks you don't know who tupac is. every gift he gets you is stolen from the dollar store

𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐚.

does the 'he ain't got no money' hold

𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐨.

he captions all of his instagram posts with emo quotes because it's not a phase, y/n. it could literally be your wedding photos and it would say 'ILL BURN YOUR NAME INTO MY THROAT I'LL BE THE FIRE THAT WILL CATCH YOU' and just ruin everything

𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐨.

he has skid marks lol, he at least has no personality icks if that helps. idk this one's pretty bad but at least it can be fixed. he'd sob if you brought it to his attention though

𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐦𝐚.

he does not regularly shower and it's noticeable. he also stockpiles dirty dishes, like deadass never brings them back to the kitchen. he'd also just throw the rest of his food away instead of putting it up because 'he doesn't like leftovers'

𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐢.

throws basement shows at his grandmas house and doesn't stop if there's a fight in the audience

#oikawa x reader #daichi x reader #bokuto x reader #kuroo x reader #hq hcs #jo #haikyuu

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visceravalentines · 2 years

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ok bestie for real though

I have this idea/fantasy that just

Bo torturing someone, getting turned on, and seeing him so strong and scary and bloody turns you on to the degree where you're just staring, he's like "what" and you basically beg him to let you help him/use you to get off

cue him fucking you right there, in front of the bleeding, suffering victim 🥰

maybe even just shoving you down onto your knees to fuck your throat but still positioned in a way that he can continue hurting the person, dig around in wounds or smear blood around

smear blood on your face too 👀

Babe I loved this request and for some reason it was so hard to get it right, I'm sorry it took so long! It is some 2000 words long tho so maybe that helps. And Bo is...😳 really something. We should make sure he stays in Ambrose lol.

The Devil Himself

Bo Sinclair x GN!Reader

There is a living torture victim in the room for the entire scene. She is actively being tortured throughout. Dead dove, do not eat. Smut, blood kink, corruption kink, oral, throat fucking, biting, dirty talk, sadism, stabbing & torture, Bo is dark and dominating and the reader is super down for it. Bo does not hurt the reader.

The station basement was pretty well soundproofed, but the scream you heard as you made your way to the back and opened the door to the stairwell made you flinch. It was loud. It had been some time since Bo had taken anyone downstairs. Unfortunately for this particular victim, that meant he would be rather…tightly wound.

You rapped lightly on the basement door before swinging it open. Bo loomed over the woman cuffed and taped to the chair, a sneer fixed on his face as he gagged her. His gaze snapped over to you as you entered and the glint in his eyes was manic, ravenous. The intensity of it stirred something in you. His expression softened, only a little, when he saw you.

“What d’you need, darlin’? I’m busy.”

“I wanted to let you know the power’s still out south of Magnolia Street. Les and I tested it and – ”

The woman in the chair shrieked again through the gag. Bo sighed, seized a screwdriver off the nearby counter, and plunged it into her thigh. The victim squealed, sobbed. Your eyes widened.

“You want somethin’ to scream about, I’ll give you somethin’ to scream about. Shut the fuck up, I’m havin’ a conversation.”

You bit your lip. His voice got so much deeper, gruffer, when he was mad.

Bo furrowed his brow when he turned back to you. “What?”

“Nothing. I was saying…Magnolia Street. We think one of this group hit a power pole or maybe even cut a line somewhere.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Fuckin’ excellent. Y’need me to come look at it now?”

“No, but you should look at it soon. Can’t have a third of the town in the dark.”

Bo rounded on the victim. “Y’hear that, honey? You and your friends made a bunch o’ extra work for me. You know who gets to pay for that?” He tapped the screwdriver still buried in her leg.

Her panicked gaze sought you out and she babbled something through the gag.

“Hey!” Bo said so sharply you and the victim both jumped. He grabbed her jaw, turned her head. “Don’t fuckin’ look at them! You got nothin’ to do with them and they ain’t gonna help you.” He glanced at you as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms and the scars on his wrists. “You best run along, darlin’. I got things to do.”

You folded your arms, leaned against the doorframe. “...can I stay?”

He looked surprised. “You wanna stay?”

“I want to watch you work.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “This ain’t work, this is play.”

“Even better.”

Now he smiled for real. “You stay back, I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“I’ll behave.”

“Well that makes one of us. Here.” He selected two knives of different styles from the counter and held them both out to you. “What’s your preference?” You picked one and he winked at you. “Good choice, darlin’.”

He sliced through the victim’s clothing, exposing her abdomen. She pulled halfheartedly at the tape around her wrists.

“Gotta have more fight than that, bitch,” Bo remarked. “Let’s see now.” He flipped the knife in his hand. “Your boyfriend smashed my sideview mirror, so that’s one.” With practiced precision, he carved a long, shallow slice down her abdomen. She wailed and he smirked. “Your friend shot at my fuckin’ dog, so that’s worth two, I think.” He opened up two more gashes in her stomach and she thrashed. Blood was flowing freely, soaking the waistband of her jeans. “You messed with my town, and now I gotta fix it.” This time he seized her face and drew the tip of the knife across her cheekbone, slowly, the tip of his tongue protruding through his lips in concentration.

You were enthralled. You had seen him angry. You’d watched him kill before, knew he was capable of immense violence, but this was different.

The victim tried to wrest her face away from him, made eye contact with you again, but before she could even attempt to speak, Bo’s fingers plunged into the wounds on her abdomen almost to the second knuckle.

Her scream was bloodcurdling but Bo was louder as he roared, “What did I fucking say?! You don’t get to look at them!”

The screams devolved into sobs and Bo chuckled darkly, shook his head. “Y’got pretty eyes, honey, bet my brother can make somethin’ nice with ‘em. If you wanna keep ‘em in your head, you look at me when I’m talkin’ to you. Y’understand?” She nodded, whimpering, and he leaned forward, pressed his lips to her forehead. “You understand. You be good for me and I won’t make this any longer than it has to be.”

A delicious chill ran down your spine. He was terrifying, your Bo.

He wiped a bloody tear from the victim’s cheek, whispered something to her that you couldn’t make out. You were captivated by the blood on his fingers, the way he adjusted his grip on the knife, his presence filling the room, unassailable, aggressive.

The victim looked up at him, pleading around the gag. He shushed her, lifted her chin with the blade of the knife, shook his head. With one flick of the wrist he opened a slice on the curve of her jaw. The blood spattered his cheek.

He glanced at you, did a double-take, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, darlin’? You need to leave?”

God, he was handsome. The fluorescents caught the immaculate angles of his face. The concern in his expression for you even as he inflicted brutality on this poor stranger made you weak.

You found your voice at last. “I’m okay.”

His worry dissolved. A wicked smile crept across his face. “You’re more than okay, ain’tcha?”

You tried to suppress it. You tried to remind yourself you should have some decorum, a shred of self-respect. But he straightened up to his full height, faced you with a devilish glint in his eye, and that was the end of it.

“Get over here.”

You obeyed. You barely felt the concrete floor beneath your feet.

He flipped the knife back and forth in his fingers. “You like watchin’ me, darlin’?” You nodded. “That’s bad. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

You lowered your gaze to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

Bo tilted his head, grinned at you. “You little monster.” He tipped your face up with one crimson finger beneath your chin and kissed you slowly, deep and hungry. His teeth caught your lip and tugged. “On your knees,” he murmured with his mouth less than a breath from yours.

You sank like a stone. The way your pants tightened between your legs was unbearable. You looked up at him expectantly, the whimpers from the victim next to you all but fading from register.

He regarded you with a mixture of affection and arrogance. You hadn’t seen him exude this kind of confidence, this kind of control, anywhere else, not even in bed. You would’ve kissed his boots if he told you to.

His head veritably lolled to the side and he addressed the woman in the chair. “You have my permission to look, honey.” His attention returned to you and he gave you a nod.

With quick, precise movements, you unbuttoned his jeans, unzipped his fly, worked him out of his boxers. He was hard already. You waited, lips parted, eyes locked on his, until he said, “You know what I want, darlin’,” and then you took him in your mouth to his base in two slow, desperate motions. He allowed his head to fall back with a contented groan, tightening his grip on the knife still in his hand.

You worked your head back and forth, easing him deeper, bumping against the back of your palate. Your hands brushed his hips, his thighs, anxious to touch him everywhere at once. The knife hung heavy in your periphery. Part of you wanted to drive him to weakness, stimulate him until he couldn’t think straight. Part of you wanted him to pin you against the wall and fuck your throat.

Bo licked his lips, cradled the back of your skull with his palm, thrust himself deeper. “That’s good, darlin’, that’s real good.” He shot the victim a smug look. “I’ll be right back with you, honey, don’t you worry. God, baby.” You moaned around him, shifting your weight back and forth, desperate for friction. “Got you real hot and bothered, huh?”

There was a frantic rattling sound as the woman focused all her efforts on freeing her right hand. The duct tape stretched as she twisted her wrist, breathing hard.

With a huff, Bo steadied you with a hand on your cheek and plunged the knife into the victim’s forearm. She screamed, thrashing in the chair, and he sneered at her as he refocused his attention on you.

He caressed your jaw, smearing bloody fingermarks across your skin. “What if I fuck you right here, angel? Would you like that?”

You gazed up at him eagerly, pupils blown, and nodded.

“You’re gonna have an audience. ‘S that okay with you?”

You circled his frenulum with your tongue, felt the heat rise in your cheeks.

“I thought so.” He held your chin and pulled away from you, regarding you with something like pride. “Take your clothes off, sweetness, I want you right now.”

You couldn’t get them off fast enough. He pulled you to your feet with absolute chivalry, yanked you to the table nearby, grasped the back of your neck and bent you forward. You were less than five feet from the victim, Bo positioned at an angle between you.

You felt his hips against your ass, his erection sliding between your legs, his chest pressing against your back. “Want me so bad you can’t even wait for me to kill this bitch, huh?” he murmured in your ear. “Shameful, darlin’. Filthy. Someone oughta take a belt to that ass.”

You arched against him, moaned his name.

“Behave yourself,” he warned, his hand drifting over your throat, crimson fingerprints on your skin. “I wanna take my time with you.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a bottle of lube, worked it in and around your entrance with calloused fingers. His touch was covetous, his fingertips teasing.

You all but writhed against him, desperate for him, the smell of blood sharp in your nose. He parted your legs with his knee before he forced himself into you all at once, almost to his base, and you keened, threw your head back, ground yourself backwards to push him in deeper.

“What did I fuckin’ say, you dirty thing?” You could hear the laughter in his voice. “God, I’m gonna have to start killin’ people in the streets for you. And here I thought you were so wholesome.” Bo snapped his hips experimentally, pinching his tongue between his teeth in satisfaction at the sound you made. “You like bein’ fucked by a bad man, baby? You’re gonna make me worse if you don’t calm down.”

He looked over his shoulder at the victim, who was dissociating in shocked silence. “Now you oughta speak up there, sweetheart.”

He grabbed the screwdriver and gave it a twist. She screamed. Bo smirked, thrust into you with such force you saw stars.

His hands wandered over your body, his touch tender and violent, stroking, squeezing, pinching, dragging his nails down your ribs. His fingers found your sex and he caressed you ruthlessly. You felt exposed, at his mercy, deliciously used, absolutely despicable. The pace of his hips was relentless.

When your legs were shaking, Bo twisted his fist in your hair, tugged your head back to his lips. His teeth nipped at your earlobe. “Oh, darlin’,” he whispered, “I think I’ve ruined you.”

Your eyes flew open. The last of your nerves snapped into place. You gripped the table. “Bo – ”

“Why don’t we seal the deal, angel?” He pressed his lips to the skin behind your ear and demanded, in a low and sugary growl, “Cum for me right now.”

You collapsed into irresistible spasms, wracked with pleasure, choking out a gasp at the sheer force of your orgasm. Bo practically purred as you contracted around him, his forehead against the back of your skull, mumbling praise as he slipped smoothly over the edge.

Completely spent, you slumped over the tabletop, flinching when he took a bite out of your shoulder. He kissed the same spot right after. “You’re quite the sight, doll.” He nuzzled your cheek. “Why don’t you head up to the house and wait for me? I wanna hold you for a while.”

You stood up slowly, accepted your clothes as he handed them to you. You glanced at the victim. Her eyes were glazed over, face pale, breathing deep and tremulous. Her struggles had ceased.

“You won’t be long, will you?” Already you felt lonesome and he was mere feet away, pulling his jeans back on.

“Be there before you know it.” He flashed you an absolutely winning smile, the kind that charmed old ladies and pierced prom queens’ hearts, that made people feel seen, put them at ease.

“I got somethin’ to finish up here first.”

#asks #anon asks

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stronghours · 1 month

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Nice Nurses

Clay could recite to the thread what he’d worn that early-summer brunch at Roscoe’s apartment; the loose, worn cords that were so easy to pull up his legs one-handed with the nice button that behaved in the cute little pants-slot (button eye? Hole, simple-pat? Jules would know, but he hadn’t met Jules just yet, if details were the thing). The cords were light green. Over this, he wore an oversized t-shirt, grey, one he could pull over his head without a battle, and over that a very long-sleeved chambray shirt he did not button because he enjoyed when it billowed behind his underarms. It made him feel like a famous painter, and nothing untoward showed to upset anyone. A recitation by rote and not of recollection, as Clay hadn’t found the need to recollect much for twenty-five years. Why bother, when it was such a pretty May Day, and the sidewalks were beginning to stay warm, and a robin plumped over there, in that very shrub?

And a soiree! How fun! Phil of all people opened the door for him. Strange, since Roscoe was quite host-y about these matters. “Here we are,” Phil said, with his standard dissected warmth. “Now the party’s started.”

“Darling,” said Clay Carrell, “I hope if already has.”

“And fashionably late, too.”

“I arrive, exactly as I have always arrived, when I intend to.”

He took a turn around the front room, received his acknowledgements and the few respectful touches or kisses some guests felt fit to grant him. He breezed by the goody table (it wasn’t nice manners to show undue interest in the food, directly after your entrance) and treated himself to a peep out the window. Roscoe did not have curtains to sensuously fling aside, a pity. Roscoe!

“Where, now?” He asked Bo G., who unlike others, solidly clapped Clay’s trim shoulder.

“He’s in the damn kitchen.” Bo G. understood him perfectly. “With that damn kid.”

Clay knew, theoretically, about the presence of a damn kid, but memory lay in the eye of the beholder and Clay had never managed to see him. He’d heard bizarre rumors Roscoe kept him stuffed in the shop basement; Clay thought that was a senseless place to store a child. Knowing now he must see at last, off he swanned to the kitchen entryway toward the damp clatter and crash of soapy dishware. He rapped the doorframe smartly. “Now you,” he said, “you, who did not answer your own door! I see you now!”

“Oh Clay,” Roscoe half-turned, smiled vaguely, and held up his bubbling hands. “That’s Clay,” he said to the long, young creature beside him who dangled on a tall stool. It didn’t answer. Clay thought that was only fair, as half the child’s face was a healing fog of yellows and burgundies and eggplant, all in evil gradients, descending from a half-swollen blue-skinned eye before dispersing and reconnecting among a strip of unbecoming, hairy stitches encrusted smack in the middle of the cheek. It could hardly have hurt to tape some nice white gauze over it, but not everyone knew the niceties of Gloria Vanderbilt as well as Clay.

“Clay,” Roscoe continued in the solid, directorial voice he affected whenever Clay was in the room, “Clay, this is Jules. I don’t think you two have run into each other.”

“I am so incredibly charmed,” Clay said. He noticed right away that Jules was looking down, with a teenager’s cruel intent, to work out if Clay’s squashy white shoes truly fastened together with Velcro. “Hideous whispers informed me you were stuck in a basement somewhere. I’m so glad you’re not; people belong aboveground.”

Titters in the room behind Clay. The events could have been connected; he was a witty person. “I can see you’re being very helpful to our lovely man – that’s fine, Roscoe works too hard to arrange the fun then misses out on it.” He scanned automatically over the child’s hands, which were long and battered, adolescently screwboned. He didn’t store them awkwardly like other wallflowers.

Clay felt keen, momentarily. “What do you play?”

The child’s one fully open eye was merely surface-bright and dark and blank. “Piano,” he said. He talked out one side of his mouth and his teeth didn’t show when he spoke.

“You do?” Roscoe was surprised. Their acquaintance was, apparently, short.

Clay dandled his stronger hand in front of his chest. “No-no,” he clarified, “you play?”

“Instruments,” Roscoe tried.

“Cards, my darling.”

“Oh.” The child – J name, Clay would need to hear it a few more times before it could be swallowed – cupped his hands and touched his thumbs together, the poor form of shuffling. “Right. I play.”

“What’s your special?”

“Anything.”

“How did you learn?”

“Old people.”

Clay, delighted, clapped his stronger palm against his weak knuckles. “Marvelous,” he declared. “They’re the best teachers because they’ve played so long – and so sour about it! I bet you have superior attention span to other babies your age. I bet you could play me right now. Roscoe?”

The little foundling looked to Roscoe. Either through injury or through stupidity, his face didn’t appear to express much.

“Sure, you should go and play if you want to play,” Roscoe encouraged. “I got it covered here.”

Clay always made sure he had large pockets, and he always carried a pack on him if suspected a social situation. He steered the child through the crowd out front – everybody seemed to be looking their way with one big grin – directly to the tiny second room and gestured for the magazines to be cleared off one of the end tables. “And pull up that little chair for your young bones,” he bossed. “And I will sit on the couch, and then we will play Gin Rummy – consider this your audition.”

Two men sharing the same chair in the corner yelped together. “Don’t let Frank hear you saying that, Clay!”

“Leave Frank to me.” Clay dismissed them all and cut the deck one handed. He braced his other wrist as firmly as he could against the table, to use it as a base to shuffle against. At this point, those who didn’t know Clay generally said please, I can do that for you! But this one just stared at the feat.

“Now.” Clay settled in after he served out two shares of ten and established the discard. “You must remind me of your name again, and then you may draw first, seeing as you’re brand new.”

“Jules,” said Jules. He drew and then discarded an ace of hearts, which Clay’s brain filed away of its own accord, along with the name as well, if he was lucky.

Clay graciously helped himself through three rounds of passive, plodding gameplay on Jules’ part. He appeared to be thinking merely through muscle memory and allowed Clay to initiate the knocks. Several times he failed to spot where his deadwood coincided with Clay’s melds, requiring a sporting nudge of the shoe on Clay’s part, who briefly worried, after three Gins, that despite the automatic nature of his play, the boy was a little stupid after all. Then he looked round and noticed three other gentlemen had thronged alongside the two on the chair and were absorbing the proceedings quite immodestly – a relief, the only problem at present being the teenage disease of self-consciousness.

“For goodness sakes.” Clay snapped his fingers, a rudeness he did not like to resort to. “If you please?”

The attention dispersed and they continued.

“You can’t mind people when they don’t even know what we’re doing,” Clay suggested.

“I can do whatever I want,” Jules muttered, rude enough. Clay wondered if he was in pain. He was playing one-handed himself, insistently rubbing the unblotted side of his jaw, and he kept jerking his chin apropos to nothing. Whenever a partygoer wandered into the room all these tics would halt for a time, before forcibly sputtering through his body to reignite the cycle. The agitation made him more aggressive in play, and Clay gradually realized he had (pardon his French) a real bitch on his hands. Frank’s opinion be damned – he’d get along just fine.

Now he just needed an opening to extend the invitation, but Clay was not much of a talker in play, and Jules seemed to mirror him. Roscoe wandered in with two orange juice glasses, the dearheart, and being the sensitive kind, left without pestering – minus a small jab at Clay. “You’re not wearing your bracelet,” he scolded.

“It’s ugly,” Clay explained. “Now, you can see we’re busy.”

Roscoe put a brief hand to Jules’ shoulder, who only looked up when he departed. He peered with sudden plaintiveness past Clay’s shoulder, then downward, spotting a folded napkin Roscoe had placed beside his cards. His face absented itself again. Without an expression, the wounds on his face became ghastlier and stood out sharply, deeply nuzzled as they were in winter-sallow skin, teenage skin or no. It was difficult to tell if, after healing, he would be pretty or ugly.

“You came to us very suddenly, I hear,” Clay said.

“I don’t want to know what you heard.” Jules spoke decisively through pink teeth and put the napkin to the corner of his mouth because he was, Clay finally noticed, bleeding. Clay discarded this data as a distraction.

“You’re a lucky little boy,” Clay continued, as Jules’ eyes revolved nastily around the room. “Roscoe is a very nice person. I myself am part of a very exclusive club, that could benefit you socially.”

“Oh, thure.”

“Oh, yeth. Did your old people teach you how to play bridge?”

“Hell,” Jules said. “Since, like, ten? Whatever.” He sipped from the orange juice, pulled an awful, squint-eyed face, and shook his head very slowly. The rim of the glass came away red and slimy and he was reluctant to swallow. “My gran had her old ladies, and I had to round out the play. My boyfriend’s mom played too –” It took him forever, in this state, to spit out the words and without the scaffold of cardplay, Clay had to mentally sweat to grasp the information. “– But he didn’t like me to play with her.”

“Who?”

“My boyfriend didn’t like –”

“Oh, forget him.” Clay waved away all these superfluous people. “I won’t allow almost ten years of experience to be sneezed at.”

He laid out the parameters of the card club to Jules, who rested the unharmed side of his face against balled knuckles and appeared to doze right through it. “They won’t like it,” he murmured, after Clay outlined the sparkling personalities of Frank F., Bo G. (introduced) and numerous others. “They’ll say I’m too young. And I’m tired of old people.”

“But you’re used to them.” Clay, a smooth fifty-five, considered himself a world apart from Frank and Bo.

“I’m doing stuff for Roscoe. I need to find a real job, too.”

“We meet multiple times a week – we have many people to satisfy!”

Jules’ slit eyes popped wide. He gradually lifted himself from his worn slouch. Clay noted Phil’s dour presence piercing his shoulder, and a bowl of pretzels placed sacrilegiously over the discard pile. “Give it up,” Phil said, in his never-ending mildness – amused by everything, and happy about none of it. “Bo already knows what you’re up to with our battered bride. He told me Frank’s gonna rip you a new one after he tattles.”

“Frank can’t rip his own farts,” Clay said. “He suffered chilblains in his youth.”

“I’ll tell him that for you and save you the trouble.”

“A number of people would!” Quite a few in fact, following Phil’s scalpel-edged lead, had taken the second room for open and were dousing it in separate conversations. Jules sat far back in his seat as if to observe, but Phil was the only one he kept his healthy eye on.

“Who’s winning?” Phil directed the question to Clay but put a hand against Jules’ spine and squeezed snappily. Jules twisted away.

“I am,” Clay said, modestly as possible. “But I have many unfair advantages. I’m on the home team. And being as I’m vice-president of the club –”

Jules worked his jaw until it clicked. His hand jerked toward his chin, but he caught himself and fished for the pretzels instead, which he gnawed on uneasily. The color he’d possessed, unattractive as it had been, had drained from his face leaving him claylike and nervous.

“–With all privileges,” Clay continued, “afforded to me thereof, regarding membership –”

Jules gagged – an abrupt and distinctly un-partylike sound that silenced the room in an instant – and as easily as if he were part of the organic conversation occurring between Clay and Phil, he sat forward and ejected a neat spout of blood from his mouth, dirtying the juice and the cards, and overtop all this he spat and scattered a single sharp dirty pearl of a tooth.

The blood put pause deep in Clay’s gut, but, he noted, the color returned rapidly to Jules’ face, a vast improvement too; his body must have been relieved to rid itself of the little nag. The boy automatically wiped his speckled chin, but he’d already put his fingers through the mess on the table. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tooth. Neither could Phil.

“I believe we need a napkin,” Clay said to the room at large – certainly everybody could look, but nobody would do! The problem of crowds. Phil stepped back. He smiled, for whatever mysterious reason people behaved untowardly in odd social situations.

Jules simply got up, his hand politely clasped over his gushing mouth, and calmly left the room as though he’d been called away.

“For goodness sakes.” Clay followed suit; He had the vague inclination he must find Roscoe, to play mother. He left the cards and dental trash for others to sort – people had a bad habit of tidying up after him.

Once, a stranger’s voice floated up behind, I knew a guy who told me it was better the less teeth they had –

“Shut up Louis,” Phil’s voice responded, uncommonly hard. “I’m tired of hearing about what you’ve been told.”

“He’s too young!” Frank F. barked.

“I’m young – almost the youngest one here.” Clay sipped his coffee, which he didn’t like, but drank during card meetings for conviviality. It was important to belong to the group. “And an injection of youth and energy could be what we, as a gathering, have been yearning for.”

Frank glared around the folding table, at anybody on the committee who had dared to yearn without disclosing the fact. “Well?” He demanded. “Who’s found our energy wanting?”

“We’ve been in odd numbers for two months,” Alan M. helpfully pointed out. “Bo doesn’t have a partner, since Gregory.”

“Gregory. Right there.” Frank pointed. “Started here in his sixties, unretired, and I had my doubts – too young!”

“For god’s sake Frank,” Clay said. “The man dropped dead.”

“He couldn’t handle the stress.”

“Cease with Gregory,” Alan (sixties) requested, rubbing his chest anxiously. “Gives me the creeps.”

“I’ve never set eyes on this fabled kid,” Frank said. “Just how young is he?”

Clay, who had pumped Roscoe for information, drew this one out, for his own pleasure. Everybody leaned forward.

“Oh,” he said, with delicacy. “Around, say, nineteen or so.”

Frank bashed the table with his fist. “There!” He roared. “Too young!”

“A very new nineteen, at that – at least Roscoe says so.”

Frank F., overwhelmed with passion, got up and left the room to do something loud and rackety in the kitchen. Clay sat back and basked while everybody fought it out, not worried a jot. Committee days were so stimulating.

“Young is one thing, Clay,” said Alan, conveniently as Frank returned to the table. “A teenager is a whole other thing.”

“Half a thing,” Frank declared.

“He’ll have to be working,” Bo G. said. "He'll be hopping jobs. No consistent schedule."

“He’s going to get his first fucking boyfriend,” Frank added, “and the second that happens – goodbye, card club!”

“Oh, he’s already had a boyfriend.” Clay had no idea how he knew this – maybe he was lying. “And he’s not bound to get another for a while – I saw him at Roscoe’s brunch, and he looks very ugly.”

Frank turned to Bo. “He’s ugly?” He demanded.

Bo G., perhaps taking his own pleasure, took a long time to put his coffee down. “I saw him at Roscoe’s too. He’s not ugly. Somebody just worked his face over damn good.”

Frank jabbed his finger at Clay. “He’s going to heal up,” he predicted. “And bam – a boyfriend!”

“Who worked him over?” Alan asked, alarmed. “Somebody here?”

The facts, from Roscoe, were few enough, but Clay had written them down to assist his memory. He took out his little spiral pad. “Not here,” he soothed. “He arrived – approximately a month ago – from Indiana – probably nineteen –”

“Probably?”

“The bad thing happened; no Alan, I don’t know who – and voila – arrives at Roscoe’s. Who is kind enough, mind you, to lend a helping hand to a helpless, ugly urchin.”

“If Roscoe had any damn brains,” Bo said, “he’d find some understanding lady or a dyke, so he could work out these fatherly instincts in a less disruptive way.”

“Dykes want to keep their own babies – they’re the ones looking at us gents.”

“That’s what Martin did,” Bo said, pulling the empty mugs together into a friendly group at the center of the table. “Got pinned by some girl, not long after Val died, remember. What, ’88? – he’d carry this stacked blonde girl in with him from New York, when he came to visit Roscoe and Phil. Knocked her up and had to follow her to San Francisco.”

“Who?” Clay asked politely.

“Nobody expects you to remember important things,” Frank snapped. Such a shot, in mixed company, would have inspired somebody to scold Frank, but in the confines of the card committee, Clay was left to fend for himself, which was bliss – for Clay, polite, socially able, a smart dresser, a knower of vocab and etiquette, and demon card shark, was also tough. Most people had forgotten.

“His grandmother taught him to play when he was ten,” Clay announced. “He’s been playing as part of a group for years. Among other games, if we’d like him for our mixed open house – I played a two-on-two with him at Roscoe’s brunch before disaster struck, and he’s perfectly teachable. The groundwork is all there.”

“Disaster?” Frank was no dummy, unfortunately.

“Oh.” Clay flapped his hand at the inconvenient details. “Nothing. He lost a tooth and was mortified.”

“He’s still losing his baby teeth. It’s going to look like an elementary school in here.”

He spoke like a man who’d already made his decision. Everybody hopped on the ball, but Frank held them in suspense. He gave the floor to Bo.

“Considering,” he said, “You’re the one short a partner. This is an egalitarian club.”

Clay, who’d known from the start he would win, let his attention drift. Bo G., maybe unaware yet of the victory, worked it out to himself. He turned to Clay. “He’s not a complete dumbass, is he?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

“Oh, go to hell.” Bo stood up and gathered up the bouquet of mugs. “Let the kid in. Let’s see what happens.”

“What,” Alan suggested, “would Gregory say about being replaced by a nineteen-year-old?”

“The problem with death is that’s it’s boring,” Bo G. mumbled to himself, as he stumped toward the kitchen. “Jesus Frank, what did you do in here?”

“I love egalitarianism,” Clay chirped. “It always seems to mean I win.”

Frank F. rubbed his spotted temples. “Clay,” he requested, “just shut the hell up.”

Months along, Clay Carrell tripped down a burning sunny sidewalk on his way somewhere – to Roscoe, maybe – it was a beautiful day again and he needed no reason to be out and about, as an independent man.

He passed by a line of parking jobs and as curiosity merited, he peeped into the windows until coming upon a mouse-colored car that still contained its driver. Clay peeked closer and to his delight, recognized Jules, even though his face was turned away and resting on his folded arms against the steering wheel.

Clay rapped the window. Jules jumped and shouted, saw Clay, and slouched back against the seat. The window buzzed.

“Don’t scare me, oh my god.”

“You’re a silly child,” Clay pronounced. “Because there’s nothing to be frightened of. Where are you going?”

Jules glanced around him, as if surprised to find he was still in the car. “I don’t know,” he said. “Somewhere, I guess.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I don’t know where I’m going either.” Clay trotted around to the passenger seat and helped himself inside – the door was unlocked. “You should secure that if you’re just going to loiter,” Clay said. “Any stranger could help themselves inside and do away with you.”

“You just said there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“You should always obey your instincts,” Clay advised. He buckled his seatbelt. “One of the first things I was taught, on independent living, was to lock the door behind me. I put a sticky-note on the wall to remind me, for that very purpose. Naturally I don’t need that anymore. Now, let’s be off.”

“Where?”

Irritated by this passiveness, Clay swept his hand at the potted road. Endless possibilities! Jules turned the key, and off they popped. What a relief, Clay thought, to be moving somewhere faster than usual. He checked the sun, saw they were heading vaguely west, and that was enough for him, context-wise. He settled back to let the young people do the work.

Jules, for his part, looked mildly amused, his usual expression around Clay. Driving a car, he looked more relaxed than Clay had ever seen. His face, a few months down the line, had healed in fits and starts, and now struggled to throw off the scrubby laceration on one cheek, and a stubborn blackened crescent hung on the bone underneath the eye. To the disappointment of the committee, Jules was not ugly – when the swelling cooled off, he was a fine-faced youth with a hawk nose braced by huge, dark eyes that were at turns combative or entirely closed away. He had black, vainly tousled hair and what Alan called an intriguing mouth before Frank told him to shut the hell up.

To everybody’s relief, these physical positives were usually obliterated by Jules’ general sourness, a bad attitude that occasionally banana-rotted into downright childishness. This was not a problem in the club, where squabbling was half the reason for arriving. The first significant interaction he provoked with Bo G. was a fight about Bo bringing up, too much in their first partnered scrimmage, what Gregory would have done in that scenario.

“I’m just saying,” Bo had said, “that Greg wouldn’t have overpromised on that bid, especially if he was aware he was a stranger in a new situation –”

“Go dig him up,” Jules suggested, “and see what bid you’ll get out of him now, asshole.”

Clay, in the present, snooped through a collection of CD cases hidden in the door’s side pocket. “Oh my,” he said. “Throbbing Gristle. Sounds disgusting. What is it?”

“Put it in and see.”

Clay did; He sat for several minutes through a groaning, desexed voice with a foreign accent working out some struggling words overtop an auditory ambiance of what Clay thought resembled seasick trains.

“How interesting,” Clay said. “It makes me feel ill.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to do.”

“I suppose nowadays bands function in all sorts of interesting ways.”

“They’re not nowadays, they’re from the seventies.” Jules, ignorant in many ways, still felt perfectly free to get snippy and rude with Clay. “They did this song,” he explained, “they did this one song based on this letter this mail-artist did from back then, about working in a burn unit.”

Clay felt the need to check for the sun’s location. “Really now?” He said politely.

“Yeah, about this woman in there who was burned so badly she couldn’t sleep. From the waist up she was like, just meat. She had no ears or nose or eyes, it was that bad. But they had to keep her alive.”

“Ah,” Clay understood. “Like me.”

Jules shut up – a rare feat – and Clay stared out at rushing traffic, wondering where everybody needed to be in such a damn hurry. He was curious to see if Roscoe had attempted, in his appropriate way, to fill Jules in. Apparently not.

“Uh,” Jules said. He flicked his eyes from the road and flashed them, with obligatory understanding across Clay’s weak, folded arm. “Sorry?”

“Oh hush,” Clay dismissed. “You couldn’t know.”

“I kind of just thought you were paralyzed for some reason,” Jules continued brashly, to Clay’s relief.

“I certainly am,” Clay confirmed. “Paralyzed. And disfigured! It’s very ugly.”

“Your hand looks regular, just kind of little.”

“I was involved, incidentally, within a grease fire. A freak accident. The muscles shrank. The rest of the arm isn’t regular,” Clay said. “Nor the shoulder it connects to, or part of my chest and stomach. I try to be sensitive to the – the sensitivities of onlookers.”

“Can I see?”

Clay pierced him with a pretty decent look. “Darling,” he said. “Use your brains.”

Stopped at a red light, Jules could turn his head and bare his teeth in the approximation of a happy grin. His teeth, bless him, were getting awful scarecrow on one side. “It looks bad, right?” Jules asked.

“I suppose some don’t care about ugliness.” Clay turned to the CD library in his lap. “Cannibal Corpse,” he observed. The cover was so lurid he had to flip it over. “Good lord. Were you raised in a whorehouse?”

“In a regular house,” Jules said. “So, worse.”

Because it made sense, Clay insisted they stop for lunch at his absolute favorite restaurant, Panera Bread. They were on an interstate at this point, and Jules had to flip around on the exits to get them there. “I don’t really have much money,” he said.

“What a coincidence, neither do I.”

They went halfsies on one meal. They both shared weak appetites and lanky, girlish figures.

“I want to ask you a question,” Jules said.

Clay assented; how novel.

“What do you think about Phil?”

Clay wondered if the privacy of the booth was affecting him. It had been so long since he’d been asked for his opinion, outside of the context of cardplay or his health, that he completely forgot the question. “Pardon?”

Jules repeated himself patiently.

“I suppose I’ve known him for years,” Clay said. “The same way I’ve known Roscoe for years. He’s not exactly a man you have opinions on – he doesn’t share himself well.”

Jules dissected his half of the sandwich. He didn’t appear put out by the lack of information.

“Why do you want to know, dear?”

“He talks to me sometimes.”

“Well, that’s only polite. He’s around.”

“He’ll go out of his way to talk to me,” Jules clarified. “Kind of in a different way than other guys. And I want to talk to him back, which doesn’t really happen with anyone else. Except Roscoe sometimes.”

“Then there you have it.”

“But it’s different than with Roscoe.”

“Why?”

This question was beyond Jules’ capabilities. “I don’t know,” he said, and looked straight at Clay, hiding nothing. For the first time since Roscoe’s brunch, Clay saw he really was nothing more than a helpless, untrained child. Others might have been alarmed at him playing chauffeur.

“And then,” Jules continued, “he’ll stop talking to me for a long time. I’ll try and he’ll ignore me. And I don’t get why it bothers me. I don’t know if I even like him.”

“I don’t think you could like him,” Clay said. “Not in any significant way. He’s vulpine – you’re equine.”

“I’m what?”

Clay trotted the salt and pepper shakers across the tabletop. “Have you never seen the Kentucky Derby?” He asked. “And observed all the pretty horses? How they stamp their feet beforehand and toss their beautiful manes, when after all, there can be only one winner, draped with roses? Not only have we trained them to want to compete, we’ve taught them the difference between winning and losing. They’ll suffer forever, knowing the reality of competition – and they want it, despite the cruel reality of only one getting ahead, all the others left behind. Equine. That’s you.”

“I’m born to suffer.” For someone with such an egregious taste in music, he seemed put out by the prospect.

“You’re an aggressive competitor,” Clay explained. He knew enough from the club. “You seek out games to win. Losing fuels your spirit even more than a win might. Phil avoids other people’s games – I can’t tell you how many invitations he’s received to the miscellaneous open-house – but he’ll slink behind other people’s finish lines all the same. Just to see how they act when he’s spotted. If he chooses to be. Vulpine.” Clay had looked this up in the dictionary – it was defined in one of his many spiral notebooks. “Foxy, darling. Of sneaky temperament.”

“I know what it means,” Jules whined. “I’m sneaky.”

“You are a mean little pony who spits out his sugar,” Clay said. “That does not a fox make, my dear.”

“You’re mean,” Jules sulked.

“It goes so often unobserved in me,” Clay agreed. “Because I’m most beloved and well taken care of. But that means I’ve been stuck in the stable for years – hellish.”

“You’re not in the stable,” Jules, ignorant, insisted. “You’re right here with me.”

“Wait and see,” Clay said. “Just wait.”

A problem of Clay’s existence was his inability to seek people out. Certainly, he could come across people in the bounds of everyday back-and-forth – he could spot someone at a gathering, or loiter, in acceptable places, where others were known to loiter. But if someone didn’t want to be found, Clay could not find them. He had limited addresses, phone numbers, emails. Computers frightened him. He had no end of ways to get ahold of Roscoe – they were all pasted up on Clay’s refrigerator, and an ugly collage they made, too.

Weeks, and months, slipped by, and Clay, even with the aid of his notes, lost why he’d been interested in speaking to Phil in the first place. The memo in his social calendar read 8/19/2006 – Jules in car at PB, talk of Phil – it signified nothing, except that Clay truly hated his handwriting. He was glad he hadn’t written more. He could have shown Jules and asked for clarification, but there were certain facts Jules didn’t need to be aware of yet. And Roscoe, if deputized, might tattletale and turn the boy against him, and just when he and Bo G. were starting to find a rapport not based on conflict.

Around Halloweentime, in fact, he overheard the most bizarre and intimate conversation between the two.

It had occurred during a rubber open play in Frank’s basement. Clay had no details, except that Jules had shown up for a couple weeks peaked and pale. His face, other than that, was of normal color, but forebodingly swollen around the nose and eyes. Clay thought he’d been coming down with something. Frank agreed and threatened to send him home – he’d been playing without ardor anyway. Jules hadn’t fought, for once – Bo G., of all people, ordered him to stay.

Clay had gone upstairs to freshen his seltzer. The screen to the patio was unguarded, and the kitchen was cool and buffeted. He saw Jules and Bo outside on the little concrete stamp, dashed overhead by a browning tree as they guarded their cigarettes from the wind. It was spooky – Clay hadn’t noticed them leaving the basement, and he briefly entertained the possibility of two copies of each body – one pair outside, one pair stashed underground.

He plastered himself against the wall, obeying the twitching muscle of an instinct he could no longer attach to a situation. He waited.

Jules spoke first. “I think Harper knows.”

“Did you tell him?” Bo G.

“No. I think he guessed.” The wind carried inside a crusty leaf and some mentholated air. “He says I should tell.”

Bo snorted, forcefully. “What does he know?”

“He says it’ll happen again if I don’t.”

“Maybe it will. You’ll never know. It’ll be to someone else.”

Jules had no answer to that.

“It’ll be someone else,” Bo said. “It’s done. You got it over with – think of it like that. You know what you need to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You put it away,” Bo said. “You take it in your hands, and you put it away, and you shut the lid. You don’t look at it ever again. It only has to happen to you once. You did that part. That’s all you’re obligated to survive, that – the initial experience of it. Thinking it over – that’s the stuff that’ll kill you. You know what’ll happen if you think it over?”

Jules had yet to think of an answer.

“It’ll happen again,” Bo said. “To you. Again, and again. You’ll arrange the situations. You’ll put yourself in them, without knowing…”

Clay watched some crumbs of ash light across the kitchen, but by the time they reached the stove they’d cooled.

“Have you seen him again?” Bo demanded to know. He sounded angry, for reasons Clay could not possibly discern.

“I’ll always see him. I can’t not. He’s around.”

“For christ’s sake.”

“Do you know who I’m talking about?” Jules was beginning to sound shrill. “Do you know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.”

Sniffle, sniffle, clack. Somebody’s lighter flared up and died.

“I know this isn’t easy to hear.” It was odd to hear Bo G. attempt to behave gently. “Don’t think I don’t know. I understand.”

“Shut up. You don’t want to hear about me. I don’t want to hear about you. I don’t care what happened to you. Fuck what happened to you.”

“I know because I’m older than you –”

“You don’t know anything!” The sentence began loudly, and ended in a crazed whisper, as if Jules had realized too late they weren’t in total privacy. “You don’t know anything because you’re older! You’re all so fucking old and useless. I fucking hate all of you.”

“Jules –”

“You’re all so fucking old and stupid and miserable and alone and I hate all of you.” The hacked whisper began dissolving damply halfway through.

“Don’t start crying,” Bo ordered. “You can’t cry about this.”

“I can do whatever I want.”

Jules’ voice, crying, was about as ugly as his injured face had been, but Clay was already having trouble recalling it. Drawing – now there was a talent. Writing, frankly, sucked.

“You can’t do whatever you want.” Bo’s voice shifted, as he moved presumably closer to Jules. He sounded lost. He sounded like he was repeating some unlikeable stranger. “You have to be a man about this.”

“I’m not a man. That’s why it happened.”

“You are a man. You’re a man. If someone tries to push you around like that again, you have to stand up for yourself. You can’t wait until it’s too late – do you want to end up like Clay? Okay – Here – a little bit longer.”

Jules, crying, sounded like a little cat trying to throw up.

“Get it out,” Bo counseled. “Get it all out, then put it away. You don’t have to think about it again.”

“I made a mistake,” Jules sobbed. “It’s my fault.”

“It was an accident. Accidents happen.”

“I thought he liked me.”

“Accidents happen,” Bo repeated. He appeared stuck on it. “Accidents happen. They happen. You’re too young to know any better.”

“I thought he liked me.”

Clay took all this, and his empty glass, back down the stairs. He collided with Frank at the bottom.

“Don’t tell me he’s being sick up there,” Frank grouched.

“Nobody’s sick.” Clay pressed him back toward the tables. “He’s been a little stressed about work,” he explained. “Let Bo handle it.”

Lying was a treat he could rarely indulge in. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it. He could only guess if it had done any good – but that’s not where the pleasure was.

Christmastimes – happy times. And no snow yet! A shame. Clay wrote NO SNOW on his big calendar on the wall. He’d been getting hung up on details lately, when normally, he did not sweat the small stuff.

Wanting to be helpful in the spirit of the season (he made lovely cards, but true presents were rarely affordable) Clay found himself in the shop basement with Roscoe, sorting through the endless memorabilia through the years. Jules was present too, working, if lazily, at a little sloped desk with a harsh, bendable lamp clamped on one edge. He was doing strange things to two pieces of smelly rubber. A sharp alcohol stink pricked Clay’s head. He found himself getting snippy by turns, and, feeling bad, forced an abundant cheer. “You’ll be sorting this garbage forever,” he declared, cheerfully. “Val was collecting for years and years, all the surplus of his events.”

“Some tell me it’s history,” Roscoe said, looking up with interest for some reason. “But either way, it sure brings in the mice.”

“I saw one yesterday,” Jules called over the desk. “It ran right around the glue trap. You’re training them to be smart.”

“Do you know where the humane electric trap is? That looks like a little box?”

“I stomped it. The mouse. When you get smart, you get slow.”

“Marvelous. Spare me the details.”

“I heard it’s little bones break,” Jules chanted. “All the guts exploded out its mouth. It’s eyeballs –”

“You watch too much morbid stuff. You need to expand your horizons.”

“He’s a grim little boy,” Clay added. “He can be funny, though. Jules, what’s the funny word you showed me the other day?”

Jules started giggling and said noooo shut up! Clay, realizing he was being drawn into a contract, started giggling too. He looked toward the little desk to make sure he was matching the hilarity, but the desk light had swollen, swallowing all detail in Jules’ face to the point of bloodless beheading.

“Come on,” Roscoe said. “What was it?”

It came to Clay – painfully, with an equal throb in his good hand. He put down the little tin he was holding and had been struggling to open. “Faggotron,” he declared, with much purpose.

Jules snort-wheezed dismally. Whatever he was dipping his weeny paintbrush into smelled abominably.

“Jules, you know better,” Roscoe was scolding. “– get both of you in trouble –”

“Good god,” Clay exploded. “Whatever you’re working on, child, close it up – it stinks.”

“I have surgical masks. Gimme a sec –”

“Jules, now.” Roscoe said. “Clay, do you feel okay?”

“How could I not be well? Discussing mouse insides, among all this dust, and that piercing light –” Clay struggled to his knees.

“Clay, sit back down, alright?”

A ghastly sense of return, a return to a far worse time, froze Clay’s spine. The adrenaline forced words through his throat, more chemical than logical. “Where is Val?” he demanded. “Tell me this instant. Where did he go?”

“What’s happening?” Jules shrilled onward and upward in hideous alarm, but Clay’s visual perception shrank to exclude him. Roscoe vanished too, more purposeful in disintegration than he was in life. Clay heard a decisive voice call a strange spell – NO staywhereyouare – the always-herald of the big black brick whanged upside his head, a splitting log, the muting of the light he ached to perceive despite the pain, the smell of spitting, overflowing fat – though nobody ever believed him, when said that was what he always smelled. They didn’t believe him even when he wrote it down.

Time out of time out of time out time again and again. Alas. Clay snapped to on a squalid concrete floor. He turned his head and spied Roscoe, a couple feet away, his heavy thighs arranged in a runner’s lunge, consulting his watch. “You alright?” he asked, in utter calm.

From the bottom of his heart, Clay hated him – hated him with ease and abundance of an illogical baby. “Goddamn you to hell,” he said. “Did you put a finger on me?”

“You were going to hit your head on the floor,” Roscoe said. Clay hated him even more, knowing he was telling the perfect truth. “There was nothing soft to put in your way. I made sure you got down okay, then I let go.”

“You’re a beast for touching me,” Clay spit. “A beast. A wild animal. Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry,” Roscoe said simply. “Do you want to try sitting up?”

Clay’s good hand ached horribly. It would stress him for days, the idea of losing both hands. The anticipation was foul. Clay sat up. “How long?” he asked.

“About a minute. Fifty-eight and some milliseconds. I think that’s around the last one. We need to write it down in the little book.”

“You ruined my life.” Again, a cruel muscle flexed, one that understood something beyond Clay’s conscious understanding. “You ruined my life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I was beautiful, and you destroyed me. You’re an animal.”

“I’m sorry.” Roscoe would take everything he did not deserve, and it only made Clay hate him more.

Beast himself, Clay looked around his enclosure. “Somebody else was here,” he said.

“Jules was here.”

“Where is he?”

“I made him go upstairs. He couldn’t deal with it.”

“He’s a tiny stupid coward.” There was nothing and nobody Clay wouldn’t smash to bits right now. “Childish bitch. What does he have to be afraid of?”

“You’re his friend and he was scared. I don’t think he’s seen something like that before.” Roscoe made his attention scarce, and Clay recognized, for dignity’s sake, he was supposed to check to see if he’d soiled himself. Came up negative. He recalled visiting the bathroom all day outside of all logic, with mounting anxiety. He was sure that was written down somewhere too – useless.

“And if you ever wore your goddamn bracelet,” Roscoe accused, “he might have had some idea of what to expect. Don’t go calling him a bitch or a coward. He’s just a kid.”

The only time Roscoe ever got irritated and demanding of Clay was immediately after witnessing one of the seizures. If Clay did not irrevocably and acutely despise any poor soul who became the main witness of one of his seizures, this propensity would have made him feel more tender toward the man. And now that Jules had seen one, his own time was coming.

“How long has Val been dead?” Clay asked.

“Twenty years. A long time.”

“I know his name. I can’t remember anything of his face.”

“You knew him before I ever showed up. I’ve known him dead longer than I knew him alive – I can’t picture his face either. Not without help.”

“How miserable it must be – that I’m one of the pieces of trash you’ve inherited from him.”

“You’re my friend.”

“Oh no. We’ll be friends again in a few days when I’ve forgotten all this. You’re counting down the seconds, as it gets foggier to me.” Clay raked his nails over his temples. He felt a dent and a curious, inorganic hardness deforming his fine skull. His hair was thinning. Fifty-five. How long since thirty-five? Going to sleep and waking old. “Being robbed of that – that I can’t even be angry at you, at anyone, all the time!”

Roscoe sat through all of this with his forehead balanced on his fingers, as if he were too tired to care. As if he’d heard this a dozen times before, this important speech of Clay’s. “What do you want to tell Jules?” he said.

“I told him about the burns,” Clay said. “And now he knows about this disgrace. And that’s as far as it should go, frankly.”

“If he doesn’t hear it from you, or from someone who cares about you, he’s going to get the details in a bad way.”

“Why shouldn’t he – as nasty gossip? That’s all it happened for – for nasty gossip.”

“You wrote it down once in your own words, remember? When you had that good health aide years ago; she helped you with the police report and court documents and – and the X-rays and things. Show him that – it’s in one of your binders.”

Clay had been told about this magic essay many times. Roscoe attached most importance to it, as an independent effort of self-authority. Clay, to his recollection (which was often wrong) had never shown it to anyone but himself, again and again. He would bring it out before bed, the time of day when he felt at his worst, and parse the stubby, emotionless sentences written by some imbecile who deserved whatever he got.

“He needs to know how these things happen.” Roscoe going on, and on, and on. “If we hide this stuff, it’s just going to repeat itself.”

“You’re far too late,” Clay said. “He’s already some slut.”

Roscoe got up and walked toward Jules’ little desk. He turned off the little light. When he was truly inspired to high anger, he always walked away. Not like a man at all, Clay thought. He couldn’t think of a worse person to teach Jules how to stand up for himself. If the child was lucky, he’d lose the next teeth on the other side of his face – invite some symmetry.

“Have Bo G. tell him,” Clay said, surprising himself.

Roscoe was surprised too. “Why Bo?”

“He was around during that time. He knows what to say. They’re partners, after all. Tell Bo I said so. I won’t ask myself. I won’t take responsibility –” Clay used a filing cabinet to help gather his feet underneath him. “Nobody allows me to take responsibility. So I won’t. Make Bo tell him. And just watch. He’ll treat me differently. He’ll treat me like all of you treat me.”

“I’ll tell Bo.”

“I want to go home now. You take me home. And I don’t want to be bothered tomorrow.”

He would have liked to say I hate you again. Such a vibrant phrase; but already, the stimulating anger was giving way to a constricting drowsiness. Roscoe, like he hadn’t heard Clay insult him and close friends, like he hadn’t said awful swear words he would never repeat in company, came over and helped him pick his way out of the historical mess he’d fallen within.

Time and time again – everybody became another year older. Clay got older. Roscoe got older. He helped Clay find a big new calendar for the wall. Jules, a new nineteen, presumably became a new twenty at some point. After a time, a more experienced twenty. It hardly made a difference to his maturity. He partnered so often with Bo he became a solid figure in Clay’s mental foreground – and for all Clay knew, he’d been there as long as Roscoe and Phil and the rest.

Another seizure, in writing, if not in memory. Clay saw it on the calendar. This time overseen by Alan M., in Frank’s kitchen, after the house had emptied from a post-tournament cocktail hour. Small mercy.

Exciting pastimes: Jules and Clay, driven to madness after begging a pack of Rider-Waite cards from an occultist friend of Roscoe’s longhaired shop cashier, tried their hand adapting it to the French Tarot and to introduce this to the club at large; rejected by Frank, Clay suggested a portes ouvertes of antique French parlor games which, using more conventional decks, Frank could hardly decline. Jules, though not part of the upper committee, had established himself socially as Clay’s deputy, and he was an efficient bully.

At one of these novel events, a blistering cold March afternoon, Clay was reminded of yet another novelty – the arrival of someone new. Which, as it turned out, was someone old. Roscoe said Clay had known Martin since the eighties. He was back from sunny California, for reasons Clay might have learned before he forgot.

He showed up among the basement folding tables that day, unfashionably early to take Frank to some expo or whatnot in the suburbs. A clumsy faux pas, Clay commented, as he oversaw a trial Piquet scrimmage between Jules and Bo G.

“I know what he’s here for,” Bo commented archly.

“Shut up,” Jules said.

Martin worked through the tables. Gregarious as he was, he always seemed to stop short, childishly bashful before Clay, unsure as to the amount of kid glove required in the interaction. Clay had piled up enough consistent interactions with the man to form this sustaining judgment.

“You are so very kind to safely usher our favorite senile gentleman,” Clay said, after the initial awkward greeting took place. “Not many would be so generous.”

“Let him crash,” Bo said. “Put him out of his misery. Then I’ll be president.”

“As vice-president,” Clay corrected, “I will be president.”

“I’m going to put rat poison in one of Alan’s gross fucking brandy alexanders,” Jules joined in. “And then I’ll be treasurer.”

“Is it safe for me to be overhearing this?” Martin asked, directing the question to Jules.

“Stick around and find out,” Jules grumbled.

“As a club representative, you must be more polite,” Clay scolded. “You’re a young man now. And Martin is an old friend.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Martin said. He put his hand gently on the table. “Am I old enough to learn what the hell this game is?”

“Show him, Jules. Start a new game.”

“He doesn’t have to do a damn thing,” Bo said, abruptly. “Shut up, Clay.”

Jules, ignoring them both and shutting down any expression in his eyes, steered Martin to an empty table and forced him down into a chair. Clay snooped enough to spy Jules, in a nasty masterstroke, laying out a hand of Solitaire. Martin was too good-natured to pick up on the slight. He sat attentively under Jules’ pointed posture and followed his jabbing fingers, a docile lamb.

“He’s too old for him,” Bo G. declared. He smothered the gameplay and restacked the cards.

Clay sat down. “We’re all too old,” he said. “Isn’t it a tragedy?”

The Stock, Jules’ instructions floated over his head. The Waste. The Foundations. The Tableau. Undisciplined Martin gazed not at the cards, but at the face that made the words. He’d have to smarten up, Clay thought, if wanted to survive Jules’ bossing. After that he looked away. The sight made him melancholy.

Departing the remnants of the occasion that evening, he left Frank’s at sundown for the first time all day and was struck dumb by the stifling blanket of snow that had fallen. Clay’s mind, geared toward spring and daffodils and birds’ eggs and shining sun, whirlpooled a split moment into terror. Then he caught himself. How nice – a final, light-bright hug from jack frost.

Despite this pep talk, he had trouble moving. He tingled all over, his body recalling other falls in that cold cushion.

“Clay?”

“Oh gracious.” He turned around toward the porch. “Now, would you look at this landscape? And what on earth were you doing in there, without my noticing?”

Phil descended the steps easily. He stepped inside Clay’s tentative footprints. “Miscommunication,” he explained. “I thought Martin was going to be here, but he got shanghaied by Frank.”

“Appreciated, too.”

“Salvatore caught me and gabbed my ear off about a damn hour.” Phil reached out and took Clay’s elbow and started leading him down the unshoveled walkway. “Let me drive you home. You don’t get around so great in this stuff.”

“You’re a doll.”

Clay enjoyed riding in cars. It was something he wanted to do more. It was cozy inside Phil’s, with the big soft flakes suspended in the air as the spaces between all foundations darkened to black.

“Martin is not comfortable around me,” Clay said.

“Nobody’s really comfortable with you,” Phil explained. “You’re not a person to anybody. You remind people.”

Clay was fond of bluntness, even when he couldn’t understand what lay behind its’ motivation. “Of what?”

“That we can’t trust anybody – not even the people we’re closest to - who we see every day.” The tires zizzled pleasantly through a wet right turn. “Martin is just embarrassed. Since fatherhood made him mature, he’d prefer to think he was always that way. But he knows we all remember what he did to Drake.”

“Who, now?” Clay asked.

“Drake. He started sniffing around the neighborhood for you, after your group home closed. Years and years ago."

“Hmmm?”

Traffic piled up against a red light and Phil could turn to look at Clay. “You know something interesting I wonder about sometimes?”

“What could it be, darling?”

“If you remember more than you let on,” Phil revealed. He said this with no urgency or true amusement. Phil always spoke as if held no worries and felt no significance. He was most relaxed. Here was a man you could have a seizure around. “If you remember everything, and you’ve just been having fun with us this whole time.”

“What an idea!” Clay had to laugh. “And a tempting one. You want to know what I remember, dear?”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing. Not a speck. Zot. If only I could have fun with you all.” The cars inched forward. “I’d like to thank you, you know.”

“For what?”

“I have a feeling,” Clay said, “that you’ve always been very frank with me. And frankness is something I appreciate. You know who you remind me of? You remind me of Jules.”

Phil, driving comfortably with one hand on the wheel, pushed his head gently against the driver’s seat. He started to smile, close-lipped.

“Jules once asked me if my arm was never going to work normally, or look normally, then why didn’t the doctors simply amputate? Can you imagine anyone else having the nerve? But I appreciated being asked, all the same.” The question had pleased Clay so much, he’d made Jules write it down himself in the little notebook.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I was hardly in a state to be consulted.”

“You know how to get Jules to shut up?” Phil said in turn. “You get him on his stomach, and you grind his face into the floor.”

Clay cackled at such an absurd image. “Now stop,” he said. “That’s quite mean!”

“You get your knee pressed in real low on his spine,” Phil continued quietly, “and you shove his face in, and you twist. You don’t stop until his nose starts bleeding. After that he quiets down and gets to liking it."

“That’s quite enough,” Clay insisted, patting his own mouth to discourage his giggles. “Don’t tease him when he’s not here to defend himself.”

Phil steered down the narrow enclave of a one-way street. They were entirely in the dark now, purged in fountains of orange light. Clay squeezed Phil’s wrist. “Stop!” he asked. “Just stop. Stop a moment.”

Phil braked. Eventually, he shifted to park. They watched the unseasonal snow drowse in the air, suspended in swags of streetlight. Clay could not see the end of the road. Nobody was out and about. A pleasant enclosure calmed his heart.

“Now just look at that,” he said, still holding Phil’s wrist. “Why must artists always act like they’re so miserable? If I could paint this picture, I would never be sad again.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, dreamily. “I see what you mean.”

He was watching the snow – Clay checked to confirm, and it made him glad. Watching together, faces trained out within a safe shelter like clever woodland creatures, Clay could believe he had somebody by his side who understood him by instinct, if not through conscious effort. He could communicate, through the act of sitting together, all the secrets his brain and body held away from his knowledge. It was the darkness that reminded him – not doing for oneself, not eating for oneself, nor speaking nor toileting for oneself, in a mass of years so long he could no longer comprehend; and lighted hour upon lighted hour, lying there and anticipating the moment of terror – terror he had yanked pleasure from, after many years of practice – when the light would go out.

Clay sat there and he wished to make this known – in goodwill, in peace, in love, surrounded, with no respite, by his beloved friends.

#safeworld #2006 2007 & 2008

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