Welcome to the shit show!

Your film premiered tonight, your face blown up a hundred times, eyelashes glimmering across the silver screen. Your name, on the poster, is bigger than the title, rendered in looping cursive. And tonight, it’s on everyone’s lips. 

You weave through the crowd, the beads on the bottom of your dress swishing around your pantyhosed legs. “Oh, yes, it’s such a fine film!” you exclaim, passing behind an animated conversation between your director and a man you don’t recognize. You smile sweetly at them and keep moving, your gloved hands raising absentmindedly to run over your stiff finger waves. Hopefully immaculate. 

James is standing on the upper balcony, where the bar is, his fingers curled around the brass balustrade, shoulders set as he looks down on the party. When he catches your gaze, his face twitches minutely, a tightening, then a relaxation, in his brow, his eyes sparkling bright before dulling again. He gives you the smallest of nods and then steps away from the balcony, turning to sit at the bar.

A producer whose name you don’t care to learn slips in between you and the elevator. “Oh, my goodness! The woman of the hour, aren’t you?” he says, his hand moving to your bicep, brushing the arm cuff situated there. “And what a wonderful film. Your father must be very proud. Your husband, too, I’m sure. Say, he must be here tonight, yes? He’s the designer behind this beautiful venue, if I’m not mistaken.” His face is kind enough but his voice is patronizing in a way you don’t appreciate but are very used to. He gives your arm a squeeze and steps back.

Nevertheless, you smile and nod, your dress sounding like rainfall as the beads lave against each other. “Yes sir, he is,” you say, clasping your hands and leaning forward slightly—a practiced stance, a favorite of the higher-ups on the production side—smiling up at him with pained lips. “It’s such a brilliant place, don’t you think? He’s such a brilliant man. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, I’m on my way to meet him?”

His eyebrows raise and he takes a step back, his arm falling to his side. He nods, gesturing towards the elevator. “You can’t keep a man like him waiting, can you, Mrs. March?” 

You smile at him with a dash of ‘goodness, I’d love to keep talking,’ and continue towards the twin brass doors. “No, sir, you cannot!” you say, hoping that the laugh in your voice sounds self-deprecating, and hurry away, your heels thudding dully on the carpet. From the corner of your eye, you watch his gaze follow you. You turn to the operator and say “Second, please,” with a wave of your hand. 

He nods, obliging. 

You let out a long sigh, leaning against the back wall of the elevator. Then it begins rising, and you turn, examining yourself in the mirrored panel affixed to the wall. Your makeup looks fine, your hair is behaving, and your dress hasn’t slipped. Your powder could use some touch-up, however.

“I find it odd that a woman would escape her own party,” the operator says, eyeing. “One of your caliber must be used to such fanfare.”

“I’m quite new to the scene, mister,” you say, adjusting the straps on your dress. “And I’m hardly escaping.” 

He nods once in acquiescence. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. You blow out a long breath, smile sweetly at the operator, and leave. 

James’ back is to you from where he sits at the bar, one of his elbows propped on the bartop, striking green swirling at the base of the crystal glass he holds. Technically, he could be arrested for that, but everyone in this room knows that everything is legal when you’re a man like James Patrick March. 

“Darling,” you say quietly, petting down his back as you slip onto the seat beside him. “A lovely party, don’t you think?” You prop your head up with one arm, turning to face him.

His dark eyes bore into yours. He takes a sip from his glass and smiles, a dimple in his cheek appearing. “Very lovely, my dove. Very. You, perhaps, are the loveliest thing about it.” 

Your face heats up slightly and you giggle, dismissing him with a wave of your hand. “You’re a sentimentalist, James.” You call the bartender over, nodding at him. He knows your drink of choice. It’s nothing so harsh as James’, but you get eyed in speakeasies on occasion. Then you turn back to your husband, your smile widening. “Have you picked anyone? I saw you looking earlier.”

“That man with that burgundy pinstripe suit seems like he’d be rather fun, and the woman with the peacock feather in her hair remains an option. She’s your competition, I believe. Hollywood wouldn’t miss her. Not like they would miss you, my darling,” James says, taking another sip before setting his rocks glass down, the crystal clinking against the lacquered bartop. “Of course, the final decision is yours. As is this night.” 

You think for a moment, bringing a finger to your chin. The bartender sets your Sazerac by your right hand, and you smile at him before turning back to James. “Both might be interesting,” you muse pointedly. “One for you, and one for me. I know how you hate to share.” 

He frowns, tapping his fingers on his empty glass. “Oh, yes, perhaps.” Then his expression morphs into something akin to giddiness. “We can use room seventy-two.”

A grin spreads across your face and you laugh, the sound ringing and bright, toeing at his calf with your Mary Jane heels. “And then the suite,” you add with a small smirk. 

You can see the words sink in as his brow lowers and his expression darkens. Of course, this arrangement was already understood, a prerequisite of your relationship, but stating it outright cements its reality, the idea shifting from the hypothetical, the mutually understood fundamentally fantasy, to the concrete, the hard promise. He moves to adjust his collar, and you see a vein in the back of his hand jump. “Yes,” he says. “And then the suite, my dove. I cannot wait to have you there.” 

Heat rises in your face again. You’re wearing a beaded  headpiece, and it shifts when you duck your head, cool against your ears, the feather accessory tickling your ear. “And I you,” you say, taking a tip of your drink. It’s hot on the way down, but more invigorating than painful. “I should return to the floor. Where will you be?”

“Here,” James says. “I will take care of collecting them. You go imbibe. It’s your night.” He smiles at you then, his hand finding the back of your neck. His grip tightens at your nape and he pulls you closer, breathing into your parted lips for a few moments before kissing you.

You let out a surprised squeak, but your hands come to rest on his chest, fingers curling around his lapels. “James,” you say, breathless, when he pulls away. “That was improper.” 

“Yes, well. You’ve never been easy to resist, darling. A man has trouble being proper,” he says, one of his large hands falling to your waist. He leans closer, pressing a kiss to your exposed neck, before standing up from the bar, making a vague gesture at the barkeep and guiding you by the small of your back down the large stairway to the main event space again.

Then you are alone again, mingling, floating between conversations and being dragged into either. ‘Oh, yes, he’s a brilliant director, truly, I can’t imagine the film without his insight.’ ‘Certainly! You needn’t worry, Hollywood hasn’t seen the last of me.’ ‘That’s so very kind, sir, really—yes, that’s right, I had it tailored—oh, that’s very interesting—’

Finally, things have begun to die down. People are being escorted to their fancy European cars, where their drivers wait. There’s a man you don’t know standing by the door, wishing departing guests a wonderful night. And you are free to find James. 

You find him where you expected to, in the large room masquerading as number seventy-two, in which the walls of three adjoining hotel rooms were knocked out and finished over, the doors sealed shut, and the room outfitted with everything you and he could need to indulge your darker desires. 

He’s at his desk, smoking a cigarette, parsing through some blueprint drafts of his latest project, while the man and woman previously decided on strain against their restraints, the construction straps that keep them secured to the large table in the center of the room. He looks up when you enter the room, his eyes gaining a gleam when he sees you, stubbing out his cigarette and extending his hand. “My love,” he says, stepping out from behind the table. “Goodness...you look...”

You follow his gaze as he looks you up and down, placing your hand delicately in his, glancing to the man and woman for a split second before leaning close to James.

“Ravishing,” he finishes, working his jaw in a way that isn’t mandated by the phonetics of the word. “Utterly ravishing, my darling. You are truly the most beautiful specimen to grace these halls.”

You giggle, covering your mouth with the hand not in his. “Oh, you flirt,” you say with a flick of your wrist, batting your eyelashes at him. “Finally have time for your poor wife, do you?”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he continues to rake in your form. “Time,” he echoes. “Yes, we must make the most out of what we have, hm?” His expression is hazy and drunken, his jaw working against nothing. 

“James,” you chide, sliding your hand to rest on his shoulder. “We have guests, darling.”

His eyes clarify, stare sharpening as he glances back over to the man and woman, who haven’t ceased whimpering around the wet cloths shoved into their mouths. “I suppose we do.” Then he looks at you again, lips curling into a sly smile. “They demand attention.” 

You giggle coquettishly, covering your mouth. “They do.” You tug on the front of his suit vest, bringing his body to press against yours. “Shall we?”

His shoulders shudder as your bodies meet, a twitch in his brow telling you that he’s more affected than he’s letting on. “Yes, my dove,” he breathes against the skin of your neck, making the vellus hair prickle and stand on end. “We have work to do.”

Soon enough, you and he are positioned in front of the woman and the man, respectively, twin blades in James’ large hands and a long metal spike in yours. “How will this go?” James asks you. “Is tonight one we will draw out?”

You hum, poking the sole of the woman’s bare foot with your weapon, admiring the way she jerks away, body trembling, miniscule muscles jumping under her soft, pale skin. The human body, with all its minute processes and tiny reactions, has always fascinated you. You want to tear her apart. “Let us see where they take us.”

James makes an approving noise and meets your gaze over the table. It’s heated and heady, sending a jolt of arousal through you. He never fails at that. In the harsh light of the room, his face looks angular and sculpted, his skin smooth and his hair shining obsidian. 

The woman under you thrashes against her restraints, tears streaming down her face, her mouth forced open by the gag. A wet noise bubbles from her throat, something akin to a sob. God, don’t you love that sound. She has been reduced to an animal caught in a trap, reduced to her basest instincts, her raw fear at the immediate threat you pose. You ungag her, discarding the saliva-soaked rag somewhere on the ground. In your peripheral vision, James does the same.  

“I-Into your hands, Lord, I commend my spirit—have mercy on me as a sinner, I do—Into your hands, I commend my spirit—” 

Ah. So she’s one of those. You decide her blathering is unproductive and take a few steps forward, trailing the point of your weapon up her body, leaving behind a bright red scratch in its wake. The woman whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut as exhaustion sets, overpowering her panic, and her resistance begins to dissipate. 

James’ man screams, but the sound is cut short. You hear a wet slash, but don’t look up. James lets out a long, satisfied half-sigh, half-groan, and you know that the man is gone. Something burbles, but you don’t really hear it. You’re focused in on the point where your weapon pokes her jugular, the vein jumping out around where the spike digs into her skin. 

The woman continues to babble prayer, her head moving back and forth, her back arching against the restraints as she coughs, bare feet scrabbling on the table.

“He will not save you,” you murmur to her, tilting your head to the side. “You waste your breath.”

She stares up at you, her eyes red and terrified, makeup running down her cheeks, her lips quivering and puffy. “Please,” she begs through another sob. “You needn’t do this, really—I-I adored your—your film—”

You bend over her, bringing your face close to hers, feeling her hot, panicked breath on your skin. “I’m afraid that I really don’t give a damn, darling,” you say, smiling. “See, it isn’t the person that interests me.” 

She cries out again, reinvigorated by your closeness, thrashing against the straps holding her down. “Please…please, please.” Her voice quiets and cracks as she returns to prayer. “Jesus Christ, accept my soul—”

Fed up with her, you twist your hands around the end of the spike, the metal cool under your fingers. You sink the point into her neck, drawing blood, a trail of crimson gushing from the puncture wound and pooling on the table beneath her. She screams, and you shove your fingers into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. As you pull the spike out and trace its bloodied tip around to her ribs, over her heart, you look up and meet James’ eyes. 

He’s stopped playing with the man’s dead body, standing across from you, his eyes dark and his lips parted, the cigarette in his off hand snubbed out in the pool of blood staining the front of his suit. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you see a muscle in his jaw tighten and flex under his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, his breathing visibly labored.  

You hold his gaze as you drive the spike between her ribs and into her heart. His chest shudders, and you feel a familiar throb build between your legs. 

The woman’s blood spurts upwards, splattering down your front and on your face, crimson dots and smears adorning your form like jewels. The scream that tears from her throat sounds like music. 

You finally tear your eyes away from James’ and glance down to your handiwork. It’s sloppier—you could have been more specific with your stab—but fine enough. Then you look at James’, at the man he wasted no time in killing. He has a slash wound across his throat that mirrors James’ and an incision down his front, his chest peeled open and his innards splayed down onto his stomach and the table. 

“Pretty,” you murmur, still looking at the man. Then you look back to James. “Beautiful.” 

His eyelids flutter closed and he takes a step toward you, letting his cigarette float freely in the shallow pool of blood. “You’re certainly one to talk, my dove,” he says, his voice low. “Painted in blood like you are…A goddess sent for me…”

“The divine mandate worship,” you murmur, releasing the spike and rounding the table, feeling the air contract and heat as you near him. “Don’t you think?” You press your body against his, mouthing at his jaw, his blood soaking his front seeping into your dress. 

He groans, firsting in the fabric on your back, his hands trailing downward to knead the flesh of your ass. “There is nothing so…invigorating as the sight of you so dark, my dearest,” he says, “I have never met a woman so bewitching…and you…you have bewitched me…”

Your eyes flutter and you press closer to him, forcing one of his thighs between your legs, seeking satiation for the growing, hot need under your dress. “And you me…James…” His name escapes as a whimper, your voice hoarse and your mind hazy from the thrill of killing and the drinking you did at the premiere. 

His jaw clenches and before you realize what’s happening, he’s hoisted you by your waist to sit on the table, dark blood from the woman behind you dripping down the backs of your thighs as he settles between your legs, his hands already snaking up your dress. “Let me have you, darling,” he says. “Damn the suite.” 

You shift your hips, encouraging, as your head falls to his shoulder, lips skimming his neck. “Please,” you whisper, but it sounds more like a command than a request. Your need has grown exponentially, throbbing and desperate low in your abdomen, able to be sated by only one person.

Nobody has ever fucked you like James has.

You’re reminded of this fact as he pushes into you, a spike of pain shooting up your spine as your body struggles to accommodate his size, cock moving into you at an agonizingly slow pace until he finally bottoms out with a low groan. 

One of James’ hands shoots out to grip the edge of the table, his chest heaving, forehead against your chest. “I must say,” he murmurs. “That never loses its thrill.” His body shakes slightly, the muscles in his back and abdomen tightening and then releasing, winding him tighter and tighter. 

“Fuck,” you breathe. Your hand comes up to touch his face, smearing blood from the pool beneath you down his cheek and neck. 

He begins to move, heavy cock dragging against your walls as he pulls out slowly before hammering back into you, forcing your hips a few inches back. His eyes are open, teeth gritted as he focuses, his pace quickening as he sets a bullying tempo. 

Your back arches into his, spine curling with the force of your pleasure. You think that your bodies must have been made with the other in mind—the way he fits against you, into you, around you, none of that could be merely coincidence. Not when the sensation of his mouth on your jaw and his cock buried in your wet cunt elicits the kind of ecstasy you think the Buddhists must be after. 

At some point, he removed his shirt and vest, his chest bare and slick with blood and sweat above you, glistening red and silver. Your handprint is emblazoned over his abs in the coagulated blood on his skin, a brand, a mark of possession.

“You are not Hollywood’s,” James husks into your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive shell. “You are not the world’s.”

You moan, grasping at his hips, seeking purchase as he pushes you closer to your crescendo. 

“You,” he says, cut off by a thrust. “Are mine.” 

“Always,” you reply, not really hearing your own voice. It’s all platitude—but truth nonetheless. You will never belong to anyone else in this way, not this truly.

Somehow, he moves even faster, his free hand moving between your bodies to thumb as your puffy, neglected core, sending another white hot wave of pleasure through you. “My dove,” he groans. “Let yourself go.” 

“Do the same,” you demand, the power in your voice undercut by the moan it comes with. You dig your fingernails into his shoulders, relishing the feeling of his muscles contracting beneath his skin, the same muscles used to slash that man’s throat. 

Without question, James obeys, his pace stuttering and his mouth falling open as he spills into you.

The feeling of his orgasm inside you tips you over the edge and you come hard, thighs shaking around his hips as you cry out his name. 

Both of you go limp, falling backward onto the table, your head resting on the dead woman’s stomach, feeling her blood soak into your hair. Your eyes flutter shut as James shifts above you, every movement of his cock pulling out of your oversensitive cunt sending another jolt of pleasure through you.

Your eyes open, and you get a better look at him. 

James is a mess, his dress pants pooled around his ankles, his usually impeccable hair mussed and dirty, his body smeared in glistening sweat and drying blood, neck and jaw adorned with red lipstick kisses and what you’re sure is your own saliva. 

“The divine mandate worship,” he murmurs, moving to lay beside you, his chest still heaving. The words are drawn out and slow, his heated gaze tracing over you as if he’s already weighing the merit of climbing back over you. “And you, my darling…” his tongue darts out to wet his parted lips. “Are the only god I kneel for.” 

you go, so gentle, “c’mon, sweetheart. open up.” obediently, Ford does, his mouth opens and you slip two fingers in to place the pill on his tongue like you’ve done before. only this time he just doesn’t let go.

your fingers are still resting lightly in his mouth and Ford closes his lips around them, sucking.

it surprises you so much. he doesn’t even look embarrassed but dazed. his half-lidded eyes flutter shut. he lets out a soft moan, forgetting what the pills were even for and all he knows now is the taste of your skin and the warmth of your hand and that his cock’s getting hard under the blanket and he can’t remember why but it feels so good.

“Ford? honey, you’re supposed to swallow.” you really expect to hear something intelligible in response? Ford just hums around your fingers, lashes trembling, cheeks flushed. he does pull back eventually, flicking his tongue lazily against the tips of your fingers before he lets go

and he keeps trying to crawl into your lap even though you told him ten times he needs to stay under the blanket. and when you press the pills to his lips again he finally does swallow them, but not before grabbing your wrist and murmuring, “you’re so good to me. i think i love you. i do love you. i love you so much sweetheart”

and you're like “shhh shut up oh my god you’re burning up” but also you're stroking his hair and caress his cheek while he’s breathing so hard and it’s taking everything in you not to cry because he’s just so tender and stupid.

• runs his thumb over your lips before kissing you.

• builds a pillow fort just to read with you, then ends up kissing you inside until the books fall over.

• asks “may i?” for kisses before taking them. he always asks for kisses, even when it’s obvious you’ll give him one, still wants permission.

• groans, barely audible, when you rake your nails through his hair. really likes it when you touch him like that.

• he just likes when you tug his hair during a kiss and gets flustered about it afterward.

• never interrupts you mid-sentence, even when you’re rambling. likes it when you share things.

• stares at your lips when you speak. they’re more captivating than stars.

• ties your shoes for you if you’re sleepy or tipsy or just lazy. he doesn't mind.

• stares at you instead of the stars when he’s stargazing.

• carries you up the stairs when your legs give out, murmuring soft reassurances that you’re safe with him.

• kisses you before dangerous experiments, every time, just in case. never skips it. for luck

• gets super flushed if you touch his thigh even a little bit.

• folds you into his chest after fights.

• says “don’t tempt me” with zero idea how sexy he sounds when he says it.

• gets turned on by intelligent conversation, you repeating his smart phrases or words drives him insane.

• calls it “making love” . tries to be polite in bed and asks if things are okay like every three minutes.

• grips your thighs way too tight during foreplay, he doesn’t know his strength.

• gets hard when you chew on pens. every time.

• is really possessive but tries to act chill.

• 100% gets flustered if you compliment his hands, fingers, forearms.

• loves when you sit on the desk while he works but can’t concentrate at all.

• presses his lips to your spine in the mornings when you’re still half-asleep.

• hates asking for help but lets you wash his hair in the shower once and then keeps asking.

• gets off on eye contact but doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing.

• ashamed he makes noises during sex he did not mean to make.

• gets way too turned on when you’re barefoot for some reason.

• calls you “darling” when he’s trying not to say “please let me fuck you”

• he would 100% name a star after you. or a species.

• bites the end of pens. always has ink on his tongue. one time he kissed you like that

• when he figured out how the phone works, he'll definitely send you photos of bugs, butterflies, moss, random flowers, trees, anomalies, fossils.

• says “careful, darling” whenever you touch sharp objects as if you're not a full-grown adult.

• loves when you leave lipstick stains on his collar. keeps samples of your lipstick color just to recreate the print you left on him once.

• so good with his fingers it's unfair.

• tells you what he’s doing as he does it. like “i’m going to touch you here now” and then does and stares at you, watching your reaction.

• has definitely taken your underwear “for analysis”

• will edge you for hours just to test your limits, kissing your cheek, saying “come on now, just one more for me”

• gets off on your brain fog. like when he’s done with you and you can’t talk right.

• whispers “easy now, love, i’ve got you” when you get overwhelmed.

• and then grips your wrists above your head when he wants you to stay still.

• but also really into slow, grinding sex that lasts forever. he wants full-body contact. loves feeling your weight on him, chest to chest, just slowly dragging yourself over his cock until he’s whimpering.

• jerks off way too often while thinking about very specific things you’ve said or worn.

• he’s extremely into humping, like desperate, fully clothed, dry humping against your ass while hugging you from behind. it’s shameful how much he gets off on it.

• he gets embarrassingly turned on from making out for too long, like five minutes in and he’s already leaking. he hates how fast he gets worked up and always tries to act casual but fails every time. but Ford loves kisses very much. too much.

• blushes furiously when you say smth unexpected, but god, he remembers every word for days.

• strokes your calf under the blanket while he reads. doesn’t stop even when you fall asleep + rubs your calves just generally always. doesn't notice he’s doing it. it's just what he does now.

• gets handsy when he’s focused, places you in his lap to, as he says, save space in the lab, but then grips your waist when you're fidgety. he will never finish his project but at least he’ll finish in his pants.

• sometimes groans your name during sleep.

• presses his nose into the crook of your neck when he's overstimulated and secretly loves being overstimulated.

• has a weak spot for the way you smell after a long day, less perfume, more you. leans into your neck and hums when you're sweaty and soft and sleepy. gets off on your scent.

• mumbles “good one / girl / boy” without realizing it when you obey him gently, even outside the bedroom, when you do everyday things.

• places his forehead to your chest when he’s ashamed.

• leaves his glasses on during sex always because he wants to watch.

• corrects your grammar while fingering you. he’s awful like that.

• outside the bedroom, corrects your grammar out of reflex too but apologizes immediately after when he sees your face.

• loves when you correct him too. gets all hot and bothered. “yes. yes. you're right, my darling. you’re always right.”

• pulls you into his lap after lectures. “you looked too good sitting there. couldn’t concentrate”

• whispers “just one more” before every kiss, and then five kisses later still hasn’t let you go.

• gets overwhelmed during kissing and starts pushing. backing you up against a wall, gripping your waist, breathing too hard, muffled groans into your mouth, grinding against you, humping you.

• leans in to smell your hair constantly, especially when you’ve just showered or come in from the cold. but the best thing is if you were busy all day or after workout, etc.

• kisses your temple before going down on you.

• washes your hair for you in the shower.

• melts when you kiss his fingertips.

• buys books he thinks you’d like and awkwardly gives them to you.

• watches you read with an expression that should be illegal.

• lets you fall asleep on top of him and doesn’t move all night.