vampire time

Using brute force to try and break a man — or a horse — only served in making them angrier. It worked against the grain of the ego, challenging instead of appealing to it. The good Preacher had learned in his time that the best way to domesticate a wild animal was not by merely showing it who's boss. You gotta show him that you're the one who's gonna feed him... water him... That you're the one who's gonna take care of him, always and forever.

Frank Griffin's missionary work created more than just a gang of outlaws and gunslingers - it built a family. A real true blue group of strong, dependable men. Roy Goode had been a pet project of Frank's over the past ten years after the boy stumbled into his path by a mere act of God some idle Summer day; a young, broken thing who tried to steal from him and spat in his face when confronted about it. No boy should have to weather the seasons of life alone like that. No boy should ever be abandoned. So Frank took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew; or at least, everything he wanted Roy to know, because as charitable as Frank was he still struggled with his own demons. The kind that purposefully made people weaker than they ought to be so he could feel more powerful. So he could still be needed. He knew Roy like the back of his hand because it was those very same hands that molded him, careful and calculated, into somebody silent, capable, and obedient. Smart enough to look after himself but soft enough to still be desperate for the love and attention of a Pappy.

Things had been good, perfect even, up until they picked up the Devlin brothers a few months ago. Something about them rubbed Roy the wrong way. The same way a family dog might side-eye the new pair of kittens Mom and Dad brought home. That's how Frank saw it at least. Figured Roy was just jealous. The two boys were younger and in more need of Frank's undivided attention, still shaken up from the tragedy of their kin's massacre. But there was no good reason for Roy to be acting out the way he was. It was a few years too late to be brushed off as simple teenage angst, so it made the whole family look bad, or worse, it made Frank look bad. When Roy got in one of his moods it created a rift between him and the rest of the group. Chipped away at the trust Frank had worked so hard to build. And Roy knew it, too. Whenever it was happening they'd exchange a look in the midst of it. Roy would have his hand half way in the metaphorical cookie jar before flickering his eyes to Frank - not angry, bold, as if to ask, do you see me? Am I making an impact? And when the Preacher would give him that look, that stone-cold slate of paternal disappointment followed by the warning of a low and steady, "Roy..." - that's when the boy's hand would clutch in a fist around the forbidden fruit and eat it.

Tonight was on the tail end of one of those moods. It was a scene that had been played a thousand times over, the group's men tired, worn, and hungry for ale and a little bit of company. Daryl Devlin had a fresh black eye and a whore on his lap, spinning some story about how he got it protecting some woman's honor in a bar fight while his brother, Donnie, chats up another, pointing to the blood stain on his shirt like a badge of honor. Roy sat two tables away, brooding, knuckles still bruised from punching Daryl in the face earlier. It took a whole lot of gospel and sweet talk from Frank to convince him to go out that night, reminding him the Devlin boys were still learning, still struggling in their ways, and fighting with them only made matters worse. 'What if I fought you the day we met, hm? I had every right to. What then?' And just like always, Roy folded in the face of Frank's kindness. Just like he was raised to do.

At the same table sat Dyer and Amos, both slurring their words and at least four drinks in. The carousing of the group was mind-numbing. Loud, crude, and raucous; Roy sat in the eye of it all similarly to how he did in all their endeavors, more of a silent accomplice than a participant. He had a glass of water in front of him, sober and pensive, uninterested in both the men's conversation and the coquettish, provocative train of women that came by on their rounds in an attempt to lure one of them upstairs.

"Are'ya still over there poutin', boy?"

Amos' voice cut through Roy's train of thought like a bullet, pulling his eyes upward. He doesn't respond. The question was rhetorical, and Dyer took the opportunity to answer for him anyway.

"Whadd'ya expect, Amos? When was the last time you saw the kid smile?" His words come out in a drunken drawl, prompting Roy to turn his head away in an attempt to detach himself from the conversation.

"Ay - I know what'll make'm smile. Hey, sweetheart —"

That's when you're pulled into the whole ordeal, leaning against a wooden pillar by the brothel's front doors, one hand holding a burning cigarette and the other wrapped around your corseted waist in a display of abject boredom. You just started your shift and had taken your usual scouting position, annoyed to find it so close in proximity to the loudest, most abhorrent group of men in the joint. You had been successfully ignoring them up until then, scanning the perimeter for a wealthy man you could squeeze for all he's worth - but now you find your head turned to the scoundrels, thin brow raised in acknowledgement as the smoke of your cigarette drew upward.

The man that called for you waved his hand sloppily to invite you over. "C'mere a sec."

Ah, what the hell. A client was a client; a whore was a whore. You put out your cigarette and prowl toward them wearing a polite, sultry smile and a voice to boot. "Yes, gentleman?"

The larger one with the beard looks up at you with a filthy grin, which alone was enough to tell you this group is bad, bad news. He prods a thumb at the younger man seated across from him. "Our boy here's in need of some company."

You and Roy look at each other in unison. His eyes are wide - non-threatening - not in a startled or ogling way, but like he's trying to appear polite, or maybe they're just naturally that size. Boyish. His hand raises between you to deflect Dyer's claim, the same way one might do when a waitress comes asking if they want more coffee. "Ah - no, there's no need for that."

"—Sure there is." Amos rudely interjects, "Fuckin' look at 'em. He ain't felt the touch of a woman all his life, Miss. He's achin' for it. Just too shy to ask."

As the men chuckle amongst themselves, Roy breaks eye contact with you, clearly uncomfortable. Your smile grows from chaste to Cheshire in one smooth pull. "Is that right?" you purr as you move closer, long, feminine hands gliding along the back of Roy's chair. Call it predatory, but you knew a good potential customer when you saw one. Good, humble men like him were the easiest to persuade into the VIP rooms, the gentlest lovers, quick finishers, and big tippers. Helped that he was easy on the eyes, too; and if what his friends were saying was true, it gave you a sick, twisted kind of thrill to imagine being his first. You look down at him to see his eyes are looking anywhere but you, he's tense, itching to leave, itching to get himself out of this conversation. You can't help yourself, you swiftly move to sit yourself in his lap, amused by the way he almost jumps upon impact, raising his hands so they can't accidentally touch you. "You do look awfully sad..." you muse gently as you run fingertips across his stubbled jaw. "You want me to help you feel better?"

You watch as a creeping tinge of red bloomed up his neck to the back of his ears, warming them, betraying his composure. "I, uh—" At a loss, his eyes flicker to Frank like they always do - but his hand isn't anywhere near the cookie jar, it's about to be crushed by a fucking bear trap. This is when Frank would usually intervene, tell the men to ease off a little, leave the boy alone. But he doesn't say anything. The look he's wearing is one Roy had yet to find himself on the receiving end of until now. It's cold and unsympathetic. It's pushing a child into a river and forcing him to sink or swim. It holds a brutal kind of reality Roy desperately wanted to believe didn't exist. It was the look of someone who was tired of being disappointed and pushed to their limit. Tonight, Frank decided, he would show Roy who's boss.

Roy shifts beneath you, swallowing thickly as he tried to find his voice, but his words come out flustered. "I'm fine, Miss, thank you."

Thank you. Ugh. You could just melt.

Amos chuckles. "Aweh, c'mon, Roy! Look at'er! If you ain't havin' her I will."

You throw the disgusting outlaw a quick glare before turning your attention back to the bashful cowboy whose lap you'd made home in. Your bust, ample and upheld by your bejeweled corset, sat inches from his face, jiggling whenever one of you moved. Most men's eyes would be glued to it at this angle, or trying to bury their face into it. But not him.

"Such a gentleman..." you coo, raking your nails down the length of his chest. "Your Momma did well teachin' you manners... but didn't she ever tell you it's impolite to wear your hat when trying to court a lady?" Without missing a beat, your hand raised to pluck the cowboy's hat from his head and plant it atop your own. A playful gesture, though it serves to disarm him further, putting a spotlight on his handsome, blushing face, exposing him to the world, to the leering eyes of his comrades, no longer able to hide beneath the shadow of the rim.

The other men laugh, making Roy shrink into himself only slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek. The blush was nearing the apex of his cheeks now, deepening to a shameful shade of vermillion. You giggle and try to catch his eyes with yours. "What's your name, handsome?"

"Roy," he responds curtly. You don't take it personally, it's obviously out of discomfort and not malice. Besides, he reminds himself of his manners quickly enough when he asks, "Yours?"

You flash him another smile as you lean your upper half closer, lifting your neck to display a thick, glimmering necklace with a flat medallion hanging off it, not unlike a collar. "Says right here."

Roy's eyes instinctively shift to look at it, the lettering nothing more than alien curves and symbols that meant a whole lot of nothing when you didn't know how to read; a fact he wasn't readily willing to admit to a pretty stranger, so, after pretending to make sense of it, he gave a quick nod and looked away.

Knowing exactly what just happened, Dyer leans over the table with a sly grin to read the inscription for him. "Kitty," he announces. "Ain't that sweet. Bet you purr jus'like one."

"Mhmm," you hum, focus keeping on Roy, leaning in to brush the tip of your nose against his temple like a cat. "I'm soft like one too." Your words weren't meant for Dyer, instead succeeding in making Roy quite literally squirm in his seat. The thick, plentiful layers of your skirt add a significant cushion between your bodies, yet not enough to conceal the twitch of something thick, solid, and unmistakably masculine pressing into the underside of your thighs. Your lips part in realization, in excitement, and Roy's wide eyes suddenly look a lot wider as they cast themselves to the floor.

"I think that's enough, Miss—" he tells you as he leans back, one hand gripping the seat of the chair, an invitation for you to get off him. "I don'wanna take up anymore of your time." What almost sounds like panic seeps through his tone, the shameful realization that once you leave he has to find a way to hide the bulge in his pants from the rest of the group.

Sly, generous creature that you are, you take pity on the poor boy and cradle his face in your hands, leaning down to whisper sweetly in his ear. "Come with me upstairs, sweetheart. It's the only way to get 'em off your back. Promise we don't have to do nothin'." That of course, was a lie, but you wanted to believe you had the willpower to respect his boundaries.

He responded with a shaky breath, eyes searching the floor like it was gonna save him. You took that honor upon yourself, placing his hat back on his head in an act of courtesy as you jumped off his lap, careful to angle your silhouette so the men sitting closest to him wouldn't see just how much you managed to excite him, and by such an embarrassingly small amount of teasing at that. "C'mon, Cowboy," you chimed, tugging on his wrist like he was a dog on the other end of a leash. Griffin's boy's all hooted and hollered like a pack of hungry coyotes witnessing a fresh kill. Roy must've really wanted to get out of there because despite his dubious disposition, he decides to follow you, standing and positioning his clothes and arm to strategically shield his crotch. You wrap one arm around his waist and attach yourself to his hip, walking him toward the staircase that led to the private rooms.

"You, uh... don't gotta take me nowhere," he tells you as you reach the top floor. "I meant it when I said I don't wanna take up more of your time. I know you probably —" he stutters as the two of you nearly bump into another pair - the man boisterously drunk and his lady-caller pawing to remove his coat, giggling. "—have a long night ahead of you..." He trails off just as you arrive at a closed door. Your favorite suite. Your office, if you will. His footing stands sure as you reach to open it. "Jus' show me to a back door and I'll get outta your hair."

You open the door anyway and step inside, looking over your shoulder. "Ain't no back door to this place, I'm afraid. Better for you to hide out in here for a while. I told'ya we ain't gotta do anythin' you don't wanna."

Roy's brows crease. "Actually - you said we ain't gotta do nothin'". He corrects from the doorway.

"Did I? Well. Same thing, right?"

"... Right."

There's a long pause between you, you looking at him expectantly and him barely willing to meet your gaze. Then, you set your hand on your hip and cock your head to the side. "You waitin' on an invitation? Get in here." The question seems to startle or confuse him, you weren't sure which. He steps inside regardless, shutting the door behind him. He takes in the surroundings, a small, elegantly decorated room adorned with red, purple, and gold. The only piece of furniture was a bed pressed neatly against the farthest wall.

"Sit," you gesture, and like the agreeable boy he'd been all evening, Roy sits on the edge of the bed, rigid, hands folded in his lap. He seems less flustered now, but not anymore comfortable, especially as you take slow, steady steps closer, stopping only when your skirt was inches away from touching his knees. "Were your friends speakin' truths when they said you've never been with a woman?"

Roy readjusts. "They ain't my friends."

"Well, whatever they are."

"No. They're jus'tryin to get at me, is all."

"Did it work?"

He shook his head.

Your brow quirks. "Hm." Idly, your fingers lower to the long, puffy white fabric of your skirt, brushing against it, drawing circles, then slowly lifting it to expose the stocking-clad flesh of your shin and calves above your heels. "Did I get at'ya?" you ask through your lashes.

You watch as his eyes glaze over, unable to look away from your indecent exposure, jaw going slack, fingers twitching in his lap. He blinks more than he needs, stuttering, "N-no, ma'am."

A self satisfied smirk curls your lips before you let your skirt drop back into place and move to sit beside him. He shuffles an inch away instinctively. Politely. You split the difference by leaning closer, placing a hand on his thigh. "And if someone... wanted to get at'ya... how would they do that?"

Roy stiffened at the touch, both in body and manhood. He didn't know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, where to place his eyes. All he wanted was to was bolt. He suddenly hated Frank for not saving him from this. Not protecting him. That quickly snowballed into hating himself instead. A whole slew of thoughts ran through his head, none of them good, none of them confident. Like it or not he was floundering. "This, uh... I don't - ahem - have any money." Which was both true and not. While Roy had access to means, Frank didn't allow him to carry any money on his person. Another one of those control things. He hoped in this situation it would serve as a deterrent, or better yet, put an immediate stop to everything.

Your hand stays where it is, feeling the dense heat of his clothed thigh under your palm, just inches away from where you wanted to touch him most. Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in disappointment. "That's a shame... Guess that means you won't get to see me naked, then."

He swallows, shifts again. Because now he's imagining it: what your body looks like without the restraining confines of your corset or bulk of your skirts. How your large, heavy breasts would naturally sit against your torso without all that extra support... drawing a line down soft, blemishless skin to the womanly curve of your hips...

"That's, uh... that's fine." He stammers as he presses his lips into a polite smile and tries to ignore how painfully tight the front of his pants feel now, bringing his knees together.

"Yeah... 'suppose it is... Cause I don't gotta take my clothes off to help you feel better." As you speak, your hand skillfully glides over the curve of his leg until your index finger touches the side of his erection, feeling it swell hotly beneath the thick fabric of his clothes. You hear him quietly suck in a breath as his eyes - those wide, innocent orbs - fill with fear and dart to where you were touching him. All signs start to point in the direction of yes, his friends were right, because what man would behave around a whore in such a way if he had been touched like this before?

"I know you said you've been with a woman..." you play along, stroking at the base of him as you spoke. "But what about kissin'?"

That stirs his attention from his stupor, and he looks up at you with a naive, confused look on his face. God, those big, stupid puppy dog eyes had you lusting after his flesh more than his wallet. "What about it?"

You tilt closer, eyes falling to his lips. "Y'know... have'ya ever kissed a girl?"

This time he feels less inclined to lie, maybe because it caught him so off guard. His answer is the quick flickering of his gaze from your eyes to your mouth. You take it as an invitation, as consent, and slowly lessen the distance between the two of you until your faces were inches apart. The heat radiating off him was palpable. He shrinks a little, inching away. You revel in his discomfort before carefully placing your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss. The kind that young lovers experiment with or Europeans give their family members.

It sets Roy's skin ablaze. Surges all his blood, with the exception of that warming his neck and chest, South. He doesn't move, doesn't even look like he's breathing. Just a shocked, scared little thing that didn't know what to do with itself. So you cup his cheek with your hand and kiss him again, hold it for a little longer this time, briefly pull away, repeat. Much like his involvement with Griffin's gang, he's more of an accessory than a partaker. He's no longer trying to pull away but he had no idea what his role was in this. Not that you cared, you enjoyed leading the depth, sensuality, and pressure of the kiss, all increasing ever so gradually before you coax his mouth open by brazenly running your palm over his bulge, prompting him to part his lips with an unwitting, breathy gasp. You take full advantage and deepen the kiss further, molding the shapes of your mouths in a way that could only be described as lewd - more intentional, almost erotic. You pull away only to see the look on his face, completely undone and vulnerable, pupils blown wide and brows knitted in helpless need. It was a picture you wanted to burn into your memory forever.

Your free hand comes to remove his hat again, tossing it aside. The pad of your thumb pressed into the dimple at the corner of his mouth. "Did you like that?" Your voice is a whisper, dipping low and sultry. When his lips part to speak, your thumb follows the slope of his lower lip, distorting it some, swiping against the thin layer of saliva on the inside. You watch as he melts into it a little, his breath fanning over your hand as hips finally give in and lift ever so slightly, pressing himself into your hand. He gives a silent nod. It makes you giddy with lust. You give the outline of his cock a rewarding squeeze, making him stifle a groan.

"Open your mouth for me," you coax sweetly, loving the way he hesitates like he doesn't understand, like it makes him feel stupid. To demonstrate, you open your own mouth lazily; a small, open cavern, lolling your tongue over your bottom teeth with innocent eyes, instructing hotly over it. "Like this."

The sight of you with your mouth open like that - waiting, tongue soft and pink and welcoming - makes his cock jump. Makes him desperate for whatever it is you're about to give him. Roy mirrors the action hesitantly, lips parting, showing his tongue but not extending it as far as yours. You can't help but smile and give praise. "That's it... Good boy." Then you're inching closer, the hand on his cheek guiding him in until you're close enough to gently dip your tongue into his mouth, brushing it against his own, soft, placid and wet, luring it into submission. You give an exaggerated, pornographic moan; a show of your own excitement and an attempt to entice him further. As you deepen the kiss, you're giving more of your tongue, treating him soft and delicate, careful not to escalate things too quickly. You can taste his breath, hot and panting, surprised to find no trace of alcohol. The stroking of your hand is just as languid as your tongue.

After some time, you recede as lips return to the gentle, virginal motions, swapping between a kiss that's modest or obscenely French. He's clumsy but follows your lead, learning quickly. You start to steadily palm over his cock, increasing the pressure and friction but never in speed, swallowing every moan it drew out of him. He gives the occasional upward rock of his hips as you press your bodies - lips, tongues - closer, until your chest is pressing against his. When you pull away, you leave him panting with his mouth wet and stained from your lipstick.

"My," you coo teasingly, dragging the tip of your finger against a small wet spot on his pants, right where the head is. "Quite the growing boy, aren't you?"

He goes beet-red at that, completely flooded with shame and humiliation. It somehow sobers him, because he shifts away from you and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "I should, uh —" before he can say leave, you dip your head where his ear and neck meet and give soft, open-mouthed kisses.

"What's wrong, baby?" you murmur against his flesh, palm kneading insistently at his cock. Firm, teasing drags. "Am I not a good kisser?"

"Fuck..." he groans, "No - I-I mean, that's not —"

"Or maybe I'm not pretty enough."

"W-what? I didn't —"

You giggle, giving a soft peck to his earlobe. "Are you sure you've done this before? Look how hard your cock is getting..." You tilt your head to peer down - and his eyes can't help but follow - the both of you taking in the sight of the prominent bulge under your small hand, just aching to be released from its confines. Every motion relentlessly grinds the coarse fabric across the sensitive skin of his shaft, smearing precum, rubbing up and down, up and down... giving it no place to go or no real relief. He readjusts again, spreads his legs a little as he watches you stroke him like he's watching something raw, wrong and filthy. You move your lips to whisper against his cheek, "So fuckin' cute. Do y'like kissin' me that much?"

You increase the pressure a little, and Roy's head drops back with the loudest moan he's given thus far, followed by a weak and broken, "Fuck." He's fully submerged in it now, head swimming with lust despite his embarrassment; the two melding together like a molten coil in his gut, wrenching his cock and emptying his mind.

You raise a brow, still expecting an answer. "Hm?"

Shame pricks at his skin. He doesn't want to admit it. The thought of being reduced to something so pathetic so easily mortified him beyond comprehension. But then you stroke him just right, and he whimpers, actually fucking whines like puppy forced to behave for a treat, and he melts in your hand all over again, confessing, "Y-yeah."

Another wicked smile spreads your lips. "C'mere." You turn his face to capture his lips in another slow, obscene kiss. His tongue is more involved this time, still docile but more eager to participate. You take advantage of this newfound confidence and tenderly wrap your lips around the tip, giving it a soft, loving suckle, prompting a low, baritone moan to rumble from his chest. You drink it down eagerly.

Hips stuttering, Roy suddenly tries to pull away to speak. "W-wait-" You shush him quietly before he can get his point across, swallowing his protests with your mouth, encouraging him with salacious little sounds of your own. His moans, whimpers, and words become stifled and muffled against your tongue, slowly rising in urgency and volume until they abruptly peak. His hips jolt upward in a seize, a strong hand shooting up to wrap around your wrist like a vice. But it was too late. He hit his peak in a shameful, violent crescent that spilled hotly in his briefs, coating his cock pulse after pulse with warm, thick cum. You feel it pool and spurt under your palm despite the fabric veneer, eyes and mouth widening in surprise as he soaks the front of his pants.

You've had men come prematurely before. Hell, it was almost a nightly occurrence. But this? This was something different. Roy embodied his shame in a way that didn't disgust or annoy you. His eyes were wider than ever, lips parted and kiss-swollen, completely speechless as he stared down in horror. "Shit, I — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - it just, it just happened," he babbled, pushing your hand away from the mess as if it was going to sully you.

You respond with another gentle, maternal shushing. "Shh... It's okay, baby. I think it's sweet." And you do - you've never felt more desired in your life. It made you bite your lip and think of all the other unconventional ways you could make the boy come; and wondered which one would embarrass him the most. "Roy, look at me." You turn his face so his frantic, apologetic eyes are forced to meet yours. "It's okay. Really."

He appears unconvinced, almost like he's in physical pain. You figure maybe he might need a break. A chance to lick his wounds.

"I'll get you somethin' to clean up, okay?"

The concept alone humiliates him, but the alternative isn't any better, and he's breathless and disoriented so yields to your offer, head lowering. "Yeah, 'kay.. Sure."

You press one last kiss to his cheek and brush your thumb against his jaw, murmuring, "You did so good."

It pains you to stand and exit the room, eager to get back and spend the night tormenting your new plaything, finding all the ways that make him tick; maybe by milking him, or forcing him to stay still while you rode his cock like your own personal sextoy. Ah, you were getting ahead of yourself. You were so distracted you didn't notice the other person turning the corner in the powder room. Your bodies collide, and you look up to find yourself face to face with an old, bearded man with beady eyes and an affectless stare. Startled, you jump and take a step back. "Excuse me, sir—"

A wad of cash is placed in your hand before you can finish. You look down at it with a puzzled expression. It was at least a week's worth of your salary, maybe more. The man rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Appreciate your services, darlin'. I'll take it from here."

Dumbfounded, you watched as he walked into the very same room you came out of, expecting to hear some sort of ruckus, maybe a shattering lamp or two - to hear Roy call the man a pervert and beat the living shit out of him. Instead, you're met with an eerie silence. Through the small crack in the door you see Frank picking up Roy's hat from where you'd thrown it and place it back on his head like he was cleaning up somebody else's mess. Roy's lips are small and docile as he peered up at him, a helpless, juvenile sort of look pressed into his features. It was the same look he'd given you only without the clouding of lust. One in need of direction, that felt uncomfortable in its own skin.

You wondered what the story was there. About their relationship. Of all your years in the brothel you'd never seen anything quite like it. For once - in a sick twist of fate - you felt yourself on the other side of the looking glass, staring at a soft, beautiful creature sat in a brothel, all sex-glazed and reeking of sin; and you find yourself overcome with the overwhelming urge to rescue him and take him away from all of this.

But you knew better than to take in any ol' stray that ended up on your doorstep.

That would make you an idiot.

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

. ۶ৎ daredevil! lion could still be a working-class boxer, barely making enough money from small fights and whatever shifts stan manages to find for him. he takes a factory job because it is steady work, even though the conditions are awful and everyone knows the owners have been cutting corners for years.

. ۶ৎ the accident happens during an overnight shift. a chemical spill mixed with an electrical malfunction leaves several workers injured, and lion takes the worst of it after trying to pull somebody else out. his eyes are permanently damaged, but once the swelling and headaches begin to ease, he realizes the rest of his senses have changed in ways none of the doctors can explain.

. ۶ৎ now suddenly he can hear conversations through apartment walls, distinguish individual footsteps from several blocks away, and feel vibrations traveling through the pavement beneath his shoes. scents become overwhelming, food tastes unbearably strong, and even the brush of ordinary fabric against his skin can feel sharp enough to make him flinch.

. ۶ৎ it takes him months before he learns how to function without constantly feeling like the entire world is screaming at him. boxing helps more than anything else. even though he can no longer do matches, he loves going to the gym by himself.

. ۶ৎ the factory accident was never properly investigated. the owners pay off the right people, blame the workers, and reopen before lion has even been discharged from the hospital. while digging into them, lion discovers that the company is connected to the same criminal networks controlling the underground fights around town—loan sharks, traffickers,dealers, and low-level thugs who make their money by keeping working-class neighborhoods frightened and desperate.

. ۶ৎ so naturally, lion decides the most reasonable response is putting on black clothes, covering the upper half of his face with a homemade mask, and beating the absolute hell out of them after dark.

. ۶ৎ lion follows a no-killing rule for the most part. he believes there has to be a line separating him from the people he hunts, especially after watching how easily violence swallowed up the underground boxing world. he will break bones, dislocate shoulders, and beat somebody unconscious without losing sleep, but he refuses to deliberately take a life.

. ۶ৎ “for the most part” becomes important whenever somebody threatens stan or you. lion still tries to stop himself, but his restraint becomes noticeably thinner when the heartbeat he hears panicking belongs to someone he loves.

. ۶ৎ before you know his identity, you meet the masked vigilante several times without realizing he’s lion. he always seems to appear when you’re walking home late or when trouble begins near your building, although he insists it is only because he patrols the neighborhood regularly. really, he recognizes your heartbeat anywhere.

. ۶ৎ lion has spent so much time around you that the rhythm is permanently lodged inside his head. he knows how it sounds when you are calm, how it skips when you laugh, and how quickly it begins racing whenever you are afraid. even beneath traffic, sirens, shouting, and dozens of strangers, your heartbeat always rises above everything else.

. ۶ৎ you discover his identity after you’re caught in the middle of something connected to the underground fights. he hears your heartbeat from several streets away and reacts before they have the chance to touch you. once it’s over, he reaches for your face with shaking, bloodied hands. he’s so overwhelmed by the sound of your pulse hammering in terror that he forgets to disguise his voice.

. ۶ৎ he expects you to be angry about the secret. instead, you grab his face and ask whether any of the blood belongs to him, and lion nearly breaks right there.

. ۶ৎ he still tries to keep you out of his vigilante life, but that becomes nearly impossible once you know. you start keeping medical supplies hidden in your apartment and learn how to stitch his cuts while he sits shirtless on your bathroom counter, complaining that you’re pulling the thread too tightly.

. ۶ৎ sex with lion’s heightened senses means there’s genuinely no hiding anything from him. he hears the change in your breathing before you have even decided to make a move. he notices your heartbeat speeding up when he pulls off his shirt, catches the faint shift in your scent when arousal begins pooling between your thighs, and smiles like a smug bastard because your body has already confessed for you.

. ۶ৎ lion loves teasing you about every reaction, but the joke is that he’s just as affected. his sense of touch is so intense that even gentle contact can make his muscles jump : your nails scratching lightly over his scalp, your mouth brushing the sensitive skin below his ear, your fingertips tracing the scars along his ribs—it all hits him harder than he wants to admit.

. ۶ৎ he’s obsessed with going down on you. his heightened sense of taste makes it almost overwhelming, but lion has never known when to stop doing something that feels good. once he gets his mouth between your thighs, he stays there until his jaw aches and his chin is soaked.

. ۶ৎ he doesn’t need you to tell him when he finds the right spot. he hears it in your heartbeat and feels it in the way your muscles tighten beneath his hands. the second your pulse jumps, he presses his tongue harder, groaning into your cunt when your thighs squeeze around his head. he gets shamelessly messy with it. he licks through every bit of wetness he draws out of you, lips dragging around your clit before his tongue pushes lower, tasting you directly from the source. the smell, the heat, the slippery sound of his fingers fucking into you—it surrounds him so completely that he sometimes forgets he is supposed to let you breathe.

“lion, i already came,” you whine, pushing weakly at his forehead while his fingers continue curling inside you.

“know you did,” he mutters against your swollen clit, breathing hard as he listens to your pulse gradually slow. then he sucks you back into his mouth and adds, “wanna hear it happen again.”

. ۶ৎ he loves listening to you. loud moans are nice, obviously, but it’s the quieter noises that drive him insane—the wet hitch in your breath when his cock first stretches you open, the unconscious whimper you make whenever he bottoms out, the tiny tremor in your voice when you claim you can take more. he can hear just how wet you are around him. every slow thrust comes with a slick sound that his hearing catches far too clearly, and it makes him lose whatever restraint he thought he had. he’ll bury his face against your neck, panting into your skin while your cunt squelches around the full length of him.

. ۶ৎ his sensitivity makes edging him cruel. you can reduce him to a shaking mess just by stroking him slowly, keeping your grip light enough that he feels every ridge of your palm sliding over his cock. he hears the blood rushing through his own body, his heartbeat pounding behind his ribs, every slick pass of your hand amplified until his thighs begin trembling. lion tries to act tough about it for approximately thirty seconds. then his head drops back, his lips part, and he starts begging you to tighten your hand.

. ۶ৎ overstimulation happens constantly because he becomes fascinated by how your body changes after an orgasm. your heartbeat hammering, the sweat cooling along your skin, the way your cunt grows even wetter and more sensitive around him. he tells himself he only wants to feel it one more time, but one becomes two, then three, until you’re trembling and pleading with him to slow down.

. ۶ৎ lion has a quiet breeding kink that gets much less quiet when he’s overstimulated. he likes feeling you clench around him when he talks about filling you, likes hearing the sudden jump in your pulse when he pushes his cock as deep as it will go.

. ۶ৎ he stays pressed against you afterward because pulling out feels too intense immediately. his whole body remains sensitive, and every little flutter around his softening cock makes his hips twitch involuntarily.

. ۶ৎ lion can hear his cum shifting inside you when he finally moves… that particular discovery nearly always results in him pushing you onto your back again, spreading your thighs, and using two fingers to gather whatever has begun leaking out before slowly fucking it back into you.

. ۶ৎ after, he will deny needing the comfort, even while wrapping both arms around your waist and refusing to let you leave the bed.

“just makin’ sure you’re all right,” he mumbles, already half asleep with his cheek resting over your heart.

. ۶ৎ really, lion spends every night listening to an entire city breathe around him. being able to concentrate on yours is the closest thing he has ever found to silence.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

“Lion—fuck, right there,” you moan, already bouncing hard enough on his cock to make the apartment mattress squeal beneath you while he lies pinned under your weight, whining around every breath like he has forgotten how to take one quietly.

Every drop of your hips forces the thick length deep, while your cunt grips and drags, wet and greedy, coating him in the glossy mess you’ve already worked out of yourself.

His hands keep slipping along your thighs, damp palms searching for somewhere to hold even though you have already told him not to touch unless you put him where you want him. He tries anyway, fingers curling weakly near your hips as you lift yourself until only the swollen head remains inside you, stretching your entrance open around the glistening ridge, then drop back down and swallow him to the base.

The noise that tears from him is embarrassingly loud—halfway between a moan and a sob—and it carries far too clearly through the paper-thin walls.

“Jesus, Lion, shut up,” you mutter, though the sharp roll of your hips makes it obvious that you have no intention of helping him obey.

“I’m trying,” he manages, voice cracking as his head pushes deeper into the pillow. “You just—you feel so fucking-”

Another helpless whine spills out before he can finish, so you reach beside his shoulder, snatch up the damp panties you had kicked onto the bed earlier, and bunch them into your palm. The crotch is still warm and slick with your earlier arousal, the fabric darkened and heavy. Lion barely gets his watery eyes open before you press the fabric against his mouth.

Your panties disappear between his lips, the wet gusset settling over his tongue while you push two fingers against the center to make sure he cannot spit them out. The taste of your cunt floods his mouth; you watch his throat work as he sucks at it without being told. His eyes widen, then soften with something so openly grateful that it makes you laugh under your breath.

You draw your hand back and give his flushed cheek a light pat, watching him mouth helplessly around the fabric while your hips resume their punishing rhythm. Slick sounds fill the air every time you rise and fall, your cunt swallowing him with filthy, wet kisses.

“There,” you murmur, leaning forward until your palms flatten against his chest. “Much better. Toys aren’t supposed to make so much noise.”

Lion’s cock jumps inside you so hard that you feel it.

His muffled answer dissolves into a garbled moan, and his whole face burns red beneath the sweat gathering at his temples. He’s always been terrible at hiding how much he likes being spoken to this way. Call him pretty and he blushes; call him useful and he nearly comes; tell him that the only part of him you need is buried inside you, and he looks ready to thank you for the privilege.

You grind down slowly, letting your cunt drag along every inch of him before lifting again. Lion’s stomach tenses under your hands, muscles twitching each time your ass meets his thighs, though he still fights to stay motionless beneath you.

“You said I could use it as long as I wanted,” you remind him, rocking your hips in tight circles until his muffled whine turns shrill.

Lion shakes his head quickly, hair sticking to his damp forehead. His hands clench in the sheets, knuckles pale with the effort of keeping them there. When he tries to speak, your panties reduce the words to a wet, pleading mumble, but you understand him well enough.

“You want me to keep riding my cock?” you ask, emphasizing the claim while you squeeze around him. The deliberate clench milks a fresh throb out of him. “That what you’re trying to say?”

His eyes squeeze shut as he nods, tears already gathering along his lashes. You sit back and take him deeper, watching his face crumple when you begin bouncing again, faster this time, without giving him any chance to adjust.

The first tear slides toward his temple.

You catch it with your thumb before it disappears into his hair, smearing the wetness across his flushed skin while he stares up at you. There’s something pathetic in the way he looks when he cries beneath you, something soft and needy that makes you bear down harder just to watch another tear follow. Your clit grinds against the base of him on every drop, swollen and slick, sending sharp little sparks through your belly.

“Aww, Lion,” you croon, though your hand closes around his jaw firmly enough to keep his face turned toward you. “You’re crying, and I haven’t even decided whether you’ve earned the right to come.”

Lion bucks beneath you before he can stop himself. The sudden upward jerk drives him impossibly deeper, and for a second you feel the fat head of his cock kiss the entrance to your womb.

You halt immediately, seated fully on his cock, and the sudden stillness leaves him shaking. His nostrils flare around desperate breaths while his hips twitch beneath your weight, trying to chase friction without openly disobeying.

“What was that?”

He whimpers through the panties, tears spilling more freely when you tighten your thighs around his waist.

“You know better than to move my toy without permission,” you tell him, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re acting like the body attached to my cock gets a say.”

Lion shakes his head again, frantic enough that the pillow rustles beneath him. He tries to apologize, though the words come out soaked and unintelligible. The sight of your panties darkening between his teeth, mixed with the wet shine on his lips and chin, makes heat twist low in your stomach.

You lift yourself slowly, letting him feel every inch leave you until his cock nearly slips free. The head catches at your entrance, shiny and flushed dark. Lion’s eyes go wide with alarm, and a broken little noise catches behind the gag.

“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” you ask, hovering just above him. “Getting left here hard and useless because you couldn’t behave.”

His response is immediate, a pleading shake of his head accompanied by another spill of tears. A string of your own wetness stretches from the head of his cock to your dripping entrance before it breaks.

You lower yourself again, only halfway, then rise before he can enjoy the fullness. The shallow thrusts make wet, filthy sounds as your cunt lips kiss and drag over the swollen head. Lion’s back arches from the mattress while his hands knot tighter in the sheets, every restrained movement making his arms tremble.

“Maybe I should find something else to ride,” you continue, teasing the head against your entrance. “Something that doesn’t whine. Something that can last longer without leaking inside me.”

Lion sobs around the panties, the sound so ruined that it nearly breaks your composure.

You sink onto him in one hard drop, taking him completely, and his muffled cry fills the room despite the fabric packed into his mouth.

His hips jerk once beneath you before he forces them still, though his cock throbs wildly inside your clenched walls. You feel the way your cunt stretches around the base of him, the stretch almost too much, the wet heat of him buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to crawl up into your belly.

“There,” you murmur, smiling down at the tears streaking his face. “There’s my dumb little toy.”

You ride him without mercy after that, palms braced against his chest while you use his cock exactly as promised. Lion can do little more than lie beneath you and endure it, his breathing ragged, his moans reduced to wet vibrations against your panties.

Every upward roll pulls a sticky sheen along his shaft; every downward thrust forces it back inside, the mess gathering where your bodies meet until it coats his groin and smears across the insides of your thighs.

His control starts failing visibly, legs twitching against the mattress, his abdomen pulling tight, and his eyes rolling shut no matter how often you tell him to look at you.

When you slap his cheek lightly, his gaze snaps back into focus with such eager obedience that your cunt clenches around him.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” you warn, leaning close enough that your breath brushes his wet face. “You’re going to keep it hard until I’m finished.”

Lion nods, though the desperate furrow in his brow gives away how impossible the order feels. He had promised stamina; he had sworn he could let you ride him through one orgasm, then another, and still stay ready whenever you climbed back into his lap. That confidence has disappeared completely, leaving only a trembling man beneath you who looks one cruel squeeze away from losing everything. You can feel the way his balls have drawn up tight against your ass, full and heavy and ready to spill.

Your muscles tighten around his cock while your hips grind down, and Lion’s eyes fly open. A muffled plea bursts against the panties, his entire body seizing as he fights the orgasm bearing down on him.

“You’re not going to waste my cum, are you?” you ask, dragging your thumb through the tears pooled beneath his eye. “You’re going to hold it until I tell you where I want it.”

He nods so hard that another sob catches in his throat.

“Good. Because I want it inside.”

Whatever remains of Lion’s composure breaks at the words. His cock jerks repeatedly while his hips stutter beneath your weight. You chase your own pleasure as his muffled whines turn frantic, then reach down and press your thumb against your clit. The swollen little nub is slick and hot under your touch, and every circle of your finger makes your cunt clamp harder around the cock currently trying to breed you.

“Come on,” you breathe, circling yourself while his tearful eyes stay fixed on your face. “Fill me up. Make your only useful part do its job.”

Lion comes with a strangled cry against your panties, his body arching hard enough to lift you with him. Warmth spills deep inside you in heavy pulses, rope after rope flooding the softest part of you, and you continue bouncing through every one, forcing his cum farther into your cunt while his cock twitches helplessly.

Tears run into his hair, his chest heaves beneath your hands, and his muffled noises turn high and broken when pleasure gives way to overstimulation. His cock keeps pulsing, still trying to empty itself even as you milk every last drop with the relentless squeeze of your walls.

Lion’s head thrashes weakly against the pillow while you use his softening control against him, grinding down until cum leaks around the base of his cock and streaks over his balls in thick, white trails. He makes a pitiful sound when you scoop some of the mess onto your fingers, then push it back against your swollen entrance without climbing off him. The excess is warm and sticky, mixed with your own slick, and you force it back inside so nothing goes to waste.

“Couldn’t even keep it where I put it.,” you murmur, spreading the slick warmth over yourself while his eyes follow every movement.

He whines as if ashamed, though his cock gives another interested twitch inside you. The soft length is still buried in the mess he made, and you can feel it starting to firm again as you keep moving.

The reaction makes you laugh. You pull the soaked panties from his mouth, leaving his lips swollen and glistening, and Lion immediately drags in a ragged breath. His first attempt to speak collapses into a hoarse moan when you roll your hips again.

“I can keep going,” he promises, voice ruined and watery. “Please, I-I can—I can still be good.”

You lean down and wipe one of his tears away with the cum-slick fingers that had just been between your thighs, smearing the mixture across his cheek before pressing them against his parted lips. The taste of both of you is thick on his tongue, and Lion sucks them clean without hesitation.

“That’s what you said the first time,” you remind him, sitting upright. “Try not to overestimate yourself twice, sweetheart. I’m not finished using you yet.”

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

Obviously blue and white because of the sea and the arctic, (and his perfect baby blues). Something almost veering into tealish. (I also headcanon Patrick as having depression and being indifferent to life--especially in the beginning--leading to a slower, colder, more mellow color for this period)

But I also associate the intense moments in his life with red and yellow. The blood of the polar bear, his red coat and the heat of india, when he's confronting Baxter.