Red Velvet

IN CONCLUSION: it says a lot that every time he speaks there is someone choking on their own blood in the background. And everything conquest does is hot. and hes so super cute

and fugly lol

ok thats it bye

what if there's a new-comer in your little backwoods town; you've only seen him from the windows of your part time mom n' pop. He, who rides upon a streak of god's light; he, who leaves rip roaring smoke clouds, pure mechanical majesty under the blazing summer sun.

He, who has no business in the backwater and broken asphalt of Great America's forgotten half. Where a hero hasn't been seen in months, if not years, while persistent weeds make their homes in potholes cause they cant quit living

He, who wears an eyepatch like a pirate, or a war vet, or a secret service agent. Whose uncovered eye has seen about a million other somethings much greater than all of you combined. Who might be an oil baron's son or a prince, just as much as another alcoholic on a deathtrap out to find some invariable unknown.

In daylight, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him soaring along the turnpike, trailed by rattling applause from an uncontrolled engine. In the light of a starless night sky, you stare at the ceiling, hearing his metal beast snarl deep into the night.

He'll keep you up past your bedtime, this mystery motorcycle man. Midnight masculinity on the prowl, scouring the streets and stalking shadows. Searching.

The only reason you know he's no daydream are the rumors making the rounds: devil's creed, here to take our daughters and corrupt our sons; womanizer muscling through a mid life crisis; supervillain maniac come here to destroy; godsent prophet or hellfire savior. Some other outlandish cry.

..

AND what if your dad is a real bad man. Everyone knows he's black at his core, that he's lived here his whole life and planned on dyin in the same mines his own father worked.

But what everyone knew more than that, was what sparse company he kept around just so happened to a little worse than he. If they were vultures to a corpse, your broken-down house is bloated with rot and decay.

it was the running joke: to look good by comparison. No one knows this better than you, not your daddy and not his friends.

You've seen them stare now and you've seen them stare then, in beginning --- when you were yet a sweet girl. They looked, and looked, and looked at you like your daddy looks at hookers by the streetlight.

Those same stares birthed feverous drive to escape. You rose early, crept out under thunderous snores or drunken stupor. You worked, went to school, worked some more or kicked around till late.

And when you got home, it was after they'd all snuck back into whatever sin-ridden den they came from. You knew, you timed it through trial and error. They didn't care enough to stay; you're just something to hang their eyes on.

If one or two're already asleep, a chair tucked snug against your locked door and a bat in the closet would do you well.

..

It shoulda been no surprise when your mystery motorcycle man came soaring in on clouds and glass bottles, easing his purring kitten right into your daddy's depraved circle of tobacco spit and foul language. A real women's hell.

Inevitable, no matter who this pirate/antichrist/heir is, and how long he found himself on these roads --- most men of his make and model in this town came one place when the bar simply ain't enough.

But when you step onto your bald lawn where spots of water-starved grass broke swirling dust, you expected the typical emptiness. You glance up through the humidity keeping your body sweat-soaked, felt a diamondback open its jaws beside your heart.

Legs stop where they stand. Eyes train on a thin coil of grey rising from his cigarette.

In the dark, he stands as if he'd been waiting for you. Shadows pool in the pits and hollows of lean muscle; porchlight dance across his sun kissed skin, across the triceps of his folded arms. The same dingy light bent and broke along the lines of his steel stallion, shouldering the weight from a leaning body.

How long had he been watching you?

Didn't matter --- clearly not long enough to eye you up close. No use in a retreat, not now, not as you feel the heat of his gaze trace what your body offered in that wicked way of heat-lusted men. Running would do you no good. Sometimes they like a little chase.

hammered out on this god removed lawn like roadkill, you realize it's the closest you've ever been. Anxiety is already balling up your gut, and the idea of getting any closer wasn't something you were too keen on.

To meet his eye may spell ruination, but you couldn't care --- hell, you could hardly help it. Past the amber dot of his inhale, your vision honed home, expecting hookers and children.

Brightness ran up your body; lighting or some other source second to Earth --- whichever comes after the first round of Russian roulette.

Another long exhale from him, gentle smokescreen, nonexistent breeze drawing an acrid whiff over to your lungs. Within that dark eye, warm curiosity affixed its scrappy haunches. Surveying, beyond sexual release. This man's vying to place a weight --- a big one at that.

Your brain bent to place just what exactly he's trying to tell you. How this man held himself, held his power and didn't throw it around --- maybe he truly was an oil baron's son, or a prince, or whatever else they say.

He was an acting outlier. It unnatural to watch him watch you, felt worse when you recognized a visceral desire pouring between your thighs. It took just about every bit of strength in you to draw up a foot and continue to the back door, keeping a wary eye on an orange speck in the corner of-

Creeeeeaak.

Your heart stutters, almost taking your feet with it. You shoot a glance back at the schemer and his cigarette which dropped onto the driveway with the rest of its kin. You continue onwards, not much pleased with how jumpy you're acting.

He spoke, and it wasnt a greeting. Wasnt a question either.

"You're the daughter."

The melodic baritone filled your chest; his tone was soft, practised, rich and deep.. and sanded down. Any fool could tell a roughness lay in him under the rounded edges.

You turn, not cause you want to, cause its the polite thing to do. The dingy porch light snatches up your eyes, and already they're tracing where it caught on his neck, and where it didn't. He sighed, movement at his chest drew you to his open collarbones. Planes of musculature enclosed by tight fabric offered an easy guess on the view under.

Good god, you've never really seen a man before. Not like him. His thumb grazed once across his forefinger and middle to purge the cigarette's stain. It must be an illusion.

The infinite ultimatum gaze was drilling into you once more. The serious intensity calls for perceiving eternity; how you imagined your daddy must've, to whichever woman whose womb you crawled out of.

"I've heard of you." There wasn't much of a response to that --- not one you wanted to give, anyway. Held by his beady eye, you went hot and cold and soft, hands clammy and back weeping sweat, not cause of the summer night.

"Kraig." It was sharp, not C but K curving round your eardrums.

Couldve been a second, couldve been a year before Kraig shifted; he leaned over the motorcycle, hands curled around the bars. Limber back stretched taut, begging your eyes to memorize the hills and valleys.

He shot you one last look and you recognize it as a... lonesome one.

His ride roared to life, bleaching your driveway with its silver eyes. And Kraig was gone, departed into light pollution with a snarl.

..

It was a strange encounter. A stranger look. Had your daddy made some err in judgement? Men of his caliber don't typically bleed the quiet pleading he threw you that night, that special need for companionship.

You stare beyond the tabloid's blaring images and walls of text to the window --- the sky was a cornucopia of orange and pink. Another hour, and you'd be out. Your gaze fell to the road. Few cars, nothing notable. No motorcycle, to your dissappointed relief.

That little chink in armor, the soft white throat of him pulled at the lead of a certain what if...

One in which you finally get close: close enough to run the tips of your fingers up his forearms, trace the veins, cradle his face in your hands. To have your lips search through a wave of cigarette smoke to brush against his, heady taste of chainsmoking and cheap beer on your tastebuds. To feel the heat of red-hot blood and the hours he's spent on the highway in how his hands rest on your hips. Lost. Homesick.

An engine cried somewhere distant, and you heave away from the image, cheeks already hot. A quick scan at an empty parking lot awash with sunset denied your fear of his appearance. It left you in silence at the counter.

With vowels like suburbia, the best case scenario for "Kraig" was that he here to slum, to study, to laugh and even sympathise. It doesn't matter how he looks at you, cause he wouldn't treat you right.

There's an A-Plus guarantee that you'll find yourself in a broken little pile, swept under the stairs. He meant no good to anyone especially you, so it'd be best to keep a distance. Lay on the bitterness thick and repeat it till you believe it. Sometimes it worked.

The doorbell jingles, you almost throw up when Kraig walks through the door. He buys.. something.. um and theres eye contact... idk...

His eyes run over your nametag. Electricity builds in anticipation for it to leave his mouth, but his eyes flick to yours. He doesn't say anything, just logged the information.

His dastardly name should honestly remain out of your mouth, and yet you are plagued with a desire to taste the syllables, plagued by the image of him when he hears you say it.

You let the words loose. "Have a good evening, Kraig." Silence, as he looks at you with those eyes once more.

"And you, doll."