#divergent eric

The air was cool, refreshing, even if a little moist. Damp metal railings cooled my elbows, and warm air crackled past my lips. I tapped the joint once to watch ash fall through to the dark void below. I relished in the cool air on my legs and stomach and arms while the smoke warmed my face. I could still hear the faint echoes of the music at the late-open club far away. 

Looking left, then right, each side looked the same. A wirey metal bridge leading across to a tunnel dug into the middle of a wet, cave-like chasm. On one end, silence. A huge, arching hallway leading to acres and acres of underground gymnasiums and practice halls. On the other, the bridge led to a splitting hallway leading to homes, recreational areas, shopping, offices, and most significantly- the far-off lights flashing green and red and purple and blue to the beat of an old pre-war pop song. My head was bobbing involuntarily to its own beat as I watched the tip of my joint light a bright orange in the near-black chasm. 

“What did I tell you tonight?” A deep voice boomed. He wasn’t so much loud as his voice was heavy and projected intensely, making a smile creep up my lips. 

“I was hoping I’d run into you here.” I couldn’t help but look from boot-to-toe through my lashes at the very distinct silhouette approaching. Through the few lights hung far on the cavern walls, I could barely make out the reflection of Eric’s piercings and his entertaining scowl. I took one more hit straight to my throat, my eyes glazed over the dark jeans hanging over barely-visible dark boots, and swiped my tongue across my teeth as the man stomped his pointed eyebrows right in front of my face. I could smell his cologne, the whiskey on his breath, and the perfume I had rubbed off earlier. He nearly had me pinned to the railing. 

“Answer the question.” His voice was calm, strict. 

“You told me a lot of things tonight,” I held the tip to the corner of my lipstick, careful not to smudge the dark red pigment with the burning cone. I frowned a little. “But none of them were that you liked my outfit.”

It was true, the dysfunctionally short leather shorts that barely covered my ass and the cropped tank tied up behind my neck wasn’t usual for the leader to see me in, but I knew what he referred to. 

“I told you, if you were to embarrass me out in public tonight-” I could hear his hands grip the rail and creaking it- pulling himself closer to me, “-you’d suffer a suitable punishment.”

My hands rested carefully behind me, just between his on the cool metal. I was nearly nose-to-nose with the square-jawed, tattooed, gelled-hair man towering over me now. “I didn’t embarrass you, you’re the one who said we’re public now.”

Eric’s rough hand gripped the corners of my jaw with gentle fingers, ones that warned me what was coming. “You’re not going to have that cheeky smile for much longer. You like making a show for everyone rubbing all over me at a party?”

“I didn’t see you stopping me.” I shrugged. He still held my chin in his hands. “Weren’t those your hands all over my ass?”

“Of course they had to see what’s mine.” I felt a hand on my hip, my back shook the cold railing, and Eric’s hand tilted my head up farther. I could see his face just barely in the dark, enough to make out him staring me down with an equally dark smile. “But I am a man of my word.”

“Ooh, a Candor,” I raised my eyebrows up and down. I could feel his body heat sending hot waves against my torso and legs, and the railing behind still contrasted with cold metal. “So, what’s this punishment I’m supposed to be scared of?”

Fingertips pressed tighter against my jaw as I felt Eric’s breath up near my ear. I could help but hold onto one of his belt loops and pull him in tighter. “Now you’re going to give me my own show. You’re going to sit on my face until you cry.”

I felt him smile against my cheek just barely, and I laughed softly. “Yeah, right. Good luck.”

“Oh.” It was filled with mocking sympathy, and he looked me in the eyes from several inches above again. “You have no idea what you’re in for, do you? Be at my apartment at one. Do. Not. Be. Late.”

I smiled again, then nodded. Eric wordlessly turned and walked off. His boots echoed with each footstep back to the rock-solid ground. I waited for him to disappear, dragged another long puff of thick air from my dying joint, and flicked the finished tip down the void. 

I checked the watch on my wrist. Bead bracelets flew across the face. 12:32. Plenty of time. 

The next phase of getting back to the bar, washing the smell off my hands, closing my tab, and meeting back with my friends was a blur of scenes. First I was in the bright-lit tile bathroom, where the LED bulbs reflected obnoxiously off black and grey tiles where drunk party-goers spilled water and drinks. The hallway was filled with dark patches of making out couples, people talking, people crying, and an entrance back to the club areas. Through a set of glass doors, I grabbed the silver handle for balance as I stared out for my group. People I didn’t know, people I didn’t know, people I kinda knew, people I didn’t know. I made my way up to the raised bar area, terribly designed to be up four or five giant black steps on raised platforms. Or seven, I lost count. I closed out my tab, received my points card back, and made one more look for the group I came with. Nothing. I’d see them at work eventually. 

The walk back through the hallways was the perfect time to catch my deep, cool breath and find my footing again. I still staggered slightly through the echoing hall, past the occasional talking couples or chatting smokers. My heeled boots padded gently past everyone, around corners, and past the general residencies. 

I followed my muscle memory back up to Eric’s apartment. Do. Not. Be. Late. was running through my head. My heart was skipping, and my foot almost joined as I smiled a little to myself. Flashbacks and fantasies were running through my head at warp speed while I tried to walk at a normal pace up more stairs and through renovated hallways. 

I stopped at a navy blue door. It was nearly black. I checked my watch again. 12:58.  I pulled my boots back, and tried not to swing around too much. I calmed my lungs to silence my breath. 

I checked the watch again. 1:01. I held my fist up near my head, paused for a few more moments near the door, then finally knocked three times. 

“Open it.”

What greeted me was another dark room. Not nearly as dark as the chasm, but a warmly-lit minimalist apartment with barely any decoration to reflect the soft yellow lamps. There were, however, a couple candles burning on the end tables that had just been lit in the past several minutes. 

“That’s already how you’d like to start this?” Eric sat on a leather black couch across the room from me, stoic and colossal as usual. His spread knees bent at a perfect ninety-degree angle with his arms stretched across the back of the couch. He still stared at me with fire, and I once again looked up and down what appeared to be perfectly-tailored black jeans and a tight black tee that pulled on his bicep muscles and showed off the dark linework on his arms. 

“Like what?” I frowned and shut the door behind me. “You told me to be here, I’m here.”

“Two minutes.” 

“One minute.” I crossed my arms. 

“If you knew that, then you knew you’re late.” His piercings arched up with his eyebrow. “When I give you a command, that’s what it means.”

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, kneeling down towards the edge of the couch. “You weren’t great at getting me to do what I was told during initiation,” I inched closer to his boots on the floor, “You aren’t good at getting me to listen at work, unless I feel bad about saving your face,” I sat directly in between his knees now, “I’m not sure why you think it would work well now.”

Eric grabbed my chin again, barely leaning forward to address me from above. “Because next time you wear those little shorts, you won’t need to shake your ass on me to have proof you’re mine. The pretty red marks will do the job just fine.”

I smiled up at him, leaning my face into his hand as my own hands stroked up the tops of his thighs. Eric leaned down slowly again, until my eyes were half-open and I could just barely feel his lips nearly about to touch mine. My hands reached where the denim waistband dug into his skin, pressing my fingers into him. I felt Eric’s mouth move, and opened to see that plotting smile. I frowned. 

“You’re not getting anything until you pay that late penalty.”

I looked up through my lashes and tried to look innocent, brushing my hands over his jeans more thoroughly. “What will you do to me?”

“Come lay down.” He snapped, pointed up, then at his lap.

I pushed myself up by my arms. “Really?” It was laced with curiosity. 

“Now.” He was nice enough to place one of the black throw cushions where my head belonged, how gracious. He sat back with his open hands. I lied across his lap, arching my back and pressing my stomach against his thighs. I could already feel a hard tent digging against my hip, and bore down as if I was just getting comfortable. Eric gave a swift smack to my ass. 

I laughed softly. “That was kind of embarrassing.”

Smack! My breath caught in my throat. Pain stung my left ass cheek, and a kind of whiny moan escaped. 

“Better?”

“Mm,” I tried not to sound defeated. 

“Take these off.” Eric snapped the leather booty shorts against my skin. He guided my hips up with my hands as I arched up, nearly putting my ass in his face to pull the shorts down and off. Eric did the rest of the work pulling them off my legs. He hummed. He snapped my black thong against my ass. I grumbled. 

“Keep count,” he ordered. 

Crack! 

My butt stung again. Barely above a whisper, “One.”

“I can’t hear you.” 

Smack! The right side. I could kind of whimper a “Two.”

“Get to five.” 

Snap! 

I couldn’t help the soft moan. The hot sting was just barely painful enough to wake up my body, and I could feel even more heat between my legs. “Three.”

Smack! I tried not to wiggle my ass around and beg him to touch me. “F-Four.”

“You shouldn’t be enjoying this.”

Smack! He grabbed my butt hard after the last. 

“Five,” I was still airy and whiny. I pressed harder against his hand on my skin. 

“Aw, you took it so well,” Eric still spoke with almost a condescending tone. “If only this was your only punishment tonight.”

I hummed, starting to grind tiny circles in his lap with my hips. “What do you want me to do next?”

Eric held a handful of my hair and pulled me back. I stared out into the space above his couch and focused on his breath in my ear. “First off,”

Smack!

I yelped. I wiggled my hips around in painful shock of the unexpected spank. I whined at Eric. 

“That was for being late on purpose. Now, I want you naked on your knees on the bed. Go.”

Next thing, I was pushing off my knees to stand up. Now in just my tight top, a thong, and the heeled boots; I paused before deciding to make a show out of untying the bow on the back of my neck as I walked away, pulling the straps of my shirt all the way down before disappearing behind the bedroom door. I was quick to pull off the tiny piece of lace around my hips, untie the boots, and hop up onto the wide grey-sheeted bed to wait. I was brushing my hair out with my fingers and fixing my calf-high socks for minutes before Eric finally swung the door back open. I leaned forward in my W-sit, staring at him up and down as he entered shirtless. 

My tongue swiped over my teeth with every inch I took in of him. Eric’s well-carved muscles were decorated with the most intricate geometric mazes and shapes and designs across his arms and torso, reaching up his neck. I felt a wet spot growing on his sheets as I watched how each part of his body tensed and rippled with each step, down to his unbuckled leather belt. The black denim rested low on his hips and he swung them towards me wordlessly, that intense stare back on me. I chewed on my bottom lip and leaned forward, fighting the urge to grab his waistband and pull him towards me. 

Eric leaned in, so close I could almost reach out to kiss him, and paused with an arched brow. “I thought I said naked?” He flicked my sock against my skin. It made my leg pull out and press me harder into the wet spot. I frowned. “They’re cute, so I’ll let it slide this time.”

“You haven’t told me what you’re gonna do to me.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

“If you’d been listening instead of being a brat, you’d know I did.” Eric gripped my face in one hand again, tilting it to the side. “You’re going to sit on my face until you cry for me.”

I laughed like I had for the first time. “Is that a challenge? I’ll bet you tap out before I do.” 

Eric had an evil smile on his face. “You’re not going to enjoy this like you think you will.”

He walked around and flopped on his back next to me, making the bed squeak. Before I could process it, he grabbed my knees and pulled my legs closer. I whimpered as I fell back and tried to keep my balance. Eric pulled my legs over his chest as easily as I was a toy. My brows raised in surprise, not sure how to react. I tried to adjust myself safely on either side of the man’s square shoulders, but his arms wrapped around each leg and pulled me in close to his jaw. 

“Now you sit there and look pretty for me.”

His soft tongue slid up, finally giving me some of that friction I was begging for. I whined when he rode directly over my clit, and then slowly back down over it. I whined again and wiggled around. Eric’s hands gripped harder into my thighs and pulled me down tighter. I tried to calm my breath as I felt his hot tongue drawing firm lines up, down, up, down, up, down. My clit begged for more and cried that it was too intense at the same time. When I bore my hips down, pure pleasure shot up my core. I moaned out openly, and Eric pulled me in further, encouraging me with his hands to ride against his face. His mouth enveloped my pussy, breathing hot air and grinding his tongue hard directly against my clit. My entire abdomen tingled, and I couldn’t help but melt into his arms rocking my hips on beat with his tongue. 

“God, Eric,” I managed before I could get a deep breath. I tried to relax all my muscles and just enjoy the feeling; I knew if I came too soon, the overstimulation would make me lose this challenge. A few soft moans still blew past my lips. 

The rough man below my legs decided now was the time to start playing tricks with his tongue, drawing perfect little circles over my clit and sucking on it and teasing my lips. I whimpered and threw my head back and fell harder against Eric as I was trying to both contain the amazing rippling feeling across the entire central part of my body and savor it at the same time. “Holy fuck, Eric, please, please don’t stop.”

I could only see the upper half of Eric’s square, fierce and pierced face below me, but he looked incredibly focused on the task directly in front of him. One hand trailed down to his perfectly-gelled hair, traced his eyebrow piercings, and rested on his temple as I hummed through the burning pleasure he caused between my legs. 

I was trying so hard not to cum. It wasn’t that I ever had to ask, but if he was serious about going until I cry, that wouldn’t happen until after the overstimulation. I wanted to hold him there forever, grasping hard to my hips to pull me down against his face, playing with my clit with his tongue, moaning and grinding and tingling and melting into his touch before the orgasm exploded. 

“Oh, fuck, please,” I whined like a horny cuckoo clock. My breath was getting faster. I was having difficulty calming it with all the flicking and swiping and licking Eric was doing. He just pressed against my clit so perfectly that I couldn’t hold it in. 

My legs shook and trembled hard. All that pleasure in my stomach exploded and sent fire across my whole body. My head threw back and my eyes got stuck at the grey ceiling. I didn’t even have control of the loud, untethered moans ripping from my lungs. All I felt was hot, wet, blinding pleasure pouring from my folds and spiraling out across my body. One hand was resting back on Eric’s abdomen, the other gripping his hand on my thigh. I briefly wondered if he could even breathe. I was brought back on track by his tongue still dancing across my clit while my legs shook and spasmed against him. 

It was so much. It was so good. I didn’t want him to stop, but every touch of his tongue left me frantic. I whined, wiggled, bucked, twitched, whimpered, and jerked with every bit of friction against his mouth. 

“Please,” I squeaked. The overstimulation was beginning to take over, but I didn’t want to lose the battle. A hitched breath later, I was moaning and whining with my clit throbbing against him. 

He wasn’t slowing down. I felt Eric’s hot mouth still rubbing hard against me, sucking, licking, drawing, grinding against my almost painful pussy. I cried out harder and instinctively bore my hips down more. This only made Eric swipe harder against my clit, completely soaked. 

I leaned back farther, almost completely on his tough stomach now. I rocked back and forth. “Fuck, Eric!” I tried to last longer but my hand instinctively shot against the bed and onto his stomach, ripping myself from his mouth. I laid awkwardly and shakily against his abs, breathing in shallow sobs. I stared up at the ceiling with blurry, white vision, still trembling through every part of my body. I felt one hot tear roll out of the corner of my eye. 

Eric pulled me down closer to his lap and sat up ever so slightly. I still lied back between his legs, barely processing his head leaning down closer to me. His hand turned my face to one side, then the next. 

“What did I tell you?” He said with a cocky smile that just barely traced the corners of his lips. “I guess you’ll learn to listen next time.” 

I whined in response, still riding the serotonin high. I closed my eyes and felt Eric shift, then grab my face again. I opened my eyes to see him directly over me now. His voice was soft as he eyed me, less intensely than before, but with the same hunger. “Now, what do you say?”

“Thank you,” I squeaked softly. 

“You took me so well, sweetheart.” Eric’s hand still gripped my lolled-back jaw, but his voice wasn’t filled with that sense of mocking. “Tell me what you want.”

I gathered the ability to open my eyes and look far up at him, resting my hand over his. I could still see that love of control in his eyes. I reached my face up, close to his. He finally leaned down and let his lips touch mine. It was soft, gentle, a massive contrast to his character. Then, I breathed out, “I want you to bend me over and make me beg for you.”

That plotting smile was back again. “I don’t have to make you do anything, you’ve done that all on your own.”

I didn’t have another chance to respond before Eric turned me over like a toy again. His huge hands grasped my hips and flipped them over, then pulled them towards him. Now in a prone position, I leaned back and let my hips grind my ass against his unbuttoned jeans. He was pressing his clothed boner against my drenched vulva, but then disappeared. Just as I could look back for him, I felt hands grab my thighs and yank me backwards. A quiet yelp displayed my shock as Eric pulled me to the edge of the bed. His repositioning came with an evil chuckle. 

Suddenly, my toes were barely touching the ground. One of Eric’s hands was on my neck, just below my hairline, gently pushing my face to the bed. The other grasped my hip and pulled my ass to him. “Good girl.”

I whined and pressed harder against the jeans I could feel him shuffling off. “Already came, and still so desperate,” Eric hummed. “That’s my good little slut.”

I whined and backed against him harder. His dick now slid against my sore clit, and I twitched. Eric rubbed slow, but hard against my folds. I whined again, grinding to get him to go where I wanted. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” That condescending tone was back. “What’s wrong?”

I groaned and wiggled against him more. “Please.”

“So whiny tonight,” he remarked, still teasing me. “Use your words.”

“Please, Eric,” I added as if that would get what I wanted. 

“Please what?” Eric mocked from behind me. His fingers were gently teasing my entrance, making me somehow even wetter. 

I groaned. “Just fuck me, Eric, for Christ’s sake.”

“All you had to do was ask nicely,” he taunted. 

My breath hitched. The orgasm and soaking preparation I’d had still wasn’t enough to prepare me for the absolute raw force that immediately broke through my body. Eric was big- like extremely big- but I still hadn’t been prepared. I bit my lip and hummed lightly. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

I shook my head quickly. “Please don’t stop, please don’t.”

I could visualize that evil smile on Eric’s face behind me as he pounded in again. I couldn’t stop the tiniest cry that escaped my lips. He pulled my ass up higher with each stroke, leaving my toes stretching to barely reach the floor. My hands gripped the sheets tighter with each hard hit, feeling his dick stretch my muscles out until they had to relax. Moans and hums brushed past my lips loudly again, and my head bobbed on beat with the creaking of the bed. Each hit to the inside of my walls made me feel like I was just gushing out my juices on him. My vision was tinging white again as he grabbed the hair at the top of my head and pulled back. 

One hand still gripped the sheets. The other grasped his fingers over my ass, bouncing with each slam into me. My legs were shaking again, my hips, my stomach tightening. I became like dead weight, unable to hold my head up without him pulling my hair and unable to press my ass farther against him without his hand to pull me up. The noises coming out of my mouth were ungodly, and I was only encouraged when I heard deep, guttural groans tearing from Eric’s lips. 

“Please, please, don’t stop,” I cried out. My jaw became slack and I lost control of my pleasure-burning body that erupted with waves of warm tingles and violent relief. 

I was broken quickly from my trance when the dick inside me was ripped out, leaving me empty. I heard another hot, dark groan before sputters of wet, warm liquid shot across my back. 

Eric’s hands disappeared for a moment, then was replaced by the feeling of fabric. A towel swiped across my back, and then his hands rested on my hips again. 

Sometimes, you think that’s why the city decided to force its inhabitants to choose their home faction when they’re so young. At that age, all you want to do is escape, so you pick something strange and foreign, a faction that your family would hate so you could fight back against them. When the dust clears and you realize that the past was not so terrible after all, you are in the middle of a strange place with no way of returning, so you have no choice but to fight to stay there.

It would instill a truly fascinating sense of dedication in its transfers, to say the least. Or perhaps no one is like that at all, and it is just that you have made a mistake with no way to fix it. Maybe you should have stayed in Amity after all, been content with familiar nothingness and learned to fake your smiles at least as well as your mother, or save your anger for when no one can see it, like your father.

You don’t think you were meant for Amity, though, not really. It vexed you to no end, the simplicity of it all. You did enjoy the painting, the artists that sprung up in every corner, common as dandelions, but that wasn’t the end of it. The rules were chafing yet vague, the expectations ever-changing. It should have come as no surprise that you would leave.

Besides, you did well in Dauntless initiation, to the great surprise of just about everyone there. They saw your brightly colored clothes when you leapt from the roof, but soon enough you blended in with the lot of them and people would double take when you told them you hadn’t been born in Dauntless proper. The thought that you could be from Amity of all places was insane, and had it not been for the fact that you still remember the waving gold of the fields, the high flying birds that soared above your head, you would have believed it as little as your new friends.

Despite your best attempts to immediately separate yourself from your former faction, you couldn’t shake the memories completely. That’s why you didn’t shoot for one of the top jobs or security positions. Those were snapped up by the really good kids, the ones who aren’t just not carefree but genuinely heartless.

You ended up taking a position among the ranks of tattoo artists and quickly soared to the top. Amity had taught you clarity and control in your art, and soon you were known for your original designs. More often than not, Dauntless looking for a new pattern would ask you to draw something directly as opposed to just using one of the countless templates already printed out.

It gives them a sense of originality, for one thing. No one tattoo is ever the same when it comes to your works. It saves members of the faction from the embarrassing experience of showing off a new tattoo just to see the guy across from you roll up his sleeve to reveal the exact same thing.

Soon enough, your name has spread far and wide across Dauntless, and you get more and more customers by the day. That’s how you know that you ended up choosing the right faction and way of life after all, and it’s also how you meet Eric Coulter for the first time.

Eric is somewhat of a mixed bag. He only graduated from initiation a year or so before you, so he didn’t lead your training when you first joined the faction. You’ve heard he’s a total killer, both in the fighting ring and at every other moment of the day, so you were more than a little uneasy when he first darkened the door of your shop.

You’re not really sure what you expected when he showed up in the beginning. That he’d yell at you, maybe, like you’d heard in whispers. Apparently he’d go off on anyone if he felt the need– someone taking the wrong water glass in the mess hall, or an idiot trainee who didn’t get ready in time– or he could have just been there to complain about some failed regulation you didn’t know about.

Instead, he was nice, actually, which was somehow even more unsettling than if he’d just been the harsh training leader he is to everyone else. He’d spent a lot of time admiring your works, even offering up a rare compliment here and there. At last, he’d decided on an initial design, and taken a seat on your chair.

Most clients talk at least a little while you’re tattooing them. New initiates usually rattle off their difficulties, grateful for an ear that won’t judge them or try to use their weaknesses to gain a position or two in the rankings. Experienced Dauntless sometimes swap gossip or discuss various pieces of information they’ve heard from contacts in other factions. Others just stay silent the whole time, thinking through ideas they’ll barely even hint at to you.

One of your friends has tattooed Eric before, and they told you he’d been absolutely icy the whole appointment, hardly even saying a word except to point out which tattoo he wanted. Maybe he’d just had a bad day then, because you and Eric actually end up talking the entire time. 

He complains about the initiates being unable to so much as tie their shoes without needing his directions, and laughs when you counter his stories with what you’ve seen outside of the scheduled training hours. Eric asks you about how you started tattooing and seems genuinely stunned that you grew up in Amity.

“It doesn’t seem possible,” he tells you over the hum of the tattoo needle, “you’re, like, normal.”

You laugh at that. “The Amity are normal, Coulter.”

He narrows his eyes. “They’re weird. Happy-go-lucky strangers. Not you, though,” he adds quickly, “you’re tough. A real Dauntless.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t take offense if you insult the Amity,” you grin, “I left for a reason, believe me on that.”

Eric frowns. “What was the reason, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You sigh, staring at the design you’re working through for a moment before getting up the strength to continue. “I clashed with the higher-ups a lot. If you weren’t totally happy and living life all the time, you felt like you were disappointing them. Everyone there claims that they’re only ever nice to them, but the faction leaders told me I was a screwup more times than I could count. Even my own parents.”

When you risk a glance up, you notice that Eric’s expression has twisted down into something colder, something almost like rage. “They were wrong. They shouldn’t have said that.”

“I know,” you laugh to yourself, “I did well in initiation, obviously they should have guessed that.”

After a while, Eric is convinced to laugh a little alongside you, but the anger doesn’t erase itself from his features for some time. “Yes,” he mumbles almost to himself, “they should have.”

The rest of the session passes without incident. The next day, you find yourself waiting at your empty station. He was supposed to come back to finish the piece, but he’s a few minutes late, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s on purpose, that you said or did something to chase him off. It could be nothing, of course, but you never know.

He ends up hurrying in soon enough, the slightly quickened beat of his walk the only sign that something is on his mind. You look up when he arrives, allowing yourself a small smile. He did come back, then. You were not too much.

“Glad to see you,” you say, “I was worried I scared you off with my inherent Amity-ness. I’ve heard it’s bad for Dauntless. Ruins the whole stoic demeanor if we smile too much.”

His lips twitch upwards briefly, but whatever had been bothering him before tamps that forbidden emotion down soon enough. “No, not your fault in the slightest. Some initiate was using the wrong kind of gun during today’s drills, nearly put another kid’s eye out. I don’t even know where he got the thing, but it happened anyway.”

“Ah,” you say with a knowing look, “Initiates.”

“Always initiates,” Eric grumbles, but he allows his smile to stick this time, and you think that maybe he isn’t as bad as the rumors allow.

The rest of the session is just as good, if not better. Eric is kind to you, says things that grow increasingly apparent to be jokes. It’s funny, you’d always heard that he was this terribly cold guy, but everyone else must have gotten him at a bad time. Either that, or that’s the Amity in you seeing the best of everyone. Still, you’re certain that his good attitude whenever you’re around isn’t faked. It can’t be.

There’s silence from him for a while. You don’t take it personally, or you shouldn’t, anyway– Eric’s a busy guy, you know that from his words alone if not from always seeing him rush around the compound. He’s a Dauntless leader, he’s not going to be hanging around a tattoo shop unless he’s actively getting new ink.

Then, about a week or so later, he comes back in. Busies himself with looking at the patterns for a while even though you both know he’s not going to get something anyone else could have. This time, he talks to you, asks what you wish you got to draw more often. When you answer, he has you put that in his latest design. It makes your stomach tie itself in tight knots, more intense than even when you’d thrown yourself off the roof on your first day on Dauntless earth.

Confusingly, Eric stops you when you’re about halfway through, says that’s all the time he’s got and that he’d like to continue tomorrow, if that’s alright with you. You ask him if he minds having an incomplete tattoo on his arm and he just laughs, tells you he’ll pull his sleeves down or something. It’s a terrible excuse, but it’s what he wants and so that must be what you want, too. It’s good business. You can tell yourself that when you’re lying awake at night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Eric comes in almost every day, demanding increasing progress on his tattoos. You don’t know why he insists on doing them piecewise– it’s not pain tolerance, he’s got more of that than anyone around and it’s not like Dauntless Leader Eric Coulter would ever admit to something pathetic like pain. It must be something else, then. It must be.

The tattoos spiral and change as they spread across his skin. They’re a mess, to be honest, no cohesive pattern, like he’s picking the templates with his eyes closed and only the goal of covering as much flesh as possible. 

You tell him his tattoo sleeves aren’t as coherent as they could be; he laughs, asks you to use your Amity artistry to make some sense of them. He seems unruffled by your accusations of poor taste. Later that same day, Eric punches someone’s nose in because some drunk fellow stumbling out of a party made the mistake of questioning the inked patterns. The idiot said the same things you did, more or less. One of you received a rare smile, the other, a broken bone. It makes no sense.

At some point, he’s going to run out of skin to tattoo. You warn him of this and he grins, flashing dagger-sharp teeth at you. Says that’s why he’s asking you to go so slowly with it. Inch by inch, he cedes control to you. You want to question what that means, but some part of you is scared to ask, scared that he’ll change his mind and leave, or worse, ask someone else to do it.

The last day comes, and this time you know it’ll be the end with certainty. Eric asks you to ink his throat in thick stripes, almost like you can see the angles of his spine through the skin. You sit there, trying to focus on your needle, finishing the design, instead of anything foolish like his head in your hands, his eyes resting quietly on you. He can’t talk while you’re working on his neck like this, but the weight of his gaze says enough anyway.

You finish the last stroke and allow yourself to sit there for one final moment, waiting for it all to be over. Your fingers rest on the smooth expanse of his cheekbone, and Eric raises his hand to cover yours.

“Well,” you say at last, trying to keep your voice light, “it’s been an honor to tattoo you, Eric.”

He smiles. The brief, unwelcome thought that this might be the last time you see him do that flashes through your head, and you banish it just as quickly. That’s not something you want to think about right now, if ever.

“I’d say I’m the one who’s been honored,” he returns, “you’ve got the best work in the faction and everyone knows it.”

You feel some small surge of pride in your chest when he says it, hot and bright like the Dauntless flames. “Thank you.”

“You can thank me in a different way,” he offers, “Drinks tomorrow night, maybe? On me?”

You smile back at him. “I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he grins, standing so he can look down at you. “I’ll pick you up then. It’ll be fun. Maybe you can teach me some of that Amity optimism.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. It would suit him, you think, smiling more, trusting you so he can let down his guard. Looking at him, at how his eyes brighten when he laughs, you think it already does.

An hour later, the tunnel is half empty. I’ve abandoned my shoes and my stomach growls, unsatisfied with half a blueberry muffin. “OH GOD NOOO!!” Jenna screams from the opposite side of the door. She’s only been in there for two minutes. I eat the other half of the blueberry muffin, smushed from the inside of my jacket pocket. I lick the paper liner clean while pain builds behind my left eyebrow, a headache from the lack of caffeine. I blush recalling the reason why I wasn’t able to drink my coffee this morning, my lips still feel a little puffy. I can still taste his mouth on my tongue. 

The door opens again, and now it is Eric who is calling out a name; I’m not sure which. Our eyes lock when he glances up from the clipboard; his lips are a little puffy, too. He looks down at my shoes, raising his eyebrows slightly and stretching his piercings. Calvin stands, and I watch him walk into the room and lie on the metal chair before the door closes. It’s quiet again, except for the occasional swear word. Calvin isn’t a screamer. 

—

My stomach growls again with hunger. He’s been in there for too long, twice as long as usual. Each passing minute kills my hope that we’ll pass stage 2 together. I sniff, raise my eyes to the ceiling, and rapidly blink back the forming tears. I alternate between chewing on my fingernails and digging them into my palms, leaving small crescent indents in my skin.

I’m quick. The moment the door opens and Eric calls my name, I rush past him and grab Calvin by the elbow before he can leave through a door on the opposite wall. I press my lips against his ear as I pull him into a tight hug and whisper. 

“Find Addie.”

He pulls back and looks at me, sad and confused, with tear-stained cheeks and puffy red eyes. He manages to lift one corner of his mouth into a smile. “Goodbye, Apple.” He pats my hand and slips through my grasp. Both doors to the simulation room slam closed, and now we’re alone together. I stand there for a minute, trying to stay numb, dabbing my eyes with my sleeve to stop the tears from escaping. Now’s not the time.

I turn to face Eric. He sits on a stool, arranging a tray with a syringe, a vial of clear liquid, and an antiseptic wipe. A nearby monitor hums with static. What simulation did Calvin suffer through? What did Eric see on the screen? 

“Come, take a seat.” He says, and I obey, lying down and staring up at the ceiling light. The light burns into my retinas. The chair is still warm from the previous occupant, my friend. A tear rolls down my cheek and into my ear, clogging it. I shake my head once to unclog it, and Eric approaches with the antiseptic wipe. He leans over me, pushing hair away from my neck and wiping a few fallen tears away from my ear. The cloth is wet and cold against my skin. 

He uncaps the syringe, stabs the seal of the vial, and pulls on the plunger. He catches me staring at his hands and smiles amusingly. “I see you’ve left behind another pair of shoes.” He gestures down to my socks. I forgot Jenna’s shoes in the hallway. She’s going to kill me if I lose them. I laugh and cry at the same time in one long exhale as he tilts my head to the side, giving him better access to my neck. He pulls a few loose strands of hair back, and his fingers hesitate at the nape of my neck.

“If it helps,” he says, “Calvin was one of the bravest initiates I’ve seen this year.”

“It does. Thank you.” I reply, closing my eyes and wincing as the needle enters my neck and he pushes the plunger down. I swear I hear him apologize before I fade away.

—

I wake up and I’m in my bed. It’s the middle of the night, I’m cozy under a giant comforter, and I’m not alone. I’m not alone. I can hear him, them, breathing in the dark. Slow, eager gasps that hover over my head, rasping close to my ears, giggling under my bed, from under my blanket. I feel their bodies against me, pressing and shifting. They pull the covers away and move me into His lap. 

He sits in a chair in the corner while the rest of them hiss and contort, wrapping themselves around the chair’s legs. They jeer at me over His shoulder through the slats in the wood. My legs go numb, my feet jerk with pins and needles. He grasps one bare foot by the ankle, and with His other hand, violently tickles the bottom. I shriek, cry, struggle, and laugh. The other men reach up and pull my hair, exposing my neck to His beak. 

In a single peck, He rips out my esophagus, and I watch Him gulp down the bloody organ. Blood dribbles out of both sides of my mouth. He licks my face clean before pecking again and tearing away half my tongue, shattering several teeth in the process. Teeth fragments fall and slide down my throat, then spill out onto my chest. He grabs my other foot and goes back to tickling. I can’t breathe. I can only blink at Him until I finally leave my body. My vision fades to black as I slip away. 

—

“Olivia!” 

Hands shake my shoulders roughly. I gasp as my eyes open and Eric exhales. “Fuck, you stopped breathing for a minute.”

I blink into the fluorescent lights, sit up, and swing my legs over the side of the chair. My foot bumps one of Jenna’s shoes, and I slide my feet into them without thinking. I need to get out of this chair. I try to stand. He steadies me and tells me to breathe, gently pushing me back on the chair. I try to catch my breath, and he presses two fingers under my jaw to feel my heartbeat. My heart beats faster under his touch as I inhale the scent of his soap. The smell reminds me of his kitchen counter and how tight his hands were on my body.

“You okay now?” he asks. I nod, and he removes his hand from my throat, sitting back in his chair. I can finally breathe again after several deep breaths. 

“Will this count against my time?” My voice is raspy. I must have screamed a lot. I clear my throat, smooth my clothes, and pat down my hair. Sweat glistens on my forehead. One of my hands feels warmer than the other. 

Eric writes on the clipboard, “No,” he says, “The timer stops when the monitor stops displaying your fear simulation.” He covers his mouth to yawn. The skin between his knuckles has small crescent indentations similar to the ones on my palms. 

“Were you holding my hand?”

“This was your fastest time, congrats.” He ignores my question, rising from his seat, and I follow. He pauses at the door after he opens it. “Phase three is in two days. Try to get some rest before then.”

I hesitate beneath the doorframe, looking up at him. “How are you resting tonight?” 

Our breath syncs for a moment while we share the same air, and he smiles. “I’ll be at Venom. It’s a bar on the fifth floor.”

—

Calvin and Skyars’ belongings are gone, and their beds stripped bare by the time I wander back to the dorms. Jenna sits on an empty mattress, reading a book and halfway through a bottle of red wine. I sit on my bed across from her, and she offers the bottle without looking up. The tartness lingers on my tongue long after we finish the bottle, and I try to lure Jenna up to the fifth floor with the promise of buying our first round of drinks. She agrees on the condition that I wear one of her dresses and she gets to do my makeup. 

In the bar, we stand at the counter, and I tug on the edge of my dress and rub my eye until Jenna tells me to leave it alone. I’m going to stretch out her second-favorite dress and ruin my perfect eyeliner. I laugh, and she smacks my hand away when I reach up to scratch my eyelid again. It’s early, barely dinnertime, and the bar is mostly empty except for drunk initiates singing a song about their dearly departed friend, Skylar. They could only manage a few lines before they ran out of rhymes and started wrestling until someone got hurt. 

We dance with some Dauntless-born initiates, Henry and Jaz, and we take shots until we can’t dance anymore. We argue about who will score higher on the simulations now that our two groups are competing against each other, and place bets on our rankings. Jaz has to run naked through the Pit if she’s in the bottom 5.

Jenna goes to the bathroom with our new friends while I sit at the bar, nursing a water and a plate of nachos. She returns 30 minutes later with rosy cheeks, dilated pupils, and an inside-out dress. She kisses me on the mouth and says, “This is the best night of my life.” My lips tingle afterward, and she tells me it’s a physical manifestation of the universe’s love. The fifth time I glance over my shoulder, Jenna asks who I was looking for. I say nobody, she orders us another round of shots. 

The next time Jenna gets invited to the bathroom, I join her. The four of us cram into the largest stall, and I watch, amused, as they take turns snorting white powder out of a little bag with a spoon. When it’s my turn, I politely decline, but I allow Jenna to rub some onto my gums. The tingling rush of euphoria makes me laugh out loud. Jenna kisses my nose. Henry declares we need to dance, and Jaz grabs Jenna’s hand, pulling her out of the stall. She laughs, agrees, and tugs me along with them. 

After a few songs, I lean against the wall to catch my breath and watch Jenna dance between them. Through the bright, flashing lights and the fog machine haze, I can barely see how her hands linger on Jaz’s waist while Henry kisses her neck. I think about what Calvin would say if he were here. Someone lights a cigarette near me, and I take a step closer, enjoying the smell. He offers me the pack and I take one, putting it between my lips as his familiar hands flick the lighter on. Large fans over the dance floor make the flame stutter, and we both cup our hands over it to shelter the light. 

I inhale, the smoke warm in my mouth and in my lungs. “You kept me waiting,” I accuse, coughing on the first exhale. 

The cigarette between his lips tilts up slightly as he smiles, “Did I? You seemed busy.” He nods towards my friends, where Henry whispers in Jenna’s ear before the three of them trail off to the bathroom again. 

I laugh and say, “I was busy, they’re a lot of fun.” He studies my face through the haze, taking in my bright eyes and flushed cheeks. I can’t stop smiling.

“I bet,” he says, “Henry’s father always has the best drugs.” 

He stuffs the cigarette pack into his pocket. “Can I show you something?” 

“Tell me what it is first,” I say.

“Dancing juice.” 

That’s good enough for me. He offers his hand, and I don’t hesitate before taking it. His hand is warm as he leads me along the wall to a black door sunken into the paneling. He pushes it open, revealing a long hallway lined with black carpeting, black-and-silver wallpaper, and silver light fixtures. The door clicks behind us, and I almost ask him if we’re even allowed to be back here.

He opens the third door on the left and puts a hand on the small of my back as I step into a small but tastefully decorated room. It smells faintly of cigar smoke and disinfectant, and is furnished with black leather couches, a fireplace, and a stocked liquor cart. Eric reaches up into the fireplace and pulls down a dark brown box wrapped in a green silk ribbon.

“Where are we?” I ask, hovering between sitting and standing. 

“Henry’s dad’s office. Usually, only Amity sex workers are allowed inside. We’re lucky the old man wanted to have sex in an open field this weekend.” He winks and opens the box, revealing a dark brown bottle with a half-filled liquid sloshing inside.

“What is it?” I ask. 

“It’s alcohol. Kind of.” Eric grabs a pair of glasses from the bar cart and pours just enough to coat the bottom of each glass. He hands me one, settles onto the couch, and raises his glass for a toast. I perch on the armrest closest to him, laughing as I clink my glass against his. I don’t notice my dress riding up as I sniff the drink. He downs his in a single gulp. 

His face scrunches as he swallows, coughing afterward to clear his throat. “It’s delicious,” he tells me. I laugh and sniff my drink again. He raises his eyebrows, daring me. I plug my nose and swallow it fast, shuddering from the bitter burn down my throat. His eyes flick to my exposed upper thigh. 

“So delicious,” I confirm. He laughs, really laughs, and suddenly I don’t want to leave this room.  I step out of my stilettos, and he sets our empty glasses on the bar stand. 

“What’s your last name?” I ask, and he laughs again. 

I think he tells me, but I’m too distracted by our fingers linking together and resting on my leg. I smile as a finger caresses the soft skin of my thigh, and I spread my legs apart to see where his hands touch my body. My fingernails fit perfectly into the crescent-moon indents on the back of his hand. They’re deeper than the ones on my palms. I lift his hand to my mouth and kiss the indent with the widest mark, the one in the middle of his hand where my thumb nearly broke the skin. My lips trail softly over the rest of his knuckles, and I smile at him. 

“Sorry about that,” I whisper, and kiss the mark again, my lips linger against his warm hand. His eyes beg me to keep touching him, wavering between restraint and desperation. He shifts in his seat, and I feel powerful, knowing I control what happens next. His eyes are blown wide, and his lips part as I take his thumb in my mouth, wrapping my lips around the tip and sucking gently. He asks me a question, and the room glows with a warm light; I start to melt into the couch. I fall from the armrest onto his lap, catching myself on his shoulders as his hands steady my waist. My legs straddle him, and I giggle into his neck. He smells like cigarettes. “I’m feeling it, too,” he sighs, rubbing the fabric of my dress between my fingers and breathing deeply. 

I kiss the side of his neck while my fingers fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, undoing them slowly and kissing the skin of his exposed chest. His chest hair is soft against my lips. He startles when my lips make contact with his nipple, he takes my chin in his hand and brings it close to his. He kisses me like he’s answering a question, and I moan as his other hand moves to the small of my back, pulling me close to grind against the bulge forming in his pants. His tongue enters my mouth, and I suck on it, tasting the bitter dance juice. It’s even better than this morning, if that’s possible. I rub myself against his clothed erection, gasping at the friction through my thin underwear. 

Out of breath and gasping for air, I pull back just far enough to yank the dress over my head and toss it into the corner. My hands slide behind my back to unclasp my bra, but his hand covers mine, holding me against him, chest to chest, hot breath in my ear.

“We don’t have to do this,” he whispers, groaning when I roll against him again. 

“I want to.” I gasp as he presses into my bundle of nerves again. “Can we? Please?” I bury my face against his neck, grinding slow circles in his lap. His mouth moves from my ear to my throat, licking a hot, wet stripe from my collarbone up to my jaw. He releases my hands and drops them to my hips, helping guide my movements. 

“God, just like that,” he moans as I finally unclasp my bra and fling it into the same corner. He isn’t gentle when he takes my nipple into his mouth. I gasp as he sucks hard, his teeth scraping in a deliciously sharp way. I tug off his unbuttoned shirt, telling him it’s not fair that he’s still mostly clothed. 

When I undo his pants button and start to pull down the zipper, he stops me and waits for me to meet his stare, giving me another silent chance to back out. Instead, I push him against the couch, my tongue wetting my lips as I free him. He’s bigger than I expected, heavy with a thick pink head that drips with precum. I smear it with my thumb, tracking the vein along his length, and I’m rewarded with a low moan. We take turns biting each other’s lips. His hands roam, grabbing and squeezing my ass and rolling my nipples between his fingers. My eyes roll back when his fingers drift down my stomach and press against the front of my underwear, rubbing slow circles while I grind my soaked underwear against the base of his cock. 

“Fuck. Right there,” I gasp against his lips, my hips bucking into his touch. He holds me still with one hand while the other pushes my underwear aside, the pad of his thumb circling faster, harder, until I’m panting. He dips lower, pressing two fingers against my opening to gather my wetness, and dragging them back up to tease my throbbing clit.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, and I tell him it does. My legs shake, the pleasure building until it’s unbearable. 

“You’re going to make me cum,” I warn, breathless. My vision blurs as his fingers speed up, and I cum hard. The pleasure is white-hot and overwhelming as I rut against his fingers and clench around nothing. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” his voice is thick. I can only moan and slump against his chest, shivering as his fingers start to move again until I catch his wrist and stop him. Too sensitive to take more.

“Good girl,” he coos in my ear, bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste me. I try to catch my breath while he uses the saliva to stroke himself slowly, fisting his dick while his leaky tip oozes precum. 

“Can I help?” I ask softly. He nods with hooded eyes and quickens his pace as my middle finger gathers precum from his slit. “Just look at me with those pretty eyes, doll,” he replies, and I maintain eye contact as I suck him off my finger. 

I whine, “You taste good. Can I have more?” He tells me he’s close while my other hand wanders to his balls, touching them gently with my fingers. I feel them tense up as Eric squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head back and moaning. 

“Oh fuck—“ His orgasm is explosive, and he spills onto his stomach, cum dripping down his clenched hand as he milks every drop out. I drop to my knees and taste him again until his hand and body are clean. He watches, breathing hard, and hisses when my lips wrap around the tip of his semi-hard cock. “You’re going to kill me,” he moans and tucks himself back in his pants, pulling me back onto his lap and against his mouth.