you told yourself it was a sick joke. you waited for him to come home.

weeks.

months.

nothing.

no explanation.

no goodbye.

just the sudden flood of network propaganda introducing their new star hunter, the enigmatic leader with the grey tactical mask, aviators, and that long dark coat.

as he became the network’s masked god, you were fired. rent was three months overdue, fridge empty. it was the kind of desperation that made a billion new dollar prize sounded like salvation.

even if it meant you would have to survive for 30 days by dodging the man who once knew every inch of your body.

you didn’t care that he was hunting people for sport now. you didn't care that you were now one of those people. you needed the money badly enough to run straight into his game.

it had been eight days.

the other two runners were already gone. one taken out by a civilian tip, the other by a hunter drone strike. you were the last one standing and the world was eating it up.

you knew why you were still alive.

you caught the way he redirected the pack with a tilt of his head when they got too close to your trail. how he let civilian tips on your location went cold before action. he was dragging this out. still protecting you despite everything. and it pissed you off more than anything else.

you slipped through the rain-drenched alleys of the old industrial district, heading for the shitty walk-up apartment you had claimed as a temporary hole. peeling paint, busted locks, no heat. but it was off the grid, no cameras.

you checked over your shoulder out of habit, spotting a shadow that had been following you since two blocks ago.

tall figure in a dark jacket, cap pulled low. no mask tonight. he didn't even try to hide anymore.

you clenched the knife in your pocket harder.

you reached the door, key scraping in the lock before you stepped inside. just as you were closing it, a hand slid between the space, stopping the door from slamming shut. he shoved himself inside before you could react, kicking it closed behind him.

you took out the knife in your pocket, aiming at his throat. “get the fuck out.”

evan stood there, cap thrown without care, jacket zipped down. rain dripped from him onto the cracked floor. his stubbles were thicker, grey eyes dark with faint scars decorating his face from whatever hell he went through after accepting that hunter contract.

he didn't reach for a weapon, just stared.

“i knew you were fucking following me,” you hissed, digging the knife deeper until a thin line of blood beads against his skin, pushing him against the wall.

he didn't flinch, hands raised slightly in mock surrender with that cool nonchalance you hated even when you loved him.

“smart girl. you always did have good instincts.”

“shut the fuck up.” you shove him harder against the wall, but he was stronger. always was.

he moved faster than you remember, catching your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife out from your fingers without snapping bone. it hit the floor with a clatter. you kneed him in the thigh, knuckle aiming for his jaw but he caught your arm, spinning you until your back hits the wall with a thud that knocked the breath from your lungs. he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other braced beside your face.

up close, he looked older. the exhaustion in his eyes he was trying to hide behind that mask he wears for the world.

“get off of me, you fucking bastard,” you thrashed, struggling against his grip. your body remembered him too well. the heat, the weight and it betrayed you with a traitorous spark low in your belly.

“not until you tell me why you’re really here,” he asked quietly, voice low and rough like it hadn’t been used for anything but orders in years. “why the hell did you join the show?”

you laughed, bitter and sharp. “why the fuck do you think, evan? i’m broke, you fucking asshole. money. survival. same reason you sold your soul to become their masked fucking poster boy.”

his fingers tightened around your wrists. “i took that contract for us. enough money to get you out of this dying country. new names, new life. i was gonna come back for you.”

“you ghosted me. cut me off like i was nothing. then went on tv wearing that mask, murdering people. and now when i’m in your way, you’re going easy on me? taking out the others first? don’t pretend that that's mercy. you just don’t want to pull the trigger yourself.”

something flashed in his eyes. anger? regret? you couldn't tell.

“you think i want you dead?” he asked, sounded more offended about that than you practically calling him a coward.

“you left me to rot. actions speaks louder.”

“i was trying to save you, goddamn it!” he snapped, voice taking on a higher octave. his eyes were wild, all that famous composure shattered.

“i couldn’t give the order. i redirected every sweep. i told them you weren’t worth the resources yet.”

“i don't need your help or your fucking guilt, evan. you knew i can survive this on my own, with or without you. you made your bed, fucking lie in it.”

the air between you crackled, thick with old emotions and something darker. you hated him. you hated how your body arched toward him without permission, how his proximity still set you on fire.

“you broke us,” you whispered fiercely. “you left me to rot in this hellhole. after everything that you promised me.”

“i know. i fucking know. and i hate myself for it every day.”

another pause. you exhaled deeply, exhausted. exhausted from running, hiding, from holding all these feelings bottled inside you for years and letting it all out to him didn't even make you feel any better.

“just kill me.” you sighed. “i’m tired. finish the job. do what they paid you for.”

he stared at you, chest heaving. the silence stretches, electric and violent.

then his mouth crashed into yours.

it wasn't gentle. it was teeth and anger and two years of pent-up everything. you moaned before biting his lip hard enough to taste blood, and he growled into your mouth, releasing your wrists only to grip your hips and grinded against you. your hands fisted in his jacket, yanking him closer even as you cursed him in between kisses.

“fuck you,” you gasped against his lips, nails scraping down his neck.

“yeah,” he muttered, hands sliding under your shirt, rough palms dragging over your skin like he was reclaiming what was his. “keep telling yourself that.”

his free hand dropped between your legs, cupping you roughly through your jeans. you hated how your hips rolled into his palm on instinct.

“look at you,” he murmured against your ear, fingers pressing the seam against your clit. “hate my guts, but dripping the second i touch you.”

you tried to knee him but he wedged his thigh between yours, pinning you harder. he shoved your pants and underwear down enough then shoved a finger inside your soaked heat without warning.

“jesus, listen to that,” he groaned, pumping slow and deep, curling just right. “so fucking wet you’re dripping down my hand. you hate me that much, huh?”

“shut the fuck up,” you gasped, even as your walls fluttered around his finger. “i hate you so fucking much—”

he added a second finger, stretching you, thumb grinding your clit in a ruthless motion.

“then why are you about to come all over my hand?” he demanded, pumping his fingers harder, faster. “why does this pussy still weep every time you see me chasing you?”

“because you ruined me— fuck—”

you sobbed, nails clawing his shoulders, hips grinding shamelessly as you slowly tried to reach your peak.

he chuckled against your ear. “you really tried to move on, huh? but this pretty pussy never forgot who it belongs to.”

“evan—” you gasped, hips chasing his hand.

“that’s it,” he cooed, voice velvet-rough. “come for me, baby. show me how much you missed this.”

you shattered. hard, violent, clenching around his fingers as pleasure ripped through you. he didn't stop. he pumped into you through it until you were shaking and oversensitive

only then did he pull his hand free, bringing his glistening fingers to your mouth.

“clean them.”

you bit him instead. he laughed, low and dark, shoving them past your teeth anyway. you moaned, swirling your tongue as you tasted yourself on his digits as he forced you to suck.

“good girl,” he praised and your pussy clenched around nothing. “still know how to take what i give you.”

you slapped him across the face.

hard.

enough to snap his head sideways.

he turns back slowly, cheek red, eyes blazing. “do that again and i’ll choke you while i fuck you raw.”

your pussy throbbed.

“do it,” you challenged, voice shaking with rage and want. “i dare you.”

he groaned, ripping your clothes then his own before he threw you on the bed, flipping you onto your stomach and yanked your hips up.

his hand wrapped around your throat instantly until your back met his chest. firm, possessive, cutting just enough air to make your pulse thundered. he took his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking and teased your slit.

“say it.” he demanded. “tell me how much this pussy wants to be ruined again.”

“i want it.” you replied almost immediately, already shaking. “please. fuck me.”

evan didn't waste any more time. he slammed into you in one slow, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

“still so fucking tight,” he grunted, releasing your throat. your body went limp, collapsing onto the mattress as he fucked you.

“two years and no one else stretched this cunt right, did they?”

“don’t flatter yourself—”

he stopped to slap your ass hard, the crack echoing. “lie to me again, i dare you.”

another slap, harder. you moaned despite yourself, body jerking forward before he drove into you again.

he leaned over you, chest to your back, hand sliding down to fist your hair and bring you up as he pounded deeper.

“say you’re mine.” he whispered into your ear, hand sliding down to rub your clit in unrelenting circles.

“no—”

he pulled out almost completely, hand leaving your hair then slammed back in so hard the bedframe cracked against the wall. “say it.”

“fuck you—”

he stilled, buried to the hilt, and you nearly sobbed from the loss of friction.

“say it, or i’ll leave you like this.

“you wouldn’t—”

he started pulling out, slowly, and you whimper.

“evan, move. you bastard—”

“say it.”

you broke, voice cracking. “i’m yours— god— i’m still yours— please, fuck me—”

he groaned in victory, hand again around your throat to pull you back to his chest and fucked you with his other hand rubbing your clit like he was trying to split you apart.

“do it. come on my cock, baby. come on.”

and you did, walls spasming around him with a cry that was half-sob, half his name.

he followed seconds later, thrusting deep and spilling inside you with a guttural “mine— fuck— you're mine.”

you collapsed trembling, his weight heavy on your back. his hand stays loosely around your throat, thumb stroking your pulse like a claim.

he didn't pull away immediately. just stayed there, forehead pressed to your back, both of you panting in the dim light.

“this doesn’t change anything,” you whispered

“i know.”

he finally stepped back, zipping up. you straightened, pulling on what was left of your clothes, avoiding his eyes.

“tomorrow,” he said quietly, heading for the door. “stay off the main grids. head east.”

is the 7th night of The Running Man. You've already outlasted your fellow runners, having spent several long nights huddled under varying derelict infrastructure left long forgotten by the rapidly changing Co-op City.

You pull your jacket closer around your shaking body, numb fingers given up on trying to fiddle with the zipper, and instead reach further around yourself in an effort to find warmth. A futile defence against the cold night air that whispered around you.

The New Dollars in your pocket feel heavy, fingers smoothing over them at an attempt to sooth the feeling of impending death. There's still quite a substantial amount left due to the fact that staying anywhere too long was suicide. Even the thought of staying in a dingy hotel room out on the city outskirts still made your stomach turn.

The hunters would find you. It was just a matter of when and how they'd decide to dispose of you.

But you were tired. So tired. Even if you could just get a few hours of sleep in a clean bed, it would give you a better chance of survival tomorrow. You could get back onto the road and head towards the border. The fewer people there were - the better.

The hood to your jacket stays up, shielding you from prying eyes. Your gaze stays glued to the floor as you make your way through back-alleys and past people lying asleep on the street. Slipping past crowds all entranced by the live viewing of The Running Man on enormous Free-Vees that are plastered on the side of apartment blocks.

The programs head hunter, Evan Mccone, was still searching for you.

Your fingers reach into your pocket once again, feeling for the cash and recounting it in your mind.

-----

The harsh cold light emerging from the front desk draws you closer, and you come to a stop before it.

The woman behind the desk doesn't look up. Her thin, wirey hair piled on top of her head is the only thing you can see, along with two aged hands writing something down you can't make out.

You wonder if she's armed. A rough place like this must see a lot of trouble.

"How many beds?" She grumbles out.

"J-just the one." You breathe out, trying to keep your voice steady. "For one night."

The pen clatters down onto the desk. The noise is swiftly replaced by a set of keys being thrown towards you and hitting you in the chest before falling into your grasp.

"That'll be 37 New Dollars -" she grunts.

You quickly reach into your pocket again before pulling out the correct amount of cash and placing it on the wood, pushing it towards the woman.

"Alright - no problem. Keep the change, too." You turn around quickly, ready to head up the stairs.

"Thanks, honey."

You reach the bottom step, silently holding in your victory from not being noticed.

hold on — one more thing."

You pause. Waiting for her to just pull the gun out from behind the counter and blow your brains out. Shit I would too - a reward like that - could change anyone's life.

You remember the switchblade you'd placed in your back pocket - feeling almost like a child's toy in most scenarios involving a firearm.

"Keep the noise down will'ya -" she drawls out "-don't want to be getting anymore complaints." She tuts to herself, shaking her head and picking her pen back up.

---

The room was basic. One double bed lay in the middle of the room - underneath a flickering light bulb that filled the room with a subtle glow. After several attempts at pulling the cord.

You desperately fight off the exhaustion whilst reaching down to pull off your sneakers, chucking them somewhere in the room. Your jacket is quickly unzipped and discarded before you climb under the sheets.

Sleep consumes you instantly. your mind stays restless - flitting through dreams of being somewhere safe and not in the game. Thoughts jumbled with being caught by the hunters and tortured for the pleasure of the viewers, your death becoming the perfect finale to the season.

A sharp creak of the floorboards breaks through your thoughts. Someone is in the room.

Your eyes snap open, body quickly jolting up, making a grab for the knife on the floor. Your fingers are wrapped around the handle, knuckles whitening.

There he stands. The Running Mans golden boy - Evan Mccone. He stands tall, leather coated arms reaching forward into a stance. His gloved fingers are already tentatively pressed against the trigger of his silver handgun.

"Put the knife down." He speaks through the mask.

Your grip tightens, pushing yourself further against the wall. Your tongue - like lead in your mouth - suddenly feels incapable of moving to formulate any kind of response.

"Don't make me repeat myself." He takes another step forward. Gun angled straight at your form. "Or would you rather i —" another step. "- come over and take it from you?"

The grip you have on the knife is almost surreal. You can feel your rapid heartbeat rushing all the way to the tips of your fingers, pulsating. You rush forwards slashing at him, making any attempt to injure him but are quickly intercepted by long arms pulling you forward and pushing you against the bed.

The cold barrel of the gun is pressed uncomfortably against your neck, whilst his other hand keeps your wrists pinned against your chest.

The position clouds your mind with fear and slight arousal. You cursed at yourself - it was hard not to. You couldn't remember the last time anytime manhandled you quite like this. You wondered if this would be the last.

"Please‐" you beg, "—please dont kill me—"

"Im not going to." he pauses. "The cameras aren't even here yet." He scoffs, leering down at you. "So where would the fun be in killing you now? For no one to see?"

"Get the fuck away from me." You hiss out. Grip slipping on the blade.

"I can see why Killian likes you." He breathes out, expression hidden by his mask. "I get the feeling that he wanted you all to himself. Shame." He tuts.

"Too many people come on this show, thinking they have what it takes — Thinking they're special." He scoffs as if this whole thing is becoming mundane for him.

"You're a monster. Mccone." Your gaze meets his, or at least you think it does. it's hard to tell through the darkness of his sunglasses.

"Oh - I'm the monster?" He questions. " What about you then? No one forces people to sign up - We all know your story. No family, no husband, no job. So why are you here? To take money from others who need it?"

"Do you enjoy killing people?" Your voice exasperated. Squirming in his grasp. "Hunting them down and executing them -"

"These aren't people. They are vermin. Maggots – who continue to leach off of the system they refuse to take part in."

His knee pushes downwards in between your thighs, pinning you down. "Okay—okay." You gasp out, releasing the knife. Trying to take your mind off the way his knee is so close to your centre. "Will you let me go when the cameras come? I won't get far — but surely it will make good Free-Vee."

"Hmmm." He pauses. "Maybe. Depends if I like you enough." He drags his knee closer, pressing it against your clothed pussy. The friction causing you to buck your hips slightly, the seam in your jeans catching on your clit at just the right angle. You hope he doesnt notice, but you feel how his whole body stills.

"Shit–" you wisper out, breaking his gaze. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, the heat pooling in your cheeks.

"Mhm–" he exhales. "Dont be embarrassed, sweetheart. I bet you've already fantasised about this happening to you. Yeah?"

"No — of course not." You lie through gritted teeth. His assumption is correct. The small part of you in the back of your brain wants to admit the many lonely nights you've spent in front of the Free-vee with your legs spread, rubbing your clit - Like some kind of nymphomaniac. Did that make you such a terrible person? Surely, plenty of other women found Mccone attractive, too.

The silence is deafening. He can probably tell what you're thinking just from the expression painted on your features. He pulls his knee back before brushing it back down against you. Trying to coax more noises out of you.

Your legs spread subtly, giving him the opportunity to grind it closer. Each time his leg brushes your sensitive clit it sends waves of heat down south, wetness soaking into your panties.

"There's no need to lie." He drawls out. "If you ask politely, I'll give you what you so desperately want."

"Please —" you wisper out.

"—Please what?"

"Please – just fuck me -" you confess abruptly, desperate to feel him inside you.

"That's it – that's all you had to say." He leans slightly back from you. "Now, are you going to play nice?" He pushes the barrel of his gun against your neck again as a reminder.

"Yes — yes, I promise –" you stutter out, brain already feeling like it's short circuiting.

"Good girl." He quickly spins the gun round his fingers, like a gunslinger in a western film, before slotting it back into the holster by his waist. The detail is small but makes you wonder. Perhaps in another context, it would be different.

Gloved fingers make their way down to your zipper on your jeans before pulling you upwards to monover them off you.

"Fuck — you are so wet -" he notices the damp patch along your panties, fingers reaching closer to rub along the outside of the fabric.

He leans backwards, his big hands finding their home on your waist and pulling you on top of him. Your hands desperately pull at the straps of his gear, biceps straining against them, delicate fingers tracing down his chest and towards the zipper on his cargo pants. The clear bulge straining against them, yearning for relief.

Deft fingers make light work of the zipper as you reach inside his underwear, wrapping around his length and pulling it out. God, he was divine. You have to stop yourself from audibly exhaling or just drooling over him.

"Are you — sure it will fit–?" You question out loud, not really needing an answer.

He scoffs, "— i'll make it fit."

You shuffle further upwards, before pulling your panties to the side and slowly sliding his cock through your wetness, spreading it up through your labia and against your pulsing clit.

You tentatively reach towards the bottom of his tight shirt, pulling it upwards just to expose the trail of hair that goes up his navel and his sharp v-line. His dick throbs against your folds with each touch.

His fingers tighten along your waist, moving you up slightly, to align your tight hole with his cock. You slowly sink down, his thick mushroom tip pressing against your soaking entrance, begging to enter. Each vein along his dick feels glorious scraping against your walls, pressing so deep inside you.

"Fuck – you are so warm — 'n wet." He breathes out, knuckles whitening against your skin, trying to hold back from just pounding up into you.

You finally reach the base of it, ass pressed against his balls. "Yeah — you're so deep –"

You grind against him, causing his cock to throb inside you, stretching you out. You rock back and forth, trying to get used to the ache. You settle back on your haunches, hands reaching forwards against his firm chest for balance.

You slide up and down his length, each time it reaches further than before. It drags against your walls, heavy and eager to please.

"You're doing so well –" the praise rolls of his tongue "—Killian would have a fuckin' field day if he found out about this —" his head leans back, expression still hidden by the mask.

"His favourite contestant of the season – bouncing on my dick, letting me stretch out her tight cunt."

"Am I really?" You breathe out, tired from working your legs up and down. "Maybe I should have just fucked him instead of going on the show—"

His grip suddenly tightens, moving from your waist to your thighs before holding you in the air. His hips thrust up sharply, pounding up into you. "Why don't we wait– hm? We can wait for the cameras – let's see how they react to you, spreading your legs and allowing yourself to be split open by me."

His thrusts are harsh, barely grazing against your cervix but pushing against that sweet spot inside you. "Oh –" you moan out. "Right there -"

His hips stutter upwards, hitting that place over and over again until you're clenching around him. His dick throbs inside you, before releasing his warm cum all over your walls.

"Fuck — yeah feels s' good inside –" he groans out. Before thrusting up a few more times, drawing your pleasure out and pushing his cum deeper inside you.

He releases your legs, pulling out and laying there for just a moment. He leans upwards, sorting his straps and adjusting the weapon in his holster. The room is silent.

His legs kick over the side of the bed, ready to stand up.

"Alright —" he begins. Tilting his head to the left and cracking it, doing the same with the other side and rolling his shoulders backwards. " — You get 5 minutes head start."