#hellfirecvnt

In the basement of a warehouse you'd assume abandoned, Simon and his band consisting of a handful of less ill-tempered, but just as dirty and dead-looking men set up for their performance. They're all spitting insults at each other as they scramble to plug in each meticulous piece of shoddy equipment they've acquired.

Simon's preoccupied. Clearly stuck on the thought of you. He realized hours ago that he never told you about the show tonight. He's wrapping the wire of the mic around his fist when he overhears the stagehands. "I didn't make it to Y/N's last party, I figured there would at least be one more before she bolted."

"She went back home?" Simon interrupts.

"Yeah, man. She left today, I'm pretty sure." The stagehands hoist a large amp to its spot, leaving Simon in the silence of realizing you two have no way of contacting each other. That's it. He shrugs his shoulders, brushing off any disappointment, as he's used to things falling through. Nothing's special to someone like him, or that's what he tells himself. He reaches into his back pocket and reveals a pair of underwear that had gotten tangled with his clothes when you did his laundry. He chuckles at the thought of how he would've made you think he stole them on purpose. He stuffs them back into his pocket and gets ready to perform as people start piling in the small venue.

You're nearly flooring it back to that gas station. Once inside, you leap over the counter and snatch the poster from the wall. "God damn! You could've just asked for the fucking flyer, man!" The cashier exclaims, certain you were attempting to rob the store.

"I don't have time!" You yell behind you as you sprint out the door. "Old fuckin' Mill building? Where the fuck is that?" You mumble to yourself, frustrated. You read that Psyops isn't set to play for another 30 minutes, so you speed around town to every old and decrepit site you can find. Four failures before you find the warehouse hosting the show tonight. "Finally!" You slam the van in park before bolting to the door.

"It's $10 to get in," a nonchalant man at the door huffs. You shove the money into his hand and he opens the large, black, graffitied door behind him. You're not shy in a crowd, so when you hear the boisterous speakers blasting the sound of guitar riffs through the building, you start shoving. The vibration sends the decently sized crowd into a wave of cheers and you finally make your way toward the front. You can hear a voice over the speakers, Simon. It's hard to make out what he's saying, but once the song starts, the crowd starts moving.

You're being jostled around for most of the set. Song after song, you try to force yourself to the front, but to no avail. Finally, once Simon takes one step off the slightly raised platform on which they're performing, you can reach him. His grip is white-knuckled around the microphone, now's your chance. You lunge forward and wrap a hand around the mic, pulling yourself forward. Confused and annoyed by the sudden tugging, Simon pulls back, effectively breaking through the wall of people blocking you. The moment your eyes meet his, under his ski mask, he grins. In the moment bringing you before him, he'd missed a few bars of the song, but effortlessly picks back up once you're front and center.

It feels like his eyes are locked on you for the rest of their set. You hate to admit it, but it's a hell of a show. The energy of the crowd, their presence on stage. No wonder Simon feels so strongly about it. He's a different person when he's John Q. An alias you found out about when you were seniors, and you hoped staying quiet about it would've shown him you weren't the snitch, but instead it took a coke bender several, several years later. Plus, he wasn't much less of a loser than you were. Who fucking cared back then that he has a stage name?

After Psyops' set, you and Simon slip outside for a smoke. Riled up from the show, he's too abuzz to make sure his face matches the angry stare he usually wears. "Someone said you were headed home already, didn't think I'd see you at a show any time soon," he says, lighting a cigarette.

"Said I would," you echo his words from his promise to back you up next time you got yourself into an altercation. "Can't let fucking John Q. be more trustworthy than me." Simon laughs at the mention of his stage persona. "I like the mask, though."

"Oh, yeah? That do somethin' for you?" He teases, reaching into his pocket for the mask, but pulling out a different wad of fabric. "Oops," he laughs, dangling your panties in front of you.

"Is that my fuckin' underwear, you god damn pervert?" You curl your lip, put off by the invasive behavior.

"They might be yours, I don't know. I get a lot pussy." Simon smirks with his eyes darkened on you.

"Jesus Christ, what the fuck-" you're ready to lay into him, too violated to make any excuses despite how attractive he looks with messy hair and drying sweat.

"Calm the fuck down, they got mixed up with my shit when you washed my clothes at your house," he laughs. You roll your eyes and jump to grab them, but he's too quick. You miss the swipe and are now a great deal closer to him. "I'm gonna hold on to these," he says with a low voice as he scoops you against him with a hand placed on the small of your back. A second passes like an eternity and the two of you lock lips as he stuffs your underwear into his pocket again, allowing some of the silk and lace detail to hang out. As the kiss deepens, his hands move down your body, to your thighs before he grips your ass roughly. Soft moans escape against his lips as he gropes various parts of your curves.

"Do you know how worked up you get me?" He whispers between the press of your kiss. "Thought you left before I could get a taste." He reaches for your eyelet belt, but you stop him.

"Someone's gonna see us."

"Call it an encore," he mumbles before going back at your belt, but you swat him away again.

"At least take me around back, dumbass." You grab a fistful of his shirt and nearly drag him around the corner. It's dark and concealed from any passerby. He lifts you up onto a pad-mounted transformer and wraps your legs around him, still moving his head in sync with yours as each of your tongues explore each other's mouths.

"I guess I was kind of a prick to you back in the day, huh?" He whispers, running his hand through your hair.

"You were an angry piece of shit, yeah. We fuckin' or having a breakthrough?"

"Shut the fuck up for a second," he snaps. "I'm trying to apologize." He slips your denim shorts off your legs and all but falls to his knees in front of the large metal, green box you're sat on. His nimble index finger hooks around your thong and pulls it to the side. You barely have time to process what his "apology" will be before he plunges his head between your thighs. You fight to stifle a surprised moan as he conducts his skillful movements against your sensitive skin.

"Simon, oh, my God!" You whine, arching your back against the friction. He laughs against your skin sending waves of vibrations through your legs. One of his hands is occupied holding your panties to the side, the other is hooked around your hip, holding you securely in place as he meticulously works you over the edge.

"You want me to stop?" He asks, lips framed with drenched facial hair.

"No! No, I-" he cuts off your plea, resuming his position.

"Then stop fighting me," he snaps, harshly pinning you to the metal with the hand he had hooked on your hip. The stimulation quickly builds up, becoming too much, too quickly. You throw your head back and tangle a fist in his hair as he guides you through the high. Your legs shake and threaten to close around him, but his grip is too strong. You remain exactly where he wants you until you've ridden out your orgasm. You're slumped back on your elbows with your head down, breathing heavily as you return to reality.

Simon towers over you where you lay, staring down at you with his dark-circled eyes. You look up and watch him teasingly wipe his mouth, licking his lips like you're the first thing he's devoured in months. He slips your shorts halfway up your legs for you, leaving the rest of the work for whenever you can feel your legs again. "Um," you sigh. "Apology accepted."

"Tits."

"Is 'tits' good?" You furrow your eyebrows. He sighs, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

"You're leaving tonight, huh?" Simon lights a cigarette.

"Well... That's the plan." You feel a pit in your stomach when you think about going back home. The place is nice, it's far away. It's what you wanted, but life is full and meaningless. You don't have friends out there, it didn't strike you how hard it'd be to meet people in your mid 20s.

"You don't sound so sure about that plan, Y/N." He exhales a cloud that illuminates under the street lamp's orange glow.

"It's boring out there, but it's quiet. It's peaceful. My parents aren't in my ear telling me trying something new could kill me." You shrug.

"That's why you're running? Because of your frigid bitch mom and dad?" Simon laughs as if it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"Okay, well. You know, maybe don't call them that or I'll lay you the fuck out, but yeah." You stand and fasten your shorts and belt, knees still threatening to buckle. "You had a hand in me leaving too."

"I know, I apologized!" He gestures to your trembling legs and you laugh.

"Yeah, yeah," you wave your hand at him. "Where'd you go? I was in town for weeks. I thought you were in the pin."

"I didn't want to overstay my welcome," he chuckles. "Or watch another fuckin' 80s movie with the volume on ten." He turns to look at you and he smirks.

"Well, my parents are in town now. I still have the rest of this week off. I was gonna spend it getting unpacked, but-"

"Fuck that. Let's go, you're driving." He walks off around the building toward the parking lot and you're dumbfounded for a moment.

"Of course I'm driving, it's my van!" You scramble after him. He hops in your passenger seat and you pull out of the lot, leaving his disgruntled band mates to pack up their own equipment. "You're not gonna help them?"

"What for? My shit's in the van. It's a microphone."

"Yeesh, sorry. Forgot you're actually kind of the worst when your head's not between my legs," you tease and Simon can't suppress a smile. As you cruise down the dark road, bright blue lights ignite in your mirrors. "Fuck. Get it the back." Simon wastes no time, he throws himself in the spacious rear area of the van as you pull over. You both wait anxiously for the cop to approach the window. Everything feels silent, until you finally hear the footsteps.

"I'm gonna run," Simon whispers, hand on the rear door latch.

"Don't." You demand sharply, rolling down your window for the cop. The air feels still and tight. It seems like it takes hours for the cop to speak, but when he does it's a routine traffic stop. He asks you if you knew how fast you were going and you innocently explain the floating nature of your speedometer. The officer laughs when he reads your ID and sees your last name.

"You're Frank's kid, right?"

"Yeah, his one and only." You beam, proudly. Happy to name drop your wealthy family.

"You just try to slow it down and tell your dad I said hello, alright?" The cop taps your door twice and sends you on your way. As you pull off, Simon peeks out from under the blankets and sighs with relief.

"Holy shit, with the way this thing looks, you should've been strip searched." Simon tosses himself back into the passenger seat.

"Don't shit-talk my van," you hiss. Simon proceeds to tell you where to go, each turn and shortcut, until you reach a large white house, almost as status defining as your parents'.

"My parents are out of town." He points to a concealed area to park and leads you to a basement door. He fights with a key for a moment before leading you inside. It's a messy basement room with red walls and posters from ceiling to floor. Instruments take up most of the space, aside from the bed.

"Do you avoid your parents like me, or do your parents avoid you?" You ask, bluntly, not considering the weight of that question.

"Both, I guess." He says after a long pause.

"You... Wanna smoke?" You ask, unsure how to navigate the silence.

"Can't. Fucks with my motivation," he grins. You shrug, rolling and smoking a joint by yourself while Simon works on some songs. He's got an ear for every instrument in his room, and he layers them over each other, creating complex instrumentals. It's nice to listen to while you lie on his bed and watch the swirling tendrils of smoke twist into the light and air above you.

"It sounds nice," you hum, settling into the cozy divot in the center of his mattress-on-the-floor.

"Write something for it," he commands, tossing a notepad and pen at you.

"Like lyrics? Why?" You stare at the blank page, unable to read the layers and layers of writing indented into it from Simon's heavy, angry hand.

"You need an out, I'm giving you one." He leans back in the rolling chair he resides in, staring me down like a hawk.

"I don't think I'm a very musical person. I think I'm more of a doodler, really," you argue, scribbling in the corner of the paper.

"Just fuckin' write something down and stop being a pussy." He snatches the pen from you and tosses it onto the pad.

"Bitch- How does that make me a pussy?" Your eyes narrow at him.

"It'd be too vulnerable. You're no tougher than that kid you were in high school. It's all fake now." It's clear he's taunting you. Making a fair attempt at reverse psychology.

"Fuck you, give me a minute," you huff, writing a line or two to start with. "Play your shit again." And he does. Restarting the instrumental he put together just for you. After a while, you've written something and you sling the notepad at Simon. He takes a moment to read through it a few times, almost trying to decode the melody of how I'd sang it in my head.

"Perfect. Now sing it." He nods toward his microphone stand.

"Fuck's sake, dude. Are you serious?" You whine, pushed further and further out of your comfort zone.

"Come on, let's see what you got," he says in a tone that lets me know I've already lost the argument.

"It doesn't feel good to be vulnerable to you."

"Tough it out." You roll your eyes at his demand, but you do it. You tough it out and recite your song over the music he provided. He hits 'restart,' and then 'record,' and then he points to you. After a measure you begin to sing. Low effort, but still angelic. Your song is about the feeling of being homesick no matter where you end up. It's about running and putting up a face as a defense mechanism. It's about wearing a mask.

When you're done singing and the music fades out, Simon slides the headphones off his ears. "That... Was tits." He looks elated. Like a poor painter with a new pallet.

"Is 'tits' good?" You ask again, emphasizing the lack of answer last time you asked.

"Yeah, 'tits' is good." He grins. "That was good."

"Fuck you. Who's not vulnerable?" You curl your lip, clearly more moved by the challenge than the release he was offering. Simon just shakes his head.

"Let's mix it." He beelines for the computer and begins fine tuning the song. You're watching in awe of his quick skill at this craft. As if watching him play all those instruments wasn't impressive enough. The night grows older. Simon offers you your favorite party favor, but you're over it. So the two of you share a joint.

"You don't ever get tired of living in a circle?" You ask through a cloud of smoke.

"A fuckin' circle?" He looks at you.

"Just, still in this town, still avoiding your parents, still making music alone in your room."

"Fuck," he huffs, offended but acknowledging the truth in your words. "Do you ever get tired of running from it?"

"Touché." You bring the joint to your lips as you lie in his disheveled bed. His arm snaked around you ages ago, slowly pulling you closer and closer to him. Like he's worried you'll float away.

"If our only two options are run away or get sucked into this shit hole of a town, I think we're a little fucked, don't you?" He chuckles to himself.

"Maybe those aren't the only options. We just don't have all the answers yet. I don't think anyone does." Your voice is wistful and quiet. You can feel Simon's eyes on you, but you stare at his dark ceiling. He rolls his eyes at your corny words, but he knows you're right. "It's funny, because if I could run from the uncertainty too, I would." You giggle, aware of your vices and poor coping skills.

"Yeah, you would," Simon mocks.

"And you? You're just going to live with it? Sit right beside the discomfort and accept that for yourself? Have you ever tried to give yourself more, even if it meant running?" You're slowly building up a sense of passion behind your words and Simon just listens, staring deeply into your eyes as you speak. Suddenly, you're cut off when he wraps a hand around the back of your head and pulls you into a kiss. His lips crash into yours and the two of you melt into each other.

You can't even remember what you were saying, you just know you don't want to stop touching him. The heat of the kiss begins to swell as Simon's hands trail up and down your body. He's grabbing at you in a specific order, like he's been waiting to get his hands on it. Really get his hands on it. You grasp at the hem of his shirt, tugging in semblance to take it the fuck off, and he does.

His broad, pale chest rises and falls with anticipation as you strip off the same article of clothing. "Jesus Christ," he moans, pulling you to him to shove his face directly between your breasts. He breathes deeply, taking you in. With one swift motion, he's hoisted you on top of him, your legs straddling his waist. Simon unfastens the button on your jeans before tossing you to the side to undress you.

You're both naked and greatly anticipating the next moment your skin will touch. Seconds feel like hours until you're pressed against each other again. Simon buries his face in the crook of your neck as he guides his throbbing erection to your entrance. You're squirming and arching beneath him, and he releases a breathy laugh as he watches you writhe. "You're aching for it," he groans.

"Fuck you," you hiss, pulling him closer to you by his shoulders. All he does is chuckle before slowly slipping inside you. You moan loudly as you adjust to his size. Something about a lanky, dead-eyed man. His pace is steady as he rocks his hips against yours, picking up speed as you gush around him. Soon his thrusts are hard and rough, and your loud, vulgar moans echo off his bedroom walls.

"God, you're so fuckin' tight," he huffs, pulling out of you and tossing you aside. Simon quickly repositions you in front of him, on all fours. You let your back arch naturally, putting on a bit of a show for him as he watches you. His eyes are darkened and his smirk sends chills down your spine. You can't help but smile wide in excitement. With two round hands, he grabs your waist and positions you at the perfect height. His hands wander the soft flesh of your ass as you press up against him. "You drive me fucking crazy..." He sighs as he slips inside you.

Simon digs the tips of his fingers into your skin, pulling you against him with every violent thrust. You do everything you can to contort your body to give him more of you. He throws his head back, falling into a sloppy, unsteady pace. His breathing is wild and primal all the way up until the point of climax. You release a loud, fluttering moan as he fucks you through your high, quickly withdrawing to finish on your back and ass. You're both breathless for a while, the room is silent but for the sound of your lungs filling and deflating.

Simon climbs off the bed, but you're too fucked out to even raise your head up to watch where he's going. Moments later, he returns, towel in hand. He cleans you up and lands a hard smack on your right ass cheek. The sound is thunderous against the silence. You yelp and break into quiet chuckles.

Finally, you have the strength to roll over. You sit up against the mess of pillows that became a sort of headboard for his bed, feeling beautiful and bare before him. It's a nice feeling that you're not used to. Sure you've had your flings, but it's never occurred to you how quickly you tend to leave or cover up after. Not this time. You're both fully exposed and Simon's eyes drink you in, one last time before he speaks. "Don't go back." You stare at him for a long while, silent.

"I won't," you gasp, surprised by your own promise. As soon as the words leave your mouth, his lips are on yours. In the next few days, you quit your job and Simon rides with you to go back and get the most important of your shit. The rest goes with the trailer when you sell it. You don't run a single thing past your parents and you don't tell them you're coming back to town. It's a new sense of peace and adventure, though it feels like abandoning your old life.

You invited everyone to this party. An absolute rager while you're house sitting for your parents. Their home is huge compared to your humble two bedroom house, states away. You've reached out to everyone you can remember from your hometown, and it's surprisingly a lot. The house is packed by the time all the guests arrive. A feeling of accomplishment straightens your shoulders as the music surges through the house. Your pride is promptly diminished when a familiar face you specifically didn't invite steps through the door. Simon.

"Why is he here?" You whisper to the nearest person, but somehow, through the music and loud conversation, he hears you as if you whispered it directly to him.

"I heard there was a party. I followed the clientele." He winks, patting a pocket on his dirty bomber jacket.

"Are you selling drugs inside my parents' house?" You ask, acting mortified. He just smirks, basking in the idea of setting you off like he used to, years ago. Long before you left this town. "Let me get an eighth of smoke and a gram of whatever I can put up my nose." The request visibly caught him off guard. He stares at you with a raised eyebrow as he rummages in his pocket for your order.

"Y'know I don't really-"

"What? You stop selling weed?"

"No, it's just," he tilts his head before shoving the illegal contents into your hand. "You seem different."

"Different?"

"Yeah, like you're not a whiny fuckin' kid blowing up my spot anymore." He chuckles as he slips past you, and dissolves into the party. That's right, years ago, when the two of you were in high school, he was expelled when administration seemingly randomly brought in drug dogs, and his locker was raided. To everyone's surprise, he still graduated from the alternative school and even went on to college, but apparently his pursuit of education stopped there when his well-known temper earned him the boot.

Sure, you were a bit of a late bloomer. A classic loser amongst your classmates. The poster child of people who took D.A.R.E extremely seriously, even though you'd never once given a shit about it. You knew he always blamed you for his getting caught, he made your life hell in college before you moved. You forgot all about him before he stepped through your parents' door.

He's already here, so you decide to let him make his money and spice up your party. It's not like you'll run into him again with the way people keep showing up. A bored town, a boring town seeking any kind of thrill outside the two bars that close at 11 PM.

You're not much of a drinker, so your eighth and blow do exactly what you need them to. The coke keeps you chatty and energetic, while the weed mellows that swinging jaw you'd have. Coke is a special occasion drug, your tolerance isn't something to brag about. You sneak off to the bathroom every once in a while, and no one seems to notice, so you get a little brave, slipping away on the empty back patio to cut out a quick line on your mother's hand mirror.

Your technique is swift, muscle memory from your harder partying days in college. The entire time, Simon watches through a window. He'd caught you in passing, and watched in curiosity as the girl he knew with big, innocent eyes and a loud mouth rails a sizable line of hard drugs. He's dumbfounded, laughing lightly to himself. You clean the glass of the remaining powder with your index finger and rub it against your gums, lifting the mirror to check your nose for evidence of your patio soiree. Just as your eyes meet your own, the patio door slides open, and you're no longer alone in the safety of darkness. "Not your first time with that shit." It's not a question, but it sounds like it was supposed to be.

"Far from it," you sigh, relieved. You don't mind smoking with others, but the coke is something you'd prefer to keep to yourself.

"Could'a fooled me," he strikes a lighter, cherrying the end of his cigarette. "You used to be a fucking bitch." He wraps his lips around those last two words, really annunciating each syllable. It's dark, but there's enough moonlight to see the dark circles around his eyes as he displays that same threatening look he used to shoot at you in college between shoulder checks and vulgar insults.

"This 'fucking bitch' will beat your ass now, Kenny. Watch ya' fuckin' mouth," you mock his accent, as yours thinned out after being away for so long.

"Who the fuck is Kenny?" He looks genuinely thrown off.

"No fuckin' poise. Stay focused. Don't insult me on my own patio, I'll fuck us both up." You're speaking almost gibberish, but the only way to knock him down is to throw him off.

"Who the fuck are you?" Simon chuckles, taking a drag of his cig.

"It's been a long time. I'm surprisingly not 16 anymore. You don't seem very young yourself."

He takes a drag, eyes widening as if he's watching a TV show that caught him pleasantly off guard. "Yeah, okay."

"How are sales?" You ask, running your tongue across your teeth to disperse the numbing of the bitter substance.

"Not bad. You just invite everyone whose name you could remember?"

"Everyone but you, Simon." You sigh.

"Well, I hate it for you, Queen Bitch. But I've gotta make money somehow."

"You could try a job," you say, but after you look him up and down, you change your mind. "Nevermind." He releases a genuine laugh, puffing plooms of smoke from his lips with each heave of his chest. "You still doing that band thing?"

"'Band thing?'" he huffs. "Yes. I'm still doing the... Band thing."

"Yikes, soft spot, huh? Not going great?" Years ago you took his verbal beatings with a cowering stance, and often, tears. Today you're giving it all back to him. The reason for your vitriol is not lost on him, so he takes every blow.

"It's going fine. You should come to a show. Get out of your little rich kid bubble for two seconds." Clocked. You've been clocked. Your stunted social skills stemmed directly from how sheltered and spoiled you were until the age of 18 when you finally realized what your life was, compared to others. You worked and saved your own money and moved away at 20. Away from your shelter, away from your helicopter parents, and realistically, away from Simon.

"Yeah, that'll be the day," you're laughing until you notice something going south right inside the door. A fight seems to have broken out. You burst through the entryway, shoving yourself between the two men. One of them, a tall, broad man steps back, acknowledging the escalation at hand. While the other, shorter, almost shorter than you, seems to only get more angry. "You need to calm the fuck down!" You yell, only trying to be heard over his own volume.

"Get the fuck out of my face, bitch!" The short man spits like venom. You look at him with a raised eyebrow, and something takes hold. Before you know it, your own fist is connecting with his jaw. The crowd is rallying you on, but your hit wasn't enough to knock him out. You're aware that your swing warrants a swing back, but God, you know it's about to hurt even with this dude being the size he is. He swings his fist under and hooks you in the stomach. It's painful, but you can't help but heave a wheezing, breathless laugh at the idea that he swung low because he might not have properly reached your face. He's not even that short, but you can't stop the laughter. That only pisses him off more, and he swings again, this time catching your cheek.

By now, you've both been separated as the spectators realize it was kinda strange to watch a man fight a woman, regardless of how it started. You're still laughing, breathless from the hit and sweating from the cocaine. When you're finally released, the laughing returns to anger and you run half of the party off.

"Party's over, fuck outta here!" You call, harshly pushing the power button on the stereo. "Short stack ruined it for all of you. Get out of my house!" You leave the passed out guests alone, they're safer here anyways. Once you return to the patio, you take your same seat and return to the conversation as if nothing happened. "As I was saying, no. I won't be at a Psycho's show."

"It's Psyops and you fuckin' know that." He speaks harshly before reeling it in, and clearing his throat. "What the hell was that?" He gestures to the door with his thumb.

"I told you I'll beat your ass now, Kenny."

"Was that Kenny? Who the fuck is Kenny?" It's clear he hasn't stopped thinking about "Kenny" since the first time you said it.

"I don't know who that guy was," you shrug. "Can I have a smoke?" You rub your sore cheek.

"Whatever," he tosses a cigarette your way. "What was with the laughing? You just fuckin' insane or something? You been in the asylums this whole time?" He looks almost serious with his inquiry. Like he wouldn't be surprised.

"No, I just-" you start to laugh again. "I imagined him punching me in the gut because he couldn't reach my face." You graze your fingers over your cheek again. "But clearly I was unaware of his lengthy arms or something. He seemed shorter from far away," you chuckle.

"Fuckin' ridiculous," Simon laughs with you, shaking his head.

"Yeah, thanks for jumping in, by the way." You joke, cutting out another line on the small silver mirror.

"Jumping in? For you? A fuckin' snitch?" He raises his eyebrows, as if he's been waiting to address this.

"Oh, fuck off. I didn't fucking snitch on you," you announce before inhaling the line.

"Y/N, it's been years. Just fuckin-"

"Simon, I didn't snitch on you. I didn't know you sold drugs at school. I thought they searched our lockers daily, I didn't think anyone would be able to sell drugs that easily at school." As you're explaining, you realize you never denied telling on him, you just silently took his punishment, hoping it'd eventually stop.

"Are you a god damn idiot? You thought they searched all those lockers every fuckin' day?" He's in disbelief.

"That's what my parents told me," you shrug, rubbing the powder from the mirror on your gums again.

"I ain't buying that shit," he mumbles like a growl. "You got that Mickey kid expelled too. Year before." He's staring you down like he's got you cornered.

"Yeah, because he pushed me down the fucking stairs, Simon. I was in the hospital for a week. He broke my arm." You're shocked that it wasn't common knowledge why Mickey was expelled. "He's in jail right now for the armed robbery of a church."

"Wait, seriously?" Simon huffs a chuckle as he pieces it all together and finally, finally considers the fact that you weren't the snitch.

"Have you ever considered that maybe you weren't very good at it? Selling drugs at school, I mean." You tilt your head, awaiting an answer.

"You really didn't do it," he exhales a cloud of smoke from the cigarette he'd just lit.

"No, I didn't. And you made every single day hell for me. You ran me out of town." You're laughing as you say it, looking down and focusing on rolling a joint, but he keeps his eyes on you. A glint of guilt flashes in his pupils, but you'd never know. He used to wonder if he had a hand in your running off, and today it was finally confirmed. Your laugh carries the weight of everything you were getting away from. A man that feels anger as deeply as Simon does, incidentally, comes with the ability to empathize with pain.

"Alright. Next time, I'll jump in." He relaxes, leaning back into the chair.

"Sounds good." You spark up your joint and take a long drag before passing it to Simon. An olive branch. A silent truce. Forgiveness that he didn't deserve. He takes it from your hand and takes a hit. The usually smooth smoke scrapes into his lungs from the guilt. The feeling quickly dissipates as the two of you get stoned.

You both stay there in those seats all night. You hardly realize the passing of time until the sky begins to light up a pale morning blue. "Holy shit, how long have we been out here?" Simon asks, noticing his empty pack of cigarettes. You throw a five dollar bill toward him.

"I owe you. I smoked over half of those." He stuffs the money in his pocket with a nod. "You can stay here, but if you knock on my door at any point after I go to sleep I will fight you like the little guy." Simon looks around and shakes his head.

"No thanks." He nods and heads towards the door.

"See ya' around, Simon." As he closes your door behind him, something sends a tingle down his spine when he hears you say his name again. A softness directed towards him that he's not used to. It's uncomfortable and new and the sensation of craving more pisses him off. He shrugs his shoulders, physically shaking the feeling from his body before heading off on foot. To where? Who fuckin' knows.

The next day, or that same day, way later when you wake up, you're already planning your next get together as you clean up from last night. It's not as bad as usual, but probably because it got cut a few hours short after the altercation. A feat that you had forgotten about until you caught your reflection while brushing your teeth. A small bruise has formed under your eye where you were hit. "Ha, what a pussy." You lift your shirt to examine your stomach and there's not even a semblance of a hit. "Pussy!" You repeat, louder.

After getting ready for the day, you head to the store to replenish the stock for your next shindig. Your parents always leave their credit card when you house sit. It's the only time in your adult life you don't mind using their money. They hardly notice it anyways.

As you're strolling the aisles of the bodega, you spot Simon. Something in you feels awkward about last night, so you hang back until he leaves. He looks tired and disheveled. More so than usual. And he's a little out of breath like he'd been running. He buys a pack of smokes with the five you gave him and disappears out the door. You make your purchase and tote two 30 packs to your rickety, old van. A vehicle you were proud to buy yourself before you moved out. Simon watches you from the corner of the store, having a smoke before continuing his trek across town. He furrows his eyebrows, trying to remember when he saw you drink anything at all at the party. "She can't seriously be throwing another shit show," he mumbles.

He bolts when police pull into the lot, no doubt still in pursuit of him. They pull up to your van and you stand outside, defensively. Unsure of what in your van could get you in trouble at this moment. "Have you seen this guy?" They hold up a picture of Simon. The way he looked in college, anyways. He's shaved his head now.

"No, I can't say I have." You shrug.

"Take this and let us know if you see anyone suspicious." The cop hands you the paper and you take it with a flat smile. Once they leave the lot, you crumple the paper into a ball and toss it in your van.

Simon just can't shake the image of you he's had in his mind all these years. Shy and afraid. Avoiding eye contact and clutching your books to your chest when he'd loom over you and whisper vicious cruelties. Now you walk with your back straight. You look him in the eye, even when he tries to make you uncomfortable just for fun. You fist-fight people and laugh because you imagined something funny in the middle of getting an uppercut to the stomach. You bought drugs from him the second he walked in the door. You're hardly recognizable.

That night, you're settling in the living room with a movie on the TV. It's a quiet, peaceful evening as you smoke a joint on your couch, enjoying the silence of your own company.

Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock!

Someone frantically bangs on the door before bursting in and slamming it behind them. "Hey! Are you home or what?" Simon yells into the foyer.

"I'm right here, you scared the shit out of me!" You throw a handful of popcorn at him. "Why are you inside my parents' house? What time is it?"

"I don't know what time it is. Shut up, listen, I need to," he seems to search for a softer word than 'hide.' "Stay in here for an hour or two."

"I saw your wanted poster. You're a real outlaw, huh? Arson, right? Hard." He rolls his eyes. "I told them I hadn't seen you."

"Yeah, thanks. I'd hope so."

"You gonna sit down or what?" You ask, annoyed that he's interrupting your movie. He huffs and joins you on the couch and you pass the joint to him.

"The fuck are we watching?" He raises an eyebrow. You stare at him for a second before answering.

"Firestarter."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he sighs.

"Yeah, I started thinking about it after I read your charges. Fucking idiot." You laugh. "Broad daylight is brutal."

"Their house was fine."

"Well, you can hide here as long as you need to. I'll be here for a few weeks. But I am throwing another get together tomorrow, so be down for that."

"Again?" He scoffs.

"Yeah. It's way more fun to party in this giant house than my fucking double wide."

"You live in a double wide trailer?"

"Yes. I got out on my own dime. Options are limited where I ended up." You always tell this story like a brag. It's something you're proud of. After all, it's a nice double wide. It's not even in a trailer park... This time.

"Hard." He mocks you and you laugh in response.

"So these are your two options? Party or a movie with barely any volume while you get high?" He leans across the couch to pass you the joint, unknowingly scooting closer with each reach.

"Normally I'm not talking over the movie so the volume is just fine." You shrug. He takes the hint and finally shuts up, watching the movie and keeping panicky eyes on the windows. By the time the joint is finished, the two of you are much closer than before. Not too close, but gravity seems to be doing its thing. Simon can finally see the small bruise under your eye.

"Is that from that guy?" He laughs.

"Yeah, I know. He tried his best," you join in the laughter. Simon raises a hand to brush his thumb over it, never minding to invade someone's personal space.

"There's not even a welt. What a fuckin' pussy," he says as he lowers his hand. You're not sure if you're blushing or not, but you do know that you're frozen for a moment after the sudden, close quarters. You may have grown out of a lot, but you're still pretty fucking awkward sometimes. Simon notices right away. God damn it.

"That's exactly what I said! There's nothing on my stomach either. It's like I fought a toddler." You laugh, your head is clearing up, but not for long. Simon leans in closely, sliding closer to you than before and invading your personal space much more boldly than when he touched your bruise.

"You know how to take a hit, huh?" He whispers, inches from your face. Your eyes are wide and you feel the heat rise in your cheeks when you feel his hand on your thigh.

"You're about to take a hit if you don't move that fuckin' hand," you snap with a wavering voice that you hope he doesn't notice.

"I'm just fuckin' with you. Had to find some way to do it. You're all... difficult now." He laughs at your still red face. He backs down and you roll your eyes, defeated by your own bodily reactions.

"You are God damn difficult, Simon." You jam your finger into his chest, sizing him up, invading his bubble. "You're difficult and it makes you angry. Now, I'm letting you hide in my parents house from the fuckin' police, so please, for the love of god, tone that fuck-shit down." He can't help but grin at the tables you've turned. Your forehead might as well be pressed to his as you tell him what for.

"Calm the fuck down, Y/N. I'm just fuckin' with you. Thanks for the safehouse." His thanks sounds like sarcasm, but you decide it's the best you'll get from him. He keeps his distance after that, but doesn't shift away from you. For the rest of the movie, you catch him stealing glances your way. He's silently reliving the moment you pushed back, a smile cracks across his lips, but you're too focused on the movie.

The two of you fall asleep before the credits roll. You're baked and glued to the couch, he's exhausted from running all day. It's barely dawn when Simon shakes himself awake, startled by something only a mind as paranoid and volatile as his could dream up. He looks at your sleeping form on the couch and checks his watch. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mumbles to himself. As he quietly steps toward the door, you call to him from the couch.

"You can shower here if you want. You look like shit. It'd probably be harder to spot you if you weren't filthy." Simon rolls his eyes, but you're right. You rise and stretch from your blanket cocoon. "Fuck, what time is it?"

"Early."

"Useful. The bathroom's down the hall to the right. Toss your clothes in the basket and set it outside."

"Alright," he huffs, unsure how to process your balance between "fuck you" and "I'll do your laundry for you so you can shower."

Simon leaves his clothes in the basket just like you asked and you toss them in the washer with a few of your clothes to fill it up. It'll take longer to wash and dry his clothes than it'll take for him to shower, so you rummage through some of your dad's PJs and leave a pair of soft pants and an old Harvard T-shirt in place of the basket. After a while, Simon emerges from the steamy bathroom, towel-clad. "Are you serious?" He asks, holding up the clothes you've left for him.

"Don't you wanna know what it's like to wear a Harvard shirt?" You jest. "It'll be another 30 minutes on your clothes." Simon rolls his eyes, and tosses the clothes on the couch.

"I'll wait." He takes a seat next to you, the towel secured around his waist. "Give me that." He takes the joint you've barely just started rolling out of your hands. It feels more like a "thank you" than a "I'll do it better" so you let him roll it. It's a gesture of kindness from him, and you accept it.

After a joint or two more, the buzzer sounds on the dryer. "I'll be right back, I threw some of my clothes in there too." You leave and return with a basket of fresh, clean, warm clothes. You dig through and find Simon's belongings, tossing them to him piece by piece. Once he slips off to the bathroom again, he comes back fully dressed. A cleaner, easier to look at version of himself.

"Thanks," Simon nods, but he doesn't retake his seat next to you. "I'll catch you later."

"You coming to the party? For the money?" You grin, secretly hoping to repeat your patio soiree from before.

"For the money." He chuckles as he steps out the door, leaving you in peaceful silence. You fall back asleep right away. Hours later, when you finally awaken, some people are already in the house.

"Jesus Christ, you guys don't knock or nothing?" You rub your eyes. "Don't fuck up my parents' house. I'm gonna go get ready."

"Yeah, yeah," your friends chant back, picking out music to play on the stereo. Once you're dressed and made up to your liking, you return to the party. The size of the crowd doubled in the hour it took you to get ready. As you play hostess, you're secretly searching each room and hallway for Simon, hoping he'd show up, though you're not sure why you're so eager. He was a dick for most of the time you've known him, but even back then, he's a very attractive man.

You pour a round of shots and pass them out, making sure each of your closest pals gets theirs first. You're holding onto one last one, searching for Simon, when you round the corner and see a familiar face. It's the short little shit you just fought the other night. "Aw, god damn it." You sigh, already anticipating the spectacle that's about to unfold.

"You got a lot of fucking nerve throwing another party after the shit you pulled," he says, cracking his knuckles, but you're looking down at him almost, so it's not very threatening

"What? Nerve? Aren't you trespassing right now? Get the fuck out of my house. We're all pushing 30." You're dumbfounded by this weird turf war happening inside your childhood home.

"You think just 'cause you're a broad, you can mouth off to anybody you want and get away with it."

"No, I didn't 'get away with it,' you left a faint little freckle on my cheek with that crabapple you call a fist." And with that, you catch another swing. Just as painful, and this time, no laughter follows. The shot glass is knocked from your hand and shatters on the floor just before you land, cutting up your hands pretty good. "Ah! God fucking damn it!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" The man shrieks, kneeling over you to beat you senseless, but he doesn't get a second hit in before someone's grabbed his shoulders and ripped him off of you. Simon.

He has the short man pinned against the wall receiving hit after hit to the face and stomach. "The fuck you come back here for, dumbass? Playground's already closed?" Simon taunts as he lands blow after blow. The rage in his eyes is palpable. You're on your feet in no time, folding your glass-filled hands in on themselves to swing brick-like fists at the troublesome man. It's you and Simon vs that guy until his friends eventually join in, knocking Simon around and finally dragging their friend out of the function. You wonder what the point of showing up was at all.

Simon helps you wash the glass and small traces of blood from your hands. There's only one significant cut, and a bandaid will have it fixed up in an instant. "Why and how did you manage to land on a pile of broken glass?" He asks, frustrated with the tweezers he's using to remove the tiny shards. "Who keeps inviting that fuckin' guy?"

"I saved you a, uh... I saved you a shot." Your voice lowers as the sentence goes on as you realize how desperate it sounds.

"Saved me a shot?" He laughs. "You were waitin' for me." He grins.

"Yeah, I was hoping to sweeten you up and get a heavier gram this time." You reach into your pocket for money and shove it at him, leaving your bandaged hand in front of him, awaiting your drugs.

"I'll share my personal with you, how about that?" He tilts his head up, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes as he raises a cigarette to his mouth. He already knows you'll be pulling him onto the patio, so he wastes no time lighting it.

"Sounds good, let's go." You lead him to the dark backyard and the two of you take a seat at the table, but you're a chair closer this time, making it easier to share the little mirror. You cut out two lines and pull your hair away from your face. Once the substance enters your body, you're ignited into conversation. You drone on and on, and Simon listens to every bit, quietly hitting his cigarette as he watches you go. Slowly, the adrenaline wears off, and the reality of the ache in your face settles in. "Oh, my God. My fucking face." You brush a finger over the inevitable darkening black eye on the right side of your face.

"Yeah, they uh, kinda fucked us up." Simon speaks through cigarette smoke.

"Do you even know who they are? The short guy?"

"You keep calling him short. He's your height." Simon squints.

"I just feel so much taller than him. Maybe it's the shoes, I don't know." You shrug, snorting another line with the side of your nose that hasn't swollen shut from the fight.

"It's clearly a sore spot for him, regardless."

"You jumped in," you smile, feeling as if this "friendship" has finally been validated.

"Said I would," Simon responds flatly. You roll your eyes and stare up at the night sky for a moment. Inside, the party rages on. Music thumps from indoors, but the sound is well sealed from where you two sit.

"This is gonna hurt so bad tomorrow, huh?" You ask, sniffing through your coke and blood-filled nose.

"Oh, yeah." A drag of his cigarette. "It's gonna fucking suck." He can't help but chuckle, having lived through an ass beating or two in his life.

"You gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Stop asking me so many fucking questions." He waves his hand dismissively.

"Not even to hide?" You smirk.

"I'll come back to hide." He exhales smoke through a small smile. You two are up long past sunrise, and when the last of the coke finally begins to wear off, you head to bed.

"Goodnight, Simon. Don't go to jail today." You chime behind you as you head down the hall. Simon scans the living room and it's emptier than the last party. As in, no one stayed the night. He shifts uncomfortably for a moment, unsure of his next move. Before he knows it, he's face down, passed out on your parents soft, leather couch.

You can hear the familiar sound of falling face-first into that exact couch, and you feel a sense of comfort knowing Simon won't be running from the cops while you sleep. He's gone when you wake up and to avoid any more drama, you hold off on planning your next party. Days go by, and your time house sitting dwindles. Simon hasn't come back, not even to hide.

Weeks pass and you're packing your belongings into your van, giving your parents a hug and assuring them that nothing went awry. They shower you in thanks and love, sending you on your way back home, states away. It feels bittersweet, and you wish you got to tell Simon you were leaving. Maybe give him a phone number or something stupid like that.

Before you leave town, you stop by a gas station to fill up and grab a snack. At the register, a tall man with long locs peers at you from behind the counter. "Is that everything?"

"Yeah, and the rest on pump four." The man nods at your request. You'd be lying if you said you weren't looking for Simon to pass by outside, or hopefully catch him walking somewhere so you can say bye. It's a strange feeling in you to want his presence. As you reminisce about the sheer rage in his eyes as he pulled that guy off of you during the fight, your eye catches something behind the register. A poster for some gritty, underground band. And opening for them... Psyops.

The cashier hands you your bags and you point to the poster. "What's the date on that? The concert thing."

"I think it's tonight," he answers flatly. Your shoulders fall, wondering if this late in the evening means you've already missed him. You shake these weird feelings from your head, reminding yourself that a few days of liking each other doesn't make up for all those years of torment. You continue down the road for a few miles more.

"God damn it!" You burst, cutting a U-turn in the middle of the street, barreling your van back into town. He said he'd jump in, and he did. You told him you'd go to a show.

Another day in the books working at the shittiest, run-down burger joint in town. Days are slow, nights are slower. Every single one of your coworkers is a fucking loser. Jess fucked two of your -now ex-boyfriends before latching onto the notorious misogynist Chris, who can't ever keep his hands to himself. Then there's Randy, or Bradley, or whoever. He's silent, and you rarely work with him, but he's so pathetic that it's hard to look at sometimes, especially on a shift with him and Chris. Your boss, Hardy, isn't much more likable than Chris. After walking in on him watching porn at work multiple times, you've grown to taste bile when he speaks to you. Time and place, bud. Somehow, even though you know it's not true, worst of all is Benson. You're torn between being convinced the drugs have rotted his social skills, and believing he's just like that. He barely speaks anymore, but you have been known to split a joint on break. One weekend, the two of you went in on an eight-ball and spent the entire time inside a hotel room listening to loud music and talking nonstop. Now he's practically silent and you're annoyed by it.

"Oh, my ride's here!" Jess announces as she flaunts past you. Her pussy must truly be made of gold because the sight of her driver makes you throw your hands up in confusion and defeat. Picking up your serial homewrecker is none other than your current boyfriend. The relationship was new but still exciting. How the fuck does she keep doing that? "Bye, Y/N!" She winks and you're filled with an instant, well-known rage. Okay, fine. You've been in and out of court-ordered anger management classes these last few months, almost a year now. And fuck, it's like she knows. She knows and she wants you locked up again ever since you busted her lip when you two had beef in high school. You're contained enough to watch them drive off as you sport a bitter smile that visibly disappoints your nemesis but doesn't wipe away her sneer. Once they're out of your eyeline, all you can do is grimace in anger and disgust.

"That was rough." Benson appears seemingly from nowhere.

"Shut the fuck up." You hiss, barking the venomous words out with a low tone.

"Alright," he mumbles, rolling his eyes before watching you throw your bag in the backseat of your car and angrily slamming the front door after you climb inside. His eyes are steadily following you as you dramatically whip your vehicle out of the gravel parking area, slinging a few rocks asunder as you speed off. Benson lights a cigarette once he's in his own car. He's in no hurry and seems almost lost in calculated thought. Once the next shift starts showing up, he finally heads out.

It's almost 1 AM, and you're pissed off and a little heartbroken, so you do what any mid-twenties loser does, and you drink until it hurts to blink. The bar scene in this town is a bunch of racists and worse, so after clearing out your own stash, you grab a handle at the local liquor store and drink along your route. Even in a blind rage, you know better than to drive like this. You're just making peaceful rounds around the square when a cop flashes his lights at you. "Go home, ma'am. That's a warning," he booms over the bullhorn. You flinch at the sudden, thunderous sound after a nearly silent night, minus the occasional passing car and singing cricket bug.

"Fuck you, pigs!" You spit, taking off down a road in hopes that they'll think you're going home and not pursue you after tossing that insult. Don't fucking follow me, you demand silently. You find yourself down an alley when you finish the bottle. It's quiet again and this time, more secluded. So while it's not the nicest alleyway in town, it doesn't have a dumpster, so it might actually be the nicest one. Once you've brought the empty, glass container away from your lips, you draw it back like you plan to bust it wide open on the wall right in front of you. Right in the splash zone.

"Hey," a voice snags your attention. You gasp and jump, causing a wave of nausea to wash over you for just a second. "You're gonna hurt yourself. 'The fuck are you doin'?" Benson's eyebrows are knitted together in judgment. That only makes you more angry. Any other emotion that you should be feeling, like embarrassment, sadness, or shame, just turns to anger.

"I'm handling something!" You slur, gesturing to the bottle as if that explains your current situation.

"Get in the car. I'll drive you home." He nods his head toward the end of the alley. He starts to walk off, but he's caught off guard by the bottle flying past his head and busting at the end of the walkway. The sound is loud and sharp, sending your temper ablaze. "What the fuck, Y/N?" He yells, angrily. Ready to match your anger on a dime. It seems like all you do is blink before he's closed the gap between you two. He snatches you toward him with your jacket collar, holding you with stone-solid strength you can barely squirm in.

"Fuck off!" You wail, sloppily attempting to fight him off.

"You do something like that again and I will fuck you up, okay?" His voice sounds terrifyingly livid, but he's looking at you like a mother compromising time-out length with her toddler.

"What?" You're shocked by his bold admittance to being willing to rock your shit.

"You heard me. Now would you please get in the fucking car?" His voice rises in pitch and frustration as he releases your garment and gently shoves you away, turning to exit one more time. You're far from happy about it, but you follow him. Not because you think he'll hurt you, that came from throwing blunt glass at his head. But because you really don't want to walk home feeling like you could puke at any second.

"Fuck you, Benson," you say, plopping lazily into the passenger seat.

"Alright," he mumbles passively. "Where's your house?"

"Fuck you."

"It's off Main, right?" He asks, snapping a finger in front of your face. "Right?"

"Yes! Fuck!" You whine like a giant toddler. The worst part about this kind of crash-out is your inner voice, stone sober, wondering why you're sabotaging yourself like this. And still, you don't fight the intrusive impulses. "Take me to Hyland Avenue."

"What? I thought your house was off Goddamn Main Street!"

"Take me to Hyland Avenue and you can leave me there. Fucking, please." You stare at him angrily, knowing it's not meant for him, but not caring who it hits when it comes out.

"What's on Hyland, Y/N?" He asks, mostly just to distract you, and you're none the wiser.

"That bitch is fucking my boyfriend and I'm gonna set the house on fire with him inside."

"Inside her or the house?" Benson taunts with a smirk. You draw back and land a painful closed fist against his arm.

"Shut the fuck up." And that's that. Well, until he inevitably pulls into your driveway, having recognized the house after driving you home on your first day a year or two ago. "What the fuck?"

"Get out of the car and go to sleep. You're acting like an asshole right now." Benson's voice is calm and leveled. Perhaps condescending, as he just can't help himself.

"Yeah. Cool." You suddenly drop all semblance of the fit you've pitched, and step out of the car. He's almost suspicious of the sudden switch until you slam his car door ungratefully. He laughs dryly by himself as he watches you approach your front porch. He's gone just as quickly as he arrived, and right as his headlights fade into the distance, you take off on foot. Right to Hyland Avenue.

God, have I always been this fast? You wonder, feeling like you're floating with each rapid footstep. Finally, you reach the familiar home of your boyfriend of a mere six months. It's not a lot, no. You wouldn't say you've lost the love of your life, but after so many other failed attempts at this, you really went out on a limb trusting someone else. You're winded and somehow growing more drunk by the moment. The brisk breeze threatens to bring you to your senses, but you're too stubborn, and you've come all this way. You look at the open garage where your boyfriend's project car sits surrounded by chemicals and still-wet oil stains. Context clues tell you enough to know there's a gas can in there somewhere, so you start looking.

You are still in the darkness as random cars pass, missing all evidence of your criminal plotting. Finally, there it is. A shitty metal jerry can, a little over half full of gasoline. You snatch it up and begin dousing the car, trailing an odorous line to the end of the driveway. You throw the can into the garage and it lands with a loud, jarring bang. You watch patiently, waiting for some sort of stirring inside. Nothing. Sound asleep, you assume. An unsettling expression has taken over your face as you strike your silver zippo lighter in front of you. The sound of crickets and distant cars has fallen to silence as you get ready to loosen your grip.

Suddenly, a car screeches loudly to a halt, a mere inch from you. It's too dark to see who it is, but you know that sound will draw the attention of everyone on the street, and lights are already turning on in curiosity. "Fuck," you huff, flipping the lighter closed and taking off, once again, on foot. You dart into the woods and eventually come out, somehow, at the intersection that leads to where you work. "Aw, god damn it. Do I work tomorrow?" You ask out loud, breathless and still ready to run. At this point, you're sweating out your buzz. You decide to call it. You didn't technically commit any crime, so there's nothing for that random good fucking Samaritan to report. Still catching your breath as you walk, you sit on the sidewalk right outside the front door of the restaurant.

Cars pass few and far between, but you don't think they can see you. It wouldn't matter if they could. You cringe at how pathetic you must look because you can certainly feel it. Fuck it, you tell yourself, and you're drunk enough to convince yourself you really feel that way. Another car approaches and just as you think they're about to pass by, it pulls into the parking lot. "Shit!" You whisper to yourself before scrambling to your feet, ready to take off again.

"Y/N! Stop fuckin' running every fuckin' where!" Benson calls out his window, annoyance dripping from his voice. You stop, relieved and turn to face your coworker. Your mind is swirling and after your very near murder attempt, you begin to wonder if Benson is just a hallucination. That theory goes out the window when he steps out of his car, wraps a rough, caring hand around your arm, and begins to tug you toward his car.

"Let go of me!" You pry yourself out of his grip, only to start swinging the second you're free. You land one or two solid blows to Benson's face before he shoves you off of him and you drunkenly stumble to the ground.

"Get the fuck off of me," he huffs as he finally puts an end to your rain of fists. "What the fuck did you think was gonna happen if you burnt that house down? You think you wouldn't be the first suspect? Fingerprints all over the goddamn place you fucking idiot?"

"When are you gonna mind your own fucking business, hick? Get the fuck out of here!" You point in any direction as if you're sending a teen to their room. His jaw tightens and he tilts his head side to side as if he's loosening up or suppressing an unhealthy response. It makes your blood run cold.

"Get the car. Let me drive you home again. And I'll leave you alone, alright?" He stares at you with darkened eyes. A slight Kubrick-like stare that feels more like a threat than an offer. It causes a warmth between your thighs you didn't expect. Suddenly, you're perfectly keen on getting in the vehicle. It's not lost on him. He sees the red increase in your alcohol-flushed cheeks and the way any sense of stubbornness melts from your demeanor. With your back to him, as you get into the passenger seat, he rolls his eyes with a one-breath laugh. He shakes his head, bemused and amused.

The second trip to your house is quiet with a new kind of tension. It only grows as you study each little movement of his. The way his hand tightens around the wheel, the way his thumb rubs against his soul patch thoughtfully, and every tiny glance he steals in your direction. You're nearly vibrating, almost disappointed as he pulls into your driveway, knowing this is where it ends because you're not planning on inviting him inside after he's had to play captain save-a-hoe twice tonight. You're just about to open the door, accept defeat, and ready yourself to face an embarrassing morning after, but before you realize it, Benson is opening the car door for you.

"What the fuck?" You ask. It's out of character for him to be so polite.

"I'm making sure you go the fuck to bed this time."

"Dude-"

"I'm too involved now! You're gonna run off and kill somebody if I don't make sure you pass out," he sighs like it's all in a day's work.

"Fuck you," you sigh, stepping out of the car and allowing him to follow you inside. After a quick shower, you stumble quietly into your living room. "You're still here." Your body may be wobbly, but your mind cleared up a bit in the cool shower. At least enough to stop plotting homicides. For now.

"Yeah, I," He stands from the couch, approaching you across the room. "Don't want to waste any more time on your pissed-off little meltdown. I thought getting you into bed would be my best bet to keep you down for the night." There it is. That condescending tone that reignites all the rage you'd just put down. Without a second thought, you grab the decorative glass paperweight from a nearby shelf and send it flying toward Benson. It shatters on the wall right next to him where he stands in the wide, open doorway meant to separate the kitchen and living room. He flinches, looks at the damage, and then looks back to you. Without a word, he starts toward you in long, swift strides. His hands flex with anger as he catches your jaw in his grip and backs you roughly against the wall behind you. You flinch as your head makes contact with the drywall. He tilts your head easily, making your eyes lock with his no matter where you try to avert your gaze.

"Benson," you start, but you don't know what you plan to say. Something about the energy makes you unafraid and excited. He looks you up and down like you're less to him just before roughly pulling your face toward his, slamming your lips together. You don't hesitate for a moment to kiss him back, nearly shaking as you hungrily wrap your arms around him. He swats your exploring hands away, pulling his lips from yours and turning you away from him. With a hand wrapped in your hair, and the other firmly guiding your waist, he leads you down the hall to your bedroom as if he already mapped the place out while you showered. He did.

You're buzzing with butterflies and your skin ignites into sparklers everywhere his fingers graze. He's all too aware, smiling at the effect he has on you. Once you've reached the bed, his grip on your hair moves to the nape of your neck, forcing your head down so that you're bent over in front of him. He leans down, placing his lips deliciously close to your ear. "Tell me to stop." Benson's indirect, whispered inquiry for consent makes it all the more real. You tighten your lips together, intentionally letting the silence speak for you.

Benson flashes a small, satisfied smile. You're still bent over when he steps away and you start to rise from your involuntarily assumed position, but silently, he corrects you. Using his rough hands to mindfully return you to your spot. You take the hint and he leaves the room while you stay perfectly still. In the moment of aloneness, you realize how strange your situation is. This half-tolerable coworker you sometimes have a smoke break with is about to come back to your bedroom and do whatever he wants with you. You've never been more excited for a sexual encounter. You'd always taken Benson as the lazy, or too gentle and boring type when it comes to sex, the way he's so quiet and reserved. Now he's making commands still without a single sound.

When he returns, he's finishing a bottle of something you must've missed in the kitchen during your drunken bender. He's got the bottle turned to the sky as the remainder of the burning clear liquid empties out. He blinks away the ache, forcing air back into his lungs before assuming his place right behind you. Two careless hands hook into the waist of your pajama shorts and swiftly slip them down your legs. His hands caress your skin on his way back up, sliding gently up your thighs until they reach your ass. He squeezes and paws at you like he's savoring every second. You can hear him unfastening his belt, then you feel the warmth of his erection pressed against the cloth of your panties.

"Just fuck me already," you whine, impatiently. Benson presses down on the small of your back, arching your spine further.

"Shut the fuck up," he huffs with a voice like gravel. His hands continue to explore, running from your ass, up your back and then returning. You melt, over and over, under his well-pressured massage. Suddenly, he lands a hard hand against your right ass cheek and you let out a pained yelp. Again, he strikes the same spot and your cries quickly turn to sensual moans. He quickly slips his finger around the string of your thong underwear and pulls it to the side, marveling at you. His free hand rubs the newly forming welt he left before taking his erection in his hand and gently stroking himself before aligning at your dripping entrance.

When Benson finally slips inside, you both make a sound so pathetic that neither of you can hold back anymore. He's done toying with you. He wraps his fingers around where your waist bends and pulls you against him over and over, throwing his head back in ecstasy. Once he's done in this position, he pulls out, leaving you gasping and begging for more. You're quickly flipped on your back with your legs still hanging off the bed. Benson tosses them over his shoulders and slams into you, emitting another involuntary moan. As he thrusts, you begin to unbutton the top of your pajama set, exposing your bouncing breasts. Benson growls out a chuckle, taking one in his hand and groping like it gives him the air he breathes.

"I-I don't know how much more I can-" your whines are cut off.

"Shhh. You're gonna take it," he whispers sweetly, despite his words being a promise of no mercy. "So big and bad all night and you can't handle this?" He continues with a taunting, degrading voice. You can't help but cover your face, embarrassed by his words and embarrassed by what sounds or faces you might make if he keeps fucking you like this. Immediately, he forces your hands away. "Don't do that again." His voice is stern and it's like you're hypnotized to listen, boldly locking eyes with him from then on.

Benson changes positions again, placing himself on the bed with you straddling him, riding him and taking every thick inch he has to offer. Guttural, sensual sounds echo through your bedroom as you're both nearing your climax. "Benson!" You whine, merely seconds away from giving out, but not allowing your legs even a moment of rest.

"I told you," he huffs between thrusts. "To shut the fuck up." He grabs your hips, stilling your movement. You two share a hateful look. Then suddenly, he's thrusting up into you as hard as he can. You're nearly screaming, drowning out his deep, growl-like breaths and moans. In the blink of an eye, he shifts each of your weights in a graceful maneuver that ends with him thrusting into you as you lie on your back. His fingers dance delicately up and down your clit before you finally climax, coating him in your arousal. He's not far behind, twitching inside you as he fills you to the top. He remains inside you for a while longer, hovering over you and dripping cooled drops of sweat down to your breasts.

"Oh, my God," you huff, breathlessly. Thank God it's not from running this time.

"Looks like you just needed to get fucked." He slides out of you, allowing his deposit to pour out onto your sheets. Benson bites his lip, bringing a hand to your fucked out pussy and slipping it inside. He plays with your hole, making graphic sounds with the mess he's made.

"No! Please!" You yelp, overstimulated, and barely able to form a sentence. With a chuckle, Benson pulls away, fastening his belt as he climbs off the bed. You lie there, exhausted with your eyes fluttering shut as Benson disappears. You assume he's gone home, but then you feel a warm, damp washcloth cleaning you up. He helps you get dressed and even gets you into bed before attempting to leave. "You can't drive right now, you downed half a bottle of vodka." You pat the sheets next to you. "Pants off. Get in the bed."

Benson rolls his eyes but does what you say, mostly because he could fall asleep standing up; he's so drained. He climbs into bed with no intention of actually holding you until he feels your skin again. Suddenly, you're pulled to his chest and his grip only tightens if you try to move away, even after he's fallen asleep. He takes deep inhales of the scent of your hair, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

Morning hasn't arrived yet when you blink your eyes open and look around, a bit confused. You quickly realize you'd fallen asleep where you sought asylum from the ruckus at camp. You're just about to move when you glance upward and see Astarion's puffy shirt billowing in the cool wind of the early hour. You almost want to jump, to cower and scramble away until you fumble up to your feet to run back to camp. To the safety of your companions. But you don't. Instead, you notice how his glances sweep back and forth after a few moments. He's silent, listening. His back is to you as he keeps a keep eye and ear out for your surroundings.

You watch him for a moment, reminding yourself that he's your friend. You were just as susceptible to various curses in the Shadow Lands. If you'd been Shadow Cursed, you'd have tried to kill your entire party. You try to convince yourself not to blame him for transgressions his body committed.

"Astarion," you mutter, your voice rough with sleep. His eyebrows shoot upwards as he turns to face you.

"Hello, there," he says, quietly. "You fell asleep out here and I didn't think it'd be wise to leave you to fend for yourself."

"I appreciate the consideration." You chuckle, rubbing your eyes. "How are you feeling?" Astarion smiles at your question, though he doesn't miss the way your hand is tactically placed on the dagger in your belt.

"Much better," he nearly whispers. "Y/N, I believe I... Well, I think I owe you an apology. I don't even know if an apology is enough." You relax a bit, hearing his words of remorse. He sounds mortified.

"You weren't yourself, Astarion. I understand that, I just," you hesitate. His eyes bore into yours.

"You don't need to explain anything to me, darling. I want you to know how disgusted I am with myself. You know I would never..." He frowns. "I know about your fears. You've told me in confidence. Forgive me."

"I--" you start, but you're cut off by Gale storming through the woods.

"Lucy? Are you out here?" The wizard sounds worried. You roll your eyes, hesitating to call out for him, but you hate to make him worry. It's probably unsettling for everyone to wake up to yours and Astarion's tents being empty.

"Gale!" You wave him down and he lets out a dramatic sigh of relief.

"You had me worried," he says, pulling you in for a hug. He looks over at Astarion with an apprehensive glare, turning you inward, slotting himself between the two of you. "What are you doing out here, Astarion?"

"She fell asleep, I didn't want to leave her alone." Astarion's voice is a bitter hum.

"Right. Well... Let's head back." Gale guides you with him. He's never the type to be so controlling or jealous, and as jealous as he is, that's not quite the catalyst for this behavior. He's genuinely just as worried Astarion could snap again as anyone else. And you're all pretty worried about it.

You don't fight Gale on this, walking beside him with his arm draped around you. Astarion follows far behind, staring daggers into the back of Gale's skull. They already got on each other's nerves, and now Gale has a reason to be wary of him. How annoying.

When you arrive at camp, Karlach and Wyll's shoulders relax. Karlach welcomes everyone back, cracking a joke at Astarion about behaving himself. He scowls.

"Oh, right. Too soon, then?" She makes a 'yikes' face and returns to strapping on her armor.

"Yes, and now that our chaperones are in order. Y/N, can we finish our conversation from before we were interrupted?" He narrows his eyes at Gale who crosses his arms in response.

"Sure--"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Y/N," Gale says.

"And why is that?" Astarion knows why. He's just pissed and wants to hear the wizard say it.

"Because we don't know how stable you are. We don't even know if you're properly cured. You can't just sneak around with the woman you nearly killed a few days ago!"

"Oh, please, Gale. We all know why you don't want me to talk to her," Astarion scoffs.

"Careful, Astarion. You're sounding a bit feral again. I'd hate for you to be tied to a stake in the middle of camp again." Gale sneers.

"Whoa-kay, let's all just calm down." Karlach raises her hands defensively.

"Yes, that. Everyone, pick a random location in or around camp, look at it, and go there for a while." Wyll points to absolutely nothing out in front of him and starts beelining in that direction. You point to the river and make your way there. Gale ends up in his own tent, Karlach and Wyll run off to plot something, and Astarion remains standing in the exact same spot he started. He just stares at you as you linger by the water. A few long, agonizing minutes pass and he becomes frustrated.

"Fuck it," Astarion huffs as he starts in your direction. He's mere seconds from speaking when Wyll and Karlach announce that everyone has to come sit around the fire if they want to eat dinner tonight. An intense threat, but effective against hungry, stubborn fools. You take a seat around the fire, sitting next to Karlach. Gale sits on the other side of you. Astarion sits across from you and Wyll sits next to him. It's daytime, so there's no fire burning currently, it's just a mound of ash.

"Okay, we're going to hash everything out right here in front of each other. That way, we'll know exactly where we and everyone stand on every issue we've ever had in the camp." Karlach grins. "Get comfortable, we're going to be here a while."

"We think this will be the easiest, quickest way to get back on track. Regardless of if you're forgiving and kicking Astarion from the group," the mere thought makes you sick, and from the looks of it, Astarion feels the same way. "You have support."

"First of all, no one's going anywhere. That's not-- hold on." You raise your hands in surrender, then you lock eyes with Astarion across the fire. "I am forgiving you, Astarion. Like I said, but that curse did some damage and I don't know how long it'll take." He only nods.

"I'm worried there could be another, smaller shard or some kind of residue dormant inside of him that could come out and render him a violent psychopath once again," Gale announces. It's a valid concern, considering how little they know about that specific ailment.

"That's fair." Karlach nods. Astarion can't help the feeling of... What would he call it? Panic? Offense? It feels terrible. To be a risk again, a liability, a monster. As if all this time together meant nothing, and he's right back to the level of distrust he'd earned when he first met you, and attempted to feed on you in your sleep. That's when he learned about your phobia, because gods above, he's heard plenty of screams, but you were a mess that night.

"And we can't risk our more vulnerable members. He knows exactly who to target and he's too good of a liar." That part almost makes Astarion laugh with a small sense of pride. You, on the other hand, narrow your eyes at Gale.

"Vulnerable? I'm literally in charge," you mutter.

"No one wants Y/N at risk," Wyll starts.

"Oh, so we're not saying vulnerable anymore, were just saying my name."

"But Astarion actions were hardly his own, and moreover, they're Y/N's to forgive or not. I can't sit here and punish a man for something he had no control over. He's our friend." Wyll continues.

"Oh, gods. Just tie me up now and cease this fucking group therapy session." Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly with annoyance.

"I think we should trust Astarion to know what to look out for now that he's been restored. I trust him." Karlach smiles. Astarion expression softens in appreciation.

"I trust him," you announce.

"I trust you, Astarion," Wyll says, placing a hand on the vampire's shoulder. Gale hesitates, ultimately sighing in defeat.

"I'm keeping an eye on you." The stubborn wizard pauses. "But... I trust you."

"Fuck yeah! That has to be some sort of record, right? What with these three and the love triangle and shit despite everything?" Karlach grins obliviously at Wyll who looks at her with a flat, disappointed face. The group falls quiet.

"There is no love triangle, Y/N and I had a mutual separation quite some time ago." Gale speaks first. You've been staring wide-eyed at the extinguished pile of ash in front of you since Karlach made that loud, invasive assumption. Finally, you glance up, only to meet Astarion's eyes immediately. He was already looking at you.

"Right. Anyways, we've clearly had some distractions the past few days and we're behind on camp tasks." You delegate a chore to each person, assigning yourself to fishing in case hunting doesn't work out for whoever you sent. You grab the tackle bag and head down the short path to the river. Astarion, who has taken on laundry, sets up several feet away from you, upstream. You roll your eyes with a laugh.

"Can I help you?" He asks, tilting his head innocently.

"You can't wash laundry upstream and expect me to catch anything, you prick." You laugh, hand on your hip. A stance that charms Astarion usually, but today everything about you is so much more endearing. Something about your forgiveness, your softness. He can't deny the way you make him feel. He certainly can't deny that look from across the fire when there was mention of any kind of feelings between you two, third party be damned.

"A skilled fisherman would figure it out." He shrugs, rolling up his sleeves.

"Come down here, stand on the other side of me."

"Fine," Astarion huffs dramatically, hoisting the laundry basket up as if it weighs a thousand pounds and hauling it to the other side of you. Only, he stops like, two feet away from you.

"What are you doing now?" You raise an eyebrow.

"I'm trying to do my chores, but you keep distracting me," he smirks, almost unintentionally doing his best to keep his fangs out of sight.

"You can't wash clothes this close to me," you laugh, enchanted. It's almost as if nothing ever happened.

"Nothing is ever good enough for you." Astarion makes a 'tsk' sound, shaking his head. You roll your eyes.

"You're a menace. Truly," you huff, crouching next to him to help with the laundry. "The quicker you get this out of the way, the better. I have to catch something before I can turn in tonight."

"Is that the new rule? Chores or banishment?" Astarion chuckles as the two of you wash the fabric in the river.

"It seems super fair, right?" You say, sarcastically. Astarion just laughs. Things feel almost normal again... Almost. The two of you share in some light conversations and comfortable laughter. Gale watches from afar, shoulders relaxing when he hears the sounds ringing back at camp. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding and returns to his task of organizing. Sure, a bit of jealousy resides in his heart, but he's just glad everyone's okay right now.

Dinner time rolls around and you have two large fish, caught at the very last minute because you wasted so much time with Astarion. Wyll's hunt went well too, so there's plenty of camp supplies for the coming nights. It's pleasantly peaceful to have things back in order once again.

•••

The next couple weeks are business as usual. You've stormed goblin camps and hosted various parties, you've even moved camp once, relocating to a new place for a new beginning. It's been nice, and the change of scenery has helped calm your nerves whenever you're alone with Astarion. He knows you're trying, but he hates to see the way your pulse races and your pupils shrink when he gets too close. He misses that close comfortability the two of you used to share, even if it did start out as a manipulation tactic.

"Do you want help with that?" You ask, chuckling at Astarion's feeble attempt at unpacking his tent setup in this new location.

"Oh, don't put yourself out. You seem terribly useful right now." He huffs, words dripping with sarcasm and annoyance.

"Shut up," you chuckle, joining his efforts. Hours pass and you're still not through all his belongings. "How do you still have more clothes?"

"I am thorough!" He hisses and you laugh hysterically. You manage to finally make it through the piles of clothes only to come across a bag of laundry he missed from before you all relocated.

"What's this?" You ask, not wanting to rummage without permission. Things like that matter to Astarion.

"Give it here. They're probably covered in blood from some particularly disgusting creature we've slain." He rolls his eyes. When he opens the pack, he raises his eyebrows. "Oh, no. Just more clothes. Huh." He slips the cloak from the bag, wrapping it around himself. "Haven't worn this in a while."

"It's quite nice. Really matches the whole rogue thing." You nod.

"I don't remember-- Ah! What in the Nine..." Something seems to have stuck him. You can't help but laugh.

"Better give those clothes a wash before you find something unsavory hiding in the sleeves." You shake your head, glancing at him with a warmth in your smile that he'd give up his time in the sun to feel. It nearly melts him. Almost makes him feel like a living creature again.

"It felt like something burnt me," Astarion sneers, tossing the cloak aside.

"Is a splinter the equivalent of a tiny, little stake in your flesh, do you think?" You ask, tilting your head. The fact that your question seems so genuine adds another layer of annoyance. Astarion shakes his head.

"What have you been doing in that tent? Is there proper ventilation? Brain damage is a tricky thing, you know."

"Don't be an ass, it was a good question!" You take a seat on his cot, crossing your arms in mock offense.

"No, darling, it was not. But you're usually a pinnacle of intelligence, so I'll be sure to let that one slide." The sarcasm in his voice is far from lost on you. The two of you spend the rest of the evening and well into the night in his tent, seemingly finally catching up with each other. Several hours fly by like seconds as you happily talk over one another. Finally, a yawn snatches your breath and you decide it's time to turn in.

"Goodnight," you say just as you reach for the flap of his tent. "I'll help you finish setting up tomorrow if you need it."

"I don't need help, but I'll take free labor if you're offering," he purrs with an unserious wink. You leave his tent laughing, and unbeknownst to you, once Gale hears you walk past and return to your own tent, he's finally able to go to sleep. He's unsure whether this is jealousy or concern at this point, but you're away from Astarion, and that's good enough for him.

The next few days are smooth sailing. Adventure falls into your laps. Wyll's always saying some "fortune favors the brave" shit and you're just thrilled to be here. You feel a sense of pride in your party for overcoming such adversities so efficiently. It feels too good to be true. You wake up with a smile on your face, excited, in fact, for your turn to cook breakfast. Things have been going exceptionally well and you found a chicken! Eggs! You're going to treat the gang to an opulent breakfast as a thanks for all their hard work. Astarion will receive a bottle of the good wine and perhaps a chalice of something blood-like, depending on who all wants their hand sliced open as soon as they wake up.

Astarion emerges from his tent, stretching his arms far above his head. You smile in his direction, but he doesn't acknowledge you. You shrug it off, refocusing your attention on making a fancy little plate for everyone. They all come sauntering out of their tents, following the savory scent of your cooking. Wyll approaches first.

"This is a pleasant surprise!" He chimes with a wide, brilliant smile. "What's the occasion?" He asks, taking a plate and sitting across from you around the fire pit.

"It's just a small 'Thank you' for everyone's contributions lately. A little appreciation breakfast, courtesy of the chicken." You point to the new bird as you pass Karlach and Gale a plate. Everyone sits around the fire, except Astarion. You look around for him, but he seems to have wandered off. He's often quite broody, so you don't think much of it.

"Oh, fuck yeah! I didn't know we had a reward system around here." Karlach laughs, shoveling her food into her mouth.

"We don't. There very well might come a time that we all have to cut down to one meal a day, every other day." Gale unintentionally wet-blankets, still groggy from sleep.

"Great point, buddy. Eat your protein." You nod, looking at him with a thin layer of concern. "Did you not get enough sleep last night?"

"I got about as much sleep as one can get with a camp as lively at night as ours is." Gale rubs his temples. "No, that was impolite. I'm just tired, apologies." You frown, knowing you're who he's referencing. You couldn't sleep last night, and you didn't hang out with Astarion, so you were pacing back and forth on the crackling gravel trying to get the provisions wagon unloaded.

"I will give myself a curfew for needless tasks. I'm sorry, Gale." You smile apologetically.

"Where's Astarion?" Wyll pipes up. Gale looks around suspiciously.

"I saw him this morning, but he just kind of... Walked off." You shrug. "He seemed fine."

"Strange, considering how sociable he's been lately," Gale says, stacking his dishes with the others.

"I'll go check on him. Perhaps he's in one of his moods." You chuckle, standing to head in the same direction the vampire disappeared in. Gale watches you until you leave his field of vision, a lump forming in his throat.

"I don't think she should go alone," he says.

"You're hung up on that one, eh?" Karlach laugh.

"Maybe so, but this is different. It was sheer luck that he didn't kill her last time."

"Relax, mate. She'll be fine, Astarion's fine. Now, let's break down that 'Maybe so' real fast..." She smirks deviously. The wizard rolls his eyes.

•••

Deep into the forest, you hear strange sounds. You have your dagger in hand, expecting to see something pretty gnarly. As you approach, you can't decipher if it's a dying animal or a newborn abomination.

"Astarion?" You call out to him, following the sound of struggles. "Are you alright?" He doesn't respond, even as you step into view. He's sweaty and breathing heavily, like he's ill...

"No... No!" He snaps angrily.

The chilly breeze is amplified in strength as you stand looking over from the roof of the abandoned mall. It whips through your hair, exposing your full face. It feels vulnerable for only a moment until you remember how you got here in the first place. To be honest, this stop was only in case he did see a reason to take you out. It doesn't scare you, for whatever reason, but you do want just one more visit to your teenhood quiet place.

"You bring a joint or what? It's fuckin' cold up here." Benson, hands in his pockets, kicks the loose, rocky debris. You sigh, retrieving a small tin from your back pocket. Four joints are awaiting your anxious lungs. You withdraw one and feel around your pockets for a lighter, your heart drops as you come up empty. Just as you're about to abandon your plan altogether, Benson silently passes you a little black bic from his pocket.

"Thanks," you mumble, taking the lighter and sparking up the joint. The smoke fills your chest and as you exhale, your shoulders relax for the first time since driving that pen into your ex-coworker's hand. However, it'd take something much harder to stifle the looming feeling of being chased by time, possibly by the cops... By Benson.

Because that's what it's been since the beginning. He sought you out and placed you in a position where he's taken charge. You've never been in control of anything in your life except your emotions, and it seems like that's not holding up anymore. You want to stare blankly into the boring, dull horizon of your small town, but you find yourself laughing. A chuckle, really. Your chest shudders as you try to reel it in, but you're laughing.

Benson side-eyes you, studying your body language and identifying right away that feeling of disconnection. It's so relieving, he'd know that laugh anywhere. For a moment, he joins you. And it's just two screwed-up people on a roof, clouded with smoke whipping in the wind, laughing at how impossible everything feels. The weight of knowing you're one incident away from being as unhinged and harmful as Benson. Seeing it in real life feels like an uncomfortable mirror that won't give you a break.

"Alright, you did your fuckin' eat, pray, love bullshit. Let's go." Benson tosses the roach, heading toward the stairwell.

"Hey!" You point at Benson, a little more clear-headed after smoking. "If this is for me; if you think you're helping me, then don't be fucking mean to me, okay?" Your voice started out strong, but slowly crumpled around the end. Benson smirks and releases a short breath of a chuckle.

"It's for you," he says, gesturing for you to exit with him. For just a second you want to defy this silent command, but you don't. You walk past him and he lets the door fall closed behind him. The walk back to the car is quiet and for the first time since your "abduction," your mind is silent. Compliments of the medicinal plant you smoked. Benson watches you like a hawk. He's a drinker, usually. It's never occurred to him to smoke a joint and calm down.

"Look, I really... I'm kind of scared. I'm confused. What is all this for?" You begin to spill over. "Just let me go home and I won't even report him missing, I swear." Benson bites his lip into a wide smile. The calming effects of weed clear your mind enough to realize Benson is a crazy person, and you're not safe in his presence. You're only a few feet from his car when your heart begins to race. Before you know it, your feet are doing the same. You take off with all your strength and speed propelling you forward.

"Ah, ah," Benson's strong, dominant arm catches yours and you're yanked back by your own inertia. His grip is tight, but careful as he pulls you to him, holding you close as he whispers a threat in case anyone were to drive by. "What are we doin' Y/N?" He asks, lips nearly pressed against your ear as he roughly guides you to the vehicle. He escorts you to the passenger side door and stares you down with arched brows.

You stare back at him, bravely meeting his gaze, but eventually opening the door yourself and climbing inside. Benson closes the door for you and scans his surroundings as he makes his way to the other side of the car. When he gets inside, he's silent, staring forward as he searches his fractured mind for his next poor line of reasoning for any of this. Finally, he turns to face you, placing a possessive hand on your shoulder as he looks at you with some sort of falsified sympathy. It makes you feel small and pathetic under his gaze. You cringe.

"What the fuck was that, Y/N?" He asks.

"I- I just wanted to-"

"I think I might be sending you some mixed signals, Y/N." He starts the car. "I think when I told you I'm doing this for you, you took that as a call to action." You swallow hard. "I'm doing this for you. It's all for you," he repeats with a certain level of cryptic passion. "But I'm in control of what happens here."

"Okay." You huff anxiously. "You're in charge." A silence falls over the two of you.

"Where to next?" He asks, directly contradicting his proclamation of authority.

"I don't- I'm not sure what this is."

"You're not sure what what is, Y/N?"

"I don't understand what you're doing. I don't understand why you're doing this 'for me.' I want to go home."

"How'd you meet that guy. The one that's packed into a puck of trash in the side of the earth." He asks, smiling like he's pleased with himself.

"We uh, met in college." You're hesitant to answer as his mood slithers between an eerie calm and a hot-headed, white-knuckled rage. Either way, he wears a smile. It's unsettling, but... Strangely comforting. Like he already knows what to do with that emotion. You don't have that ability.

"College, huh?"

"Yeah. Longest anyone's cared to stick around." You shrug, almost missing your late partner.

"Why's that?" Benson asks, genuinely confused. To him, you're something to behold. Not only a pretty face but my God, you're like a helpless damsel with a .380 full of hollow points. So fearful and unpredictable. So violent and scared. Not too different from Benson, but not at all the same.

"I guess I'm pretty good at being a doormat. If they don't get bored, they usually leave after I breakdown. Just once. I don't think I was meant for grace." You shrug, reminiscing on past failed relationships with a certain nostalgia. "You learn to be a little quieter every time."

"That's fucking stupid, Y/N." He chuckles, shaking his head. He laughs, realizing your moment of confidence on the roof, when you demanded he be kinder to you, was a bigger deal to you than he realized. He's almost proud, but he's too busy laughing. "You shrink yourself over and over and think you'll have anything left to be when you're alone?" He laughs, but the question is painfully profound.

"I just wanted a good job and a happy home." You sigh.

"Well that's not who you are anymore, is it? Was it ever?"

"Please don't play Zoltar with me just because I stabbed a guy in the hand. You don't know what that place was like. I didn't even go back for my last check and they certainly won't send it to me." You squeeze your eyes shut with frustration, still wondering if the cops are looking for you by now.

"Oh, yeah?" He slowly accelerates the car, driving with more direction and purpose now. You feel your heart begin to race.

"Benson?" No reply. "B-Benson?" You ask again. Nothing. You grow more anxious by the minute. "Benson, I don't want to go..." Your voice fades off as he calmly places a hand on the small revolver sitting threateningly on the dash. His face is stoic and emotionless as he warns you silently. You're shaking so hard, you swear the car would rattle if it were sitting still.

"We're just gonna go grab your last check." He says, smiling warmly. So warmly, in fact, that you catch yourself smiling too. How light it feels to have the decision made for you, even if it terrifies you to go back to the scene of your crime. You feel oddly carefree and safe. You begin to wonder how fast Stockholm syndrome sets in, but it's not that.

Years of your life that count for nothing, no credit toward any internship program. Years of your life building toward a promise that was always planned on being broken. It's enough to drive someone to end it all, so why not just leave it all? For the first time in your life, someone has given you the gift of no choice. The gift of no need. Benson's in charge now. This revelation does little to still your trembling limbs, but you do stare at Benson for a while. Observing new creases and features on his face. Bits you never took the time to notice before.

"What?" He asks, snapping you from a daze you hadn't noticed you slipped into.

"Are you gonna kill me? Like at the end of this whole ghosts of Christmas whatever thing you're doing, you're gonna kill me too, right?" Your question makes Benson laugh heartily.

"How is this like A Christmas Carol at all?" He asks, furrowing his brows. You narrow your eyes at his lack of an answer. Before you realize it, you're in the parking lot of your old office building. Your stomach drops. Quickly, you scan the parking lot and notice it's a sparse amount of cars. A remote day. Only the bosses are in. Those. Fucks. "Use your credentials and get us inside."

"What? Credentials? What do you think they do here? We can just walk inside." You lead Benson to the door and your shaking hand reaches for the handle.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Y/N. You stabbed a guy with a pen. They're not gonna shoot you in the stomach the second you step through the doors." He sternly, but mindfully grabs your shoulder and leads you inside. The conference room where they all hang out to be vulgar and waste air is on the second floor, so you and Benson take the stairs for a quieter approach. You can hear their annoying, boisterous laughter booming past the dated yellowwood double doors. You swallow the lump in your throat.

You look at Benson, and he nods at you like he's giving you an unspoken signal. He's giving you "the okay" to lose it. And it's so nice not to fight yourself, just act. Time slows down to stillness as you gather your courage and wits. You can hear Mr. Andrews, still softer than the others. Dockins and his shrill, bitchy voice. And, of course, the unmistakable, hateful voice of the man with a deep scar forever carved into his hand.

They're talking about business as usual. You've barely been gone at all, and not even a wisecrack has been made about your outburst, attack, or departure. That old motherfucker's hand is no doubt still bandaged, yet he doesn't even complain. You were so insignificant, that even the marks you left behind are like boot scuffs on the tile. Scrubbed off and forgotten. Suddenly, your lividity is unknowable. You're nearly red in the face with anger. It's a melting pot of emotions. Grief, anger, fear, relief. Not to mention whatever you're feeding off of Benson.

Without another thought, you burst through the doors. You feel taller than normal, louder, clearer. That is until their eyes are upon you. Then you're the same shrinking marionette they dubbed you to be. Your mind is empty the second your gaze meets Mr. Andrews.

"Can we help you, miss?" He asks, genuinely. You raise your eyebrows in surprise. They don't even recognize you. You put on such a good show, that they don't recognize you out of costume. You glance at Benson and back to your former bosses.

"Oh, my God. It's Y/N!" Mr. Dockins burst into laughter. "My God, that psychotic break did a number on your looks, sweetheart." He laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world. Nothing could be funnier. And what's worse, is the man with a bandaged hand himself is laughing right along. You were so small to them. Not a threat. Not even a bother. Just another pretty face to mistreat in the workplace with absolutely no way to fight back.

"Careful, John. She might have a crayon this time!" Your victim chortles, belly laughing at your expense. Your only solace in this moment is the fact that you've forgotten his name just as he'd never bothered to truly learn yours. Mr. Andrews looks at you with a confused, disappointed glare and you finally open your mouth to speak.

"I want my last check." Is all you can muster in a dignified tone. The two men simply laugh harder, but you ignore them, zeroing in on their boss.

"Y/N, you violently assaulted a coworker. We didn't press charges. I think that's more than-"

"No. Fuck you." You snap. "All those years of harassment, actual assault at the hands of your fucking goons." You lay into them. "I want my last fucking paycheck and no matter how much is on it, it won't be enough to truly cover what it was like working for you fucking animals." Laughter. All you hear is heart-wrenching, stomach-churning, blood-boiling laughter. You feel it. A high-pitched tone in your ear, and you blink, and the long, snazzy two-piece table has been separated, and one half is lying on its side. It's not necessarily heavy, but it's a nice table. Not easy to flip alone.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Call the police, this broad belongs in a nut house!" The man with a wrap on his wounded hand exclaims as you blink back into reality. Before your vision has time to fully unblur, you're being jostled around by the front of your clothes. When you look around, Benson's nowhere to be seen.

"You little bitch!" Dockins hisses, shaking you about. You try to fight him off, but he roughly slams you against the wall, knocking you breathless for a moment. With one of his hands wrapped in a powerful fistful of your shirt, his other comes down on the side of your face in a painful slap. You cry out in pain, your face forced to the side on impact. When you open your eyes, Benson's in the doorway. You try to focus your vision on him, and as you do, you watch him lift a double barrel and point it at Mr. Dockins. "Hey, hey!" He releases your garment and takes one step away from you, just far enough it would seem, because after the third step, Benson pulls the trigger, emptying one shell into the man's chest.

"Oh, my fucking God!" The other man exclaims just before Benson fires off another shot into Mr. Dockins's still-twitching body. The other man tries to run, but Benson calmly reloads the shotgun and steps right out the door where the pen-wounded man fled. With one more thunderous boom, you can hear the man fall dead just a few feet down the hallway.

You're frozen, you and Mr. Andrews stare at each other, equally shocked. You knew Benson had killed before, he admitted to it, but part of you must not have believed him. Shaking, you glance down at the mound of blood and meat with Mr. Dockins head still attached. After a mere second, your gaze returns to the last remaining survivor as Benson steps back in the door. You do the simple math in your head and realize the chamber is still holding one more shell.

You want to protest, stop Benson from hurting the only man who wasn't insufferable... But then you wondered where his protests were for all those years of mistreatment. It's as if he can read your mind because he closes his eyes just before Benson raises the gun and obliterates the entirety of his identity. You flinch as you watch his face and head eaten away in the blast and then he falls to the ground in a disgusting squelch.

Silence befalls the room for only a few minutes before you turn to the side and empty your stomach of all its contents. You wretch and dry heave as the foreign smells of body parts you shouldn't be exposed to fill the air. Your body remains frozen aside from the vomiting, unsure whether to faint, cry, scream, or just accept this terrifyingly real situation. You were an accomplice to murder and while the sights, smells, and sounds give you human reactions, the weight of it all does not. Because it wasn't your choice. You search for the guilt, but it's not there. Even as you both pass framed pictures of their families that are sitting on their desks on the way out.

You and Benson leave the way you came in, only this time, his eyes are darkened and his clothes are spattered with blood. He has a shotgun in one hand, and the other arm is wrapped protectively around your shoulders. Not long ago, you'd consider this a threat. A way of him reminding you not to run off, but you melt under his touch. Unwillingly romanticizing the acts of horror you watched right in front of you only a few moments ago.

He'd kill for you. When you stare up at his stone face, you know he'd probably die for you too. You think about how often people say those types of things, but rarely can they ever back it up. Call it love, call it whatever you like. But he killed for you.

When you both reach the car, you sit in silence for a moment before Benson looks over at you, turning his head dramatically to be noticed. His face is flat, unmoved as he scans yours. To his surprise, you smile weakly. He looks confused, but then his expression softens into a smile as well.

"We need to get out of these clothes," you say, noticing that you're as stained as Benson.

"We need to get out of this town." His rebuttal is serious and almost stern. Benson's in charge. You hesitate before answering.

"Okay."

"Five minutes, Y/N!" The angry stage manager screams backstage. You perfect your lipstick in the mirror and stand to straighten up your ensemble. You sing a few nights a week at a local lounge/venue for extra money. You're a local hit and it pays the bills.

Across the entire building, a man pays his way inside, tired after days of wasted effort. He sighs as he takes a seat, alone in a VIP booth. They're not cheap, but even if he hadn't sat there, anyone can tell he has money just from the way he dresses.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight's entertainment." A smooth voice vibrates over the intercom. You gracefully file out onto the small stage, illuminated well by a single spotlight amongst the mood lighting throughout the lounge. The tired man taps a finger on his table, watching with boredom as he waits for his drink to arrive.

"I'm all out of hope. One more bad dream could bring a fall..." Your voice rings through the air like honey sweetens tea. The lone man at the VIP booth nearly gives himself whiplash with the rate at which he turns to face the source of the illustrious talent. You continue to sing your cover, and slowly he begins to recognize the song.

Your eyes meet his, as you do at every show to engage with the audience.

"It's easy to deceive. It's easy to tease," you slide your hands down your sides, swaying back and forth sensually for this verse. "But hard to get release."

The pianist serves as backup vocals, delivering the iconic lyrics: "Les yeux sans visage."

"Eyes without a face; got no human grace. You're eyes without a face." Your vocals swell and the man stares at you, inspired. His mouth hangs agape with a hopeful smile.

After you finish your set of five songs, you take a small bow and excuse yourself to the bar. The well-dressed man all but trips over himself as he scrambles to meet you over there.

"Double vodka cran, please, Henry." You tell the bartender and he nods, starting your order.

"That's some voice you got there, darlin'." The man appears next to you, smiling a large, white, evangelical grin.

"Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed the show."

"Well, I more than enjoyed it. You got yourself a gift, now." The man extends his hand. "I'm Baby Billy."

"Baby?" You look at him, perplexed. He explains his backstory a little, insisting you should at least know who his sister is.

"You ain't never heard of Aimee-Leigh Gemstone?"

"Of course I have, I just don't listen to a lot of gospel." You shrug, truthfully hoping the conversation could end there.

"Well, darlin', do you ever sing gospel?" His eyes twinkle in the dimly lit bar area.

"I don't think that'd fare well for me here. This place looks fancy, it's costly to get in, but it's just a bar at the end of the day. No one wants to be preached to." You take a sip of your drink and he watches you closely, noting the pout of your lips as you press them to the glass.

"No, not here. Here." He lies a pamphlet out in front of you, sliding it closer along the bar. "I'm the head preacher at the new church in Locust Grove. Opens in a month."

"A man of God, huh?" You mumble as you skim over the pamphlet. "Does this gig pay?"

"God never asked us to exploit our talents for free." Baby Billy grins. You look him up and down. He's a walking red flag, but it's clear he's got money and as a broke woman on your own, you can never have enough.

"I'm free on weekends. I'll adjust my availability when I know you're serious." You say, stone-faced. Baby Billy hands you his card, passing it smoothly between his index and middle finger. You take it and stand from the bar, walking away, and disappearing into the green room to prepare for another set in an hour. He watches you, still sporting a wide smile as you stand. His eyebrows twitch in short-lived confusion. He pushes all that aside, only one thing matters now. He has his co-star.

Friday afternoon rolls around and Baby Billy attends your show, beaming at you from his expensive, empty VIP booth. He's practically got dollar signs for pupils.

"Friday is a weekday, Billy." You call over your shoulder as you excuse yourself to the bar.

"Baby Billy," he corrects, clinging to his childhood fame with all he has. "It's a brand, now. And who said I'm here for work? Can't a man just enjoy the show?" He follows you to the bar, taking a seat next to you.

"Well, did you enjoy it?" You turn to him with an amused smile. "The show?"

"It was even better the second time around."

"Thank you, Baby Billy," you say, with a knowing emphasis on 'baby.' "I guess I'll be calling you tomorrow, then."

"I'll be ready when you are, darlin'." He smiles warmly and you begin to wonder if you'll ever see him without that goofy, toothy grin stretched across his face.

Saturday morning, you're up, bright and early. You think nothing of the process of getting ready, throwing on a T-shirt and jeans along with various accessories you only get to wear on your days off, so you take every chance.

"This ain't a repeat of that... Lost soul you brought in last time, is it?" Eli settles back in his seat. He's sitting in one of the thousands of seats in the Gemstone Auditorium along with his three children, Judy, Jesse, and Kelvin. Baby Billy stands before them.

"No, damn, Eli. She's perfect for the job. She's got the face, she's got the voice, and most importantly, she's got stage presence." Baby Billy makes a grand case, convincing the Gemstone family that he's found an angel on Earth. Which is why it's all the more shocking when you walk in looking like an entirely different person than the woman he met at the lounge.

Everyone falls silent, they turn to face you as you walk through the door. The second you come into clear view, Judy Gemstone does a poor job of stifling a hateful chortle. Baby Billy meets you halfway, keeping you off to the side before you're front and center in front of everyone.

"The fuck you look like that for?" He asks with a peculiar sense of genuine confusion/ curiosity.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think it'd be a dress rehearsal." You narrow your eyes, placing a hand on your hip.

"When you called me this morning I thought I made it clear what kind of... Environment you might find yourself in." He waves his hands around as he says this.

"Is this an audition or did you scout me out?" You ask with a smirk, looking him up and down.

"Well, hear me out, now. Because if it were up to me, you're hired. But you need to hop up on there and prove to these assholes that I know what I'm doing."

"Playing dress up costs extra," You whisper. Without leaving time for him to respond, you walk ahead of him and confidently offer a handshake to Eli. The two of you become acquainted and he welcomes you to the stage.

As you step out onto the grand platform, it's awkwardly empty. You find yourself almost nervous, which is out of character for you. You've been performing since you were young.

"What am I singing for you today, Dr. Gemstone?" You ask, sensing a little bit of decorum could go a long way here.

"Looks like she's about to start blasting Rob fuckin' Zombie," Jesse, the oldest Gemstone son, quips under his breath. You narrow your eyes at him, clocking his appearance on the spot.

"I think I know what you wanna hear," you smile politely, pointing directly at Jesse. After a quick speed walk to the sound tech, you queue up the track for the song you've chosen. The music starts, and the two youngest Gemstone siblings burst into laughter. Even Eli chuckles.

"Hello, Darlin'. Nice to see you," you start. "It's been a long time, you're just as lovely as you used to be." The joke about Jesse's appearance quickly fizzles away as the Gemstones take in your voice. Baby Billy stands off to the side, gauging their reaction, absolutely elated.

"I told you he was trying to be Conway fuckin' Twitty," Judy whispers to Kelvin.

"Come back Darlin'. I'll be waiting for you..." You finish your song and take an unserious bow. You secure the job, and Eli even commends Baby Billy for finding you. After researching the Gemstones a little bit the night before, you quickly begin to realize how much money you could potentially make here.

"That was fantastic! That old fucker didn't think I could do it," Baby Billy gushes.

"And what did you do, just now?" You side-eye him.

"I found a star." He emphasizes his words with his hands. He's a charismatic and handsome man even given his older age.

"What's next? I'm sure this next month will be pretty busy with rehearsals." You laugh, already contemplating quitting your recurring lounge gig.

"Well, sure. We'll put in the work and all, but," he looks at you expectantly.

"What?" You ask, but he only gestures with his hand as if you should've caught on by now. "Oh, Baby Billy. I don't know if I'll be attending church tomorrow. I'm um, not a Christian."

"Huh," he says, dryly. You scrunch your nose, awaiting an uncomfortable lecture. "You work in this industry for so long, you forget some people aren't religious." He shrugs and you feel a sense of relief.

"I'm not busy today. Care to show me around the Locust Grove church? It's nice to know what I'm going into." He holds the door for you as you step out into the bright parking lot.

"I'd love nothing more." He grins.

At the Locust Grove location, you're wowed by the remodeled mall-turned-megachurch. He gives you the grand tour, specifying that you'd have your own area to get ready before each service.

"This is... A lot," you laugh.

"You're about to make it much more, darlin'." He ushers you up to the stage with him. "Let's give it a go, see how we sound together."

"What song are you thinking?"

"You don't know any gospel?" He peeks over his glasses at you.

"Not really," you shrug. "Well, I know Angel Band and I know Down to The River to Pray from that movie I like."

"Good fuckin' God." He sighs. "Down to The River." He counts off and starts the first verse. His voice is southern, crisp, and clear. You quickly decide in your head what fashion of singing would best compliment his. The chorus approaches and you ready your breath.

"Oh, sisters, let's go down. Let's go down, come on down," your voices melt together pleasingly. You can tell by the look on his face that he likes what he hears. The song ends for the two of you after that first chorus, that's all he needed to hear.

"It's about time something worked out for ol' Baby Billy," he shakes his head. "Now, the next matter to discuss is... Wardrobe."

"Yeah, I figured 'sunday best' would cut it, right?"

"Well, not quite." He leads you to a room past the storage area full of broken, useless mannequins. He walks up to a large armoire and pulls it open. Inside is one dress. It's wrapped in a layer of protective plastic that's done wonders to preserve it. It's campy and dated, though you can tell it was high dollar fashion for its time.

"Baby Billy, I'm not wearing this." You look at him, as if hoping he'll tell you he's joking.

"What? Why not? Now that was Aimee-Leigh's favorite dress," he glances back and forth from you and the dress.

"Okay and it's beautiful, but it looks like it's a hundred years old." You look at the striking piece of clothing again. "This is helpful, though. If this is the kind of look you wanna go for, I think I can make it work."

The two of you spend the rest of your time in the unopened church getting acquainted. You find him charming and entertaining. He finds you beautiful and unintentionally hilarious. You make him laugh often. It's like his own personal ray of sunshine on his shoulder.

It's late when you head to leave. You hardly noticed how long you'd been there. As you open the door to the dark parking lot, you turn to bid Baby Billy goodbye.

"Well, hold on, now, darlin'. Let me walk you to your car." He follows you out the door and to your vehicle. You roll the window down to thank him for the job, pulling your seatbelt over your head.

"I'll see you...?" You wait for him to tell you what day he plans to start practice.

"Monday afternoon, if you can make it." He places a hand on the roof of your car. "Now, listen. I know you ain't the religious type-"

"I will see you Monday, Baby Billy." You interrupt before he has the chance to invite you to church tomorrow. He shrugs, waving to you as you drive off.

That night, as you shower, you wonder if you were too rude with your rejection of his invitation. After all, you grew up going to church. Certainly not a mega church, but a church regardless. It's not a chapter of your youth and adolescence that you hold dear, hence your inclination to stay away from it all.

You set an alarm and wake up early Sunday morning... To get ready for church. You take this outing as a chance to demonstrate to Baby Billy and all the Gemstones that while your personal style may not mesh with their vibe, you've always had a way of blending in.

You put on a white dress with statement sleeves. Something to play off of the whole "voice of an angel" shtick. After perfecting the rest of the look, you leave with a satisfied smile.

You walk through the large double doors to the "Gemstone Worship Center" and look around. It's needlessly gigantic and overwhelming to take in.

"Y/N, is that you, darlin'?" Baby Billy's voice grounds you back on Earth. You turn to face him and he raises his eyebrows, shocked by your range of appearances. "Don't you look pretty this morning?" He grins, admiring your pearly glow in the white garment. He's elated to see you there. Not because he thinks you need church, but because he wanted to see you.

He introduces you to a few colleagues, and even Eli Gemstone reintroduces himself, shocked to learn you're the same woman from yesterday.

"Who is this with you today?" A tall, bald man with a thick African accent asks with a warm smile.

"Now, this is my girl, Y/N," Baby Billy gestures to you like a grand prize. Something about the title "his girl" makes your stomach flip, and you're not sure how you feel about that. "She'll be performing with me at Locust Grove."

The theatrical, pretentious service is long, loud, and feels uncomfortable the entire time, so it's hard to keep your mind and eye from wandering to anything else. Often, you glance at Baby Billy. He's brought you to his seats in the front area, so it's hard to drown the music out entirely, but everything does seem to muffle when you're staring down the white-haired enigma of a man before you.

After service, Baby Billy invites you to join the family at a restaurant called Jason's. You're hesitant at first, but Eli insists. When you arrive, the Gemstones are escorted to a level above the restaurant to a private section for their own VIP dining experience. It's frivolous to you, but it's nice to do something different for once.

After church lunch, the entire group congregates in the parking lot, saying their goodbyes and making promises to see each other next week. You smile politely, though a bit awkward, as you don't really know anyone besides Baby Billy.

"Nice get up, Rob Zombie." Judy Gemstone appears beside you, seemingly complimenting you, but she's just as confused as you are.

"Thank you, Judy. I just wanted to show that I know how to fit into a crowd."

"Yeah, well. You're not so bad, up there, on stage." Her tone sounds like she's accosting you, but her words sound genuine. As if she's not sure how to... Just be nice without intimidation tactics. "Singer to singer, don't let Uncle Baby Billy ride your coattails too hard." She struts off, linking arms with her husband and loading up into their lavish vehicles.

You feel a sense of comfort now, knowing Judy is just like that. It's nice to know you have another woman in the mix that you can look to as an acquaintance. Slowly, but surely, you find yourself melding into the atmosphere that follows people like Baby Billy around. You begin to feel more comfortable around the rest of the church leaders, though you realize rather quickly that there isn't much talk about God. It's nice.

As the weeks go by, you meet up with Baby Billy for practice every day. It's not the schedule you meant to give him, you just find yourself wanting to see him more and more. You delight in the strange way he talks and his charming mannerisms. You also think it's really funny when something goes wrong and he's suddenly not grandpa sunshine anymore, and he's kicking a speaker calling it a dick.

As the rehearsal window comes to a close, you and your co-star are inseparably close. On more than one occasion, one of you has slipped up and gotten a little too comfortable.

"Baby Billy, why does the mirror say something about washing my hands keeping me safe from Satan?" You ask, returning from the restrooms.

"That was song lyrics from back in mine and Aimee-Leigh's day," he laughs.

"Well, how do clean hands keep me safe in the eyes of the Lord?" You furrow your brow, in disbelief that anyone could believe this. Baby Billy is tinkering with the stage lights as they two of you converse.

"Well," he says, still messing with the light. "Just like those hands can commit sins, they can be washed clean by his mercy." He chuckles as if he already knows he's going to overstep. "Those look like sinner hands to me, darlin'." He winks.

"Sinner hands?"

"Ain't you ever done anything with those hands? Something the Lord might not smile upon?" He continues with his back to you, finally flicking on the light after his adjustments. Your face is hot and red with the realization of what he meant.

"Oh, yeah. I guess so." You shrug. Baby Billy turns to face you, taking a few steps closer. He's a good deal taller than you, so his lanky frame looms over you in a way that makes your stomach flip. He's barely a foot away, smiling down at you.

"You guess so," he repeats, tilting his head and grinning, letting the silence thicken for a moment. You give up on trying to fight back the blush in your cheeks, there is no way around it.

"Well, I guess let's get back to it," you clap your hands once in front of you as if to break up this moment and you take your position. Baby Billy just laughs and leaves you with a lingering confusion. The rest of the day, you can't seem to keep your head clear. A flip has switched and you find yourself lusting after this televangelist old man.

The two of you wrap up rehearsals for the day, but instead of leaving, you linger behind a little longer. You're unsure if it's nerves telling you to practice more, or if it's just you wanting to be around him.

"Next week is opening day," Baby Billy grins. The excitement is clear on his face with that brilliant, big smile. He takes a seat next to you and you both face the large, beautifully lit and decorated stage.

"That fast, huh?" You chuckle, trying to laugh away the knot in your throat so you don't have to swallow it.

"You're gonna be great up there," he says, catching you off guard. He seems to have mistaken your unexpected attraction as pre-show nerves. "Right next to ol' Baby Billy Freeman. This is a big break for you."

"Oh, it is?" You laugh.

"Look, I'm serious, now. The right ears hear us and we're signed and touring," he snaps his fingers. "Like that!"

"You sure you could handle being on the road with me? I'm kind of a diva," you joke. "If I don't get my beauty sleep, I look like a dead bug and I'll hit someone." Baby Billy bursts into laughter.

"I don't think a lack of sleep or even a semi-truck could deter what you've got goin', sweetheart."

"What do you mean?" You ask through a laugh.

"You're a looker, darlin'. You walk into a room and draw everybody's eye." His hands are animated as he speaks.

"Oh, yes. Flattery will get you everywhere," you laugh, lightly shoving his arm playfully.

"I mean it, now. You the prettiest girl I know." He shrugs.

"You're not so bad yourself." You smirk, leaning closer to him than you realized. He notices the closing gap and can't help himself, he leans toward you as well. Time seems to slow down just for a moment as you two share this closeness.

He glances at your lips, and then back up to your eyes. Your heart begins to race before the sudden, loud crash of the stage light Baby Billy messed with hitting the stage with great weight. You both sit up, startled by the sound, jumping away from the close quarters you'd just been in.

"Oh, uh," you regain your grip, realizing what poor business practice has just nearly taken place. You've fucked your boss before. You know it doesn't end well... "I should get going."

You stand and readjust your skirt, smiling nervously as you start toward the door. Baby Billy stands too, hopelessly searching for his next sentence, but for the first time in his life, he seems unable to find the words.

"Same time tomorrow, darlin'," he calls out to you as you step out the door. He takes a step over to the stage, sitting down and exhaling a big breath. What an old fool he'd have to be to think you'd want anything to do with him when you're so young-spirited and beautiful? Will that stop him? No. It won't.

The last few days leading up to the grand opening are full of those small, close encounters. One day, you tripped during dance practice and practically landed in his arms. You two locked eyes and it would've been done for right then if a janitor hadn't walked through the stage door. Another time, you were high up on a ladder, making Baby Billy hold it steady out of fear. The entire time you're above him in your dress rehearsal skirt, he can't seem to fight the perverted urge to glance up. When he does, he nearly loses his bearings. His face ignites red and he can't help but smile ear to ear.

It's no secret to either of you that some kind of tension has been brewing. Even the Gemstone siblings share a look of confusion when they see you two forget anyone else is in the room. Neither of you seems to notice how long your eye will linger on the other.

The Sunday of the Church's debut sneaks up on you after the last few days of having nothing but Baby Billy on the brain. You're less nervous about performing and more nervous about seeing him again. It's as if every time you two come together, the palpable tension in the air becomes thicker. You're certain you'll lose the ability to breathe the air around you if it gets any worse.

"You ready to make some magic, darlin'?" An excited Baby Billy startles you as he intrusively enters your dressing room.

"My God, don't you knock? I could've been naked," you laugh, perfecting your makeup in the mirror.

"I don't think you'd hear any protest from me, sweetheart." He winks and makes a quick getaway. To be honest, he wasn't quite meaning to say that part out loud. You're left red-faced and pleasantly shocked. The comments between the two of you have been growing more bold by the day, but that one takes the cake... So far.

You get dressed in your opening night outfit. It's a bit different than the one you wore to rehearsals. It's nicer, fancier, flashier, without all the dated glitz of Aimee-Leigh's 80's-esque dress that Baby Billy attempted to lend you.

It hadn't occurred to you that Baby Billy hadn't seen this outfit of yours. But his beaming, smiling face when the two of you step out in front of the crowd from opposite ends of the stage gives you a needed stroke of your ego. He holds an arm out to you, inviting you to his side as he introduces you and himself. It was established early in the arrangement that he'd do most of the talking, so you put on your best "quiet and pretty" act. You clap when the crowd claps, and you throw your hands up in "praise" when it seems appropriate.

Anyone who'd met you before this performance is genuinely confused by who they're watching right now. They expected you to give a hell of a singing show, they didn't expect you to play the full part so well. As you told them, you know how to blend in. The surge of energy that comes with any performance this in-depth carries you throughout the whole service.

With each song you sing, with or without Baby Billy, you cannot stop yourself from looking at him, over and over. Fuck the tension, something is building up inside of you and the adrenaline of the stage is only making it worse, for both of you.

Baby Billy bids the crowd farewell and you give a gentle wave as the two of you exit the stage, arm in pining arm. The very second the stage exit door closes behind you, muffling the sounds of the cheering and dispersing crowd, you and Baby Billy fall still, silent, and stare at each other for barely one breathless second and then your lips are on his. You both stumble for a moment before he steadies you, pressing you up against the nearest wall.

"God damn, Y/N," he whispers between hungry kisses. You pull away for just a second, just enough time to ask a question.

"My dressing room or yours?" Baby Billy answers that inquiry by reconnecting his lips to yours and guiding your intertwined bodies to his dressing room. It's the closest. The two of you stumble through the door and straight to the lengthy couch meant to make the room look more glamorous. He lies you back on the cushions and his two careful hands begin to wander.

"Darlin, you look incredible in this get-up," he huffs. "But I can't wait till I get it off of you." He quickly unfastens the buttons of your blouse and groans roughly just at the sight of your lacey bra-clad breasts. Soft, breathy moans escape your lips over and over as he gropes at you and grinds against you. "Now, you don't mind where this is goin', do ya?"

"No, shut up," you chuckle, pulling his mouth back to yours. Your hands rake through his hair and find their way down to his expensive, flashy belt buckle. He sits back on the couch, legs hanging off with his Italian leather shoes resting on the floor. He spreads his knees and you take your position between them. You're breathless with excitement as you free his erection from his slacks. The moment you wrap a hand around his shaft, you feel him still growing harder in your hand.

"God damn it," he sighs, tossing his head back against the couch. He wraps one hand in your hair, guiding your lips toward the head of his cock. "Come on, now. Don't make me beg for it." You chuckle at his eagerness, but you do as he says, wrapping your lips around his tip. Baby Billy sighs with relief as you slowly welcome him into your mouth. He gasps as you press your nose to his waist, taking his full length in your throat.

You bob your head up and down, still riding an adrenaline high that's enough to power through even the worst of neck cramps. He calls out small exclamations and whispers sensual praise, all of which makes the heat between your thighs burn hotter.

His moans become more and more vocal until he roughly pulls your head away, jerking you by the hair. You gasp at the pain, but it only fuels your fire.

"Get on up here, now. Let an ol' man get his kicks," he quips, helping you out of the floor before you take your place, lying before him on the couch. He buries his face in your neck, kissing away up and down your flesh as he continues undressing you. He unfastens the rest of the buttons on your blouse, slipping a hand under your bra and squeezing your breast eagerly.

"Come on, don't make me beg for it," you mimic his words, sliding your skirt up your legs, and exposing your panties. They're wet with arousal and he grins at the sight.

"I might just like to hear a pretty young thing like you beg to get fucked by the pastor." He grins deviously, pressing a gentle hand to your clit over the panties. "All this for me?" He chuckles, basking in the effect he has on you. After what feels like ages of teasing and edging, he slips the drenched underwear from your legs. The white-haired man stares in awe at your throbbing core, extending a hand to play with you.

He slips one digit inside you, earning a filthy, needy moan from your chest. Your mouth hangs agape with a gasp as he pumps his finger in and out of you, staring deeply into your shining eyes. He shakes his head, amused by his power over you and also in disbelief at the position he's in at this moment. Just a month ago you were a stranger with a beautiful voice on a stage he'd never taken a second look at. Since then, you've been the object of all his desires. How could he ever imagine you'd feel the same?

"Oh, my God! Please," you whine, arching your back as he fingers you. He chuckles, unsure how he's holding himself back. It must be how much he's enjoying the show.

"Shhh," he whispers, adding another finger. Guttural moans of heated pleasure pour from your lips like a waterfall. He eats up every second of it.

"You're doin' real good, now, darlin'." He positions his twitching erection at your aching entrance, playing with your arousal with the head of his cock. "Keep being good for me," he says as he slips himself inside. A long, needy cry escapes you as he slowly sinks to his hilt.

You stare up at him, locking eyes as his mouth hangs slightly open. He's breathless as your tightness squeezes him just right.

"Aw, damn, sweetheart," he groans, pulling back only to quickly slide back in. "You're somethin' else." He grunts and moans as he thrusts in and out of you, hastily picking up his pace. For an older man, he's incredibly virile. He fucks you for what feels like hours but is surely only a handful of steamy minutes. You squirm and whine beneath him as he steadily guides you to your climax.

"I- I'm-" you try to speak, but it's too late, he's fucking you into oblivion, riding out your high with a bright white, goofy smile on his face. He loves watching your face contort as you soak him with your orgasm.

"I hope you ain't done yet, sweetheart," he chuckles, sliding out of you. "Flip on over, now, darlin'. Let me get a look at that perfect ass you got." His praise ignites a wave of goosebumps across your skin. You do as he says, turning over and assuming a position on all fours, presenting yourself to him perfectly. He releases a breathy laugh, slapping both hands down on each ass cheek.

Baby Billy tightens his grip on your glutes and fervently tugs at you until you're lined up with his swollen cock. He slips inside you again, thrusting away at maximum pace. Your ass jiggles as he slams into you and he's hypnotized by the sight. His goofy grin has fallen to a serious expression as he chases his climax. He mumbles curse words and praise under his breath while pressing your back downward to amplify your arch.

"God damn, just look at you," he huffs, coming closer and closer to completion. "Whatever you want, Y/N, just say the word," he grunts between heavy breaths. "And it's yours, darlin'." You laugh at the way he offers you the world just from how good he feels inside you. It's a high compliment.

"B- Ba-!" You attempt to beg for mercy, but he's quick to cut you off.

"Shh, shh, now, sweetheart. Just... A little more," he groans, quickening his thrusts as he ends his sentence. He slams into you impossibly hard, incredibly fast, with both hands hooked around your waist. You release sensual cries of pleasure as he chases and finally catches his climax.

He withdraws from you, breathless and sweating. A string of lusty moans drips from his lips as he strokes himself until he finishes all over your ass. He stutters out a grunt before collapsing back on the couch. You're breathless, fucked out with your face buried in the cushion. The two of you fall silent for a moment as you catch your breath.

"Baby Billy?" You break the silence.

"Yeah, darlin'?"

"Could you pass me, um, a towel?"

"Oh!" He scrambles to his feet, tucking away his softening length. His unfastened belt jingles as he makes his way across his dressing room and grabs a towel from the neat, little stack of hand towels. "Allow me," he whispers, still catching his breath, as he wipes your skin clean, allowing you to comfortably collapse as well. He joins you on the couch, buckling his belt and straightening up his suit.

"That was... Amazing..." You sigh, somehow a little shocked at how well he just fucked you.

"It certainly was, Y/N. It certainly was." He lies back on the couch, allowing his eyes to fall shut. A hand reaches up to fix his disheveled hair. "Let's get them drawers back on you, now. We're late for Church Lunch."

You regain your composure and fix your clothes, sliding your panties back up under your skirt. After fixing your hair and your smudged makeup, you're ready to head to Jason's. You and Baby Billy arrive a few minutes after everyone else, and you take your seats next to each other. The table seems to grow quiet when you two join.

"Don't everybody start talkin' at once, now." Baby Billy looks up and down to both ends of the table. "What'd we miss?"

"From the sound of it, you didn't miss anything, Uncle Baby Billy," Judy scoffs. Baby Billy gives you a knowing look, grinning at you sweetly.

"No, Judy, I did not." He beams, proudly, placing an arm around your shoulder and planting a kiss on the side of your forehead.

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