Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“And how are you finding the medication? Any new or unusual symptoms you have questions about–any side effects I should know of?” The doctor’s tone is cold and clinical, his eyes cast downward at the clipboard resting against his crossed legs. He writes for a moment before peering over thin frames that sit lower than necessary on the bridge of his angular nose, blue-gray gaze holding a sort of cold indifference as if the answer really isn’t anything but routine rather than actual curiosity. His grayed brows pulled up in prompting, deepening the creases in his forehead that tell the tale of his age as they create ridges up to his hairline. Salt and pepper hair combed back clean and neat, not a stray strand out of place. He looks as much of a doctor as you could get. Typical Psychiatrist you’d picture in your mind if someone told you to picture one. He’s good at his job–good enough–what else do Psychiatrists really even do other than this relatively simple process? Probably a lot–more than you care to give thought to, you just show up, get your second–much more brief–therapy session that isn’t actually therapy and get a refill on your meds with the necessary adjustments if that’s what he sees fit depending on your answers.

It’s quick. Nothing more to it. Something you are grateful for, therapy is shit enough as it is and if you had a say–you wouldn’t be doing it. And to be fair you do have a say in some technical sense, you’re an adult, you make your own decisions. Albeit decisions that are heavily influenced by the ever present buzz of your mother’s voice in the back of your head or physically in your ear if she’s present, but your decisions nonetheless.

You just give a shrug and shake of your head, “I mean–nothing I can think of no,”

He gives a slow, almost drowsy nod of his head as his eyes fall back to the clipboard, “Mm’kay… And are you pregnant?” He asks with a small drawl on the end of that word, voice lilting just barely in question.

You shake your head again, “No.”

“Mm’kay… Any plans to get pregnant?” Same lilt.

“No.”

“Mm’kay…”

You draw in a deep breath at that–eyes wandering off to the side to distract yourself from being present in this moment as you mentally curse this man and his slow… Drawn… Eerie… Monotone… Way of speaking. Not that you particularly care that much–it isn’t like you have to deal with him every second of every day, this is a once every month occurrence–but still, you can’t help distantly wondering if it would kill to have some sort of enthusiasm in your tone when you’re talking to someone in an already sterile and uncomfortable setting–bedside manners or whatever–does your voice really have to fit the environment down to the cold, lifeless air of it all?

Every time it seems he attempts to give even a hint of warmth, it sounds like something that isn’t human is trying to mimic a human having sympathy when it has never heard it and or seen it before. So maybe it’s best he just keeps it like this, unsettling as it is at times.

“Well okay then–” A sigh as he crosses his hands over the top of the clipboard, pen perched between his middle and index finger, his head lolling to the side as his eyes slide up to settle on you, “I would like to up your dosage, Mm’kay?” He nods at his own words and gives a glance down to the papers.

You open your mouth to question but quickly snap it shut with a small jerk of your head and slightly stunned blink, “Okay–”

“—With no plans of pregnancy, this is a safe adjustment, though if you end up changing your mind on that matter–let me know and we will bring it backkk on down,” He makes a lowering motion with his hand as he nods along to his own explanation, “Reason being, a dose at this level could cause complications with pregnancy Mm’kay? Unintentional termination–miscarrage–and birth defects in some cases Mm’kay? So to be on the safe side just let me know in advance and we will get that sorted out. This shouldn’t interfere with any birth control or anything like that but if it does, let me know. Otherwise you are all set–unless you have questions?–”

“No I don’t,” You answer quickly and he gives a slow blink, almost like a tired cat, and another nod.

“Alrighty then, well that refill will be ready here in a day or two. I will see you back here next month. As usual, pick up the phone if you need anything. It was good seeing you, alright?” He says, lips tugging into a tight lipped smile that you share as you get to your feet, gathering your bag.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He says, watching you make your way toward the door of his office, trying out of politeness to keep your pace somewhat even to not give away how eager you are to get the hell out of this place.

Once you are out of the office, you pay and rush as quickly as you can out of the building entirely. Chest feeling tight and your head feeling light both from the stress of being in there in the first place and the realization that there are more people out here than when you’d arrived… Maybe this is why you’re getting upped a dose, or maybe the high dose is the reason you’re feeling like this in the fucking first place. No matter how many “tweaks” are made to your medication, the same bullshit is still present. If not more so. Maybe it would’ve helped to actually press the matter, ask why he insists on going up and up–but honestly does it even matter? If you got an explanation would it even change anything? Probably not. So what’s the point? It would just be another 15 minutes of blabbering that you’ll likely forget by the time you’re home.

You sigh heavily through your nose, steeling yourself as you watch the blur of people moving past while you stuff the bill and copy of your medical record into your bag carelessly, the streets crowded as usual–though unfortunately more so this evening. Packed with bodies polluting the narrow roads with mingling smells, sweat and musk, body odor and cheap cologne to mask it, smoke heavy like a smog constant in the air with plumes of violet, everyone doped out of their minds on shimmer and god knows what else. Thick and damp all around, fresh as a concept lost on everyone down here, used to the vile cling of their own filth.

If you could afford it, maybe you’d wear one of those fancy masks enforcers and Pilties use when they come down here to berate and ogle the spectacle of the trenchers infesting the Lanes underneath their pretty, pristine city.

But unfortunately, you don’t have the means for such a luxury. Nor do you really care for it. Money is tight as it is and honestly would getting a mask now even change anything about the fact that you’ve been exposed to the pollution down here for your entire life? No. Damage done. So as much as playing pretend to ignore that fact is appealing at times–you’d just look like an asshole. Parading around the idea that you are somehow above everyone else down here just because you have a filter to breathe through, a vain effort to protect ruined lungs. Useless. You’re just as broken as every other sad sack of shit down here.

Might as well wallow in it together.

Despite the building ache in your chest that is the inevitable tell of a panic attack waiting to strike, you press on. Nudging through the crowds of people in an effort to get to somewhere less populated, the noise of passing voices and distant commotion adding to the anxiety crackling across your nerves like electricity. Urging them to tremble, taking your control over steadiness and coordination with them–bumping shoulders with more than a couple people in your stumbling past. Breaths starting to get heavier and more uneven, the claustrophobic press of everyone and the humid, heady air not helping. Making it feel like you’re choking on something solid with every sharp inhale instead of something that should quite literally be weightless and smooth going down.

As people start thinning out into sparse couples and cliques scattered here and there outside of shops and near food stands, you find your reprieve in between buildings away from all the noise and chaos, illuminated by the neon flooding the streets and the warm wall lanterns that line the cool alleyway, stones wet with runoff from the roofs and waterline leaks, pipes creating puddles with their steady drip at weak points in metal and faulty construction. You fall back into the brick unceremoniously, finding your footing once you brace with a hand against the wall, finally feeling tethered by the sturdiness you find. At last, able to draw in a full breath that isn’t clogged with shit–the air still thick but not so much putrid as before, it's lighter, easier to take in and let out. The surface drainage a much more inviting smell compared to the convoluted mix of chemical fumes and sewage lumped in with sweat and food in the more densely populated areas of the Lanes.

You manage to breathe through it, reigning in your racing heart to be steadier until your pinpoint vision clears of the delayed haze that comes every time your eyes move from one place to another and you stop feeling your pulse pounding in your temples. Senses no longer zeroed in on how you can’t breathe but rather on how the strain to do so has evened out.

You sigh heavily and bring your hands to your face, pressing your fingers tight to your eyes as you continue to take slow, as deep as you can manage, breaths. Finally able to hear the world around you again. Letting you know you are still here–still real. You slide your hands up and over your hair, pushing tousled locks out of the way as you open your eyes once more. You look out the alley at what you can see of the street, mentally cursing when you find nothing distinctly familiar–at least not enough to tell where you are or where you’d come from in your effort to get out of the crowd.

“I told you I don’t have it!—”

Your heart lurches at the abrupt voice echoing through the alley, followed by a thud of a body hitting the wall–a sight you catch the tail end of when your head snaps toward the source, frozen in place, lips parted around an inhale that catches in your throat as you watch from afar as a man scrambles to his feet, quickly crowded by three other men that have him panting heavy and clearly frightened. Pressing his body as tight as he can to the bricks like he’s trying to mold himself to it to put as much distance as possible between himself and them. His eyes wide and his movements jerky.

“I-I-I–Look—I will have the product soon. Within the week just–please,” he holds a hand out as the man in the middle comes closer, the other two staying a step or two behind. The dull thunk of the man’s cane echoing through the alley.

“Within the week?” The repetition of words comes more as a hiss–almost offended. A thick, smooth accent curling around the low and even tone the man takes. Cocking his head just so as he comes to a stop just before the cowering man.

You can’t make out much of anything from this distance of what the man looks like–shrouded in the shadows more than the man who is pressed to the wall, the light above him giving a clearer view of his–honestly petrified–expression.

The poor guy nods hurriedly, tousling his shaggy hair that he quickly and shakily smooths back, “Yeah–Yes–within the week—”

The towering taller sucks his teeth and gives a slow shake of his head as he looks off, disinterested, “No.”

“N-no?”

“No.” He affirms, looking back down at the other, who looks confused as much as he looks scared shitless. His chest rising and falling quickly, “Because as I see it, this shipment has been ‘coming within the week’ for close to two months now. So either you are cheating my boss out of his generous money, or you are simply too insolent to handle and keep up with the business I advocated you would be a good fit for. Are you aware of how both make me look? I look like a fool sticking my neck out for someone who cannot even keep his end of a fairly simple deal.” He finishes, voice holding a dangerous edge that even sends a shiver down your spine and his words aren’t even directed at you.

Simply hearing the seething beneath the surface of his sharp tone makes you feel like it’s you who owes him this "product".

You stay still, interested now despite your better judgment that is trying to speak reason into you, warning falling upon deaf ears, sticking around to witness something you’re not meant to see when you really should just leave. Get home. Or really anywhere else but here in this alley watching this.

“No it’s not like that—”

“It is not?” The accented man echos, crossing his hands over the top of his cane. He moves with it almost like it’s a part of him, lean frame adjusting to the shift of weight put on the aid with ease.

“Not at all I just–it’s taking some time is all. Okay? I’m trying to get it sorted out—”

“—I am not interested in hearing excuses, Mr. Brandy. And frankly I do not give a shit about the troubles of which you are facing acquiring my product. Either you have it or you do not. In that case I will return empty handed to my employer and have to admit that I had a severe lapse in my judgment for which I will pay the consequences of. You realize this, yes? You expect me to return to my boss with nothing but words as you’ve given me?” He cuts in before the man can even get his full explanation out, words harsh and hitching on a rise in his voice that has you stiffening just from listening.

He isn’t yelling or even shouting–he’s dangerously measured. His words spit meticulously and with a speed that is hard to even keep up with enough to find a pause where it would be appropriate to defend oneself.

“No—” The Brandy guy practically gasps out, the hand he’s been holding out now visibly trembling.

“Then how should we deal with this, hm? Because whether I allow you to walk away with another week under your belt for this delivery or not, I am going to need at least something to return back with. You have money, yes?” At his words the two men that have been standing behind now come forward, shielding the man out of your view, their broad backs and squared shoulders blocking him from sight.

“Not a lot—”

“Well we will just have to make do with it, won’t we?” The man cuts him off once more.

“I–please I’m begging you here,”

“Ah, then beg, dear friend. A moment of entertainment amidst the trouble you have caused me would be a nice change of pace.” The man purrs, giving a nod to the other two men and before the Brandy guy can reply, those two are on him. Wailing on him from either side, yanking pained cries and pleas from the depths of the poor guy as they beat him down to the ground.

Yeah. Now this isn’t fun to see anymore–if it ever was to begin with–hearing the punches and kicks landing heavily, followed by the genuinely disturbing sounds coming from Brandy makes this really hard to watch. And still you don’t move. At least not until the man in the middle who’d been pressing Brandy turns his head.

A slow, lazy slide to the side, almost as if the scene playing out before him isn’t even worth his attention.

And suddenly his gaze is locked on you.

It takes you a moment to register the fact that he’s staring at you–for a second it felt as though you weren’t a physical spectator but instead something like a ghost. Watching from another realm of existence entirely–but feeling the weight of his gaze, distinct amber catching in the warm light just enough, scorching as you feel them bore into your own. Searing a hole right through you, so very aware of you, of the undoubtable fact that you’d seen everything–that is what makes you move.

First away from the wall a step, your breath finally finding you again, a stutter on it’s way out where it had been arrested in the depths of your chest while witnessing what you had–then a stumble backward in fleeting when he cocks his head at you, almost like he’s wordlessly prompting your departure. A warning in the steady movement that you heed without hesitation, backing away quickly until you’re out of the alley and back on the streets. Stunned and unnerved as you make quick work to put as much distance between yourself and that alley. The whole ordeal no doubt took all of 5 minutes but it felt like an eternity.

The echo of that Brandy guy's voice is still fresh in your mind–the way he cried and desperately begged for reprieve–gut wrenching sounds of his body being beaten… But with as much space as he is taking up, those amber eyes are taking up more. That accent–something you can’t place, one you haven’t heard before and if you have it certainly wasn’t something you cared to remember.

If the situation wasn’t what it was, you might’ve paused to take a better look at that man. Get a good look at his features to have a proper face to the voice. But at that distance and with the rush of adrenaline from it all–you’d moved too quickly. To be fair all of it moved too quickly to follow–the only thing that is sticking are those eyes and the roughly shadowed outline of a very scary man.

You take a breath and actually get a sense of your surroundings, concluding that you actually aren’t too lost, finding your way back toward the heart of Zaun an easy enough task–though you try your best to avoid the crowds, managing to get en route home now that you aren’t on the brink of a panic attack. Honestly thinking about what you’d saw is a good distraction so you’re not focusing on all the people, occupying your mind well enough until you’re in the familiar streets leading home, quiet, calm streets.

You’re not too sure why this even sticks out to you–it’s not like people scuffling and getting into shit is an uncommon occurrence, you see it often in passing. But this just–feels different. Felt more serious, those men looked important, at least the man in the middle did. Sounded like it too. He wasn’t even the one to get his hands dirty, he had those two beasts sicked on that man like they were his guard dogs. He didn’t even have to tell them, speak to them, it was wordless. That air of power, intimidation–it surrounded him and bled out far enough for you to feel.

You couldn’t imagine being in Brandy’s shoes. Having all of that energy focused on you…

The panic attack that would induce would most definitely kill you.

By the time you arrive home, the sparsely placed streetlights have come on, casting a warm glow along the road, the moon climbing over the horizon, the crickets chirping from their spots hidden away in the dying and overgrown bushes going still and quiet as you walk up the steps to the front door, fumbling to find your keys at the bottom of your bag.

“Son of a—” You give an exasperated huff as you fish them out, opening the screen with more force than necessary and unlocking the front door quickly, the hinges groaning and announcing your arrival before you can.

“Honey?”

You pause in the doorway at the call, mentally cursing as you work your keys out of the door and slowly close it behind you as you step further in, “I’m home mom,”

“Ah–How was it, baby?” You hear her call back and the shuffling of her steps as she comes down the hall, rounding the corner as you get your shoes off. Using a hand to brace against the wall, head tilted down until she appears in the entryway with you.

You draw a breath as you lift your gaze to her, shrugging and shaking your head, “Uh—fine. He’s upping my meds,”

“What?–Again? Why?” She asks as she steps closer, taking your bag from your shoulder before you can do it yourself, drawing a soft huff from you but you don’t protest. Watching her set it aside as you drop your keys on the entry table, shrugging off your jacket and hanging it on the hooks by the door.

“I.. don’t know. I didn’t really ask a lot of questions,” you admit, running a hand through your hair as you walk further in, past your mom and down the hall to the kitchen. Her steps tailing yours as she continues to ask questions of her own.

“But you’re already high, right?”

God you wish you were.

“Yeah.”

“Well isn’t this dangerous–how could this be safe? I’m telling you baby, we might have to switch doctors. I’m not sure if I’m liking this one. He is always pushing the limits with these meds—” she rants, following you into the kitchen.

“I know mom, it’s fine. We don’t need to switch. It’s safe.” You assure, opening the fridge and grabbing the water pitcher, only for her to squeeze in and snatch it for you, “Momma I can—”

“—Well if he keeps on, I’ll go myself and have a word, this just isn’t right he’s supposed to help you not drug you,” she continues, ignoring your protests and moving about to get a cup and pour your water for you. Leaving you to just lean against the counter, crossing your arms and staring off distantly as she continues her tirade.

“He’s just doing his job,” You sigh heavily, rubbing your face.

“I know—but, ah well,” she waves her free hand before turning to you with your water in the other, coming to stand before you, guiding the glass up to your lips only for you to stop her short by taking it from her and doing it on your own. Thankfully she takes the hint and backs away with a heavy breath,

“I just worry, you’ll understand when you’re a mommy too it’s–not easy,” She says and turns her back to grab the pitcher to put it away. Her words make you mentally roll your eyes, though outwardly you just stifle any comments by gulping down water, watching her move about.

“Yeah…” You murmur, setting the glass on the counter next to the sink behind you before pushing off it, “I’m gonna lay down momma. Goodnight,”

“Okay honey, goodnight, I love you very much—”

“… I love you too mom,” you reply on your way out of the kitchen, stopping to grab your bag from the entryway before heading to your room. The door shutting heavier than you mean for it to when you close it behind you, shrouded in the familiar dark, the only light coming in through the slits the curtains where the streetlights pour in through. Leaving just enough illumination to see as you shuffle over to your bed and drop onto it, legs draped over, bag falling beside you and your arm coming up to cover your face.

Things with your mom have always been odd to say the least. She isn’t a bad mom by any means, she’s done what she can for you in raising you. Father absent, she had to pull a lot of weight for the both of you. But beyond the surface there’s more. It’s difficult. Of course you love her, so much. She’s quite literally all you have, but that love has never stopped the arguments, has never stopped the way she drinks herself into oblivion, the coddling to make up for it–god the coddling. It’s smothering more than anything else, and it only comes with memories that leave a bitter taste clinging to the back of your teeth, lingering for hours–days after. Sure she’s been here, pulled the weight, worked the two jobs, but she might as well have been just as absent as your father.

She prides herself on having this reputation, of the mom who did it all when she had no one, of having a perfect relationship with her sick daughter–her oh so sick daughter who she has to take care of because she’s sick in the head–mental–did she mention you’re sick? That your mental health seems to always be on a constant decline? That she always has to save you? Something she just has to tell everyone around her? That you were always a wild child she has had to keep tucked close and beneath her wing because she can’t risk you falling out of her nest too soon. Can’t let you breathe without her matching every rise and fall of your chest, and if you dare fall out of sync with her, you are disrespectful–ungrateful, because not every mommy would wait with baited breath for their baby.

Don’t you see how lucky you are?

How good you have it.

You are all she has and she is all you have too. You’re in it together. Everything. Your problems–whether you want her a part of them or not–and her problems.

Problems that she shouldn’t divulge to her daughter, shit your dad should be sitting through and helping her with.

The coddling is bullshit because it hasn’t ever sheltered you from the reality of quite literally anything. You’ve known all of this was fucked from as early as you can remember, you’ve had front row seats to the shit-show that is your life since you opened your eyes. No matter how she tries to wrap you up in this swaddle of blind affection that you’ve long grown out of, she’s still convinced it will work. That you aren’t twenty and making the same decisions you’ve had to since you were fifteen but instead this porcelain precious thing that is far too innocent for this world. A world she has taken it upon herself to shelter you from even if you never asked for it or even wanted it. All of it is so void of genuine emotion, it feels like a performance. And that just makes it feel worse.

The time for that all has passed–you stopped craving the bliss of ignorance and innocence a long time ago.

It’s not something you need. Not something you should want either, it’s not like you can get it now.

Who knows how long goes by until you’re snapped out of your drifting thoughts by your phone buzzing where it's buried deep in your bag, and at first you ignore it–but then another buzz comes through–and another until you relent with a huff and roll over onto your side. You fumble to get it open before sticking your hand in and blindly feeling about the mess inside until your fingers find the cool surface of your screen. You pull it out just as it buzzes again, lighting it up.

“Okay my god…” You murmur softly as you roll back to your original position and finally read what is coming through.

4 messages from Gert.

Your brows pull together as you read the one visible from the Lock Screen,

Free drinks. Come.

Is all that the first one reads–or last–whatever.

You click it and flood your screen with your previous conversation as well as the recent messages, reading from the beginning.

From: Gert
At: 8:34 PM

Hey what u up to

Bar is buzzing tn

From: Gert
At: 8:35 PM

My guys got some stuff too if ur down

Free drinks. Come.

You huff softly, the corner of your lips twitching up a bit as you text her back.

From: You
At: 8:36 PM

Why are you trying to bribe me out

From: Gert
At: 8:36 PM

Cus it would be better if u were here

Just come u cave dweller

You give about three seconds of contemplation about if this is a good idea, this undoubtedly will spark some kind of argument later on if and when you come home tonight–but god you really don’t care. You have quite literally nothing better to do and being with her is more than a good distraction from the shit that has happened today. Even if that place is sketchy as hell, it’s also filled with people just as out of their minds as you, and something about that is kind of comforting.

With that you make up your mind as you do every time she lures you out of your domain, and swiftly reply.

From: You
At: 8:36 PM

Kk ill be on my way in a sec

From: Gert
At: 8:37 PM

We near the back

You drop your phone to the side and stare at the ceiling for a long couple of moments before sitting up, you look down at what you’re wearing–pretty basic, just some black ripped jeans and an old sweater thrown over, maybe you should change but then again The Last Drop isn’t exactly a place you dress to impress at. But it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more put together. You get yourself up and over to your dresser, the old drawers protesting as you open them; you’re greeted by messily shoved shirts, twining with one another, crammed in the back corner, others forgotten at the bottom of the drawer. You end up just plucking out whatever’s easiest, a faded maroon muscle shirt, the chest area synched just a little by ribbed material that contrasts with the otherwise smooth fabric, the hems adorned with lace that’s no longer soft, a bit ripped, making the original pattern hard to make out.

It’s nice enough.

You push the drawer closed with your hip as you hold out the shirt to look at it before giving a small huff and tossing it on top of the dresser. A swift tug has your sweater over your head and off, tossed aside carelessly and swapped for the muscle shirt. You slip it over your head and tug it into place, lifting your gaze to the mirror on the dresser, looking yourself over, adjusting the top a bit–then the straps of your bra beneath it before giving one last once over, declaring yourself decent, and stepping away.

You grab your phone from the bed and slip it in your back pocket, digging around in your bag for your pocket knife and slip that away too, snag a black zip up jacket from the floor and pull it on as you make your way to the door of your bedroom. The light pouring in from under it an obvious tell that your mom is still out there, which gives you another moment of pause, trying to figure out for a second where she might be and if she will see you leaving, if she will be able to stop and lecture you like a child or if she will be occupied.

You give a small jerk of your head as if snapping yourself from your thoughts–it is a genuine effort to remind yourself that you are indeed an adult sometimes. You can leave when you want.

With that you step out–still being quiet about it because no interaction is still preferable–and start down the hall, the clink of pots and silverware, the swish of water and the run of a faucet tells you she’s busied herself with dishes, good, very good. You round the corner to the front door, pluck your keys off the entry table, slip your shoes back on, and open it carefully, praying she doesn’t have a sudden desire to come down the hall for whatever reason, and step out quickly. Closing the door behind you you sigh, locking it and making quick work to get down the street.

You learn your lesson from earlier, trying your best to keep to streets you know won’t be as populated until you reach the heart of Zaun, the crowds sparser than they were previously but that’s probably because they’re all inside the very place you are now standing before. The Last Drop.

The massive eye is flashing its neon light around the sign, the words flickering slightly, old lights stuttering silently from the prolonged use. There’s a line outside the door, two bouncers on either side arguing with angry and belligerent drunks who are voicing their slurred cases as to why they should be allowed back inside after being thrown out for whatever reason. All protests met with less than understanding and merciful responses from both the bouncers. One of which is still trying to maintain the flow of entry, clearly frustrated as he does so.

You look at the line, then back at the scene before you, ultimately coming to the conclusion that getting in this way means you’ll be out here for at least a good hour or so. And that’s bullshit. You were promised free drinks and some good shit in there. And you’ll be damned if you’re made to wait an hour to get either of those things.

Especially after the day you’ve had.

So instead, you leave the front and find the back alley just behind the club, which isn’t hard, this isn’t the first time you’ve been impatient to get in. And thankfully Gert was a saint and showed you this second little entrance.

It’s just a maintenance exit, it leads to the back of the club at the end of some freaky ass hallway, and if you go down you’ll get to the ‘special rooms’ where people go to do god knows what and then to what you assume is an ‘off limits’ area where the door first opens to.

Sometimes it’s locked, sometimes it’s not. And you are praying to whatever is out there that tonight is one of the lucky nights that it isn’t.

You glance behind you as you start getting closer to the door, making sure no one is coming and or passing by, waiting just a second as you come to a stop before it–then after making sure it’s clear, bring your fingers up to the handle.

Before you can even attempt a jingle of the knob to check if it’s unlocked–the door comes swinging open toward you. Hinges old and groaning in high, screeching protest as the metal frame rattles, bearing the brunt of use once more, making you practically jump backward like a spooked cat to get out of the way, heart sinking like a stone in a well right down to your ass. Eyes wide with surprise.

Your gaze falls on the man exiting who looks mildly perturbed by your presence, he has one hand on the handle of the door and the other—

On a cane…

Your brain shorts out for a fraction of a second, silently hoping this is a coincidence, plenty of people use mobility aids to get around, but as you lift your gaze further–you are met with a pair of scorching amber eyes.

The very same eyes that had pinned and trapped you earlier.

The same eyes that belonged to that man, the one that had been intimidating and bitching that Brandy man, the one with that—

“Eh—You do know this is not an entrance, yes?”

Accent.

No fucking way.

What are the chances of that?–Well–Apparemtly they are likely. But it’s still insane, sure The Last Drop is a common place, but you have never seen some random on the street and then ran into them again hours later. Like ever. Then again he obviously is not just any “random”, the display earlier proved as much…

You just stand there gaping for a moment as you try to wrap your head around this. He’s disarmingly pretty, handsome in a striking way that has you a little unnerved. His features are made up of perfect angles and sharp edges, framed by dark chestnut hair that’s pushed back with a few stray strands that kiss his temples and the highs of his cheekbones. He has two distinct beauty marks, one just above his lip and the other under his eye that you mentally, distantly appreciate the placement of. His appearance up close–having a face to the voice–has you robbed of your own. Only finding it when he quirks a thick brow at you, prompting you once more to speak, “Oh. Yes—yeah my bad,” you give a dumb laugh and a wave of your hand, “Just uh… Got mixed up,”

He stares at you, unimpressed, his honeyed gaze like daggers dragging over you, slowly–scrutiny clawing at you with a slow drag, his attention so heavy it’s like he’s looking through you. Seeing the deepest parts of you and yet still trying to dig further, the surface of your facade nothing but a thin veil his keen eyes seem to slice away with one careful sweep over you. Baring the reality of what lay beneath on a silver platter, giving yourself away by even trying to conceal, your nerves a trembling seam threatening to give way and leave the rest of your body floundering for composure.

And maybe there’s some truth to that. The fact that he can read you like a coverless body of text, lacking a hard exterior and hiding behind a fraying and hardly existent paper one, because there is absolutely no way he believes you.

He steps out more and lets the door fall shut behind him, taking measured steps closer to you that have you stepping further back to create useless distance–his presence crowding you before he even really comes close.

“You get mixed up in back alleys often then?” He parrots your words back to you, gold framed by now narrowed lids that hold as much recognition for you as you have for him. Pieces falling together behind those eyes much more subtly than you’re sure they looked coming together for you.

Yet still, for whatever reason, playing dumb seems most feasible right now even though it’s clear he already knows, “I’m sorry?”

“Oh don’t be.” Ass, “It is an easy thing to do, get lost looking for your way.”

Up close, even at this still fair distance, you can get a true feel for how tall he is. He’s a good head or so taller than you, even with the slight slouch he has, he towers. A pillar of intimidation you usually find yourself burdened by with crowds now crammed into one man. You can feel your heart jump, tripping over itself as you just stare at him, shrugging and glancing around quickly as you concede defeat to the reality of what is happening, playing naive no longer in the equation. His attention immediately dwindling what little confidence you have.

You swallow, thick and rough going down, shifting on your feet before looking back and muttering, “I was in a rush–I just got turned around,”

“Ah, I am not trying to fault you, truly I get it—but…” he takes the smallest of steps closer, sucking his teeth lightly, “You did see quite the private matter, wouldn’t you agree?”

You swallow again. It’s dry and useless, leaving you with the urge to do it again with the hope that it’ll clear the lump forming in your throat–hindering speech, heart racing so fast you can feel it thrum from the tips of your fingers all the way down to your toes.

You saw what being Brandy looked like, and now you are feeling it. And it is so–so not fun.

“I—”

“—I do not like having loose ends, even if it is a… Passing glance from a girl who I’m sure would not tattle,” He cuts you off promptly before you can even get your defense in, the rough undercurrent to his tone so startling you don’t even attempt a second time to speak, “What a coincidence I find you, hm? Well–more like you fell into my lap, I had to do no looking… But that is because you were doing something you were not meant to, which can be said for myself—I am not supposed to handle such private affairs the way I did, and then you saw consequently.”

You shake your head and immediately affirm his first claim, “I-I definitely wouldn't say anything—”

“Oh I appreciate the reassurance, darling. You look smart. I trust you will not say a thing now considering we are in–similar boats, yes? We both have incentive to keep quiet… You about witnessing what you had and I, about knowing you saw, as well as your little… Attempt of entrance through a strictly off limits area,” He crosses his hands over the top of his cane, the same way he had while he towered over a blabbering, stuttering Brandy, head tilting as it had then–gaze searing upon contact, “You made your claim of innocence and I am willing to turn a blind eye and take it, so long as you too–turn a blind eye… A fair trade I think. Considering my obligations require much worse than a small deal to smooth things over.”

His voice is even, eerily calm, the sharpness of every word is deliberately chosen–coming in a purr but with the intention to leave lashes as evidence of impact as they fall from his lips. Warnings, reminders. No true threats made but it's the fine print, the subtext that holds the bridge to caution, plea and demand that you cross and heed it.

The implication of his words has your blood running cold–all because you saw a little scuffle? Whoever it is that he works for really isn’t playing games about whatever business it is that they run. And you don’t want to find out what the “Much worse” things would be. So before you can even dwell on it, you’re nodding your head. Quick, sincere, startled. An animal backed into a corner and successfully bitched into laying on their back, belly up, bending to the will of a predator who snuffs the flame of fight before it can even gain height.

“Y-yes I promise I–swear I won’t say a thing, it’s already forgotten.” You stutter out, watching as an almost pleased quirk finds his lips, not quite a smirk, more like the ghost of one.

“Good. I am glad we understand one another.” He taps his cane against the stones, the sound dull and final, signaling the end of this interaction before his words do, his eyes trailing over you one last time before he tilts his chin up a bit and gives an all too light, “You have a good night then.”

“You too…” You mutter, gaze averting when he starts moving–taking an instinctive step away even though his path is no longer advancing toward you, but instead down the alley. The same way you’d come from. The click of his cane and the fall of his steps echo off the buildings and back to you, leaving you feeling the weight of his presence until he’s properly out of your line of sight. Only then do you loose the deep breath that you’d been holding from the second he first spoke, reeling a bit from that entire interaction. Anxiety licking still unsettled nerves and threatening a very avoidable panic attack–so long as you get inside quick enough to get what you came for to numb this very thing.

You finally get the connection between your brain and body working again, your legs blissfully responding to the desperate plea for them to move–feet carrying you straight to the door you’d been trying to get through originally, heartbeat thundering in your ears as you yank it open and slip in; running a hand through your hair as you start down the familiar hall.

Whatever it is that Gert’s guy has got better be fucking worth it.

Chapter Text

You should turn around. You know you should. Danger has written and strewn evidence of existence all over this place since you first came here—but it is no longer unknown, there’s no question of who or what it is you should be scared of. Danger has lost the mask of crowded company, now he has a face, he has a form. Tangible and real, he’s now a voice that escapes the echo of many in favor of ringing in your ears. He is not the blend of passing features that usually comes when you push through a crammed club that’s thick with the clinging tension of silent stories tailing their owners—leaving them with an air of unease that puts you a little on edge and brings brief moments of awareness to maintain safety, danger is no longer a broad concept and general fear to take into consideration.

He is a man.

A man that is far too aware, who has seen you, whose gaze you still feel trained on you, licking your heels to coax flight. The unbearable weight of his attention on you even now despite his absence, unrelenting and determined to make the sinew holding you upright tremble just enough to echo the fear he so easily left the imprint of. Leaving you throwing glances over your shoulder as if you expect him to reappear, feeling like a skittish cat—weary of every little shadow and change in lighting from the way the already dim fixtures overhead flicker. Your steps sound too loud in the empty hall, your breaths shaking upon release, your heartbeat tempting tremors to fall in toe with its rapid pace.

Desperation led you stumbling into dangerous proximity to his path once, a mistake—brief, passing, something you try to convince yourself isn’t worth noting; Then—call it fate, coincidence, chance—you found yourself within the direct line of it. You became the subject of a surgical, precise and knowing gaze. One that sliced you open and bare to be studied down to the marrow within the span of mere moments—its the kind of of stare that leaves you feeling ogled, but not with lust, not with greed, but with something heavier. Something that searches for vulnerability, weak spots in composure where he can strike, feeding not on force but on control, deliberate in his words and actions to get you exactly as he wants you, doing no real work outside of speaking to get you bending like plastic held over a raging flame—attempts at hiding the deepening cracks simply drawing his attention to their existence.

You try to push him to the back of your mind, to push that interaction entirely, to the back of your mind. Pressing on despite knowing better, something you do all too well, the muffled music growing louder as you near the end of the hall. You come to a stop at the door, hand hovering over the knob as you draw in a breath to steady yourself as best you can. Even if it’s useless, the pause only allowing you to focus in on how much you’re shaking, eyes trained on your fingers like you’re trying to will the anxiety away with your gaze alone.

You shake your head, swallowing reason and any trace of sense you have left, and close your hand over the handle to yank the door open.

As soon as you do you are met with the blaringly loud music, dulled only slightly by the small distance from here to the end of this open hall that the “special” rooms are lining the walls of. From here it’s a straight shot, you can hear the commotion, see the people moving about past the corridor; flashes of the strobing from the main floor giving bursts of light every now and again down the hall enough to reach you. The only other source of luminosity coming from sparsely placed wall sconces that give just the whisper of glow around them enough to see.

The door falls shut behind you with a dull thud that gets swept up by the thrum of the bass vibrating through the floors and walls as you step through and start down the hall. Your gaze catches the glints of knobs as you pass, leaving you to distantly wonder if the people in these rooms are having a better night than you are—what they’re doing—though you know the likely answer to both questions. Of course they are having a better night, people come to these rooms to have meaningless sex with strangers they’ll never see again while being either doped out or drunk off their ass. Maybe even both.

Heaven compared to how your night has unfolded thus far.

Though it’s more so the idea that seems like heaven—you know the reality would be a horror, sex as an act is something that perturbs you a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Quite a lot. Having someone so in your space, clumsy, juvenile pawing and guesses on how and where to touch—hardly for your own pleasure but more so the fact that it's just what you do to get to the “main event”. The build up always falls far too quickly into an anticlimactic end that’s more unsatisfying than the effort is worth. Then there’s the fact that while it’s happening you feel more like a shell than a person, robbed of autonomy, paralyzed with the echo of something that lives deep in your bones growing to a blood curdling pitch, veiled with memories that snap and bite to urge recognition of their presence like a needy dog biting heels for attention. It leaves you feeling disconnected through the ordeal until it’s finished.

You don’t have sex often for that reason—as if you have a list of suitors, you don’t, you just find yourself in situations that are the result of previously mentioned drugs and alcohol getting you far from the path of proper judgement.

So maybe whoever is occupying these rooms are actually not having a good night. Again, the idea is often better than the reality.

You cut yourself off from further drifting once you reach the end of the corridor and look at the blur of bodies moving in the flashing lights, lasers and strobes dancing over the wave, highlighting sweat—catching the smog in the air, plumes appearing above heads as people drown themselves with distraction. It smells like alcohol, like exertion and perfumes—body odor and weed, shimmer and tar, horrid. Familiar.

Near the back, that’s what Gert said.

You nudge past the people blocking the archway, murmuring an apology that gets lost to the music when you bump their shoulders as you get by. It’s always packed in here, but it’s clear that tonight people are taking advantage of the whole free drinks thing. There’s way more people on the dance floor, pressed to walls, occupying tables—not a single free stool at the bar—and usually this type of crowd anywhere else would send you into a spiral, but funnily enough, being here has never once given you a panic attack.

Maybe it’s because you are making the decision to be here, you know what to expect, know the environment—the kind of people you’ll be surrounded by, you all have a common objective; forget, distract, be free of inhibition because no one gives a shit about you here. Everyone here is as fucked and sick as one another. And you all know it. Where when it’s on the street, crowds are out of your control—a necessity to get around, unexpected in their flow and behavior, angry people needing to get somewhere, busy, in a hurry—here, no one has anywhere else to be.

You make your way toward the bar, passing to the back where there’s a spot tucked away with some booths and tables—the usual spot you’d occupy with Gert and whoever else she brings out—and sure enough, once you get by a few couples in the way, there she is.

She’s in the middle of the booth, two people on either side of her and a guy across the table, slumped in his chair, lounging with spread legs and crossed arms littered with tattoos. There’s empty and half empty glasses strewn about the table, evidence that they too have already indulged in the offer of free drinks.

They’re all lost in whatever they’re talking about until you come to a stop near the side of the table, Gert’s head immediately turning to you and her eyes lighting up—full and neatly painted lips pulling up into a greeting smile as she sits straighter, resting her elbows against the edge of the wood, “There you are,”

Your mouth presses into a thin line, “Here I am,”

She tilts her head at you, lips dropping the smile a moment and her brows knitting in question, “What took you so long?”

Internally you cringe, the whole situation, of earlier and and what just happened—flashes in your mind. Making you draw in a short breath and give a jerk of your head, gesturing with your hand in dismissal, “Uh—the line was long as shit.”

You say instead, giving a glance at the others at the table, the way they all have their heads turned to you—focus on you—confusion on their faces masked by politeness.

“Ah yeah—forgot to warn you, my bad,” She gives a grimace out of the corner of her mouth in a way that says ‘sorry’ before they spread back into a smile, “At least you got in though—now sit down!”

She gestures to the empty chair next to the guy, he just nods and sits up a bit to give you more space as you pass behind him to take it. You settle into your seat and slide your hands into the pockets of your jacket, all eyes back on you, one of the two girls on either side of Gert pipes up, leaning against the table to be able to talk a bit more clearly over the music.

“We haven’t met—what’s your name?” She has shaggy, short black hair and dramatic makeup, bright blue eyes cradled by shadow and sharpness that extends from the outer corners upward. It makes her look a bit cat-ish,

You give her your name and she tilts her head with a smile, “Oh, well—it’s nice to meet you,”

“Yeah you too,” You nod, avoiding looking her right in the eyes—the way they glint with something less than polite puts you off. She leans her cheek against the heel of her palm and lets baby blue paint you with slow drags over your form. It makes you shift in your seat—feeling a little self conscious with how intently she’s staring.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s on one—” Gert waves a hand at the girl beside her and elicits a scoff from her—a saint, picking up on your unease and taking the lead to speak before the woman gets a chance again, “—We were gonna get another round of shots, you want one? Or you wanna drink?”

You shrug and lean back in your seat a bit, “Shots are fine,”

She nods and nudges the second girl next to her, “You got it, you two come help me,”

With that they scoot out of the booth and start off toward the bar, their chattering drowned by the rest of the noise as they fade from view. Your eyes flit back to the table, staring mindlessly at the empty glasses, your leg beginning its incessant bouncing as you wait. A habit you’ve never been able to break, an instinct to try and soothe yourself as subtly as you can.

You aren’t one to be particularly social, not unless it’s someone you know—Gert—once you’re left alone with her friends, all social skills plummet into nothingness. You don’t usually get yourself into situations where you have to talk to strangers of your volition, it’s really only cases like these when your friends leave and you become an awkward sack of silently pondering flesh until their return.

So when you catch the movement in your peripheral, the guy sat beside you shifting to face you more—you internally groan, pleading wordlessly ‘please don’t talk to me—please don’t want to have conversation—this will kill me I’m begging you don’t open your mouth—’ but of course, your begging falls on deaf ears.

“Hey so—you’re like Gert's friend right?” Comes his voice, tempting a frown to crease your lips but you fight it and turn your head toward him.

“Yeah I am,” You answer with as much enthusiasm and politeness as you can manage—which isn’t much. But the effort is what counts.

“Sick, yeah… I haven’t seen you before with her,”

“I don’t really come out a lot,” He nods at that, his arms uncrossing and catching your attention. He’s covered in ink and he has a lot of piercings and mods as well, his ears stretched and his cheeks hollowed to fit big black tunnels. It all makes him look more intimidating than he sounds.

You gesture at him, “I like all your tattoos and mods, looks cool.”

Your attempt to further the conversation and be nice kinda comes off a bit awkward, but he smiles and looks down at himself when you bring it up, taking the bait happily, “Thanks man! I been getting this all done for a long time,”

“I bet, how long did it take to do the,” You point at your own cheek and he mimics the motion by brushing his fingers over the edge of the tunnel, almost like he doesn’t even realize it’s there.

“To stretch ‘em? Shit maybe like… Close to eight-nine years? Maybe more, I haven’t really kept count,” He says with a light, throaty laugh that you meet with a small smile.

“Looks kinda freaky,”

“Hah, yeah I’ve had to learn to really use my mouth different so shit doesn’t come out,” He answers the question that had already been rattling around in your mind from the second you saw him—but you didn’t wanna ask because maybe it’s like—disrespectful.

You thank whatever is out there that this interaction isn’t weird and that he’s actually a pretty nice guy to talk to so far. A nice distraction. He has enthusiasm enough for the both of you, thankfully.

“Have you gotten used to them?” You let your curiosity lead you, glancing past him to see if the girls are coming back yet before letting your eyes find him again.

“Yeah I have, honestly I can’t imagine not havin ‘em anymore,” He answers with a small huff as he looks off, almost like the thought is absurd to him now. He furrows his brows in question as his head turns back to you, “How did y’all meet? You and Gert,”

“Uh—here actually, I was high out of my mind and she was nice enough to get me out of some fucked up shit with these guys,” You explain, your gaze drifting away from him and your hands finding your pockets again as you huff out a heavy breath, “And uh… Yeah she gave me her number and we started hanging out,”

“Shit, it’s cool she had your back,”

“Yeah she’s pretty awesome,” You nod your head, giving him a tight smile, leaving out all the other parts as to what ‘fucked up’ was. He seemed to get the hint well enough for you to not have to explain. And he thankfully doesn’t press for details, that night isn’t really the most fond of memories. But at least you met your best friend, that was definitely a plus.

“What about you guys though?” You ask after a pause of silence, the stretch lasting too long for comfort.

“Ah I sell to her, I met her at one of her shows,” He shifts in his seat, raising his hips and reaching into his back pocket. You follow the movement with your eyes, his hand drawing back and having produced a small clear baggy, “Speakin of selling shit, you down for some?”

Your eyes flick from his and then to the baggy and its contents, small purple pills with little x’s through their middles. It’s not anything you're familiar with that’s for sure, “What is it?”

He flicks the side of the bag with his middle finger, “My buddy got his hands on this new strain of shimmer, we just tweaked it, it’s good. Real good. You wanna roll, this’s got it.” He puts the bag in his palm but keeps it extended toward you, “Kinda like ecstasy but with that hit you get from shimmer,”

When Gert said “some stuff” you assumed it was weed or something. You’re not big on the shimmer shit, you’ve tried it sure—but that was a high you really aren’t keen on experiencing again. But today has been complete bull. And your patience for being responsible has worn to be of a string thickness. You could use the distraction, and after all—you did go through the effort of getting in here for this.

You just stare a moment as you contemplate silently, but of course impulsivity wins the war—your voice coming before you can be sure of if what you’re saying or agreeing to is a good idea, “How much?”

“Ah don’t worry ‘bout it, you’re really chill—this one’s on me,” He dismisses with a shake of his head and a smile, his gaze dropping to his palm as his thick fingers work the baggy open, “It hits quick too, real easy.”

You nod with a deep breath, looking past him to check once more if the girls are coming back—no luck.

You look back to him when he offers you a pill, your eyes locked on it, hesitation halting movement to accept it—but you steel yourself, already committed, and raise your hand, palm up to let him drop it into it. You thumb the intention in its middle, turning it over and then looking back up at him. He notes the way you stall and encourages you with a quick nod, sealing the baggy before pocketing it again.

You chew the inside of your cheek as you let your gaze fall once more to the pill in your palm, your heart racing a little—you know this is a bad idea, this is a guy you barely know, giving you drugs you’ve never tried—and yet your unease isn’t enough to fully deter you. That little voice wins again, and before you can hesitate any longer, you bring your hand up to your mouth and dry swallow the pill. The drag of it is rough going down, regret and anxiety clawing at your throat with their sharpness—it makes your face scrunch a little as you swallow again to try and remedy the ache, finally looking back up at the man when he laughs.

“There you go! See? Not too bad,”

You huff lightly, “Think we’ll have to wait and see about that…” You mumble, shifting yourself and lifting your hand to smooth your hair back, your eyes falling to your lap…

What the fuck are you doing.

“Okayyy!”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Gert’s voice, startling you from drifting as you watch her and the girls come back toward the table, all carrying shot glasses filled near to the brim. Their presence makes you sit up straighter, gaze following their movement as they set the shots down before sliding back into the booth. Gert nudges a shot toward you, then another toward the man beside you, the two girls on either side of her already throwing back their own shots.

You give her a quick thank you, picking up the glass and eyeing the brown liquor swaying just a whisper away from tipping over the rim of the glass. You don’t hesitate to take it, lips closing over the edge as you swallow down the shot and grimace a little as you set it down before slumping back in your seat.

Fuck… He wasn’t lying—it does hit quick, probably because of the shimmer. You can feel the lightness fogging your brain already, vision delayed as you look this way and that. Your body feels jittery, that incessant bouncing of your leg has turned to squirming, like you can’t get comfortable in your spot, constantly readjusting as you try to focus on what is being said. But when you watch them all talk, you just see mouths moving—jumbles of noise falling from them but nothing of substance sticks in your brain, everything feels slow and fast at once…

You hear Gert say your name, your eyes finding her face which contorts with confusion before bleeding into amusement, “Oh shit—look at your eyes, Mikey gave you some?”

“Y-yes—” You stumble over a laugh, not even realizing that a smile has found your face—mirroring the expression of everyone else at the table as they look at you, their features bleeding together as your eyes flit from one face to the other.

You feel a giggle crawling it’s way up your throat, your head feeling heavy and light at the same time—making every movement feel almost floaty, and when the effort to hold it up becomes too much, you let it fall back; eyes slipping shut only to be coaxed back open when the flashing penetrating through closed lids has you disoriented. Your vision focuses and you find yourself drowned in the strobing dancing over the crowd you’re now lost in. Bodies smothering you and moving you with the wave as people close you in with their dancing from every direction.

Your head falls back forward all the way and you’re met with Gert’s friend right in front of you—the short hair, cat eyed girl, her body towering and pressed tight to yours and her hands guiding your hips, your own wandering over her arms and shoulders. Colors streak across her melting face, touching her feels almost like you could put your hands through her skin if you pressed just enough.

You can feel the music inside you, thrum after thrum pulsing through your body, vibrating from the tips of your fingers down to your toes—body moving on its own accord in time with the sea of flesh surrounding you. It’s so hot, sweat sheening off your now sleeveless arms and glittering across your chest, you can feel your breaths caving your belly, rolling through your chest and past your lips—and then you feel a mirror of that outside of yourself, the hallowing of a chest pressed to yours; lips brushing your neck and puffs of hot air licking damp skin just below your ear.

You can’t stop yourself from pressing into it, your head tilting to invite the sensation as you slide your hands over shoulders and up into short hair to tug—eyes closing, getting lost in the rhythm and the weightless, mindless sway of your body against hers. You hear her breath catch when your fingers tighten in her hair, her lips pressing to your jaw, starting a slow line along the length of it until her mouth is a hair’s breadth from yours. Breath mingling in the distance—you open your eyes as you press your forehead to hers, meeting her own.

But instead of an ocean, you find fire.

Scorching in heat, burning holes through your own—you find no trace of baby blue, only bright, searing amber.

Your brows knit and you pull yourself back enough to get a better look—horrified to find that cat-ish eyes have found a more dangerous narrowing, shaggy black hair swapped for feathery, messy chestnut that’s been mused by your fingers, softened features now all sharp angles and careful ridges—

No…

Flushed, plush skin is almost sickly pale, pulled taut over sharp cheekbones to create distinct gauntness you’ve only seen adorned on one man.

“Scared?”

His lips quirk up around the word, smug, sly in the way he’d been outside—so very clear, so very real—the shudder that climbs the ladder of your spine is proof of him, his fingers ghosting at the base of it—then just like that, the lights flash again and he’s gone.

And she’s back.

Wearing the same confusion you look at her with, her hands gliding up your sides, her voice coming through the music in concern, “What’s wrong baby?”

You don’t answer—at least not coherently, you mumble something in an excuse to leave that you don’t even understand, staggering away from her and turning to push through the crowd.

Your mind reels with it, replaying it over and over as you navigate through the narrow spaces to get out and off the dance floor—he was so real—you could feel him, touching you as you did him, his hands on your waist and his breath on your skin; so very there. You can’t help the whirlwind of emotions you feel, scared, relieved, disappointed—the combination a result of his being there and then sudden disappearance, which only frustrates you. Why would you be upset that it wasn’t anything but an effect of the drugs? Why would you want him to actually be here again, why are you wishing that for a moment fate had dropped you right back into his lap when he had so deeply startled you?

His reach runs deeper than you thought. That control isn’t just surface level, that imprint he left was intentional—he planted the seed of his existence in your mind and he’s taking root faster than you can weed him out.

And the worst part is—you don’t even know if you truly want to.

Nothing has made you feel so alive, nothing has seen you so entirely as his gaze took the time to do—all in such a short span. How is that? Being subject to his attention made you feel not like something that is a part of someone else’s story or situation, something easily lost to the background—it tethered you to a moment of your own, where only you existed, where his focus was only for you.

He’s dangerous, undoubtedly, you saw it. You got front row tickets for the experience, you got a taste of something you shouldn’t have. And you have no idea where your limits are, never have, always getting yourself mixed up in things you shouldn’t simply for the thrill of it. But he’s different, because for the first time you’re not mindlessly walking into danger for the sake of it—now you find yourself hesitant and tempted at once, and it confuses you, scares you. You’ve never been scared to push yourself, often in the worst ways, but this time it wasn’t you pushing. He found you, pushed first, and for the first time in your life—made you cower.

You shake yourself of the thought, convincing yourself this all is from the drugs and whatever else you took in that empty space between your awareness. You’re not in your right mind, this curiosity and distant wanting is nothing but a side effect.

And you will accept no other answer. No explanation but this is sensible.

You find your way back to the table, relieved to see that your jacket wasn’t entirely lost—just draped over your chair, a quick pat of your back pockets confirms that both your phone and your pocket knife are still there, keys as well.

Despite the fact that the empty glasses littering the table have clearly increased as a tell of you having drank more in that gap of time lost from your memory—you feel way too sober now. So much for distraction—your attempt just led you right back around to what you were trying to avoid thinking about in the first place. You would’ve been better off staying home. You wouldn’t have seen him again, you wouldn’t have fucking hallucinated him—wouldn’t be naseous from the pill that caused you to do so—you could’ve stayed home, gone to bed, done anything else.

But you just had to fucking come here. Just had to give into temptation, weak to the promise of being numb for even just a little while—and now you feel more than you did before.

“Hey—you alright? Ally said you ran off,”

You jerk, faltering in putting on your jacket when Gert appears behind you, a hand on your shoulder—your head snaps toward her and you shake it quickly, “I—”

Turn a blind eye.

“I just need to get home—or somewhere I—I think whatever your guy gave me was too strong,” You bite back what wants to spill past, the truth of why you agreed to come in the first place, why you’ve been off since you showed up, feeling an obligation to keep your mouth sealed tight to keep a secret for a man who probably doesn’t deserve it.

She just nods, pulling her hand back as you finish tugging on your sweater, “Yeah, okay—I can come with you,”

You shake your head, “No it’s alright, I can make it on my own I don’t wanna—ruin your night or anything—”

Your name falls sharp from her lips, final, her hand returning to your arm, “I’m coming with you.”

Her eyes are stern and sympathetic at the same time, it's clear she can tell it isn’t just the drugs or the drinks, she has that look on her face she always gets when she’s concerned about you—brows pulled together, expression tight, eyes searching… She’s seen more than most have, she can see the tells and signs, it makes her both your savior and tormentor sometimes with how easy it is for her to read you.

“What about your friends—”

She snorts and cuts you off quickly, “Stop, they can take care of themself it’s all good,”

You relent at that, not having it in you to put up much of a fight, not right now and not with her.

“Okay—alright…”

“C’mon,” She urges, looping her arm through yours and holding you by the bicep, guiding you through the crowd and toward the exit.

Turns out the effects of everything didn’t wear off as much as you’d thought, if they ever did, because it all goes by in a blur—you don’t remember getting out of the club or onto the streets—you for sure don’t remember whatever conversation took place that changed the course from heading to your house to instead going to her apartment. But that’s where you end up when you come to again, morning light bleeding through the stained glass of the bathroom window that you are curled up under.

Opening your eyes brings an immediate headache that makes you groan, pressing your palms to them and rubbing—trying to work the ache out to no avail. You roll onto your back with a huff, letting your hands fall away from your face as you blink yourself into awareness, bleary eyed and noting your position next to the toilet, no further explanation needed to know that you probably haven’t left its side the entire night. You draw in a deep breath and catch the thick scent of sick stuck to you, more than enough confirmation to your suspicions.

You push yourself up to sit and the world feels as though it tilts when you do so, these kinds of come downs are hell. It’s like you’re still physically fucked up but now you just know what’s going on around you.

You feel around for your phone in your pocket, brows kitting when you don’t feel it there. You shift yourself more and hear something hard knock against the side of the tub, your gaze falling to find it there on the floor, screen up and already on from the power button hitting the edge of the tiles—allowing you to see there are… Many missed messages and calls from your mom.

Expected, unsurprising, yet still so frustrating.

You bring a hand to your hair and brush it back messily, the other reaching for your phone, dropping it into your lap and hunching over yourself as you stare at the notifications sitting there on the lock screen.

25 messages from Momma.

9 missed calls from Momma.

You groan and hold your head with your free hand, bracing yourself as read the first one that’s visible.

We will talk about this.

You click it and are met with a wall of text ranging from around when you left up until just about an hour ago.

From: Momma
At: 9:34 PM

Where are you?

From: Momma
At: 9:35 PM

Did you leave??

From: Momma
At: 9:45 PM

???,

From: Momma
At: 9:55 PM

Hello??

Missed call at 9:59 PM from Momma.

Missed call at 10:15 PM from Momma.

Missed call at 10:28 PM from Momma.

From: Momma
At: 10:29 PM

Pick up your phone.

Missed call at 10:44 PM from Momma.

From: Momma
At: 11:02 PM

Hello?

You start skimming at this point, messages repeating themselves, your name a stern demand that you read over and over, finally reaching the last of her attempts from the past couple of hours.

From: Momma
At: 11:04 AM

This is blatant disrespect.

From: Momma
At: 12:09 PM

Are you going to therapy??

From: Momma
At: 12:30 PM

Come home right after therapy.

From: Momma
At: 2:12 PM

We will talk about this.

“Fuck…” You grumble, turning your phone off and covering your face, cursing yourself and everything that has happened to lead you here—you knew the consequences, knew you’d have to deal with this, it happens every time without fail. So why does it still get on your nerves so much? It should be normal by now, it shouldn’t make you this upset—but you can’t help it. No matter how much it happens, the coddling and sheltering doesn’t ever stop feeling like she’s trying to smother you.

The time’s a tell, no therapy for you, it’s going to be 3 and you have it at 1pm every week, every other day.

No complaining from you—but from her? There’s guaranteed to be plenty of upset.

And you’ll be hearing all of it if you go home. Hence the solution that comes to mind—simply don’t go home. Perfect plan, undoubtedly will cause more issues, but procrastinating is what you do best. So what if leaving the problem to stew makes it worse? At least you won’t have to deal with it right at this second, and once more—you are an adult. You’re free to do what you want. Even if it’ll make her upset and cause some sort of argument or fight—it’s better than bending to her will simply because she thinks she’s obligated to the respect she doesn’t even bother to give to you.

Besides, you have plenty of your own shit here at Gert’s place—this isn’t the first time you’ve avoided going back. Her apartment is like your second home at this point.

You stay there a long moment—reeling from your hangover and dreading having to deal with it until it subsides—before you finally manage to pick yourself up from the floor, using the wall for much needed support as you get to your feet. Your eyes flick over the mess you’ve left in the bowl and you immediately shut them, shaking your head as you lean over and feel for the lever, quickly pushing it and opening your eyes only when the flush has made the obvious sounds of being through with.

You brace against the sink after, staring at yourself in the mirror and taking in the sight of yourself—what makeup you did have on has smudged around your eyes, making you look like a raccoon, your hair a mess which adds to the effect, your jacket is once again missing and the straps of your shirt falling are off your shoulders—your bra beneath is unclasped but not discarded, making it sit weird on your chest without the support. The fly and button of your jeans is undone–no idea how it got that way or how you got this way–overall you just look like hell.

You decide on a shower, moving to the tub to turn it on and stripping while you wait for it to heat up. You space out a bit while you stand there, bare, sore all over, head pounding and mind blank.

Yesterday doesn’t feel real, everything that happened feels like a fever dream. And for a moment you think it truly might have been, that it’s your mind playing some elaborate trick on you—distorting your perception, maybe everything that happened, didn’t. Maybe after your appointment you just went straight home, fell asleep, Gert woke you up and invited you over, you guys drank too much and that’s it. But that fantasy is too tame for anything that would happen to you—if anything it makes sense that everything happened the way it did, because of course the universe would use you for the punchline of whatever joke this is.

The bathroom starting to fog up finally elicits a reaction to get you moving, you step into the shower and immediately seek the warmth of the stream where you stay a long moment motionless before you do anything. Every movement feels sluggish, washing your hair is a chore, your body aching as you move about to wash it, the water hotter than necessary, scalding and grounding—it makes you feel tethered to reality again.

You shut off the water after some more lingering, wrap yourself and grab your stuff from where you discarded it on the floor and leave the bathroom to go to Gert’s room. Once you walk in you find her sprawled on her bed, passed out with the covers half on her with the rest hanging off the bed. You move quietly to not wake her, dropping your clothes in her hamper and putting your phone down on her desk so you can find something to wear. It’s easy enough, half her dresser is just a bunch of your own shit. You find an old black tank top and some sweats, underwear, and don’t bother finding a bra.

You get dressed quickly and drape the towel over the back of her desk chair before flopping onto the bed beside her, fixing the covers and letting sleep take you for the second time.

When you wake, it's Gert shaking you gently, your name falling soft through the haze of sleep. You open your eyes and squint up at her, “Mm?”

She huffs lightly, nudging you again, “I’m hungry, wanna go get somethin?”

You stretch your back a little and mumble, “Okay,”

She disappears and leaves you to freshen up, you do, finding your jacket in the process, put it on and grab your phone and then you guys head out. During the walk toward the heart of the Lanes, she fills in the empty space with details lost from your memory of last night, letting you in on the fact that the whole reason you ended up coming back to her place is because you started getting sick on the way to yours. And her apartment was closer. How you ended up on the bathroom floor is self explanatory, and after refusing to let her help you clean up and get into the bed, she relented and left you on the floor.

The chatting helps keep your mind off the packed streets, sticking close to her as you guys navigate through until eventually you come to where the food stands line the road.

“Jericho’s?”

“Yeah that’s fine,” You nod, following her lead until you guys get to his stand, Gert—thankfully—ordering and paying for the both of you. Going out with her always makes you feel pampered, you can’t remember the last time you paid for something by yourself while you two were out.

Your headache has gone away some, the strain behind your eyes easing up as you watch the process of your guy’s food being made. Chatting with Gert while you wait, your eyes flitting between her and looking at the fish simmering on the flat top. The smell is thick and comforting, the promise of greasy, hot stew has the pit in your stomach making itself known.

“So,” Gert pipes up next to you, drawing your attention away from the cooking and to her instead, head resting against your palm and tilted toward her, “I’m gonna guess you won’t be coming out for a bit after last night?”

You huff a little, the corner of your lips quirking up as you shrug, “Mm… I’ll come out, just won’t take anything from your guy again. That shit was too much,”

She nods and smiles with her bottom teeth, giving a grimace, “Yeah… Well, we will stick to what we know is good then, drinks and weed.”

“Are you bringing this up because you wanna go out again?”

“Mmmaybe.”

You roll your eyes but it’s all amusement, no true annoyance behind it. She just laughs and knocks her shoulder against yours gently, “I’m playing, we don’t have to if you’re not feeling it,”

You smile a little and hum, your eyes drifting away from hers as you lose yourself in contemplation for a moment. There’s the logical side–often the losing side–that says you need rest, that your body needs a break after last night, time to relax. You got too fucked up, it wouldn’t be a good idea to go out again. But then there’s the other side–usually the winning side–that is tempted, curious. It’s the stupid part of your brain that notoriously gets you into trouble when you listen to it. It’s the home of that little voice whispering to you now,

Maybe you’ll see him.

And that’s a sentiment that has your heart lurching, from fear or misplaced excitement, you have no clue, probably both. But its effect is there. Evident in the way continuing to think about it has your pulse branching out from your chest to crawl across your nerves, making you feel it head to toe, thundering in warning and urging simultaneously.

You should turn down the suggestion, maybe even go face your issues with your mom head on before it can turn into something worse, go for a walk far from the last drop or do literally anything else. It’s just a stupid idea, something that should be fleeting instead of lingering. Why do you even wanna see him? There’s no point in it, if you do, so what? There's no reason for you to see him or speak to him or interact with him in any capacity. He’s a dangerous man, someone you should stay as far as you can from.

But you know yourself, logic never had grounds to stand against your impulsivity.

Besides–how do you best get rid of a hangover? Drink. More. If you’re drunk, you can’t be hungover.

So finally you come back from your drifting with a shrug, “We can go out.”

Gert looks at you with raised brows, eyes searching yours for a moment, “You sure?”

You nod once, trying to keep whatever this weird desperation is at bay and out of your voice as you answer, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

She snorts and laughs lightly, “Shit, I won’t complain–”

You smile at her, giving a little huff of your own and sitting up straighter just as your food is finished and set before you both. You fall into a pattern of silence and then chatter as you guys eat, your mind wandering every time those silences come again–barely able to enjoy your food as you’re plagued with this sense of dread and giddiness, it feels like something has been left unfinished, and the anticipation of possibly getting some kind of explanation or–at the very least have some sort of resolve that will come from either seeing him or not, has you anxious in a way outside of the way you usually feel anxiety.

Once you both finish you head back to her place. You guys hang out for a while before getting ready for the club. You get changed into something suitable and let her put makeup on you, the whole process involving pregaming and weed. A much more familiar combination to whatever that abomination was last night.

Weed fixes everything.

It brings your anxiety down to something manageable, you don’t even get hung up on how many people are on the streets when you guys head out—before you know it you’re in the line to get in, it’s much shorter tonight—even if it wasn’t, you don’t know how you feel about testing your luck going through the back again. Even if the reason you don’t want to try is the same reason you’re here in the first place. Truly a walking contradiction you are.

Soon the bouncers are letting you guys in, and once you’re past the threshold of the club entrance, you feel your heart jump into your throat.

You don’t falter, don’t pause even though your feet are tempted to come to a screeching halt every step you take further in—guided by Gert’s hand loosely holding your own. You find yourself looking everywhere, head on a swivel—not very subtly scanning the crowd as you pass, led straight toward the bar. As if he would be out here—that man doesn’t exactly seem like the clubbing type. He probably wouldn’t have a reason to be here on the main floor, which makes you curious about where else he might be, what other parts of this place have been undiscovered by you or most people here.

It’s not nearly as crowded as it was last night making finding a spot at the bar easy enough, Gert orders shots and you take them together—the burn of taking them down getting easier on the third or fourth one you have, that giddy lightness finding you and drawing giggles from the depths of you both—moving from being at the bar to dancing and then back again. Being with her, the alcohol starting to hit harder, it pushes the thought of seeing him to the very back of your mind. Giving up on the idea that you’ll run into him tonight and focusing rather on the fact that you’re just having a good time with your best friend. It’s almost like he doesn’t exist, never did.

None of it was real.

This mystery man that has been on your mind every waking moment since you locked eyes with him in that alley is nothing but a figment of your imagination. You made it all up.

At least that’s what you keep telling yourself as the night goes on and you lose yourself more and more, returning to the bar once more, leaning on Gert for support as you struggle to get your bearings through mindless laughter and nonsensical chatter. You both take a new spot tucked near the wall—your previous one lost to a couple who took it while you both were on the dance floor—settling onto the stools, you watch her flag down the bartender, giggling drunkenly to yourself as you lean against the edge with your head resting on your palm.

Your eyes flit away from her in a brief pass over the others occupying the bar, brain noting nothing until you’re tempted to do a double take when you catch a familiar face—your smile fading as you lift your head and back track, heart skipping a beat when your gaze settles on…

Him.

You blink, a little dazed and unsure of if you can even trust your own senses or sight right now—especially after last night, you quite literally imagined him—so you just stare for a long moment… And he doesn’t disappear—he’s very much there. Sitting right there. Right across the bar, nursing something that looks like bourbon or whisky—looking disinterested in all the commotion around him, paying little to no mind to any of it—like he isn’t in a club full of people with loud music blasting but somewhere else entirely…

You didn’t have a plan in the first place for if you saw him—and even if you did, you are a little too drunk now to even attempt carrying it out. You’re just stunned that you’re actually seeing him again.

You stay staring, watching his lazy movements as he raises his glass to his lips, throat bobbing as he swallows down his drink—the tilt of his head exposing two more hidden beauty marks just below his collar that you can just barely see through the shitty lighting and from this distance. The whole sight is sinful, he probably doesn’t even know how he looks—probably doesn’t mean to put on a show or anything, but that’s alright, your drink-addled brain will file away all of it like the display means something anyway.

You feel that out of body sensation again, just like in the alley, observing but not experiencing—not a participant in this moment but a viewer alone. A fly on the wall, nothing of importance. And it makes you lose that fear factor for a moment, inebriation smoothing unsettlement over into something like attraction that should definitely feel wrong.

But it doesn’t.

That is until his head starts tilting—eyes sliding over with the movement until pretty, deep amber locks on you. Once again you are jostled from the bliss of being a watcher into being present, fear finding home in your chest again as you register that he sees you, knows it's you.

You watch recognition narrow those dangerous eyes as they flit over your form, the crease between his thick brows deepening as he furrows them—gold dragging heavily on its way back up to meet your gaze fleetingly as he brings his glass back to his lips before turning his attention away.

It leaves you stunned, not registering Gert’s voice until she nudges you and says your name again, hand cradling and extending another shot to you, “Hey—you good? What are you looking at,” She questions, trying to follow your line of sight but you quickly get yourself together and shake your head, reaching for the shot glass.

“Nothing—c’mon,” You get her focus back on you, clinking your glass with hers—stealing one more brief glance toward where he is, catching the tail end of him finishing his drink and standing up to leave—it has you rushing to throw your shot back, instinct working too quickly for your brain to catch up, “I’ll be right back,”

You practically drop the shot glass back onto the bar-top, not giving her time to respond—or yourself the time to think rationally—before you’re getting to your feet and weaving through the people in your way to be able to keep up, stumbling and off balance but it doesn’t stop the effort to stay only a small distance behind, a small distance that gives him enough room to disappear if you fall back too much. But you manage, tailing him as he makes his way toward that back hall with all the rooms.

Your heart is thundering in your ears, louder than the music and its bass, begging you to listen to it—to turn around and go back where safety is assured—but you don’t, you keep following until you both are in the hall; him still a fair enough distance that you could leave and there would be no issue, but before that can happen—your voice is coming without permission,

“Wait—”

It’s a desperate thing, falling without control and halting him in his tracks—not wasting a moment to turn and face you, regret immediately fluttering in your chest as you’re stopped as well—words stolen from the tip of your tongue now that you’re face to face with him again, still a fair distance from one another—at loss for anything coherent now that you’re looking at him.

He looks less put together and something about that makes him more intimidating. He doesn’t seem like he wants to be bothered, wearing a tired yet stern expression, his hair a bit more messy and from the looks of it he has shed the overcoat you saw him in yesterday—white sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and his vest is undone, tie loosened. His head isn’t held as high, his back isn’t as straight and you can see how much more weight he’s leaning on his cane with.

You’re prompted out of your staring when he raises his brows at you, “Do you need something? Or did you just stop me to stare, that is not very polite.”

His voice is smooth, measured while being loud enough to be heard over the—stifled—yet still loud music. It has a chill licking the back of your neck that you resist with a deep breath, swallowing uselessly—it’s dry and tight, making it no easier for your words to find you. Though that last bit sparks something in you, anger or—something close to anger. It has tension pulling between your brows, your expression turning a bit sour as you shake your head at him, slurring out, “It wasn’t ‘polite’ for you to threaten me either.”

At that, your drunken boldness, something quirks his lips up just so—amusement, maybe surprise, you can’t really tell. But you for sure register the jolt of unease that yanks at your heart when he starts taking steps closer to you, whatever confidence you’d found to push back like that dies immediately. Making you shrink back slightly as he comes to a stop just before you, towering in a way that makes you have to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.

“Threaten you?” He parrots, tilting his head to follow your gaze when it flits away, “You believe that was a threat, Dear?”

“Yes—” Your reply comes breathy, frustrated, annoyed that he’s playing it down when it was done so deliberately.

“—Foolish girl.” He says it like he pities you, his eyes observant and taking in the way you look at him, determined to stand your ground while also praying that the floor just opens up and swallows you whole. You can’t tell if his words are directed toward your decision to come stepping up to him now or your naivety surrounding his intentions last night, either way—they definitely have the desired effect of robbing you of whatever it is you wanted to say.

“It would serve you to learn how to heed a warning when it is given, a threat would be me saying I will—track you down or take your life where you stood if you did not listen. Did I say any of that?” He prompts, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, “No. But perhaps you need a threat…”

His voice becomes something like a purr, only heard because the distance between you both has shrunk by him taking closing steps that have you feeling claustrophobic, feeling much more sober now. His words have your heart racing, that adrenaline finding you again—the rush of anxiety from having him entirely focused on you. There’s fear mingling with something that lives deep in your belly, something you can’t place or describe—it's hot and searching, seeking more to feed off to grow—something that you can’t deny the existence of despite ignoring it. Trying to focus on the fact that this is getting real very quickly and not on the excitement you feel knowing that fact.

“Do you, girl? Will that stop you from getting yourself into trouble?”

Reading you—he’s reading you, knows what you’re trying to hide—knows what brings you to places like this and gets you into the situations you do. And despite knowing the truth in what he’s saying, you want to deny it. Deny the fact that you trail danger like a lost puppy, that you need something so extreme to make you feel tethered.

He’s asking but he already seems to know, a threat would prompt your curiosity, urge you to push far past your limits just for the sake of it.

You feel yourself caving into that feeling, that all consuming fire blooming from the core of you outward, eating through walls you’ve built to keep distance between you and anything that tries to get too close—rationality forsaking you, leaving you to flounder before him in a pathetic mix of desperation and fear, stubborn to let die the very thing that makes you feel alive.

He hums, low in his chest, something almost satisfied flickering across his face and making him lose that sternness for a moment, “You poor thing…” You blame the inebriation for not stopping the hand he raises, senses impaired and useless to sever the instinct to tilt toward it before you do, his fingers grazing the side of your cheek as he tilts his head just a bit, his touch cool and electric against your flushed and heated skin—prickling like needles dancing across the expanse, arresting your breath in your chest as you keep looking up at him, trapped by his gaze.

“You are so lost, aren’t you…”

Chapter Text

 You stare up at him, feeling any trace of frustration or anger take a backseat in your mind to let whatever it is that’s making you seek the warmth of his palm take over. Confusion and something else warring with one another, a battle you fight silently but wear the expression of—the sight something he notes, he can see it in your eyes, hidden in the furrow between your brows that draw together and up—he knows you don’t know what you’re doing, what you even want, but there’s a sureness in his gaze that says he does.

“What is it you are looking for, hm?…” He lets you press into it, cupping your cheek carefully, treading lightly like he's testing how you’ll take to the contact.

You’re stunned, drunk, shocked with yourself that you’re letting this happen—it feels like everything around you has faded, the music nothing more than background noise that is all too distant to register right now, your vision pinpoint like, vignetting in a way that focuses you entirely on him—the bass has become an outward mirror of your heart pounding, living in you and jostling you with every rhythmic thud. Yet you can’t get yourself to pull away, his touch such a delicate thing—so soft yet scorching, a brand on your skin where his fingertips graze. Grounding.

Real.

You shake your head, at a loss, words failing you—nothing finding your tongue to be spun into coherency, just a jumble, “I don’t—You,”

“Me?” He muses, and you just nod—the movement jerky, dumb, your lips refusing to form a seal once again now that it’s been broken, breaths coming heavier the longer you’re subject to his stifling proximity, “You are looking for me?”

You can see amusement dancing like fire in his eyes, subtle, almost lost to the amber cradling it, but there. And something about him stifling it so seamlessly makes it more intense—you’re so used to curated and over the top displays of affection or emotion, so much so that it lacks the authenticity that makes it mean something. But seeing it, a flicker, raw and real, tucked carefully away—it has that misplaced excitement settling lower, something almost needy, something you’re not used to—it feels vulnerable and strange, it makes you want to run.

You feel your heart lurch, feeling a moment of awareness wash over you that has your brain kicking back into gear—what the fuck are you doing?

But again, it's caught, seen before you can hide it, and again his hand moves—like he’s soothing a spooked animal, lithe fingers brushing your hair away from your forehead, “Hm?”

The answer is yes. And it’s caught in your chest, an admission you don’t want to speak aloud—it scares you, that you searched for him—plagued by him from the second you first laid eyes on him, deterred not by the display you’d witnessed; only intrigued—hounded by that control, leashed and brought to the heel of a man you don’t know.

And it somehow doesn’t feel entirely wrong.

“Yes…”

It finally falls, and once it does, regret claws at the fleeting strings of it—desperate to reel in what’s already lost—no taking it back, no way to stop it from reaching him before it does and graces you with the prettiest display; his lips stretching into something like satisfaction, a smile that has the sinew holding what composure you have left crumbling.

“I am not a good man, though—I am sure you already know that, don’t you?” He purrs, so careful, gentle yet so taunting, you’re a fool and you both know it.

“Yes, I know—but—” You stop yourself, trying to gather straying thoughts to try and make what they hold make sense, your state making it no easier—you’re trying to find courage while also keeping restraint, part of you wanting to give into this feeling gnawing at you while the other part is eager to find steady ground—desperate to get a lost point across, “But it’s—this isn’t finished this—you’re like—”

You’re slurring nonsense, frustrated with yourself as you try to find the words for how you feel, “I don’t even know–your name and—and you’re like fucking—haunting me, it’s not fair,”

“Haunting you–oh darling, you are in over your head,” Those words come biting and strung with a laugh that has chills rippling across your body, it’s a short and fleeting sound you ache to hear again when he reels his composure back in with a deep breath, “You want to know my name?”

“Yes,” This time it falls without hesitation, desperate, proving his point—you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.

He lets his fingers find your cheek again, featherlight, tempting you to tilt and you do, “Then ask me,”

Your heart thunders in your ears, this feels like a line that if you cross you won’t be able to come back for sure—now there’s still time to turn away, to put distance, to keep him as this mystery and stranger that you have a minuscule connection to. But you’re in no position to deny your curiosity, the ache to know this man that you should be running from.

So you obey, submitting to this control he has and whatever this need is inside you, and ask, “What is your name?”

“Viktor,” His accent curls around the pronunciation so sharp, the ‘or’ rolling like a purr off his tongue. It suits him, sharp, rigid in a perfect way—a name you wouldn’t mind repeating over and over… And you do, not aloud, but it bounces around in your mind, robbing you of most thought as you focus on it alone.

He finally lets his hand fall away from you, and immediately you miss it—having to restrain yourself from seeking his touch again, “And yours?”

“What?” You ask dumbly, sparking amusement in his features as he gives a light huff and crosses his hands over the top of his cane.

“Your name, it is—only fair if I know your name too, yes?” He clarifies, quirking a brow in prompting,

“Oh,” For a moment you forgot you’d even had one. So focused on him with what little sense you have that you’d lost your own perception of yourself. But you manage through the fog, and give him your name, and he repeats it. Almost like he’s tasting it, trying it out and humming pleased once he has.

“Quite pretty,”

You feel a little light at that—not from the alcohol—just him. Hearing him say your name has your insides melting into a puddle of heat between your thighs, the reaction so unexpected you’d probably feel embarrassed if it weren’t for your state. Reeling and itching to hear it wrapped up in his voice again.

“Well,” He answers your silent pleading by repeating your name, almost teasing with the way he says it, “Run along to your little friend, I have eh… Somewhere to be and I am sure you don’t want to keep her waiting, hm?”

You watch him shift his cane to be in the proper hand instead of before him, still a little stunned from all of this—you’d forgotten all about Gert—she’s probably worried about you, the way you ran off was anything but normal.

Still, you almost don’t want to go, every interaction with this man is so—fast. Slipping through your fingers before you can get a proper hold on the moment.

But you nod anyway, letting him shift back a step or two, still taking no moves to leave yourself—feet planted firmly as you struggle with the urge to tail him like a lost puppy or to do what he said because it’s the most sensible. And he seems to pick up on it, bringing an reassurance that feels faintly like a threat considering who he is.

“Ah don’t look so sad, you will see me again, dear,”

Though despite whatever underlying threat there may be, his reassurance does its job, prompting you well enough to finally move. It’s a little unsteady and reluctant, the steps you take feeling almost floaty as your feet carry you back toward the archway and away from him—the growing distance making you throw glances over your shoulder; finding him stood still, watching you go until you’re lost to the crowd again.

Part of you wants to go back, find him again already—but you don’t, keeping yourself moving instead, telling yourself this is what’s right—definitely not because he’s the one who told you to go and it feels like a sort of twisted permission—but because it’s just what's sensible.

Surely you would’ve come to the conclusion to leave yourself if he hadn’t told you to leave—he just happened to beat you to it…

Finding your way back to the bar is a struggle to say the least, if the drinks hadn’t gotten to you before—they most certainly have now. But you do get back, and when you return Gert is where you left her, tucked away at your guy’s spot—looking confused and concerned when you sit back down, feeling dazed.

“What was that about—you like—disappeared on me,” She slurs a bit, sitting up straighter from where she’d slouched against the edge of the bar, propping her head up with her hand and furrowing her brows at you.

“I just—saw someone that I knew,” It’s not a complete lie.

“Bitch—like who,” She questions with a bemused smile. Looking unimpressed with your coverup despite her state.

If you weren’t fucked up too you could probably come up with something better, or—maybe not, but still, point stands—you aren’t in the position to keep anything from her right now. So you don’t, you just huff and tilt yourself closer to her, making her confused expression become a little more perturbed, though she leans in anyway.

The theatrics of saying it like it's a secret—as if anyone can hear you both over the music—besides he was out here, it's not like his existence is something kept under wraps.

“Do you know a guy named Viktor?” You ask, voice as hushed as it can be while still being heard, and immediately she’s leaning back away from you—your name falling sternly, brows raised in chiding, looking much more sober.

“You’re kidding—” She deadpans, eyes searching yours for any hint that you could be lying.

“What? No I’m not kidding—”

She cuts you off by saying your name again, shaking her head, “If you’re like actually being serious I need you to listen to me—you do not wanna get wrapped up in that shit,”

“I know—it wasn’t like it was on purpose or something it all was—really fast,” You say quickly and lean back from her too, crossing your hands in your lap and slouching a bit, fidgeting to try and curve the nerves wracking you from her reaction.

“What does that mean? Not on purpose—”

“It means that I saw something I probably shouldn’t have and then when I was coming here last night I ran into him again while I was trying to get in through the back,”

She shakes her head, struggling to follow, “You said the line was long though?”

“The line was long so I didn’t come in through the front. I came in through the side and he was coming out while I tried to go in—and then he like—in a round about way threatened me,”

“What?—”

“Round about.” You repeat, “He didn’t like… Threaten me threaten me, he just… Said it would be a good idea if I ‘turned a blind eye’ and stuff,”

“Oh my god,” She grumbles, turning her head to press it to her palm, covering her eyes.

You huff, “Look I know—but it just spooked me okay? And then whatever your guy gave me made me fucking hallucinate him, so it’s been kind of hard to just—forget about everything.”

She looks back at you and shakes her head, looking a bit at a loss, “So, what about just now then? What was that?”

Your brain shorts out for a second and you stall in answering, the memory still fresh in your mind, how he’d touched you, his voice, the things he said and how he said them—the fact you didn’t try to stop him even once—it flashes behind your eyes, and you feel almost guilty, like a dog who’s just been caught in the act, chewing at the inside of your cheek and looking away from her and toward the rest of the people at the bar instead, the drinks being poured, the people on the dance floor—anywhere but her.

“I… dunno.”

The reality of all this is sobering, if it wasn’t clear before it’s most definitely clear now—there’s something you’re missing here, information you don’t know entirely about but have hints of from what you’d seen. You already knew based on the display that he was into things you shouldn’t get involved with, he said it himself, he’s no good. But it’s different to hear it from her. Someone from the outside that’s now looking in, someone you trust and actually know—to see her reaction to this takes you out of whatever little fantasy you’d blinded yourself with to seek him out the way you did.

“I’m—way too drunk for this,” She huffs out, looking at you with something stubborn that wants to keep pressing you but it’s clear she’s not in the right state to do it.

Thankfully.

“I don’t wanna—fight with you or anything,” You shrug, sheepishly finding her gaze again properly and making her sigh heavily, relenting, easing the weight of her attention to be lighter. Nothing upset behind those eyes, just concern.

“S’not—fighting I just want you to be careful,”

“I will be,” You assure, and she stares at you a moment longer before she accepts your words with a huff and a nod.

You’re stubborn, she knows it, you know it—you’ll do things regardless of if it is safe or not. Will you actually be careful? So far you’ve proven that you won’t, but who knows—maybe you’ll have a sudden shift in behavior and heart to find some sort of dignity in yourself that you think is worthy of protection, maybe that’ll spark the sense back into you to stop being a fool like this.

But you know yourself too well to be fostering false hope where you know it won’t flourish, but the reassurance is a bandaid that will soothe the wound long enough to be ignored by the both of you to let the rest of the night slip by and through your fingers—the conversation at the bar lost to the passage of time where you guys get even more wasted, drinks and dancing a balm of distraction until eventually you come to again, having ended up in one of those back rooms; thankfully not with a stranger, just her—waking up here likely a result of you both being too drunk to get back to her place and deciding to just take one of these rooms for the night.

Though waking up isn’t something you want or mean to do, you’re forced into awareness by the incessant buzzing of your phone beside your head—it’s a true miracle you manage to keep it with you through all your bullshit during nights like last night—and when you reach for it and blink blearily at the screen, you see find the caller to be none other than your mom.

You groan and roll onto your back, bumping Gert in the process which prompts her to aggressively turn over onto her side to put distance, you ignore the display and bring your attention back to your phone—contemplating answering before deciding you might as well, feeling a little bad that you’ve just left her in the dark.

So you answer, and immediately you regret it.

“Hi mom—”

“—Where are you?” She cuts you off before you even get your greeting out.

“I’m with Gert,”

“You realize I have been trying to get a hold of you for the past two days?” Her tone is sharp, jostling your nerves, encouraging you to sit up properly, pushing the blankets off your legs and rubbing your eyes.

“I know, I’m sorry,” You mumble, pushing your hair back and looking around the room aimlessly, your head throbbing, a tension pulling just behind your eyes with every flit of them this way and that—making you settle for just staring at the sheets instead.

“For all I knew you could’ve been dead! No text, no call, you don’t even tell me you’re leaving—”

“Mom,”

“No! I’m sick of this disrespect, you know how much of a privilege it is to have a mother who will actually check on you? Who gives a shit about their kid?” You chew at the inside of your cheek, heart pounding in your chest and sinking lower and lower with every thud until you can feel it in your ass. Your stomach starting to hurt as you listen to her.

“You’re gonna realize one day that you’ve taken all this for granted. It is always me sticking by your side—by everyone’s side—and all I expect is that my own child gives me the respect of being there for me too.” She spits the words so harshly, like she’s truly disgusted with you.

It makes you feel like a child—caught in the crossfire of her anger and frustration, you can’t help feeling guilty, shameful that you’ve left your mom so scared for so long—what daughter does this to their mother? You left her alone so you could do this? How pathetic.

“I’m sorry momma,” It comes sheepish and small, a line of salt rimming your eyes that you don’t even realize has built until you blink and the seal breaks, wet and streaking down your cheeks—halted in descent by your hand coming quickly to wipe the evidence away.

“You should be. I am very disappointed in you.” Her words twist in your chest, yanking at the strings of your already fraying composure as the line goes still for a moment—silence until it's broken by her sighing your name and then taking a beat before, “We will talk about this when you decide to come home.”

Decide. She says that word with so much disdain, throwing the concept of choice back in your face—you made the decision to leave her, now she’s taunting you with that very decision now. Punishment, cruel and unfair. But it does the trick, has you weak—so guilty.

“Okay… Bye momma,”

She doesn’t even reply, just hangs up and leaves the line dead—and it breaks you more, stray tears escaping and racing down your cheeks, you’re not crying, it’s just happening—out of your control.

You bring the phone down to your lap, gnawing the inside of your lip raw as you stare at the screen, the imprint of the curve of your cheek formed by your tears staring back at you—wiped away aggressively against the sheets as you draw in a stuttering breath and hunch yourself over your phone, anxiety eating at you, a need to remedy this in some way—make up preemptively for what you’ve done, make it better. Get reassurance that she isn’t truly this bitter with you.

Your hands are moving before you can process it, turning your phone back on and opening it quickly through the tab of missed notifications from her that floods your screen with her attempts to reach you—your name repeated over and over, demands for you to call—all brushed by as you type out the only thing you can think of.

From: You
At: 3:09 PM

I’m really sorry momma i love you

You send it without hesitation and watch your screen anxiously for 3 very long minutes, cradling your head in your hands, elbows to your knees as you just stare—finally perking up when you see the little bubbles indicating her replying.

Then it comes through—and you feel your heart pull tight when you read what you get back.

Form: Momma
At: 3:12 PM

Love you.

It leaves a horrible taste in your mouth—lining your teeth with memories that you trace with your tongue, that bitter dismissal tailed by that whisper of reluctant affection, appeasing you just enough to keep you begging like a dog for forgiveness and not enough to absolve you of the shame for what you did wrong.

Mommy still loves you, see? But you can’t act bad and expect no repercussions—but this is why your momma is good, she wont hold anything against you enough to keep you from feeling how much she loves you.

The hangover is nothing compared to this feeling—in fact you would take that over this any day. This leaves you feeling gutted, completely empty of everything besides unbridled shame with yourself.

The tears fall silently, crying stifled with practiced ease—accompanied only by the tremors jostling you from your core to your shoulders, trembling in a way you can’t stop that bleeds into you curling back up on the bed—pressed the smallest bit closer to Gert enough to feel her warmth beneath the covers you pull back up to your chin, the smell of them unfamiliar and coated with the scent of other people. Not in the slightest bit comforting…

You should’ve never answered the phone.

You fall into a second, worse round of sleep. One that is dreamless and unsatisfying, you wake feeling less rested than the first time you woke up, and when you check your phone you find that you only slept for another hour and a half. But it’s enough for you, you don’t want to be here anymore, don’t want to be in this unfamiliar bed that’s been through god knows what. You wanna be home. Or at Gert’s—just anywhere but here.

You push yourself up to sit, looking over at Gert—still asleep—and bring a hand to her back, gently nudging her, “Gert,” she stirs at your voice a bit, “Come on I wanna go home,”

That paired with your nudging finally gets her awake, mumbling a tired, “Kay,” as she rolls onto her back and rubs her face with one hand while pushing herself up with the other.

It takes you both a bit longer to properly get up, but you do, find whatever you both left lying around the room, and then get ready to leave.

Now that you are up and not drunk off your ass, you can actually take in your surroundings—which there isn’t much to note, there’s a couch against the wall across from the bed that’s in the middle of the opposite wall, two side tables, and an old dresser sort of thing. It’s kind of dingy, the light only coming from a lamp on one of the side tables and an old wall light beside the door, flickering fluorescent and a pain to look at with the ache in your head bleeding into your vision. But it had to be turned on to find your stuff.

You guys leave soon after, stepping out of the room into a much more mellow atmosphere than last night. The club has settled to be sparse, not many people, no loud music—it’s just the bar that’s occupied right now, people playing poker and black jack at a couple of tables, the big lights on—warm but bright—the jukebox on, it’s so much more calm around this time compared to the chaos that comes past 8-9 PM.

Maybe you should start coming when the environment is like this.

A fleeting thought—this crowd isn’t really one you’d fit in with, it’s a lot of older people occupying the groups scattered around. Besides, you have no idea how to play these games, and learning would be a hassle… Nobody really pays either of you any mind as you make your way to the exit, though when you pass one of tables playing poker, there’s a very—scary woman to say the least, dealing cards. You can’t help staring at her as you go by, noting the shimmer glittering in her prosthetic, likely powering it—it’s really eye-catching, and you hardly realize that you’re making your staring so obvious until you lift your gaze and find her already locked on you. Not stopping in her ministrations, just noting you, a twitch in her features that feels faintly like recognition but you can’t be sure. You’ve certainly never seen her before, she’s someone you’d remember, especially someone as intimidating looking as that.

She has that same sort of look that Viktor has—the kind that makes you spooked enough to quickly sever the contact and turn your attention forward, focusing on leaving, though you file her away just as you had with him the first time. You don’t know if they are connected in some way but you wouldn’t be surprised—you also don’t really wanna find out, knowing one of them is enough.

The walk to get to Gert’s is quick thankfully, and when you get there she goes right to her room to continue sleeping off her hangover while you decide on a shower. It’s one you spend lost in thought for the most part, thinking about the call with your mom, dreading the idea of going home and facing all of that, and also thinking about—Him.

About Viktor.

Granted things are a little fuzzy, but you weren’t black out for the portion that involved him. Something you’re—grateful for. You scold yourself a bit for being relieved that you can remember that whole interaction, you wouldn’t want to forget the way it felt for him to touch you, how soft he’d done it… You’d curse yourself forever if you forgot his name.

But how could you?

It’s engraved itself in the ridges of your mind, nestled and burrowed, whispering it with the echo of his voice wrapped around it—over and over, so pretty, so sharp.

There’s a sort of giddiness you feel, finally knowing his name—he isn’t this stranger anymore, which you’re still warring with the fact of if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but right now it makes you feel something good. Misplaced or not, it feels nice to know this detail about him, something you weren’t sure you were going to get.

Sure it’s just his name, but it feels like little by little you’re finding out more about him. First it was seeing him face to face, finally knowing what he looked like up close—what features were further expressing that sharp tone, then it was his name, finally having a name to the voice and face that plagued you until you saw him again. Now you have a sense of—needing. Of wanting, to find out where it was he was going, where he “had to be”, who he’s involved with—a dangerous curiosity—and what he is doing now, what he spends his time doing.

You’re obsessing, spiraling over this man you really don’t know, who you met only a couple days ago through a very messy situation that you weren’t even supposed to see.

You loose a deep breath through your nose, reeling yourself back in as you finish up, rinsing yourself off one more time before getting out and heading to find something to wear. Gert still sound asleep. Sprawled on her bed with the blankets up to her chin—she doesn’t look like she will be coming out of hibernation anytime soon. So you occupy yourself.

You smoke, scroll on your phone, move from the bed to the living room couch to the kitchen table—smoke again, move back to the bed—restless. Anxious.

Everything feels off, you don’t even know what you want or need to make you feel better. Smoking did little to nothing, it curved whatever this is for a little but now it’s just worse. You sit there on the bed, Gert pressed near the wall with her back to you, unaware of the inner turmoil you’re experiencing as you dig yourself further and further into this hole—staring mindlessly at the door of her bedroom through the dark, the only light coming in through the windows slitted blinds, streaks of warmth and neon pouring through and painting the wall; no sounds other than the soft snoring coming from beside you and the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t know what to do with yourself, how to distract yourself well enough to soothe your mind…

Maybe you need your meds—you haven’t taken them for two days now since you left, though getting them also means going home. And going home means seeing your mom, and seeing her means facing whatever fight or conversation is going to be had.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, your foot swinging side to side quickly—antsy as you contemplate. You reach for your phone, checking the time and huffing when you read “10:56 PM”. Is it even worth going now? Maybe you should just force yourself to go to sleep again, go in the morning—but you can’t, you can feel this eating at you. Yanking at your nerves, this dread, it’s lingering and lying in wait beneath your skin.

You can’t escape it.

You might as well just go.

“Damnit…” You breathe, tilting your head back and staring at the ceiling as you steel yourself, drawing in a deep breath before sitting up straight and glancing over at Gert. You think about waking her to let her know you’re leaving, but you settle on sending a text instead, she clearly needs the rest.

So you get up quietly, gather your stuff and get ready to leave.

Outside, it’s quieter than normal. There’s not as many people out and the ones who are aren’t being very loud—keeping to themselves and their cliques as you pass, not paying a lot of mind to the world around you, focusing on just getting yourself home.

The entire walk is filled with your racing thoughts, the only thing occupying you as you make your way to familiar streets. The anxiety growing to a nauseating point as you get onto your block, home finally in view with the lights on inside, dim but there. You can feel your stomach starting to hurt the closer and closer you get until you’re before the steps. You climb them almost tentatively, your breaths unnecessarily heavy, whispers of a panic attack that you ignore as you get to the front door, hand shaking as you bring it to the screen and open it—using your body to keep it that way as you get your keys out and bring them to the lock, clumsy in putting them in and unlocking the front door.

You work them out before you open it, and when you do, the hinges creaking announces your arrival before you do.

You swallow hard when no greeting rings out through the house like usual, not when the screen slams and the door falls shut heavy—lock clicking back into place as you flip it, everything sounding so loud in contrast to how quiet it is. You see now that the light was coming from the hall sconce, flooding the entry with warmth—like she’s expecting you to come home, left it on just for you.

You don’t bother taking your shoes off, just start down the hall, passed the unoccupied living room—check the kitchen just in case, only to find it empty with the light off, then you round the corner to the bedrooms. You come to a stop in front of your moms room, staring at the handle, fighting with the idea going in—maybe it would be better to just go straight to yours, don’t bother with this tonight—but it wouldn’t be right, not after you’ve left her worried this whole time. Maybe she will be happy to know you came home—came back to her.

So you make up your mind and give not a second of thought more, and bring your hand to the knob. You open it carefully, peeking your head in when it’s open just enough to do so, met with mostly darkness aside from the TV playing. The volume is low, just a hum in the background—but she’s watching it, not even paying you any mind when you open the door. Not a single glance. Not even a twitch of recognition. You might as well be a ghost.

It makes your heart pull tight as you come in more, leaning against the frame and staring at her as you chew at your lip.

She’s laying on her side, head propped up by her hand, the comforter over her lap, already in her pajamas. Looking at her like this reminds you of being a kid, sneaking into her room, wanting to climb into bed with her to be able to stay up a little longer to cheat going to bed so you can watch TV. How she would let you like she didn’t know what you were doing by wanting to spend more time with her—now it just feels cold.

You still feel that pull to want to climb into her bed, be close to her—but not for the same reasons as when you were younger. Now you want the reassurance of her allowing you to be with her so you know she isn’t mad at you—that she isn’t as bitter as she sounded on the phone, isn’t as cold as she was in the text—but just by looking at her, you can tell she doesn’t really want you in here. Her expression is stoic, almost unnaturally so, no warmth, gaze locked on her TV. It makes your throat feel achy, swallowing feels like your muscles are pulling taut, it hurts. Does nothing to smooth over the lump forming.

Finally you find your voice, and it comes small, quiet, “Hi momma…”

Only then does she spare you a glance, like she only just noticed you there. And it’s quick—so very quick, as if you are a stranger in passing and not her daughter—and then her eyes are locked back on the screen.

“Hey.”

It’s clipped, almost nonchalant. It stuns you and bites you a little at the same time. She doesn’t sound mad but you know better than to take that tone at face value, there’s always more lingering beneath the surface that she doesn’t show instantly.

You don’t know how to respond, you’ve been bracing for an argument since you left Gert’s—maybe even earlier than that when you had first got off the phone, maybe even when you’d gotten all her texts yesterday—you’ve been in this in-between spot where you’re on the edge of spiraling and sending yourself into a panic—to have all that build up come to this makes you feel… Worse. A fight or argument, anything, would be better than this. This nonchalance, like none of it matters when it’s been eating you from the inside out—

When she said you guys were gonna talk about it.

It feels horrible.

You don’t know what to do for a moment, just stand there dumbly before saying, “Um… I’m gonna lay down okay?”

“Okay.” She responds without looking at you, voice almost eerily calm.

You linger more, waiting for something else that you know won’t come, and when it doesn’t as expected—you break the silence again in an almost desperate way, “I’m—I’m really sorry. About leaving like that without telling you and—about not picking up or responding,”

“It’s fine.” She says, her tone sounding almost like a shrug—like it means nothing.

It has your heart racing, eyes brimming with salt that you blink away quickly, nodding your head. Feet still planted there in the doorway—not carrying you away despite the way you silently plead for your brain and body to come to some sort of agreement to get you out of her room and into yours.

There’s something you want to hear—something you expect to hear—something she says every time you say you’re gonna go to your room or anywhere, anytime you’re just leaving her sight—but she doesn’t. Once again urging you to come with it yourself, sheepish, “…I love you momma,”

“Love you too,”

The way she says it makes you wish you didn’t even say it at all—didn’t even prompt her—it feels so cold and detached, no sincerity, just the obligation of a mother to appease her child.

That’s what finally makes you move.

You step out and close the door quickly, choking back tears that are stinging your eyes and that have their noises clawing at your throat—desperate to find home in open air as you rush to your room and close the door behind you carefully, not wanting to break the tension by being too heavy handed in shutting it, keeping quiet even in your steps as you walk to your bed, getting your shoes off before you drop onto it. Only then does that sob wrench itself from the depths of your chest, stifled by the pillow you press your face to, curling up like a child and pulling the blankets up over you blindly, the thing all crumpled and folded wrong but you can’t bring yourself to fix it—just cower and let the cries bleed from you until tremors are lulling you into a dreamless and useless sleep.

When you wake it’s to a form towering over the side of your bed, calling your name through the fog of sleep and tempting you to roll over to face it, and there stands your mom—bright eyes and a warm smile, the kind that makes you forget about everything for the briefest of moments, it’s the kind she wears when she intends to sweep things under the rug for a lack of a better expression. It says that you should play along too, nothing happened and there is nothing to talk about. Simple. Happy mom, happy daughter once more.

“Hey baby, your doctor called—he says that your prescription is ready,” She says, soft, rubbing your calf over the blanket and tilting her head at you, “I need to go get some stuff, maybe I can pick it up for you?”

A peace offering, a favor to make up for what happened, saying sorry without the actual apology.

You just nod, not because you’re okay with that arrangement—you have to be regardless—but mostly because you dread having to be in that place, if she wants to get it, cool. Awesome. Stress off you.

“Okay, thank you mom.” You mumble, shielding yourself a bit from what light is coming in, which isn’t much—but it's still unwelcome.

“You’re welcome baby, I love you—be back in a bit,” She says as she starts toward the door.

“I love you too,” You say before it closes behind her, pushing yourself up to sit, registering the headache first and then the roughness of your throat next—both a result from crying no doubt—and both something you choose to ignore. Sweeping it under the rug and all.

Coming to your senses more, you realize that you never sent that message to Gert letting her know you got home or even left at all. You sigh softly and fumble about to find your phone, and when you do, you open it and see that she’s already texted first.

You click the notification without reading it first, opening your conversation where her text has laid there on delivered since 4 this morning.

From: Gert
At: 4:34 AM

hey i saw u left everything good? Love you

You reply quickly,

From: You
At: 2:22 PM

Yeah everything’s okay I just had to come home. Sorry for not texting I meant to love you too

Her response comes pretty swiftly, only a few minutes passing until you get a notification from her.

From: Gert
At: 2:25 PM

all gud :)

After that you stay in bed, the day escaping from you and bleeding into evening without much activity from you. Your mom comes home with your refill, you take your meds, have dinner with her—everything just… Back to normal. And it stays like that for an entire week, and another, of you just falling back into routine. Occasionally you go over to Gert’s place but there isn’t any partying. No crazy drugs. No club. No random interactions with strangers.

No Viktor.

Nearing a month since you last saw him and it’s plaguing you. A silent battle in your mind, one you only allow yourself to properly acknowledge when night falls quiet over the world—when you’re wide awake staring at the ceiling with his voice ringing in your ears, rattling around in your mind, the way it sounded to hear your name on his tongue—it eats you. Forms this pit in your belly that aches with something ancient and beyond anything simple, endless, pleading for sustenance and something to feed on—to sate this animal he teased and coaxed into existence within you before he just—left. Leaving you with traces and ghosts that have the same imprints that tattoo the tips of his fingers, skin scorched without evidence of where he touched. It stings, clawing to stay in its fleeting form time washing away the freshness of the memory.

It coils into something complex, desire, guilt, fear, need. And you try your best with what you were given to feed whatever this thing is inside you—this needy, aching thing. But your fingers only supply so much satisfaction, the pleasure lost to the knowing that his would be so much better, well suited for the task of quieting that want.

Shame tails the afterglow when you’re done, sweat stinging with the sin, lungs scratchy from heavy breaths clawing their way out of you—you lie there with the evidence cooling on your fingers and between your thighs. It feels dirty—you feel dirty.

You’ve never done this—never fantasized in this way about someone, not even crushes you’ve had or flings you got wrapped up with. It’s to the point you decide that the blame should be placed entirely on him. He sowed the seeds of this hunger in you, it had to be on purpose—a cruel thing—and you are nothing but a helpless victim to it. You’ve never spun the kind of filth you do for him for anyone else. It’s his fault.

Bewitched.

A curse has been placed upon you, surely—there is no way you’re this hung up on a man you don’t know. It has to be this and nothing else, you’re being lured, tempted to follow this invisible string leading back to him. That explains why you distantly look for any openings to go and see him, but somehow something always gets in the way—plans change or a thing comes up.

You hate how frustrated it makes you, that you’re so willing to drop everything if it means you get the chance to be in the same room as him. You’re whipped and coming to accept it, so you stop looking to Gert or any other friend for the opportunity to go out—you’ll go on your own.

You can’t stand another day going by where you don’t at least see him…

It’s late when you decide, nearing 10, but you’ve made your mind up—you’re going. You don’t pay much mind to what you put on, don’t bother bringing your knife, nearly let it slip to bring your phone—get your keys, and give your mom some sorry excuse before you go to let her know you’ll be gone.

You’re buzzing the entire time—anxious but in that same way you’d felt with him in the hall—you’re desperate. It’s like you’ve gotten a taste of the finest drug, and now you’re feening for another hit, the entire walk to get to the club is just full of him. So much so there’s no room for caution in your mind, only enough room for anything that revolves around him. To hell with being responsible, warnings and red flags aren’t a concept you’re familiar with it seems, because you ignore every single one that tries to pierce through the veil of blind wanting that’s leading you.

You’re in the line before you know it, itching to get passed the threshold—and when you do, you feel a sense of relief. The worst is over—distance is no longer an issue now that you’re practically in his domain. You’re a step closer, now you just have to find him.

Easier said than done.

It’s not as packed as it was the last time you were here—definitely not as much as the first night—but it’s still a thick crowd to get through on your way to the bar. No luck. He’s not there, but then again he also wasn’t there in the beginning when you and Gert came—he appeared a little while into the night—or maybe he already had a drink, maybe you just missed him and he's gone. Disappeared to wherever he went off to last time.

You don’t have it in you to not seem as desperate as you are, you probably look crazy the way your head keeps swiveling this way and that in your search—floating around from place to place, no tables are occupied by him, dance floor is definitely not where he would be—and soon you’re right back where you started, the bar.

Though this time, you still don’t see him, but instead you see that woman again. The one who had been dealing cards, the one with that very distinct chem-arm with the shimmer—she’s there. Sitting at the bar with her back to you, you couldn’t mistake anyone else for her, she’s rather broad and strong—tall, she sticks out.

Talking to her would be an unwise decision, but when have you ever cared about being wise and reasonable?

Besides, you have no other ideas as to where he might be—you’re grasping at straws here. So you don’t really give much thought before you’re b-lining straight to her, heart thudding hard in your chest as you press yourself between her stool and another, immediately catching her attention; her head snapping to you and her brows furrowing as she lowers her glass just as she seemed to be raising it for a drink, sitting a bit straighter.

“Hi—”

“Who the hell are you?” She asks, turning to face you more—her tone a little sharp but not particularly mean, just put off by your sudden presence.

“I’m sorry—I just—I’m really trying to find someone and I saw you last time and I’m wondering if maybe you’ve seen him?” You rattle off quickly, eyes holding something undoubtedly pathetic as you search her face like looking at her will allow you entrance into her mind to know what she knows.

She just quirks a brow at you, looking you over, “Yeah. I remember you… Who you lookin’ for?”

You feel a sort of relief despite the intensity of her attention, huffing out a soft breath as you steady yourself a bit, “Um—Viktor? Do you know him? Or where I can find him?”

You watch something twitch in her features, stormy eyes narrowing a little—almost like she’s amused—you don’t know for sure, it's hard to read… She raises her glass and takes a long drink, maintaining eye contact as she does, the weight of it making you swallow hard, hands fidgeting near your sides as you look at her, “Yeah I know ‘em,” She lowers the now half empty glass, “He’s busy.”

“Oh.”

Damnit.

You curse everything for a moment, heart fluttering with frustration—the heat of it rising in your cheeks, you wasted this entire trip here for nothing—he’s busy—and you’ll have to leave, wait for another opportunity—

“But I can get ‘em for you when he’s done, just… stick around, I’ll let him know you’re here.” She cuts in, breaking the line leading you into a spiral before you can get too far. And you immediately feel yourself perk up, eyes flitting back to hers, the tension in you easing just enough to loose a deep breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“Yes—please, that would be good—thank you,” You can’t even imagine how you must look right now, and you try not to think too much about it, but you can tell by how entertained she seems that you probably look pretty silly at the least.

“Yeah.” Is all she says before downing the rest of her drink and then getting to her feet, “Sit tight.”

You nod at her retreating form—not having the chance to say anything else before she’s started off and away from you, leaving you at the bar. You look around a little before huffing and deciding to just take her seat. You slide onto the stool and watch the bartender move around, then at the other people as they come and go—time slipping away from you a bit as you just… Wait.

You kind of just put your trust into that woman—believing that she will actually go get him when she could very well just be laughing at your naivety wherever she is. Maybe she’s even laughing with him. Maybe she doesn’t actually know him at all—maybe she was just playing you for the fun of it.

That train of thought has you feeling a little more anxious, the longer you wait the more you start to feel dumb for all this—it makes your leg bounce and your hands fidget, you don’t know when that woman’s empty glass ends up in your grasp but it does; you just mess with it, twisting it this way and that, watching the ice, melting and clinking against the sides.

You don’t know what to really do with yourself right now, and for a moment you start to consider leaving—this was a stupid idea anyways.

“You wanted to see me?”

You jerk at the sound of that voice reaching you through your thoughts, breath hitching in your throat as you sit up straight, head snapping toward the source to find Viktor.

“Yeah—” You blurt, heart stuttering as you look up at him, letting go of the sweating glass and wiping the condensation from your palms on yourself.

You didn’t have a plan for what you were gonna say or do, and being face to face with him certainly does not help. You almost forgot how piercing those eyes are, how intense they can be when they’re pinning you in place like this… Your brain has taken a shit, leaving you dumbly looking at him as you try to get the connection between mind and mouth working again, “Um—yeah I was looking for you,”

He tilts his head, raising his brows like he's expecting more of an explanation, but you’re distracted—you can’t seem to keep your eyes on his, they keep flitting down at his body, at his hands, specifically the one on his cane; the weight he puts on it making the muscle and tendons more prominent beneath the skin exposed by how his sleeves are rolled up, sleeves of a button up that isn’t fully buttoned—the top open a bit, drawing your attention there, the dip and hollow of his throat that cradles his Addams apple—looking at him has flashes of the filth you’ve imagined bombarding you. It takes you actually giving a small shake of your head to get you back on track.

You force yourself to meet his gaze and to keep your own there. But it doesn’t really help, looking at any part of him doesn’t help your imagination, but it’s more manageable this way.

“I’m sorry, I don’t—really know why I’m here I just,” You swallow uselessly, shaking your head again, at a loss for anything other than, “I just wanted to see you.”

He looks at you a moment, something in his features reading like contemplation—observation maybe, it feels almost like he's sizing you up, you don’t know how to take it. You can just feel how heavy his attention is as it drags over you, once, then back to your eyes, and his head cocks again, “You have a bad habit of seeking trouble. But we already know that… For a bit there I thought our little—conversation had an impact,”

Oh it did.

“It wasn’t by choice,”

“Staying away?” He fills in and you nod, your heart fluttering when it gets the softest of laughs from him—lost to the music, but you catch it and file the sound away before it is lost for good.

“Well. You have seen me, are you satisfied enough to run along now?”

Teasing.

He knows the answer, you can see it, he looks smug when he says it—his lips tilted up and his tone almost cocky… But you answer with a shake of your head anyway. Confirming what he already knows.

“So then you did not come simply to see me,” He states, doesn’t ask, and takes a step closer—the already small distance withering further, his thighs pressed to the side of yours. He’s so close it’s dizzying, the smell of him cutting through the mingle of many to fill your senses, something you drink in—committing it to memory.

“No…” You murmur, the proximity allowing you to be sheepish and still be heard. An admission only for him to hear.

“Mmm.” He hums, bringing his free—and bold—hand to your knee, using it to turn you the slightest bit more toward him, his head dipping just so, “Then what is it you came for, lásko?”

That word makes your brain short out.

What does it mean? You don’t know. But you wanna hear it again—you wanna hear all the words you don’t understand so long as he's the one saying them.

“I… I just want… I can’t stop thinking—about you,” Your breath snags on its way out, feeling the tips of his fingers trailing along the inside of your knee, creeping up—urging your heart to beat faster, thunder in your ears, pounding in your temples—you’ve ached for him since you saw him last and now that he’s before you, words are failing you when you need them most.

“Is that right? I am flattered,” He smiles properly, and it has you melting. You’re pretty sure you would do just about anything to see that smile on him all the time.

It’s so subtle how he’s touching you, the lip of the bar, the dimness of the club and the shield of his body is enough to conceal how dangerously high his hand has climbed; so deliberate in his path.

God…

This is such a bad idea—you know it is—but you can’t stop yourself from allowing yourself to fall blindly into him, his touch, his voice, his presence as a whole—and you don’t want to stop yourself. You’ve given up on caution, you’re letting your body lead you with no reluctance.

“I think… We should go somewhere a bit quieter,” He purrs, soft, low, just for you to hear, “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” You nod quickly, such little hesitation it's almost embarrassing. Almost.

“Good… Come then,”

You mourn the loss of his hand when he pulls it away, the skin tingly and warm where it had been between your thighs—and getting to your feet allows you to feel the true effect of his touch, heat rising in your cheeks when you feel how wet you are. You feel dazed, floaty—high off this little bit of attention he’s given you. So when he offers his hand you’re a little thankful, it provides a steadiness you seem to lack right now.

You slip your hand into his, fingers loosely laced, the warmth and weight of his hand a grounding tether that you allow to guide you through the crowd—not paying mind to where it is he’s taking you, you don’t care.

The noise of the club fades to the background as he leads you down the familiar hall of the special rooms—but he doesn’t stop at any of them, he keeps going till you reach that door at the end of the hall, the one that you usually have to come through if you’re using the side entrance. He takes you through it and when it falls shut, everything is so much quieter—and the both of you are much louder. The click of his cane echoes through the corridor, his steps a bit softer and more even than your own—you can hear your heart now. Loud.

“Where are we going?” You ask, feeling your nerves starting to get the best of you now that this is getting real.

“I eh—have somewhere we can be properly alone, I do not particularly like those rooms out there.” He answers, calm and smooth, and you nod. Blindly trusting him.

“Okay…”

He comes to a stop at a door in the middle of the hall, his fingers slipping from yours and going instead to the pockets of his slacks. You cross your hands in front of yourself, looking down either end of the hall as you wait for him, your gaze coming back to watch when you hear the gentle rattle of keys and the click of a lock.

You follow close behind when he opens it and steps through, murmuring a soft thank you when he holds the door for you with his body.

Inside it looks like a small lounge area, theres a sofa pressed against the wall and a coffee table in front of it, a small side table, and a box TV across from the couch. There’s a standing lamp in the corner, a window beside it with the curtains drawn—kind of like a living room but much less homey. It’s mostly dim, a couple other lights strewn on the walls but only one is on, it’s at the end of a small stretch to your right above a door adjacent to another. There is another door to your left that looks like it leads down somewhere you can't really see, the glass giving a glimpse that you don’t pay a lot of mind to when you hear the lock click again and then the thud of his cane as he comes to your side.

“That one there at the end is mine,” He nods in the direction of that door with the light above.

“You live here?” You ask curiously, glancing at it and then at him again.

He laughs softly, “Eh—no, not technically, it is just somewhere to stay while I work.”

Work. What does work mean? What does he do here that he’s here so often he has his own room? How does it tie into what you saw the first day you’d met him? So many questions you aren’t sure of asking, so you just let them rattle around silently in your mind, but he seems to take notice of the cogs turning behind your eyes. Bringing a guiding hand to the small of you back, “We can be curious later,”

His tone is light, but redirecting, almost playful—it makes you smile a little, the promise of getting to know more “later.” You file the questions away, letting him urge you down that stretch to his room.

There’s a small shift in the mood, the tension still thick but not so much stifling as it was on the main floor of the club. Now that it is just the two of you—it feels a little more nerve wracking, real. It makes you kind of awkward. Especially when you step into his space. You feel so out of place, you just take in everything around you—the first thing you note is how thick it is with the smell of him. Deep, warm cologne and the leather of books that litter shelves and most free surfaces. The clean smell of the linen of his sheets on his neatly made bed, the comforter drooping over the sides just a bit—its all so tidy, put together, a lot like him.

You note the canes in various spots, one leaning against the nightstand and another against the edge of his desk that sits under a slim window, more near the wardrobe—it’s strange, seeing all this. Seeing his room, there's a lot of neat depth everywhere you look. You can see pieces of him all over, things you would have never seen if you hadn’t ended up in that alley that day.

It feels intimate.

He derails your train of thought by bringing his hand to your waist, the warmth of his body pressing up behind yours, “Face me…” He murmurs against your hair, his hand snaking up along your side. Tension re-engaged.

You swallow thickly, a chill blooming beneath his fingers where he traces the seams of your clothes, intentional, careful… You turn around in his loose grasp, struggling to meet his gaze fully, only peering through your lashes. He hums and lets his cane rest against his side to free his other hand, bringing it up to your jaw and cupping it, coaxing your head to tilt enough that you meet his gaze properly.

“You look nervous darling,” He loosens his grip, the backs of his fingers brushing against your cheek, “You are all flushed…”

You feel his hand on your waist grow firmer, tugging you closer to press to his front, your hands coming up to brace against his chest—feeling how steady it rises and falls in contrast to your own, breaths heavy, chest uneven in its caving.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes…” You admit, voice coming no louder than a whisper.

“Mm… Don’t be,” He brushes your hair away from your forehead, “I am not a good man, but I am not needlessly cruel…”

His head dips down just enough for his lips to ghost over your ear, prompting you to tilt your head slightly to allow it, “I will not do anything you do not want…”

Your eyes flutter, brows knitting and fingers twisting in his shirt—the fanning of his warm breath over such a sensitive place makes you stiffen against him, the softest shudder rolling over you.

“Mm—” You let out quietly when he presses a kiss just below your ear, and then another a little lower… Then again and again until kisses are littering the delicate skin of your neck, tender drags of teeth soothed by small licks—the feeling almost too much, tempting sounds from you that you try to stifle as you squirm against him a little.

“You said you could not stop thinking about me,” He mumbles between kisses, “Is that true?”

“Y-yes—” Your answer hitches on a sharp breath, unable to stop yourself from shrugging your shoulder to try and protect yourself from such a sensitive sensation.

“And what is it you thought about, sweet girl?”

You can feel how hot your face is, a furious blush dusting your cheeks—embarrassed, shameful—lacking the gall to voice such filth, you’re not used to this, so you settle for a shake of your head and a dumb giggle, “No,”

“No?” He parrots, trailing his kisses back upward till they reach your jaw, pulling away only then to look down at you, wearing a devilish sort of smile that has you feeling a bit weak, “Shy now, are we?”

His hand slides down from your cheek to rest near the neckline of your top, trailing the tips of his fingers along it before slipping down to mirror his other hand lingering just below your breast.

“I guess so,”

“Ah but you were so bold to come seek me out—not once, but twice now. And I am not allowed to know what drove such… Desperation?” He teases, his hands starting to carefully map your body, over your belly and over your hips, careful brushes over your breasts and then back down again to settle on your waist with small squeezes and firm pressure like he intends to mold your shape with his palms.

You shrug, chewing at the inside of your cheek, trying to fight the smile clawing its way onto your face.

“Mm. You are very pretty when you are embarrassed,” He leans his forehead to rest against yours, lips a hair's breadth from your own. You tilt your head a bit to try and capture them but he pulls back just enough to stop you, “Tell me,”

You feel dizzy… His proximity is more stifling than that hallucination could do justice—it’s so much more intense, it makes it hard to think—to speak.

“I can’t,” You shake your head and he just hums, one of his hands sliding down toward your thighs, encouraging you to speak as it returns to where it’d been at the bar—but a tiny bit higher, so close to your core but just shy of it enough to give you nothing but the thrill of anticipation.

“Can not? Or will not? You have a voice don’t you, the ability to speak…” Your brain comes to a screeching halt when his fingers press against you for a moment, so quick—gone too soon and stringing a huff of a laugh, “Ah, wet already?”

That has you breaking eye contact, flustered from his directness—the fact he’s got you like this already is pathetic. He’s probably thinking it even if he hasn’t said it, he might as well. You’re not used to this—this kind of build up. Usually when you’ve slept with people it’s fast, drunken, you’re never really in your right mind, never this present. And you can’t tell if you love it or despise it.

His hand returns to your jaw, bringing you back to him, “Is that what I do to you?” He practically coos, keeping your head propped up with the cradle of his palm, his lips pressing to the corner of your own, “Does knowing that I am dangerous turn you on, lásko?”

That word—pet name—has you whimpering, hips canting toward his hand without your control as you nod quickly,

“Yes?”

“Yes—” You gasp out when he properly cups you, obliging your silent request—heat immediately crackling from your cunt outward to the rest of you, “Viktor,”

“Oh look at that, is that what you needed?” He squeezes you gently, grinding his palm against you, the tips of his middle fingers pressing against your entrance through the veil of your bottoms, “It is isn’t it?”

“Yes—please,” You tug at his shirt, trying your best to keep eye contact but it’s so searing—he has you melting into a puddle in his hand, and you can’t stop it, “Please kiss me—”

He doesn’t hesitate to give you what you want, he’s on you in an instant. Your eyes slip shut as he tugs you into him and kisses you, and finally—finally—time slows to allow you the pleasure of soaking this in. This moment is not fleeting, not robbed from you—it’s in your grasp. And you keep hold of it tight. Losing yourself in the rhythm he guides you into, gentle passes of his lips against yours—and then comes his tongue. Careful, tentative, silently requesting entrance as it swipes across the seam; and instantly you’re parting it for him, allowing him access and meeting him half way.

The taste of him blooms across your tongue and leaves you light, a soft moan escaping you and swallowed by him—he tastes like cigarettes, like alcohol and something sweet that’s hidden beneath the bitter of his day clinging to his teeth. It’s something you can get drunk off of, a taste you eagerly seek more of—finally getting scraps to feed the hungry animal scoring your insides.

Your hands find his sides, tugging at him as you eagerly rut against his palm—getting so caught up in the movement and the kiss, not being mindful of where you grab or touch, and in doing so you knock his cane where it had been resting against his hip. It clatters to the floor, the sound yanking you both out of the haze, panting as you halt your feverish pawing and kissing.

Your eyes fall to where it lays on the floor, polished wood glinting in the low light—you look back up at him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize—”

He just laughs breathily, shaking his head and cupping your face again, “It is fine, I forgot it was there too,”

You smile a bit at that, meeting him when he leans back in to kiss you. He pulls his hand from between your thighs, bringing it instead to your hip and gently starting to walk you backward to his bed. The backs of your thighs meet it first, then the rest of your body when he guides you down onto it, following through on the motion and positioning himself between your spreading legs. The weight of him is delicious, partly because of the pressure it puts on your aching center and mostly because like this, you can feel just how hard he is starting to get.

You can’t stop yourself from grinding against him, and the small roll you give draws the prettiest sound from him. It’s low, bleeding from the depths of him and into your mouth, his hips shifting down to meet your desperate movement.

He uses a hand to prop himself up slightly while the other comes to your jaw, forcing your head back and breaking the kiss in favor of returning to your neck—this time it's not quite so gentle, now you can feel the drag of his teeth rougher, lips and tongue soothing over bites with sucks and licks. There’s intention now, to leave evidence of him tattooed on your skin—it hurts, the pain blooming with color you’ll find later, the effect of it has you writhing beneath him; eyes squeezed shut as you bring your hands to his shoulder and hair, gripping tightly as you whimper and whine as softly as you can manage.

“Such pretty sounds,” He mumbles, kissing along your throat and to the other side, a small jerk wracking you when he gives the same attention there—it feels so much more sensitive for some reason, it’s so overwhelming, “You going to make more for me, yes?”

“A-ah—” You gasp out when he grinds down harder against you.

“Yes, like that… Let me hear you pet,” That has you buzzing—that one word, pet, it lights your body up, something about it has struck the right chord—unexpected but not at all unwelcome.

He kisses up to your ear, hovering there panting—groaning softly, “Does that feel good?”

“Y-yeah—” You manage out, hiding your face against him.

“Do you want more?”

As if he doesn’t know. As if he can’t see what he’s doing to you, and he has hardly done anything. You’re already a mess under him and he’s asking if you want more? It’s almost frustrating.

“Yes,” You whine, earning yourself a hum.

“So good, using your words,” He purrs, his hands starting down your body as he kisses your cheek before pulling away and leaning over you, starting to work at your clothes with a frustrating slowness and a sort admiration that has you feeling antsy, something he notes with a pleased look on his face, “Eager aren’t you… it’s alright, you will get what you want.”

You don’t think you’ve ever been talked to like this… he’s so intentional with every word and action, there's experience in the ease with which he does it—experience you will be first to say, you lack. You’ve done things, had sex, it’s not a new concept to you. But this is. This careful, deliberate effort and buildup—you feel yourself sinking into this state of mind that you’re unfamiliar with, where the space in your mind has been squeezed so tight there is only room for him to occupy your thoughts, it happened earlier on a seemingly smaller scale, it’s what brought you to him—but this is different. You’re hanging on his every word, his guidance as he helps you out of your clothes until you’re bare.

You feel naked. Yes your clothes are now discarded but it's more than that… You feel vulnerable in a way you’ve never felt before, it has you clamming up, his gaze is so heavy on you—it feels like he’s looking not just at your bare body but at all of you, beyond skin and anatomy.

You can’t help bringing your hands to cover yourself, your thighs closing to conceal what lay between.

He catches the shift in your demeanor, his hands coming back to your thighs in soothing—god that too, he’s so much more soft than you would have ever expected. When you pictured this sort of scenario, admittedly it was nothing gentle or warm, it was pure filth. But the reality is stunning, you don’t know what to do with yourself. You aren’t used to sex being something slow, the partners you’ve had were not the most considerate to say the least. It was all over relatively fast, but to be seen in this way, to be touched with sureness instead of guesses, it has you so present.

It feels like a wave of awareness has just washed over you, of what you’re doing right now and who you’re with. This isn’t something you’re making up, it’s not a dream or fantasy—it’s real. It’s like you’re just remembering that you’re a human, sentient and tangible—not a character on a screen, this is all really happening.

You suddenly feel anxious, out of place—you’re too aware of yourself. Of everything, of him.

“Hey—what is happening?” His voice cuts through, a lighthouse and a guide to follow back to steady ground.

You feel his hands on your face, his body having shifted back between your legs that you didn’t realize had spread again, the weight of him over you a balm to the panic licking your nerves so abruptly. He brushes your hair back, your hands coming to his wrists as you look up at him—feeling claustrophobic in yourself.

“I—I don’t know,” You shake your head, “I think I’m gonna have a panic attack,”

His brows furrow and he nods, “It’s alright,”

“I’m sorry—” He shushes you softly but you continue, “We can—we can keep going I just need a second,”

“Hey, no, it is alright. I’m right here just breathe,” He cuts you off, gently but firmly, his hands smoothing over your hair, “Here, sit up with me.”

He moves off you, “Let me… Stay there a moment,” He murmurs as he shifts to the edge of the bed. You stare at his back, trying to get your heart to a steady pace but your breaths are too uneven—you try your best to focus, listening to him get his shoes off and then the clinking of metal and buckles, the light catching what looks like the brace he had on his leg as he sets it aside before quickly turning back to you.

“Okay, come here darling,” He scoots against his headboard and holds a hand out to you, you take it and let him help you shift, “On my lap,” You nod and do as you’re told, feeling tears welling in your eyes as you settle to sit on his upper thighs.

“I’m really sorry,” You repeat through a stutter in breath and he just shakes his head.

“Don’t be, put your hand right here,” He gently takes your wrist, bringing your hand to lay over his chest, his overtop and his other coming to the middle of your chest as well.

You mirror him, your free hand over his, “Good… Good, now just breathe,”

He draws in a deep and long breath, letting it out slow, “Like that,” He repeats it again and you nod, mimicking him as best as you can—keeping eye contact and trying to focus on his heartbeat beneath your fingers, the steady thrum rhythmic, grounding. Curving the attack before it can properly get a hold of you.

You do that for a long couple of moments until your breaths start to even out, each one drawing in the smell of him with it. It makes you feel so full of him, his eye contact so deep, his touch anchoring, his scent—all of it bringing you back into the moment. He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand and softly against your sternum, “There you go, that’s good… You alright?”

You nod your head, suddenly feeling very—small.

You can’t remember the last time someone has done something like this for you—after so long of this being a normalcy, you’ve learned to just ride it out, finding somewhere private to deal with it or just suffering through it if you have to. But you didn’t have to do that—he didn’t even hesitate to help you. That feels so strange…

“Thank you…” You say quietly, and he wears a solemn sort of look as his touch flits your chest to return to your cheek.

“It’s nothing… What happened there? Was I a bit too much?” He says in a slightly jokey tone and you shake your head with a little huff.

“No—No I was really enjoying it, I just… My head is stupid sometimes,” You look down at your hand on his chest, the way his is laid over top still, fully covering yours—it’s comforting.

“Ah… Mine too,” He gives a half smile when you look back up at him and you match it.

“I’m sorry for ruining… Like… The vibe,” You murmur after a beat of silence.

“You need to stop apologizing, you ruined nothing.” He assures, gently tugging you in by your jaw until you are close enough for him to press a soft kiss to your forehead.

It makes your heart flutter, warmth blooming in your cheeks, spreading down toward your chest. You lift your head to look at him, “It’s a habit,”

He just hums, kissing the corner of your lips, “We will have to break it then,”

That makes you properly smile, the promise in those words—it implies there will be more time with him, that you’ll see him more—that you didn’t completely fumble him with this embarrassing display just now. You stay there just kind of looking at him, enjoying how—intimate it feels while coming down still from what happened… To just be here with him, knowing that you’ll get to do this again, be like this again after this is over. It makes you feel giddy.

After a moment longer, you turn enough to capture his lips, kissing him once, and then again, and again until it deepens.

“Mm…” He hums into it, his hand sliding down toward your chest and then to your waist, his other hand joining it there as he squeezes you, “Don’t feel… Like you have to keep going… We can stop…” He whispers between kisses, and despite his words, when you shift to be higher on his lap—you can feel how stiff he still is.

You shake your head, “I want to…”

You roll your hips a tiny bit and he grunts softly, “Mmph—sweet girl,”

With your confirmation his hands start to move, climbing your body again until they find your breasts, groping the weight in his palms and kneading them. He breaks the kiss to dip his head down, mouth finding your chest. You stifle a moan, using the headboard to hold yourself up as he lavishes your breasts with attention, a shudder rolling through you when he drags his tongue in a slick line to your nipple—taking you between his lips and sucking till you’re making noise from the sensitivity, pushing yourself into his mouth, grinding down harder against him.

“V-Viktor,” You pant out, jerking when he pulls off and repeats the same thing on the neglected side, your grip on the headboard tightening as you try to steady yourself.

“God… I could not stop thinking about you either, you know…” He bites, but it's light, drawing a soft hiss from you, your hand coming to his hair to tug, “That day I ran into you… Trying to sneak in—my, you looked so pretty…”

Your heart is racing, your brain shorting out as he continues to speak, one of his hands leaving your chest to skirt down toward your thighs—wasting no time stuffing it between, his fingers finding you instantly, a sound leaving both of you when he makes contact, “You are soaked,”

“O-oh—” You whimper when he starts drawing little, tight circles around your clit, your arousal making the motion effortless.

“Then you came to find me again—I would’ve taken you then and there in that hall,” He pauses, sucking and littering hickeys all over your chest, “But I wanted you to have some sense in that pretty little head. I wanted you to be aware—here, while I ruined you.”

He pulls away, his own breaths heavy, his grip finding your hair and tugging you to look at him as he slides his fingers further down, gathering your wetness and using it to slide two fingers into you, “How does it feel huh?”

Instantly you’re seeing white, your jaw falling open with a soundless moan as your brows cinch together with the pleasure, the fullness making you dizzy—the fantasies you’d built to sate your desire is nothing compared to the real thing, you were right, his fingers are so much better.

“How does it make you feel to know that I wanted to fuck you from the moment I saw you?” His words make you clench around him, and that brings a wicked smile to his face, “Oh it must make you feel good then…”

You don’t even get the chance to properly respond before he starts fucking his fingers deep into you, hitting a spot you’ve never reached on your own—never even knew existed—it has you trembling, your thighs tightening around his waist as you start to roll your hips down, trying to meet his thrusts. He nods in encouragement, pulling your hair to guide you down to him, kissing you messily, “Good girl, fuck yourself on my fingers, my pretty little pet…”

His praise—you’ve never heard that before—good girl. It does horrible things to you. You can feel yourself tighten around his fingers from that alone, his urging something you obey, desperately bucking your hips, meeting every curl he makes into that sweet spot.

You can hear yourself, the wet squelch of your arousal mixing with the pathetic sounds you let spill past your lips—hands clutching his shoulders as you bury your face in his neck, feeling a tightness in your belly coiling—its scorching, building and climbing in intensity to a fast approaching peak.

“Viktor—m-mm’really—I’m close,” You try to warn, barely managing to get it out before your moans cut you off.

“Let go sweet girl, let me feel it,” He doubles his efforts, releasing your hair to free his hand, getting it between your bodies quickly to find your clit—giving you that last push you need to send you tumbling over the edge.

You hide your face in his neck, clinging to him as you fall—bliss hitting you like a truck, tremors wracking your body as you muffle yourself against his skin.

“Good girl, so good yes,” He praises, working you through it and slowing his pace, not enough to rob you of your orgasm but enough to help you ride it out until the stimulation becomes too much. You squirm and whine, the sensitivity overwhelming, your hand coming to his arm to halt his touches.

He eases off with a chuckle—like it amuses him to see you like this—his fingers stilled where they are buried in your cunt.

You lay there limp for a long moment catching your breath before you push yourself up—a little shakily—to look between you both when he starts pulling his fingers out, whimpering softly and instantly feeling empty when he draws his hand away. He holds it up between you both, spreading the digits with a grin as he watches your cum cling to his fingers, “You made quite the mess,”

You stare, mesmerized—you don’t think you’ve cum that hard in your entire life. Seeing the evidence on his fingers makes you feel fuzzy… You don’t know what possesses you to do what you do and you have no time to process it before it's happening, your mouth opening and your head tilting in to take them between your lips.

“My, I didn’t even have to ask,” He laughs breathily, watching you intently as you lave and suck on his lithe, pretty fingers. The taste of yourself thick on your tongue, salty sweetness that you clean with enthusiasm, earning yourself a pleased groan, “What a good girl you are,”

He allows you moment longer before he draws away, the line of saliva connecting you to them broken when he grabs your jaw and yanks you down to kiss you—licking into your mouth and moaning when he tastes you there, sitting himself up more and bracing your hip with his free hand, wordlessly guiding you to move and you do.

He rolls you both over, never once breaking the kiss until you’re settled beneath him, “Can you take more?”

“Please,” Is all you can get out, your hands eagerly grabbing at his shirt and fumbling with the buttons.

“Fuck…” He groans, resting his forehead against yours and bracing on either side of your head as he lets you get his shirt undone, shrugging it off once you have it open and discarding it to the side.

He lowers a hand to undo his belt but you beat him to it, your eyes locked on the task as you get it open within seconds, his button and fly next—the display making him huff, “My eager thing,”

You bite at the inside of your lip as you keep watching your own ministrations, shoving past the hem of his slacks and his underwear at the same time, finding his cock hard and leaking and instantly taking a hold. His body jerks and he grunts, his lips resting against your hairline as he curses softly.

You’re thoughtless and desperate, stroking him dazedly as you finally feel the length of him. It’s so much, no room for any trace of exhaustion now from your first orgasm, that animal in you has yet to be properly fed—and the one thing that will finally ease it is stuffed under a frustrating amount of clothing. So you stop, instead starting to push at his slacks to get them down, and thankfully he does help you this time. He shifts back a bit to get them off, going much too far for your liking right now, antsy as you wait, watching him like a hawk as he strips himself of the last offending articles left.

The second his cock is in view, you feel a wave of slick puddle and trickle down from you—your body aching to be full again, to be pressed against his. It’s so strange to feel this way, you’ve never had such a longing to be close to someone like this. It doesn’t help that he looks striking, he’s sharp everywhere, flat planes and jutting, prominent bones that catch the light so pretty. Porcelain skin littered with little beauty marks here and there, one here on his chest and another lower near his hip—you want to make a map of every inch of him with your hands to commit it to memory. You want to count every freckle and scar, find out the story of how he got it, you want to know everything…

You prop yourself up on your elbows as you watch him move to the edge of the bed, dropping his slacks away over the side and reaching to the nightstand, opening a drawer and producing a condom when he pulls away, shifting to be between your legs again as he tears it open and discards of the wrapper. He does it steadily but you can see the slight shake in his hands while he moves, there's desperation hidden in the calculation and practiced ease. It’s clear his restraint is fraying about as much as yours has.

He rolls the condom on as quickly as he can, settling between your thighs and using one hand to hold his weight while the other stays at his cock, sliding down to the base as he guides himself to your center.

“Look at you spreading your legs wider like that, so ready,” He teases, or tries to, his voice coming too awed to give the proper effect, “You want it that much?”

You mewl and nod your head as he drags his cock from your clit to your entrance, over and over making you clench, your own hips giving small rolls to try and get more stimulation.

“Tightening around nothing, my desperate girl,”

His. His desperate girl. You like that he keeps putting “My” before pet names, you wouldn’t mind just being his without the names though.

Finally he starts to push in, and it has you stiffening—your head tipping back as he starts easing himself deeper… You can feel the self control it takes for him to not just go all the way at once, kind enough to work it in after your orgasm, still sensitive from it and he knows. The fuller you become the more intense it all gets, chills crawling across your skin as he stretches you so deliciously, the slight burn of it overridden by the pleasure of feeling him inside after dreaming of it has plagued you for nearly a month.

You both let out a sound when he’s fully seated, his body shaking above yours a bit and his brows scrunched together, “You are perfect—” He breathes, his tone almost reverent, making you whine softly, reaching for him to bring him closer to you.

He obliges you, and leans down, caging you in and readjusting himself a bit, moving one of your legs to hook it over his good hip, putting more of his weight on you to steady himself as he gives a slow, testing grind that draws a moan from both of you, your nails digging into his sides a bit.

He repeats the movement, once, then again and again until he finds a rhythm that has you moaning and whimpering against him, hiding your face as you lose yourself in the pleasure. But he doesn’t let you hide for long, his fingers finding your hair to ease your head away from his chest, lips hovering over yours as he fucks you slow and impossibly deep, “Feels good?”

You nod dumbly, words lost on you.

“Look at you—all fucked out already, huh? There isn’t a thought in that pretty little head of yours,” He whispers, kissing you once, “Is this what you imagined, lásko? Being full of my cock,”

You mumble a jumble of yeses against his lips, clawing at his sides as he picks the pace up a fraction, “Oh you are—already getting so tight—do you like me talking to you like that? You like feeling like a slut?”

You’re completely gone—you know that isn’t really true, you don’t sleep around, haven’t had sex in a very long time, you quite literally would do anything else rather than be intimate—but hearing him call you a slut, it just sounds like praise when he says it. It makes it feel so good.

“Yes…” You moan, eyes slipping shut as he starts kissing you—you try your best to keep up and kiss him back, but you are so lost it's more of him just kissing you rather than a combined effort. Though it somehow only adds to the pleasure.

He isn’t rushing, his pace is even and blissfully torturous. Every thrust is met with a grind that has his groin rubbing perfectly against your clit, it makes the pressure mount harder—you’re so much more aware of it, the build all you can focus on as he talks you through it with whispered filth that pushes you deeper and deeper into this mindless space where all you know is him, his cock, and how full you are of it.

“That’s it… You take me so well—you perfect thing—” He cradles your head, pressing kisses to your jaw and neck, snaking his free hand down between your bodies to that sweet bundle of sensitivity, rubbing you in time with his movements.

You’ve never heard these sounds from yourself, so high and pathetic—you hardly ever make noise, with yourself or otherwise—but he’s drawing sounds you can’t even control out of you. And he’s encouraging it, telling you how pretty you sound, to be louder for him—to say his name—and you obey every command, every request, because it feels so good to do it for him. To do it because he’s asking you to.

He speeds up just enough to have the pressure tipping you closer toward a second orgasm, your expression twisting and body tightening up as you jerk under him, “Yes—that it there?” He rasps, watching you intently as you respond with nods and babbles, keeping his pace exactly like that, his deft fingers quickening until you cry out for him.

“Almost there—make a mess for me—just like you did before,” His voice is strained, his breaths getting heavier with the evidence of his own pleasure getting the better of him, “Cum for me, my darling—”

That’s all you need, that command, it sends you right over—your body seizing with the intensity, your mouth parting around loud moans as little death consumes you entirely—claws unfurled and unrelenting, dragging you down into an ocean of blinding heat where the unsteady waters rob you of breath. Leaving you gasping when you finally resurface in time to feel him go over too.

He curses, choking out your name as he stills deep inside you, his fingers never stopping as he jerks, hips stuttering with the wave that hits him—he moans breathlessly as he bucks shallowly against you, his cock throbbing with his release—warmth you don’t get to feel, wasted in the condom.

“Good girl—”

He pulls his hand away, draping himself over you and meeting you in the afterglow, the weight of him grounding as you tremble—soft whimpers leaving you every now and again as you hug him to yourself. The skin is damp where you hide, sweat sticking to the both of you, hearts rapid and in sync, the world finally coming back to be something of substance in your mind.

He kisses your shoulder and neck, tender and sweet, soothing over achy spots where he wasn’t as gentle, panting softly in your ear when he finally just stills for a moment.

You both stay like that until everything settles, breaths evening out and pulses coming back to normal… You can feel him soften inside you, you’re reluctant to feel empty again, you’d like for him to stay—so when he starts to move, you make a small sound of protest, shushed gently by him as he props himself up to look at you, smoothing your sweat slicked hair away from your forehead, “Are you alright?”

You feel floaty, dazed, small. You’ve fallen into this space that’s—unfamiliar, one you don’t know but don’t feel entirely perturbed by. Everything just feels sort of distant right now…

You nod a little and he hums, “You’re sure? You look a bit out of it,” He muses, smiling a little, stroking through your hair, careful and almost longing.

You can’t describe it if you tried, you just want to be close to him, you feel—clingy, “I dunno…”

He nods, “That’s alright… Do you need anything?”

His tone is immediately softer, more attentive as he cups your cheek, rubbing his thumb over the apple of it. You shake your head, “Mm… Just to be—close I think…”

He gives a small smile, “We can be close,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Let me pull out and get you clean…” He murmurs and you shift to allow him more room to do so.

He’s careful pulling out, the oversensitivity making your face scrunch, “I know, I’m sorry,” He whispers, rubbing your thigh as he eases out, a soft groan leaving him when he looks at the mess between you both, “So pretty,”

You press your legs together when he scoots away, getting the condom off as he gets to the edge of the bed, grabbing that cane resting against the nightstand and using it to help himself up. You can see the weight he’s putting on it, his steps more strained as he walks over to his desk and drops the used thing in the trash beside it. He then makes his way toward his wardrobe-dresser thing, opening a drawer and pulling out a small cloth.

He comes back over to the bed and climbs on with you once more, coaxing you to spread your legs and cleaning delicately between them, careful to not brush any sensitive spots as he does so before finally he wipes himself off too and discards the cloth mindlessly on the floor to get back properly in the bed with you.

“Come here,” He opens his arms for you, and immediately you press into them, curling yourself into his side and letting him pull the comforter over you both. His body cradling yours and his fingers stroking your messy locks, “Better?”

You nod a bit.

This should feel a lot more strange than it does, you still know really nothing about him—but it just feels… Right. This was so easy with him—besides the hiccup in the beginning—everything else was so simple. Good…

Though you still remember the fact that he is—probably not a very good person. You’ve been told multiple times, what is he into? You still don’t know. But setting that part aside you just—feel like you belong right here.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks after your silence stretches on for a long while.

“Mm… Just… Curious about you…” You mumble, staring at his wall, tracing mindless shapes into his chest.

He hums, fingers rubbing gently at your scalp, “What would you like to know then?”

You smile, shrugging a little, “Everything I guess…”

“Eh, Everything would take quite a while,” He says playfully, making you shake your head, “But… I suppose it could not hurt to start.” He adds, making you tilt your head up toward him, curious and pleased he’s obliging you.

“Let’s see… Well, I am twenty-eight, I am a scientist… I work for an organization that eh… Requires me to do things as you saw the day we met,” His voice is smooth, low and calming, the vibration of it through his skin making you still your tracing to just feel it, “I enjoy reading, eh—movies and music… At my actual home I have a cat, her name is Rio,”

You find yourself getting lost listening to him, the gentle rubbing of his fingers in your hair and the sound of his voice… A sort of fulfilment finding you now that he has told you about himself a bit–vaguely confirmed distant wonderings about what he does. You can’t help the drowsiness that takes over, feeling lulled by his presence, the comfort of being close to him…

“M’like cats,” You mumble and he huffs lightly.

“Do you?” You nod in confirmation, “Mm. I am sure Rio would like you too,”

You hum sleepily, content, eyes slipping shut as you nuzzle yourself a bit closer, one of your legs pressing between his and your arm coming around his waist, “Tired?”

“Mhm…”

“Go to sleep, sweet girl,” He murmurs, kissing your hair and tucking your head beneath his chin, his arm draping over you—the warmth of his body, skin to skin, so intimate in a way you never thought you would enjoy, is putting you to sleep. And you can’t even fight it, the world fading as the exhaustion takes you. Nothing coming after his voice, just the sound of his heart, an anchor to reality that you tether to before you drift off completely.