Fandom: Original Fiction
I land, and I'm face to face with my ex-boyfriend. Face to crotch, really. My knees are on either side of Evan Fucking Roswell's head. I'm going to be sick.
He raises an eyebrow at me. I can't fucking breathe. The smoke in here is choking, the heat from the lights makes my braincells melt, my pants are so tight they're cutting off circulation to my balls, and I can't fucking breathe.
"Hey, gorgeous," he says, like he's asking the fucking time of day, and runs a finger up my crotch. I can't move. I'm going to fucking die. "What's your name?"
I stare. He doesn't recognize me. Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell doesn't recognize me. I've cut my hair and I'm wearing my make-up an inch fucking thick, and sure I'm a fucking exotic dancer instead of the uptight fucking law student he used to fuck, but he's smirking at me and my knees have fucking melted, which is why I can't get my crotch out of his fucking face, and he doesn't recognize me.
Please die, I want to say. "Bluh," I say instead. I try again. "Pedro."
"Pedro." He smirks, and pulls out a wad of bills. Where the hell did Evan Fucking Roswell get a wad of bills? "How much for a lap dance?"
Sex, I think. Sex I can do. The minute he flashes those bills, the business part of my mind reminds me that I sex means money and I need money if I want to eat, and he doesn't fucking recognize me. I remember how to breathe, at least a little. I lean forward. Lick my lips. "I think I'll leave that up to you." I pull myself into his lap. "How much am I worth?"
I look up. This is a mistake. His eyes hit mine, and he's Evan Fucking Roswell, with these deep blue lapis lazuli eyes, and my knees have melted again. I am not in love with Evan Roswell.
I'm afraid he's going to realize who he has in his lap and drop me on the floor, but his eyes don't flash any more recognition than they showed an instant ago. Just lust. Sex. Sex I can do.
He's smirking. He looks away. I hear the crisp of a bill as he tucks it into the back of my pants. His fingers brush across my skin. I'm ticklish at the base of my spine, which is right where his fingers are lingering. I manage, at least, not to yelp.
I slide my ass against him, grinding, with this way I've learned of rolling my hips that makes men moan. He's not moaning. He's smirking. He's fucking toying with me.
I have a moment of panic that he knows. But I can't let myself believe he'd just come here, a year after walking out on me, just to mock me like this. I can't believe he knows. My brain cells would fucking implode.
I do it again. Slide, grind, roll. Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell doesn't even move. His arms are relaxed at his sides, and I'd give up my salary for a whole fucking month if he'd just put those arms around me. It's not that he's not hard. He's been hard this whole time. He's rock hard, and I'm so fucking tempted to put my hand down his pants. I would go down on him, right here, if he'd only fucking call me by my name.
"Pedro," he says, and traces as finger down my chest, smirking. Pinches a nipple. This time I yelp.
I see my boyfriend across the room. He's got this hurt-puppy expression on his face, and I remember I promised to stop giving lap-dances. I want to die.
Evan notices. He couldn't not notice, the way I froze, staring over his shoulder. He doesn't look.
"Something more interesting than me?" he asks.
"Previous engagement," I reply. It's hard not to talk like I usually do, but I don't want him to know. It's hard not to say those two little words stuck in my head. Please Die.
"Cancel it." He's smirking. I manage to stop watching my boyfriend, who's trying to summon me over by gestures. I blink at Evan. "How much for the night?" he asks.
I'm a stripper, I want to tell him, not a whore. I don't know how much a whore costs, for a night. I bet Evan F. Roswell knows. I wonder if he's ever had a whore. I don't want to know. "How much do you think I'm worth?" I repeat.
I can see my boyfriend bribing a waitress to come resue me. It's Rosie. Of course he'd have to fucking bribe Rosie. Rosie's infamously effective at interruptions.
"The entire roll of bills in my pocket," he says. "But only if you earn them, one by one. All night."
My mouth is dry. Please die, I want to say. It's me. Matthew. You broke my heart, you smarmy fucking bastard, please die.
Rosie crashes into me. Spills something neon pink and highly alcoholic all over Evan's white shirt. I get up. I feel his hand close on my wrist. He's giving me this right-here, right-now look. Rosie bumps him and I escape. I flee into the back room.
Paul's waiting. He's giving me this I'm-hurt-and-disappointed-in you look.
"Matthew," he says. He doesn't call me Matty. I hate being called Matty. He doesn't want to fight. I do. "I brought the car. I thought you'd be tired."
He's so fucking nice it makes me sick. My boyfriend calls me darling while we're making love, and all I can think of is the ex who called me slut as he fucked me. He doesn't even make me pay rent. This is probably the only reason I haven't broken his heart. Yet.
I hate myself. I hate Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell. I'm going to be sick.
I extract the money tucked into my pants, my earnings for the night. I stare at the bill Evan gave me, when I figure out for sure which one it was. It's a fifty. For an interrupted lap-dance. That roll of bills was more money than I've seen in months. What the hell is Evan F. P.-D. Roswell doing with that much money? Buying hookers.
There's a movie poster tacked to the wall outside. I stop and stare at it. Please Fucking Die, it reads, in swirly pink and black lettering.
"What is it?" Paul asks. His arm is around my waist.
"Nothing," I say. We keep walking. He's fucking cuddling me as we walk. I'm going to be sick.
I'm thinking about the bastard. His arm around my waist would be firm, possessive. He'd probably cuddle me, too, but I'd elbow him, insult him, and end up being pulled even closer and fucking nuzzled. I hate being nuzzled.
I met him two summers ago at my family's pleasure home on the lake. Yes, my family has a fucking summer home. And yes, I'm shaking my ass on stage and bumming housing off my boyfriend so I don't fucking starve. Don't fucking ask.
My sister brought him home, introduced us to her new husband. It took me one whole week to give in and jump him. They were never married, really. My sister's a lesbian. Evan's a friend of hers. He's a fucking actor.
We barely went five minutes that summer before he grabbed me and dragged me off to have really, really damn good sex. My brother walked in on us (would've joined us, too). My mother walked in on us. My 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother Amaranta walked in on us. My dog walked in on us, and I didn't even have a dog. Then my grandfather walked in on us, and this is why I'm shaking my ass on stage so I don't starve.
My sister Val, fortunately, had already got the inheritance she wanted by this point. They staged a divorce like they staged their wedding. Evan took me home with him, got me a job waiting tables at the club where he'd met Val, and, not even a year later, kicked me out on my ass. And now he's come back to haunt me.
I hate Evan Fucking Roswell. I am completely obsessed with Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell. I am still in love with Evan F. Roswell. I am completely fucking batshit insane.
It's snowing outside when I wake up. This will come as a surprise, but I love snowy mornings. Or snowy afternoons, as it happens to be. The fridge is empty, so I take to the streets for a cup of hot chocolate and a danish. I sit in the park and watch the ducks sliding clumsily across the ice.
"Hey, sweetcheeks," he says, sitting down next to me.
"Please die," I reply automatically.
"You cut your hair." He's smirking. Of course he's fucking smirking.
"Are you stalking me?" I ask.
"Yes," he replies."
I feel sick. I don't want the rest of the danish. I toss it at him. He eats it. I want to toss the hot chocolate at him. Burn his fucking pretty face. "What's your middle name?" I ask.
Evan Gregory Roswell. Doesn't work. "No, it's not."
I stare into my cup. "Alexander."
"Please fucking die," I say, and talking hurts, somehow.
One of the things I hate most about Evan is that I can't fucking forget him. This is because he's an incredible fuck, and everywhere I go, I remember a time we fucked. We've had sex fucking everywhere. I go to the movies and I can't concentrate because I'm thinking about Evan Fucking Roswell going down on me in the back row. I can't go to the club where I used to work because I can count the thirty-two places we had sex there while I was a waiter and he was a bartender. On the bar. Behind the bar. On the stage. On the dinky catwalk above the stage. On most of the tables. On the dance floor--which I don't recommend because it was fucking hard in addition to uneven and dirty. In the bathrooms (male and female). On the couch in the back room, where he actually let me top him. On this old, out-of-tune piano backstage. I can't even fucking look at a piano anymore.
I'm looking at the snow, and I want to have sex in the snow.
"You should see my new place," he says.
"You'd like it?"
"What do you want from me?"
Well, at least he's fucking honest. "I have a boyfriend," I tell him.
"He's gentle. He calls me darling while we're making love. He tells me he loves me."
"I'm sure he's everything you've always wanted in a man."
"Fuck off and die."
"Do you hate him?"
"No," I say.
Evan F. P.-D. (G.) Roswell smirks. "He's that bad in bed?"
I twitch. This is the other thing I hate about Evan Roswell. He always knows exactly what I'm actually saying. Paul is the only person I've ever met who listens to me and takes me seriously. It blows me away. He doesn't have a fucking clue.
"Please die," I say.
He stands. "You coming, sweet cheeks?"
"Go to Hell." I get up. Seriously consider the still-hot beverage. Drop it in a trash can. Evan Fucking Roswell will never know how close he came.
Actually, he probably does. I throw a lot of things at him. It was after I put a knife through his hand that he finally threw me out. We're a messed-up couple.
He doesn't touch me as we walk. "What's his name?"
"Why are you wasting your time?"
I wish I could lie to him. I wish I could say I'm not wasting my time, that I love Paul and he loves me. I can't. "He doesn't charge me rent," I say. I hate myself.
He grabs me then, and his tongue is in my mouth, and I'm kissing back. We're in the middle of the fucking street, and I don't even care. I feel him let go. I can't meet his eyes. I hate myself too much.
He opens the car door for me. I get in. He's still got the same crappy-ass truck as always. I'm thinking of all the things he's done to me in this truck. I'm going to be sick.
"Matty," he says.
"Don't call me Matty," I say.
He drives out to this practically deserted industrial area of town. It would be a great place to dispose of a body. He pulls up in front of this old house, that looks like some kind of cheap miniature knock-off of a southern mansion, and just as old.
"You live here?" I ask.
He opens the door. It's not locked. Hell, it's not like he has neighbors. There are a few remains of houses nearby, some of them with an intact roof. Fucking old. Even this one should probably be condemned.
"There's no electricity," he says. "There is running water, but it's not heated and I don't think it's safe to drink."
The house is cold, but it smells of pine, old tobacco--the kind in a pipe--and wood smoke. I feel like we're a hundred miles from civilization. Fucking Alaska or something. There are creepy old pictures on the walls, of people who have been dead for a hundred years.
"The former owner was a hundred and two. He had no heirs. I got the place at a public auction. They wanted to tear it down. There's a wood stove in the kitchen, and fireplaces in most rooms, so it can be heated."
He's fucking proud of this dump. He takes my hand as he pulls me through the house. I brush my thumb across his palm. I can feel the scar I left there. I wish I could apologize.
We stumble into the snow in the back garden, and I swear it's fucking enchanted. There's a high stone wall, completely cutting it off from the world, and it's silent.
These weird Greek statues of naked men and scantily-clad goddesses reign over the overgrown rose bushes and stone-lined paths carpeted with snow. I've never seen anything so fucking peaceful.
"I thought it'd be a nice place to have sex," he says.
There are no words. I jump him. We we hit the ground and he's already got me out of my coat. He puts his own with it, so at least we're not lying on the cold snow. It's still snowing, but the kiss is so fucking hot I'm melting.
"Shit," he says. "I don't have a condom."
"I don't care," I say, and he rolls with a growl, pinning me down on my back. His lips are on my throat and I"m moaning. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and tugs. "Pants," he orders. "Off."
I'm about to argue that I can't very well reach my pants with him lying on top of me, but right then he rolls off me so that I can. My pants are gone and when he pounces me again, he's naked. This time, we miss, and my back hits snow. He unbuttons my shirt, but leaves it on. He knows I get cold easy, and I'm practically shivering already, so we're going to have to do this fast.
"I'm not giving you preparation," he warns me.
"You do it." He rolls again, so I'm on top, and his hand is tickling at the base of my spine. I'm laughing, like I haven't laughed since the bastard left me. I sit back, breath quickening, and it hurts. Paul would never make love without lube, so I've forgotten how much this hurts. The head of his cock works its way inside me, and suddenly he slams his hips up into me. I scream. Evan Fucking Please-Die (Gregory) Roswell has the decency to gasp.
"Shit, Matty," he says. "I forgot how tight you are."
My fingernails are embedded in his shoulder. I'm trying to remember how to breathe. I whimper.
He laughs, patting my ass. "You all right, slut?"
I manage to remove my fingernails from his shoulder. I've drawn blood. "I fucking hate you," I gasp.
I push myself up, with my hands and knees, lifting most of the way off his cock, which, as I"m only now remembering, is painfully huge. He grabs my ass and slams me back down. I wince, my fingernails leaving a second set of blood-rimmed crescents on his shoulder.
I'm on top, but he's completely in control. He makes it clear that he's letting me have the freedom I have to set the pace, but the moment I slow too much for his tastes, or try to take any more freedom than he allows, he plows into me, hard enough to make me scream. He's a total, certifiable control freak, and I love it. He hits every last one of my buttons.
I recover quickly, and then I can actually enjoy my enleashed freedom. I have to say, I love riding a good stud, especially a fucking bronco like Evan. It's even better that it's snowing, and the flakes on my skin are cold, in contrast to the hot fucking cock inside me.
He smiles, seeing I'm feeling playful, and runs his hand over my hip, tickling. I start laughing, and he moans at the way I writhe. I can't stand it anymore, and I speed up, him grinding his cock into me each time. As if I'm not moaning already, he wraps his hand around my prick. I absolutely fucking melt. I can hear my voice begging for more.
He loves hearing me beg, and he knows that the more he gives, the more I beg. He flips us over so he can fuck me harder, the way he likes it. He's feeling generous enough to keep one hand fisting my prick, and it's all I need to send me over the edge, when I feel his cock start pumping cum inside me. I completely lose control, and I hear myself shouting his name. When he's finally done--and Evan Roswell has long fucking orgasms, usually twice as long as mine--I"m starting to shiver from the cold, because he managed to land me in the snow, again. My shirt is soaked.
He smirks. "Sorry, sweetcheeks."
I can feel his cum dribbling down my ass as he pulls out. He pushes our clothes into my lap, then gathers me into his arms. I'm not a small guy, I'm a perfectly respectable average height, but he's five inches taller than me because he's just that obscenely tall. He carries me inside, upstairs. Drops me on a surprisingly nice bed with a fluffy comforter. I shove our clothes onto the floor and curl up in the comforter. He's making a fire. I never thought something so fucking quaint as this place could feel so fucking good.
He crawls onto the bed and pulls me close. He's warm, so I"m not about to complain about the cuddling.
"Pedro." He smirks. "Why 'Pedro'? You're not a bit ethnic."
"I thought you didn't recognize me." I glare at him.
"What, because of all the make-up?" He laughs. "I'd know that body anywhere."
I blink. "Where'd you get all that money? You're a fucking starving actor."
He laughs at me. "From the movie."
"Are you serious?" He sits up. "You haven't seen the posters?"
"Please Fucking Die." He starts digging through a closet. Pulls out a movie poster and unrolls it. It's the one I was staring at. "I can't believe you haven't seen the ads. I'm one of the main characters."
He's on the poster, and it's obviously him, and I don't know how I've been staring at this poster and his lapis lazuli eyes for the past three weeks without realizing it. "You're a movie star."
"Kind of. Yes."
I notice the name on the poster. Evan Rosier. He's using it as his stage name. I don't know what to say. He sits back down. Kisses me. I pull away.
"So what am I, revenge fuck? You just track me down so you can kick me out again once you get bored, because you're a movie star and you can do that?"
He shrugs. "The whole time we were shooting that movie, I kept looking at the scar on my hand and realizing I'd walked away from the love of my life."
Evan is the only person who has ever been able to leave me speechless. He has never once in our relationship told me he loved me. I think my brain cells all just died in a mass apocalypse. I am now comatose.
"I hate you," I whimper, and his tongue is in my mouth again, the way it's supposed to be, and being speechless and comatose isn't so bad, really, because Evan Fucking Please-Die (Gregory) Roswell-Rosier loves me.