F. S𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭 F𝐢𝐭𝐳𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐝 S𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧a𝐜𝐞 S𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 #3 (Patreon)

# “My God, you’re fun to kiss” - Reed 

The electronic music in the club is deafening, bass-heavy. The pounding of speakers makes your whole body vibrate, adding to the restless energy you’ve been carrying within the whole evening.

Your other senses are similarly overwhelmed by the pink neon lights, and the stench of booze mixed with smoke. The heavy taste of artificial flavoring clogs your throat, sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue.

But even through all that, the second your nose catches a hint of the familiar honey-whiskey perfume, you can’t focus on anything else.

Swallowed by the audience, you turn and turn around, trying, but failing, to spot Reed amidst the crowd. There are too many people, the lights get too dim, and then too bright. The scent of him, though, grows heavier, until it floods you completely.

“Reed,” you breathe out when a pair of hands slides over the bare skin of your neck. Deft fingers, outside-cold, but smooth, dart up your jaw, coaxing your head to turn his way. “Where the hell were you—”

“Here.” A rasp of a signet ring, a light chuckle in your ear, and then his lips are on yours, sweet and woody like cinnamon. You bite down reflexively when his tongue tries to slip into your surprise-parted mouth, not too hard, but enough to make him moan. “Ah, you—” 

“What?” you mumble when he pulls right back, just for a breath, to laugh against your cheek. “What is it?”

“Nothin’,” he says, impatient, going in for another kiss... that gets interrupted even faster than the first. A drunk patron bumps into you as they pass, pushing you to the side. “Fuck, look where you’re goin’, asshole!” Reed snarls, but his voice drowns easily under the music.

“Let’s go somewhere el— Mph!” 

Drawing himself closer, Reed locks your lips once more, just as abruptly as before. He’s clutching at you with poorly veiled urgency, as though it physically pained him to let go. 

His hands slowly lose their former iciness, shamelessly stealing your body warmth. His thumb brushes lightly against your skin, first absentmindedly, then with more focus and pressure when he wants you to tilt your head for better access.

It’s easy to get lost in the pace he sets. Too easy. To the point that you barely notice when he slides his hands down your arms. Grabbing the underside of your elbows, he steers you to the side and over a large pillar, where he pins you against the wall to deepen the kiss. 

It doesn’t take much time for his fingers to find their way under the hem of your shirt, settling hot and firm over your hips. You yelp in surprise, almost choking on your saliva. 

Reed snorts, forcing himself to retreat. You think it’s just to suggest another relocation, but he stays where he is, face split into that self-satisfied grin of his. 

“My God,” he huffs, voice giddy and raw, “you’re fun to kiss.”

“You didn’t think I would be?”

“I didn’t think we’d get here at all, you know that,” he pouts, accusingly, more to distract than to offer an actual answer. 

“But you thought about it,” you state, ignoring his attempts at misdirection, feeling your cheeks straining against a smirk. “You did, didn’t you?”

“Eh.” Even in the tinted light, you can see his cheeks tint red. He looks away, all nonchalant. “Maybe once or twice.”

Emboldened by his uncharacteristic shyness, you yank him towards you by the lapels of his jacket, breathing out, “I thought about you too many times to count.”

“Yeah?” He swallows, eyes growing darker than before. “Tell me.”

“Nah. I thought we were talking about me.”

“Aww.” He laughs, helplessly. “Okay. Yeah. It’s my second favorite subject after all.”

“What’s the first?”

“Me?” Of course, it is. “But I’d rather do than talk, if you catch my drift.”

You snort. “Yeah, I do.” You’d rather focus on the doing, too.

# “You intoxicated me. It was just as though you were making me love you by some invisible force” - Alan

A cocktail party at an upscale hotel sounded like a lot of fun. In theory. 

Half an hour in, and you remember why Alois refuses to attend anything business-related, mysteriously catching a ‘cold,’ whenever a meeting or an event is set to approach.

This time, he has no such luck, and nobody, least of all his sister, buys the excuse. Naturally, that little bastard has to rope you into his problems, promising ‘great food and better entertainment,’ just for the small price of hellish boredom. 

Well, the gourmet buffet is top-notch but hardly worth the hassle.

“Wine?” 

When a glass of red enters your peripheral, you almost blurt out an enthusiastic,  ‘yes,’ but as soon as your brain clocks the voice, you urge yourself to rein in the excitement. It doesn’t work very well, but hey, you tried.

“Alan? I thought you avoided parties like the plague.” At least that’s what Alois claims, and he’s usually right... as any broken clock is. “I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

Alan shrugs with his free arm, a barely perceptible rise and fall. He looks sharp... and bored out of his mind, as always. He’s wearing your favorite suit, though, the one that makes you want to rip it off him, stat. He has to know it by now, maybe that’s why he’s wearing it so often. 

“You know how it goes,” he says, settling by the railing on your right. Below, a group of dull-looking people chat animatedly about stocks and trade. It’s not hard to tune it out, especially when Alan’s voice wins all your attention. “Some might call it fate.”

“And others misfortune?” you huff, finally accepting the drink. “You’re in quite the poetic mood tonight.”

“It’s the wine,” he lies, tilting his - full, barely touched - glass towards you in a clink. His lips twist, when you glance at him to call his bluff, though his overall expression remains nondescript. “I missed you,” he admits, so dryly you almost think you misheard. 

You didn’t, and the realization makes you choke on a sip. Alan’s forehead creases when you start to cough, but he quickly pats your upper back to make sure you don’t actually asphyxiate. When you get yourself under control, he takes your glass back, setting it aside. 

“I wanted to give you a call,” you mutter, clearing your throat once more for good measure, “but you seemed busy.”

“Yes, terribly.” Alan sighs, pointedly glancing over the hall. “Where did you lose Alois?”

“Bathroom, probably.” Knowing him, he and his ‘friends’ are busy snorting or inhaling something that’ll for sure get you kicked out sooner rather than later. 

“So, you don’t have a ride home?”

“Why, are you offering?”

Alan hums, looking at his glass with a hefty dose of regret. “I know a good taxi company.”

“It’s 10 PM. Give your accountant a break.”

“Fine.” Alan snorts. “It is well past his bedtime.” Taking a long sip, he shifts a bit closer to you, but you can’t be sure whether it’s on purpose or a simple accident. Your arms almost touch. The fabric of his jacket is silky smooth.

“What’s the last book you read,” you ask, just to fill the silence that, though not awkward, becomes very loaded.

“Why don’t you guess?”

A quote game? It’s been a while.  “Sure. I’m in.”

When his free hand rubs against yours, you brush it off as an honest mistake. But then, he does it again, and you remember that Alan’s not a man who can afford to make mistakes, nor is he particularly honest either.

When you turn your head to regard him, he’s already watching you, eyes half-lidded.

“You intoxicated me,” he says, and it takes you a moment to realize what he’s doing. A long moment. “It was just as though you were making me love you by some invisible force.” As he speaks, his fingers drift up your wrist, over the pulse point, pausing just under the edge of your sleeve. “Well?”

“...Myra Meets His Family.”

“Bingo,” he grins. “I lost.” He doesn’t sound particularly bothered by it. If anything, it’s the opposite. “Now, for your prize. What would you like?”

“I— I don’t think I should be saying that. Here.”

“Where should you be saying it, then?”

“Your place, maybe?”

“That can be easily arranged.” Gulping the rest of his wine in one go, he places his empty glass by yours. “Any prior engagements?” he asks, slipping his fingers firmly between yours.

“Not that I know of.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”