Archive of Our Own

Barty's breath appears in wisps of white as his chest heaves. He's breathing hard, hurrying along side-streets in the dead of night.

The small town he's been staying in is fairly empty by day but completely deserted by night—the only signs of life being a small pub and the motel with 24-hour service.

His shoes tap harshly on the cobblestone as he quickens his pace. The air is crisp and nips at his cheeks enough to leave a blush, but Barty is determined to get back to his room as quickly as possible. He shoves his hands in his pockets and ducks his head, a phantom in the dim street lights.

The quiet of the night is deafening, his skin crawls and tingles in anticipation for something that doesn’t exist. Barty is just beginning to think of a way to fill the silence when he hears it—a gust of air behind him, a small clatter to his left.

His heart jumps as he comes to an abrupt stop, whipping his body around to scan the area. His eyes shift from right to left, honing in on where he heard the sound. But he finds nothing. Stray boxes and an abandoned car, all cloaked in shadows.

Barty's next exhale comes out unsteady, but he wills himself to continue. He's quite sure this sound he keeps hearing is all in his head—a result of a lack of sleep or general unease. There's nothing there, he tells himself.

For some reason he doesn't believe it.

He keeps to his path, unable to shake the feeling he’s had for the past 15 minutes; that something—someone—is following him. Watching. Lingering. Waiting.

He takes a chance, ducking into an alleyway to hopefully find a shorter route through town. When he sees the path in front of him all he can think is, it's dark. Very fucking dark.

The alley is long, he can barely make out the other side, and the street lamps don't reach far enough for the light to extend all the way through. Barty's stomach rolls but he continues regardless, nothing blocking his path.

He barely takes ten steps.

It happens in an instant, too fast to process. One moment he hears the quick gust of air behind him and the next his back is thrown harshly against hard brick, a heavy weight pressed to his chest as all the air leaves his lungs.

His vision is splotchy from the low light and abrupt ambush, and he struggles to figure out what the fuck just happened. He feels fingers on his ribcage and smells a heavy cologne, sees the outline of a figure—a person—slightly shorter than him, holding him in place.

"Wha—" Barty slurs, but he's cut off by the sound of the person inhaling sharply.

"We've got to stop meeting like this Crouch," the voice says, and oh. Oh. Barty would recognize that voice anywhere. Low and sultry, soft as crushed velvet beneath his fingertips. A nightmare and a dream all in one.

A deep-rooted shiver runs through his body, one as archaic as the being before him. He's familiar with the feeling—it does nothing to ease his rapid pulse.

The moonlight finally breaks through the thinning clouds overhead, and he's met with the sight of blonde hair and red eyes. Perfect skin, smooth and solid as marble; cold to the touch. A hint of a smile adorning his pink lips.

Barty struggles to find his words, pleased to hear his voice doesn't betray his fear. "You following me Rosier?"

Evan Rosier. A name so beautiful even the foul taste it leaves in Barty's mouth can't taint it.

Evan Rosier—vampire, killer, infuriatingly fucking perfect.

Barty hates him. Has hated him ever since the very first night he found him—alone in a quiet bar, too pretty for his own good. Falling apart in Barty's arms one minute and baring his teeth the next.

He hates him even more now that he won't leave him alone. The two seem to find each other every so often—whether by fate or Evan's doing, Barty isn't sure—but each new visit leaves Barty's edges frayed. He's splitting at the seams, unsure of how to sew himself back together.

He hates Evan the most because of how much he wants him.

Evan's looking into his eyes, the same way he does each time. Hungry.

He leans in so his breath fans over Barty's jaw. "Following? I would never. Could smell you from a fucking mile away, had to make sure it was you."

Evan dips his head to press his nose to Barty's pulse point, inhaling slowly just beneath the edge of his jawline. He's sure he can hear how loud his heart is beating, can smell the blood rushing through his body.

"I told you to leave me alone Evan," Barty squirms under his firm grasp, Evan's forearm still holding him tightly against the wall.

"You did," Evan confirms, swiping his tongue to wet his lips. "But you know I never listen."

The air around them is still, and Evan doesn't move unless he has to, free hand trailing fingers along Barty's side. He reminds Barty of a statue; constructed like he was carved from stone, each dip and angle of his body a masterpiece.

Barty's hands ache. Evan is here, again. Right in front of him. He needs to touch.

"Chances of you walking away right now?" Barty doesn't think it'll happen, but he takes his opportunity to ask. Knowing Evan is dangerous, fucking him is even worse. Barty doesn't have much restraint to be expected not to do either one of them.

Evan tilts his head, answer evident on his face. "Close to zero."

Barty groans, his hands finding their rightful place on Evan's waist. If he's going to do this again he might as well enjoy it. "You're going to be the death of me."

Evan's smirk is cutthroat. "That can be arranged."

Barty sneers, scoffing under his breath. "I bet you'd love that wouldn't you?" he lets his gaze fall to Evan's lips. "Killing me. Drinking every last ounce of blood I have to offer. You can barely stand being around me."

"And yet here I am."

"Here you are."

Evan's arms slowly loosen from his torso to take purchase on Barty's shoulders. His cold fingers grip the fabric of his jacket, his grasp paralyzing. It cuts deep—all the way down to the bone.

Evan's face sways dangerously close to his, the moonlight creating a lustrous glow to his skin. Barty feels dizzy with it. "And what if I did?"

"Did what?"

Evan's voice matches his with how soft he's speaking. "Give in," he smiles, teeth pearly white, unnaturally sharp in all the right places. "It would be so easy. Just one little taste wouldn't hurt."

His lips ghost over Barty's, nearly touching. Close enough to feel but not enough to taste.

Evan flicks his tongue and traces it over Barty's bottom lip. The first real point of contact and Barty is already losing his mind; a whine threatens to escape his throat but he forces it down. "My issue is that once I start, I don't think I'll be able to stop."

Their gazes strip each other down to their very matter. It's a mutual look that challenges the other: close the distance, I fucking dare you. Kiss me until your lips bleed. You’ve done it before, what’s the point in stopping now?

And Barty doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to make the first move, doesn’t want to give in. Evan is clearly toying with him—he knows Barty is splitting in half, ripping down the middle with jagged edges. That’s exactly why he’ll keep on pushing, further and further each time, until the last thread snaps.

Barty has never considered himself a weak man. But now? Now, he thinks he just might be.

He brings a hand up, fisting it harshly in Evan’s hair and crashing their lips together. The effect is immediate, both of them groaning in a mixture of pent-up satisfaction and frustration.

It’s a mess. A beautiful, gut-wrenching, disaster. They kiss and lick and bite, pulling at skin and clothes alike, swallowing the harsh noises that leave their throats.

Evan’s tongue eventually finds a home past Barty’s lips and he moans, working his own into the warm heat of Evan’s mouth. There’s spit running down Barty’s chin but he can’t find it in himself to care.

They’ve kissed a fair amount of times now, but no past kiss could ever diminish the here, the now, the more, that Barty feels each time it happens. His brain shuts down and reignites at the same time, unable to function outside of his need to bring Evan closer.

Kissing Evan feels a lot like coming home to something dangerous. Walking through the door of a home with a fucked up perception of love.

He needs it, he craves it. It’s all he’s ever known yet he’s not even sure if it’s real.

Their hands are everywhere—never letting a single inch of each other go untouched for too long. It’s still cold outside but Barty is sizzling with warmth, his body heat countered harshly by Evan’s icy touch. Every time his fingers brush Barty’s skin he hisses at the contact.

Evan is strong, but Barty can feel his defenses lowering, becoming more pliant as Barty’s hands break down his walls. He seizes his chance, pushing himself off the wall to flip their position, never once breaking their kiss.

The sound Evan’s back makes when Barty slams him firmly against the brick should indicate he’s hurt. But Evan doesn’t get hurt—not in the same way as somebody normal. He’s always made it a point to remind Barty he isn’t fragile.

Evan doesn’t resist the change in control, just pulls their bodies impossibly closer, fingers tight in Barty’s hair. Barty groans when he tugs at his roots, biting harshly at Evan’s bottom lip.

He slips a thigh snugly between Evan’s parted legs, making the man whine high in his throat.

“You’re always so fucking loud,” Barty chuckles, mouthing his way down Evan’s neck. “Can never stay quiet for me.”

“I don’t need to stay quiet, no one’s out,” Evan says breathlessly. Evan’s hips begin to move on their own accord and Barty can feel him as he aches for relief.

Each small gasp that falls from Evan’s mouth leaves Barty reeling. He’s hard against Evan’s hip, his head spinning with the need for air. He’s breathing but every inhale stings.

Barty feels like a man buried alive; condemned to a fate worse than death unless he claws his way out, choking on dirt and grime and praying that he breaches salvation. He’s surrounded on all sides by the one thing he can’t help but hate, can’t help but want.

And oh, how he wants.

He grabs Evan’s hip fiercely, encouraging him as he works himself on Barty’s thigh. Barty rolls his body in an equally matched rhythm, chasing any sort of friction to ease the pooling desire in his abdomen.

He braces his other arm on the wall, leaning in so his lips brush Evan’s ear. When he speaks it’s barely loud enough to hear over the slide of their clothes. “Be as loud as you want, gorgeous. Just know that you came and found me,” he scrapes his teeth along Evan’s sharp jaw, a rough drag on smooth skin. “Now I get to do whatever I want to you. Right here. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Fuck,” Evan groans, throwing his head back. It thuds hard against the wall. His eyes are sharp but he looks blissed out already, gazing at the sky blearily. “Any— anything you want,” he pants, moving his hips faster, a soft moan barely escaping his lips. “You’re worse than me, Crouch.”

Barty pulls his thigh away, and Evan’s voice breaks in a choked out whimper. His back arches, protesting the loss of Barty’s body so close to his. Barty crowds his space instead, looking down into his eyes with a snarl on his lips. Heat licks up and down his spine as hazel meets red.

“I may be a tease, Rosier,” he grips Evan’s chin firmly, his blunt fingernails digging. “But you are a sick fucking bastard.”

“Yet here you are,” Evan smirks, miming Barty’s earlier words. The curve of his lips feels like a knife to Barty’s throat. He wants it to break skin.

With every new interaction they have, Barty finds it harder and harder to discern between his loathing and his longing—his biting remarks and pretty words. One second he’s filled to the brim with unrelenting anger for the man he takes such pleasure in unraveling, and the next he’s murmuring soft praise in his ear. His fingers coaxing and careful.

It’s like Evan has a switch in charge of his emotions, and he’s flicking it one way then back just to fuck with him. It’s giving Barty whiplash the more he thinks about it.

He brings his hand to the bottom of Evan’s neck, pressing lightly at the dip between his collarbone. He lets his fingers creep up slowly until they wrap like a chord around Evan’s throat. There’s no real grip, only the promise of what’s to come if he squeezes, digs in hard enough to bruise.

Evan’s eyes flicker with delight. He’s enjoying this. He wants Barty to throw out every ounce of control he’s managed to hold onto. He wants chaos.

Barty’s fingers apply the lightest bit of pressure. Already he can hear the change in Evan’s ragged breathing. “What do you want, Evan?”

“I thought—” he chokes out.

“Oh I know very well what I want. I’m asking—” he tightens his grip further, “—what you want.”

Evan groans, but the sound is stilted with the restriction of his airway. “Please.”

Barty hums, a wicked smile breaking across his face. “Wow, aren’t I lucky? Pretty little thing like you, begging me to fuck him. Again.”

Evan’s fingers are still tangled in Barty’s hair; this time he pulls hard enough to reconnect their lips. It’s open mouthed and barely a kiss, but Barty embraces it, letting go of Evan’s throat to palm him through rough fabric.

“You’re so fucking needy,” he mumbles into their kiss. His fingers fumble, unbuttoning Evan’s trousers and shoving them down low enough to show skin. He runs his hand along the outline of his cock, feeling the wet heat seeping through his briefs.

Evan whines again in response, preening into Barty’s touch. He breaks the kiss and lets his mouth wander; exploring the line of his jaw, tracing the edge with his tongue.

It’s when he reaches Barty’s neck that he stops, his hot breath fanning over equally hot skin. Barty stills his movements; frozen.

He knows what Evan wants as soon as a low sound escapes his mouth. He’s hovering, staring at a blank canvas with the desire to paint it red. But if there’s one thing about Evan it’s that he can resist. There’s temptation, sure—a decades old instinct that courses through his body, insatiable until he can sink his teeth in and taste. But Evan has never slipped, only going as far as leaving small bruises along his throat—never breaking skin.

Sometimes Barty wonders when he’ll finally snap.

“I don’t know how I do it sometimes,” Evan says—low and muffled into Barty’s neck. “You’re just—you’re here and you’re fucking perfect. You smell so fucking perfect. Bet you’d taste even better,” he licks a wet stripe from Barty’s jugular to his jaw.

“And you hate me for it, don’t you?” Evan moves to whisper hotly in his ear. A low growl in his voice that wasn’t there before. “But baby I know I make you feel so good.”

Barty pulls back abruptly and Evan’s eyes flutter shut. Without warning, Barty sinks to his knees on the hard ground, never moving his gaze from Evan’s face.

“What are y—oh,” Evan cracks one eye open, taking in Barty’s position.

“Keep talking,” Barty says coolly, fingers dancing over Evan’s waistband.

Barty mouths over the fabric before peeling it from his body, sliding the material down his legs agonizingly slow. Evan releases a shuddering breath when his naked body is exposed to the cool air, and Barty holds his hips in place to keep him from moving.

His cock is hard and curves painfully towards his stomach, already smearing precum from where it’s pooling on the head. Barty doesn’t hesitate, taking the tip in his mouth and swirling his tongue.

Evan hisses from above, but obeys Barty’s request as he makes quick work of swallowing him down his throat.

“You look fucking wrecked already, fuck. Just like that. Finally using that mouth for good.” Evan threads his fingers through Barty’s hair and pulls. It’s hard enough that it hurts. Barty groans around the heavy weight of Evan in his mouth and finds a rhythm. He hallows his cheeks and takes Evan further down, pulls back to suck on the head, does it all over again.

“On your fucking knees for me. Like always. Fuck, Barty you take me so well, look so good.” Evan’s rambling, trying to move his hips forward but Barty’s nails dig further into his thighs; he wants there to be marks when he lets go.

Spit and precum pools on his tongue, dripping out from the corners and it’s messy but it’s good. His senses are overwrought with Evan. Just Evan. His taste, smell, the feel of him wet and sliding in and out of Barty’s mouth. It’s enough to leave him straining in his jeans—desperate to use his hands to touch himself.

Evan keeps stringing out a litany of curses and praises, but Barty can barely focus on what he’s saying. Barty’s ears feel blocked, the ability to tap into his senses all but gone. He thinks if his skin turned itself inside out, he wouldn’t even notice.

Evan tugs his hair again, and Barty turns his gaze upward as he licks the underside of his shaft. Evan is panting into the night air and it’s visible when it meets the cold. The moon is still shining overhead, each silver ray illuminating the sweat that’s starting to gather at Evan’s hairline. He looks as fucked out as Barty feels.

He takes Evan down fully, letting his cock continuously hit the back of his throat until Barty is nearly gagging and tears well in the corners of his eyes. He can tell Evan is close even without him saying it; it’s the way his eyebrows knit together and his mouth parts ever so slightly, the subtlest hitch in his breathing. Barty’s reluctant to admit that it drives him crazy.

“If you don’t stop soon I’m going to come,” Evan warns, wrapping his fingers even tighter in Barty’s hair; Barty struggles not to choke when Evan’s hips stutter. He pulls off with a trail of saliva and a self satisfied smirk on his lips.

Barty is breathing hard, struggling to catch his breath as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve, glad that he can still taste Evan on his tongue. His eyes are bleary and he wipes them too before meeting Evan’s gaze.

“You’re stronger than you look, aren’t you?” Evan chuckles, rubbing at his bare hip. There are indents from Barty’s fingernails, small red crescents on the sides of his thighs; a mar on otherwise flawless skin. They look harsh enough to bruise, but Barty knows they’ll heal completely within 5 minutes. Leaving no trace of his touch, no evidence.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, standing up. Barty’s knees ache from the uneven cobblestone but he doesn’t mind, he’s always relished in the comforting sting of pain.

“Fuck,” Evan curses, knocking his head against the wall. His eyes look glassy as he stares up at the sky. Deep crimson and fucking mesmerising.

There’s silence between them now, stretching from one dark end of the alley to the other. Barty can't find it in himself to break it, his mind otherwise occupied with a rush in his ears as his heart clamors wildly in his chest, racketing around in his ribs and making as much noise as possible.

Barty takes the opportunity to just look. Sometimes he gets so in his head about what they’re doing, caught up in the heat of the moment, that he forgets. He forgets why he was drawn to Evan in the first place, before he knew who he was—what he was. Or is. What he is.

He forgets how he took one look at him across a dimly lit bar in Scotland and decided then and there that he wanted him. That hasn’t changed—no matter how much his feelings have.

So he lets himself touch. Let’s himself indulge. He slides a hand from Evan’s waist to his jaw, cupping it gently in one hand—as if he’s holding a piece of priceless art. He doesn’t miss the way Evan shudders as he leans in closer, stopping just before their lips touch.

The whole thing is a fucked up fantasy, an even worse reality. Because Barty knows it could’ve been different. He wanted it to be different. From the first lock of eyes across a room, the first heated kiss in a hidden alcove, he knew he wouldn’t be able to walk away unscathed. Evan Rosier had left his mark on him.

Now all they have is this, burning hatred brimming within Barty’s bones as they tear each other apart in a random back alley. A quick fuck every few months that always leaves Barty spiraling, wondering when the tipping point will be.

When will it all get to be too much? Where do they draw the line? What will it feel like when Evan inevitably leaves, moving onto some other person—victim—while Barty is left with nothing but the feeling of Evan under his hands and a soul damned to hell?

God, he really fucking hates him.

Evan breaks the silence, syllables smooth as they leave his mouth. “Kiss me.”

Barty had nearly forgotten their current position whilst letting his mind wander. But he can still feel it, the ache that comes from having no relief, the curling heat in his stomach, the constant need that hasn’t ebbed—not even for a second.

“You want me to kiss you?” Barty challenges, letting a breath fan over Evan’s parted lips.

Evan nods shallowly, their noses brushing. “Mhm.”

There’s a glint in his eye, like he knows Barty would cave for him in a second. Like he knows that this is a mutual exchange—a cruel game of back and forth.

He doesn’t want to let him win.

“And what if I say no?”

Evan’s eyes widen ever so slightly, barely enough to notice. But he keeps his resolve, his expression neutral when he asks, “Then who says I’ll let you fuck me?”

Barty’s jaw tightens. Evan is playing a dangerous game. Barty could turn around and walk away, leaving them both burning from the inside out; Barty should walk away.

But Evan knows he has Barty in the palm of his hand, all he needs to do is close his fist and Barty will dissolve.

He brings his thumb up to run the pad of it over Evan’s bottom lip, feeling the way the soft skin moves beneath his finger. “You’re insufferable,” Barty says, barely above a whisper. Evan gives him another once over before he’s suddenly bridging the gap, kissing Barty with a newfound ferocity. And, truly, who is Barty to stop him?

Barty groans into the kiss, the noise lost somewhere in Evan’s mouth as the sounds they make working in tandem to refill their desolate surroundings. This time their hunger is undeniable. Barty shoves his hands under Evan’s shirt and lets his fingers rake over his torso, desperate to touch every inch of him. The slide of their mouths is wet and hot and Barty loses himself in the feeling. He lets himself consume.

Barty sucks at Evan’s bottom lip harshly, coaxing delicate, whiny sounds from his mouth. Each one goes straight to where his cock is still agonizingly untouched. He’s brimming with pent up energy—ready to tear the skin from both of their bodies so they’re as close as possible.

Unable to help himself, Barty rolls his hips forward to meet Evan’s, desperate for any ounce of relief. Evan is still half undressed and leaking all over himself, and he whines when his cock rubs against the fabric of Barty’s jeans.

Evan doesn’t let him stop though, he grabs Barty’s hips and keeps him there, rutting against him shamelessly. The relief that floods through his body is instant, and he craves more. He always craves more with Evan; usually he never wants to stop.

Part of him wants to say, fuck it I’ve waited long enough, and just grab Evan and take. Fuck him into the wall until he’s seeing stars. But Barty can be patient. He can. And he wants Evan to feel what he feels, to have him be the one to fall apart. He wants to build him up until he can do nothing but fall.

Barty breaks the kiss, ducking his head to suck the beginnings of several bruises on the expanse of Evan’s neck. Evan gasps and writhes against the wall, pulling Barty closer. Always closer.

“Eager are we?” Barty asks after biting particularly hard on Evan’s collarbone. He watches the way it glistens, shiny and slick with spit.

Evan laughs, but it sounds vicious to his ears. He’s on the precipice of either snapping at Barty or breaking apart in his arms.

Good, Barty thinks. Let him break.

But one wrong move and he’s a dead man.

“You’ve had your fucking fun Barty—shit,” he whines, high and breathy, when Barty stills their movements, pressing their bodies firmly together. Just to feel. “Now get on with it and fuck me.”

Barty chuckles and presses a searing kiss to his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth so when he speaks they’re eye-level. “I think I’m gonna need you to ask a little nicer.”

“Barty,” Evan warns, his stare sharp enough to draw blood. It pierces something deep within Barty’s veins.

“Evan,” he retaliates. He snakes a hand between them until his fingers ghost over Evan’s cock. His touch is featherlight, barely even there.

Barty takes him in his hand, sticking to slow languid strokes. It’s not enough to get him off, barely enough to offer relief. And Barty knows he’s being cruel. They’ve already dragged this out for far too long considering how exposed they are, even in the midnight cloak of nightfall. But he can’t get himself to stop now. He likes it a little cruel; he knows Evan does too. “You know what I want,” he tells him.

“Do I?” Evan asks, smirking. But his expression falls and his hips stutter when Barty swipes his thumb over the head, and Barty knows he has him.

Barty nods. “You do.” Their eye contact doesn’t break—not even for a second—as he says, “Beg, Evan. I know you can. Beg for it like you fucking want to.”

He can tell Evan tries hard not to be affected by his words, but his pupils grow twice their size, darkening the look in his eyes even more. Barty speeds up his hand and relishes in the way Evan’s breaths come out shorter, shakier.

“I thought I already did,” Evan chokes out, the words getting caught in his throat.

But Barty doesn’t back down, just raises his eyebrows and waits, squeezing the base of Evan’s cock so that he knows the pressure is nearly unbearable. He snakes his other hand around Evan’s waist, brushing lightly beneath his lower back with his fingers; inching lower, lower, lower.

“Beg,” he repeats.

He reaches Evan’s ass, fingers dipping and teasing near his hole. Just the feeling of Evan pushing back into his touch leaves Barty desperate. He’s growing increasingly more impatient with the need to bury himself in Evan—claw his way inside and never leave.

“Please,” Evan whines. The same as he had earlier.

Barty presses the tip of his index finger against his hole. It’s dry, but he knows that nothing drives Evan crazier. “More,” is all Barty says. He resumes his work on his cock and Evan lets out a small cry, trying and failing to fuck himself on both of Barty’s hands. Barty watches in utter amazement, satisfaction swelling in his chest with the knowledge that yes, he did that to him.

“Please,” Evan repeats, the word nearly a sob. “Fuck, I need—need you. Need you to—” he breaks off with a loud groan. His hips are moving frantically, devoid of his body’s usual rigidity. He locks his eyes with Barty’s and raises his chin, a look of defiance and quiet pleading when he finally, finally, cracks. “Fuck me until I can’t think straight.”

Barty inhales sharply, entirely unprepared for how that would sound in Evan’s voice. He feels his cock twitch in his jeans as all the blood in his body rushes south. Yes, yes, yes, he thinks.

This.

You want this.

Take this.

He pulls his hands away and presses Evan back into the wall. “See?” he says teasingly, “That’s all you had to say.” Then he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing his cock, a sharp exhale escaping his mouth when he wraps a hand around himself.

It’s as if they go into overdrive, neither of them speaking as Evan makes quick work of removing one of his pant legs, his shoe tossed aside in the process. His movements are fluid and quick even with how confined he is between Barty and the wall—it’s incredibly annoying how easy he makes it look. In no time he has one leg hiked around Barty’s hip and is pulling him closer with his heel.

Barty’s fingers fumble as he rids himself of his jacket not a moment later, finding the thick fabric all too constricting. He’s only in a cotton t-shirt now but barely notices the cold; the burn of Evan’s skin flush against his is enough to incinerate his insides to nothing but ash. Barty makes sure Evan’s back is against the brick before picking up his other leg and securing both around his waist, fingers digging into his thighs.

“Spit,” Barty commands, letting go of one thigh to hold his palm up to Evan’s mouth.

Evan peers at his hand as if weighing out his options, but eventually his lips split into a smug grin and he opens his mouth. A thin line of saliva stretches from the tip of his tongue to Barty’s open palm, pooling where it hits skin.

Barty swallows hard. He can see the tips of Evan’s fangs under his top lip and can’t help but stare. The sight of them reawakens the thrill that bubbles just below the surface—the thrill he gets whenever he can really see for himself. It’s exciting, tempting, revolting. It’s proof of exactly what Evan is capable of. Barty’s throat aches with the lingering drag of Evan’s lips on his neck.

All Barty can do is wait and watch. Evan lets more saliva form in his mouth before he opens it again. He tongue hangs out obscenely as if he can sense all the ways it fucks with Barty’s head, and spits out every last drop until his lips are shiny and Barty’s fingers are thoroughly coated.

“Fucking hell,” Barty grits through his teeth, spreading his fingers and admiring how slick they are. He wasn’t lying earlier—Evan Rosier will be the death of him.

He grips Evan’s thigh harder, his spit-soaked hand moving to circle Evan’s rim. Testing the waters, he presses the tip of his index finger past the tight muscle and savors Evan’s small whimper.

“Shit Barty, enough. Just—”

But Evan doesn’t get the rest of his words out. Barty lets his finger press all the way to the last knuckle as he scrapes his teeth along Evan’s jaw. And this time he doesn’t tease. He works his fingers in one after the other and internally gloats as each one unravels Evan just that much more.

Evan never takes much time to prepare—certainly less than anyone else Barty has fucked. So it’s quick and fucking filthy even by Barty’s standards. He’s three fingers deep and repeatedly thrusting against the bundle of nerves deep inside Evan, causing him to cry out with each sharp sensation. His lips are red and swollen and Barty is fighting hard not to take them between his teeth; ravage him until he swallows every broken sound Evan offers and leave him ruined in a heap of waste.

“I’m good I’m good,” Evan rushes out, heels digging into Barty’s spine. He grasps Barty’s arm so hard it hurts. “I’m ready.”

Barty grins and mouths the word needy, which makes Evan glare at him with a huff. He slowly pulls his fingers out and kneads Evan’s ass a few times, carving his nails into supple skin.

From there it’s more spit as Barty slicks himself up with a mixture of saliva and precum, his cock leaking painfully down his leg. When Barty lines himself up with Evan’s entrance he groans and has to bite hard on the inside of his cheek—he isn’t even inside him yet and already he feels like he could come.

He glances up at Evan who nods, breathing in harshly as Barty presses into him. He goes slowly at first, closing his eyes because just the feel of Evan around him is enough to send electricity pulsing through his body. Every inch of tight heat is torture and bliss, a heady combination that makes Barty’s knees weak and arms shake under their combined body weight.

“I—fuck,” Barty groans, his forehead dropping onto Evan’s shoulder as he bottoms out. Evan’s chest is rising and falling in quick breaths, his grip on Barty’s arm unrelenting.

“So fucking tight. God, you feel good.” Barty whispers against the warmth seeping through Evan’s shirt. He grips Evan’s thigh tighter, hoping a stronger hold can tether him down because what the fuck?

“Yeah?” Evan asks hoarsely, the word barely forming.

“You…fuck,” Barty repeats.

He releases a few shaky exhales, giving Evan a moment to adjust. But really it’s Barty that needs to get a grip; he’s floating away from himself with every passing second. It’s too much, too good, too soon. It shocks him just how fast Evan can take him apart, leaving him ready to crumble with the simple press of skin into skin. How someone so fucking wrong feels like the best mistake he’s ever made.

But wrong has never been clear to Barty. The way he sees it, everybody has a weakness; something they’re too afraid to admit. Something that could strip them bare from their morals and say, There, look at yourself. You’re nowhere near as good as you really think you are.

And his? Well, Evan is his something. His weakness. His secret. His vice. Always somewhere in the back of Barty’s mind to press replay on the things they’d done, the things they continue to do. It’s no secret that they lack the strength it would take to stop.

Barty takes another shuddering breath before lifting his head. “Can I—”

“Move.” The fractured sound of Evan’s voice feels like shattered glass; something that once held shape but now lies in a million tiny shards. It’s vulnerable and open—and it’s all for Barty.

Barty shifts his feet, making sure his legs won’t buckle as he pulls halfway out and thrusts sharply back to the hilt. It’s mind numbingly good, the smooth drag against Evan’s walls enough to tear a loud sound from the both of them.

“Fuck, I’m going to ruin you,” Barty grunts. He pulls almost completely out, letting the head of his cock tease Evan’s hole before he snaps his hips forward. The movement causes Evan’s entire body to jerk up the wall and he curses loudly, wrapping a hand around Barty’s shoulder and fisting his fingers in the dark fabric of his shirt.

“Well we don’t have all night—Oh.”

Barty repeats the same motion, swallowing another broken moan that falls from Evan’s lips as he kisses him briefly. It’s more of an exchange of tongue and teeth and spit as Barty sets a rough pace, each sharp thrust setting his body aflame.

It’s fucking invigorating. His mind is filled with nothing but EvanEvanEvanEvan. The way Evan’s hands feel as they rake up and down Barty’s spine, rough in all the ways he touches him. The sound of skin on skin that permeates the air, too loud for the empty town. The push and pull as Barty takes everything Evan is willing to offer. Using him as he pleases. Fucking him raw and leaving nothing to show for it.

“Fuck, Barty,” Evan whines, his calves squeezing tight around the sides of Barty’s waist. “Harder, please…need more.”

It’s as if Barty is functioning fully on autopilot. No second thought to his actions and no filter on his mouth. He pushes his fingers further into Evan’s skin, tugging his hips downward to meet his thrusts as he quickens his pace. “Greedy fucking thing,” he spits out. “Always wanting more, can’t even take what I give you.”

Evan’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans, loud and unrestricted. The sound bounces off the brick and echoes down the narrow passageway. Barty can’t help but hope somebody hears him.

He leans forward to suck and bite at Evan’s jaw, doing nothing to stop the continuous string of “Yes, fuck. Right there, don’t stop,” that leaves Evan’s mouth. He keeps to the same angle, never slowing down as Evan rocks his hips as much as he can.

The added friction is intoxicating, and Barty can feel the beginning of his release building. A small spark that fizzles in and out as he keeps pushing, focusing solely on the way Evan stretches around him—the way he opens willingly at the first sign of intrusion.

Evan gets his hands under the hem of Barty’s shirt, scratching hard at bare skin until Barty winces from the pain, biting at Evan’s jaw in retribution. He’s confident he’ll find streaks of red down his back tomorrow; the thought does nothing but make him want more more more.

Evan tugs him away from his jaw, a wild look in his eyes. “I want to hear you say it,” he pants.

“Say what?”

“Say you hate me.” There isn’t a single flicker of doubt on his face, no mocking tone or lie written into his features. Just pure unbridled desperation, and Barty knows he means it.

“I—fuck, what?” His hips stutter, his entire body faltering for a moment. Just the thought of the words leaving his mouth is enough to have Barty desperate to say them. Because Evan already knows—he knows how Barty feels about him, yet something in him craves confirmation.

With one look at Evan’s disheveled hair and sharp features he can feel it…the simmering fusion of anger and fear and lust that threatens to boil over every time their eyes lock. The two of them are a cruel juxtaposition—hot and cold, alive and undead—yet one in the same. It infuriates him. Barty is positive that if he ripped open their chests their insides would be nearly identical. The only difference a beating heart.

“Yeah, I—fuck, I really do. I hate you,” he lets go of one of Evan’s thighs and braces his hand against the wall. The noise Evan lets out is inhuman, a throaty guttural sound that must hurt to produce. It nearly shakes Barty to his core. “I fucking hate you, Evan.”

But Barty doesn’t stop there, more than anything he wants his words to sting. To fester and rot until they’re ugly and bruised, deep enough that Evan can’t remove them even if he tries. “Fucking evil, vile, wretched thing,” Barty snarls, pounding into him even harder, nails digging into the wall and his gaze unwavering. He’s relentless, never letting up even for a second.

He expects some type of reaction from Evan—a biting remark, an “I hate you, too,” just to level the playing field. What Barty doesn’t expect is for Evan to smile, fucking himself on Barty’s cock like he was born to do it and say, “You love it.”

Barty’s next breath gets stuck in his throat, seemingly unable to find a proper response. His hips shift to find a new angle and Evan’s smile is wiped from his face as amusement turns to pleasure, an even louder moan torn from his throat.

“There, right there,” he chants, fingers finding purchase in Barty’s hair to pull him forward so their foreheads touch, both equally damp from sweat. “Don’t you dare fucking move.”

Barty is panting hard at this point, his limbs burning from exertion, but he doesn’t ease his movements. He continues to hit the same spot, his hips pushing faster and harder and deeper. Further, further, further.

“I–I’m close. Fuck, Barty I’m so close,” Evan whimpers, his shaking limbs wrapping impossibly tighter around Barty—holding him close as if he could even think about leaving now. Barty knows he’s in a similar position, he can feel the telltale signs of warmth pooling low in his stomach, almost at the edge. Ready to fall.

But something in him is restless. It longs for more. Something he’s never known before, something he’s not even sure he can have. It’s gnawing at his insides, and Barty knows it won’t stop until he gives in—until it gets what it wants.

In less than an instant, he’s made his decision. He forces his thrusts to grow shallower, postponing both of their releases. His body is screaming at him to continue, angry as the blaze within him starts to smoulder, but he doesn’t care—his mind is made up. He ignores the confused and desperate look Evan sends him.

“Bite me.”

Evan’s eyes grow impossibly wide, the roll of his hips faltering. “I—what the fuck?”

“Bite me,” he repeats, dead serious.

Evan is already shaking his head before the words leave his mouth. “I’m not turning you, Barty.”

With one more drive of his hips, Barty thrusts forward until his cock is buried fully inside Evan and stops, unable to go any further. Evan’s breath hitches in a choked moan.

It feels like torture. Purposeful, delicious, self-inflicted torture.

“I’m not asking you to turn me, I’m telling you to bite me.” Barty takes his hand off the wall, tugging Evan’s top lip up to reveal two sharp teeth on opposite sides. His stomach clenches in feverish desperation. I want, I want, I want.

He lets go and places his hand on Evan’s waist, the dip and curve of his body molding perfectly with Barty’s palm. He tilts his head so the pale plain of his neck is exposed further, a clear temptation.

“You don’t even know if I’ll…” Evan trails off. Barty can see it in his eyes again, that hunger. He’s leaning in closer, almost there.

“I said—” Barty’s sentence dies as Evan dives forward, a strangled sound leaving his throat. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—

He doesn’t register the pain at first, only the small push of something sharp pressing into his skin, nothing more than the poke of a needle. Followed by the warmth of Evan’s mouth on the space just above where his neck meets his shoulder. Cool lips against a spot that burns.

But then it spreads, turns into something akin to pain but more. A familiar sting, a prickling throb that shoots from head to toe and doesn’t stop, growing more intense. Somewhere, in the back of Barty’s muddled brain he knows that it hurts, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good.

Because Evan bites hard. Two fangs sinking in deep and sucking. Barty groans as he swears he feels the first drop of blood leave his body, the vibration reverberating to Evan’s lips, causing him to hum and press deeper.

Barty resists the urge to roll his hips, to keep fucking Evan against the wall as both of them take and give, an equal exchange of greed. Doing anything in their power to get what they want. But Evan is pulling away before he can drink Barty down and it’s too fast, too soon; Barty expected more.

“Why did you—”

“Fuck, it’s like you were made for me.” Evan laughs, distorted in Barty’s ringing ears. He rests his head against the wall and uses the tip of his tongue to lick at the dark red leaking off his lip—the perfect picture of sin.

“More,” Barty blurts out. The bite is starting to sting now, warm and wet where Evan laved his tongue over it. “More, I—take more. I want you to drink it.”

For the merest flicker of a second, Evan doesn’t move. He looks shocked, like he’s about to hesitate but thinks better of it. Both of them want this—Barty wants this. Why shouldn’t he indulge?

His teeth reclaim their rightful place quicker than Barty can blink. This time the feeling is instant, the smooth flow of blood from body to mouth completely taking over him.

The change is palpable—like Evan has finally stopped holding back, tilting his head to drink deeper and clutching Barty like a lifeline.

This, Barty thinks, is so much more.

Because before, there was a semblance of pain. The initial shock of having his flesh torn into by something otherworldly. The first taste of what it’s like to give himself over entirely.

Now there’s only pleasure. Blurring, burning, and white hot. Barty can’t help it when a soft moan slips out of his mouth, and it takes everything in him not to melt into the cracks between Evan’s fingers.

The stronger part of him—the rotten, twisted side that rears its ugly head time and time again—can’t help but imagine that this is how it feels to live. For Barty to offer his life up as if it was nothing more than an exchange of goods. To toe the thin line of death. To place the faith of his mortality in the hands of another and finally, truly, learn what it is to be alive.

With each ounce that slides down Evan’s throat the world grows hazier, softer at the edges. Barty knows he’s lost a lot of blood; he should tell Evan to stop. The problem is not a single part of him wants to. He’s sure that if Evan bled him dry he wouldn’t even notice—might even welcome it.

It’s only when Evan pulls away for a second time that Barty registers his legs are shaking. A black vignette adorns his vision but still he feels euphoric. Like he’s transcended to some other plane and it would take a village to bring him back down.

Turns out a village isn’t necessary. There’s blood leaking from the fresh wound this time and Evan is fast to lick it up, tongue swiping down to Barty’s collarbone.

“Open up,” Evan says, giving Barty no time before he’s grabbing his jaw and surging to kiss him.

The metallic taste spreading in his mouth is what inevitably slams Barty back to earth. Brings him back to the here and now.

Right now, as Evan’s tongue runs over his teeth and Barty can fucking taste himself. It’s enough to choke on, strong and pungent like copper and iron. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Barty shifts his footing, creating long overdue friction where he’s still buried deep inside Evan. Both of them are overly sensitive and riding out an entirely different high, so it’s no surprise when Evan gasps and chases the feeling again.

“I swear to—ah fuck.” Barty stops his teasing, pulling back to thrust in harder than before. It isn’t gentle, isn’t nice. He watches through narrowed eyes as Evan’s face morphs back into one of pure ecstasy.

Another shift of control.

Evan pulls Barty forward as he creates a new rhythm, sloppier than he was before. Unsteady at shaky the foundation. He nips at Barty’s bottom lip, peeling a piece of the skin off with a satisfied hum.

Barty ignores the fresh sting. His neck, his lip, and every tendon in his body all hurt to different extents—his throat tastes permanently stained.

“You—” Evan gasps, scrambling to return his fingers to Barty’s hair. “Fuck, you took it like it was nothing. Let me mark you up nice and fucking dark.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Barty snaps, devouring Evan’s lips in another mind numbing kiss as his pace brings them closer and closer. He lets their teeth clash and breaths mingle, profanities spilling from both their mouths in unsynchronised waves.

Evan lets himself be used and Barty takes it in stride, fucking him with reckless abandon and without remorse—not that there ever was any. In no time at all they’re both hurtling toward the end with no signs of stopping. Barty pushes and pushes, the last swell of his anger overpowering any stamina he’s lost.

“Touch yourself,” he spits; the words hold bite.

Evan moans but does as he’s told without hesitation, a high flush on his cheeks and his own cock in hand as he works himself in quick, hurried strokes.

“Don’t fucking stop this time,” Evan warns, but it comes out whiny. “I’ll fucking kill you if you stop.”

“You gonna come, Rosier?” he wraps a hand around Evan’s, feeling the jerk from the added pressure. “I got you all worked up, huh? I taste that good?”

Evan sounds like he’s grappling for a response but instead all he can muster is another choked “Yes,” and then he’s coming, spilling fast and hot between their bodies with the butchered sound of Barty’s name echoing through the alleyway.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Barty is losing it, he can feel himself slipping as he watches the way Evan fractures right in front of him. Right down the middle in two, held up by Barty’s arms alone.

Barty thrusts once, twice, before he follows Evan down. Every nerve on fire as he fucks him one last time and comes hard enough to blur his vision, his voice splintering into fragments. His nails scrape skin and try to claw deeper, try to sink into Evan like a hook as his cock pulses deep inside him and his breath comes out shallow.

Both of them are shaking, practically vibrating with the come down. Sweaty and flushed, a complicated mess running on high emotions.

Barty pulls out with little to no finesse, dropping Evan’s legs back to the ground as the other man hisses in discomfort. He’s equally unstable on his feet, grabbing harshly at Barty’s shirt to steady himself, his other hand on the wall.

“Don’t go collapsing on me now, Evan.” Barty is the one to break the silence, slicing through it with a low chuckle. He turns around to grab his discarded jacket, handing it to Evan wordlessly so they can clean themselves up.

“I wouldn’t be fucking stumbling if you hadn’t held me against the wall for so long.”

“Should I not have?” Barty raises an eyebrow in mock questioning, wiping his soiled shirt down to the best of his ability.

Evan stares at him, his expression evening out into careful indifference. “You always fuck to hurt me.”

Barty’s skin prickles at his words. In a way they dig at him more than usual. “True,” he accepts. When Evan says nothing he adds, “It doesn’t work though, does it?”

“No.” And it isn’t hard to see the glint of satisfaction behind Evan’s eyes.

After that there’s almost no talking between them as clothing is pulled on and adjusted, Barty’s jacket discarded in a nearby crate. The silence feels strange, stagnant. Up until now they’ve been anything but quiet—Evan is very vocal when he wants to be.

He’s not surprised though, this is how it always is. Quiet, almost calm. Both of them get too far in their own heads to do anything but leave a final snide remark before Evan disappears into the night. Gone faster than Barty can take his next breath.

That’s why Barty doesn’t hesitate in turning and walking away, ignoring the itching feeling that settles whenever they leave without saying goodbye. It’s not like he expects it, he knows the formality of a farewell is unnecessary. It means Evan will inevitably come back. It means: see you soon.

Barty’s feet take him back in the direction he came from, no need for a detour now. As he approaches the end of the alley he turns his head, sparing one last glance at the wall, to find Evan still standing there. He’s barely lit in the moon’s fading light, but he stares at Barty as if expecting something.

“Take me back to your room.” Evan’s voice is suddenly too loud.

“My room?”

Evan starts for him, stopping when he reaches his side. His cheeks still hold a slight flush, and his hair is disheveled, but he already looks put back together. Expertly rearranged. “The motel you’re staying at. Take me there.”

Barty doesn’t question how Evan knows where he’s staying, doesn’t even spare another second before their eyes lock and he’s motioning with his head. Follow me.

And he does. Evan follows him without another word, eerily silent as Barty leads him through the small streets and up the stairs of the worn in motel until, after staring at each other in silence for less than a minute, hands find bare skin again and lips clash together in a familiar fervor.

They spend the rest of the night taking each other apart over and over again—unconfined to a wall or the cramped stall of a dirty bathroom. There’s a nagging feeling in the pit of Barty’s stomach, like maybe, finally, he’s in too deep. But he pushes that aside when Evan licks over the fresh wound on Barty’s neck as often as he can, relishing in the strong leftover taste of his blood.

He doesn’t draw more—not this time.

Eventually, when the moon has set and the dark confines of night start to give, Barty feels his body succumb to exhaustion. His eyes flutter shut as the two of them lay side by side in bed, facing the ceiling and not saying a word, both too wary of the uncharted territory to move. He doesn’t even mean to; he knows Evan doesn’t sleep.

As Barty wakes it’s with aching muscles and a cold spot on the other side of the mattress. He’s alone; Evan long gone if the high position of the sun is any indication.

He squints against the bright light, glancing around the room for anything Evan might have left. It’s a fool’s game, wishful thinking. But perhaps not entirely unnecessary as he finds a small note on the dresser, written on the motel’s accommodating pad of paper.

Barty scrambles to pick it up, heart rate steadily increasing as he unfolds it. There is exactly one line written in what has to be Evan’s elegant scrawl. Barty is surprised he’s still breathing as the weight of the words flow through his mind, doing their absolute best to sink in.

I’ve waited years for you; you’ll see me again.

– E