darling @darlingemerson - Tumblr Blog

ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; V

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The Lost Boys lay to rest your fears regarding the night prior, and you agree to stay a night longer with the four of them. Everything is perfect, until Star comes to you with a warning.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: SMUT!!!!, emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, gratuitous swearing, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), internalized slut shaming, use of the word 'slut' and 'whore' (the boys aren't the ones saying it), implied parental verbal abuse, flirting, David's poetry loving ass, if you're reading this you're legally obligated to tell me what you would put on your jacket as a lost boys member, outdoor sex, not-quite-angry-sex-but-sorta?, kissing to make someone shut up, lore drop 👀, threesome, sex on a motorcycle, vaginal fingering, squirting blowjobs, vaginal penetration, kind of fluffy?, non penetrative sex, thigh riding, arguments, implied hypnosis during sex, non consensual hypnosis during sex (you don't know they're vampires so idk man), ANGST, the canon timeline is my bitch and I will do whatever I want with it

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: Hi guys! I'm sorry this took a while. There are two impending deaths in my family right now - one in hospice and one who had a brain bleed (don't listen to conspiracy theories, please take your medicine). I’m sorry if this isn’t up to par with my other stuff but if I didn’t post it now, I don’t think I would have the chance. In other news, this chapter alone is 1/3 the length of the original CLS and three times its original chapter length. This is what I get for finally giving everyone their smut scene. Original word count 4098, new word count 12800 (I'm sorry to the people who hate long fics)

MASTERLIST

← previous chapter

Michael stumbles up the drive, head hazy from the morning sun. It’s almost like the light had sucked the last of his strength. His bed begs for him.

It’s not all terrible, though. At least he finally knew where things stood with him and Star.

Star…

God, he hated leaving her alone this morning! He would have given anything for one more minute in her arms. She smelled so good, so perfect! But he had to leave her and face the oncoming storm.

He'll make it up to her. After all this ... whatever this is ... gets sorted out, they'll catch a movie, grab a bite to eat. Just be normal.

Michael trips, catching himself just in time before he faceplants on Grandpa’s porch. He really needs to sleep.

He would have gone straight to bed, had someone not caught his eye.

The side door is wide open—intentionally open—for Lucy Emerson to spot him when he arrives. And, for Michael to notice.

Mom has curled up in an old wicker chair, a blanket over her lap, tea in hand. Her hair is damp. She’s wearing her fresh clothes—ass-kicking clothes, Michael’s mind supplements.

She looks at him expectantly.

“I thought you’d be at work,” Michael says lamely.

“Hello, Michael,” she says—patiently impatient. Michael feels like he’s ten again, being reprimanded for forgetting his manners. She sips her tea. "We're still friends, aren't we?"

"Yeah," he grunts, rolling his head skyward.

"Oh. Oh, well, good. So, let's talk like friends, Michael. Let's chat. We never do that anymore."

"Mom—" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish.

“How was your night?”

“Fine.”

She hums, drumming her fingers against the ceramic mug. “And your sister?”

Michael withholds a groan. He rubs his eyes under the cheap sunglasses, summoning every ounce of strength to keep himself upright. Can’t his mom do this later?

“What about her?”

“Did she have fun, too?”

“I don’t know, Mom, why don’t you ask her?”

Mom’s smile falters. “She’s not with you?”

“Why would she be?”

He wrinkles his nose. His little sister hates everything he finds cool.

“Well, where is she?”

“Have you checked the library?”

“Michael, I’m really not in the mood. I asked you to stay home and look after your brother—”

“I did, mom! But you came home, so I figured—”

“And I hoped,” she says, a little louder, “that your little disappearing act was due to you looking out for her.”

“She was pissed last night and stormed out!” Michael flings his arm out toward the yard. Thankfully, you missed the drama that ensued. He’s not sure how he would have explained all of that, but he knows you would have taken Sammy’s side. “She’s not inside?”

Mom sits the tea on the railing, laying her hand across her stomach. “No,” she says in a slow, measured voice.

Michael frowns. He knows that tone. That’s the ‘pretend you’re not panicked’ tone.

“Mom?”

“I haven’t seen her. I assumed she slept through the fiasco last night, but when I went to check on her this morning, she wasn’t in her room. Sam said she went out.”

“No, Mom, I haven’t…” Michael trails off, blinking rapidly. God, he needs to wake up. His little sister … “She wouldn’t go with me. She hates—the guys.”

He can’t tell his mom about Star, not yet. He’d be in even bigger trouble for bailing if she knew it involved a girl.

“Well, where could she possibly be, Michael? It’s not like she’s made any friends!”

It’s pitch black when you wake.

With every blink, you adjust to the darkness, noticing the fragmented silhouettes. A pit forms in your stomach as it dawns on you that you're not in your bedroom.

Blindly, you feel for your glasses on the bedside table and slip them on. The blanket slides down your naked chest as you rise, and you frown.

You’re in the Lost Boys’ cave. The distant crash of waves haunts the cavernous cave like a far off roar. Memories from the night before trickle in like a whisper of a dream. The ache between your legs reminds you it's all real.

You had sex with all of them.

Well, not all . David had been notably absent from the action aside from some kissing.

You drag the sheets up to your chin and scan the 'room.' Not a trace of evidence remains aside from the obvious nudity and a sore pussy. Even your clothes have vanished from the floor.

With your glasses on, you can make out more details of the space.

The bed you slept in is a grand thing: four poster, intricately carved. The posts are a little chipped, but it’s sturdy, dark wood that people would pay an arm and a leg for these days. It matches your little antique side table. On top it is a glass bowl of baubles, glass gems, and tarnished silver jewelry. A fat pillar candle, about the size of your wrist, sat beside it and a matchbook.

Hmph. No electricity down here, probably.

You strike a match and light the ancient wick. It crackles and sputters, but catches. The flame grows tall.

Now, you see some more candles sitting on tall, rusted candelabras along the wall. Paintings with cracked frames clutter the corner; a russet rug lays beneath the bed. Pirate is there, too, that poor bastard. You must have kicked him off in your sleep.

It’s beautiful for what it is, but you wish you had a mirror to survey the damage.

Smiling, you decide to test your legs. You wobble as you pull the sheet with you, and wrap it around your chest. You’ll need to find the boys and get some clothes before you go home.

All of it had been wonderful. Really and truly—unimaginably—fantastic. They were so kind … even when they weren’t. None of the guys back home would have acted like that. They would have dumped you as soon as they got what they …

… Oh.

Oh no.

You grip a wooden post for stability; your fear threatens to bowl you over.

You fucked them. Not a cutesy lovemaking with a long term boyfriend. A X-rated, pearl-clutching fuckwith three men. They got what they wanted. And you—you made it so easy, didn’t you? Didn’t even put up a fight?

You’ll never be able to show your face in Santa Carla ever again. News will spread fast: Emerson’s sister is a slut. She’s taken three guys at once. No, I heard it was five. It was an orgy!

Oh god. You bury your face in your hands. Oh, fuck. This is a mess!

You sniff, steeling your nerves. One thing at a time. First, you have to get out of here. No— clothesfirst, then leave. It doesn’t matter what kind or who they belong to. You grab and you go. And, hopefully, no one notices.

Unfortunately, by the time you make it through the labyrinthine cave, the Lost Boys sit in the main room, chatting and joking, almost like nothing happened at all.

When you appear, they stop what they’re doing. Dear god did their mothers not teach them not to stare?

You pull the sheet higher over your shoulders. You’d had a speech prepared and promptly forgot it.

“Nice toga,” Marko says, breaking the awkward silence.

“I couldn’t, um, find my clothes.” Your voice is small, throat tight. You can’t cry yet. “Do any of you, um …”

David reaches for the cigarette behind his ear. “Your sweater didn’t make it.”

“Oh.”

Little slut , hisses a voice that sounds an awful lot like your dad’s.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry—

“We can go shopping,” David says slowly, exchanging looks with the other Lost Boys.

“No, that’s—I don’t want to be a problem.”

She was only out with friends, Lance! the memory of your mother cries.

She’s allowed to stay out past curfew when she’s an adult. But I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut now!

The noose around your neck tightens; your throat burns.

“Oh- kay … We can probably find something around here.” He jerks his thumb toward a table. “Your shorts should be dry, they laid out all day.”

The blood drains from your face. “How long have I been here?” None of them answer and you whip your head around to an old grandfather clock. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirtyish,” says Paul, “just in time for sunset.”

“Are you okay?” asks Dwayne.

“Oh, my god.” Is this what a heart attack feels like? You stumble down the stone slope and snatch your shorts off the side table. “I-I have to go home!”

“Where’s the fire?” Marko asks.

You struggle to keep the sheet in place as you get back in your cut offs, but give up and let it fall. It’s not like they haven’t seen it all anyway!

“I can’t believe I slept all day, I’m so dead.”

“To be fair,” says Paul with a gloating grin, “you were pretty busy last night.”

“Yes, I know! Okay? Please, don’t rub it in my face.” You gather the sheet in your arms, covering your breasts. “Where the hell are my shoes?!”

Mom had to be worried sick. You should have called. How were you supposed to explain this? All night and all day without a word, what did she think happened?

“You’ve been here this long,” says David, “might as well stay a little longer.”

“Look!” You snap your head up, begging the tears not to fall, but David’s figure is blurry. “Last night was a fluke, and I don’t need to be made fun of anymore, so please let me go without smearing the last of my pride on the doormat.”

David scoffs, his bemusement freezing over into ice.

Paul appears in front of you even though you swear he was across the room a moment ago. “What’s wrong?”

“I know how this goes, okay?!” But you were so totally fucking stupid for not realizing it last night. “I’m just another way to haze Michael. So, good job! Now you get to rub it in his face that his sister is a whore.”

Oh, God, Michael. You could cry thinking about him alone. He can’t fight all of them but he’s dumb enough to try. They'd massacre him!

“We wouldn’t,” Paul insists.

You recoil. “I’m not stupid.”

“Is that what you think this was?” David asks. “A game?”

“What else could it be?”

Quickly, you wipe your cheeks dry, but tears continue to fall. You want to curl up in a hole and die.

David exhales smoke through his nose. He flicks the ash from his cigarette onto the cave floor, exchanging a look with Marko.

“You’re wrong,” says David.

“Please—”

“You’re wrong .”

Somehow, you believe him. It’s a gut punch. An instinctive knowing , something you can’t quite describe.

David glowers at you, his eyes like torches of blue fire. You sniffle. You have an urge to affirm that you believe him, but you stop yourself. Your lower lip quivers with restraint.

“David’s right,” adds Paul, raising his hands in surrender. “We’re not messin’ around.”

“We don’t plan on quitting you so soon,” says Marko.

“Or ever,” finishes Dwayne.

David stubbs the cherry of his cigarette against his boot. “But it’s nice to know that you think so highly of us.”

“Dude,” Paul warns.

“You’re not serious,” you state, even though it feels like a lie.

“We are,” says Dwayne.

“What, so … this has nothing to do with my brother?”

“I admit, I wish I’d thought of it,” mutters Marko. “Wouldda been a little funny.”

“This has nothing to do with hazing Michael,” David states.

You wipe your cheek. “And you don’t think I’m a slut?”

Paul gently touches your back, and when you don’t shove him away, he says, “What kind of dicks are you used to being around?”

"Dicks that fuck around and kick you to the curb when they're done." The knot in your throat tightens. “If … if this had happened back in Phoenix, it would have been the talk of the cul-de-sac.”

I refuse to clean up her mess if she decides to act like a little slut...!

You flinch, and your body suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.

“That’s not really our style,” says Marko.

“We’re not interested in ruining a lady’s reputation.” The chip might have fallen off David’s shoulder, but there’s still an edge to his tone.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like you were,” you whisper. “Not many guys are as … well, as kind as you.”

David swallows this admission, his jaw tight. Then, he shakes his head.

“I should really go back, though," you say. "My family must be totally freaked. And I do need a shirt.”

“Hey, baby, you’ll hear no complaints from me—”

Dwayne smacks Paul on the back of the head.

“There’s no rush,” says David. “Your brother and Star got together, too. He was here all night.”

You freeze, “And you didn’t…? He couldn’t hear, could he?”

“Nah,” says Marko. "He was too wrapped up in his own party." He’s too happy to inform you of that, and you sputter.

"You've been here for this long," Paul adds.

“Which is why I should go.”

“But you never get to cut loose," says Marko, jumping back in. "C’mon—when’s the last time you actually did something for yourself, honey?”

He raises his eyebrows to drive home his point and you ... can't tell him. The last time had been the night you stayed out past curfew, nearly four years ago. You can still picture that disgustingly pristine doorway of your old home, barely holding it together as your mom and dad fought. Sammy doll eyes peered at you through the slats of the stairs, his pudgy cheeks pulled down into a sorrowful expression. Michael had kept his hand clamped on your little brother's shoulder to keep him from making matters worse.

That fight had happened long before your father’s infidelity came to light. Looking back at it now, it was his guilty conscious that made him so belligerent. It still stings. His voice is the salt in the wound, and even if he is divorced from your life, it doesn't erase the past.

Mike never got in trouble when he stayed out late. Not even now. It's always a slap on the wrist, a word of warning, not Hiroshima .

Technically, you’re an adult.

Which means you need to make the adult choice and go home. Your mom is probably tearing up half of Santa Carla right now—!

Michael had been here night with Star. She probably told him about your awkward reintroduction. She probably told him you were with the guys. Maybe she thought you also went back out?

At any rate, if Michael can do it, why can’t you? All things considered, your brother isn't a bad guy—he wouldn’t endanger himself like that, so the Lost Boys can’t be that bad, either.

“Do you want to leave?” asks Dwayne.

You worry bottom lip. “No.”

He shrugs. “Then stay.”

Maybe you’re naive. Maybe it’s the romantic in you, the one that wants to believe they’re different, the one that wants to believe they like you beyond the fact that you put out.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

A little longer can't hurt, right?

“Yes!” Paul sweeps you into his arms and spins you around. “ Pretty woman, yeah, yeah, yeah. Pretty woman, look my way. Pretty woman, say you’ll stay with me! ” he sings—but it has more of a Steven Tyler flair than Roy Orbison.

“Paul!” You clutch his shoulder, laughing despite yourself. “Put me down!”

“ Mercy! ” he shrieks.

“Put her down before she threatens to leave again,” says David.

“If I make her dizzy enough she won’t go nowhere, man.”

“Pa-ul!”

He obeys, in his own time, planting you on your own two feet. You push your hair out of your face. It’s hard to pretend to be annoyed when he smiles like that—especially when he sang one of your favorite songs.

“Thought you didn’t like music from the sixties,” you say.

“Hell no, babes. That would nix the Rolling Stones.”

“But we have to give you shit about something,” teases Marko.

“C’mon.” David stands from his wheelchair. “Let's find you something to wear before he finishes the verse.”

“ I need you! I’ll treat you right! ” Paul thrashed his head from side to side, miming an electric guitar. "Yow!"

You follow David, but watch Paul until you can’t see him anymore. “Is he always like that?”

“Only on days that end in ‘Y.’” David makes a face. “The weed was supposed to mellow him out.”

You laugh again, shrugging the sheet closer. David’s glaze lingers, dropping to your mouth, then back to the endless rocky tunnels ahead. You cover your mouth. Maybe he didn’t like your smile? You’re sure it couldn’t be too pretty, given the state of you.

You enter a room not far from the main cave. It’s organized chaos, to put it nicely. Bins of denim and scrap leather litter the space; t-shirts and fishnets and boardshorts haphazardly stick out from nooks and crannies. A single, battery operated lantern hangs overhead. David rummages through the bins until he finds a shirt. There’s a few holes and bleach stains on it, but it’s coverage you desperately need, and you accept it.

David turns around for your sake, granting you privacy. “We should get you something else to wear,” he mutters. ”Just in case.”

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “I have stuff at home.”

“And what about the next time this happens spontaneously ?”

“You think there's a next time?” you ask, popping your head through the shirt hole. You fluff your hair.

“I can hope,” he states, equally as sarcastic.

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know.” David turns, assessing you. “That’s just how you are, isn’t it, sunshine?”

“And you’re such a Lisa Frank painting.”

He smiles. “With unicorns.”

You snort, covering your mouth again.

David’s amusement simmers in those baby blues of his, lifting the corners of his mouth. “So, what about it?”

“What?” you ask. David gestures with his hand. “Shopping? You’re serious? I told you, I can get more from home.”

“Might be nice to have something different. Something that’s not so …”

“Dowdy?” you challenged.

“I was going to say ‘modest,’ but that works too.” David scratches his ear. “You can think of it as a date.”

“A date?” You cross your arms. “Like, a you and me thing?”

“That was the idea.”

A date.

A date with David .

Hi, powder keg, meet flame!

Being alone with him like this had been hard enough, but being alone-alone? Unchaperoned? Unsupervised? Your heart might just give out.

Still, it thrills you more than any motorcycle ride ever could. Gaining David’s undivided attention is like ketamine injected into your veins. You crave it so much it scares you.

You toss your hair to one side, masking your nerves behind a wall of taunt. “Is this your way of proving you’re better than the others?”

“After everything you’ve seen so far, do you really think that we aren’t okay sharing?”

Your heart skips a beat. There wasn’t an ounce of derision in his tone, no mocking—beyond what you’d already dished out—to be found.

“I guess not.” You drag your fingers across a leather jacket draped across the back of a chair. “Let's do it then. Go out. On a date."

God, can you flub this any more?

But David must find you endearing because he doesn't crack.

“Let’s.”

He pulls the leather jacket off the chair and hands it to you. It’s a few sizes too big and smells of cigarette smoke and Lexol.

“For the ride,” he says.

The boys watch you curiously as you re-enter the main cave. Toward the back of the room, Star’s curtains flutter. You can’t see her, but you’re sure she’s watching. David leads you down the slope with his hand against the small of your back.

“We’re going out,” he says. “You boys should grab something to eat.”

“Have fun,” Paul teases.

Amazingly, the bikes were exactly where the boys left them the night prior, right on top of the Bluff. David claims his. There’s something so effortlessly cool in the way he does it that you’re consumed with half-jealousy, half-awe.

“You sure there’s not another way we can get to town?” you ask. “You guys don’t have a station wagon hidden behind those trees, do you? I hear the bus system in Santa Carla is supposed to be top rate.”

“Don’t tell me you’re standing me up, Emerson.” David cocks his head, sliding his hands over his thighs.

You cringe. “Can you promise me you won’t go too rough?”

David sighs. “For now…” He offers his hand, which you accept. Your fingers slide into his palm as he pulls you around behind him, not unlike a gentleman leading you in a dance.

You suppress a snort. David and gentleman didn’t belong in the same zip code. Still, it’s probably not the smartest thing—taunting the driver of the motorcycle you’re on—to tease him for that, and you keep it to yourself.

You embrace him and rest your chin against his shoulder. He rolls his eyes. “You’re testing my self control, you know?”

“That sounds dangerous,” you quip.

The bike roars to life, drowning out his reply:

“You are.”

“I think that’s the best Chinese I’ve had in years,” you say, swinging your little bag of thrifted clothes as you walk beside him.

“Mr. Zhang knows his stuff,” he says.

Neither of you ate a lot, but you didn’t feel right asking David about it, in case he asked you too. Not that the food wasn’t good—it was delicious. But your stomach flip-flopped the whole time. Probably nerves. Even after the ordeal that was last night and David ‘buying’ (you’re pretty sure there were things in your bag that he got with a five finger discount) you some outfits, being around him was like orbiting the sun when you're made of wax.

“So,” you start. David’s hand brushes the back of yours, and you return the nudge. He turns his palm and slots his fingers through yours. “Where to next?”

“I have an idea,” he admits. “We’d need to kill some time, though.”

“Do I get a hint?”

“Not a chance.”

You pout. “You’re not going to murder me, right?”

“If I was, it wouldn’t be smart of me to tell you.”

“Not like I could do anything to stop you.”

David shrugs. “You’re very skilled at avoiding me when you want. I’m sure you’d escape.”

Ouch. Direct hit. He’s getting really good at throwing those back, and you can’t say you don’t deserve it.

You squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I don’t feel like running right now.”

David hums. He looks up at the sky, which is astoundingly clear tonight. The moon shines like a beacon. He returns your squeeze, dragging his thumb over the ridges of your knuckles.

“I guess I’m doing a good job at behaving.”

“Me, too,” you laugh.

David smiles and your insides quiver. He’s handsome, always has been; but there’s something mystical about him when he grins without a trace of mockery. He really is the sun. So bright, so intense, but one look from him and you blossom.

Together you round the corner, approaching a quieter street with less storefront lights and chatter. Santa Carla doesn’t have much to offer away from the Boardwalk and the Pier, so you were surprised when he brought you to this side of town. The old shops are shack-like, painted barn-red and sky-blue. Most of them are mom and pop shops: there’s a grocer, a diner, the old chinese restaurant, and the thrift. Seashells peek through the cracked cement—someone’s bright idea of making this strip festive, you guess—and bits of sand have blown over the dunes to fill in the gaps.

“You like books, yeah?” David asks.

“A bit.”

He ingests the answer thoughtfully, pursing his lips. “I might know a place. It’s not an overpriced tourist trap like the one on the boardwalk, either. We could go there next?”

“Now you’re spoiling me.” You dare to lay your head on his shoulder. You move it off him just as fast. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You don’t need to deserve it,” says David. “But, I think it’s important I make up for the misunderstanding earlier.”

“That wasn’t—” you sigh, and stare at the sand-pit below your feet. “You don’t have to make up for something that’s not your fault. It’s my stupid brain.”

You arrive at the alley where David had parked his bike. A rush of warm, salty air blusters past you, rustling your hair and David’s coat. The metal glints under the street lamps.

“I’m sure your ‘stupid brain’ wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions if someone had been there when you woke up.” David tugs on a strand of your hair. “That is my fault. I thought they would misbehave if I let them stay longer.”

“They didn’t do anything I didn’t want,” you say softly.

“Good.”

You tighten your grip on his hand and take a breath. The question of why sat on the tip of your tongue. Why didn’t he join in? Why didn’t he have his ruthless way with you? If there were any regrets from last night, it was that, as unrelentingly shameful as it was. How could you not be satisfied with three gorgeous men ravaging you—three men who hadn’t acted selfishly, either. Your pleasure had never been an afterthought, which none of your friends in Phoenix could say about their boyfriends.

Instead, you say, “Tell me about yourself, David.”

He releases you and sits side-saddle on his bike. “What’s to know?”

“Lots of things,” you laugh. “What’s your last name?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t have one I claim,” he clarifies.

“Well, what’s it say on your birth certificate?”

“Don’t have one of those, either.”

“Shut up,” you say. “How is that possible?”

David looks away, and your heart sinks into your stomach. His silence is a knife. When he speaks, it’s with great slowness, “I’m not exactly supposed to be here.”

“Oh.” You rock back on your heels and turn away. You're such a dumbass. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. It was a long time ago.” David plays with the fresh cigarette he stashed behind his ear before you left the cave. "Not all of us are as lucky as you."

There's not a trace of resentment anywhere to be found as he says this. His truth is unburdened by jealousy or contempt; you could swear he's nostalgic.

"I wish you could have been lucky, too."

"I was, in my own way." He leans back and assesses you from head to toe. “You remind me of someone I knew back then."

“Yeah?” You grimace. "Is that a good thing?"

“I think it is. It’s one of the first things I noticed about you.”

"I'm afraid to ask what the others were."

"I don't promise to answer truthfully, either."

You scoff playfully, and yet, your stomach twinges with melancholy. "What happened to them?"

"She died," he says.

"I'm sorry."

David humors you with a small smile, but it’s distant like his mind. “‘You do not know how longingly I look upon you,’” he starts.

He reaches for you, the tips of his leather clad fingers grazing yours until you give your hand to him. “‘You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return.’”

David interlaces your fingers with his. “‘I am not to speak to you. I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone. I am to wait.’” He pauses, “‘I do not doubt I am to meet you again. I am to see to it that I do not lose you.’”

Finally, he looks away with a roll of his eyes, as if he was embarrassed by himself.

You swallow thickly. “Who…?”

“Walt Whitman,” he confesses.

“Oh.”

“That ... is the second thing I thought of." He huffs through his nose. "You acted like you hated us."

"I didn't know you," you insist. "But one look at me, and I drove you to poetry?"

“You reminded me—” He stops short, drops his hand from yours, but you’re already closing the distance. “I’m not a good writer, Emerson. I don’t have any original words to woo you with.”

“I don’t care.”

David swallows. There’s a chink missing from his armor, and you catch a glimpse of the man beneath. “You’re looking at me really funny.”

“How?”

“Like you might actually like me.”

“There’s a chance,” you admit. “Don’t tell anyone.”

David shakes his head. “That’s going to be hard.”

When did he start whispering? And when did you get so close? You couldn’t fight the magnetic pull guiding you toward him anymore than you could fight gravity. You were going to kiss him.

At least, you were until David stopped you.

“What—?”

A firm hand on your wrist silences you. David stands. He stares past you, down the alley, where the street lamp illuminates the crumbling sidewalk.

A man stalls near the mouth, tall and broad. It takes a blink, but you recognize the figure. He’s carrying a bouquet.

“Max?”

Though you’re sure you say that under your breath, Max acknowledges you with that jovial smile of his.

“Ah—good evening,” he cheers. David steps in front of you, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “David, it’s nice to see you out and about. What are your brothers up to?”

“They went to the boardwalk,” he says lazily.

You tear your eyes away from Max to look at David, but he won’t meet your eye.

“I’m on my way to your house, now,” says Max, addressing you again. “I picked these for your mother. Do you think she’ll like them?”

“They’re beautiful,” you stammer.

You start to speak again, but David cuts you off. “We were just about to go.”

“Ah. Yes, I should do that, too. I’d hate to keep Lucy waiting.”

“Your date must have gone well last night,” you call out. David tenses.

Max pauses, laughing nervously.

“This is take two, I’m afraid,” Max says. “Luck hasn’t been on my side as of late. I’m a bit out of practice with this, er, dating thing. But I’m glad to see the two of you are getting along. I’ll pass it along to your mother. Will Michael be joining you tonight?”

David gives you a look, and alarm bells blare inside your head. “Oh, I’m not sure," you say. "Is he, David?”

Max waits, eager to hear as well.

“He has plans with Star,” David says tightly.

“Very well.” Max checks his watch, “I really must be going. You kids have a great time. Don’t stay out too late.”

But David is already climbing onto his bike. He doesn’t wait for you to take his hand this time; he pulls you by the arm, and your only choice is to get on the bike or topple over it. You don’t even see Max leave.

“You know Max,” you say.

But David revs his engine loud enough to drown you out. The bike rumbles furiously beneath you and he pulls out in lieu of an answer. The summer air is a razor to your face as David weaves through the Santa Carla streets, disobeying every traffic law in the book. But you’re beyond caring; a newfound dread usurps any fear you could have had.

“David,” you call, “how do you know Max?”

“It’s nothing.”

“David.”

Still he doesn’t answer.

“David, pull over right now or I’ll jump off!”

You feel his chest rumble, and he speeds up to call your bluff. You may have been terrified of bikes, but you were nothing if not stubborn. You unwind your arms from around him, barely even lifting the pressure off his waist, and David abruptly pulls off the main road.

The bike skids to a stop into the grassy, sandy strip of trees just beyond the last lights of the city.

David whirls around to look at you, his face contorted in anger. “Are you crazy ?!”

Your head spins from the encounter. Too many thoughts in your head, all of them shouting, clamoring to be heard; a chorus of why? and how? crudely bounce in the echo chamber of your mind. A mystery lies in front of you, and you fear you’ve already found more than enough clues to come to a conclusion.

I wish my boys had someone like you around. Maybe you could knock some sense into them.

You have sons?

Oh, yes. They’re reckless. As untamed as wild horses.

… Where are your brothers up to?

“Max is your dad,” you say.

David blinks, still appalled at your almost-stunt. “What?”

“Max—he’s your dad.” You get off the bike, pacing. “He told me he was a father … And you said you didn’t have any parents.”

“When did you talk to him?”

“Answer my question, David.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away into the trees. “He’s not my birth father.”

“Your adopted dad, then,” you huff.

David’s jaw flexes. He tightens his grip on the handlebars, and you wonder if he’s debating on leaving you here.

“Am I wrong?”

“Why do you care?” David sputters.

“Because you lied .”

"I didn't lie!" David’s mouth tightens. “He’s more like a benefactor.”

You scoff, and pace back and forth. “Unbelievable.”

David says your name, but you’re too angry to care.

“So what was all that crap you fed me last night? A few minutes ago? Huh?”

“I didn’t lie to you," he says again.

“Yes, you did! You said you had no one but each other.”

“And that’s all we do have! Max doesn’t give a damn about me.”

But you're fired up, and his excuses glance off you. “Putting aside the getting into my pants bit, do you know how royally fucked up it was not to tell me? He’s dating my mom .”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with this!”

“It does if you hate the guy so much that you’re willing to break them up!”

He scoffs, slamming his hand against the handlebars. “And how would I do that, sunshine?”

“This!” You gesture between the two of you. “You—me—sex! You want to mess with him!”

“No, I don’t.” David flips his kickstand down and is in front of you in seconds. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

“Why are you always looking for an excuse for this?”

“Because!”

“Because you can’t accept that maybe, just maybe, I like you?”

“Yes!”

David grabs your nape and kisses you, hard.

You don’t even realize you’re kissing him back until he has you against a tree, and all those latent feelings arise from their hiding places. You grip his coat as he holds your face, kissing you with a hunger that hadn’t been satiated last night. His mouth tastes faintly metallic and you realize you must have re-opened the wound you caused last night. The tang of his blood ignites your senses. Every hair stands on end. You moan. David breaks away.

“Max has nothing to do with the way I want you,” he rasps. His mouth grazes yours as he speaks.

It dawns on you that there’s no possible way it could. David couldn’t have known about Max and your mom until last night, their first date. He and the others had been a fixture in your Santa Carla life almost from the beginning.

“Do you understand me?” You don't answer fast enough, because David speaks again, "Do you?"

You nod, utterly speechless

David flicks his gaze down to your mouth and back up to your eyes, and kisses you again. Your body conforms to the contours of his, moving when he moves, breathing when he allows you, until all of it belongs to him and him alone.

“Please,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” He nips your bottom lip. “More?”

“Please.”

“Another word, sweetheart. A real one. Tell me.”

“I want you. All of you.”

‘All of him’ presses snugly against your pelvis, giving you the courage you needed to beg. Despite that tough guy act, he was held together by a singular, fraying string.

“I need to feel you in me,” you breathe.

He grasps your waist, hands delving beneath your denim to play with your pussy. You’re sensitive from last night, and it’s embarrassing how wet you get from a little manhandling. But it’s not just anyone doing it—it’s David. And you have always been putty for him, no matter how hard you’ve fought it.

“Lift your hips.”

He moves your shorts down just enough to where he has full access and unfastens his pants.

It occurs to you, vaguely, that you’re barely out of sight from the road. Anyone could drive by and see you, anyone could stop to check—a good samaritan thinking you broke down or something—and you should have been horrified. But David sinks himself into you, and you forget all about that.

You paw at his back as he drives into you, slow to start, gradually building depth and rhythm. Still, it’s sloppy. A bit uncoordinated, and whether that’s because of the clothes, the location, or your mutual desperation you don’t know.

All you know is that you’re whole.

The missing piece has clicked into place; your silent wish fulfilled, even if it was away from the others.

David grabs your throat, pushing your jaw upward. Stars fill your eyes as he kisses your pulse point, and you choke on a moan when he drags his teeth across the fragile skin.

“D-David,” you moan.

You yearn to ask him— bite me! Please, please, please bite me!

You’ve never craved pain before this, never fantasized about teeth and blood until you felt his. It’s only fair, isn’t it? You drew first blood, now it’s his turn.

“Ah!” Your voice breaks, eyes rolling when he sucks your sensitive spot below your ear. “More.”

David delivers, but not in the way you secretly wanted him to. His fucks you like he owns you, hiking one leg higher over his hip to reach a place that might be Heaven.

“I-I’m going to—”

“Do it. Let go,” David grunts.

There’s something about his voice—about his eyes—when he says that. There’s a pulse. That once strong, but distant, cord of pleasure suddenly ripped through you, like the invisible string had been pulled tight by David’s leather-clad grip. It’s a rush; less of a tumble and more like you’ve been shoved head first off a building. You cum with a moan.

David swears. He isn’t far behind you, working himself into you as you wade through the aftershocks of your climax. He cums, not bothering to remove himself from your pussy as he did so. You’re glad. If he had, you might have begged him to go again. You still could. David has an allure about him, his touch, even his smell, is a drug that you’re afraid you’ve become addicted to.

The hand on your throat moves to your cheek. David rests his forehead against yours. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.” He kisses your forehead. When he's caught his breath, he kisses your cheeks and slowly withdraws from your sex. He fixes your clothes. "I'm ... I didn't mean to make it sound like a lie."

"I believe you," you say. The rage lingers like a bruise, but you'll put it aside for now. "Can we go back to the cave?"

"Yeah. Of course."

The surprise date would have to wait for another day. Once you're as clean as you can be, you load onto David's bike and he takes the long way home.

The boys are back when you arrive; belly’s full and raucous as ever. Their laughter carries through the rocky halls, spilling out and mingling with the ocean’s roar like ghosts on the wind.

You pet your hair self-consciously, praying it doesn’t look like a rats nest, and hoping they don’t notice your strange walk.

David keeps an arm around your waist. He squeezes your hip reassuringly. Six eyes turn your way, each accompanied by toothy grins.

“So,” Marko drawls, “how was it?”

You turn on your heel to march back the way you came, but David you back into his arms, capturing you in his embrace.

“Classy, Marko,” David snarks.

Time blurs the longer you’re with your boys. Memories bleed into one another like an inkblot soaking into a page, seeping into a single, endless night. The coming daylight existed as a cruel reminder that you’d have to abandon your recklessness eventually, return to the dreadfully boring life you lead before. You hated it, and prayed it would stay away for as long as possible.

It’s the first time you’ve truly felt alive. Like someone finally flipped on the flashlight, illuminating a path ahead. Your once murky, dismal future appeared with razor sharp clarity, and it involved all four of them.

They made you try on the new clothes first, stating it’s only fair since they hadn’t been there to help you choose. Everyone approved of your picks. They’re the sort of clothes you’d always dreamed of wearing, in your secret heart of hearts. Bold, daring, and racy. Clothes that didn’t make you look like someone’s grandmother; clothes that turned heads. More specifically, the Lost Boys’ heads, which were the only people you really cared about impressing anyway.

Next, Marko insisted on helping you modify your jacket.

“Am I not allowed in your club until I’m fully customized?” you quipped.

“Something like that.”

They had accumulated heaps of fabrics, buttons, patches, and baubles; paints, spikes, and pins overflowed from their buckets, and they all took turns picking out pretty little charms to add to the chain Marko secured around the homemade epaulets. He embroiders blue feathers down your sleeves, like falling plumage in hues of cornflower, periwinkle, and cerulean. Together you cut up the back and used excess leather and ribbons to cinch it tighter, like a corset, so the once oversized and shapeless form now fit you like a glove.

There was more. More stolen kisses, more weed, more of that peculiar wine poured in tiny dixie cups.

“What is this stuff, anyway?” you asked David.

“Blood.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me.” You downed it, savoring its taste. “Whatever it is, you can’t even taste the alcohol.”

Paul would whirl you around the fountain as you jammed to his rock box and still spontaneously burst into bouts of Pretty Woman , or Be My Baby , or My Girl in his own hair-metal way. The boys and Laddie had no sympathy for you, finding it utterly hilarious, especially when you inevitably melted into a pile of sheepish goo.

Dwayne would only save you if you agreed to hop on his skateboard—no, not a euphemism—and let him teach you. The grin on his face when you could finally hold your own without falling was criminal. Just wait until you can do a kick flip, he might cry.

It’s as close to Utopia as you could find in Santa Carla; your very own Neverland.

You've never felt more different in your life.

You've never felt more yourself than in that cave.

You’re waiting for Laddie to come back with his spinning tops when Marko and Paul slide up beside you, pulling you onto your feet.

“Can I help you?” you ask, half-heartedly struggling against them.

“We were just thinking,” starts Paul.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

He pouts.

Marko doesn’t beat around the bush. “You need to learn how to ride a motorcycle.”

“Ha!” You unwind your arms from theirs. “No.”

But they catch you, weaving their arms around you so you can’t escape.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!” says Paul. “Relax, girl.”

“I don’t think road rash is fun.” You rotate your wrist and add, “Or plaster casts.”

“We wouldn’t let you get hurt,” says Marko.

“Like you can prevent that.”

“We happen to be excellent teachers, honey.”

“Ye of little faith,” taunts Paul.

"Look, I've already tried to ride a bike and almost killed myself. So thanks but no thanks."

"Yeah, but that was when Mikey was your teacher," says Paul. He uses your brother's nickname like a slur.

Marko adds, "We've been riding these things since before he was born."

Oh, god. The ego driving pissing contest. "You're not going to let me get out of this, are you?"

Paul shakes his head.

And on they drag you, away from the safety of the cave up the aging wood steps to their rides from hell. It's like marching to your own death.

“Do you guys hate your motorcycles so much that you’ll let me, of all people, drive them?”

“No,” drawls Paul. “We like you so much that we want you to drive our motorcycles."

“What would you do if somethin’ bad went down and we needed help, huh?” asks Marko.

“I’d wait for the bus,” you say dryly.

Marko slaps the handlebars of a bike. “You’re not getting out of this, honey. Hop on Paul’s bike.”

Paul’s face falls. “My bike?”

“Ha!” You point in Paul's face. “See?! Hang on to that picture of mangled metal. It’s a premonition.”

Marko gives him a look. Paul’s eyebrows shoot up and he gestures toward the bike, but Marko doesn’t let up.

Paul sighs, begrudgingly complying with a tone that could only be describes as child-forced-to-eat-vegetables: “Hop on.”

So much for fear, huh?

You sling your leg over the seat, shifting uncomfortably. It’s got a similar make up to Michael’s Honda, but there are a lot more bells and whistles to contend with. Paul settles in behind you, taking full advantage of the position by scooting as close as possible.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he coos.

The man's libido is truly something. In ten seconds flat, he forgot all about the very high likelihood of you wrecking his pwecious baby .

Your wring your hands together, too anxious to touch more than you already were. “I don’t know about this, guys. Seriously. Maybe we should wait until it’s daylight, o-or grab someone else. Like Dwayne. Or David.”

Someone who isn’t a certified terror .

“Paulie ain’t gonna let you crash,” says Marko, slapping the handlebars.

The bike jiggles, giving you the opposite of reassurance.

“I’ll keep you real safe,” Paul assures you.

Oh, joy.

You’re shaking as Paul and Marko instruct you on how to start the bike, but phrases like use the clutchand don't flood the engine mean nothing to you. Paul has to be the one keeping it steady. There’s no other explanation why it didn’t tip over immediately.

Paul lays his hands over yours when you start the engine. His grip is sturdy. In that moment, he's as good as God in your eyes. Or, he would be if you could see him.

He doesn’t force you to go fast, which is a small, merciful, win as you loop around Hundson’s Bluff, the road, and back. The wheels jostle as you go over rocks and uneven terrain, but it takes each turn like a champ.

They make you do about a dozen more loops before Paul forces you to do it by yourself.

With sweaty palms, you jerk into a turn and head back for the road.

It’s … not as bad as you imagined it would be. You gradually take the turns faster, moving from a snail’s pace to a semi-acceptable road speed.

The two of them whoop and shout like fans at a sporting event, and even you can’t help but laugh. You’re doing it. You’re riding a motorcycle—and you’re not crashing. The landscape blends into varying hues of black and gray, and the constant rumble from the bike is almost soothing.

You come to a shaky stop in front of them, a smile plastered on your face. You’ve barely killed the engine and flipped the kickstand down when Paul surges forward and kisses you.

“God, that was so sexy!”

“Shouldda brought a camera,” Marko mumbles, biting his thumb. His dark eyes dart over your figure, still straddling the bike. “You’re like a centerfold waiting to happen.”

Paul pinches your chin. “We need less clothes for that.”

You gulp, chest heaving from the exhilaration and something else. You push your hair back and wet your lips, looking between the two of them. “I guess it’s not so bad when you don’t crash. Like flying.”

“Hell yeah,” Paul cheers.

Marko’s grin is razor sharp. “Exciting, yeah?”

“I can’t stop shaking,” you admit. But they were good shakes, tremors of adrenaline, greater than any high their weed could formulate.

“You look excited,” Marko muses.

You must be made of glass for him to notice your transparency.

Paul stares down at you with those forget-me-not eyes of his, worrying his pretty bottom lip until it’s pink. He’d been no help. It’s partly his fault you’re all wound up in the first place.

You squirm against the seat, ultra aware of the tingling between your legs. It started as a tickle as the rush of successfully riding a bike thrummed through your veins. Having Paul’s budding erection snug against your ass, and the vibrations from the bike pressed right against your bundle of nerves, motivated your libido to rocket skyhigh.

“You’re horny, baby?” Paul asks rhetorically.

You swear everything quiets, even the wind, just enough to make your heartbeat thunderous. You don’t mean to grind against Paul’s bike, but when you shift forward it shoots fireworks of pleasure through you.

You glance between them, and step into the deep end. “What are you going to do about it?”

All it takes is a look. Barely a nod. Paul and Marko move in sync, hauling you onto your feet and shoving your leather jacket off. Marko meets your mouth half way. He’s fiery, keeping one hand on your throat while the other pushes your embarrassingly short shorts aside. Paul kisses your jaw, groping your breasts through your shirt, teasing your nipples until they’re stiff.

Marko turns you around, and you finally catch a good look of poor, needy Paul. He’s palming himself through his pants, lips parted, like he’s moments away from kissing you himself.

But Marko doesn’t let that happen. He bends you over the bike, smacking your ass as you go down. You’re eye-level with Paul’s bulge, your middle squished awkwardly against the seat and ass hiked way up. With your shorts pulled to the side, there’s nothing between you and Marko.

“Look at you,” Marko whistles. He sinks a couple of fingers inside your dripping pussy as Paul undoes his pants. “You gonna let Paul and I have our fun now?”

You nod, gasping as he twists his fingers just right. “Yes!”

Paul strokes his shaft with one hand and pets your head with the other. “Be a good girl and lick it, yeah?”

He looks like he really needs it, too. Somehow, even though you’re in the dark with barely even the moon to light your path, you can see him perfectly. His tip is the same pretty pink shade of his lips; a pearl of precum blossoms out of his slit.

You stick your tongue out flat and slowly lap over his head. Paul’s breath hitches, and he eases forward, breaching the tight, wet suction of your mouth as Marko pushes inside you.

You whimper. You hadn’t even noticed Marko’s hand leaving your cunt, it felt like it happened so fast. And now, his cock bullied its way into your hole. It’s thicker than you remember— mean how it stretches you open even though you’re dripping.

“Oh, fuck,” Marko hisses.

Paul is beyond words, possibly because you can’t stop making noises as you breathe him in.

Crass as it is, it’s strange being filled at all ends. Yes, they’ve done it before, but you had been so far gone that it seemed like a distant dream. But this is real. This, Paul in your mouth and Marko in your pussy, is grounding.

And then, they begin to move.

They’re overeager, and if you weren’t as much of a mess you would have made fun of them for how horny they got seeing you on a motorcycle. Yet, knowing you’re the one that riled them up that way is an aphrodisiac on its own.

Marko jerks your clit like it was a toy to be played with as he slams into you, forcing you to take every inch he had to offer. He doesn’t talk much—not like Paul, who talks enough for both of them—but his grunts and groans are sublimely erotic.

“Doin’ so good, baby, just like that,” Paul mumbles. You bob your head faster, uncaring of the drool seeping from the corners of your mouth. “God, you’re so fucking pretty like this. Looking up at me as you suck on my dick— fu-uck! ”

Marko pulls out abruptly, and tugs you off Paul’s cock by your hair. The absence of him inside aches like a stab wound. You have to arch against Marko to satisfy the pull on your roots, and Marko takes advantage by kissing your cheek.

“Straddle the bike, honey,” he orders.

Clumsily, you swing your leg back over Paul’s bike, but a sharp jerk on your hair keeps you from sitting.

“Marko!” you whine.

“Almost, honey.” Marko kisses his teeth. “You wanna shake? I can give you something to shake about. It’ll be the best ride you’ve ever had.”

Paul turns your head and kisses you as Marko’s fingers probe your needy pussy. He rolls your clit, starting slow then building up speed as Paul’s hand slides over the globes of your ass. Paul reaches your cunt from behind and pushes two fingers inside.

It’s the strangest sensation, more so than their cocks. Two hands, completely disconnected from each other, different sizes, different shapes; and yet they come together to build a matching, punishing pace.

It’s too much.

You break free of Paul’s kiss with a gasp. You’ve never been drawn to watching yourself be gratified, and yet you can’t look away from their hands as they undulate under your shorts. Open mouthed and glassy eyed, you sob. Your knees quake, threatening to buckle and send you crashing onto the seat of the bike.

“W-Wait, I feel—” Indescribable. The sensation is unlike any orgasm build up you’ve experienced prior. You’re not even sure it is an orgasm. It feels wrong, a rising tsunami as opposed to a crashing wave. “S-Sto—ah—it’s—!”

They don’t stop. Paul’s fingers hit just the right angle as Marko rubs your clit, and you climax so hard your vision goes white. Something gushes out of you, and for a couple of horrified moments—once you’re actually coherent—you’re positive you’ve pissed yourself.

You expect disgust. You don’t expect to see Marko beaming.

“Oh, fuck,” Paul moans. “Squirted all over my bike, didn’t you baby? Such a good fucking girl.”

You don’t have the time, or the ability, to ask what that means. Marko rips you off Paul’s bike and shoves you backward, onto another. You land like a ragdoll, limp-limbed and bobble-headed; too disoriented to see straight. The kickstand groans, but the bike doesn’t tip.

Luckily, Paul appears behind you, being the solid wall that keeps you from dropping over the edge of the cliff. Marko hikes your knees to your chest.

Marko enters you with a low, drawn out fuuuck . You gasp, clutching his jacket. He reminds you of an ancient statue in all his ecstasy, head tipped toward the gods, curls cascading down his shoulder, his back. He might as well be carved from marble.

You reach behind you and take Paul’s cock, fervently stroking him as Marko pummels your pussy.

They take turns kissing you. Marko first, all tongue and teeth, then Paul, who uses your mouth as a confessional. He mutters fragmented, sinful words that slur and break whenever your thumb teases his slit. Marko butts in again, and you can feel how close he is. His thrusts are sloppy, his breathing ragged.

Paul rests his head on Marko’s shoulder and watches the lurid scene between your legs.

Marko cums with a grunt, sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck. You yelp. The twinge of pain burns, but Paul is quick to kiss you, distracting you from the pain. Marko must have drawn blood because he soothes his tongue over the divots as something wet dribbles down your clavicle.

" Oh ," you moan. That pleasurable pain threatens to do you in a second time; you're already so thoroughly fucked and wound up that a little bit of agony goes a long way.

It fuels a second wind. You twist onto your belly, laying across Marko's bike so you're down in front of Paul, and you swallow his length. It's akin to being drunk, that belligerent sensation of invincibility and craving . Paul is weak from skirting the brink for this long, it doesn't take much to force him over the edge. Paul's breath hitches, too far gone to even whimper before he floods your mouth with his cum.

“Aw, look at you. You take cock so well,” Marko croons. He pushes your head further down Paul’s shaft. “You’re gonna swallow it all, right? Since you’re so hungry for it?”

You gulp it down and stare at Paul through your lashes. Tears of pleasure stream down your face.

“Fuckin’ hell, dude,” Paul groans when he's capable of human speech again.

Marko relents and you drag yourself off Paul's cock with a cough. You're hypersensitive to the strain in your body, now. You sag against Marko's bike, and Marko embraces you.

“Need a shower,” you grumble. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Feel like a used sock.”

“What?" Marko snickers.

"Like a cum—never mind."

You're too tired to explain yourself.

“Oh, fuck, gimme a minute, man.” Paul runs his hand over his face. “Jesus.”

Paul grumbles something along the lines of having his life sucked out of his penis, but it's mostly gibberish. Marko noses your temple, rubbing soothing circles against your hips until you come back to yourself.

You pull your shorts back into place, cringing as the wet slip of denim grazes your pussy.

“I’m have to throw these away,” you lament. They were one of your favorites, too. Homemade from an old pair of your mother's and ultra soft from years of use. Damn.

“Why don’t you take ‘em off," Marko murmurs. "Then we can really get that centerfold look we were talking about.”

You’ve never had a better bath in your life. Sure, the water is lukewarm—the boys siphoned hot water off someone else’s tank since the hotel didn’t have power—and you don't have nearly enough bubbles to make it fun, but the tub is massive. A porcelain clawfoot monstrosity that probably cost a small fortune in today’s money, much like all the other antiques junking up the Lost Boys' cave.

It takes a while to get fully clean, and you guiltily stole some of Star’s hair products. (You absolutely needed a head-to-toe wash after your time with the guys.) But with every layer of grime, you are made anew.

When all is said and done, exhaustion seeps into your pores. You're tempted to fall asleep in the water just like that, but you've survived a motorcycle tonight. You're not about to be taken out by a little bit of liquid.

Through the twisting hallways of the cave, you wander back to your bedroom with nothing but a single candle to light the way. Your eyelids droop and brain tingles with the allure of unconsciousness. A sweet, tv-snow like fuzz hazes over most coherent thoughts. It's a miracle you make it without passing out.

Dwayne lays in your bed, one arm behind his head, the other propping Pirate up against his stomach. He glances at you.

You must look truly ran through, because he says, “I can go."

“Please don’t.” You drape your robe and hair towel over the banister and climb into bed. “I ... I'd like it if you stayed.”

Dwayne nods, shifting around the sheets to make room for you. The bed is big enough for you both, and then some, so it wasn't necessary. Still, it's sweet . You settle beside him, mindful of your glasses as you lay. You've never noticed how dark his irises were. If someone had taken the entire night sky, bottled it, and squeezed them into two teaspoons, it still wasn't as black and fathomless as Dwayne's eyes. They're an abyss you could fall into, drift away, and never worry about anything ever again. You study his cheeks, his jaw, all the way down to the curve of his shoulder.

"You sure you don't wanna sleep?" he asks.

"Eventually. I'll try not to when you're here."

Dwayne makes a face. "Wouldn't mind if you did."

You hum and drag your finger over his collarbone. “How’s the bite?”

“Huh?”

Remembering it makes you want to spontaneously combust. You peel his leather jacket off one shoulder, observing more of him. “I thought I drew blood. Wanted to see how bad it really was.”

But the only thing on Dwayne’s neck were a couple of well-hidden freckles that you had to squint to see in the candle light. Everything else was smooth. Unfairly unblemished for someone his age.

“See? Nothin’ to worry about.”

“But, I swore I…” You shake your head, stroking his skin. “I guess I was pretty messed up. I’m glad I didn’t hurt you.”

“Not possible,” says Dwayne. He kisses the tips of your fingers, wearing that handsome almost-smile of his. “Did you have a good night?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “Paul and Marko made me practice riding.”

“And you live to tell the tale. Proud of you.”

“Guess it’s not too bad when I have a real teacher.” You remove your glasses and plop them on the bedside table. “Or two."

"I can teach you. If you want." He coils a strand of your hair around his finger. "Some other time."

"I might like that."

His eyebrows twitch inward. "You sure you didn't hit your head?"

"Now that you mention it..."

Dwayne chortles. His chest rumbles warmly. "I'll start looking for parts."

"For what?"

"Your new bike," he says simply.

"You're hilarious," you deadpan. "It'll be a long time before I even think about something like that. I'm leaning toward 'never.'"

Dwayne hums, unimpressed.

"No, but ..." You snuggle closer and pick at your lip. "They were less intense than I thought they’d be. It was kinda fun.”

“Surprised they didn’t keep you out there longer.”

You cringe. “You heard?”

“A little.”

Groaning, you scrunch your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay.”

“I swear—I’m not usually like this."

“Even if you were, we wouldn’t care.”

You’re grateful that you can’t see him all that well, so even if a modicum of judgment lingered somewhere in his expression, you didn’t notice. “I don’t know what it is about you guys. You make me feel …”

“Weird?”

“Happy,” you correct. “Which is very weird in a ... kismet way. Like I don't need to try with you.”

“Who says it’s not?”

“Logic. Reality .”

"Two highly subjective things," Dwayne philosophizes. "Why can't it just be what it is? Easy."

You wrinkle your nose. You could make several self deprecating jokes about being easy, but you don't think Dwayne wants to hear that. Besides, things that are too easy are always suspect.

"Thanks, by the way," you say, "for not being a total jerk."

Dwayne unspools the curl from around his finger. "Still a part of me that is, though?"

You fidget with the hem of your oversized shirt. “Well ... the Max part."

The air in the room thickens. Dwayne takes a measured breath. “David said you put it together.”

His acknowledgement opens the floodgates.

“How…? I mean, why…? Not that you guys don’t live in a sick place, but if Max is your guardian…?”

Dwayne quietly shrugs, turning his attention to the cheap stuffed animal on his abs. “It’s complicated.”

That sinking feeling returns. They’re not telling you something—and you’ve only asked David and Dwayne about it. Marko would likely close ranks too, but Paul …

No. Even he has enough sense not to spill his guts, especially if the others get to him first.

“Is he a good guy?” you ask. Dwayne drops Pirate’s arm. “At least give me that. My mom is involved with him. She doesn’t need another shitty man ruining her life.”

“Just because I don’t like him doesn’t mean …” Dwayne trails off. “We chose to walk away, alright? He didn’t force us out or beat us or anything. ‘S a matter of differing opinions.”

You sigh. Even if you push, you doubt Dwayne will give you more than he had.

“And it’s not weird to you? All of this?”

“No." He doesn't even pause.

A man of few words. You suppose that’s all you would get out of him on the subject. You sigh again and lean your head against his chest. Dwayne pulls you closer, and rests his hand on your hip.

“I have something for you,” he says after a long pause. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws something small and circular. It rattles pleasantly. It’s a bracelet of small, smooth crystals.

You graze your fingers over it. “Jasper?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He fastens it around your wrist. “You like it?”

“I love it.” Tilting your head to the side, you kiss Dwayne. His lips are soft and welcoming, and you loath to pull away, but you do. “Thank you.”

Dwayne’s adam’s apple bobs. “If you could do this forever, would you?”

“Kiss you?” You grin.

He nudges his nose against yours. “That. Everything. Be here. With us.”

“All four of you?”

He nods.

Humming, you say, “I don’t know. We have to get serious eventually. Grow up. Get jobs and pay taxes and make investments and worry about gas prices.” Dwayne pokes your ribs and you burst into laughter. “That’s how it goes! You guys will get sick of me eventually.”

“Not a chance, beautiful,” says Dwayne. “When we like something, we hold onto it for a very long time.”

“A very long time isn’t forever.”

“We haven’t gotten that far yet.” Dwayne adds, “But would you? If you didn’t need to grow up?”

Your mouth twitches, and you trail your fingers over his chest. If you try hard enough, you can picture it. It’s one of those fantasies you should keep to yourself, one that most adults would call a flight of fancy. Everyone grew up. But there is a time when everyone thinks of themselves as young, dumb, and immortal. You can see that. It’s a little cloudy, in a haze of smoke and premarital sex that would make the average American clutch their pearls, but it’s there: your endless night.

“I would stay as long as you wanted,” you say.

Dwayne embraces you, pulling you fully onto his chest. “Forever it is, then.”

You laugh, squirming as Dwayne prods your ribs again. The tussle ends with you on your back and him overtop. His long, black hair cascades around your face like a curtain.

“I would like to go back to the kissing bit,” you say quietly.

“So would I.”

Dwayne closes the distance between you. Kissing him is better than before, especially with his weight pressed solidly against you.

“Dwayne,” you whisper.

“You got all clean. Not gonna make you dirty again.”

“I don’t care.”

“But I do.”

His lips caress yours, tongue flirting with the seam of your mouth, and yet you can't focus on a damn thing other than his bulge.

"You're hard," you say into the kiss.

Dwayne rolls his hips against yours, not denying the accusation in the slightest. What a barbaric way to taunt you. Despite your earlier exhaustion, every atom inside you perked up, eagerly anticipating what could come.

Yet, Dwayne doesn't push your sleep shirt aside. He doesn't slide your panties aside. Doesn't even move to unbutton his jeans.

But he does flip you both over, forcing you on top of him. Dwayne slides his hand over your ass and grips it. “I don’t need to be inside you to feel good.”

He parts your thighs just wide enough to press his thigh against your sex.

“Use this for me, yeah?”

"W-What?"

"You know what to do," he assures you.

The brick of muscle snug against your clit taunts you like a punishment fit for Tartarus. The pressure is just right and simultaneously too far, too soft. Not enough. It creates a delicious form of agony, one where you try to buck your hips fast, but Dwayne holds you too tight, forcing you to go at his pace: languid .

"That's it," he says. "Hump my thigh, beautiful."

Rude, awful, horrible man!

You try to speed up again, only for Dwayne to foil the plot by stilling your pelvis. "Not fair," you grunt through gritted teeth.

"Plenty fair. You're doing so good." He pulls you higher up his body. His hipbone caresses your swollen nub to your unfettered delight. He drags you, up and down, round and round, over the ridge of bone. "Just like that."

But chasing a high at this speed is like a dog chasing a car: so close yet so far.

Dwayne undulates with you. He drags his cock over your thigh, and moans when the friction gets to him.

Then, you break. It's not a satisfying climax; it hurts. Your clit is too puffy, too overused, and the cotton of your underwear rubs it raw. Your pussy flutters around nothing—yearning for something —that it will not get. Still, it's pleasure. Unwanted, paltry pleasure and if you had the energy you would have torn Dwyane's pants right off and did the job yourself.

And yet, he might have been on to something.

Overworked, you wither and practically collapse against Dwayne, utterly spent. You've been running on fumes for hours.

"That's it. You did perfect." He catches you under your arms and readjusts himself so your head rests comfortably against his sternum. "Knew you were tired."

"You didn't ..." you trail off.

"Shush," he admonishes. "You can make it up to me some other time."

"Dwayne."

"Go to sleep."

You're halfway there without realizing it. You don't even realize you're nodding off until Dwayne shifts his weight, and you jerk awake. "Please stay."

"Not goin' anywhere," he says, and pulls the sheet over you.

A hand covers your mouth. You jolt awake, a scream half-formed in your throat, but before it's born—

“Shhh!"

—an unfamiliar voice shushes you.

Panic subsides like a slow, creeping slug and your eyes adjust to the dark.

Dwayne is still sound asleep beside you, and though she's blurry, you recognize her silhouette.

Star messily slides your glasses into place, smudging the lens in the process, and you clamor to fix the arms over your ears. She holds a finger to her lips and removes her hand from your mouth. You exhale, no longer scared, but not exactly sure you shouldn't scream. After all, who barges in on someone like this?

Come with me, she mouths. Frowning, you obey.

The main cave is just as dark as your bedroom; none of the bonfires had been lit, and none of the boys seemed to be around yet. Like this, it's eerie. The shadows have eyes and long spindly fingers. Her heart leaps into your throat.

“We have to get you out of here,” Star breathes, “Michael—your whole family—they’re worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” you say. "They know where I am."

Maybe not what you're doing, but certainly where you are.

“No they don’t.”

Star thrusts piece of paper into your hands. It's unevenly folded, and you raise an eyebrow. When it's open, you recognize the black and white Xerox is a picture from last summer. Michael and Sam's faces are cropped out, but you see their hair and bits of their dimpled cheeks. There's a heading in big, bold letters.

MISSING, it reads, LAST SEEN AUGUST 13th, 1987.

Below that, IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION PLEASE CALL THE SANTA CARLA POLICE OR THE NUMBER BELOW.

It's not a new paper. It's weathered and creased, like someone had been compulsively folding and unfolding it. The top is ripped from a staple.

“I don’t understand,” you stammer.

“You’ve been gone for a week,” says Star.

You step back. “No ... No, that’s impossible.”

“Please, you have to come now, I need you to trust me. You are in danger.”

“Is this a prank?” you ask. You clutch the missing flyer between trembling fingers. “Because I don’t think it’s funny, Star.”

Star reaches for you, like she thought she could somehow drag you out of the cave, but you jerk away. Star’s face falls, her urgency fading into a glassy-eyed horror.

“You drank it, didn’t you?”

“Drank what?”

She winces and turns around, pacing the floor. Her voice cracks when she says your name. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about Star?”

“I can’t tell you, I don’t know how.” She sniffs, fisting her hair. “It’s all my fault. I should have told Michael sooner but I thought they’d kill him.”

“Who?” You shake your head. “You’re not making sense?”

“Star.”

You nearly scream for a second time.

David stands by the fountain. Dwayne and Paul aren’t far behind him. Marko stands at the mouth of the cave, jaw clenched. You hadn’t noticed any of them come in.

Star’s voice is thick as she whispers, “What have you done?”

“That’s enough, Star.” It’s a warning. The ferocity in his icy-blue eyes scares you.

You press the missing flyer to your chest, inching away from both of them. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”

But David isn’t looking at you. His nostrils flare, aiming every iota of vitriol at Star. It terrifies you. This look that you’ve never seen before, this unadulterated, animalistic rage and fear. Star shrivels under his glare, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“David?” you whisper.

He blinks, glances at the ground, then back at Star. “Take Laddie to get something to eat.”

“David,” you say again.

“I want to talk to her alone,” David says.

“I made the mistake of leaving once,” Star starts, moving forward so she shields you from David. She balls her hands into fists, and you want to laugh at the absurdity of all of it.

“And what more could we possibly do?” His impatience seeps into his tone, but so does a twinge of desperation. Star holds his gaze. Her mouth trembles. David sighs. “Just go. Tell Michael to come to the Boardwalk.”

It's the desperation that gives you pause. Star, too. She hesitates, and her hands uncurl, hanging limply at her side. Laddie pops his head out of the lacy curtains surrounding Star's head, apparently done pretending that he wasn't listening. He rushes past you to Star and clutches her skirt.

"Fine," she says. Star lays a on Laddie's back and guides him out of the cave. You feel her look back in your periphery, but you can't look away from David.

Why is it that whenever you think you've unearthed the last secret from him, another pops out?

No, you won't let him weasel out of it. David starts to turn away from you but you bound after him.

“Did you know about this?” you ask weakly, thrusting the flyer into his chest.

David’s expression is impenetrable. He doesn't even look at the paper. “Yes.”

You release the breath you didn't know you were holding and drop your hand. David catches the flyer. Your grainy, toothy grin stares back at you with pity.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask. “I couldn't have been— that long? I thought—if I had known, I would have …”

David interrupts your stammering. “You were happy.”

“My mother thinks I ran away.”

“They would have learned the truth soon enough.”

“For once, can you please not talk in riddles!” you shout. “Why did Star wake me up to tell me I’m in danger?! What is going on?”

David carefully folds your missing flyer into fourths, taking his time to smooth out each crease before sticking it in his coat pocket. “And if I said it was nothing?”

“I’d leave,” you say.

The words ring through the cave.

A vein in David's neck throbs. He sniffs. Nods. Won't look up from the ground. "Fine. You'd learn the truth soon enough."

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

darling