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Bedsprings Arc Pt. 01

By: naradragonfly



My entire fucking family is fucking Evan Rosier. Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother is fucking Evan Rosier.

I don't know what they see in him. Sure, he's gorgeous. I get that. But he's not the charming, innovative genius my mother believes. He's a fraud. He's the smarmiest smarmy bastard in the history of the world. I don't care if he is filthy rich. (His father owns a sugar plantation or two. Thousand. How fucking smarmy can you get?) He's telling them about his yacht, and my mother is cooing. I'm going to be sick.

I swear he's toying with me. I'm staring into my lobster bisque, and thinking. Lobster makes me sick. The tepid orange color of the bisque makes me sick. Evan Fucking Rosier makes me sick.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see him smirking at me. He stares right at me, smirking his smarmy bastard smirk. I'm not fooled. Every time I look up to glare at him, he's looking away. Perfect timing. He's staring at me up until the moment I look up, and then he's deep in conversation with my grandfather, or passing my brother the salt, or whispering sweetly to his sister. Either he's toying with me, or I'm going batshit fucking insane.

"But Evanne," my mother purrs, gesticulating with a perfect, manicured hand over her lobster bisque the color of diarrhea mixed with milk. Evanne, he introduces himself, as if it were French. It's not French, I tell them. His name is Evan. I am ignored. Evanne. I'm going to be sick. "Surely Paris gets tiring."

"Oh, I can't stand it," Evan purrs back. He's faking it. He's got to be faking it. "All that charm and magnificent food. It's awful. I can't wait to leave."

They laugh, as if it's some magnificent joke. I can't believe this. No one person is capable of these sheer amounts of smarm.

"Besides," he says, "those Parisian women can't compare to my schnookums." And then he kisses my sister. Who giggles. My five-foot-ten fucking amazon of a sister, who is a disgustingly successful psychiatrist in New York City, is giggling at her smarmy bastard of a husband. This is not my sister. This is a giggling alien clone who has been sent here as a replacement of my sister, from some bright pastel version of hell. My sister would castrate any man who touched her. And now there is nuzzling. They are practically snogging at the dinner table, in front of our great-grandmother Amaranta Dean, who is simpering happily at them both. "Oh, aren't they sweet?" she gurgles, her hands shaking as she clasps them in rapture.

"I'm going to be sick," I say, and stood. He was smirking at me. I left.

I spend the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, staring at the soapsuds on the sink, and trying to stop thinking about E. F. Rosier. I look in the mirror and I see my own, familiar face morph into his visage of evil. His nose, his eyes, his lips, and he's smirking at me again. I don't look in the mirror.

He's staying with us at our family home on the lake. We all are, like we do every summer. I hate summer. I hate my family. I hate Evan Rosier. He's been smirking at me all week.

I hear giggling in the corridor. I hate giggling. After a moment, I recognize the giggling as my mother's. This travesty is too much to bear. I open the door. They're walking up the stairs, and she's leaning on him, since she's had too much to drink. They're whispering. I feel something rise in my throat and get stuck there.

Evan Fucking Rosier is flirting with his mother. And his mother-in-law--my mother--is leaning on him and giggling. He sees me. He smirks. I indulge in a very satisfying little fantasy of wrapping my hands around the perfect, honey-tanned skin at his throat and watching him choke and die.

"Matthew," he says to me.

"Please die," I respond. They both start laughing at me. Fucking laughing. I slam the door to my room like a petulant teenager. 

I am not a petulant teenager. I am a petulant twenty-something who is failing out of law school. I hate him with a wild, single-minded obsession, like the opposite of a schoolgirl with a crush. I want to cover notebooks with his name so that I can burn them, and only then will I stop thinking of him. There's a notebook and a pen in my hand. I look down at the page. Matthew Dean Please Die Rosier, it says. I stare. Mathew Dean Fucking Please-Die Rosier. I crumple the sheet and then shred it.

I am completely batshit fucking insane.

My sister's room is next to mine. Our beds share a wall. I can hear it, as he fucks her. The force of their bed hitting the wall shakes my bed on the other side. I can hear my sister moaning. The whole fucking house can hear my sister moaning. They're having really, really, damn good sex. I can hear the bedsprings shrieking as he fucks her.

I feel like bedsprings. I imagine that he's fucking me. I hear her scream his name. It's not on my lips. It's not. Evan.

Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier.

I can hear the bats in my own belfry, and they sound like the shrieking of the bedsprings.

I dream that he's fucking my whole fucking family, on my sister's bed. All of them, even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother, piled on my sister's bed, and the shrieking of the bedsprings.

My eyes open and the sunlight is lurking through the venetian blinds like an early-morning burglar. The early bird may get the worm, but the early burglar gets thrown in jail. Someone should inform the sun. Who the fuck would want to get up early for worms, anyway? Fucking bats. Probably.

I stagger into the bathroom, and there he is. Completely fucking naked in the bathroom I share with my sister. There's a toothbrush in his mouth. He smirks at me around the toothbrush. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is ass-naked in my bathroom, fresh from banging my sister. I can feel my own brain cells committing ritual suicide inside my head, with little death screams sending twitches of pain through my skull.

I close the bathroom door and stand there staring at the wood two inches from my face. He opens it. Smirks. The toothbrush is gone.

"Are you coming in," he asks, "or are you going to let me out?"

"Please fucking die," I manage to say. Naked Fucking Evan Please-Die Rosier.

He takes a step closer. "I don't see you moving."

I move, backwards. I am not staring. I wonder how many brain cells I can lose before I become comatose. E. F. P.-D. Rosier is the sadistic scientific experiment which is testing this. He steps forward. I can smell the peppermint on his breath. He walks into my sister's room. Leaves the door open.

I walk into the bathroom. Stare at the soap suds on the sink. There are two toothbrushes on the sink. One is my sister's. One is mine. Mine is wet.

He used my fucking toothbrush.

"You fucking bastard!" I shout.

My brother James leans in the bathroom door. James Fucking Dean. This atrocity can only be blamed on my mother. "Matty?"

"Don't fucking call me Matty."

"What's mum told you about profaning before breakfast?"

"I learned all the profanity I know from mum."

"But not before breakfast."

"Get the fuck out of the bathroom," I say. I shove him out, then slam the door.

I stare at the two toothbrushes on the sink. Sharing someone's toothbrush seems like the oral equivalent of French kissing. I'm going to have to get a new toothbrush, and keep it under lock and key. I brush my teeth with some toothpaste on my fingertip. I throw the desecrated toothbrush in the trash can.

I walk down to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of juice. I look out the window to the porch and immediately regret it. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier is breathing on my nineteen-year-old brother James Fucking Dean. Their faces are six inches apart. Evan Rosier is seducing my brother. I can see them on my sister's bed. Fucking.

He's been here a week and he's already fucked my whole family, except me. I'm not fooled by him. He's fucked my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother. He's fucked my dog, and I don't even have a dog. But not me. Me he smirks at, but he'll never fuck me.

I push open the screen door. "What are you doing?"

James jumps. Evan Fucking Rosier just smirks at me. "He had something in his eye."

"Bullshit."

"Well, in that case," Evan F. P.-D. Rosier wraps his arms around his brother. "I was whispering sweet nothings in his ear."

James is as infatuated by this bastard as the rest of my family. He melts. I'm going to be sick again.

Evan's eyes are on mine. They're deep blue, lapis lazuli blue, and he's smirking. Smirking as he runs his hand down my brother's body. Smirking as he glides a finger into the hem of my brother's jeans. I'm still holding the glass of juice. I'm going to drop it. I can feel my brain cells beginning a mass exodus out my ears.

"Careful," Evan says, taking the glass from me. James very nearly collapses at the sudden lack of molestation.

He takes a drink then hands it back to me. I can see the impression of his lips on the glass.

"Please die," I tell him.

"You keep saying that."

"You're not dead yet."

"You've had ample opportunity to murder me."

I throw the rest of the juice in his face. It was contaminated, anyway. I walk inside.

"Did you hear them last night?" My aunt gossips, as I enter the den. Trudy, my mother's only unmarried sister. My mother's only sister with less than three marriages. My mother killed her first two husbands, probably with arsenic. The third, she still complains, died of a heart attack during copulation on their wedding night. And the simpering fourth she leads around on an invisible leash like a fucking lapdog. My mother's eldest sister is currently on her ninth honeymoon. Her tenth husband will be Evan Fucking Rosier.

"How could I not?" I steal a fried egg and a piece of toast from my mother's plate, which she's forgotten. She's bickering with my grandfather over what to name the baby. Evan and Val Rosier's nonexistant hypothetical demonspawn offspring. "You don't name an antichrist," I interrupt. "Just call him the Beast. Evil Widdle Beastie-kins, for short."

"Matthew," my mother scolds.

When I die and go to hell, I fully expect to be tormented in Hell by Evan and Val Fucking Please-Die Rosier's demonspawn offspring, Beastie-kins Rosier. This fact will be the only thing preventing me from suicide at the thing's hypothetical birth. Fortunately, my sister is not a child-bearing woman. IF, by some horrific chance, she becomes impregnanted, I will take it upon myself to destroy her and the parasite in her womb before it can grow. For her own good, and for the sake of the world.

People are talking, and organizing their day. Evan Rosier takes a seat on the couch by my great grandmother Amaranta. He's wearing a clean shirt. I can't bear to watch.

"Matthew, darling," my mother flutters. I hate that tone of voice. I hate being called darling. "Margarita isn't feeling well today, and we need some things at the store. Be a dear, would you?"

I don't want to tell her we haven't had a housekeeper named Margarita since I was in high school. Our housekeeper's name is Lucy. "Mum, I can't drive."

"Then get someone to take you, darling."

"I'll take him," says Evan Please-Die Rosier.

"No," I say, glaring.

"Oh, Evanne, thank you so much. Matthew, sweetie, the list is on the fridge. I left money in the cookie jar."

"No," I repeat. "He can fucking go alone."

"But you know the brands I like, darling." And my mother flutters out the door. The room is empty, except for my great grandmother Amaranta, who is playing cat's cradle with Evan Rosier.

"Ready?" he asks me. "We'll take my truck."

"Amaranta knows the brands she likes. Take her."

He looks at my great-grandmother, then smirks at me. "So how is it you're not only still living with your parents, but you also don't know how to drive?"

I twitch. I bet my mother knows where I could get some arsenic. She could also probably tell me how much I'd need to kill six feet two inches of E. F. Rosier.

"You coming, sweet cheeks?" He heads for the door.

I follow, hating my life. "Please just die."

He unlocks the car door and opens it for me. "You could grab the wheel as we're driving over a bridge, send us both to a watery grave."

I get in. The truck is pretty crappy, for someone who owns a yacht. I tell him so.

"What?" He laughs, patting the dashboard. "My baby's got personality."

"Cars shouldn't have personality," I say. "Cars should just fucking work."

He starts the car. Smirks at me. I swear it's his natural fucking facial expression, but I've never seen him smirking at anyone else. Just me. He's tormenting me, because I'm not fooled by him. Because I'm not fucking him. I'm not fucking Evan Rosier.

I sit stiffly in his cluttered car. There's a fucking hula dancer on his dashboard, swinging her faded green plastic skirt. We pass over a bridge and he smirks at me, as if to offer the wheel, if I'd like to grab it. I look away from him, out the window. I hate cars. I'm going to be sick.

"I hope we didn't keep you up last night."

I don't look up. I know he's smirking. I've developed a sixth sense for it. Smirk radar. "You mean when you were fucking my sister? The whole house heard you."

"Oh," he says. "You know. Newlyweds."

"Bullshit. She's going to divorce you within the year. Within the month."

He smirks. "Wanna bet?"

I'm a penniless college student. I'm failing law school. And my sister was giggling. "Fine," I say. "She'll divorce you within a month. And if she does..." I think a moment. "If she doesn't castrate you, I will."

He laughs. "Vindictive little bitch, aren't you, sweet cheeks?"

I twitch. "Name your terms."

"Done. If she doesn't divorce me, you'll let me take you out to dinner."

You have got to be fucking kidding me. Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier just asked me out. 

"Please die," I say. My voice doesn't sound like a whimper.

"Deal?"

"Did you seriously just fucking ask me out on a date?"

"Yes."

"I'm straight. You're married. To my sister."

"So?" He smirks at me.

"Eyes on the doggam road!"

"Doggam?"

I twitch. "God-damn. Eyes on the god-damn road."

He drives, but I can see him smirking out of the corner of my eye. "Dyslexic much?

"Please fucking die."

"You keep saying that. I wonder if you know what it means." He pulls up at the supermarket and cuts the engine. "So do we have a bet?"

"She's going to divorce you."

"Well?"

"Fine," I snarl. "Done. But I'm not sleeping with you."

He's laughing at me. I slam the car door. I hate Evan Fucking Rosier. He follows me.

"Does my sister know you're cheating on her with every single member of my fucking family?"

"Of course."

"Even the dog."

He smirks, bemused. "Your family doesn't have a dog."

"Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother Amaranta."

"Hey," he laughs. "Don't underestimate her ability in bed just because of her age."

I'm going to be sick. I send him in search of milk, because it's on the opposite side of the supermarket. When he returns, I send him to get eggs. Eggs are next to the milk. His pants are too fucking tight. I hope they're cutting off circulation to his balls. 

He keeps his mouth shut as I pay, and carries the groceries out to the car. I want to ask why Evan Fucking Owns-A-Yacht Rosier lets me pay for the groceries, but I don't want to give him an excuse to start talking again.

"So what about you?" he asks, helping me put away the groceries. "Law school?"

"Are you trying to make small talk?"

"I'm just wondering if you're going to be the lawyer on the divorce case. And if you take bribes."

"I'm still in school. So no. I won't."

He leans on the refrigerator door as I put things away. "Got a boyfriend?"

I twitch. "No, I do not have a girlfriend, thanks for asking, please die."

He hands me a carton of eggs. "Gotcha. Virgin?"

I drop the eggs. I fucking hate that word. "No," I snarl, picking up the carton. All but two of the eggs are broken. I put the carton in the fridge.

He's smirking at me.

"I hate you," I tell him.

"I can tell," he replies. I close the fridge. He opens it. Removes the carton of eggs. Starts salvaging the contents. "Hungry?"

"I hope you get salmonella," I say.

"Grab the bread for me, would you? We need toast."

"I'm not eating anything you cook."

He smirks at me. "I made breakfast."

"Oh. Fucking fantastic. More eggs. With toast."

"Sure. And the tomatoes, they're in the fridge."

"I know they're in the fridge. I fucking put them there myself."

"If we make sandwiches, with some tomatoes and mozzarella, then it's not quite the same as having eggs again. And I don't want these to go to waste. Get the mozzarella.

"Why won't you just die?" I hand him the mozzarella. His fingers actually fucking brush mine. He smirks.

"You smarmy fucking bastard," I say.

"We should go on a picnic," he says. "It's a nice day."

"That's a great idea. You go on a picnic. With your wife."

"Val's busy." I hate that fucking smirk. I hate Evan Rosier.

"Go get my backpack, would you? It's upstairs."

"Go fuck yourself," I reply. I walk to the porch and sit. I stare at the peeling paint on the railing.

"Ready?" He's carrying his backpack.

"Go to Hell."

"It's no fun to stay at home by yourself." 

"Go to Hell," I repeat. "You smarmy fucking bastard."

"Come with me," he says. Walks over to the rowboat. Deposits the bag. Walks back over to me. "Are you coming?"

"Please die," I say.

I am so fucking surprised when he slings me over his shoulder, that we are halfway to the boat before I start my efforts to kick him in the balls.

"Fucking put me down, you grandmother-fucking son of a fucking monkey-ass bastard!" I yell. He drops me. In the boat. I lose my balance and sit down hard, narrowly missing a fall into the lake. He shoves off, before I can scramble back to the dock. I don't move. I hate boats. I hate water.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die in a boat with Evan Fucking Rosier. I hate boats. I'm going to be sick.

He rows out to the islands. He's as good at rowing as he is at fucking, and I boat is like the bed on which he fucks my sister. He takes his shirt off as he rows. I watch his muscles rippling. He fucking gleams in the sunlight, like he's fucking Adonis. I can hear the bedsprings from here. I start planning his death. His death once we're back on solid ground, that is. I think electrocution might be nice. It has such an accidental appearance to it. Make it seem like suicide. Hell, I'd commit suicide if I were married to my sister. She's an inch taller than I am.

He jumps out and pulls the boat onto the shore of a little island with a quiet beach. His pants look even tighter when wet. My surviving brain cells have banded together in a vicious little tribe. Each one is single-mindedly intent on the death of Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier.

I get out of the boat once it's safely up on shore. I'm going to be sick.

He stretches his incredible fucking torso. I'm not staring. I'm not watching as he kicks off his pants. I don't care that he has the finest ass I've ever seen. I don't care that he's hung like it ought to be a fucking crime. I feel dizzy. I sit down on the sand.

"Join me for a swim?" He asks.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I say. He plunges into the water. I'm not watching this. I'm not watching the water sliding over his body, like he's fucking the god-damn lake.

He walks out of the water with the sun glittering on him. My mouth is dry. "Hungry?" he asks, like he's not standing over me like some kind of fucking greek god. Ass-fucking-naked. I'm incapable of speech. He opens his backpack, spreads a blanket in the shade. The members of my little tribe of brain cells are having seizures. I am staring at his ass.

"Sweetcheeks?" He smirks at me over his shoulder. "You coming?"

I can't take it anymore. I go for his throat.


Bedsprings Arc Pt. 01



We hit the ground, and I'm straddling his lap, both hands around his neck. He puts his hands over mine. "Higher," he says, moving my hands. "Use your thumbs to press in here."

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I'm straddling Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier, who is naked, and he's telling me how to strangle him. I stare at him.

I'm not sure how my tongue got down his throat. I'm not sure what his hand is doing down my shirt. I'm not sure if that's me moaning, but it's loud.

He rolls us over, pins me down, so that I know he's the one in charge. He kisses me like he's starving and I'm some kind of creamy dessert. He's fucking devouring my mouth.

My pants are suddenly very fucking tight. It doesn't help that I can feel his cock poking into my thigh. I want it in my mouth.

I push him, and he rolls off me, letting me, watching me. He sits, naked and glorious in full sunlight, cheeks flushed, hair ruffled, cock standing at attention. He smirks, smarmy fucking bastard that he is. I can't stand it. I kiss him again, and it's rough and hot and bruising. He pulls off my shirt as I pull away.

I close my lips around that obscenely gorgeous cock of his, and he fucking growls, pushing my head down with a hand in my hair. "Take your pants off," he says. I don't know how he's managing complete sentences. I can't manage complete sentences, and no one's sucking my cock. I take my pants off. I see him smirk, and then he pulls me down again so fast his cock hits me in the nose. I'd object, but my mouth is full.

I can tell from the sounds that he's making that he's enjoying the view. I can also tell he's still smirking. He keeps jerking his hips up and pulling my head down. He's fucking my mouth so hard I'm going to choke. I'm also probably going to fucking enjoy it.

He pulls me off before he comes, and shoves me down on my back. I lick my lips and he's kissing me again, with his hand between my legs doing things I didn't think were possible with human fingers. He's fucking talented, and my mind is goo. The last of the braincells has died. 

He lets me go, and it's a physical shock so sudden I fucking whimper. He grabs the bag, digs through it. Condoms. Lube. Only Evan Fucking Rosier would be carrying a bottle of lube on a picnic with his wife's younger brother. Bastard was planning this.

He grabs me, pulls me back into the shade, onto the blanket. He's on top of me again, and I can tell I'm going to have a huge hickey where he's sucking on my neck, and I don't care if my great-fucking-grandmother Amaranta sees it, as long as he doesn't stop. 

I can feel his hand on my shoulder and it's real, solid. His lips on my collarbone are euphoric, and I feel each indentation on his teeth as he bites.

I'm fucking Evan Rosier. I can hear the distant sound of bedsprings.

I know what he's planning. I can hear my own voice begging for it, but I still yelp as he forces two fingers up my ass. That lube is fucking cold. My eyes are winced shut, but I'd bet you my life he's smirking right now. Fucking smirking as he finger-fucks me up the ass.

He's barely got his hand up there before he pulls it out, grabbing more lube and smearing it on his cock. I stare at it. I don't know when he managed to put on a fucking condom.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mumble.

He smirks.

He grabs my hips and just slams into me. I shout, arching a foot off the fucking ground, and I'm swearing like my mother when she's not on her pills, swearing like I'm being fucked up the ass by my sister's husband, swearing like it's breathing. I've forgotten how to breathe. I have Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier's cock in my ass.

I realize, as I finally have to stop cursing enough to breath, that he has paused. He hasn't fucking moved since he first slammed into me. I can feel his fingers gripping at my hips, and I'm going to have ten identical bruises there tomorr, but that's nothing to the pain invading my ass. He's smirking at me. Bloody fucking hell.

He waits.

"You smarmy fucking ba--" I cut this off with another shout of pain, and he's fucking me in earnest now. My hands are clawing at the blanket because it hurts so fucking much, but I can hear myself begging for more, in between the strings of insults. He's on his knees, and I barely notice he's lifted me so that my ass is more than two feet off the ground, the better to fuck me with, as if I'm not screaming already. I realize, somewhere in my pleasure-blazed brain, that I have begun to roll my hips with every thrust, in a way I didn't know I could, so that he can plow further into me, because there's something in me that fucking glows each time he stops with his cock immersed in me, for just a moment before pulling out and doing it again. He hasn't touched my prick since he put on that fucking condom, but suddenly I'm yelling, and I swear they're hearing this all the way to the mainland as I orgasm violently around Evan Fucking Rosier's huge fucking cock.

I know I've never had an orgasm this good, and he's still fucking me when it passes, and my hands release the wads of blanket I've been clutching. I realize I'd forgotten how to breathe, and I pant, like a dog, letting him fuck me until I feel him finish inside me. He pulls out and collapses on top of me, tossing the condom aside. Being crushed has never felt so good.

He rolls off me.

I look up at the leaves of the tree above us. "Now you've fucked my whole fucking family," I say. "Even my 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother."

He drapes an arm over me. I can actually feel the warmth in his smirk, even though I'm not looking at him. "You know why your sister will never divorce me?"

I don't want to know. I don't say anything."

"We met in a club. A gay club."

I blink.

"I'm a professional actor," he says.

This isn't making any fucking sense.

"Your sister's a lesbian."

"I heard you," I say. "The whole fucking house heard you."

"You should have seen us snickering," he says. "I wasn't even touching her. I slept on the floor."

"I felt the fucking bed moving. I heard the bedsprings."

He shrugs. "That was me bouncing the bed while Val sat on a chair making noise and trying not to laugh."

I can feel the ghosts of my braincells rolling in their graves. "Why?"

"Something about an inheritance her grandfather said he'd give her when she married. Didn't think he'd approve of her actual fiance."

My world is collapsing in on itself. "You're not fucking my sister."

"No." He's smirking. "I'm not fucking your great-grandmother, either."

"What about the dog?"

"You don't have a dog."

"The yacht."

"I don't have a yacht. Or any sugar plantations."

"You smarmy fucking bastard." I hit him, if only to get him to stop cuddling me. "Is Evan Rosier even your real name?"

He laughs. "It's Roswell. Evan Roswell."

"I knew you were faking," I say. I'm not grinning. "I knew it."

My ass hurts. This time, I'm the one smirking. "Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell. I like it."

He laughs. I can hear bedsprings echoing in my head, and I like it.



Bedsprings Arc Pt. 02



Blizzard

I land, and I'm face to face with my ex-boyfriend. Face to crotch, really. My knees are on either side of Evan Fucking Roswell's head. I'm going to be sick.

He raises an eyebrow at me. I can't fucking breathe. The smoke in here is choking, the heat from the lights makes my braincells melt, my pants are so tight they're cutting off circulation to my balls, and I can't fucking breathe.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says, like he's asking the fucking time of day, and runs a finger up my crotch. I can't move. I'm going to fucking die. "What's your name?"

I stare. He doesn't recognize me. Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell doesn't recognize me. I've cut my hair and I'm wearing my make-up an inch fucking thick, and sure I'm a fucking exotic dancer instead of the uptight fucking law student he used to fuck, but he's smirking at me and my knees have fucking melted, which is why I can't get my crotch out of his fucking face, and he doesn't recognize me.

Please die, I want to say. "Bluh," I say instead. I try again. "Pedro."

"Pedro." He smirks, and pulls out a wad of bills. Where the hell did Evan Fucking Roswell get a wad of bills? "How much for a lap dance?"

Sex, I think. Sex I can do. The minute he flashes those bills, the business part of my mind reminds me that I sex means money and I need money if I want to eat, and he doesn't fucking recognize me. I remember how to breathe, at least a little. I lean forward. Lick my lips. "I think I'll leave that up to you." I pull myself into his lap. "How much am I worth?"

I look up. This is a mistake. His eyes hit mine, and he's Evan Fucking Roswell, with these deep blue lapis lazuli eyes, and my knees have melted again. I am not in love with Evan Roswell.

I'm afraid he's going to realize who he has in his lap and drop me on the floor, but his eyes don't flash any more recognition than they showed an instant ago. Just lust. Sex. Sex I can do.

He's smirking. He looks away. I hear the crisp of a bill as he tucks it into the back of my pants. His fingers brush across my skin. I'm ticklish at the base of my spine, which is right where his fingers are lingering. I manage, at least, not to yelp.

I slide my ass against him, grinding, with this way I've learned of rolling my hips that makes men moan. He's not moaning. He's smirking. He's fucking toying with me.

I have a moment of panic that he knows. But I can't let myself believe he'd just come here, a year after walking out on me, just to mock me like this. I can't believe he knows. My brain cells would fucking implode.

I do it again. Slide, grind, roll. Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell doesn't even move. His arms are relaxed at his sides, and I'd give up my salary for a whole fucking month if he'd just put those arms around me. It's not that he's not hard. He's been hard this whole time. He's rock hard, and I'm so fucking tempted to put my hand down his pants. I would go down on him, right here, if he'd only fucking call me by my name.

"Pedro," he says, and traces as finger down my chest, smirking. Pinches a nipple. This time I yelp.

I see my boyfriend across the room. He's got this hurt-puppy expression on his face, and I remember I promised to stop giving lap-dances. I want to die.

Evan notices. He couldn't not notice, the way I froze, staring over his shoulder. He doesn't look. 

"Something more interesting than me?" he asks.

"Previous engagement," I reply. It's hard not to talk like I usually do, but I don't want him to know. It's hard not to say those two little words stuck in my head. Please Die.

"Cancel it." He's smirking. I manage to stop watching my boyfriend, who's trying to summon me over by gestures. I blink at Evan. "How much for the night?" he asks.

I'm a stripper, I want to tell him, not a whore. I don't know how much a whore costs, for a night. I bet Evan F. Roswell knows. I wonder if he's ever had a whore. I don't want to know. "How much do you think I'm worth?" I repeat.

I can see my boyfriend bribing a waitress to come resue me. It's Rosie. Of course he'd have to fucking bribe Rosie. Rosie's infamously effective at interruptions.

"The entire roll of bills in my pocket," he says. "But only if you earn them, one by one. All night."

My mouth is dry. Please die, I want to say. It's me. Matthew. You broke my heart, you smarmy fucking bastard, please die.

Rosie crashes into me. Spills something neon pink and highly alcoholic all over Evan's white shirt. I get up. I feel his hand close on my wrist. He's giving me this right-here, right-now look. Rosie bumps him and I escape. I flee into the back room.

Paul's waiting. He's giving me this I'm-hurt-and-disappointed-in you look.

"Matthew," he says. He doesn't call me Matty. I hate being called Matty. He doesn't want to fight. I do. "I brought the car. I thought you'd be tired."

He's so fucking nice it makes me sick. My boyfriend calls me darling while we're making love, and all I can think of is the ex who called me slut as he fucked me. He doesn't even make me pay rent. This is probably the only reason I haven't broken his heart. Yet.

I hate myself. I hate Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell. I'm going to be sick.

I extract the money tucked into my pants, my earnings for the night. I stare at the bill Evan gave me, when I figure out for sure which one it was. It's a fifty. For an interrupted lap-dance. That roll of bills was more money than I've seen in months. What the hell is Evan F. P.-D. Roswell doing with that much money? Buying hookers.

There's a movie poster tacked to the wall outside. I stop and stare at it. Please Fucking Die, it reads, in swirly pink and black lettering.

"What is it?" Paul asks. His arm is around my waist.

"Nothing," I say. We keep walking. He's fucking cuddling me as we walk. I'm going to be sick.

I'm thinking about the bastard. His arm around my waist would be firm, possessive. He'd probably cuddle me, too, but I'd elbow him, insult him, and end up being pulled even closer and fucking nuzzled. I hate being nuzzled.

I met him two summers ago at my family's pleasure home on the lake. Yes, my family has a fucking summer home. And yes, I'm shaking my ass on stage and bumming housing off my boyfriend so I don't fucking starve. Don't fucking ask.

My sister brought him home, introduced us to her new husband. It took me one whole week to give in and jump him. They were never married, really. My sister's a lesbian. Evan's a friend of hers. He's a fucking actor.

We barely went five minutes that summer before he grabbed me and dragged me off to have really, really damn good sex. My brother walked in on us (would've joined us, too). My mother walked in on us. My 94-year-old great-fucking-grandmother Amaranta walked in on us. My dog walked in on us, and I didn't even have a dog. Then my grandfather walked in on us, and this is why I'm shaking my ass on stage so I don't starve.

My sister Val, fortunately, had already got the inheritance she wanted by this point. They staged a divorce like they staged their wedding. Evan took me home with him, got me a job waiting tables at the club where he'd met Val, and, not even a year later, kicked me out on my ass. And now he's come back to haunt me.

I hate Evan Fucking Roswell. I am completely obsessed with Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell. I am still in love with Evan F. Roswell. I am completely fucking batshit insane.

It's snowing outside when I wake up. This will come as a surprise, but I love snowy mornings. Or snowy afternoons, as it happens to be. The fridge is empty, so I take to the streets for a cup of hot chocolate and a danish. I sit in the park and watch the ducks sliding clumsily across the ice.

"Hey, sweetcheeks," he says, sitting down next to me.

"Please die," I reply automatically.

"You cut your hair." He's smirking. Of course he's fucking smirking.

"Are you stalking me?" I ask.

"Yes," he replies."

I feel sick. I don't want the rest of the danish. I toss it at him. He eats it. I want to toss the hot chocolate at him. Burn his fucking pretty face. "What's your middle name?" I ask.

"Gregory."

Evan Gregory Roswell. Doesn't work. "No, it's not."

"What's yours?"

I stare into my cup. "Alexander."

"Cute."

"Please fucking die," I say, and talking hurts, somehow.

One of the things I hate most about Evan is that I can't fucking forget him. This is because he's an incredible fuck, and everywhere I go, I remember a time we fucked. We've had sex fucking everywhere. I go to the movies and I can't concentrate because I'm thinking about Evan Fucking Roswell going down on me in the back row. I can't go to the club where I used to work because I can count the thirty-two places we had sex there while I was a waiter and he was a bartender. On the bar. Behind the bar. On the stage. On the dinky catwalk above the stage. On most of the tables. On the dance floor--which I don't recommend because it was fucking hard in addition to uneven and dirty. In the bathrooms (male and female). On the couch in the back room, where he actually let me top him. On this old, out-of-tune piano backstage. I can't even fucking look at a piano anymore.

I'm looking at the snow, and I want to have sex in the snow.

"You should see my new place," he says.

"Why?"

"You'd like it?"

"What do you want from me?"

"Sex."

Well, at least he's fucking honest. "I have a boyfriend," I tell him.

"So?"

"He's gentle. He calls me darling while we're making love. He tells me he loves me."

"I'm sure he's everything you've always wanted in a man."

"Fuck off and die."

"Do you hate him?"

"No," I say.

Evan F. P.-D. (G.) Roswell smirks. "He's that bad in bed?"

I twitch. This is the other thing I hate about Evan Roswell. He always knows exactly what I'm actually saying. Paul is the only person I've ever met who listens to me and takes me seriously. It blows me away. He doesn't have a fucking clue.

"Please die," I say.

He stands. "You coming, sweet cheeks?"

"Go to Hell." I get up. Seriously consider the still-hot beverage. Drop it in a trash can. Evan Fucking Roswell will never know how close he came.

Actually, he probably does. I throw a lot of things at him. It was after I put a knife through his hand that he finally threw me out. We're a messed-up couple.

He doesn't touch me as we walk. "What's his name?"

"Paul."

"Why are you wasting your time?"

I wish I could lie to him. I wish I could say I'm not wasting my time, that I love Paul and he loves me. I can't. "He doesn't charge me rent," I say. I hate myself.

He grabs me then, and his tongue is in my mouth, and I'm kissing back. We're in the middle of the fucking street, and I don't even care. I feel him let go. I can't meet his eyes. I hate myself too much.

He opens the car door for me. I get in. He's still got the same crappy-ass truck as always. I'm thinking of all the things he's done to me in this truck. I'm going to be sick.

"Matty," he says.

"Don't call me Matty," I say.

He drives out to this practically deserted industrial area of town. It would be a great place to dispose of a body. He pulls up in front of this old house, that looks like some kind of cheap miniature knock-off of a southern mansion, and just as old.

"You live here?" I ask.

He opens the door. It's not locked. Hell, it's not like he has neighbors. There are a few remains of houses nearby, some of them with an intact roof. Fucking old. Even this one should probably be condemned. 

"There's no electricity," he says. "There is running water, but it's not heated and I don't think it's safe to drink."

The house is cold, but it smells of pine, old tobacco--the kind in a pipe--and wood smoke. I feel like we're a hundred miles from civilization. Fucking Alaska or something. There are creepy old pictures on the walls, of people who have been dead for a hundred years.

"The former owner was a hundred and two. He had no heirs. I got the place at a public auction. They wanted to tear it down. There's a wood stove in the kitchen, and fireplaces in most rooms, so it can be heated."

He's fucking proud of this dump. He takes my hand as he pulls me through the house. I brush my thumb across his palm. I can feel the scar I left there. I wish I could apologize.

We stumble into the snow in the back garden, and I swear it's fucking enchanted. There's a high stone wall, completely cutting it off from the world, and it's silent.

These weird Greek statues of naked men and scantily-clad goddesses reign over the overgrown rose bushes and stone-lined paths carpeted with snow. I've never seen anything so fucking peaceful.

"I thought it'd be a nice place to have sex," he says.

There are no words. I jump him. We we hit the ground and he's already got me out of my coat. He puts his own with it, so at least we're not lying on the cold snow. It's still snowing, but the kiss is so fucking hot I'm melting.

"Shit," he says. "I don't have a condom."

"I don't care," I say, and he rolls with a growl, pinning me down on my back. His lips are on my throat and I"m moaning. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and tugs. "Pants," he orders. "Off."

I'm about to argue that I can't very well reach my pants with him lying on top of me, but right then he rolls off me so that I can. My pants are gone and when he pounces me again, he's naked. This time, we miss, and my back hits snow. He unbuttons my shirt, but leaves it on. He knows I get cold easy, and I'm practically shivering already, so we're going to have to do this fast.

"I'm not giving you preparation," he warns me.

"Do it."

"You do it." He rolls again, so I'm on top, and his hand is tickling at the base of my spine. I'm laughing, like I haven't laughed since the bastard left me. I sit back, breath quickening, and it hurts. Paul would never make love without lube, so I've forgotten how much this hurts. The head of his cock works its way inside me, and suddenly he slams his hips up into me. I scream. Evan Fucking Please-Die (Gregory) Roswell has the decency to gasp.

"Shit, Matty," he says. "I forgot how tight you are."

My fingernails are embedded in his shoulder. I'm trying to remember how to breathe. I whimper.

He laughs, patting my ass. "You all right, slut?"

I manage to remove my fingernails from his shoulder. I've drawn blood. "I fucking hate you," I gasp. 

I push myself up, with my hands and knees, lifting most of the way off his cock, which, as I"m only now remembering, is painfully huge. He grabs my ass and slams me back down. I wince, my fingernails leaving a second set of blood-rimmed crescents on his shoulder. 

I'm on top, but he's completely in control. He makes it clear that he's letting me have the freedom I have to set the pace, but the moment I slow too much for his tastes, or try to take any more freedom than he allows, he plows into me, hard enough to make me scream. He's a total, certifiable control freak, and I love it. He hits every last one of my buttons.

I recover quickly, and then I can actually enjoy my enleashed freedom. I have to say, I love riding a good stud, especially a fucking bronco like Evan. It's even better that it's snowing, and the flakes on my skin are cold, in contrast to the hot fucking cock inside me.

He smiles, seeing I'm feeling playful, and runs his hand over my hip, tickling. I start laughing, and he moans at the way I writhe. I can't stand it anymore, and I speed up, him grinding his cock into me each time. As if I'm not moaning already, he wraps his hand around my prick. I absolutely fucking melt. I can hear my voice begging for more.

He loves hearing me beg, and he knows that the more he gives, the more I beg. He flips us over so he can fuck me harder, the way he likes it. He's feeling generous enough to keep one hand fisting my prick, and it's all I need to send me over the edge, when I feel his cock start pumping cum inside me. I completely lose control, and I hear myself shouting his name. When he's finally done--and Evan Roswell has long fucking orgasms, usually twice as long as mine--I"m starting to shiver from the cold, because he managed to land me in the snow, again. My shirt is soaked.

He smirks. "Sorry, sweetcheeks."

I can feel his cum dribbling down my ass as he pulls out. He pushes our clothes into my lap, then gathers me into his arms. I'm not a small guy, I'm a perfectly respectable average height, but he's five inches taller than me because he's just that obscenely tall. He carries me inside, upstairs. Drops me on a surprisingly nice bed with a fluffy comforter. I shove our clothes onto the floor and curl up in the comforter. He's making a fire. I never thought something so fucking quaint as this place could feel so fucking good.

He crawls onto the bed and pulls me close. He's warm, so I"m not about to complain about the cuddling.

"Pedro." He smirks. "Why 'Pedro'? You're not a bit ethnic."

"I thought you didn't recognize me." I glare at him.

"What, because of all the make-up?" He laughs. "I'd know that body anywhere."

I blink. "Where'd you get all that money? You're a fucking starving actor."

He laughs at me. "From the movie."

"What movie?"

"Are you serious?" He sits up. "You haven't seen the posters?"

"What movie?"

"Please Fucking Die." He starts digging through a closet. Pulls out a movie poster and unrolls it. It's the one I was staring at. "I can't believe you haven't seen the ads. I'm one of the main characters."

He's on the poster, and it's obviously him, and I don't know how I've been staring at this poster and his lapis lazuli eyes for the past three weeks without realizing it. "You're a movie star."

"Kind of. Yes."

I notice the name on the poster. Evan Rosier. He's using it as his stage name. I don't know what to say. He sits back down. Kisses me. I pull away.

"So what am I, revenge fuck? You just track me down so you can kick me out again once you get bored, because you're a movie star and you can do that?"

He shrugs. "The whole time we were shooting that movie, I kept looking at the scar on my hand and realizing I'd walked away from the love of my life."

Evan is the only person who has ever been able to leave me speechless. He has never once in our relationship told me he loved me. I think my brain cells all just died in a mass apocalypse. I am now comatose.

"I hate you," I whimper, and his tongue is in my mouth again, the way it's supposed to be, and being speechless and comatose isn't so bad, really, because Evan Fucking Please-Die (Gregory) Roswell-Rosier loves me.



Bedsprings Arc Pt. 03



I stare into my half-empty Styrofoam cup. The coffee's grown cold. I hate coffee, and this particular coffee smells like old shoes and tastes worse, but it's the only way I can stay awake at work.

I've slept five hours in the past week. I am a fucking zombie. I'm curled up in the archives in the basement. No one goes into the basement. It's even more ugly, sterile and depressing than the rest of the building. But if no one can find me, they won't ask me to do anything. I'm hiding. Hiding from my job. Hiding from my life.

I'm dying. Subconsciously killing myself with a combination of insomnia and starvation. I can't keep food down. I don't want to eat. I'm dying.

Someone trips over me. It's a girl. 

"Darn it!" she squeaks. Someone needs to teach her how to cuss. She looks at me, annoyed. I don't recognize her, but that's no surprise. Employees change every week here, and it's a depressingly huge company. Film production agency, and I am at the bottom of the corporate ladder. I am the dirt beneath the corporate ladder. "Are you Matthew Dean?"

I stare at her.

She kicks me, annoyed. "Can you talk? Are you Matthew Dean?"

"Yes."

"Good. C'mon. They want you up top."

'Up top' around here means the top floors. Fucking-VIP only. CEOs and Movie Stars.

"Is this some kind of fucking joke? Why?"

"I don't know why!" she snaps. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you? They're gonna be so angry. Let's go."

"You've got the wrong Matthew Dean," I tell her.

"Well, I couldn't find any others!" She looks like she's going to cry if I don't come with her. I get up, drain my cup with a grimace. Follow her to the elevator.

I stare at the buttons. "What's your name?" I ask.

She flutters, glances shyly at me. "Anna."

Bloody hell. I wasn't fucking flirting. She's making eyes at me now.

We take the elevator to the ground floor, where we have to switch to the express elevator. The fancy one. Movie-stars and CEOs only. It even has a man in uniform to press the buttons, and a fucking couch. I keep expecting them to install a fucking mini-bar.

"This is Matthew Dean," she tells the man in uniform. "I found him."

"The Matthew Dean?" He laughs. "Was he under a rock?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not fucking here," I say. They shut up, awkwardly. The trip up is uncomfortably silent.

There's a girl at the reception desk at the top. Her skin is stretched so tight across her face, it looks like she's wearing a mask. She looks at me sourly. I don't look one bit like a movie star or a CEO. "Yes?" she says.

"I'm Matthew," I tell her. "Dean."

"Oh." She very nearly glares, but I don't think her face is capable of that much movement. I wonder if she can blink. "You." She presses a button. "Sir, Matthew Dean is here. Okay. Right away." Glares at me again. "He said he'll come fetch you."

"He who? Why am I here?"

She looks at me. "Don't waste my time."

"I'm serious. I don't know why I'm here."

"He asked for you. You're his new personal secretary."

I'm still baffled. "He who?"

"Hey, sweetcheeks," he says. His voice is like something rich and heady and fucking drizzled with honey. This is why the fangirls fucking worship him, aside from that gorgeous body and his lapis lazuli eyes. I don't even have to turn around. I know that voice.

The botox girl stands. "Mr. Rosier!"

I can feel him standing right behind me. His breath is warm on my neck.

"Giselle, track down some hot chocolate for Matty, would you?" His hand touches my shoulder, intimate. "Are you hungry?"

I shove his hand off. Glare. "Don't you fucking touch me."

I hear Giselle shriek in horror. I just swore at Evan Fucking Rosier.

He smirks. "Giselle?"

"Sir?"

"Hot chocolate. With whipped cream, and marshmallows. Chocolate sprinkles, if possible."

"Yes, sir." She disappears obediently.

"C'mon," he says to me. "I want to show you my office."

Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell-Rosier, my twice ex-boyfriend, wants to show me his office. Evan Fucking Billionaire Movie-Star Rosier has just ordered me a hot chocolate, and he hasn't forgotten, just the way I like it.

"You're a movie star," I tell him. "You don't need an office."

"Yeah." He shrugs. "But I bought most of the company, so they gave me an office."

I blink. He opens a door, and it's not an office, it's a fucking suite. There's a waterfall. He takes a seat in this huge chair, puts his feet up on the desk. He's wearing this fucking suit like he's a magazine cover. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned to show his chest. Smirking at me, and he's so much more vain and cocky than ever, it makes me a little sick.

Almost a year ago I left him. I think he's forgotten, that I left him. For the past year, I've been dying. It's only become obvious in the past two weeks.

The first time, he left me, and I started stripping, because it was the only thing that came close to the way that Evan Fucking Roswell made me feel. Rosier's his stage name. So when I got fed up and left him, I went back to stripping, because I could.

Shortly after this I was hit by the car. I was in a wheelchair for three weeks. They told me I'd never dance again. This is how I ended up in the basement here, hating my life. 

Two weeks ago, I couldn't take it anymore. I walked up to this huge-ass mansion he has on the outskirts of town, and pressed the intercom.

"Yes?" A voice said.

"I'm here to see Evan," I told the intercom.

"I'm sorry, is he expecting you?"

"No, but I'm his boyfriend. My name's Matthew Dean."

I heard laughter on the other end.

"Fuck you," I snapped, and walked away.

That was when I forgot Evan Roswell forever.

That was also when I realized I had nothing to live for. Since then I've been dying, and I don't care anymore.

"What do you want?" I ask

"You."

"You're too late," I tell him. Two weeks ago I would've thrown myself at him. Now I don't care.

He's confused, I can tell. He didn't expect me to change. "At least sit down," he says. I sit. Giselle brings me the hot chocolate. I sip at it. It's good.

"Matty," he says. I don't reply. He growls. "What's wrong with you?"

"You cheated on me."

"I know why you broke up with me." He sighs. Gets up. "Matty, I've been looking for you since you walked out. I need you back."

I don't reply. He takes the hot chocolate away from me. "Why aren't you swearing at me?" I still don't reply. He growls. Kisses me, because that's always worked in the past. I kiss back, not because it's Evan Rosier, but because I haven't had a wisp of affection in months. I haven't gotten laid since—since Evan.

He pushes me down on top of his desk, and his hands are down my pants. I feel sick. I break the kiss. "Evan."

He's kissing my neck. He's heavy on top of me and I hate it. "Evan, stop it."

I feel his grip tighten, and he bites me. Evan's a control freak. He doesn't allow people to disagree with him. I struggle. "Evan. I'm serious. Stop."

"No." He snarls.

I've known Evan for five years. This is the first time I've ever felt afraid of him. He's not going to stop. He's actually going to rape me, and there's nothing I can do about it.

I can hear the whimper in my voice. "Please."

He's got me pinned, and his grip's starting to hurt. He's completely tense with rage. I've never refused him like this. I never wanted to. Sometimes we fought. Hell, the first time we broke up was after I put a knife through his hand. But I never said no. I never needed to.

He lets go slowly, carefully. Wipes a tear off my cheek. I didn't know I was crying.

"Matty," he says, and his voice is soft. "I don't know who you are anymore."

The lights are dimming, and everything's suddenly very dark.

*

I open my eyes. The ceiling is very white. This is not my bed. I sit up. Regret it immediately. I fall back into the pillow. Take a few deep breaths. Look around.

Evan's sitting by my bed. He's holding one of my hands, and I can't feel it because he's fallen asleep on top of it. There's a cord in my arm, so I'm probably not dead. His hair's fallen into his face, and I reach over to move it, watching him. My wrist is tingling, and I'm itching to move it. I try to pull my hand back without waking him.

His eyes open. He stares at me. "Matty," he says, like I'm fucking Christmas morning.

I try to say something. Can't. He hands me a glass of water. I drink the whole thing at a gulp. He refills it.

"Don't call me Matty," I say. My voice sounds awful. He takes the glass from me, puts it aside, and suddenly he's hugging me, tight. It hurts, and I whimper. He lets go. "Dammit, Matty, you didn't have a pulse."

"What happened?"

"You passed out." He reaches over, presses the call button for a nurse. "Three days ago. Your pulse was so faint I thought you'd died. The doctor said you'd been starving yourself, not to mention you were showing so many signs of exhaustion you should've collapsed a week ago. Why aren't you taking care of yourself?"

He's all flushed, and I can see the indentations my knuckles left in his cheek. I laugh, weakly. "You're all worried."

He smiles a little, seeing me laugh. "I was afraid I was losing you."

"Pff," I say. "Don't worry. You're coming to Hell with me."

He kisses my forehead, and I don't think he's ever been so gentle. "Go back to sleep," he says, and I do.

When I wake up again, it's my sister Val sitting by my bed, reading a magazine. "Matt," she says. "You're okay."

"Where's Evan?" I can't believe those are the first words out of my mouth.

"I sent him home, to get some actual sleep. He hadn't left your side the whole time. He only agreed to take shifts with me after you woke up the first time. He told the hospital staff you were his boyfriend."

"Oh," I say.

"I thought you should be warned," she says. "The nurses adore him, so they might tease you. A couple of them are horrible gossips." She frowns. "So you might get some press harassment, if it gets out."

"He never told people I was his boyfriend, before. I was just a member of his entourage. Only a few people knew he was fucking me."

"It was hard on you, when you got back together and he'd just started getting famous, wasn't it?"

I shake my head. "No more than it ever was. We're a messed-up couple, Val. Did either of us ever tell you why we broke up the first time?"

She shakes her head.

I lean back, looking up at the ceiling. "I put a knife through his hand."

She's not sure what to say.

"The second time was because I caught him cheating on me."

"I've been worried about you," she says. "Since the accident."

"Did you tell him?"

"No. But I did tell him how to find you."

I look at her. "What?"

"He's been trying to get me to tell him, since the day you left him. Two weeks ago, he calls me up and tells me you showed up on his doorstep."

I blush. "I did."

"I was worried, you'd been so broken since you left him, so I told him where you worked. You don't have a phone."

I lean back, look up at the stark white hospital ceiling. "Sorry."

The nurse comes in. She's a bustling woman with an ample smile, not to mention her ample everything else. "You're awake!"

She bustles over, fluffs my pillow, straightens my sheets, and checks my vitals. "Feisty young thing you are," she beams. "Bounce right back. Just a case of exhaustion and stress, that's all it is. Were you trying to starve yourself?"

She laughs. I don't know how to reply to her exuberant friendliness. "I'm hungry now," I tell her.

"Alright, darling, I'll bring you some lunch, right away." She leans in, gossipy. "Is Evan Rosier really your boyfriend? No one had any idea. He didn't leave your side, three whole days."

I hesitate. "Yes. He is."

"I never knew he was such a romantic. How long have you been together?"

"Five years," I say. "On and off."

"Five years? He wouldn't tell us, really." She stage-whispers the next part. "Is he good in bed?" 

I'm startled, but then I laugh. I like her, I decide, which is strange, I hate people, especially pushy people. "Fucking fantastic."

"Oh." She looks a little dazed. She seems like the romance novel type, obviously past her prime, so I don't mind giving her something to thrill over.

"And he's hung like it's a fucking crime."

She gasps, and I've probably just made her month. "Is it true, how you met?"

I scoff. "What'd he tell you?"

"That he seduced you at your family's home by a lake."

"Did he tell you how he had us all thinking he was married to my sister at the time?"

"Was it love at first sight?"

I fluster. "I… it was hate at first sight, actually, for me. I don't know about him."

"Alright," she says. "Let me go get you some lunch, sweetie."

"When can I leave?" I ask.

"Today, if you like. But you have to take it easy. Plenty of liquids. No starving yourself. I told Evan, if he didn't take better care of you, he'd have to answer to me."

Evan. She's on first-name terms with Evan Fucking Rosier. She leaves. Val's watching me.

"Can we call him?" I ask.

"If you want. He's probably still asleep. I got the impression he'd be back here the instant he woke up. What are you going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's going to try to take you home with him, and if you don't, you're coming home with me, since you're clearly incapable of taking care of yourself. They say you were killing yourself."

"I don't know," I say. I lean back on the pillows, dozing.

I feel lips on the side of my neck and squirm. "Stop that."

"Morning, sweetcheeks," he says. "Feeling better?"

"I hate that nickname," I reply, but this only makes him kiss me again, this time on the lips.

"I'm taking you home with me," he states. "So someone can make sure you actually eat."

"Do you still have the old house?"

He laughs. "Do you seriously think I'd ever sell it?"

"This doesn't mean I've forgiven you," I mumble.

The nurse brings my food, and I find myself laughing with them as he flirts with her. It feels good to laugh again, and he's flirting with me more.

"You're free to go," the nurse says. "But I want you in a wheelchair. You're not to be on your feet for another day, at least."

"I can carry him," Evan offers, and scoops me into his arms. I yelp and hit him. She laughs.

"Put me down!" I'm only wearing this fucking skimpy hospital gown.

He obeys. "Shit, Matty, you really have been starving yourself."

I glare.

"Don't worry," he smirks. "I'll take you home and fatten you right up."

"Can I have my clothes now?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," she says, bringing them to me.

"Need help changing?" Evan smirks.

I twitch. "Please die." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. I regret it immediately. Fighting dizziness, I grab my clothes and stumble into the bathroom. 

Evan laughs at me when I emerge. "Sweetcheeks, you look like a dork."

I glare. He walks over and kidnaps my tie.

"Hey!" I object, and get a kiss in response. He untucks my shirt, unbuttons the top three buttons, and musses my hair.

"There," he says. "Much better." He's smirking. I hate that smirk.

"I look freshly fucked," I point out.

"Exactly. It suits you."

I have to fight a grin. "You're such a bastard."

"Ready to go?"

I nod, and he sweeps me off my feet.

"Hey!" I punch him. "Put me down. I'm not being carried like a girl."

"Compromise. Piggyback."

I consider. "Deal."

He sets me down on the bed and sits so I can get my legs around his waist. He smells good. Not that I care. And I'm definitely not nuzzling his neck.

I blink as he sets me down in the parking lot and opens the car door. "You got a new car," I say, surprised.

"My baby finally died. But she'll always have a special place in my heart."

"You're a freak," I say. I'm not grinning.

He gets in and drives. "You want to go to the mansion or the old house?"

"The old house," I say. "I can't believe you have a fucking mansion."

"It's disgusting," he says. "But it keeps people from finding the old house."

The old house is this decrepit ancient manor out in a ruined neighborhood on the outskirts of town. It's surrounded by neglected factories and overgrown fields. It doesn't have electricity.

"I installed a Japanese-style bath," he tells me.

"What's a Japanese-style bath?"

"Doesn't require electricity. It's like a hot tub, with a fire underneath that heats the water."

"So you got a hot tub," I say. I'm grinning a little.

"No water jets, though. Sorry."

The house does, at least, have running water, which has to be heated on a wood stove so that it's not cripplingly cold. Living there certainly makes one miss a good fucking hot shower.

He pulls up. Opens my door and smirks at me. "I think you ought to be carried over the threshold. Like a bride."

"Go to hell," I reply. "Piggyback. We agreed."

"That was just at the hospital," he says, and lifts me out of the car. I sulk, but don't fight.

I open the door because his hands are full. It's not locked. It's never locked. There's no one around for miles.

"Bath or bed?" His lips are right at my ear.

"Bath."

It doesn't show often, but he really does have a romantic streak. The bath is down in the stone cellar, and he sets me down on the stairs at he lights candles around it. I watch, as he fills it with water and builds a fire beneath it. I know I'm the only one who's ever seen this side of him. A fucking Japanese-style bath, lit with candles.

"It takes awhile to heat up," he says. I nod. He picks me up again, puts me down on the side of the tub. Kisses me softly as he undoes my shirt. He wants sex, but I'm not sure if it's because he feels he's earned it for taking care of me, or because he's missed me so much. I don't know where our relationship stands, but I don't want to discuss it now. I want sex, too.

He lifts me and holds me by the waist so he can divest me of my pants. I laugh, because he's nuzzling my neck so that it tickles. He sits me back down now that he's got me naked, running his hands over my hips. 

He stops. "Matty." He frowns, studying my hips, where one of the bones juts forward slightly. This is what causes my limp, but it's hard to notice if you're not looking.

I look away. "I was hit by a car. It's why I stopped dancing."

"Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes. I've got a limp, now. It hurts if I do a lot of walking."

"Is it a problem?"

He asks this gently, but I know what he's really asking. He wants to know if I can still take being fucked as hard as he likes it.

"I'm fine," I tell him.

He traces my disfigured hip with a finger. "You've really suffered since you left me, haven't you?"

"Don't give yourself so much credit."

He tests the water with a hand. Sprinkles the droplets at me. It's still too cool. 

"I don't come here often," he says. "Not since you left. I reminds me too much of you."

"Why'd you do it?"

"The bath?"

"You know what I mean."

He rests his forehead against mine, one arm around my waist. "I've always had affairs. Not often. Once, sometimes twice a year. Less when I'm with you."

"More than once while you were with me?" I didn't know. I pull away. He pulls me back.

"Matty. Listen."

"Don't fucking call me Matty." I'm annoyed.

"Listen." He gives me a gruff shake. "Yes, I've had affairs. This is what I'm trying to tell you. I've never had a relationship last more than a month. Even the best of them bore me, after a week or two." I blink at him. He holds my gaze, with those damn lapis lazuli eyes. "Except you. Even after you tried to take off my hand, I never stopped wanting you." He kisses me. I let him. "So yes, I will sleep around, occasionally. But I will always, always come back to you."

"I hate you," I say, against his lips. He kisses me again, deeper, but still trying hard to hold himself back and be gentle. One of his hands is on the small of my back, holding me up, and the other is caressing my skin, tickling me and making me shiver. He touches my prick and I gasp, nearly choking on his tongue. (His tongue, like his cock, ought to be a fucking crime.)




Bedsprings Arc Pt. 03



He's still dressed, and I voice my objection by unbuttoning his shirt, but this is increasingly difficult with him jerking me off, so finally he breaks the kiss himself and quickly sheds his shirt and pants. I show my approval by wrapping both legs around his waist.

He cups his hand through the water again, trickles it over my shoulder. "Get in."

This is an understandably difficult order to fulfill with his arms around my waist, even more so when he starts kissing me again. I push him back with a hand on his chest. He lets me go, kneeling to adjust the level of the fire. I lower myself in. It's still cooler than I like it, but it feels incredible. The crappy little flat I've been renting has only this tiny shower with shitty water pressure. It's been months since I enjoyed luxury of any kind, and now I'm making out with Evan Fucking Please-Die Roswell-Rosier in a candle-lit stone cellar, in some fancy-ass Japanese hot tub.

He smirks at me. "Did you just moan?"

I have no fucking idea if I just fucking moaned. I probably did. I redden. "No."

He leans over and puts an arm around my chest, nibbling my ear so that I twitch. Hasn't stopped smirking. "Am I going to have to be jealous of the water?" He reaches down. Gropes me. I moan into his mouth, because now he's moved his head around to kiss me.

I grab him by his hair. "Get in here."

He laughs, steps in, pulls me over to his lap to continue the kiss, open-mouthed and indulgent. I shift on his lap, rubbing our cocks together. He growls in approval and pulls me closer with a hand on my ass, adjusting me slightly to increase the friction. I'm enjoying this, so I break away a little from the kiss so that I can nibble on his lip. I reach down, wrap a hand around both erections (mostly his). He's getting more possessive now, lustfully mauling my neck as I keep rubbing myself against him. I can feel his hand on my ass move lower, parting the buttocks. His middle finger is stroking against my anus. He pushes it inside to the second knuckle and I gasp, tensing. "Evan—"

He gives the much-abused skin at my neck a final nip. "Do you want me to get a condom?"

"No, Evan—"

He immediately starts lifting my hips, and I know how bad he wants it. I push at him. "Wait--"

He stops, confused. I can feel his irritation.

"Not like that," I say. "Not tonight."

His hand on my ass tenses. He's annoyed. "Fine. How, then?" He pulls me tight against him, fisting our cocks with a rough, irritable manner.

"What's wrong with this?"

He forces a second finger inside me. I shudder. He's using just this hand to guide my hips, and the way he brushes against my prostate as he does so makes me melt.

I rest my forehead on his shoulder, nuzzling. I'm close to the edge already, so I reach down to help him jerking us off. This causes him to speed up, and I shout, cumming. It's a short orgasm, but a good one. I needed that. I pant, recovering slowly. He waits. I can feel his impatience. I don't care. After everything he's put me through, I can let him suffer a little.

"Matty," he growls.

"Mn?" I'm sleepy, dozing comfortably on his shoulder. He takes my hand, guides it down to his cock. Since he doesn't take his hand away, I let him, and we jack him off together.

I've gotta admit, I love watching him cum. It's the only time he really lets go. Head thrown back, and he's gorgeous, cock spewing semen into the water. He has really long fucking orgasms. I'm bloody jealous.

He sits there with me for awhile, cuddling. Finally gets up, puts out the fire, and carries me upstairs to bed. I fall asleep with his arms around me, and it's so very fucking good.

*

He wakes me up the next morning by tickling me. I gasp, swearing, and hit him.

"Morning, sweetcheeks," he grins. "Feeling better?"

"We're not having morning sex, if that's what you were hoping."

"Actually," he says, "I thought we might go in to work, if you're up for it."

I blink. "Work?"

"There's a board meeting I'm supposed to attend. And I obviously need my personal secretary."

I'm not sure what the game is. "Why did you buy half the company?"

"To get you back." He gets up, dressing. I sit up to watch. It's a nice view.

"Why not just show up and kidnap me?"

"I didn't want to risk you slamming a door in my face. I didn't know you were in such bad shape, so I wanted to set it up on my terms." He tosses clothes at me. I get dressed. It's a smart little gray suit, something expensive, but of course in just my size. He undoes the top three buttons after I've just done them up, and ruffles my hair, so that I look both acceptably fuckable and fucked. "Took me two weeks to work out the deal, and surprisingly, it was a lot of fun."

I stare at him. He's completely fucking batshit insane. I tell him so.

"One of these days I'm going to get a yacht and name it that. C. F. B. Insane."

"You can't name a yacht CFB Insane," I say. He shrugs and grabs my ass.

"I'm officially taking time off from acting, for awhile. Thought I'd try my hand at being a playboy businessman."

"Mostly a playboy," I comment.

He opens the car door for me. "That's the appeal. You see, in the higher ranks, one gets the most delectable interns."

I twitch and give him a glare. He drapes himself over my shoulders from behind before I can get in the car.

"One in particular." He nibbles on my ear, voice deep and husky at a whisper. "This delicious little intern, fantastic ass, and I'm aching to bend him over my desk and ravage him, so I had him transferred to being my personal secretary. Name's Matty. I hope you're not jealous." His hand is down the front of my pants, stroking me, and I can't stand on my own anymore. I moan.

He kisses the side of my neck. "Understand?"

I nod, turning my head in hopes of a kiss.

"Good." He lets me go. I very nearly collapse. "Get in."

I now deeply regret refusing him a morning quickie. I'm painfully fucking hard from his teasing. I get in.

We arrive, and he gets valet parking. I feel watched, like I never have before. I feel envied. All eyes are on me as we go by, and they know I'm his personal secretary, but they also know that's the same thing as being his fucktoy. Maybe other personal secretaries aren't, but there's no question in anybody's mind that I am.

When I was with him before, I was just a face in the crowd of his entourage. But now I am the fucktoy. Every face reflects one of two emotions—jealousy of me and lust for Evan, or, and this is new for me, jealousy of him for having me. Evan is making people lust after me, just by claiming me the way he does. I'm not sure if I like it.

We go up in the elevator. He's fondling my ass. I swear at him in front of the elevator attendant. He stops, indulgently, and smirks, leaning against the wall, watching me. We're playing a game now, and the entire building is our stage. Any scene in front of an audience will become known to the whole audience. By bitching at him, I raise my own status, because they all know that anyone else who crosses him will be destroyed. The mouse is allowed to mouth off at the cat, because everyone knows the cat will get his dinner in the end.

The elevator stops.

"Matty." He flashes a bill at me. I take it. "Get us breakfast. I'll be in my office."

I glare. "Don't call me Matty."

He slaps my ass as he walks away. "Hurry it up, sweetcheeks."

I allow myself the luxury of watching his ass as he walks away.

"Giselle." I hold up the bill. "Mr. Rosier would like breakfast."

I can see the clock. It's almost two.

"Of course, sir," she says. I think she'd say the same thing if I told her Mr. Rosier wanted her to suck his cock. 'Of course, sir." I toss the bill down and wander away.

*

"Matty." His weight settles over me, one arm around my waist.

I didn't notice him approach, bent as I was over his desk, focusing on some paperwork. "Sir?" I ask, fighting a laugh. "You don't think this is a little inappropriate?"

He's nipping at my neck. "What, ravishing my personal secretary?"

"I'm busy. This is actually important, you know." I extract his hand from my pants.

"Not so important you couldn't use a little distraction?" He's hard, and I'm enjoying the way he grinds against my ass.

"I'm not in the mood," I reply, acting unconcerned.

He gropes me. "You think I didn't notice you flirting with Costa?"

I grin. So my little performance earlier didn't go unnoticed. "He's a better kisser than you are."

His grip tenses. "Really? How nice for him."

I wiggle against him, struggling. "Probably better in bed, too."

He nips my neck and then lets me up, digging through his desk drawer. I go back to the papers.

"He wouldn't be able to satisfy you," Evan says.

I smirk. "Are you so confident?"

"That you won't be satisfied on any cock but mine? Yes." He leans on the desk, smirking at me. He's hiding one hand behind his back.

I try not to smile. "You're fucking plotting something."

"Plotting fucking something," he corrects. "Want a quickie?"

I grin, marking a correction on the papers. "No."

"No? Just a blowjob."

"I'm not giving you a blowjob."

He reaches over, unbuttoning the top of my shirt. "I wasn't asking." His fingers brush across my neck, and he pulls me up against him. "I was offering." He takes a kiss and I return it. He's enjoying his role as a powerful businessman way too much, but I don't mind. Evan Rosier is particularly talented at sucking cock. I feel him slide something into my back pocket.

"What was that?" He lets me toy with his hair when he drops to his knees. His hands are unzipping my fly.

"Something for later." He licks his lips, and it's hard to think. I want those lips on my cock. He's still smirking. Bastard never stops smirking. My pants are around my ankles.

He draws his tongue up my cock, long and languid. I shudder. He smirks, and I hate how self-satisfied he looks, like the damn cat who got the cream. I'm not moaning. I'm not. He wraps his tongue around the head of my cock. Bastard's way too well endowed. His tongue is like an alien entity of its own.

No one sucks cock like Evan Rosier. He's got a mouth like a fucking Hoover. He could have a career as a sword-swallower, or more likely a porn star, because he deepthroats like it's nobody's business. I can't deepthroat. I just choke.

He hums, like a deep purr, low in his throat, and I gasp, fingers clutching at his hair. I swear, begging for more. His hands move up my thighs, and he's holding something. I feel something press against my arsehole, wet with lube.

"Evan," I say, startled. He pushes it inside and moves back with a last lick to my cock. I stare at him, cognitive thinking stopped short. Neatly, he pulls my pants back up and fastens them. Fucking hell. He's not even going to let me finish. He stands and gives me a kiss. I'm speechless. I'm still not sure what he put in my ass.

I hit him. "What the hell?"

He smirks. "I thought I should make sure you weren't thinking of any cock but mine. Have a seat."

I flop into his chair, pissed and fucking hard. He laughs, because I immediately jump out of the chair, having forgotten to be careful how I sit with a thing up my ass, and settle into the chair more carefully. I squirm. It's got to be some kind of dildo or buttplug, because it's staying put despite my best efforts at squirming. I glare. "What is it?"

He digs in the drawer again, pulls out a little remote. "Vibrator."

He hits the button.

I yell, arching about a foot out of the chair, swearing fluently. He raises an eyebrow and lowers the intensity. I pant. "Fuck. Evan." One of my hands is rubbing at my crotch, so he reaches over and catches both of my hands. I struggle, trying to breathe evenly. "Evan—" I need release so bad it hurts. He stops the vibration.

"No touching yourself," he says, with a smirk. "You have to behave."

"That's a lot easier for you to say without a vibrator up your ass, you bastard."

He smirks, pocketing the control.

"I'm going to cream my pants if you do that again," I tell him.

"No, you're not. You're not getting release unless it's around my cock. I'm going to make you regret refusing me."

I hate how that turns me on even more. I'm actually enjoying this. And he knows it.

"Take this to Eileen, would you?" He hands me a sheaf of papers. "Tell her it's top priority."

I stare at him. "Evan, I don't think I can fucking stand."

He pulls me to my feet and kisses me. "You'll manage." With a pat on my ass, he pushes me out the door. The vibrator's on low; not strong enough to get me off, but enough that I'm not about to forget it's there. Bastard.

I hurry back, and he sends me on another errand. It's almost an hour before I've finally gotten used to it to the point that I'm no longer painfully hard, and I've got to pee.

He must be keeping an eye on me, because I've barely started pissing when Evan steps through the door, smirking. I swear and try to piss faster.

He leans against a wall, watching me. "I hope you weren't thinking of getting any release."

"I just have to fucking pee."

He shrugs, presses the button. I am cut off mid-stream. I grab the wall for support, swearing, because he put it on high. I'm hard again already.

"I hate you," I gasp, as he lowers it to a rate which allows me to breathe.

"Ready to beg for it yet?" His hand brushes my erection, breathing in my ear.

I turn for a kiss. "Yes."

He smirks, pulling away without giving me my kiss. "Meet me in my office." He increases the vibration lightly, making my breath hitch. "I have to piss."

"You bastard," I pant.

"Go," he says.

I go.

I take a seat in his chair, squirming impatiently. I don't dare try to get release. It'd just make him think up something worse. 

He enters, unbuttoning his shirt. "Get up. Strip."

My clothes are gone in seconds. I'm so fucking desperate at this point. He takes off his shirt first, then his shoes, then his belt, smacking me on the ass with it. I cuss at him.

He leans on his desk, watching me. "On your knees, slut."

I go down, licking my lips.

He laughs. "No. Not that." He hits a button and I buck, swearing, because now it's on high. It stops.

I shudder. "Evan." My voice is a whimper. "Fuck, Evan, please. This is cruel."

He drops to his knees by me. "All right." He kisses me, sweetly, and I kiss back, clinging. I can feel him slowly increasing the speed. My brain is short-circuiting. After what seems like an hour, he breaks the kiss and stands, watching me with a fond smirk. "Jack off. I want to watch."

He doesn't have to tell me twice. He's already increased the speed to high, and I'm moaning, writhing as I jack myself off. This orgasm's been building all fucking day, so when I hit the edge, I yell, spraying cum. I know I've never had an orgasm this long, and it's fucking good. When it passes, finally, I collapse, shuddering with a few light aftershocks.

"Shit, Matty."

I open an eye. He's staring at me, jaw dropped. I can't manage words, so I whimper instead.

"Matty." He walks over, kissing my forehead. "You were cumming for a good two minutes. Are you okay?"

I nod, sitting up and claiming a good long kiss. "You'd been building it up all day, tormenting me like that. You're horrible. Cruel."

"All year, I think," he replies. "Our first time, you had an orgasm as long as most of mine."

"Don't brag, you bastard." I cuddle into his arms.

He tickles me. "Now I need release, watching you like that…" He whistled. "Wish I'd thought to tape it."

My cheeks redden. "Fuck you." I hit at the tickling hand. "Stop that. Find some other ass."

He stops tickling and instead starts coaxing my cock up again. I swear at him.

"Matty." He pumps my cock once, roughly. "You're actually up to go again." He sounds amused. He's nuzzling at my neck.

I shudder, smacking him. "I told you to find some other ass."

"You'd be jealous."

"More like I'd feel sorry for the poor sap. Fuck, Evan!" I writhe, and he gets up.

"Up, bitch."

I smirk, struggling to stand up. "You're just so fucking sweet sometimes, Evan. You could just jack off, like you made me do."

He pulls me to my feet. "And leave you unsatisfied again? No. That ass?" He swats it, and I yelp. "Is mine." He kisses me, smirking. "Objections?"

"No." I kiss him again, reaching down to grope his balls. "You bastard."

"Ready?" He kisses the front of my throat.

"Yes."

He smirks. "Bend over the desk, slut."

"You're the slut."

He spanks my ass, hard. "Don't mouth off at me."

I poke his chest, laughing. "Who do you think you're fucking?"

"A smartass, vindictive little bitch I can't bear to live without?" He bends me over the desk, stopping to admire the view. "Also the best ass in the history of the world. Helen would be jealous."

"Helen?"

He kisses an arse-cheek. "Ass that launched a thousand ships? She's got nothing on you." He removes the vibrator, making me shudder. "Okay?"

I reach up. "Give me your hand." He does, surprised. Smiling, I kiss the back of it, weaving our fingers together. "Would you fuck me already?"

He laughs, squeezes my hand. "Yes, sweetcheeks."

He settles his weight over me, heavy and warm, thrusting in slowly. He's being gentle, more than he ever has before, taking his time. Maybe he's trying to make it up to me for teasing me so bad. Whatever the reason, I can't stand it.

"Evan, dammit, if you don't stop being so fucking gentle, I'm going to top."

He laughs, pulling out, and rams back in, hard. It hurts so bad, I'm seeing stars, and I want more. He does it again, harder. I writhe. "More."

He purrs into my ear. The hand intertwined with mine reaches down, guiding my hand so that we're jerking me off together. "Matty." His lips are right at my ear as he rams into me, again and again. He's close to the edge, I can feel it. "I love you."

I gasp, and he comes into me, long and hard and good. His hand never stops pumping my cock, and after a few moments I come with him, spurting semen across the fancy, polished wood of his desk. I'm blushing deeply when he pulls out. Evan's never once said those words before. Once he told me I was the love of his life. But he's never said it, not like that. I feel dizzy.

"Matty?"

I nod, and his arms go around me, kissing my shoulder and holding me close. I look up. "I love you too, you know."

He smiles. "I'm going to have a homing device installed in your ass. I'm not letting you get away again."

"Fuck you."

"I'm sorry, by the way."

I start. "What?"

"For hurting you."

"You're not forgiven. You'll do it again."

"I'll try to be good." He's cuddling me again. I put up with it. "For you."

"Next you're going to get me a house, with a white picket fence."

He tickles my side, lightly. "We already have one of those."

"Fuck. That's different! The fence isn't white. It's gray. And in pieces."

"We can paint it." He turns me around and kisses me.

"Fucking quaint. Next thing I know, you're going to propose."

"Sorry, I'm not marrying you. Not even if you wear a little white dress. Low-cut."

"You can wear the dress," I mutter, falling asleep on his shoulder. "And don't even think about kids."

"Of course not. We'll adopt. Your girlish figure…" He gropes my ass. I punch him. He tickles back, and we collapse, laughing.

We're together again. Absolutely everything is going to be okay. 



Bedsprings Arc Pt. 04



Betises

The conclusion of the Bedsprings Arc

He's cheating on me.

Evan Fucking Rosier, my boyfriend of--shit, is it seriously five years now?--what seems like forever, is cheating on me. I just know it.

It's not like he hasn't before, and not just since my starving actor boyfriend Evan Roswell hit the silver screen and changed into international heartthrob Evan Rosier. He always flirts. Mostly with boys, but he certainly makes exceptions. He can't resist a pretty face, and I know he's slept with at least a handful of his flirtations. The first time I found out was the second time we broke up. It's a long story. We're a messed-up couple.

It's just that--even though I'm always jealous, he bores of them. Always within a week. A few days is unusual. With luck, they won't even hold his attention more than a few hours.

But this is different. He's sneaking around, keeping secrets, making excuses. And it doesn't help he's been working late nights shooting some fucking vampire flick, so we haven't had sex in a week, except for a quickie in the closet, right before he started sneaking around. I should make it clear that it's rare for us to go two hours without sex. After a week, I'm fucking insane with jealousy and my own libido. Normally, he would be, too, but it seems he's found something that interests him more than me.

I am so fucking jealous. I'm going to be sick. 

I walk to the door of his dressing room and stop. I hear a high-pitched cough, and then Evan's laughter, loud and wide. I can taste my own jealousy, cold and cloying like swampwater in the dead of winter, thick and choking in the back of my throat. I knock.

Evan swears, and I hear scuffling. Someone whines. Who the hell actually fucking whines?

"It's probably Matty," Evan's voice grumbles. "Hold this. I'll get rid of him." 

He opens the door. "Matty." He steps through, carefully closing the door behind him, so that I can't get a glimpse inside. I glare.

"You'll get rid of me?" I echo, fucking pissed.

"Matty--" 

"Who's in there?"

"No one." The smirk on his face is reckless, challenging. We both know he's lying, it's more than evident, but he's stronger and faster than me. There's no way I'm getting past him.

Rage tastes like a mouthful of vinegar, and it's burning my throat. "You fucking bastard. Go to Hell." I walk away.

"Matty!" He swears, grabbing my arm before I'm halfway down the hall. "Matty," he growls.

I glare, angry and fucking hurt. "Don't you fucking call me Matty."

He sighs, forcing his voice gentler. "We're shooting late again tonight. The next take is in fifteen minutes."

"Break a leg," I snap, in full hope that he will.

"But I will be home," he finishes, firmly. "I'm having Jerry drive you home. You're not taking a taxi when you're this upset."

I'm letting him walk me out to the parking lot, although I'm not exactly docile about it. Jerry's his private limo driver. "Of course I'm fucking upset," I rail. "My boyfriend's cheating on me, and actually thinks I'm fucking stupid enough not to notice."


He opens the limo door and pushes me in. "Jerry, take him home."

"Which one?" Jerry asks.

"The rented one. The flat. And keep an eye on him. He might try to run away."

Run away. Like I'm a spoiled child. "I am not your fucking pet," I snarl, "you selfish fucking--" 

He cuts me off with a kiss. "I'll explain tomorrow. Any question you have, I'll answer it. Just wait home for me until tomorrow." 

He closes the door on my retort.

I thank Jerry when he drops me off. "You can go," I say. "I'm not going to run away. He promised me an explanation. I can always leave him tomorrow. Not like I haven't done it before." I lock the door and collapse on the bed, starting to cry. Fucking crying, like a little girl.

I wake up with him on top of me. His arms are around my waist, so only his head and upper torso rests on me. He's fast asleep. He likes to keep it cold in the apartment, because then I'll let him cuddle me. He knows I wouldn't let him, otherwise.

I squirm, attempting escape, and he wakes, nuzzling my neck. I hate being nuzzled.

"Morning, sweetcheeks," he whispers.

I shove at him. "Get off me."

He kisses the side of my neck. "No."

"I've gotta piss. Get off."

He sighs and lets me up. When I come out of the bathroom, he's already in the kitchen, making us breakfast. Ass-naked.

"Can't you put some fucking clothes on?" I glower. "You'll contaminate the eggs."

"You could take yours off," he offers.

"You promised an explanation," I remind him.

"After breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

He looks at me with a sigh. "Matty, would you relax? Can't you trust me even a little?"

"How can I trust you? You cheat on me all the time."

"Matty, we've discussed this."

"This isn't like other times! You're keeping secrets, making excuses, lying to me--I want to know who was with you yesterday."

The doorbell rings.

"Jesus, Matty," he says. "Didn't you even remember it's your birthday?"

I freeze. "What?"

Fuck. I didn't. I completely forgot my own birthday. I scramble for the door. Pat's there, Evan's stage manager, holding a little brown puppy with a big red bow around its neck. It looks at me and whines, confused. Pat puts it into my hands. "Happy birthday, Matt."

I am not about to melt. Evan puts his arms around me from behind, ruffles the puppy's ears. "Is that a good enough explanation?"

I lean into him, because the jumble of relief, happiness and affection rushing in to take the place of the hurt and anger is overwhelming.

The puppy yips and licks my nose. I have completely fucking melted, into Evan's arms.

"Excuse us," he says to Pat. I can hear the smirk in his voice. "We need to go have birthday sex now."

He closes the door. I'm still melted, playing with the puppy's little paws.

"Breakfast is getting cold," he reminds me.

I set the puppy down and let him scamper around our feet as we eat.

"Matty."

I look up, watching the puppy, a bite of bacon halfway to my mouth. I've probably even got a stupid grin. Evan's still ass-naked. My grin widens.

"Stop staring at the dog and eat, or I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and carry you off to be properly fucked, and you can just go hungry."

"He's cute," I say, eating faster.

Evan snorts. "You're both cute. It's disgusting."

I stop. "You did not just fucking call me cute."

"What if I did?"

"I'll deny you sex."

He starts laughing. "I'd like to see you try."

I gulp the rest of my juice and stand. "Let's go."

He smirks and grabs me by the waist, shaking a finger at the dog. "You be good while Mommy and Daddy are busy."

"Oh, fuck you," I say, but it's harder to speak with his hand down my boxers. "I am not 'Mommy'."

"Yes, you are," he says, pulling off my shirt and stopping only to kiss me before pulling me into the shower. "You really are."

We're kissing again as we hit the shower wall. I barely notice when he turns on the water. Evan Fucking Rosier is incredibly good with his tongue, and I can't notice a thing else when it's in my mouth. He gropes me, and I moan into his mouth. Okay, so I noticed that.

I love a good kiss. He's feeling affectionate, so he makes it sweet and deep, ravishing my mouth with a languid sort of dominance. It's fucking good, but I know that it isn't going to last long, because his grip on me is getting tighter, and I can feel his cock hard against my hip. One of his hands slides down my ass, spreading my cheeks and massaging my arsehole with one finger. That makes me shudder, but I'm not about to break the kiss.

We've got one of those showerheads on a hose--I'm sure there's some name for those--that can be moved around, and I'm so distracted by the kiss, that it's a complete shock when he sprays it across my exposed ass. My arsehole is very fucking sensitive. I yelp and almost fall. He presses me tighter against him so that I don't. He's laughing. I start swearing at him, at least until he does it again and I have to gasp, clutching at him. "Evan."

He laughs, spraying down my hair. "What? It's fun. I like making you squirm."

I glare at him, but relent in time for another kiss. My hand wraps around his cock. The only way to get him to stop teasing me is to make him want it so bad he can't think. He purrs in approval.

"Here." He puts the nozzle into my hand. I grin, directing the water so that it sprays over both our erections, and he grinds them together with a possesive growl. I can feel he's grabbed the lube, because he glides a finger into me, coating my entrance.

"Do you want me to turn?" I pant. I want it now.

"No." He puts down the bottle of lube. Grabs my hips and hoists me up, against the wall. I obediently wrap both legs around his waist. For a moment, he meets my eyes with a smirk, then thrusts into me.

I arch my back with a shudder, enjoying the way his breath hitches for a moment when he enters me.

"My Matty, tight-assed as ever," he mutters.

"Wouldn't be a problem for someone with a normal fucking cock," I retort. His is huge. Obscene. And he doesn't even have the decency to be gentle with it.

"You wouldn't be satisfied with anything less."

Now is hardly the time for conversation. I tell him so, squirming, in hopes that he'll stop smirking at me and actually start to thrust.

"Didn't you say something about denying me sex?" He's smirking, teasing mercilessly, with a sweet nuzzle to my jawline, like we're not both going insane because of how he's buried to the hilt in my ass.

I start swearing. "Don't you dare fucking tease me now, you smarmy mother-fucking bastard, fuck me!"

"Don't you mean smarmy brother fucking bastard?"

"I hate you," I growl. He smirks, pulls out, and rams back into me, hard. I whine, trying to remember to breathe, but I pick up the pace quickly, riding him. Remembering I'm still holding the shower nozzle, I move it so the water hits my prick, because it feels fucking good.

We've both been needing, so he comes sooner than usual. I love the way he orgasms, because they're long and powerful, so he doesn't stop thrusting for even a moment while he's cock's pumping into me, filling me with his seed. I ride it out, shuddering, and hit my own orgasm near the end of his, yelling, with my legs wrapped tight around his waist.

He laughs at he recovers, kissing me. "You needed that, didn't you?"

"Fuck yes," I reply, letting him pull out. 

He smirks and grabs the soap, starting to clean me off, in between a few sweet, lingering after-sex kisses.

"What're you going to call him?" He's cuddling me again, and I don't even mind.

"Bedsprings," I say, after a moment.

He's confused. "Bedsprings?"

"Don't ask." I grin, leaning up to give him a kiss, laughing.



Bedsprings Arc Pt. 05



Alright, this atrocity can be blamed on Megumi, for aiding, abetting, and inspiring it. Written with her help (mostly in helping me think up names), this is Brainstorms, some random short bonus fling in the Bedsprings Arc.

*

"Evan?"

I'm laying on my side by him, in that fucking good after-sex buzz, my head and one elbow resting on those damn muscled thighs of his. My other hand sits on his hip, one finger tracing the veins on his cock, watching it stir and twitch, rising slowly out of sated post-sex lethargy to glare at me.

He grunts, one arm covering his eyes. "Matty, stop playing with my penis."

"Don't call me Matty," I mumble, comfortably.

I can feel him smirk. I swear, his smirk actually raises my body temperature a degree, even when I can't see it. "Matty."

I flick his cock. It jumps. "Jackass." I grin.

Sitting up, I wrap my lips around the head of his cock and give it a lick before laying my head back down on his thighs. He groans. "MATTY."

"Mmyeah?"

"I thought you said your ass hurt."

"It does. You and your fucking monstercock."

"Then why," he asks, "are you getting me up again?"

I push his cock down with one finger and watch it bounce back up like a boxer, red and fucking pissed. "Evan?"

He groans again. "What?"

"Does your cock have a name?"

He sits up on his elbows. "WHAT?"

"It's a simple question. Does it?"

He stares at me like I've got two fucking heads. "Sure," he says, flopping back on the pillow. "Evan junior."

I make it bounce again. He growls at me. "Matty!"

"People name their kids things like Evan junior. Not cocks."

"You're batshit," he says, sitting up and grabbing me, pulling me up to lie next to him on the bed and pinning me under his weight. I can feel his cock pressing into my hip, and I like it. He nuzzles my shoulder lazily. "Does yours?"

"Mephistopheles," I tell him. "Mephy-kins for short."

He sits up to give me a suitably quizzical eyebrow raises. "Mephy-kins."

"It's the name of some demon dude from Hell. Saw it in some fucking tv special."

"And therefore you felt possessed to name your cock Mephe--Mophy--"

"Mephistopheles."

He stares at me.

I push him back onto the bed and roll over to straddle his waist so that his obscene cock brushes my ass cheeks.

"You are the only person who would name their penis Mephe--Me--" He stops and sighs, rolling his eyes. "Something that crazy."

I reach over him for the bottle of lube on the bedstand. "How about Manslayer?"

"What?"

"For your cock."

"You want to name my cock Manslayer."

"I'm sure it could cause death in lesser men than I. Less masochistic men with weaker powers of recovery. It's as large as my forearm."

"Like hell it is. You're not THAT scrawny."

I pour a glob of lube into my hand and reach around, slopping it onto Manslayer. "Cockzilla."

He groans. "That's worse."

Grinning, I wiggle my ass backwards, using my hand to guide his cock until I feel it pop inside. I sit down greedily on it, shivering at the slight pain. "Homewrecker."

He raises an eyebrow at me.

I grin. "Hollywood."

He's confused. "Hollywood?" A moment later he gets it and rolls his eyes. "No." He flips us over, pinning me down and pulls most of the way out.

"King Dong," I say. He slams into me in reply. "Ow."

"Shut up," he says, but I can taste the amusement in his voice.

"Energizer. Because you keep going and going and--"

He kisses me to shut me up, rutting hard into me. "I am not naming my cock after a pink bunny."

"God."

He stops. "Better. But no."

"Yeah." I reconsider. "That's just asking for erectile disfunction."

He twitches, still not moving. "I feel I should be insulted by that insinuation. What about Master?"

I grin that he's now helping me think up names. "Maybe. Tell Master to stop being lazy and fuck me." I writhe up and clench my butt to encourage him.

He smirks, lifting my ass with his hands so he can fuck me harder, and I moan, rolling my hips with him and shuddering--"ohyespleasemastertakemehard"--because I know how much he likes it when I beg. I scream as I come, babbling, and then dissolving bonelessly into the buzz after my orgasm, letting him fuck me the way h e likes, those damn lapis lazuli eyes on mine. He stills--my legs wound obscenely around his waist, and his cock right where it belongs, deep within me--then continues to thrust, spurting into me repeatedly, claiming me for his own.

"My sweet Matty," he mumbles, collapsing onto me. I enjoy the warm sticky weight of him.

"His Majesty," I suggest.

I can feel his lips against my throat widen into a grin. "His Majesty. Deal," he says, pulling out and then relaxing back on top of me. "You crazy bastard."

"Bitch," I murmur contentedly. "You're the bastard."

He nuzzles my neck, cuddling me close. "Fine. You crazy bitch."

"I hope His Majesty isn't worn out," I tell him, kissing. "We're going again."



Bedsprings Arc Pt. 06



Author's Note: Plot? What plot? I need no plot, I have Evan Fucking Please-Die Rosier and Matty Dean going at it like rabbits. And the world can never have too much Evan and Matty going at it like rabbits. They're on vacation somewhere. At a farm. For some terribly relevant reason that I might explain if asked at some time when I'm not focused on the sex.

Warning for kink, spankings, and role-play. But hey, if you've dealt with Evan and Matty this far, do you really need warnings?

Dedicated to the artist Pirotess, for the picture she drew to give me the inspiration I so desperately needed.

*

The ice cream carton is almost empty by the time he finds me. I hear the barn door slide and freeze.

"Matty," he grumbles. "You're so dead."

It's very fucking important to stay still. I weigh each breath, low and quiet, hearing his footsteps enter, stirring up stray footfalls of dust. A melting drop of ice cream falls from my spoon and hits my shirt. I swear aloud, and only a moment later realize what a mistake this is.

The ladder rattles and a moment later his head appears over the edge of the loft. "Matty. Darling."

His voice is laced with menace. I'm so screwed.

I hide the carton of ice cream behind my back and smile innocently at him. "Hi."

He takes another step up, resting his arms on the edge of the loft. "I believe I warned you what would happen if you stole my last carton of caramel fudge swirl."

I lick the spoon slowly, running my tongue along the flat of it, then up along the rim, cleaning the last drops of melting cream from it. "You threatened to fucking impale me."

"I might have to do worse." He takes one more step, then another, cresting the top of the ladder.

I decide I'll take my chances at escape, and scramble to my feet. He makes a grab for me. I duck, he slips, tripping me by accident, and we go down in a heap on the hay, me straddled awkwardly over his lap. Swearing at my bad luck, I make another attempt to run for it, and he grabs me by the belt, hauling me back. He bends me over his lap, holding me in place with a firm hand on my lower back as he reaches for the ice cream, which has now dissolved into a puddle of off-white sludge in the bottom of the carton.

"Bitch," he mutters, setting the carton back down, and pushes my shirt up, rolling me over so that he can take off my belt and unfasten my jeans.

"What are you doing?" I ask, struggling curiously, as he takes my belt and uses it to tie my wrists together. His answer is to roll me back over and yank my pants down, baring my ass. My eyes widen. "Fuck. Evan!"

His hand connects with my ass with a crack like a bone caught in a food processor. I yell, because that fucking hurts. "HEY!" He does it again. And again. I'm struggling in earnest now, because it feels like I sat down on a fucking stove, and he's not about to stop. Around the fifth or sixth spank I hear myself fucking whimper at the pain, still struggling and swearing at him. "Get your fuck—ah!—fucking hands off me—OW! FUCK!—you fucking wanker!"

"Shut up," he says. He's smirking. As usual. He hits my ass again, and I realize with horror that at some point my struggles have become less focused on escape, and I'm grinding myself against his leg with every blow. I am so aroused. And he knows it. So he spanks me again. And again. I've lost count.

"Evan," I mew, hands clawing uselessly at the hay, still trying to escape, although I think my legs have melted from the pain in my ass. "Please."

He hesitates with his hand raised, lowering it to stroke one of my buttocks, cupping it in his palm. I wince at the touch. "Please what?" he asks.

"Please," I whimper. "No more."

I get another spank for my trouble. "That's for me to decide, bitch"—spank—"not you." Spank. "You need to be punished." Spank. "Unless you think you've learned your lesson."

"Yes." I'm quivering. I didn't know I was capable of being this aroused while in this much pain, although Evan's hardly the type to be gentle with me. "I'll be good."

"Will you?" Spank. "Be a good little bitch?"

"Yes," I writhe. "Master?"

"Is that a request?" 

His hand hesitates. I pounce the opportunity. "Yes. Please. Please fuck me?"

He caresses my ass, considering. "Sure." He grins at me in a way that makes me shudder to think of what I just begged to endure on my already burning ass. Right now, I want to go sit down in a bucket of ice, not get fucked. 

He leans back, reaching for the carton again, and I stare at him. "I thought you were gonna fuck me," I start, watching him lift out the spoon, dripping with melted ice cream.

"Oh, I am." He says, smirking. "Don't you want lube?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't—oh. Fuck." Upon realizing his intentions, I start struggling again. He shifts our positions so that I'm still on my stomach in the hay, and he's straddling my waist so he has no problem holding me down while his hands are busy. Firm hands spread my aching ass, and I wince as drops of still-icy wet cream hit my exposed anus, the only part of my ass that's not currently aching for cool relief. Then something even colder presses against it, and I hear a tormented whine escape my lips, clawing at the ground in a futile attempt at escape as he smears the spoonful of melted goo over my crack, then turns the spoon around, gliding the rounded end of the handle into me. I start swearing more than ever. "Oh, fuck, Evan! That's cold!"

His hand hits the side of my ass with a raw smack. I'm grateful he has the sense to be careful of the spoon. "Suffer," he recommends, helpfully.

I moan. "Please just fuck me." After a moment I add, under my breath, huffing strands of hair out of my face. "You crazy fucking bastard."

He pulls the spoon out without warning. I hear the pop it makes and wince, cussing him out until he gives me another spank and I shut up, gritting my teeth at the pain and comforting myself by imagining how he'd like it if someone rammed an ice cream spoon up his ass. He moves off me and I shift onto my knees, exposing my ass obediently for him.

"Good boy," he says, kissing an ass cheek as he slathers more of the ice cream on my asshole.

"Please fucking die," I grumble, bracing myself. He hovers over me, and I can feel his breath ruffling the hair at the back of my neck before he starts pressing into me. My moan goes through my entire body, gliding like ice down my back, and I hear him growl appreciatively in return as he pushes in, slow and steady. He hilts it in me, then stops. I'm grateful for the pause, gasping as I try to get used to it inside me. I'll never get used to his cock. It's too obscene.

I whine, writhing, and after a moment he starts to move. I know I'm still in trouble, so I can't hope that he'll be gentle, and he fucks the way he likes it, hard, ruthless, almost cruel, but so damn good. I hate myself, but I know I'm begging for more with every breath, dissolving into pleas and moans under his touch.

My breath catches and I start to shudder, about to come, but his hand reaches down and wraps tight around the base of my cock, stopping it. I yelp in surprise and indignation, shaking with need. "No, Evan, please, please let me come," I beg, scratching at the floor, tears running down my face with need. "Please, please, please let me."

"Not yet," he growls, still rutting into me. "Not before me."

I keep begging, regardless, overwhelmed with pain and desperation, until he finally comes, agonizing minutes later, releasing me into my own orgasm. Relief crashes into me and I come, hard, screaming.

I open my eyes a few minutes later to realize I must have passed out from orgasm, because he's done already and pulled out. He's rolled me onto my back and is leaning over me worriedly, patting my cheek gently to wake me up. When I moan, he grins. "Matty. You fainted."

I feel my face go as red as my ass. "I did not faint. I passed out from the abuse."

"Same thing." He kisses me with a grin. I push him away, rolling over because it hurts to have weight on my ass. He lies next to me in the hay. "Matty?"

"What?" I mumble, weakly.

"That wasn't my last carton."

I look up, staring at him in shock.

"There's another freezer. A padlocked freezer, in the basement. It's stocked."

My jaw has dropped, and I'm just staring. "So you—you didn't—you knew—you BASTARD!"

He kisses my cheek. "Yes. But you didn't. And I'm not the type to waste a perfectly good opportunity."

I moan, dropping my head into my arms in exasperation. "I'm denying you sex," I tell him.

He smirks. "You can try."