frightnight2011

wheres the kink meme part?

You are in the kink meme party, silly. Just put the pairing/kink you want, (for example, Peter/Charlie, drunken cuddling), and in the comment part, just describe what you want ('I'd like to see something with Peter and Charlie cuddle after a few shots').

Evil Ed/Charlie

Evil Ed's been in love with Charlie for a long time. Now that he's turned into a vampire, can he get Charlie to love him back?

I don't know if, when you put up the prompt, you wanted it violent--cause this ended up pretty violent--but here it is. :)



"Y'know, I put up with so much shit from you."

For the first time in a long time, Ed is talking and Charlie's listening.

He listens, because Ed's got his shoulders crushed up against the wall. Listens because Ed's breath--Ed's teeth--are right there, so close: heavy and heady and hypnotic. And his eyes look so familiar--the eyes of the best friend he grew up with.

Until the anger flashes too high and the eyes flood black, and even if it's just for a second, it's enough to break the spell: enough to start him struggling again.

But Ed laughs when he fights.

"I let you walk all over me, Squidboy. I always came when you called." Then suddenly he's closer--to to toe--so there's no room to move, no room to breathe. So his face takes up all of Charlie's vision.

Ed shakes him, slamming his shoulders with each tremor--a building crescendo of abuse.

"I'm done waiting for you to get your shit together!" He screams, and the words punctuate the banging until they both stop completely.

Ed stares at him, silent, his eyes large and human. But when his gaze breaks and he surges forward, he kisses like it's a meal. He mouths at Charlie's lips, nipping with too-sharp teeth, digging his claws so deep in Charlie's shoulders that he has to gasp--has to open. And from there, Ed pushes on.

Ed's tongue delves into his mouth, exploring his teeth, his cheeks, his gums. And when Charlie's tongue gets in the way he bites at it, until wells of blood spring up and make the taste all the sweeter.

Charlie squirms and pushes but Ed pushes more. He's strong now. For the first time in his life, he's not the one getting hit.

He's the one throwing the punches.

Charlie's mouth isn't enough for him--not anymore. All the years he'd spent wondering about that one kiss, that one moment, but it's not enough. Not when he can hear Charlie's heart thundering in his chest.

He pulls back and latches his lips to that neck--that long, appetizing neck. He laps and licks and sucks and nibbles and it takes so much fucking restraint to keep his fangs back. Ed's mouth waters, wanting him.

But this goes so much farther than blood. This stands with years of loyalty, years of devotion. Love.

He pulls back and can almost feel his heart give a little quiver--one last, stubborn attempt at a beat.

The black sinks out of his eyes. His fangs retreat until they're nearly nothing. For just a second, he almost looks himself again--save for the waxen skin. For a second, he looks sick, tired. And ashamed.

He keeps Charlie pinned there, just to look at him--to search him for the answers he's never been able to find.

For a second, his stomach lurches and he swallows back bile, because Charlie--his best friend, the person he's been so hopelessly in love with for so many hopeless years--Charlie looks at him so hurt and so afraid that he finally feels like a monster.

Charlie/Vampires

Everyone wants Charlie dead, but no one wants to kill him. Just how intoxicating is his fear?

_{This got way longer than I intended, so I've posted the whole thing over at my journal.}

It's like nothing he's ever tasted before.

Jerry has been around for four centuries. He has lived through the Restoration and he has watched the Industrial Revolution change the skyline. He's cut his way through two World Wars worth of blood, dozens of battlefields full of fear, and no one out there has ever tasted like this.

He takes his time, with one slow lick after another - it's wrong to rush a fine wine, after all. In his arms, Charley still struggles, but Jerry hardly notices. It's the squirming of a mouse against a lion. He feels warm all over with every single drop that he takes. It's like being alive again. He can remember what it feels like for his heart to beat; he can remember what it's like to feel something for humanity other than blind disgust.

God, he'd drink this all day if he could.

Around him, his children are waiting restlessly. The scent of Charley's fear is thick in the air, but it's nothing to compared to the taste. If they get a single drop, Jerry isn't sure if he'll be able to get them to stop. Even the command of a sire might not be enough.

"Jerry," one of them whines. "Please, Jerry."

He needs to share. It's supposed to be his role: a provider. He's a family man at heart.

Yet the man in his lap is something different, something new. He's waited four hundred years to earn this. These newbies have waited under a week.

He doesn't want to spoil them, that's all. He doesn't want them to get used to rich blood too early.

Reluctantly, he lifts his lips from the wound on Charley's neck. "Go hunt," he growls. It's about time they learned.

The First Drop

I'll play.

Jerry/Peter, stalking.

There's something undeniable about Peter, something in his walk, in his eyes, and the smell of his fear.

(This isn't usually my thing, but here goes!)

It hadn't caught Jerry's notice at first -- working out on the Vegas strip at night he tended to pass by the millions of show posters without a second glance -- but one night seeing that ridiculous "Fright Night" poster out of the corner of his eye made him do a double-take. He didn't trust it at first, at his age everybody looked familiar anyway, but after mulling over the face beneath that big fake wig for a few days it finally clicked: the Vincents. The same big doe eyes and patrician nose. He burst out laughing the moment he realized it, the very idea of the last scion of the famous British vampire-hunting family hawking cheap tricks in Las Vegas hotels cracking him up so bad he nearly drove his truck of the road.

So of course he had to see the show.

Sitting in the audience, grinning from ear to ear, Jerry could barely contain himself. It was usually hit or miss when you left somebody alive after killing their family (Jerry knew, from much experimentation) in that they either swore revenge or slunk away to hide the rest of their lives. But *this* was unprecedented in all Jerry's years of orphaning. When the vampire queen shrieked and exploded in flames, Jerry clapped and cheered along with the audience, thrilled and enthralled. What was behind all this? What drove a man to make such a spectacular mockery out of what killed his family? It was just too good, too incredible.

So of course he had to see more.

That was as easy as buying a ticket; Jerry had a line of bosses falling over themselves to recommend him as long as his arm. Never having a single sick day and inhuman endurance can do that for a man in the contracting business. He was working backstage in about a week, watching Peter Vincent from behind curtains and doors, learning the rhythm of his walk, the distinct smell of him. At first, Jerry had thought it was just the odor of liqueur and leather that hung around the magician, but he quickly came to recognize the smell of stale fear that never left the man. The rest fell into place quickly: the haunted look in Peter's eyes when he was stone-cold sober, the way he would sometimes jerk away when one of the show's 'vampires' hissed and bared their fangs, the slight hitch in his walk when he fought with himself over walking quietly versus walking confidently... It all spoke of a terror that had never left the boy that Jerry had left alive. Jerry had to admit that stroked his ego better than anything had for a long time.

So of course he had to see Peter Vincent up close.

Jerry/Charley: dubcon and begging. Jerry wants to make Charley beg him for it.

I need this like burning.

Charley/Peter - survivors and absinthe kisses

(well... we'll give it the old college try)

When you wake up from having nearly sacrificed your life to save your girlfriend, the last thing you really expect is to be kissed by an insane Englishman (Scotsman, Peter will later complain indignantly, but who listens to him anyway).

Honestly, a kiss from said girlfriend would be higher on the list.

Still, that is exactly what happens. The kiss is fast and impulsive and born of relief. It tastes like burning (which Charlie will eventually come to realise is the taste of absinthe and cigarillos, but at the moment is just another reminder that he killed a fucking vampire while on fucking fire). Peter Vincent is oddly tactile, and a kiss is his automatic reaction to Charlie being alive.

Amy follows it up with one of her own, and it's exactly the hero's reward that it ought to be. Her kiss is sweet and deep and tender, threaded through with relief and devotion. In other words, it's perfect. It feels like a dream.

When Charlie does dream the scene, however (over and over and over again in the coming weeks), it's Peter's kiss that takes on a life of its own. His mind replays the soft scratch of stubble, the quick press of lips, the ragged breath. It's strange that, of all moments from that insane evening, he keeps winding up back at that one.

Eventually, he winds up at Peter's flat at two in the morning - confused and tired and more than a little curious. Peter doesn't ask questions, just pours another glass of absinthe. The two of them proceed to get completely pissed. Because, really, it's no stranger than anything else they've done together. And, really - who's going to bust him about being underage when he's just saved Las Vegas from vampires?

"Here's to surviving and taking the fuckers down," Peter slurs eventually, holding his glass up in a sloppy toast.

Charlie echoes the motion, and they both toss back their drinks. Liquid fire burns down his throat and settles in his belly, and Charlie gasps.

"It tastes like burning," he tells Peter, and starts to laugh.

"It does at that," Peter agrees, head lolling idly until he's looking at Charlie again. He grins. "Good burning, though."

Then, he kisses him. And it feels so very, very real.

It still tastes like burning. But, Charlie thinks he is beginning to really like fire.

Amy/Charlie - Sometimes, when they kiss, she still has the desire to slide her mouth down and sink her teeth into his throat. It's terrifying and thrilling all at once.

It's that first time - that otherwise perfect (aside from Peter's intrusion) first time - that it happens. Charley is being so careful not to use his teeth. He is all lips and tongue and it's warm and loving and soft, and this is exactly what she wanted when she imagines his soft, warm, wet mouth choking in blood.

Her whole body stiffens at the thought of it - her brain is repulsed by it, it's Charley, the one who came after her, who saved her, and his hands are on her body, and they're finally with each other, reveling, and she's picturing his his teeth coating in blood, as his eyes go wide and white.

Her beautiful boy is caressing her, his tongue sliding down between her breasts because he thinks he's doing something right. And he is - he is, she has to tell herself that - but something is wrong with her. The uncalled-for image is expanding in her mind, and now she's in it. Her imaginary self, her would-be self if not for the boy loving her, has torn him apart. Her teeth have sunken into him, sharpened and elongated, her whole face a distortion, and she's latched on his neck. Her would-be self is killing him with pleasure and pain, and as the real Charley (the living, lively, loving Charley) passes his fingers into the tangle of hair between her legs, she knows the warmth in her belly is from the dead Charley in her dream, and not the one in her arms.

She lets her human fingers tangle in his hair, and she tries not to think about how easily she could've pulled him up from there and thrown him across the room. How simple it would be to pin him to the floor - Charley, Charley, she'd whisper to him, I'm tired of waiting for you, Charley, I'll take what I want right now and she'd have all of him. Would-be her would destroy his gentle fingers, break them until they fixed themselves and understood how this would work with her and him now.

A moan escapes her and living Charley grins so openly she has to smile back, and she won't picture blood on his teeth. His neck is a smooth curve, unmarred and miraculously unbroken from the events of the last few days and nights, and he will stay like that.

She has an extra life - and she'll live it making sure the dreams from her death don't come true.

Jerry/Evil Ed.

"So, you have read Twilight," he said, and Ed could hear the mocking chuckle in Jerry's voice. "How do I measure up?"

Seconded! Evil Ed needs some love

Jerry/Peter

This creature destroyed his life. Is still destroying it even now. But, he keeps going back anyway.

So unsure about characterization still.

Amy is crumpled in the corner, her skin too too pale. His stomach clenches in cold fear at the sight and there's a chuckle behind him, a sniff along his throat. "The scent of fear. So...intoxicating." Another long inhale. "Especially yours."

Peter knows that Charley is still out there somewhere. He wonders when Charley will be caught; he can already imagine the colour of Charley's blood splattered against the floor and his heart twists.

Cool fingers wrap around his throat, fingers digging. He can feel the rough thump of his pulse against the pressure. Blunt teeth--not a monster now, but still, always always always a monster--scrape against the back of his neck and Peter curses himself as he leans into it.

Amy/Jerry - this was everything she shouldn't want, but did anyway.

Peter/Amy/Charlie. Because survival's as good a reason as any. And he did say that if they were naked he'd look.

It's late, and Peter Vincent is watching two teenagers have sex on his floor. In degrees of debauchery, he thinks this might be setting new records even for him – then again, he did say he was going to look, he just never expected to be asked.

He left his phone on purpose the first time, just to mess with them. When he went back the second time, he didn't even have an excuse, he just can't resist. He's high on life and the joy of survival right now (well, that and amphetamines, but that's neither here nor there), and the last thing he wants is to be alone, even if it means tormenting the two people who are the closest things he has to “friends” at the moment. The fact that he's forty and these two people haven't yet seen their 18th birthdays means very little to him. Fuck, he's so emotionally stunted they've probably got a few years on him in that department anyway.

When Charley calls after him: “Peter, wait,” he doesn't hesitate before jokingly asking “What, need some help?” A look passes between the two half-naked young adults, and he suspects there's been a bit of conversation since he left the room the last time, then Charley is asking him if he'll stay and he figures Why the fuck not? The legality of the situation is a bit sticky, but the law has a funny way of putting its fingers in its ears and whistling when your name is Peter Vincent and you're the top act at the Hard Rock Casino in Las Vegas. Plus, where he's from, the legal age of consent is 16 – he figures he can always claim ignorance if this comes back to bite him in the ass.

They ask him to watch, and that's a bit less participatory than he was hoping for but he didn't have anything better planned tonight. Fuck, though...he's forgotten how bloody boring teenage sex can be, particularly when at least one of the parties involved is a virgin – Charley obviously, but he has his suspicions about Amy. These are confirmed when the proceedings end a bit quickly and she assures the young man with a wisdom that can only come from experience that it's okay, it happens. “We'll try again in a little while,” she says, a sweet smile on her lips that could be put to such better uses.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Peter groans around the Midori-flavoured ice cube he's been chewing on, setting his drink down a bit heavily on a nearby table. They both look up surprised as if they've forgotten he was even there.

“What?” Charley asks.

“'What?'”Peter parrots back, his voice raised in imitation. “Aren't you lot supposed to more crazy and experimental these days or something? I mean, if I wanted to watch bad, boring sex I could have a mirror installed on my own ceiling.” In fact he does have a mirror installed on his ceiling, but that's not the point.

“Fuck you, dude,” Charley answers, rolling his eyes.

“And you think you could do better,” Amy says. It's a statement, not a question, and Peter's cock and ears all perk up. Truth be told, it's doubtful: he's older, intoxicated and hardly has marathon stamina even under the best of circumstances as Ginger used to like to remind him (a bit of a painful twinge at the memory of her death, but he puts that unpleasant thought right out of his head). Still, as he told Charley only a few hours ago when they climbed into that basement that stank of death: like a great date, he'll try anything.

“I really don't think I'm okay with this,” Charley says as Peter joins them, shucking his jacket and already working at the fastenings of his leather trousers. “I never agreed to let you fuck my girlfriend.”

“No worries,” Peter says. “I was actually thinking I'd fuck you first.” Then, before the kid can come up with a response to that, he covers Charley's mouth with his own.

God bless the teenagers, it turns out they're both great dates as well.

Charley/Ed. Squid Boy and the Comeback Kid together again.

Oh my god yes! Nerd love forever!

Ed/Adam

We're going to hunt a vampire

(This probably isn't what you meant, but I really like Adam, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Takes place right before the movie starts)

“Ed, Charley doesn't just think he's better than us, he knows he's better than us. It's a dangerous affliction, affecting 99% of douchebags in high school,” Adam explained, absently pressing the record and stop buttons on the camera as he shrugged at Ed.

“Fuck him,” Ed snapped, glaring down at his bag, the one full of vampire killing supplies including stakes, crosses, and holy water they had both stolen from St. Mary's church.

“Maybe he'll come around in a few years, and give a shit about us again, but to be honest, I don't care. He left us to be with her, and it's not like he cares,” Adam added.

“I don't care either,” Ed lied, “But that thing is living next to Charley's house, so we'll have to warn him eventually. It's only a matter of time before it goes after him.”

“Not if we kill it first,” Adam said.

“And how do you propose we do that?” Ed asked.

“I don't know. We could set it on fire or something. Burn its house down? Douse it in holy water. We have the tools.”

Adam stood up from Ed's bed, walking over to the computer desk and setting down the camera.

“I think we need to tell him,” Ed insisted.

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Adam turned toward his friend, and was startled to find Ed standing right next to him. He quickly recovered.

“Screw him!” Adam exclaimed, “We don't need him. We don't need anyone. We've got this, Ed. You and me. We're a team here, and we can save this neighborhood.”

Ed looked shaken up. He shook his head, hand gripping his cross necklace so hard that it was shaking.

“You really think we're a team?” Ed asked.

“Yes,” Adam placed a hand on Ed's shoulder, squeezed reassuringly, “We're amazing together.”

Adam wasn't prepared for the kiss, nor the way that Ed's hands grasped at him, pulled him closer. He struggled briefly as the oxygen was sucked from him. Then for a moment, just for a moment, he gave in, pulled at Ed, tugged at his shirt to bring them closer. Suddenly, the nerves took over, and Adam shoved Ed backward, toppling him onto the bed.

“What the fuck, Ed?” Adam breathed, wiping his mouth of the kiss.

“What?” Ed looked wounded.

“You can't just...you don't just...seriously, what the fuck?!”

“We're amazing together. You said so,” Ed insisted.

“Yeah, at finding and killing vampires. But not this. We're not-no, I'm sorry.”

Adam turned and left a stunned Ed sitting on his bed. He rushed down the stairs three at a time, and was out the door in seconds, mind racing.

Ed was...

Ed was confusing. He was funny, and insistent, and the kiss hadn't been bad, just unexpected.

Adam didn't know what to think. He couldn't imagine what must have gone through Ed's mind to make him do that. Yet, a part of him knew. Knew it made some sort of sense.

A strange sensation came over Adam all of a sudden. Something that had nothing to do with Ed, or the kiss. It was an intense feeling, a lurking suspicion that he was being watched.

Adam turned, squinting down toward the end of the dark street. There, under a streetlamp, skin bright and pale in the small stream of artificial light, was him, it, the vampire. Adam swallowed, attempted a half-hearted wave as though he hadn't been following the creature for a week now, as though he didn't know what it was.

“Hi, guy,” the creature said. Adam nodded, tried to smile calmly, and turned. His pace picked up after two steps, then he began to run, his shoes pounding concrete as fast as he could until he reached his house. It had to know about him.

Peter/anyone
it was so easy to lose himself in the rush and heat of another person. anything so he would not have to think

It was better than booze, than fighting, than bright lights and people calling his name, it was the best way of not having to think. The heat and the rush and the loss of control was exactly what he needed. It numbed him, bit he could still feel everything. It calmed him, yet made him feel alive in a way that nothing else could. It meant he wasn't alone, yet didn't have to give anything back. Peter swam beneath the other man, redoubling his efforts, wanting it to go on for just a little bit longer.

He wouldn't need to drink if he could have this every night. Of course, as soon as he saw this man, he knew he'd be bottoming, but he didn't care, almost welcomed the dominance. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it forced Peter's thoughts quiet as sensation took over.

Peter/Charley - "I'm gonna pop your cherry"

Omg seconded PLEASE.

Charlie/Peter

For a man so full of nervous ticks, self-loathing, and alcohol, it is amazing how Peter Vincent also manages to be the least self conscious person Charlie has ever met.

Amy/Charley - first date

Jerry/fledgeling vampires. He loves each of them, in his own way.

I hope you all like this! I really like this idea (and many others) and I hope it’s close to what you’re looking for.


If there was one thing that could never fade or be destroyed by time for vampires were memories.

For Jerry, his most vivid memory would be the night he gained three new fledglings. The night of his victory had been so glorious.

He remembered the burning hot fire, the fight, the blood, and the screaming- oh the screaming- as his fangs sank into young flesh. How he had waited for this for centuries…

Amy’s face of delight as she witnessed the fire in her lover’s eyes dull and fade into a never ending pit of darkness.

Peter screaming in the background before he himself was outnumbered and overpowered by Jerry’s minions.

As he watched Amy, Peter, and Charley stand before him, he could only think how this was definitely worth the wait.

Jerry had several fledglings in his long lifetime. Most of them had passed away or had disappeared over time. Still, they were branded into his memories and he could recall each of them fondly.

The same could be said for his new members. His three children were each different, but he loved them just the same.

Amy was, ideally, the perfect example of a fledgling. She was beautiful with her coy smiles and fluttering eyelashes. Her body and mind was like water when it came to him. She responded obediently to his whims and her body was easily willing to his touch.

She was the baby of the family; his little girl. She would tease and flirt and play with her victims like a Lolita. Jerry would compliment her latest kill and her bloodied smile would widen with such childish pride.

Charley was another story.

Jerry had thought that once a human turned, they would lose their inhibitions completely. His little guy had managed to somewhat disprove it.

Charley did what he was told… It was just how he did it.

At his first kill, Jerry had lovingly guided the kid’s mouth to the victim’s neck. Charley had looked up at him and there was a spark in his black eyes. It was small and had only lasted a moment, but there was a fire burning in there somewhere.

He had seen it again when he pinned his second youngest to the wall. Charley had put up a futile struggle before giving in, and Jerry had found it too pleasing and amusing to tell him otherwise.

Jerry wasn’t a particularly violent sire, but he loved the sight of bruises on Charley.

Peter was still as eccentric as ever. The vampire hunter was a little older than Jerry would have liked, but the man was endearing in a way.

Jerry had always thought the best look for Peter was fear. He remembered little Vincent Jr. cowering in fear, eyes wide open with terror, as he had ripped Mr. and Mrs. Vincent to pieces. He had been so tempted to just grab the child and rip his throat from all that delicious fear.

Each of his children had a certain beauty to them. He thought of Amy humming to herself as she obediently followed him, Charley's look of defeat after he had lost a brief struggle for power, and Peter’s mischievous smile as he watched his latest victim run for their life.

Jerry cared for his children and provided for them. They were his little dolls that he could play with and take care of. He keeps them despite their flaws and past actions because…

He loves each of them, in his own way.


I really hope this was close to fitting the bill and I hope you all enjoyed this.

Evil Ed/Amy.

She was a skank, but she was a do-able skank.

Peter/Charlie - vampire hunting, when the floor of a building caves in. Peter is injured, and he and Charlie are trapped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Peter breathes and stops moving. The ceiling has been broken open, the stars clear points in the sky; the missing pieces of the ceiling are currently piled on him. He shifts again and although everything feels achy-bright with pain, there is none of the sharpness of broken bones.

He hears the thump of footsteps before Charley runs around the corner and skids to his knees in front of Peter. His hands are shaking as they touch Peter’s face. There is dust in his curly hair, abrasions on his cheeks, a split in his lip that is still touched with blood. Charley is looking and touching, but he’s not saying anything.

“The vamp?” Peter prompts.

Peter watches the bob of Charley’s throat as he swallows. “Dead. Dust. Too easy.” Charley tries to smile, but it looks all wrong.

“Stairs?”

Charley gives a sharp shake of his head. “Everything’s blocked off.” His thumb moves from Peter’s cheek to the edge of his mouth; smiling just a bit—just to reassure Charley because he’s looking pale and spooked and they’ve been on enough hunts for Peter to know that it’s not caused by the vampire—Peter kisses the digit. That garners him a weak smile.

“What about you?” Charley asks.

Experimentally, Peter shifts. Bruised and aching, yes, but he’s felt that way after some of his party nights. There’s something wrong with his trapped shoulder, that he can tell, but it doesn’t feel as if it’s anything too bad. Stretching out his free hand (his other arm and shoulder crushed by ceiling, rocks digging through his coat to scratch at his skin, dust and pebbles tickling at his fingertips), he wraps his fingers around Charley’s wrist; the skin is dry and dusty, but it is warm and alive. “I’ve had worse,” he says wryly.

Charley lets out a rough chuckle and stands. “Let’s get you out of there.”

“Thank you,” Peter moans theatrically. “I really need a drink.” He watches as Charley smiles a little more, apparently unable to help it; it’s the image he holds close as Charley starts shifting pieces and pain laces through him.

jerry/charlie

he did always love a challenge

jerry/peter - breaking things is always fun. especially when you get to do it more than once.

seconded so hard!

charlie/peter - smoke, alcohol, truth and lies

Everything’s gone a bit hazy and Charley’s not sure if it’s because of the tequila shots from earlier or the rum from ten minutes ago. Maybe the haze is due to Peter’s cigarillo. He’s not quite sure.

Peter leans over and gives him a squat, fat glass of some pale, cloudy liquid. Absinthe, he wonders, or vodka? He throws it back anyway and the burn slides hotly down his throat. Eyeing him through the haze, Peter leans forward as if to pour more and then fucking stops.

Charley catches the dark eyes. “What?” he prompts.

Peter shakes his head, pours some more alcohol. “Nothing.” The dark eyes come up again, watching him warily. “Just wondering what you’re doing here, is all.”

Charley looks down, watches as the clouds refract in the glass. “I love Amy,” he says carefully.

“But she’s left you, mate,” Peter reminds him and blows out a ring of smoke.

Setting down the glass, Charley tries to stand. When the world bends around him, he sinks to the floor instead. Peter is still watching him as he crawls the distance between them. Peter’s knees look bony through his jeans; one even feels bony against Charley’s cheek. The denim is rough and Charley can only think of stubble burning against his skin.

Carefully, he pulls himself up and settles himself in Peter’s lap. Peter…Peter is just watching him, eyes dark and warm. “I’m…I’m not gay,” he tells Peter quietly.

“Mmm,” Peter hums—an agreement? a disagreement? Charley can’t tell— and moves his cigarillo away from them so it’s curling smoke elsewhere. Shifting, Charley can feel Peter’s arousal, hot and heavy and absolutely fantastic, through the fabric of their clothes. He shifts again, heat against heat, and pleasure spirals low in his stomach. He can’t stop the moan that slides from his throat.

Peter is breathing heavy and Charley is too warm now. He leans in, the smallest of spaces between them; he can’t lean in any further. “Please,” he whispers, brokenly, and it’s the only true thing he’s said all night. Peter leans out of this small space to stub out his smoking cigarillo and comes back in, mouth warm and tasting of ash.

Jerry topping Peter. Heavy BDSM/slavery kink.

Jerry traces along the edge of a rib bone and watches as the skin peels back. The tissue is a deep pink color, like some sort of sweet morsel, and Peter jerks back roughly as Jerry licks at it. He looks up, catches Peter’s big doe-eyes: a warning. Obediently, Peter slowly stills. Even so, Jerry can feel the minuscule tremors as they shiver through Peter’s muscles.

Carefully, ever so carefully, he tugs at the skin, pulling centimeter after centimeter away from the layers beneath. Blood wells up, bright and tempting, and he leans in to lap at it; it’s spiced and heavy and he wants to moan at the richness of it.

He can hear how Peter is harshly breathing through his nose, hear how any sound is wonderfully muffled by the scrap of cloth wrapped over Peter’s mouth. Jerry leaves the open wound, leans up to catch the bobbing Adam’s apple carefully in his teeth. He thinks of crushing it, thinks of the spurt of bone and cartilage and blood, thinks of the dying whimpers of Peter Vincent. Instead, he shifts, nose pressed the pounding pulse point and breathes in the sweat, the musk, the fear, the arousal. It’s not enough. He digs his fingers into open flesh, pink with over-sensitized nerve endings and weeping blood, and Peter arches into (not away, his good boy, always learning) to the touch, a keen making its way past the gag.

Oh.

He pulls away the cloth, listens to the gasping breaths. “Peter, Peter, Peter,” he murmurs and hears the answer of Peter’s thumping heart. Skimming a hand down, fingers pressing against fresh and old wounds, he goes until he encounters the overwhelmingly human arousal. It’s hot, burning, against his fingers, and he rubs at it easily, Peter making such tasty sounds that all he wants to do is burrow into Peter’s throat and lick all the noises up.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in deeply. Arousal and fear have their specific scents, both spicy and heavy in their own ways, and the combination is making his head light. It’s like a thousand shots of liquor at once and a willing victim and the tang of a burnt cross and stepping into the sun without burning. Suddenly, he can smell the oncoming pleasure and he decides, “No.”

He digs his nails into the base of the heavy erection, blood beading up hot around the points, and Peter lets out a choked, wounded noise. Pained doe-eyes look at him and there is everything human in those depths. “Not yet,” he says and slides down the wonderfully warm body to lap at Peter’s arousal. As seed and blood stain his tongue, Peter struggles to remain still. It’s a losing battle, that Jerry can tell, and he can’t wait until Peter fails.

Peter/Charlie, drunk snogging

Peter wasn't entirely sure how this happened. One moment, he was between the thighs of a gorgeous woman. The next, Charley was entering his suite, glassy eyed and angry and so upset that Peter couldn't turn him away, even if he wanted to. Which he didn't, though the woman promised orgasms and Charley merely promised...Charley. Which was better than orgasms and how sodding pathetic was that?

Wrapping a robe around his shoulders and pulling his jeans back on, Peter sat beside Charley. "Right then," he said, wincing away from the misery on Charley's face. "What's on your mind? You look damn awful, mate, like someone-"

"Amy broke up with me."

Peter paused, blinking. "She what?" he said because, well, what?

"Yeah. She said that we just weren't working out." Charley chuckled and shook his head, glancing at Peter. "Can you believe that? We're 'not working out.' How can I fix something so vague?"

"One sec," Peter said, getting up and going to the bar. Grabbing two bottle, he realized absently that his hands were shaking. How bloody ridiculous. It's not as if Amy breaking up with him meant Charley would suddenly be interested in him.

But he could be, a nasty little voice whispered, the words echoing in his head like a goddamn bell and Peter turned abruptly, offering the bottle. Just before Charley took it, Peter pictured himself pulling back, telling the kid that it was late and that he should probably head home and go to bed. Alone. Instead, he let Charley take the bottle and take a long pull from it. Peter watched his throat as he swallowed and with a muttered curse he tore his gaze away, taking a quick gulp of his own bottle. This was maddening. Charley was right there, and it would have been so easy, so bloody easy to reach out and touch.

"It's all right, kid. You'll find someone else."

Charley shook his head. "Not like her," he muttered. "She was something special." He laughed brokenly. "You know what she told me? She told me that we were more like best friends than lovers and that I was more interested in hanging out then having sex."

Peter winced. "Damn."

"Yeah." Charley brought the bottle back to his mouth and drank, grimacing as he did so and this time, Peter didn't look away. Instead, he watched in frank admiration because hell, it wasn't as if Charley would notice, so deep in his puppy love angst and apparently deadset on becoming completely arseholed. Charley coughed when he pulled the bottle back, spilling some on his chest as he gasped for breath. "You know the worst part?" he said. "I knew this was going to happen eventually. I'm just not good enough for her."