1. Scotty

No matter where I go, he's there. Waiting. Observing. Others might call it stalking, but I just think he's being adorable.

While I'm not exactly sure when he started following me, the first time I noticed him was three weeks ago. I was sitting on my apartment's balcony, wanting a bit of fresh air after a week of self-imposed seclusion. I couldn't have been out there longer than five minutes before the red dot appeared on the center of my chest. When I looked down over the railing, the apartment complex's floodlight lit him up just for me. He was hiding in the bushes, pointing a rifle at me. Our eyes locked, and we stood there for what felt like a solid five minutes, neither of us making a move. It had been such a long time since anyone had looked at me like that. The tension was like a million little shockwaves coursing through my body.

My impending death aside, there had been a gentleness in the moment. A connection of sorts. I must have frightened him when I waved, because he stumbled, falling on his back and sending a bullet into the sky. I'm not sure why he ran off into the dead of night, but it gave me a delightful view of his ass. The thought of topping had never even crossed my mind—with my small stature and constant desire to be coddled—but I don't know, I might make an exception for this guy.

The next time I spotted him, he was hiding under my car with wire cutters, fast at work. I thought he was trying to be a good Samaritan by changing my oil. Being a twinkish procrastinator, I know nothing of cars, and it's been over three years since I've taken it to the mechanic. I mean, it's not that big of a deal. I just pour a little oil into the hole thingy under the hood when it starts making rattling noises, and it's good as gold. Still, it was nice to have someone looking out for me. It's been a long time since anyone has. For his chivalry, I figured the least I could do was kiss his hand like a distressed damsel to his knight. I knelt down to thank him, but he startled, dropping the wire cutters. When I picked them up and tried to hand them back, his beautiful brown eyes practically bulged out of his head, and he scurried away like a cheeky scamp.

I'm pretty sure he's obsessed with me, but I think I've high-key wanted that all my life. To be the center of someone's world.

Now, each time I see him, he's got some other ridiculous tool in his arsenal. A lead pipe. A fabulous candelabra. A noose. He scattered marbles on my apartment stairwell once, but I'd been lucky enough to notice them before falling to my death. Then there was the time I saw him wielding an ancient broadsword like a video game barbarian. Again, I tried to ask if he was my knight in shining armor, but he tripped on a rock, making him flail and send the sword flying into the air. It landed inches from me, and the second I wrapped my hand around the handle, he was running across the parking lot. It's like living in a live-action roleplay of Clue. I just wonder if he'd like to meet Mr. Peacock.

Honestly, it's getting a bit ridiculous at this point. I try and try to strike up a conversation with him, but he seems hellbent on hiding from me. Tonight, I can't see anything in his hands. He's got his arms folded across his chest, and he's giving me his familiar stare. Truth be told, it's a look I've started to love. His dark, smoldering brown eyes that always look a bit lifeless. The same vacant expression that seems to be cemented on his face. And then there's his mouth. Jesus of Nazareth, that mouth is positively sinful. The way it twitches in the corner, as if he's snarling at me like a rabid dog, makes my stomach feel like it's spinning.

The gay bar is packed. Twinks and bears are practically throwing themselves at each other, looking for their weekend fuck. As for me, I've been on the dance floor for the last hour, shaking my ass like a dog in heat, just trying to get a reaction out of my mystery man. Luckily, since I'm a social pariah, the other men on the dance floor keep their distance, and I'm on full display, just for Daddy. So far, the only form of acknowledgment I've gotten is when he lifted his index finger and dramatically dragged it across his throat. Had he not been standing directly under a neon light, reading: DesignatedHeterosexual Safe Space, I might not have even caught the action.

Did the sight of it get me half-hard? Yes.

Did he scowl at me when he noticed my throbbing erection through the unnecessarily tight fabric of my banana-yellow hot pants? Also, yes.

I'm a sweaty mess, and I know I won't win his heart looking like a drenched rat. Making eye contact with him, I toss the man a wink and a wave before palming my cock through my shorts. His eyes dip to the promised land, narrowing when he sees me touch myself. He quickly shakes his head, making a face like he might be sick at any moment.

Wanting to freshen up, I blow him a kiss before heading toward the restroom. Thank God, there isn't a line. The last thing I want is to stand behind a gaggle of gays, all giving me the evil eye like I'm a defective freak. I should probably be used to those glares by now, but it still stings. All I want is to belong. Thanks to my father, I'm Queer Public Enemy No. 1. Well, mostly thanks to him. That video didn't do much to help my reputation. Nope. I can't think about that video. Not right now. This isn't the time for cycles of self-doubt and shame.

The only person who can pull me out of the funk those memories put me in is my bleach-blond bestie, Tatum. With no family left to love me, and no potential friendships on the horizon, he's all I have. I invited him out with me tonight, but he simply refused, telling me he wouldn't bear witness to my impending murder. No matter how many times I tell him the man isn't actually trying to kill me—that this is all just a bit of cheeky foreplay—Tatum refuses to see sense. Oh well, more time with Murder Daddy for me.

The bathroom is disgusting on every possible level. There's piss sitting stagnant in the toilet, used condoms littering the floor, and a discarded dildo in the sink. I'm not sure who brings a dildo to a gay bar, but there it is, coated in KY Jelly, standing at attention.

When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I cringe. My makeup is an absolute mess. My glittery eyeshadow has been smudged to high-hell, my eyeliner is streaked down my cheeks like I'm a busted-up drag queen, and there's no lip gloss left on my bottom lip. It must have come off while I nibbled it for my mystery man, letting him know what I could do to his foreskin, provided he was uncut. He seems the sort who might have a bit of skin around the tip. Regardless, I'd praise his holy cock either way. Cut or uncut, I have no preference, just as long as he lets me call him Daddy.

I use a napkin to pick up the dildo and toss it onto the floor. My face is a disaster area and I'm feeling overheated, so I splash a little water on my cheeks, trying to kill two birds with one stone. I hear the bathroom door open, and when I'm done drying my face, I catch sight of him in the mirror. He's standing right behind me, his left eyelid twitching like crazy. I'm not exactly sure why he's growling at me, but it's an adorable sound.

God, he's gorgeous. He has a solid foot on me, making me feel like Pluto orbiting the sun. I know Pluto isn't a planet anymore, but it's always been my favorite, anyway. Maybe because it's also the name of that dog? Well, just like that adorable little furbaby, my stalker's got two big brown puppy-dog eyes. Right now, they're narrowed into slits, but they're super cute when he's not all caught up in our ridiculous game of predator-and-prey.

"Finally," I say, grinning at his reflection. "I was wondering when you were going to say hello." I whirl around, licking my lips like a thirsty little thing. "You're even cuter up close." I fling my hand forward, even though there isn't much space between us. "I'm Scotty. Scotty Levinson." When he doesn't respond, I worry it's because he knows more about my past than I thought. "I haven't spoken to my father in ten years, if that's what you're worried about." His face remains still as stone. "Is it about . . ." I close my eyes and try to swallow down my shame.

You can do this.

"If it's about the video," I say, "I had no idea that man was a member of the Log Cabin Republicans. I was catfished. He said he had a homophobia kink, and I was just trying to get him off. How was I supposed to know he was recording the entire webcam session? Obviously, I don't believe any of the stuff he asked me to say. He was just using it to further my dickhead father's political campaign." I lift my hand long enough to point to the small rainbow flag I drew on my cheek before I left my apartment. "See? Gay pride. Now, less talk of my problematic past, more talk about our future."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. If he's trying to turn me on while he hurts me, he's succeeding. As much as I enjoy our game, I think we might need to decide on a safeword—not that I could even use one right now. I can barely breathe, much less speak.

As his grip tightens, I realize I'll need to find another way of getting his attention. God knows, flailing my arms frantically doesn't seem to be getting my point across. With no other choice, I do the only thing I can think of. I place my hand on his bulge and give it a gentle squeeze. His eyes double in size, and the moment his grip eases and his mouth hangs open, I take my shot. Lunging forward, I slam our lips together and shove my tongue in his mouth. There's a strong flavor of vanilla vodka, and I quickly realize the taste of his tongue is quite addictive.

My tongue tears through his mouth like a tornado in a residential neighborhood, leaving nothing but chaos and carnage in its wake. His brown wavy hair weaves through my fingers, and I swallow his raspy moan when I tug tighter. His hands are on my chest like he's trying to push me away, but I'm not having it. I've had a taste of perfection, and after a lifetime of unintentional abstinence, I'm not ready to let go of him just yet. Besides, it's all a part of our silly game. He's totally into this—his hard cock digging into my thigh is all the proof I need. There's also the fact I'm essentially a stick compared to him. All it would take is a gentle flick of his wrist and I'd be flying across the room like a rag doll.

Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his forehead. "What should we use for our safeword?"

He growls in response, and it looks like he's about three seconds away from holding me down and ravaging my body. Since he's providing me absolutely no assistance, I realize I'll have to be the one to choose. I turn and scan the room for inspiration.

"Fine," I say. "We'll use discarded dildo for now, but we really need to think of something a bit more apropos going forward. Though, I guess dildos could be apropos. I don't know. Are you into toy play? I've got a few at home we could tinker with to see if they fit with our sexual dynamic, but . . ." I close my eyes and sigh, because I'm getting sidetracked. "Less talk of dildos, more kisses."

He tries to reach for my neck again, but we've done the strangly bit already, and I'm ready to move on to the main event. Needing to be closer, I climb him like a tree, looping my legs around his waist, loving the way his olive skin mingles well with my pale tone.

"I can feel your cock on my thigh." Wanting to prove it, I grind against him. "It's so thick, Daddy."

"I ain't your goddamn Daddy." It's the first time I've heard his voice and damn if it hasn't been worth the wait. Low and gravelly, like someone's crushed his vocal cords and he has to thrust the words through the wrecked remains.

"You could be," I counter.

"And that ain't my dick."

I arch an eyebrow at him, because if that long, thick shaft isn't his cock, I'd like to know what it is. Maybe a flashlight? A lead pipe, perhaps? Fuck, it doesn't matter. Whatever the mystery bulge is, throw enough lube on it, and I'll ride it until dawn.

"What is it then?" I say. He slides his hand into his pocket, and when he pulls it out, he's holding an old, rusty wrench. I click my tongue against my cheek. "I've got some pipes that could use screwing. Wanna screw me?"

His pupils dilate as he lifts the wrench, holding it over my head. "Wanna kill you. Wanna bash your fucking skull until I hear your bones crack."

Fuck.

"Jesus, Daddy, you know the way to a twink's heart." My fingers tear through his hair, tugging mercilessly until his head falls back and he cries out. Whether his cry is one of delight or pain, I'm not entirely sure. "Are you okay?"

He breathes heavily into my face. "You think you can hurt me? Really?" he snarls. "Fucking try."

God, yes. Don't mind if I do. I slam my lips on his, wanting to taste more of that vanilla vodka. He must feel my cock twitch against him. It's straining so tight against my hotpants, there's no way he can't feel each time I give it a flex. Grinding against him, I fuck myself on his abdomen. God. It's like he's made of solid steel. There may have been a wrench in his pocket earlier, but unless he managed to fit two in there, I'm pretty sure it's his actual cock grinding against my ass now. He's meeting each thrust of mine with one of his own. I'm not even sure the action registers for him; It's like he's running on instinct.

Though his eyes have been lifeless the whole time he's been in the restroom, it's like someone's flipped a switch, and he's back in the land of the living. Honestly, I'm not sure where he goes when he gets lost in his head, but I love how easily I can lead him out of the dark, just so he can bask in my light. I lean in, wanting to capture his tongue, but he just shoves the side of his wrench into my ribcage, making me cry out in pain.

"What the hell was that for?" I shout. The unhinged look of madness that's settled on his face is doing things to me, and even with the jabbing pain in my side, I roll my hips, fucking his stomach. "God, you're beautiful."

"What the—" His mouth hangs open like I've slapped him, and my-fucking-GOD, he's got a beautiful set of teeth. I want to know what they'll feel like tearing into my skin. "What the fuck are you doing? I just told you I'm going to kill you, and you're trying to bust a nut?"

I playfully nip his chin with my teeth, because he's adorable when he's flustered. "You were grinding just as hard as I was."

A rush of red warmth spreads through his cheeks. "No, the fuck I was not."

I look down at his rolling hips and smirk. "You're literally dry-fucking my ass as we speak."

He glares at me, thrusting again. "Am not."

Another thrust.

"Are so. Listen, if you really want this to stop, all you have to do is say the safeword. Just say discarded dildo, and I'll hop down." I pause, praying he doesn't say it. We're so close. We're on the precipice of eternity; all it would take are two tragic words, and we would be over before we've even begun. His mouth opens, and I try to stop my words from tumbling out, but I'm not successful in the slightest. "Please don't say it."

His eyebrows meet in the center of his forehead like it's the biggest decision he'll ever make. Maybe it is. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and I shake my head forcefully.

"Please?" My voice must sound like a plea, because his expression changes the second the word is out. The confusion and anger are still there, but maybe there's something . . . more? Desire, perhaps? His tongue trails across his lips, and he opens his mouth like he's going to say the words. Terrible words. I hate those words. I wish those fucking words were stripped from history. And then, just as quickly as he opened his mouth, it closes, and he softly grunts his approval. Exploratorily, I roll my hips, hoping those words stay locked inside his mouth. To my surprise, his hand tightens on my ass, his fingers digging in deep.

"Okay," he says, his eyes widening like he can't believe the word escaped him.

He fucking wants this. I knew it!

Wanting to meet him halfway, I increase the speed of my hips' movement, living for the absolute drama of it all. "Gonna come all over you, Daddy. You want that? You want me to mark you?" Leaning in, I claim his neck, sucking his skin with my teeth, wanting to leave a mark. "Want me to make you mine?"

"How about I slit your fucking throat?"

I pull away long enough to wink at him. "Promises, promises, Daddy."

He lifts the wrench again, holding it over my head. And I can't lie; I'm loving all of this. Who knew murder kink was a fetish? Who knew I would be into it? Certainly not me. As sexy as he looks with the glint of mayhem in his eyes, I'm ready for more, so I lunge forward, sucking his bottom lip between my teeth. As he sputters out his disdain, I quickly reach for the wrench, biting down on his lip to force him to let go. With the wrench in my hand, I break our kiss so I can waggle the rusty tool in his face.

His eyes blow wide when he realizes he no longer has the upper hand. There's a glint of fear in his dark-brown eyes, and the sight of it makes my cock throb in my shorts. I can even feel a bead of pre-cum soaking through the fabric. He's lording over me like a protective papa bear. The head of his dick is spearing against my thinly veiled hole, and it feels like he's trying to fuck me through the fabric. Though I'm not entirely opposed, I feel like it could lead to quite a bit of chafing.

"I think I'm about to come," I whisper, my lower lip trembling. But I don't want to. I'm not ready yet. Now I've connected with Daddy McStalkerPants, I don't think I ever want to let him go. No one has ever touched me like this. Or ever held me against their chest like I'm something precious to them.

"How?" he says, looking both confused and impressed all at once. "You haven't even touched it."

"Because of you," I whisper, my breath warm as it deflects off his face, right back at me. "It's because of you." I shove down my hotpants, pull my package over and let it swing free. Truthfully, I should have shaved this morning. I like to keep my most intimate area neat and tidy, and right now, the bush is growing wide and wild. Reaching behind my back, I wedge the wrench between my cheeks, out of sight, out of mind.

I'm close. So fucking close, I almost can't stand it. I haven't gotten off in three days, and I want—need—to give it to him. To paint his face. I reach for him, cupping his cheek. "Wanna make you mine. Wanna claim you."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He stares down, but we're chest to chest, so I know he's not getting much of a show. I need to fix that. If he wants to watch me blow, I'm happy to oblige. Trusting him completely, I fall back. For the briefest moment, I worry he won't catch me. Then his hands press firmly against my back, holding me for support as he growls, "Be fucking careful." His eyes are practically glued to my cock, and I notice his tongue trail over his lips as he watches the head grow red with heat.

"Touch my balls," I plead.

He doesn't look up. His eyes remain locked on my cock as I pump it furiously. Blinking slowly, he pulls one hand off of my back and brings it to my crotch. At first, I think he might wrap his hand around my shaft and guide me to the promised land. Instead, he takes my peach-fuzz covered balls in his palm and gently rolls them with his thumb. He's staring at his hand like he can't believe what he's doing. Like it's the most unexpected of outcomes.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, seeming unable to look away. "Fuck." He breaks his gaze long enough to look me in the eye. "You're gonna come?"

I nod, as the obscenely slick sound of pre-cum sliding against skin fills the room. "Can I? May I come, Daddy?" He bites his bottom lip, pondering the question. It takes him a second, but his head finally dips in approval.

"Yeah," he whispers, looking dazed. "Come."

I stroke faster, enjoying the look of wonder in his eyes as the head of my cock burns bright red, readying to fire volley after volley right at him. The first jet shoots out, and it's like I've been holding back this load for a year. The force with which it leaves me is overpowering. It flies up, landing in his open mouth, right on his tongue. He makes a sound like he's choking before slamming his mouth shut, his throat working as he swallows, gagging slightly. The next shot lands on his ruby-red lips, the sight making my insides tremble. I thrust my hips forward, pressing my cock against his chest.

"Take it," I rasp, trying to catch my breath. "Take it all, baby. Wanna coat your skin. Want you to wear me like lotion."

As the last shot oozes from the tip, his knees must go weak because he falls to the floor, carefully cradling me to his chest so I don't get harmed on the descent. Trembling, I wrap myself around him, clinging to him like a drowning man to a buoy. Something about him makes me feel safe, though. Like if I fall, I know he'll be there to catch me. From the look of terror in his eyes, and the way he's threatened my life to no end. I know. I just know. Tears well in my eyes, because I've never felt anything so true.

It may sound a bit obsessive—I'm perfectly aware I may come off as a bit unhinged—but I've been reading a lot of fated mates books during my isolation. My therapist says I should get a job working with the public so I don't spend so much time on my own, because it's unconducive to a healthy mental state. But what the fuck does he know? Who made him the King of Rationality, anyway? Honestly, I don't even think he's a real therapist. I don't pay him or anything. I just sit naked in front of him, pouring my heart out as he masturbates on his webcam, telling me I've been a naughty boy. Either way, therapist or not, I'm sure he's going to have a field day with this one. I can imagine the look of abject horror in his eyes when I tell him I've found my IRL fated mate.

"I love you," I say, digging my nails into his back, pulling him closer.

"What the fuck?" he says in the most adorably absurd voice I've ever heard. There's still a glob of my cum on his lips, and each time he opens his mouth, a bit more oozes in. The way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows my seed has me half-hard again already.

Silly man.

"I love you," I say again.

"We've never even spoken. What the fuck are you talking about? Get off me, you creepy little freak."

Okay, well, now he's gone too far. I'll stand for many things in a soon-to-be committed relationship, but name-calling outside of the premarital bed isn't one of them. Glaring at him, I hold my hand over his cum-stained lips. "Stop ruining the moment. Jesus Christ. Worst boyfriend ever."

He bites my palm and I have to pull away because, motherfuck, that hurts. The tears of joy that were just welling in my eyes now fall freely, due to the pain. "Why would you do that?"

"You just shot your load in my mouth and told me you loved me. What the fuck do you expect?"

"A cuddle, you psychopath. I mean, Christ, Daddy, I'm sitting in your lap. I couldn't make my wants any clearer." Reaching behind my back, I pull the rusty wrench from my crack and poke him in the chest. "Apologize."

"Are you kidding me?"

I lift the wrench over my head, not planning to actually strike him—he's just gotten a bit too big for his britches, and he needs to be reminded that I know how to play this silly little murder-boyfriend live-action roleplay game too. "I said, I want you to apologize."

His body shakes like a leaf beneath me, and when he opens his mouth, a weak apology falls from his lips. "Sorry," he grumbles, though he doesn't sound sorry in the slightest.

I sigh. "Yes, well, you could have tried to make it sound a bit more believable, but I suppose it will have to do for now. Don't worry, we'll work on your manners on our next date."

Another drizzle of cum slips between his lips, and he swallows it down, practically purring. "Next date?"

"Next date," I agree. Clinging to the wrench is nice and all, but I'd rather be clinging to him, so I do. I wrap my arms around him, holding on tight, resting my face on his chest. Someone bangs on the bathroom door, and he jolts, but I just hold on, wanting to comfort him. "It's okay. You're mine now, there's no need to worry. I won't let the horny little queens get you. All mine." We sit this way a while, me cuddled close as his hands rest affectionately at his sides, nowhere near me. "You still haven't told me your name." I kiss his chest, right above the heart that now belongs to me. "Bad boyfriend," I scold. "Naughty boyfriend."

"You're a?—"

"Uri?" I say dreamily. "I think that's the prettiest name I've ever heard. They sound good together, don't they? Uri and Scotty." He doesn't answer, but I don't need him to. All I need is for him to let me cling to him like a cuddly koala. "Where are you going to take me on our next date? Don't worry if it isn't somewhere nice, I'm not picky." Puckering my lips, I press a kiss over his heart again, wishing there wasn't a t-shirt hiding him away.

"You're fucking delusional. I'm not taking you any?—"

I playfully dig the wrench into his spine, and I can't lie, I get why he was doing it earlier. It's really neat how fast your boyfriend complies when faced with the possibility of grievous bodily harm. "Are you being apprehensive because you're poor? I promise, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about, honest. I don't need to go anywhere fancy. Being with you is fancy enough for me." I dig the wrench in deeper, enjoying the way he wriggles beneath me. "Tell me where you're taking me," I say, my voice a little firmer this time.

He grumbles under his breath before finally relenting. "I'm going to come by your apartment, pour gasoline on you while you sleep, and watch you fucking burn to death."

I sigh, because the way he wants to watch me burn beautiful is almost too much for me to bear. When I pull away, he's got his eyes narrowed, giving me that old, familiar, lovestruck glare. It's been so long since anyone has looked at me with so much intensity. I trace his jaw with my thumb, enjoying the rough feel of his stubble against my skin. My cum is still coating his lips, and I want to share it with him. To lap the leftovers up and fuck my load into his mouth with my tongue. His eyes bulge as I lean in and run my tongue over his bottom lip.

I let the flavor settle on my tastebuds, enjoying the musky, manly tang. When I open my mouth and move forward, he doesn't even try to meet me halfway. Instead, he remains locked in place, looking shell-shocked, refusing to open his mouth.

Silly Daddy, always playing hard to get.

"Please?" I manage, batting my lashes.

He blinks slowly as his warm breath gusts across my face. "Okay."

Leaning in, he opens his mouth, welcoming me. What's left of my load mixes and mingles with our saliva. It doesn't last long—just a few seconds, at most—but it's a life changing few seconds. Sonnets could be composed to chronicle this kiss.

Then it happens. He squeezes my ass. He squeezes it like it fucking belongs to him. Like he owns me. And, I suppose, he does. I break away, giving him a quick peck on the lips. "I want you at my apartment tomorrow afternoon. It doesn't matter where you take me, I just want you to show me a good time." Another kiss, and now I'm pressing my forehead against his, sighing heavily into his face. "Tell me you love me."

"Get the fuck off me," he says, shoving my chest.

"No," I say, pulling back and snarling. Lifting the wrench, I give him a quick pop on the knee. "Say it."

"I love you," he growls. "Jesus Christ, I fucking love you, okay?"

"Better," I say, standing up. I hold the wrench out for him, and once it's safely in his hand, I throw a smile his way. "Tomorrow afternoon." I turn and head toward the door. "Four o'clock. Don't be late, my love."

As I exit the filthy bathroom, there's a slew of twinks and bears in the hallway, all giving me death glares for holding up the line. Behind me, I can hear my Uri shout out his rage. I glance over my shoulder to see him rushing for me, his wrench held high to the sky, only to be stonewalled by a group of bears trying to enter the bathroom. I blow another kiss at him, mouthing that I love him before turning and walking out of the bar.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the man of my dreams is taking me out for a night on the town, and I couldn't be happier.