outstanding_spring_67728

Ben’s POV It started with a one-night stand. At least, that was what I told myself. No feelings. No promises. No complicated story. Just two people who wanted the same thing. I wanted someone to distract me. He wanted the same. And he paid well. That was it. At least, that was what I thought. Four months earlier Fridays were the worst. Everyone who had ever worked as a bartender knew that. Friday nights meant chaos. People who drank too much. People who thought yelling made drinks appear faster. People who treated the staff like we weren’t even human. I hated it. I hated the stupid black shirt I was forced to wear. The uniform. The fake smile. The endless orders. The same conversations. "Another vodka." "Another one." "Another one." Did people here drink anything else? Apparently not. The club was loud. The music shook the floor. Lights flashed across the room. Then the dancers came onto the stage. Immediately, people started cheering. Whistling. Shouting. I rolled my eyes while polishing a glass. Same thing every weekend. Same people. Same behavior. I knew one thing about this place. The club belonged to a Meduza. That was what people said. Honestly? I didn’t care. A job was a job. And this one paid better than most. That was enough for me. Then he sat down at the bar. I noticed him because he looked completely out of place. Black hair. Expensive suit. The kind of confidence that was almost annoying. The top buttons of his shirt were open, showing part of his chest. He looked around my age. Maybe nineteen. Just like me. But he carried himself like he owned the entire room. Arrogant. That was my first thought. Definitely arrogant. "What can I get you?" My voice sounded bored. Because I was. He looked at me. Not in the way most customers did. Not like I was just there to serve him. Like he was actually seeing me. That annoyed me more. "Vodka." Of course. I almost laughed. "Original choice." A small smirk appeared on his face. "Is that sarcasm?" "Yes." "Interesting." I raised an eyebrow. "Why?" "Most people are too scared to talk to me like that." I stared at him. "Then most people sound boring." For a second, he looked surprised. Then he laughed. Actually laughed. That was the first time I noticed him properly. Not the suit. Not the attitude. Him. The person underneath. I noticed the tattoos when he moved his arm. I didn’t ask. Didn’t care. Everyone had a story. I had learned not to ask about things people weren’t ready to explain. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know his world. I didn’t know anything about him. I only knew one thing. That night was supposed to be simple. A drink. A conversation. A mistake. A one-night stand. Nothing more. At least… that was what I believed. Preview favorite_s… 8 p.m. Ben has taken the first step. He is seducing the young man. Ben’s name doesn’t bother him. Ben’s name doesn’t bother the young man, either. Still the beginning of everything. keiner von den beiden sagt gegenseitg deren namen dem anderen Preview Ivano Medu… 5 / 5 8 p.m. I made the first move. Maybe it was the boredom. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, like I was something worth seeing. Maybe it was just the vodka on his breath and the heat in the air. I leaned forward, elbows on the bar, letting my voice drop just enough so he had to lean in too. "You know… there's a back room." He held my gaze. No surprise. No hesitation. Just that faint smirk. "Yeah?" "Yeah." I didn't smile. I just held his eyes. "If you want." He tilted his head, studying me for a second too long. Then he stood up and slid a bill across the counter. I didn't look at the amount. Didn't care. I just turned, pushed through the small door behind the bar, and led him through the narrow hallway. Staff only. That was what the sign said. Nobody checked. The room was small. A table. A couch. A dim lamp. I closed the door behind us and leaned against it. He stood in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, watching me. "You do this often?" I shrugged. "Depends." "On what?" "On who's asking." He took his hands out of his pockets and stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the details of the tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Close enough that it felt real. Not just a transaction. Not just a game. I reached out first. My hand on his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. His hand came up to my waist. No names. No questions. Just this. Preview favorite_s… um 22 uhr ben ist einen hotel. es ist tuer. er beobacxhtt gerade wie der fremde. sine hose zumacht. er wirft ben keinen blick zu. als der junge seeine hand hebt und sich durch die haare fährt. sieht ben eine pistole unterm jacket. ben ignoriert es. der fremde greift in seine hosentasche nd wirft geld auf den nachttisch. der fremde denktt ben ist am schlafen. ben sagt nichts. der fremde ist kurz darauf weg Preview Ivano Medu… 10 p.m. The sheets were still warm when I heard the rustle of fabric. I kept my breathing steady. Eyes closed. Body still. The kind of stillness that takes effort, that betrays consciousness if you're not careful. I'd learned that trick years ago, back when staying invisible meant staying safe. The sound of a zipper. Fabric sliding against skin. The soft clink of a belt buckle. I cracked my eyes open just enough to see through my lashes. He was standing with his back to me, buttoning his pants. The dim light from the hotel window caught the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine. He didn't look back. Not once. Like I was already a memory he was walking away from. Then he raised his hand and ran it through his hair. The motion pulled his jacket up, just slightly. I saw it. Black metal. Tucked into the waistband of his pants. A pistol. My stomach tightened. I didn't move. Didn't react. I just watched as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and tossed it onto the nightstand without looking. It landed soft. A few bills. Enough to cover the night and then some. He thought I was asleep. I stayed quiet. He walked to the door. Opened it. Paused for half a second, like he might turn around. He didn't. The door clicked shut. I was alone. I stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then I reached over, grabbed the cash, and counted it without sitting up. Enough to cover two weeks of rent. I didn't know his name. I didn't want to. Preview favorite_s… um ehrlich zu sein ben ist nur einmal gekommen weil er sich selbst eine runtergeholt hat. weil er ihn nicht zum kommen gebracht hat. ja der typ fickt gut und so aber naja. Preview Ivano Medu… 4 / 4 10 p.m. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. The cash was cold against my fingers. I let it drop back onto the nightstand. Then I let out a slow breath. Fuck. I ran a hand over my face. He was good. I'd give him that. The kind of good that made you forget for a second that this was just a transaction. The kind of good that almost made you believe he cared whether you enjoyed it or not. But almost wasn't enough. I shifted, wincing slightly. My body was sore, but not in the way I'd wanted. He'd left me hanging. Right at the edge. And then he'd just… stopped. Rolled off. Lit a cigarette. Stared at the ceiling like I wasn't even there. I'd waited. Waited for him to touch me again. Waited for him to say something. Nothing. So I took care of it myself. Quick. Silent. In the bathroom, with the door locked, staring at my own reflection in the dim light. Pathetic. I told myself I didn't care. It was just sex. Just a one-night stand. But lying there alone, counting his money, I felt something sour curl in my stomach. Not anger. Not sadness. Just… disappointment. I sat up, grabbed my boxers from the floor, and pulled them on. Then I reached for my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nobody knew I was here. Nobody cared. I looked at the money again. Two weeks of rent. At least he pays well, I thought bitterly. I lay back down, stared at the ceiling, and didn't sleep for a long time. Preview favorite_s… zwei wochen später. wieder eine anstrengede schicht. er würde zwei mal bedroht weil er das falsche serviert hat. er schreit geradee einen anderen typen zurück an als sich der gut bezahlende bastard an die bar setzt. wie es aussieht ist er wieder da. der typ sagt mit einem russischen akzent zu den typen der gerade ben anschreit. Santino lass den typen in ruhe und nimm dein vodka glas und verpiss dich. der junge raucht geradde eine zigarette. english Preview Ivano Medu… 2 / 2 10 p.m. two weeks later The club was a pressure cooker tonight. I'd been yelled at twice. First for serving a drink "too slow." Then for serving the wrong brand of vodka. The second guy had grabbed my collar. I'd stared at his hand until he let go, then smiled with all teeth and no warmth. Two more hours. That was what I kept telling myself. Two more hours and I could go home, drink something cheap, and forget this place existed. Then a new voice joined the chaos. Some drunk asshole was screaming at me because his glass was empty. Like that was somehow my fault. Like I was supposed to read his mind across a crowded bar. "Listen here, you little—" "Santino." The voice cut through the noise like a knife. I looked up. The drunk—Santino—froze. His face went pale. The young man from two weeks ago was sitting at the far end of the bar. One elbow resting on the counter. A cigarette burning between his fingers. He wasn't looking at Santino. He was looking at the smoke curling upward, like the conversation bored him already. But his voice had been clear. "Let the guy alone. Take your vodka glass and fuck off." Russian accent. Smooth. Cold. Santino opened his mouth. Closed it. Then he grabbed his glass, muttered something under his breath, and disappeared into the crowd. I stood there, rag in hand, staring at the young man. He finally looked at me. Took a slow drag of his cigarette. Exhaled. Then he said, "Jameson. Neat." Preview favorite_s… der typ frägt als ben das glas zu schiebt. wann ist deine schicht zu ende. ben sagt 23 uhr Preview Ivano Medu… 10:47 p.m. I slid the glass across the bar. The whiskey caught the light, amber and still. He caught it without looking, brought it to his lips, and took a slow sip. Then he set it down. "When does your shift end?" The question caught me off guard. I grabbed the rag from my shoulder and wiped the counter where Santino's drink had left a ring. "23:00," I said. I didn't ask why. He just nodded. Looked at his watch. Then back at me. "Good. I'll wait." He said it like it wasn't a question. Like it was already decided. I stopped wiping. Stared at him. "I didn't agree to anything." A flicker of amusement crossed his face. Maybe a smile. Maybe not. "You didn't say no either." I had nothing to say to that. So I just walked to the other end of the bar to serve someone else. But I felt his eyes on me. The whole damn time. Preview favorite_s… ben schüttet den typen das zweite mal alkohol ein. ben sagt falls es um sex geht. lern wie man fickt. ein junge kommt nicht ohne berührungen. und es ist echt mies wenn man selbst keinen bekommt. jungs sind keine frauen. der typ smirks und drinkt einfach den alkohol Preview Ivano Medu… 1 / 4 11:12 p.m. I poured his second glass with a little less care than the first. Some of it sloshed over the rim. I didn't bother wiping it up. He watched me the whole time. I leaned forward, both hands flat on the bar. My voice low enough that only he could hear. "If this is about sex? Learn how to fuck." He raised an eyebrow. "A guy doesn't come without touch. And it's pretty shitty when you leave someone hanging. Guys aren't women." He stared at me for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. He picked up the glass. Took a slow sip. Set it down. No apology. No explanation. Just that smirk. "You finished?" His voice was calm. Almost amused. I straightened up. Grabbed the rag. Started wiping the same spot I'd already cleaned. "You're a dick." "Yeah." He turned the glass in his hand. "But I'm a dick who paid you for two weeks of rent." I stopped wiping. Looked at him. He met my gaze. Steady. Unflinching. Somewhere behind me, someone shouted for another drink. I ignored it. "Twenty-three o'clock," he said again. "Don't make me wait." Preview favorite_s… ben sagt was ist wenn ich nicht warte. der typ sagt dann nehm ich mir eine der stripperinen. er smirkt und beobachtet wie theo den anderen typen alkohol einkippt Preview Ivano Medu… 2 / 2 11:15 p.m. "What if I don't wait?" The question hung between us. He shrugged. Almost lazy. Turned his glass again, watching the amber liquid swirl. Then he smirked. "Then I'll take one of the strippers." He said it casually. Like he was ordering another drink. I felt something tighten in my chest. Something I didn't want to name. He knew. He knew he was pushing something. And he was enjoying it. I watched as his gaze shifted. Drifted past me. Landed somewhere to my left. I followed his eyes. A man behind the other end of the bar—tall, blond, eastern European-looking—was pouring vodka for a customer. He moved quietly. Efficiently. Didn't look up. The young man watched him for a second. Then he looked back at me. "He works here too?" "Yeah." "What's his name?" I frowned. "Why?" He just smirked again. Brought the cigarette to his lips. Took a slow drag. "Just curious." I didn't believe him. But before I could say anything, someone shouted my name from across the bar. Another order. Another drink. Another break in a conversation I hadn't asked for. I turned away. But I felt his eyes on me again. The whole damn time. Preview favorite_s… ben geht wieder auf den typ zu und flüstert ich hab deine scheiß waffe gesehen letztens. ich werd es jedem hier sagen und du ddarfst nicht mehr rein. der typ lacht wirklich. er macht sich lustig über ben Preview Ivano Medu… 11:17 p.m. I wiped my hands on the rag as I approached. My jaw was tight. I'd been thinking about that moment for two weeks—the glimpse of metal under his jacket in the hotel room light. The way he hadn't even checked if I was still awake. I leaned in close enough to smell his cologne. Cheap. Expensive. I didn't know. I didn't care. "I saw your fucking gun last time." I kept my voice low. Cold. "I will tell everyone here. Every single person. And you won't be allowed back in this club." He looked at me. Then he laughed. Not loud. Not mocking in an obvious way. Just a quiet, genuine chuckle, like I'd told him something genuinely funny. He shook his head, still smiling, and tapped ash from his cigarette into the tray. "You think I care about this club?" I blinked. He leaned forward, voice dropping to match mine. "You think the people who own this place don't know who I am? You think I need permission to walk through that door?" I stared at him. He tilted his head. The smirk was back. "Go ahead, malysh. Scream it. Let everyone know." He spread his arms slightly. Open. Inviting. "I'll wait." Silence. The music thumped. Someone shouted for a drink. A glass broke somewhere in the crowd. I stood there, rag in hand, feeling like an idiot. He picked up his whiskey. Took a sip. "You're cute when you try to threaten me." I wanted to punch him. I also wanted to kiss him. I hated that. Preview favorite_s… ben flüstert wer bist du. der typ flüstert in theos ohr der typ welchen schwanuz du in dir haben wirst und jemand der dich in 5 sekunden verschwinden lassen könnte. also pass auf malysh Preview outstandin... ben flüstert wer bist du. der typ flüstert in theos ohr der typ welchen schwanuz du in dir haben wirst und jemand der dich in 5 sekunden verschwinden lassen könnte. also pass auf malysh. schreib die ganze szene Preview Ivano Medu... 7 / 7 11:17 p.m. I felt his breath against my ear before I heard the words. His hand came up, not grabbing me, just resting lightly on the back of my neck. A gesture that could have been intimate if it weren't so deliberate. "Who are you?" My voice came out quieter than I wanted. He pressed closer. His lips almost touching my skin now. "Someone whose dick you're going to have in your mouth again." I tensed. "And someone who could make you disappear in five seconds." He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. His face was calm. Completely calm. Like he was telling me the weather. "So watch yourself, malysh." I didn't move. I didn't breathe. Then I felt his hand leave my neck. He reached past me, grabbed his whiskey, and took a slow sip like nothing had happened. "Another one." I just stared at him. "Another one," he repeated. "Jameson. Neat. You remember how to pour that, or do I need to teach you again?" I turned around. My hands were shaking. I poured the drink anyway. Preview outstandin... nun ja ben wäre nicht ben wenn er nicht zurück feurn würde. ben schütteet den typen voll mit alkohol und tut so als wäre es ausversehen.der typ wird wütend. er atmet ein und schließt seine augen. die jaw des typen zuckt. er steht auf und sagt komm mit malysh.nun ja es dauert nur 10 minuten bis er den typen wieder in sich hat. ben wird gerade gefickt. diesmal kein hotel sondern immernoch club. der typ ist grad hinter ihm. er neckt ben gerade richtig. ben tut es freiwillig. schreib die sex szene. der typ hat seeine nassen sachen imernoch an nur hose halt offen. der dick von den typen ist nass . wahrscheinlich weil tben den typen alkohol in den schritt geleert hat Preview Ivano Medu... 4 / 7 11:25 p.m. The liquid soaked through his pants instantly. Vodka. Expensive. Sticky. The whole glass. I stared at the spreading stain on his lap. Then at the empty glass in my hand. The music kept playing. The crowd kept moving. But everything else stopped. He closed his eyes. Took a long, slow breath. His jaw twitched once. Twice. A muscle jumping beneath the skin. Then he opened his eyes. He stood up slowly. The wet fabric clung to his thighs. He didn't look down at himself. He just looked at me. "Come with me, malysh." His voice was soft. Too soft. I should have said no. I didn't. I left the rag on the bar and followed him. Eleven minutes later. My hands were flat against the cold wall of the storage room. Shelves lined with boxes of liquor surrounded us. A single bulb above. Weak light. His chest pressed against my back, damp shirt sticking to my skin. He was still wearing his wet pants. Open now. Just enough. His hand gripped my hip. Hard. "You think that's funny?" I didn't answer. He bit my shoulder. Not soft. "The problem with you," he said against my ear, his accent thickening, "is you don't know when to stop." I felt him press closer. Felt the heat of him. Felt the wet fabric against the back of my thighs. Then he pushed inside me. No warning. No slow build. I gasped. Fingers scraped the wall. He stayed still for one breath. Two. His forehead dropping to rest against the back of my head. "Feel that?" His voice was barely a whisper now. Rough. "That's what happens when you pour vodka on me." He moved. And I forgot how to think. He was rough. Controlled. Angry and amused at the same time. Every thrust pressed me harder into the wall. Boxes rattled. His wet pants slapped against my skin. His hand wrapped around my throat, not squeezing, just holding. "You talk too much," he said, breath hot against my ear. "Always something to say." I wanted to answer. Couldn't. "Good. Shut up for once." He drove deeper. Slower. Drawing it out. I