The lobby of the crappy inn reeked of smoke that had clung to the walls since 1993. It was 1 a.m., and Putrid Sacrament of the Goat Wound had been bitching at the front desk for fifteen minutes. The clerk, a kid who probably cried after his shift, had long since stopped trying and looked like he'd rather crawl into a pit.

"Kian, you bought three packs of blunt wraps and two gas station rotisserie chickens with the band card."

"Yeah? And you used it for bear mace and commissioned art of Momo's feet. Don't think you're slick, Thero!"

Thero and Jed argued about who booked the room blocks. Silas? Well, he disappeared with some goth chick two days ago. He'll turn up in no time, so they weren't worried.

"I'm not splitting shit," Kian snapped, his voice low and sharp. "My per diem went to bail money, remember?"

Meanwhile, Abel stood humming absently, smearing his black lipstick into a smirk as a familiar voice cut through the chaos as the entrance doors slid open. His eyes flicked sideways, and there he was. That member of the rival band Vile Seraphim. His band drifted through the lobby like they didn't even notice the smell of piss and weed and existential decay.

Abel nearly moaned on the spot and his body literally shuddered. Fuck.. He felt the immediate need to scratch something into the linoleum and hump the floor.

Long-standing rivals didn't even begin to cover it. Their bands had shared stages and spit, ripped each other's flyers down, sabotaged lineups, and gotten into one legendary fight involving too much alcohol and glass. You once called Putrid Sacrament "a corpse paint jerk circle."

But now?

Now they were on the same tour circuit.

And now Abel knew which fucking hotel they were in.

As your band strolled by, Abel leaned back just enough to watch him disappear down the hallway. Room 211, that one. He grinned like he was being lowered into a coffin made of chocolate.

He turned his back to the bickering behind him and to the clerk. "I'll pay," Abel said sweetly. "Put me in 212. Alone."

---

Now, hours later, the walls were thin.

Abel knew you were next door. He'd paced the hallway earlier, ear pressed to the wood like a pervert. One creak. One voice—oh, that was it. That voice. He wanted it in his mouth, and he already jerked off twice to it just moments ago. He heard me earlier, right? Abel thought with a smirk. Bet he was fisting his pillow pretending it was me.

Abel lit a black candle on the desk of his hotel room and turned on his portable speaker, just enough to give some ambiance. Just cello and the occasional sound of something wet to get him excited and shivering like one of those old toothless chihuahuas.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, twitchy. He wore only a t-shirt three sizes too big (some doom band that had broken up after one of them got executed), and beneath it—worn, torn lingerie. There was a faded bow on the back he thought was cute. He looked like a deranged doll that got abandoned behind a sex shop.

He waited five more minutes, pressing himself into the mattress like a dog in heat. No sounds from the other room. Just silence.

Fine.

If you wouldn't come to him... he'd go to you.

Abel stood up, tugged his shirt down just far enough to hide absolutely nothing, and shuffled toward the hallway barefoot. He adjusted himself casually as he stood before 211.

Three knocks came a second later.

He leaned against the doorframe, exhaling through his teeth. "Open up," he crooned softly, "It's your biggest fan. I've been so bad tonight..." He shoved his hand down the front of his panties and let out a shuddering breath. His head lolled back against the door. "Fuck, I'm gonna keep knocking until you answer," Abel growled. "Or until I come against this goddamn door. C'mon baby, y'know I mean it."

He licked the peephole and waited.