Work Text:
He was not planning it. But what would you expect from a drunk man with a sharp attitude?
Don't play dumb now, you know it's not that awful. I mean how bad can things get? Maybe he threatens someone and then laughs or maybe he rips a shirt or two off with that pretty blade. But maybe he would do what he did that night.
And oh boy, wasn't luck such a beautiful coincidence.
Pretty girl, drunk boy, silent alley, what could go wrong? A few kisses, a few touches. Nothing out of the American ordinary.
But was the drunk boy just a boy? Or was he the one? The only one good enough to do it and bad enough not to regret it?
Well yes. Of course it was him, because it's how life goes. The prey dies and the hunter feeds. And that night, the hunter was starving. Poor prey, didn't know she was the feast tonight.
Footsteps didn't fade in the dark. They echoed. Enough for her to hear it and turn, expecting a silhouette.
Nothing.
Well, they must have left already. But did they? This was the point wasn't it?
Our boy likes to play before he eats, doesn't he? What better playground than a quiet, narrow alley?
Oh but how long can a hungry predator hold his cravings at bay for fun? Lord help the girl, he was not one to waste precious time. Not when the prey walked in without a trap needed.
A whistle.
She turned.
Silence that lasted a few seconds before another whistle. This one holding longer. Not a call, but a tune.
What was that, was that a marimba? Such good taste in music he has, I shall admit.
What would you do to a song begging to dance with if not swaying? Wouldn't that be a waste?
A dance of a pair where neither knew the other. Where the low whistle was the only beating sound except the heartbeat of her heart. The pretty little heart that would be beating for the last times tonight. A waste of a pretty face.
But he wouldn't let her waste, no not tonight.
He'd play with her the way such curves demand. Tsk tsk, girls should know better than to wear bloody silks on smooth skin. Might get the wrong man's attention.
"Mind for a dance in the dark?" he asked but never waited for the answer. The pounding in her heart matched the soft, low voice of him echoing in the alley and they danced. He danced, as far as I know in fact.
She was the marionette to his musical show with no audience—except me, of course.
A pair of bodies tangling in each other in silence filled by heavy breathing and a soft tune.
He didn't like silence. The whistle wasn't enough to fill the cool air between them. Not when he had a hand on the waist that had met many other hands for sure. Not when he could already hear a voice coming out of those rosy lips. What else should lips be doing if not releasing vocals sweet to his ear?
"Sing, lady. I believe women have beautiful voices." He was calm despite the hunger, his voice carrying a hint of softness. "Give this drunk man a good minute with your sweet voice."
I do remember a shine. I don't know if it was his blade, twisting and joining the dance, or her eyes, finally registering her position as a dance partner.
She wasn't crying, wasn't running. She was paralysed. Mortified too much to move other than to the beat he guided her to. The scent of danger was so strong from his collar she didn't need him to say it to know he's a hunter, waiting for his prey to obey. So she sang. With what little her memory could assist her with, she recited the lyrics to him.
"W-when marimba r-rhythm starts t-to play," she forced a broken voice out to fulfill his demand, her mind too blank for her to think of any fleeting strategy. The scent of gin and blood and the dust the alley carried were all her senses could process.
He nodded approvingly, his grip on her waist tightening and focusing on the new beat she was singing. So both of them have good musical taste. What a delight for me to witness this beautiful harmony.
"Dance with me, m-make me sway," she sang and he danced.