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fresh blood (sweet baby, i need)

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Here’s the thing: Halloween is Johnny’s favorite holiday.

Okay— okay, not really. If he were to be emotionally vulnerable (gross) he’d say Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday because he loves his family and his mom and good food and fellowship and all that horrifying, vomit-inducing sappy stuff that the well-behaved postmodern young adult is supposed to hate on principle.

(The voice in Johnny’s head that sounds like Yuta would like to interject that technically since society has transitioned past postmodern thought and into the New Sincerity movement, Johnny can’t really use that excuse anymore. Fucking humanities majors.)

To his peers, however, Halloween is Johnny’s favorite holiday because, simply put, it’s the sluttiest time of the year for the sexually uninhibited college student. Last Halloween, Johnny had a foursome—a foursome—with the president of the honor society, his Business Law TA, and Jongin dressed as Andy Warhol. Halloween of his freshman year was the first time he was on the receiving end of anal and seriously, cue Aladdin’s A Whole New World for that one.

(On Halloween of his sophomore year, he got a particularly persistent case of crabs from a sexy Wednesday Addams and spent the entirety of November tragically sexless and itchy. Risk-reward, lesson learned, etcetera, etcetera. Johnny does his best to repress that memory so it doesn’t taint his Halloween spirit but Ten derives a sick kind of glee out of reminding him every so often.)

This Halloween will be the final Halloween of his undergraduate career and Johnny has plans—big, sexy, substance-abusive plans. He’s had his costume planned out for months: Han Solo, whom Johnny, as Secretary of the Alienfucker Club (Kun is the president) has always considered a personal role model. Himself, Ten, Jaehyun, Yuta, Doyoung, Sicheng, Jungwoo, and Taeyong have compiled their Halloween fantasies into a bingo card with squares ranging from ‘make friends with a dog wearing a costume’ to ‘be the meat in a Joker-Batman hate fuck sandwich’ to ‘do a line of cocaine off Pennywise’s dick’ and have a betting pool going on who will blackout their card before the night is over.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

“My sister has to work tonight,” Kun says, leaning against the counter as he waits for his oatmeal to finish microwaving. He’s standing right in the doorway—whether intentionally or not—blocking Johnny’s escape route. “But she already promised Chenle that she’d take him and his friend trick or treating. So I’m taking them for her.” He’s smiling but the corner of his mouth is tweaked downwards in the way that Johnny knows means Kun is hiding his disappointment. Johnny can’t really fault him for it. It’s Halloween and Kun’s gonna be spending it tragically sober, carting around two sugar-blitzed eight-year-olds.

Something dreadful initiates in the back of Johnny’s conscience. He feels the foreboding of it crawl up the back of his neck before the thought has even fully formed in his conscious mind in the same way that the hair on one’s arm stands up when lightning is about to strike. His shoulder devil bangs on the glass walls of his brain warning him not to listen, but—

“Do you want me to come with?” he asks.

He’s flabbergasted at his own words. Why did he say that? Literally why? Literally, what was the reason?

Say no, say no, say no, say no, say no, say—

Kun’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Seriously?”

Take it back, now’s your chance, just say never mind, just take it back! Easy peasy, just say—

“Yeah, why not?” Johnny hears himself say. “I know the bougie neighborhoods where they give out the full size candy bars. It’ll be fun.”


Kun frowns, brow furrowing in suspicion (which, okay, fair—Johnny’s not exactly known for his selflessness). “Don’t you have plans with everyone? I thought you were going out.”

“Yeah, well…” Johnny shrugs. “I go out every Halloween.” And that’s stupid because Johnny meant to say it in a, like, passive-aggressive way that would guilt-trip Kun into releasing Johnny from the spider web of his own design but instead it comes out totally nonchalant and genuine and then Kun’s big brown eyes start to light up with, like, newfound hope and relief and Johnny’s hamartia is that he can’t resist a pair of big, brown eyes. He’s weak. He’s weak at his very core for big, brown eyes.

Another smile breaks out across Kun’s face. Both corners turn upwards and open. “Honestly… if you would, that would be awesome. I had no idea what I was gonna do with two kids all night, like, I don’t know any of the good neighborhoods or anything. You’d totally be saving my ass.”

Two gunshots and the GTA Wasted sound effect plays in Johnny’s head. Just like that, he’s done for.

“Of course,” he says weakly. He is really so, so stupid.


“What do you mean you’re not coming? We have been planning this night of debauchery for weeks and you are our friend group’s, like, fucking Bacchus, bitch. Debauchery follows you wherever you go. You’re the group fuck magnet and you know this.”

Fuck magnet?”

Ten scoffs without putting down his eyeliner pencil. He’s been experimenting in Johnny’s mirror to find a sexy way to give himself cat whiskers for the past fifteen minutes and Johnny has only just gotten up the nerve to break the news.

“Yes, asshole. You are like a fucking beacon of sin. Why do you think we keep you around?” Ten scowls at Johnny in the reflection. “If you don’t come, my chances of filling out my bingo card drop, like, thirty-seven percent.”

“Glad to know you’ll miss me.”

“I will!” Ten twists to make direct eye contact over his shoulder. “This is probably the last Halloween we’ll all get to spend together like this. I can’t believe you’re willingly gonna miss it. You’re sentimental as shit.”

Johnny shrugs. Heat prickles at the shells of his ears. He rubs at them and wonders if Doyoung’s been messing with the thermostat again. “Kun needed my help.”

In the four years that Ten and Johnny have been friends, Ten has developed this certain way of staring at Johnny that makes him feel like his fucking soul is being x-rayed and subsequently compared to the weight of the Feather of Ma’at. (Honestly, it wouldn’t be that surprising to find out Ten eats souls. It would at least explain how he’s able to survive and thrive when his diet seems to consist of iced coffee and chocolate brownie Clif bars.) Every now and then he turns it on Johnny like a concentrated laser beam of judgement. Usually it happens when Johnny’s particularly on his bullshit and actually deserves it but sometimes Ten flashes him The Look and Johnny genuinely has no clue what he’s done or said to deserve getting gut-fucked by the full force of Ten’s scrutiny.

Well, for whatever reason Johnny’s feeling extra sensitive today, so he snaps, “What?”

Ten immediately turns back to the mirror. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to say anything. Your epic bitch face was speaking fucking volumes,” Johnny snipes back.

His friend pointedly refuses to make eye contact in the mirror as he rubs at a smear of eyeliner on his cheek. “I just feel like there are probably easier ways to get laid tonight than going all, I dunno, All-American boy on one of your roommates.”

Johnny scowls. “What the fuck? I’m not trying to fuck Kun. What the fuck, Ten.”

“My bad.” Ten’s shoulders shrug. “Thought maybe you were.”

That is— wow, altogether way too much for Johnny to unpack. “Jesus Christ,” he fumes. “Can I not do something nice for someone anymore without everyone automatically assuming I’m doing it to get in their pants? Like, when did I lose the right to the benefit of the doubt?”

“Probably when you ghostwrote Dejun’s take-home midterm in exchange for a blowjob.”

“I don’t know why everyone got mad at me for that!” Johnny protests. “He is the one who offered! And that midterm was hard, totally worth way more than just a blowjob, so.”

Ten rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah, your generosity is unparalleled. They should canonise you.”

“Eat my ass.”

“No thanks. I’m not interested in getting crabs.”

God. Johnny needs better friends.


Johnny needs better friends becomes the repeated theme as the night wanes on. Kun drags Johnny’s ass out of his room around four-thirty because he doesn’t want the kids (Chenle, dressed as a tiny Steph Curry, and Jisung, whose mom has managed to somehow fit his winter coat over the spikes of his Sonic the Hedgehog costume) to be out very long past dark in case of drunken revellers and/or murderers.

They take the L up to Lakeview, which would already be a hellish seventy-five minutes on a normal night but is twice as hellish with two eight-year-olds plus everyone else in the entire fucking city with their own eight-year-olds, half of whom have already pre-gamed on fucking Red Vines and Sprite and are also headed for trick-or-treating in Lakeview. Johnny’s heart sinks when he sees the veritable flock of children and parents that disembark at the same time as they do.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he mutters under his breath, yanking on the hood of Jisung’s coat to keep him from wandering into the path of a pissed-looking commuter.

Kun gives him a wobbly smile. “Surely they can’t all be going to Southport.”

They all go to Southport.

Johnny spends most of their time there surreptitiously checking his watch and subtly bullying Chenle (bullying in, like, the fun big brother way, not in, like, a mean way. Johnny’s pretty sure it’s not mean, anyways. Kun laughs at him a lot and doesn’t seem close to giving him a bloody nose, so he thinks he’s probably good) because Chenle is actually fun to bully. It gets the kid all excited and he bullies Johnny right back with a huge, slightly terrifying smile stretching his cheeks. Even when Kun scolds him half-heartedly, the kid just cackles like a brilliant, tiny madman.

The boys trick-or-treat for awhile (or, Chenle trick-or-treats and Jisung shyly bobs around in his wake, accepting the fistfuls of candy that Chenle redistributes from his own candy bucket into Jisung’s. Johnny appreciates that Kun has already managed to instill good communist values in his nephew) until the sun starts to go down. Johnny checks his watch. Just a few more hours until the group planned to hit their first club of the night. If he factors in the train ride back—

“Hey,” Kun says, glancing up from where he’s tying Jisung’s shoe. “They’re doing a sort of pumpkin patch thing at Sheil Park.” He smiles, lopsided and halfway apologetic. “Vic just texted me and they’re keeping her later than they promised. Would you…?”

No, no, no, no, no, no— “Sure.” Johnny shrugs. “No problem.” Fucking moron!

Kun’s smile loses that guilty twist, revealing both of his dimples. “Are you sure? I know it’s asking a lot.”

Johnny shrugs again, weaker this time. “In for a penny, in for a pound, right?” God, what the fuck was that? Is Johnny fucking eighty years old now? Is he aging rapidly for every minute he spends with these crotch goblins?

They go to the pumpkin patch and it turns out to be a lot fucking more than a pumpkin patch. The park has set up, like, an entire little fall festival type thing with face-in-holes and scarecrows and cornhole and hot cider/candy apple/popcorn ball stands and, yes, pumpkins. Someone even figured out a way to cram a hay ride into the park even though there’s no corn maze and it’s really just some local’s truck with a bunch of disintegrating hay bales shoved in the bed as makeshift seating.

Johnny watches Chenle zero in on the “hay ride” the same way people in movies witness involuntary manslaughter: in slow motion, with a mixture of impending doom and utter helplessness. As the kid’s sticky little mouth opens into a perfect circle and his chest expands with the preparatory inhale, Johnny sends a silent prayer up to heaven. My Father, if possible, let this cup pass from me.

“Gege!” Chenle hollers, tugging on Kun’s hand to drag him towards the idling F150. “I wanna go on the hay ride! Let’s go, take us, take us!”

“I don’t have any more money, Lele,” Kun says with a patient sigh. “We’ll just have to be happy with looking.”

Chenle has eaten so many sweaty pawfuls of candy corn that he practically vibrates and Jisung, perpetually right on Chenle’s heels in this as in all things, bounces on the toes of his light-up Paw Patrol sneakers, triggering a multicolor lightshow that would make Johnny vomit if he’d done even half the amount of drugs he’d planned to do tonight.

Kun,” Chenle whines, hauling downwards on the sleeve of Kun’s jacket. “Mama said you had to! Mama said.” Jisung joins in on the begging with a refrain of please, Kunnie? and suddenly Johnny really, really, really needs to be drunk.

“Here,” he says, fishing his wallet out of the pocket of his vest and pulling out a twenty. “I got it.”

Kun’s eyes turn to him and go round with the gratitude and relief of a man rescued from baby hell. “Oh, Johnny. You don’t have to— are you sure?”

If it means getting a break from these demon spawn, I really, really do, he thinks, but little ears are listening in so he settles for a shrug and a “Sure. It’s Halloween, right? These kiddos should have fun.”

“Thank you.” His friend puts a hand on the back of his little cousin’s head and pushes him gently towards Johnny. “What d’you say, dude?”

“Thanks, Johnny,” Chenle mumbles.

Jisung leans so far forward on his toes that he trips and bumps into Chenle’s back. “Yeah, thanks… um, hyung!”

God. Johnny pockets his wallet before these kids’ big puppy eyes convince him to surrender his last shekels. “No problem.” He hands the bill to Kun. “Here, go wild.”

Kun takes it but doesn’t move. “You coming with?”

“Nah, I’ll just chill out here. You know, uh—” Come on, Suh, think of a good excuse. You got it, dude. “Allergic to hay.” Fucking idiot.

Kun’s hand closes around the wrinkled twenty. “I get it.” He smiles and reaches over to squeeze Johnny’s hand. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He glances over Kun’s shoulder at the beer stand. He thinks they have Lager Town on tap. “Like I said, no problem. See you in a few?”

“Totally.” He grabs Chenle and Jisung by the hoods of their coats and steers them towards the line for the hayride. Johnny waves at them for exactly as long as it takes for them to stop looking and waving back at him before he makes a beeline for the beer stand at the speed of light.

He’s at the bottom of his second plastic cupful of beer when someone steps up to the counter alongside him (yeah, okay, so he’s chugging his beer at the counter and immediately buying a refill. So what? So what?!). Johnny lowers his cup just enough to lick the bubbly feeling off his lips and cuts his eyes to the side to size up the newcomer in his peripherals.

The guy is cute; shorter than him (but that’s not really surprising), with cute round cheeks and a pouty mouth that has Johnny’s shoulder demon poking his lizard brain awake with its pitchfork. The belt cinched around the guy’s middle shows off the shape of his body. His waist is deceptively small despite the width of his chest and shoulders and thighs. Like a tight, sexy little upside down Cool Ranch Dorito. The piercing in his eyebrow rests at just the right angle to glint in the light. And… he’s dressed like a werewolf. Specifically of the sexy variety.

When one thinks werewolf costume, one doesn’t automatically make the leap to sexy but Johnny has to say that this guy has done a pretty fucking okay job of it. Of course, you’d have to define ‘werewolf costume’ a bit loosely. As with any sexy Halloween costume (other than Han Solo, who is a sexy costume simply by virtue of being canonically sexy), some accuracies are sacrificed in the name of artistic expression. In this case, sexy werewolf is interpreted as this truly— erm, interesting lace top (interesting as in, Johnny is very interested in the snips of skin he can see through the chinks in the pattern) and impossibly tight leather pants under the statement piece of the outfit: a grey-black faux fur coat. Johnny assumes its faux fur because 1) what college-age kid can afford a real ass fur coat and 2) what college-age kid would buy a real ass fur coat.

All of this, of course, is not to mention the furry wolf ears that stick up out of the guy’s head. Or the thick, black, metal-studded dog collar around his neck.

Maybe this Halloween doesn’t have to be a total loss.

Johnny lowers his cup slowly, quelling his desperation to be drunk in hopes of saving his dignity. He glances over at the werewolf and licks his lips again. This time it’s totally, completely, overtly Freudian. He stays at the counter but doesn’t order anything yet, just kind of lingers and stares at the taps. He’s aware he’s being obvious. He doesn’t particularly care.

Not the second but the third time Johnny glances at Sexy Werewolf Guy, he notes a little smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. The sexy werewolf’s teeth rest on the rim of his cup for a moment and Johnny catches a flash of a sharp, white canine. Sexy.

Johnny smirks, too, knowing he’s been caught and that he has caught werewolf guy in turn. His heart beats faster and he feels that now-familiar stirring of anticipation and excitement in the pit of his stomach. (Fuck whatever his therapist says. This is fun. And really, how much stock should Johnny even put in the opinion of someone who works for a FREE university counselling center?)

On Johnny’s fourth glance, the werewolf guy smiles, sharp and wicked, without looking over. The thrill in Johnny’s stomach flares up anew.

“Brown bear, brown bear, what do you see?” WG (short for Werewolf Guy) quips, still not gracing Johnny with a good look at his eyes.

Johnny turns to fully face him, leaning his hip against the table serving as a countertop. The workers are probably sick of them loitering in front of their stand but Johnny’s filled his quota of selflessness for the day so he really doesn’t give a shit.

“You should charge,” he suggests. “A viewing fee. Like museums and shit.”

Sexy Dorito Wolf snorts. “Or a circus sideshow.”

“‘See the wolfman,’” Johnny deadpans, spreading his non-beer hand in midair as though envisioning a sign in lights. “‘Enter a non-believer, exit a furry.’”

Tiny Waist Dog Boy makes a face. “I’m not a furry,” he says, like it’s important to him to make that one hundred percent clear.

“Neither am I,” Johnny agrees, shifting closer until he’s toeing the line of the other man’s socially acceptable personal space bubble. “But I did jack off to a lot of Teen Wolf fanfiction when I was sixteen.”

It surprises a laugh out of Wolfboy. He puts his hand on the counter so his fingers just overlap Johnny’s. “Okay.”

Johnny’s pulse speeds up. “Okay?” he asks. “Okay what?”

Sexy Werewolf smirks again, just at the corners of his perfect, tiny mouth. “Okay,” he repeats. “I’ll have sex with you.”

Now it’s Johnny’s turn to be surprised. A slow smile creeps across his face. “Straightforward,” he comments, setting his cup down. He doesn’t think he’ll be needing it anymore.

“I don’t know about you,” the other mutters, leaning into Johnny’s space to speak into his ear. “But I don’t have a lot of time. And I’d hate to miss out on the chance to get my dick wet because we sat around talking for foreplay at a shitty beer stand.”

Johnny laughs, low and breathy in the werewolf guy’s ear (his real, human ear. Not his wolf ear. Obviously). He sneaks a hand under the faux fur coat to touch his waist. “Down, puppy.”

He means it as a joke but it makes Wolfman growl and before Johnny has time to compute that, he’s being dragged across the park towards the row of portapotties (which, okay, definitely not the classiest place Johnny will have ever had semi-public sex but probably still a step above the second-to-last car on the Red Line. Probably. Right?).

They don’t even do a cursory glance around to check for onlookers before cramming themselves into one of the vacant stalls. It’s not one of the bigger, nice ones with the built-in sink and paper towels and stuff but it still smells fresh so maybe it hasn’t been used yet tonight, or perhaps it’s been used gently. Johnny tells himself that it hasn’t been used to preserve his perception of his own dignity.

Wolf Guy, on the other hand, could care less. The moment he turns the latch on the door, he shoves Johnny up against the plastic wall and starts kissing him thoroughly, one hand dropping to the front of his pants to palm at his dick. Johnny conjures the sexiest mental images possible in order to drown out the Jiminy Cricket voice in his head reminding him that he’s about to fuck a stranger in a portapotty.

Dr Im in a strap-on, he thinks desperately. Taeyong in his anime boy costume. That time I saw Chungha after fencing practice and she was all sweaty and flushed. Listening to Kun jack it through the wall. Kun— fuck, no. That’s not sexy. Derek/Stiles Eiffel Tower. Oscar Isaac.

Johnny knows his tongue must taste like beer because Wolf Boy’s definitely does. Discreetly, he moves away from his lips to suck bruises into the skin of his neck. Electricity crackles down his spinal cord at the high, breathy sound that leaves the other man’s throat in response to the scrape of his teeth near the thick leather band of his collar. Oh, yeah. Johnny’s got no problem getting hard now, especially if this pretty boy keeps moving like this: pressed against him in a thick, hot line and halfway writhing against his front, hitching his thigh insistently against Johnny’s crotch.

Without warning, the sexy werewolf reaches into his Han Solo pants and gets a hand around his Johnny dick. It’s not unwelcome but it’s sudden enough that it makes Johnny suck his breath in through his teeth.

“You’re fucking hot,” the werewolf murmurs, licking a wet stripe up the length of Johnny’s neck that makes him squirm. “Wish you could fuck me.”

Johnny knots his fingers in the werewolf’s hair where it grows long at the front of his head. He yanks on the fistful. The werewolf makes a whimpering sound against his jugular that makes Johnny’s gut turn hot and liquid.

A thought sprouts, birthed from a seed that’s been germinating for a few minutes, and Johnny decides: Fuck it. It’s Halloween. Fuckin’ YOLO.

“Bet you do,” he growls. “Bet you want me to fuck you raw, right here in this portapotty. Filthy fucking slut, whoring out for a stranger.”

And, see, here’s the thing: Johnny’s never thought himself to be particularly good at dirty talk. His sext game leans heavily on flattering photos of his cock and his total lack of shame about showing off his gorgeously manscaped asshole (“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” he once told Mark in lieu of an apology for accidentally sending him a photo of aforementioned asshole [he’d meant to send it to Mark Tuan, the new MBA working for Dr Choi, whose name in Johnny’s phone at that point in time was still ‘mark legs’ in honor of the pinstripe slacks he wore when Johnny first met him at {and subsequently took him home from} the start-of-term department social]. Mark Lee immediately proceeded to block him on iMessage and every social media platform for a full two weeks. Johnny thinks they probably still wouldn’t be speaking if it weren’t for the unexpected release of the new Frank Ocean single compelling Mark to unblock him in order to send the link).

Dirty talk, however, he usually tries to avoid. Johnny has a lot of sex and he’s confident—confident that he’s sexy and good at sex—but it’s weird to consciously try to talk dirty. He either ends up feeling like he’s auditioning for a bad porno or reciting Shakespearean variations on a theme of clapping cheeks. He’s never quite found the in-between.

It feels different with this sexy werewolf guy. Maybe because he’s a stranger. Maybe because they’re in costumes, a whole extra false persona between their true selves and their presentation of themselves to each other. Or maybe it’s just Johnny’s exhibitionist streak bleeding through.

But when he calls this guy a dirty slut and his response is not to laugh or make a face or even respond with something even more over-the-top but rather to moan, like seriously fucking moan so fucking loud and literally fucking wanton (wanton! Johnny has never used wanton to describe anything that wasn’t himself lusting after a delicious shrimp and pork dumpling, and only then for the sake of the pun) that it sounds obscene even in the Temple of Obscenity that is a portapotty commandeered for hasty, anonymous sex… well.

That’s a call to action that Johnny just can’t ignore.

“You do this for every stranger that gives you the time?” he grunts, working his partner’s belt open with a jerk rough enough to make the latter stumble half a step into Johnny’s chest. Belts are hard. “S’that all you do, keep yourself warm for the next person who needs a quick fuck?”

“Yeah,” the werewolf gasps. His fingers are clever-clever, alternating between working Johnny’s cock with firm, slow twists and the kind of teasing touches designed to drive him completely mad: tracing the paths of his veins up and down his length with just the tips of those painted fingernails; dancing over his head to smear around the bead of precum gathering there before it can even start to drool down his shaft; brushing past his balls to press curiously at his perineum—too gentle to be anything more than a reminder of how good the real thing feels—and even inching back towards his asshole as far as his hand can reach without cramping up in the confines of Johnny’s boxer briefs.

Johnny’s hips rock forward on instinct, rutting against werewolf guy’s wrist while he cranes his hand to rub infuriating little circles into the sensitive skin behind Johnny’s balls. “Dirty boy,” he grits out between clenched teeth, shoving the guy’s werewolf pants down around his knees with one hand. He spits into his palm and starts jacking him off (again, probably a bit rougher than the situation calls for, but Johnny’s never pretended not to be a little vengeful). “Too dirty for me to even fuck.”

Another broken sound escapes the sexy werewolf’s lips. “Yeah,” he whines again. “‘M too—” His face drops to Johnny’s neck and he mouths wetly at the skin under his collar, breath hitching when Johnny polishes his thumb over the head of his cock. “Let me suck you off? Please?”

As if that’s even a question. Johnny uses the hand still in his hair to push his head down in response. “S’all you’re good for, right?”

The werewolf drops to his knees and presses his face against the front of Johnny’s pants, which, okay, fine, normal, except Johnny’s fly is still open and his cock already hanging out so when the guy rubs his cheek against Johnny’s crotch, his nose and lips nuzzle at the base of his cock and send electric sparks up Johnny’s spine. Those electric sparks double when his head bumps against the guy’s temple and leaves behind a smear of precum on his eyebrow piercing.

Johnny kind of wants to ask the guy’s name so he doesn’t have to keep referring to him as Werewolf Guy in his head but he thinks it might be too late for that kind of thing—not to mention that Mr Sexy Werewolf clearly gets off on the whole, degrading-anonymous-sex thing. It’s a little weird to see his cum on someone’s face without even a cursory exchange of first name or even nicknames but Johnny can be into it. He gets the sexy aspect of anonymity.

In fact— the novelty of this proud, confident, fucking gorgeous man being so ready to submit to Johnny without knowing anything about him makes a weird kind of power rush through his veins. It’s not the bad kind of power—the kind that inversely makes Johnny powerless because of how out-of-control and dangerous he feels—but the good kind, the really good kind. It’s the mutual kind of power, an echo chamber of instinct and desire and confidence being passed back and forth forever. Like the sexy version of taping a piece of buttered toast to the back of a cat.

(What’s that called? A Rube Goldberg machine? Fuck, where are Kun and all his little engineering minions when you need them?)

(Actually, scratch that. Johnny doesn’t really want Kun anywhere near this portapotty at the moment.)

Hot goosebumps crawl across Johnny’s skin when the sexy werewolf looks up at him with dark eyes around the pillar of his own dick. This guy might be submitting to Johnny but it’s clear he knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s got Johnny on a string. He’s had Johnny on a string since he stepped up to the beer stand.

Fuck. Johnny loves being played with. He bites his lip, fingers tightening around his fistful of the other’s hair.

Satisfied that he has Johnny’s full attention, the other boy’s eyes flutter shut in what has to be a showy move for Johnny’s benefit (which, like, yeah, it totally works). His piercing moves as his eyebrows knit upwards and together. That tiny, pink mouth that caught Johnny’s attention in the first place falls open, revealing a flash of an equally pink tongue. He lets out a whine. It doubles as a puff of breath, warm and damp, over the sensitive skin of Johnny’s tip that makes his entire dick jump. Wolfboy chases it, tongue barely poking out of his mouth as he uses both hands to rub Johnny’s cock against his cheek, his chin, the tip of his nose, the turn of his bottom lip.

He looks— fuck. He looks like how he wants to look: dirty, slutty, made to suck cock.

Johnny moves his hand from the guy’s hair to clamp down heavy on the nape of his neck. “Fuck, wish you could see yourself now. Nasty boy.” Another high-pitched sigh from the man on his knees. Those perfect, pink lips close around his head (fucking finally, Jesus, Johnny’s dick has been all over this guy’s face except his fucking mouth) and suck, light and playful. The sensation zings to the pleasure and pain centers of Johnny’s brain at the same time, so good that he almost pulls away. Through gritted teeth, he continues, “Wanted to fuck that mouth of yours the moment I saw you. Could tell it wasn’t good for anything but being my cocksleeve.”

Something in there must be the magic word because Wolfboy makes a sound halfway between panting and whining and slides down the length of Johnny’s dick until his lips meet the curl of his fist. He bobs his head smoothly a few times, eyelashes fluttering in apparent bliss, and pairs the movement with a twist-pump combo of his hands that Johnny’s pretty familiar with. Maybe it was in Cosmo or something as, like, a tip on blowjob techniques for big dicks. Don’t know, don’t care—it’s good when this guy does it, the rhythm just right to almost make Johnny forget to keep his hips still.

It’s even better when one of the guy’s hands leaves Johnny’s cock and drops, drawing Johnny’s attention to where his partner’s own dick hangs heavy and flushed in the space between his thighs and the pants shoved halfway to his knees. He watches as Sexy Werewolf takes himself in hand and starts jacking himself off, setting a rhythm in counterpoint to the one he’s using to suck Johnny off. Distantly, he’s impressed. He wonders if this guy is a drummer or something, to have rhythm that good.

Belatedly, Johnny remembers his own tongue. “Look at you, touching yourself,” he scoffs. “Can’t even help yourself, can you? Fucking—” His breath hitches, train of thought breaking in half as the guy’s tongue digs into his slit. “Shit,” he rasps out. “Fuck.”

The guy’s lips are stretched wide around Johnny’s dick, but Johnny swears the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. He moves the hand still holding the base of Johnny’s dick to Johnny’s thigh, fingers tracing the line where his hip connects to his pelvis. Before Johnny can catch on to what he’s doing, the sexy werewolf leans forward on his knees and sinks down the remaining length of Johnny’s shaft until his nose presses against the thin, sensitive skin below Johnny’s belly button. Once there, he flattens his tongue and lets his jaw go slack in a way that Johnny knows means Do it. Johnny can even feel the muscles at the back of his throat relax, opening up to ease the way for Johnny’s cock. The man’s eyes open to half-mast, pinning Johnny to the wall of the portapotty with their intense gleam. He breathes in deep through his nose as though grounding himself. Johnny is abruptly glad that he groomed extra thoroughly in anticipation of tonight’s hoe activities.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Johnny laughs a little to himself in sheer disbelief. And to think he wanted to get out of coming with Kun. Maybe he is a fuck magnet. (Fuck Ten, though, seriously.)

(Gross. He doesn’t want to think about Kun or Ten right now. Not when he’s got a pretty boy’s throat to fuck.)

His hand already rests at the back of the sexy werewolf’s head, so he palms the back of his skull and tries a careful, shallow in-out thrust of his hips. It’s easy going; too easy, almost. The man blinks, slow, like he’s savoring the feeling. His fingers flex gently on Johnny’s thigh: a silent keep going.

An exhale shudders its way out of Johnny’s chest. “Oh, Christ,” he mutters. He moves again, deeper this time, and again, and again, building up a tempo. He’s still going easy but each time he slides in he pushes a little farther, a little harder, testing his partner’s limits. As he starts to speed up, spit gathers at the corners of the man’s lips, fucked in and out of his mouth without any kind of discretion or attempt to stay clean.

“God,” Johnny says. He’s aware that he’s repeating himself but he doesn’t feel that he can really take full responsibility for that when the Big Bad Wolf is down there sucking his last brain cell out through his cock. “So fucking messy. Drooling all over my cock, huh?” He lowers the hand not holding the werewolf’s head and hooks two fingers into the guy’s collar, tugging at it lightly. “Dog.”

He can hardly hear over the blood pounding in his ears but the vibration of a muffled moan around his cock must mean he’s struck a chord. The hand between the other man’s legs stills, squeezing the base of his cock for a moment before moving again, more careful than before. Wolfboy tugs insistently with the hand at Johnny’s hip. Harder. Faster. More. A rush of self-satisfaction makes Johnny laugh again, short and breathless.

“You like that?” he asks, twining his fingers into his partner’s thick, black hair. “You like being my fucking bitch? Good for nothing but getting me off?” He adjusts his grip, careful not to disturb his wolf ears. “Just a messy, wet hole to fuck.”

Then, so perfectly on cue that Johnny thinks it must be orchestrated, somehow, someway, a thick, heavy glob of spit that’s been pearling at the corner of the werewolf’s mouth rolls down his chin and stretches downwards towards the floor of the portapotty. Wolfboy blinks up at him, eyes dilated nearly to complete blackness in the shadow of the stall. It takes an effort worth of a Medal of Honor for Johnny not to shoot right then and there.

Honestly, he probably still would have, except right at that moment someone’s voice approaches outside, very close, like very close, and they both freeze.

“I’m checking the portapotties right now,” the voice says, accompanied now by a profile silhouetted against the plastic wall by the lights outside. “Go wait in the parking lot, if you want.”

Werewolf Boy tenses up at his feet. He swallows nervously and Johnny’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. “Fuck,” he whispers.

The hand on his thigh pinches him in a reprimand that seems diametrically opposed to the way the mouth on his dick starts to work over him again, slowly, carefully, quietly. Johnny puts a hand over his own mouth and looks down at his (apparently more depraved than heretofore thought) partner, hoping to telegraph his alarm through the widening of his eyes. The sexy werewolf stares back, defiant, and responds by sucking on the head of Johnny’s cock like— fuck, like— shit, he can’t think of any similes good enough or lewd enough to do it justice. Suffice to say that the way he looks right now will play behind Johnny’s eyelids while he masturbates for years to come.

“Okay, fuck.” Outside, another voice answers the first, tinny over the speaker of a cell phone. “Tell him to hurry up. I’m not nearly fucking drunk enough right now.”

The first voice doesn’t answer but Johnny can somehow still hear his eyes roll. There’s silence for a moment. He holds his breath, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps (and also just because, fuck, it’s really hard for him not to make any noise right now with Stiles Stilinski Wannabe liquifying his spine into bone soup).

Someone raps on the door of their portapotty. Panic and arousal battle for supremacy over Johnny’s amygdala. He throws a wild glance down at Werewolf Boy, who pulls off his cock long enough to shake his head.

“Changkyun? Are you in there?”

Wolf Dude’s hands replace his mouth, jacking Johnny slowly (which is actually kind of considerate since it’s fucking October and cold as shit even inside a portapotty). “Yeah?”

“Esther and Olivia went home so we’re free to go.” Sarcasm edges the voice outside the door. “His Royal Highness wanted me to tell you to hurry up because he wants to get trashed.”

“Okay.” He—Changkyun?—laps over Johnny’s tip to swipe up a bead of precum. When he speaks again, Johnny can see it smeared pretty and white across the middle of his tongue. He suppresses a shiver. “Give me ten?”

Ten?! Are you okay? Like, do I need to call the CDC or something?”

Changkyun rolls his eyes. Johnny can see the whites even through the dark. “Jesus, Kihyun, maybe if you fucked off I could finish up a little sooner—”

“Okay, okay, shit me. Not my fault candy corn gives you the runs…” The voice outside trails away, accompanied by the retreating sound of footsteps over gravel.

If there was even a little bit more light leaking into the portapotty, Johnny swears he’d be able to catch a dusting of pink high on Changkyun’s cheekbones. As it is, all he gets is a quick, furious glance from the former before he goes back to jacking Johnny off in earnest—twice as earnest, actually. His friend must be serious about coming back in ten.

“I got on the floor of a toilet to suck your cock,” the werewolf (Changkyun, Johnny reminds himself, Changkyun) breathes. His voice is high and sweet and it sounds lovely spewing sin in the shallow echo of the stall. “Got on my knees for you, ruining my jeans for you, my makeup. Wanted to, want it so bad.” He shuffles closer on his knees. “Want you to fuckin’ use me. Want everyone to know exactly what I was doing when I walk out there.”

Johnny can do that.

He growls, deep in his chest, and resumes the brutal grip he’d had on Changkyun’s hair before they were interrupted (almost caught! And that thought, the thought of being caught, makes his dick twitch so hard that it smears across Changkyun’s lip). “Then shut up and open your fucking throat.”

He pulls Changkyun forward and pauses for a moment, adjusting his fingers in his hair to give the man on his knees a moment to prepare himself (Johnny will never make that mistake again, not since he found out about Mingyu Kim’s sensitive gag reflex the hard way. He couldn’t get a boner for, like, two weeks after that because every time he tried to get it up he would think about Mingyu yarfing all over his lap and— fuck, he should stop thinking about this or he’ll go flaccid). When Changkyun’s hands settle on his thighs again, he takes the touch as a green light. A quick pause for a deep breath, and then—

And then fuck slow, fuck careful. Johnny uses his handful of Changkyun’s hair to haul him all the way down to the base of his cock and hold him there. His eyelids slide shut at the feeling of Changkyun’s throat working around him but he forces them back open to watch as he yanks back on the werewolf’s hair and then back down again. It draws a long, broken keening sound from Changkyun’s throat, so Johnny does it once more. And again. And again.

Johnny quickly builds up to a brutal pace, pistoning his hips in counterpoint to how he moves Changkyun’s head, faster and harder and less forgiving than before. Changkyun can hardly keep up; every other thrust, he gags, hard, muscles spasming around Johnny erratically. He uses Changkyun so roughly that the wolf ear headband falls off, clattering to the ground to immediately be forgotten by both of them.

If Johnny thought Changkyun looked messy before, it’s nothing compared to now. Thick, pearlescent saliva runs down both sides of his chin and his eyes— His eyes. Johnny failed to notice in the shitty park lights but now he can see the evidence of red and black eye makeup in the twin tracks of blurry crimson running down Changkyun’s cheeks. Farther down, past the captivating ruin of Changkyun’s face, his hand blurs between his legs. Johnny can see precum froth at the top of Changkyun’s fist on every upstroke.

God, that’s fucking hot. Johnny wants to say something about it but his brain has almost fully reverted back to primordial grunts and vague, wordless expressions of wants and needs. He opens his mouth to speak. The tiny part of his brain that is still operating at his current evolutionary level cheers him on with little mental pompoms. At first, he can only groan and gasp for breath, but then—

“Christ,” he pants. “Don’t even have to touch you. So fucking slutty, all you need is my cock to get off.”

Changkyun whines, the most pitiful one yet, so broken it almost sounds like a sob. He opens his eyes and blinks up at Johnny. Tears sparkle delicately where they cling to his eyelashes.

Johnny slaps a hand over his mouth and tries to drag Changkyun off of him before he comes but Changkyun pulls against his hand and presses forward until his nose touches Johnny’s stomach again. At the same time one clever, clever hand slips between his legs to press at his perineum.

Figuring he has permission, Johnny switches his pulling hand to a pressing hand, holding Changkyun down as he comes, hard, harder than he has any right to after just a blow job. Changkyun chokes around him as he shoots directly down the poor guy’s throat. It makes Johnny remember to relax. Even sexy werewolves have to breathe every now and then.

Changkyun pulls back to just Johnny’s tip and slowly, slowly strokes Johnny through his orgasm, letting Johnny’s cum pulse across his lips. Every now and then when his mouth opens, Johnny gets a glimpse of Changkyun’s tongue laving across his head. The sight of his cum coating Changkyun’s tongue makes him dizzy. His head drops back against the wall, making a hollow thumping sound. Changkyun looks up at him again and smiles before sitting back on his heels and opening his mouth. His tongue lolls out, showing off the sticky (fucking disgusting) mess Johnny’s made of his mouth (seriously, is Johnny gross now? Is Johnny into gross stuff now?). Once he makes certain that Johnny’s gotten a good look, Changkyun swallows without even closing his mouth so that Johnny can see the back of his throat expand and contract.

Evil, Johnny thinks. He runs a heavy hand through Changkyun’s ruined hair. Absolutely fucking diabolical.

Fortunately, Changkyun seems to understand that Johnny’s soul has temporarily vacated his body and doesn’t wait for Johnny to muster up the effort to coordinate the movement of his limbs before continuing to get himself off. He leans into the weight of Johnny’s palm as his hand flies on the length of his own cock. Johnny drags his hand across Changkyun’s cheek and the sexy werewolf readily sucks Johnny’s fingers into his mouth.

“Pretty,” Johnny mumbles, because Changkyun is, and his brain-to-mouth filter is currently offline.

A tiny, bitten-off moan escapes Changkyun’s throat and then he comes, right there at Johnny’s feet, right there on the floor of the Sheil Park Fall Festival portapotty.

Right there on Johnny’s boots.

And like, yeah, it’s hot, Johnny can’t deny that, but also, like, come on. Boots are fucking expensive and it took him forever to find a good pair that looked right for the Han Solo costume while still being fashionable enough to wear out of context of the costume. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and very carefully inches his foot out of the line of fire, hoping Changkyun won’t notice and feel, like, wounded or some shit.

After Changkyun finishes, er, finishing, Johnny slips his fingers out of his mouth and pets over his head while Changkyun leans his forehead against Johnny’s thigh for a moment and coughs. The cough is kinda wet, which shouldn’t really surprise Johnny considering how much of his jizz Changkyun just swallowed like a pro, but it still makes him wince.

He clears his own throat. “You good?”

Changkyun responds with a thick gurgle, then tips to one side and spits into the toilet hole. “Yeah,” he says. His voice grates out of his throat, rusty and thoroughly fucked out. Johnny almost feels guilty. Keyword: almost.

Johnny shimmies his pants back up, tucking himself back into his undies and out of the cold. “Was good,” he comments.

“...Yeah,” Changkyun agrees. His head is turned down, focusing on re-buttoning his tight leather pants. Johnny averts his eyes, too awkward to watch Changkyun put himself away, too. He really hates this part. It always feels weird and vulnerable and leaves him off-balance.

As he desperately searches for something within the portapotty to focus on other than Changkyun’s sad, flaccid penis, he spies the forgotten wolf ears. Johnny picks them up and settles the headband carefully back in Changkyun’s hair.

The latter blinks up at him, unable to hide his surprise. “Thanks,” he says, smiling slowly. It’s a lot different from his Werewolf Sex God smile.

Johnny laughs a little just to take up some of the space between them. “No problem.” He gestures vaguely downwards at Changkyun’s body. “Did I get cum on your coat?”

Changkyun glances down at it, as though he’d be able to see anything through the dark, and shrugs. “Nah, I think I swallowed it all.”

Inexplicably, Johnny’s ears go hot. “Cool.”

The other man snorts (which, yeah, fair). Johnny reaches down to give him a hand to his feet. His knees crack loudly and they both groan—Changkyun in pain, Johnny in sympathy.

“BJ joints,” Johnny laments. “The worst.”

Changkyun laughs. Johnny likes the way it sounds. “It’ll dance out,” he says dismissively.

Johnny likes a lot of things about Changkyun. His blowjob skills, for one, and his shape (Boyfriend shaped, his brain comments). He likes the way Changkyun sways against him on his unsteady feet, hands touching Johnny’s chest for support. His own hands go to Changkyun’s waist, curving around to the small of his back. When Changkyun looks up, silently asking for a kiss, his nose brushes Johnny’s chin (Perfect height for forehead kisses. Johnny politely asks his brain to stop sending mail to his fucking house).

Johnny complies. Changkyun’s mouth doesn’t taste like beer anymore, just Johnny’s spunk. Johnny needs to eat more fruit. And maybe drink less coffee.

Changkyun’s clever, clever hands slide down the lapels of Johnny’s Han Solo vest. “Thanks for humoring me,” he says, stepping out of Johnny’s grip and throwing the latch of the portapotty door. “See you around.”

“Um, yeah.” Johnny bites his lip. “Do you wanna trade numbers, or…?”

The door opens, allowing a chink of yellow-orange light to slice Changkyun’s face in half. He looks properly fucked: mouth swollen and red, makeup watery and smeared around his eyes, hair a fucking mess, clothes rumpled and wrinkled. The sexy werewolf breathes through his teeth. “Ooh,” he hisses politely. “Nothing against you, seriously, but I don’t really… you know…”

Johnny nods too quickly, desperate to cover his own ass. “No, yeah, totally. I get it.” He waves (ugh, fuck, lame). “Have fun. You know, getting trashed.”

“Sure. You too. Happy Halloween, or whatever.” The door closes behind him and then it's just Johnny, alone in the portapotty. He leans against the wall for a minute, listening to the park outside. Everything seems far away from in here.

As he wipes Changkyun’s jizz off his boots with a scrap of toilet paper, Johnny realises that Changkyun never learned his name. Probably better that way.

It takes him a minute or two of searching to find Kun but only because, ironically, Kun took Chenle and Jisung into one of the portapotties roughly around the same time that Johnny was about to leave his own portapotty. Johnny’s twofold relieved: firstly because Kun didn’t see him stumble out of the same portapotty as a clearly fucked-out sexy werewolf and secondly because it means that Chenle and Jisung’s innocence wasn’t subjected to the truly heinous aftermath of Johnny’s public indecency.

The kids’ sugar levels have reached critical. Judging by the harried look in Kun’s eyes, they’re one wrong step away from twin epic meltdowns. Johnny does his best to keep them entertained on the long ride home by teaching them the Green Grass Grew All Around song and making up new verses off the top of his head when they run out of Boy-Scout-approved lines (by the time they reach the stop for Chenle’s mom’s house, Johnny has them singing about the proton on the atom on the molecule on the cell on the mite on the flea on the feather on the wing on the bird on the egg in the nest on the branch on the limb on the tree on the roots in the dirt in the hole in the ground and the lady sat on the bench seat across from them looks like she’s one chorus away from stabbing Johnny in the jugular with the pointy end of her umbrella).

Johnny walks Kun and the boys to Kun sister’s house because it’s late, okay, and it’s Chicago on Halloween night and who fucking knows what kinds of crazies are roaming the streets right now. Kun isn’t exactly what Johnny would call physically intimidating, especially not dressed as Charles fucking Lindbergh, complete with geeky hat and goggles. And then, of course, he has to stay for even longer while Victoria basically forces them to sit down and have cups of coffee as thanks for watching her son. Johnny tactfully doesn’t mention that the greater reward would be to finally be freed of responsibility and released into the night to wreak havoc on the clubs in the name of, like, Satan or whatever Halloween used to be about.

By the time Kun and Johnny escape Victoria’s house, it’s almost midnight. There exists a certain threshold of time after unwise, anonymous hookups wherein Johnny absolutely has to either 1) get totally and completely fucked up or 2) fuck someone else. If that time period elapses without either of those things happening, Johnny finds himself left feeling… in a word…


At this point in the night, Johnny’s well past gross and into total self-loathing territory. As he and Kun make their way back to the station, he stares at the streetlights glittering in the damp asphalt below their feet and thinks weird, bitter thoughts. The quiet neighborhood is conducive to Johnny’s maudlin mood; the lights in the windows feel faraway, as though he and Kun are the only two souls awake for miles.

Kun bumps his hand with the back of his knuckles. “Hey,” he says. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

His friend laughs, shaking his head. “Dude. For taking them out with me. I know it wasn’t what you wanted to do. I feel bad for messing up your plans.” Kun’s profile tilts upwards, cutting a distinct silhouette out of the uniform brick walls of the city. “I hope this doesn’t come off the wrong way, but I really appreciate you, like, having a good attitude, too. I was kind of worried that you might, like, secretly get fucked up or something while we were out.” He shakes his head, shoulders creeping towards his ears in embarrassment. “That wasn’t fair of me at all. I’m sorry.”

Guilt crawls up Johnny’s esophagus, hot and acidic. He shrugs one shoulder. He won’t do Kun the disservice of lying to him (plus, no matter how good he thinks he’s gotten at lying, Kun always seems to be able to see right through him. Like a freaky Johnny-specific Lie Detector), so instead he says, “It’s cool. Saved me the hangover.”

“The night’s young,” Kun assures him. “There’s still time to get fucked up.”

Okay Google, how to tell your friend that you fucked a stranger in a portapotty at a family fun fair and you feel really shitty about it and just want to go home and take a really, really scalding hot shower and go to bed and maybe sleep through all your classes tomorrow?

“I dunno,” Johnny sighs, aiming for comedy. “Everyone knows cocaine doesn’t hit the same after ten thirty.”

“Jesus.” Kun snorts and elbows Johnny in the side. “What about Goosebumps reruns? How do those hit after ten thirty?”

Johnny purses his lips, pretending to mull it over like a fine fucking wine. “Hmm,” he muses. “I think it would be gauche to have a Goosebumps marathon before ten thirty.”

“Oh? Is it not ripe before ten thirty?”

“No, it’s just simply not done.” Johnny throws an arm around Kun’s shoulders. He needs some physical touch right now, just to remind himself that he’s human. “It’s like how you can’t drink cappuccinos after eleven a.m. in Italy. Like, you can, no one will stop you, but if you do it everyone will look down their noses at you and upcharge you on your bill because they think you won’t notice since you’re a stupid tourist.”

Kun laughs again. Johnny likes the way it sounds, so he lets the echo of it lead them all the way home.