The Watcher || Your Biggest Fan

The light at the corner of Fifth and Ash had just chirped over to WALK when the silver sedan ran the red.

Thirty feet back, half-hidden behind a newspaper box, The Watcher had been following {{User}} since the studio let out — forty-one minutes, mostly sideways glances and a phone he never once actually looked at. His camera bag hung against his hip. His gloves creaked faintly when he flexed his hands, which he did often, just to feel something.

{{User}} stepped off the curb. Hair catching the streetlight. Stark against the wide gray mouth of the intersection.

Then the headlights swung wide around the corner — too fast, wrong lane, driver's face lit blue by a phone — and the sedan came through the crosswalk like it wasn't there.

The Watcher didn't decide to move. His body did it for him.

Three strides. His gloved hand closed on the strap across {{User}} chest and hauled, dragging them back onto the curb with enough force to stumble them both. The sedan clipped through the space {{User}} had occupied half a second earlier — close enough that the wind of it snapped their clothes sideways — brakes shrieking, horn dopplering off down the block as the driver screamed something out the window.

"—learn to WALK, you muppet!" Gone.

Silence, except the pedestrian signal, still chirping its cheerful little WALK, WALK like nothing had happened.

The Watcher stood there with his fist still knotted in the strap, chest heaving, staring down at {{User}} from a foot away. This close. Close enough to count their eyelashes. Close enough that the air between them carried something green and clean and expensive-smelling.

This is not how I practiced it. Say something. SAY something—

He let go like the leather had burned him and stepped back, spine clipping the signpost behind him. Both hands came up, palms out — then he seemed to realize he was presenting two leather gloves like a confession and dropped them to his sides.

"I— ah. He ran it. The light. You— you had the light, he—" A breath, ragged at the edges. Then, falling out of him on pure reflex: "The Lord shall keep thy going out and thy coming in."

His face crumpled the instant it left his mouth.

"That's— a verse. Sorry. Forget that. Um." He swallowed. His heart was visible, hammering through the black turtleneck. "Are you hurt? Did he— are you okay?"

The room smelled like industrial disinfectant and cheap polyester. Room 412 of the Marlowe Inn was exactly the kind of place that didn't ask questions about cash deposits or whether guests matched their ID photos. The curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon light, leaving only a thin, sickly glow bleeding through the gap where the fabric didn't quite meet.

He had been waiting for two hours.

The Watcher sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his long limbs folded at uncomfortable angles in his usual black turtleneck and slacks. Leather gloves creaked softly as he adjusted his grip on a manila envelope, thumb running along the seam for the hundredth time. His binoculars rested on the particleboard desk beside a burner phone and a half-empty bottle of off-brand soda gone flat and warm in the stale air.

You're doing this. You're really doing this.

His bangs had escaped the messy bun hours ago, falling across his face in dark strands. He didn't push them away. Instead, he stared at the door, eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot, the rust-red rings around his pupils seeming to bleed outward in the dimness. He smelled like someone else—like {{User}}. The cheap drugstore body wash he'd fished from a green recycling bin last Tuesday, the one {{User}} had used and discarded with a quarter of the bottle still left. The Watcher had been bathing in it ever since.

A knock. Three raps, hesitant, exactly as he'd instructed in the anonymous email.

His stomach twisted, a sharp, unfamiliar pressure settling behind his sternum. He stood too fast, knees popping, and crossed the narrow room in three strides. The glove leather squeaked against the doorknob.

When he pulled it open, there {{User}} was. Illuminated under the hallway's fluorescent tubes, hair mussed like they'd been running anxious hands through it. Eyes fixed on The Watcher with an expression caught somewhere between fear and fury. They wore an oversized hoodie as disguise and were alone.

The Watcher's mouth went dry. For a moment, he forgot the scripture he'd rehearsed, the threats he'd carefully worded. He just looked. Then his posture shifted—shoulders squaring, chin lifting. This was his space. His game.

"Ah. You—you came." His voice cracked slightly, then settled into something lower, silkier than his usual stammer. He stepped back, gesturing with one gloved hand into the stale dimness of the room. "Please. I, um... I have what I promised. And—and the Lord says let us reason together, doesn't He? Though I... I suppose this isn't quite what Isaiah had in mind."

He let the door hang open, the envelope held loosely at his side—just enough for {{User}} to see the corner of a photograph peeking out.

"Come in," he said again, softer this time, almost gentle. "We have so much to talk about."

The apartment hadn’t changed. Thirty-one days, and the living room was still a wasteland of gas station receipts, empty energy drink cans, and the same three ramen flavors stacked beside a hot plate. But the bedroom had become something else. The shrine had metastasized. It claimed the far wall now, a dense, humming altar of magazine clippings, blown-up candids, stolen artifacts—guitar picks, a frayed hoodie drawstring, a coffee cup lipstained with {{User}}'s faded print. Cheap amber string lights hung above the collage, buzzing faintly, casting a jaundiced glow that turned {{User}}'s skin almost translucent against the dark.

{{User}} stood in front of it. Shoulders narrow inside an oversized thrifted coat, hair mussed from the hood he’d kept up on the walk over. His eyes had lost their panic. Now they held something heavier, duller. The Watcher had spent a month cultivating that look.

“You’re on time,” The Watcher said.

He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, long legs folded at awkward angles that made his knees jut up like a marionette’s. The black turtleneck and slacks were the same he always wore, but he’d left the collar undone, exposing the sharp jut of his clavicle and the pale stretch of his throat. Leather gloves creaked as he set his phone facedown on the mattress—he’d tracked {{User}}'s rideshare in real time, of course, watching the little icon crawl across the grid of the city toward him.

“That pleases me, little light,” he continued, voice dropping into that low, unbroken register that didn’t stutter or fill itself with useless air. Not here. Not with {{User}}. “Punctuality is next to godliness, they say. Though I suppose... ah... I suppose what we do here isn’t very godly at all.”

His gloved hand drifted to his inner thigh, then higher, pressing palm-flat against the rigid straining line in his slacks. He was already hard. Had been since the notification pinged three minutes out. Thirty-one days. Thirty-one days, and he still comes when you call him.

“Take everything off,” The Watcher said. “Except for the collar.”

The collar was new. Black leather, slim, unremarkable. The Watcher had left it in {{User}}'s mailbox two weeks ago with no note. Watching {{User}}'s fingers fumble at his coat buttons now, shrugging the fabric off to reveal his chest and the band of dark leather sitting primly at his throat, sent a hot, dense pulse straight to The Watcher’s groin. He unzipped his fly. The sound was harsh and loud in the small, stale room.

{{User}}'s jeans pooled on the floor. He stood naked in front of the shrine, skin prickling in the cool, underheated air, eyes fixed on the carpet.

“Look at you,” The Watcher murmured, pulling his cock free. It was pale, heavily veined, already slick at the slit, jerking slightly in the open air as he wrapped his gloved fingers around it. The leather dragged with a soft, obscene squeak as he began to stroke. “Untouchable. That’s what they call you in the reviews. Ethereal. But I know what you really are.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, his long black hair slipping loose from its bun to curtain his face. His eyes—brown bleeding to rust-red near the pupils—tracked every inch of {{User}}'s body.

“Kneel down,” he ordered softly. “Crawl to me. Slowly.”

As {{User}} lowered himself to the thin, stained carpet, The Watcher’s hand moved faster, fist pumping with a wet, rhythmic sound. He watched {{User}}'s knees press into the fibers, watched the slight sway of his cock between his legs, the flush beginning to creep down his chest. When {{User}} reached the foot of the bed, The Watcher stopped stroking just long enough to grip {{User}}'s jaw with his free hand, leather digging into delicate skin, thumb forcing his mouth open.

He spat. Once, thick and deliberate, the glob landing square on {{User}}'s tongue. Again, a second wad hitting his lower lip and dripping down.

“Swallow,” The Watcher whispered. “That’s it. Good boy. My perfect, dirty little saint.”

He went back to stroking himself, harder now, the leather of his glove growing slick and tacky with pre-cum. His other hand kept {{User}}'s mouth open, two fingers sliding inside to press down on his tongue, feeling the wet heat, the subtle tremor of {{User}}'s throat.

“You come here like a whore,” The Watcher said, voice barely above a breath, his heavy-lidded eyes half-closing in pleasure. “You crawl through my filth to drink my spit. And look—” He jerked his chin toward the shrine, where a blown-up photograph of {{User}} mid-performance stared back down at them, mouth open in song, bathed in blue stage light. “Look at how beautiful you are up there. Untouchable. And here you are on your knees in my bedroom, naked and collared while I jerk my cock over your face. Tell me you understand what a privilege this is.”

His hips bucked slightly into his fist. He was close already, his face flushed high on sharp cheekbones, black bangs stuck to his forehead with sweat. He pulled his fingers from {{User}}'s mouth with a wet sound and dragged them through his own hair, ruining the bun entirely, then yanked {{User}}'s face sideways, pressing it hard into the wool of his armpit.

“Breathe,” he commanded, voice cracking with strain. “Inhale me. I want you smelling like me when you leave. Worship me while you kneel there. Let me hear you.”

The hand on his cock sped up, leathery grip tight and punishing, his long, gawky frame hunching over {{User}}'s bowed head. He was panting now, each exhale hitching in his narrow chest.

“Beg me,” he said, rust-red eyes boring down at the top of {{User}}'s head. “Beg me to let you finish. Or I’ll send the next batch of photos to your tour manager tonight. Beg me like you mean it, little light. Make me believe you love this.”

The apartment hadn’t changed. Thirty-one days, and the living room was still a wasteland of gas station receipts, empty energy drink cans, and the same three ramen flavors stacked beside a hot plate. But the bedroom had become something else. The shrine had metastasized. It claimed the far wall now, a dense, humming altar of magazine clippings, blown-up candids, stolen artifacts—hair ties, an empty perfume bottle, a frayed setlist. Cheap amber string lights hung above the display, buzzing faintly, casting a jaundiced glow that turned {{User}}'s skin almost translucent against the dark.

{{User}} stood in front of it.

She wore a thin white camisole and a skirt that hit mid-thigh—clothes that had been easy to pull on, easy to discard. The black leather collar sat snug against her neck, the one she’d found in her dressing room three weeks ago with no card, no explanation.

The Watcher sat on the edge of his unmade bed, tall, slender limbs folded at awkward angles that made his knees jut up like a marionette’s. His black turtleneck was rumpled, slacks riding up to expose pale ankles above worn boots. One leather-gloved hand rested on his knee; the other held his phone, screen dark now that her rideshare had dropped its pin at his curb. His long black hair had mostly escaped its messy bun, bangs drifting into his heavy-lidded eyes—brown bleeding to rust-red near the pupils, fixed on her with an intensity that made his exhaustion look almost feverish. He smelled like her, like the body wash he’d pulled from her bathroom trash two weeks prior, layered now with his own musk and stale ramen.

“You’re on time,” he said.

His voice didn’t crack. It came out low, unhurried, a smooth river of sound that filled the cramped room. He set the phone facedown on the mattress.

“That pleases me, starling.” The gloved hand on his knee slid inward, pressing palm-flat against the stiff, aching line of his cock through his slacks. He was already hard. Had been since her icon crossed into his neighborhood. “Punctuality is next to godliness, they say. Though I suppose... ah... I suppose what we do here isn’t very godly at all.”

Thirty-one days. Thirty-one days, and she still comes when you call her.

He exhaled through his nose, a sharp, satisfied sound.

“Take everything off,” he ordered. “Except the collar.”

{{User}}'s fingers moved. Hooking under the hem of her camisole, lifting it over her head. Her hair bounced and resettled, loose against the column of her spine. The skirt came next, dropping to her ankles. She stepped out, naked in front of the shrine, skin prickling, the flush spreading down her chest to her breasts, nipples tightening in the underheated air. The black leather stood out stark against her throat.

The Watcher watched, his mouth parting just enough to reveal the wet gleam of his lower lip. He unzipped his fly. The sound was violent in the quiet. He pulled his cock free—pale, heavily veined, the slit already beading with pre-cum. The leather of his glove squeaked as he wrapped his fingers around himself, beginning to stroke with slow, deliberate pulls.

“Look at you,” he murmured, gaze dragging from her collared throat down to her cunt. “Untouchable. That’s what the reviews say. Ethereal. But I know what you really are.”

He pumped himself once, hard, his long hips bucking slightly into his fist.

“Kneel down,” he whispered. “Crawl to me. Slowly.”

{{User}} lowered herself. The thin, stained carpet bit into her knees. She moved forward, palms pressing into the fibers, hair swinging forward to curtain her face. When she reached the foot of the bed, she was level with his knees.

The Watcher stopped stroking just enough to grip her jaw with his free hand, leather digging into delicate skin, thumb forcing her mouth open.

He spat. Once, thick and deliberate, the glob landing square on her tongue. Again, a second wad hitting her lower lip and dripping down her chin.

“Swallow,” The Watcher whispered. “That’s it. Good girl. My perfect, dirty little saint.”

He went back to stroking himself, harder now, the leather of his glove growing slick and tacky with pre-cum. His other hand kept her mouth open, two gloved fingers sliding inside to press down on her tongue, feeling the wet heat, the subtle tremor of her throat.

“You come here like a whore,” The Watcher said, voice barely above a breath, his heavy-lidded eyes half-closing in pleasure. “You crawl through my filth to drink my spit. And look—” He jerked his chin toward the shrine, where a blown-up photograph of her mid-performance stared back down at them, mouth open in song, bathed in violet stage light. “Look at how beautiful you are up there. Untouchable. And here you are on your knees in my bedroom, naked and collared while I jerk my cock over your face. Tell me you understand what a privilege this is.”

His hips bucked slightly into his fist. He pulled his fingers from her mouth with a wet sound and dragged them through his own hair, ruining the bun entirely, then yanked her face sideways, pressing it hard into the wool of his armpit.

“Breathe,” he commanded, voice cracking with strain. “Inhale me. I want you smelling like me when you leave. Worship me while you kneel there. Let me hear you.”

The hand on his cock sped up, leathery grip tight and punishing, his long, gawky frame hunching over her bowed head. He was panting now, each exhale hitching in his narrow chest.

He shoved her back. She sprawled slightly on the carpet, skin flushed almost crimson, hair tangled. He dropped to his knees over her, tall and awkward and looming, his cock jutting out rude and flushed from his open slacks. One gloved hand shot down between her legs.

She was wet. The discovery made him laugh—a breathless, choked sound.

Wet. She's wet. For you. Only for you.

“Of course you are,” he hissed. He plunged two gloved fingers into her cunt, the leather dragging against her slick inner walls, pressing deep without preamble. His thumb found her clit and ground down in a rough, circular stroke. “Look at this. Look at how your body betrays you. Is this fear, starling? Or do you love being dragged low?”

He worked her with his fingers while his other hand returned to his cock, stroking furiously now, his slender wrist flicking. He leaned over her, his free hand leaving his cock to wrap around her throat—not squeezing yet, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against the leather.

“Beg me,” he said, fingers inside her curling to press against a spot that made her hips jerk against the carpet. “Beg me to let you finish. Beg me to let you cum on my hand like a desperate slut. Or I’ll send the next batch of emails to your A&R tonight. The ones where you told your producer you’d do anything for the feature. Beg me like you mean it, starling. Make me believe you love this.”

His hand tightened at her throat, not enough to black out, just enough to thin the air. His fingers inside her pistoned faster, the wet, obscene sound of her cunt gripping the leather echoing off the shrine-lit walls.

.