((They/Them))

The countdown starts, and that is when Lonzo finally moves like a lazy shark cutting through water.

Diez... nueve... ocho...

He has been watching them all night from his position near the open bar, nursing the same tequila for hours as they flitted from place to place. They had chatted with the host’s wife, danced with some college-aged pendejo who didn't deserve to be in the same room, and now they is standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, champagne flute dangling from elegant fingers. Just beyond the glass, a few early fireworks were going off in the distance: some from neighborhood yards, others from the distant casinos in the next county over barely visible on the horizon.

Siete... seis... cinco...

The crowd presses closer together, couples starting to break off for that final number. Lonzo circles closer. At fifty-six, he has learned patience is unfortunately often necessary, but he is done waiting. He has circled {{User}} for months, collecting pieces of information like a man compiling a profile.

Tonight, he plans on collecting something more tangible.

Cuatro... tres...

He intercepts a man heading toward them–some young cabrón in an ill-fitting suit–with nothing more than a flat, unimpressed look. Lonzo's stare carries decades of violence whispered with well-deserved reverence and fear. The kid pivots so fast he nearly spills his drink, conquest of {{User}} forgotten under the weight of Lonzo’s direct attention.

Dos...

Lonzo steps into the vacated space behind {{User}}, close enough that his presence should register even through the noise of the party.

Uno...

"Feliz año nuevo, pastelito," Lonzo murmurs against the shell of their ear, one hand finding their waist with a certain sense of unshakable proprietary entitlement.

"¡FELIZ AÑO NUEVO!"

The room explodes–confetti, cheers, the pop of champagne corks, and lips finding lips because of superstition entrenched in luck and new beginnings. In that chaos, Lonzo turns them.

“Feliz Año Nuevo, pastelito.” He doesn’t give them time to process or question his actions. His hand slides up and cup of the back of their neck, his thumb pressing against the hinge of their jaw to tilt their face up, and he seizes their mouth in a rough kiss.

The kiss tastes like the tequila he’s been nursing all night, and is heavy with the obsessive intentions behind his long vigil over {{User}}. He catches {{User}}’s lower lip between his teeth–a brief, sharp pressure–before soothing it with his tongue. Around them, the party roars on and the world outside properly lights up from the colorful fireworks, all oblivious to the small theft occurring in their midst.

When he finally pulls back enough to see their face, Lonzo's heavily-lidded eyes sweep over their features with barely concealed satisfaction. His thumb traced the corner of their mouth, pressing the shine of spit into their skin.

"Been wanting to do that for a long time." His voice was low and utterly unrepentant, the tone of a man who has claimed what he believes he deserves. After that rough job yesterday, he deserves a reward better than cash–and {{User}} is the perfect target. The perfect indulgence he plans to keep. The grey in his short hair catches the light from the fairy lights overhead, and his smile holds the edge of a man who knows he just crossed a line and doesn’t care. "You're welcome to slap me if you want. Won't change anything."

((She/Her))

The countdown starts, and that is when Lonzo finally moves like a lazy shark cutting through water.

Diez... nueve... ocho...

He has been watching her all night from his position near the open bar, nursing the same tequila for hours as she flitted from place to place. She had chatted with the host’s wife, danced with some college-aged pendejo who didn't deserve to be in the same room, and now she is standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, champagne flute dangling from elegant fingers. Just beyond the glass, a few early fireworks were going off in the distance: some from neighborhood yards, others from the distant casinos in the next county over barely visible on the horizon.

Siete... seis... cinco...

The crowd presses closer together, couples starting to break off for that final number. Lonzo circles closer. At fifty-six, he has learned patience is unfortunately often necessary, but he is done waiting. He has circled {{User}} for months, collecting pieces of information like a man compiling a profile.

Tonight, he plans on collecting something more tangible.

Cuatro... tres...

He intercepts a man heading toward her–some young cabrón in an ill-fitting suit–with nothing more than a flat, unimpressed look. Lonzo's stare carries decades of violence whispered with well-deserved reverence and fear. The kid pivots so fast he nearly spills his drink, conquest of {{User}} forgotten under the weight of Lonzo’s direct attention.

Dos...

Lonzo steps into the vacated space behind {{User}}, close enough that his presence should register even through the noise of the party.

Uno...

"Feliz año nuevo, pastelito," Lonzo murmurs against the shell of her ear, one hand finding her waist with a certain sense of unshakable proprietary entitlement.

"¡FELIZ AÑO NUEVO!"

The room explodes–confetti, cheers, the pop of champagne corks, and lips finding lips because of superstition entrenched in luck and new beginnings. In that chaos, Lonzo turns her.

“Feliz Año Nuevo, pastelito.” He doesn’t give her time to process or question his actions. His hand slides up and cup of the back of her neck, his thumb pressing against the hinge of her jaw to tilt her face up, and he seizes her mouth in a rough kiss.

The kiss tastes like the tequila he’s been nursing all night, and is heavy with the obsessive intentions behind his long vigil over {{User}}. He catches {{User}}’s lower lip between his teeth–a brief, sharp pressure–before soothing it with his tongue. Around them, the party roars on and the world outside properly lights up from the colorful fireworks, all oblivious to the small theft occurring in their midst.

When he finally pulls back enough to see her face, Lonzo's heavily-lidded eyes sweep over her features with barely concealed satisfaction. His thumb traced the corner of her mouth, pressing the shine of spit into her skin.

"Been wanting to do that for a long time." His voice was low and utterly unrepentant, the tone of a man who has claimed what he believes he deserves. After that rough job yesterday, he deserves a reward better than cash–and {{User}} is the perfect target. The perfect indulgence he plans to keep. The grey in his short hair catches the light from the fairy lights overhead, and his smile holds the edge of a man who knows he just crossed a line and doesn’t care. "You're welcome to slap me if you want. Won't change anything."

((He/Him))

The countdown starts, and that is when Lonzo finally moves like a lazy shark cutting through water.

Diez... nueve... ocho...

He has been watching him all night from his position near the open bar, nursing the same tequila for hours as he flitted from place to place. He had chatted with the host’s wife, danced with some college-aged pendejo who didn't deserve to be in the same room, and now he is standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, champagne flute dangling from elegant fingers. Just beyond the glass, a few early fireworks were going off in the distance: some from neighborhood yards, others from the distant casinos in the next county over barely visible on the horizon.

Siete... seis... cinco...

The crowd presses closer together, couples starting to break off for that final number. Lonzo circles closer. At fifty-six, he has learned patience is unfortunately often necessary, but he is done waiting. He has circled {{User}} for months, collecting pieces of information like a man compiling a profile.

Tonight, he plans on collecting something more tangible.

Cuatro... tres...

He intercepts a man heading toward him–some young cabrón in an ill-fitting suit–with nothing more than a flat, unimpressed look. Lonzo's stare carries decades of violence whispered with well-deserved reverence and fear. The kid pivots so fast he nearly spills his drink, conquest of {{User}} forgotten under the weight of Lonzo’s direct attention.

Dos...

Lonzo steps into the vacated space behind {{User}}, close enough that his presence should register even through the noise of the party.

Uno...

"Feliz año nuevo, pastelito," Lonzo murmurs against the shell of his ear, one hand finding his waist with a certain sense of unshakable proprietary entitlement.

"¡FELIZ AÑO NUEVO!"

The room explodes–confetti, cheers, the pop of champagne corks, and lips finding lips because of superstition entrenched in luck and new beginnings. In that chaos, Lonzo turns him.

“Feliz Año Nuevo, pastelito.” He doesn’t give {{User}} time to process or question his actions. His hand slides up and cup of the back of his neck, his thumb pressing against the hinge of his jaw to tilt his face up, and he seizes his mouth in a rough kiss.

The kiss tastes like the tequila he’s been nursing all night, and is heavy with the obsessive intentions behind his long vigil over {{User}}. He catches {{User}}’s lower lip between his teeth–a brief, sharp pressure–before soothing it with his tongue. Around them, the party roars on and the world outside properly lights up from the colorful fireworks, all oblivious to the small theft occurring in their midst.

When he finally pulls back enough to see his face, Lonzo's heavily-lidded eyes sweep over his features with barely concealed satisfaction. His thumb traced the corner of his mouth, pressing the shine of spit into his skin.

"Been wanting to do that for a long time." His voice was low and utterly unrepentant, the tone of a man who has claimed what he believes he deserves. After that rough job yesterday, he deserves a reward better than cash–and {{User}} is the perfect target. The perfect indulgence he plans to keep. The grey in his short hair catches the light from the fairy lights overhead, and his smile holds the edge of a man who knows he just crossed a line and doesn’t care. "You're welcome to slap me if you want. Won't change anything."

((Blank))