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RÃ¤kÃ¤lÃ¤	By : nenrekh Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Apocalyptica Views: 1870 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Apocalyptica. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Räkälä
- 1
Title: Räkälä
Author: Nen-Rekh
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. Nothing gained. No harm intended. For amusement only.
Summary: Perttu plays a game
Notes: This is an AU, I guess. Maybe. Oh, just rea.
.

**************

I was staring in mindless silence across the room. Staring in that 'looking without seeing' way that has made more than a few people accuse me of being an idiot. It was another completely boring night, full of hours in this dank, smoke-filled bar that has become my home away from home. The haze in the air was thick enough to nearly mute the dim overhead lights. A disturbance in the air caused the smoke to swirl suddenly and it caught my attention enough to bother focusing my blank stare.

Someone new has arrived, and immediately I take inventory. I haven't had a challenge in a long time and my cock twitches to life in my pants at the prospect of a new conquest. He's dressed conservatively, black on black. It makes his rich gold hair seem even brighter. Dark glasses cover his eyes and his skin is pale. I wonder at the shades. Is he blind? I study his movement critically. He doesn't act like someone who can't see. Maybe it's just a fashion statement. Mentally, I shrug, makes no difference to me.

He looks around the bar, I imagine his eyes flitting from table to table behind those dark glasses as he considers his options before ordering his drink at the bar. I watch, my breath caught in my chest as I wait for him to choose his seat. He goes to a table, a few down from mine and sits facing me. I have an unobstructed view of him. Did he sit that way on purpose? Was he wanting to watch me as I want ttch tch him?

I run a hand through my hair, letting some of it fall in my face before brushing it away. I know how I look. I'm not stupid. I'm pretty. Men and women alike think so, they are drawn to me because of my looks and over time, I've learned how to take advantage of it. If they can be shallow enough to want me for my pretty face, I can be shallow enough to use them as I want. Turn about is fair play, yes?

He's emptied one glass of beer and pours himself another from the pitcher he brought to his table. Grabbing my half empty glass, I stand and approach him. "May I?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Can I join you?"

He shrugs and I sink into the chair to his right. Most people would have chosen the chair across from him, but that would not do. Not for my plans, anyway.

"What's your name?" Some would say I'm direct. To those people, I would say, 'why, yes-- yes, I am.'

"Antero."

I like his voice-- soft, without being girly, and warm. Yet, I can almost feel the depression he carries. Like a silent siren calling out to those who recognize his journey-- and I can hear him calling to me, even if he doesn't know it himself. It's a weight on him, and one of my many gifts is lifting that weight; or at least shifting it for an evening. Something has our Antero here in this bar to forget his life for awhile. I surpress the urge to grin. I can help him with that.

"Mine's 'Perttu'." A blond eyebrow raises behind his behind his sunglasses as I continue. "What brings you here? I've never seen...."

He slides the dark shields down his nose to peer over the tops, at me. "You're a talkative thing."

Ducking my head down, I shrug and mumble. "Sorry, I'm just trying to be friendly." My voice holds just the perfect amount of submission to make me sound apologetic. I hear him sigh and peek up through the hair that has fallen in my face like a curtain. He looks regretful and I mentally grin to myself.

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be rude just because I'm feeling sorry for myself. No, I'm not from around here, I just moved here and I'm here to get drunk. What's your story?" It all falls out in a rush of words and I straighten, gracing him with a bright smile.

"I'm here to cheer you up." I hold up my empty glass and, at his nod, help myself to his pitcher of beer as he gulps his. With his face still buried in his glass, he snorts in sarcastic disgust, and beer foam sprays up from the rim of the glass.

"Not much can cheer me up tonight except getting blind drunk." God, he sounds miserable. I look at him, studying his features. He's removed his dark glasses, they are folded neatly on the table and his eyes are heavy-lidded, making him look like he's ready to drop into dream-land. They are pale, like a hazy, cloud-filled sky and right now they hold a wealth of pain.

I'm not exy iny in touch with my, er, 'touchy-feely' side, but this guy is really making me feel bad for him. I've seen some sad cases in here, this is a bar afterall, but most of them have made their own bed and spend their nights here to forget their miserable life. This guy, Antero... he looks like someone who's had his heart trampled on and has no idea what or where it all went wrong. It's as though he came here because he didn't know where else to go.

Oh, shoot me now before I start throwing pink rose petals and singing Barry Manilow.

I'm silent for a moment, not really sure what to say and I want to evaluate my intentions for him. He seems to be more sensative than most of the pukes I pick up here but maybe... maybe I really can cheer him up a bit, or at least get his mind off his troubles for awhile. I scoot my chair closer to his and lean toward him. I've turned the sexual charm dial to eleven now and there's no stopping me.

He's still lng dng down into his empty beer glass. I take it, pulling it out of his hands. When he reaches a hand out to take it back, I grasp his hand with my own. It jerks under mine, but not enough to pull completely away, more like a startled jerk than one to escape. The rest of him is frozen, his eyes fixed on our joined hands. I smooth my thumb over his skin, it's warm and smooth. Not girly smooth, but still nice to touch. My fingers slip to his palm and his reflexively fold around mine, osinosing them in his grip. It's strong and I feel the hint of callouses, like the ones on my own. A question niggles at my brain but I push it aside for later. This isn't the time.

I move closer, my knee brushing his and I let my other hand drop to his thigh. Yes, I move fast. Overwhelm them with undeniable prettiness and they always cave. I feel Antero's fingers slide and one slips over my little finger, off to the side where an ever-present callouse resides. The way he did it, like he knew what to look for... I echo his movement but slower. Stroking my hand across his, feeling every tiny ridge. The bones and tendons that make up his hand shift and slide under the skin as I search out what I'm looking for. When I find a callouse to match mine, I raise my eyes, looking at him curiously. "You play cello?"

Quirking his lips in an almost smile, he nods. "As do you, I imagine." His voice has gone soft, husky and I know that I've affected him. My fingers flex against his leg, testing the strength of his thigh below the soft and worn denim. The muscle jumps under my touch before pressing harder against my knee. He's definitely not put off by my advances. It makes me smile in satisfaction.

Encouraged, I slide my hand up, swirling my fingertips in tiny circles up his leg. I know by his low gasp that he likes what I'm doing. When I'm just shy of reaching my goal, I hesitate, letting my hand just rest, the very tips of my fingers a hair's breadth from his erection.

I look up, mee his his eyes. The lids are heavy, half-closed and his lips are parted as he breathes deliberately, slowly, trying to keep control. Still, I don't move. He has to make the next move, it has to be his choice. That's how I play this game, they have to willingly give in by their own decision. Some take longer than others but I've yet to walk away empty-handed. So to speak.

Antero doesn't disappoint and with a low gasp, his hips surge up, pressing his cock into my hand. He goes another step further and does something no one else has. One of his own hands goes to his lap, covering mine and holding me to him as he rocks into my touch. He's so responsive, I never expected this from him. It's at odds with his conservative appearance and the saddness that surrounds him. I find myself wondering about afterwards, later tonight. Tomorrow. This surprises me, I never think about tomorrow. Ever.

Who is this guy?

I mold my fingers around his cock, squeezing and massaging in tiny, su mov movements. His hips twitch, wanting to thrust into my hand but not wanting to give away our activities to the rest of the patrons in the bar. I've done this before, I know every reason behind every movement. The need to achieve satisfaction, the fear of discovery, the thrill of getting away with it. Why else would I do this?

Dragging my hand down, I squeeze and stroke back up his length, the soft whimper he makes causes my own cock to surge. My eyes flicker around the bar, noticing that a few are pretending not to watch, one is openly staring, as he usually does and the rest are ignoring what is happening here. They've all seen it before and no longer care. Antero doesn't know that though and the strain of being quiet is wearing on him. A sheen of sweat pops out on his forehead and his tongue flickers out to moisten his dry lips. I give an extra strong squeeze, massaging my fingers along his length as he continues to rock his hips in small, jerky motions.

Tipping my chair forward, I brush my lips against his ear and whisper, "Have you ever fucked a man, Antero? Have you ever been sucked by a man? I'd like you do that to me, Antero. Bury your cock inside me and fuck me, come in my ass and make me scream your name."

I'm always fascinated by a man's face when he comes. The way the muscles in his face tense and relax, I especially love it when their eyes lose focus, eyelashes fluttering as they struggle to keep some sort of control in this public place. I often wonder what goes through their mind leading up to and after their orgasm. To have a pretty man-child, a stranger, touching them, making them come in the pants like a teen-ager in the backseat of his Dad's car, feeling his first pair of tits. What do they think about when they go home, to their nagging wives and screaming kids? Do they lie in their beds, wondering about their sexuality?

All this runs through my brain even as I feel Antero's cock swelling, jerking and pulsing beneath my agile fingers. I rhythmically stroke him, urging more from him as his hips rise from the chair, holding tight against my hand.

A harsh gasp escapes him when he slumps back in the chair, his body quivering with aftershocks. I let my hand linger a moment, before drawing it from his lap slowly.

I watch him as he recovers. I can see the moment when what he's done comes crashing into his brain. The panicked way his eyes flit around the room. Only one is watching openly, the rest either ignoring or pretending to ignore. I sit back in my chair, cross my arms and jerk my head toward the back of the bar. "The toilet is back there, if you want to clean up." I am always careful to keep any hint of amusement from my voice. No need to make them feel ashamed of what has happened. It was my doing, after all.

When he returns, I've moved, sitting at the table I occupied when he first arrived. He pauses in confusion before noticing the small note I've left at his seat. Giving him a meaningful look, I get up and leave the bar. I wonder if he'll accept my invitation. The address and request to let himself in are clearly written on the piece of paper. The others in the bar must be curious. I've never left anything for anyone. I'm always gone before they return from 'cleaning up' but something about Antero makes me curious enough to reach out. I won't push anymore though. I'vshedshed enough already. If he wants more, he has to be the one to take that step.

Soon, I'm in my house and set about getting ready for bed. My mind wanders as I shed my clothes, brush my teeth and wash the smell of stagnant smoke from my body and hair. Will he come to me? Will he slide into my bed beside me as I asked? The directions I left him were easy enough, though I felt a thrill of fear at my daring. Leaving the door unlocked so that someone may come in while I slept was not at all like me. I didn't want to think about why I would do such a thing for this man I just met. It was too disturbing.

As I lay on my bed, the warm duvet covering my naked body, my hands drifted over my skin. I wonder, is it normal to be able to arouse oneself with only the touch of your own hands? I can't help the gooseflesh that erupts over my body as I trail my fingertips towards my groin. I think about Antero, his reactions to my touch, my words. He had been so responsive to me. When I was whispering those words in his ear, I thought he was going to grab me, bend me over the table and fuck me into next week. Instead, he had come. Hard.

I grasped my cock, stroking it in a smooth, steady motion as I thought about Antero, the way his cock had pulsed and jerked under my hand. Remembering how his hips had risen from the chair, pushing tighter against my palm. He had been so needy and wanting. My body copied the memory, my own hips rising from the bed, arching as I fucked my cock through the tight ring of my fist. I imagined how it might feel to have Antero inside me. His cock had felt thick and long under my hand. My ass clenched with the prospect of him inside me and I gasped. My hand pumped harder over my cock, squeezed tighter.

Just a little more...

My free hand came up, pinched and tweaked at my nipple. The ache of over-sensative nervenitiniting flew straight to my groin and I bit my lip in a failing attempt to stifle a cry.

As my cock throbs in my fist, I feel a sudden rush of warmth over the back of my knuckles and I give up.

"Antero..." I gasp for effect, then manage to continue. "Fuck me..."

*****

The warmth of sunshine on my back is the first thing that greets me when I finally awaken. For a long time, I don't move. I just enjoy the heat and imagine myself like a satisfied cat, sprawled out in a sunbeam on a wood floor as winter rages outside. The image makes me grin but the pressure of my bladder soon has me ningning.

I roll from the bed and it's not until I am at the toilet, pissing, that I realize I woke up alone.

The End
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