Author's note: New story! I would really appreciate constructive criticism and, you know, reviews in general. M for lots and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of cursing and some lemons. Thanks for reading. :)


Red lights flickered on in an echo ringing through the quickly darkening block. Night fell, and women (and the occasional man) from thirteen to forty woke up to prowl the streets, switch on their lights, and call for passers by to try their bodies on for size. Windows displayed them in black or nothing at all, their movements altered by sleep and Zydrate. Zydrate, the other product that ran in these gutters as abundantly as rain; sex bought surgery, and surgery warranted well-earned relief from pain, and that meant Z. Once a body took that first hit of blue salvation, they were damned to a cycle of sex and addiction. Life had made addicts of them all, the scalpel sluts and those who courted them for the night.

Red, also, was the marinara that slopped from his sister's dinner plate onto Luigi's immaculate sleeve. She'd done it on purpose. The slut wasn't a slob. He'd noticed eventually and stormed out in a rage, threatening to pin her with the drycleaning bill. His rage carried him to this unfamiliar street as he picked and pulled furiously at the stained fabric. It could be washed, scrubbed, bleached- didn't matter. It wasn't fixable. His sister hadn't cooled it just because she was in love with what's-his-name. It had made her worse. He loved his sis, but she was a thorny bitch.

Where the fuck was he? He'd ended up in a lonely street with ramshackle apartments, the windows blacked out and shuttered. A street light set the stage for an encounter on the edge of an alley, starring a louse in a fishnet shirt pestering a dame, pawing her. He was a trashy panhandler angling for her goods. She tried to get him to leave her alone by acting bored and tired, and then too busy to give him the time of day. Luigi couldn't see her very well. She was a blue dress and black can't-run-away boots to him. She caught him watching her and gave a wave.

"Oh! My friend's here, I have to leave," she attempted coolly. He would've said she was suave except that the word was masculine and she was.. not. And, shit, did she mean him? He was aghast and made a face at her showing what he thought of that. She widened her eyes at him in mock shock, and he didn't catch what the guy said in response when she failed to elbow past him, but he did hear her outraged voice call, "Hey, don't say that about him! He's no pussy."

A vein jumped to life in his neck as all the sound in the area was numbed by the noise in his head, and the white hot rage burned his eyeballs through his skull. "WHAT?" Luigi yelled, storming up to the worm who dared insult him. The knife jumped between his itching fingers, and he shoved the guy to the wall, stabbing him as he screamed and screamed. The blood splashed and splattered from the artery he'd punctured, no fabric to soak it up. It was filthy, disgusting. Luigi recoiled as the red caught his shirt and hands, and the wretch slumped, whimpering.

"Shh," the woman said, kicking him aside. He crumpled to his side, stuffing a gloved hand to the deepest of his wounds. "You'll live if you can stop whining."

Luigi wiped his hands off on his shirt, but that only switched the location of the mess. It was still there. "Damn it," he grumbled, noting the blood under his neatly trimmed nails.

She observed him struggling for a moment only before stepping in and taking the knife from his hand. She stooped to grab the injured man's cap and used it to take the blood off the blade. "He was a bleeder," she said. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well." He snatched the knife back from her and clicked it shut, shoved it in his pocket. He twitched, the compulsion to rip, to tear off his bloody shirt digging insistently.

"That's really bothering you, isn't it?"

"What?" He scowled at her.

"The blood on your shirt. I know the feeling. Hey, at least you aren't one of those weirdos who gets off on that. Say, did you want your dues? I could let you have a go... free." She ran her hands down her stomach to her thighs, emphasizing the point. Oh, a whore. She wasn't the trashy fuck-in-the-streets type.

"The last thing I need is a random whore throwing herself at me."

She hmphed in cute annoyance. "Don't tell me you don't recognize me!"

He looked her over. She was on the shrimpy side, but she carried herself with a taller person's confidence, an easy swagger in her stance. Her dark eyes smoldered, neatly bordered with liner the same deep blue as her dress. Her throat was weighted down with chains and a black ribboned choker. There wasn't a crease or stain on her, and her curly, chestnut hair was clean and lightly tousled. But he didn't have a clue who she was, and unless she was a laundress, he didn't really care.

"How the fuck should I know?" he snapped.

"Okay. Why don't we get indoors and take care of your shirt. My place isn't far from here." She nodded up at the adjacent apartment building and reached for the fire escape with both arms. She was short and somehow managed to swing herself up without help, all on her own. She leaned back, and the ladder creaked ominously.

"I don't know," he said, but he was wavering. Clean clothes. New shirt. Hot damn was that tempting, and he could score some on top of that.

"I was going to make some coffee," she added over her shoulder, and that was it. Color him sold.

She walked up, giving him a great view when she finally bent to unlock and open her window. She offered to help him in, but he recoiled at the touch. He wasn't helpless.

"Not decaf?" he asked, just checking. He wasn't gonna waste his time with that shit.

"That wouldn't do me any good," she scoffed. "I need a little help to stay awake. Come on, move it. The cold's getting in."

No shit. That's what happens when you leave the window open, lady. But he gritted his teeth and squeezed in, finding that he really preferred to enter places the usual way, by the front door. From the inside, he could tell it was a hooker's crib. Stringed lights were unevenly hung along the walls, and the main piece of furniture was a bed, big and red and strewn with pillows arranged in a way that made one want to ruin the arrangement. Preferably by making a girl's head slam against them repeatedly. A half-wall hid the makeshift kitchen, a sink and kerosene stove.

"Is this a dump or a shoebox?" Luigi said derisively.

"It's home. I've made it mine." She cranked up the radiator, which didn't seem to respond. "You know?"

"No."

"Let me see it," she said, holding out her hand. "Your shirt."

He gratefully tore it off and gave it up. She filled the sink with water and dropped the cloth in. Red clouded the water. He restlessly paced the compact place. It was tiny, a mousehole for a mousewhore. She unclipped her jewelry, setting it all to rest on an unfinished wood crate that served as an endtable. Without the distracting accessories, he could see that her skin was unscarred and smooth, and white as ivory. The radiator groaned to life, exhaling heat into the chilly apartment. He waited impatiently. She was intent on keeping her back to him, gliding about and ignoring him like she hadn't asked him up.

"Lady, I am not in the mood for guessing games," he brayed. "Who are you?"

She pinched her cheek, posing childishly in the mirror beside her dresser. A blot of color was left behind. The contrast of little girl and little whore confused him. "We both lost our dads that night. I've never forgotten you, Luigi."

"Wallace?" he croaked. He felt naked. Shit, where was he? Yeah, straighten the hair and take off the makeup, and it was her. Last time he'd seen her, she was covered in blood and pointing a gun at his pop.

Father had been buried and he'd pretty much moved on. So what if he burst out in uncontrollable sobs at inopportune moments? He wasn't ashamed. Not half as much as Amber said he should be. Between Amber the Zydrate-zapped slut and Pavi the irredeemable freak, Luigi was the fuckin' picture of mental health. The kid had disappeared off their radar, and none of them gave two shits. She was no one. A nobody.

She was Nathan's daughter like he was Rotti's son, and he'd helped take Nathan out with a hapless smile and a quick slice. He'd help cut Repo Man down, and he'd been happy to do it for his dad. Obviously that was before he learned that the man had planned to cut his kids out of their inheritance. But the girl had reduced herself to this? Luigi had a moral compass that pointed due North. Hers was broken, if she was good with being a slut, and especially if she was good at being a slut.

"Yeah. Nice to meet you again." She grabbed a tissue from a box and kissed her lipstick away with loud smacks, imitation kissy noises. "So, what do you say? I mean it. Free, every second, for however long you want to take of my time."

"I say... I say forget it! Look what's happened to you. You're fucking pathetic. Slut."

"If that's how you feel." She faced him. Strangely, she didn't look disappointed or angry that he wasn't gonna fuck the daylights out of her and that instead he'd insulted her. She was smirking. "I would've stabbed him myself if I had a nice penknife. It's hard to hide my kitchen knife in my garter."

"So? What's your point?"

"I saw you and knew you'd be armed. I used you because it was convenient for me, and I'd hate for you to feel cheated. Let me make it up to you."

"Nuh-uh, whore. Sit your ass down; don't you try to stop me." He stepped to the door, opened it. Undisturbed, she picked up a lighter and lit a candle just to watch it burn with calm fascination. He held the door as it was, and she looked over.

He stayed there, then closed the door slowly like it pained him. She snuffed out the flame and licked the tips of her fingers delicately. It couldn't have singed her. He'd pinched out enough matches to know it didn't hurt. He knew it, but he couldn't help but notice her pink tongue flicking out to touch her fingers. She walked to him, reaching around his body to replace the chain over the door. She was smart enough to have a lock.

He shoved her against the wall easily, hands gripping her shoulders. Her eyes lit up. She liked it rough, did she? Oh, this was going to be all kinds of fun. She offered up her wrists, and he took them, pinned her hands above her head.

"When's the last time you let a pretty girl like me please you?" she asked sultrily.

"You kiddin'? Women line up for me to have a go at them." But he knew a difference when he saw one, when he touched it. "Not like you, Wallace." She moved her head forward, and before he could stop it, she'd kissed him, and her tongue flashed between his lips. She didn't taste like blood, Zydrate, mint, wine, cigarettes, chocolate, any of the things he was accustomed to when it came to women's saliva.

He was mildly repulsed when he thought of what she was: a cum-guzzling hooker. He broke away. "You're a whore?"

She shrugged as best she could with her arms restrained. "It pays the bills and I like it. Mostly I give lap dances."

He was awkward, unsure where to go from there, so she took the upper hand, tracing his scars with a blue nail before following with her tongue. "Mechanical - ngh - ticker," he mumbled as she kissed the line arcing high on his chest. No words but a smug smile that made him feel dumb for talking, she led him to the bed and pushed him down. She unzipped her dress down the back and eased it off her shoulders, stepping carefully out of the pooled fabric. The last time he'd seen her like this, she was covered in the blood of Geneco's former songbird. In ripped tights held up by garters and a corset that squeezed her flesh, Wallace stopped looking like a little girl. Neither did she seem bored by the routine of fucking strangers or strung out.

Her hair was her own, chopped to her shoulders and undyed. No stripes of neon weaving through. She pounced on the bed, yipping like a territorial dog, and crawled over him, her body rubbing and wiggling, the nice sensations of soft fabric on tender skin making him spring to life. He stopped worrying about work, his siblings, and disorder. All he wanted was to get her to stop moving, pin her down, and stab her until she screamed, if she was a screamer. He grabbed her chest with both hands, and it shocked him that this was how tits actually felt. They weren't hard at all. He didn't intend to waste minutes untying the strings down the corset bodice, and he pulled out a penknife. She caught him. He probably wasn't going to use it on her, but she objected nonetheless.

"Mmph, no," she scolded him, taking it away. "In fact, before we go on, I'm going to have to ask you to empty your pockets."

"Oh, please," he said incredulously, but she'd drawn back and turned her head to the side. She steadfastly refused to touch him until he gave in. Refusing meant he'd have to jerk off, and this close to honest-to-God pussy, that didn't hold enough appeal. Confiscating his toys in exchange for playing with her? "Fine! You obnoxious hussy."

"I always get what I want," she said, grinning broadly. He discarded his sharp edges; eyes and nose creased with playful suspicion, she moved his hands aside and searched deep in his pockets for hidden knives. Her questing fingers stroked him without meaning to, and his edge sharpened considerably. She found a blade and unfolded it before his eyes with a sardonical attitude.

"Funny. So do I!" he declared, seizing her wrist and forcing the blade down, cutting the pale ribbons all down her corset. She gasped in mock outrage as the piece came apart down the middle, freeing her body. She fought to regain control of the arm he'd taken, only doing so by kneeing him in the ribs. Winded and impressed, he let her chuck the knife aside. It clattered on the floor somewhere. "I'll be wanting that back, Wallace," he informed her. She shrugged and deftly moved his hands to her small breasts, encouraged him to squeeze and pinch.

Once he was distracted, she started to grind her hips down on him, rise up, bend, apply pressure where it counted, her bent knees firmly at his sides. He wanted nothing more than to hump her through his pants and get it over with, but he was never one to pass up an opportunity for free merchandise. He got free shit; it came with the territory of being a Largo and running the free world. He stopped her, snarling that he wanted to fuck, not screw around.

She hadn't lost her cool. There came a point when women got really crazy and passionate about fucking, the desperate point when their legs flopped open and they gasped for someone to fill their holes. The Wallace girl either had control, or she didn't care. Either way, he was going to get what she'd promised. He undid his belt and pulled it from the loops one by one, and by the time he'd done that, her panties were halfway down her legs. She halted and looked at him. "Luigi, can I see your wallet? It's not for your money."

"Damn it, you are a cocktease," he griped, reaching into his pocket. He held the wallet open for her.

She reached for a square package that crinkled to the touch. "Thanks." Unwrapping the condom, she added, "Unless you don't want to fuck me. I mean, I could help you rub one out, but this is the only way I'll ride you."

"Shut up, and take off your fucking panties." Sarcastically, he said, "Unless you want me to fuck a hole through them." He pushed down his trousers and boxers. They were going to do this with their shoes on, because he couldn't be bothered to take off more clothes than he had to. The condom went on, with the girl supervising. She acted like he'd make it disappear if she didn't watch him. Her panties were wadded up in her hand, and she knelt over him, her tits in sucking distance. Speaking of disappearing acts... he couldn't wait to disappear inside her.

"Okay," she said. "Should I just-?"

It was an unexpected moment, her voice uncertain. She was a whore. Shouldn't she know what she was doing? Was this fumble part of her act? Unwilling to think on her motivations - the danger being that he could get distracted from what was at hand - he gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, and brought her down as he thrust up. There would be red marks on her skin, part bruise, part blood from under and around his nails. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been... not wet, seeing as she was a whore who was screwing him because she felt obligated. But she was, and his arms almost gave out. She was wet, and her face was composed but that was a basic something that she couldn't hide. He pumped her up and down his length in a rough and steady cadence, and she lolled her head back, eyes shut. Each bounce drew out a soft gasp. It went on and on, and her body sparkled with beads of sweat.

She crooked her neck to look at him, and she tried to look bored but her eyes were excited. He held her up, delaying a stroke, and she jarred him by shuddering her body down around his cock, and that was it for him. A tremor broke through him, and he spilled with her muscles clenched. She moved away from him and kissed his chest, discretely attending to the unglamorous process of cleaning them both up.

He fell asleep trying to catch his breath, her hands still moving over him. She nudged him out of sleep, kicking at his shin lightly with the pointed tip of her boot. He reluctantly opened his eyes to see her standing at the foot of the bed, dressed, made up, and holding out a steaming thermos.

"Hey. I made coffee. You need to clear out."

He sipped at the coffee as he walked back to the familiar parts of town. It was scalding hot and black, the way he liked it.