The Paparazzi – Fiction & Tea


When the man you’re having hot sex with also holds the key to your triple homicide. A gay, short erotic story about a paparazzi and a cop who can only get along in one way.

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Photo by Brandon Erlinger-Ford on Unsplash

Donovan was simultaneously the worst person I knew and the absolute sexiest.

He was a paparazzi. I hated paparazzi.

They were vultures, circling you while you were still alive, waiting for the moment you died and they could feast, sometimes not even waiting that long. As a cop in Los Angeles, the paparazzi was inevitable and they were far more than just a nuisance. At least the usual press had standards when it came to dealing with people. The tabloids were vicious beyond reason; they were, in essence, trash. The tabloids could crash and burn for all I cared.

And for a long time I’d wanted Donovan to crash and burn with them.

Donovan was one of the best paparazzis in the city. Which meant that his camera was usually in my face every time I got called to a scene. He said he was a crime reporter but he wasn’t a writer. I had once called him a lying snake for identifying himself that way. He had simply smirked in my face and asked me if I knew what a photojournalist was. Donovan never identified himself as a paparazzi and he didn’t usually play by their same rules. That was how he got the best photos. However, his photos never ended up in the LA Times. They ended up on Internet tabloids.

Pictures of bodies, crime scenes, and often of me.

The first time I had seen him I had thought it was gorgeous to look at. Then he pointed a camera in my face and sold the picture of me at a crime scene to a tabloid. I probably shouldn’t have blamed him for the article someone else had written but I had anyway. Every time I saw him after that, I had a nasty remark for him and he had a nastier remark for me. Donovan was whip smart and his tongue was vicious.

Sometimes I wondered if Donovan was following me. But really, the world was smaller than anyone gave it credit for. It wasn’t that strange that we would end up at the same bars, the same crime scenes, the same gyms, the same bed.

I don’t know if it was Donovan’s sexy stubble, his abs, or his bad attitude but after that first drunken fuck in the backseat of his car outside a bar, I couldn’t get enough. His body had been so tight; coiled muscles under beach-tanned skin, his dark hair so soft and pullable, his cock hard and pressed between our bodies as I pulled in and out of him.

We had started this night trading insults at the bar. In fact, we had been so focused on pissing each other off that we’d managed to scare away my date for that night. I hadn’t even noticed him leave. Somewhere between the third and fourth whiskey we’d kissed, his tongue licking at my lower lip, my hands running over every inch I could find. And then, somewhere between switching from the whiskey to the pot, we’d ended up the back of his car, fucking like horny teenagers in the backseat. It had been quick, rough, and very satisfying.

I carried the hickey he’d put on my neck for days. The other detectives had been ravenous trying to figure out who’d given it to me.

The only time Donovan and I ever got along was when we were fucking. He might have been a snake, but he was at least hot. And he never asked about my work. And I never asked about his either.

The distance suited us.

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When I got home after a double shift investigating a triple homicide, I found Donovan in my kitchen, shirtless and eating my leftover pizza. A rather concerning sight considering Donovan had never been invited to my apartment and had certainly never been given a key.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked, putting my gun back in the holster. Really, he was lucky his uninvited presence hadn’t ended with him getting a bullet to the face.

“Nice to see you too, sweetheart,” he smirked, handing me a slice.

“How did you get in?”

“I made a copy of your key a long time ago,” he said, still smirking. I wanted to punch it off his face. “For a cop, you aren’t very good at knowing when you’re being pickpocketed. It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

“Get out,” I said and walked away with my pizza, slamming the bathroom door. When I got out of my shower twenty minutes later, I was not surprised to find him on my bed, relaxing, fully naked and gently stroking himself. “What part of ‘get out’, did you not understand?”

“Just come fuck me first,” he said, which was not an invitation I’d ever been able to decline before.

I dropped the towel and climbed on top of him. He was an itch I couldn’t scratch, something burrowed under my skin, constant and utterly bad for me. We would never be a couple; Donovan wasn’t that kind of person and, quite frankly, neither was I.

But I had never had a better sex partner than Donovan. He got me revved up in a way no one else ever could or would. Of that, I was certain.

I ground my hips down into him, feeling his stiff erection against my quickly stiffening cock, and sucking on the sensitive skin of his neck until he moaned. His fingernails dug into my back as he tried to grind his hips up, seeking more, and ultimately being pinned to the bed by my bulk.

“C’mon, baby, he whispered.

I paused just long enough to grab lube and a condom, reaching down and grabbing him by the hips, I flipped him over on his stomach and then forced him into his hands and knees. Donovan had always liked it rough; the more I manhandled him the more he seemed turned on.

Lubbed fingers rubbed at his entrance but I wasn’t a teaser and pushed two fingers in quickly enough. He rocked back onto my hand seeking more. I gave him more. Several minutes later, I pushed my cock in.

In and out.

I always lost track of myself during this part, so swept up in the feeling of Donovan wrapped around me and me inside him. We finished with him on top, moving his hips in a circular motion that he knew would drive me crazy. He would have bruises on his hips, I was clutching him so hard. He would like that.

After the last of the orgasm worked its way through my body, Donovan sat on top of me, my cock still in him, and stroked himself furiously until his cum shot out of him in ropes and onto my stomach.

We stayed like that for a minute, catching our breath. Donovan braced himself with one hand on my chest, then leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. It was almost chaste.

And it scared the shit out of me. He had never been so soft. We were always passionate to the point of being almost too rough with each other.

“Are you okay?” I asked, looking up at him with genuine concern. Was he dying? He looked away, not a smirk in sight, and moved to get off. I gripped at his hips so tightly he gasped, his hands immediately slipping to cover mine as if that would soften the grip. It did; I loosened my grip immediately but didn’t completely let go.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he said. Normally, the endearment was sarcastic, almost caustic, when it came from him. Now it seemed almost genuine. I sat up suddenly, bringing our faces close together, and wrapping my arms around him to hold him place.

“No, you’re not,” I argued. “Why’d you come here tonight? What’s wrong?”

He looked me straight in the eye and I could visibly see the moment he decided not to tell me a thing. Instead, he grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me into a kiss, and rotated his hips until I was hard again. He only let me go to change condoms and lube up again.

I hadn’t forgotten his strange behavior, especially when he rolled off me, slid under the covers, and made himself comfortable. Donovan had never asked to spend the night, had never seemed like the type. But he did that night and I was too curious about what he was up to, to simply kick him out.

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I went to work like normal over the next couple of days but as far as I could tell Donovan never left my apartment. He had started to wear my clothes, his own long since discarded in a corner of the bedroom, if he wore any clothes at all. I was just as likely to come home and find him in my favorite sweats as I was to walk in and find him completely naked.

One of these situations was far more disturbing to me than the other.

By the fourth night, I pinned Donovan to the bed, using my considerable larger bulk to hold him still and asked him, “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, and tried to sit up. I wouldn’t let him. “Either fuck me or let me up.”

“Either tell me what’s wrong with you or leave,” I countered. If he hadn’t been out of sorts, Donovan would have told me to go fuck myself, stood up, and gone out to find someone with considerably less demands on his emotions. Instead, he sighed, steeled himself, and finally told me what he was doing cowering in my apartment.

“That triple murder you’ve been working?” he said. “I know who did it.”

“Excuse me,” I said, shocked. Those murders had been at a club, somewhere Donovan could easily have been while either on the job or on the hunt for a quick fuck.

“I was working,” he said. “I caught him on camera.”

Well, that was two mysteries solved.

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