Wouldn’t Be That Long

At her mercy, he found himself curious, he found himself aroused, he found himself amazed. He wasn’t aware of the power he had over her, though he knew by the smell, the taste of her, that she wanted it as much as he did. The chemistry, the interaction; he wondered if she gave of herself like this to every man that kneeled for her.

A part of him was violently jealous while a part of him was arrogant enough to believe that she felt this way for no man save him. That she couldn’t. Would never.

The blue-eyed man was gone, for whatever reason, and she was back. She’d be back home in a year. One year. It wouldn’t be that long, couldn’t be that long. He could imagine being with her more and more, wanting–in the space between heartbeats, he had a thousand desires that could not be made more clear–the taste of sweet cherries, and of her, lingered on his lips as he smiled for her, captured.

Mr. Blue-Eyes

It new one thing, one important thing: To be alone was to risk the end. It was not to be left alone, under any circumstances.

Set free by pure coincidence, accidentally let loose by an idiot in the labs, the creature stalked the hallways, unaware. And it found, within its travels, those that deserved, above all else, to die horrible, violent deaths.

Not that it knew that, nor could it honestly judge such a thing, but within the scope of society, with ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ and ‘moral’ and ‘decent’ the guideposts were so unavoidably sharp and clear that no one could believe otherwise.

Central was rotten to its core, and had to be destroyed.

That is where Mr. Blue-eyes came in, it supposed. And with Mr. Blue-eyes, destruction. It read his history, his penchant for martyrdom and his ability to, above all, remain steadfastly loyal, as though it were damn near genetic.

And it drank him down in long, sweet gulps, tasting his hopes and fears and swallowing his dreams, digesting them as he fell to its power, to its touch.

Pleasure and pain. Nothing but pleasure and pain.

It slipped away, walked right out, past a Checker who did not see because she was a part of Central when this thing was created, and this thing was created solely to get past Central’s own.

Central was undone, of course, but every memory of Mr. Blue-eyes existed in the thing’s brain, and now it knew precisely how not to be alone.

For all its wonder, for all its brilliance and amazing aptitudes, Eve Mark Three was little more than a child trapped in the bindings of an android body. A god-child, yes, child-god, thing, monster, yes. Semi-latent psychokinetic abilities, a genius-level intelligence, and more than rudimentary emotions.

And the ability to dream.

And to learn.

And to change.

It had no real malice, nor no real need to recreate Central at all.

It just didn’t want to be alone as it had been for so many, many years.

And so it took Mr. Blue-eyes and left behind a mangled, torn body, with his ring.

It took Mr. Blue-eyes away, so that it would never be alone again.

You’re Too Willful

There is silence between the two, in the bathhouse, the thick steam clinging to them both, making blonde waves damp, making blonde curls tighter.

“I’ll stay here in silence with you, but I had assumed you called me here for a reason other than my company.”

“She learned pain, from you. And how to make it sweet,” he murmurs. “Because you taught her to understand her own, and her submission. You taught her how to feel, all over again.”

“She was one of my best,” Grey says softly.

“Help me,” he whispers, looking at his hands. “Help me. I’m looking for something, and I’m lost,” he explains. “I thought I could find it in.. in.. in every–in every person I fucked, or in whoever fucked me, but it’s not there,” he says, his laugh bitter and ashamed.

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking.”

“I don’t. I don’t, but I need this. Give me–give me something, anything — I need to feel,” he whispers.

“You’re too willful.”

“Break me.”

The sharp intake of Grey’s breath, drawn through his teeth, was often the sound the other made, when he was suddenly, violently aroused. “As you wish.”

whatever ragged scars would be left

It wasn’t the worst moment to come, the night he had to curl up, drugged, beaten, bloody, bearing a strangely youthful wonder for her, as though the past decade hadn’t happened. He was irritated with her, only barely lucid, and alternately muttered obscenities as the rainwater poured down. Where are you? Why are you so late? His phone had been dead for six hours, but he still attempted to dial, still whispered urgently for pickup, still hated the icy rain down his collar with a violence surpassing most any other sensation

The worst moment came somewhere around two am, when lucid was more often and the drugs had worn away and he could feel the cuts on his skin, sluiced clean with cold rain, and he was mentally berating her already for her inability to stitch clean lines — though a part of him felt so strangely affectionate for those ragged scars — when it suddenly occurred to him that she was gone, it was over, and whatever ragged scars would be left, it was only his own hands that would make them.

I Understand Perfectly

He couldn’t even swallow; he felt perspiration bead on his forehead and the faintest cool breeze from the open window kissed his skin. It was a gentle thing, not at all like the way the dark-eyed man stared him down. That gaze wasn’t anything like a kiss; instead, it was more like a bite, a snap, a vicious thing.

“You don’t unders–” he tried to begin.

“No, I understand perfectly, Grey,” was the cold, clipped reply. There was something about the way his words came, rolled from the tongue, not harsh, not rough, but silksharp and icesweet.

There was a moment of silence, where both men could still feel the violent heat of wanting her, protecting her, having her, but only in the wake of her absence.

Silence, and Black stared at Grey, who finally stepped closer and let the gun touch his skin. He nuzzled at it, lips sliding along the barrel. He kept his grey eyes on Black, unblinking, hard and sharp and neither coy nor submissive, but hungry and watchful. Finally he opened his mouth and took the muzzle gently in his teeth, his tongue snaking out to taste the acrid sting of it, the tang of metal and the bitterness of the oil.

When he took the whole barrel in his mouth, swallowing as his lower lip slid against the trigger guard, and reached his hand for Black’s cheek, the gloved palm sliding over stubble, the thief didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, not even when Grey’s fingers pressed against his lips and parted them. Black’s teeth grazed the gloves as he kept his dark eyes on Grey’s.

They stood there, gazes locked, tasting hate and desire, each feeling that he had won.