Chapter 8
DEMON
How do we feel about this?
Our mind twists and shape-shifts amorphously as we stand at the foot of the king-sized bed, watching Val sleep with Roman in his arms.
How do we feel about this…
We watched our brother from afar for years while he grew up in the foster system, and we were climbing the ranks of the Syndicate.
We have a strange relationship with the brotherhood that we’ve spent almost our entire life in. On the one hand, it’s the reason we’re alive. It gave us food and shelter when we were starving and cold, and gave us purpose when we were ready to give up on life.
But this brotherhood isn’t and has never been all sunshine and roses. It was a brutal environment in which to grow up. Yes, Val’s upbringing in the system, facing down the monsters and predators that scarred and almost broke him was hard—harder than any child should have to endure.
But growing up in the Syndicate meant pledging your soul to darkness. We didn't want that for him.
Instead, we watched from a distance as he stared down those monsters, growing stronger and finding himself through ballet.
Our uncertainty concerning his current and quite serious relationship with Roman Nikitin is not based on anything qualms surrounding sexual orientation.
Fuck who you want. We don’t care. The concern about "how we feel about this" has nothing to do with the fact that he’s got a man in his arms.
It's who that man is.
Our jaw ticks as we stand in the darkness, watching.
The Nikitin Bratva doesn't have anywhere near the level of global power and influence that the Syndicate does. None of the great underworld families of New York does, honestly. But still. They sit at the Iron Table. Collectively, with their allies, there’s a potential for them to be…bothersome.
We could just kill him.
Our brow furrows.
No, we couldn’t.
Sure we could. It would be easy. And it’s been so long since we snuffed out a life.
Our jaw tightens.
Since YOU took a life, one of us corrects the other.
The other part of us laughs coldly.
It’s always adorable when you try to pretend there’s no us..
We glare down at the sleeping figures in the bed.
Just kill him and be done with it.
No. Val would never forgive us.
He would. He'd find someone else to love.
I don’t think that’s how it works.
We bite our tongue to stop from laughing out loud.
As if we know anything about love.
We have a good point.
Besides, we coax ourselves, is it really Val that we’re concerned might not forgive us for murdering Roman?
Our eyes narrow in the darkness.
No, it’s not.
So what the fuck are we still doing in this room, pussy? This isn’t why we came here tonight.
No, you're right. It's not.
Then let’s get to it.
Our footsteps are silent as we make our way out of the bedroom that Roman shares with our brother. Quietly, we cross the length of the massive Nikitin mansion, until we get to the wing that houses her room.
The actual reason we're here tonight.
She sleeps in a princess bed.
A pink, four-poster, curtain-draped princess bed.
Because of course she does.
She doesn’t stir as we come to a stop right next to it and quietly pull back the gauzy pink curtains. Moonlight illuminates her gentle, innocent face—the delicate brow, the soft, full lips, the button nose and the rosy cheeks.
We should decorate it with our cum like a fucking Jackson Pollock.
We grit our teeth, groaning as our cock thickens, lurid images of pumping hot cum all over her sleeping face making our balls tighten.
Somehow, we restrain ourselves.
Pussy.
Shut up.
Make us, pussy.
We ignore that part of ourselves—or rather, momentarily forget about that part of ourselves—as we look down at her sleeping form.
She’s beautiful. Gorgeous, really, in such an innocent, dainty, princess way.
A work of art.
So let the world know what a masterpiece she is by painting that pretty face like a motherfucking Pollock, you cunt.
Stop fucking talking, asshole.
We reach for the covers, gently pulling them off her body. She stirs slightly but keeps sleeping, blissfully unaware of us standing there or of the dark, hungry thoughts swirling through our broken mind.
Why the fuck did you have to capture our attention, little princess?
Our eyes slide over the silk pajamas she’s wearing—pink, of course. Slowly, we lay our hand on her shoulder, gently rolling her off her side until she’s on her back. Her faint scent of violet and vanilla teases our nostrils.
Her chest rises and falls as she blissfully slumbers. She continues to blissfully slumber as we slowly undo one button of her top after another, until it falls open.
She’s got lovely tits. Small and pert, capped with pale pink nipples that tighten in the coolness of the air under our gaze. A soft whimper escapes her lips as we cup one in our hand, feeling the nipple pebble against our palm.
How receptive.
The bottoms are merely tied with a bow on the drawstring. That opens easily enough, and we swear, it’s almost as if she’s lifting her ass to help us as we peel them off her hips down to her knees.
Fairly plain, pink panties are all that cover her now.
Does she have a psychological aversion to other colors?
Fuck you.
Fuck US, motherfucker. Keep going.
Our dick is painfully hard, tenting the front of our slacks as we reach for the panties. At first, it’s just a single finger that we drag up the seam between her thighs. A soft whimper escapes her sleeping lips, her brow caving just a touch.
Her fucking hips rise a little as we cup her pussy through the panties.
She’s warm.
She’s wet.
You’ll be our fucking undoing, princess.
Our fingers slip into the waistband, oh-so-gently tugging the lace from her hips, peeling it away from her sex.
Fuck.
Her tits are lovely. But her pussy is exquisite.
It will look even more exquisite stretched around our cock, yes?
Agreed.
So what are we WAITING for?
Our belt jangles quietly in the stillness of the room, and we groan as we pull our swollen, leaking cock free.
Do it, pussy. Split her in half with our cock until she’s dripping all over it like a good little slut.
It’s amazing we aren’t in jail with your lack of impulse control.
Less talking. More fucking.
Our hand hovers over her pussy for a moment, barely millimeters above her glistening pink lips, as if denying ourselves is a means of foreplay.
I have a better idea.
Slipping her silk pajama pants off entirely is simple enough. The panties are slightly more challenging, so as to not wake her. But in the end we triumph.
We bring the lace to our face, growling and feeling our cock dribble precum onto the edge of her bed as we inhale the intoxicating scent of her cunt.
Our hand goes to her pussy again, and this time, there’s no hesitation. She whimpers as we cup her heated, slick cunt, feeling her arousal wet and sticky against our hand. We tease a finger up between her lips, dragging her moisture to her clit and slowly, gently, circling the little nub.
Her whimpering catches, releases, catches again. Her hips rise, and her nipples tighten to swollen little points. We wrap the panties around our pulsing cock, stroking the material up and down our veined shaft.
We sink a finger into her tight little hole.
So wet.
So fucking eager.
So fucking quit with the motherfucking poetics and FUCK HER already.
Stop talking.
Stop being a pussy.
Shut up.
Feel how fucking tight she is? I bet she’s never had a cock here before.
We stroke our cock faster, rubbing the lace panties against the underside of our swollen head as we push our finger in and out, rolling her clit with our thumb.
Her slumbering whimpers catch again. Our cock grows even harder. Her tight, silken walls clamp down around our finger as her brow caves and her butt lifts from the bed.
Having a nice dream, princess…?
When she comes, so do we, grunting as our balls tighten and our cum pumps in thick ropes into the lace. Her body trembles, her breath both heavy and soft at the same time as her back arches with her orgasm.
But she still doesn’t wake.
After we’ve tucked our cock back into our pants, we gently pull her pajama bottoms back up and button her top.
It's a crime against humanity to cover those parts of her up, you know.
No argument here.
We pull the covers back up and over her, a hint of something that might be a smile touching our lips as she snuggles back into them.
We should go.
Not yet…
Slowly, we lift the sticky, ruined panties still clutched in our fist. We dab at them with our finger, coating it in our cum before our eyes drop to her sleeping form.
That same finger slides over her lips, smearing our cum across them. She stirs a little, and when we pull our hand away, her mouth opens slightly.
Her tongue drifts out, running over her lips before she slips back to stillness.
A smile spreads over our face.
Keep a little of us inside you, princess. We’ll see you soon.