The Boy With Black Eyes

All But Me

*BE WARNED: THIS CHAPTER OPENS WITH A SEXUAL ENCOUNTER BETWEEN AUGUSTUS AND AN UNNAMED PROSTITUTE. HE IS NOT GENTLE OR KIND. IF YOU FIND THIS SORT OF THING TRIGGERING OR TROUBLESOME, THIS IS YOUR WARNING*

It was all meaningless.

Because she was no one. 

He had one hand forcing her down into the mattress by the small of her back, the other pulling her tightly curled hair back toward his bare abdomen, fucking into her with wild abandon. 

He'd paid a pretty penny for her. 

Because she was no one. 

The room was filled with smacks and cracks of flesh meeting flesh, his long hair hanging in his angled face, sweat drenching sun-deprived skin, the Chicago sky turned to thundercloud and lightning strike. 

"...oh, yeah... ...just like that, Daddy..."

"Shut the fuck up."

Her head went back into the ratty old mattress of a nowhere motel, with peeling wallpaper and mice in the corners. He didn't care about her. That wasn't what he paid for. He paid to use her body to get off, no longer content with the pleasure he could provide himself. There was only so much spellwork and Arousal Elixir could do before he needed to go balls-deep into something. Anything. 

She raised herself up on strong arms and he struck her down, now holding her there by force. If his reputation had preceeded him, she would know not to fight him past this stage. It had been an accident, but he had strangled one of them before.

It didn't matter. 

She was no one. 

And then, there it was, and he pulled her hips tight to his cock, snarling into the open air, fire searing along his nerves, starting in his groin, going up to his temples and down to his toes. When he was done, he Scourgified himself, and proceeded to get back into his clothes, all folded in the singular chair in the room, having seen the bedbugs crawling into corners when the lights flared on. 

Black briefs. Dark jeans. T-shirt. Old, wrinkled black dress shirt. Socks. Boots. Hat. Dipping hazel eyes to the London Fog hanging on the back of the chair before picking up, ensuring the skeletal cameo was still pinned to his lapel, he rounded back to the nameless, faceless girl in the bed, touching herself shamelessly, cooing for him to come back to her. 

He shrugged his coat on, tipped the fedora low over his eyes, and strode from the room, staff in hand, runes glowing faintly. 

She was no one. 

He didn't care.

Gus Littlewood stepped out of the establishment and into the neighbourhood known as West Garfield Park, knowing he'd have to duck into alleyways to make a disappearance back to his basement apartment in Old Town. The trouble would be finding an empty alleyway. 

Sure, the district was known for coke and crack rallying, smuggling heroin into Lake Michigan in order to get it to the Canadian border. Sure, neon lights proclaimed that fine ladies were available for hire in the ratty-looking bars that lined the streets, but why duck in there when any girl wearing fishnets on the streets was available for hire? Why buy dope legally when ducking into any alley would get him that and more for pennies on the dollar?

He had what he came for. 

Satisfaction. 

While suspicious activity was most definitely occurring in every garbage dumpster he passed, Gus was just searching for a rather empty spot to disappear.