By Moreta, for Chris.
Christmas Eve, San Francisco.
Many human families are celebrating the holiday, readying themselves to coo over cheap presents that they don't really want and trying their best to perpetuate the Hallmark myth while Morgead Blackthorn is fucking the hell out of a red-haired whore he's picked up in a forgettable dive somewhere.
Not all of her moans are feigned, he thinks, as he thrusts into her from behind. Her hands slap against the stained brick wall. Maybe if she's really lucky, he'll get her off, and that can be her present. Hey, who says he can't be a gentleman?
His breath comes fast in the night chill. A part of him - the slightly better nature - is revolted he's doing this in an alley with the standard rat-infested Dumpster and with the indifferent stars looking on. He can even hear the excited breathing of a human Peeping Tom from two floors up in the building. That Tom, he's jerking off, and Morgead hopes he enjoys the show. This sure as hell is a good one.
Morgead's hardly vain, but he /knows/ he's a sight to behold. He's wearing only a leather jacket with nothing underneath but a pair of low-slung black jeans and high motorcycle boots. Damn straight, he makes girls wet. When he'd unzipped his pants, he'd been amused by how the whore's eyes nearly popped. Probably the only genuine compliment she's given in a long time. She has that dissipated appearance of someone once pretty, but the bloodshot eyes and the slight fissures around her mouth are dead giveaways of a chemical addiction. If it weren't Christmas Eve, Morgead would have chosen someone else. Younger, prettier, cleaner...
But she has red hair. Just like Jez. His /missing/ Jez.
At the thought of her name, Morgead bares his canines. That little bitch's been gone for months, and not even her Uncle Bracken knows where she's disappeared to. It shames Morgead that he'd hoped she would come back today because, hey, Christmas Eve and all of that, but he's searched the streets for her unique Power signature. Not so much as a whiff. Besides, she knows where his penthouse is. He hasn't moved since she left him.
She's alive somewhere, he's sure. Happy and healthy, dangerous and carefree. Like his unlamented mother who abandoned him early on, she's probably shackling up with a rich vampire boyfriend right this minute, letting him put his hands all over her and more. Or maybe she's straddling him and riding him - now that's more Jez's style. The vision is so sharp that Morgead can see it. Her arching her back in a bow, her breasts straining under the soft, flattering bedroom lights, her thighs clenching. All of that glorious hair tumbling past her shoulders. Goddamn bitch. Didn't she know she was Morgead's?
He slams into the whore like there's no tomorrow, and he hears her startled gasp. He's practically digging his fingers into her hips, and he bets she'll have bruises, but he paid her already, so she hasn't got the right to complain. He'd even slipped on a rubber when she'd asked.
Actually maybe it's a good thing Jez isn't here anymore. Last year, she got him to put up a pitiful Christmas tree with cheap tinsel and colored lights. "We aren't human," he'd objected, as he'd placed a golden star on the top of the tree. "Why do we have to follow their stupid traditions?"
She'd smirked up at him, sprawled on the floor with an arm behind her head, but with her other hand, she'd deliberately sucked on a candy cane, holding his heated gaze all the while. The mischievous glint in her silvery-blue eyes is something he still remembers. Back then, if he'd known what he knows now, he'd have torn her clothes off and taken her right there on the floor.
Hindsight's a bitch.
"Because, Morgy," she'd drawled, her white wifebeater creeping up her tanned midriff, "unwrapping presents is fun."
Now he's relegated to having a pathetic Christmas tomorrow with the gang. Maybe they'll snatch some human gang members and release them in the woods for an impromptu hunt. Or maybe they'll exchange badly wrapped gifts. For sure, Val will crack bad jokes. Pierce won't say anything as he coldly looks on, and Thistle will complain about what a rotten Christmas it is. Only Raven will glance at Morgead and know that he's hurting inside. She'd even suggested they have a tree this year, but he'd sharply vetoed it. The only thing he wants under such a tree is a naked Jez Redfern bound and gagged for his pleasure.
When he finally comes, he's abruptly disgusted with himself. This is the last self-pitying fuck he'll let himself have. No more Jez substitutes. She sure as hell isn't pining over him because if she was, she'd come back. From now and then, he'll pound his way through a lineup of blondes and brunettes. Maybe a black-haired girl, just for variety's sake. Hell, the girl can be bald.
Morgead throws a five-dollar bill at the whore. He's already paid her, but she can have a tip. And he'll even let her leave the alley without ripping her throat out. The original plan was, he'd fuck her and suck from her, but he's feeling strangely jovial.
See, he's such not a bad guy after all.
She's panting for breath. Her eyes are wide with fear, as she slowly picks up the crumpled bill and backs away from him. She's seen something in his face and she doesn't want to stay any longer than she has to. Smart girl, he thinks. Not that dumb for a human - but if she'd been smart, she'd never gone with him at all.
A smirk edges his lips as he watches her walk away. She's wincing with every motion she makes. Her breasts are probably sore from the mauling he gave her, and her throat is a collection of hickeys. She'll remember him, all right. At least there's a woman who'll remember Morgead Blackthorn tonight. Even if it's only a red-haired whore.
"I miss you, Jez," he whispers.
Fin.
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