You watch him smile at her and you swear there’s a little glint in his eye when he turns back to face you, it taunts you, has a badly hidden coded message, one you have no problem deciphering: he’s telling you ‘I’m the man.’

You feel the need to punch something, preferably something hard and indestructible; unfortunately the only ‘something’ within close proximity at the moment is him and he’s about as indestructible as a chocolate teapot.

You can literally see the back of your hands pulsing, your knuckles are screaming at you to release the blades, you aren’t without a conscience but it has its limits and it’s only just holding back your need to destroy.

You know deep down it would only make things worse, you know way, way deep down that it probably wouldn’t be half as satisfying as you think it would, it would be over to quick for one, the Wolverine Vs the Chocolate Teapot doesn’t really have the right ring to it, and there’s the added disappointment that it would hardly be a fair fight. Then again at the moment you don’t really give a flying fuck about being fair. You’d like to savour it, prolong it, draw it out as long as possible and make it extremely painful while you were at it. But it won’t happen, can’t happen.

You may hate him but she likes him.

So he survives by default.

Today anyway.

Its demonstration time and you have no need for volunteers, not now anyway. He’s nearest and if anyone asks that’s the reason he’s been chosen. You call him over but keep your eyes on the rest of the group. If you look at him now your conscience would loose.

It’s over before it has time to begin, there’s just the loud dull thud of his body having a heavy collision with the ground as you put him on his ass before he even had time to blink, its followed but a sharp intake of breath and a *really* pathetic girly little whimper as one set of your blades quickly and effectively pin him to the floor while the other set extend excruciatingly slowly hovering inches above his face.

It doesn’t satisfy you, there’s not even one drop of blood but you smile anyway. It’s a smile that say’s ‘who’s the man now?’

You turn to the rest of the group, content you’ve at least installed some fear, and you have in all of them bar one. There is one amongst them whose scent is on the opposite end of the scale to fear. One who enjoyed your little show much more than she should have. One who is filling the room with the sweet, sweet scent of lust.

You try to ignore her, let her fade in with everyone else but that scent is captivating you, it’s not your hands pulsing now, you’re itching for a different kind of release. Your eyes betray you and hone in straight to hers. There’s a different kind of glint in her eyes telling you a completely different story.

She may like the chocolate teapot but she likes you a hell of a lot more.

Now there’s satisfaction.

You’re the man.




~ ~ The End X ~ ~