Christian Grey (heartsnflowers) wrote in canonwarslogs, @ 2014-07-30 16:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | alyssa hamilton, christian grey |
Who: Alyssa Hamilton and Christian Grey
What: Distracting each other from reality.
Where: Puerto Rico, a brief stop in Ireland, then London.
When: Near the beginning of the game.
Rating/Warnings: PG13 for ftb smutty things.
Christian was grumbling to himself as he walked up the street in San Juan. None of this made any sense at all. It was asinine, just telling him he ‘wasn’t real’ - not only that, but that apparently he was from some sort of shitty romance novel book?
The only thing he could think of to do was to go to a bookshop. So he’d asked for directions to one, and was now headed there. At least there were handsome women to look at. Some clearly natives, a few not. There was even one girl with a parasol, like something out of a Victorian play.
A video game. Really, the fact that she’d been some sort of magical girl made sense now. So did her wardrobe filling up with scanty clothes after she’d killed her grandfather. Sighing, Alyssa had gone out and immediately purchased the highest SPF sunscreen she could find and a parasol. They’d said she could find transport back to London, but she wasn’t worried about that. Perk benefits of being a Rooder were teleportation. Even being “not real” didn’t bother her - transdimensional interweaving was part and parcel of her life, and had been since she was fourteen.
She was window shopping, looking for a place to buy a swimsuit. A book shop would probably have something touristy, maybe a map of shopping areas. Tossing her red hair, she stopped to linger.
There it was. Right in the fucking window. Fifty Shades of Grey. “Fuck me,” Christian said out loud, surprised at how sharp it came out even to his own ears.
He went inside and tried to go around to the fiction section, but he didn’t find it there. “God, am I going to have to ask someone to find my own fucking shitty novel?” he couldn’t help but murmur to himself, running a vexed hand through his hair.
Alyssa closed the parasol as she browsed the stacks, chuckling when she overheard the last accent she expected to hear - Irish. “Did you write a book? You really shouldn’t put yourself down so.”
An English girl who looked like that? She looked like she was a step away from falling over, with that skin, but she wasn’t dainty enough to faint at profanity. Christian raised an eyebrow. “No, actually, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Oh, God, was he going to have to ask someone to find terrible women’s erotica for him? “I don’t even know if this book actually exists, or if I’m having some mad fever dream.”
“Let me guess - you’re not a local and you’re not here on holiday. Are you one of the displaced fictional persons?” Alyssa grinned conspiratorially and leaned closer, stage whispering. Hey, he was cute, why not flirt? “If you don’t think I’m mad after I tell you there’s a video game about m’life, then you should buy me a coffee.”
Christian blinked. “It’s not just me?” Oh, Christ, maybe this girl had read his book. He actually felt himself blush, looking away. “If you’ve read the book I’m allegedly from, I’m ... humiliated, actually. Apparently it’s rubbish.”
“Oh, no, luv, there’s a great big merry band of us.” She smiled at him, finding his blush rather endearing. How often did the world dump handsome, shy, bookish Irish lads into her lap? “Well, I don’t read rubbish. You’re trying to find a copy, eh? Smart. What is it, I’ll help.”
Here went nothing. “Fifty Shades of Grey,” Christian mumbled, though it came out more like “Fftshdsogry.”
Alyssa’s eyes went wide for a moment before she grinned. “Well, at least that’ll rule out birds who don’t like a bit of slap and tickle flirting with you.” She reached out to take his hand, tugging him into the direction of the romance novels. “I didn’t read them, but I do appreciate that the covers don’t have some bloke shirtless, in the wind, looking off to the left for no damn reason.”
“God, that’d be all I need. Christian Grey, the next Fabio.” His nose wrinkled. “I’m a fucking banker; I have a reputation to uphold.”
Her jaw dropped. “Wait, you mean to tell me that you’re the titular character? I thought he was meant to be a wanker? ... not a literal one, though I suppose all blokes are, but ... right, here it is.” She shook off her surprise before handing him a rather innocent looking yet thick paperback with a grey tie on the cover. “I confess, I skimmed it. The sex is really rather poorly written. What girl says she wants to be touched ‘down there’?”
Christian’s face contorted in surprise, then irritation. “So I’m not only in a terrible book, I’m written as an arsehole in said terrible book?” He took it, flipping grumpily to a random passage. He read three paragraphs, eyes going wider and wider. With a tone that could only be described as murderous, he spat out two words. “Laters, baby?”
“Well, you’re ... a Yank in them?” Alyssa bit her lower lip hard, trying to stifle a giggle. She was glad that she was wearing smudgeproof lipstick. “If it makes you feel any better, you can look up my skirt in the video game of me. Aaaand I’m fourteen.” She shuddered.
“ ... Let me guess. Japanese?” Christian made a face, still irritated. “I ought to fucking sue.” No doubt the author of this was some stupid bint who lived in rural England and thought shagging with the lights on was sinful.
“Of course. And to be fair, she should sue you - you’re her intellectual property. Come on, you need a pint.” She blinked. “And I can’t drink here. Well, shit.”
“I am fucking not anyone’s intellectual property.” Christian’s voice had risen, and he was getting a few looks. He stared back, daring someone to make a federal case out of it, but the message had been gotten. “I do need a fucking pint. How old are you, sixteen? You could drink at home.”
Alysaa rolled her eyes. “Nineteen, and yes, I can drink at home. Want to go?” She shifted her purse on her shoulder. “I can have you there and back, or take you to wherever you’re living now.”
“Well, you look a bit young, when you’re carrying around Queen Victoria’s parasol.” Christian jibed. “How can we get back to the UK? Oh, fuck, the ID says New York. No thank you.” Wall Street meant money, but it also would have meant insane stress and the possibility of protesters.
“I’m pale, Mister Grey.” She wrinkled her nose and looked around for a door that had a bit of privacy. “Apparently the Yanks will change your name for you and help you relocate if you don’t fancy staying here.” She motioned for him to walk with her after taking the book from him and reshelving it. “Trust me, that’s not good for wanking to or even stopping doors.”
Once they were in a hallway where they weren’t immediately visible, she pulled a bottle from her purse that was shaped like a goddess.
“I wouldn’t wank to it if I were banned from every porn shop in the country.” Christian glared at the book. He followed her, curious. “And of course you’re pale, you have that parasol, milady.” She was rather pretty, if too young. He liked poking pretty girls. With his wit, at least at first.
“If you were banned from every porn shop in the country, you’d still have the internet. What do they teach boys these days?” She rolled her eyes as she splashed the door three times with the water from the bottle. It started to glow, and she smiled. “All right, what do you fancy? Ireland, London, or a roaring twenties party in New York? That one doesn’t sound fun, though - too much weird drugs use for me.” And the booze back then was rough as hell.
Christian stared. “Erm.” How the hell did she do that? “I. Um. I’ll take London. I think?” London was fine if one was going to get drunk in it. And that was definitely where he was headed.
“All right.” She smiled and took his hand. “My favorite pub, coming right up.” Once she opened the door it lit up, going bright white as they walked through. Anyone after them would find a stock closet, but Alyssa and Christian were outside a sleepy pub in Essex, near where the Hamilton House should have been. “Weird. Guess it’s not my pub so much as it is a pub”
Because Hamilton House didn’t exist anymore, because this was a different universe. Right. She straightened her skirt and looked back at Christian. “Coming? I’ll get first round.”
It wasn’t London, but he’d manage. “Must be Essex, everyone sounds like Russell Brand. Why don’t you?” Christian tried not to wince at the squawking sounds. “If this is your favourite pub, you must be from ‘round here.”
“I went to boarding school, but my mum had a house here that where she let rooms.” Growing up, it had been fun to play hide and seek with her neighbour Dennis in the empty rooms. “It was easier to make money that way after my dad died.”
“Ah.” Christian nodded. “I grew up down the road from a rooming house. My foster mum and the woman who ran it used to have brunch together.” They got toward the bar and he ordered a whisky and soda. “My first sexual experience was in that rooming house.”
Once they were inside, Alyssa ordered gin, neat. “Oh my. Was it with the maid?” She waggled her eyebrows impishly. She didn’t want to linger too long on the “foster” mother bit - he didn’t seem to be the sort who’d enjoy sympathy or pity.
“No, actually.” That got a laugh. “The maid was a grumpy old bat with wrinkles and crow’s feet. It was with the proprietress’s daughter. Much closer to my age.” It made him think of Elena, but she wasn’t here now, was she?
“Well, good to see you’re not one of those weird fetishists,” Alyssa smiled. She accepted her gin and tossed it back with the ease of a girl who’d been friends with the ‘bad one’ at school. Which she had. (Granted, it was in the position of keeping the girl in line, but Alyssa had picked up some things.)
“I tend to think as long as there’s consent, we should live and let live. What other people like to do isn’t my business. Though I’ll judge you if it’s boring.” Christian winked, downing a long pull of whisky.
“I don’t disagree, but elderly people tend to be not my cup of tea, thanks.” She liked a bit of grey in a beard as much as the next girl, but she didn’t want to hurt someone while she shagged them.
“Do you need a young, virile sort to keep up with you?” Okay, he couldn’t help the smirk at that. “The boys at your university must bother you so much.”
“I don’t really date blokes my own age.” She couldn’t believe they were talking about this, but the smirk he’d given her made her want to poke him in return. “I do like someone virile in body, but wit tends to come with age. It’s a constant struggle.”
“In other words, university boys are stupid.” Christian smirked wider. “I knew a lot of girls who thought the way you do.” In the Biblical sense. He’d always managed to charm their knickers off in the end.
“Oh, do you now.” Alyssa rolled her eyes and grinned. “Is this where you tell me that I’m really clever, and you value my point of view? Does the intellectual seduction work well? I always thought it was a bit silly, playing to my vanity.” Dennis, her first boyfriend, had just acted stupid, then saved her life once. And she’d grown up with him; that had counted for a lot.
“It actually does, sometimes.” Christian laughed; she’d managed to amuse him. “And it’s better than going ‘oi, luvvie, nice arse’. Though you do genuinely seem to have a bit on the ball.” He actually meant it; she was obviously quick. “What’s your name, anyway? You’ve got one up on me.”
She chuckled. “Depends on the day, sometimes everyone needs a silly, pandering compliment.” Offering him her hand, she paid him a genuine smile. “Alyssa Hamilton. It’s nice to meet you. And thanks much for not freaking out over the teleportation bit.”
“I just found out I’m fictional, and not only that, I’m the fucking brainchild of a repressed old English bint who can’t write and thinks ‘laters, baby’ is how fucking Yanks talk. Why would teleportation bother me?” Christian inclined his head over her hand, draining his whisky and motioning for another one.
“That’s fair, I suppose.” She flipped him off with the hand he didn’t shake - rude! - and finished off her own drink so she could keep pace with him. “If it makes you feel terribly better, there’s skimpy alternate costumes for me in the video game I’m apparently in?”
Christian raised an eyebrow. “A courtly gesture gets me the finger? You’re not the English rose I thought you to be. And you did say your game was Japanese.” He’d had Japanese clients. Perverts, the lot of them.
Alyssa snorted. “I was born in Essex, no roses there.” She couldn’t help but chuckle as she got a refill on her gin. “It is Japanese. I doubt any other country would produce a game with quite so many opportunities to look up m’skirt. I’m fourteen for most it, which makes that all the more gross.”
“Ugh. The obsession with underage girls is creepy.” Christian wrinkled his nose. “One wonders if they’re just repressed, or if there’s some sort of kink in the national make-up.”
“Oh, it’s more complex than that,” Alyssa smiled. “It’s repression in some areas and overtness in others. Reading hentai on the subway isn’t unheard of. But god forbid they have genitals in the porn.”
“You sound knowledgeable about it. Gap year there?” He might have said Japanese boyfriend? to some other women, but somehow he doubted it of her.
“Lots of reading. One of my best mates in boarding school was huge into anime and stuff, but I liked the culture. I always like reading about new places. I always planned on visiting them with my mum, but she passed when I was fifteen.” Alyssa smiled brightly, a universal “we don’t have to talk about it” signal. “So, do you think you’re gonna stay here in London? Or go back to the sun and the heat? There’s girls in bikinis there for you.” She waggled her eyebrows over her next glass of gin.
“My job is apparently in New York City, but it’s rubbish, so I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “That much sun would likely play ruddy hell with my skin, though. Maybe London, or back to Dublin. I’ve an auntie who lives in Kinsealy, out near the airport.”
“I hope she’s here.” Alyssa was an orphan, and she had an orphan’s cunning. “Want to go look while you have a human bus handy? ... well. That sounds weird, but you know what I meant.”
“A human - oh.” Christian chuckled. “Right. Um. Sure, might as well get it over with.” He’d realized, with a sinking feeling, that if he wasn’t ‘real’, Auntie Pat likely wasn’t either. The idea hit him in the gut, and he clenched his jaw to keep from saying anything more.
She looked up at him, her blue eyes softer for a moment. He looked lost, and she couldn’t help but squeeze his hand. “I hope she’s here. I’ll have to go see if Mum’s still buried where she was before. I’d miss talking to her.”
After a long pause, Christian simply said, “I hope the graveyard’s still there as well. Shall we?”
“Let’s.” She found a door and grabbed her vial, splashing the door a few times before taking Christian’s hand. “You open the door this time, think of where we need to go.”
“That’s it?” He was a bit leery, but figured he could trust her. He had thus far, after all. Thinking of his auntie’s front yard, he closed his eyes, turned the knob and stepped through the door. Instantly he felt a breeze he hadn’t before.
“That’s it. Really, it’s not like I could attack you in the broom closet, it’s too small.” She found herself, despite all odds, liking Christian Grey. Maybe she was more of a misanthrope than she let on.
Christian didn’t reply; suddenly he was in Ireland. He was standing in his auntie’s front yard, with all the smells and sensations. “Bloody Nora,” he murmured, amused in spite of himself.
Alyssa’s heels clacked loudly as she walked, tiptoeing a bit around the drive. “This house is adorable. I’m sure it’s required someone’s auntie live here.” Not that Alyssa had any family.
“I’m just glad we didn’t show up through the front door.” Christian cracked, looking around. Joking helped him not feel so weird. He looked up at the door itself. “I daresay I ought to knock.”
“Probably. Worst comes to worst, I can say we got lost and we have the wrong house.” Sometimes, being English in Ireland came in handy. Granted, this was the first time she could think of, but hey.
“True.” Christian sort of belatedly realized that not finding Auntie Pat there would very much upset him. He took a breath, knocking on the door.
It was opened, but not by his grey-haired dumpling of an aunt. A young woman, clearly pregnant, looked up at him in polite confusion. “Yes?”
For the first time in a long time, Christian fumbled. “I ... erm.” Eternity passed, though he knew it was maybe five seconds. “I’m so sorry,” he finally said. “I have the wrong house. Sorry to trouble you.” Without another word, he turned around and headed for the gate. Let the girl find her own bloody way back to wherever the fuck she belonged.
Alyssa’s mouth opened to help him talk to the pregnant girl, but then he was bolting past her, through the gate. “Christian, wait.” She moved to catch his hand, to slow him down. “You have to find out where you live, Christian. You need something stable.” Alyssa was used to jumping through time, so her current situation wasn’t that upsetting. But he looked like a kicked puppy, and she liked to help puppies. “At least let me do that for you.”
“Do what?” He felt angry, powerless and frustrated, and he didn’t handle that well, even when he wasn’t in some weird reality where he wasn’t real and Auntie Pat wasn’t here and he felt utterly alone and it hurt.
“Get you to ... not your home, but the place where your new things are. Everyone needs a home base, of sorts.” She tiptoed up to kiss the corner of his mouth, hoping the gesture would calm him. She knew that a man like him needed to be in control, and being out of it was driving him insane. She was the same way.
It didn’t calm him - it more confused him - but the alternative to her suggestion was to set something on fire. “I hate the States,” was all he said, not looking at her.
“So fine, come home with me. I’ve got a flat near campus. It’s not the States. I know you hate Englishmen, but will it serve?” He could crash on the couch or something. “Hell, we can swap flats.” Alyssa grinned. “You’d rack up on the busty co-eds.”
“Better England than the fucking Yanks.” He didn’t even comment on the co-eds. Most uni girls would feel far too young for him at his age. “At least you lot can find Ireland on a fucking map.”
She grinned, splashing a door to a telephone booth with holy water. “Ah, but which one?”
“Either, given that it was you lot that tore ‘em apart.” Rude, maybe, but Christian wasn’t feeling charitable.
“Yes, it was just me, by my lonesome. I’m terribly old, kept alive only by kale and moisturizer. Oi, into the phone booth.” It glowed with heavenly light, and someone was bound to notice.
Christian glared. “Now is not the time to be snotty with me.” He was aware that sounded obnoxious, but he didn’t care. She was handling this much better than he was and it pissed him off and he wanted to go home.
Holding his hand she all but tugged him through the phone booth. “Come on, we have to go down to pub and get you at least shambolically drunk, if not completely pissed.” She showed up with him in an alleyway that was both near her new flat and a pub. A couple of girls in tiny shorts walked by and Alyssa sighed. She kind of wished she had the figure to pull off tiny shorts.
“That actually sounds brilliant.” Stupid, probably, and a piss-poor way of dealing with problems, but brilliant for now. He ignored the girls’ vapid chatter, following Alyssa. “Why do little girls always inject ‘like’ or ‘yeah’ in between every fucking word they say? Makes them sound twice as stupid as they are.”
“Or ending every sentence with ‘innit’.” Alyssa wrinkled her nose. “Mum always said I was born an old soul. I’ve always hated girls my own age. My ex is in his thirties, actually. We used to have to yell at people to get off his lawn for vomiting or whatnot because he lived really close to this little party girl’s flat. Ugh. Raves.” She shuddered.
That did amuse him, in spite of himself. “Well, we agree on something.” Christian said, following her into the pub. “How old were you, dating this thirty-year old bloke?” It amused him to think she preferred such vastly older men.
“Seventeen,” she shrugged. “Grey hair is sexy.” She adjusted the hem of her skirt as she claimed a table for them, setting her purse down. “So, what’ll you have, luv? First round’s on me. Friendly gesture you don’t get to dispute.”
“Seventeen.” Christian snickered, but at least it wouldn’t have gotten her thrown in gaol over here. Yanks were so uptight. “Guinness, of course.” Sometimes he ordered Irish Car Bombs just to be a twat, but not now.
“What? It’s not like seventeen year olds have malformed vaginas or something.” She stuck out her tongue but grinned at his order. When she came back from the bar it was with a pint of Guinness in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. “Just a second, have to go get your whisky. Guinness isn’t going to get you mellowed out fast enough.”
“No, they’re just usually dizzy and annoying.” She hadn’t been yet, but he was waiting. Though she did earn points for the whisky. “Obliged.” It was good thinking, he had to admit.
Moving back to the table, she set down shots for both of them and another glass for him. “The shots are the house rotgut, the glasses are something Irish, I didn’t specify what. Cheers.” She took her shot like a girl who’d been doing it for years, mostly because she had.
“Not giving a toss about what it is right now.” He’d probably have drunk paint thinner right now. It didn’t fucking matter. He took his own shot, though he did cough hard - “Shite, that is rough.” But it still burned.
She didn’t cough at all, and was already sipping her Macallan. “I take it you actually studied in university.” She grinned broadly, leaning back. “I went to boarding school from eleven until graduation. My best friend was the naughty girl who snuck awful gin in her steamer.” She laughed at the memory. “I’m trying to distract you from being upset. If you’d prefer I just shut up and drink with you in silence, that’s fine.”
Leaning back, she cocked her head. “Or, you could not get drunk at all, just buzzed, and we could go get takeaway and we could shag.” Hey, he was cute.
“Double firsts in maths and economics.” He wasn’t trying to brag. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t frankly shagged half the campus anyway. “I just didn’t sleep.”
He’d been about to say more when she propositioned him. After a long look at her, Christian finally just shrugged. “Not pissed enough for that yet.” Shagging a uni girl was stupid - they all got clingy, even the clever ones - but at least it’d distract him from being fucking fictional.
“Of course you didn’t.” She rolled her eyes and continued drinking. “Some of us can’t get by without at least six hours. Otherwise I’d just scribble and drool on my exams.”
“I’d spend the night with a girl and just go right to class the next day. After a while it wasn’t really a walk of shame.” Christian shrugged. Other people did drugs at uni; he’d fucked beautiful women.
“I never got that term. If one wanted the shag, how is walking home shameful? It’s really only ever applied to women, and we all know why. Women aren’t supposed to want sex outside of marriage.” Another sip. “And yet, if we’re raped, it’s because we wanted it. Ugh, people. They’re the worst.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, I’m a touch misanthropic.”
“Oh, and I’m not?” Christian drank more. “If a woman is raped, it’s because some stupid piggish bastard can’t grasp the concept of the simple English negative, ‘no.’ And because he apparently has some control issues that will be violently removed from him by a far bigger bloke one dark night.” Rude, maybe, but still true.
She held her drink aloft. “I’ll drink to that. I mean, once I’ve consented to being tied up or something, I may say no, but that’s only because the bloke knows my safe word.”
Christian blinked. “Have you often consented to being tied up?” Maybe this wouldn’t be stupid and missionary.
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not that uncommon.” Alyssa blinked. “Is it?”
“It is in my estimation.” Christian raised an eyebrow. “Especially amongst little - sorry, young - girls.”
She shrugged. “I suppose I’m a bit older than most in spirit, given what I am.” Alyssa smiled a little at Christian. “An orphan for one. Magic for the other. It’s my job to send souls to heaven or hell when they’re trapped in the same time period too long.” That would either send him running or crying, but her bet was on both.
He did neither, just drank more. “How ... difficult.” A silly word, but probably a good one. “I can see how that might affect you.” He would have thought she was daft up until this morning. But the mere fact of what they’d been able to do just ... it changed everything.
Smiling sadly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pocket watch. It looked antique because it was, and had a photo of a man holding a little girl. It played a soft melody, Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. “She’s the first person I ever sent to Heaven. A demon trapped her in the evening she died during the Blitz.” The Blitz hadn’t killed her, a sledgehammer to the head had, but Christian didn’t need the gory details.
“The little girl, not the bloke?” Christian frowned. Dying in the Blitz ... there were worse ways, of course, but there were also better. Like dying in one’s bed when very old. “Doesn’t seem right.”
Alyssa sighed sadly. “Her father died in a skirmish about two weeks before her, but he came when I sent her to help her along. She was murdered. You’d be surprised how many people were murdered then. Lights dark, everyone inside and scared.” She shivered at the memory of hiding from Robert Morris’ animated body. “May didn’t deserve what she got. But this is hardly cheering you up. Is it at least distracting?” She quirked a smile, her rouged lips slanting upward. She seldom ever smiled where it touched both sides. Alyssa Hamilton smirked.
“Yes. And at least I’m not fucking dead.” Christian saw that smirk. Frankly, he rather appreciated it.
“It’s good you’re not dead, I’d have to send you. And I’m fairly sure you’ll scandalize everyone in Heaven.” Alyssa leaned back and laughed. “Sorry, I’m imagining some little old granny fairly swooning when she sees you! You poor thing, you must get your cheeks pinched awfully.”
“Not the ones on my face.” Christian did rather like seeing her laugh. That was a proper distraction. “Last time I was in London, I was waiting in line to post something, and an old woman - proper pensioner - pinched my bum in broad daylight.”
“Well, it’s your fault! It’s all perky, and you wear those tight trousers. You’re just asking for it, mate.” Alyssa couldn’t help the cheeky wink. Blokes never liked it when they were treated like girls, but it tended to amuse her. “You’re lucky I haven’t felt you up yet myself.”
Christian glared, but not for real. “Har har.” He would have reached over and felt her up just because, but that was too far. And there was an ale in the way. He reached for that instead and drained about a quarter in one go.
Instead of groping him, Alyssa let the toe of her heel run over the inside of his calf, near the knee. She smirked as she finished her whisky, eyeing him over her glass. “So. Ready to go? I wasn’t joking.”
Christian didn’t reply until he’d finished the ale. When he did, he went with his gut. “Lead on.”
After putting enough money down to cover the single round they’d had - she had promised to buy - she walked out and got her bearings. Her flat was only a few blocks away, and she only had three keys on her ring. The second one fit, and she went inside. “Oh, this isn’t too bad. At least the girl I replaced was tidy.”
Christian wasn’t drunk, but pleasantly buzzed. Enough to push him over the last little step of giving a shite that she was far younger than him. “How did she manage to fit ... is that a queen bed, in this little place?” He’d had a king, yes, but he’d been able to get it through his doors. It looked as though squeezing a queen mattress in here would have been a tough go.
“Maybe she used a pulley and winched it through the French doors?” Alyssa shrugged as she toed off her heels, moving to the bed to flop on it experimentally. “Ooh, it’s one of those posh mattresses without springs. Her parents must be loaded.”
“Ooh.” Christian did like those. He sat down on the other side, settling his bum a bit. “That is nice. I begin to think maybe you could put a wine glass down and not disturb it.”
“Isn’t that how they advertise mattresses anyway?” She lifted up her hair and unzipped her dress, wondering if he was all bark and no bite. Most blokes did that, but she couldn’t help but wonder if his fictional persona was a lie.
“That’s what I meant.” Christian would have been offended if she’d articulated her thoughts - he talked a lot, but he could back it up bloody well. At least, he’d never had any complaints.
He undid his tie, grimacing at the sweat stains on his shirt. “Why did I not notice how fucking hot it was before?”
“You were angry,” she chuckled, stepping out of her dress. Her bra and panties weren’t sexy - she hadn’t planned on shenanigans before she left for the day - but she figured she had the cute schoolgirl thing working for her.
Turning to face him, she put her knees to her chest, doing her best to look sweet. “So. Are you sad you probably don’t have a dungeon in your house anymore?” She couldn’t help but smirk again, completely ruining her angelic appearance.
He rather liked that smirk, actually. “Nah.” He unbuttoned his shirt, feeling his face contort into a smirk as well. “Sounds like yon wee bastard might be over-compensating for something, in my mind.”
“Too much money and too much free time. He’s got a bloody helicopter,” she laughed. “Unless you live in Sao Paulo or work at a hospital, that’s not necessary. Or if you’re in war. That’s what they’re designed for.” She poked at his thigh with a toe, nail painted dark blue. “You’re more well adjusted than he is. I’ll feel sorry for you when the film comes out.”
Christian rolled his eyes. “I just used cabs - though if I lived someplace where it wouldn’t be fucking horrid to keep, I’d love an Aston someday.” He stood up, getting his trousers off. “Though I don’t get the impression you’re interested in cars, milady.” It was half poking fun at her - she was rather posh for her age.
She laughed, flopping back on the bed, rolling a bit. It was comfortable, and the sheets were soft. Maybe she had replaced some trust fund brat. “You just want to be James Bond,” she teased. Her eyes went down to his bottom and she smirked again. “I don’t hate cars, I just haven’t really had use for them since I learned to teleport.”
“Fair, I suppose.” He was still wrapping his head around that; he needed to focus on things that were more real. “Condoms around, d’you know?”
“Got one in m’purse,” Alyssa beamed. “The girl I replaced must be loaded and smart. Sort of a pity she’s gone, really.” She hopped up to grab her purse and the condom, handing it over with a flourish. “This is very seductive, you know. Not that I’m complaining. I’m not really a girl who likes when a bloke fawns all over her.” Which was true: she wasn’t a damsel, she didn’t need courting.
“If you’re not complaining, then don’t.” Christian raised an eyebrow. “You did say you weren’t a dizzy uni girl.” He didn’t do the hearts and flowers bit. Sex wasn’t the same thing as romance, and it was just leading someone on to act like it was. “D’you think this girl had any ties about?”
“I wasn’t,” she eyerolled. But he did have a good point. “Nope, but I bet I can scrounge up something.” She left for a moment and returned with four workout elastics. “Here we go. These work better than you’d think.”
“I’m game if you are.” Christian wasn’t sure, but he’d give it a go. “I’m sorry, milady, but being romantical with someone you don’t intend to date just smacks of dishonesty. I’d be happy to lie to you if you ask me to, but not before then.” He pushed her backward, glad the bed had a complicated headboard to tie things to.
“Romance is overrated. Blokes do it to ensure sex because they think girls expect them to.” She gasped and grinned as he tied her wrists. “I’ve used these loads of times. They have some give, but not too much. They tend to chafe, but that’s okay by me.” Pain was okay with Alyssa. She offered him one milk-white ankle, smirking at him. “There you go, Sir Grey.”
“As long as that’s clear. I don’t actually want to cause pain anyone hasn’t consented to.” Christian shrugged. Safer all around. “It’s as if people think being mildly kinky and being polite are mutually exclusive.” He did the tying for the rest of her limbs, looking at her first. “That’s all right, yeah?” She was attractive, he had to admit.
“Oh, I’ll bruise like a peach,” Alyssa sighed. “I’ve always liked being pale, but some blokes worry like I’m going to sue them or something if I get a random love mark. Safe word’s banana, by the by.” She struggled a little to test her bonds, finding them satisfactorily tight. “All right, then.” She couldn’t help but be amused at how easy this all was. It was like she’d known him for years, but at the same time, she really wanted to snog him.
“Fair enough, luv.” Christian suddenly smirked, and without a word of warning, he went to. He preferred it that way; no silly build-up, no awkward protestations of anything. It didn’t make sense to call it anything but what it was - a good time with no strings.
And Alyssa really didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. She hoped her neighbors had good soundproofed walls, otherwise they were going to think she was being murdered.
He used his tongue first, then his hands - she’d said she liked a bit of pain, and pushing women into slightly awkward positions did wonders for that reflex. One time she wriggled a bit too much, and he let fly, hoping he’d leave a handprint on her pale little bum. She’d stop him if she wanted to, after all; he hadn’t gagged her.
Why would she stop him? This was what she’d wanted, what they’d both wanted. It was only natural during times of stress to reach out for creature comforts, and for Christian Grey, there was one thing he enjoyed indulging in above all others. Alyssa didn’t mind providing that. It was turning out to be in her top five sexual encounters.
Christian was pleasantly surprised by how willing and ready Alyssa seemed. He’d thought she would frankly be a dead lay, but she was active and engaged. Definitely better than her age. If he stopped to think about it, he might even be grateful.
Eventually he untied her, and she rubbed at her raw wrists. “Mmm, these are already bruising,” she laughed, showing him one. “Sometimes I think I bruise if someone stares at me too hard. Well done, you.”
“Better than I expected.” Christian was honest.
Her blue eyes went wide and she couldn’t help a chuckle of disbelief. “Oi! What were you expecting then, that I’d just lay there and look virginal?” She swatted at him. “You’re lucky you’re handsome, you are.”
“Frankly, that’s been my experience with uni girls.” Christian ducked, still amused. “Flat stupid.”
“Okay, that’s fair. You forget, I have to interact with them. Sometimes I feel like a spy. They think I’m one of them. I’ve assimilated into the hive of teenage stupidity. Must not mention books. Giggle about One Direction and hair flip.” She sat up to undo her ankle bonds.
Christian got up as well, not offering to assist with anything as she clearly had a handle on it. “God, that’s a boy band, isn’t it,” he said, half amused, looking around for the loo. “I never knew what to make of those. I could never tell if they were all ponces or if they would get every woman in a ten mile radius.”
“Both. I think there’s probably a bit of both. But come on, no boy’s writing those songs, it’s some middle-aged woman who probably reads Harlequin romance novels. ... no offense.” She rubbed at her ankles before moving off of the bed and looking for a t-shirt or something to wear. She was cold. “Girls my age gobble it up without thinking about how the messages are sort of inherently problematic.”
“I’d rather be from a fucking Harlequin romance novel, thank you. At least those are recognized shite.” He found the loo, opening the door and cracking it so as to keep talking. “What do you read? And if you tell me hipster bollocks like Salinger or Ayn Rand, I’ll run out the door without my kit, I swear.” If this girl liked The Fountainhead, he just might.
“Did you know that each of their imprints has a genre? They have the fantasy ones - werewolves and vampires and such - and they have an Americana one where the bloke must be either a fireman, police officer, or serviceman. I’m not kidding.” She found a large white undershirt that skimmed her hips and a pair of panties that fit well. They weren’t her tastes, but whatever, she’d go out and replace her wardrobe later.
“Me? I read biographies mostly. Oh, and historical fiction, but it has to be rooted in some sort of research. I loved The Alienist. I read an amazing biography on the Marquis de Sade,” she chuckled. “That was a nutter. BDSM as a sexual activity doesn’t come close to what he imagined. We should really substitute the sadism for spanking or something in the acronym.”
“Which biography, the new one? The Man and His Age? Because that one’s got all the juicy bits in it. He really was a proper madman.” Christian finished cleaning up, padding back into the bedroom to get his pants and trousers. “I read that book on an aeroplane once. Flew from Shannon to New York City with my seatmate giving me the hairy eyeball.” The perverse side of him had appreciated the joke.
“That one was brilliant, yeah.” She chuckled to herself, sitting down and fiddling with the telly. “Oh, admit it, you liked her glaring at you. Half of this subculture is the adrenaline rush. S’why my ex used to collar me before fancy parties. Granted, it didn’t have rings or anything on it, but he used to call me ‘kitten’ and ‘darlin’’ all the time.” She shook her head. “Eventually his objectification of me got boring.”
Christian stared. “So let me get this straight. This older ex of yours put a bloody collar on you before ... what, don’t tell me you went to fucking fetish balls.” He laughed delightedly. She looked as innocent as Pollyanna. That did amuse him, oh, yes.
“I said fancy parties. I’ve never been to a fetish ball. He said he didn’t want to share, which I appreciate.” She stared right back at him, chin raised in pride. “But he was a professor, so sometimes he’d have to go to parties. Hobnob with others in the ivory tower, so to speak. He liked having me there. Inappropriateness snuck into proprietary or something else equally silly.” She curled her legs under herself, looking at him. “I’m sure you’re the prince of fetish balls,” she smirked.
“Fetish balls are boring.” Christian shook his head, still amused. “I’ve been to one, and it was all people trying to be the most outrageous one in the room, which made them all look like twats. But that scenario of yours is rather nice. Surprisingly kinky, for a professor.”
“They seemed rather silly. Besides, I don’t think I’d like group sex. I prefer one-on-one power struggles.” She smiled at him and shrugged a shoulder. “James was, yeah. Great lay, bad boyfriend. Too bad we can’t have it both ways.”
“What, having someone who’s a good lay and significant other?” Christian raised an eyebrow. “Not bloody likely, I’m afraid.” He tried to be a good lay, but he was a terrible boyfriend.
“Eh. I’ll keep looking. It’s easier when I know I’m looking for just one or the other.” She smirked at him as she stretched. “Too bad I can’t find a boyfriend who’s all right with me finding someone who’s a good shag.”
“Well, I’m happy to be the shag.” Christian began to dress. “But I don’t do long term.” He’d tried that; it hadn’t worked.
“You’ve said,” she replied, not looking at him. She was rifling through a drawer, looking at the status of her new accounts. She was always practical.
“Couldn’t recall; I’m slightly tipsy, and I always get a bit happy after getting off.” Christian couldn’t remember half of what he said right after he’d said it.
She smiled at him, handing him her mobile. “Here. In case you need cheering up sometime.”
His first instinct was to decline, but this was unusual circumstances. “Ta,” he said instead, inputting his mobile number. “Might change, if I can get out of this stupid Wall Street job and fuck back off to Ireland.”
“Well, one never knows.” She held out her palm for his mobile, still smirking.
He handed it over, not entirely sure it was the right idea, but whatever. He could always block her if it got weird. “One bloody well hopes so.”
After entering her number, she resumed rooting through her desk, bare legs akimbo. “Well, cheers, have fun then.” Alyssa gave him a small wave, wondering why he was still there.
He was still buttoning his damned shirt. “Can you pop me back to New York, please?” Christian asked, wanting to get going.
She nodded. “Of course. Anywhere in particular, Mister Grey?” She couldn’t help smirking up at him, using her best little girl voice. It was still a bit surreal; she’d just shagged Christian Grey.
“Let’s say Times Square.” Christian smiled archly, finishing his shirt buttons.
“All right, then.” She stood up, still wearing her t-shirt and panties. “Let’s go then.” She knew nobody would care if she was in Times Square half naked. Turning, she splashed the door to her bathroom three times, watching it glow.
Christian was amused. “Ta very much,” he said. “That really never gets less unusual, you know.” He stepped through, sketching a half-salute to the girl before starting to try and get his bearings.