Gods & Monsters

Prologue

He hopes she does.

"Bixenman," she manages to grit out before smoothly moving past him—making no small show of taking the longest route, the route that leads her the farthest from Jacob. Don't want to touch the wild animals and all that.

He laughs out loud as she exits, throws his head back and everything. It's not that funny but he wants to make a point. Rude cow.

When he quiets, lowers his head, he meets Timothee's eye, who's smirking as well, looking pleased and bored. As he always does. He looks extra preppy today—got one of his white polo t-shirts on and those ridiculous jeans that look worn and torn because children in sweatshops were told to rip things just so. His trainers are enormous and spotless, his watch looks two stone, and his hair is styled as much as it can be, considering there isn't that much there.

"Bixenman," Timothee echoes, but his tone, unlike the sea witch, is colored with intrigue and delight and all the other flavors of one who's being met with their entrée.

"You called?" Jacob begins, blinking prettily and tilting his head to the side coquettishly, just for good measure, because he knows his eyes look better in the light, he knows his cheekbones cut the air. He's got a good lure, he'll be honest. If there's one thing Jacob's got, it's sex appeal. Nobody's ever said no to him before.

Timothee observes the movements with eyes that flash—Jacob doesn't miss it, never does—and smirks a bit wider, unabashedly ogling the boy before him. Which is fine. A+, even. It's only a matter of time before Jacob ensnares Timothee. The boy's not made of steel—he'll break. They always do.

And this is one break Jacob needs.

"Your hair," Timothee responds with, slowly beginning to walk towards him, hands in the pockets of those hideous jeans. He doesn't so much walk as strut—it's the prowl of the wealthy, of the popular, of the powerful. Timothee walks powerfully. It grates upon Jacob as much as it pulls him in. He needs powerful, he needs wealth. He's poor as shit and even more aimless, doesn't even have a proper home—just sleeps in boys' beds and on mates' couches and he works a shit job as a bartender/busboy because he dropped out of school because... Well. That's a whole story.

Point is, Jacob could use someone like Timothee. He's not big on love and romance and normalcy—people are scum, to be quite honest—but he's not opposed to finding a steady source of income that comes with a side of excellent sex. And, no, he's never quite had sex with Timothee, but.

But he'll break.

"You look like a street urchin," he continues, his eyes solid and rich and relaxed as he reaches Jacob, moving to touch the styled hair, which is getting a bit longer than he usually keeps it, tousled because Jacob's likes to look striking, likes to look on point.

Jacob smacks his hand away immediately—no touching. Unless it's an erogenous zone, nobody can fucking touch. Personal space, thanks. "The fuck is that? A street urchin," he mocks easily, a spark of amusement flitting through him at Timothee's blink of surprise. Not so powerful now, eh?

Clouds overcast Timothee's face as he examines his reprimanded hand, his thick brows drifting together in irritation. "A tart," he says curtly.

"Ah," Jacob nods calmly, watching Timothee flex his fingers with complete indifference. "Well. Never said I wasn't one."

Timothee's lips curl into a bit of a sneer. Jacob couldn't give less of a fuck.

"So," Timothee begins, walking away, and his voice is no longer mischievous, but to-the-point. He always gets this way whenever he can't dick Jacob around. Such a little spoiled prince. Which comes as no surprise, really—only child of two evil and sickeningly rich war lords and the town's Golden Boy? With a future paved in promise and ass-kissing? Timothee's just a product of his environment. Maybe that's why Jacob doesn't completely hate him—he's a product of his, too.