Blaze of Chaos

by C. J. Strange

  “Perimeter still secure, lassie,” says Duncan, ignoring ‘the eejit’ as he would call our fiery cohort. “Everything all right?”

  “A minor security issue with the beacon I sent out, but we saw that one coming. Oliver caught it, we hope in time. But we should probably keep our guard up for a bit to make sure we’re in the clear, keep watch and keep our wits about us. Savvy?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve got the first shift,” Alfie volun-tells us, a spark of aggression bolstering his words. I have no idea what Duncan and he were discussing before the Scotsman dashed off to do his security duties, but it was apparently triggering enough that he feels the need to assert his alpha masculinity for our little brigade of refugees.

  In the interest of letting sleeping dogs lie—or, in this case, letting quiet embers smolder—I agree. None of us are surprised when Oliver suggests he monitor the beacon’s signal for any signs of interaction or interference, and I fetch him a pair of soft, snug jeans so that he doesn't have to endure this world-flipping tragedy in his underpants any longer.

  With Oliver wrapped in an old quilt in the passenger’s seat of the van, content to be alone with his technology, I draw both sets of galley curtains and finally reconvene with Duncan in the rear lounge area. The jitters from the lads’ appearance have petered out, and I need to have a serious word with my right-hand man.

  “You doing good, lass?”

  I expel whatever air is left in my lungs as I loiter over the threshold. That’s a jolly good question, and I don’t want to be dishonest with him. Am I ‘doing good’? In a word, no. We’ve lost potentially eighty-plus percent of our brigade, folk of all genders and walks of life I once fought for freedom alongside. Folk I considered family for years, after losing what little of my own I had left.

  But, all things considered, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t ‘doing good’. I’m keeping it together, at least, which is probably the main gist of his question.

  “I’m lucid. Oliver’s settling down. Not a peep from Alfie yet, which I reckon is a good thing.”

  “Aye. If we start seeing his fireworks, we’ll know there’s a second helping of shit gonna be hitting the fan.”

  Duncan looks cozy on the sofa. Initially, I target one of the matching chairs perpendicular to it, but for a reason I don’t want to think on too much, I bypass it completely and sink down onto the settee. I barely leave a hair’s breadth between the two of us, my thigh pressing against his through two pairs of jeans.

  “What about you? How are you coping?” I ask, lowering my voice considerably.

  He nods.

  I sigh heavily. “It’s having to sit here and wait that’s bloody killing me.”

  “The waiting?”

  “Yes. I can’t stand it. It sounds sick, but I would rather just... know either way. Rather than have to sit here alternating thumbs in my arse.”

  “Aye. Distraction?”

  “Ugh, maybe. Probably That would be good.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t know. Does it make me sound like a horrible person if I admit that I’m much more—I’m relieved now I know the three of you are at least safe?”

  “You’re relieved ‘cause this means there may be others out there still alive, I don’t see anything wrong with that.” A dull chuckle rumbles up from his chest. “I’ll take the compliment either way.”

  “One of these days, love, I’m seriously going to teach you the value of learning how to fucking whisper.”

  His hand curls wordlessly over one of my knees, a fairly chaste and innocent action. I inhale in both satisfaction and need, which is a strange blend. In that one instant, I’ve suddenly become acutely aware of how dry my mouth is.

  “You trust Alfie up there on his larry?” he asks after a while, in the closest thing he has to the formerly-requested whisper.

  I only hesitate for a fraction of a second before nodding. “I think our biggest problem is him possibly being a bit too security-happy. He’s got our backs.”

  Duncan’s hand still swaddles my knee. I drape my own on top, applying pressure to the tips of my fingers to affectionately massage the tendons between his own. The happy little grunt he offers in reaction only spurs me on, wordless assent that this is not an entirely inappropriate time. I lean in to rest the side of my head on his shoulder.

  The additional contact, regardless of its scarcity, ignites a familiar warmth between my thighs.

  I’m momentarily grateful that Duncan is the type of man who never judges me. For anything. It’s, well… it’s not like this is the aftermath of a regularly-scheduled mission, or we’re congratulating ourselves for walking away from a raid in one piece. People we love are missing, people we’ve worked alongside are dead. This is a different type of adrenaline rush.

  As if in some sort of metaphorical running jump, my hand wraps around his and tugs it further up my leg. I can sense each and every one of his fingertips as they leave thin, tingling trails in their wake, all at the same time. The edge of his thumb brushes a nerve ending inside my thigh, and I don’t hold back a soft vocal acknowledgement.

  At first, he’s hesitant—he’s probably worried about ‘taking advantage’, or something equally as ridiculous considering I’m clearly the one instigating it all. He’s a gentleman, he’s always been that way. Once he understands how rather insistent I am upon my own consent, I feel his resistance slacken and he allows me to slowly plunge his fingers between my thighs.

  With a gruff noise I’m familiar with as one of pleasure and not protest, Duncan shifts his weight in order to kiss the top of my head. “You sure?” he utters, his breaths hot and ragged through my hair. “Oliver’s nae eighteen feet that way.”

  “You know him when he’s got his mind set on a task, he’ll be in there until we drag him out. He had my headphones on when I left, anyway.”

  A nudge from Duncan slips his hand further between my thighs, and I gasp silently as his thumb catches on the crotch of my jeans. The reverberations ripple through both layers of fabric, denim and cotton, with ease. I can’t help a slight tremor against his massive body.

  “What about your wee dafty upstairs?”

  “Same.” I bite my lip as he sinks his hand deeper between my thighs, deliberately catching the zipper of my jeans and giving it a rough tug on the way down. “They’re both good lads, keen lads. Minds on the job.”

  “Aye, and the two of us?”

  I roll my head to glare up at him coyly through messy blonde tresses. My thighs squeeze around his hand, so vexingly explorative against the now open crotch of my trousers. I’ve said it so many times already tonight, but I don’t care. I don’t even feel bad. Not right now, at least. This is the distraction I want—no, the distraction I need. A fine but fleeting dream to momentarily oust the nightmare that is our current reality. And, judging from the hunger in Duncan's eyes, he’s in the exact same place.

  Are a few dozen seconds of rare ecstasy really such a sin?

  “They told us to rest for the next little while here, so I plan on doing exactly that. Resting.” Regardless of how my legs are clenched together, his hand is still able to snake its way into my jeans, past the half-open zipper, and curl itself around the warm, cotton-clad mound waiting for it inside. Swallowing a whimper, I stalk his hand with one of my own. His free hand is around my wrist before I even know he's moved, and I cry out in reaction to him using his speed Magick for the first time during this session.

  “Hey!” I hiss, more hushed than necessary, but my last outburst was so loud I’m feeling a little paranoid. Duncan just grins back at me, his eyes dark and thirsty, and eases my wrist down against the couch without letting it go.

  “Let’s just put this down here for a tick,” he teases, and as he shifts his weight on the couch to resituate himself, my stomach wrings itself out in the most pleasant way possible. Duncan Doherty may be quiet and stoic and a little bit of a gentle giant on the outside (at least, until you hurt someon
e he cares about or dare to insult that star midfielder of United’s with the man-bun), but inwardly, he can be much more sinister. And controlling. And cruel, in the best way possible.

  It’s a fact most wouldn't believe if told, given how Duncan conducts himself around others. He’s a bit of a dark horse.

  “You’re a dick,” I declare, my voice barely louder than a breath. The purr of a laugh he answers me with can only be compared to the sound of leather over silk. Or skin.

  “Nae dick for you tonight, Starling.” He’s maneuvering our bodies again, twisting my legs up onto the sofa so that he can pin one of my knees to the back of it with his shoulder. I feel a little exposed with my thighs spread apart, but when I try to draw them closed, Duncan grabs one and pushes it down again. My pussy is half-swathed in folds of denim, knickers damp from all of his teasing. He stares at me and makes a show of licking his lips.

  “Naught with any thrusting. I ain’t rocking this van when we got company in it.”

  I have to admit, being sprawled and spread before Duncan would definitely count as one of my ‘happy places’, which are things I don’t have many of these days. So I ensure I always cherish those I can still flee to.

  He looks down on me, hungrily. The warmth and weakness and pure wanton lust that comes pouring out of his eyes holds me hypnotized, regardless of his lack of any inhuman abilities in that area.

  As always, he's just as keen to embrace his temporary role of the predator to my prey as I am, in order to escape our problems and let off some much-needed steam.

  “It’ll be all right, Dee-Dog,” I croon, cocking my head to the side and braving the faintest twist of my lips. It feels good to smile, if only for a short while. “I know how proper resourceful you are as a member of this brigade. I’ve got every faith in you that you’ll deduce us a nice Plan B.”

  “Aye, you know me so well.”

  Now, I’m in no way saying that flirting or foreplay or even full sexual intercourse with an Anomaly who knows how to use their abilities sensually is better than doing it with a non-Magickal human—a ‘Milly’, some of us call them, meaning they're ‘run-of-the-mill’. But I am going to say that you definitely shouldn’t knock it until you’ve given it a damn good try.

  The sudden buzz is so out of the blue that I can’t help another cry as a jolt of electric pleasure bucks my hips high off the settee. If the shape and dexterity of the very organic object between my legs didn’t feel so much like the familiar ridge of his hand, I could easily be convinced he’s switched it out for a vibrator or some other kind of toy.

  The joys of having an Anomaly with inhuman strength and speed for a fuckbuddy will never cease.

  “Oh, shit, Dee…” I mouth more than say, another sharp pulse of vibration teasing a groan from the back of my throat. My eyes roll up, my head rolls back, and I let my fingers fall either side of me to dig into the leather cushion.

  Every second we have together as normal, ordinary people is so precious. And my gratitude that neither of the lads has walked in on us is beginning to reach new levels.

  Especially, I might add, as my hips roll up deeply into the palm of Duncan’s hand, and I have to throw one of my own across my mouth to work back the scream that’s trying to tease its way out of my throat.

  This… this is just what we needed.

  No mess, no fuss, and most assuredly no guilt.

  No ado about nothing, what-so-ever.

  5 Oliver’s Own Personal Hell

  Oh my gif, oh my gif… they fully, totally, and one-hundred percent completely cannot be doing the thing that I think is the thing that they’re doing…

  But they are, verity tells the voice in my mind, which is scrounging for any sort of alternate activity the other two B.L.A.Z.E. members might be enjoying that could involve soft gasps and gentle moans.

  Stop thinking about it, I instruct myself with a shiver. Think about the police scanner instead.

  It’s good advice, which is unusual coming from me. I’m crap at advice. I’ve always been crap at advice. I’m not dissuaded by it; I’m gifted at a great many things, but advice-giving is not one of them, and that’s fine. On this occasion, though, I’ve sussed it out pretty well: don’t focus on the stuff that’s going to leave me scarred.

  No. Come to think of it, scarred isn’t the word.

  The word I’m looking for is, alarmingly and ashamedly, umbrageous.

  Hello, my name is Oliver Elias Porter and I love unnecessarily ostentatious words.

  It makes zero logical sense for me to feel shady or sullen at all, especially when it comes to Penny and her sex life. Which is why as I muse on it, curled up in a warm blanket that’s saturated in her scent, I’m not taken aback that it’s not a sense of envy I’m experiencing per se, but more a sense of omission.

  Do I… do I want to be involved somehow?

  My forced throat-clearing is a tad louder than anticipated. But it does the job, to yank me off of that train of thought, and I’m pretty sure Penny and Duncan are too preoccupied to hear it.

  It’s not like I’ve got nothing to do. I probably shouldn’t be sitting here on my laurels, earwigging two of my best mates while they have it off. Duncan’s been a stereotypical big brother to me ever since he dragged me aboard to assist B.L.A.Z.E. with a hacking raid to prove and publicize Sovereignty vote-rigging, and I never disembarked. I can’t tell if they adopted me or I adopted them. But all rescued kitten metaphors aside, even though I’ve been nursing a massive crush on Penny from the time I first saw her with her I-don’t-care hair and cheeky lopsided smirk, I’ve always been firm in my decision to follow my head instead of my heart.

  I may have had no idea that she and Duncan were an item, but Alfie’s feelings for Penny are both fiery and formidable. From what I’ve witnessed, they always have been. And in my eighteen months with B.L.A.Z.E., I have not once felt any desire to test his patience regarding them.

  Besides, these people are my family. They’ve fostered me, loved me and made me feel like I’m one of them, which is honestly something I’ve never felt with any group of people before. Ever. I don’t want to do anything to risk losing that.

  Bit late now.

  A flash of light and heat overwhelms me, and I hear the bombs going off. The shouting. The gunfire. The screams. I sit bolt upright and it all melts away, leaving me alone in the front seat of Penny’s camper van.

  “Don’t think,” I mumble to myself, and I shift in the leather chair. “Focus.”

  At my left is my to-do list, scrawled on an empty takeaway bag in green Sharpie. It’s short, but I’m a visual person so I like to see everything written out in front of me. Other than continuously monitoring Penny’s SOS beacon for suspicious interaction, I’ve proactively tasked myself with keeping an eye on my police scanning software, fully updating all of Penny’s spare laptop’s drivers and security features, and devising a method of contacting Captain Copeland and the active team. The second bullet point has a thick line all the way through it. I’ve also created a second list of jobs Penny may want to consider delegating once she’s finished doing… uh, Duncan.

  Because there’s no way he wears the trousers in that relationship. And if he does, Penny gets to choose which ones he gets to wear.

  And here I am, thinking about it again. Thinking about them. I ask myself what I would even do if I was in there, what sort of role I could play. My brain is slipping in a direction that I never had even considered before. Them… and me. Even if Penny and Duncan did want to put that whole ‘three’s a crowd’ theory to the test, why in Britain would they choose someone like me as their third wheel? It’s not as if I’m a seasoned veteran at any of this, I would probably end up mucking the whole thing up for everybody else.

  Besides, other than my Sovereignty-championed white male privilege, what right do I have to sit here imagining myself as an addition to their post-danger sexcapades? Should I really be doing that? Isn’t that a little creepy?

  Focus.

  T
he dial tone against my ear, as my mobile signal bypasses the regular satellite route and runs through a B.L.A.Z.E.-friendly receiver down in Oxford, is enough to temporarily drown out the now more frequent whispers from two curtains away. I chew my lip, cross my fingers, and try not to hold my breath. But Captain Copeland’s phone goes dead without a single ring.

  All right. Okay. I mustn’t panic. Even if this is the fifth failed attempt at reaching him, panicking is not a selectable option at current. It’s grayed out, and my player’s cursor won’t even allow them to select it. I reopen my monitoring software and place my mobile back on the arm of the seat in easy view. In another five minutes, I can try again.

  Unless he calls me back first. That’s always a possibility I can’t rule out.

  Or, at this point, can I?

  A flurry of motion from outside startles me, and I physically jump in my blanket bundle. Encouraging my heart to please remove itself from my mouth until there’s a reason for it to be there, I watch Alfie straighten up where he landed next to the van and slowly but sternly stalk his way over to the same alleyway we approached via earlier.

  I sit up more in my seat. My trainers lower to the floor. What did he see? Or what did he hear? While his Anomaly abilities offer no real enhancements to his biological physique other than, apparently, immunity to fire and heat, his human senses seem sharp enough. Ergo, his heightened alert does set me on edge, enough that if Penny and Duncan have made any further noises in the past minute or so, I haven’t heard any of it. Which is actually a bit of a blessing in disguise.

  One of Alfie’s hands is raised, cupping a tiny but brilliant flame not unlike how a copper might hold a torch. The radiant orange glow illuminates a rusted skip, rubbish bins, and a stack of broken wooden pallets as Alfie wields it left and right, advancing a few steps further.

  I wonder if he wants me to go out and back him up? I suddenly think, gnawing at one nail. That might be the most productive thing I could do. Or will he get aggro with me for making a whole bunch of noise?