Interlude }{ Nyx, rated

[Sebastian Duvalle]

It was clear to anyone how entirely self-conscious Sebastian Duvalle felt about this situation; it was obvious he had never wanted – or planned – to engage himself to such a circumstance, as find himself unable to move backwards, away from this vicious blackmail, and into the safe arms of his Nene. However, he could never risk hurting her like he had other young women who had experienced his former, fierce epicurean needs. He was positive that Rosier, who was a very thorny rose he felt like stomping anytime now, received sick amusement for it. Was it not ironic to blame her? And how could he? After all, he had been like that; and perhaps in some aspects still was. People did not just change, or so he believed. In aspects of the bed, he was the one to have manipulated and used people. What changed now? That he was with Shenea, and that she had been the one who made him feel like he needed no one to fulfill his needs? That for the first time he had found the girl who could emotionally be attached to him, without this being painful?

His relationship with Shenea had clattered, and was facing a precipice; however, he was not in the least willing to let her go. He was obsessed over her, and loved her. And so he could not afford harming her; sleeping with Alina had been a mistake, but he would never have Nene find out about this, and Diomedea had said she would not spill the beans. He should have known Alina would tell someone; girls did that. Stupid girls. “Fuck me,” he cursed under his breath, as he walked across the hallways, dark, with the only source of light coming from the fire from the torches. His hands were stuffed inside the pockets of his trousers, and his face bore an expression of utter disdain, and impatience to get this over with. It was sick! To seduce a homosexual girl, and just because of amusement. She was sick! But then again, had he not been too? Could he honestly say he still was not? He could not lie to himself, but in such moments it is far better to accuse the other than oneself.

[Nyx M Treassa]

Merlin, she was in so much trouble. It started innocently enough with an unintentional, drunken kiss with a well hated Slytherin girl. Diomedea was a pretty girl in a cold, withdrawn kind of way. Nyx couldn’t help but feel attracted to her, probably because she knew that it was going to hurt and that Diomedea would screw with her. At least that’s what she thought while she was totally plastered. Either way it had started with a kiss. Then there was that dream, and Izzy was right there- a soft whimper escaped her lips- how could she have been so stupid?! Diomedea hurt Izzy, her best friend in the world and she was busy whoring out to her, in reality and in fantasy! She was positively sick with herself. So dizzy, her head was spinning and topics were flipping and… Nyx cradled her head.

How could she have been so stupid?

Izzy wouldn’t even acknowledge her and Diomedea didn’t give her a passing glance unless she was openly smirking… She was doing that a lot lately, and it made her feel so worthless! Nyx rocked slightly, but stopped almost immediately. Moving like that upset her stomach and her head. The hallway she was in was already swimming and blurred and moving constantly. Lucky for her and Filch, she could hold her liquor no matter how sick she felt.

And she was definitely holding her liquor tonight.

Resting against her thigh was an empty bottle of rum, and she was cradling a beer to her chest. She’d spent all her money for Hogsmeade on alcohol in the past few days, trying to numb her mind and her stupid, stupid, STUPID self. Nyx arm’s assumed her vulnerable posture, the one that her mother would have identified as the ‘open wound’ posture. Both long, lean, olive arms wrapped around her firm torso as if to protect herself from harm. One curled around her neck, and long, bruised fingers toyed absently with her head of curls. Why did she have to be so stupid…?

[Sebastian Duvalle]

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I know all you need, all you will ever need.”
Diomedea’s words were still ringing in his ears; she really wanted to hurt Nyx, or else she would have never blackmailed him in such a way. After all, she was close with Shenea, he had seen that. They spent time together, and if either of the two girls was more, generally accepted, amiable, they could have been friends. Of course, when you belong in the Slytherin house, you hardly make friends, only allies, and there is a worldly difference to that. But why did she want to hurt Nyx? He knew many people in his House who wanted to harm Gryffindors (the rivalry was extremely intense) and some of them needed no reasons; just because of the House difference. Was this the case now? Was it just a random girl the young woman had picked to play her vicious games on? It did not matter to him, really; he had not grown into a moral, upstanding citizen with a conscience. What he did care about, however, was the fact that if he did not go through with this, his relationship with Nene would be destroyed, and he could not risk that.

He found Nyx Treassa by the corridor, exactly as Diomedea had told him. Something made his stomach tighten, and the muscles from the right side of his face contracted. He had half hoped he would not find Treassa there; then perhaps he could be saved from this sorry-arse job for another time. He grumbled. What was the point? He was going to do it at any rate, no point escaping. The sooner he was over with it, the better. It was so sick and twisted, it made his stomach turn – not because he was a saint (on the contrary), but because he, being a sexist at times, did not have women capable of such a thing. Only men. He looked at a very drunk Nyx standing there in a very self-protecting position. He did not feel good, and stood there, looking at her in silence. “Forgive me,” he breathed through a sigh, and approached the girl. She looked so vulnerable; he was not one of the best men out there, but he just wanted to leave her alone. He did not feel like comforting her, that was not his misery or job to do, and he did not care. He hated and was bored by pitiful girls. He liked them frisky, and Treassa was at the moment disinteresting. Plus, she did not look his kind of feminine, although her pretty face compensated for this. After all, he liked them sturdy, too.

“Pretty lonely in the blues corridor,” he mumbled at her, walked over towards her direction, and then set to seat beside her. He grabbed a bottle, and looked at her. “May I?” he said, and drank from it. Maybe if he poured some of it down his system, it would be less painful. The alcohol burned down his throat, and his lungs, and he welcomedthat relieving sensation. “I have to admit, this is new. Finding a student laid on a deserted corridor long after curfew, drinking her face off? And a girl, on top of that? I’m starting seeing things,” he mumbled, and drank some more. “So, what’s wrong with you?” he asked her, his head turned sideways to face her.

[Nyx M Treassa]

What did it feel like to be so lost? What path was she walking, and where was she going? What was anything in this world anymore, if not a tipsy, swimming ocean of booze and smirking faces? Even her ears were buzzing from the amount of alcohol she’d managed to partake in that evening. She felt empty, stiff, and fragile like a slivery veil of glass and spider webs just waiting to be shattered and ripped apart. The pictures in her head, a photo album’s pages in the wind, perfectly clear and rushing by, too fast for even her delicate and capable fingers to catch. Memories, faces, names, facts, pictures, chores, objects, spells, curses, books, signs, seasons, words, phrases, condolences, fights, friends… They were always rushing by and she never understood why. Nyx was a mutt of humanity, beauty, and brawn, but did it really account for such a useless and ever moving mind? Insanity was just a misstep away, mocking her on the sides. Music was a vine that held her to her path, but even the song in her head had stopped, leaving behind a silence and pages flapping in the wind.

That is what it felt like to be lost.

Where was love, if it wasn’t here? Desiring feminine curves and fatal full-lashed glances, wishing to know another like her who would fit against her in storms and hollow nights? There were some like her, but not like her, and she’d kissed Rosier. A white snake’s grace ensnared a clumsy lion’s cub into her den to toy with and bruise, and bleed, and touch. Curiosity for softer lips upon her own dragged her down and she was fighting the surface. Uncertainty was drowning her, filling her mouth and impairing her, burning down her throat… No, that was the alcohol. How silly! Now she was in the dark with an uneasy feeling, waiting for a viper’s strike to the jugular. She would be fine, as long as she had a guide on her hand to lead her away from wretchedness, and back into a light where she could see even if she could not think. It was Isabella who understood her song and could play with her like an extra set of hands. But she was abandoned, for bites and scales in her flesh, and it was her fault. Nyx had strayed and lost her companion.

Love was nowhere.

Through the buzzing in her ears she could not hear the approaching man, but his voice rang roughly in her head. Glassy, blood-shot (but pretty) eyes lifted from the floor and focused blearily on her guest. They followed the movement of the bottle as it tilted back, and the way his adam’s apple bobbed with the drink. No sensation of lust occurred, of course, but it was interesting to watch. “Mm…” Her voice was thicker with alcohol, and she had to work her mouth around the new sounds coming out.

“Nn, dun’ mind… S’almos’ gone ‘nyway.” Whispery words filtered from these new lips, and her voice almost sounded sensually soft, and not croaky like she expected. They were also particularly loose, as they kept moving when he asked his questions even though it wasn’t any of his business. “M’ntrouble with’a friend…” One of the things Nyx hated the most was being in trouble with a loved one. “Ah did som’n, an’ it ‘urt her…” The Gryffindor shook her head slowly and let her leg stretch out, and her arms drop to the floor between them as a prop. She was in her jeans, as to be expected, but her shirt was tight on her lean frame and stretched over the hint of her breast like a second skin. Vulnerability made it soft.

“I feel real bad abou’ it…”

[Sebastian Duvalle]

Sebastian was shallow at times. And so he did not really care what Treassa’s problems bloody were; what he did care about was the current uptight and precarious situation he was in. Nene would be furious if she found out, but of course Nene would never find out. Diomedea had made a deal with him, and he would take nothing else from this bitchy deal he had arguably gotten himself into. Alina would be kept a secret, and Treassa would be kept a secret, and that is where this game of seduction and dangerous liaisons would end. Still, Sebastian had to be aggreable to the brown-haired butch girl that was now lying on the floor helplessly wasted and utterly miserably-looking beyond her wits. And not just a mere sense of agreeability – he had to be forward to her, charming, helpful, a shoulder she could cry on. He wanted to be no schoulder for the damn girl to cry on! Without Nene he was getting quite edgy, and unpredictable. His muscles were tense, and those in the right side of his face contracted.

He looked at her thoroughly; it could have been worse. Treassa was an alright-looking girl, but Sebastian was not one to have looked for personality traits instead of beauty points, and he believed she was so very little compared to the beauty that was Shenea. Then again, Sebastian was possessive of Nene, and any trait, or curve, or vice, or intonation that did not remind him of her was not worth his attention. Alina had been a mistake, a friend with benefits, and now Treassa was another mistake which he knew he was making this time, but which he could not control.

“What could you possibly have done to hurt her?” he asked with fake interest, his voice a tired drawl, as he turned to look at her tearful eyes that were awashed with regret and misery. His eyes were, however, immediately distracted on the southern regions of her breasts. “You know, instead of wasting yourself, you can talk about it,” he told her silently in his rugged voice that did not this time bear the smooth sound it usually had along. “Get it off your – chest,” he told her, and secretly smirked when she was not looking at him. “Booze is good, I’m telling you, I drink myself, but –” He thought of what to tell her. He chuckled. “When you combine drinking it out with spitting it out, it really helps your system, you know?” His smirk widened; he was not happy about this situation whatsoever, but seeing she too had something to drink about gave him cold comfort.

[Nyx M Treassa]

Wouldn’t it be cool if they were underwater? That’s what it looked like right now, what with the world swimming like it was. Everything had taken to life, moving according to its own desires and shifting, waving around. Nyx wondered quietly what it would be like to live in a world that was constantly moving. Would nothing be as hard as stone, and if it was would it still wiggle? She should ask a professor that, if she remembered it tomorrow. Professors knew everything, but… It would have to be one that was fairly nice to her. Some of them seemed rather exhausted by her slow mental response to everything. That thought upset her and swirled around in her sickly stomach. Why did she have to be such an idiot? Nyx took a slow drink from her beer.

“Nn… I-” Glassy green-blue eyes flicked down to the bottle in her hands, and nervous fingers began working to tear off the label. “Ah kissed a’girl. One thah ‘urt ‘er real bad once. I shoul’a known be’er, ya’know? Buh’ I dun’… M’too dumb tah figure ou’som’n thah easy.” A self-depreciating smile appeared, and to all those who knew her, it looked wrong. Nyx had easy-going smiles, down right hysterical smiles, but she never beat herself up this bad. Maybe it was time she did? She pushed him lightly on the shoulder, too drunk to really worry about who the bloke was. It didn’t matter, right now they were kind of drinking buddies. “ ‘nuff… This’s really m'barassin' n'kin'na depress'n. 'ow'sa'bout a song? I sing real good, ya'know?"

Almost comically, she cleared her throat to clear it. In her head she was flipping through all of her songs, before... Throwing them away. A soft, sensual sound began vibrating from her vocal chords as she hummed a few notes to get herself into the mood. Long lashes fell over her beautiful eyes, and she began singing something soft and smooth.

"Watch out, for the white snake's song,
She'll bite yah' hard n'not let go.
'cause she's cooooold hearted."

Nyx wasn't paying much attention to her words, or the way she was singing. It was more or less nonsensical in her mind, but coming out quite clear and laced with... Thrall. A veela's thrall to be exact, hinted thickly in her drunken voice. Normally Nyx could keep it under control, but tonight... It coated her oozing, lovely vocal.

"Walk in'tah her den, s'your fault
She'll break you down and break you in...
'cause she's coooold hearted~"

A smile twitched her lips, too drunk to notice what was really going on.

[Sebastian Duvalle]

Treassa had kissed a girl. Now normally this would have triggered Sebastian's ultimate curiosity, inspired some really jaw-dropping fantasies overnight and possibly a menage a trois make-believe, for he was not at all certain Nene would be particularly thrilled at the very idea. However, right now, this idea did not excite him much; he was too tense and thinking of the consequences more than a sexy girl-to-girl face-to-face. That was until she started singing; he thought she really was utterly insane, and he couldn't grasp what the hell she was singing about, and if that snake was literal or figurative, but when she reached the second sentence, he slowly let the bottle down on the floor, and carefully looked at her with eyes that glinted with sudden interest. There was something ... something about her voice, something that enticed him, that drew him to her, and which he could not explain. Her voice, shockingly, was suddenly so soft and smooth, and he was almost entranced by it. Suddenly he forgot about Nene, about Diomedea, about the blackmail, about anything else, but focused on this mesmerizing voice that seemed to be getting a firm grasp on him. And when he turned to look at her straight, everything about her face had changed to him, and she looked so ... beautiful. She was the same girl, but now he was not blind to her beauty, which was natural and not plastic. She was not a silicone-boosted, lens-wearing, eyebrow-painting, eyelid-planting, burned bleach blonde hair airhead like so many others. Her hair was brown, and cut, and her eyes were a wonderful shade of emerald green that sparkled in the dim light of the torches vibrantly. Even her fingers looked sculptured, even her cheekbones looked skillfully painted on a pretty drawing. No, he was not suddenly in love with her. He simply could appreciate her beauty more.

It was another kind of beauty, raw, welcoming, enticing, and wild.

So maybe it would not be just a chore to get his hold on her and 'set her right'. Maybe he could even enjoy it. Hell, he could not go back from this! He could not tell Nene about it and he knew Diomedea would not tell her, and Treassa would be too ashamed to tell. And if he was going to go through this road, he might as well enjoy the ride!
This was his mentality, and at this point he could far from separate right from wrong.
His fingers traced her neckline, and then pressed against her chin, turning her to face him. "It's not your fault," he told her vaguely. He did not even understand the situation, who she had kissed with and why it had hurt this other person, but to him it didn't seem to be a big deal anyway. "So stop blaming yourself. Hell, this is life, don't ever take it seriously," he said, and then took another swing from the bottle, and put it on the floor again, turning to look at her. "You know, things like that happen all the time. So what you gonna do about it? Waste away yourself?" he asked her, his gaze piercing into hers. "Don't do this to yourself," he said in an undertone, as he leaned towards her. "Guilt is not a way to go through life." His lips found the side of her neck, and he closed his eyes.

[Nyx M Treassa]

Soothing chords fell away from her lips, leaving the hallway empty again. Nyx didn’t even realize what she had just done, or what that meant for her; it was just singing and she was a bottle too drunk for her nearly six foot, willowy frame. A Veela’s song was like a trigger in a man’s mind, and her mother told her to never, ever sing like that unless it was to someone special. Illume had looked at her little girl’s eyes (as Nyx was quite young when this lesson started being beat into her brain) and told her that the Veela’s song made her just as vulnerable as it made her listener unrestrained. To a lover it was like a sacrifice, a show of pure emotion and desire for them through a Veela’s expression. To a stranger, it was an unwanted invitation.

Never, ever sing like that to a stranger.

His fingers on her neck startled her, and she followed his guide as he tilted her face towards him. Glassy eyes regarded him quietly, a little too unresponsive to be as beauty-filled as they were when sober. Nyx heard his words, but she didn’t believe them. None of them were important, because he didn’t know how badly she messed up, and how guilty it made her feel to realize she hurt her best friend… But the touches on her sensitive neck were so, so distracting.

She wouldn’t argue that her neck was the most sensitive place she had available with her clothes on. Even the slightest touch on the right spot sent a shiver down her body, and make her mind a little blank. Needless to say, the press of lips against it sent a bolt of sensation to her brain and ultimately blew a fuse. Her mind went completely blank, aided by the alcohol, to make her forget that this was a guy kissing her. Nyx blushed (“like a’wusseh girl,” She would shamefully say) and shivered under his lips, and his hand.

It made her forget, and not care as long as he kept that dizzying, blankening sensation up.