Although he had had a little rocky reunion with his boyfriend. Jesse was happy to have the boy back as his own. Yeah, he was a member of the biggest, baddest gang in the whole of America, but he had a soft spot for the boy he loved. Not to forget the fact that he was probably the most possessive being on this Earth. He didn’t share. Hell to the fucking no. What was his, was his. No one else’s.
After shopping for a couple of things, the gang member headed straight for his apartment and tossed the bags on his bed, stripping down and jumping straight into the shower. Jesse walked out, steam glazed over his sculpted body as he wrapped a towel around his waist. After a moment of two, Jesse was in a pair of white briefs with small feathery white wings on his back and a bow and arrow slung across his chest. Tonight, he was going to be Cupid.
Black ink was spread over specific sections his tanned, olive skin; the rose vines on the left side of his waist crept up a little up his rib cage, an angel on his arm dropped cards, the gang’s motto inscription etched over his right rib cage - Mess with the best and die like the rest - and the newest addition of it all, a small shadow of Jesse and Hayden standing in each other’s embraces, the shorter male looking up and the older boy - the older boy holding his heart behind his back, meaning he was going to hand it to Hayden - something he had obviously already done, over his left peck where his heart ought to be.
He ran his fingers over the tattoo and awaited his boyfriend’s arrival, walking back and forth as he nibbled on his lower lip, excitement and nervousness flooding his being. As much as he wasn’t confident with it, Jesse was keen to try and make love to the boy. Even if it meant he had to go slow enough that it killed him. Hayden and his pleasure was important tonight, not him.
Therapy. A very nice type of therapy. I thought yous were leaving, boyo. Still ‘ere? Or, do ye still want to talk, about yer lovely relationship with Hayden?
Stay away from both Hayden and Evan.
Right, with yer machine gun, ya? I’ll be going ‘round digging up corpses like fookin’ Ed Geins. Ye sure act American. Empty threats, pretty boy features, talk about machine guns an’ what not.
Now t’at is something I easily can say no to because no one tells me what t’a fook to say. I already am friends with t’a fella. He likes me. So does everyone in Evan life. Ye don’t call t’a shots ‘round ‘ere an’ if ye did ‘ere before, well, yer shite out of luck. I make t’a threats an’ I fookin’ go through with it all. I wonder if Evan is still ‘igh as fook.
WHAT DID YOU DO TO EVAN!?
Whoa whoa whoa. Finnick. Chill. *pushes him away* Go. I’ll take care of this. *continues to shove him away*
All talk is what yous are, fella. All fookin’ talk. Ye go about saying shite like machine guns an’ when I ask fer yous to lay one on me ye walk off. What a threat. Sleep with one eye open? Is t’at what Americans say? Jaysus t’at’s hysterical.
Next time ye actually want to ‘ave a real conversation call me. Or, maybe, I’ll just call Hayden. He likes me.
All talk? Ask that to corpses buried all around the state. *laughs* I’m not American, ya minger. I’m British, so don’t act like you fucking know me. *still in the process of walking off, and then turns around at Hayden’s name* What the fuck? Stay away from Hayden.
My fookin’ mafia runs all over Ireland. I ‘ave fella’s in prison who’d laugh at a pretty boy like yous. Yer full of shite if ye t’ink getting rid of someone so easily by using a gun is going to solve all yer problems. T’at’s t’a t’ing with gangs against mafias. Too quick to t’ink. I’d rather ‘ave my victim mentally tormented t’an get something done so fast. Ye wouldn’t last a minute where I was brought up in. T’a slums of Ireland. I’d love to see yous try an’ skin me alive.
Ye can go on an’ do it now. Do it. I dare yous. Put yer adorable ‘ands on me an’ try it.
As much as I’d like to sit here and listen to your life story and record your memoirs for you, I’ve gotta be somewhere.
I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of me putting my hands on you, ya pervert. You’re not my type. If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open. And I’d count my blessings. Cos you just got lucky. *skulks off with a grumbling Finnick*
Look at what we ‘ave ‘ere! Ye got yourself a body guard? Fookin’ priceless. Expected, but still, I should frame t’is moment. A machine gun ye say? Ye know cowards use weapons like guns. Takes a real fookin’ man to use their fists an’ just by yous sayin’ a machine gun; what are yous? Getting lines out of a film? Ye know there are so many different methods to choose to kill someone.
Now, why t’a fook would I tell yous why I’m ‘ere? I’m not an eejit. I won’t go into specifics, but ye can guaran fookin’ tee, I’m part of t’a Irish mafia. Yer empty threats mean nothing to me. Now fook off an’ let me talk to t’a fella who so kindly wanted to get on my good side.
I’m not his bodyguard. But he obviously doesn’t think twice before thinking. *keeps trying to shove Finnick off* Cowards? Yes. But it’s the fastest and most effortless way to get rid of an annoying little prick. However, if I was in the mood, I’d skin you and feed you to that silly little posse you call the Irish Mafia. Your gang happens to be a fucking rip off version of my gang, excuse the fuck outta you. So fuck before things go down.
So? It doesn’t mean you gotta be an asswipe about it. Sheesh. Sooooo close to calling you a leprechaun with all this Irish talk……
I suggest fer yer own safety ye walk away. Now. If ye fookin’ call me a leprechaun I’ll cut yer tongue out, cut it up into one of my ma stew, an’ feed it to fookin’ Hannibal Lecter fer all I care. I just want yous to stop talking.
*interrupts* And if you cut his tongue out, Darren, I’ll be glad enough to empty a machine gun into your body, you fucker. What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? *shoves Finnick into the opposite direction* Now answer my fucking question.