Chapter 439: When You Gaze Into The Anus, The Anus Gazes Back

Nash let her stew for exactly three seconds. Then he crossed his arms behind his head, leaned back against the couch, and looked at her with the most judgmental of his expressions.

"Why are you even asking me that?"

"Huh?"

"Just like that. You. A girl from a good family, who reads studies on endurance, who speaks four languages, who makes colored diagrams. What gets into her to ask that to a boy at two in the morning?"

"I... it’s... of the..." She stammered three syllables that didn’t form any word in the only language Nash understood. "It’s scientific curiosity!"

"Scientific."

"Yes!"

"A girl from a good family doesn’t think about those things, Chloé. She thinks about Alexander. About her wedding in the spring. About Biscuit."

"Biscuit has nothing to do with this!"

She shoved his shoulder, then a second time, then a little punch on the arm, another on the shoulder, a rain of little fists that bounced off him like drops on a window. It did absolutely nothing to him. He laughed, let her do it, and grabbed her wrist when she wanted to start again.

"Okay, okay. I’ll stop. So listen carefully."

She froze, her entire being zeroing in on him. He lowered his voice a little.

"It starts before it even starts. You meet the right person. That one. You know it right away, just from the way the air changes temperature when she walks into the room. You talk all evening, about everything, about nothing, and every silence is heavier than the last. And then there’s a moment. One single moment. Where you find yourselves alone."

Chloé didn’t blink anymore.

"A door that closes. A hallway. Footsteps that echo like heartbeats, because you both know where you’re going, you know what’s going to happen, and neither of you dares to say it. And then his fingers brush yours, one second, barely." He slowly opened his fingers in front of him. "A shock. Electricity under the skin. Her eyes that don’t leave you anymore. The heat of the room, the light too soft, your breaths matching without you having decided it. And everything in your head becomes silent. There’s only him left... Or her."

"Oh..." Chloé breathed.

She had her hands clasped under her chin, mouth slightly open, and in each eye an entire constellation. The jersey had slipped off her knees. She hadn’t even noticed.

Nash smiled.

"And after... You dance with the Devil."

"... Huh?"

"You end up locked in a room, with another person, and there’s no way out anymore. There’s noise. A lot of noise. Sounds you didn’t know your body could make. Blood rushing to your head, so hard you hear your own pulse in your ears. There’s the penetration, the precise moment when you understand that your body no longer belongs to you, and brace yourself if he has big fingers, because either way you’re taking it hard. You sweat, he does too. You stick together like two socks coming out of the dryer. You want to scream. You scream. You tell yourself you’re going to die, and the worst part is you don’t want it to stop. Malice pushed to its maximum, the madness, the sweat running into your eyes. And without you realizing it... you discover that you’ve become addicted! To his smell, to his ugly face, to his breath. To all the horrors of that person, which become, one by one, what you prefer most in the world." He leaned toward her. "Isn’t that... exciting?"

The silence that followed lasted a good while. The stars in Chloé’s eyes went out one by one.

"... Sadistic," she murmured.

"Yeah, I know," Nash said, pretty pleased with himself. "I’ll save the Chapter on the creativity of malice in the Kamasutra for breakfast."

"I-it’s not that terrible!" She sat up straight with a jump, chin raised. "I’m not some fragile little thing, you know! I’ve done research! I’ve read things!"

"Things... Porn?"

"Serious things! Documents... documents!"

"Chloé." He looked her straight in the eyes, as gently as possible. "You’re a virgin, right?"

"WHAT? N-no! Well yes! But not... it’s not... that has nothing to do with it! I—"

She opened and closed her mouth at an impressive speed. Nash burst out laughing, a real laugh that shook his shoulders.

"It’s not a bad thing, I’m telling you. Don’t play tough, it’s not worth it. And besides, the Alexanders like them pure."

"I don’t want people to take me for a saint!" She puffed out her chest, fists clenched on her knees. "Nor for a girl who can’t touch a boy without fainting! I’m an adult, Nash! I’m a woman! I—"

"You know that for the past hour you’ve stopped covering the bottom?"

She stopped dead.

"... What?"

"I think you forgot to put something on when you came out of the bathroom."

She looked down. She was sitting cross-legged, the nightshirt hiked up to the top of her thighs, and nothing, absolutely nothing, between her and the air in the room. Her pussy, bare, pink, perfectly smooth, was exposed in full light a few centimeters from him.

"PIIIIIIIIIIII!"

She clapped her knees together, yanked the shirt down, wrapped herself in the tablecloth, and fell backward onto the rug so fast the jersey lifted off the floor.

Nash stood up laughing.

"That’s more like it."

"I’m ruined," the tablecloth moaned. "I’m ruined, I’m ruined, I’m ruined. I’ll never be able to get married. Everyone will know. Men know! They’ll look at me and they’ll know I sat in front of another boy with... with..."

"I don’t know any Alexander," Nash said, sitting back down, elbows on his knees. "And I’m not a snitch. Your secret is safe. It’ll go to the grave with me."

"... You promise?"

"On my fidelity."

A bit of pink nose emerged from the cover.

"Fine," she resumed, with the dignity of a fallen queen. "But don’t take advantage of it to think I’m some innocent little girl."

"You are innocent, that’s all. It’s not an insult."

"I’m not innocent!"

"What does ’piiii’ mean? Is that one of your four languages?"

"It’s a normal physiological reaction!"

"You want to marry in the spring a shy man."

"That has nothing to do with it!"

"You blush when I say the word ’boxers.’ You’re soft."

"I don’t blush! And I’m not soft!... I..." She clutched the cover and looked at him with a defiant air completely ruined by her scarlet cheeks. "I myself am a... connoisseur. I know positions. Several."

"Name me one."

She sat up, unfazed, and raised three fingers.

"The... the standing one. The lotus flower. And the Standing Dragon."

"Excuse me, what???"

"the Couch Surfer, the Waterfall"

"Okay, pause, I believe you... Holy shit," Nash said, genuinely shocked. If she was starting with that, then she had the license before the exam, it wasn’t possible.

"I..." She started snickering. "I.... Surprised, huh? And yes, I’m a bad girl. Hehehe"

It caught Nash by surprise; he started laughing so hard he had to let himself fall backward onto the rug. Chloé watched him do it, offended, then bit her lips to keep from smiling, then lost the fight. They laughed together for a long time, and when it calmed down, something had changed in the room. Softer, a little warmer. She had moved closer by about thirty centimeters without either of them noticing.

The more he repeated that she was proper, the more she sat up straight, like a cat being petted the wrong way. Every time he tried to protect her, she found an argument to prove she didn’t need it. She only talked about that. About sex, sex, more sex. Nash understood perfectly what was happening. He had the experience necessary to understand it. He chose to say nothing, and to be very, very polite.

He checked the time on the living room clock. Almost three.

"Okay. It’s late. I’m beat. We should sleep."

"What?" She pouted instantly. "Already?"

"Already. Three in the morning isn’t called ’already’ anymore."

"You’re going... to your room?"

"To my room, yes. And you to yours."

She clutched the tablecloth against herself and looked at the floor with the air of a child denied dessert.

"And there wasn’t even any alcohol," she muttered.

"Pardon?"

"In the manhwas. There’s always a glass of wine, or whiskey, or something. And after, they—"

She stopped, Nash did too.

He stayed still for a little while. Even here, Jaz’s spirit was hovering?

No, he told himself. Ignore it. He shook his head.

"Alcohol? You take me for an idiot?" he said. "It’s sparkling water, maximum, for you."

"Hmpf!"

She sulked, arms crossed, cheek puffed out. He ruffled her hair, picked up his bottle, and headed toward his room. On the threshold he turned around and gave her one last look.

[TARGET STATUS VIEW : CHLOé WINCHESTER]

Affection : 64 %

Lust: 71 %

Trust: 57 %

Nash raised his eyebrows.

Ah... Okay.

Higher than expected. Much higher. But still far from a hundred percent. He had time.

He closed the sheet and closed the door.

Nash lay down on the bed, in boxers, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

Three in the morning. He wasn’t really tired anymore. He never really was for long, thanks to the System, but there were nights when the body stopped anyway, on principle, because it knew his days would always be full. He turned off the bedside lamp.

Half a minute later, someone knocked on the door, very softly, and he groaned.

"Damn it.... Come in."

The door cracked open. Chloé’s silhouette stood out in the living room light, in her nightshirt, the jersey still clutched against her.

"I... I can’t sleep," she said, in a tone that wanted to be natural and wasn’t at all. "I never sleep in a room I don’t have the key to. It... it stresses me out."

"It locks from the inside."

"Yes, but I don’t have the key."

"Chloé. It locks from the inside."

"I don’t have the key."

Nash ran a hand over his face, slowly, and sighed into his palm.

"Okay. Come."

"... What?"

She hadn’t expected that. He saw it right away, in the way she stayed still, one foot on the threshold, like a burglar surprised by a dog-sized rat offering her a paw.

"You... you say yes just like that? Without... anything?"

"For me, this kind of situation is a Tuesday."

He patted the mattress next to him. She advanced, very slowly, red up to her ears, lay down right on the edge, on her back, stiff as a board, the jersey placed on her chest as if she were waiting for embalming.

The silence lasted a good minute. He heard her heart, and not metaphorically. He actually heard it.

"Nash?"

"Mm."

"It’s... it’s huge, you know."

"What?"

"This. Me, in a bed. With a boy." She swallowed. "Emotionally, it’s really huge. My heart is beating, my hands are sweaty, I feel like I’m going to pass out, I..."

"That doesn’t do anything for me."

"... What?"

"That doesn’t do anything for me," Nash repeated, calmly. "Sorry. I’ve spent entire nights with several girls in the same bed. It doesn’t do much for me."

"It does NOTHING for you?"

She propped herself up on one elbow. In the half-light, he guessed her widened eyes, her open mouth, her pride in pieces. She had become easy to read.

"Me, I’m here, in a nightshirt, in your bed, and you say it does nothing for you?! I’m nothing, me?!"

"I didn’t say that."

"You did say it! You thought it! I can feel it!"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Fine. Since it does nothing for Mister High-and-Mighty..."

"Here we go..."

She swung one leg over his waist in a single movement, one knee, then the other, and sat on him.

Nash was still, she was too. He was wearing boxers; she had nothing under the nightshirt. The heat of her bare skin, damp, imprinted through the thin cotton. She had just settled right on his cock, thighs on either side of his hips, the fabric of the shirt fallen over him like a tablecloth.

"You... you see?" she said, in a voice that wanted to be deep and rose into the high notes. "I’m not nothing, me. I... I’m someone. I’m a woman. And right now, I... I’m very calm."

"You’re shaking."

"It’s the air conditioning."

Nash stayed still for a moment, hands flat on the mattress. He brought up the System sheet, by reflex.

[TARGET STATUS VIEW : CHLOé WINCHESTER]

Affection : 65 %

Lust : 78 %

Trust : 57 %

He raised an eyebrow. Desire was climbing like a balloon in a tunnel, but affection and trust were stagnating. Something was off in all this, and it wasn’t the System.

Chloé saw none of it. She had placed her hands flat on his chest, trying to breathe, and started moving. A small movement of the hips, back and forth, very slow, very clumsy.

"I’m... I’m not teasing you, okay. I’m seducing you. It’s different."

"The technical side was escaping me."

"Shut up. I’m in the middle of seducing you."

"Okay," Nash said. "Then show me. Do it like in the movies."

"What?"

"The movies, you know. If you’re serious, you have to put yourself in the character’s skin. The one who’s seen everything, who’s afraid of nothing, who walks into a room and men fall like bowling pins."

Chloé hesitated. Then she sat up, tossed her pink hair over her shoulder, and plunged into his eyes a gaze she wanted to be smoldering.

"Good evening, Mr. Blaze," she said in a deep voice that came out as a falsetto. "We... we meet at last."

What is this woman? Nash widened his eyes.

She rubbed against him. Slowly. The thin fabric of his boxers held almost nothing: he felt the damp heat of her pussy sliding over his length, back and forth, and the bare softness of her lips parting a little more with each pass. She let out a little involuntary "hm," surprised, which she immediately stifled with the back of her hand.

"... Not bad," Nash acknowledged. "But it lacks conviction. Try playing the seductress a bit."

"The seductress! Yes! Very good!"

Nash held back a laugh; how far would she go?

She rolled her shoulders, slid the nightshirt off one shoulder, then lower, until her breasts spilled out into the half-light.

Two enormous breasts, full and round, with very pale skin, almost milky.

They hung a little under their own weight, with a soft curve underneath, and they almost touched in the middle, pressed against each other in a deep hollow. Each areola was wide, a soft pink, with a small hard nipple in the center, standing up in the cool air.

With each of her breaths they rose and fell, slowly, with a slight tremor. She presented them with a trembling smile, opened her mouth to say something very sensual, and stopped.

She saw his face.

Nash was looking at her with perfect calm. Chill, curious, even a little amused.

"... You’ve already seen a lot of them, huh?" she said, in a smaller and smaller voice. "Ones like these."

"I don’t count. It’s not polite."

"Obviously..."

She bit her lip, offended, and started rubbing against him again.

At first, very slowly. One way, one return. Her pelvis slid back and forth over his entire length, and through the thin cotton of the boxers he felt everything: the heat of her bare skin, the softness of her lower lips, which parted a little around him with each pass, then closed again when she came back.

"Hm..."

A little sound, deep in her throat, surprised. As if she were tasting something she’d never tasted, which was the case anyway.

"... Hip."

She started again. Same slowness, but this time she pressed a little harder, and her clit rubbed against the hard bulge growing under the fabric. Her hips gave a little jolt.

"Oh!"

She widened her eyes, surprised by her own voice. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. She made a second pass, a third, keeping her hand on her lips, and the sounds escaping became muffled, cute, ridiculous.

"Mmh... hn... pip..."

A squeak like a dog toy. Nash bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing; she had apparently just discovered the pleasure of stimulation in that spot for the first time.

The boxers were starting to change, a warm, damp spot that widened under her, a little more with each back-and-forth. Her fluid soaked through the cotton, warm, slippery, and made every pass easier, softer, longer. The sound changed too: no more dry friction, but a little wet squelch, regular, that could be heard throughout the room and that Chloé, clearly, had not expected.

She heard it and blushed to the roots of her hair.

"It’s... it’s the fabric," she stammered. "It’s the material..."

"I’m not saying anything."

"You’re making a face that says something."

"It’s my everyday face. It’s nothing, I’m telling you."

She frowned, offended, and sped up.

That was a mistake.

Her pelvis took a faster, shorter rhythm that rubbed her clit directly against him, in small tight thrusts. Her mouth opened; her hand could no longer contain her concert.

"Ah! Ah... ah... nya!"

She stopped dead, horrified.

"I... I didn’t say ’nya.’"

"Don’t worry, I’ll tell Billy you said woof."

"Y... You... HMPH!"

She started again right away, harder, faster, and the hiccup came back, stronger, longer, and ended in a high meow, like a kitten stuck in a door. She leaned forward, hands flat on his chest, heavy breasts swaying under her chin, thighs trembling on either side of his hips.

"Hn... hn... it’s... it’s weird... it’s..."

Then she slowed again, as if it was going too fast for her, and resumed her slow, pressed back-and-forth. Her lips, swollen, glistening, now slid over him with no effort, half open, marking the wet fabric with a dark furrow. A thread of clear fluid stretched for a moment between her skin and the cotton when she lifted, before breaking.

"Oh... oh... it’s..."

She moaned lower this time. It was no longer a little mouse cry: it was a real complaint, long, trembling, that came from the belly.

"Nash..."

She hadn’t even realized she had just said his name.

[Lust: 89 %]

That was it, she was ready. Nash had his hands on Chloé’s hips, his grip tightening. It would have taken one movement, just one. It would have taken him flipping her, pushing the boxers aside, and the night would have tipped.

He looked at her. Red cheeks, lips parted, half-closed eyes that almost no longer saw him. She was beautiful, terribly, and her gaze showed she was giving him permission to change her world forever.

And then, in the middle of all that, a pinch.

"..."

Nash felt a little pinch in his heart, discreet, like a needle, a pinch that grew until it took human form.

Rain.

The invisible kid. The Falcons’ passer, the one everyone forgot to look at. He remembered Chloé’s Risk Factor. She was emotionally confused and feared betraying Rain.

He reopened the sheet for half a second.

→ RISK FACTOR (updated) : Chloé feels growing guilt toward Rain.

Even in this situation... She was thinking about Rain.

He closed his eyes. Took a long, slow breath. Then he opened them and looked at her, firmly.

Chloé felt it before she really understood. Her half-closed, blurred eyes, floating somewhere between the ceiling and him, settled on his face. She expected to find there what she had seen a few seconds earlier: amusement, warmth, maybe finally desire.

She found none of that. Only that look, straight, serious, that made a little hole in her chest.

Her hips hesitated.

"... Nash?"

Her pelvis slid forward, slow, clumsy, then became a hesitant sway, and finally stopped completely.

"Chloé," he said softly. "Is this really what you want?"

She blinked.

"Are you sure? Of ending up in the bed of a near stranger, the first night you’re completely alone?"

She didn’t answer.

"Would Snow agree with this?" he continued. "And Rain? Would this be fair for him?"

She didn’t move at all anymore. Even her breathing seemed to stop. On her face, the redness slowly went from pink to white.

[Lust: 89 %→76%→57%]

Nash sighed. He took her shoulders, very gently, and guided her to the side until she was lying on the mattress. He pulled the nightshirt up over her bare chest, without looking at anything, the way you tuck in a child.

"We had a good evening," he said. "Maybe we got a little lost along the way. It happens. But we should think a little more about what’s around us."

He knew he was going against the quest. A quest whose triggers he hadn’t even thought about for hours, and that he had just put in danger on his own, without anyone asking him to.

"I’m a sinner, Chloé," he said. "I’ll always be okay with sinning. But I don’t want to turn an innocent into a sinner against her will anymore."

He turned his head toward her.

"If there really is no harm, then we can think about it. But for now... maybe Alexander, Billy, and the spring wedding aren’t that far off."

Chloé froze as if she had received a bucket of ice water on her head. She stayed there, eyes wide open, fixed on him. Then she lowered her head.

"Sorry," she murmured.

Her voice trembled. She got up, straightened her shirt with hurried movements, grabbed the jersey, and left the room without looking at him. The door closed without a sound.

Nash was alone.

He stared at the ceiling for a very long time. Then he sighed, heavily, and let himself fall flat on his back on the mattress.

I’m stupid.

What had gotten into him? He had the quest, he had the System, he had a half-naked and completely consenting girl sitting on him. And he had said no. Not because he didn’t want it. He had said no to something he wanted, full on, against all logic.

He opened his eyes. The darkness of the ceiling seemed to look at him with incomprehension.

This is ridiculous.

He had convinced himself that it was useless if the other stats weren’t at a hundred percent. What a pathetic excuse. He could raise them in a few days, quickly, thanks to the System, the way he had done with the others. All he had to do was trigger the right triggers. He could...

Then he saw the image of Jinzo pass in front of his eyelids, bloodied, under his fist, and he closed his eyes.

"Ah shit," he growled. "Shit, shit, shit."

He turned onto his side, pulled the pillow over his head, and sighed into the fabric.

On the other side of the suite, Chloé closed the door of her room and leaned against the panel.

She stayed there for a moment, the jersey clutched against her chest, her heart beating all wrong. Then her legs gave out. She slid to the floor, curled into a ball, and buried her face in the fabric that still smelled of Nash.

"Idiot," she murmured.

Her voice broke.

"Idiot... idiot... idiot..."

Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting the collar of the jersey. She dragged herself to the bed, climbed on, pulled the cover over her head.

She was mortified. She had just thrown herself on him like a desperate girl. She had shown him everything she had, and he had said no.

But the worst wasn’t that.

The worst was that he was right. She hadn’t forgotten Rain. She hadn’t forgotten, for a single instant, his calm face, his silences, the fact that he never looked up from his notes but listened to her anyway. She had wanted to forget him. She had wanted to throw herself into something bigger than that, louder, hotter, so she wouldn’t think anymore.

And Nash had seen it.

She clutched the jersey tighter. She stayed a long time in the dark, without moving, with her heart slowly calming and a strange feeling she couldn’t name: shame, disappointment, rage against herself, but also, deep down, something warm, soft, terribly serious.

[+11 % Affection (Nash no refused to take advantage of her)]

[+28 % Trust (Nash put his principles before his desire)]

Affection : 80 %

Trust : 85 %

Lust : 49 %