Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)

by J.M. Darhower

They’re not worth losing my balls over. I happen to like my balls. They accentuate my cock quite nicely, you know. I’d show you, but well... you’ve got to earn that first. So pay attention, okay? There’s work to do here.

I think this may be the first time I've come across a good snarky Male POV and I'm loving it!

As much fun as playing with the pretty brunette would be tonight, there’s still business to attend to. I know, I know… my cock is mourning, too.

“Sit.” He listens. He’s obedient. He’d probably roll over and beg if I barked those commands, all in his quest to please his master. Who’s a good boy?

I make my way to the front, to the wide-open club space, the music from the hallway drowned out by whatever vulgar rap song is playing. Something about popping pussies. I don’t know. Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick it.

HA

I’m also apparently someone who likes animal metaphors when I need some damn sleep. So blah blah blah, whatever whatever, the point here is fuck feelings, they get you nowhere.

Seven stands there, half asleep, dark hair a mess, wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts with elves on them. Elves, Christmas ones, the pointy-eared little fuckers that work for Santa. He’s got elves on his shorts, holding little packages, the words ‘Merry Elfin Christmas’ written all around them. I tilt my head to the side, staring at them. Have I mentioned it’s nearing the end of January?

Did I mention I'm loving this male POV

“Take your little Keeblers there and go on back to bed.”

LMAO

Someone once told me that evil can sense itself inside of others, our hearts beating in a different rhythm than most, playing a morbid song that only other evil knows.

Puzzles demand follow-through. You can’t just dick out in the middle of one. Or, well, I can’t. It’s kind of a metaphor for life. Moments are pieces, formed together and built upon, creating the bigger picture within the border of your world. My puzzle is full of deformed shapes and jagged edges, but it still all fits together in its own twisted way, making a hideous fucking picture of my reality. I like puzzles.

this guy really likes his metaphors

I shake my head, shoving the gun at Seven, who takes it without question. White smoke surrounds us from the lube I use in the tube of the suppressor. I know there’s one hell of a sex joke in there somewhere, just begging to be made, but I don’t have time for it right now,

Funny and the author did do some research on the difference between a silencer and a suppressor. So why does she keep switching between calling it a silencer and suppressor?

“Yeah, well, life sucks, Scarlet,” I say. “You know that as well as anyone. Sometimes beasts are just fucking beasts, no matter how much you love them, Belle. It’s a fact. I’ve seen love bring a monster back to life before, but most of the time, the monster just loves you to death.”

Affection is the only thing that keeps Lassie from going all Cujo.” “I thought that was rabies.” He turns to me. “I’m speaking metaphorically.” “Yeah, well, you’re doing a shit job of it.”

Finally someone addresses the shitty metaphors

Not that I’m disabled, because fuck you, I’m not. I like to think we’re only really limited by our lack of creativity, and I can get pretty creative.

They’re cuddling on my couch, my brother and his girlfriend, all tangled up together with a big blanket covering them. I’m not sure if they’re dressed, to be honest. Wouldn’t be the first time they fucked on my couch, just like this, watching some sappy love story. I think it’s a kink. Some people like spanking. Others like voyeurism. My brother likes to fuck his girlfriend as she sobs over fictional characters.

“Wow,” she says, voice flat. “You keep being so charming and I might start catching feelings.” “I wouldn’t blame you,” I say. “Just, you know, keep them to yourself, in case they’re contagious.”

I didn’t expect him to bother, to be honest, but there’s that little part of me that selfishly hoped he cared. He shouldn’t, because I bring nothing but trouble, but still… I yearn to mean something. Do you know what that’s like? To know you’re poison but still be desperate for someone to sip from you anyway?