Bite Me, Professor

JAX

Tonight he was going to make somebody suffer.

He really didn't care who, as long as they wiggled and squirmed like worms beneath his feet.

Or more accurately, a snake.

Just kidding. He did care who.

It couldn't be anybody. The person he was going to make an evening of destruction out of had to be a culprit who was just as vile as him.

Or worse.

On paper, everybody was worse than him anyway, though, so there's that, he supposed.

Nobody would think The King's Zer-or DKZ-college's native genius law student to break into the HARK's mansion at one of their lavish parties.

Or attack none other than the head of the HARK, Sofia Lucas.

The leader of the Tenz Jer'sey's leader.

But he had never been one to pass up a challenge.

And here was he, wandering through the excess of their chaotic home, floating by hot, stoned, and drunk bodies. For all that he was Williams-other secret society on King's Zer's land and the HARK's deadly foe.

They had been fighting the other since school started this accursed island off the coast of the dismal, dark, and depressive Brixton Kingdom.

And while they loved to play bad, the true culprit behind starting the war was Sofia, who was waiting with bated breath to whack his head and shatter it into pieces.

Evidently, they struck the first blow back, and since that time it had been a battle of who had the most in control.

Just kidding again. They were relentless.

And then there were the HARK, of course. Especially Sofia.

Their fights were the campus gossip each time, and the underground fights drew more viewers than the organizers had anticipated.

Fact is, human beings loved a little bit of anarchy.

A touch of violence and chaos.

A drizzle of blood somewhere. A cracking of bones somewhere. The crazier the better. The more crazed the mood, the more enjoyable it was to watch.

But that mob was appalled at getting close, landing a punch, tasting that blood, or putting hands on that broken bone.

It was abominably repulsive.

Very aberrant.

Horribly inhuman.

Evil.

Horrific. Frightful.

He said the same prayer in public-even around his friends. They recognized him as Jax 'The Ozen.' Jax, who made sure no one got killed and the police were taken care of.

Golden boy Jax with the highest GPA, who had Luthor College salivating in order to be able to welcome him as one of their own.

Jax, who had the whitest reputation and a future marked by open doors.

Nobody had any idea that while they believed that he was stuck in his room studying, he was here, stalking back behind enemy lines as part of the HARK.

Doing something that none of them, even his brother Stiles, would ever do.

And he had been so meticulous about it, too. Firstly, he needed an invite, and those were only issued by the upper one, i.e., Sofia and his bunch of useless loyal followers. But they also allowed their invitees to bring plus-ones.

So he complimented one of the women Sofia had been chatting up, lied and told her that the book she was reading was really interesting-it wasn't, another piece of soul-sucking analytical crap authored by a self-righteous idiot-and it got things rolling.

He was pretty sure that she was Sofia's girlfriend because she had her hand clutched on his arm and was deep-throating him with her tongue around campus, but she certainly did not look like it when she had her foot on his crotch under the library table-yuck, by the way, don't ever have your filthy feet anywhere near him.

One scorched pair of blue jeans later, he had the invitation he'd struggled with wanting to cut her throat for.

He'd wholly ignored her since he got there, though. The mask helps keep his chosen persona buried.

Invisible.

He tugged on his white skeleton mask with two large, black-painted holes for eyes-the HARK version of their neon stitch masks. While theirs can be distinguished by color, theirs can be differentiated by the symbols etched on them.

Regular members, like whom he was masquerading, bear a white skeleton mask with no design.

Leaders bear black skeleton masks.

Sofia, whose way he'd been following from across the room, also wears a black skeleton mask, but his has golden snakes patterned on it shooting out from the place where his eyes should be.

No surprise there because he always prefers to stand out. The freakier, the better.

His home was everything that one would expect. A humbling excess of power, wealth, and dominance. The imposing entrance waited for him out in front in cold, decadent hues of ivory.

The chandeliers hung down from the ceiling, pouring with crystals, spreading a soft, ethereal illumination over the marble floors that are glass-like in shine. Velvet drapes encase the walls, the dark-red folds casting a red hue over DKZ's students.

Banging music and loud laughter filled the atmosphere, but none of it sounded close, clear, because he was standing outside something he didn't want to be part of.

He pushed his way through the crowd effortlessly, a faceless person in the sea of HARK, another one of them. Standing up straight and moving with intent, he edged deeper between them, unseen.

That was what he'd always been.

Invisible. Unnoticeable.

Since he grew up in the overpowering shadow of his younger brother, he automatically became smaller.

Barely discernible next to him.

Completely overshadowed by his attention-seeking habits.

You're such a good boy, Zex.

He never had to worry about him.

He was so glad he was this dependable, son. Responsible.

Reliable.

Perfect.

Perfect.

P. E. R. F. E. C. T.

Those were the things he heard as a kid from his parents, his grandpa, his teachers, and his entire entourage, in short.

And he loved it.

He loved the fact that none of them caught a whiff of this side of him.

The side tormented by desires and emptiness, and an impossible hunger so deep, Stiles would be a saint if they did know.

Except for Grandpa.

Grandpa was different.

So back to all those urges-the reason that he was blowing his time with these people. The air was thick with perfume, alcohol, and something more, something darker, like desperation and pain. It wrapped around his neck like a garrote, and he took it deep into his lungs.

Like a hit of the highest shit on the streets.

Damn he slipped a substance into Sofia's drink a while back when he just strolled past him unassuming like as he was chatting with one of his henchmen.

He took pains to position himself far from the camera so that if they scanned the security tapes later, they would not get a glimpse. Yes, they could track his movements for the rest of the night, but he was a step ahead on that too.

Not only did he avoid getting caught by all the cameras, but he also wore brown contact lenses, so even if they'd manage to take his photo, it'd be misleading.

Sofia lost her balance and grabbed the stairs to remain standing. None of the other drunk idiots saw him.

His lips curled into a smile behind the mask.

The drug was kicking in.

Soon, he'd be losing all his energy.

Don't get it wrong. He can perhaps wish to kill the HARK leader, but he was intelligent enough to realize that he could not fight him.

Not only large-almost as large and tall as his cousin Rebecca-but also shrewd and with his men and bodyguards around him who'd incapacitate him within an instant.

He had to be smart about this. He never did well with his fists, so he did archery and shot guys at initiations with arrows.

Too bad he couldn't get his bow in here.

He'd be cute with an arrow in his eye and blood running down his face.

What a waste of time.

But his plans were more devious. He'd humiliate him in a way that would have him blacklisted not only on the island, but even in his hometown.

His father would kill him. That would be fantastic.

His smile grew wider at the thought.

With Sofia gone, the HARK would be complete. Unlike them, where they share a more balanced power base, Sofia had been shouldering this entire mess on his back the whole time.

Sure enough, Sofia slowly climbed the stairs, holding onto the railing.

He wished he could capture this scene in a picture.

The guys' heads would be reeling if they had any idea what he'd done and what he'd be doing.

But then again, they won't.

No one will.

His brother had no interest in showing off his masterpieces.

He blended with a group of individuals that were headed higher and then broke off and slipped through other partygoers who were searching for a room where they could fuck the horniness out of each other.

It was more than he could understand how humans can be such.animals. Letting their desires get the better of them, submitting to dumb decisions and mediocre fucks they'll definitely regret tomorrow.

Don't get him wrong. Fucking was good, but only when he felt like it was. He became aroused only when he consciously decided he wanted to fuck, and never because of external stimuli.

Mainly, he loved the choking, the dominance, seeing them squirm beneath him. He liked it more when they've got this little expression of pain on their faces when it gets too much, and he wanted to keep hurting them. Red their skin. See their goddamn tears. Their fucking blood. Their insides.

But oh no, he couldn't have rumors that he is a sadist making the rounds. He was a nice piece to fuck who has a huge dick and eats out females until they orgasm. He made sure they orgasm first as well. He also set the mood and made them sleep comfortably and drink enough water.

He was the best fuck any woman ever had and he was a ten out of ten recommendation rate.

So in order to keep up that image, he couldn't do whatever came to mind.

Doesn't bother him, though. He'd mastered the art of pretending at all times-sex was part of it too.

Even from the ones he was closest to.

There was an exterior persona and an interior one.

The main version was the wonderful, courteous Jax everyone loved and who would make an excellent politician.

The secondary version, handy as it being his true nature, was Jax, whom he only unleashes when the void gets too large and he must cast off some bad vibes.

Sofia was just so unfortunate to be the designated scapegoat.

Or unlucky, depending on what you're looking at.

He lagged behind and watched as he stepped into a room, whether it was his or not he didn't know.

Either way, doesn't matter. He remained frozen in the area of the corner for a couple of minutes.

Invisible.

It was a superpower he had lost along the way as he grew up and became apparent, mainly due to the manner in which he appeared. A reckless thing that happened because two good-looking persons got involved in something called love and decided to reproduce some replicas.

The replicas were him and his brother-something far from his parents' plan.

They think Stiles is the only aberration with the Carson Wentz name, but that's just because they never did meet him.

Not exactly.

When he watched how they both lost it about Stiles's idiot harmless antics with mouse-slaying, he hovered around the corner and listened in.

He heard Dad berate himself, his genes, and that gentleman who shall not be named. He heard Mom cry and beg him to stop.

He heard the noise.

The panic.

The feeling that their little ideal family was shattered.

And he resolved he would not become Stiles.

He would not show parade his demons or broadcast his emptiness. He would not even let them catch on that something was wrong or, worse, worry so much that they take him in to a doctor and have him checked out like they did with that stupid brother of his.

He decided to be their immaculate boy. The picture-perfect son they never had and never will.

A pristine, unrivaled replica of what he envisioned his dad would've been like if he were younger.

Because that's what he would've turned out like if he hadn't been born him.

Taking a quick glance about him and making sure no one was watching, he moved towards the room Sofia had gone into. His hands steady, he turned the handle, did a quick once-around to make sure no one was close, then went inside. Smiling minimally, he leaned his back against the door and locked it.

It was that easy, he was a bit offended, but nothing stopped his blood from raging in his veins, a thunderous rush that jolts him into life.

He had always loved the hunt, the way the animals scurry in the dark, the thrill of the unknown coming with every breath.

His heart pounded and his devils clawed at their prisons, their rage pouring from the depths of the void, their hunger for blood coloring the room in his mind red.

His color of choice.

Sofia's room of choice was black, the air thick with stale, chemical cold. Walls were paneled in dark wood, shadows that creep to the corners, creating the room a more constricted space than it really is.

As he approached, he caught a glimpse of a desk and bookcases stacked with books and knick-knacks. But the only thing that was quite visible was the black leather sofa in the center of the room, on which Sofia lay out. The sad fuck probably couldn't make it to a room with a bed, too stoned out of his goddamn head.

A mask still in place on his face, he had on black pants and a long-sleeved sweater. His eyes leaped to his pulse point-the first thing he'd see about a person.

It was pumping normally, the point hammering against the flesh in an entrancing sight. It was muffled, but he could detect the regular, deep throbbing.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

And he wanted to sever it.

To slice his knife through it and watch it go quiet. Still.

There is nothing.

He clicked his thumb to the corner of his upper lip but just dropped his hand before he could bite the skin and cut himself.

It's been a while since he snapped him out of the habit and he isn't going to let it come rushing back now that he has a grip on his life.

Despite as much as he desired killing Sofia, he won't.

The only thing he had imposed upon himself was no killing.

It was not due to any moral code he rationally didn't possess such wastes of space. In actuality, it'd be beneficial to the human race to get rid of the stupid wastes of space who keep lowering the average IQ. That was the realization that he could not stop and will be caught one day.

Yes, he can escape prison for a short while. Not only was he a first-year law student in training to learn the law so that he could manipulate it for his own use, but his father's family owns one of the largest and most successful law firms in the States, Carson Wentz & Carson Wentz.

His grandfather cared for him more than his own son and would get him the 'not guilty' verdict regardless of how many underhanded tricks he has to use.

But for how long?

He'd still kill.

It would be impossible not to.

Especially after...him.

He knew because bloodlust was the one hunger he could not moderate at all. He looked at the pulse points of people and he wanted to make them red. To let them choke on their own blood and fill his void. He looked at them through their eyes and he wanted them empty. He imagined dead eyes looking back at him, knowing he was the god who destroyed their lives.

It came often during sex because they were groaning and he had his hand wrapped around their throats, and he wanted to shut off that pulse point to nothing.

He wanted their orgasm to mean death. It'd be lovely, actually. To end their lives in their most pleasured moment.

Unfortunately, that would not ruin this whole image he'd built his entire life, and he did desire his image greater than his need to see people die.

So, regretfully, he was unable to kill Sophia.

He remained motionless as he scanned him again, music playing downstairs muffled.

Was he always that tall? He knew that he was big like that giant Rebecca, and they are prone to beating each other to death in the fight club, but he had thought he was closer to his 6'3" than Rebecca's 6'4".

And he wasn't standing up, so he shouldn't be that tall.

With a mental shoulder shrug, he approached him and pulled a knife out of his calf sheath.

Step one: Undress him.

But he himself won't be stripping a guy-he didn't even like stripping girls-so that's why he used the knife to cut his clothes off.

Step two: Squeeze the vial of lube that looks and feels like semen all over him.

Step three: Take a picture of his cock in his hand as if he just ejaculated on him.

Step four: Post it all over the internet with his face clearly visible.

Step five: Back to his public persona, knowing that he was the reason behind his fall.

May punch and kick him a couple of times subsequently, just to release this anger that's been building up in his veins recently. He touched the edge of his shirt, not keen on having it touch his skin. Ideally at all. Reluctantly, once or twice for need.

The-point knife cut through fabric and he hesitated as the two halves of the shredded shirt fell to either side of him, revealing a muscular chest, an eight-pack, and a very incorrect tattoo.

Due to all the fights he was in, he'd often caught Sofia half-naked. While his back had all sorts of shit on it, he only had one small tattoo on his chest-a Russian scripture.

This is what he saw now.

The guy beside him, his chest exposed, had a humongous 3D black snake slithering around his abs, scales ascending and curling like they're living, curling down to his side with deadly elegance. Its mouth was open, fangs bared, inches away from his heart like it's about to strike and tear into him.

He took a step back.

Unless Sofia had gotten herself a fresh tattoo within the last forty-eight hours, this wasn't him.

His mind reeled. How?

He clearly recalled hearing himself talk when he palmed him the stuff, and he kept him in his sights from then on.

Except when he went upstairs first.

Shit.

If this was a setup, he wasn't going to wait to find out. His legs propelled him towards the door in silent, fast strides.

The moment he grasped the knob, a metal pipe was pressed against his temple, and a gun was cocked.

A deep, unusual voice rumbled in his ear, "Bad form to get a man up and then leave him hanging. How about we set that right?"

JAX

The reason why he'd been wearing his mask for almost twenty-two years wasn't due to a coincidence.

Or because his parents, teachers, or any adults paid no attention.

It wasn't accidental or something he had instinctively grown into.

It was something he'd opted for when he was young, and he'd done all that was necessary for the image to stay in position.

Mainly because he was always a planner.

Far ahead.

He left without a plan for each of the variables in the equation. Several plans. In case one failed, he had a few to fall back on.

But not tonight, he didn't expect Sofia to be replaced.

It's not like him. Not one bit. Had he known he roofied his drink, he would've stood him up to face-to-face and tried to bash his head in.

He is not a coward, and he certainly loves fighting with his fists.

So it was not Sofia who was the culprit behind this accident. It was the man with a gun pressed to his temple, his chest radiating nauseating heat at his back.

He better not lay hands on him.

Jax considered opening the door and going ahead and doing it, but he was only going to die in his sixties, so killing himself now would be cutting into that agenda.

Dropping his knife, he turned around in one swift movement and sliced his knife, carrying it round to his throat. A silenced bullet pierced through his ear and the knife was knocked from his hand. His wrist flickered and he let it dangle at his side as drops of blood fell upon the beige carpet.

Herence.

Splick.

Drip.

Motherfucker shot the handle of the knife, and though the bullet missed him, it shaved him.

Pain throbbed on the side of his hand, and he briefly closed his eyes, trying not to get consumed with the pain. If he did, he'd have this urge to inflict it ten times worse.

"Look what you've done." Sofia's imposter's deep voice rang out like a calm mock. "That wasn't necessary, now, was it?"

When Jax opened his eyes, he was close.

Closer than anyone ought to have gotten to his body after attacking him. For he was staring at his pulse point, and he wished to bite and rip the flesh out like a rabid dog.

His jaw set and he shoved the demons back where they belonged and glared at him.

Not at his chest or the peculiar snake tattoo, but at the mask of golden serpents that are exclusively Sofia's.

Was that a setup?

"Now, why don't we start where we left off?" His whiskey-breath, with a splash of mint, assaulted Jax's senses through gaps in his mask. It was every shred of will he possessed not to slam his head into his so he'd back the fuck off.

The silencer on his firearm caught Jax's mask and remained at his lips, the icy metal against his burning skin for a second too long. It pushed into his mouth, the cold soaking into his flesh, but it didn't elicit any emotions.

He didn't possess the idea of fear. That switch just didn't exist in his mind. Not even if a gun was being held against his head.

Anger, however? Yeah, he had a lot of that and it was increasing by the second the more this motherfucker waved a gun in his face.

Jax did freeze, though, taking as deep of breaths as he could.

Any sudden movement could kill him, and because there was a silencer, none of these people would be any the wiser. This goddamn piece of nothing proved that he wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger, and Jax didn't want to take his chances.

The silencer left his lips and he threw off Jax's mask, hearing it hit the ground.

Here we go again.

His favorite shit.

Unmasking.

Grasping his beautifully proportioned face. Blond hair gleaming with a silky sheen and 'breathtaking green eyes,' as so many describe them-though the hue was brown today.

He'd been labeled repeatedly the epitome of a Prince Charming with his classically handsome features, dimpled grin, and charming face.

They're all tools in his quiver.

The man paused as he watched Jax. They all do. Men and women both. He was just so unyielding.

This one, however, didn't appear to desire to screw him. His gray eyes, rainstorm gray and hurricane gray, didn't flicker as he slammed his face back and forth with the gun.

As if he was looking for something. What, he had no clue, and he wasn't interested in finding out.

Because he didn't enjoy those eyes.

Call it hate at first sight. Why?

They weren't painted, and it wasn't simply because of the fogged gray. They actually appeared dead, and he wasn't-dead, of course. He would have respect for the dead and keep those eyes from appearing so empty. That way, he would be able to dream of making them lifeless.

His gun kept Jax's chin up and he struggled to continue staring at him and not the ceiling. "So pretty a face for a hideous personality."

Hideous.

Did this motherfucking piece of shit really call him hideous?

Him? The most good-looking man he knew?

Maybe he needed to rip his pulse the fuck off, anyway. "It seems you abhor my wording." A smile slipped into his tone and Jax found something else he hated.

The low growl of his voice. The unfeeling, detached, and even flat way he spoke, as if he can't be bothered to infuse any emotion into it.

It came out again when his breath skittered against Jax's lips. "But I would not have employed it if it were not true."

Jax glared at him as if he were a machine-and maybe he was.

"Let me tell you. You came here with a wicked plan in your head. It started with drugging Sofia's drink and waiting for him to get distracted from the rest. I waited to see what you were going to do to him, but you took off in the middle of it. So suspense is killing me."

Jax started to raise his thumb to his mouth, then left his hand down.

He'd been watching him.

While Jax was busy with Sofia, this fucking bastard was watching him.

The audacity to follow the stalker.

The damn fucking audacity.

"Are you one of his bodyguards?" Jax finally said this evening. "You don't have a Russian accent."

The majority of Sofia's bodyguards, as are theirs, are sourced by the Russian mafia and usually have an extremely heavy accent.

He didn't.

If anything, he was more cultured and spoke slowly and deliberately. He sounded and appeared older than Jax, too, so he could be a retired soldier who had become a security guard. Though his words were a bit too polished for someone with stereotypical military schools.

"Why?" That sneering tone reappeared in his voice. "You like Russians?"

"I'd rather go if you don't mind." Jax grinned, spreading out his charming self with those apparently irresistible dimples.

It didn't phase the prick at all. There was no easing of his gun nor any flicker in those nasty dead eyes of his.

He leaned in to one side of his head, so close that Jax could smell the filthy male scent of him, like amber with the faintest hint of wood. "Not until you tell me what you had in mind for Sofia."

"Just some friendly fun."

"Drugging and slashing clothes is not friendly fun." His gun dug deeper into Jax's skin, and he clenched his teeth against the pain. "You know what I think?"

"None of your business. Thanks."

He ignored Jax's comment and stepped into his area. "I think you arranged for something to be repulsive."

Jax gazed downward and ceased. He was half-clothed. He must have removed the parts of his shirt and now had on black pants only. He was taller by a couple of inches compared to Jax and obviously broader. The snake appeared menacing coupled with his mask, and Jax desired to mask him as well. To glimpse the face of the guy who had been stupid enough to chase after him. "Something that'll be fitting for that disgusting personality of yours," he continued, shoving his gun into Jax's mouth.

Jax let his lips fall open so that he wouldn't crack his teeth, while simultaneously questioning whether his plan to die at age sixty was all that important, as he was starting to think dying from a gunshot wound would be worth it if he could manage to punch this motherfucker who'd insulted him as grotesque.