A/N: Due to the content of this chapter, I've had to up the rating of this fic to M. I really do apologise to anyone who finds this offensive, or doesn't want to continue reading (which would be just awful). This has been written for a reason, but if you find 'sexual' situations (the first ever 'sex' scene written in my life, aaah) offensive, etc., please just skip right on down to the second section, or don't read at all. Thank you all, enjoy! :)

Her skin was just as he had imagined. Lukewarm and tender to the touch, pure white, labyrinths of purple veins on her wrists, her neck, her legs. He ran his finger leisurely over the concave stomach, across the bumps of her ribs, the bony valley between her breasts. She sighed, arched her hips. He was kneeling over her, drinking her in.

She was slick, pink, wet and swollen for him.

"Aah – sweet," he sang dreamily, elongating the vowels.

"Come on," she trembled, fingers grasping handfuls of air. Her mouth stayed open, her eyes stayed closed.

He smirked and leaned forward on his hands, placing them either side of her head so that his body floated, huge and heavy, over hers; which felt odd. She opened her eyes. They were the same pale blue, curiously wide and shiny in the half-darkness.

"Just do it," she said breathlessly, her lips dark, sensuous red and damp. She slapped his shoulder weakly, and he grinned. In a single motion he dipped his head and nuzzled the hot white column of her neck, dewy with sweat. He laved his tongue up and down it, then in a small circle, pulling a high-pitched moan from her. He kissed the soft patch of skin before her ear.

"Do what?" He whispered lowly, purring and rubbing his cheek against hers. She slapped his shoulder again, harder this time. Her muscles were bunching and releasing all over her body. Oh, God, he thought, clenching his teeth against the need to feel all of that flesh against his. He was straining and burning, his length almost brushing one rail-thin thigh. Oh, God.

"Now, Murdoc!" She gasped.

"Aah, you – ooh, sweet," he moaned desperately, his back muscles tensing, glossed over with sweat, prickling.

His fingers trailed over her stomach once again, and then up to her small, almost-flat breast. She had lovely ochre coloured nipples with deep pink centres. He circled it, pinched it, circled it, rolled it. She grunted. "What do I need ta say?" She pleaded.

"You know what I want you to say," he chuckled, and then, deliberately sliding his whole body over hers, he moved down to lick and suck the other pink nipple. She groaned, and he smiled against her supple white skin. "Aah – sweet," he cooed.

"Just touch me, for God's sake!"

"Wrong answer, Pris," he hissed, "say please."

His hand slipped down to her hips once more; and then he noticed it.

"Oh, Jesus, just – just – yeah," she growled.

He stopped completely, staring down at his hand, fanned out on her hip. It was too big, too wide. The nails were too long.

"Murdoc, what is it?"

The index finger had a clear, S-shaped scar by the knuckle. Like Hannibal's hand, almost –

Murdoc yelped and woke with a jolt, narrowly avoiding biting his tongue. His stomach was sticky. He hurried into the bathroom and was thankful to be blinded by the sudden light in the dark. His face had gone waxy and it flashed over the mirror. The bruise was worse. Outside, he saw, day was dawning; it was about six o'clock by the periwinkle colour of the sky. He rolled off some tissue and cleaned up quickly, shakily, grimacing. What was that all about?

While my big sister and your big brother fuck each other.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face – not before checking for an S-shaped scar. He didn't have one. No-one did, apart from Hannibal. He frowned at his reflection and looked deep into his own eyes. This was potentially the most fucked-up thought to ever enter his head.

He felt sick.

After splashing cold water over his face twice he went back into his room, changed into his uniform, and sat in the dark, eyes closed, until he would have to leave and return to school. It was just a dream – and though the content was far less depraved than most things surfacing from his subconscious, the idea was the worst.

Things would be fine as soon as he could be around other people, he decided. He was glad to be back in school, caught in its clutter.

But it made no difference. The image of a sweaty, naked Pris was on his mind all day.

"Pris?"

Pris poured herself a bowl of cornflakes and glugged an excessive amount of milk over them, scowling. Her hair was still mussed, wet and dark after her shower, and she was naked all but an over-large t-shirt thrown on, back-to-front. It listed tour-dates down her front, and on her back displayed The Upsetters' logo. Billy thought she looked like a little Lego woman, with the head screwed on the wrong way.

Billy said, "Have we still got my Lego?"

Pris said, "No."

Billy said, "Once I made a Lego house out of only red bricks. I like red."

Pris didn't say anything. Billy spoke to the back of her head, smiling.

Billy said, "And we had a police officer figure, and I drowned him in the toilet –"

Pris said, "Do you want any cereal?"

And Billy said, "No, thank you."

And Pris said, "O.K., what d'ya want, then?"

And Billy said, "Nothing."

And Pris said, "Well, y'have to eat somethin'."

And Billy said, "I could have had strawberry laces, but 'mm Murdoc took them away."

Pris turned around quickly and stood, staring, chewing on her soggy cornflake mush. "Did you just say Murdoc?"

"Yeah," Billy deadpanned. She blinked at him in disbelief. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, glanced at them, and then gnawed the raw, broken skin hungrily. "He came looking for you."

"When?" She exclaimed, her pale blue eyes growing enormous. She slammed her bowl down on the counter-top and snapped, "Billy-Boy!"

"Billy-Goats Gruff, I'll gobble you up!" Billy grinned oddly, and then his hand skittered down to his bare feet and picked off a sliver of dead skin. He ate it. "I don't know, Pris," he replied softly. "It was last night. He looked like a Panda-Bear."

"What, y'mean he was bruised?"

"Yes."

"Fucking hell," Pris whispered. "Hannibal – he lied ta me."

"Naughty," Billy said faintly.

"Exactly," she nodded, and her jaw tightened reflexively with anger. "Where's my frickin' skirt?"

She had done her very best to forget her school days; the endless afternoons in the hall beneath the glass, praying, jangling rosaries, muttering her way through hymns; the Bibles and the textbooks; the workbooks; the empty pages.

Pris had never cared too much about school, or exam grades. It didn't matter. And even if it did, it didn't, because she hadn't even a fraction of a chance of passing them.

At the time she was sitting her exams she had met Hannibal Niccals. He had been just over two years older, nineteen, out of school, frightening and mysterious and flirtatious. He kissed her one night and bit her lower lip roughly. She had liked it. She had liked him, more than anything else; he was far more interesting, far more alluring than schoolwork and libraries and essays and the bullshit in her Bible.

Nothing else seemed to hold any significance.

Standing outside of the black school gates was horribly familiar. She leaned against one brick pillar, yanking the sleeves of her shirt over her elbows, and stared into the windows. The school was an ancient looking, grey, moss-eaten building, adorned with long windows and vivid green hedges and crucifixes. It seemed tired, throbbing with a toothache. She hated it.

The time read two minutes to three o'clock. Soon enough the students would be allowed to leave. She counted down. The bell rang in one-hundred-and-twelve seconds.

Murdoc was nowhere to be seen for quite a while, but in the crowd, she realised, he would not easily be recognised. Too many of them had long black hair, loose ties, pale faces –

"Oi!" she demanded, and tugged the shoulder of any faceless teenage boy. He looked about Murdoc's age, green eyes, weird haircut. She wrenched him closer to her and forced him to turn around, a handful of his blazer gripped tight between her fingers. "You know a kid called Murdoc Niccals?" She barked.

"I know him – yeah – look, will you just get off –"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know! How should I know?"

"Oh, alright, whatever," Pris shrugged, and pushed him backwards. He went toppling into the swarming mass of people leaving the school, cursing her. "Posh little cock."

He fell into someone with black hair, who went to shove him back. It was Murdoc.

"Murdoc!" She yowled, "Come 'ere!"

His head cracked up at the sound of her voice, and he stared at her, wide-eyed, shocked, and apparently very, very nervous. Both of his eyes were bruised. One was flat and yellowed, the other raised and an alarmingly dark shade of violet. He had a cut across his cheek, too, healing black and toffee-apple-red. "What the fuck?" he mumbled.

"Come 'ere, man!" Pris called.

He nodded, and proceeded to jostle his way through the crowd. A few steps away from her, he paused. His eyes danced across hers cautiously, and then he bowed his head and stared at his feet in their scuffed black shoes.

"What're you doing here?" he asked. He didn't look into her eyes, still.

"Shall we get away from here first? I bloody hate this place," Pris suggested, but she didn't wait for his approval or acceptance. She turned abruptly and sauntered away from the school gate. The backs of her legs were snowy white, pretty and handsomely curved, strong, full of the tiny blue rivers of her veins. Her Doc Marten's were cherry red and clocked over the pavement. She turned back, grinning jaggedly, and then jumped up onto the grass verge on the other side of the road.

And as he would nearly always be compelled to do from now on, Murdoc followed her.

When they turned the corner into a street Murdoc didn't know, Pris stopped and turned to him. She had been walking slightly ahead, her large hands swinging at her sides, the tough fingers flowing and winding the air around them. She began walking backwards, just glancing over her shoulder to check her footing, the cords in her throat standing out. There was a bus stop and shelter just down the street, and he realised they were headed for it.

"Alright," she said, "before I start, will you promise you'll listen?"

"Depends if it's worth listening to," he replied.

"If I said it was?"

"Then I'd give ya five minutes, yeah."

"O.K.."

They had reached the bus shelter. Saying nothing, Pris slid down onto the plastic bench, and he leaned against the frame, arms and ankles crossed. She rubbed her hands over her knees, pulling her shoulders up, and then looked up at him, squinting against the sting of the sun.

"Billy-Boy told me you came to my house last night," she stated.

"It was a bad idea," Murdoc shrugged dismissively, pressing his lips together and looking out at the empty road.

"Hannibal did, too," she continued, "he told me you'd had a row."

Murdoc chuckled, squeezing the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.

"Oh, not really. You see, I thought a row was two people gettin' aggressive over a disagreement – we didn't disagree about anything, because I had no idea what was fuckin' goin' on."

There was a little pause.

She sighed, "He didn't tell me that."

"What did he tell ya, then?" Murdoc insisted, grinding his teeth, wincing as they snapped unevenly in his mouth.

"He told me you sold your Mum's old necklace to get money to buy booze for your birthday, and then he said you'd tried to smack him up, but he didn't take the bait, and he went to see me. And –"

"Bullshit!" He snarled.

"Obviously," Pris nodded, and then gestured towards his newly weeping, bloodied eye. "I didn't think it sounded quite right when 'e told me. He can't seem to stop himself, when someone gives him a reason ta give 'em a thump."

Murdoc glowered at her, "I didn't sell her necklace."

"Ya don't need to lie. It just means a lot to him, I thought you'd have known. He dreams about your Mum a lot, she –"

"No," Murdoc bit at her, "I didn't sell her necklace! Our Dad did, for my birthday present."

She stared at him warily for a moment, and then closed her eyes lightly and exhaled. Darkly, he was reminded of last night. "Oh, fucking no," she whispered.

Satisfied, Murdoc rested his head against the frame of the bus shelter, and gazed at the swaying, tried, brightly-coloured trees and shrubs in the distance, round and clipped neatly.

"I'm sorry, Murdoc."

She didn't say it to his face, but her voice was hushed, temperate, and he somehow felt that she meant it.

Yet, somehow, it wasn't enough. He wanted more, wanted to feel it again. Why, he didn't know. He still didn't like her, not too much: but feeling this sort of genuine concern from anyone was highly comforting – and electrifying.

"He shouldn't throw his fists around like that. Your bloody face –"

"My chest, my arms, my back," he interjected. Her eyes widened, and she paused lengthily.

After a few seconds, she muttered, "He's gone fuckin' mad."

"Like you said, it meant a lot to him," he responded. "It doesn't matter, I'm alright."

"Hmm," she agreed. "Still, I just wanted to check you were alright." She stood then. Her tits jiggled gently, and then he realised she wasn't wearing a bra. He swallowed, tilted his chin upwards, and scowled back at her pale eyes, or her cheeks, something – anything to avoid that vicious, deep pink mouth. "And, to ask you," she continued, linking her fingers behind her back, "Why you came to me."

"Like I said, it was a bad idea," he hissed.

"What gave you the idea in the first place?" She stepped closer, strange, misty blue colours in her eyes.

"I was going to request you snap his dick off for me," he leered.

"Oh, I'm not that cruel," she grinned, her eyes sparkling. Another step closer. They were almost touching. Yes, yes you are, Murdoc thought, worried, exhilarated, you're a fucking ballbreaker.

"I beg to differ," he managed.

"Is it really so hard to give me a straight answer?" Pris pushed, and took another step. Their arms brushed. She leaned against the frame too, her teeth and eyes glinting.

"You were nice to me, last time. 'S not easy. I just – well, I thought maybe –"

"I know," she smiled dangerously. He thought of her face and body, the white length and curves of it, and he found a lump in his throat. Her fingers danced up to his shoulder. "I know what you thought."

"What are you doing?" he bleated.

"I'm being nice, Murdoc," she answered, chuckling. "Now, let me make up for it."

"It's not your fault," he shook his head.

"I meant about missing you last night."

"Oh," he said, and then frowned and laughed groggily, bowing his head. "But, what about Han –"

"I don't know where he is, and I don't give a shit," she interrupted suddenly, still grinning wildly. "He lied to me and he punched you in the face, baby-love. No-one fuckin' lies to me like that. Who cares?"

"Don't you think –"

"We could get a can of Cola, some chocolate, go to the park?" she proposed, her smile widening. She stuck her nose in the air and simpered, in a dramatically feminine, posh sort of voice, "Go for an afternoon stroll, sir?"

Murdoc smirked, "You're frickin' stupid."

"Oh just shut the fuck up, you twat," she huffed, and flicked his nose. He flinched, and she rolled her eyes and snickered at him, before walking away quickly, laughing to herself.

"Well that wasn't nice," he called when she was a little way down the road.

"I'm not a nice girl," she snorted.

Murdoc watched her. She was laughing again. He smiled.

"I think you're nice," he said quietly.

A/N: Well, there you have it. :) This chapter has been a lot of fun to write, a bit experimental, with lemon, and then writing from the P.O.V. of a derranged twelve-year-old... xD I hope everyone liked!

A huge hug, kiss, thank you and a selection of puddings to: SweetCherryCandy, PandaLove01, G0rillaz, cherry-magpie-x, and cupopener900 - your reviews and enjoyment is really the highest praise. :D

And of course, a big thank you to all my new favouriters and alerters - it's lovely to know you're enjoying my little fic!

Please let me know what you think, updates will be soonish! :)