partying with a german

cyclops counted on little when he went to the garage concert, which spike and pierre decided to arrange in honor of graduating from college, a personal hell. they both played incomparably, there is no doubt: a punk jock with liberty spikes on an electric guitar jerks off the strings professionally, and a local neo with a stone face and a bass in his hands is specifically a masterpice. getting closer to the garage, the human hum was heard more and more. the gates are open, they are happy for absolutely everyone. there are really a lot of people there: some classmates whom cyril immediately recognized, guys from other classes and a few strangers. it was especially unusual to see one red-haired guy, popular in college and who received a diploma with a medal, with his asian friend together. on the stage of a pathetic, but native, the culprits of this celebration has settled down, ready to arrange a full-fledged dressing down with their instruments even now. the choice fell between draft beer and real whiskey ― obviously and sparsely. fucking his body with fifty percent alcohol, cyril thought that spike and pierre could take care of the banquet normally and arrange a harder fun, until he casually looked towards the entrance. some girl, with hair the color of venous blood, is walking around in an incomprehensible way; it is impossible to see normally because of these screaming, jumping people. but even from afar it was clear that the yellow-gray eyes were full of enthusiasm, desire for some kind of spectacle. she's definitely wearing a shirt with a black tie, as well as some kind of jacket buttoned up. cyril didn't even notice how she managed to merge with a solid mess. but, a minute later, seeing her again, standing not far from the table and smoking, and looking at what she was wearing now, cyril was speechless. it was a form. the dress uniform of the fucking ss, which was designed by heinrich himmler. the most fucking beautiful, fashionable. it doesn't even look like some kind of fancy dress costume, it looks like a real one. the belts are real, the bandage on the left shoulder with the fascist swastika, which looks the right way — black, with ninety-degree angles, on a white circle on a red background — is also real. and when the girl noticed this curious look, he felt especially uncomfortable. she's already coming. "i saw how you looked at me," it is unclear whether he imagined this female, low voice or not. "it's true," it's very stupid to lie about small things, and she was already standing very close to him. "i was staring at you too, by the way," with these words, she takes a bottle of beer, opening it with one movement of her hand. she is straightforward. "your uniform is a blowout... honestly". "thank you," she said, not realizing yet how much beer is similar to piss. the face after a split second expressed utter disgust. she threw the bottle into the same as the draught, pissing stratosphere, cursing softly. the main thing is that she does not pour this piss over the form, it is actually necessary to take care of this, and not to walk around garage concerts. most likely, no one really cared. "it's just disgusting here". "but the whiskey is real, i checked". she started drilling his only eye again, the look was like an animal. or she just checked for his lies by taking a glass bottle and drinking quite a bit. alcohol hit her nose very hard. "okay," the girl gave out in a slightly planted voice, closing the bottle, "i believe you, unlike these two". "i agree, it's so difficult to take something normal," cyril put down the glass with these words. alcohol has already managed to give courage. "can we get out of here?" as luck would have it, these two fuckers decided to tweak the amplifiers to the maximum. "what!?" "i say, let's get out of here!?" "yes, i'm all for it!" she knows how to shout shit instead of music. the brains have already boiled into a thick porridge, at least not because of the draft beer, and the girl pulls hard by the hand. "and i'm cassandra, by the way". coming closer to spike's house, cyclops was able to see the uniform normally and in more detail, but he hadn't bothered to touch it yet, but this german cassandra did nothing but stare at cyril. she was looking either at his leather jacket, which spike had successfully remade, or at the pirate eye patch, which hid the only trace of beatings, destroying her lungs with the second batch of philip morris. they sat down on the ladder by the leaky visor. "and how to address you, sir?" "better call cyclops". it is unlikely that cassandra will check out the name of a priest from the local old church. she raised a skeptical eyebrow. "it's because of the eye patch, isn't it?" after that, she unceremoniously lifted the pirate eye patch. amber eyes widened. cyril had to reluctantly tell the shame of his biography: about how he tried to ingratiate himself into trust and meet with a cynic from a local goth kids company, who eventually let down a friend to get rid of the pathetic cyril completely. he woke up only in a solitary ward with a hellish pain in the left half of his face. looking again at this scar on the place of the left eye, cassandra scolds them, calling them children from kindergarten. cassandra moved to philadelphia not so long ago. she also graduated from college in a profession that she didn't like at all, with blood and sweat. he can only joke about a laboratory assistant with alucard, but it's better to become a corpse for this. before that, she lived in germany with her conservative father, the school was always against her, the headmistress called her a terrorist and kicked her out of school at eighteen degrees below zero and a blizzard. little has changed in college. cyril burst into tears. cassandra, too. they caught on to the tought that they felt equally bad in their own way. they wiped each other's tears and laughed nervously. then they remembered about the whiskey, successfully stolen by cassandra. drinking from the throat like piss-soaked bums, the two varmints, obsessed with forms of the ss, became more and more liberated each time, and the conversations were more and more frank. one of them bluntly stated that she liked the type of people like cyril. and she really wants to fuck with him. kissing deeply, cyril grabs the german and puts her on the countertop; the fun will be in the bathroom, the bedroom has already been occupied. right now he will be able to touch this form, very carefully remove the belts, so as not to spoil anything for sure. and make sure that uniform is real. the brains are already completely boiled, while the shirt, which has been sweating for a long time, is unbuttoned, and cassandra grabs one-eye's hand and puts it where it is usually not put without permission. she exhaled sharply when him fingers touched her clitoris. the breath is badly knocked down, sweat is pouring out of all the cracks — cyclops is already inserting fingers into her. this pushes more to bolder actions, but a condom was immediately shoved under the hooked nose. sweaty cassandra with permanent makeup, dilated pupils; with a bare chest that peeked out from under her shirt open, under the pale, cold light from a halogen lamp — something too intimate for other people to see. they will only do what they condemn, call her a nazi and stick her on a skewer. she was almost sitting up, clutching cyril tightly and moaning softly. a vivid example of true excitement against the background of muted shit instead of music. this did not spoil sex in any way, on the contrary, it forced the pace to accelerate, to finish himself and her off with this. cumming profusely and not controlling herself, cassandra bit cyril's shoulder, trying to contain a very loud moan. it hurts, but he feels good. and after only half a minute she pulled away from his shoulder and looked back at cyril. it's impossible not to kiss these lips, attractive, dark, and at the same time feel the metallic taste. "that's enough, i'm tired". spike is unlikely to be happy about the fact that someone was copulating in his bathroom. his shoulder still hurts, and cassandra grabs it. both barely reach the half-embrace in the direction of the garage back. everything is full of vomit here.