#ironic since he shines like the brightest star

[emdeerm]

Idea!

Ex-Twin

Damian and Danyal were twins. They were very close but only within their mother's sight. Everyone else only ever saw a cold indifference.

Danyal has failed a mission at the age of 6 which resulted in his death. Damian was with him at the time and retrieved the body. In a desperate attempt to get his brother back, he tried to dip him into the Lazarus Pit.

The Pit took him away much to the heartbreak of the living boy.

Damian threw himself into an even more ruthless training and excelled at it. With time, Ra's was even happy that the other boy has died. It served as an excellent motivator to his heir.

Years passed. Damian has been with his Father for a long while now. He was now turning 22 and Father held a Gala in his honour. Damian has long since realised that it was quite unnecessary but it helped their covers and allowed him to make connections.

However, they were just as boring as ever. Same faces, same lies, same talks. Nothing aloevera changed

Until a new couple from a city Amity Park, came with two teenage children. Samantha, the girl, was expected. Her bright pink gown less so if any information on her was any true.

Her companion, a boy her age, clearly uncomfortable in the suit and tie, made the ground under his feet disappear.

He looked so much like Damian himself did at the age of 15. And his eyes were that familiar, haunting blue.

Damian excused himself from his current conversation, and gracefully strode out of the room past the young teens.

Maybe he was being paranoid. Most likely unreasonably hopeful. Perhaps he was behaving irrationally.

Nonetheless, long minutes later, the scan of a hair he managed to snag revealed the truth.

It was his brother.

He came back.

___

Um... so, Maddie and Jack got dozed with some old Ecto at some point during very early stages of Maddie's pregnancy and Lazarus (Ectoplasm+Clockwork) infused the preserved genes of the baby, who died so early and had a glorious life of adventures ahead of him, into the barely formed zygot.

Danny's adventures happened. Phantom Planet not so much (unless you want it to be after the AGIT). Sam's parents finally made into an even bigger leagues and were invited to the Gala.

Danny had a bad feeling. Anything to do with the extremely rich was always problematic. No offence, Sam.

#Sam: none taken. #dpxdc #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #ex-twins #I mean #genetically they still are #but Danny's whole life has been started over #so... #Danny woukd sometimes get flashes of his past in the early childhood #they stopped around the age of 5-6 (guess why) #but returned a lot more vividly when he became a Halfa #that's why he sometimes pulls out moves that he shouldn't be able to know how to do #his Phantom form is a little different as well #it's still a hazmat suit but the feeling of his Ghost side is a lot more haunting #he looks the same #but his presence feels like staring into a dark #deep #pond in the middle of a moonless night #ironic since he shines like the brightest star #but eh #dc x dp prompt 2

[mastermindmiko]

Restless nights

Pairing: Harry Potter + gn!reader

Word count: 1275

Summary: You are unable to sleep in Harry’s dorm room

Trigger warnings: being unable to sleep, insomnia 

my masterlist

Requests are open

It was past midnight, when you were looking at the gleaming bright moon and the shining stars from Harry’s dorm room. The floor was cold and every so often when a small gust of wind would go through the slightly opened window it would send waves of chill up your body. You would’ve complained about the wintery temperature being the cause of your lack of sleep;but then you’d be lying to yourself. 

You didn’t know when exactly in fifth year sleep started becoming harder. Now it was almost half of your sixth year and you still could almost never properly sleep; and it seemed to become harder to do so as every night passed. Once the icy weather became almost a part of your body, you decided to turn around and gaze at the person who helps you sleep most days,Harry.

It’s ironic that Harry helps you sleep, considering that for the past two years that’s the most thing that bothered him. Now that the sixth year has started Voldemort has not been in his brain other than the occasional nightmare, and you’d be there to help him when those happened. 

Previously you hadn’t been there for Harry before this year, it was because you weren’t dating when those happened but after you’d still always help. You and Harry started dating in the beginning of this year, after the first potions lesson. 

He had been asked to smell the amortentia and while being asked what or who he smelled his gaze kept going to you, and Hermione caught on; knowing about your crush on him since fourth year. 

Hermione had pressured you to talk to Harry seemingly so sure that he liked you too, and after about a week of conversing and contemplating you decided that you should actually talk to him. 

When you did, he had the biggest and goofiest smile on his face, he was so nervous when he asked you out a few seconds later. You gave him a slight peck on his lips which then caused his cheeks to turn the brightest Weasley haired red you’ve ever seen. The smile never once faded from his lips for the rest of the week,and the nightmares didn’t bother him for the longest time after that for the first time in the last two years; on your first date he exposed to you that he liked you from third year. 

You climbed onto the bed and felt a smile try to tug it’s way onto your face when you looked at him. His raven-black hair was spilled on the pillows despite it being the shortest it’s been in two years. You ran your fingers through his hair with a feather-like touch making sure that the pressure from your fingers don’t wake him up. 

His hair was soft and messy as it always was, he often ran his hand through his hair out of frustration which caused his hair to mess, which even if he hadn’t his hair would’ve still been messy. 

Your eyes continued to scan his face and they fell on his closed eyes. His eye-lashes were long and black, you remembered his piercing green eyes that were under his lids. You remember when they looked at you while you were studying and when you were under him, never failing to cause butterflies to erupt in your stomach. 

You felt like a creep looking at him while he slept, but he was simply so beautiful that you couldn’t help yourself. You cupped his face with your hand softly, and ran your thumb over his cheek breezily. You looked at his nose and the slight blush that covered his cheeks from the narrowly opened window, and you felt a smile reach your lips at the sight as you pressed a small kiss on his nose as you did multiple times a day. 

Harry was not by any means a heavy sleeper, but something about your touch made him relax not wake up. You moved slightly closer to him trying to memorise every inch of his face, and you looked at his lips. 

They were pink, and soft. He loves to put his lips everywhere on you, on your nose, your cheeks, your forehead and your shoulder blade. He adores pressing his lips against yours and all over your body. Your face tinted slightly from the memory, and you pressed an even smaller kiss on his lips. 

You heard him softly mumble something and his lips turned into a smile, your heartbeat quickened feeling guilty that you had woken him up. You waited a few seconds until you concluded that he was still asleep, and you tried to understand what he mumbled for the third time. It was your name, and butterflies spread all over your insides because he was dreaming about you. 

You felt his hands unconsciously reach over to you and pull you over. Your limbs were intertwined and your head was on his chest while he inattentively ran his fingers through your hair. He always did that, you thought. 

You wondered how he could still know you and your presence and still find comfort in it even when he was asleep and wouldn’t have known it was you. You smiled at that and at the other fact that he told you that he loved you for the first time yesterday and you had reciprocated his words. 

Your wonderful train of thought was interrupted by Harry moving and his eyes fluttering open, you wondered if it was a nightmare that had so quickly woken him up; it had happened before that he was whispering your name in the middle of the night and he woke up because he had had a dream about you dying. He didn’t let you go for the next two days. 

His eyes fluttered open and he looked at you with a lopsided smile even though you were sure he could barely see your features without his glasses. You leaned your body back slightly to grab his glasses that you took off every night and gave to every morning, and handed them to him. 

You were greeted once again with the face and smile that you were greeted with every morning when you asked him why he looked at you like that and he simply said ‘I love waking up next to you.’  

“What woke you up?” you asked in a soft whisper after making sure his eyes adjusted with the glasses. 

“Why weren’t you asleep?” He asked teasingly, in an equally soft voice. You gave him a look and he let out a sigh as he said with a small smile “you’re cold.” 

Your face turned red from embarrassment as you had forgotten that you were seated on the cold floor for a long time. “Sorry.” You muttered sheepishly. 

He pulled you in closer by your waist and placed his head in the crook of your neck as he said, voice slightly muffled “I guess I’ll just have to warm you up.” 

You gave a long sigh and you wrapped your arms around his torso. He whispered ‘I love you.’ and your breath quickened, still not used to the words from him after hoping to hear them for so long. You replied with the same words exactly as you buried your head in his chest and some-how with his hands around your body and in your hair, with your ears near his heart you feel asleep.

#insomnia #hogwarts #voldemort #harrypotter #harryjamespotter #harry potter fluff #harry potter ff #harrypotterimagine #harry potter angst #ammortentia #potions #6thyear #nights #imagine #fanfiction

[karamell-sweetz]

its time for your irregularly scheduled tsukasa lovemail from the point of view of a terminally whipped purple guy (aka i wrote a ruikasa oneshot out of sleep deprivation in just under three hours)

starlight, star bright (won’t you be my wish tonight?)

tsukasa was a boy made of pure starlight. that was the conclusion rui had arrived at, lost in thought in the dead hours of the morning, when the moon had just begun its return journey to the other side of the horizon.

it wasn’t like he’d intended to come to that conclusion. he hadn’t meant to conclude anything at all. but somehow, his train of thought had wandered far from what he was going to do for his latest creative venture, instead drifting away to pondering the life and times of one of his dearest friends.

friends… friends… something about the term ‘friends’ didn’t sound right. rui pulled his thin blanket further over his body, staring blankly at his workshop ceiling. ah, whatever. he could worry about that much later, despite it already being late enough.

tsukasa tenma. tsukasa-kun. ‘tsukasa’ in reference to a king, ‘tenma’ in reference to the pegasus of legend. class representative of class 2-A at kamiyama high school. troupe leader and chairman of wonderlands x showtime; a dedicated actor and showman through and through, able to play a plethora of roles and pull just as many stunts. a boy who proudly claimed to be a future star of the world, and was certainly making moves to reach his destiny. egotistical yet hospitable, haughty yet kind, confident yet insecure all the same.

rui rolled onto his side with a gentle, fatigue-laced huff, smiling softly to an audience of none. tsukasa tenma. a boy with eyes that shimmered like the stars he so often compared himself to. the personification of warm, shining, brilliant sunshine — technically starlight, if one was willing to be scientifically accurate. a boy with a smile so bright it could probably glow in the dark if he smiled hard enough — not that rui would force him to test that theory. a boy made of sunset hues and midnight skies, of burning spotlights and overwhelming pride, of ivory keys and dazzling symphonies. a boy who had taken rui by the hand, maybe even by the heart, and brought him to a place filled with the most joy either of them could have ever experienced. the boy who had let him change for the better.

his dearly beloved tsukasa-kun. his most important friend.

…no. not just a friend.

rui rolled onto his other side.

the two of them together were the weird wombo combo, the infamous troublemaking duo of their school. well, of course they were friends. of course they liked each other enough to be at each other’s sides almost every second of the day.

but there had to be something else there. there had to be a reason why rui’s heart started spinning at a hundred miles per hour whenever tsukasa said so much as a ‘good morning’ to him. there had to be a reason why tsukasa had suddenly taken to holding rui’s hand on the way to the wonder stage. there had to be a reason, any reason at all, for why rui kept thinking about how pretty tsukasa was whenever he had free time to himself — much like he was doing right now.

rui’s thoughts were briefly halted by a loud snore from beside him. ah. that’s right, tsukasa was sleeping over at his house tonight. they had to work slightly overtime compared to their usual show process, so rui had offered his room as a temporary home-office for the two.

now, had rui known he would have another grand pining session, he probably wouldn’t have offered to share a futon with tsukasa.

rui took a glance at the sleeping boy beside him, a star temporarily dimmed by a spell of drowsiness. ironic, since stars would usually shine brightest at night, but tsukasa was a man of tight scheduling, and a good amount of sleep was vital to his functioning. even so, tsukasa seemed so peaceful, blissfully unaware of rui’s nighttime plight as he slumbered away.

truly, he was very pretty, rui mused to himself beneath the dim light of the moon outside. even with his eyes shut and expression blank, tsukasa was so, so beautiful, so much so that rui felt he might start to cry right there and then.

…what was this feeling? what was this newfound ache in rui’s chest that had suddenly made itself known to him? why did the thought of one day never being able to see tsukasa like this again abruptly cross his mind?

before he had even realised, rui had shuffled closer to the other boy, gently pressing against his sleeping form and holding him in a loose embrace, sharing in the warmth of their futon. rui wished, somewhat greedily, that he could stay together with tsukasa like this forever, beneath the twinkle of the moonlight.

…there were a lot of other things rui wished for, too. he wanted to keep doing shows with him — with all of wondershow — forever and ever, well into their adulthood. he wanted to grow old and grey with him — a sappy and pathetic desire, but an innocent wish nonetheless. he wanted to be able to hold him in the morning, much like he was doing now, and wake up by his with the sunlight filtering through the windows, catching in tsukasa’s golden hair and making him sparkle just as much as he already does. he wanted to kiss him everywhere, plant a sign of his love in every crevice of his face, maybe even his arms and legs and belly too, just to see him blush and hear him squawk with embarrassment. he wanted for the two of them to smile and laugh and cry and argue together and so, so much more, as long as tsukasa could remain in his life for as long as the universe would allow.

maybe he wanted to be more than friends. partners. lovers. legally married husbands, even. whatever. rui didn’t even care about how to describe their relationship anymore. all he wanted was to be tsukasa and rui, rui and tsukasa, a pair so closely bonded it almost seemed like fate.

and above all, right now, he wanted to say—

rui pressed a gentle kiss to tsukasa’s nape, laughing softly to himself as he nestled his head into his hair.

“i love you, tsukasa-kun.”

#project sekai #karamell yells #karamell’s confections #rui kamishiro #tsukasa tenma #ruikasa #karamell stop posting ruikasa challenge (impossible) #hnmgmndhmgnbfmgngnfdndm #tsukasa wakes up the next morning and is very confused as to why rui’s cuddling him #tell me if you want a follow-up because i can and will write it

[kaicean]

I normally just draw and not make long text posts but I have bundled up Natsu/Lucy feelings I want to word vomit ever since I picked up the Fairy Tail game out of curiosity (PLS & THIS & ?!?!) and most of all watched the Dragon Cry movie for the very first time a few months ago (July ironically). This movie dragged me back by the neck to this ship I loved several years ago.

Now I own a copy of the movie’s storyboard manga drawn by Mashima himself and the pamphlet. I flip through the pages of these two more times than I can count like-

真島自らが描いた、ナツの回想の中ルーシィ Natsu’s recollection of Lucy, drawn by Mashima himself

I’ve read several essays + interview (i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii to name a few) revolving around the famous nalu scenes in the movie, but I don’t think I ever came across anyone talking about what I think is the ultimate song that perfectly captures them in their entirety—Dragon Cry’s ending theme What You Are by Polka Dots.

There are only two translations I found, one of them being from the wiki but it’s a little off. This one is more accurate. My translation version is a mix of it plus usage of DeepL so it may not be entirely accurate but it’s close enough.

I absolutely see this song as Lucy -> Natsu due to obvious phrases within the lyrics and it fits my headcanon of Natsu being metaphorically Lucy’s brightest star. His name means summer which has ties to the sun, aka the brightest star. The sun is known to be the brightest star because it’s the closest to us, just like the person closest to Lucy is Natsu.

You're still you, no matter what Softly illuminating the darkness You're a star

Self explanatory, first line starts off with Lucy’s answer to Natsu’s “What do I look like?” question. This was first shown to us in the beginning of the movie so let’s keep that in mind.

Where is tomorrow? The past cannot be erased In a pitch-dark world I found a warm, enveloping light "It's gonna be okay" the voice said That voice echoed in my heart I want to believe in you, whatever you are Whatever the road I take, I want to be by your side I want to keep walking Wish on a star Let's find it, let's find it The only light

This can be easily depicted by my favorite scene in Snow Fairy opening, where Lucy’s world was rainy and bleak until a literal light shines through when she looks at Fairy Tail, particularly Mirajane and main team:

She ran away from home, stripped herself from Lucy Heartfilia to just Lucy, and began her own journey. Her world was small and lonely due to her strict upbringing but it was thanks to Natsu, who led her to Fairy Tail, that her world brightened and expanded since that day. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t hide her Heartfilia name for long which led us to the Phantom Lord arc. Here was where Natsu firmly assured her twice that she could stay in the guild and that it is her home that she can come back to, because she’s Lucy of Fairy Tail. These feelings were further cemented towards the end of the arc by Makarov. From then, she stopped running away and faced her past/father head-on, before returning home to the guild.

The cherry blossom colored dusk reflects in your eyes I'm not sad, yet the tears spilled Someone once said that the most beautiful things are fleeting No matter what today is, it has meaning I’ll always be by your side I'll hold your hand tight Let's tell each other The feelings hidden in our hearts You're a star You're a star

This part screams post-Tenrou Island and GMG arc+. One of my top favorite chapters is chapter 257 which happened after the 7-year timeskip. Natsu, Lucy and Happy traveled to visit Lucy’s father only to find out he had passed away just one month prior. Natsu offered her words of comfort and space but it’s this chapter where the lost of time was incredibly overwhelming for Lucy. I truly believe it was after this day (her BIRTHDAY no less wtf Mashima, satanic much???) that “time” was seen more precious and that every day has a meaning. Lucy’s first step of moving forward was tagging along with Natsu and Happy on a job, and her monologue just hits.

The concept of each moment being precious solidified during the GMG arc. Future Lucy lost her life to save her past self before wishing she could go on more adventures. Present Lucy proclaimed she had to laugh, cry, and live enough for both her and her future self. In Future Lucy’s version of heaven, it was Natsu who first called out to her and pulled her hand to say “Let’s continue on our adventure” before they ceased to exist.

And in the current timeline, present Lucy felt what Future Lucy felt in her heart. She then thanked Natsu, for saving her and their future.

You ask, "What am I?" I'll answer, "You're you” That assurance is all we need from each other Let’s make a wish upon the shining stars You're still you, no matter what The one who gently shines in the darkness That's right, my own Superstar A Superstar that lights up this road that goes on and on You're a star

At the end of the song, we circled back to the beginning, just like we did in the movie where Natsu asked Lucy for the second time what he looked like and she assured him yet again that Natsu looked like Natsu, obviously. And this was enough.

Natsu was the one who saved her (unintentionally) back in Hargeon thus leading her to Fairy Tail and stuck with her ever since. He became the person who she was closest to and vice versa. It was thanks to him that she got to experience so many things and came out stronger from it. Without meeting him and Happy, she wouldn’t be the person she was today. No matter what happens, as Natsu told her at the end of the main series, it doesn’t matter because they will always be together, to continue on more adventures!

I love when songs line up perfectly with the theme and this takes the cake. Thanks for coming to my TED talk as I continue to listen to this song on repeat and cry. I can’t wait until I can draw all of this out in the future, something similar to my comic here.

Also if there is an analysis of nalu + dragon cry’s ending theme out there, pls throw it my way thanks I will literally die on this hill.

#fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #nalu #nalu analysis #i love dragon cry sm y'all don't understand #literally singlehandedly brought me back to this franchise #and now i suffer hell bi-weekly

[thelostjournals]

The hope that turned into a dragon

This is the story of the constellation's dimmest star and how it

We both hesitate to call it dying. But maybe this is what death is.

Maybe we'll learn more with time, as we decipher the stories of the other stars. For now, here it is:

Like steps polished by the feet of generations, like pebbles shaped by shapeless water, stories and constellations smoothen with time.

I had two stars very close to each other: my darkest and my second-brightest. Siblings, convicted by the lines the mortals drew in their minds, to be ever distant.

The dim star, they used to say, shines from a deep abyss that separated the observatory from the rest of the city. The abyss was as deep as the sky seen from the observatory was high and as dark as the sun was bright. But in every darkness, they said, there is a light, no matter how weak.

The smallest star wasn't the smallest; she was just the farthest from the Earth. I am vaster than the mortals imagine; that at least didn't change with my ascension.

The furthest star missed the mortals the most. She yearned for them for eons, feeding on the stories told about her, stories of hope and dim lights that are enough, and ached to live on the small rock that was so far from us.

Each story made her heart wider, the gas that was her body spreading in the emptiness of space, blooming into a nebula, until all that was left of her glorious, shining body, was a hot, hard heart among colorful clouds. There was no light in it anymore, and the nebula, beautiful as it was, wasn't visible to the mortals not yet.

Mortals stopped telling stories and the farthest star was no longer a symbol of hope.

It broke her.

I watched it, I felt it, the hard, hot iron heart crack open. I felt the dragon coming out of it. I felt her spreading her wings because, for a short while, they were also mine.

Then she flew towards the planet she longed for, the one that believed her to be hope incarnate, and she was no longer mine. She was her own.

The star was no more, and the imaginary abyss was no more. My stories became ones about a city on a mountain, the observatory just a place on the mountain peak, accessible to all who had the stamina and wits to climb through my districts.

I was smoothened.

The Flicker and the Fade is harder for me to play than You Are a Beacon. The prompts are more, well, nebulous (I won't see myself out, this is my blog, sorry), and imagining stars is harder than imagining people. Also, I decided to use watercolor paint while playing this game, and I'm not good at it. This project is all about doing imperfect experimental things, about being playful, not professional but nobody said it comes easy.

The fact that my father was a physicist and that I remembered that hey, stars have life cycles, I need to research it, or he will come back from the dead to haunt me, didn't help.

I like the fact that the game is challenging, but also makes playing it way slower. Especially since I want to write it only when I feel like it.

So, I struggled with this first star, yesterday I even left writing mid-entry not knowing where I want to take the story, and then, a few hours ago I saw the sentence "I promise not to make boring art" somewhere and I asked myself what would be the least boring and most wacky thing to happen and the first word I thought of was dinosaurs.

Of course, the star changing into a dinosaur didn't fit the world tonally, but the dead star's core being a dragon egg is, at least to me, SUPER COOL. So here we have it.

This is the second entry in my playthrough of The Flicker and the Fade, a beautiful yet challenging game you can find here: https://nyessa.itch.io/the-flicker-and-the-fade

The playthrough is a part of an impromptu worldbuilding project my "let's play a lot of solo journaling games" turned into - hence the intro, which is written by a character from the previous game, You Are a Beacon (to be found here: https://radiantfracture.itch.io/you-are-a-beacon). You can read the whole playthrough in previous entries.

#solorpg #journaling games #the flicker and the fade #indie ttrpg

[taskforce1whore1]

Things You Said Under the Stars and in the Grass

Ficlet made using @terrariumss oc, Ciril

Pairing/s: Papa Emeritus III/Ciril

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

"Where are you taking me?"

"Hush, hush. You'll see soon."

"All I'm seeing is a bunch of trees."

Despite the sarcasm, Ciril follows along with his Papa. It'd been a long time since he had seen the other so giddy over a date night, so he's honestly happy to go along.

While the dense forests surrounding the clergy weren't Ciril's ideal place to be, he can tell it's not where Terzo is taking him. Speaking of, Terzo has his hand in an iron grip, borderline dragging him behing him. Ciril has to jog a little to keep up.

The walk proves to be worth it when the forest thins out and Terzo bring him into a field where the grass seems to stretch on for eternity and the stars shine clearly. It's breathtaking. He could stare at it forever. He would, had Terzo letting go of his hand not interrupted it.

"So, what do you think?" Terzo asks, grinning ear to ear like a child.

"It's beautiful," Ciril breathes back, his own smile making it's way onto his face.

"Good, good. Now come, lay down."

Terzo moves a little further away, sitting down in the grass and then laying back. Ciril is quick to follow, laying down at the other's side. He glances at Terzo before he turns his head to look up.

The sky is infinite. Stars twinkle together in the distance, making all sorta of patterns and any shape a person could think of. It's oddly relaxing.

Terzo interrupts the visual peace by reaching a hand up, pointing off the the left.

"Look. The Canis Major," he says simply, tracing out the lines that make up the constellation. "It's supposed to look like a dog, but I think the people who came up with that were crazy. It's just a bunch of lines."

Ciril snorts. Papa III, ever cynical.

"It's the imagination that counts, Papa," Ciril replies, the stupid smile on his face growing a little wider.

Terzo laughs, genuinely laughs, and for a minute the wrinkles leave his face and he seems young again.

"I suppose. That's not the only lie about the constellation though," Terzo replies.

"Oh really?" Ciril questions.

"Oh yes. They say Sirius, one of the stars in the constellation, is the brightest one in the night sky. That's untrue. You are the brightest star in the universe, my love."

Ciril can feel his face grow hot at that, blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He gently smacks the other's chest.

"You are such a tease, Papa!" He snips, though it's evident the other's flirting has charmed him. It always does. Terzo knows how to make him feel special.

Terzo laughs again, leaning over to press an unapologetic kiss to the other's cheek and mumble joking apologies. He does it all with a grin before he settles back into the grass beside the other. He spends the rest of the night pointing out other constellations and making flirtatious puns with each one. Ciril finds he doesn't mind, and in fact this might have been the best date he's ever had.

#papa emeritus iii #oc #oc x canon #ghost bc #the band ghost #things you said #ficlet #fanfiction #fanfic

[blazedbakugou]

starry night

In which there are one hundred thousand million stars in the sky, but it’s yours that Shouto searches for every night since you left.

a/n: this took many tries to post but hopefully it works now, anyways, I wanted to try writing for a different character so here’s what I came up with. Enjoy

warnings: tw death, tw suicide it’s briefly mentioned, angst, aged up characters

word count: 550+

pairing(s): shouto todoroki x gn!reader

vincent - don mclean

It’s cold— freezing actually. Or at least that was what Shouto believed. He felt the blades of grass, slightly wet from the nighttime condensation, pricking his skin. The breeze chilling his skin in a way that reminded him of the same numbness he’d felt the moment he realized you were gone. Shouto knew what the cold felt like, he knew what to expect of it— but this was a cold that he couldn’t shake off. It seeped past his skin and settled into his bones and even his soul, whatever was left of it anyway.

His body trembled and shivered as he let out choked sobs, tears streaming down his cheeks and past his ears as he stared up into the night sky. Deep down he knew that it wasn’t the harsh gusts of wind or his quirk acting up that was making him shiver, no, it was the sense of isolation that came from your absence. He was aware that he could use the other half of his quirk to warm himself up and rid himself of that horrid cold— but he didn’t want to.

He couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the numbness because it was all he had left. Shouto hadn’t been the same since you’d left him and quite frankly, he wasn’t sure if he ever would be the same again. Most of his days were spent in a state of dissociation and isolation, emotions weren’t something he had the luxury of experiencing anymore. So for now, he welcomed this albeit painful chill. He welcomed it with open arms and convinced himself that in some sick and twisted way, it was almost as if he was wrapped in your embrace once again.

Shouto searched the night sky, eyes scanning across the blanket of darkness and twinkling lights— something he’d often do with you on the nights when neither of you could sleep. His fingers roamed the area around him in search of your hand to hold but instead, he was met with prickly blades of grass. It was hard living with the reality that you were forever gone, leaving a void in Shouto’s heart in its wake. It had been months since you left him, taking your life because your battles grew too difficult to fight. Months that felt like eternities, and yet— Shouto still didn’t understand why you left, he wasn’t sure he ever would.

He’d once heard of a tale of two lovers who loved each other to death, they were insanely in love. One of the lovers passed away, and on the night they left, a brand new star appeared in the sky, shining bright much like their smile once did. So the other lover would then stare up at their past lover’s star every night and lay under the night sky until the sun came up. Shouto found it ironic that he was now doing the same thing, he hadn’t realized how much of an impression the story had left on him until he found himself in that empty field.

It was hard to tell which star was yours, there were so many to choose from. Shouto decided that yours must be the one which shone the brightest. So he spent every night searching the night sky for his love, determined to find them once again— even if it meant spending the rest of his life doing so.

masterlist // taglist open // requests open

@combat-wombatus @sunflowersuki

#tw suicide #tw death #todoroki #todoroki angst #todoroki imagine #shouto todoroki #shouto todoroki angst #shouto todoroki imagine #todoroki x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #bnha #bnha angst #bnha imagine #mha #mha angst #mha imagine #todoroki smut #shouto todoroki smut #bnha smut #mha smut #my writings

[s-creations]

Return the Flames - Chapter 13

All at Dead Bird Studios knew of Amos' (The  Conductor's) ability. How the owl could suddenly erupt into flames if  angered enough. When the studio first opened, Dominic (DJ Grooves) was  told that Amos had his ability under control. Nothing to worry about. No  possible loss of anything from an open flame.

A few years later however, and that control seems to have lessened to a dangerous degree.

It should have just been a simple, week long drive to fix the problem. It really should have been.

Dominic should have asked a lot more questions and should have been prepared for a twist ending.

_________________

Fandom: A Hat in Time           Rating: General Audience           Relationships/Pairings: The ConductorXDJ Grooves         Warnings: Eventual depictions of violence, slow burn relationship, named characters, attempt of an accent, being hunted down, a race against time (sort of).

As the sun slowly descended over the horizon, Amos was slowly making his way up the mountain. 

  It was a painful process. Every part of him was screaming in agony. Attempting to fully put itself back together as Amos charged forward. As best he could. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out since his fall. All he knew was he’d been away from Dominic for too long with the creeps breathing down his neck. So, even though all he wanted to do was sleep, Amos pushed forward. His mind focusing on getting back to Dominic. 

  The area was quiet. Sure, Amos was climbing up a mountain with wind roaring around him. But he was expecting to hear something. Or at least see something that counted as trouble. Anything. However, there was nothing. No noise, nothing showing that C.A.W. was still attempting their capture. It was unsettling. Because Amos wasn’t fully sure what to expect when he reached the top. 

  Had Dominic and those Nomads successfully block the way in? Or did they maybe chase off C.A.W. by some miracle. No, if that was true, he had a feeling Dominic would be hanging over the edge of the mountain, helping Amos up. So did that mean C.A.W. had captured them all? Were they going to be used as bait to better lure Amos out? 

  The owl let out a strangled cry as part of the mountain fell underfoot. Amos scrambled to find his footing again before falling too far down. Panting hard, pain flaring up again, a few minutes passed before Amos felt he could move again.

  He was getting closer. The familiar cart was getting bigger. A carved out, leveled section of the mountain was what said cart was resting by. Still no signs that anything was amiss…

  Amos really needed to keep his mental mouth shut. 

  He was only a few feet away when an explosion sounded. Not directly above him, but to the left. Amos assumed that was another entrance that Bakle had talked about. Rocks went flying away, Amos thankful he wasn’t under where that was happening. The relief was short lived when a rock seemed to shine in the dying light. Amos realized it was a large chunk of ice. Pure ice that looked like what Dominic had created back at the camp. 

  The owl’s attention snapped forward hearing desperate cries and shouts echoing from the temple. It seems as if the fight Amos had been fearful of was finally happening. 

  He was moving faster than he’d ever had before. Claws cracking the flat plateau as he finally reached the temple entrance. The doors were already open, showing a raised pillar in the center with a midnight blue feather resting on it. Amos paused, laying his eyes on it. His heart rate speeding up, feeling a pull deep in his soul. Which was instantly broken when he watched as a familiar C.A.W. agent slammed Dominic against said pillar. 

  Anger that Amos had never felt before filled him. Every part of him felt as if he was on fire. But it didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing hurt anymore. All he knew was anger and an overwhelming need to protect. 

  Amos knew he didn’t pass out. But all went black as his basic instincts took over. 

  __________________________

  There was not much that could be done but wait for something to happen in the temple. 

  Dominic felt uncomfortable with how quiet it was. Sure he could hear the wind and the crackling of the ice he’d made as it settled. But no one was saying anything. Bakle and his father were resting by the pillar. The penguin sitting on the steps, facing the entrance they’d come through. 

  “Where are you Amos…” The penguin muttered weakly. 

  “I’m sure the Child is alright.” Bakle offered as an attempt to calm Dominic. The child faltered when he didn’t receive a reply. Instead of dwelling on it, Bakle’s attention turned to the wall of ice and stone. “Do you think they’re gone?”

  “I doubt it,” Dominic replied, “If I had to take a guess, they’re trying to ‘solve’ this. Break the wall down somehow.” 

  “Oh…”

  Dominic was pulled from his own thoughts hearing the quiet reply. He looked over, finding Papa attempting to comfort his child. Letting out a low sigh, the penguin made his way towards the other two. “I’m sorry. I really wish this wasn’t happening.”

  “I… We don’t blame you or your partner sir.”

  The penguin flushed, but made no comment. “Still...what an absolute nightmare this has become. A road trip turned into a life and death struggle. How ironic that a rather cliche movie plot has become reality. Wonder if Amos and I could profit off this somehow.”

  “It certainly is an interesting story.”

  Dominic laughed softly, going to make another response. Only to pause, hearing something strange. A sort of ‘ping’ sound that sounded from the ice/rock wall. Leaving the other two, Dominic approached said wall.

  Hearing mumbles and harsh whispers as he neared it. A familiar hissing sound followed. A sound that Dominic had heard numerous times in Amos’ movie. Before an explosion went off…

  Dominic wasn’t able to get a warning out before the wall was blasted away. He was stunned, unmoving as he was sprawled on the ground with his ears ringing. There were muffled shouts and panicked pleas. Dominic looked over to find Papa being held down by thick ropes. Struggling to get to Bakel, who was being held back by two agents. 

  Any thoughts of helping were immediately broken when Dominic was picked up and thrown. His back hitting the pillar and collapsing at the base of it. Getting no time to recover as he was picked up once more. Hands grabbing his collar and pushing him against the pillar. 

  “You think you’re so clever…” The head C.A.W. agent growled darkly. “You’re just prolonging your fall.”

“And you...really are...full of yourself…” Dominic choked out. 

  “You could have avoided all of this! If you just gave us the Phoenix at the beginning-”

  “Why would I! You’re going to kill him!”

  “Because nothing that dangerous should exist.” 

  “Amos is not dangerous! He’s scared and in pain. He would never intentionally hurt anyone. You and your agents are the dangerous ones.”

  The crow’s feathers ruffled, beak opening to make one final comment. Only to release Dominic and step away when fire erupted between them. Stumbling away as well, Dominic collapsed once more. Leaning against the pillar as he looked up, mouth dropping as what he saw. 

  Amos stood between Dominic and the agent. Hunched over and breathing hard, his entire body was shaking. With rage or exhaustion, Dominic couldn’t tell. The most alarming feature were the flames. The tips of each feather turned to flames that combined with the rest of them, growing and in turn, making Amos appear larger. But the most outstanding part was the color. It wasn’t the typical yellow and orange, not the threatening burn that Dominic had been used to seeing. These flames were a merge of colors. Deep blues and purples, with the tips of the flames a bright pink, melding together with the natural orange of Amos’ feathers. It was as if day and night were competing to shine the brightest. 

  The penguin was in absolute awe. The agent, however, was less than impressed. 

  “There you are… I was wondering when you would stop hiding behind your accomplices.” The crow said calmly. Even with torn and tattered clothes, staring down an angry creature that was engulfed in flames, the agent seemed to act as if he was in control. “Now, do you plan on coming quietly? You’ve honestly caused enough trouble.”

  “You absolute peck neck,” Amos growled dangerously, “You chased me down, threatened me, threatened the people I’m with, drugged me, and ya think I’m the problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ya absolute wretched person-” The owl stumbled slightly when a familiar dart entered his arm. The agent who fired it looked pleased...only for their smile to slip away when the dart actually melted away. 

  Dominic flinched when, in a flash, Amos was suddenly standing before said agent. Grabbing the gun and easily melting it before the shaking crow. “I would highly suggest ya run.” 

  That was all it took for the surrounding underlings to frantically rush towards the exits. Practically tripping over each other with small, terrified chirps. Now free, Bakle rushed over to his father as the larger Nomad sat up slowly. The lead crow watched on furiously as their team ran out. 

  “You idiots, we’re so close to ending this! Where do you think you’re going?” They let out  small squawk when a clawed hand grabbed the front of their collar. Amos towering over them, glaring with a scowl. 

  “Ya should have run when ya had the chance.” 

  “I will bring you down.”

  Dominic stood up, hand reaching out to pull Amos away. “Sweetheart-”

  “Sir!” Bakle called out, him and his father hiding behind one of the large pillars. Getting Dominic’s attention, the young Nomad pointed towards the opening in the ceiling. 

  The sky was filled with stars, the inky black in such contrast towards the bright afternoon. The moon was in full view in the opening, almost touching the other side. Below it, the feather was giving off a gentle glow. Amos, who had also looked over hearing Bakle, had his attention drawn towards the feather. 

  Before he could move, Dominic let out a yelp of surprise as the larger Nomad lifted him up. Pulling both the penguin and his son behind the pillar again. 

  “What is happening?” Dominic frantically demanded, struggling to get out of the grasp. 

  “No sir, don’t go out!” Bakle gripped the penguin’s arm. 

  “What-”

  “The Child needs to return the given power.”

  “I don’t even know what that means!”

  On the other side of the temple, the C.A.W. agent struggled to break free from Amos’ grip. The owl fully focused on the feather. Beginning to walk towards it when the moon filled the opening fully. Dragging the agent along with. 

  “What do you think you’re doing creature!” The crow spat.

  Amos didn’t respond, keeping a tight grip on the agent as he reached the base of the pillar. Dominic was able to peak around just as Amos began to reach out. The penguin was pulled back gently and kept in place just as a clawed hand collected the feather. 

  To anyone outside of the temple, the peak of said mountain suddenly erupted into flames. Every available opening had a pillar of fire escaping from it. The tallest seen from the top. One could make the assumption that it touched the heavens. 

  The trio that were tucked behind the stone pillar cowered away from the flames. The heat unbearable as it quickly traveled past the group. Dominic screwed his eyes shut to protect from the blaring light. There had been a brief sound of a scream of pain and fear before it had been cut off by the roaring fire. 

  It all lasted for a few seconds. The deafening silence that followed seemed to cause more fear than the fire. Dominic let out a slow, shaky breath, pulling away from the rest to step around the pillar. He retched at the burnt husk of the C.A.W. agent. The blackened bones showing it’s beach open in a forever silent scream. The feather had returned to the top of the pillar. At the base of it, completely unmoving, the tips of his orange feathers burnt black, was Amos. 

  “Amos!” Dominic rushed over, rolling the owl over to cradle him close. Amos didn’t react, head rolling to the side to rest against Dominic’s shoulder. The fear only grew when he realized the owl felt cold. Frozen even. 

  “Amos… Amos, please, you need to wake up. You can’t...you can’t do this… We were going to make movies together, remember? Going to take the world by storm, right? ...Amos?” Dominic gave a small sob, pulling Amos closer. Hiding his face in the orange feathers. 

  “Please come back…”

#A Hat In Time #discotrain #the conductor #dj grooves #ahit conductor #ahit dj grooves #s-creations #fanfiction #Multi-Chapter

[iliumheightnights]

We Have a jedi [11] |Peter Parker x Male!Stark Reader

Fandom: Star Wars and Marvel

Pairing: Tony Stark x Son Reader, Peter Parker x Male Reader

Summary: (M/N) returns to earth. His return reveals secrets and he meets a someone new.

Read From The Start

...

The lights of New York always made the city shine, even if parts of it weren’t the brightest. The sounds of cars honking and traffic were like music to his ears. He was dragged away from the flashing lights and traffic by the sound of a hiss. He turned and looked at Sheyo in his arms, she was gritting her teeth. “It hurts. Can we get to a medic?” (M/N) nodded and helped her up. “Don’t worry I’ll get you some help.” (M/N) quickly put the space stone into his pocket and wrapped her arm around his shoulder and lifted her up. “If it starts to hurt too much let me know, I’ll carry you.” Sheyo laughed. “You carry me? You can barely carry a field crate without help from the force!” (M/N) only rolled his eyes at her, but still stifled his own laughter. Carrying her out of the alley they had arrived in, Sheyo finally got to see what earth looked like. “Where are we?” The two continued to walk down the sidewalk, passerby’s giving their own glances and glares at the two of them for what they were wearing and at Sheyo especially. “Terra. But they call it earth. I’ve been here once before.” He stopped talking for a bit but decided to continue. “Sheyo...you know how I’ve been kind of distant lately? Well, you’re going to find out why here. I just ask that you keep an open mind.” She looked at him strange but smiled. “(M/N), You know I’ve always had an open mind. I’m sure whatever it is we can handle it.”

As they made their way through the city, they ended up seeing a large crowd. “Hey look, there’s a giant ball on top of that building.” Looking up (M/N) saw it, on top of a building was a ball on a pole, the words happy new year not lit up below it. So it had been not just a year...but two that he had been away. He didn’t realize he was gone for so long. Only now did he realize that the air was chilly. “That’s how they celebrate a new year here. Come on we gotta get you patched up.”

After passing the crowd, the two were getting closer to avengers tower. (M/N) was getting antsy, he of course wanted to get Sheyo to a medic...but he wanted to see his dad. He missed him. It wasn’t long before he felt a disturbance in the force. “We’re being followed.” Sheyo whispered to him. “I felt it too.” Two figures were walking in front of them and (M/N) could tell they were trouble. Not seeing any other option, he turned into an alleyway. “Stay behind me.” He set Sheyo on a trashcan, better to keep her off her leg. “Look who we have here fellas, got some people playing dress up...and a freak.” (M/N) could feel his anger building up. “We want no trouble. Leave...and don’t get hurt.” The men laughed. “Leave and don’t get hurt! Oh boy I’m so scared.”

“He told you to leave.” That wasn’t Sheyo’s voice. (M/N) looked up and saw a person dressed in red and blue hanging onto the wall. “I think you should listen to him.” The men sneered at him. “And who are you?” The boy looked shocked. “I’m spiderman!” Even (M/N) looked at him strangely. Really spiderman? “Whatever. I wanna look at the freak.” One of the men walked forward and put a hand on (M/N)’s shoulder trying to push past him. In an instant, he ignited his lightsaber and cut the man’s arm off. “AAAAHHHH!” The man laid on the ground in pain. “Holy shit! You took off his arm!” The boy yelled from the wall. (M/N) turned back to the man on the ground and pointed his saber at him. “Leave.” The men didn’t need to be told twice, they all scattered. (M/N) let out a sigh and returned to Sheyo. “Are you okay?” Sheyo laughed. “I am, don’t think the man is.” (M/N) could tell the boy was still there. “Thank you for trying to help at least. Are you an avenger?” He turned back to the boy who was now on the ground. “Who me? Uh no, not yet at least. I’m Pet-erg spiderman. I’m spiderman.” (M/N) laughed. “You said that already...also might wanna practice that some more. Don’t want your actual name to slip out, Peter.” Peter rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah...so are those lightsabers? Like from star wars?” (M/N) sighed, of course here comes that again. “Yes these are lightsabers, yes we’re jedi, no the events of star wars are still just fiction to you.” Peter nodded. “Ooohhh. Okay.” He started jumping with excitement. “But that still means star wars still exists and so does the force and all that.” Sheyo leaned over to (M/N). “Star wars?” (M/N) only said he’d tell her later and placed his hand on Peter’s shoulders to steady the boy. “Peter, calm down. Can you help me get my friend to Avengers tower? I need to get my friend to a medic.” Peter looked over at Sheyo who was waving at him. “Oh...oh of course!” The two boys helped carry Sheyo to the tower. “I still can’t believe star wars is somewhat real.”

Avengers tower, previously Stark tower, was always a sight for (M/N)’s eyes. He didn’t get to spend a lot of time in it, but it had become home to him. “I’ve never been this close before. I usually don’t have a reason to be.” (M/N) looked over at Peter who was in awe...at least he thought he was. It was hard to tell with his makeshift mask. “So why did you want to come here instead of a hospital? I’m not sure they’ll let you in.” (M/N) let out a huffed laugh. “They’ll let me in. If they don’t I won’t let them live it down.” With that he pulled the three of them into the building.

The lobby of the tower hadn’t changed that much since the last time he was there. There were some new couches and monitors set up and the receptionist was different. Speaking of the receptionist, she had looked up as the three of them walked past. “Um...excuse me. I need to see your id!” (M/N) ignored her as he kept walking, he could tell security was following them. “Jarvis. I’m back and need to get to the labs. These two are with me.” The guards had just stopped them as Jarvis’ voice came through. “(M/N)! You have been missed. Your father will be so happy to see you. Do you want me to alert him to your arrival?”  “No thank you Jarvis. I’ll find him myself. Can you tell these fine gentlemen to please move?” Jarvis did so and the three moved to the elevator. “If I may ask sir...where have you been?” (M/N) sighed. “A long story.” Sheyo looked at him. “Father? (M/N) what’s going on?” He hadn’t even realized that he had talked about his father in front of Sheyo. Hopefully she’d be understanding. “I thought you said you had an open mind?” She glared at him. “I do. Could have at least told me so I didn’t show up all messed up.” He smirked at her. “Next time Sheyo, baby steps.” She chuckled.

The elevator door opened and the three were on the move again. The labs were new. While Tony had labs before, these were newly upgraded ones...and they were nice. They passed through a pair of doors and entered a lab where they were greeted by a certain scientist in a purple shirt. “Bruce.” Bruce looked up at his name and was shocked by what he saw. “(M/N)! You’re back!” He got up and embraced the boy who hugged back. “It’s good to see you too Bruce. My friend, I think her legs broke, can you take a look?” He nodded and looked at Sheyo. “I..I can take a look.” Sheyo smiled at him. “Yes I’m green. I’m a Mirialan, nice to meet you.” (M/N) laughed. “Don’t worry Sheyo, he’s green too.” (M/N) helped get Sheyo on the table. “I’m going to find my dad. Peter, can you stay with Sheyo and Bruce until I get back?” The boy nodded. “I can wait...I’m with Bruce Banner, and jedi...in avengers tower.” (M/N) shook his head and smiled. “Yes, you are. I’ll be right back.” (M/N) was about to exit the lab before Bruce stopped him. “Oh he’s not here right now. He’s at a new years party with the other avengers. I’m not there since...you know, I don’t like parties.” (M/N) was a little disappointed hearing that. “Oh. That makes sense. Well...I’m not going anywhere so I can wait.” Peter looked at him. “Your dad’s an avenger?” (M/N) looked at him. “My dad’s Iron man.” Peter started fidgeting excitedly. “Oh my god! You’re Tony Stark’s son!? Does he even have a son?!” (M/N) shrugged his shoulders. “Kind of.” Bruce faked a cough. “Um, (M/N) if you want...your dad actually set something up if you ever came back. I can have Jarvis lead you there.” (M/N) nodded, he had time to kill anyway. “I guess I’ll take a look. Take care of my friend Bruce.” Bruce nodded and continued his work with Sheyo. (M/N) left leaving Peter with them. “Alright Jarvis, tell me where to go.”

The elevator opened on the living area floor. This had changed dramatically since the last time too. From the looks of it, the rest of the avengers had moved into the tower. It reminded (M/N) of being back in the jedi temple, everyone living together. “So...what exactly am I looking for J?” He stood in the middle of the living room. “The hallway to your right, the last door on the left.” Walking to where Jarvis instructed, he opened the door and entered. The room was a good size and space themed. There were books and posters. A tv and game consoles. “Jarvis what is this?” He already knew the answer. “This is your room sir. Mr.Stark wanted to give you your own space for when you returned.” “When?” “Yes sir, when. Mr.Stark always believed that you would come back. You being here proves he was right.” (M/N) laughed softly at that and sat on the bed. “Yeah...I guess you’re right.”

From outside the windows (M/N) could see people celebrating and partying, even from high up. He wasn’t on earth long enough to experience or see any sort of holiday or celebrations like this. He wondered if maybe one day he’d get to experience one properly. Clint had told him about one called Christmas that sounded nice to (M/N), seemed sort of like life day. There was a knock on the door and Peter popped in, but he was looking a little different. “Hey, you took your mask off.” Peter stood frozen and then realized he had. “Oh, oh yeah. I figured since you already knew my name and that you’re pretty much an avenger that I could trust you.” He stepped inside the room and looked around. “Nice digs. You really got set up here.” (M/N) smirked as he looked around with Peter. “I wouldn’t know. I have NO clue what most of these are.” Peter smiled at him. “I can help you out sometime if you want.” (M/N) smiled at him too. “I’d like that. So, did you need me for something?” Peter shook his head as he remembered. “Oh yeah. Doctor Banner asked for you to return to the lab. Something about not spending your first new years alone.” (M/N) smiled and stood up from his bed. “That sounds pretty nice.” He and Peter exited his room, (M/N) walked to the elevator but noticed Peter wasn’t following him. “Hey. You coming?” Peter shook his head. “I should probably get home. My aunt’s probably wondering where I am.” (M/N) smiled at the boy and walked closer. He brought his hand out for a handshake. “It was a pleasure to meet you Peter. Thanks for your help. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” Peter grabbed his hand and shook it. “Yeah you too. I’m sure we will.” With that Peter put his mask back and exited to the balcony. (M/N) watched as he shot something from his hand and swung off. “Hugh, I guess he really is spiderman.”

Returning to the balcony he found Bruce looking over a screen while Sheyo was sitting on the table. “How’s the leg?” She smiled at him. “It’s alright. Just sprained. Gonna need to stay off it for a couple days. It would be better healed sooner if we had some bacta.” (M/N) sat on the table beside her. “Well we don’t. You’ll just have to suffer.” She playfully slapped his shoulder. “Oh very funny. That’s the thanks I get for risking my life?” With that Bruce looked back towards them. “Sheyo filled me in on what happened. So...you really fought that blue guy again?” (M/N) nodded. “I did. Sadly I didn’t put a more...permanent end to him then I was hoping.” Bruce was looking at him a little concerned but ultimately smiled. “Well, in any case I’m glad you’re okay...and back here with us.” The man patted his shoulder. “Thanks Bruce. It’s good to be back.” The man cleared his throat. “Well...how about we head to the living room and watch the ball drop?” Sheyo and (M/N) looked at him strangely. “The what? doing what?”

The three of them had moved to the living room and watched as the new year ushered in. (M/N) would be lying if he said the whole ball thing didn’t confuse him, but each planet had their own customs. Bruce had made them some food which they ate gratefully, they hadn’t eaten since long before the battle. After everything Bruce had set Sheyo up in a guest room and (M/N) said good night to Bruce as the man retired to his own room. (M/N) wasn’t going anywhere yet, not until his dad came back.

(M/N) stood at the window and looked over the city. It was about 1 in the morning and the parties and celebrations were still going on but he could tell it was starting to die down. The ding of the elevator brought him back to attention. “That was some party. Better than last year’s by far.” That was Clint’s voice. “You only say that because you couldn’t attend last year.” Natasha. He could tell by their voices that they were getting closer. Turning around he watched the hallway and saw the two, plus Steve and Tony, turn the corner. “I’m just saying they should have at least had party hats.” Everyone stopped their banter and laughter as they saw they weren’t alone. (M/N) could feel his hands go sweaty as his dad finally made eye contact with him. He heard his voice crack as tears built up in his eyes. “Happy new year.” It was quiet for a bit, no one really doing anything. A laugh came from Tony. “About damn time.” Then he pushed past everyone else and engulfed him in a hug. “About time kid.”

#peter parker #tony stark #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark reader #peter parker x male stark reader #tony stark x male reader #tony stark x male!reader #tony stark x reader #tony stark x son reader #tony stark x son!reader

[jungkookiebus]

Stargazing | kth

Genre: fluff x nonidol!au x established relationship x professor!taehyung Pairing: astrophysicist!taehyung x reader Rating: E for everyone! Word Count: 1.8k Summary: High up in the mountains, in a small village, there lives two young lovers; one is an astrophysicist, the other a dutiful plant mom and writer. On a special night, with a special supermoon, Taehyung, wants to picnic and watch it travel across the sky. With fireflies lighting the waves of grass, you settle among its drifting blades as Taehyung shares his passion of space and the wonder it holds.  Author’s note: This is a sensory drabble with a little more dialogue, but I don’t think it takes away from the comfort it’s supposed to portray. Plus, I fucking love space. 

“I’ll take you there one day.”

Taehyung’s slim finger partially covered your view of the moon for a moment. Tonight, there was a supermoon and he was adamant on taking you out for a night picnic. With a basket slung under his arm (you may have teased him a little for it) and his other arm intertwined with yours, he led you up the path shortly before moonrise. Your small village was nestled in the mountains, away from the busy life of the city the both of you had been used to up until a year ago. The both of you decided your lives weren’t fulfilled enough, sold most of your belongings, and moved to the mountains and you hadn’t looked back since. Fireflies danced among the trees and the ferns that grew beneath them. The sound of soft dirt beneath your feet sounded softly in the night, as if you walked on air. A cool breeze blew through the trees and it almost sounded as if waves were crashing on a shore. The night was filled with the sounds of crickets, cicadas, predatory night birds, and the winds coming down from the mountains. Sticks snapped beneath your feet every now and again. The clearing was one you visited often. The tall grass swayed gently in the breeze and the moon cresting over the trees cast it in a muted blue that made it seem like waves at dawn.

Now, the both of you were laid on the blanket on your backs, watching as the moon traveled slowly across the sky. The sky was dotted with thousands of stars that only highlighted the moon even more.

“To the moon?”

“Mhmm.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye. His hands rested on his stomach and you looked at his profile. From here, you could see the reflection of the stars in his eyes and you wished you could look at them head on without blocking the view. But for now, you were satisfied with seeing them as if standing at the edge of a clear pool. His eyes shone in the night. He never liked his brown eyes, but you thought they were the brightest eyes you had ever seen. Even his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks as he slowly blinked. His soft, dark hair haloed his head and soft curls fell across his forehead. You looked back towards the sky. The moon was almost too bright to look at for very long, but you were fascinated by the amount of detail you could see. Craters stood out in stark contrast from the white ashy surface, streaks of darker gray the only other proof that something had hit it.

“That’d be nice.”

He hummed as the wind pick up again. You laid in the middle of the field, blanket tamping down the grass where you sat, but the rest still stood tall around you as if you laid in an enchanted pool. It dipped down low, tickling at your legs so you scooted a little closer to Taehyung. He instinctively moved his arm so that you could tuck under, head resting on his shoulder. Fireflies were continuing to come out by the hundreds, dancing among the grass and the trees further beyond the field. An owl flew overhead once and a bat or two would skitter across your vision jauntily.

“What constellations are out tonight?”

In all honesty, you just wanted to hear him talk. You weren’t sure what it was. Maybe his voice was at just the right decibel. You were positive his voice could be taken and made into a binaural beat that would put the listener to sleep instantly or relax their tired soul. Whatever ailed you, his voice soothed the ache.

“Well, I see Capricorn and Aquarius. Oh, and Pavo is right over the trees…”

He trailed off, knowing he tended to get carried away. After all, the other reason you had moved here was for the observatory. Taehyung was a professor of astrophysics and when he decided to move, still made a living doing research for the university and published regularly.

“Tell me more about stars,” you said almost dreamily. You really did just want to watch the sky while he talked.

And talk he did. As you gazed out into the starry night you tried to imagine what he was describing. He was always so good at turning space into a story that you weren’t surprised he was the most popular professor at University. You tried to imagine that you had vision that could see beyond this earth and into the heavens above as he spoke. You traveled through various clouds of dust as his voice rumbled beneath you, guiding you through the galaxy. Then there was almost a storm, a turbulence within the cloud as the gas and dust began to collapse in on itself. You imagined the warmth on your face, contrasted sharply with the freezing temperatures of space, as the core heated. Taehyung waved his hand towards the sky as he spoke, gesturing to it in general as he continued his description.

“…protostars. It’s at the heart of these cores that someday become the star…”

You could practically see the brightness behind your eyelids as you closed your eyes, using the light of the moon to further your daydream.

“It kind of just gathers dust, but not all of it becomes a star. They could become asteroids or even planets.”

You loved his passion and it warmed you against the cold around you. You held onto him a little tighter as the temperature dropped. The moon was beginning to dip behind you, almost directly overhead now. The soft skin of his jaw was pressed to your forehead and when he talked it moved gently against your skin. The crickets were still just as loud, and the fireflies were having a dance all their own in the moonlight; they were the bioluminescence to this grassy ocean. An owl hooted behind you, nestled amongst the dark branches of the trees at the edge of the clearing.

“And when they die, they leave so many beautiful things behind.”

You let your fingers brush gently along his sweater as you nestled a little closer, sighing deeply as he continued to speak in his soft baritone.

“Their death are sad fates, but it’s amazing how long they get to live. They can be one of the oldest things in the universe, having lived for billions of years and we’re just here in the blink of an eye.”

He was always fascinated with life and life outside of himself. His fascination with the stars had started in an early age and traveled with him for the rest of his life. He reached for the old Tecsun hand crank radio he always kept by his side “just in case”. Taehyung without the radio wasn’t Taehyung. He had set it perfectly, just by memory, to the perfect station at peak clarity. Miles away, and up in the mountains a little higher than you were now sat a large radio tower with a small, white building at its base. On this night it was playing Ella Fitzgerald and The Andrews Sisters. The music floated softly on the air and the fireflies seemed to sway in time to the lilting beat.

“In a supernova the core collapses and explodes. These insane nuclear reactions happen, and the core literally creates iron, ____, now the star has taken all the nuclear energy it can and the star can no longer support its own mass and the iron core collapses.”

Taehyung is animated now, body shifting a little beneath you, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. You still fit comfortably under his arm and his warm hand never left the outside of your elbow. He was using his other hand to explain what he was saying, even though you weren’t looking. Every now and again, you’d open your eyes to see what shadows the moon was casting on his face now. Now that it was dropping behind you, his soft cheekbones were highlighted, and they cast shadows down his cheeks. The dip beneath his bottom lip was dark as night. His eyes, however, still reflected the stars. From this angle, you could watch both as his eyes searched the stars with rapt fascination. He seemed to always be looking for something different, something new. They moved from side to side and sometimes more upwards, exposing only the whites and they shined brilliantly, making you think of his dying stars and how you were made of them.

“In seconds, and imagine this please,” he didn’t need to ask you twice, you were too enraptured in his voice to ignore the words, “the core goes from roughly 5,000 miles across to just about a dozen.”

You inhaled in fascination at the fact. You truly were surprised because Taehyung seemed to always have something new for you to learn, even after all these years.

“It’s almost like one of those strange time travel objects villains always seem to get in superhero movies. Things backfire and then suddenly everything is collapsing in on itself and the whole world is out of control. It’s kinda like that. The outer layers collapse, along with the core. They rebound with the release of energy and literally explode outwards. The amount of energy they release is beyond imagination.”

He spread all his fingers across the sky, palm to the stars he talked so lovingly about. The stars still shined by the hundreds, some brighter than others, and some you had to squint to see. His hand moved like a strange black creature moving across the sky, but you watched his graceful fingers move, pointing out things he was talking about and what it would look like there.

“From days to weeks, a supernova can outshine a galaxy. The subatomic particles are the array of colors you see, but they occur once every hundred years. About 25 or so are discovered a year in other galaxies, but they can’t be seen without a telescope.”

Glenn Miller’s ‘Moonlight Cocktail’ played quietly next to him on the blanket, making the moment that much more surreal. You wanted to create a bubble around this moment and stay in it, or revisit whenever you wanted. His hand, gentle on your arm and, despite your sweater, made your heart flutter a little every time he tightened his grip after being relaxed for a while. In turn, your grip on his sweater would tighten the slightest. He sighed now, resting in his explanation, as his hand settled on your hand. He held your fingers gently under his and his warmth was welcome.

“Thank you for doing this with me,” he whispered.

“I could do this forever.” You sighed contentedly; eyes closed as you listened to the music.

“I want that with you. Two lovers side by side together, two stars in the sky, dying out brilliantly in the end. Stargazing.”

And with the whisper of a kiss to your forehead, curls spilling across your skin, the two of you connected like twin stars, did just that.

Stargazed.

#bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #btswriterscollective #taehyung #taehyung fluff #astrophysicist!taehyung #taehyung x reader #bts fluff #space #stars #reader insert #stargazing

[luciehercndale]

Bright Lights // Blackdale

Inspired by this post by @ssansas-stark . Your post gave me the idea, so I’m crediting you. 😃

Couple: Blackdale, Lucie Herondale and Jesse Blackthorn Rating: T Prompt: Stargazing

Lucie felt stuffy as she was staring at the city from above with furrowed brows.

Every time she went on the rooftop of the Institute, she was fascinated by the wizardry of the street lightning, which had made life easier for people like her who hunted demons during the night. She had written a piece on how those small lamps had improved the lives of shadowhunters and her own, and on how grateful she was to the person who invented electricity. Thanks to her desk lamp she could, after all, write until she pleased. That night, however, she didn’t stare in bewilderment and fascination at the modern innovations of London.

Lucie gripped the railing and imagined that the iron bar of which it was made must be feeling the same sensations as herself. She was suffocating it with her tight hold. She wanted to be like that motionless fence, at least she wouldn’t be clogged by the dread and feel like her life depended on how firm was the grip. Because it’s the tightness of the grip that decides whether you choke or not.

Her hand reached her neck, then it descended to touch the silver necklace she had been wearing ever since that night at the cemetery when James risked to die.

The symbol of life and death.

“Clearing your head?”

Jesse.

Lucie knew who it was before she turned her head to glance at him. She didn’t jolt anymore at the sound of his voice. “Sort of,” she replied, hoping he wouldn’t catch the dejection in her tone.

“Someone angered you at dinner?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Lucie inquired.

“What? Of course not, Lucie. I can leave if you want,” Jesse offered, trying to touch the railing next to him and failing.

It was a simple gesture, yet Lucie was pained by it. She felt the grip tighten around her neck, taking hold of her bones. He was the cause of some of her distressing thoughts, but she would never tell him.

“Don’t leave, please,” she decided. His pale and ghostly hand was still the object of her stares. She had to stop focusing on it or he would realize the reason of her anguish.

“Tonight the sky is perfect for stargazing,” Jesse affirmed after a while.

“Stargazing?”

“It means watching the stars.”

“I know what it means,” Lucie protested with a frown. “Are you passionate about stars?”

Jesse’s face lit up when she asked him, which already gave her an answer. “You know that I’ve got a lot of time on my hands and that I’m only up at night,” he replied.

Sadly, I do, Lucie wanted to say, but she held her tongue. “Do you look at the sky often?”

“You should see the view from Chiswick. There is not much pollution because it’s not downtown like the Institute. The sky is clearer, brighter. It’s easy to spot stars.”

“You know how to spot stars?”

“Now who is the one who is shooting question after question,” he laughed.

Lucie rolled her eyes and looked at the lights of the city again. “I’m just curious, that is all.”

“I was joking.”

She noticed that he had tiptoed close to her. The quietness of his pace amazed her. “Are there stars in the sky to see tonight?”

“The stars are like ghosts, Lucie. You never see them during the day, but they are always up there,” he explained cordially. “You see that one that seem to shine more than the others around her?”

“Uhm, yes? The white one?”

“Yes, that one. That’s Canopus. It’s the second brightest star. It’s part of the Argo constellation.”

Lucie awed at the new information. “That’s me, then,” she declared without thinking.

“You?”

She glanced at him. He had put his arm behind her back. She could see his faint hand on the other side of her body. He was embracing her without really touching her because she couldn’t feel his hands on her. It was a gloomy sensation not being able to touch someone you loved. Her heart raced in her chest at the sudden invasion of her personal space. She looked at his hand and he withdrew it.

“I didn’t mean to touch you without your permission,” he apologized.

“You don’t have to apologize, Jesse.” After all, you weren’t even touching me, she added in her head.

He nodded and bit his lip before looking at her with his intense green eyes. “Why do you think you’re the second brightest star, Lucie?”

“I never said that.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. Damn him and his sharp memory…

“Alright, alright. I did say it,” Lucie admitted, studying the sky and trying to locate the star again.

“Who is the brightest star?” Jesse asked. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me.”

Lucie’s eyes focused back on Jesse. The sky was indeed clear and they weren’t in total darkness since her parents had decided to install a few lampposts on the roof, but his body could be still barely perceived.

“It’s James,” Lucie murmured. She didn’t want to say it out loud, but she knew Jesse wouldn’t judge her. She wasn’t jealous of her brother. She loved her brother, but sometimes everyone’s attention was on him. “James can turn into a shadow,” she added. “Everyone seems to regard this with anticipation and consternation, you know? No one still knows what he’s capable of and if he is in danger because of the recent attacks. Plus, our grandfather, he… he never acknowledged me.”

“Care to explain?”

Lucie sighed. “One time a demon told him something about our grandfather. Something that would also be directed at me as his niece, but he overlooked me as if I didn’t exist.”

“You don’t need to be acknowledged by a greater demon to be relevant, Lucie,” Jesse stated. “You are already relevant. You probably don’t see it, but… whenever you write or whenever you do something you like, whenever you help your friends, your eyes burn with passion and energy. With life. You burn fiercely for other people. You’re burning right now and you don’t even realize it.”

Lucie’s hand instinctively gripped Jesse’s necklace. She would not admit that he was right, that she was on fire because she wanted to help him but at the same time, she knew it was against the law. The same fire was suffocating her.

“I’ve never seen it that way.”

“I’m glad to have provided you with a new point of view,” Jesse grinned.

She also grinned in response. “Now, back to the stars. Can you tell me more?”

“Of course, of course.”

Lucie could not lie to herself. She still couldn’t shake the grief off her body, but she could say that she didn’t feel as hopeless as before.

Jesse once told her that she was the light in his lightless world, but he didn’t know how much that statement could apply to her as well.

Tagging: @zafirafox4636 @lucieblckthorn @like-a-star-in-the-night @theinsanelycoolalicemurphy @fantasy-rep @an-awkward-nerds-world @abigneignenn @truth-lies-hidden @cortxnas @shadowhuntress-s @cordeliacarstairs1989

#blackdale #jesse blackthorn #lucie herondale #tlh #the last hours #tsc #tsc fanfiction #tsc fan fic #jesse and lucie #lucie and jesse #the shadowhunter chronicles #tweety.writes #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns

[littlx-songbxrd]

TSC song recs

Part 2

So it seems y'all enjoyed this and wanted more which I am HAPPY to obligue, thought it gets more.... theatery as I go on. Lets go!

In the embers/Sleeping at last

Jesse Blackthorn

"We live and we die, Like fireworks. Our legacies hide, In the embers. May our stories catch fire, And burn bright enough, To catch God's eye"

"May we live and die, A valorous life, May we write it all down, In cursive light, So we pray we were made, In the image of a figure eight,May we live and die"

Icarus/ Bastille

Will Herondale

"Standing on the cliff face, highest fall you'll ever grace, It scares me half to death, Look out to the future, but it tells you nothing,So take another breath"

"Icarus is flying too close to the sun, And Icarus' life, it has only just begun, This is how it feels to take a fall, Icarus is flying towards an early grave"

Two/ Sleeping at last

Jem Carstairs

"No, I don't want to talk about myself, Tell me where it hurts, I just want to build you up, build you up, 'Til you're good as new, And maybe one day I will get around to fixing myself too"

"Tell me, is something wrong?, If something's wrong, you can count on me, you know I'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat"

Monster/ Imagine Dragons

James Herondale

"Ever since I could remember, Everything inside of me, Just wanted to fit in , I was never one for pretenders, Everything I tried to be, Just wouldn't settle in"

"Can I clear my conscience, If I'm different from the rest, Do I have to run and hide? I never said that I want this, This burden came to me, And it's made it's home inside"

The projectionist / Sleeping at last

Lucie Herondale

"When I was young I fell in love with story, with the eleventh hour with the blaze of glory. The theater lights dim and all goes quiet. In the darkest of rooms light shines the brightest"

"Though truth is heavier than fiction, Gravity lifts as the projectionist rolls tape. And it makes us brave again"

Line without a hook/Ricky Montgomery

Kitty

"You're a pond and I'm an ocean, Oh, all my emotions, Feel like explosions when you are around, And I've found a way to kill the sounds, oh"

"He's singing, "She's a, she's a lady, and I am just a line without a hook", Baby, I am a wreck when I'm without you, I need you here to stay, I broke all my bones that day I found you, Crying at the lake, Was it something I said to make you feel like you're a burden, oh, And if I could take it all back, I swear that I would pull you from the tide"

Dream/ Imagine Dragons

Clary Fairchild

"And I watch from a distance seventeen, And I'm short of the others dreams of being golden and on top, It's not what you painted in my head, There's so much there instead of all the colors that I saw"

"We all are living in a dream, But life ain't what it seems, Oh everything's a mess. And all these sorrows I have seen, They lead me to believe, That everything's a mess. But I wanna dream, I wanna dream, Leave me to dream"

One of the drunks/ Panic at the disco

Mathew Fairchild

"This is what it feels like when you become one of the drunks, Searching for a new high, high as the sun, uncomfortably numb, This is what it feels like when you become one of the drunks"

"Every day you're thirsty, bourbon high, Sip up 'til you're tipsy, night's young, Searching for a feeling, big fun, Dancing with the demons, Holy Spirit, Holy Spirit, Grips you like a pistol, wet the whistle, wet the whistle, abyss of ice crystals"

I'll be good/ Jaymes Young

Alastair Carstairs

"I never meant to start a fire, I never meant to make you bleed, I'll be a better man today"

"My past has tasted bitter, For years now, So I wield an iron fist, Grace is just weakness, Or so I've been told, I've been cold, I've been merciless, But the blood on my hands scares me to death, Maybe I'm waking up today"

Emperors New Clothes/ Panic at the disco

Sebastian Morgenster

"Welcome to the end of eras, Ice has melted back to life, Done my time and served my sentence, Dress me up and watch me die"

"Heroes always get remembered, But you know legends never die"

Little Miss Perfect/ Taylor Louderman

Ariadne Bridgestocks

"I was adopted when I was two, My parents spoiled me rotten, Often I ask myself, "What did I do?"To get as far as I've gotten. A pretty girl walks by my locker, My heart gives a flutter, But I don't dare utter a word, 'Cause that would be absurd behaviour, For little miss perfect"

"Deny the truth, that's easier, You're just confused, believe her, When she says there's nothing there, It's never worth it"

Starchild/ Ghost Quartet

Grace Blackthorn

"When  I  was a baby, I was blessed by a stranger, In waters  I  didn’t understand. And now  I ’m infected, With disbelief and blasphemy, I’ll never have a holy land. I am ghost, In the eyes of my god"

"And the starlight  I  see, Is a billion light years old, A ghost just like the rest of us, Nothing  I  see, Is there anymore"

First Burn/ Hamilton

Charlestairs

"Heaven forbid someone whisper, He's part of some scheme, Your enemy whispers, So you have to scream, I know about whispers".

"Don't take another step in my direction, I can't be trusted around you, Don't think you can talk your way, Into my arms, into my arms

I'm burning the letters you wrote me, You can stand over there if you want, I don't know who you are, I have so much to learn"

She/ Doddie

Arianna

"Am I allowed to look at her like that, Could it be wrong when she's just so nice to look at"

"and I'll be okay, Admiring from afar, Cause even when she's next to me, We could not be more far apart, Cause she tastes like birthday cake, and storytime, and fall, But to her I taste of nothing at all"

The astronomer/ Ghost Quartet

Christopher Lightwood

"I am the astronomer, When i look through my telescope, I am certain of the universe, I am filled with wonder from the stars, And i never saw anything, I couldn't blame on my mind, So I don't believe in ghosts"

"I'm confounded by music, And stories and laughter, Goodness and babies, Infinity and luck. I'm confused by the notion, That somebody loves me, And drugs make me crazy, And a clairvoyant told me i've got an old soul, Oh lord I wish I could sing like that, But i don't practice enough"

Part 3? Mayhaps? If anyone want to leave their recs in the comments I'd appreciate it

#part 3? #Maybeeeee #This is genuinly so fun to do #tlh #tda #tsc #the shadowhuter chronicles #kitty #sebastian morgenstern #clary fairchild #alastair carstairs #christopher lightwood #jesse blackthorn #grace blackthorn #arianna #ariadne bridgestock #chain of iron #song recs #playlist

[we-live-in-a--society]

Prima facie

Control.

A mere word, a conglomerate of letters once combined by a long-gone person, holding more authority than the richest, than the most talented, than the so-called Übermensch with the perspectives of ‘eternal’ life sprawling in front of him.

Genocide of the spiritual beings, unrestrained in the sublime sense of word, slaves of the outside influence, damned for

Eternity.

Feigned assurance, mere illusion blurring out the lines between reality and fantasy, the dreamland of fools, built upon skillful falsities, where each one has an unrepeatable chance to stand on both sides of the barricade.

Relief-providing, such an obtuse lie, beyond offensive to assume anyone would believe it, and yet the affirmation is effortless – just look around, they say, and you will see the things no one has ever wished for.

Ecstasy-granting, allowing to visit the places… the places abounded in the deepest desires, now within the reach of each and every man, person who considers them in terms of fulfilling, enough to stifle the sour thoughts.

Entropic fallout.

The perspectives that hunt the brightest.

* * *

“Day two thousand eight hundred first,” subdued by the sound of running shower, and yet clear enough to be filtered out just perfectly. “It’s funny that people perceive others in terms of their achievements and nothing else. All they see is that outside surface that divides them from their surroundings, and sometimes it’s so hard for me to understand that way of thinking. It’s so absurd, so abstract, and yet I’ve been someway forced to understand it… the reality… it’s so absurd that one day you do things you don’t wanna do, and then something changes and you feel like it’s a big deal, a meaningful transition, and then you realize that it’s all bullshit but it’s also too late. You’re drowning in the same shit once again…” a coarse laughter, indication of sarcasm, intruder creeping between the male’s words, just about to lose his train of thoughts.

“Even though there’re times when you forget it was ever there but it’s always there. Of course, you can pretend, ‘cause pretending is easy but does it make sense? It’s a meaningful question – does it make sense – but I also believe it’s the question of people who are lost and don’t really know what to do, so they just keep asking the same question, keep reconsidering it, but never get the result they aim for, and in the end realize that maybe it all makes no sense, but what would we have if elsewise… those things we see, those people we meet, and who we‘re beyond all of these, beyond the modifications that we do, beyond the changes, beyond pretending to be someone we are not…”

“It’s funny, truly the fallout of everything but so blessed, so pretty, everything that we’ve ever desired for within our reach. We think that it justifies our choices, that we’re so perfect we don’t need to justify anything, that we can do whatever we want to, ‘cause we have the resources, while in reality we don’t have as many as we think we have.”

“You know, there was a man in my past who used to tell me that ‘you gotta do what you gotta do; and what you gotta do is you gotta man up’…”

A speech that is interrupted by an unyielding forefinger pressing the pause button, and so putting the device on halt, soon to be abandoned in the depth of his safe. It is that kind of data he would never store on his personal hard drive, since the possible leakage would result in disastrous consequences, the ones he is not much likely to dig out of.

Ironic.

Just any other day, his eyes drift to the bathroom mirror, greeted by the common, not to mention beyond-pleasing, sight – a man in prime of life, fit as in evidence of self-discipline, skin almost black with the ink, although usually obscured by the expensive suits, meant for his eyes only, but at times shared with the passing-through lovers. Raking his fingers through the hair, he decides the sides require some trimming, especially today, since first impressions are always important, at least according to what he was told in the past, considered inconsequential if juxtaposed with present – a paradox in its purest form.

(Time is money.)

Settling the thoughts aside for a moment, he fishes out the clippers, buzzling to life in his hand, then ties the longer part of hair into a resemblance of bun. Of course there are much more convenient, which might as well be replaced with ‘faster’, solutions to fix the overgrown cut, and yet he opts for the old-fashioned way – a reminiscence of father’s tales, but also related to the self-reliance, capacity of accomplishing as many tasks as possible without anyone’s assistance – since with the right device it takes barely any effort.

With that thought in mind, he rakes the blade past the sides, tiny pieces of hair soon to sprinkle down onto the towel draped over his shoulders in advance, and after a few longer moments, he is greeted with the satisfactory sight, basked in the bright mirror LEDs. As for the final result, he releases the top part, combing it back with a hint of product to keep them styled neatly for the rest of the day – display of classic elegance that he has grown accustomed with throughout the years. Being honest here, he has always considered appearance in terms of something significant in his line of work – flawless presentation of one’s professionalism, indication of people’s superficiality – firmly detached from his private life, since elsewise he would lack in the former quality.

Years ago, he has come to a conclusion that blurring out the lines between those two factors leads to a relatively obnoxious outcome – a moment of ignorance and troublesome aftermath, although worth sacrifice at times. Perfection is nothing more than an obtuse dream, while mistakes are what makes one a human, acts that shape up the present – only aspect within the specie’s reach – bestowing each one of them with everything he could dream of, but in capacity of snatching away equal amounts. Suffering is the greatest paradox of all – blissful pain – akin to a bunch of clouds obscuring the sun, obviously present underneath even if hidden for our poor perception – a promise of transitional felicity, feigned when it comes to one’s assumptions about its everlasting duration.

Long live the deceit.

And yet, what seems to preoccupy his mind more, aside from the competence-related ponderation, appears to be the odd curiosity oscillating around her persona, or rather the difference between the so-called rising star

(let’s see for how long)

and her predecessors: how often would she call in sick? decline interviews? refuse to cooperate? oversleep? overdose? Which might as well be a question of time, meant to unravel in due course, all to his misery, even though he should be able to abide such circumstances with a decent amount of money, leading to dubious mental capacity when it comes to dealing with extravagant artists and their arsenal of lacking predictions, fallouts with producers, fussy whims, along with all the acts of great absurdity that somehow get him to roll his eyes in exasperated disbelief on each and every occasion.

The least patient man.

* * *

Morning light.

The most relentless alarm clock ever ‘invented’, practically prying her eyes open, immediate to bury her face in a silky pillow, letting out a frustrated groan, as she pulls up the covers, body shivering in the chilly room. Relieved by the newfound wave of heat, she is back to tethering on the edge between dreams and reality, hoping to get as much sleep as possible until the digital sound will slice through the city hum, which in turn evokes genuine respect towards the people who ‘rise and shine’ during the earliest hours just to face the day and seize all opportunities. Part of the woman scolds her for such laziness, but realistically thinking it is yet another transcendent goal, not noted with intention of fulfillment, instead left to lurk in the back of mind and bother her in the most unfavorable moments, as per usual.

Along with the pressing desire to ignore that peculiar stressful tension, it adds up to the growing pile of lies, meant to complete itself as she pursues further with life, but at the same time labelled as a habitual factor, allowing her to keep the head clear when required, unoccupied by the never-ending considerations, and yet opposed to the raging storm of thoughts. In one hand, her stomach is twisting with the nervous anticipation, but in the other she cannot deny the fluttering butterflies that have been disrupting the young woman since the very first time he called her, or more precisely – since the very first time his hologram appeared on dialing device, accompanied by the husky baritone that he used to expound the details concerning their arrangement – inexplicable yet important.

(Take the bitter with the bitter, isn’t it what they say?)

Funnily enough, she remembers each and every time her mother would preach the prodigal daughter about the consequences of such behavior, built upon foolish beliefs, teenage cravings of ineffable love, never meant to be fulfilled if beyond idealized. However, said factor has never seemed to put her pursuit to a halt, and so thwart the zeal – incandescent rod branding her soul for blissful eternity – soaked in the tears of those who perished, mainly her and the injudicious teens, lacking in what she was searching for at that time – a desire obscure enough to participate in the realm of ideas, in other words unable to be verbalized in face of pitifully limited vocabulary. Might as well be the reason why she struggles with forming any long-term relationship, always distracted by the passing opportunities, unable to break the unfortunate turn of events, conflicted with the more mature part of her, aiming mainly for self-development that leads to inevitable success – another silly daydream?

Maybe.

“Ugh, fuck this,” she whines into the pillow, presumably late, either way finds herself not quite concerned by concepts as equally absurd as time, while rolling onto the cooler side of bed – close call to the dubiously pleasant encounter with polished floor. Frustrated as ever, she hears the digital ringtone, more than aware who might be bothering her generously elongated sleep at such early hour, nevertheless obliged to pick up with a heavy pat delivered onto the screen. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Gia,” oh my fuck, he remembers. “I’ve wanted to make sure everything is relevant today, ‘cause I’ll be there in like… fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Oh, fifteen minutes,” she almost gasps, unable to conceal the nervous chuckle, certain there is no possibility she will meet him on time. “That’s cool, but I won’t make it.”

She hears his exasperated huff on the other side of the line, along with the calm exhale, and the following words – indication of the so-called professionalism. “How much time do you need then?”

“I don’t know…” she draws – a mannerism that he loathes more than anything – uncertainty audible within her voice, since she has blocked the visual channel, presumably still on the early stage of preparation. “Half an hour?”

“That supposed to be a question or an answer?” He manages to conceal the aggravated bark, tightening his grip around the steering wheel instead.

“An answer, I guess,” she shrugs, now risen up to a seating position, with the silky sheets pooling around her waist.

“Brilliant,” he concludes, a tad bit too drily for her own tastes, either way she ignores the unpleasant note, belittling it to the status of yet another subconscious allusion, prompted by the fairly deceivable mind.

“Anyway, you can drop by my flat if that’d be more convenient,” she proposes, yawning as her limbs stretch, joints cracking in a satisfactory way.

“Text me the address then, and I’ll meet you there,” he instructs in a blunt manner – non-verbal indication that ‘no’ appears to be an invalid response in such circumstances.

“With-” oh right, he hung up.

What a douchebag.

Luckily capable of ignoring the bitter aftertaste, at least for now, she stands up, shivering as her feet brush the cool floor, which in the end turns out as rather beneficial, pacing up her walk to the bathroom. Accompanied by the electric buzz, the light flickers out, reminding her for the nth time this week to call the estate owner, and deal with it like any reasonable adult would do, or simply wait for the day when she will be forced to complete her morning preparations in pitch darkness.

(Couldn’t dream of a better outcome...)

Certain that opting out for the top priority appears to be the most sensible solution in her position, she steps under the shower, letting the hot water cascade down her back, skin flushing due to the temperature. The heat itself elicits a relieved moan from her throat as the tension begins to evaporate from her body – parallel to the steam sprawling on the glass – tingling with the newfound excitement, apparently enhanced by the growing warmth. Perfectly aware there is neither a decent mood nor enough time to search for any relief, she ends up uttering a frustrated huff, while painting her front with the liquid soap, soon to stream down to the drain.

Having accomplished what must have been the quickest shower she has ever had, she only manages to put on more or less randomly picked up clothes, before the morning lull is sliced by the ringing doorbell that almost forces a fearful shriek from the broody woman. With a few hurried steps through the living area, she unlocks the door, confronted by the sight of virtual impatience, anticipating her presence since the earliest hours of dawn – posh dweller of equally polished suit – along with the flawless composure that evokes this peculiar insecurity in reference to the personal choice of clothing, seemingly not appropriate for such occasion.

Intimidating to say the least.

“Hi,” she greets him with a welcoming smile either way, gaze altering between his face and the ink peeking from the collar of his shirt, evoking the newfound curiosity about the whole concept, hidden beneath the fabric.

“Hello again,” he reciprocates as the corners his lips twist into what must be the so-called smug smirk, features visibly lightening. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” she snaps out of the trance, failing to conceal the nervous giggle adorning her affirmative response, caught hand in a cookie jar.

(Ah yes, the dovey one.)

Which is yet another subconscious mind’s assumption, although he believes that tendency to evaluate any given situation on the go appears to be linked with age, or more specifically – gaining general knowledge over the human dwellers and their behaviors. Therefore, in order to enhance the efficiency, one obtains the ugly habit of premature judgment, openly loathed by majority of population and yet dealt with from the hand of few, which in turn leads him to a rather inconvenient truth – one day, there will come the time when he trips and smashes his nose on the floor – metaphor adorned in pain less bearable than in a physical case.

(Been ‘round the block a few times.)

Nevertheless, the petite girl steps aside, allowing him to pass the threshold, further on perch upon the sofa and snatch the flat screen from his bag.

“Back to business…” he initiates, motioning her with a suggestive eye tilt, icy irises that bore into her soul, such a cooling contrast for her synthetic hue, enough to send an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.

“Don’t you want something to drink?” She gulps, gaze adverting to the side, unable to bear its intensity, right before she plops down onto the couch, brushing his knee by accident – plain contact that almost has her jolting away to the side.

(Get a fucking grip.)

“I’m good for now,” he rejects the proposition, just to witness her frown slightly in response. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”

“I’ve disrupted your schedule, haven’t I?” She ascertains, seemingly more preoccupied with tucking one of her feet under the pleasantly warm thigh than maintaining eye contact, which irks him up more than he cares to admit; not a good sign to be honest.

“Pretty much yes, unless we hurry up, of course,” without letting her speak, he carries on with the beyond obvious explanations. “Anyway, here’s the contract that I need to sign if you’re willing to continue, which I think is polished by now, so let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Sure,” she accepts the offered device, flinching as their fingers brush, cold like ice. Clueless when it comes to what is happening to her, or more importantly – why he has such potent influence over the outgoing woman, at least until now, eliciting the most unusual reactions, the shameful shyness for instance.

“You can’t be this tense if you want to make this arrangement work,” he states, apparently out of nowhere, leaning towards the coffee table, weight braced on the elbows.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, with the metallic stylus in her hand, now long forgotten, as she glares at him, not so caught-off-guard for a change.

“You’ve heard me,” he cocks a condescending eyebrow at her, and if not for the blinking she would suspect he is not a human after all.

(Do androids blink?)

“Stating that won’t make any difference,” she huffs, peaceful façade seared by the gradually developing irritation.

“Care to elaborate?” He nags further, as if already capable of naming all her weak spots, thanks to his long-term professionalism in such domain.

“There’s no shift in the attitude,” she clarifies, noting the fact as if it was an absolute truth, suited for this and every other occasion in the future, greater than all the celestial beings, even if combined together.

“Would not pointing it out make any difference then?” He retorts, not expecting to hear a verbal answer this time, instead filled with the telltale silence. “See? Told you so.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she counters, shaking her head in denial, hand mirroring the rushed movements.

“So what did you mean for a change?”

“I meant that pointing this out usually enhances the tension,” she explains, glancing briefly at the thin piece of metal clutched tight in her hand – a realization casted upon the woman.

“I believe it’s still worth the effort,” he shrugs, infuriatingly careless now that he has won, at least according to his suppositions.

“Why are we even discussing this?” She sighs, as if utterly exhausted by the teasing debate, and so willing to wind it up with the simple scrape over the screen. “Just let me sign the contract.”

“Go on, no one’s stopping you,” he flicks his wrist in an affirmative gesture, encouraging her to pursue. “I’d even dare to say right the opposite,” oh, so now he would play the smart guy, how delightful, she thinks, and yet responds immediately, topping up said contract with a flourishing signature, quick to hand it back to him. “Thank you. And by the way, you have an interview scheduled for tomorrow, just so you wouldn’t forget.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” she flashes him a replacement for a proper smile, just to witness the male respond with a parallel gesture, and before she knows it, he is back on his feet again, towering over her figure, and so prompting to follow his traces.

“It’s just my job, no hard feelings.”

No hard feelings.

(Easier said than done.)

* * *

Past.

Easily associated with safety, blissful awareness granted by the reliability of bygone memories, a place where one is willing to return to in times of unspoken restlessness, and so dive into the flowery reminiscence – beloved escape. However, at some point in one’s life an unspecified hand flips the switch, allowing to see the sheer absurdity, which in turn leads to a purifying realization – the past is not enough anymore, and so a different, more potent stimulant is required.

Her best friend would probably label it as ‘yet another mistake’, worse than falling for Cara, nevertheless she cannot help herself, knowing that one way or another she will be forced to release some steam, to transfer the concoction of feelings into work – a song, sublime and powerful, carrying an amaranthine meaning. Losing herself in the complexity of the world she has gotten to inhabit – borne against her will, such a cruel law – seems so effortless in comparison to the sheer burdens of existence, paired with the average life expectancy and the endless predictions of elongation, justifying it as yet another whim of humanity.

(Even rhymes with immortality, what a coincidence.)

Why would anyone even crave something so insane – eternality – unaware of the real meaning hidden behind these ten letters, bound by the long-gone linguist – extinct specie? Expression of their thoughtlessness? Might as well be.

At this point it appears as quite tough to specify, her mind delving into far too many places at once, incapable of maintaining the indispensable concentration with Nova running through her bloodstream, retreating the human ability to focus on a single factor. As the reality begins to fade away, various background noises dull into one unpleasant screech, inseparable, her ears ringing as the first wave rocks through her body, a vague pat on the back, followed by the tingling sensation of a relatively cool hand tracing her spine. While a minuscule part of her loathes the feeling of metallic digits dancing over the heated flesh, the more influential one is flying sky too high to care, remaining still in that one inconvenient pose, leaning towards the shiny table.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” His hand slides further down her back, playing with the hem of the low-cut dress she has opted for today, its silvery hue reflecting the colorful lights. “What do you say, sweets?”

“Mhm, yes… exciting… exciting it is,” she barely formulates the affirmation, her brain clinging to the established choice of words, out of capacity to exchange it for anything more intricate. “But I think I gotta… I think I… I gotta go I think.”

“So soon?” He questions, both eyebrows risen in feigned disbelief, chrome digits dipping underneath the fabric only to find the silky strap in process, stimulating enough to occupy his carnal interests for a brief moment.

“I’ve paid you… I’m sure I have…” she mumbles, involuntarily jerking away from the touch, muscles twitching as an innate response to the unwanted contact, lost in between her attempts to complete the sentence, “for the pills, I mean.”

“Well, yes, that’s correct, you have,” he agrees, albeit immediate to clarify, “but I’d like something more from you.”

“What?” She frown in confusion, eyes staring into the distance, blurred outlines of dancers rushing through her mind, hips swaying to the beat. “No, I… take me home… please.”

“Maybe later, ‘kay?” He proposes, still patient, fingers stroking the smooth skin in an attempt to soothe the confused female.

“No… I wanna…” she counters, one final time, although enough to crack his resolve, hand abandoning its previous track, leaving only the fleeting remains of proper touch on the heated skin.

“Quit whining and get up,” he huffs, audibly irritated, and she cannot help but wonder about the causes, random associations blending into one shapeless pulp – concoction of equally indistinguishable elements.

“No!” She squeals, a little louder this time, as a stab of pain shoots through her arm, almost yanked out of its socket, at least according to her perception, attracting attention of a passing female, although definitely short-lived, soon to mingle in the crowd.

Because who cares?

“You. Are. Coming with me,” he punctuates the words, delivering another harsh tug, intent to force her to move. “Whether you want to or not.”

Unable to verbalize the evident objections, let alone break away from his iron grasp, she can only follow his traces, while trying oh so desperately to figure out what is happening around her, cling onto at least one given stimulus. Her vision is blurry, blinded by the neon lights, as if her eyes were tearing, but at the same time she doubts she has ever felt that helpless, that fearful, emotions running all over the place, full of contradictions, frenzied and delirious.

Searching for physical support, she leans in to his frame as soon as the man stands still, but due to the black spots staining her perception, she can barely make out where they are, especially with her head is spinning like crazy. Before she knows it, his arms encircle her waist, preventing the young and oh so promising musician from a disastrous rendezvous with equally unforgiving floor, much to his exasperation.

Overall, the plan has been a little different, certainly not featuring the scenario in which she passes out, another unconscious body to take care of, whist also ‘unfuckable’ in such state. Therefore, the most he can do for the woman is to dump her by the corridor wall, as befits the ‘immature dickhead’, certain that no one would attempt to link her with him, at least according to the general numbness in the so-called ‘world full of cruelty’ and the glorious lack of interest in dealing with minor crimes.

Morality?

Shattered?

(And what else?)

* * *

The first time she experienced something like this was approximately about sixteen years ago, give or take, although she prefers to keep such stories to herself, since people tend to label it as rather dubious and the last renown she aims for is ‘untrustworthy’. Nonetheless, it all appears to be rather simple – high fever tends to retreat distant and prompting visions, mainly associated with sensory memory, aspects that are supposed to remain out of reach, and yet linger somewhere in the back of one’s mind. Take for instance the sensation of being rocked to sleep in mother’s arms, deprived of any distinctive images, just the monotonous lull and mere hum of her silvery voice, singing some nonsensical song, its lyrics undistinguishable by now.

Ergo, for a brief moment, yet to collide with reality, she is convinced that she has forgotten to swallow the necessary medicaments due to her ailing state, evident in the disastrous headache, possibly linked with abnormal temperature, and mind drifting towards obscure dimensions once again. Before she gets a chance to familiarize with the newfound vision, it is disrupted by a harsh jerk, so unlike her parents’ manners, forcing both eyes open and so greeting the woman with a sight she is not braced for yet – a guy, recognized as a bartender, shaking her awake, not Carlos who might as well be long gone by now.

“Gia?” He frowns, visibly puzzled, both hands resting on her shoulders, warmth atop icy skin, sending a pleasant wave of heat through her half-conscious body.

Unable to grant any sensible answer, she blinks a couple of times, trying to adjust to the neon lights, with her vision still a little blurry, before she actually manages to formulate a proper response, voice croaky, as if not hers at all. “What’s going on?”

“I could’ve ask you the same,” he reciprocates, audibly annoyed, hands now abandoning their previous spot upon her shoulders on behalf of a more convenient squatting position.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits, clenched fists rising to rub her eyes in hopes it will somehow bring her back to the land of living.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” He huffs, accusation evident in his voice, or maybe it is just fatigue, disappointment with her countless predicaments, not that he is the only one.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shrugs, the least talented liar ever born, beyond embarrassing to pursue.

“Whatever Gia, I don’t give a shit,” he sighs, utterly defeated. “And I’m resigning from babysitting you tonight. Work schedule, you know.”

“I-”

“No time for that,” he interrupts, remains of the so-called empathy long gone by now, granting the blossoming irritation with essential space. “Someone’s gotta drag your ass from here, I mean the club, and take you home.”

“I can’t stay here?” She frowns, disappointed with the unfortunate turn of events.

“What?” He laughs in disbelief, a mocking tingle that enhances all negative emotions disrupting the guilty songbird. “Of course not, it’s a club, not drunk tank.”

“But-”

“Just find someone who can take you out,” he instructs, glancing at the door, hoping the manager has not noticed his absence by now. “And tell him it’s fucking urgent.”

“Okay,” she agrees, displeased with his harsh approach, irritation evident within her voice. “Just give me some fucking space.”

“Sure, I gotta head back anyway,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden – feigned façade mastered over the years. “Can you stand up?”

“I don’t feel like checking it by myself,” she utters a nervous chuckle, hand already outstretched for the bartender, and who is he to leave her hanging like this, ever the gentleman. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he throws her a fleeting smile, and with a steady grasp on the woman’s arm, he hoists her up from the ground, knees seemingly too weak to hold the rest upright. However, the necessary support is granted by the wall, allowing the female to brace her weight on the forearms and press the forehead to the concrete structure as a potent wave of dizziness rocks through her fatigued body.

“Thanks,” she murmurs faintly, still in the process of dealing with the unpleasant aftermath of earlier decisions, and so dangerously close to throwing up on the polished floor.

“It’s nothing, Gia, really,” he assures, his mind already circling back to work-related issues. “Just get your sorry ass outta here.”

“Sure,” she huffs, rolling her eyes in an almost theatrical manner, as if to ensure he gets the message with plenty of reserve. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.”

And with that careless response, he walks away, hasty steps echoing in the corridor, soon to disappear around the corner, and so leave the hall altogether. Finally deprived of any company, she fishes out the phone from the depths of her purse, and calls the only person she can think of in such circumstances – Connor, or Connie, since the choice is apparently not his to make. At this point she is practically trembling with that peculiar concoction of excitement and exhilaration, fingers crossed he will pick up at such late hour, since wishing for anything else seems like a childish exaggeration now.

“You better have damn good reasons for calling me in the middle of the fucking night,” ever the most talented in the field of pleasant conversations, he opts for greeting her with such expression, voice rough with sleep, sending a shiver down her spine.

“So I got into some trouble tonight and-”

“Just cut to the chase,” he barks out a blunt order, his patience running low in the face of increasing exasperation. “I don’t have energy to listen to some background bullshit.”

“I need you to take me home from Interstellar,” she states, having decided that to keep it simple means to succeed, rather than to bestow him with countless euphemisms, supposing it would justify her irresponsible behavior.

Right?

“Excuse me?” He chuckles in disbelief, a mocking laughter that almost has her snapping at him – the most immature reaction she could ever imagine. “Seems like you might’ve mistaken me for your fucking chauffer, who I’m not by any means, so thank you for such divine opportunity but I think I’ll pass.”

“Why are you always acting like a fucking dickhead?” She sighs, voice smaller than she would like it to be, as the day-long fatigue settles into her bones, which combined with the unpleasant tone nearly has her bursting in tears.

“And why are you always getting personal?” He jeers, a crude remark to stab her right in the chest, and so discourage to pursue. “It’s just work, nothing else, and the sooner you learn it, the better for you, ‘cause I’m not hired to deal with your non-career issues.”

“It might become a career issue if someone finds me here,” she reciprocates, betrayed by the not-so-subtle hint of desperation lacing her voice, shaky at the end.

“Tryna out-talk me?” He chuckles bitterly, his head lulling slightly to the side in her mind’s eyes – a mannerism she has grown accustom with during those few weeks. “C’mon, don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, I just wanna go home,” she tries once again, now actually on the blink of tears. “Please.”

“Pathetic,” she hears him spat on the other side of the line, probably not meant to reach her ears, but it does either way, forcing Gia to suppress the choked sob threatening to escape her constricted throat. “No, just no. I’m not doing shit for you. You’re a fucking adult, so I think you’ll find your way outta here.”

“But-”

“No, enough of that,” he interrupts, annoyance evident in his voice. “It was nice talking to you, but I’m going back to sleep now. Have fun.”

“Don’t hang up, please…”

Oh right.

Douchebag.

Fighting the urge to cry out in exasperation, she dials his number once again, dangerously close to chanting an actual lucky prayer, nevertheless determined to make him comply for a change, since in this case hope indeed appears to be the mother of fools.

Ironic.

“The fuck you’re calling me again?” He barks out, absolutely furious.

“Will you come? Please,” she sobs, finally letting the tears stream down the sides of her face, way past her breaking point now. “I don’t wanna stay here. It’s so cold, and I’m so tired.”

“You won’t let it slide, will you?” He sighs, a realization casted upon the man for a change.

“No,” she sniffs, wiping her eyes with the free hand, black dust from the so-called ‘waterproof’ mascara coating her fingers. “They’ll throw me out elsewise.”

Nothing.

(Silence speaks a thousand words.)

“Connie?”

“Fucking fine,” he gives up after a longer pause, seemingly ready to consent to her wish. “Just stay right where you are until I get there. We’ll meet by the main entrance as soon as I text you, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she gulps, trying to conceal the exited squeal threatening to slip past her lips as a result of his approval.

“Very well. See you.”

“Connie?” She calls out one more time, voice laced with distinctive hesitation.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Sure, no big deal.”

And with that he hangs up, on one hand leaving her with a bitter-sweet wish they would chat a little longer, while on the other she is well aware it would be simply nonsensical, lingering somewhere in the back of her mind. Once again deprived of the craved-for company, the sensory aspects hit the woman with full force, the pounding ache of her own body, betraying in the midst of crisis, arms encircling her trembling frame in order to deliver at least a mere illusion of being held by someone.

(Connie?)

(Ha! You wish!)

(He doesn’t even like that nickname… the fuck is wrong with me?)

Unable to keep herself upright, she plops down onto the cold floor, with the bottom part of her dress hiking up, and so exposing the legs to icy air which, enhanced by the fatigue, has her trembling on the ground. In hopes it will somehow allow to maintain the essential warmth, she curls into a ball, resting her forehead on the bent knees, eyelids shutting on their own, which in turn bestows her with odd solitude, even though there is no possibility she would drift to sleep in such circumstances with her body trembling like a leaf in the autumn breeze.

Minutes upon minutes, she is gradually beginning to lose the track of time, not daring to glance at the clock even once, surprisingly patient for a change, maybe in the face of feasible fulfillment. And yet, despite the aforementioned calmness, she almost jumps out of her skin as soon as she feels the phone vibrating in her hand, not wasting any time to check the incoming message.

“I’m here,” it reads, which puts a relieved smile on her face, and so she is rather quick to stuff the device back into her purse, then get up with a renewed vigor, walls granting the necessary support.

Pushing the heavy door open, she walks out to the guests’ zone, greeted with all its splendid virtues: loud music and insufferable crowd, which prompts her to circle the dancefloor and so avoid the troublesome encounters. Lucky to get past without any of that, she steps through the reception area, soon to make her way out of the club altogether, cool evening breeze palpable on her face, sweeping the bangs away from her forehead.

Nevertheless, with more pressing matters occupying her mind, Gia is immediate to spot him, leaning by the side of his car – such an unusual sight to behold, without one of his beloved suits, exchanged for the benefit of more casual attire. She blinks a couple of times, as if to ascertain he was not mistaken for another man, having assumed he would be the only person waiting outside, and to be honest she cannot conceal the relieved sigh slipping past her lips as a response to the inviting gesture – a graceful flick of his wrist.

“You look absolutely miserable,” he notes, and even in face of the gruff greeting she almost fails to restrain from hugging the coarse man as a thank-you gift. “C’mere.”

“I owe you,” she declares, a steady exclamation until disturbed by his hands gripping her arms, leaving the woman confused for a moment.

“Yes, you do,” he agrees, frowning as she reciprocates the gesture, lithe fingers wrapping around his biceps; and hell, it is just to prevent her from hitting the pavement, not indicate anything sexual. Why does she have to read every message wrong? “Now get in the car.”

“There’s no need to be unpleasant,” she huffs, visibly annoyed, and so seriously considering the break-away from his not-so-loving grasp.

“I’m being practical not unpleasant,” he rolls his eyes in response, blatant and unashamed, choosing to release her this time, intent to open the door for his female associate, “since I don’t think you’d like to experience yet another encounter with a ground of any kind.”

“Sure, thanks,” she reciprocates, cold as ice – terribly feigned façade, although immediate to get in the car, letting him shut the door for her, then ride away in what seems like a blink for her limited perception.

At least according to what she keeps telling herself.

(Liar.)

* * *

“I’ve left you a glass of water on the bedside table, ‘kay?” He throws a brief glance at her figure lounging on the bed, now clad in a monochromatic tee, suppressing the urge to linger on the exposed skin for a little longer.

It is always hunting him, the flesh.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes,” she mutters, voice muffled by the pillows, not caring to throw him a merest glimpse.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you’ve left me a glass of water on the bedside table,” she complies, as if fed up with his never-ending requests oscillating around definite responses, ever the hypocrite.

“Very well,” seemingly pleased with her response, his lips twist in what must be a ghost of a proper smile, although the following words fail to satiate the prominent craving, much to her displeasure. “So sleep tight and make sure you call me as soon as you wake up.”

“Connie?” She calls almost at the spot, having decided to take the matter in her own hands this time, afraid that if he gets up, nothing will be enough to stop him from leaving altogether.

“Connor,” he corrects, voice laced with an audible hint of annoyance.

“Doesn’t matter,” she dismisses, while urging her body up on the elbows to look at him properly for a change, at least according to the etiquette of any decent conversation. “Stay with me tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” he counters, cold as ice once again – a notion enhanced by the neon lights casting shadows on his sharp features.

“Why?”

“’Cause I’ve driven your sorry ass home which is enough of selflessness from me for the following month,” he spats bitterly, intent to rise from his spot on the couch and walk out of the door, leaving her hanging, as if it was the most convenient solution ever imagined.

“Why do you have to be such an ass?” She huffs, disappointed once again – an impression she has learned to associate with him on the course of their encounters, and yet never failing to disturb her, even if only in the emotional sense.

(Helps me to keep the distance.)

“Nothing personal,” he claims instead, not even blinking as the words slip past his lips. “I’ve got errands to run tomorrow.”

“I don’t believe you,” she confronts, now seated properly with her back supported by the wall, as if to grant the superior position in their flimsy quarrel.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he reciprocates, infuriatingly calm all of sudden, shoulders shrugging at her furious expression.

(So easy to rile up sometimes…)

“I-”

“What?” He snaps, head twisting in her direction, eyes meeting with a metaphorical shot of electricity through her body.

“Is it so hard to understand? The fact that I don’t wanna be alone tonight?” She sighs, now in genuine doubt whether he is a human after all, which might as well be linked with the flawed perception, based on her own attitude – blemished. “You know, it’s just… today’s been so messed up and I just… I don’t know...”

“Got anything to confess?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, as if attempting to conceal the previous irritation with some careless swagger.

“I don’t remember much, but I have a feeling that something bad has happened to me,” she begins, having decided to choose her words carefully, since indicating that she is yet another pathetic junkie is the last direction she is aiming towards.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, really,” she refuses to cooperate, instead gets up from the bed and takes those few steps towards the couch to plop down beside him, shortly before resuming with her undefined explanation. “I’m aware of what I was doing throughout the day, but the evening memories are all vague, are… um… all fuzzy, and honestly I have no idea what to think about this.”

“Wanna talk about it?” He questions, seemingly relaxed, if not for the corner of his lip tilting in an unnerving way, proving that said proposal carries some hidden meaning as well.

“Yes,” she nods, since playing by his rules appears to lay beyond the realm of conscious control for now, no idea why.

(Sure.)

(Is that his voice? The fuck is wrong with me?)

“So tell me the truth.”

Speak of the devil.

“It wasn’t all a lie,” she scoffs, and yet cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, focusing on the small reddish stain decorating the coach cushion, wine presumably.

“Sure,” he hums in agreement, soaked in bitter irony, although pleased with the confirmation of his little theory. “But I wanna hear a genuine story this time, or none at all. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she affirms with a telltale burning upon her cheeks that appear to disrupt the defined vision of proper explanation. “So, I wasn’t alone at the Interstellar, I was with someone…”

“With whom exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses once again, shaking her head, as if more to clear out the mind before the key explanation than emphasize the earlier words. “The thing is, he gave me one of those pills he had, and I took it, so that’s why I don’t remember shit.”

“Well, that I’ve already figured out myself,” never the one to disappoint, am I right? “So where’s the catch?”

“I think I’ve made a mistake… I mean doing something like that in his company is a mistake itself, but… I don’t know… I feel so messed up,” she rubs a single hand across her face, hoping it will somehow soothe her, but nothing like this happens, so instead she slips it in his, searching for physical support – a gesture that catches him off guard for a brief moment. His flesh is cool to touch, most of it covered in some bizarre ornaments, black upon white – pale skin that looks almost eerie underneath the neon lights – her gaze following the pattern up his arm, until their eyes lock once again – tangerine and steel.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he affirms with a subtle smile, squeezing her hand in a skillful manner, enough to fulfill said wish without causing unnecessary discomfort.

“That was the first time something like this happened to me though,” she confess, throwing their linked limbs a brief glance, as if to ascertain he is still there, like in flesh and bones, not a passerby from a parallel reality. “It freaked me out.”

“No wonder it did,” he concludes. “Losing control can be one of the worst nightmares.”

“Tell me about it,” she huffs, rolling her eyes – a gesture to top the sarcastic remark with. “I don’t get it. Even though I’m aware of the consequences, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again… Hell, I’m so happy I have an opportunity to die.”

“Now you’re being dramatic,” he chuckles – not the exact reaction she intended to gain from him, but that will have to do for now.

“Aren’t we all?” She cocks a challenging eyebrow at him, her eyes glistening with an ghost of amusement, rather unexpected in such circumstances, which is also a good sign to be honest, the fact he is able to elicit that kind of response from her.

“Sure.”

“Thanks for listening though,” she ignores the little hypocritical attempt, indicating the blatant disagreement.

“Anytime Gia, anytime,” he bestows the woman with a smile for a change, even if fleeting – odd beauty to it all.

As her focus drifts towards the places of unknown, with the pensive silence settling over them, she fails to notice the subtle shift of his position, until their intertwined hands rest on her thigh, eliciting an embarrassingly audible gasp from the female, knuckles teasing the tender flesh as his tendons flex, supposing to prevent the nerves from getting numb.

“What are you expecting from this situation?” He interjects, his gaze focused solely on hers with intensity that has the female almost backing away – soul-drill to crack her attitude in two.

“Feelings are not to be verbalized,” she reciprocates, rolling her eyes at the inappropriate question, and yet opts for going out on a limb, since what goes around comes around, right? “And also, I think there’re more pressing matters to clarify anyway.”

“Such as?” He turns towards her, and now that Gia has his undividable attention, she is ready to put her inconsistent plan into notion.

“Ever wondered what would it be like… to kiss me?”

An exclamation that has him laughing out loud this time – such an unusual occurrence, although not the best sign to be honest – and yet she can work with that, glaring at him once the sound dulls down. With amused glimmers dancing behind his gaze, he appears to be studying her expression, as if in an attempt to read his songbird like an open book he would like her to be, at least for him, and yet, aside from the blatant desire for attention, the rest is buried somewhere deep, deep down, safe from his prying curiosity.

How infuriating.

Nevertheless, he is well aware what to do to gain the essential answer – break the not-so-stern rule, temptation in its purest form, granting the special privilege of seeing her gasp in shock, feign indifference just to throw herself in his arms as soon as an opportunity presents itself.

Sublime. Sadistic. Selfish.

Simply what he needs right now.

“To kiss you? No…” he draws on the syllable – a purring baritone that catches her off guard for a brief moment – not even supposing he is capable of making such sounds. “But to fuck you… now that’s a whole different story…”

(What the hell?)

“But we can just kiss if you prefer the PG-13 version,” he cocks a challenging eyebrow at her, and she takes the bait, all to his pleasure as far as it matches the plan, crafted on the go.

“I don’t-”

“No need to lie to me, Gia,” he interrupts, leaning slightly towards her, just enough to brush her chest, breath palpable on the exposed neck, prickling her skin with goosebumps. “Tell me, what is it that you desire?”

“Right now? For you to kiss me,” she gulps, failing to pursuit with the seductive tone, muscles twitching as she feels his arm snaking around her waist, still hoping she would maintain the confidence throughout the act.

(With him touching you like that? Sure.)

“A bit boring but if that’s what you want…” he chuckles, breath flaring through her hair, quick to catch the woman off guard again by yanking her onto his lap, one thigh pressed in between her legs.

“You’re such a dick,” she gasps at the unexpected contact, her insides coiling in anticipation to satiate whatever ache has been blossoming inside the artiste the moment he laid his eyes upon her.

“Sure, whatever,” he hums, careless as ever, tickling the side of her neck with feather-like kisses, barely present, like wind whispering patterns on her skin, ready to fly away and forget as the scent of his cologne engulfs her senses. Some twisted part of her wants to witness him break first, give in to the temptation, with dilated pupils and disheveled hair, rake his fingers through the strands, but nothing like this happens. Instead, he keeps teasing her with the gentle touches, tips of his fingers tracing the hollow of her spine, up to the point where she cannot take it anymore – the merciless tormentor – and tilts his head to the side, crashing their lips together.

(So it is on.)

With his arms around her body, he gains the essential motion range, ability to maneuver her upon his lap and of course guide the kiss, but since their plans seem to differ, she attempts to squirm out of the grasp – a matter he is quick to rectify with a harsh nip upon her bottom lip, drawing a surprised squeal from the woman. Even though she is already past the point of wondering whether he would be gentle, whether he would treat her like the finest china or just another frivolous chippie, she has not expected such straightforward approach, at least not from the very beginning, since that is what all the previous partners accustomed her with – the cautious build up leading to more ardent acts, while he appears to be toying with both contradictories, leaving her in anticipation for more.

(Fucking douchebag.)

With Gia gliding through her thoughts, he opts for seizing the opportunity now that her mouth is agape, seemingly beyond realization yet, and sweeps his tongue over her bottom lip, relishing in the tremor that runs down her spine as a response to the caress, palpable underneath his hands. Right when she expects him to dive straight into it, he breaks away, eliciting a disappointed whimper from the singer, a whimper that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants like some immature teenager, intent to switch to her neck and mark the flawless canvass – now simply pale and pure. As if put on repeat, she mimics the earlier sound – a response to the harsh suck – leaning backwards, expecting him to continue the established path further down, and yet he is back at the face level within a matter of seconds, having stained her flesh with a purplish bruise.

“I do mind that a bit, you know,” she huffs, feigning annoyance, even if only in a partial sense, unable to ignore the rapid pulsing of violated skin, akin to a sisterly heart drumming just underneath the surface.

“Didn’t see you complaining earlier,” he hums against her lips, planting a lingering kiss on the plump pout. “If I were in your shoes I’d be happy to have something to eye in the mirror when the lover boy is gone. Which, by the way, reminds me that I gotta be going, now that I’ve clearly overused your hospitality.”

(Like flipping a switch.)

“You gotta what?” She frowns in confusion, squealing in surprise as he slides her off his lap, leaving the female perched on the sofa, beyond agitated.

“Sleep tight and remember to call me in the morning.”

And with that he is gone, slipping through the door like a desert dust carried with the wind, its remains inhabiting every space imaginable, forgotten to be swiped away even while cleaning; since he would be damned if he allowed some brat to flash him her bits, get him all riled up just to back out in the end with whatever pathetic excuse she manages to make up on the go.

So instead he prefers the prevention strategy.

Leave her hanging.

Desperate for any kind of attention.

As for the clever, cunning.

Sadist.

* * *

It is safe to assume that getting used to the thought of her and Connor together took the young singer a fair amount of time, and not only that. What else was required to accomplish such inhuman target must have been the so-called emotional tranquility, not her most spectacular forte to be honest, and furthermore accepting the fact that he wants something more from her, whatever that something is.

The very thing that destroys her?

Might as well be, not that it would surprise Gia, considering her ever-present knack for involving in presumably not the most beneficial relationships, just for the sake of illusionary intimacy justified by equally tentative trust, the need to keep people close, lend them a helping hand in hope they will reciprocate someday. To contribute but never to be rewarded, at least with the desired amount of compassion, always judged through the prism of her performance, the outer surface – tissue-thin epidermis – deprived of human curiosity to dip millimeters underneath, and so discover what else she is willing to offer, beyond the carnal realm.

Cruelty of the

Arbitrary

Resolution.

And yet, she cannot stop thinking about him, imagining how his steps would echo in the corridor leading to her flat, how his hand would rise to press the button, how his feet would tap the ground while waiting for her to meet him by the entrance, far more preoccupying than she would like it to be. Tethering on the edge between two parallel dimensions – corporeality and conceptuality – she barely notices the slicing sound, tearing up the multi-level reverie into a bunch of useless pieces – a ring reverberating in the air.

“Fuck,” she curses, startled by the way too real noise, almost tripping, as she shoots up from the couch, rushing to open the door. She is greeted with the oh so unexpected sight of the ‘lover boy’ – display of vibrant confidence, obscuring the hint of impatience that must be lurking just beneath the surface, once again without any of his posh suits, although not lacking essential elegance, having opted for simple black pants and matching shirt, keeping the top buttons undone, certain she would notice. As per his earlier assumption, her eyes linger on the exposed flesh, also marked by the ink, evoking the wonder about how far it actually reaches, which in turn leads to the much more risqué concept – the fact that tonight she is meant to clarify all doubts.

(Fuck.)

“Ever bother to check the visual?” He leans against the doorway, clearly waiting for any invitation, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at her – an indication she catches sooner than later, allowing him to step inside, and shut the door. “Or is it the perspective of seeing me that distracts you so much?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she throws over her shoulder – feigned carelessness – as she follows him to the living area, frowning when he perches atop the mattress instead.

“And depend on random compliments?” He chuckles, fingers stroking the silky sheets, as if to approve their law of existence as a part of her bedding. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure you will,” she rolls her eyes, nevertheless allows him to pull her onto the plush surface, their knees bumping as she settles down beside the man.

“What a clever girl you are, truly astounding,” he purrs – the exact same tone he used just a few days ago, and yet so much different – fresh and bold, evoking the insatiable desire for more. “Which reminds me that I’ve brought some wine for us.”

“I’m more of a Tequila girl to be honest,” she bestows him a fleeting smile, thrown off guard by the brush of his fingers upon the exposed thigh, now that her dress has ridden up a little, nevertheless quick to return on the abandoned track of thoughts, “but wine is a classic, so I appreciate it.”

“Sure, Sundance,” he teases, tickling her skin with feather-like strokes – another call-back to their last encounter – although this time her muscles quiver as he skims the golden ring adorning her shapely leg.

“So do you want to drink it now, or-”

“Why the nerves?” He frown, in time with the touch-deprivation, placing the aforementioned bottle by the foot of her bed with a soft click – unsettling since terminal, at least according to personal perception – supreme deceiver. “It’s not like I’ve came here to hurt your or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” she nods, reaching out for his hand to thread their fingers together. “But you’re just something… something new to me, and I have no idea what to expect, that’s all.”

“Oh honey,” he smirks, eyes glinting with a lingering promise that leaves her determined to uncover the truth behind his intents, “you’re gonna love this, I promise.”

“Guess I’ll have to take your word for that then,” she shrugs, allowing him to pull her onto his lap once again, calves on either sides of his thighs for a change.

“Guess you’ll have to.”

And with that, their lips collide, sucking a breath from her lungs, and so shaping up the focus – tunnel vision, disability to judge the situation through the prism of a bigger picture, especially when his hand reaches the zipper of her dress, soon to drag it down, exposing the pale flesh to relatively warm air. In spite of that, her skin prickles with goosebumps, failing to contain a violent shiver, as his fingers explore the area in sync with the sensual dance that is their kiss – awakening of the burdened desire, prompt to shove him down, check whether he would crack in response – such an absurd idea, downward foolish, although that she is yet to realize, all in due course.

Puzzled with the sudden shift in her attitude, he peers up to the woman, forehead marked by a frown of confusion, until his gaze follows a path further south, halting once it reaches the disarranged cleavage, tops of her breasts peeking through the fabric. As if with a mind of its own, his hand reaches out to tease the feminine curve, eliciting a gasp from his not-so-stern partner, leaning towards his touch – fleeting scrape of butterfly’s wings upon the heated flesh, meant to enhance the inborn craving for more.

“C’mere,” he purrs, low baritone that sends a vibrant buzz straight to her core, and yet she hesitates to comply, tethering on the pinnacle between elongating the mild, although undoubtedly pleasant, experience and succumbing to the whispering prompts of her instinct, too caught up in the trance to deny the subconscious responses delivered by her body.

Seemingly unable to defer anymore, she leans in to him, sighing as he cups the perky globe in one hand, teasing the protruding nipple with the pads of his fingers, until she gasps his name – a single word, yet potent enough to cloud his eyes with a resemblance of lust, mirroring the fiery hue of her own irises. With the self-control aspect casted aside, she allows him to pull down the fabric and so expose the upper half of her body that he appears to be quite fond of at this point, attempting to ignore both the burning gaze upon bare skin and the growing hardness in between her legs, applying pressure to the dampening folds.

Intimidating to say the least, considering it has been a while since she was placed under such circumstances – a penis owner in her very own bed, grazing the lacy cloth with barely palpable shifts. In the midst of honesty she is ready to admit that the concept of stuffing a rigid member inside has always filled her with some odd kind of nervousness, disgust maybe – determinant of established preference, leaning more to the opposite option.

Even so, she has found herself attracted to the Connor almost at the spot, the exact moment his eyes landed on her figure by the doorway – initiation of the merest physical attraction, meant to blossom into something of entirely different nature, something that scares her more than she cares to admit. Furthermore, the last issue she needs to deal with is unrequired love, considering he is not the man who gives his heart away to each and every person he crosses paths with, unlike some people – hit for the metaphorical nail, precisely why she possesses so much hatred for him, at least a part of her does, while the other is drowning hopelessly, claiming she is a unique being, crafted for him like personal software.

With all that crap in mind, there is still the third aspect to it all – lust-laced craving, the carnal impulse that has her thighs fluttering in anticipation for what he is intent to deliver as his eyes bore into her – burning itch atop the exposed skin.

And that she is dying to find out.

“Mmm… fuck,” she moans, dumbfounded by the unusually intense sensation, rocking her hips to relieve the tension – subconscious response to the lack of direct stimulation – eliciting a throaty chuckle from the man below.

“So soon?” He teases, flinching as she presses closer to him, radiating with natural heat that has him twitching in some animalistic need to dive straight to the main business, even if for a split second. “How about a little variety first?”

“What variety?” She frowns, the movements of her hips halting as his hand abandons her breast, curious, or maybe just anxious, about his intensions.

“Ever been blindfolded?”

The question left to linger in the air for a split second, required for the artiste to comprehend its meaning, garnishing her cheeks with a reddish hue that laces his lips in yet another version of the so-called smug smirk, cocking an anticipatory eyebrow at the female. With her faced marked by the concoction of embarrassment and most importantly lust, she is no more no less a sight to behold, chewing at the corner of her lip in restless wonder – overthinking, burden of humanity. Even though it last for only a few seconds, he perceives it at least as a million

(what a surprising turn of events…),

yet maintains the essential patience to hear Gia’s response as his hands stroke her sides in some mindless form of caress, and so delay the decisive process, maybe without realization. What requires that brief struggle – point of discussion – is her return from the voluptuous trance, featuring the flash of seemingly every possible scenario, frenzied enough to appear as embarrassing, she shakes her head no – brisk denial – still leaving the matter pending.

“Wanna try it out tonight?” He proposes, to which she nods for a change, feverishly enough to fuel the cocky smirk upon his features – a concoction of lust and amusement. “Say it.”

“Yes, I wanna try out tonight,” she complies, without hesitation this time, as if he managed to strike some cord deep within, a cord that has her thighs twitching in search for the relief-granting friction.

(Fuck… that’s too much.)

“Very well then,” his gaze adverts to the side, indicating Gia to follow the established direction, settling once it reaches the flimsy gown hanging on the door of her wardrobe. “Give me that silky ribbon from your robe.”

Without further ado, she rises from the well-accustomed-with spot, and with a few, rather wobbly, steps, snatches the aforementioned item from the hanger, quick to pass it to him, indifferent whether it will reach its destination as smoothly as desired. In spite of that, he catches the belt with distinctive grace, twirling it in between his fingers for a brief moment, up to the point of fatal distraction – Gia discarding her dress to the side, allowing him to steal a glance of red lace covering the place of his interest, before she joins him on the bed, settled upon his lap once again.

“Now close your eyes,” he instructs, failing to conceal the breathy note marring the flawlessly composed voice – a nuance that appears to slip past her attention, without a doubt on his benefit, excited to follow his request, shivering at the first brush of silk over her skin, although not meant to relish the sensation for a longer while, since he is quick to tie it at the back of her head and so obscure the vision.

Pitch black.

“Lie down,” he bestows Gia with a concise order, having deprived her from the steady grip, hands now flying to grasp his shoulders, afraid to lose balance now that she is blind.

“How about a little help?” She huffs with a lingering hint of annoyance marring her voice, prominent enough to reach the picky ears of her paranoid manager. “I don’t fancy slamming my head in the wall, you know.”

“Don’t use that tone on me,” he snaps – an exclamation laced with a tethering promise, indicating that he is indeed a man of little tolerance to any form of misbehavior, which is not much of surprise to be honest, especially when considered through the prism of what she has witnessed him perform on the strictly professional ground.

“Or what?” She taunts, too blind, in the metaphorical sense of course, to realize how ridiculous she appears to him at the moment, pawing at his shoulders as the self-preservation instinct fully kicks in, working against her benefit, at least when it comes to narrow extension, yet to reach the verbal realm.

Which is exactly what elicits a mocking chuckle from the male, followed by an equally derisive comment, more than aware how to get under her skin. “Don’t tempt me, Sundance.”

“Like you wouldn’t want it,” she rolls her eyes, even though he is unable to see through the silky ribbon, letting out another vexed huff, cut short by the sudden flip that has her squealing in surprise, all against the conscious will. Some part of her finds such capacity rather unsettling, precisely how he can manhandle the dainty body in any desired position, while the other – dug out of the subliminal depth – relishes the sensation of physical submission, shivering in anticipation for more.

Luckily, that he is able to deliver, at least according to what she is hoping for, although the following action leaves her puzzled and most importantly alone on the mattress, almost prompting to remove the fabric in order to check why he has abandoned her. However, before she settles on any specific choice, she hears him rummaging through the bed drawer in search for hell knows what, and even though she is probably supposed to cut such liberties short, the woman remains still, well-aware of what he is looking for in there and yet caught in denial.

“If that’s what I think it is...” she begins, unable to conceal the subtle hint of trepidation within her voice, clearly excited to verify the inkling.

“What? This?” He pokes her in the side with the not-so-foreign object, buzzling to life in his palm, eliciting a shocked squeak from the female, much to his amusement. “Knew a lonely lady like you would have one.”

“I’m not-”

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums as if in some derisive form of agreement, lacking in pity but making up with condescension, now seated beside the partner, evident in the teasing brush of his pants’ fabric against her thigh. “But if you’re denying it so fiercely… then maybe I should stop?”

“No, I-”

“Just say it,” he prompts, tracing the golden ring encircling her thigh, which sends a resonating tingle all the way to her throbbing nipples. “Say that you want it, and it’ll be all yours.”

“I want you to touch me,” she states, feigning indifference, if not for the subtle hint of trepidation betraying her in the times of trial, which is no more no less than a hyperbole, but still – perception is delusive.

“Then beg,” he reciprocates, smirking as she twitches under his touch, subconsciously drawing her legs further apart – an instinctual invitation.

“But you said-”

“I know what I said,” he interrupts – a manner that elicits an audible huff from the dependent woman, supposed as a provocation, but at this point he is too amused to let such a silly misbehavior unhinge him. “So now I wanna hear you out for a change.”

“Please?” She asks – blunt and accusatory.

“Oh c’mon,” he frowns, undoubtedly displeased with her lack of dedication to the prior request – another polished façade he tends to display when needed. “You’re not even trying.”

To that, she has no response, at least throughout the course of several dozen seconds, required to verify the so-called balance of burdens and benefits, all while attempting to ignore the teasing brushes atop her exposed skin. She has never experienced anything like this – being so responsive to any form of touch, no matter how gentle, how fleeting, casted upon her flesh akin to some grotesque shadow – substitute of proper caress – which might as well be the real reason for cracking her resolve.

“Please, I need you to touch me so badly,” she strives for the most docile version of her tone, not used to such deal of resistance from the second participator, puzzled with the amount of self-control he has been displaying throughout their encounter. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?”

(Asshole.)

“No,” she sighs, beyond impatient, desperate to alleviate the tension blossoming between her legs, retreating the merest ability to focus, as if all pitiful remains of poorly constructed concentration have been thrown out of the window.

(Entropic fallout, wasn’t it?)

(Huh?)

All too soon, in one precisely brisk maneuver, he is hovering over her form, surrounding the female with natural body heat, as his lips trail butterfly kisses over the tender flesh of her neck – a gesture she would consider sweet under any other circumstances, albeit this time convinced that he is intent to transfer it into yet another merciless act. With the ability to contain her reflexes long gone, now that she is receiving any physical attention, she arches towards him, failing to contain a breathless gasp slipping past her lips as a response to his gesture – tracing the outline of her breast, as if to draw a spiral pattern to the middle – a fiery brand upon the sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” she squeals, synchronized with the harsh nipple pinch, eliciting an amused chuckle from the arrogant lover who is now preoccupied with stroking a line down her stomach, tensed with the anticipation for the coming dive.

“Mmm… fuck…” he groans into her ear – billowing puff of breath – heat over heat – as his fingers skim the lace-covered folds, greeted by a soaking amount of wetness that speaks to the most primal parts of his brain, that has him twitching in the confinement of his pants, wishing to launch for the simplest cut-to-the-chase, even if for a brief moment. “That excited already?”

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, pushing her hips up in an attempt to meet the hand hovering just above the delicate material – merciless denial that has her muscles twitching in anticipation, enhanced by the sensory deprivation, lack of vision that forces her to ponder upon each and every outcome. “Please, I need- uh, f-fuck…”

A mere plea, uttered in the state of lust-laced deliriousness, disability to comprehend what is happening around her, caught off guard by the following action – a dive straight to the main point of interest, no more excess teasing, fooling around with the fleeting touches that set her skin aflame, wordlessly begging him to pursue. Instead, he replaced the previous tickling with firm pressure, smirking as her hips buck in response, determined to fulfill the innate craving for more direct stimulation, not separated by the thin lace – flimsy barrier that has risen to a rank of an ultimate obstacle, obviously thicker than she would like it to be.

“Take them off, please,” she whines, all too familiar with the burning frustration, laced into her being, taking a form of some grotesque thread, stinging like a sharp needle, crying to be removed.

“Seems like you’ve been demanding a lot lately, don’t you think?” He taunts, almost back to the smooth baritone if not for the lingering hint of restrain hiding behind his voice, the smoky gaze he has been casting upon her exposed body for quite a while, perceivable on the intuitive aspect alone.

“No, please,” she cries in despair as his fingers abandon their previous spot, beyond desperate to complete the process, hands reaching to grasp him, but he evades the clumsy clutches, letting out an amused chuckle at the frenzied attempt.

“Relax,” he purrs into her ear – a sound that sends a resonating shiver down her spine, which paired with the abrupt nip delivered on the tender earlobe almost has her moaning out loud, “I’m far from done with you yet,” an exclamation meant to elicit another violent shiver, accompanied by his throaty laugh. “But before we move on, any specific requests you have in mind?”

“No, just touch me,” she whines, too unhinged to bother with general appearance, clenching her thighs to alleviate the ache, in foolish hopes it will somehow slip past his attention.

(Sure.)

“How exactly?” He continues, quick to grasp the woman by the shapely muscle and draw her legs apart, all for the purpose of witnessing Gia trembling in frustration.

“However you want,” she reciprocates, already past the point of bothering to conceal her responses – polar opposite to the moderate man beside her, which might as well be yet another foolish assumption, if missing out the lustful glint in his eyes, silvery hue that has transferred into one of these restless storms – dark and predatory.

“Sure, Sundance,” he hums – a conclusion laced by a lingering hint, somehow sinister, indescribable with the human vocabulary, probably unsettling in the eyes of the young artiste – a final warning – but she is not in the mood to dwell on any underlying doubts, meant to be clarified as soon as he presses the vibrating bullet to her clit, forcing a choked moan from the equally astonished female.

“Fuck,” she gasps as another incomprehensible wave rocks through her body, muscles twitching in response to the increasing pressure, once again dying to get rid of the flimsy barrier, “off, please.”

“Lift your hips,” he instructs, almost at the spot, maybe fed up with drawing the inevitable as well, to which she complies, allowing him to slide the lacy panties down her legs, then approximately toss them aside.

Settled beside his lover again, evident in the heated exhales palpable upon her cheek, he resumes the initiated activity, dragging the buzzling bullet up her folds to circle the swollen nub, eliciting another reedy squeal from the squirming partner, which in turn has him wondering whether it is her casual reaction to such form of caress – inability to remain still, shifting from side to side as if caught in some frenzied state of lust. Therefore, to facilitate the process, he opts for an alternative position, tugging Gia in between his legs, back to the firm chest, now able to hold the woman more steadily with an open palm sprawling across her abdomen. Even if that simple, the act affects him more than he cares to acknowledge, at least when attempting to match the distinctive candor, marveling at how lightweight she is – penchant for dainty women in general – which combined with the soft moans slipping past her lips has him twitching against the swell of her ass.

Despite the thick curtain of lust clouding her mind, she can feel him perfectly through the thin layer of clothing, more than nervous to acquaint the full length, considering there is barely anything appealing about said part of male anatomy. Furthermore, her attitude leans more to the category of ‘intimidated’ than ‘excited’, while pondering upon the possible outcome, someway obliged to convert it into ‘inevitable’ – a trait that tends to lead people on the baneful avenue.

As well as concealing the truth.

“Enjoying yourself?” He mutters into her ear all of sudden, dragging the woman back to the contemporary realm, at least as much as the carnal aspect allows to, mind foggy with desire, relishing the temporal docility that she is displaying, more vulnerable than ever.

Seemingly not in the mood to oppose, she hums in affirmation, twitching as her body surges with the approaching wave of ecstasy, surprisingly close by now, considering how little physical attention she has received on the course of their encounter, maybe due to visual deprivation as for the enhancing factor. With the heightened sense of touch, the low vibrations on her clit feel divine, otherworldly even, as a part of her wishes to tether on such stage for blissful eternity, explore the unknown realm at leisured pace.

Unfortunately, it turns out that she will not be the judge of that, since he removes the toy, not quite certain when exactly, since the ability to evaluate the passing time has abandoned Gia as soon as he pressed the bullet to her clit. As if caught in some tunnel-vision state of lust, she attempts to reach out for him, unfortunate to slash through the thin air, which has her groaning in frustration, and despite more than evident amusement, he soothes her with a warm palm on her thigh and a whispering promise, dedication that causes her to choke on own spit, head snatching in his direction, more than certain that she must have misheard him.

“What did you say?”

“I said I wanted to taste you,” he repeats, the same purring baritone as before reverberating in her ear, sending a violent shiver down her spine – a throbbing buzz straight to her clit. “What? Man’s never gone down on you?”

“Man? No,” she counters, still in genuine shock due to the least expected proposition, especially from the lips of the most arrogant, selfish bastard she has ever encountered, opting to dismiss all sensible doubts, when considered through the prism of his potential intentions, certainly not featuring the direct aim for climax. “But please do go on, I’m interested.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” he reciprocates, a sarcastic comment that somehow slips past her attention, most likely because she chooses to ignore it – negative for picky with more pressing matters occupying her mind.

“Can I get rid of the blindfold first?” She verbalizes what is germane, hands already reaching up to untie the knot, but he halts her with a disapproving click of his tongue, not intent to expand it to the physical realm, by grasping her wrists for instance.

“I don’t know, can you?” He teases, eliciting a frustrated huff from the female, as her hands fall to the chest, waiting for his approval, which pleases him more than she suspects, and so prompts to let it loose with a negligent tug.

Blinding light.

“Fuck,” she gasps, shielding her eyes from the city neons illuminating her face, bright and aggressive, marring the vision with ghoulish spots – temporal disability, excluded from the flawless world, shoved away as soon as it bumps into any of its dwellers, wandering in search of an ultimate place.

Chaos.

Parallel with humanity?

(Don’t be ridiculous.)

Smart enough to wait until it subsided, she adjusts their position, now chest to chest with Connor, as her sight shifts towards him, taking in the contours of his face, now accentuated by the artificial light, caught on the glimmering hint of chrome decorating his cheekbones – sharp and unyielding. Giving as good as he gets, his eyes bore into her façade – resemblance of a steel tool, corresponding with the icy shade, now reflecting the female’s image – orchid hair and tangerine irises, almost auburn in the dim illumination. There is something devilish about her, the intimate setting she is aiming for, the dainty hands braced on his chest, the affection in her gaze, prominent enough to unsettle the steady man, even if subdued by the membrane of lust, screaming warning to accelerate the process.

“Lie down,” he prompts, palms on the either sides of her hips as if to ensure she would move, “or else I might think you’ve changed your mind about this.”

“Sure,” she purrs, lips inches away from his, but still, the abrupt closure catches him off guard – firm pressure applied on the tender flesh – pouring every ounce of the bottled-up emotion into the kiss as for the vulnerable creature she is, meant to shatter in his callous grip, knowing it will be too intricate to comprehend if transferred into words. He lets her go with offbeat reluctance – a hint that she is able to catch, detached from his usual composure, topping it up with yet another fleeting peck, before she actually rolls to the side, nestling in the silky sheets – indication to pursue.

(Control-wrecking.)

With her spread out like this, prolonging the inevitable appears as beyond pointless, foolish dreams of a self-centered man with reliable composure, superior when juxtaposed with the pitiful rest, and yet succumbing to the carnal desire – spirited among the spineless, spineless among the spirited – civilized paradox. All meaningless in face of the feminine creature, lying on the velvety fabric, one knee bent, anticipating his touch, craving the flattery if only in the tactile realm, the synthetic hue of her irises now obscured by the eyelids – a detail at odds with his tastes and so a matter that he is quick to rectify with a stern grip upon her chin, eliciting a discontented whine from the young artiste.

“Eyes on me,” he bids, voice laced with proficiently concealed impatience, if not for the lingering hint marring the quintessential presentation – evidence of the lustful longing within his gaze, within the manner it outlines her curves, following up to the partly confused façade.

“I thought you-”

“Then you were wrong,” he interrupts, almost trespassing the point of autocracy that has her laughing out loud, albeit still capable of transferring it into a mere shadow of a proper smile – a nuance not meant to evade his perception, heightened by an animalistic instinct. “Don’t tempt me to wipe that smirk off.”

“What?”

Without bothering to clarify the four-letter query, as per usual, he retreats to the initial intention, determined to fulfill the shared craving – polar opposites that mingle into one, overlapping both perspectives – a prelude to the everlasting doubt:

To give or to receive?

(That is the question.)

In consideration with the dualistic lack of competence to put it to an end, and yet each time the occasion arises, every average scum would ask about interlocutor’s preference.

It must be the people who are damaged,

Shattered akin to a splinter of glass.

(Give me a fucking break.)

“Connie?” She frowns in confusion, clearly the one to be left hanging this time, albeit not only at loss in such realm – an exclamation shattering his reverie, not that it bothers him much under current circumstances.

Hence, being brought up to a point of boiling impatience, he opts for the simple cut-to-the-chase move and so settles in between her legs, pried apart with the telltale pressure of his hands applied onto the tender insides. Unable to ignore the tingling of her thighs, now grasped in his palms – slim and dainty in comparison, which evokes that odd concoction of contradictions – anxious but

(to the point of)

aroused, almost trembling with excitement for what is about to come.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Practically keening due to the freshly occurred friction, fleshy and tangible on the swollen folds, drawing a throaty moan from the woman – not the most appealing sound she could have uttered, but still, there is always a room for improvement, she thinks bitterly – caricaturistic resemblance of Connor’s notions. Little does she know, he is far from displeased, now that his hands are clasped around her thighs, and the tongue is tracing the feminine outline with deliciously firm strokes, having opted out of the warm-up, considered nonsensical after all prior actions.

In spite of the so-called burning frustration, each stroke is languid, leisure, as if it was his elementary intention to memorize the shape through such manner, but at the same time prevent from overwhelming her on the very first shot. That, paired with the poor concentration, limited to the heady flavor occupying his mouth, has his eyes adverting to the side, lids heavy with the decadent intoxication, mind much drowsier than before, so instead of maintaining the direct contact, he allows them to fall shut, even if for a mere moment.

Deprived of the visual stimulus, the object of main focus shifts to the taste-related factor, linked with a nuance that he has always perceived as interesting – each time it manages to satiate the fussy palate, which might as well be a direct result of pheromones’ presence – a bitter reminder that even below all the meticulously crafted layers lays yet another insignificant human, succumbing to the innate whim. A human barely able to maintain the substantial concentration with the rhythmical pumping of blood audible in his ears and an evidence of ardent lust crawling down his neck, beyond positive that his skin is hot to touch now, matching the tender flesh that is clutched in his hand, hard enough to bruise, he somehow manages to keep the pace, occasionally sucking at the swollen nub, intent to get as much from her as possible.

“Fuck, more,” she whines, urgency evident in her voice, shifting beneath the unyielding man, clenching around merciless nothing, “I need more.”

(There it is. More.)

“Already?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the frustrated vocalist, infuriatingly dapper in its condescension, tickling her with a mere stroke of his tongue upon the heated folds.

“Mhm,” she hums in agreement, twitching due to the moderate caress, up to consider locking his head in between her thighs, even if for a split second, required to brace for the simplest of requests, “please.”

“And why is that?” He reciprocates in a teasing manner, now halting his movements all together to eye Gia with the signature intensity, still nested in the exact same spot. “Better not disappoint me with the answer, Sundance.”

“You’re such a-” she begins, soon interrupted by a cruel nip delivered right to the tender flesh of her folds – brisk, and so mind-clearing, but not harsh enough to hurt severely, and yet she cannot bother to hold back the boiling curse. “Ah- fuck you,” she spats, clearly not in the mood for any excess teasing, fed up with his never-ending talk, queries uttered in the most unfortunate moments, catching her in that peculiar state of delirious fogginess, as if intent to receive the most feverish answer.

“Well, I don’t see that coming,” he baits, still amused with each rising attempt to dethrone him from the superior position, feigning obstinacy to crack his resolve, check whether she has the capacity to break him – foolish pursuit of a permanent idealist. “Although I appreciate the sentiment.”

“What?”

“So,” he ignores the confused exclamation once again, determined to gain the desired answer from the woman, itching with impatience, enhanced by the lingering aftertaste upon his tongue. “Still so keen on disappointing me?”

“No, please,” she practically whines, dreaming about locking her legs to ease the ardent crave for friction. “It hurts.”

“I know it does,” he reciprocates, almost getting the hair-thin thread of longanimity to snap, thanks to the signature smooth swagger, especially when his eyes shift to the heaving breasts, pulsing with unresolved tension.

“Then ease me,” she suggests, not so demanding despite the straightforward nature of prior verbalization, laced with a prominent hint of desperation, impossible to be omitted. “Please.”

“Now was that so hard?” He flashes her a pitiful smile, albeit this time she does not bother to formulate any retort, already shoved past the point of carnal urge, with tunnel vision drifting the hopeless individual towards her final destination – inevitable wreckage. To be honest, he must have lacked the corporeal form to omit all of these: how she is practically dripping on his tongue, quivering under the precise manners he glides her with, wave after wave, climbing higher and higher, up to the point where the rhythmical pulsing becomes tactile on the moist muscle. He is well aware of how little it would take to unravel the dumbfounded artist – three, maybe five sucks if he decides to embrace the latent potential for generosity – and yet the sadistic component wants to witness the scorching heap of frustration, spatting and cursing him to the nth degree just to get back on track with begging, merely a brief moment later.

(What a merciful man I am.)

(Merciful, huh? Now prove it.)

Almost sobbing in relief when the first tide rocks through her tingling body, she arches off the bed, damned if these were not stars she was seeing – nova, luminous explosion, blacking out the vision for a split second, yet enough to miss the hubristic glint in his eyes, relishing in the way her thighs quiver on both sides of his head. Allowing Gia to ride out the aftershocks, he bestows her with a milder alternative, barely skimming past the abused flesh, until she tugs him away by the hair, denying the access altogether, now that she is too sensitive to continue.

“That was nice,” she mutters, glancing at the rising man whose hands are now preoccupied with unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, “thanks.”

“Your ’nice’ is a fatal understatement, don’t you think?” He retorts, bitter once deprived of the physical connection, although the unravelling sight acts as enough of a distraction from the sour timbre, right at the gates of finding out about the authentic expanse of his tattoos.

“Maybe…” she drags on the syllable, drowsiness evident in the leisure mannerism, allowing her eyelids to fall shut for a longer moment, as if positive the resting interval between the tandem of acts is more than essential, “I don’t know…”

Conditional.

Blindness.

Once again without the visual stimulus, as if filtrating the faint shuffling in the background, her focus drifts towards more unnerving matters, towards how bizarre it will be to experience the subsequent intercourse in the manly way after those few years, now that she is a mere step from clarifying the preposterous doubts. Although she is certain he has no intentions in making her feel uncomfortable, out of place, as if she belonged elsewhere, as if she was incapable of transferring their time together into an enjoyable record for both of them – insecurity laced in between the strings of her being – she still hesitates, tethers on the pinnacle determining the predictive outcome.

(Now that is absurd.)

“C’mere,” he prompts, and if not for the purring baritone – a note that she has had a fair amount of time to get accustomed with – gentle tug of a dainty hand, she would remain trapped in the conceptual dimension. Instead, he settles Gia on his lap, eliciting a choked gasp from the artiste once she discovers the blunt lack of any form of clothing, all sturdy flesh below her petite form, eyes drifting to the stygian patterns marring the pale skin.

Vessel for conspectus.

Corporeal form.

Flattery of artistry.

Asseveration of one’s mindset.

Mysterious understatement.

“What does it mean for you?” She inquiries – a doubt popping out of blue, laced with apprehension of discovering the possible truth lurking behind his polished façade, emerging to the surface as a form of carnal avidity he eyes her with – a man starved, restive due to the intentional delay. “Sex.”

“Sex, huh?” He smirks – a ravenous glint enlightening his countenance. “Sex means power.”

(At least he is frank.)

(Sometimes, I feel sorry for him.)

“No, I mean this,” she gesticulates, pointing at each of them, albeit missing the amused tilt of his lips as a response to the untimed query, “you and me.”

“Entropy,” he bestows her with yet another evasive answer, now that he is so keen on pursuing further for a change, hands taking a steady grip on either sides of her waist, before he leans in for a kiss, meant to prevent the innocent doubt from blossoming into a full-blown sparring match – an overflow of endless qualms. In spite of her, rather disputable, judgment, she returns the caress, scooting closer to him – blatant euphemism since her breast are practically mashed against his chest, with frenzied heartbeat resonating through the ribcage.

Crescendo.

Pinnacle where one is deprived of the human ability to perceive reality as a compound of coherent particles, instead gradually declines into a place where most aspects acquire a diametrical form – indiscriminate and so considered unimportant through the prism of future reference. Analogy parallel to her current state, each and every worry evaporating in the night’s breeze, as his lips brush – no – claim the lonesome territory, hands trace the outline of her hips – reminder of the primordial intention – a mere breath away from flipping Gia on the back to clasp her hands above the head and… the rest speaks for itself.

(Better show than tell.)

And so, in order to keep up with the rush of concepts clouding his perception, he fulfills the aforementioned, eliciting an outraged gasp from the surprised female, as soon as she comprehends the abrupt reposition. Deciding to test the waters, she tugs at the makeshift binding, expecting him to tighten the grasp, but nothing like this happens, as if he managed to outrun her suppositions, and while it is still relatively firm, the pressure remains unchanged.

Queer.

Deep in her personal probe, she fails to notice his progressing movements, until he nudges her legs apart, right at the threshold of sliding in, twitching against the slender thigh in excitement. Due to the interval dividing the last and tonight’s encounter, rather generous in length, she acquires that peculiar like-a-virgin attitude, tensed and nervous, valuating the possible amount of discomfort, parallel to the potency of pain, almost blocking the way when he prods at her entrance, presumably by accident considering the following statement.

“You don’t have to impress me, okay? Just relax.”

Probably his first and only display of sweetness she would ever witness.

(Enjoy while it lasts.)

Which is exactly what she opts for, having taken a deep breath, hoping it will calm her rapid heartbeat – not only a futile but also naive attempt – prelude to the tearing entrée that forces a choked whine from her constricted throat, that has the hybrid nails biting crescent shapes into the heel of her palm. Although partly drowned by the feminine whimper, he utters his own groan – evidence of layered frustration, eased by the surrounding tightness, even if for a brief moment – while a part of him struggles to maintain still instead of nailing her to the mattress, not so metaphorically anymore.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth, chest heaving with each uneven breath, and what he suspects must have extended to hours and hours of malevolent interlude, in reality requires less than a minute to feel the woman shift below, hips bucking in form of a silent plea.

And who is he to deny her that?

Having opted for such choice, he rocks into her, at this peculiar state of awareness when it comes to each scrape, each flutter, each alternative in pressure against the throbbing member that forces a barely audible gasp from the preoccupied male. Always so self-contained, so persistent, so… composed, and yet she has managed to shatter the inch-thick pane with the merest nuances – a blemish of honor – which disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

In a heap of developing necessity to shove the thought aside, he picks up the pace, forcing his eyelids open to observe the variety of reactions manifesting themselves on her face, too monotonous for his own liking, as if something was preventing the artiste from enjoying their encounter, as if a part of her was immune to the charms he used to enchant a number of lovers throughout the years. Even though she is, indeed, responding, uttering a soft mewl here and there, for some reasons each time he attempts to add his duos, the equalization grants him with an answer of three, as if a single particle was missing, which infuriates him even more than the stain once did.

Matter laid in his hands.

Before she gets a chance to take a grasp on what is happening, he leaves her lying cold by his side, even if only in a metaphorical sense, struggling to relocate in the changing settings, if the abrupt emptiness counts as one, beyond confused and so determined to express her immerse displeasure with the recent turn of events. While he however, less than keen on hearing whatever complains she dares to throw at him, shushes her in the most brusque way possible, at least if considering it through the prism of abusing the physical superiority

(is this even the right expression?),

by tugging her over his lap once again, albeit this time getting Gia to face the window, which has her frowning in confusion, all before he somehow situates himself inside once again, eliciting a throaty moan from the woman, surprisingly husky in contrast with the usual honeyed tune.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, clenching around him, positively caught off guard due to the fresh angle, squirming as she tests the waters – an action that has him hissing in discomfort, full of hatred towards the sensation that comes with being teased.

“Glad to hear that,” he mutters into her hair, breath tickling the tender skin below her ear. “Now grind your hips.”

Puzzled with the sudden shift in his attitude – giving up the control from before, at least as an initial impression – a matter of delusional deception – she halts instead of complying, which prompts him reiterate.

“C’mon, don’t make me repeat myself,” he purrs into her ear, lips stroking the sensitive flesh as he speaks, intent to discover what pace does the trick for the young artiste in his arms, and with that thought in mind, he allows himself to sigh as soon as she begins to move. Despite being well aware it might not be the most convenient position to lead, he intends to find out about the unspoken preference – reason of their misconception – and much to his surprise, she seems to enjoy whatever is happening between them now, having settled for the slower pace.

Soft and tender.

“Touch me, please,” she whines, grasping him by the arm in order to direct it in between her legs, when all off sudden, instead of fulfilling her wish straight away, he grasps her by the hips, putting the leisure interlude to an end, replaced by his own thrusts, meant to elicit that husky moan once again. Therefore, he slips his hand right where she wanted it merely a moment ago, drawing a honeyed mewl instead as it circles her clit, teasing the swollen nub with the same languid pace that almost had him tremble in frustration before, dying to witness the myriad of responses lying in her capacity.

“How does it feel?” he rasps, voice hoarser than ever before, clouded with a dense fog of lust, as if indicating the non-acceptance of disobedience in any form. “Tell me.”

“So good… so…” she begins, struggling to find the right words, the bodily influence over her mind more than evident under the current circumstances, “so… relieving… just keep going, please. ”

In spite of the hackneyed cliché, the sentence itself creates a binding influence over the male, combined with the layer cake of various frustrations, filled with piling impatience, and so enough to prompt him to fulfill the wish straightaway. Ergo, he increases the intensity of both aspects, which has her writhing atop him, squirming and whining for release, mouth agape and back arched, soaked in the neon glow – foggy reflection in the glass pane, branded underneath his eyelids for plenty of nights in the future.

Carnal fixation.

Who twists her neck to steal a kiss, bumping their noses together, dying to taste him once again before the final climax – elsewise pleonasm – fluttering around his girth as a prelude for what is inevitable, beyond anticipated, while he appears as perfectly capable of sensing her need, and so returns the caress. Albeit this time, it is safe to assume he is not just toying with her anymore, now that he is creeping closer and closer to the personal pinnacle, thighs twitching as she clenches around him to the point of vice-tight, almost preventing any movement, which might as well be a matter of hyperbolizing, but still, he would never allow it to end prematurely.

(A blemish of honor, was it?)

“Tell me you want this,” he rasps, with the self-control aspect running thin, evident in the loss of rhythm, perceptible even if not absolute.

“I- ah-” she gasps after a particularly rough thrust, interrupting whatever train of thoughts she has been gliding through, rewarded with a sharp nip on the side of her neck.

“Tell me,” he reiterates – gravelly groan that sends a tremor down her spine – rubbing the sensitive nub in firm circles, up to the point where she cannot help but buck against his hand, right at the cusp of bliss, ready to fall.

“I want this, plea-ease,” she whines, stuttering at the end, voiced laced with sheer desperation, dying for the final push.

(And fuck, does it come…)

Mouth agape in a silent scream bubbling inside her constricted throat, she arches into a telltale bow, head falling onto his shoulder, as she flutters around him – rhythmical pulsing that pushes him over the edge, muscles twitching below. Never had she allowed a man to use her like that, and while the artiste was once positive it must be the single most distasting experience of one’s life, she finds herself relishing in the inglorious sensation, trembling as the wave of aftershocks rocks through her limp frame.

(Fucking hell.)

(Fucking hell.)

Tangled on the silky sheets and coming down from their heights, neither of them dare to exchange a word, and so break the comfortable silence – tranquility emerging from the storm – instead bask in the afterglow, with him nuzzling her hair, seemingly in a moment of weakness, lacking the previous rapture. As if unable to foresee the inevitable, she utters a whine of protest the moment he pulls out from her body, having settled the partner aside once he collapses onto the mattress, fatigue evident in his movements, and yet allows her to curl into his side, even intertwine their fingers.

Interesting.

What else might be considered in such terms is the contrast, beyond stark, both in color and texture – creamy and tender juxtaposed with the inky pattern, flesh that is rough in to touch, indicating he must have been working in an entirely different field from the current corporative line – a layover on the methodical path to the ornament itself. Examining the small tattoos drawn over their length, she finds the disability to identify what has been depicted on his skin in such a dim lightening a tad bit infuriating, although not mood-defining, which would be rather odd elsewise – getting emotional over some minuscule detail.

(Hypocrite.)

“Did they hurt?” She asks, breaking the drowsy lull that has settled over them, a question that prevents him from dozing off for now, which might turn out for the better in the nearby future, since he is not quite fond of random modification in the hygiene routine.

“No,” he bestows her with a dismissive answer, once again and much to her annoyance if under any other circumstances, certainly not when she is lying half-asleep beside another warm body. “Mind if I use your shower?”

“No,” she mimics his most recent answer, nevertheless positive when it comes to the veracity of said statement.

What a terrible misconception.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – peaceful if not for that peculiar inkling lingering in the back of his mind, as if to indicate some ominous turnabout he opposes to discover. Pairing it up with one of the most loathed traits – attempting to fool himself – does nothing to alleviate the situation, instead enhances the disquietude that has been occupying his soul for quite a while, which in turn brings the anticipation of any possible denouement to the light, craving for certainty rather than a bunch of arising assumptions, even if it would lead to a minacious discovery.

Paradox.

Imminent downfall.

But a lesson from the most experienced teacher.

Life.

Life that has managed to educate him on a carnival realm, including even the least expected plot twists, the most obnoxious outcomes, begging for correction, a correction beyond qualifications, evoking the ardent embarrassment that follows in the wake of incapacity.

Although this time what initiates the process is an act.

An act so simple.

Nearly offensive.

A telephone.

No.

Let’s try that again.

It all starts out with a telephone from an old pal.

“Buenas noches, Connor,” he greets with a throaty tune that the manager has almost brought himself to forget – a road paved with good intentions. “Long time no see, eh?”

“Yes, most certainly,” he reciprocates, albeit surprisingly brisk to block the visual, all while striving for a note as calm as possible, burying all worries underneath the surface, at least for now – flawlessly polished façade.

“Oh c’mon, why so formal?” He whinges, smirk audible in his voice. “We haven’t talked for how long? Seven? Eight years?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs, feigning indifference – desperate attempt of a drowning man. “It’s work related anyway.”

“Still concrete, I like this,” he remarks – deceptive tease.

“Flattery is useless,” he counters, tone harsh akin to a dagger – a reminiscence from the old times. “Unless, of course, you’re calling ‘cause you’re bored to shit and have no one to fuck. But I believe that’s not the case, now is it?”

“Sadly no,” he sighs, as if truly upset. “I have a wife now, so you know…”

“Oh and that’s stopping you? Fuck…” he rolls his eyes in mock disbelief – an involuntary response to the smoky tone. “But okay, let’s assume it does; then what’s the real issue, where’s the fucking catch?”

“You see people change-”

“And you believe in it? An old dog like you?” He interrupts – a retort followed by an incredulous chuckle. “Give me a fucking break.”

“Yes, I do believe it now,” he counters, voice laced with a hint of annoyance. “You see, I don’t like people within my scope, what’s mine stay mine. And who would understand it better than you, am I right?”

He only hums in approval.

“Very well,” he must be smiling now, not that he would want to see anything of that sort, but still, it disturbs him more than he cares to admit – a malevolent omen. “So I want you to do something for me, you know, for that time in New Mexico. I hope it rings a bell.”

“Yes, most certainly,” he mimics the prior answer, which has the man huffing in annoyance, although not interrupt his train of thoughts, if so enhance the need to spill the tea now that he has been given a chance.

Disastrous decision?

Well again, not really.

“Still remember how to kill?”

How many words?

Five?

Five words to utter the contrasting sentence, indicate the earth-shattering proposition.

Five words to send him straight to hell.

In business class.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Do you have the slightest idea what the fuck are you talking about?” He responds after good three minutes – a fleeting expanse of time, slipping out of attention’s grasp, unnoticed by the stern man – voice marred with helpless wrath. “I won’t get involved in any of your shady little businesses.”

“And why is that?” He asks, cocking an eyebrow at the empty screen, wishing Connor could see this – a victory amongst the vicious.

“Fuck you,” he spats, hands twitching in immerse rage. “Just- fuck you!”

“Better not piss me off, chico, ‘kay?” He interjects – an exclamation laced with blossoming annoyance now that his interlocutor has allowed himself for far too many liberties. “I’m nice, ‘cause we’re friends, but I won’t be nice if you piss me off, está claro?”

“Can’t you hire anyone else?” An attempt of discussion? Really? Downright pitiable. “I bet you have multiple sidekicks that would gladly do this for you, ‘cause now I don’t have any time to deal with your shit.”

“Pfft… as good time as any,” he counters, oh so unexpectedly. “Plus I think you’re gonna do this far better than any one of them, not to mention – for free.”

“The first one is a fucking lie, which we both know, and the second-”

“Oh I beg to differ,” he interrupts, still vexed although convinced that what Connor needs is time, time to get accustomed with the inevitable concept, matter extending beyond the realm of personal control. “Both are relevant. You’re the best and you’re gonna do this for free ‘cause you fucking owe me. End of the story.”

“I don’t-”

“Oh you do,” he cuts off once again, intent to get the best of him – calm attitude and meticulous precision, “so just fucking listen for once.”

“What is it even about?” He queries, now that he has managed to satiated the ardent rage, at least enough to circle back to the milder tone, a tone that would fit Thiago’s tastes. “Business? Revenge?”

“Well, both I’d say,” he bestows him with a brisk affirmation, not that he is surprised, “but I don’t wanna get into many details now that we’re on the line, not that anyone of those sacks of fuck would care, but still, you know how it is… Anyway, his name is Carlos Vásquez, and two, three years ago he was just a pimp, a regular pimp, ‘recruiting’ regular people to do regular shit, nothing special, right?”

“So what has changed?”

“He’s extended his business’ interests to the drug market, but even that wouldn’t concern me much, at least not that much to kill him,” he halts, possibly to enhance the suspense, which combined with exasperating Connor creates quite a lucrative form of entertainment. “Which was until that pendejo, pedazo de hijo de puta, sent a bunch of assholes to kidnap my daughter, my fifteen-year-old daughter, my Ava. You’ve never met her, but I believe I’ve mentioned her once or twice in New Mexico.”

“If only,” he huffs – a mannerism deliberately ignored by the influential businessman – rolling his eyes in a display of thespian impatience.

“And let me tell you, I’ll never, ever let that motherfucker get away with this,” he continues – malicious promise, albeit paved with good intentions.

“Where is she now?” He interjects, a blunt query that has his friend, supposing he can be labeled as such, laughing out loud.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten soft all of sudden… Christ.”

“It’s a practical question,” he explains, apparently displeased with the obligation to enlighten the aforementioned. “’Cause I want you to know from the very beginning that I ain’t gonna save her.”

“Oh, thank you kindly for your compassion, but she’s safe now, which is all you need to know,” he clarifies – an exclamation that has the manager sighing in relief, considering his reluctance when it comes to any dramatic rescues.

“And the details?”

“I’ll send them later,” the Mexican flips him off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, having forgotten he has blocked the visual, not that it bothers him much anyway. “You know, photos, business associates, lovers’ names, blah, blah, blah…”

“Sure you will,” he nods, feeling obliged to clarify all matters despite the boiling tension, threatening to leak onto the surface – indication of the so-called professionalism. “Any special requests?”

“Well… actually yes.”

(Ah, of course. Fuck me up, will you?)

“I want it the old-fashioned way. Strangle him for me. Bare hands.”

(Sure, and what else?)

“Sure, customer is king,” and he even manages to pull off a smile.

Sick.

“Glad we agree on this one, but don’t forget to record it,” he reminds – an unprofessional explanation, beyond obvious, and so to the point of offensive. “It’s gonna provide me a prove of you work, plus later on… who knows? We could… reprogram it into a simulation for instance.”

“Sure,” he agrees – a brisk affirmation, a signature of his.

“And maybe, just maybe, don’t get too hooked on the idea, you’ll get some spare cash after all, from the sale of course,” he proposes, not that it bothers Connor at this point, lacking the essential turnabout.

“Mhm, merciful,” he remarks, ever the sarcastic. “But what now? Should I wait for some kind of a call or…?”

“Yeah, just wait,” he bestows him with yet another terse confirmation, indicating whatever low-class joke that has been blossoming underneath his skull. “Dulces sueños, babe.”

And with that he hangs up.

Son of the bitch.

* * *

It is safe to assume these two weeks must have been the most bizarre period since the Resurrection – release of her debut album, and so considered as an entry ticket to the variety of possibilities, reserved for the elite only, at least according to what she thought at that time.

Obso-lite.

Obtuse.

Lie.

Therefore, as the years pass by, so does her confidence when it comes to the human potential, artificial power that he has gained through the achievements of the most sublime minds, possession of little respect, taken for granted. All for the convenience of the beneficial ones, monstrous corporations with tremendous influence over the common men lead by the exceptional – an astral being that transcends human consciousness, marking its presence in the society’s genome for generations.

Ridiculously potent.

Romantic phantasy?

But worth recommencing.

Ergo, she has decided to make a use of all the interludes in between their meetings, and so replace the prior mindless fumbling with an action far more directed when juxtaposed with hours and hours of staring at the celling. For months, she was struggling to realized how many inhibitions were piling up to form one grotesque stack, defining the incapacity, artistic lameness that accompanies them, crossing creator’s steps, interfering with the futuristic vision.

And so, she has transferred the mental freedom into work, resulting in a trio of fresh composition – a birdlike tune, cyber tweet – with more than a little help from the synthesizer – an attempt to retreat it in the limelight as a substitute for the dreamy vocals that would play the first fiddle in her debut album. Regardless, as a slave to consumerism, she cannot fight the nervousness that comes with driving down the less explored road, hoping it will pick anyone’s interest and so curries favor with the influential corporation, at least according to what Connie has asseverated.

Risk.

The most influential spice…

But that was before the article.

“Gia?” She hears a male voice addressing her, audible due to relatively close proximity – a factor rather important in the buzzling club. “I haven’t seen you here for a while. Why?”

“Um, I’ve been busy,” she explains, lifting her gaze, only to be greeted with a sight of an infamous Interstellar bartender, leaning by the table top to face her, “but I needed to let off some steam, so that’s why I’m here tonight.”

“Cool,” he nods in affirmation, a matter to cut the topic short. “So what’s you poison?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” She eludes, eyes glued to the array of various liquors preening from behind his back. “The fact that we say ‘poison’ instead of ‘alcohol’, ‘drink’ or whatever as if it was some kind of an indication?”

“Honey, I’m a bartender,” he smiles, apologetic yet condescending – such an odd composition. “It’s my fucking job to sell them, so what are you expecting me to say?”

“I don’t know, nothing probably,” she shrugs despite the burdening weight draped over her shoulders – non-verbal indication of a missing query.

“Look at me,” he prompts, to which she complies, locking their gazes together, even if for a split second. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know either,” she sighs for a change, distracted by the subtle clink of glass against the polished table top – water, she presumes, satisfactorily sparkling. “I mean, it’s just… Have you seen the articles?”

“‘Romance with an outlaw?’” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman, unable to miss the reddish tint blossoming upon her checks as a response to the ridiculous headline. “Yes, and sometimes I’m amazed where the fuck they dig that shit from, which is probably the Net, but still, their ‘dedication’ is incomprehensible for me.”

“He’s not even an outlaw, so I don’t get it,” she shakes her head – expression of a deep-rooted disapproval.

“Well, he doesn’t have to be,” he shrugs, careless all of sudden. “I just think the editors assumed it’d sell itself as, I don’t know, romantic or some shit, but that’s by the by.”

“I mean the real problem is that he hid so many things from me,” she frowns, gaze glued to some mindless spot on the bar – venomous green, absinthe maybe? “And although he has never been the one to discuss his past, I was surprised when I read the article, and I’ve been surprised ever since.”

“Mhm, so tell me now, have you ever asked yourself just why he did that?”

“Yes, but um, it was just… a weird experience? I don’t know,” she sighs, hybrid nails scratching at the pale temple. “I feel like he should’ve told me since we’re together, ‘cause that’s… that’s what I’d do.”

“I believe not,” he opposes – dry and unyielding, beyond unexpected.

“Oh great, so now you’re defending him,” she fusses, exasperation evident in her voice. “That’s exactly what I need, thank you very much.”

“Christ, Gia,” he rolls his eyes, sometimes just as equally tired with her pendulum-like moods. “All I wanted to say was that it’s nothing but an academic example. Take for instance that moral dilemma with pedestrian crossing. You’re sitting at home, drinking tea, while choosing to murder random groups of people. And that’s absurd, ‘cause in real life it’d never happen, and even if, when push comes to the shove you might act out of pure instinct, deprived of warm beverage and blanket. So what I’m trying to say is that those hypothetical scenarios… they are all just assumptions, no more no less, and we’ll never know what we’d do unless we find ourselves involved in a certain situation.”

“Okay, but I still think he should’ve told me,” she justifies, seemingly at loss of the mental flexibility.

“How long are you together?” He questions, as if only to prove a point. “Two? Three weeks?”

“Four,” she corrects – a matter considered beyond insignificant by the bartender who is relatively quick to brush the artiste off in resemblance to Connor, and so much to her exasperation.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause, you know, not anyone feels ready to spill the guts after twenty-something days of personal relationship.”

“I was just trying to be honest with him, ‘kay?” She counters, attempting to mitigate the prior surge of spite with an apologetic explanation. “Show a little empathy, or something.”

“So you’re telling me your ‘empathy’ is uniformed when it comes to, I don’t know, traumas?” He retorts, as if genuinely tired with the lacking logics when it comes to justifying her motives.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m sorry,” she sighs, once again back to the resigned attitude, now that the ire has evaporated. “It’s just… he’s killed people there, and I don’t know… I feel like it’s a lot to digest. Especially since I got furious and pushed him into telling the truth, and he… he told me so many horrible things, he told me they-”

“Which war was that?” he interrupts, having sensed the approaching lachrymose confession. “Climate one?”

“Yes, the Fifth,” she bestows him with a terse affirmation, swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“The Fifth one… okay, so think about it now,” he waves his hand in a self-indicating gesture, accompanied by her eyes following the movement, even if for a split second. “He must’ve been like, I don’t know, twenty at best.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” she nods, face marked by a perturbed frown – indication of worry, “but then I started digging, and I’ve discovered some really weird shit.”

“Like what exactly?”

“It’s like he’s been alive for eight years or something,” she begins, having reversed the chronology, at least according to his assumptions, considering she tends to do that sometimes. “I mean he told me he had had some kind of an accident there or whatever, got half off his organs replaced because of that. But when he had gotten better, they were to send him back on the field, right?”

“Right, but what about these eight years or something?” He inquires, attempting to redirect her train of thought to the clarifying realm, now that he is getting curious.

“I’ll circle back to it later, ‘kay?” She sighs, albeit this time to indicate the vexation evoked by his query. “So the last thing he told me was that he deserted, right?”

“Right,” he nods in affirmation.

“And that was when Cara pushed me to start digging,” she reveals, emphasizing it with the click of her cantaloupe nail against the table top.

“Cara? I thought you two were-”

“Yes, we are, but that’s not important now,” she interrupts, determined to set the record straight now that he is interfering with her vision, even if unintentionally. “Anyway, after the desertion there is like… a blank spot on his record – six years or something – and then he’s back in the corporative class.”

“Where have you learned that?” He frowns – puzzled expression dancing over his features.

“In the Net,” she states – a sentence considered beyond obvious, redundant, waste of a triple nature.

“Don’t you think you’re being paranoid?” He indicates, hesitating when it comes to veracity of said assumption, but at the same time uncertain whether it is a sane idea to confirm her beliefs. “Maybe he moved to his parents’ house, wanted to get some rest, or something? Wasn’t active on social media? Christ, I don’t know.”

“I mean it was just the Surface that we managed to check, so…”

“Oh, so that’s why you’re here!” He exclaims, shaking his head in disapproval, now that the realization has been casted upon him. “To pay that sleazy son of fuck to get you down to the Dark, now am I right or am I correct?”

“You know where is he?”

“No,” he negates, careless all off sudden, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, “and I haven’t seen him tonight at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” she states – dry and demanding when refused.

“Well, you don’t have to,” he smiles – both apologetic and condescending once again, prompting her to finish this conversation, no matter how helpful it turned out to be.

“But thanks anyway,” she concludes, having opted for a lighter undertone, since a part of her refuses to treat him akin to some pitiful pushover, not that he would care much in such circumstances.

“Sure, you’re welcome, Gia.”

A greeting appropriate just for tonight.

Indication of lacking fortune.

* * *

Breathing.

It is a simple act, lasting in a self-repeating loop – inhale and exhale, entwined with each other on the model of the aforementioned construct – remaining out of notice due to its permanent presence throughout one’s life. Which is why he considers meditation as worth the effort, since it lets his focus switch to the routine activities connected with the process itself: steady rises and falls of his shoulders, expansion of the ribcage conditioned by the diaphragm’s contractions – a way to get rid of what is redundant but also a method of relaxation, capacity valued in the times of trial.

Times such as now.

Times when he is forced to circle back to the past, and so to break the promise, ideological contract signed by the immaterial stylus, undoubtedly requiring the highest penalty.

Times when the dim lights become blinding.

When the silhouettes stop moving.

When the music dies down.

Leaving him alone in the secluded dimension.

Wiped away from the memories.

From the consciousness.

Buried deep enough to prevent the excavation.

And yet he is standing there, just at the doorway coexisting in two realms – both virtual and metaphorical – ready to take the leap.

Just a mere step

Pass the threshold.

“Everything’s ready?” He ascertains, struggling to recognize the rasp of his own voice.

“Yeah,” he hears the cracking noise reverberate in the earbud, before the connection steadies, allowing him to distinguish the following words properly. “Push it now.”

“Mhm, sure,” he hums, acting as per her request just to be greeted by the sight of a luxurious penthouse, impossible to be swept as a whole.

“I’ll lead you through, ‘kay?” She has a nice voice – a nuance that does not slip past his attention – smooth as molasses.

“Well, I hope so,” he teases, having decided to stray from the subject a bit, even if only for the entertaining purposes. “But, you know, I’ve been wondering what it is that you’re actually risking by helping me?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she refuses to clarify – ice-cold queen. “It’s not like I’m doing it, ‘cause I have the softest heart ever. It’s that kind of shit you get paid for. Generously.”

“No need to lie to me, you know,” he nags further, as if to determine her tolerance for such attitude in general, now that he intends to redirect his train of thoughts – transition between tension and thrill. “Thought you might like to talk, but if not, I get it, no pressure. It’s just… I’m curious, and probably just as fucked as you are, but that’s by the by.”

“Connect to the monitoring system,” she directs – blunt and reserved.

“Sure, anything,” he affirms with a hint of smile tugging at the corners of his lips, fingers fishing out the portable device from the inner pocket of his jacket, ready to jack in. “Not in the mood to talk?”

“I? Not in the mood?” She retorts, presumably a query, but the flat tone might be delusionary. “What a plot twist.”

“Mhm, most certainly,” he agrees – a humming baritone that resonates through his chest.

“Mhm,” she mimics the sound, milder when juxtaposed with the prior accusative timbre. “Thanks for not fucking this up by the way.”

“So you’re in the system?” He ascertains, rising an inquisitive eyebrow – a conditional reflex – despite the fact she is unable to see him now.

Or is she?

“Yeah,” she bestows him with a brisk affirmation just as he steps through the threshold of the security room, intent to hide in the opposite area, and so seize the opportunity to sneak up on the pimp from behind.

“Should I worry about anything else?” He inquires – a matter of clarification – now that he is leaning by the quartz pillar.

“For now? No, just wait,” she instructs, probably for the last time this evening, which evokes that odd tension once again, indicating the inevitability of the climax. “He’ll be here soon.”

“And just how’d you know that?”

“’Cause I’ve fucking fried his security system, which means he’s got the message that there’s a malfunction?” She snaps, voiced laced with a distinctive hint of sarcasm; and it suits her, he thinks. “What did you expect?”

“Certainly much more fumbling,” he explains, having opted for ignoring the accusative tone, at least for now, although a part of him still considers it weird, the fact that he is in full supervision of his own security system – dictated by the trust issues maybe?

“Better lower your expectation for the next time, huh?” She suggests, allowing herself to switch back to the bedroom area that he is currently occupying, even for a brief moment, a moment of distraction, curious about his appearance, which might as well be the second most irresponsible decision of this month, but still, she cannot help herself.

It has been sane to say they are both equally fucked.

“That’d actually set them higher,” he chuckles – a sound that catches him off guard for a split second, enhanced by the fact he is the one to voice it – a paradox maybe? “’Cause if I expect a relatively tough situation to run smoothly, it means that I set my expectation high, at least when it comes to the fortunate circumstances or my capacities.”

“But isn’t it like this sometimes?” She ponders, metallic nails scratching her chin, as she drinks in his features – ash blonde hair, geometric cheek implants, and tall silhouette, clad in dark clothing – interesting to say the least. “That, um… that you do something unintentionally or by accident, and in the end it turns out for the better?”

“Maybe it is,” he shrugs, glancing at the camera’s lens, as if he sensed her gaze on him, which has the woman adverting it to the side, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Ridiculous. “Maybe I even dare to say I agree, but-”

“Okay, C,” she does not even know his name, for fuck’s sake. “Sorry to interrupt, but he’s here. Luckily alone.”

“Yeah, right according to our assumptions,” he nods, calmer when confronted by an factual information. “So how much time do I have?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” she vacillates – feverish, and so incapable to decide, even if for a split second. “A minute? Two maybe?”

“Couldn’t you like… tell me earlier?” He frowns, voice laced with a hint of accusation.

“Maybe if you weren’t fucking distracting me?” She mimics his tone – indication of an approaching argument, although she is yet to surprise him in that realm.

“Well, I tend to do that sometimes,” he teases as per usual, maybe to conceal the fact she appears to be quits in that matter, eliciting a vexed huff from his female partner on the other side of the line.

“Uh just- I don’t know, good luck.”

Beep, ensued by silence.

Alone again.

Although not for long.

Indicated by the click of the front door and cautious steps reverberating in the adjoining area, or rather the creeping climax acquiring a form of a male with chrome hand – external damnation – from where he can see approaching the security room with a gun clutched tightly by the synthetic digits.

Closure.

Closure that grants perspectives.

Perspectives at hand.

Hand of providence.

Providence of a man.

Man to replace the God.

Unbelievable.

One step, two, then three… from or towards the target? Clueless, deprived of an ability to count, with tunnel vision drifting him towards the goal – a man leaning by the table, gaze fixated on the computer screen, scrolling through the program.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself – a sound that sends a shiver down the manager’s spine, but also prompts him to move forth, closer and closer to the man, echoing in the mental dimension, on the pinnacle of tensity, bracing for a fall.

A fall that comes with a surge forward, with a clasp of his hands around the pimp’s throat, with a choked groan, uttered in an empty space.

A hiss recognized as his own, evoked by the sharp pain resonating from the wrist, clasp in between the artificial fingers, biting in the flesh.

An idea, out of pure instinct, to pull the target down to the ground, before he manages to elbow him in the gut and so wriggle out from his grasp.

A contact – interference of gazes, dazed juxtaposed (mingled?) with determined, face flushed due to the effort, piercing red irises staring right at him.

A mere adjustment – evidence of skill and practice – to cut off his blood flow, switch from choking to strangling.

A fall that comes with a dull thud – head colliding with the polished floor – body slack in his hands, hands that keep their hold around the victims neck for a few longer moments – a procedure to ascertain that his brain remains hypoxic for long enough to cause fatal damage.

Terminal.

Taxing.

Transitional.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, once again struggling to recognize the sound of his own voice, as he scoots away from the body, finding the necessary support in the nearby wall.

With back pressed flushed against it, head tilted to the side, he is vaguely aware of the dull throbbing resonating from his wrist, now that he is coming to senses, which prompts him to rise the violated limb to the eye level. He is greeted with a sight of reddened flesh, indicating the inevitable appearance of a purplish bruise, albeit deprived of any nasty outcomes – no sprained joints and crushed bones – much to his relief.

Clean work, as for the professional.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, massaging the achy spot with the opposite hand, as he attempts to swallow the thick lump down his throat, parched to some inhuman degree.

Delirious.

Incognizant of what has just happened on the security room’s floor.

Incognizant of the body lying at his feet.

Incognizant of the myriad of possible consequences.

Just tired.

And thirsty.

“Water.”

And with that thought in mind, he makes his way to the kitchen, as if only for the sake of delaying what is inevitable.

Aftermath of conscience.

* * *

Emptiness.

Vastness of possibilities?

Dimension for creation?

Vicious end?

Dreadful perspective?

Sacrifice worth the grief.

Or a decision that has been bothering him since he passed the threshold of that fatal penthouse, burdening him with a distinctive realization – he is far from proud or pleased with the turn of events, all against his will, forced to succumb, degraded to the level of some common mercenary.

Unbelievable.

How many days was that? Two thousand eight hundred and fifty six?

And now? Ten?

A missing piece of puzzles – that is what it feels like – a habit he has grown accustomed with throughout the years, a channel to pour sorrows to, and now? How is he supposed to record his ideas, intents, or insights when he has none, no inquiries, no impressions.

No fate.

An ending line, elongating past the point of a broken promise – informal, yet more meaningful than any other he has ever concluded – indicating the disastrous vision acquiring its vessel’s form – sticky liquid, leaving indelible stains on each and every surface as if to mar it for all eternity.

(That’s a tad bit dramatic, don’t you think?)

(Romantic?)

To be fair, he is far from the level of knowledge that would allow him to elaborate a romantic expertise, not only a loathsome trait, but also lethal, lethal to consider suicide as a redemption from some tragic love – factor that is meant to shatter their proximate universe. As an individual (what a fitting term) he conjectures it to be far more than just plain dangerous: following their obsolete beliefs, soaking up their wisdoms, switching to their philosophy of life – simply damnation-granting. Nevertheless, the contemporary world appears as beyond deprived from any excess traces from the bygone times, pitiful remains that are swept away with the passing years – an eternal river – all to the convenience of its dwellers.

Which leads him to yet another assumption.

What if he is wrong? What if it is bound to indicate a conclusion of entirely different nature, a conclusion leading to an ultimate enlightenment – our future is what we consider it to be, a conglomerate of particles, of events to be foreseen, of idealistic visions and rational objectives, transcending human comprehension, so fatally finite?

With us occupying the creator’s chair.

“People are marred,” he states all of sudden, which captures the artiste’s attention, and so prompts her to rise from the lounging position on the sofa, legs still draped over male’s lap as his fingers trail mindless serpentines over the ivory skin, “damaged, shattered, akin to a glass pane.”

“What makes you think that?” She inquires, forehead marked with two thin lines – indication of puzzlement – with her gaze lingering on male’s profile, on the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, up to the subtle geometric line adorning his cheeks, and the intricate patterns decorating the side of his neck.

“It was just a random thought, nothing significant.”

(Sure I’d believe that.)

“Mind if I smoke?”

“You smoke?” She frowns once again, confused due to the alternating course, watching him from the propped-up position, not the most convenient to be honest.

“Only after sex,” he bestows Gia with a brisk clarification, offering her a helping hand as she rises from the spot, now kneeling beside him with his arm encircling her waist, palm flat on the hip. “So?” He cocks an expecting eyebrow at her, as if searching for an answer. “Do you mind?”

She shakes her head no, shivering once his hand abandons its previous spot, and so deprives the female from his body heat, no matter how moderate it has been until now. With her eyes following the leisure movements that result in lighting up a slim cig, held delicately in between a pair of his long fingers, she cannot help but dwell upon each and every notion evoked by the unfortunate publication, the fact that he barely talks about himself as if he could not trust her – a partner who is supposed to be the person to open up to, a friend to soak up all sorrows, a guarantor of the so-called unconditional love.

But is he even capable of that? Of romantic affection? Or is he simply yet another cold-hearted inhabitant, so fitting in the cruel world, a place where vulnerability overlaps with divergence, a place nowhere near to be considered as home, vast and empty, of multiple dimensions and unexplored concepts?

“What else have you been hiding from me?”

“And what is it that you’re expecting to hear?” He glances at her from the seat by the open window, face illuminated by the shimmering neons. “Some kind of a story?”

“That’s what I’m counting for,” she affirms, fixing the tee that has ridden up her thighs, as if sensing that excess exposure is rather unfavorable in such case.

“Fine then,” he agrees, taking the last drag from the half-smoked cigarette, before he tosses it out of the window, much to her distaste. “I’m gonna tell you a story, a story an idealistic girl like you would never understand.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you know what it feels like… being forced to kill?” He begins, having ignored her opposition, all considered trivial when juxtaposed with his attempt of confession. “Answer me.”

“Why do you think you, or anyone else, have the right to kill?” She huffs, a concept laying beyond her comprehension – a superior man, the one to overuse his authority.

Lord of Life and Death.

Disgusting.

Or an inquiry that has him chuckling in response, a bitter laughter that echoes in the empty space, even if metaphorically so, ringing in her ears as they receive the stimulus.

“And the body? What it smells like? How heavy it is?” He continues, leaning backwards, elbows supported by the window frame, as if bracing for the lethal leap. “Impossibly so. It’s like you can barely lift it… perhaps because of the emotional baggage? Who knows?”

The words that reverberate in the fragile expanse of her mind.

Words that shatters her affection, her deep-rooted fondness.

Everything that she has ever bestowed him with.

And it strips her bare, naked in front of his penetrative gaze.

“What have you done?” She gulps, anticipating the terminal answer with parched throat and tensed muscles.

“And against your conscious will? That’s truly the debasement of humanity,” he shoves the query aside, at least for now, intent to explain everything on his own conditions. “Just imagine that, you have no fucking money, and it forces you to fuck some sleazy pimp in order to provide all necessities. And you hate yourself for that, ‘cause it’s fucking disgusting, fucking… hideous as it seeps through your pores. But you can’t deny it, and more – gotta accept it as a fact, ‘cause there’s no other way.”

“Oh, man of little faith,” she rolls her eyes – a mannerism he chooses to ignore, along with the pitiful comment – a sack full of idealistic absurdities.

“For almost eight years, I thought I could escape my past, ‘cause I’d think that’s where all bygone actions belong,” he continues, gaze fixated on some unidentified spot decorating the opposite wall. “And then I got a phone call from an old pal. You know what he told me?”

“I’m not omniscient,” she retorts, choosing to be sarcastic all of sudden, a turnabout that he finds oddly amusing.

“Oh you’re not? Okay,” he throws her a brief glance, lips laced in a condescending smirk – a signature of his. “So he called me because of a favor. Old times, saved my life in New Mexico, and you’ll never understand what it means, unless you experience that kind of bond. It’s something that’ll always defy the laws of physic, finding its way back to the surface, no matter the amount of stones you use to drown it.”

“What kind of favor?”

“Of the non-negotiable kind,” he clarifies, a matter offensively obvious in his notion, “and what was that favor you may ask? Fairly simple, get rid of some overconfident pimp, the rest is not important.”

A mere statement.

Not to mention beyond expected.

And yet potent enough to drain blood out of her face, push past the pinnacle of emotions, coiling just underneath the surface, coiling and wailing to be released from the confinement of their prison.

Resurrection that comes with catharsis.

Rampant rage.

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” she spats – blunt and accusatory. “And the fact that you did it only makes you a coward – no – it makes you a hypocrite, who is also a coward, for not following his beliefs, ‘cause… you know what defines one as a human?”

“What defines one as a human, miss Ortega?”

(How dare he!)

“The quality of being good,” she explains, struggling to keep up with the calmer tone, not willing to blow up just yet, “the quality you clearly lack. And it pains me to see how much mistaken I’ve been.”

He laughs again.

And this time it has her blood boiling hot.

“It’s so ease to judge others, don’t you think?” He retorts, calling back to that ridiculous conversation at the Interstellar, just few days prior, or a lifetime maybe? “Especially when all you have to worry is ‘being a good person’. It is an incredible privilege to choose between those two factors – what’s moral and immoral – a privilege not everyone can afford.”

Up to the breaking point.

“You’re incomplete,” he continues, rising to walk towards the door, indicating her inevitable departure that creeps closer and closer, tightening its claws around her weeping soul, “and you’ll always be until you understand that other people’s beliefs don’t define who you are.”

Snap.

“You know what? I hate you! You’re the most hideous, the most disgusting-”

“Sure I am,” he nods – a terse affirmation, so laconic it almost has her slapping him, safe only due to the fact she is putting on her pants. “But I believe you’ve already mentioned that.”

“I- I-”

“Oh do go on, tell me,” he interrupts – a jeering remark, a mannerism that she loathes more than anything else as an evidence of her disastrous tendency to maneuver between the polarities, “share your very important beliefs.”

“No, fuck you!” She exclaims, fingers clasping around the material of her coat, soon to yank it from the hanger. “I’m leaving and I can guarantee you won’t see me. Ever. Again.”

“Overly dramatic, but okay, I can cope with that,” a response that consists of a mere shrug, as if it was the only action laying in his capacity after those few months together – the most vicious farewell. “And whatever you’re planning to do with yourself… good luck with that.”

“Dickhead,” she throws over her shoulder – an expression of bitter virulence – ready to depart with a heavy slam – indication of a bygone phase, never to be retreated, fleetingness laced with some odd kind of beauty, the one he has almost dared to forget throughout the years, all of sudden thirsty for its everlasting charm.

Ergo, he remains awake that night.

Staring at the celling until sunlight accompanies the neons.

* * *

“Day twenty seventh,” he begins, the sound of running shower acting as his lonesome listener, not that he needs any audience today. “I’ve noticed an interesting pattern recently, or maybe I’ve just been reminded of its existence... I don’t know…maybe… The thing is, I’ve got some vague memories of my childhood, maybe because I was trying so desperately to push away the past, to treat every day like a rebirth, and so forced myself to forget… Actually, that sounds ridiculous when spoken out loud, but it’s fine, I can cope with that.”

“So as a kid I’d perceive world in terms of a simple black-and-white matter, which had me thinking my curiosity was soon to be satiated, kind of ironic… Anyway, as I was getting older, I also came to a conclusion that our world is run on secrets, and despite the years that have passed since then, I still agree with this sentence. It gets me to wonder how much of the given information applies to the reality, which makes quite an important factor in the contemporary world, but that’s by the by.”

“Cutting to the chase, realizations are like cycles, and by saying so I meant that they pay us a visit in self-repeating patterns. Which indicates the so-called tendency of changing one’s mind that sometimes allows us to circle back to the starting point. Quite interesting to be honest, especially in the face of some intense experience, both physically and emotionally, that is… that is, um… capable of rearranging the entire sequence of outlooks.”

“For years I’d think that what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over, or something, I’m only paraphrasing… but this seems to sum up why I’ve decided on all these tattoos, hours and hours of stinging discomfort. But it was nothing compared to being obliged to see all the scars, not because of the aesthetics but because of the continuous pain… the continuous pain and its physical reminiscence. At that time I couldn’t accept it, but now… I don’t know… it’s weird, both relieving and chilling, as if a piece of puzzle was missing… which makes me think that I’ll just need some time to get used to it. Either way it’s refreshing, so blissfully refreshing… fuck, I love it.”

“Normally at this point I’d remind myself of that crappy shit I was told in the past, maybe because it was my only way to connect with it, and fuck… it makes me such a fucking hypocrite, but now… I doubt whether I need it anymore.”

“’Cause I did fucking man up. End of a story.”

Created: 12/28/20 Completed: 03/11/21 Edited: 03/17/21

#oneshot collection #oneshot #original work #original writing #original character #fictional characters #female character #male character #character study #character development #developing relationship #future #futuristic #transhumanism #technology #neon #city #morality #moral dilemma #smut #dom/sub #male dom #female sub #blindfold #music #little dark age

[holeinotomemind]

MLQC Fanfic: Hearts of Storm - Ch 2 - My Jupiter?

WARNING: NSFW/18+ fic. No smut in this chapter, but eventual smut, dub/non-con, eventual 3P, spoilers, long dragged out fic and angst. Not morally correct. Turn away if this is not your thing. Pairing: Shaw x MC, Gavin x MC, Shaw x MC x Gavin AO3 Link: [here]

Notes: [See full notes on AO3] Catch up post. Special thanks to Lutz, Sonicaj and Kinako for beta-ing. Another slow chapter, but we're getting somewhere. I promise!

USB key in her hand, Yui hurried onto the bus. She didn’t know how she managed this past week, staring at the Ferris Wheel and the Merry-Go-’Round filled with so many sweet memories which were now bringing her so much pain.

Those were memories she wanted to cherish for the rest of her life and she wasn’t ready to taint them by associating them with this pain that was threatening to rip her heart into shreds. But life had a strange way of being cruel to her. The more she wanted to avoid it, the more she needed to confront it.

She went to work at the amusement park hoping that she’d be selling admission tickets or being a janitor in some absurd corner of the park, but instead she was given the job of handing out balloons in front of the carousel, the exact same one where she told Gavin she couldn’t imagine being with anyone else but him when they were standing in for the wedding shoot. The only saving grace was that she was in a bear suit, meaning nobody could see her face when she broke down crying at the memories with tears streaming down her face.

Yui was able to befriend her target quickly, but it took her a full week before she was able to get the information she needed. She was at her limit after a full week of staring at the things that reminded her of what would never be anymore. Now she left the park as soon as her shift ended, fleeing as if being chased by an invisible monster.

She took a seat at the very back of the bus, where no one would see her, leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes. She could feel her hands shaking and she had to take several deep breaths to calm herself.

“It’s over.” She muttered to herself. She could return to keeping those fond memories pure. There was no need to force herself to face reality every single day as she worked at the park anymore.

She didn’t realize she had been clutching the USB key in her hand with so much force until her hand stung from it digging into her palm. She loosened her grip a little and remembered that she should let Shaw know she completed her mission. She took her cell phone out from her purse, but as she was about to press the call button, she realized her hands were still shaking.

She didn’t want to call him in this state of mind. She would have felt too exposed. Putting her phone away, she decided to wait until she was home and calmer first. Sighing, she leaned her head against the window again, staring out at the moving scenery with hollow eyes.

Her mind drifted and she wondered what Gavin was doing right now.

Would he be on a mission? Or perhaps this was his day off? It was late now. If he wasn’t on a mission, he would probably have gone to bed now. He liked to sleep early on his days off, unless he was with her. Then he would have stayed up later after their dinner or movie dates to take her home.

A voice pierced through her thoughts and Yui realized it was the bus’s PA system announcing a stop. She looked up at the monitor and belatedly saw that the bus was already two stops past the one she was supposed to get off of.

She quickly jumped out of her seat and got off behind the other passengers before it was too late. Looking around she realized she never gotten off on this stop before, but was not entirely unfamiliar with the area. It was, in fact, not far from her place, so she decided to just walk her way home. It’d help her clear her head at least.

It was late and most shops were already closed, but they had their lights on in the windows, showcasing their products to passerbys. Yui leisurely walked by, stopping in front of a few shops displaying items that caught her eye.

Then, she noticed a liquor store she had never seen before. The word “Open” flashed on the neon sign hanging on the door. As she walked up to the shop window, she noticed a sign that said imported liquor and underneath it an assortment of red and white wines from all over the world. What caught her eyes, however, were the green and white beer cans sitting unassumingly in the corner.

Her heart raced.

Before she knew it, her hand was already pushing open the door to the store. Walking over to the beers, she picked up a six-pack and looked at the label. She wasn’t imagining it, they were the same fruit beers she had with Gavin when they went on that island holiday.

She bought them without thinking.

And that was how she ended up on the rooftop of her apartment an hour later, staring idly at the night sky.

Her phone buzzed for the nth time. She stared at it for a long while before sighing and picking up.

“Why didn’t you pick up?” As expected, it was Shaw. He sounded annoyed, but at the same time there was a hint of something else. She tried to identify it, but her brain wasn’t cooperating and she gave up.

“Didn’t wanna.” Her words came out slurred as she aimlessly stared at the four empty cans lying on the ground.

“You drunk?” His voice deeper now and sounded as if he disapproved.

She frowned. Who was he to disapprove of her? That twenty year old obnoxious little brat, who drinks coke mixed with pepsi.

The noise of a plane flying above caught her attention. Her eyes traced it across the night sky which was clearer than usual tonight.

“Go away.” She pouted and hung up the phone. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with him tonight, not when the moon was shining down so gently on her.

Yui tipped the can against her mouth and realized she had finished her fifth can of fruit beer. She could feel her face burning up as she grabbed the last one and popped it open. She took another swig before she looked up to the sky once more.

The moon was hanging in the sky and beside it was a star shining bright.

She giggled. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt funny to her. Ironically funny.

She reached out a hand towards the star, wanting to touch it. The brightest star to the southeast, he once said. The star that always showed up to stand guard over the moon.

But it was too far. No matter how much she stretched out her arm, it was still out of her reach. Tears began to fill her eyes as her vision blurred and her smile faltered.

“Gavin, the moon is shining bright tonight, but where are you?” Her voice trembled as tears began to roll down her face. “Where’s my Jupiter?”

“What are you doing out on the roof in the middle of the night?” A male voice broke the silence that she was so sure would have been her answer.

Slowly she turned her head towards the voice and saw the silhouette of a tall male walking towards her. He stopped a foot in front of her and she craned her head up to try to see his face, but the combination of alcohol and tears blurred her vision. She couldn’t quite make out his features, but she recognized those amber eyes.

Those were the eyes she had been dreaming about day and night ever since she came here. Those colors of bright amber, she wouldn’t mistake anywhere. They belonged to the person she loved so much.

Wanting to make sure he was real and not a figment of her imagination, Yui reached up a hand to touch the man’s face. When she felt his warmth under her trembling fingertips, tears fell down her cheeks anew.

“Gavin,” she whispered inaudibly under her breath the name that she had repeated a million times in her head.

She felt his long fingers circled her wrist, pulling her hand away from him.

No! She panicked. Quickly, she searched his eyes. Her vision was still unclear, but she could sense that he was looking at her with annoyance and frustration.

“Please don’t look at me like that.” She pleaded, couldn’t bear it.

Terrified of his rejection, she jumped to her feet. Dizziness from all the alcohol she consumed hit her hard at her sudden movement and she stumbled towards him. She fell face first onto his broad chest.

She felt him putting his hands on her upper arms, trying to push her away from him. Yui shook her head violently, quickly wrapping her arms around his waist. After all this time, she could finally feel the warmth of his body again, could finally embrace him again. She wasn’t about to let him push her away.

“Let go.” She heard him say, voice stern.

“No.” She refused, hugging him even tighter. “I don’t wanna let go. I missed you, so so much.”

“I said, let go.” He shoved her away so hard that she was forced to take a step back from him. But Yui could feel his hands still holding onto her upper arms, making sure she didn’t fall over.

His small gesture of care gave her intoxicated mind hope that, perhaps, he didn’t truly want her to let go. Maybe he was upset with her and she just needed to be bolder to show him her true feelings, she convinced herself.

Shrugging off the arms holding her, she stepped towards him again. Cupping his face with both of her hands, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips onto his. She closed her eyes, kissing him again and again, the way she remembered he liked best, desperate for him to want her back.

Her lips quivered when he didn’t react to her. His mouth remained closed, his body almost rigid. She could taste the saltiness of her tears as she realized her Gavin didn’t want her anymore.

Defeated and embarrassed at the rejection, she awkwardly retracted her shaking hands. She averted her eyes to avoid seeing the disgust he must have in his eyes now. Tears streamed down her face, falling silently on the ground.

“S-sorry… I shouldn’t have…” She stammered as the ache in her chest intensified, so much so that it took all her willpower to keep herself standing upright.

But before she could take a step back away from him, she felt his hand tighten around her arm, yanking her back against him. His other hand gripped the back of her neck forcing her head up. She only had time to let out a surprised gasp before his lips came crashing onto hers.

His tongue forced its way into her mouth domineering her senses, not allowing any room for her to retreat. His kiss was like a storm, sweeping her off her feet so that she had no choice but to follow wherever he leads.

The sharp edges of his jacket zipper dug into her palm as she clutched it, trying to hold on. Gavin had never kissed her like that before. Even during their most intimate moments when they hungered for each other, he was always gentle with her, but this kiss was different. This kiss was rough and all-consuming, as if he was ready to engulf her whole.

Yui was confused at the change but wasn’t about to complain. Her love was here with her now, wanting her just as much as she wanted him. The only thing she desired more at this very moment was for them to melt into each other, to become one so that they would never have to part again.

She didn’t know whether it was due to the kiss robbing her of the needed oxygen or it was the fruit beer she previously drank that caused her mind to become increasingly hazy, but she didn’t care either way. She mewled into his mouth as she clumsily tried to kiss him back, determined to show him how much she loved him, wanted him.

She could feel his hand trace down her spine before he snaked his arm around her small waist, pulling her even closer to him. Feeling his hard length pressed against her stomach, revealing his desire for her, she let out a small moan.

Tears fell from her eyes again, this time in joy. She was so happy to know that he still wanted her.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless. She gazed up at him and saw him looking back at her, seemingly searching for something in her expression. But when he frowned, she grew afraid.

She was frightened at the prospect that he might have regretted kissing her and he was about to leave her again. Frantically, she circled her arms around his neck, pulling him close to her and begged, “Please don’t leave me.”

He froze at her words for a moment. Then as if he made up his mind, he let out a small curse under his breath before he picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder.

#mr love queen's choice #mlqc #mr love fanfic #mlqc fanfic #fanfic #mr love shaw #mlqc shaw #shaw #mr love ling xiao #mlqc ling xiao #ling xiao #mr love gavin #mlqc gavin #gavin #mr love bai qi #mlqc bai qi #bai qi #love and producer #love and producer gavin #love and producer shaw

[flowerflamestars]

Isolation just hit me hard, sis, please give me something Nessian

Dark and scary times for us all! Stay safe and well and have the first few pages of the Ivy Moon Epilogue:

Cassian hadn’t worn a white suit since Havana in the thirties, and he’d enjoyed that state of being.

Sighing around a smile, he tugged his cuffs into place. Through the western wall of wide windows that made up Nesta’s bedroom- their bedroom- Cassian could see the snow beginning to fall heavily. The storm glow of the sky was bleeding pink as the day ended, time ebbing low.

The winter solstice had come.

A sacred witch holiday, the youngest Archeron’s birthday- and Rhys and Feyre’s wedding day. There were six inches of snow on the ground already, the longest night of the year promising to be icy cold, and Cassian was wearing linen.

Nesta had kept him company at the fitting, her smirk the brightest thing in the chaos of a particularly gifted pixie tailor’s shop. The owner and her assistants were invisible but for balls of twinkling light, flickering around as pins seemed to appear like magic adjusting the itchy white fabric.

“Has anyone told Fey that all the white is for virginity?” Cassian sighed, faced on three sides by mirrors that told him exactly how blinding the suit was.

Nesta cracked a smile. “Please say that exact sentence to Rhysand."   Somewhere in his brain Cassian had an aside to follow her words, but it got lost as Nesta stepped up to his side. Sliding away the phone she’d been using to unsubtly document the whole process- and from her twitching lips, pass on to Amren- Nesta leaned her head against his arm.

He was never, ever going to get used to the fact that this was his life now.   “Did you know my dress has sparkles?” She asked him, grey eyes dancing as they met his in the mirror. “Sparkles, Cassian.”   Her disgust was so clear he had to laugh. Was finally able to think about something besides the suit Nesta was wearing- blood red, immaculate, a sharp slash in the world she’d worn to a meeting before joining him- and snag her hand.

To anyone watching, Nesta might as well have not reacted at all. But Cassian was a wolf- and how he cherished the skills that came with it as he heard her breathe stutter, witches heart picking up in tempo.

Grinning, he raised her hand to his lips.

And was tapped less than gently on the side of the head by a bobbing pink light reminding him to hold still, Mr. Aquilar, or this will not sit correctly. “My apologizes,” Cassian had managed to say. Nesta’s eyes hadn’t left him once.   The slam of a solid oak door pulled Cassian from his memories, made him start from where he’d frozen, looking at the cold forest that somewhere contained his mate, draped in sparkling silver.   The bedroom door moved again, bouncing, and he took its heed. If he wasn’t used to the incredible hidden depths of Nesta’s affection, the seeming adoption of him into the family by the old witch house was startling.

And he wasn’t smug at all that it sometimes still refused Rhys entry.   Down through the house everywhere was magic, and everywhere was chaos. None of the legion of wedding guests Rhys had invited were arriving quite yet, but the Wild Hunt had come.    In lightening strikes and rolls of thunder, over the last week they’d strode in from the forest- or in one memorable instance, appeared armed to the teeth in the kitchen. Rhysand had tackled Alcheon before the sisters could blink away the strike of electricity, and gotten a knife in the stomach for his trouble.   Feyre still wasn’t done laughing that her dhampir have gotten stabbed by a monk.   Three floors down, Cassian followed the softly vicious sound of Elain swearing to the auxiliary kitchen. The place where the Archeron’s normally brewed potions and today, the cake staging room.   “Putian,” Elain bit out and waved her fingers over the top tier. An apron Cassian was very sure he’d last seen in Azriel’s kitchen was looped twice around her waist.   The dark head of the very brother in question peeked around the doorframe as Cassian came down the hall. It had been all of ten minutes, but Az had already discarded his identical blazer. “Kim Yu-Shin came to fetch Rhys.”   A banner of shining emerald was hanging over Az’s neck. Bare of course- collar already undone and shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, buttercream smeared on one wrist- Azriel’s allergy to formalwear was alive as ever.   “I’m sure Uncle just wanted to have a chat,” Said Elain lightly. It wasn’t a tone that inspired confidence in the pleasantness of that talk. She set down the piping bag she’d been wielding and snapped fingers over the cake. Like ignition, it caught, sparked.   The room filled with the scent of bonfires. Vanilla and smoke, cinnamon drifting up to cold clear October skies. And there in the pale frosting, embers floated and lived, mingling with silver-gold decorations.   The green resolved itself to be Lucien’s long hair, moving as he raised a sleep rumpled face from the back of Azriel’s neck to bare sharp teeth at Cassian. “She means we might need to go hunt down your brother in case he’s hog tied naked in the woods.”   Cassian grinned back. “I think the only thing in danger is his suit, then.”   “So life or death for Rhys,” Az replied, absently shifting until Lucien’s chin was looped more comfortably over his shoulder. “Do we know if he picked out the two toned velvet, or Feyre?”   “Feyre,” Anwsered two voices from the doorway.   On long legs, a pink haired welsh giant who’d been blond the last time Cassian saw him slid into the already crowded room.   “Green suits you, sapling.” Oberon crossed his arms, smile undimmed through exhausted eyes.   Lucien’s gaze danced, “Not as good as you in pink, old one.”   Cassian hadn’t needed to guess where the new color had come from. He’d met the Iron Knight- the bloody nightmare of the last faerie civil war, a changeling who’d wielded cold steel against the Seelie Queen herself- when he was mid apple fight with Lucien. One minute he’d been walking with Elain, and the next a massive unseelie warrior had dropped silently from one of the orchard trees to smash Lucien in the face with a honeycrisp.   Oberon laughed, the sound echoing, and redirected his attention to greet Az. “Azriel Esfandiyār Aguilar.”   A cool hand caught Cassian’s and he turned to allow the sight of Nesta, one step behind Oberon, to sweep over him like a tide. The dress did indeed sparkle- but spelled alteration had turned that mortal glitter to the shine of falling snow, every inch of silver white fabric as light and fine as the lattice of frost over leaves.   Silk, sliding over the skin of the most beautiful woman Cassian had ever seen.   Even cloaked- she was wrapped in a gauzy more truly silver wrap, arms and waist and neck, screened like enchantment-he had to swallow, heart in his throat as Nesta raised her eyebrows, knowing smile twisting that perfect mouth.   The problem with the Hunt- the lethal, ancient thirteen beloved of Acherons- was that they had to follow their own rules. Until you became something- familiar, known, quantified- full names mattered.   But Oberon only inclined his head to Cassian, and Cassian nodded back, grateful.   Elain drew the elder dryad into conversation, but once the moment of introduction had passed, Cassian had honestly stopped listening. Instead, he stepped closer to Nesta, leaning down. “Hi.”   Ice littered her hair from the falling snow, just beginning to melt and darken so much gold. The scent of fire- flame and moonlight, his magic still dancing over her- had announced Nesta’s incoming radiant presence to him before she’d even made it into the house.   How could the snow even touch her?   “Hello,” Nesta answered, soft as a secret. Close, her skin carried so much of his touch Cassian’s wolf wanted to roll in it.   And was smiling like she knew it.   This- this was the problem.   Secrets that his heart and magic and being crowed to the star scattered sky if anyone was paying attention.

Nesta, a sword and shield between the living and the dead, was so different as to not have to worry about anyone plucking up her feelings from the air.

Here Cassian was- a new last name curled golden in his mouth, a wedding band hidden around his neck, a glamoured tattoo on his ribs, and happiness pounding in his blood.   He couldn’t contain it.

[nad-zeta]

Match up duo (◠‿◠✿)

if it’s not bothering you i want to request a matchups for ikevamp. i’m not sure if it’s okay to just sent my photos alone but i’ll gave you a short description of myself.

i’m very very short (4'9"). i’m asian and have long black hair. i usually like to wear comfortable clothes but i’m also into goth and pastel.

for my personalities i’m an aquarius, infp-t, i like writing stories/drawing. i like rock/metal music, i like travelling and nature but i don’t mind being inside a lot. i’m a sweet tooth too. mostly i like things that are unique, that not many people know about it.

i consider myself open minded, adventurous, i like to learn new things, i value my freedom. i don’t easily get along with new people but i can be the most talkative person if i knew them well enough. sorry if it’s too long, thank you so much.. i love your blog

Hi, love thank you so much for the request! @blue-imagica​ No way its never a bother I love doing these requests (◕ω◕✿) I’m so sorry it took me 2 million years to get this to ya! Also, I apologise in advance if it sucks hehe I decided to try my hand at the ikevamp match up in honour of best boi Isaacs route dropping lol Thanx so much for being so sweet I’m super glad you have been enjoying my writing

(/‿＼✿) ❤🔥

Anyways...... hope you have a wonderful day dear and I hope you enjoy it, love! ❤🌼

So I match you with.......................... Vincent

Selfie match up part

The first time this boy sees you he is completely captivated

You remind him of the summer, so bright, pure and innocent

He can’t tear his eyes away from you or, your jet black hair, its unparalleled dimension and the way it naturally flowed in the wind catching the rays of sun and shining

Your dark hair is so thick and shiny, and he is inspired by the way it cascades down your delicate soft skin like waves of midnight on a sandy beach

He is utterly and entirely inspired by you, and he wishes nothing more than go up to his art studio and paint you

All he wanted to do was paint those dark eyes of your, those eyes reflecting the deepest shades of the earth, shining with so much love and warmth.

And oh how easy it is for him to get lost in the universe of your eyes, he loves the way they sparkle and shine, lighting up with a thousand stars when you introduce yourself to him.  

If Vincent had to describe you as something it would be an angel, the way you extrude warmth and love, and all he wanted to do was get to know you.

He could easily envision himself with you, the two of you laughing and cuddled up together under the shade of a tree in the midst of a flower field.

Matchup part

You wandered through the mansion aimlessly thinking it was still part of the museum. You found yourself walking into the most beautiful art studio. You looked around and hung on the wall was a painting you knew all too well. Starry Night, you loved that painting, TBH you loved it so much it was actually your phone’s wallpaper at some point. As you continued to admire the paintings that filled the room, a young man with soft blond hair and ocean blue eyes walked through the door. You were awestruck, he was absolutely beautiful, you wondered if you had died and gone to heaven. Your face flushed, as you were rather shy and didn’t do too well with new people. It definitely didn’t help that he was staring at you with stars in his eyes. 

Finally, the young artist broke the silence “Oooh I’m terribly sorry for staring, how rude of me, my name is Vincent.” You gave a small smile, how ironic was it that his name was Vincent, he certainly had the same painting style as Thee Vincent van Gogh. You gave a small introduction, and before the two of you could chat, Sabatian burst through the door. He looked at you in shock and disbelief “You, Miss, how did you get in here”, you stared at the butler in confusion “Through the big wooded door, wait isn’t this part of the museum.” With that, Sabastian grabbed your wrist and escorted you to Comte’s room.

Le Comte explained your current situation very calmly over snacks and tea. You were shook, not only did you go back in time, but you were now roommates with the worlds most historical figures and to top it all off they were vampires! You didn’t know if you wanted to laugh or scream. You low key though all of this was a dream that is until, Arthur almost bit you when you went to get a glass of water. Luckily for you, Vincent appeared just in time to save you. “Arthur, what do you think you are doing? You mustn’t scare her like that, it’s quite rude,” before Arthur could defend himself or spit out a flirty comment Vincent gently grabbed your hand and lead you away to his room “I’m terribly sorry for Arthur’s rude behaviour, he is super nice once you get to know him.”

You were honestly so spooked and freaked out, that you felt uneasy sleeping in a house full of vampires, especially after one just tried to bite you. As if reading your thoughts Vincent gave you the most angelic smile and asked “Would you like me to stay with you and guard you tonight? I was planning on staying up and painting anyways” You gave a small nod, you were already starting to drift off to sleep, from the long day full of surprises.

You woke up the next day to Vincent’s sunshine smile and honesty you wouldn’t mind waking up to that beautiful smile every day. It was so bright and warm and seemed to melt away all your troubles. You and Vincent made your way downstairs for breakfast. To say Vincent was overjoyed when he found out you were a fellow sweet tooth would be an understatement! It was something the two of you bonded over, and it actually brought you out of your shell a bit. Since that day Vincent would take you to all his favourite cafes to treat you to all sorts of sweet treats. 

As the two of you ate your delicious dessert, you found yourself opening up more and more to the painter. The two of you would literally talk each other’s ears off for hours and hours. By the time the two of you made your way home from a day out in the town the sun was already setting

You loved to draw and sketch, and when Vincent discovered this fact, he was overjoyed. One night as the two of you were sitting and sipping on tea together, he spotted your sketchbook laying on the table, and his eyes lit up in delight at your beautiful sketches. As he continued to page, you remembered that you had sketched him paining one day and before you could reach to stop him from paging through your book, he spotted at the exact sketch you didn't want him to see. Your face went red in the sweetest of blushes. You keenly eyed Vincent as he traced his fingers over the sketch, he was completely awestruck. He turned to give you the biggest brightest smile, you definitely didn’t miss the faint blush on his cheeks

Honestly, the two of you had long ago fallen madly in love with the other.

Vincent was determined to make his feelings known one day. The two of you often walked together through nature in search of the perfect scene to paint and draw. The two of you had recently come across a vast, beautiful flower field. It had become somewhat a tradition for the two of you to once a week have a picnic in the field and just enjoy the quiet, peaceful scenery. Often the two of you would lay on the blankie and look up at the sky, cloud watching. One day as the two of you were laying beside each other watching the clouds, Vincents hand gently bumped yours. You smiled and bumped his hand back. He then slowly moved his hand to intertwine his fingers with yours. Both of you turned your heads to look at each other. “I have something I need to tell you” Vincent had a slight blush forming on his face as he beamed up at you “ik hou van jou.” As the phrase left his mouth, he turned away in embarrassment, you sat up and tugged at his hand, you gave him the biggest brightest smile as your other hand moved to cup his cheek “I love you too Vincent”. The two of you then gravitated to meet in the sweetest of kisses. That afternoon the two of you cuties walked back home together hand in hand. You were going to ask Comte of you could stay in the past indefinitely.

The two of you angels made the cutest couple. Often the two of you could be found spending hours and hours together. Vincent would paint, and you would draw. Your favourite was travelling with the young artist. You loved to travel with Vincent and go to all sorts of art exhibitions that would showcase his beautiful paintings. After, the two of you would always wander around hand in hand, on the hunt for a café selling sweet treats. After both of you stuffed your faces with confectioneries, you would walk it off, by wandering around the park/nature together. As the two of you walked Vincent would occasionally lift your hand that he was holding to his lips and kiss the back of it, just to give you a small reminder of how much he loves you. 

In fact, this boy absolutely adores you and will 100% drop small little kisses on your temples, forehead, nose and cheeks. Vincent’s all-time favourite is to just rest his head on your lap after a long day of fun and adventures, learning new things together and having fun new experiences. He loves it when you pull your fingers through his golden locks and read your newest piece of writing to him. He absolutely loves to listen to your short stories and poems. Sometimes as he rests on your lap, his mind drifts back to the first day you met, and he thinks it must have been fate, for you to have not only wandered through the door into the mansion, but also for him to have found you in his art studio. Like the universe itself sending him his very own angel to love and to hold for all eternity

Other potential matches................. Theo 

I hope you enjoyed this love and i hope you have the best day ❀◕ ‿ ◕❀🌈🔥

#ikevamp matchup #ikevamp #ikevamp vincent #vincent van gogh #Ikemen vampire vincent #vincent #ikesen matchup #ikemen matchup #match ups #vincent matchup