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we-live-in-a--society · 3 years

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Actiones secundum fidei

Love.

Once described as an act of deceiving, both the subject and its milieu, meant to be perceived as mysterious and romantic, and yet failing in that matter as for an offensively prosaic mechanism – concealing

Veracity,

Evident in the lacking ingenuity.

Much less than one is forced to consider after years of listening to chivalrous tales, sappy stories that shapes the social consciousness, leading one down the path of spiritual famine, down the path of everlasting disappointments that comes with defining oneself through the prism of romance.

Years required to wonder why the essence of life is brewed from failures, soaking up the vitality akin to some grotesque sponge, casted aside in face of pilling suppositions, acquiring a form of some make-believe creation, not to mention downright

Worthless.

All for the delight of crowd – inclination of inanity, complete downfall of logical approach, nourishment for idealistic beliefs.

Yearning that defines their existence.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided year into a quartette of seasons, subsequent in a continuous cycle – birth, bloom, ataraxia, and anesthesia – over and over, frequently associated with life, where each is bound to resemble another stage. Parallel? No, considering the former is ceaseless, eternal, while the latter – dainty, delicate, threatened to be crushed by the maladroit fingers, and so sent away with a one-way ticket clutched in its helpless hand.

There is something beautiful about fleetingness, the fact that each existence is approaching the inevitable end, day by day, hours upon hours of constant exploration – potentials that beg to be discovered, along with the range of possibilities and ephemeral images. In other words – the definition of summer, vacation before the freshman year of college, still idealized and so coexisting in twain of realms, drowning in the transitional serenity granted by the Mediterranean villa along with its elderly owner – both guarantees of two-months peace, preparation for the long, and approximately bumpy, way ahead. As for an ultimate stress reliever, designed to mitigate all discomfort – a matter of deception, phantom delusions that define her existence, built upon idealistic visions of both parents – a plan crafter for years ahead.

Named after the Lady with the Lamp, she was expected to evolve as the most sublime creature, world’s caretaker acquiring a form of a doctor or some other lawyer, evoking the need of youthful rebellion, first and presumably last attempt, although she would like to believe elsewise. It has been a fairly simple act, an act of poor ambitions and ever poorer potentiality, a meek gone mutinous – such an obsolete behavior, a reason to be derided.

Simply because her rebellion is a history of art course. Not medicine, not law but a subject from the bygone era, at least according to her father’s words, a subject of little importance in shaping up today’s world, a subject she could study on her own at any given time, in any given place. An assumption that even if logical, omits one distinctive aspect – stasis that bestows one with an opportunity to ponder upon which life path to choose, and furthermore explore the newfound possibility in hopes it might lead to a positive denouement after all – an action downright irrational if valued by the stern man, which is considered less than unimportant in the alternative dimension that is her aunt’s villa.

Downright wonderful.

Nevertheless, there is some eternal truth to it – ‘nothing lasts forever’, as some may put it, a maxim to indicate the ever-present fear – a factor that defines our existence.

The stasis.

Always trapped in between the stages where the former is well-accustomed-with, while the latter is simply a matter of personal perception, deceivable mind-prompting, uncertain of what lays ahead, left out for assumptions to feats upon. Ergo, in order to interrupt the favorable pass, a pair of scissors must step in, then cut through the continuous stagnation – a period beyond unaltered – with no more no less than an unfortunate turnabout.

A car engine slicing through the evening lull, cut short with a twist in the ignition, alerting her elderly relative, and so prompting to greet the visitor by the door who, even if scheduled, evokes some odd kind of agitation within the timid woman, enhanced by the fact that he will be living here for an unspecified amount of time. Vaguely aware why, she has spent a fair share of hours to ponder upon that aspect, confronted by a mere information that he is a genealogist of some sort, hired to reconstruct the ancestral correlations within the family, since aunt is claiming that her life is coming to an end, which indicates the indispensable clarification of all heritage matters.

And so, obliged to meet the basic social standards, she rises from more than convenient position on the mattress, and follows a path leading to the main entrance, less than keen on facing the visitor. Having overheard the various conversations about him, certain image is already branded underneath her skull, afraid of both the alteration and the approval that comes as an inherent part of visual validation, now that she is just mere steps from the final clarification.

(Time to face the music.)

First she catches a glimpse of hair – chestnut and flowing as he nods – a silhouette clad in flax shirt, shaking her aunt’s hand who, much to the woman’s misfortune, notices her as soon as she reaches the doorway, quick to formulate a request.

“Come here, darling, don’t be shy,” she motions the dainty girl with flick of her wrist, to which she complies, joining the pair on the ground floor. “So this young lady is my niece, Florence.”

“Harrison,” he holds up his hand for a shake – a nonverbal request to return the gesture, and so she follows, grasping it with the inborne gentleness – a brisk greeting, soon to depart as he backs away, albeit to leave a reverberating tingle on the way – a physical brand, capacity considered as more than plain unsettling.

“I’m sure you must be tired, Mr.-”

“It’s Harrison,” he interrupts almost at the spot, never the one to feel comfortable with being called by the full name – too professional, restricted, and so feigned.

“I don’t think it’ll be appropriate to-”

“Oh no, it’ll be more convenient this way, trust me,” he reassures with a polite smile lacing his lips, brisk to top it up with an inviting gesture – a nonverbal affirmation.

“If you insist…” she chuckles, shaking her head in amused disbelief, always the one to admire the younger generation for its carefree approach towards life, the quality she is someway keen on acquiring herself. “Oh, and before I forget, I’ve allowed myself to prepare you a bed in the west part of mansion, if that’s acceptable for you.”

“Yeah, totally acceptable, thank you,” he nods for a change, glancing at the navy blue car parked on the cobblestone driveway. “But I think I’d prefer to go for a drive tonight before I’ll be good to work.”

“Um, if that’s what you’d like…” she shrugs, visibly caught off guard by the alternative solution. “You know where to go?”

“Any recommendations for me?”

“Florence?” A query thrown towards the niece, a name reverberating in the air, enough to advert her attention to the conversation – a spectacle, as if designed especially for the dreamy woman.

“Um, I’m sorry what?” She frowns, glancing at her aunt as if in search for any support after the abrupt collision with reality.

“Any recommendations for our guest?” The elderly woman reiterates, patient as always, and much to the teen’s relief. “Since obviously, you spend more time outside than I do.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Oh, come on,” she hurries the pondering girl – an attempt of ignition, activation, and so further encouragement. “You could’ve accompany our guest, huh? Show him where to go?”

“Um, okay… I think I could’ve do that,” Florence agrees, glancing at the taller genealogist on her left, who responds with a brisk smile as if to demonstrate the acceptance of such turn of events.

“Bon voyage then,” she reciprocates with a twin gesture, crossing her arms on the chest. “But be back soon, since I doubt your parents would be pleased if they found out you’re tarrying around God knows where after dusk.”

“Sure, aunt,” having kissed her on the cheek, she is good to walk away, and so quick to join Harrison by the car, where she settles inside, right on the passenger seat.

The ignition itself requires nothing but a deft flick of his wrist – an indication of a long-term driver, soon to wrap both hands around the steering wheel, then drive through the ornamental gate and down the gravely road. Due to the open window, the wind is bound to mess with the chestnut hair as it glides through the side bangs obscuring his forehead just to further ruin the uneven parting in the middle, not that such contrast will be any drastic if juxtaposed with the prior appearance. Furthermore, it allows her to distinguish a twain of tiny hoops adorning his ear, encrusted with gold, shining on the tanned canvas of his skin, such a beautiful detail, a detail that has the girl pinching her own lobe, even if unconsciously.

“Where to?” A sudden slice through the evening silence, an exclamation that causes her to flinch in surprise, rapidly enough for the man to notice, which has him snorting for a change, much to her embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” she counters with a mere headshake, intent to brush the excess hair falling onto her face – stew-betrayer maybe? “Depends on what you wanna see.”

“Which depends on what you wanna show me,” he throws Florence a fleeting smile as one of his hands abandons the steering wheel on behalf of being stuck out of the window – a manner that unnerves her more than it is presumably healthy to.

“Um, let me think…” she draws on the syllable, fiddling with the sound as she ponders upon the most suitable proposition. “Is the town okay?”

“I think there’s only one way to tell for sure,” he chuckles – a heartwarming note that somehow settles her jerky attitude, even if partially. “Left or right?”

“Left,” she clarifies, leaning back on the car seat – a subconscious response to the affirmative manner he has displayed – eyelids fluttering as her nostrils flare to accommodate the leather scent.

“And the right?” A query punctuated by the upward tilt of his chin, indicating the established direction. “Where does it lead to?”

“Lake,” she bothers with yet another moderate reply, linking her fingers on the lap, as if to relieve the tension.

“Ever swum in there?” He nags further, silently hoping she will be able to determine what the water has to offer.

“No,” she contradicts, gaze glued to the field sprawling past the window, anything but to look him directly in the eye, “didn’t have the right person to swim with… I suppose.”

“Oh?” He cocks a teasing eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of inquiry.

“Huh?” She reciprocates with a correlating frown, visibly confused before the realization is casted upon her – shameful in its foolish nature, almost mortifying… Jesus. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to- it’s not like that, really, it’s not-”

“Hey,” he interrupts, gaze now focused solely on the young woman – calm façade that somehow smooths her jerky reaction, “it’s okay, I get it. No need to belabor the topic.”

“Okay,” she nods, hesitant at first as in an attempt to conceal the wave of discomfiture, afterwards intent to progress with an alternative subject, thus finds herself asking. “Did they hurt?”

“Did what hurt?” He frowns, once again adverting his eyes from the road – a manner she begins to consider more and more distressing as a parallel to its piling occurrences.

“The earrings,” she clarifies almost at the spot, despite the perturbation caused by his driving habits.

“You think about getting one, or what?”

“No,” she counters, nails scratching at her earlobe. “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“Honestly, I was too stoned to remember,” he chuckles – a nostalgic laughter, each and every time perceived as charming by the young woman, oddly challenging to describe.

“Oh, okay…” she responds with a suchlike manner, carefree and endearing when less restrained. “So you were a hippie?”

“A hippie? No…” he denies, lacing it all up with a self-indicating headshake. “I think I was just a little bit of everything, which I believe is basically what college is all about.”

What college is all about…

Now that is interesting.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who divided twenty four hours into a twain of opposites – day and night – smoothing out the sharp edges with transitionary phases – dusk and dawn – together a quartette as a short-term response to the yearly cycle of seasons. Being a person of homely preferences (at least in accordance to her individual perspective), more specifically dictated by the inborne tendency to search for balance, for dreamy aesthetics and gentle experiences, leads each and every aspect to a single conclusion – her fondness towards the sunsets. Night, in turn, has always filled the young woman with some odd kind of perturbation, evoked by the gloominess that swallows acres of land, and so deprives her from the comfort of perceiving world with less disquietude.

At times such as now, when she is forced to go downstairs in search for a merest glass of water, feet aching from the cold floor – such a ridiculous contrast to the warm Italian air surrounding the thirsty visitor – which, paired with the restlessness acquired while wandering in the darkness, has the woman nearly jumping out of her skin when she catches a glimpse of an unspecified silhouette from the corner of her eye. The revelation that prompts her to advert the gaze in said direction, where she is greeted with a sight of their guest chugging down what must be a glass of milk – a personification of all her childhood traumas.

“Christ,” she inhales, having omitted the fact that she was holding her breath the whole time, “you freaked me out.”

“Oh, did I?” He retorts, still sipping on his drink, as he leans backwards on the kitchen counter, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat, hair tousled from sleep – details that begin to flood her perception.

“Is that milk?” She ascertains, eyes adverting to the object held in his right hand.

“More or less,” he shrugs, focusing on the whitish liquor in his glass as a parallel to her interest.

“Huh?”

“Wanna try it?” He suggests, tilting the container in her direction, smirking at the disguised grimace manifesting itself on the feminine face, all to his amusement.

“Definitely not,” she refuses, accompanied by a surprisingly feisty headshake. “Plain milk is weird enough to drink, not to mention your unspecified creations… ‘cause that’s some kind of a mix, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is,” he mimics the prior manner with some inborne carelessness that she finds oddly appealing, soon to step out of the kitchen, having decided that the topic is belabored.

Left alone now, she grabs a glass from the cupboard, quick to fill it with the tap water that she is obliged to down either in the gloomy area here, perchance upstairs, or in the living space occupied by the genealogist – both unnerving in their own nature. Aware of her limited tolerance when it comes to such circumstances, she is bound to opt for the latter, viewing the former as quite a jumpy denouement – not what she is striving for by any means – and so intent to join him there in a few hurried steps.

Already comfortable on the old-fashioned sofa, he throws her a fleeting glance as she settles down on the opposite armchair, crossing her legs on the expensive padding. While his mind is swimming, drifting beyond parallel realities, he is simply sitting on the plush cushions, yet to acknowledge the fact that his alias is transferring into a liquor depraver held in his hand, acquiring a mentality of a White Russian, whatever that mentality is. Well, certainly not what has him clutching at the more realistic dimension, where he is beginning to think that the whole glass might have been a mistake, not one of the disastrous consequences but still, enough to set it aside on the coffee table with a soft clink – an indication of a bygone phase.

“I’m off, so if you wanna finish, go ahead,” he proposes, inviting her with a subtle gesture, once again to lay back on the furniture as he awaits her response.

“What is it?”

“White Russian,” he clarifies, albeit bound to continue when faced with her confused expression. “Milk, vodka, and coffee liquor.”

“I don’t think I’m into that then,” she chuckles, shaking her head to emphasize the refusal.

“Then what are you into?” He teases, to which she responds with a bashful blush, not that it surprises him much, now that he is beginning to learn all her instinctive reactions.

“I don’t know, many things, I guess… it’s tough to specify…” she hesitates, as if intent to pick a suitable expression, “art for instance… I do like art, but I guess so do others so…”

“Well, your aunt told me you’re planning to study history of art,” he states, having dragged it out of the depths of his memory – a fleeting intercalation in between the working periods, spent in the company of the elderly woman. “Something beyond interests has led you there?”

“Well,” she shrugs, nails scratching at her cheek, gaze once again focused on the almost empty glass settled on the coffee table. “I guess I’m intent to find my own way, not the established lawyer path… a lawyer who is some other doctor, I don’t know… I hope you know where I’m coming from.”

“I think so, since well, I’ve been ‘round the block a couple of times,” he smiles, raking his fingers through the blowzy hair, as if only to tousle it even further, “which allows me to see how important it is to lead your life according to your own standards, for the benefit of your own vision.”

“Well, I know…” she sighs, weak and resigned, “but sometimes it’s quite difficult to synchronize all aspects and satisfy the meaningful people.”

“Meaningful?” He frowns, as if displeased with her answer, and yet able to gain a nod of confirmation from the blonde. “You think your ‘meaningful people’ should force you to succumb to their will?”

“You put it as if it was the simplest action to take,” she mimics his manner – an indication of disbelief – caught off guard by the stern comment. “But it’s not, and maybe it’s a mistake to see world in such colors, but I believe other people’s opinion matter. Tell me, what would I become if it wasn’t for them?”

“I can’t tell for sure,” he shrugs, having opted for an evasive answer, not intent to fall into any one of her dependent traps, “but I’ve always thought going my own way is far more satisfying… satisfying but harder, yes, although it’s not that important, quite simple actually, ‘cause all it takes is courage, courage to break the unspoken rule.”

“What kind of rule?”

“To be unhappy,” he clarifies – one of his lifelong maxims, “which I believe is connected with the fact that sometimes in order to please others, you decide to lead your life in accordance to their expectations. And it’s the beginning of the end.”

“Why?” She nags further, intent to share a seat on his personal train of thoughts. “Because you feel trapped?”

“That as well,” he agrees, albeit yet to complete her conclusion that appears to have omitted the very essence of his ponderations, “but what’s more important, you lose the sense of who you are, of what you want and aim for, which is not worth it, at least in my opinion.”

“Maybe it’s just… maybe I don’t have that courage,” she ponders, gaze fixated on a tiny spot marking the hardwood floor. “Maybe I’m afraid that if I pull another stunt like that, everyone will leave me.”

“Then fucking let them,” he shrugs, in the end opting for chugging down the remains of his drink, abandoned on the coffee table up to now. “Like why would they leave you anyway? For picking a different college, or what?”

“Okay fine,” she agrees after a few longer moments, glancing at his profile, as if in a passing. “It might be as illogical for you as it is for me sometimes, but when faced with the choice, I’ll fall into that trap once again.”

“And you’ll allow it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, a hint of what must be a smile playing upon his lips. “Tell me, were the consequences even that disastrous?”

“Um, I mean- I don’t know,” she replies, having projected her father’s disapproved expression on the blank canvas – a mirror image branded within her mind – along with the frown marring the smooth forehead of the mother. “My parents were just displeased, I guess.”

“What else?”

“Um, nothing,” she shrugs – a careless gesture, designed to conceal the lifelong hesitancy to agree with his insights – no more no less than a mere bunch of words uttered by an almost stranger, a pseudo form of attitude-alteration.

“Well, if that’s all they had, then there’s no logical reason to be afraid of their reaction,” he concludes, leaning back on sofa – an evidence of his contentment.

“Maybe you’re right…” she sighs, brisk to wrap up their agreement with a smile, genuine even if fleeting, “and um, sorry for forcing you to listen to all of that.”

“Forcing?” He laughs at the odd apology, doubting she will ever cease to surprise him, with all the bashful encounters in mind. “I could’ve left any time. I don’t think you could actually force me to do anything.”

“Yeah,” she mimics his manner – a pearly chuckle reverberating in the nighttime lull, “I don’t think I can actually force anyone to do anything, since that requires some kind of a... I don’t know… charisma?”

“A charisma you don’t possess, is that it?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, voice laced with a hint of teasing amusement.

“Not at all,” she counters, accompanied by an oddly expressive headshake, “it’s just…I don’t consider my charisma as outstanding in any way.”

“Why?”

“Simply because I’ve met people more gifted in that field,” she explains, tucking one of her feet beneath the opposite thigh, quick to pull the oversized tee down as it has ridden up a little in process.

“I think it’s natural,” he remarks, forehead marred with a frown of disbelief, obliged to state the obvious. “You lead in one, lack in the other, so comparing yourself to others is neither sensible, nor self-developing.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, intent to aim for a more diplomatic overlap – remedy for any bitter aftertaste.

“Maybe,” he hums, mimicking the prior comment, eyes falling shut, as his head leans back, having discerned that the conversation is over.

Or is it?

Either way, a part of her, the one that appears to be more sexually aware, considers it as an unrepeatable chance to satiate the leftover curiosity, lurking in the shadows for the past two weeks, and thus drink in the details that managed to evade her perceptivity on the number of prior occasions. Furthermore, the quaintest factor is the transition in her perception, correlating with the fact that sex has never been neither the main object of focus, nor the aim of her dreamy tendencies to commit all the overdramatic affections to paper. Oddly so, she is far from writing about the genealogist, or rather has been since the day of his arrival, instead decided to focus on the present aspects of his company – a tendency to be extended, now that the circumstances seem more favorable.

Facing up to the fact, she did fell for one or two boys in the past – affections not meant to be interpreted in terms of a further-developing relationship, since in accordance to what she remembers, excluding that single by-definition exception, they remained purely platonic. Thus it is safe to say that the situation she finds herself in, is a far more complicated one, extending beyond her experience in any form of social correlation – a subject of peculiar nature that she is intent to explore one way or another.

Therefore, she allows her gaze to trace a path down the exposed neck, and further to the firm planes of his chest, partly obscured by the crossed forearms. Despite the inborn flexibility with the verbal components of the language, she is caught in a genuine struggle to transfer the unspecified notions into one word – the most sublime message, crafted only to define him as a person in the eyes of all single-minded creatures.

As if it was necessary.

“You know, instead of staring at me like that, you can actually come and sit here,” he states all of sudden – a blunt comment reverberating in the air – causing the woman to choke on her own spit, caught hand in a cookie jar.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, gaze adverting to the side, voice laced with a distinctive hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to stare, really.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I’m quite flattered actually,” he chuckles – throaty and masculine – as his eyes fall open, allowing the hazel to interfere with green.

A transition to some distant part of his conscience, firmly indicating that he is not supposed to fuel anything that has been blossoming inside the teenager the moment their hands linked in a greeting mannerism. And yet, he opts for ignoring the unspoken rule, and thus has invited her to join him on the sofa – a proposal of pending nature, now that she appears to be tethering on the cusp between a twain of options. While his eyes remained glued to her figure, conspicuously fragile in structure, he cannot help but dwell upon whether she will come out as more earnest than evasive, hooked on progress thus threatened with possible misjudgments, albeit well-aware, even if only in the back of his mind, about the probable consequences of passing such threshold.

Nevertheless, he cannot fight the smug smirk that decorates his face the moment she caves in, and finally takes a sit beside him, eyes glued to her lap, swept away with a wave of insecurity. A part of him finds it endearing – the way she moves, graceful akin to a swan, pensive akin to Juliet – while the corresponding one – an aspect of carnal instinct – perceives the inborne innocence as an ultimate obstacle, bound to assume she will retreat as soon as the situation heats up.

Ergo, he opts against any rapid action, instead shifts to the side, with the very intention to face the female, outstretching an arm in her direction – an offer she gladly accepts, slipping a dainty hand into his, soon to be enveloped with the pleasant amount of warmth. The comforting notion prompts her to satiate the newfound curiosity and thus trace the pattern of his skin, quick to discern a protuberant line marring the flesh on the side part – presumably a scar, an imperfection that evokes the inherent query concerning its origin, a pursuit interrupted by a foreseen alternative.

“What was the furthest you’ve ever gone with someone?”

“A kiss,” she admits, shivering as he teases the inside of her wrist with the other hand, stroking the part of skin that she has never considered erogenous until now – a discovery so peculiar that she almost counters its veracity.

“Mm-hm,” he hums as his grip switches to the one of different pursuit, encircling her wrist and tugging suggestively – a nonverbal indication of an action that he is intent to take, albeit still in capacity of eliciting a choked gasp from the female, immediate to brace her weight on his shoulders. “And what else?”

“Nothing, it’s like- well, that’s all, I think,” she lets out a nervous laugh, stumbling over the words when distracted by a seemingly heavy weight of his hand placed atop the hip, earlier a whisper tickling the exposed flesh of her neck.

“Okay,” he chuckles – smoky and alluring, intent to lighten up the mood, now that she is twitching in his grasp, tensed with the nervous anticipation. “So tell me what you want to do for a change.”

“I don’t know, really,” she cannot help but advert her gaze to the side, unable to bare the intensity of his, and yet, he is brisk to grasp her by the chin, locking them together once again, as a part of him loathes the fact that she appears to be looking everywhere but his eyes.

“You don’t know, huh?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, smirking at the reddish hint of blush decorating her cheeks, which in turn gets Florence to wonder whether he finds her reactions that amusing, or simply ego-stroking. “Well, that’s a pity, ‘cause I don’t know what I want to do either.”

“Okay, fine,” she gives up, having decided to shove all her insecurities aside, or at least pretend that it lays within her capacity, which leads up to a surprisingly concrete response. “I want to… um… to kiss then.”

As if her wish was his command, he leans in, brushing her lips with some quaint delicacy that she struggles to associate with his manners, since he has never struck her as an exceptionally gentle person. What must have omitted her perceptivity though, is his virtual motivation – an intent to decipher how likely it is that she will shy away, and thus when the action is returned, he allows himself to tilt her head to the side, deepening the caress. Moreover, a change that appears as somehow aggressive in the eyes of an inexperienced woman, still not certain whether she enjoys the ravenous way he seems to be devouring her lips with, and yet willing to kiss him back, curious about the possible progress.

Nevertheless, some sizable section of her consciousness has devoted so deeply into the act that she fails to notice the subtle alteration – the hand that was previously cradling the side of her face, slides underneath the cotton tee, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman, swallowed by his mouth, paralleled with the time his tongue slips inside her mouth – an action that has her tensing in his arms almost at the spot. Or a response of short-lived nature, where she is shaken out of the caught-off-guard state in almost no time, finally flowed with an idea of what to do with her hands, dismissing the awkward clutching of his shoulders, thus immediate to lay them atop his chest instead.

What is least expected though must to be the fact that he seems intent to mirror said concept, with his fingers stroking her flank, inching closer and closer to the breast area, and yet, before he completes the route, an instinctual thirst for air forces Florence to break the kiss, exposing his disheveled appearance to her eyes, with dilated pupils and shallow pants, palpable on the skin of her cheek. Even though she has been granted with a fair share of opportunities to see him in a less tidy state, the encounter is perceived as a separate one, because of the virtual nature of his perturbation – a dainty female settled on his lap, a female with enough confidence to break the silence.

“That was really nice, thank you,” she smiles, even further at the confused expression blossoming atop his features, albeit quick to fade away, replaced by a signature teasing smirk, now that the disappointment has been replaced with a transitional emotion.

“My pleasure,” he reciprocates, both hands back at her hips now, tilting his chin up towards the entrance as he speaks. “Didn’t your aunt mention she gets up at dawn?”

“Yeah, I think she- oh,” Florence chuckles, following his gaze sideways to the terrace, confronted with the sight of an early morning light seeping through the thin voile curtains, basking the living room in its fresh glow. “I must be going then, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he pats her thigh, indicating that she is, indeed, supposed to rise from the oh-so-convenient position, to which she succumbs, quick to stand up and flash him one last smile, before she retreats towards the corridor – a rush up the stairs, halted only by the smooth baritone uttering her name once more in the almost expired nighttime lull.

“Florence?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell your aunt about this.”

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued his own comfort over the nature’s one, having decided that his excuses are enough to justify the implementation of a fresh solution – the electric light, considered beyond functional, albeit cycle-disrupting as it violates the ancient ratio. When it comes to her personal opinion, she finds a distinctive solitude in the way it navigates through the darkness, mesmerized by the variety of illuminations, even though a fair share of bulbs appear to be lacking in the value possessed by their candle-like grandparents – a sort of romantic glow, soft and peaceful as it brightens up the garden area, along with the eight-seat table.

Unfortunately, she is not alone this time, granted with the opportunity to soak up the sustained quietude, but in a company of a few people, not by any means an unusual occurrence, since her aunt tends to invite the neighbors for dinner. What seems to bothering her though is the fact that Harrison has joined them as well, accompanied by one of the younger women – a daughter of an academic professor who is currently chatting with her relative.

Circumstances that drive her back in time to that idiotic incident, along with its consequences extending up until now, or more specifically the fact that he has been acting as if nothing happened, as if they remained solely on the chatting terms. After a while she has begun to think that it was a mistake in the first place not to tell her aunt about the aforementioned situation, especially now, when the genealogist appears to be flirting with the female seated on his right.

(Or maybe you’re just paranoid.)

(Yeah, if I’m ‘just’ paranoid, then they’re ‘just’ talking.)

Crossing her arms over the chest, she keeps on glancing over at the pair – a display of temporary obsession, with the strings of jealousy laced in its being – now that she is getting triggered by the smoothness of their conversation. A part of her feels betrayed by the act, abandoned by the table, hung in between a twain of dimensions: retired professors and their descendants, lacking in the profitable capacity to navigate her way through the topics and simply join the conversation. Instead, she opts for poking the cooling pasta with a silver fork, excluding a few occasional bites here and there, as her eyes remain glued to the villa’s entrance for a change, anticipating the time it will be appropriate to retreat into the room and sleep off the bitter aftertaste that comes with rejection.

Linear

Subsequent

Damnation.

“Rosaline?” A name uttered in the nighttime lull, piquing her aunt’s interest enough to advert the attention from the current conversation, and thus lift her eyes to the genealogist’s face. “I’ve promised Linda to drive her to town, so we must be going now, you know... but thank you for the dinner anyway.”

(Oh, so her name is Linda. How delightful.)

“Oh, it’s fine,” she smiles, kind as always. “Have a safe trip then.”

“Thank you again,” he addresses her one last time, before his attention switches to Florence, with his arm following the alteration, outstretched in an inviting gesture. “Wanna go with us?”

(No, piss off.)

“I’m not sure,” she hesitates, ever the diplomat of refusal, glancing at him from the seating position by the table. “It’s just- I don’t wanna disturb you or something.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Rosaline smiles, this time to encourage her, motioning towards the pair with a flick of her wrist. “I think you’ll have much more fun with Linda and Harrison than with a bunch of retirees.”

“Okay, fine,” she sighs, as if utterly resigned because of the concept, attempting to convince herself that it is not so unpleasant after all. “I’ll go.”

“Cool, c’mon then,” he motions her to get up, to which she succumbs, rising from the elegant chair, and following their steps towards the car with a quick, “goodnight,” thrown over her shoulder.

Nonetheless, the moment Florence reaches his navy car parked by the curb, she is surprised by the fact that Linda has settled on the back, as if to indicate her desired place, and thus she agrees on the established terms, soon to rest on the front, and with a flick of ignition, they drive down the gravely road, further through the gate, and the adjoining street. A part of infrastructure that Florence has always considered as picturesque, possessing some sort of a romantic glow, and the unparalleled vibe of a nighttime drive, with the endless route of possibilities sprawling in front of their eyes, now glued to the anthropocentric wonder.

Which is beautiful.

Which is fleeting.

Which is eternal.

Or which has her wishing the scale would tilt towards the latter.

At least until Linda’s interruption.

“Thanks again for driving me to Matteo.”

“Sure, no problem,” he shrugs, glancing at the woman in the rear-view mirror, before his eyes advert to the road once again.

“Who’s Matteo?” She finds herself asking, faced twisted in a frown of confusion, when confronted with the possible explanation.

“My boyfriend.”

(Oh.)

(So it turns out you were just paranoid.)

(Or were you?)

Almost deep enough in her thoughts to miss the following query. “And you? Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Um, I…” she hesitates, glancing over at Harrison in search for at least some partial support, although he appears to be ignoring her, with eyes glued to the road.

“Sorry if it was too personal,” she flashes her an apologetic smile through the rear-view mirror, barely acknowledged as an existent component.

“It’s okay,” she shrugs in response, gaze adverting to the passing trees outside the glass pane. “I don’t even have one, so…”

“Well, that was awkward,” Linda giggles, which in turn paints her as derisive in the blonde’s eyes, and thus retreats any will to continue the conversation.

“Pointing it out doesn’t make it less awkward,” the driver joins in, a voice that slices through the sweetened stasis, attracting the attention of both females in the car.

“Yeah, sure,” this time she huffs, offended and thus done with the whole concept of talking down to both of them, even the man who gave her such a congenial impression in the first place – calm and easy-going, with an interesting smile, and perceptive hazel irises.

Ergo, the rest of the drive is spent in partial silence, excluding the monotonous hum of engine and the whistling wind that envelopes the metallic frame – a set of circumstances considered rather unimportant, since they are relatively quick to reach the town. A place that imposes Linda to speak again, albeit solely to guide Harrison to the desired tenement, where she gets off the car, and with a quick, “goodbye,” thrown over her shoulder – an expression of concealed bitterness – she leaves them alone once again, and thus clears out the atmosphere as she appears to have taken some immerse emotional luggage with her, or tension that seemed to be enveloping the vehicle on the course of their trip.

“Wanna stay here and maybe go for a walk, or I don’t know… do whatever we find suitable?” He proposes, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at the female, with a ghost of an ephemeral smile playing upon his lips.

“Okay, why not,” she agrees, flashing him a mirroring expression, before she steps off the car, in accordance to the nonverbal gesture of the man who is soon to join her on the cobbled street. “Where are we going by the way?”

“The square maybe, ‘cause I want a drink,” he gestures towards the illuminated area, garnished with a bunch of outdoor tables, or a source of the resonating variety of conversation, “but then, we can just… I don’t know… wander around to see if something else piques our interest.”

“Okay,” she agrees, soon to follow him on the way to the bar, where he only purchases a bottle of wine – ‘specialità regionali’ – at least in accordance to the salesman’s words, although she suspects it might be a subject of little matter for Harrison, as he only throws him a polite smile, along with some cash placed on the counter, soon to retreat afterwards.

Back on the square again, they navigate their way through the maze of narrow streets, up to the point where they come across a relatively empty one, with a bunch of chairs pushed up to the brick wall. A resting spot that he considers suitable enough to flop down and uncork the bottle with some kind of a multi-tool, fished out from his pocket, soon to take an initial gulp of the reddish liquid.

“Isn’t it some kind of a heresy?” She frowns, gesturing towards the glass, currently held in a single hand and cradled upon his lap. “To drink it straight from the bottle?”

“Is there anyone stopping me?” He retorts, smiling as she shakes her head ‘no’. “Then I don’t care.”

“Seems like you don’t care about a lot of things,” she remarks, glancing at the man who is currently taking a few relatively huge gulps of wine, his Adam’s apple bobbing in time with each sip.

“’Cause I think it’s a fucking waste of time…” he replies after a short interval, required to finish the portion of drink, eyes now focused on the bottle’s label, “of time, and I don’t know… spirit maybe.”

“I’ve always wanted that capacity to just… you know… don’t care,” she admits, cracking her knuckles on the lap, as she stares at the opposite building, wondering about the current activities of its dwellers, even if only for a split second. “I mean it’s kind of complicated, ‘cause sometimes I really don’t care about things that others might consider important, decent grades for instance. And then when something pops out, something quite… um… significant, at least for me, all they say is: ‘take it easy, it’s not a big deal’, while for me it is a big deal.”

“I think it’s quite natural people tend to misunderstand others, since they rely on their own perspective,” he interrupts the explanation with yet another sip of alcohol, soon to cradle the bottle upon his lap once again. “And also, if you combine it with the reluctance to introspect the motivations of others, they’ll never come closer to the actual state of affairs, so it’s just… well, futile.”

“Okay, thanks,” she throws him a fleeting smile – a sympathetic gesture that prompts him to return it in a resembling manner.

“But these are just words, you know,” he continues – a matter of prevention. “In order to actually make it work you gotta experience it yourself.”

“Maybe you’re right…”

An agreement ensued by a relatively comfortable kind of silence, or an opportunity for the genealogist to retreat into his personal land of thoughts, where he is granted with an opportunity to ponder upon one distinctive subject that has been bothering him for these few days ensuing their short-lived moment of intimacy. What initiated as a rather innocent whim was never expected to blossom into a craving of entirely different nature – a carnal one – calling back to the manner his eyes were lingering on her figure merely two weeks ago.

Another important aspect – a conclusion from what he suspects might be a high school period – is that such form of interest cannot be a conscious decision, and thus he has never felt shameful due to developing any kind of affection towards a person, maybe because of the atheistic beliefs or the general reluctance towards the concept of strict morality. He has always considered it inhumane – a characteristic of incorporeal beings who must have forgotten what it is like to inhabit a body – or unrealistic – a form of spiritual disguise, meant to conceal all flaws from the eyes of others, fool them up to the point where they perceive one as an idealistic entity – incomprehensible mentor, he who leads them towards the land of redeemed.

Utopia.

A place that does not exist.

At least for any corporeal human, and he who is one, will gladly choose an alternative path.

“I was wondering...”

(Sure you were.)

“Maybe you want some?” He gestures towards the bottle held in his right hand. “I don’t think it’ll be sane to finish the whole one by myself.”

“And why is that?” She cocks an eyebrow at him, lips laced in an anticipatory smile.

“’Cause I’m driving.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles, someway bound to accept the offer, “so I think I do want some then,” and thus takes a few sips of liquor, then hands the bottle back to its owner. For a little while they just switch in such manner, until half of its contents are emptied, albeit any alternation in the sobriety omits her recognition, considering the consumption has been rather meager, with him drinking a substantial amount.

As her mind switches from the nonsensible metaphor applying to the wine that is supposed to run through her bloodstream, overheard months ago during a spring break party, she cannot help but wonder about his prior conversation with Linda, once again invaded by a preposterous amount of jealousy. A feeling someway associated with the color green, venomous neon hue, as if due to variety of virulent substances required to manufacture one, seeping through the pores, thus bound to infect an organism, or rather its intellectual capacities.

Or a stimulus that prompts her to voice the following query.

“What were you talking about back home?” She blurts out – an exclamation ensued by a mental scold, yet way past the point of retreating in such circumstances. “With Linda, I mean.”

“About marihuana and college… in that order, I think,” he hesitates, drawing the sentences a little, as he attempts to recall the prior conversation. “Then some of her issues that weren’t very important to be honest… Something about that Matteo-guy, I think… Why are you asking?”

“I’m just… curious, you know.”

(Curious? Or jealous?)

A thought that laces his lips in a barely noticeable smirk – a gateway to the newfound opportunity, focused on the selfish aspects of his whims that correlate with the concept of perfectionism in any form, not only its pathological version. Even though he is well aware of his lifelong pursuit towards the aspects considered as natural, thus far from nonpareil, he would never suspect it to extend in the direction of an active attitude – a desire to mar, to drag the compass’ sharp end down the freshly bought blackboard just to watch people grimace at the sound.

Aversion or the commonplace odium – an aftermath of idealistically strict morality, or a paradox in its most sublime form – what is expected to define one as a human leads to an entirely different outcome – bringing up a society that loathes the scum. Furthermore, less and less people appear to aim for more organic behavior, only conventions, forced etiquettes, acquired to sketch the most sublime form of a humane being – an exemplary man with an exemplary wife and a group of children playing at their feet, exemplarily of course.

Fatiguing to the bone.

Perfection.

Merely a phantasy of civilization.

Model disguise of a modern man.

Missing out the nature’s intent.

Perfection or omission?

Futile to eradicate.

“C’mere,” he proposes, completely out of the blue, motioning her with a flick of his wrist, having settled the bottle aside on the cobbled pavement. Confronted with yet another offer that evening, she hesitates, glancing left, then right, despite the sensory awareness that their dead end is surely deprived of any company, excluding the possible voyeurs hiding behind the curtains. Come to think of it, the idea itself might be, indeed, a bit childish, since in such case the sensibility is rather dubious, and thus she chooses to terminate the state of shameful indecision, evident in the immediate rise from her chair in order to take a seat on his lap, sideways, supported by a pair of pleasantly warm hands: one gripping her thigh, while the other winds around the back.

(Fuck…)

“But we ain’t gonna…?” She asks – a query outlined by the distinctive hint of embarrassment.

“What? Fuck?” He chuckles, cocking a taunting eyebrow at Florence, taking special pleasure in the way her cheeks flash red. “Depends if you want to.”

“I’m not… I, um, I don’t,” she chuckles, stumbling over the words, although not repulsed, only caught off guard by the concept itself, accompanied by a jerking movement, as he nuzzles the blonde hair, mouth merely an inch away from her ear.

“That’s a shame then,” he purrs, smirking as another tremor runs down her spine. “Has anyone ever told you to try and seize the opportunity?”

“Um, actually… you might be the first one,” she flashes him a knowing smile, more and more relaxed as his fingers begin to draw calming circles over her rounded hip. “How do you feel about that?”

(Balance out facts and falsities.)

“Depends on what you’re referring to,” he retorts – a comment left hanging in the recurrent silence, having painted her cheeks with the reddish blush once again, albeit this time she is the one who gets their eyes to meet, even if only for a split second. Despite such fleeting expanse, she notices something distinctive, something that causes her thighs to clench on instinct – lascivious glint, inseparable from the pitch pools of black – the pupils, now dilated in an almost animalistic manner. A ravenous look that has the female squirming on his lap, unintentionally attempting to relieve the tension, until he taps her hip – a nonverbal signification to halt – which in turn captures her attention.

Clueless about what is bound to happen, she almost squeals when he leans in to brush her lips, intent to maneuver the dainty figure with a self-indicating tug, to which she complies, straddling his thighs as the kiss deepens. An initiation almost parallel to the one from a few days ago, if not for the fact that his actions seem to have gained an alternative pace, evident in a pair of hands slipping underneath her blouse: one settling on the waist, while the other snakes up her stomach, soon to rest upon the plump globe.

For a brief moment, a part of him expects her to jerk away from his grip in some nervous reflex, but nothing like this happens, and instead she only shivers, stomach tensing as his fingers skate over the fabric cup. Even though he suspects it might be more convenient to simply ask in order to clarify the issue, he opts for the nonverbal option, intent to focus on the bodily responses, thus relies on her assertiveness to halt him if required.

What surprises him though is the fact that the touch itself, no matter how subdued, appears to have evoked something within the woman – carnal instincts that prompt her to wrap the arms around his neck and rock a little into his body. Pleased with the progressing inflorescence, he responds with a more prominent gesture, hand slipping underneath the bra cup, which elicits a surprised gasp from Florence, and thus causes him to smirk against her now swollen lips. Not intent to overwhelm the woman, he opts for a milder pace, exploring the breast why tentative touches that get him to question the self-control aspect, now that she is pressing closer to his frame, weight braced on his chest as her free hand cradles the side of his face, stubbly in texture.

Nevertheless, it is safe to assume that the situation is bound to act to the detriment of all the reasonable prompts, signalizing him to postpone the event, at least until he drives them somewhere more… private? Or simply convenient, since the former is not an issue for him, although he has never identified as a person with exhibitionistic tendencies, considering his little concern for any possible audience, as the object of main focus is undoubtedly his partner – a woman of little tolerance of the voyeuristic factor.

Therefore, he departs from her lips, almost groaning at the whine of protest she utters, even if relatively quiet, as he leans towards her ear, obliged to adjourn the encounter with a common, yet disappointing, phrase – a performance in two acts.

“Wanna go further?”

“Maybe… but, um… not here,” she replies, voice laced with a hint of hesitation, guiding him to the final conclusion that the former assumptions were correct, furthermore prompting to voice yet another proposition.

“Well,” he chuckles, intentionally distracting himself with fixing the collar of her blouse, fingers smoothing out the material, “that I’ve had already figured out, but… how about we return to the car and drive away somewhere more… um… more…”

“Private?” She prompts, glancing at his hand on her cleavage, now covered with goosebumps.

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugs, dropping it to the side – a nonverbal indication for the woman to rise from her prior seat, furthermore accompany him on their way back to the vehicle.

Even though the pair remains silent throughout the walk, it is neither to be classified as sullen, nor awkward, rather pensive, as they dive deep within their thoughts, and while he is wondering about how to handle her inexperience, she dwells upon a concept of partially different nature.

When it comes to Harrison, or rather his genuine motives, she is bound to label them as someway enigmatic, of dubious intents, as a distinctive part of her displays an attitude that might be parallel to fear, or stress maybe, a sort of ambivalently nervous excitement, or a matter of insatiate curiosity. To explore but to evade – an ever present paradox, accompanying the process of exiting one’s comfort zone, bound to resolve into each and every shade dividing spectacular success from a dreadful disaster.

Nevertheless, she is willing to pursue with the former, resolute as never before in her life, maybe excluding the college situation, encouraged by the unignorable titillation oscillating around the factor of grey morality. A term she has encountered somewhere throughout her bookish escapades, and ever since considered as partially dangerous due to the lack of behavioral prediction, rules that determine one’s judgment. Despite the relative whiteness of her principles, she feels some odd kind of attraction towards him as a man of fluent, organic acts, neither identified with the villain, nor hero archetype, intent to explore the poorly investigated concept.

Or maybe the virtual issue is linked with the fact that he cares so little about the conventions, dedicated to lead his life the way he pleases – a characteristic admired by the woman, an alteration from her usual approach. Furthermore, he appears to be a little more… experienced, assuming it is a suitable expression, although she is unable to determine his real age, since he has a relatively youthful face – especially after shaving – a feature emphasized by the longish hair and light hazel eyes, warm in tone, or the subtle jewelry and the flax shirts that he seems to be so fond of – a compound of multiple factors. While a part of her wants to clarify the aforementioned doubt, she assumes it is better not to, leaving the case unresolved for the benefit of ravenous assumptions – a feast of uncertainty – hopefully meant for future discoveries, even though she does not find that knowledge essential, only a matter of curiosity.

A new road.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who valued the nature’s comfort over his own one – as for the yin of enlightened yang – having agreed to lead his life in accordance to the conditions dictated by pristine substance. Ergo, the electric system has been abandoned on the moon’s benefit – a guide to navigate one’s route through the darkness – or the stars that shine with inborn light, seeping through the leafy copula above the vehicle, as it illuminates their future way.

A transition to one peculiar notion that she is invaded by in such occasions, which might be considered as a form of paradox itself – a contrast for her prior statement concerning the so-called romantic glow of garden lightbulbs. Nevertheless, she perceives such organicism as an embodiment of any lacking artificialness, as well as an opportunity for the pristine forces to regain the desolate terrain.

The most picturesque spectacle.

Imperfection-defining.

Thus unflawed – an obsolete paradox.

Insatiate curiosity of their final destination – a relatively mysterious outcome for the young woman – that bestows her with an internal obligation to break the silence, directed by the instinctual intents, by the desire for denouement, as she is practically itching with the need to utter the final query. Therefore, she is finds herself complying to the subconscious request, voice oddly unfitting when compared to its usual tune, as if unable to be distinguished even by her very own ears.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“I think this one is private enough,” she states, twitching on the seat once his eyes settle on her body, and his gaze follows its path further down, leaving a wave of tremors on the way, which evokes an oddly potent desire to reach out and touch him. A craving that extends beyond her comprehension, that prompts Florence to extend an arm, merely a breath away from leaning across the gear shift in order to fulfil the whim – a pursuit that he is quick to halt by pushing the car door open, intent to switch places in search for a more beneficial position.

“What are you-”

“Backseat,” he replies, leaning forward on the frame, as he carries on with the explanation. “It’ll be more convenient this way, trust me.”

“Okay...” she agrees, voice once again laced with a hint of hesitation – a signature manner that she appears to have grown accustomed with throughout the years, beyond the privilege of being omitted, especially when caught in a situation of such kind.

A situation when she is obliged to follow him there, not in accordance to an external pressure but personal eagerness, shivering once he steadies her with a single hand wrapped around the arm, tugging the woman closer, until her legs graze his, and with a soft gasp uttered in the confined space, he modifies their position, now hovering above the partner. However, instead of kissing her as per usual, he halts, settled between her legs, in order to get rid of his shirt with some distinctive nonchalance that she finds a bit unnerving, considering the contrasting nature of her attitude.

Despite the fact that it is, by any means, not her first time to see him topless, since the summer weather appears to be relatively unforgiving on this latitude, she perceives the given situation as entirely different, viewed through the prism of possible motives and intents. Impure as some would dare to assume – a term she distances from more and more as a parallel to the life length, carrying an alteration in the woman’s perception of her own persona, more specifically the query concerning which factors determine one’s value.

The quantity of sexual encounters?

Absurd.

Although the fact that it indeed does matter to some people, makes her feel a little… restrained by the conventions (akin to the college situation), or judged through the prism of poorly constructed morals. Patriarchal archaisms that have been influencing people’s perception for hundreds of years, generations upon generations adding the fuel to the ever-burning fire, pouring their harmful beliefs into the minds of their children.

Anticipating alteration.

Continuous cycle of conceptual conversion.

Everlasting?

Alas unachievable.

“God, I feel ridiculous,” she chuckles, awkwardly in her mind’s eyes, eliciting a huskier laugh from her partner. “It’s like… I heard so many facts, or myths maybe, about sex, and now…I just… I don’t know…”

“Changed your mind about this?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her – a matter of verification – sitting back to rest beside the curled legs of his lover. “Tell me.”

“No, no, I’m just… stressed, that’s all,” she admits, flashing him a telltale smile, as if to ascertain he gets the message, albeit quick to rectify, “but I want this, really.”

“In here?”

“In here,” she confirms with a single nod, hoisting up to a sitting position as well, intent to scoot closer to the man who is quick to reach out for her, hands clutching the rim of her blouse – a nonverbal exposé of his inclination. Despite the bashful attitude, she allows him to act upon that, raising her arms to facilitate the removal, greeted by the sight of his smirking face within a blink of an eye, gaze fixated on her newly revealed form. Unable to bare the intensity, she wraps her arms around the bra-clad chest, earning a disapproved tut from him, caught off guard when his hands grasp the dainty wrists, and tug them to his chest – an odd gesture, someway associated with intimacy, romantism-indicating, and by any means not corresponding with the chilled persona of the man beside, coexisting in her consciousness.

At least until the following comment is verbalized.

“C’mon, I’m not here to judge you, or anything,” he frowns, stroking the tendons with his thumbs – a gentle caress that turns out as influential enough to elicit a subtle shiver from the female. “It’s just… well, sex.”

(Just sex?)

(Ugh, sure.)

Unable to come up with a more suitable verbalization, she opts for a simple hum in response, attempting to alter the main subject of focus, and thus rests her hands on his shoulders, radiating with pleasant warmth. In order to test the waters, she runs her fingers over the protruding clavicle, tickling the flesh with the gentle, or maybe restrained, touch, tracing a tingling line to his face. Much to her relief, the reaction comes out as rather positive – a mirroring gesture of his own, albeit concentrated around her ribcage – a nonverbal message that he is intent to speed up the process.

Considered as opportunistically patient, he feels someway obliged to ensure the possibility of exploration at any given pace, but at the same time struggles to maintain the composure with her figure pressing closer to his body. Circumstances that call back to the ambivalent nature of their relationship, embodied by the current settlement with Florence perched atop his lap, and while a part of him relishes in such notion, the other one – both carnal – is craving to accelerate the process.

Said factors, combined with her obvious lack of initiator’s qualities, prompt him to reach back to the clasp of her bra and unfasten it with a deft flick of his wrist, which elicits a surprised gasp from the female, the one that is quick to be swallowed by a kiss, messier than usual, as he feels her nipples brush his chest – a subtle stroke that sends a jolt straight to his core. Much to his relief, she appears to be chasing something too – a denouement, a term of bookish nature, albeit descriptive enough to verbalize the attitude, fitting to the sort of romantic vibe she has been giving him since their hands linked for the very first time.

Nonetheless, intent to regain the essential control over the situation, he is bound to flip them over once again, supporting her weight with a single hand sprawled on her back, along with the ardent trace left behind as he chooses to settle it on the car seat, propping his body on both arms to prevent from crashing the dainty female. Now that they are lying down, he feels restricted by the lack of space, obviously mistaken about the size of his vehicle, muttering a curse, as his foot collides with the door.

“Okay, fine, let’s just switch to that fucking grass.”

“Sure,” she agrees, intent to remind him that it was her idea in the first place, although is quick to opt out of it, and instead flashes Harrison an encouraging smile, left to watch him struggling to open the door. It is sort of funny, with all the uttered curses, as he attempts to emerge from the confined space – a sight that carries a positive impact as it wipes away certain image from her consciousness – him as an absolute Sex God, and her as a bashful ingénue, awkward and inexperienced when it comes to the physical matter.

Also, she finds the grass aspect interesting – a link with nature that she has always been searching for in life, a call-back to her uncle anecdotes oscillating around the college days, along with the hippie period that she adores so much – honeyed tale of a bygone phase that corresponds with yet another ponderation.

If she was to associate herself with a decade, she would definitely opt for the sixties – a period she has gotten to taste but not relish – marked by the civil movement towards more humane qualities and the ensuing reunification with nature, or an idealized image that has been branded in her consciousness as a direct result of all those lucrative stories. Even though she is yet to be purified by such form of awareness, drowning deep in the idealistic realm, there are times when her hand someway grazes the surface – a fleeting touch, more like a suggestion than a stroke.

Which corresponds with the manner he brushes her arm with, having spread a dark blanket on the grass – a nonverbal invitation to lay down with him, to which she complies, allowing him to recreate the prior position. Circumstances that force her to look Harrison in the eye, now that he is hovering above her again, glazed with emotion that she cannot quite comprehend, pristine and potent, thus someway hypnotizing as it attracts her attention, infectious and intoxicating.

Drunk.

Appropriate synopsis for the notion consuming his mind, occurring as he stares at the woman below, clad in a simple white bralette – an embodiment of purity, thus a call-back to the prior concepts oscillating around the idealistic aspect, a scrape over the perfectionistic surface. Desire that finally prompts him to pursue with the fascination, and thus bow down to tease the sun-kissed skin of her cleavage with his lips, ensued by the tongue that draws a heated trace up to her mouth, where he nips at the plump flesh, eliciting a breathy gasp from the female.

An interesting sensation to say the least, bound to leave the tender flesh tingling afterwards – parallel to the multitude of needles grazing the surface – resonating through the body and causing Florence to squeeze her thighs together – an alteration that fails to evade his perceptibility. Therefore, his movements come to a halt, gaze drifting back to the flushed blonde, as her own escapes to the side – a self-preservation attempt, crafted on the go as a form of feigned unawareness, but still a hint that he is able to decipher, and thus opts for drifting with the flow by lying a single hand on the inner part of her legs – a silent prompt to pry them apart.

Somehow, the self-indicating manner catches her speechless, and thus for a brief moment she only stares at him, thigh muscles twitching once or twice, before she regains the capacity to formulate any response, and parts her legs a little – a nonverbal consent. Nearly an expert in this field, he takes it as an invitation, granting him with an opportunity to unbutton the high waisted shorts, then pull them down with a bit of help from the female as she lifts her hips and kicks the clothing the rest of the way.

Having propped herself up on the elbows, she flashes him an inquisitive look, goosebumps trailing down the exposed parts of her flesh in anticipation for what is about to follow, curious when it comes to his intents. Nonetheless, with her mind fogged by the carnal cravings, the waiting process seems to be extending towards some incomprehensible time units that paint her skin red with arousal, revealing the very essence of physical urges, as if their presence was not manifested before. Furthermore, the heated blush crawling up her neck elicits a husky chuckle from the male – a mannerism that only enhances the inborne response, much to his amusement – which actually prompts him to break the peaceful silence, despite the fact he prefers to talk less during sex, thus focus on the variety of other stimuluses.

“Want me to touch you?” He asks, fingers brushing the edge of her underwear in a self-indicating manner, dipping underneath the waistband just to tease the sensitive skin there.

“Mm-hm,” she hums in response, attempting to take steadier inhales as her insides are twisting with nervousness, partly intent to press her legs together, as she is dying to mitigate the dull throb between them.

And yet, when prompted by the soothing circles drawn on her hip, she opts for right the opposite, providing him with the essential space – a bone thrown at the dog as well as a bait taken by the man, who is actually yearning to get rid of the triggering remains of her clothing. Therefore, he drags the underwear down the slim legs, with the upper garment soon following – action preluded by a little help from the woman, back arching from the ground in process – a sight that tilts the corners of his lips in a smug smirk, that gets him to twitch in the confinement of his pants, and almost yank the jeans down his legs in search for a certain kind of relief, even if only for a brief moment.

What actually follows though is the slope in the woman’s direction, brushing her lips once again, before his hand skims down the chest, teasing the protruding nipples as he follows, up to the point where it settles on the crease between her legs.

“Mm… fuck,” he groans as a twain of fingers trace the wettish slit, introduced with quite significant, albeit not soaking, amount of slickness – a gesture that elicits a breathy gasp from the female, caught off guard by the newfound pleasure. The sensation interesting to say the least, an alteration from the softer pads of her own fingers gliding through the folds as a parallel to the current setting. A part of her is yearning for that – the discovery that comes with adding yet another person to the mix, a person that she has bestowed with unprecedented affection, in other words an addiction to the sexual aspect, or rather its determinant. Furthermore, he has managed to stir something within her – an itch existing throughout the lifetime, lurking unacknowledged in the depths of her soul, which might as well be an exaggeration, nonetheless for the benefit of visualizing her condition.

What else appears as self-descriptive though is the subtle tingling in between her legs, ensued by a wave of heat spreading through her body – a factor that causes the female to rock into his hand, prompted by the instinctual stimulus, kissing her temple from the inside. As if having sensed that, he leans down to brush her lips, gleaming with a thin layer of saliva from the constant manner of swiping her tongue over it – a subtle caress that is bound to evolve into a full-blown French, as his body is gradually beginning to spin out of control, invaded by the constant reminders of his physical state – a craving beyond mental consciousness. Or a whim that induces Harrison to rearrange the hold, and thus he is quick to slide the middle finger inside – an action that elicits a helpless squeal from the female, caught off guard by the offbeat stretch, stinging ache blossoming in between her legs.

Although her very first reaction, purely instinctual, is to cut the insertion short with an evasive drag of her hips, she is quick to discover that the notion might appear as someway pleasant, especially when the movement is initiated – a single digit brushing repeatedly against a spongy tissue inside, an element of dubious existence up until now. Therefore, she cannot help but gasp softly, wriggling her hips in an attempt to alleviate the newfound tension, rocking a little against the heel of his palm – extra friction added to the mix.

A sensation that gets her to utter a breathy, “Harrison…” as an indirect plead for more, slicing through the warm evening air, a whimper that sends a shiver down his spine, or a delightful contrast from the heated temperature. He hums something in response, an indistinct verbalization, nudging her nose by accident, as he leans in to brush the subtly parted lips, having sensed that the frequent kisses carry some positive influence over Florence – a will to unravel both in physical and mental realm.

As a matter of fact, there is a distinctive aspect to it all, an exploration that he has been aiming towards, intent to discover what else the world has to offer – a challenge to verify adaptational fluency, to enrich his collection of experiences, thus understand the variety of contrasting viewpoints, which is also one of the reasons justifying his pick. As a realistically thinking man, he is almost convinced that whatever connection they have, the relationship is still bound to resolve in a terminative way, considering her college entry and his professional obligations.

A twain of souls linked for a split of eternity, if he was to mimic his ex’s speech manners.

Such a misplaced composition.

Which might as well be perceived as a matter of distraction from the carnal fixation consuming his mind, a will to rock into her body, to engulf in the variety of sensations as he is straining the now compact space within his pants. An indication that his patience is indeed running thin, and thus a reason for the development towards far more onerous depths, effort-consuming when faced with the requirement to drag the activity, someway obliged to ensure she will not opt for granting him with the oh-so-desirable case of blue balls, when confronted with the denouement creeping closer and closer as a parallel to the amount of wetness leaking onto his palm.

(Fuck.)

“Fuck,” he groans into her neck, muscles straining with exertion from holding his body up in the same position for a little longer than usual, and thus he is bound to lean back a little, intent to switch their position.

Halting point.

A transition that elicits an outraged whine from the woman, a statement of discontent as well as a plead to pursue further with whatever conception he has in mind – a reminiscence of his college encounters when he would be guaranteed with an opportunity to explore the newfound dimension. And even though in the following years, the circumstances have someway switched, considering he has reached the place of terminal responsibilities, the place where he is obliged to grant them with essential comfort, where each contract of commission parallels with yet another teenage daughter, or some other niece, falling for him, which might as well make him a philander, but at this point he doubts whether he actually cares.

The circumstances that get him to wonder about the adulthood’s distinctive aspects, one of them being a tendency to belittle the subjects of once significant importance, now reduced to the mere windblow, turning the biographical pages, easy to be rearranged back in their prior order.

So why bother with the complicated vision, relationship conspectus, why opt out of the fleetingness, the pleasure of experiencing one unique moment carved from eternity’s timeline, of discovering that one very specific person, carrying on with the conversation until the viewpoints collide in one spot – the final comprehension.

Or a prompt to pursue with the hinted amount of time in mind.

And thus, he catches her off guard with an sudden tug upright, palms resting on his shoulders in search for balance, as he pulls the woman on his lap, sliding the hand back in between her legs, although this time he doubles the amount of fingers, stretching the constricted muscles a little. An action ensued by yet another breathy whimper from the woman, twitching as if to accommodate the girth, monstrous in comparison to her own digit, albeit someway pleasant as she rocks into his palm, rubbing the clit against the very hill of it.

“Fuck, that’s it, that’s it, good girl,” he mutters into her hair, teasing the earlobe with his lips, nearly as greedy for the denouement as the woman in his arms, who is currently clutching at the biceps, flexing due to extra pressure. “C’mon, Florence.”

A voicing that elicits a breathy moan from the female, thighs trembling as she struggles to comprehend the odd sensation blossoming in the pit of her stomach, an emphasis of pleasure, climbing higher and higher with each curling movement. Somehow, a part of her is dying to fall, to discover the joy of floating in the air, even if only for a split second, tingling as he explores the swollen folds, begging him with the rhythmical sways of her hips, with the cat-like arch of her back, and the desperate, “Harrison,” thrown in his direction.

“Mm-hm, that’s it,” he hums, warm breath tickling her forehead, lips brushing the flesh there as he speaks. “Just relax and let it happen.”

Which is exactly what she does, squeezing the pair of fingers, as if intent to pull them even further inside, balancing on the cusp in between the twain of states – desperation and delight – even if only for a brief moment – a transitional phase that ensures the satisfaction. With the last brush against her walls, the now unbearable coil snaps, leaving a wave of continuous tremors racing through her body, bound to spread all the way to the tingling nipples that he decides to pinch with the free hand, seemingly out of context, but pointedly enough to elicit a choked gasp from the woman.

And what a sight she is now, arched in his direction, with head thrown back, exposing the smooth column of her neck, or a place that he would love to mark, blemish with the purple bruise – a whim ensued by a sharp bite into the tender flesh, or an action bound to draw a surprised squeal from the female. Confronted with such notion, she cannot help but tilt her head to the side, granting him with more access, an opportunity chosen to be ignored, as he seems intent to leave a certain aftertaste – quite distinctive hunger variant, personal and thus only to be satiated by an equally specific person.

As if on the contrary, he pulls out the digits that have been nested inside the whole time, which allowed him to experience the rhythmical pulsing of her walls – an instinctual response to the brief moment of pleasure. Left empty once again, she utters a discontented moan, squeezing around physical nothing, parallel to the pair of hands clutching at his shoulders – a nonverbal indication of what she is expecting from him – and when her hips tilt towards his, probably with no peculiar ambition in mind, he almost snaps, ready to pin the woman to the blanket in one swift movement.

A matter of increasing frustrations, inborne fixations that have been defining his existence for all these years, driving him towards the ostensibly final attitude, where he has begun to perceive certain aspects as an organic part of human existence. Take for instance the sexuality, associated with a whole scale ranging from pridefulness to abashment, considered through the liberal and conservative prisms. And since his mindset is undoubtedly associated with the former, he often struggles to comprehend the reluctancy of certain people, along with their regard for outside opinions, their concern about self-image portraited in front of the eyes of others.

There are times when it gets him to wonder how stressful lives they are obliged to lead, restricted by the set of personal norms, how pathetic it must be to look at oneself in the mirror, valuating the possible judgments of society, how they abandon the quality of existence in the physical realm. Ergo, if he is to gift Florence with anything, it will most certainly be the respect for her own desires, the volition to explore the sexuality, or the preservation from all the embarrassment-related constructs, instead of any stable relationship.

(Tragic?)

(Well, not really.)

Therefore, he opts for granting her with an actual choice when it comes to the pace, thus ensure it will leave a pleasant memory, since all first times are bound to create an ever present impact on the whole field, determine the future attitude towards certain aspects. Even though she appears as willing to give him the reins, hiding her face in the crook of his neck, warm breaths palpable on the tender flesh there, ready to submit, dance to his tune, fulfill almost every of his whims, he chooses to interfere with said tendency, as mentioned.

Cradling the side of her face with his clean hand, he lifts the chin up to his level, hazel crossing with green once again that night, pupils blown wide with lust, neck painted with a reddish hue, as they gaze into each other’s eyes. Unable to bear the intensity, she attempts to evade the contact, but he holds it steady, skimming the side of her neck with the fingertips, causing the woman to lean further into his touch.

“You can do whatever you want,” he proposes – a simplification of the prior contemplations – to which she responds with a confused expression, thrown off-kilter by the fluent range of perspectives sprawling in front of her – a paradox of variable selection that actually disturbs the decision process. “I’m all yours for now.”

“Wh-what?” She stutters, frowning as for the evident lack of comprehension, determined by the privilege of open interpretation – a realm for blossoming doubts.

“Just do whatever feels good for you, and we’ll be good to go,” he reiterates, hands skimming down her sides only to settle on the waist – a nonverbal indication that she is allowed to touch him as well, an action of rather sparse occurrence, when caught off guard by the skillful caress centered around her persona. The movement itself allows her to feel the wettish trace left by the twain of digits that have been inside her merely moments prior, an indication of blatant primality, weaseling its way through the partial patience, thus manifesting itself through his actions, the trembling of his fingers atop her skin.

A physical evidence of the payment that comes with attraction towards such women – some peculiar form of torture, mainly regarding the carnal aspect, bodily frustrations ensuing the conditional patience – burdensome obligation. Caught in the circumstances where he is forced to succumb, considering the second option appears beyond unacceptable – a slave of their innocence, their inborne bashfulness, their reluctance of further pursuit. Them who lay their initial experience, affection maybe, in the hands of the man who is never to return the emotional aspect with equal commitment, bound to move on after the job is finalized – a lifelong cycle that he has chosen to participate in.

“Wanna touch me or not?” He rasps, voice an octave lower as he tethers on the cusp of impatience, frustrated to the point where he is ready to pin her to the ground, then fuck until she will lose the capacity to formulate any coherent sentence.

“Yes, yes, I… um… I’m sorry,” she stutters, shaking her head a little to wake up from the odd trance that she has been floating in for the past few minutes, required to comprehend the post-orgasmic circumstances, or rather the genealogist’s proposition – a matter of speechless contemplation.

“Christ, don’t apologize, just get on with it,” he huffs – an evidence of calmness deficits, not so intricate to surmise, considering the ragging hard-on inside his jeans. “It’s, well, just sex, no great philosophy behind it.”

“Um, okay,” she chuckles nervously, hands sliding down his shoulders to the chest area, ready to dive in the exploration process, thus verify what is awaiting her just around the corner, to experience the pain-sprinkled pleasure that she has heard so much about.

The postponement anticipating finalization.

Ironically though, there is yet another aspect to it all – an intuitive prompt of relatively disturbing nature, built upon the ‘just-sex’ statements, a doubt oscillating between a twain of scenarios. What if she is only a vent for his carnal phantasies, what if the crucial decision has already been made, what if their ways are bound to part in the aftermath, ensued by a mystical promise of a comeback on some unspecified day – an infantile belief of an equally ingenuous lass. But still, with the rhythmical throbbing between her legs, the sex-related denouement is inevitable – a form of bodily slavery that defines her terminal choice.

Ergo, ensued by the last peck – a fleeting brush against his lips – she gets off the prior spot on his lap, lying back on the blanket once again, quick to cross her legs in an instinctual attempt to cover the vulva, disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. From where Florence is propped on the elbows, she can see his shoulders jerking with each uneven breath, hands reaching down to unbuckle the leather belt, partially betraying his titillation. Lust-driven man, who is now obliged to stand up if intent to remove the last pair of barriers, both the pants and the underwear in one motion, somehow steady in spite of the conspicuous excitement, revealing the throbbing hard-on – a sight that gets her to question the stretching capacities of her own body.

Whilst such doubts are indeed someway illogical, they still invade her mindset, crawling in between the variety of sore stories either told by one of her friends, or overheard in the high school locker-room, unsettling especially when paired with the sight of penis in person, or a man who settles down beside her legs, lying his hands on the knees, intent to spread them apart. A shift to which she responds with a tensed twitch of her muscles, shutting the eyes tightly in time with yet another jerky inhale – a poor calming construct, awaiting its sensible substitute from Harrison.

A comforting speech accompanied by a heavy sigh – a display of impatience – further ensued by an actual verbalization, a compound of words that she has been dying to hear – a matter of illusionary comfort?

(Christ, no.)

“Hey, look at me,” he prompts, hands sliding up her thighs to massage the rigid flesh, eliciting a soft moan from the woman as they creep a little higher, applying the telltale pressure atop their inner parts. “It won’t hurt, I promise.”

“Really?” She frowns, spreading her legs a bit, at least enough to invite him in between them, twitching when his palms rest on the hips, the front of his thighs brushing against the back of hers.

“Well yes… unless you get tensed, obviously,” he chuckles, intent to relieve the hassle in the first place, although in the end the sound comes as more husky than lighthearted, arousal evident in the smoky tone.

“Well, I am tensed,” she mimics his manner, at least attempts to, considering the amount of stress currently consuming her mind.

(God, why couldn’t anyone tell me it’d be this hard?)

“Yeah, I suppose you are,” he agrees, muttering the words under his breath as he leans down to her, hand finding its way back in between her legs, intent to ensure she will be ready for their crucial denouement tonight. Sliding a pair of fingers inside, he elicits a breathy gasp from the partner, drawing them apart in order to scissor her open, as his thumb presses to the clit, stroking the nub in time with each thrust.

And fuck, does it send her flying…

Up to the altitude where she is struggling to comprehend the nature of her current situation, where her eyelids are falling shut, and her head is spinning, body arching towards him, hips rocking in a dreamy, moderate manner, craving more of his touch. As if on the contrary, he removes the fingers, in other words deprives the greedy woman from the subtle caress that she has been drinking in for the past few minutes, quick to rearrange the grip in order to pull her a little closer, thus find a convenient position to finally meet both of their needs.

Caught in such feverish state of mind, neither of them bother to take care of any form of protection, dying to cut straight to the point, to end the decadent suffering – a pursuit consuming his perception. Having smeared the remains of her wetness on his member, he is ready to line with her entrance, slip in between the parted folds, warm, luscious, and inviting, pulsing as he draws a one-way path down. With a final glance thrown in her direction, pupils dilated almost to the point where they swallow the hazel irises, he slides in – a gradual movement that still elicits an broken moan from the woman as well as a frustrated groan from him, engulfed by the heated cocoon, fluttering around his shape.

And fuck, does it send him flying…

“Mm… fuck…” he curses under his breath after a particularly tight contraction – an inborne response to the alien intrusion. “Tell me when you’ll want me to move.”

In the first place, she only hums in response, wrapping her arms around his frame, nails scratching the nape of his neck, hips wriggling to test the newfound position, voice a little breathy as she chooses to speak up after a brief interval, required to collect the final thought.

“I’m okay, really,” she ensures, fingers now playing with the shorter hairs at the back of his head, as she meets his gaze, obscured by a thin curtain of lust. “It wasn’t that painful.”

“Told you so,” he remarks with a brief eyeroll, but in the end throws her a fleeting smirk – a gesture that sweeps her with some odd wave of reassurance, a wave that prompts her to wrap the legs around his waist, lifting up a little higher to test the waters, which in the end earns a murmured praise from the genealogist. “Mm-hm, just like that… such a good girl…”

A broken sentence that nearly gets her to moan out loud, insides twitching around his member, which elicits a subdued hiss from the man, ensued by something else, an expression of entirely different nature – a smirk playing upon his lips, evoked by a newfound realization.

“Aren’t you a dirty little girl…”

“I’m not- I… no!” She denies, as if utterly outraged.

“No?” He banters, cocking an eyebrow at the abashed woman, before he sweeps his tongue up her cleavage, feeling the walls flutter around him, as if only to affirm the ever-present surmise. “And what about now?”

“I’m…” she hesitates, someway frustrated by the continuous stillness, perception centered around the pulsing shape inside her, begging to rock into it. “God, just get on with it, please.”

A plead that gets him to chuckle in response – a throaty noise that sends a shiver down her spine, thick with arousal – as if only to vex her even further, to watch her unravel in the emotional way – a spectacle of personal nature.

Therefore, he is determined to pursuit with said conception, withdrawing a little just to push back in once again – an action that elicits a breathy whine from her as well as a relieved sigh from him that is quick to transfer into a hiss, with her nails biting into his flesh, caught in the newfound sensation. Somehow pleasurable, there is no need to deny it, albeit alien at the same time, alternative in comparison with the one delivered by his fingers, now clasped around her thigh and the waist, keeping the woman in place for future reference.

Or maybe more flowing than forthcoming, with the gradual build-up of rhythm, hips rocking in repetitive motions, which forces a high-pitched squeal from her throat, as he nudges a peculiar spot inside, previously grazed by his fingers, no emphasis, or regularity, but now… that is a whole different story. The sensation seems to pierce through the slight discomfort that comes with the stretch, mingle in between the incessant discomfort, thus alleviate the unpleasant notion on the benefit of something that actually resembles the whole fuss about sex. Even though it is by any means queer, there is still a part of her that craves the constant stimulation, consumed by the thirst for whatever he is willing to deliver on the course of their developing act – a passive observer.

And she is dying to change that.

Therefore, with the following inhale, she tugs him down to her level, joining their lips in a caress that might as well be considered a kiss, if not for the fact that they are rather breathing into each other’s mouths, moving without any actual concept, noses bumping as he seeks for dominance, primal in its vicious nature, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip hard enough to draw a pained squeal from the woman. Even though the man is quick to soothe the sharp sting with his tongue, he bites back hers when she tries to seize the opportunity and dive in for the French manner, as if intent to pursue only on his very own conditions – a turnabout that she is less than satisfied with.

“Don’t tease me like that, please,” she complains, thrown off guard by the wicked smirk playing upon his lips, eyes glinting with some lascivious intent – a nourishment for all the ambivalent attitudes, distinctive when it comes to the odd man in front of her.

“Tease you?” He baits, halting the movements once he begins to speak, which elicits a displeased moan from the woman, hips lifting up as an innate reaction to the sudden stillness. “Like what exactly?”

“God, you’re so-”

“So… what?”

“So fru- ah-” he interrupts her answer with a particularly sharp thrust, tearing yet another moan from the woman, as if only to rile her up even further, “so frustrating.”

“Oh, thank you,” he retorts, lips still laced with the same teasing smirk that infuriates her more than anything else at the moment. “But I’ve been told that before.”

“Oh really?” A sarcastic query that only prompts him to elongate the exasperating experience. “I wouldn’t have told.”

“I bet you wouldn’t,” he teases, a response adorned with a brief chuckle.

“Okay, but move now, please,” she reiterates, gradually growing more and more impatient with the lack of friction.

“Now?” He mimics, a taunting manner that enhances the irritation, solely on purpose. “And what about you?”

“I don’t… what- ah-”

Seemingly out of nowhere, he is to interrupt her with yet another movement – an alteration from their usual position – flipping them over so that she is lying on the top instead, calves pressing to his thighs, as if in search for some illusionary balance. Confused with the sudden turn of events, she is only able to stare at him, loosening the hold around his shoulders, swept with the realization that the current settling is indeed quite steady, deprived of any excess swaying.

At least until he decides to disturb the physical stability with one of his random statements.

“I want you to ride me.”

A proposition pulled out of blue.

“You want me to do what?” She asks, forehead marked by an almost signature frown, visibly caught off guard.

“To ride me,” he repeats, hands swiping up and down her back in repetitive strokes – a gesture of calming nature, easy to succeed in that realm – a matter of questionable benefit. “C’mon Florence, I’ll guide you.”

“Okay, but, um… I don’t know if I’ll manage, really,” she hesitates, cheeks tinted with a hint of blush, someway embarrassed about the concept that he will watch her like this – a perspective leaving nothing to imagination. “It’s kind of like… I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Just grind your hips,” he instructs, hands sliding down to rest there as an embodiment of the aforementioned guidance. “The rest comes naturally, trust me.”

“Um… okay,” she nods, having decided to meet his needs in the end, even if they require stepping out of the comfort zone – a lifelong pursuit. “I’ll try.”

“Good girl,” he mutters against her lips, catching the bottom one for a brief kiss, adorned with a subtle smirk as a reaction for the breathy gasp slipping past her lips – a manifest of the inborne bashfulness. “Lift up.”

With a movement that someway betrays the subsiding hindrance, she complies, rising up to a seated position with both palms pressed to his chest, surprised when he follows her path, wrapping one arm around the waist, while using the other to support his weight from behind, anticipating the performance. Or an act that she is willing to deliver, and thus shifts her hips for the very first time in such settling, immediate to realize how much she has been longing for that form of friction – a discovery more than perceptible in the way she is squirming atop his lap, squealing once her clit rubs against his pubic bone.

“Oh God,” she moans, swept away with the gradually intensifying sensation, a blinding contrast to the previous lack of stimulation, building up more and more with each grind, now that she has found the most convenient position.

“Feels good, huh?” He rasps after a few longer moments, hand rising up to her chest, since the languid pace that she has chosen requires no support from the back, intent to speed up the process with the repetitive pulsing of her inner muscles – a threat of premature ending – at the same time dying to witness her orgasm once again tonight.

Captivating.

Raw when led by the instinctual prompts.

Ravishing with all the insecurities casted aside.

Candied treat that lures him to take a bite.

A whim manifesting itself in the way he cradles her breast, weighing the flesh in his hand, before he teases the protruding bud, drawing a relieved sigh from the woman, thirsty for more stimulation, a quality evident in the deep-rooted moan, uttered mere seconds later. A noise that he has never heard from Florence, and thus a response that causes him to twitch inside her, all of sudden craving to alter their position, to create the opportunity that will allow him to gain more control over the situation.

(Or to fuck her exactly as I please.)

“C’mon, Florence,” he encourages instead, hissing once she clenched around him, still struggling to control that part of her anatomy, caught in the most peculiar state – delight foreshadowing the denouement.

Having opted out of a verbal answer this time, she covers his lips with hers, suppressing the occasional noises coming from her throat, tongue flicking over his in some frenzied state of bliss, body arching towards him in search for more contact – a factor that she is craving more than anything right now. Which might as well be a lie, considering the greedy grinds of her hips, pushing the woman closer and closer to the second finish tonight, blossoming in the pit of her stomach, spreading akin to a summertime conflagration, consuming acres of land on the course of its existence.

And she would be damned if she was not craving to burn.

To be swept with a wave of tingling delight, squeezing him tighter than ever, which nearly gets him to burst, crying out when her clit bumps with his pubic bone, entirely too sensitive for such form of stimulation, swimming on the wave that has crashed to the shore. Therefore, deprived of the essential ability to comprehend what is happening around her, she utters a whine of protest as soon as he flips them around, intent to pull out before he loses the composure, which he succeeds in seconds later, leaving her pulsing around nothing, eyelids closed to shield herself from the outside world, still lost in some parallel realm. Settled in such position, she misses the sight of him delivering his member the last few strokes – a fast-pace show, with the very intention to follow her path sooner than later – an objective that has been blossoming inside his mind on the course of their developing encounter.

Spasming with the waves of aftershocks, he someway finds his place beside her, laying down on the blanket with a single arm draped over his face, breathing in heavily as he waits for the heartbeat to return back to normal. With his eyes closed, he fails to notice her reaching for his hand, until the first brush of her fingers is tangible atop his flesh, slipping them in between his, pleased with the lack of protest, although somehow disappointed that he does not return the subtle squeeze that she delivers.

Therefore, obliged by the odd need to break the silence, she utters one last statement – a ‘thank you’ adorned in the hopeful plead, eyes glued to his profile as she begins to speak.

“Harrison?”

“Huh?”

“We could do that again some time if you’d want to.”

(Oh Florence, what a silly little girl you are…)

* * *

Once upon a time there was a person who chose to believe, to believe in the aspects of great absurdity, of blind faith, of continuous equivocation – a wayfarer of the traitorous path, surprised by each arising chagrin. In her case the distress is caused by the end of one phase, a transition from the carefree summer to sinister college period, faced with the fretfulness that comes with each change, with each lonely challenge on the walk of life. A defiance that she has forced herself to pursue with, well aware that any sudden alteration will look ridiculous in the eyes of her parents, caught in the ever-present doubt concerning the coping part.

(Liar.)

(…)

(Such a pathetic little liar. Like how can’t you even admit it to yourself?)

(Christ, I’m sorry, okay? Chill out, not everyone is as perfect as you are.)

(There you go, good girl…)

(Ugh, fuck off.)

(Mm… sassy, that’s more I like it.)

(I said-)

“Florence?” A voice that slices through the duel of thoughts, someway attracting her attention, thus pulling the woman out of the contemplational depth, not that she is entirely pleased with such turnabout. “I’d like you to say goodbye to our guest.”

“Sure aunt, I’m coming,” she sighs, reluctant to rise from her seat on the garden bench, surrounded by the cooling summer air – a sign of the approaching evening, presumably the worst of them all.

No more no less than a path to the main entrance, feet padding against the tiles, head bowed low as if it would spare the unpleasant image of him surrounded by the luggage, ready for the departure. Even clad in the same flax shirt from their first encounter (she can tell by the faded stain on his sleeve), he is to greet her with a polite smile, so cold and alien at the same time, as if they barely knew each other.

God, how she hates him right now…

“Give me a hand with the papers?” He asks, gesturing towards the set of tubes supported by his suitcase, a help that she is certain holds no purpose, other than sharing some information with the woman – a communique that is bound to exacerbate her state.

“Fine,” she agrees either way, since it would be ridiculous to refuse him now – a childish behavior that she wishes she will not personify in his memories.

Therefore, intent to get it done as soon as possible, she is quick to reach for the papers, ready to toss them on the backseat – a place that she used to be so fond of in the past, but now… God, she wishes she had the ability to forget that summer, atrocious in its allurement, and thus someway forced to interrupt the track of thoughts, to break the bitter silence.

“We’ve never swum in that lake.”

(Really? That’s the best you can come up with now? Christ.)

“Well,” he chuckles – a teasing tone that unnerves her more than anything, that gets her to regret even initiating that topic in the first place. “I think we had better things to do.”

(God, what was I even thinking?)

“Yeah, maybe we had,” she sighs, almost sobbing out loud when she turns around to face him, already leaning on the driver’s door, mere minutes from the departure.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he flashes her an apologetic smile – a sight that finally manages to break the illusionary composure, forcing a broken sob from her constricted throat. “C’mere.”

Or a prompt that requires no reiteration, calling her to jump straight into his arms, to feel his warmth surround her for that one last time, to engulf in his scent – a calming composition of some woody fragrances that she has adored ever since.

Why does it all have to taste do bitter now?

“Florence?”

“Y-yes?” She sobs, having sensed that any form of hindrance is useless in such state, thus allows the tears to flow freely as she glances at him with these wide, green eyes, chin wobbling in anticipation for what is bound to be his final goodbye.

“Good luck with the college,” he mutters against her hair, lips brushing the top of the head – an action that elicits yet another chocked noise from her throat. “And… give me a call sometimes.”

Having grasped her by the hand, he slips a tiny card in the half-clutched fist – a movement that remains almost unnoticed, with her lost in the process of pondering whether she should kiss him or not. Which in the end turns out as a decision that is apparently not hers to make, as he is quicker to act upon the instinct, and thus lean in to cover her lips with his – their personal farewell, dulcet and dreamy, a brief interval carved from the eternity’s timeline.

Or a prelude to the final disconnection, to the moment when he is obliged to slip from the embrace, leaving her cold and empty on the cobbled path, as he gets in the car, ready to twist the key in ignition, allowing her to witness the terminal drive down to the road – a sight that has Florence covering her mouth, intent to suppress the repetitive sobs that are to consume the woman again once he has chosen to abandon her in front of the mansion – a cycle of continuous nature, deprived of the putative final.

Such a dramatic tendency.

Or a perspective that somehow gets her to wonder what a pity it is that they have never swum in that lake.

“Fat chances we’ll ever be.”

Created: 03/09/21 Completed: 06/13/21 Edited: 06/18/21

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gumnut-logic · 5 years

Text

The Hero (Part Six)

Title: The Hero

Sequel/companion piece to The Joker

Author: Gumnut

21 - 24 Nov 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Thunderbird Two, with Virgil and Gordon aboard, is hijacked and stolen. With Virgil injured, it is up to Gordon to save his brother and his ‘bird. Sequel/companion piece to ‘The Joker’. Gordon is far more than he seems.

Word count: 2970

Spoilers & warnings: Violence, WASP!Gordon, Military!Scott, whump, language.

Timeline: Sequel/companion piece to ‘The Joker’.

Author’s note: For @corbyinoz because she has written some magnificent Virgil and Gordon fics and is a great inspiration. Thank you for all your wonderful words.

This fic continues to do as it likes. It would not behave in this chapter at all. Thank you to everyone who yelled at me for the last chapter. Sorry :D ::hugs you all:: You are so kind to me and give me such support :D There is plenty more to come, I promise. I hope you enjoy it :D

It started with ‘The Joker’. I got interested in WASP!Gordon and decided to explore his side of the story. Then PLOT happened. Now I have no idea what is going on.

Many thanks to @vegetacide and @scribbles97 for putting up with my crazy.

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

There comes a time in a soldier’s life where they discover whether they have what it takes or not.

For Gordon it came unexpectedly and early in his career. An underwater habitat was taken by terrorists. It was a residential facility for a scientific team and there were families and children involved. Gordon was deployed as part of the WASP force to take the habitat back. One of the terrorists was cornered and grabbed a child in order to threaten his way out of the situation. In the process he managed to shoot Gordon’s partner and damage Gordon’s air supply.

The child could have been no more than five and was absolutely terrified. Holding her by her emergency evac suit, the perp had a weapon pointed at her head.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have reached the decision level if it hadn’t been for the explosion on the far side of the complex and the accompanying WASP retreat call from his commanding officer.

Or the fact that the criminal grinned at him through his faceplate, knowing his group had won this round.

Gordon wasn’t willing to abandon the little girl.

And the guy wasn’t willing to let her go.

The report afterwards said necessary force, but the truth of the matter was that Gordon Tracy had been forced to take a life for the first time.

He wasn’t quite the same after that.

But he knew he had what it took.

To be who he needed to be.

-o-o-o-

Perhaps he didn’t want to do it. Perhaps he was fighting himself. But the sight of two brothers and his sister on the floor and a man who had been his mentor, his idol, a second father, standing there and threatening more harm...

Gordon came down hard.

And his teacher met him with an equal and opposite force, his body moving through form smoothly and without hesitation.

Lips thinned, brows tensed in concentration, it became a dance.

Gordon would feint and strike and Kyrano deflect, only to follow through with his own strike, which in turn was also deflected. Fists became elbows, knees feet and bodies a blur of motion caught only by subconscious perception. Concentration a writhing thing caught between them.

“I have waited for this for so long, Mister Gordon.” It was puffed out between actions, green eyes fastened on his opponent, Kyrano said it through gritted teeth. “Perhaps you can finally bring this to an end.”

Gordon spun, aiming an elbow for the man’s gullet only to have a fist land in his ribcage.

His stance suffered and his elbow hit a shoulder with a crack.

Kyrano didn’t even flinch.

“Why are you doing this, K?” The aquanaut flung himself out of reach for a moment, catching his breath and noting on his periphery that Virgil was struggling to sit up beside the bed. “You’re family!” It came out as a desperate yell as he had to contort out of the way of kick that would have broken bones.

He spun on one foot and returned the blow, catching his mentor on the hip and shifting his balance. A follow through fist caught ribs and Kyrano, in turn, was forced to fall away and regroup.

“Because I have to. I have no choice.” Heavy breathing. “You can end this. I taught you well. You can end this, Mister Gordon.”

The words distracted him enough for Kyrano and lash out and drive a fist into his cheek. A snap of bone and pain arced across his face, drilling into his skull.

His grunt spun him away and out of reach. Stars danced in his periphery.

A breath and the Malay struck again, a crack to Gordon’s shoulder spun him around and for a moment, his balance wobbled.

“No, you are stronger than this. Fight!”

The man’s voice was an echo of Gordon’s subconscious. The voice that told him he could keep going, that he would survive if he just tried harder. Its owner was an inspiration, a lead, a role model, a man...

...he loved.

A yell of anguish and he spun on his left foot, his right foot flung out at lethal force.

It connected.

Kyrano was thrown across the room. He collided with Virgil’s bookcase, collapsing the shelves and bringing a mass of art books down on his shoulders.

There was silence for a moment, broken only by Gordon’s harsh breathing. Why, K, why? His left eye was having trouble focussing and his face was a mass of pain. He moved in to take advantage.

He wasn’t fast enough.

A heavy book, Picasso, shot up and shoved into his gut, shoving any and all breath from his body in a strangled groan. The world tipped and he was going down.

He couldn’t afford to go down. Kyrano was inevitable as a rockslide. Any advantage and he would take it.

But spots danced before Gordon’s eyes.

A flash of Virgil still struggling to right himself.

No.

And Kyrano was on him, hands reaching for his throat.

No.

He twisted mid-air and the spots spun with him, but he rolled as he hit the floor. His foot kicked over Virgil’s desk chair with a clatter, but he was able to follow through and stumble to his feet, lungs clawing up his throat desperate for air.

Move.

He moved.

Kyrano followed.

And fell.

Virgil was wrapped around his legs.

His brother yelled his guts out, but it gave Gordon the moment, gave him the strength, to turn and bring a fist down hard enough to disable.

Kyrano’s head snapped against the floor once and was still.

The gasping silence returned.

“Restrain him.” It was little more than a parched whisper from Virgil. It got Gordon’s shocked mind moving.

The spots still danced, but he ignored them and stumbled to Virgil’s desk and a roll of framing wire. A pair of cutters and some secure binds later around both hands and feet, Kyrano was immobilised.

Virgil reached into the man’s tunic and pulled out the electroshock weapon and handed it to Gordon.

He held it in his palm, staring, as Virgil rolled off Kyrano with a groan and began crawling towards Scott, the closest unconscious family member.

A blink and Gordon moved to check on Tin.

On automatic, his hands moved with practise as he assessed his sister. A cut on her temple, likely caused by the window sill above her. Her vitals were strong. He rolled her into the recovery position and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

A groan from the other side of the room heralded his eldest brother’s re-entry into the land of the conscious. He stumbled over, his vision blurring as he moved.

He really needed to sit down.

“John.”

“I’m on my way. Docking in three.”

“Good.”

And then his body made him sit down, the world doing a fairground attraction around his head.

“Gordon?!” Virgil’s voice had about as much strength as Gordon had in his limbs.

“Virg...”

Large hands grabbed him, but the world just spun away and left him behind.

-o-o-o-

Virgil caught his brother as best he could, which wasn’t very well at all, but at least his head didn’t hit the floor.

Moving hurt like hell and it was so frustrating knowing he had the power to help his prone family, but being unable to act on it without screaming.

Beside him, Scott rolled over, curling in on himself, no doubt in as much, if not more pain than Virgil. The engineer clutched his little brother to him best he could, holding up his heavily bruised face. One eye was swelling shut and a distortion in his left cheekbone spoke of serious damage.

His familiar orange shirt of palm trees was speckled with blood.

Somewhat dazed himself, Virgil forced himself to focus. Vitals.

Heart strong.

Breathing.

Laboured.

Gentle fingers probed and Virgil found what he suspected.

Broken ribs.

Brains burst into the room and Virgil startled.

The resultant pain blurred his vision.

He and Gordon were going to be a pair for the next few weeks.

“Brains.” It was a word of relief.

“J-John called m-me.” His fellow engineer was assessing his eldest brother. “S-Scott?”

“God.” The commander pushed himself into a sitting position. “That hurt like hell.” He ground his palms into his eyes.

“S-sit quietly, S-Scott. John is c-coming and Alan has b-been r-recalled.”

Blue eyes latched on the still form in the middle of the floor. “Is he...?”

Virgil cleared his throat as best he could, but it still came out dry. “Unconscious.”

That gaze fixed on Virgil. “Who?”

He looked down at his little brother. “Gordon.” He brushed a stray hair off his brother’s brow.

“Why?” Scott’s eyes were like those of a child who could not understand why a parent had done something horrible.

Probably because that was exactly what had happened.

“I don’t know.” God, his chest hurt.

In more ways than one.

“He seemed to want Gordon to put an end to something, as if he had come here for this exact reason, to fight him.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, Scott.” Everything hurt.

Kayo groaned and Brains rushed over to her just as John burst into the room. Hover stretchers followed. Quiet words, calm words.

Reassuring words.

God, he wished John would sing more often. He had such a beautiful voice.

“You can let him go now, Virgil.” Turquoise eyes pleading quietly.

Virgil looked down at his unconscious little brother. He had to protect Gordon.

He hadn’t done a very good job.

He looked up at another little brother. “Look after him.”

“I will.” A gentle hand on his shoulder. “Rest Virgil.”

A blink and he surrendered Gordon to those caring hands. Lost for a moment, he slumped over slowly until he was lying on the floor, the carpet rough under his cheek.

He closed his eyes.

-o-o-o-

Thunderbird Two launched under Alan’s expert hands with her infirmary full. Gordon had woken at one point in order to puke on John’s boots. He had been in and out ever since. Virgil had had the privilege of witnessing the momentous event and despite all his rescue experience, had nearly puked in sympathy.

Kayo lay on the other bed, her only words consisted of various forms of profanity. Virgil would have been worried regarding Grandma’s reaction to such word usage, except her arrival back on the island to find half her family in need of hospitalisation was somewhat similar.

Scott didn’t comment either. The man was furious and determined not to be forced into a bed. Instead, he stumbled about Thunderbird Two with an arm wrapped around his gut while Virgil tried to nag him into bed.

Though Virgil had to admit, that if he could move, he would likely be doing the same.

So much betrayal.

The question of why was on loop in his head and, no doubt, his brothers’.

John and Alan had bundled their assailant into proper restraints and then doubled them and followed up with light sedation. Kyrano was as slippery as an eel and all precautions needed to be taken.

All.

At least until the Tracy brothers had the capacity to ask the questions that needed to be asked.

Thunderbird Two was fast, so the GDF flyer would have to catch up once she landed in Wellington, but it was on their tail nonetheless, Colonel Casey on board with more questions than Virgil had hairs on his head.

Virgil and Scott had already discussed it. They couldn’t hold Kyrano themselves, but at the same time, how could they trust the GDF to hold him for them?

-o-o-o-

The hospital was a mix of outraged doctor and caring hands.

“Mister Tracy, your prescription was extended rest, yet you come back with exacerbated ribs and a burn on your thigh, a day later.” The doctor was glaring at him, her hoverjets an aggravated hiss in the background.

He didn’t back down. “Was worth it. How are my brothers?” His voice was dry and ached.

Her lips thinned. “Attended to-“ And as if to negate her claim, Scott slipped through the emergency room curtains, arm still wrapped around his torso.

Aunt Val followed him, brown eyes piercing.

Virgil grabbed the bedsheet and yanked it up over his exposed chest. His aunt obviously didn’t miss the rainbow of colours on his torso as her expression went almost immediately from military to concerned aunt and back in a split second. He swallowed his embarrassment.

“Excuse me, this is a private consultation.” The doctor flared, her dark cloud of hair bouncing as she moved to intercept. “Mister Scott Tracy, you need to sit down.” She grabbed the plastic chair beside Virgil’s bed and shoved it in his brother’s direction.

Val Casey palmed it, and with a firm parental shove, deposited the Commander of International Rescue in its paltry confines. “Listen to the doctor, Scott.”

His brother sagged a little. “You can’t have him, Colonel. We can’t afford to lose him.”

It was a non-sequitur for a moment, but a flash of blue and Virgil realised that the GDF were trying to take Kyrano. Scott had come here for support. The fact he had done that only proved to Virgil his brother was flagging and needed to rest before he fell on his face.

Virgil pushed himself up in the bed and suppressed a groan. The doctor spun and glared at him. “Don’t you even think of moving.”

“Doctor...” Scott’s voice was so tired it hurt.

“You assured me that your brother would be appropriately cared for, Mister Tracy.”

“Unexpected assassin. My apologies, doctor.” But his brother’s guilt flickered across his face enough to fire Virgil’s anger.

“It wasn’t his fault!”

Scott reached out and placed a hand on his brother’s leg. “Doesn’t matter. We need to speak to Kyrano.”

Virgil eyed the Colonel. “Can you hold him?”

“We can.”

“No, you can’t.” Scott’s expression was bleak. “I’m sorry, Colonel, but the GDF’s record in this leaves much to be desired.”

“Give me twenty-four hours, Scott. Enough time for you to recover at least.”

“And what happens when he escapes and comes for us again?”

“He won’t.” Her lips were thin and determined.

Scott sagged just that little bit further and Virgil shifted to climb off the bed. His brother was screaming for help without saying a thing.

But a hand landed on his arm and a whirr of hoverjets saw Doctor Harris moving in on his brother. “Mister Tracy, you need a bed and an examination.” Virgil couldn’t see her expression, but he could see his brother’s and those blue eyes were suddenly vulnerable as they turned to look up at her.

A groan and Scott folded double, clutching at his abdomen.

Shit!

Virgil threw his feet off the bed as the doctor activated her comms and called for assistance. Within moments a team burst through the curtains and flocked around his brother. Sharp crisp words and he was carted out through those same curtains, Doctor Harris following.

Virgil struggled to get off the bed and follow, but his body screamed at him and his progress was stopped by a strong female hand. “He’s in good hands, Virgil.” The colonel was gone and all that remained was his aunt. He let out an agitated breath and suddenly her arms were around him, her perfume the same from all those years ago.

Memories clogged his brain.

A moment and he was pulling away. He couldn’t afford to lose it. Comms in his collar. “John.”

His brother answered immediately and Virgil gave him a sitrep. John moved to attend to Scott and reported that Grandma and Alan were assisting Kayo and Gordon respectively.

Virgil signed off and sagged where he sat. “You can’t let him go, Aunt Val. You have to promise me you won’t lose him.” He caught her eyes. “Please, he can’t do this to my family again.” A swallow. “And we need answers.”

“I promise, Virgil.”

He so wanted to believe her. “And don’t hurt him.” It was whispered.

“I will see to it personally.” Her hand reached out and rubbed his arm. “Now you need to rest.”

The curtains were disturbed again and John slipped through, his expression one of concern. “They’ve taken Scott to surgery.”

Virgil tensed, sitting up straighter. “What? Why?”

But Doctor Harris whizzed in behind his brother. “Because he is as stupid as you and won’t rest when he is told. Lie down, Mister Tracy before I tie you to the bed for your own good.” She was gruff, but it was a worried, kindly gruff. “Virgil, your brother has some minor internal bleeding. He will be well with some care and some rest. As you will be, if you will just lie down.”

Scott, you moron. God, the man just didn’t listen. The tension in Virgil’s spine ebbed just enough for his body to remind him that, yes, he was sporting multiple injuries and, yes, lying down was mandatory right now, no matter what his opinion.

He slid sideways and would have fallen off the bed if John and Aunt Val hadn’t grabbed him.

“Virgil, rest. I’ve got this.” He turned to look up at his brother as his head was lowered gently to the pillow. John’s face was tired and worried. He was still in uniform having hit too much gravity far too fast yet again.

Shit.

“Alan and I will see to Kyrano, Virgil. Do what the doctor says before you end up like Scott.” That last was firm, but worried younger brother, and he was right.

He let himself sink into the mattress. “Aunt Val?”

“You have my word.”

Doctor Harris moved closer, scanner in hand. Virgil caught his Aunt’s eyes, desperate to drive his urgency home. “Make it a good one.”

-o-o-o-

End Part Six

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Gordon Tracy #Scott Tracy #Em Harris #Val Casey #the joker and the hero

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