#serena destroys so much of evidence of her existence

[tragairem]

YOU HAVE NO CONTROL ......

‘ who lives ‘ CALEM

‘ who dies ‘ SERENA

‘ who tells your story ‘ SHAUNA

[captainscanadian]

Exception | Carter Baizen x Reader (Part 2)

My Masterlist

Prologue | Part 1

Summary: The Archibald Wedding was supposed to be your first public appearance in the Upper East Side since you had left fifteen years ago. But what you had not realized was that Nate was marrying Caroline Baizen.

Word Count: 4900+

Pairing: CEO!Carter Baizen x Lawyer!Reader, Nate Archibald x Caroline Baizen, Chuck Bass x Blair Waldorf, Dan Humphrey x Serena van der Woodsen

Warnings: Swearing, Gossip Girl References, Mentions of Drugs & Alcoholism, Underage Drinking, Mentions of Death, Capitalism (I HAD TO!)

A/N: This is my entry for @baezen​​‘s writing challenge. I am breezing through this fic because I am overly excited to be writing it. Don’t mind me! Tag list is open, just send in an ask to be tagged. I don’t own any of the pics/gifs I used. Love you all! <3

His fingers wrapped around his whiskey glass as he sat down at the bar of the Palace Hotel. With the final preparations of his sister’s wedding well under way, the Baizen’s and the Archibald’s were staying the night at the hotel before the wedding festivities were to begin. The rehearsal dinner had gone smoothly and hopefully, so would the main event.

Carter Baizen may be the current CEO of Baizen Industries, but he had never been the most responsible member of the Baizen family or even the entire Upper East Side if he was being honest. At least not until now, he was not. Like most of the spoiled brats who called this borough of Manhattan their stomping ground, he had been quite the reckless soul during his teenage years. Drinking underage and doing lines of coke were only the bare minimum of the atrocities that he had committed when he was younger. He was a liar, a manipulator and a womanizer. He had owned up to that by now. But there was indeed a woman whom he had fallen in love with, for real that one time. You really were his one exception.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had lost you that night in Santorini that had sent him on his downward spiral. After losing you the way he had, Carter had done the unthinkable. He had cut ties with his parents and left the Upper East Side for good, traveling all around the world in search of his long lost love. Your interest in French history and culture had brought him to New Orleans during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. He had helped out with the clean up, in hopes that he would somehow end up running into you. He knew you well enough to know that you would have been there. But unfortunately for him, you were nowhere to be found.

His next destination had been Peru. For some reason, he had been searching for you there too. He had remembered you mentioning to him once that you had wanted to take part in the rebuilding of Machu Picchu. It had even been a part of your introduction during the debutante ball, for which he had been your escort. He had told you that you were crazy for wanting to be so... charitable. It seemed too unlikely for an Upper East Sider to be so sacrificial in the name of charity. Most people who he knew would simply write a cheque and call it a day.

Carter had mocked you when you had told him about this dream of yours at first. But then he had done exactly that, spending a whole year of his life helping to rebuild Machu Picchu and recording his experience into a documentary. He hoped that wherever you were in the world, you would have come across that film and you would have made your way back to him. He had done what you had always wanted to do, but you were still nowhere to be found. He had gone straight to London after that, knowing that you did have some family there. It had been his last resort. But he could not find you, as you did not want to be found.

Eventually, he had given up on his search for you. He had convinced himself that you must be dead, even though he had reason to believe that you were not. He concluded must have died that night in Santorini, for it was highly unlikely for anyone to just vanish into thin air. After all, it was what the Greek Police had told him when they had questioned him after your disappearance. They had found traces of your blood in your shared hotel room, but that was all the evidence that they were able to find. Serena van der Woodsen had been his alibi. She had confirmed that Carter was not with you that night, but with her. Not that it made much of a difference except end the budding relationship between Lilly and your father for good.

Carter had been detained for a while before your father had withdrawn his complaint and the Greek Police had let him go. He still did not know what had happened that night, for he had been extremely disoriented. That entire night was a blur to him, thanks to him and Serena’s joint venture into doing a few lines of cocaine. But he knew that there was a deep dark secret about what happened that night that your family had been keeping from him. All he had been told was that you were alive and well, and that you did not want to be contacted by anyone. He did not question it, for he did not know what to question.

But he had not been able get himself to believe that you were alive and well anymore. He should have at least tried to press further, but he had chosen not to do so out of respect for your decision. You did not want to be found and it was better that he left it that way. He just did not know why you had thrown him out of your life like that.

His financial situation had led to his gambling problem. His gambling problem had led to him returning to his parents. After his lavish trip to Dubai when he stayed in Palm Island and went pheasant hunting with the prime minister of the United Arab Emirates, it was only a matter of time until his gambling problem had turned into a rather huge debt.

Carter had been an idiot for trying to use Beth Buckley as a pawn into getting the Buckley’s to settle his debt. He had learned that the hard way though. Not only had he manipulated a woman by proposing to her and left her at the altar, but he had also returned to Serena in hopes of restarting what they had. He should have known that fate was going to bite him in the ass by then. But things had only gone downhill from there.

His choice to leave Serena and go off to work at the Buckleys’ oil rig was not just his attempt at redemption. If anything, it was far from that. As much as he wanted to be held accountable for his reckless behavior, he knew that he owed this much to you. Whatever the reason you had left him may be, he had hoped that one day you would come back to him. He hoped that you would find him again. And if that ever came true, then he had to prove that he was worthy of you.

Working in an oil rig, it would have taken him almost twenty years to settle the amount of his debt. But Carter had returned to the Upper East Side in just four years without even having to work off his remaining debt. As it turned out, the Buckley’s business had been shut down completely following their loss in a lawsuit. Their company had been dissolved, their assets liquidated or frozen, and somehow on the contrary, his debt had been settled and he had earned himself his freedom from them. He was no CEO back then, but he knew that there was something fishy about how the Buckley’s had been targeted by a certain British lawyer. It did not take him that long to go running to Bree Buckley for answers.

“This woman... she goes by the name of Y/N van der Bilt. She didn’t even come down to meet with us personally. She sent in a bunch of her associates to do the talking and the paperwork, came in through conference call with her demands. She had us by our necks, Carter. We were bound to lose. We have no choice but to sign over our company and most of our assets. We’re basically living in the streets now. She destroyed us.” The woman had told him, not knowing why someone would have targeted her family like that. Clearly, she was feeling very defeated by this whole thing. No one in her family could even seek revenge on this unknown lawyer. “My family has always had an issue with the van der Bilt family but I’ve never met someone who’s had a personal vendetta against us. I know I used Nate to get to you, but I don’t think even he would have been capable of pulling something like this. She was a ruthless monster and it was clear that she was out to get us. She was a total bitch in a suit, according to PJ. She hit us where it hurts and she was insistent that along with our company and our assets, we also give up our custody of you. She was very particular about that.”

Carter had always wondered why you had bailed him out like that, and why all of a sudden, you had made your existence known to him after all those years. He wondered if you still cared about him, for you had gone after the Buckley’s yourself and pretty much destroyed their family’s entire legacy to ensure his freedom. As a van der Bilt, you might have had your own reasons for doing what you had done. But why go so far?

A part of him had always known that you had been living in London, but Bree’s response to his doubts had only confirmed his suspicions. Yet he had chosen not to go looking for you once more. If you had willingly made sure that he was free, he knew that he owed you that much to not waste that freedom by going back to his globe trotter ways. Just because you did not want to be found, it did not mean that he could not find you at all. He did have some hope but he was not in a rush. If it had taken you almost a decade to make your presence known to him, then it was only a matter of time before you eventually came before him. And boy was he right about that.

Eventually, he did return to the Upper East Side. Following his parents’ tragic passing, it had been just him and his sister. He had taken over as the CEO of Baizen Industries and for once, he had become a responsible man. He did not live to spend anymore, but to earn. He knew that his freedom and the luxurious life he now lived were all because of you. He had to prove to himself and to you that he was worthy of having you back in his life.

Perhaps that was why he had jumped at the chance to buy your father’s failing company, because he knew that if there was anything that the man had cared about in this world, it was his family’s legacy. And you were inevitably his legacy. His target was not the company; it had always been you. He knew that it was only a matter of time until you would show up to save your family’s legacy, and here you fucking were.

He took a sip of his drink before he turned around to face his brother-in-law to be. “You better not be fucking with me, Archibald.” He told him with an eye roll. “I know Y/N’s my weakness but there’s no need for you to hit me with her like this.”

“And why the fuck would I do that?” Nate asked him as he sighed. “Whatever the hell we may have had back then, we’re family now, Carter. I care about you as much as I care about her. You know I’ve told you as much as I could tell you, man. Y/N’s back in town and she’s going to be here for a while.”

“I don’t think she’d want to see me.” Carter admitted, sighing as he set down his glass. “Her dad said she was pretty fucking clear about that when he bailed me out from the Greek Police.”

“She may have had her reasons to not want to see you. But I think we both know that the times have changed. We all need to move forward.” He pointed out, for he was the only one who knew the real truth behind why you had left.

As he had been your one trusted soul, he had made sure not to violate your trust by confiding in Carter of the whole truth. The truth was yours to tell when you were ready to tell it to him. But until then, Nate could only sit by and watch. “She’s coming to the wedding. Do as you please with her when you see her. But if you dare to hurt her, Carter, I will... I won’t even think twice about you being family. I won’t hesitate to fuck you up and run you out of town again.”

“I loved her, Nate. I really did.”

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he shook his head, for he knew that you had always believed otherwise. “You know, I’m not the one you should be saying this to.”  

You stood in front of the floor length mirror in your childhood bedroom, taking in the sight of the reflection of you wearing the Oscar de la Renta evening gown that you had chosen to wear for Nate Archibald’s wedding. “The last time I had to dress up this fancy, it was for a gala that was being thrown by one of my firm’s clients. Even my presence at those events was a rare occasion. Other than that though, I was pretty much locked up in the estate in my pajamas and with my laptop. I seem to have forgotten how common it was for the Upper East Siders to be hosting a banquet every week.” You admitted, sighing as you took a sip of the wine that your maid had graciously poured for you the moment you began getting ready for your first public appearance in New York since leaving the city for good. “But weddings are supposed to be fun when they’re not yours and this is my little cousin’s wedding, after all. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“It’s something to get used to, isn’t it?” Annalise asked you as she stood on top of a small stool to reach your height, being the short and plump woman she had always been. Truth be told, she was still not able to get used to the fact that you had grown past her height since the last time she had seen you in person. She hooked the Swarovski necklace around your neck before taking a look at your reflection in the mirror. “You look beautiful, Miss. Y/N.” She told you as she leaned over to rest her chin against your shoulder for a moment. “You’ve grown up to be a very beautiful woman and you know that.” And she had meant every word of it. She had been working for your parents ever since they had gotten married. Even after their divorce, she had been a significant part of your childhood. Whenever your mother was out of town or if your father was preoccupied with another girlfriend, she had been your primary caregiver and your closest friend.

“Thank you, Annalise.” You smiled at her as you turned around to face her. “God, you have been so good to me since the moment you got here. I wish I could have taken you to London with me when I had left.” You admitted with a soft chuckle. Being all alone in an unknown world, you had to learn how to live your life as an independent woman.

It had not been easy, even though you had somehow managed to push through your struggles. But there were often times when you had wished that you had not left this woman behind. She had been your pillar of strength for so long and she had kept this household together when everything else had turned into a complete shit show. She was the calm within the storm and you had missed her dearly.

The drive from your mother’s penthouse to The Palace had been a rather quiet one once again. You were beyond nervous this time, for this was indeed your first public appearance in the Upper East Side since your so-called disappearance from Santorini fifteen years ago.

Over the years of being a corporate lawyer in one of London’s most reputable law firms, you had managed to grow some thick skin. You knew that the prying eyes of Manhattan’s elite and the gossip were an inevitable part of life on the Upper East Side. You were well aware that your return would be the talk of the town in a matter of seconds.

If Gossip Girl had still been active, the blasts would have been sent out the moment you had even landed at JFK. Even the competing outlet, the NY Spectator, had not made exclusive news out of your arrival. You had Nate Archibald to thank for that.

“You look a little nervous.” Walter pointed out as he gave you a cheeky smile through the rear view mirror.

“Going to this wedding is pretty much the start of me stepping back into the life that I left behind fifteen years ago, Walter. If life had really been so hard for me back then, I know now that it’s going to be much worse now.” You admitted, sighing nervously as you fidgeted with your clutch. The tips of your fingers were sweaty, as were the palm of your hands.

A part of you wanted to bail on this whole thing and return home, perhaps just lock yourself in your childhood bedroom for as long as you were meant to be in town. But you knew that you could not keep hiding from this world any longer. You knew that you had to face your past and the people who had been a part of it whether you liked it or not. That was the only way you could move forward, and that was all an inevitable part of your redemption.

As your limo pulled up in front of The Palace Hotel, you let out a sigh of disbelief at the site of its exterior. It seemed as though nothing had changed in the last fifteen years, at least not much with the exterior of the hotel. The last time you had been here had been for your Cotillion fifteen years ago, when you had been debuted as a young woman in this high society.

“Y/N Y/L/N, escorted by Carter Baizen. Miss. Y/L/N hopes to spend a year in Peru, helping to rebuild the Machu Picchu before going off to attend Yale University.”

“Rebuild the Machu Picchu, really?” Carter teased you as the two of you danced around the ball room after you had been debuted.

“It’s a historically significant piece of architecture that needs to be restored and maintained in the name of preserving the Incan culture.” You replied as you rolled your eyes at him. “You won’t understand...”

“The one thing I don’t understand is how I’m supposed to spend a whole year without you when you’re in Peru.” He admitted, his lips curling into a pout. “It will be one hell of a long year, if I’m being honest.”

“I’m sure you won’t miss me too much, Baizen.” You noted, giving him a cheeky grin. “There are plenty of girls in the Upper East Side who would get in bed with you if you just flicked a fucking finger of yours.”

“But it’s not them I want. It’s you...” He confessed. “You’re my one exception. I can’t just spend a whole damn year away from you, just like that.” Needless to say, the two of you went on to spend fifteen years apart. And that fucking sucked, for the both of you.

As you made your way inside, you reminisced about your time spent in this hotel. Your family had been frequenting here for years now, since the time it was owned by Bart Bass. And now after his second death, it was owned by his son, Chuck Bass.

You were familiar with him as much as you were familiar with Nate, for those two boys had been inseparable since they were very young. Often times, you had babysat the two of them together while Bart had taken a business trip. To think that Chuck was now the CEO of Bass Industries and Nate was getting married. God, you must have been feeling so old right now.

“Oh... my... God!” Blair Waldorf’s jaw had almost hit the floor the moment she noticed you walk into the venue, her eyes growing wide as she nudged her husband. “Holy shit, Chuck! She’s still alive!”

Chuck Bass was quick to turn around to see where his wife had pointed out, and the expression on his face was quick to mimic hers. “Is that... Y/N?!” As shocked as he was to see you, he was happy to know that you were alive and well. He walked up to you with open arms, grinning widely as he greeted you with an embrace. “Oh my God, it really is you!”

“Chuck!” You exclaimed as you pulled him into a hug. “Good God, you’ve grown so much!”

He wrapped as arms around you tightly. “You’re... just the same.” He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “It’s so lovely to see you. Nate didn’t mention that you were coming, I-” He paused to pull back from the hug, letting out a sigh of relief. “How are you? How have you been? It’s been so long.”

“I’ve been great. I’ve... been living in London now and I’m working... at my own firm. I’m back in town and I’ll be here for a while now. I’m sure, you heard about my dad.” It felt so awkward to be answering that question. You had no idea how to word it, for your entire life for the last fifteen years had been a long guarded secret that you wanted no one to find out about.

Surely, everyone you saw would have a lot of questions about where you had been for all this time. But you did not want to answer with the whole truth. Your truth was a lot more dark and twisted than what you let on and you wanted to keep that a secret for a reason.

“Oh yes, of course. I am so sorry to hear that.” Chuck gave you a friendly smile before he was approached by a curly haired man whom you had never met. But he really needed no introduction.

“Chuck, they need all of the groomsmen so that we can get started.” Dan Humphrey informed him before turning his gaze towards you. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Dan Humphrey.” He introduced himself politely as he held his hand out for you to shake. “You’re Y/N, right? You’re-”

“Gossip Girl’s biggest unsolved mystery.” You cut him off with a nod as you took his hand, a cheeky smile on your face as you shrugged your shoulders. “I must admit that I’m a huge fan of your writing.”

“Thank you.”

You looked behind the two gentlemen to see both of their wives looking rather nervous. Blair gave you a nervous wave while Serena completely avoided making eye contact with you.

You let out a sigh before you turned back to Chuck and Dan. “I should probably let you boys go.” You smiled politely at them before you made your way over to take a seat with your mother.

Lilly van der Woodsen- or Bass, since you’d last seen her, was sat next to your mother as you made your way over. “Y/N, it really is you!” She exclaimed when she saw you, a genuine smile plastered across her lips as you took a seat next to her.

The last time you had seen this woman, she had been a girlfriend of your father’s whom you did not approve of. But looking back now, you had to admit that she was the only one of them who had treated you like her own child. Perhaps you may have been harsh on her due to your strong dislike for her daughter. But this was, after all, your attempt to seek redemption. So, you might as well start with Lilly.

You smiled politely at her as you sat down, letting out a sigh of relief at the way she was treating your return. After all, the way you had disappeared from Santorini had not been kind to her relationship with her father. But your father had made sure to let her know why you had left and where you were. She did not know the role that her daughter had played in your sudden disappearance and you hoped to keep it that way. “It’s lovely to see you, Lilly. I see the years have been kind to you.”

“How is your father, sweetheart? I haven’t had the chance to go down and see him yet.”

“He’s alright...” You admitted, nodding your head as though you were trying to convince yourself that he was. “He’s recovering.”

It was the moment before the doors were to open and the bride was to walk down the aisle. The bridesmaids and groomsmen had made their way down the aisle. Chuck Bass, being the best man he was, he turned over to look at the groom in disbelief. “You could have at least told us that she was back in town.” He whispered into his best friend’s ear. “Does she even know?”

Nate Archibald bit his lip nervously, his gaze darting towards where you sat for a moment before he shook his head. “No, she doesn’t. I don’t think she would have even showed up if I had told her and I couldn’t get myself to tell her, not when she’s been back here for the first time in fifteen years.” He admitted with a sigh, disappointed in himself that he had let it come to this. “She’s not going to cause a scene, Chuck.”

“It’s not even her that I’m worried about, Nate.” Chuck admitted. “It’s him. If he sees her like this and causes a scene, it’ll probably be very ugly.”

“He already knows that she’s coming.” He admitted. “I told him after the rehearsal dinner last night. She had been asking about him a lot ever since he got back from the Buckleys’ and so has he. I could not give him an answer until now.”

“What?” He rolled his eyes. “Nate, it’s your wedding day. If either one of them causes any drama, I swear to fucking God...”

“Don’t worry, Chuck. The only one who could cause a scene today is Caroline. And believe me, she won’t do that either, because her wedding is happening today just the way she wanted it to. I put my mother in her place and made her interference in the wedding planning come to a stop. Caroline’s actually quite pleased with me so there’s nothing for us to worry about.” He admitted, rather confidently as the doors open and the music began. He looked down the aisle to see his bride walking towards him and his eyes welled up in tears.

As you stood up from your seat, you turned around to finally see who the lucky woman to marry your little cousin could be. The moment your eyes landed on Caroline Baizen in her bridal gown, your heart sunk, for the man who was walking her down the aisle was the last person whom you had been hoping to run into ever since you had returned to the Upper East Side.

Of course, you knew he was here. You had bailed him out of the Buckleys’ debt yourself. That was why you had been so hesitant about coming back to town in the first place, for you knew that you would have no choice but to have an awkward run in with him. You did not think you would have caught a glimpse of him at your own cousin’s wedding out of all places. Yet there he was, dressed to the nines in his designer tuxedo as he walked his baby sister down the aisle, Carter Baizen himself in the flesh. He was your apocalypse.

You turned back around to face the groom, your eyes growing wide in disbelief. “I...” You mouthed, shaking your head at him as you felt your eyes glaze over.

Nate gave you an apologetic look that was mimicked by Chuck.

You turned back towards the aisle, wondering if there was any way you could just duck out of the wedding without being seen by the crowd. The bride was already halfway down the aisle; you could not get out. It was too late now; you had no other choice but to face the worst part of your dreadful past. You quickly turned your head away as they passed you, hoping that the man whom you had once loved did not notice you standing just a few feet away from him.

But unbeknownst to you, as you had turned your head away from him, Carter had taken a quick glance at you. Seeing that you were indeed alive and well made him let out a sigh of relief. He turned back to look at Nate, his lips curling into a smile as he gave him a nod.

As he handed Caroline’s hand over to him, he leaned over to pull his brother-in-law to be into a quick hug. “Thank you.” He whispered in his ear, for Nate had been the reason why Carter was able to get a glimpse of you after fifteen whole years apart.

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

Nulla dies sine linea

Line.

A blunt, straight-edged cut that divides the surface into twain separate expanses, or a curve, soft and feminine – a contrast for what is stern and malevolent – a pair that undeniably completes itself, deprived of all the flaws, yet soaked within, exemplary balance of two factors.

Equilibrium.

Turmoil, sleeplessness that is supposed to bring answers – a foolish hope of an at-halt man.

Outdated ways of thinking, of perceiving reality, the ones that prevent a person from seeing any alternative, an entirely new approach, a breakthrough that results in remarkable success.

Uniqueness – a pursuit never meant to be achieved.

Truism that holds all the components of the world, a design of another restless demiurge, a greater one maybe, yet a parallel for every single creator, architect of his own destruction.

The Lambs, lost in post-delirium state of an incompetent mind.

* * *

Smoke has never ceased to mesmerize him, the fluency of transferring into billowing shapes that it acquires, only to evaporate moments later – a fleeting notion, so difficult to capture, which might be the exact factor that makes it so appealing to the eye, so desired, a conviction that it is only a matter of seconds required for the vapor to dissolve. Fire has always hit him with a similar impression – hypnotizing, yet fascinating, in possession of a power that he could only dream of obtaining, the one that could easily destroy acres of land, leaving only the grotesque stumps behind – remains of prior imperiality.

Crystal used to rant about how ‘those cancer sticks’ are going to kill him one day, how each of them reduces his life expectancy, how it is even possible for a person to be so blind, so ignorant, so coarse... Truth to be told, he doubts whether she, indeed, cared about his well-being that much, suspecting an entirely different outcome, even more straightforward; she liked to stand out of the crowd, a single woman bathed in the mist of smokers, inhaling the pungent scent either way, as if her perseverance, or maybe stubbornness is a better word, made any difference here – a gloss of irrationality.

Simplification: she was just a pain in the ass.

Past tense.

Either way, he somehow managed to tolerate such behavior for exactly fifteen days, then broke up with her, though she never failed to amuse him, such a frivolous, little girl who took a liking into playing adults, not even referring to her age. He has never believed in such absurd concepts, age as a life-defining factor, ultimate description, featuring every single aspect imaginable – paradox, blatant simplification, something that people seek out in their free time to paraphrase the reality – a trait of the weakest, majority of population.

Such a shame to be a human.

Deep in his reverie, he fails to notice that the cigarette is almost smoked to the filter until it literally burns him, a telling sting in between his fingers, slight but still unpleasant, enough to toss the remains on the street – a dole to society. He catches a glimpse of the smoldering tip, before it disappears into the night, swallowed by the darkness, blinded by the city lights – another contribution to the transience of the temporal world.

Truth to be told, the rooftop has always been his favorite place in this fungous building – a coalescence of equally moldy flats – with the view spreading across miles of urban estates, skyscrapers, and parks. It bestows him with a certain understanding that in spite of his lifelong inhabitance of said space, he is never meant to reveal all of its mysteries, cover every square meter of land, which in turn evokes this peculiar feeling of pettiness, the one he absolutely loathes – helpless man within a harmful world.

Nevertheless, he can either accept, or deny it, while keeping in mind that the latter is a trait of permanently stupid, close-minded people – a group that he wishes to collaborate with at last, if ever. It reminds him of a sect, less formal obviously, yet the analogy is obtuse: one sacrifices the prospect of self-development on behalf of leading a facile life – a blessing as some of them might say.

But not him.

What is beneficial about flatting out one’s existence? Rolling it out to the point where it is almost impossible to surmise whether there is a carpet sprawling on the floor, or the woodblocks are just bumpy? To make sure that there will not be any need to pay the professional to deal with said issue?

Worthless.

Aside from the cult-related illations, he senses yet another alteration lingering in the air, a distinct notion that shifts his focus, akin to a smell of a freshly cooked bacon that tickles one’s nose in the morning, prompting to lift the heavy eyelids, a burning sensation of being watched, even if for a split second, spreading over the flesh of his back, until he is forced to break the logy lull.

“Fancy a cigarette with me?” A thick timbre that slices through the silence, clearly startling the intruder, evident in a startled gasp that the person utters.

“I thought no one comes here,” a silvery voice, definitely female, accompanied by a telltale clink, signalizing that the woman is approaching his sitting spot.

“That would be ignorant, don’t you think?” He remarks, fingers dipping inside a package for another cigarette. “To deprive yourself of the opportunity to see the city from such exceptional perspective.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, flopping down on the concrete beside him, gaze flicking to meet his – green interfering with grey – topping it up with a subtle, polite smile thrown in his direction. Her face seems familiar: unlined, with round eyes and shapely nose, prompting that their paths must have crossed somewhere in the past, which evokes a burning need to ask about said issue, followed by a blunt query.

“You live here, don’t you?” He mutters indistinctly with another cig pushed in between his lips, flicking a lighter to ignite the flame.

“I do,” she affirms with a refined nod, hand reaching out to draw the coattails together, as if to keep herself warm, exhaling a billow of air through her nose, visible due to the low temperature. “Is the cigarette still available?”

“I think so,” he flashes her a fleeting smile as the package tilts in her direction, inclining the woman to help herself, to which she complies, fishing out a single fag. He lights it up for her with seemingly no effort – a proficient manner of a long-term smoker – watching her drag on the cig as if anticipating her to choke on its contents, but nothing like this happens. Instead, she lets out a puff of smoke that forms another bizarrely shaped cloud, soon to evaporate with the cool, autumn breeze – another ephemeral prove of world’s temporality.

“You are that painter, am I right?” She conjectures, glancing at him briefly, as if his reaction was supposed to affirm the surmise.

“Should I be concerned that you know about my trade?” He cocks an eyebrow at her – a cunning, seemingly playful banter.

“I thought artists aim for being renowned,” she remarks with a sarcastic tingle that he subconsciously notices, either way decides against acknowledging for now. “But no, I’ve been told that someone with such occupation lives here, and it someway fits you, I mean in appearance.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he laughs, a throaty chuckle laced with a hint of harshness that comes from smoking.

“I wouldn’t say it surprises me,” she mimics his manner – a refined smile playing upon her lips – although not daring to crack yet. One of his friends would claim that if someone is interested, he, or she in this case, will subconsciously attempt to copy your gestures – knowledge that is supposed to be a key to success, at least according to his assertions.

(“I guide others to the treasure I cannot possess.”)

“You never told me why you chose come here,” he interjects after a few longer intervals, enlaced in a peaceful silence, if one excludes the metropolis din, dull and monotonous.

“Well, you didn’t ask,” she eludes, but carries on either way, her voice oddly tranquil in the mist of hectic city. “The explanation is simple: look down. They all seem so far-away, departed from our reality, unable to perceive the world in terms of integrity. I think sitting here gives you an entirely different perspective, allows you to see all the obvious correlations, the ones that they consistently miss.”

“In case someone would want to involve more deeply, am I right?” He retorts – a question that needs no verbal answer. “I think of it more like a paradox: we see more, yet less at the same time, the details long forgotten at such altitude.”

“Are any of those important to you?” She carries on with the queries, glancing at his briefly, as if to affirm whether he is serious. “Those, people, those trifles?”

“Nah,” he counters, flashing her another teasing smirk, “I disagree for fun.”

“Is ‘disagreeing for fun’ a trait of artist in general, or just your trait?” She laughs this time – a pearly chuckle that he finds oddly charming – as the cigarette slips from her fingers, following its path on the concrete sidewalk a few floors below. “Don’t take it personally, or even seriously. I don’t generalize, and to be honest I think it’s a holdover.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” he throws her a mild smile, his ember quick to follow its twin traces. “Also, sorry I haven’t introduced myself earlier,” he adds, luckily without bothering to shake her hand; she doubts whether there is anything worse than that, “Alexander.”

“Serena,” she reciprocates, holding the eye contact for a few longer moments – an affirmative gesture.

“It suits you,” he remarks, eyes glinting with an emotion she is yet unable to place, and so decides to shove aside for a while, soon to be back on the abandoned track of thoughts.

“Alexander…” she begins, letting it reverberate for a little while – time required to formulate a surmise, “like Alexander The Great?”

“Nah,” he chuckles, “like Graham Bell. My mother was particularly fond pf telephones, ‘such life-changing devices’, she would say.”

“To be honest I’ve never given names much thought,” she professes, running a single hand through her windswept hair, their texture silky in between her fingers, “I take them more as a-”

“Form of classification, I know,” he interrupts, spurring her to glance at him, both eyebrow raised, visibly caught off guard. “Quite a rare point of view if you’re asking me.”

She only hums in response, her eyes glued to the cityscape ahead, a bunch of high-rise buildings with most lights already extinguished, considering all the ‘sane’ people are fast asleep by now, with yet another question lingering on the tip of her tongue, curiosity waiting to be satiated.

“Why have you chosen to be an artist?”

“I wouldn’t say this is something you ‘chose’,” he frowns, two thin lines stressing out his relatively youthful face – an inclination that he might be right at the cusp between mid- and late-twenties. “It is more about going with the flow, doing things because you find certain pleasure in them, not a formal occupation with all those scraps of paper that people like to label as ‘employment contracts’. Plus it’s not my only ‘job’, considering I manage to pay the bills on time.”

“Okay,” she acknowledges with a fleeting nod, so subtle he suspects it to be yet another half-conscious implication of his mind, “but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Patience is a virtue,” he teases, an expression comparatively close to amusement enlightening his features. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Never heard of it before,” a flat response, betraying her mild impatience, “but do go on, I’m all ears.”

“Before I move on to the due story, it’s essential to know that my old man was a hippie,” he begins, green enlacing with grey once more. “During my childhood, I barely saw my father, so I used to idealize him as any kid would do, considering his constant absence – quite a simple mechanism if you’re asking me,” another fleeting glance thrown towards her, “and yet, when he wasn’t busy doing hell knows what, he taught me about aspects that appeared more useful to me at that time than all those school rules and down-to-earth expectations from my mother. He taught me how important it is to be free, to go your own way, and stand for what you consider essential, so I did that and almost got kicked out on the street for falling behind on rent.”

“Well,” she shrugs, as if not quite sure how to react, “some social standards are impossible to outrun.”

“It’s not even about that,” he contradicts with a graceful flick of his wrist, too dapper to appear as dismissive, “he was… how to formulate this properly… detached from reality, which is something that I realized during my teenage years, yet was unable to make a use of at that time,” he explains, quick to resume after a brief interval of silence. “Summing it up, I paint because I find certain pleasure in the activity itself, not to make some real money.”

“So are you working on anything particular?” She carries on with the questions, as if genuinely interested in what he is saying, not that he finds said aspect surprising. Something about him has always seemed to attract various kinds of people, maybe encouraged by his pertinent remarks, quick wits, or the general charm he oozes with, as if an intrinsic part of his body’s chemistry.

“Currently? Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, longish hair flowing around, skimming the tops of his shoulders, and luring Serena to run her fingers through the beach waves, to finally verify whether they are, indeed, as silky as they look like.

(Quite a weird thought if you are asking me.)

“Creator’s block? Is that so?” She nags further, as if irking him up already managed to situate itself in between her very special penchants.

“Something like that,” he huffs dismissively, pique evident in his manners, evoking the need to carry on with said intension.

(Mmm… that’s a bingo!)

“I hit the nail on the head, haven’t I?” She teases, too impudent for his tastes – a matter meant to be rectified in due course, another conception already blossoming underneath his skull, a brainchild soon to be implemented.

“Um, maybe you have,” he mutters indistinctly as he slips an unlit cigarette in between his lips, “which gives me a wonderful idea, if I’m being honest.”

“What kind of idea?” She inquires further, aware of the indispensability of said contribution, and despite knowing him for less than half an hour, she would have to be blind and deaf to miss his performative tendencies, topped with self-centered attitude – a form of paradox in itself: decoy and deter.

“Would you mind if I painted you?” He proposes, out of nowhere, snorting when he hears her choke on own saliva. The variety of reactions in this case is something that he still has not fully gotten used to: from the bewildered silence to excited squeals, each of them beautifully exceptional in some sort of way, or at least not overly repetitive.

(Uniqueness is for fools.)

“Excuse me?” She utters a brief moment later, as soon as she manages to compose herself, voice tremulous – a display of confusion and fuel for his amusement, gasoline to put out fire with.

“You’ve heard me,” he replies bluntly, exhaling a ring of smoke through his mouth, as if her response was not even included in the list of all current subjects of interest.

“I mean, um, I don’t know,” she fumbles with the words for a couple of seconds, as if not quite certain which one to pick. “I didn’t expect you to make such request.”

“Think it over then,” he suggests with a carefree banter that she finds a little annoying at this point, “I’m in no hurry.”

“But when-”

“Save the w-questions,” he cuts in, shushing her with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “It’s a simple, yes-or-no matter, plus I have no answers to any of them yet.”

“I don’t know if I should trust you,” she admits, long nails scratching the side of her face, as if it was supposed to relieve the tension and reclaim the focus.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs with suggestive smile adorning his lips – a prelude to whichever impure thought he is just about to verbalize, “I don’t trust myself either.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I would like it to be,” she chuckles – a girlish display of nervousness, or maybe a part of well-developed play, considering his doubts when it comes to whether he is able to read her like an open book by now, not that it lies out of his ability range in general.

“Okay, S,” he disrupts, dumping the half-smoked cigarette aside a brief moment later – a signal that he is just about to leave her here to own company, as if standing up was not clarifying enough. “no pressure. Supposing you make up your mind about this, you know where to find me.”

And with that he walks away, swallowed by the gloom prevailing the staircase, steps echoing in the dusty corridor.

Damn him.

* * *

To begin with, there are a bunch of aspects that can be easily associated with empty flat, solitude being the very first one of them in his case – room bathed in a daylight, clear and bright, such an unusual occurrence during the fall season. Almost blinding upon his face, eyelids forced to shut, as he decorates the ashtray with leftover ember, mashing in into the glassy surface, all remains turned to dust, black powder meant to be taken with the city breeze.

The habit of smoking by the open window should not concern him anymore, since the lingering smell makes no difference for the lone smoker, and still, each subsequent attempt to drop the subject ends up with following the well-known path either way. Said inference entails another one: certain aspects appear to be labelled with a transcendent meaning that walks one through life, upbringing for instance, what parents pass on their children – questionable balance of benefits and burdens – a lead to the final conclusion, a reason why he has to catch a cold every fall season, considering he rarely bothers to put on a coat – ludicrously futile pursuit.

A passing opportunity, bright daylight but no brushes, no easels, no paints, just a half-empty space, the aforementioned objects nestling in the corner, as if intending to express their permanent resentfulness, a silent question why he does not bother to flash them even the most insignificant glance. In the late night hours, he can almost hear their faint whispers, pleas for attention, paired with the jeering mockeries, all addressed to him, reminders that he is heading straight towards the inevitable lunacy, unless, of course, he gets back on track with all the abandoned works.

Highly improbable, considering the time expanse dividing his encounter with Serena from the present situation, rather unfavorable in his case, but also immune to any significant changes – such a life-defining paradox. At some point, he even dared to ponder asking her to come by, but then again he has formed a conclusion that the outcome might be his last intention, if not entirely omitted, having her perceive him in terms of some pathetic desperado who he is unable to sense when is the right time to let go.

People are truly the oddest creatures.

Final verdict followed by something else – a ring, a tearing noise that slices the lull into twain harsh pieces, all blunt, sharp edges, an exhortation to open the door and whisk away the thoughtless intruder, foolish to disrupt him during his time-out. With an exasperated huff, he moves towards said object, unlocking it with a deft flick of his wrist, and so revealing the visitor – a woman, moderate in her motions, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of her trench coat.

Speak of the devil.

“Seems like you’ve made up your mind, huh?” He greets her, first words that come to the mind as soon as his eyes land on her silhouette. The garment itself reminds him of one of his past girlfriends, or rather her clumsy attempt to surprise him with lack of clothing underneath back in his college days, times when he considered most of the career opportunities to lie sprawling within his reach, followed by the caustic awakening soon after the glorious drop out.

“Seems like I have, indeed,” she affirms, chin tilted upwards to meet his scrutinizing gaze, laced with undertones that she is unable to define yet, a manner that she has always associated with botanist examining his subject, spotted merely a few minutes ago.

“Would you like to come in then?” He proposes in time with a graceful step aside, exposing a sliver of his flat to her curious eyes – a bright room, lacking in almost all furniture that have a wide appeal in most houses, at least according to her observations, as if the oddity itself was calling her in.

Intending to find out what else might be hidden inside, she accepts his informal invitation, stepping past the doorway, her surmise soon to be confirmed – an open space with celling-high windows, oriented to the east, and a bunch of objects propped in the corner. On the side, a simple bed pushed up to the opposite wall, adjoining the compact kitchenette – a view that leaves little, if anything, to her imagination, display of exemplary minimalism.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” She cannot help but flinch at the low rumbling of his voice from behind her, a distinctive word, as if signifying a pending promise, an implication impossible to ignore.

“What precisely?” She manages to utter, concealing the incertitude evoked by the odd emphasis, all while he appears to be perfectly aware of her inner perturbation as his hands ghost over her shoulders, eliciting a surprised gasp from the woman.

“The liberty of open spaces,” he clarifies, smirk audible in his voice – a component that she finds rather annoying – blatant amusement, purposely on full display. “Let me take your coat.”

“I’ll manage,” she flashes him a brief glance, immediate to slip her arms out of the sleeves and hand over the garment, leaving him with no other choice than hang it in the wardrobe.

Deciding to have waited long enough, she walks towards the middle part of said main room, indicating to familiarize with the view sprawling just past the windowsill, while he is busy with all the essential preparations – a part that remains almost unnoticed to her until the jarring scrape reverberates in the air, enough to attract her attention. As he moves the easel towards its designed spot, she wonders how many people, or more precisely – how many women, he has brought here before he met her, intending to capture them even in the most vulnerable state, a fleeting expanse of time branded on the blank canvas, an opus for the clueless generations to ponder upon.

“So,” she clears her throat, following the query, “how are we gonna do this?”

“Without making you feel uncomfortable,” he mutters, in process of tying his hair in a messy bun on the back of his head, features now on full display: high cheekbones and sharp jawline obscured by the reddish stubble. “It’ll be visible, trust me.”

“No, I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, lips laced in a teasing smirk, head tilted to the side, cocking an eyebrow at her in a manner that reminds Serena of some posh aristocrat, flirting with his love interest, but at this point she suspects it might be just an inherent part of his demeanor, approach towards women in general.

“I mean, where am I supposed to stand?” She queries, followed by a refined, although not suppressed, laugh – something that he has learned to associate with her mannerisms overall.

“I’m not sure yet,” he scrapes his nails over the chin – a signification of wonder. “We’ll try a couple of settings, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” she nods in affirmation, albeit quick to verbalize a newfound doubt. “Should I change?”

“Nah,” he waves her off with a dapper flick of his wrist, “I believe your personal choice of clothing is a form self-expression, and I want my models to look more organic, and by saying ‘organic’ I mean comfortable and self-assured with their appearances,” quite a fair explanation, she thinks. “Of course, if you are willing to strip, you can strip, that’s neither an issue nor something new to me, but there’s no pressure, as I mentioned.”

“Mmm… how diplomatic,” she almost purrs, sarcastic manners that fit in his tastes quite dearly, captivating yet caustic, enticing yet eerie, with an underlying promise, bulging just below the surface, meant to soak through the papery layer.

One of many reasons why he has always troubled with finding the right person, although is far from considering himself in terms of a delirious perfectionist with non-satiable cravings, searching for one sublime muse that would give his works meaning, pristine essence, remedy for all maladies, liquid to wash away the dirt. Truth to be told, the situation presents itself as no more no less than a mere cakewalk, which might as well be a polar exaggeration in such case, but either way it never appears to deny the existence of one distinctive aspect, appealing to him in almost every setting possible – freedom of speech, sparring match of two equal opponents, field for discussion, for development, for enrichment, mutual agreement laced with a hint of disparity, merely a flick of a lighter.

Ignition. Initiation.

Inception.

“You’re not listening to me,” a sentence that snaps him out of the trance, crawls in between his thoughts and pulls the threads apart – such an odd association – a slide to the temporal reality.

“I’m not,” he reaffirms, a ghost of what might as well be a smirk lacing his lips, as if to keep up with the ‘cheeky bastard’ profile, “so would you be so kind and reiterate that for me?”

“You don’t have much furniture,” she begins, a statement obtusely simple yet seemingly incomplete, gaze skimming past the empty space only to interfere with his in the end, pupils narrowed due to harsh brightness.

“Thank you, darling,” he smiles, seemingly polite – a well-sculptured façade, she has to admit, “I wouldn’t have noticed elsewise.”

“So I thought…” she carries on, not quite bothering to acknowledge the sarcastic remark, “maybe I could sit on the sill, since the light seems to do us a favor today.”

“Let’s try it out then,” he concurs almost at the spot, gesturing towards said window, to which she complies, helping herself up on the narrow seat, back supported by the wall, ruffling her hair to add some extra volume.

(Now that is interesting.)

“Is that acceptable?” She glances towards him, as if his countenance was supposed betray the intensions – highly improbable display of lacking control – although he would be lying if he said it strikes no cord within him, passes by without acknowledgement, without a single though occurring to be verbalized.

“Yes, darling, you look lush. Now focus,” he bestows her with a quick compliment, although definitely short-lived, his main interest now shifting towards more pragmatic matters. “Before we begin, you should know it’ll be exhausting, or fatiguing maybe, I don’t intend to hyperbolize, but tell me if you need a break.”

“Sure,” she nods, wriggling a little bit to find the most convenient position for those few following hours, “but I believe we’ll find a way not to bore each other out.”

“I believe we will,” he hums in agreement, pencil already in his hand, soon to initiate the process, graphite gliding smoothly over the canvas in a manner that reminds her of a longtime dancer in his natural habitat.

“You’re left handed?” She remarks, eyes glued to his movements from behind the easel.

“I vary,” he replies, ever at ease. “Although I happened to be called a communist from time to time in primary school.”

“What?” She laughs in disbelief, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“It was a catholic one,” he glances at her briefly, with a sardonic smirk playing upon his lips. “I think that explains itself well enough.”

“Okay, but why a communist?” She carries on with the queries – a matter of incredulity.

“For some reasons they associated left-handedness with devilish collusions or, as I mentioned before, communism,” he shrugs, his gaze now glued to her face, although not quite meeting her eyes, quick to add a bunch of adjustments on the canvas. “No idea why.”

“Why did you went there then?”

“Well, I was just a kid,” he explains, impatience striking the chords. “My mother made that choice for me.”

“Seems like you managed though,” she remarks, voice laced with a subtle hint of carelessness, as if mimicking his manners, yet galvanizing them with something else – an act of subduing, partial eclipse, moderation.

“Well, I started smoking in the eighth grade and somehow went through,” he admits in a feignedly serious manner, chuckling at her frowning expression. “Christ, it’s just a joke, although I’m glad to be past that stage. It was too… restricting for me.”

“I think it’s every system’s main purpose – to restrict,” she reckons, glancing at the passing cars a few stories below. “But I also don’t have many fond memories concerning my pre-higher educational stage.”

“So you’re in college now?” She hums in agreement. “Well, I dropped out after three terms, I think.”

“Why?”

“I realized it didn’t matter,” he explains as if it was supposed to be the most evident absolute ever encountered. “At the beginning I thought it would allow me to discover fresh ideas, strengthen my expertise, but the professors mostly kept blathering about things that I’ve already come across at some point in my life, and to be honest it felt like a massive waste of money, and most importantly – time.”

“What were you studying?” She asks, most likely out of plain curiosity.

“Journalism,” he reveals, accompanied by a sarcastic snort, “but I intended to mix it up with sociology at some pointed, then switched to philosophy for a while, which actually helped me realize what a great waste it was, at least in my case.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she shrugs, noticing him switch from the pencil to brush, first few paints being squeezed out on the wooden palette. “If we look at education more objectively, I think we can risk saying that reading is the only necessary skill to acquire, and then you’re good to go.”

“Mmm… it’d be more interesting if you disagreed though,” he hums, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, brush sweeping over the canvas with almost flawless agility that reminds her of a dancer once again, graceful and elegant.

“Then make me disagree,” she concludes, one finely sculptured eyebrow perking up in a teasing manner.

“Should I take it as a challenge?” He baits, glancing at her briefly as an essential.

“Take it however you want,” she replies, ever so carelessly, almost able to set the bar as high as he has once managed to.

“So what are you studying then?” He resumes after a brief moment, gaze glued to her figure in a scrutinizing manner that she finds slightly disturbing, still uncertain how she is supposed to perceive the given adjective – enticing – as seductive or maybe lethal?

“Criminology,” she informs bluntly.

“And what do they teach you there?” He asks, not quite bothering to look at her this time, engaged in searching for the most accurate color proportions – cinnamon mingling with some darker, much cooler shade.

“They teach me about criminal behavior,” she enlightens, an information so indecently obvious that she would find it offensive if uttered toward her.

“And more specifically?” He continues, as if not taking her point, or at least deciding not to indicate it.

“Its biological, psychological, and social causes,” she clarifies, unable to fight the faint shiver running down her spine as a response for the blatant acuteness he eyes her with, caught off guard for a brief moment, hopefully not long enough for him to notice, “so you can safely assume it’s sociology-related.”

“You think it’s the only place where you can learn that?” He quires, as if aiming to pop holes in her outlook, see if it holds up as sensible as it appears to be now.

“No, but it’s the only place where I can get the diploma,” she eludes, flashing him a refined smirk, as if ready to assume the inevitable victory, “since I would like to pursue with this line of work in the future. Although I believe that certain aspects lay beyond education.”

“Aspects such as?” He mutters, seemingly half-preoccupied with his work, stroking the canvas in formerly omitted areas, lighter shades now in use.

“The intuitive component,” she specifies, while he sets the items aside, abandoning the previously heeded canvas, “you either have a hunch where to seek out the truth, or you don’t, which I think is rather obvious.”

“Exactly,” he agrees, quick to snatch a pack of cigarettes from the kitchen counter. “Although I believe we should equalize the two components, since evidence influences the intuition, or the other way around, and it’s better to keep that in mind for more objective judgments.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious,” she reaffirms, pushing herself off the sill, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“I hope so,” he mutters indistinctly, cigarette already slipped in between his lips.

“We’re taking a break now?” She ascertains, quick to step aside in order to make a room for him by the sill.

“Yeah,” he nods, reaching out to open the window, cool air hitting her face, goosebumps rising on the exposed parts of her flesh, “and wait till the first layer is dry so that I could add some details.”

“So you have the background now?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head in denial, flicking the lighter with a barely audible click, “I had it prepared before. It was my very intension to paint you on the sill.”

“What if I wouldn’t have agreed?” She speculates in a teasing manner, ever so subtle he questions his abilities when it comes to judging whether it is a matter of fact, or yet another insinuation of his mind.

“Then we would’ve find a way to make you,” he banters, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his mouth, soon to be taken away with the fall breeze.

“Sure, don’t sweat it,” she replies in a careless manner, as if intending to nip the barely existing zeal in the bud, eliciting a horse chuckle from him. “Mind if I take one?” She asks then, having decided to cut the topic short, gesturing towards the pack of cigarettes on the counter.

“Well, that’s the only one left,” he laughs, glancing at the smoldering fag between the two of his long fingers, stained with carob paint that overlaps four runic symbols tattooed on his skin, “but we can always share.”

“That’s very kind of you, indeed,” she purrs with an ever present hint of sarcasm evident in her voice, nevertheless takes a drag from the offered cigarette, soon to be snatched from in between her lips by the greedy partner.

“I see you’re a man of generosity as well,” she huffs – a display of irritation, extending past the point where she considers repaying him in kind, even if for a brief moment.

“In capitalistic society you gotta work for your expenses,” he retorts, eliciting a pearly chuckle from the woman, outcome that she finds rather odd – his fluency and deftness in evoking contradict reactions from her.

“You’re relentless,” she laughs, shaking her head in amusement, either way leans towards him once more as he brings the cigarette to her lips, cheeks hollowing in time with the inhale.

“Can’t say I disagree.”

And with that he slips it out of her mouth, almost smoked to the filter, stealing one last drag, before he tosses it out of the window, soon to join its predecessors fouling on the streets.

Damn him.

* * *

A few weeks have passed since their last encounter, time essential for him to complete the project, merely disrupted by his mother’s attempts to call him, asking whether he is coming home for Thanksgiving.

Seems like three times is not always a charm.

Nevertheless, life has been good to him, sparing most of the nuisances that never fail to come along at some point, clinging to him like a limpet, until he collects the willpower to tear them all off, adorned with bloody pulp that once used to be an inherent part of his flesh. Some would claim it is not worth it, to sacrifice oneself for any profits, no matter how considerable, no matter how the so-called balance of benefits and burdens presents itself, to pursue but also prepare to face the consequences of one’s choices.

But placing any result above it?

Understanding this attitude has formed quite an issue for him since the very first attempt of cogitation – profound, not periphrastic – leading to one fairly important conclusion – immaturity is what clears out this path, paired with incapability, with imprudence, leaving only cinders behind – matter of self-destruction. Sinfully tempting, to burn it all down and begin as a newborn man – Child of the Ashes, Phoenix that raises from charcoal embers, shaking off the excess dust to despair of all sceptics.

Although he considers it as not necessary the easiest way available, he prefers to let this challenge shun him, regardless how interesting it might come out as in the end, since annihilating his lifelong ‘legacy’ is currently the last intension, supposing it even counts as one. Development has always appeared as more momentous to him, using anything in possession to form what one labels as artwork, not only in the narrow understanding that applies to exhibits and museums but also as an everlasting creation, as satisfactory as possible, reaching beyond the conceptual realm.

An ulterior motive of his.

With reasoning not quite as clandestine.

“I knew I would find you there,” a melodic voice, definitely female – déjà vu, throwback to their first meeting, enhanced by the prevenient notion, inkling that he was being observed, even if for a split second.

“You’re very astute,” he remarks with a lingering tingle of sarcasm, a tune raspier than she remembered, sending an unresolved shiver down her spine, fueled by the cold weather. “But I assume you’ve came here for a reason, haven’t you?”

“Look who’s a wiseacre now,” she chaffs, nevertheless quick to approach him, steps echoing on the dusty concrete. She perches down  next to him, gaze glued to the blunt edge for a brief moment, required to restrain from dangling her feet off the edge – devil’s incitement, belonging to the conceptual realm, never meant to be carried out in reality.

(What if I scratched his car? Spilled hot tea on him? Seized his bag? What would he do? Would he make me pay? Scream? Call the cops? What if…?)

“I’ve came to ask if the painting is ready to be seen,” she rectifies, her head held upward, eyes gleaming with some odd determination, unplaceable, obscured yet visible enough for a perceptive man, the one who knows where to look.

“What would you do if your mother asked you to come home for Thanksgiving?” He ignores her question – a fill-in for time, purpose hold-up, verification of her intents.

“Depends on the relationship I had with her,” she bestows him with a rushed explanation, right according to his suppositions.

(Such a clever man I am.)

“If I wanted to signify I take it as an essential, I would come. Otherwise – not really.”

“That’s what I thought,” he nods slowly, as if hesitantly, which might as well be a misconception, not a fit for his usual demeanor, rather drawing out the act for suspensive purposes.

“So you’re not coming?” She attempts to clarify as if her patience was running thin, most likely fueled by an occurrence from the recent past, partially his seemingly never-ending queries.

(What are you hiding from me, kitten? Claws?)

“Nah,” he shakes his head, meaning to carry on with the explanation, “each time I’m around her, I tend to doubt my abilities to remain calm,” he exhales, as if to get rid of all the pent up frustrations, bulging just below the surface, protected, or rather prevented from being discovered by the wrong person. “And so, years ago I came to one conclusion, a conclusion of great significance: unless she accepts me for who I am, I won’t try to negotiate with her.”

“Negotiate?”

“I don’t take things for granted,” he clarifies, throwing her a side glance, a dapper flick of his wrist required to indicate the obvious, “She is trying and yes, I can see that, but the effort doesn’t parallel with the goal. Look before you leap, isn’t it what they say?”

“Tell me,” she huffs, irritation now more than evident, almost palpable, tactile, spread out for a graze – his personal penchant, “why do you even ask a question if you already know the answer?”

“The essentiality of comparison,” he reveals – ultimate truth she had never possessed before, “the importance of rectifying one’s opinions.”

“You’re an odd person, Alexander,” she alludes, not quite bothering to acknowledge his words, with approximately another goal already occupying her mind. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Does it disturb you?” He cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at her, body turning in her direction for the slightest bit, barely noticeable at this point.

“I wouldn’t put it this way,” she counters, voice odd, distant, dreamy, fingers raking through her hair – a shift he should find disturbing but decides against, even if subconsciously.

“So how would you put it?” He queries further, scooting towards her subtly, still against crossing any comfort zones without an undisputable signal.

“That I like weird,” she avows, a simple statement rolling off her tongue, smooth, thick like molasses, caressing him like the finest silky sheets.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would assume you were flirting with me,” he chuckles, corners of his lips upturned in a teasing smirk – a signature of his.

“Why assume,” she halts, allowing the words to linger in the air for a brief moment, now facing him, her eyes staring, or rather drilling into his soul, captivating, leaving no room for a look away, “if you can find out?”.

“How exactly?” He mutters, a vague whisper, tickling her cheek, faint cigarette scent that fans over her face – lure of agitation, promise of something that is yet to come.

“How would you prefer to?” She leans in further, weight supported on the flat palms, propped on the dusty concrete, bits of gravel biting into her flesh.

“That’s your invention,” he purrs, so tantalizingly close, enough for a taste, tactile and inviting, tempting in his own way – a mannish privilege, sacrifice of fragility. “Surprise me.”

And she does, without a need of further explanation, a clarification, verbal approval, simply accepts the offering, her lips brushing his in a heartwarmingly gentle manner, as if hesitant, uncertain of succumbing to their shared desires. At first it catches him off guard, since he has ever dared to label her with such terms, and although the action itself was rather predictable, he remains still, even if for a brief moment, barely long enough for her to register, allowing the woman to play it out according to her whims.

(What a gracious man I am.)

With a movement too swift for Serena to register, he grabs her by the waist, tugging closer to his frame, which forces a surprised gasp from the woman, hands reaching forward to brace her weight on his chest. Practically seated on his lap, she wriggles a little, feeling the muscles contract just below – an unconditioned reflex to the extra pressure – as his lips work their magic, teasing her in a manner that she has never counted as such, delivering just enough to have her wanting more.

Deliberate. Mercenary.

Bastard.

Who still elicits a breathy moan in response to the harsh bite he delivers, soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue that leaves a lingering nicotine taste behind, a flavor she never suspected to be considered as pleasant. She lets him guide her for a change, curious about his intents, willing to accept the offering in any given form – desire so potent that it sends an inordinate shiver down her spine, never occurred before.

While awaiting for the situation to resolve on its own, she allows her hands to wander, tracing the protruding line on his collarbone, approximately a scar, following the path up his neck, meant to lay a palm flat on the cheek, coarse stubble tickling her fingertips as she examines the texture. Oddly so, his hands remain in place, sprawled on her sides and cradling her ribs, heavy breaths palpable in such position, while the blunt nails dig into the soft flesh, prominent yet subdued by two layers of clothing.

Instead of gliding them up her body, or even slipping his tongue inside, he breaks away, leaving her aching for more, frowning in bewilderment, mouth still agape, as if supposing he is just about to resume, although nothing of such kind follows, replaced by a verbalization – clearly not a fit for her current desires.

“Still wanna see it?” He mutters against her lips, a lingering brush that might as well be result of delirious mind-prompting, adjusting reality to expectations instead of the other way around, of how it is supposed to be in the first place – malady of a sane mind.

“See what?” She almost purrs – a sound he has heard her utter somewhere in the seemingly distant past, eons before their kiss – rationality abandoned long ago.

“The painting,” he clarifies as he departs from her, fully now, all body heat evaporating from the previously compact space, allowing the autumn air to regain the invaded land. However, on this occasion, he allows his eyes to wander, to take in her figure, still settled on his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

The initial discernment is striking – flesh of her bottom lip swollen, lipstick smudged – prove of his ‘abuse’ – and yet, he restrains from tracing it with the pads of his fingers, an action that he would like to safe for later, for more intimate setting. Her lips part, as if intending to say something although no words leave them, and instead of that her eyes lift, obscured by the curtain of dark lashes and some eyeshadow, color impossible to discern in the dim lightening. For a brief interval, he hold her gaze, misty grey irises delivering an involuntary association with the ongoing season, nevertheless appearing as seemingly calmer than before – steady undulation of a post-storm ocean – lost somewhere far away within her thoughts.

“So what about the painting?” He repeats, obviously to break the reverie, giving her sides a slight squeeze as if to ascertain eliciting the desired reaction.

“You have my lipstick here,” she mutters, hand rising to clear out the remains from the chapped bottom lip, but he is quick to grab her wrist, locking it in a loosening grip.

“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” his thumb replaces hers, wiping it off with a firm swipe, arm immediate to be released. A fleeting frown passes her features in response to his abnegation, although definitely short-lived, soon to be replaced by a contrary one – smile, benign albeit ephemeral, as if evoked by the newfound concept.

“About the painting…” she alludes, a lingering statement, reverberating in the air for a brief moment. “Still wanna see it.”

“Get up then,” he prompts, motioning her with a flick of his wrist. “I’m not intending to push you off.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she laughs, hesitant to rise from the well-accustomed-with spot, nevertheless back on her feet within a relatively short expanse of time, him following briefly afterwards.

They jog down the stairs, one story below, greeted with a sight of his mahogany door, of course in color, not material, and a telltale click of the lock mechanism that preludes entering the flat, unchanged since her last visit, if she excludes a messy stack of equally unspecified objects lurking in the corner. She tags along with him, eyes glued to his figure approaching the easels and a single hand gripping the cloth, soon to be yanked away, revealing the portrayal below.

Her breath hitches in response to the view unravelling in front of her, seemingly unimportant work of some self-proclaimed painter, and yet linked with so many aspects, just like that, on the go, subconscious associations that invade her mind. Truth to be told, she does not find it that hard to believe – a conundrum of emotionality – since it is the very first opportunity for the young woman to get acquainted with someone else’s interpretation of her persona – experience considered beyond interesting.

Blurred lines yet drawn by a deft hand.

Faint fog yet shapes fairly distinguished.

Bathed in lucid daylight, such an unusual occurrence in the fall season.

Fleeting expanse of time.

Guaranteed to perish in the nearby future.

And the central persona, enhanced by the subtle rim of glow.

Distant? Dreamy? Delusive?

Ethereal? Eccentric?

Feigned?

Or right the opposite?

Authentic?

Ceaseless? Classical?

Expressing verity.

Verdict of his virtuosity.

Exquisite.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, as if to clear out the mind, return onto the steady ground. “You were saying something?”

“I was meant to ask about your impression,” he meets her still misty gaze, lips laced in the same unplaceable smirk she has seen him perform a couple of times in the past, “but I believe that’s not necessary anymore.”

“No, it’s fine,” she smiles, as if to substantiate the impression. “I like it.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” he nods with a wide grin stretching his features – highlight of his vanity, meant to taunt her, “although verbal affirmation is always welcome.”

She only hums in response, as if in defiance of his indication, still standing in the middle of the main room, gaze alternating between him and the painting, as if unable to pick, maneuvering on the pinnacle dividing twain polar opposites – conceptuality and reality. Seizing the opportunity, his eyes rake down her form, quick to notice a few distinctions, incompatible with her usual looks, the heeled boots for instance, or a tint of eyeshadow applied on the usually bare skin, which eventually leads him to another conclusion.

“You went out today?” He asks, the drape back in its prior setting, shielding the picture from her scrutinizing gaze, as if to ascertain receiving undivided attention from his guest.

“Yeah,” she affirms with a refined nod, eyes alluding towards the floor – a fleeting, almost unnoticeable glance, “but it wasn’t lucrative. I mean, the meeting didn’t go as expected.”

“Why?”

“It was a blind date,” she sighs, as if utterly defeated, displeased with being forced to recall tonight’s events. “Fill in the blanks.”

“Lucrative is quite an interesting choice of words in such context,” he teases, a ghost of proper smile playing upon his lips, eliciting a predictably vexed huffed of breath from the woman, paired with a dismissive eye-roll that precedes his reaction – a subdued chuckle, nevertheless considered unashamed and straightforward, although the latter is still yet to come. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“I would rather forget it,” she laughs this time – enlightenment, end of the never-ending sulking era, considered as the least beneficial possibility, not for only today.

“Yeah, I know how it is,” he nods, leaning down on the sill for support, seemingly fed up with standing in the middle of the room, “all those settled dates rarely line up with the expectations.”

“Not only the settled ones,” she sighs – pensive, distant, invaded with bygone memories – as her eyes settle on his silhouette, illuminated by the city lights – echoes of the past, moonage daydream. “You remind me of my grandfather right now. Maybe it’s an odd thing to say, but I remember he used to spend quite a decent amount of time leaning by the sill, claiming he had his share of sitting, which I suspect might have been linked with joints condition that he didn’t wanna share, but still… he was the only person, excluding my father, who truly supported my cause, I mean moving out from home, going to college etc. etc.”

“Is he-”

“No, he’s alive,” she interrupts with an outrunning clarification, “although I might have made it sound like this.”

“I’m glad to hear that then,” he concludes, with a fleeting smile passing his features “Mine was quite… quite different, which I believe is a considerable understatement, but still…”

“How considerable?”

“Well, my Grandfather was a war hero, at least according to his claims, but also a man of dubious mental condition,” he begins, gaze glued to the cityscape spreading outside the window. “When it turned out my father deserted in Vietnam, he disinherited him, which is probably the main reason why I’m doing what I’m doing, but that’s by the by.”

“Which war did he fight in?” She inquires, ready to join him by the sill in a few languid steps, back supported by the wall.

“Oh, which didn’t he fight in,” he chuckles bitterly, rolling his eyes in the most dismissive manner she has ever seen on him. “His stories make for a saga alone, shoving such absurd concepts as historical accuracy aside, although in reality only the Great War.”

“Sounds fantastic,” she remarks – teaser of a hearsay nothing short of phenomenal.

“Anyway,” he cuts her off with a single hand slashing through the air, immediate to get back on the track with said tale, “he used to tell me a story, a bedtime one, always the same. If I remember correctly, which I most certainly do, it went something like this,” he halts, as if on purpose – suspense playing its part as an ever present speech manner.

“There was a cold, cold night, dark, all stars obscured by the clouds, moon long gone, shying away from the primeval force – Grim Reaper coming to take his toll,” he allows the name to linger in the air for a brief moment, a tribute to the transcendent persona. “With everyone fast asleep, as if believing to find the solitude in the trenches, he had the battlefield all for himself, every soul that still hadn’t left its body, clear as day, granting them a passage to afterlife, a safer one, not coming up to what earthy life granted. He never uttered a single word while he extracted them, soon to be taken by the wind, somewhere far, far away, his silhouette acting as their only guide. It was easy to doubt his existence with rime as the only evidence, but whoever was touched even once, even if for a split second, was marked for eternity – Death’s Protégé.”

“And what’s the twist?” She asks, most certain the story itself requires one as much as he need her query to accomplish the telling process, considering the silence that has settled above them after the statement – a prompt to contribute.

“Well,” he interrupts himself with a brief chuckle – a signature of incredulity, “he would claim I was marked, that I was the reaper’s child, which was before he got sent to asylum, nevertheless it still makes for an interesting story to tell, I think.”

“And that’s the only purpose?” She carries on with the queries, as if meant to extract the very essence of said issue.

“Not entirely,” he counters, soon to rectify. “He used to claim there was a link between this and my artwork.”

“What kind of link?”

“He never explained his motives,” he shrugs, a statement considered offensively obvious, “but I think he was just afraid of aspects he couldn’t comprehend, and so opted for a more straightforward solution, a claim that they foreshadowed some ungodly disaster.”

“No wonder he acted like that,” she remarks, as if to continue the pass of plain conclusions. “I mean pairing it with the background story.”

“No need to state the obvious,” he chides, a considerably calm manner, almost able to omit a lingering hint of irritation that the action evokes, “although I would be lying if I denied his diversity, or rather the diversity brought by his stories, which actually reminds me of something that I was supposed to mention before.”

“It’s incomprehensible how you maneuver through topics,” she chuckles, shaking her head in a display of disbelieving amusement.

“I’ve been told that before,” he agrees –necessity of decent conversation, at least according to his mother’s words. “Anyway, cutting to the chase here – I’ve got two tickets for the drive-in, since my friend has gotten ill and decided to spare me the place.”

“Seems like a merciful man to me,” she remarks, with a jeering hint of sarcasm on the tip of her tongue – wonderful pairing for the biblical word. “But I’m not sure if I’m gonna accept the offering.”

“Well, the title is Reservoir Dogs,” he continues, as if pretending to miss out on the snide comment, determined to elicit the desired reaction, “quite a success in Cannes according to what I’ve heard.”

“In Cannes you say…” she hums, as if pondering the variety of options to spend the evening, “not a guarantee we’ll like it.”

“Then how about you give it a try and then you can tell me if it’s worth it or not?” He proposes, posture indicating his readiness to leave, more than aware what her answer will be at this point, not that he has ever doubted his abilities to predict the inevitable.

“You’re truly the brightest mind of our age,” she rolls her eyes, accompanied by the ever-present sarcastic outline – a scaffolding for all the world’s components.

“Glad we agree on this one.”

A prelude for all mutualities, meant to unravel in due course.

Always the one to lurk in shadows – a promise of what is yet to come, a coalescence of twain factors:

Sinister sensuality?

A surmise shamefully salient.

* * *

Drive-in – a place where the movie screening is supposed to take place, at least according to the tenets, undoubtedly omitting another, quite distinctive, aspect to all of these – an ultimate truth that no component carries one purpose only, a statement renown by all, yet acknowledged by few.

Theirs appears to be invaded by an offbeat amount of people, seemingly not caring about the crisp air and cold weather, as if looking forward to the so-called ‘grand reveal’, cars lined in a couple of rows, more or less equidistant, while the screen remains blank, enhancing the anticipation of those who are meant to actually pay attention to the soon-to-be-presented piece of cinematography. Without a doubt, she considers herself as a relative of the latter group, eyes glued to the outstretched fabric in the central point, glad to see it unravel in front of her as the process is initiated – illumination of said canvas, inauguration of the gathering.

“But ‘Like a Virgin’ was a metaphor for big dicks.”

Delightful.

“Really?” She frowns, glancing towards him, as if searching for a confirmation.

“Do I look like a Madonna fan to you?” He retorts, eyebrows raised in a display of euphemistic irritation.

“Well,” she begins, as if pretending to ponder upon the subject, all for the never-ending purpose of riling him up, “again, not really.”

“So just sit back and watch,” he huffs, accusation evident in his tone, as if genuinely interested in the so-called Cannes successful movie, not that he is the only one.

Hence, she complies to the request, head lulling sideways to rest on his shoulder, leather of the coat chilly against her equally cool cheek, sending an unpleasant shiver down her spine, soon to be followed by another one, much sultrier this time, evoked by his arm encircling her frame. In search for the needful warmth, she leans in to him, the heavy weight draped over her figure elevating said experience to an entirely different dimension: a higher one, encrusted with chaste intentions, although built upon impure thoughts, leading to the simplest of conclusions, a statement reverberating underneath her skull in repetitive cycles.

Certain aspects are easy to deny, without even bothering to acknowledge their existence, nameless components of equally anonymous world, run on secrets. Take for instance the blossoming attraction, one is capable of ignoring it all the way, forget it ever influenced the perception, cross it out and pretend said spot has ever been occupied, or present an alternative approach – bite the bullet – ability craved by all, yet possessed by few.

The latter.

As an ever-present goal.

Any time her gaze lands on him, she cannot help but ponder upon his true intentions – an intelligent individual with whom she enjoys to converse with, and yet unfairly unreadable in some situations, leaving decent amount of room for speculations, doubts blossoming within her mind, invading it akin to a disease, deadly one to be specific. So-called fascination, an inkling that it might lead her to places that should to remain undiscovered, at least for her own sake – a simple analogy to the secluded areas of forests along with all the habitants.

(Keep in mind that hunters do not bother with such absurd concepts.)

“Isn’t he supposed to put pressure on the wound?” She frowns, gaze glued to the scene currently playing on the screen, with criticizing scrutiny, albeit interested in the events altogether. Despite the vanity of using a comb in such circumstances, nevertheless understandable if paired with both personality and relationship traits, she gets an impression that Cannes has opted for quite a judicious mark, especially if focusing on the dialog aspects – astonishing, magnificent.

Exquisite.

“If we’re discussing practical matters, then yes,” he replies, voice laced with an edge of irritation, evoked by her daring interruption.

“And if not?” She carries on with the queries, as if altogether aware of the effect that they have on him, and yet pretending not to acknowledge it.

“Then we oppose,” he enlightens with a dismissive eye-roll, audible in his speech manners.

“Mmm… astute,” she retorts, purring sound that reverberates in his ear, invading his senses like a disease that spreads far too quickly, and yet is oddly anticipated, akin to purposeful cold before school.

“So is your question,” he concludes, a dry exclamation of a long-term deceiver.

“That was my very intention,” she admits, voice deprived of proper hesitance, indicating the visionary tendencies – playing a major part in

(spoiling)

her master plan.

A query of ‘could it?’

Oddly so, it has taken him a relatively long expanse of time to get used to having her by his side with the floral smell of her hair wafting under his nose, lily of the valley he believes, nothing more than a reminiscence of his past now. Nevertheless, it stirs something within him, a distinctive hue applied in the perfect amount, oscillating between omitted and overwhelming, hands itching to reach underneath her clothes, check whether the rest is as cold as her palms are, clutching at the cotton of his tee in response to the scene playing in front of them. And yet, even in the face of all these notions, no matter how pleasant, another one is evoked – contradicting polarity – jealousy, bitter possessiveness, referring to who she has gotten all dolled up for – silly idea of a long-retired teenage boy, enhanced by the fact that his contestant failed oh so spectacularly.

Ignorant piece of shit.

Aside from her bygone partner, the current song appears to be a perfect match for his thoughts, father’s favorite, remembrance of grandpa’s tales, tales of a successful man, but only if he opts for reading selective verses, a twain of them in this case, chosen in advance – lie so blatant that it should be considered offensive, personification of his ancestor’s lives. Although seemingly different at first glance, the second, more discerning one, reveals another aspect – veracity, indicating their lack of professionalism, prattling tendencies, and poor life constructs that seem to work only if the rest is omitted, wiped away from the piece of paper in hopes it will be left unconsidered – definition of their compatibilities, denied with such ardor.

Alex

ander.

When you started off with nothing

And you're proud that you’re a self-made man.

“Fucking hell,” she mutters under her breath, unintentionally digging her nails in the firm plane of his chest, “I thought he ain’t gonna do this.”

“Well, you can always look away,” he shrugs, eyes remaining glued to the screen – a nonverbal denial.

“That’s not necessarily the case,” she counters, fingers releasing the hold on his tee, quick to smooth out the material – a manner he would never attempt to associate with her, marking his forehead with a frown of confusion, even if for a brief moment.

“Yeah, I know,” he affirms, emphasized with a refined nod. “It’s captivating.”

“So-called pornography of pain,” she adds, a term he has been all too familiar with for quite a while now, “and by that I mean the phenomenon of violence perception in culture, or even in real life, not sadomasochism.”

“Yeah, sure, everyone would say so,” he mutters, purring sound that catches her off guard for a brief moment, allowing the words to reverberate in the air for a longer while, as if in perfect awareness of said effect. “Anyway, I must agree on this one, although some might be eager to deny it, ‘I’m not a fucking psycho’, they would say, but to be honest I think morality is overrated in this case, unable to outrun the primal thirst for brutality. Since how else would you explain all those bloodbaths in art, cinematic for instance?”

“Time is too precious for such absurdities.”

Terminal conclusion followed by peaceful silence – an expanse ranging from the first, and unfortunately last, appearance of some German Shepherd all the way to the thirst-satiating finale, and her genuine content with the entirety, a relatively rare occurrence to be honest. Whatever has just betided in front of their eyes, appears to be the preface of a very promising phase in the movie industry, a phase she is eager to step into and thus familiarize with its offerings.

“It might have been the worthiest investment of those twenty five dollars that Daryl could ever think of,” he murmurs, stretching the limbs behind his head, fingers skimming the rooftop in a fleeting motion – a contrary to less-than-subtle deprivation of his supportive frame.

“Daryl?” She rubs her eyes – a substitute for proper refreshment. “You mean that nameless friend, right?”

“I do indeed,” he affirms, throwing a glance towards the door – a prelude for the subsequent proposition, “but I think we should drive away now, unless we want to get stuck with all those homespun drivers.”

“We don’t,” she agrees with a fleeting smile passing her features, much to his delight, even though the situation itself required no such approval, considering a man

(Alexander)

will do exactly as he pleases.

“Wonderful,” he concludes, soon to slam the back door and stake out the driver’s seat, while she follows his steps but to the passenger’s spot. With a flick of his wrist, the engine is ignited, and thus he is able to navigate their way through the more or less troubling labyrinth – a composition of cars in various states of decay: some fairly new, while others tend to oppose, their glory days undoubtedly classifying as bygone.

“So what now?” A trite of words that slices through the partial silence, accompanied only by the monotonous hum of engines. “You’re gonna drive me home like a decent man would?”

(No, I’m gonna fuck you like a decent man would.)

“I’ve never taken you for a person with such low expectations,” he remarks with a teasing timbre lacing his voice, glancing at her briefly, albeit long enough to catch the confused expression upon her face.

“Excuse me?” She frowns, their eyes meeting halfway – an occasion for her to get acquainted with the evidence of his self-content, oh so unexpected.

“You’ve heard me,” he shrugs, a brisk response of perennial philanderer – a verbalization of who he has always appeared to her as.

A womanizer.

Possibly a libertine too, which is at least what the more promiscuous part of her counts for, even though she is more than certain that contributing will lead to a bitter aftermath, the one when a man asks more or less kindly to leave, and yet considered worthwhile, which might as well be the reason why her mother used to label Serena with traits such as ‘occasionally self-destructive’. And yet, what would life be if deprived of any risks, decisions made in the heat of passion, meant to be rethought in due course, most likely after the milk will have already been spilled but still… distant future is what grants the vacancies.

(Isn’t it what they say?)

* * *

Her mother is a person of many claims, each more straightforward than the precedent, a person who belongs to the realm of appearances, where anything obvious requires to be verbalized – an unwritten purpose. Said manner never fails to amuse her in some sort of way, assuming the word itself is descriptive enough in such circumstances, and yet she has the tendency to retreat them from the depths of her mind in times of trial, considering the current situation is supposed to be perceived as a relative.

Cutting to the chase, that godforsaken woman would say: ‘he who lurks in the shadows, must be a sinister creature’ – a triviality in its purest form, and yet an appropriate summary for all her maladies oscillating around one person – star of her own planet system.

(Is it possible to dethrone the solar?)

(A question vain to consider.)

“What have I gotten myself into?” She mutters under her breath, seizing an opportunity that he is standing by the counter, pouring himself a drink, the reminiscence of amber waves evoked from seemingly great distance, soon to wash the shore of her lips.

“I’ve allowed myself to fix you one too,” he turns around to face her, both glasses snug in his hands, shiny brown liquor skimming the transparent surface as he approaches her figure, settled on the window sill, “and that’s actually a fairly expensive brandy.”

“You mean the real reason why you live in such a shithole?” She retorts, nevertheless accepts the offering, bringing it to her nose for a sniff, as if pretending to be a seasoned expert in alcoholic field, the one who is able to differ which wine was opened earlier with barely no effort.

“Partly yes,” he laughs – a lighthearted chuckle meant to loosen the tension, evident in her posture and the stagnant air, “but give it a try, it’ll do no harm.”

Without further ado, she complies, tilting the glass to her lips in order to take a final swig of amber liquor, shivering at the newfound wave of heat blossoming within her throat. Whilst the feeling itself is gradually subsiding into a sweet, fruity aftertaste, she even dares to consider admitting the accuracy of his claims oscillating around the liquor’s quality, but in the end opts against it, settling on a refined nod of approval, as per usual.

Over the years, she has gotten a chance to discovered one distinctive aspect that comes with the activity of pondering, more specifically the prompts of polar opposites that exist within each one of us. To set the record straight, she means no mental disorders, but the complex nature of any decision making process, hopelessly linked with all these constant whispers, both subduing and encouraging. Taking a leap of honesty, not faith in this case, since integrating with such ‘virtue’ is not included in her List of Matters Beyond Important, she is capable of admitting that opting for certain choice is rarely so intricate, while keeping in mind that they all appear to be fairly simple – negative for what she is attempting to sort out now.

“Serena,” he calls from seemingly great distance, grabbing her by the hand – a gesture so unexpected that she almost tears it from his grasp, although in the end manages to take a steady inhale and focus on the runic pattern marking his fingers, while he continues, voice ringing within the empty room, “are you afraid of me?”

“No,” she utters a nervous chuckle, squeezing his palm as if to reaffirm the veracity of her statement, “it’s just- I’m thinking too much, that’s all, and sometimes I wish I’d stop. Knowledge is a burden.”

“I must agree with the former, although the latter…” an exclamation laced with a hint of disapproval, emphasized by the tsk-noise, deprecating click of his tongue over the palate. “It’s nonsensical.”

“Well-”

“When I was younger, I used to play chess with my grandpa, and to clarify – that was before he got crazy, at least crazy enough to qualify for any asylum,” he interrupts, finally letting go of her hand, and siting on the cold sill for a change. “Anyway, there’re various kinds of openings in this game, some of them referred to as ‘gambits’. You know what a gambit is?”

“Yes,” she nods, always brisk to prove the point. “You sacrifice a pawn in order to achieve something significant.”

“Yeah, more or less,” he agrees, frowning as he takes a swig from the previously abandoned glass, soon to settle it down once empty, accompanied by a telling clink. “So tell me, can you see a parallel now?”

“You’re such a narcissistic asshole,” she shakes her head in disbelief, eliciting a throaty chuckle from her partner, the one meant to set her nerves on fire.

“That’s why you’re attracted to me,” he shrugs as the laughter gradually dies out, leaving only the remains of so-called smug smirk behind.

“Is this the time when I’m supposed to confess my never-ending love and admiration towards you so that our relationship can be consummated?” She spats bitterly, unhinged with exasperation.

“Nah,” he brushes her off with a dismissive flick of his wrist, more nerve-wrecking than ever. “Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“I don’t get it,” she frowns, shaking her head in irony-laced disbelief, “the story about gambits; is this your pick up line? Your big move?”

“Wanna know what my big move is?” He taunts, serious at the first glance, if not for the twitch of his upper lip, meant to betray any actual intentions.

“Yeah,” she nods – a refined one, as per usual, aiming to cover up any possible traces of excitement, “tell me your big move.”

“I paint the girls that I wanna fuck.”

(And tonight’s guest is…)

The greatest, most magnificent, unexpected surprise ever imagined.

A sentence allowed to reverberate in the air for a brief expanse of time, so cruelly interrupted by her pearly laugh, enhanced by the dismissive eye-roll of her partner.

“I know, unbelievable.”

“Well, I gotta say I’ve expected that, and either way I feel honored,” she speaks, clearing her throat as soon as the breathless chuckle dies out, intent to her rid of any unpleasant coarseness, “but why am I your pick, like specifically?”

“You intrigue me,” he bestows her with the merest of explanations as if for the simple sake of getting on her nerves. “That’s why you’re my ‘pick’.”

“And that’s all?” She cocks an inquisitive eyebrow at him, wanting, willing to hear out more details. “You know, ‘it's the details that sell your story’.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that,” he huffs, shaking his head in disbelief, soon to rise from the previous seat – an indication of movement, of change, creeping closer and closer until in reach to brush her ankle, swallowed by the dimness of his flat. “But what more can you wish for? You intrigue me, and I’ve wanted to have you since our little encounter on the roof,” he states, without a hint of hesitation scaring his voice, instead some distinctive at-ease carelessness that she has found both exasperating and enticing since the very beginning. “Even though I don’t believe in the qualities such as uniqueness, meeting you was an interesting experience, downright repeatable. Is this specifying enough?”

“Well yes,” she agrees, a hint of uncertainty lacing her voice, most likely linked with the matters yet to be revealed, “but don’t you thinks it’s degrading: ‘wanted to have you’, another term for expressing male domination, claiming a woman like you claim a prize.”

“If you’re so keen on sorting this out,” he begins – an offer she cannot refuse, “we can have a chat about ‘male domination’ as soon as… how did you put it… as soon as… our relationship will be consummated.”

“By that, it appears to me you’re in some sort of a hurry,” another jeering remark, the one he has no intentions in letting slide for a change, “is that correct?”

“Claiming that I’m the only one is an obtuse lie, don’t you think?” He purrs, all of sudden turning around to face her, hands on either sides of her thighs, resting on the cold sill. “And that’s truly degrading, not your whole ‘male domination’ shit.”

She cannot help but let out a reedy squeal at the abrupt turn of events, now trapped between his body and the freezing glass, not literally cornered and yet feeling like so, even more as he leans in towards the woman, breath stuck in her throat. With the cooper waves tickling her cheek, and heated blows on her neck, he begins to speak, words impossible to be distinguished for a split second, molding into a monotonous tone, dark and rich, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. She relishes in the teasing flutter, fighting the innate urge to arch in his direction, until he grabs her by the face, cradling the side of it in his left hand, fingers biting into the cheek, even if for the slightest bit, eyes meeting halfway with reflection of city lights encrusted on the green background.

“… and I want you to lay on the bed now,” he finishes – a garnish that leaves her confused and frowning, both due to lack of concentration – a trait she loathes oh so deeply and has never dared to label herself with before.

“Gonna fuck me already?” She asks in attempt of clarification, eliciting a short-lived laughter from her partner, a coarse chuckle that prickles her skin with goosebumps.

“Why the rush?” He teases, both hands shifting to curl around her thighs as if bracing for the final lift, but instead pulls her body towards the edge, legs wrapping around his hips in order to regain the substantial balance. “Delayed gratification is what does the trick.”

“Well, I thought that saying so is a determinant,” she huffs, eyes glued to the godforsaken furniture as if evading his gaze would help her focus, “but apparently not.”

He only chuckles in response, vibrations palpable in her chest, resonating all the way through, enough to redirect her attention to more carnal aspect, beginning with the plainest closeness, with how her breasts mash against his firm flesh, for instance. It has her wondering why they have not even kissed yet, despite the intimate proximity, just an inch to the left and their lips will brush, all in vain, considering his plans obviously differ, evident in the abrupt hoist up that tears a feminine squeal from the caught-off-guard woman. In a manner beyond desperate, her hands clutch onto the cotton of his t-shirt – yet another reason to laugh for the unfavorable male – although rather quick to drop her onto the more sturdy ground, if mattress can be referred to as such.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this if that’s how little trust you have for me,” he mutters, outwardly on own benefits, while she believes it is also meant to reach her ears, gaze fixated on his towering silhouette, helplessly braced on the elbows.

“Sure,” she retorts, an inseparable hint of sarcasm lacing her voice – a phrasal of personality traces, “like you could stand it.”

“Mhm,” he hums, imitating her tone just to witness Serena huff in exasperation, “tell me about it.”

To that she has no answer, just an awaiting stare following his movements to the kitchenette, confused when it comes to what he is actually looking for there, an assumption about his libertine tendencies rushing through her mind in a frenzied display of nervousness, soon to be mitigated by the following object – a chair fished out from its spot behind the island.

“Who would have thought your flat is full of such useless possessions,” she remarks, rising up to a sitting position, weight braced on the open palms.

“Unbelievable, huh?” He teases with a banter not quite considered as lighthearted, emphasized by the rough scrape on the wooden panels, sound utterly terminal in its fiendish form, skin erupting with goosebumps – titillation and trepidation mingling into a fairly undistinguished integrity. “But I think you owe me a show. So strip.”

Unrepeatable opportunity to observe the medley of emotions manifesting themselves on her face, so calm and straight most of the times – long-awaited variety from the common, day-to-day occurrence. Beginning with the wide-eyed surprise – nonverbal statement, albeit still notably refined – then progressing to the thought-indicating frown – violation of the smooth palette of her forehead – to finalize with mouth-agape attempt to transfer the bizarre concoction into proper words. For a brief moment, he considers teasing her about it – cat’s-got-your-tongue cliché – but opts against it in the end, exchanging it for a less foreseen phrase.

Sure.

“C’mon, I ain’t got all day,” he urges her to comply, taking a seat on the aforementioned chair, backwards, arms rested on the top rail, soon to fish out a cigarette from leftover pack hidden in the inner pocket of his coat, draped over the frame, then toss what is redundant on the table top. He lights it up with a precise flick of his zippo, eyes glued to the billowing smoke for a split second, until he slips it in between his lips, sucking up a nicotine drag.

Downfall of all hedonists.

Guarantee of premature death.

Damnation – opt out from salvation.

Godsend?

Simply obsolete.

“And you want me to do what precisely?” She asks with some odd precaution that almost elicits a direct laugh from him, open-mouthed and blissfully mocking, resembling a skittish animal, dangerously close to leap of the ground and escape for good.

“Strip,” he reiterates, voice seemingly deprived of all emotional layers, if not for the lingering huskiness, a smoky tune that reminds Serena what evoked her perplexing attraction in the first place. “And don’t force me to repeat my request.”

“Request?” She huffs in disbelief – a mocking show-off, meant to taunt him, push his button even now – an everlasting purpose, menacingly deathless. “Now that’s funny.”

Either way, she begins to strip, sitting up straight to get rid of the first layer – a chequered shirt, tied at the waist – clearly taking her sweet time with the knot and those few buttons, while his hands itch to rip it, shred the unimportant piece of cloth in two – a situation he will not allow to happen at current rate, ever-present penchant for delays. With smug, although definitely short-lived, satisfaction, she notices his eyes shift to her chest, breasts still clad in the black bralette – the-best-way-possible definition of classic elegance, underlined by a subtle hint of lace.

The jeans are what follows, paired with the requirement to stand up and bathe her body in the city lights, luminous on her pale complexion, vision glued to the buildings tearing up the horizon, almost undisrupted by the scratchy sensation of denim slipping down her legs. What makes her shiver though is the intensity of his gaze, almost palpable on her back, as if his fingers were right there, skimming over the heated skin – an inkling that prompts her to turn around and flop back onto the bed, searching for any support in the cold headboard – iron railing that bites into her soft flesh.

“Do go on,” he requests, or rather enjoins, calm at the first glance, if not for the smoldering zeal shadowing his eyes – a parallel for the ember at the tip of his cig.

“Why?” She bothers to ask – presumably mistaken about the evoked concept, fool’s pursuit, leading to nothing else but bitter disappointment.

“’Cause I like to play God,” he clarifies – plain instance of an unexpected answer, “at least from time to time.”

“Then c’mere and do it yourself,” she rolls her eyes – deliberate taunt – in hopes to break his resolve, and so impose him to approach her, an unfamiliar thirst for his touch seemingly insatiable.

“That’s not how it works,” he shakes his head, an exclamation laced with a hint of mock disapproval, as if genuinely displeased with the outcome, “first you gotta earn it, and then I’ll reciprocate. Maybe.”

(Maybe?)

Intent to make as quick work of it as possible, elongated only by a fretful huff, her hands reach the hem of said bralette, and pull it over her head in a relatively graceful movement, adding it up to the stack of clothes piling at the foot of his bed. In attempt to ignore the heat of his gaze upon the newly exposed skin, she focusses on the last step dividing her from accomplishment – sliding the matching panties down her legs, the ones that almost land on his face as in a display of blatant irritation, evoked by his shameless gawping. As in response, her limbs close on their own accord, interfering with his nettled countenance: bitter and relentless, prompting the woman to rearrange them, to which she counters, locking their gazes together once again.

“Very well,” he hums with yet another cigarette stuck in between his lips, soon to be ignited, as his gaze skims her figure, expression softer than he has ever witnessed on Serena, as if afraid of what is just about to be uttered, “now touch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” She chokes out in disbelief, brows furrowed in confusion, arms encircling her frame, meant to deprive him of any explicit view, sending a shiver down her spine as the cold digits brush the side of her breast.

“You’ve heard me,” he retorts, blunt and seemingly careless, tapping out the excess ash onto the dusty floor, while his gaze remains focused solely on her, or rather on the heaving chest, its intensity settling a smoldering zeal in the pit of her stomach, and so prompts Serena to enlace the pressing knot. Both the towering position and the distance put between them enhances the subdual, and for the first time in her life she is ready to admit that whatever is going on between them appears to stir something within her too, whatever that ‘something’ is.

Uncertainty?

Trepidation?

No?

(Not all feelings are possible to be classified.)

And with that, she resumes, or rather initiates the whole process, hands lifting to cup her breast, filling the palm quite snugly, while she can only imagine the comparison with his, cradling her ribs just a few hours ago. The thought itself sends a delicious shiver down her spine and before she knows it, the right arm follows its path to the cleft between her legs – movement fueled by the burning impatience, by the hope that it will manage to convince him to finally touch her, to soothe the pulsing ache – when all of sudden he breaks the silence – a lingering denial that infuriates her more than she could have imagined.

“Not so fast darling,” a single exclamation that slices through the smoky lull, meant to halt her pursuit, undermine the control she appears to possess over own body, and to his partial surprise, the woman complies, lying her palm slack on the inner thigh, fingers biting into the flesh – undisputable evidence of all frustrations.

“But-”

“How long has it been?” He interrupts, a puff of smoke obscuring his face, careless and vexingly at ease, as per usual. “Days? Weeks?”

She nods to both of them, which elicits a throaty chuckle from her partner – an exclamation of some sadistic amusement, prickling her skin with goosebumps, but at the same time having the brunette wish he was right there next to her, stroking the heated flesh as in indication of some leisured worship.

(Only two can play this game.)

“Then you can wait a few minutes longer,” he concludes, almost forcing a chocked cry from Serena, disappointment evident on her face, and hell, she even pouts at him – a mannerism he would have never linked with her before.

“So what do I do now?” She sasses, aggravations outrunning any possible consequences. “Sit here and watch you smoke?”

“Of course not,” he laughs, presumably to spur her even further, “I’m not much of a sadist, even though it might seem so right now.”

“Mhm, sure,” she hums in mock agreement, a lingering hint of sarcasm that betrays her every single time – a matter meant to be rectified in the near future.

“So from this point, run your fingers along the inner thighs,” he mutters, sending another intense, rather disturbing, tremor down her spine, nipples pebbling with arousal, and she instinctively reaches to squeeze them, wishing to replace the smooth substitute with harsher texture of his fingertips. Either way, she complies to his request, stroking the tender skin with the very tips of her fingers – teasing replacement for proper touch, lingering breeze that might as well be yet another result of delirious mind-prompting. She sighs, arms itching to reach just an inch to the side, impatience bottling up and ready to explode any second now, akin to a can of coke after decent shaking, and so, to release some of the tension, she shifts her legs helplessly, wanting, willing him to end the decadent suffering.

“Now touch yourself,” he directs, failing to cover up the hint of arousal underlining his voice, as his gaze alternates between her face, eyes shadowed by a lustful fog, and both hands, now occupied with more pressing matters, “but keep it light. And slow.”

(About fucking time.)

With one brisk movement, betraying the eagerness, her fingers shift to the spot in between her legs, forcing a surprised gasp out of her throat, as if genuinely shocked with the amount of wetness coating her fingertips. The act itself, no matter how simple, almost forces a loud moan from her constricted throat, relieved with the slightest bit of pressure, even if more to enhance than to actually soothe the pulsing ache, tickling sensation on her folds. For a split second, she forgets about the male company, a real person just a few mere feet in front of her, until he speaks again, rich and husky tune that elicits a faint moan from her, all to his delight.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” He queries, to which she nods, maybe a little too feverishly, although her lacking response is certainly not pleasing enough for him, with the subsequent demand to ensure the veracity of said assumption. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she gasps almost at the spot, hand twitching in attempt to contain the needful rub, light and slow as per his request.

“Very well then,” he purrs, a gravelly sound that has her insides coiling in anticipation for the following words. “I want you to slide your fingers in, one at a time. Good girl. Now crook them and rub.”

The intrusion itself, in consideration of a relatively long expanse of time, draws a pained whimper from the woman, loud enough to reach his ears, lips lacing in a smug smirk, as if on their own. However, the generous amount of slick allows her to smooth out the thrusts, and keep the pace slow but steady, although eager for things to speed up, yet certain that Alexander will interfere in response to her arbitrariness.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

“Eyes on me,” he demands all of sudden, in spite of the fact she has barely registered them falling shut, an abrupt sound that causes her to jerk in surprise. Nevertheless, she is immediate to open them, meeting the jade green of his own irises, visibly darker in the dim light, overlapped with the conspicuous lust shadowing his gaze, luring her to take those few leaps towards him and perch atop his lap, but then again, he will not allow it – a standstill in the worst variant possible.

Therefore, in a final attempt to focus on the carnalities, her attention shifts toward more pressing issue – long nails mercilessly scratching her walls – one of main reasons why she prefers male’s touch, excluding a bunch of few, equally important, aspects. Obliged to work with what she has got, in hopes it will get her off sooner than later, she moves the other hand to her clit, and circles it – an action that sends a promising shiver down her spine, but also prompts him to break the silence again.

“You’re close,” a question (?), either way followed by an approving nod and desirous look thrown in his direction. “Then stop.”

“No- but I’m…mmm… please,” she whines, while her own body seems to betray Serena once more, following his request before her mind registers what is actually going on. Fighting the innate urge to carry on with what has been so cruelly interrupted, she adds another query, full of misery, her lip quivering as she speaks. “Why?”

“It’ll feel much better this way, trust me,” he reassures, voice meant to soothe all maladies, retreating the wish to have him beside her once again, feel the warmth radiating from his body, the skillful caresses of his lips dancing over her skin. “You can go on now.”

Uttering a defeated huff, she resumes the whole process, circling her clit until she is shivering in delight, legs shifting in obvious impatience, until he tells her to stop once again, and again, and again, the amount of disposed cigarettes working as the only time-measuring factor. She is close to bursting into tears by now, needy and frustrated, although unable to deny that every single stroke, even if barely present, feels electrifying, has her wishing to be replaced by another and another one, and yet he denies the climax every single time, drawing all kinds of desperate whines from the woman.

“I know,” he soothes, and she might have even believed him if not for the sadistic inclination hiding behind his gaze – primal pride of possession. “But it’ll feel so good, I promise. Doesn’t it now?”

“It does,” she manages to utter, voice breaking pitifully at the end as another shudder passes down her spine, silently begging him to end the misery. “Can I… please…”

“Yes,” he affirms, smirking as she sobs in relief, her hips jerking in time with each and every movement by now, following the inevitable release, “but keep your eyes on me.”

And so she does, her vision nearly blacking out from the intensity of newfound experience, wave after wave crushing through her body, fingers almost cramping as she clenches around them, back arching in a catlike manner. Trembling with aftershocks, she is only capable of lying slack on the mattress, both hands mindlessly sliding onto the mattress, wiping any evidences of whatever has just taken place on the sheets, not quite bothering whether he minds it or not.

Dazed with the fervency of said experience, her eyes close on their own accord, barely able to register him getting up from the chair and flopping down on the bed, until he brushes the tender side of her breast, nipples still tingling with arousal. Drowsy as ever, she somehow manages to meet his gaze, pupils dilated in evidence of lust, frenzied and unhinged, yet partly subdued, as if in attempt to stop himself from completely devouring the lush partner, at least according to what she likes to tell herself on such occasions.

While lying on the mattress, boneless and spent, he traces the lines of her cleavage, smirking as she twitches in some unconditioned reflex, still a little dizzy and so unable to contain herself, body arching towards him, presumably enough to take a note of. There is something helplessly embarrassing about being so responsive – confirmation of the potent influence, the fact that he is capable of eliciting even the most absurd reactions from her with nothing else than just a mere stroke of his fingertips.

Pathetic.

(Is it?)

She looks – no – is absolutely fucked, he thinks as his palm follows a path down her body, teasing touch that tickles her flat stomach, sends a repetitive shiver down her spine, legs opening to give him the essential access – a shapely female in his bed, all to himself, which paired with the knowledge of how much she will let him do to her now, has his member throb in impatience, with the variety of scenarios running through his head. The whole experience allows him to see Serena in a different light, more as a self-conscious woman than a sarcastic lass, which in turn makes him wonder whether he was even supposed to offer her that brandy for a loosen-up – doubt definitely short-lived on the benefit of more pressing matters running through his mind. It appears to him that he has managed to dig out all the carnal-oriented parts of her, thirst never to be satiated, which in turn fills him with the so-called male pride, desire to push her limits on every occasion possible, such as now, full at his mercy with legs drawn apart.

“Mmm… fuck,” he mutters to himself, failing to notice the corners of her lips twitching in a sly smirk, too preoccupied with the carnival of thoughts rushing through his head. Nevertheless, such momentary satisfaction is not enough to soothe the blossoming ache, sheer desperation for the long-craved attention that has her squirming on the mattress, helpless and miserable, hips shifting to get him where she needs it the most. Unfortunately and much to her lust-laced despair, the cruel hand only hovers over the mound, barely brushing her skin, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman and prompts her to roll over to the side, ignoring all protests of the weakened body.

Draping a single leg over his hip, she leans in to steal a kiss, the nicotine aftertaste lingering on his tongue, far too intense to be considered as pleasant under any other circumstances, and in spite of said assumption some wicked part of her still longs for more, pressed flush to his body. He allows her to do so, hands grasping her by the hips to prevent Serena from grinding against his thigh, or whatever stunt she is attempting to pull, which elicits a frustrated huff from the woman, one of those that has him chuckling against her lips.

“Can you like… take off your clothes?” She mutters, still less than an inch from him, unfortunately putting their kiss to a premature end. “It makes me feel awkward that I’m the only one naked.”

“I thought you would prefer to receive some attention first, but if that’s what you want…” he cocks an eyebrow at her, even though she is unable to see it at such close proximity, taking special pleasure in the way her hands fall down with a slap– illusion of pining him to the mattress.

“No- I mean-”

“No?” He interrupts, teasing manner that lights her eyes with newfound doze of frustration, clutching at the cotton of his tee.

“Can you touch me first?” She almost whines, the sheer desperation within her voice makes him twitch inside the constricting denim, wish to remove the barrier between their bodies, then, of course, fuck her into the mattress until she is babbling nonsense. “Please.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” he smirks, as if genuinely pleased with how the situation has played out, for his own benefits obviously, flipping them sooner than expected, which elicits a surprised giggle from his female partner. She props herself on the elbows, watching him with anticipation written across her features, curious about his actual intents, chest heaving in time with each uneven breath, skin practically glowing in the city lights – a reach-through to the most carnal parts of his brain.

(So, so ready for him.)                                                

Hence, he decides to take some pity on her

(him),

since she has been quite cooperative throughout their whole encounter, yet to reach the end, and so rewarding her for such is certainly fair enough, if only to see the misty eyes light up once more, stormy pools of sensuous lust, luring him to lean in – one step closer to his inevitable damnation. Therefore, he rolls the t-shirt over his head, jeans soon to follow – an action that draws an excited gasp from the female – although the underwear stays on, considering it might be a little hard to contain himself if elsewise, paired with the longing look she flashes him as in response to the unexpected turn of events.

Before she gets a grasp on what is happening, he tugs her by the arm, directing her onto his lap once again, breasts snug against his chest, and a single hand unceremoniously being pushed in between her legs, cupping the whole expanse in one rough palm, which elicits a vocal moan from the woman. Her hips rock against it, seemingly on their own, craving for more blissful friction, as she literally throbs in relief, opening up like a flower underneath his touch – silent plead for more, encouragement to pursue, to reward her for how compliant she has been to him.

“Just like that…” she moans, obviously content with the situation itself, eyes falling shut on their own, as she settles into the position, or rather gets used to the pressure applied by his hand, with a ghost of breath on her neck.

“Like this?” He teases, pressing down on her clit hard enough to draw a pitiful squeal from the woman, hips bucking in response to the rough caress – such an absurd concoction of words – as her hands raise to take a steady grip on his shoulders. His breath is palpable on her skin, tickling akin to the reddish strands, having her wish his tongue would run over the heated flesh, suck at the soft spot just below her ear, in need for any sort of relief, since all he has been performing for quite a while now qualifies as merely teasing, no less no more.

“You’re relentless,” she sighs, as if to spur him with the helpless act, thighs quivering with effort of containing the innate thrusts of her hips, pad of his finger circling the swollen nub with almost inhuman deftness, drifting her thoughts back the drive-in, and the following doubt: which one is she? The thirty-ninth? That low? Maybe fifty-first? This, paired with the ability of turning her mind into a shapeless mush, so clear and brisk at most times, capable of fluent concentration, freaks her out more than she cares to admit, along with the lust-laced submission, the fact that she is past the point of common self-respect, goaded by the primal urge to hit the climax once again – unhinged desire that breaks down far too many barriers, that forces her to…

“Mmm…fuck,” she moans as soon as his fingers reach further south, prodding at the spasming entrance, so close to sliding inside and yet elongating the blissful torture. “Please, I need this so much.”

“Who would’ve thought you were such a greedy, little girl,” he teases, oh so harmlessly, fighting the pressing need to grind against the moist heat, almost dizzy with his own lust, practically bursting as if caught on some high school fling.

(Self-control.)

“Tell me now, what have you done to earn this?”

Now that is humiliating, she thinks, while in consideration how regrettable would be to disobey him, even if for a mere moment, hands twitching with effort of containing the immature idea of pushing him away, then expressing her immense displeasure by twisting his dick off. Possibly the worst case scenario, and yet the only one left when cornered, hesitating between twain of opposite solutions, unable to fit anywhere in between, and accordingly so, she chooses to speak – weak insubordination, mindless babbling of sheer desperation.

“Each and every thing you wanted me to do,” she argues, one of her hand reaching his, pressed in between the tensed thighs, wordlessly prompting him to pursue, “so I think I deserve a reward.”

“A reward you say?” he retorts – a query almost lost in the space-time as soon as he presses down onto the swollen folds, drawing another feminine whimper from her. “Fine, so let’s make it worthwhile.”

And with that he resumes, quick to slide a pair of his fingers inside, which forces a choked cry from the woman, hands once again flying up to grasp his shoulders, long nails biting into the firm flesh. He hisses at the mingling stab of pain and pleasure, unable to contain the subtle shiver running down his spine, especially when paired with the reedy moan she utters as soon as he brushes the g-spot, dizzy because of the long-craved fullness, based on those male preference aspects, squirming upon his lap as the caress grows on intensity. This, or the self-named leakage, calls back to involuntary disclosure of one’s true intentions, hidden desires, cravings never qualified for direct verbalization, popping out to the surface when uncontained, least expected, or simply unfortunate.

“Hear that?” He rasps into her ear, causing the tiny hairs on female’s neck to stand up as the tickling heat begins to spread through her body, skin almost itching to be touched. “Hear how wet you are?”

“Yes,” she gasps, now actually paying attention to the squelching sounds, cheeks burning hot red, as she buries her face in his neck, lips brushing the sensitive flesh as she speaks.

“Look at me,” he demands, fingers grasping her chin, as he tilts it upwards, eyes adverting to the side, prompted by the silly need to hide away from the intensity of such contact, “and I want you to hold it.”

“Okay,” she gulps as her walls clench around his fingers – involuntary response that elicits an amused chuckle from the male, all to her exasperation, not so mild anymore, sweeping away the prior embarrassment. Even so, she considers the smug composure itself in terms of an aspect beyond enticing, exciting maybe, the one that drags her towards the end faster than expected in comparison to what she is used to. Furthermore, she cannot deny him the skills, but at this point also qualifies it as the less meaningful factor, with its lack of extent towards the mental dimension, towards the emotional bond that blossoms into trust as a parallel to relationship development.

Exquisite but eerie.

Verdict of veracity to validate.

Deep in her thoughts, at least as much as the current situation allows her to, she appears as genuinely caught off guard by the pulsing wave of bliss, pre-orgasmic but potent enough to tear a surprised gasp from her throat, meant to shatter the pitiful remains of so-called concentration. With the eye-contact aspect long forgotten, she throws her head back, exposing the slim column of her neck, luring him to finally suck at the creamy skin, glistening in the city lights, itching for extra touch. Despite the pair of fingers, shoved knuckles deep inside her, along with the ragging hard-on, he manages to get the hint, quick to dip down and attach his lips to the tender flesh – an act that elicits a relieved moan from the female – hands tangling in the velvety mass of hair.

At this point she can barely sit still, squirming in his grips as he lavishes her skin with open-mouthed kisses, nibbling and licking until she becomes a quivering mess, longing for the second climax – honeyed tang upon her tongue, as if possible to be tasted. Chasing the inevitable release, she rocks against the heal of his palm, desperate for more friction, frenzied and unhinged, torn between tethering on the cusp forever and tilting forward to the thirst-satiating finale – doubt definitely short-lived, minuscule expanse of time carved from the eternity.

With a final spasm, she arches towards him, lips colliding in a messy kiss, clenching around his fingers, so tightly that his thrusts are forced to a halt, labored breaths exchanged between the lovers – his in carnal desperation, hers as a result of mind-numbing bliss. In attempt to steady her trembling body, one of his arms snakes behind her back, holding the partner upright as she rides out her orgasm, bucking against his hand in languid manner that indicates the gradual ebbing of prior pleasure.

When their eyes meet, glassy and high on post-orgasmic delight, something snaps within him, and despite the discontented whine she utters, he pushes her away to the side, then in one brisk movement gets rid of his underwear, almost ripping the fabric in process. Having discarded it to the side, he climbs back on top of her, prying her legs open with a rushed knee jolt, but she halts him by laying a single hand on his chest, his face now marked with a frown of confusion.

“The protection,” she reminds drily, causing him to roll his eyes, but at the same time reach to the lonesome box chilling by the bed, soon to fish out a single foil package and rip it with one precise flick of his wrist.

“You’re such a mood killer,” he huffs, albeit quick to put the (un)necessary interval to an end by rolling the latex piece onto his throbbing hard-on, groaning when treated by the meager pressure, applied in the cruelest way possible.

Impatient as ever, she watches him jerk off a few times, before he kneels in front of her again, and without wasting any more time, lines with her entrance, the rapid slide that forces a chocked cry from her throat. With dark spots marking her vision, she lifts the gaze to meet his eyes – pools of pitch black with a barely present rim of jade, captivating, almost to the point of hypnosis, burning with unhinged lust – chest heaving with labored breaths.

“Shit…” he groans, delirious, voice laced with newfound desperation, selfish need to get off as soon as possible, especially when she is pulsing around him, once again anticipating the approaching wave of bliss. With his clean hand, he laces their fingers – a gesture she would consider romantic if not for the following exclamation, mindless babbling of incoherent man, lacking in the usual finesse. “Makes me wanna fuck you so hard.”

“Then do it,” she spurs, wriggling her hips as if to signalize that she is more than ready, wanting, willing to find out what he has to offer, but instead of transferring the words into proper actions, he speaks again, rough and husky – gravelly driveway to the dream estate.

“Say that again,” he practically growls – a sound that throws her off the current train of thoughts, even if for a brief moment, primal in the way that sends a chilling shiver down her spine.

“Do it, please,” she repeats, more determined than before, legs wrapping around his hips as if in attempt to drag him closer, heels digging into the tensed muscle. Having him inside her calls back to the long-forgotten sensation – peculiar fullness, linked with the most pristine connection – intended to be relished, but at the same time aiming for a further pursuit, walls spasming around him as if to prove a point. “Please.”

To that, he has no answer, at least not the one she wants to gain, instead keeps staring at her for what seems like forever, but in reality must oscillate around less-than-a-minute interval, with her squirming impatience failing to affect him. Seemingly deprived of the desired ability to make him comply,

(Come closer and see)

she focuses on the distinctive melody playing in the background, coming from the adjoining flat,

(See into the dark)

the one she used to consider as a fit to hear out while you get high, but that was before she has learned the meaning beyond lyrics, beyond the goth-rock tune that she enjoys to replay in her head, so brutally interrupted in the middle by an unknown hand.

(Just follow your eyes)

he says and for a split second she cannot focus on anything else but the lingering tone, leaning to one inevitable conclusion, and all of sudden there comes a time when ‘male’ is preceded by ‘fe’.

“Please?” He croaks at some point, barely acknowledging enough to pierce through the metaphorical barrier, one of his hands squeezing her hip, blunt nails digging into the fleshy part of her side, until she squeals in discomfort, eyes now shifting to meet his – pools of shady lust.

“Yes,” she gulps, struggling to get the words out of her parched throat, one slim leg hooking over his midsection as if to cover up the prior absence, “please.”

In what must take just mere seconds, he releases her hand – a hook to reality – both of his switching to her shoulders in search for a more convenient position, sure to leave bruises as they bite into her skin. She finds it unsettling, the swiftness of his movements, the barely present grasp on changeable turn of events – concern soon to evaporate in the chilly night in time with the first push, hitting her heftier than expected, evident in the stunned cry she utters.

His lips are parted, letting out heavy breaths, tongue flicking over the parched flesh – an action that enhances her want, no – her need, to taste him – while all he contributes in, minus the thrusting part, is holding her down, lost in the mind-numbing desire to feel her clenching around him each time he rubs against her cervix. He keeps the pace slow, allowing him to reach deeper inside his restless lover, her hands now tightening around his wrists, eyes falling shut, as she attempts to grind against him, clit throbbing for attention. She almost sobs in relief when he gets the hint, one of his hands dipping in between their bodies to circle the swollen nub with a pair of long fingers, not quite meaning to grant her the relief yet, instead teases the edges with ticklish touches, parallel to the fluttering of butterfly’s wings. Nonetheless, she is clenching around him, throbbing and squirming, almond-shaped nails biting into the tendons crossing his wrists, as if to stay connected with the runaway reality.

Noting more than a pointless pursuit…

According to Alexander, there is a fair amount of adjectives to label a woman with, selection almost mind-numbing during the initial recon, ranging from the less favorable traits to the absolute heaven of compliments, quite difficult to choose from in such circumstances. Either way, enticing is what he opts for at the moment, skin glistening with sweat, presumably as much as his, breasts swaying in time with each thrust, and the variety of sounds slipping past her lips, now bleeding from excess biting. The crimson mark prompts him to dip down, sweep his tongue across the cut, if only for a taste – a craving impossible to ignore – and finally lean in, kissing the split flesh – an action that elicits a relived mewl from the woman, along with the carnal groan he utters – shaping up a need to verbalize what is on his mind, a bunch of half-coherent words.

“Always so fucking stubborn, such a tough bitch out there, and look at you now,” he groans, breath tickling her chin, a single hand now tightening around her throat, which forces a chocked whine from the female. “You’d do anything I say, anything to cum, am I right?”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she chants as if in some unspoken desperation, rewarded by the profuse pressure on her clit that draws a content sigh from her, soon replaced by a deep moan, back arching off the mattress as both contraries mingle – inside and outside, downright blissful. She shivers as her breasts brush his chest, hands reaching to squeeze the pert globes, eyes closing on their own as the pleasure begins to build up, not so gradually anymore, rather in comparison with the waves crushing to the shore – rhythmical intensifications that parallel with the involuntarily clenching walls.

“I know, I- fuck,” he groans, spurred by the sight below to increase the pace, even thrusts long forgotten on the benefit of something more feral, pleasure-chasing, nerves tingling, as if to brace for the approaching surge of bliss. Torn between the polar opposites, on one hand willing to reach the thirst-satiating finale sooner than later, while on the other force her to beg once again, if only to maintain the ‘authoritarian’ figure, which at this point also appears as nonsensible, futile, with trembling muscles, tightening sac, and shut-off brain.

Although he can tell that she is tethering right on the edge too, he needs to speed up the process, lips attaching to the sweet spot below her ear – an action that elicits a broken moan from the woman – hand around her neck involuntarily tightening, as he holds himself up. Struggling to breathe properly, her nails rake down his shoulder blades, leaving a bloody trail below, his own teeth biting a sangria-colored bruise on the tender skin until she squeals, akin to some high school girl.

“C’mon, darling,” he purrs against the sore spot, flicking his tongue over the soon-to-form mark, rough stubble scratching her delicate flesh, hips grinding against his hand, caught in some frenzied state of lust. With a final scrape of his palm, or beard maybe, she clenches around him, spine bending as if to form a late triumphal arch – the most anticipated conquest – immediate to drag him with her, bodies spasming in each other’s arms, as their breath mingle, lips trace the flushed skin, and with both eyes closed, they attempt to ignore the black spots making their vision. Unable to keep himself upright, he collapses on top of her, drawing a pitiful mewl from the confused woman, cutting her airflow once again, which forces yet another choked whine from her throat. “’M sorry,” he mutters, although apparently struggling to roll over, muscles not working on his account for a change, but in the end somehow manages to rest on his back, leaving her cold and empty on the side.

In search for the essential warmth, she reaches out to him, half-climbing, half-snuggling to his side, body trembling as the sweat begins to evaporate from the cease of her spine, loose strands of hair ticking his cheek, lips joining in a leisure kiss. While neither of them dares to break the silence, still hazy with the post-orgasmic delight, his thoughts drift back to the events of seemingly distant past, the unspoken whim that has been lingering in the air for quite a while now, satiated by the least expected person.

It all seems so absurd now…

How close she brings him to God.

* * *

“Aren’t you gonna be jealous?” She frowns, her gaze glued to the enormous portrait decorating the snow white wall – a color almost too perfect to be true.

“No, why?” He glances at her, scratching his chin with the inked fingers, freckles manifesting on his skin more than usual in the blinding gallery lights.

“I don’t know,” she retorts, sarcastic as usual. “’Cause all of them will see me naked?”

“That’s only half of a story,” he replies, ever at ease, if not for the possessive squeeze of her shoulder, betraying what is lurking underneath the surface, probably deep enough to remain unacknowledged by the direct ‘stakeholder’ – a mere tincture of so-called jealousy, “only a poor substitute of what we are beyond that, I mean as people.”

“Well, that’d make a lot of sense,” she agrees, hand reaching out to fix the collar of his shirt, purposely scratching the now fading bruise with her nails, “if you weren’t lying, of course.”

“Me? Lying?” He counters with feigned astonishment – an actor in his own theatre of absurd. “In what world?”

“Think about this now,” she begins, hand floating through the air gracefully, indicating the unlimited possibilities. “Someone buys these portraits, every single one of them, to do what exactly? Appreciate art with his family on Thanksgiving?”

“Let him have them then,” he shrugs, calm to the point it drives her nuts.

“What?”

“Think about this now,” he explains, mimicking the prior manners, much to her exasperation. “Family gathering, licentious orgy – a dream come true.”

“I can’t believe you said that,” she huffs, attempting to conceal the giggle, treating to sip through the neatly polished façade – a signature of professionalism.

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” He continues, almost laughing at the expression upon her face, flawless features marked by the frown of rebuke.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She glares at him, chewing at the corner of his lip – an indication of surprised chuckle.

“Does it even matter?” He shrugs, with a smug smirk crossing his visage, eyes glistening with the so-called male pride that somehow reminds her of the cinematic philanders with dashing smiles and thick hair. “If you’d want me to fuck you either way?”

“Shut up,” she shakes her head,  tormented by the mixture of amusement and annoyance that she has somehow learned to enjoy with him – a turnabout of least expectance. “Just shut up.”

“See that guy over there?” He alludes, motioning towards some poor man, obviously not in terms of money, furthermore lacking in the aforementioned qualities.

“Yeah,” she nods, partly expecting to hear the following answer, and yet it manages to irk her up even this time.

“He’ll totally buy it.”

“Oh fuck off,” she swats him on the chest, gasping when he catches her wrist, fingers digging into the slender arm – a nonverbal warning.

“C’mon, there’s no need to sulk,” he purrs into her ear, lips barely brushing the tender flesh just below, smirking at the feminine gasp she utters in response to the well-accustomed-with caress, “I’ve wanted to show you something anyway.”

“Well… I don’t know,” she drags the words on purpose, gaze following his to the corridor at the end of the hall, “I thought you were supposed to stay here.”

“Agreements are contractual.”

“Mhm… astute.”

Verdict of his virtuosity.

 Created: 11/02/20

Completed: 12/28/20

Edited: 12/29/20

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

T&L - pt.30/finale - Hand in hand

Summary: After turning back the clock, Arya is desperate to change her future and save Paul.

Part 29

"Holding hands is a promise to one another that, for just a moment, the two of you don't have to face the world alone."

Aro and his army stand in a line facing us and Carlisle walks forward.

I feel my body jerk forward as if on command, wishing to stop this entire tragedy from unraveling as I knew what was yet to come.

Edward shakes his head slightly without turning to me, stopping me from advancing toward the line of vampires more than ready to kill us all. Paul's steps slightly before me, shielding me from the view. I know he's afraid I'll get hurt. I know he fears them seeing what I'm able to do as they would either kill me as they did with Serena...or they would desire me in their ranks. Either option was making my wolf both angry and terrified.

„Aro, Iet us discuss things as we used to. In a civilized manner.” Carlisle demands politely, but I now know Aro wasn’t here to negotiate. He was here to abolish this clan and anyone who came to their assistance. They wanted us dead and I couldn't let it happen again...Not even if the price was my head..

„Fair words, Carlisle. But a little out of place, given the battalion you've assembled against us.” Aro says, his voice annoyingly smug and arrogant. I can tell he's looking at the wolves with disdain, probably already plotting their demise in that vicious loony bin I call his brain.

„I can promise you, that was never my intent. No laws have been broken.” Carlisle assures the Volturi, however I know those words will do no good. We're just lambs to the slaughter in their minds.

„We see the child. Do not treat us as fools.” Caius spat and I clench my fist at the tone he used, feeling my chest constrict as if my humanity is trying to fight through and take a proper breath. A wave of anxiety floods me and it's suffocating, pushing my body to draw an unnecessary breath of fresh air.

„She is not an lmmortal! These witnesses can attest to that. Or you can look. See the flush of human blood in her cheeks.” Carlisle tries to convince them, but I'm running out of time. If the story simply goes the same way, we'd still end up dead. I had to find a point in today we could come back from. A point in time we could stop the oncoming battle and stop all the pain I had to live through.

Remembering Paul's unmoving body, growing unnaturally cold in my embrace still haunts my and I can't help but place my hand on his fur, digging my fingers into his skin just to feel the warmth seeping through. Paul tenses, looking at me with a million questions about my sudden jumpiness, but I decide to smile softly at him to ease his heart.

„I will collect every facet of the truth. But from someone more central to the story. Edward, as the child clings to your newborn mate, I assume you are involved.” Aro speaks to Edward who looks at Bella then makes his way towards Aro with Bella protecting him all the way. With a single touch Aro realizes the truth once more and I do too. I need to be prepared any moment now for the battle to commence.

„I'd like to meet her.” Edward turns and looks at me before turning his gaze over to Bella and Renesmee, gesturing for me to approach as well. I begin to walk, feeling Paul sink his teeth in my jacket, attempting to pull me back. I shake him off, giving him a small nod to reassure him and turn away. I resume my walk only to feel his shadow follow me, inwardly screaming at him for being so stubborn. This is the one time I needed him to stay and be selfish, to let me go and damn the consequences. But I knew in my heart he never could. I knew he'd follow even if I asked him to stay. Paul loves me just as much as I love him and if losing him had hurt me so deeply before, I knew it was the same feeling he didn't want to know. Ever.

So, Bella, Renesmee, Jacob, joined by Emmett, Paul and I walk towards Aro and I know we've already changed the past, but to what degree? That I could not know.

„Ah. Young Bella. Immortality becomes you.” Aro smiles and then shrieks with laughter as he hears Renesmee's heart beating. I shudder at his behavior, finding him even more creepy and annoying up close. It brought Paul’s attention to me for a moment but with another short nod from me he goes back to staring at the vampires with his ferocious look, prepared to attack should any of them lift a finger.

„I hear her strange heart.” Aro holds out his hand and Renesmee walks closer to him. I tense up, scowling once Renesmee touches Aro's cheek, using her powers on him. I see him becoming entranced, already wishing he could possess her in some way.

„Magnifico! Half mortal, half immortal. Conceived and carried by this newborn while she was still human.” Aro states, looking toward Bella with interest. I narrow my eyes at him, seeing he has yet to notice me.

Caius jumps in: „Impossible!”

„Do you think they fooled me, brother?” Aro turns to Caius with narrowed eyes while we use this chance to return to the group and I feel Paul's scrutinizing my decision to go over there in the first place. I know he'd love nothing more than to go off on everyone present and this is the time I'm usually most grateful he's a wolf without talking abilities.

Irina is once more killed, the same reaction from her sisters following. The first battle is stopped again and I can't help but hide my discontent as the corners of my lips turn down into a deep frown.

„Aro, you see there's no law broken here.” Carlisle tries.

„Agreed. But does it then follow that there is no danger? For the first time in our history humans pose a threat to our kind. Their modern technology has given birth to weapons that could destroy us. Maintaining our secret has never been more imperative. In such perilous times, only the known is safe. Only the known is tolerable. And we know nothing of what this child will become. Can we live with such uncertainty? Spare ourselves a fight today, only to die tomorrow.” Aro speaks to his guards, angering me to the point of thunder cracking, scaring him for a moment. He turned to us, narrowing his eyes at each and every one of us, stopping at me for too long. I now know he had noticed me, the colour of my eyes especially. Paul growls, not liking the attention he’s giving me.

And the two figures emerge the tree line and I know Jasper and Alice have come to join us. The anger I once felt for Jasper for abandoning me disappears and I sigh, simply grateful he's here. I've missed him terribly and the sense of relief I got once our eyes meet. I still don't understand the connection we share, but it's inhuman, that's for sure. He's drawn to me as I am to him, not in the way I'm drawn to Paul, but the need is just as great.

„My dear, dear Alice, we're so glad to see you here, after all.” Aro speaks enthusiastically.

„I have evidence the child won't be a risk to our kind.” She speaks, but Aro looks at her with suspicion. And I know now, this is when I have to step in.

„Let me show you.” Alice extends her hand. Ignoring Caius and his hateful words, Alice walks up to Aro and he takes hold of her hand, but as Aro reads her thoughts Alice realizes that Aro already made up his mind about this whole thing.

„STOP!" I shout, making everyone around me turn with a surprised look in their eyes.

Aro looks to me with narrowed eyes and a sly smile coating his disgustingly blood red lips.

Before Paul had a chance to react, to even blink, I use my speed to move forward and stop in front of Aro. I hear him bark, aggressively whining as the pack and the rest of the vampires tackle him into a standstill position and my heart breaks for him.

I look to Jasper, silently pleading to use his ability on him, to stop the panic from taking over his entire being. The silent agreement between us is clear, the noise Paul made now becoming silent.

„And who do we have here?" Aro questions, tilting his head to the left with wonder. I feel his eyes studying every inch of my body as if I'm a sculpture, art made solely for his eyes and it makes my skin crawl.

I've never felt more human than right now, staring at this monster with a defiant look in my eyes.

„You know who I am, Aro. Don't play coy with me. I remember what you did to her...Serena." Upon hearing her name, Aro steps forward, the smile on his face now non-existent, replaced with rage and terror.

„That's impossible! She's dead!" Aro hisses in my face and I chuckle, nodding.

„And yet, she's here. You can't kill an elementalist. Now, take my hand and let me show you just how you and the rest of your army will die here should you start a fight. Unlike Alice who can see certain futures, I've lived one."

Aro grabs my hand forcefully, so much that the skin cracks under the pressure as his eyes slowly widen with the image of his death and the defeat of his people.

„It doesn't matter what we show you. Even when you see. You still won't change your decision.” Alice frowns, but I stop her.

„Oh, he will. He'll change his mind because he too will die in this fight." I explain and a series of whispers spread in his ranks as the old vampire stumbles back in shock.

„There's no crime committed here. We shall take our leave, immediately." Aro speaks up, running before he even finishes the sentence.

Once his army follows I fall to my knees, taking a deep breath. A small whimper escaped my lips, signalling relief and only relief. It wasn't comfort, simply relief. I look out into the distance, feeling my entire body crumble inside with the terrors of yesterday finally letting up as Jasper puts a hand around me, letting his ability take over and my eyes slowly close.

Paul nuzzles into my neck, dragging his tongue across the skin with hopes of getting a response. Instead, his touch only makes my body let go, eyes closing shut and the world turns dark.

Without opening my eyes, I could already feel his scent filling my nostrils.

Paul.

„You're really trying to kill me, aren't you?" Paul's voice cracks and I smile, sitting up.

„Quite the opposite, my love." I feel his hand find mine, our fingers intertwining on instinct. The simple touch of his hand upon mine is what centres me, anchoring me to reality.

„I know. Edward told us." Paul bites his lower lip, using his other hand to move back my hair in order to settle his warm palm on my cheek. I lean into his touch, tilting my head just enough for my ice cold lips to connect with his tan skin, static forming around us like electricity we feel had become real as well.

„I'm so sorry you had to live through that. I cannot even imagine what I'd do if anything happened to you. I remember when I thought you were dead and my whole world turned bleak. Every breath I took was painful, each beat of my heart slow and dragged out like my own heart couldn't beat without you. My mind wouldn't work and there was nothing in this world I wanted more than to have you awake and lecturing me about something stupid I did. It's the worst thing I've ever lived through and I hate that you know the feeling too. I hate it." Paul leans his forehead on mine, his warm breath fanning my face and I relish in the feeling of his closeness.

We have feelings that are not visible, we do things to prevent ourselves from being miserable. Being honest is what makes us believable, for our feelings may not always be reachable. No one but Jasper and Edward can fathom this connection Paul and I have, the intensity of each every thought we have of the other. There's nothing quite like it in this world.

I still remember my life before Paul, the feeling of being unimportant and rejection from anyone who was supposed to love me. My own blood never wanted me, but he did. Since the first moment, Paul had made me feel loved. Not only Paul, but my brother Sam and Emily, Embry and the rest of the pack AND the Cullens of course.

„I'm so grateful for you Paul. For all of you. Losing you was hell, but you're here now. That's what matters." I connect our lips for a moment, knowing any longer would make us want to stay in for the night, but my brother needed to see me as well. I had to be mindful.

„I love you so much and no matter how I wish to just lock us up here and be selfish, not sharing you, I can't. I know you need to see them just as much as they want to see you." Paul pecks my lips once more and we part reluctantly.

Hand in hand we walk through the door, only to be met with a room filled with everyone. My brother wastes no time in hugging me, kissing the side of my head in the process while Embry, Jared and the rest of the pack join in the bone crushing hug even my indestructible body can't handle.

„You're gonna crush me." I mutter and they finally let me go, laughing loudly much to Rosalie's discontent.

I see Leah and Seth, hugging them once more for good measure because the pain of losing them was still palpable in my heart.

Turning to Jasper, I fold my arms across my chest and frown.

„I was so angry at you." I tell him, seeing him suck in his bottom lip, shifting from one foot to the other nervously.

„But I'm so grateful you're back." Hugging him tight, I feel Jasper reciprocate the hug. We sway left to right and I feel his lips spread in the crook of my neck, forming a smile I've only seen once we parted.

„I promise I'll never leave you behind again." Jasper gives me a promise I know I can count on, feeling my eyes sting with unshed tears.

Hugging the rest of the family, spending the night talking and laughing, I keep a hand in Paul's for comfort. I need him and I know he needs me too. Too much has happened for us to even consider being apart now, clinging to each other for dear life.

Once the night came to end, I laid my head upon his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Each beat sung a love song only to me and I found my peace right then in his arms.

„What now?" I whisper, tracing patterns on his chest.

„We spend an eternity together. It's a good thing I'm never gonna stop phasing. We can travel the world and come back here every hundred years. Even be with the Cullens whenever you want. Hand in hand." Paul runs his fingers through my hair, the other hand rubbing my back soothingly.

„What if the Volturi come for us?" I ask quietly, knowing they most certainly won't let me go so easily.

„We'll find a way to survive. We always will. Our love is stronger than anything." Paul responds, leaving a kiss atop my head and I sigh.

„Hand in hand?" I ask, kissing his chest.

„Hand In hand." He confirms and I feel his breathing even, falling asleep. I watch him sleep fondly, caressing his cheek lovingly.

„I love you. Forever."

Tags: @5secondsofapermanentvacation  @snapplejuice @cecedofficial @mixedmelanin

[butabitconfused]

whew

I caught up to episode 36 of Fairy Tail: Final Series, and I gotta ask what the hell has this season been so far.

So, where do I start? How about the horrendous animation. FT isn’t known for spectacular animation quality, but at least its fights were entertaining. However, this is a massive downgrade. I know people have said it before, but it’s like watching a colored slideshow. They put up a shaky picture, add in some sound effects and some screaming. That’s what the fight scenes constitute of. Compared side by side with the manga, there is almost no difference in how the “action” plays out. The flashbacks padding run time aren’t helping, either. Plus, any flashback containing fight scenes just reminds me of how much better the action used to be -_-

So, Spriggan 12, am I right? I think FT did a good job at emphasizing the danger S12 posed as these massive powerhouses compared to anything before, being that they’re as powerful as Ishgar’s strongest wizard. Discovering that God Serena has joined them only escalated the situation further. The future seemed bleak, and our heroes would have to struggle in a monumental effort in order to defeat even one.

Then the Spriggans did jack shit. For FT’s final villains, most of these guys were disappointing pushovers. Maybe it has something to do with the messed up powerscaling. If a single wizard can win against a Spriggan, then how is said-wizard not as famous as the four great wizard saints? Whatever the case, it crushes me to think about what S12 could’ve been like at their fullest potential both combat wise and as characters.

A thing I’ve noticed about FT is that it wants you to take it serious despite nothing rational really happening. I don’t really know how to explain it, but take the end of the first Natsu vs Zeref fight for example. Happy drags Natsu away before he can deal the presumed finishing blow on Zeref because he doesn’t want Natsu to die. From the characters’ perspective, Happy just sabotaged Ishgar’s one and only chance at killing Zeref for a selfish reason (yes I’m calling it selfish). The characters should have no reason at this point to think that a sure-fire way of killing Zeref is even feasible. Yet, Happy thinks he can afford to stop Natsu because he’s “muh frend”. Of course, Natsu thinks Happy makes perfect sense that there’s obviously gotta be another way, even when they have no evidence that an alternative solution exists. It’s like the characters know they have plot armor at this point.

Another thing is with Brandish. Her allergies are literally why she didn’t destroy Fairy Tail in the blink of an eye, and how Lucy was able to get her on their side. Plain old allergies. For some reason, I’m more willing to excuse this one than the Happy example simply for how ridiculously hilarious and stupid it is.

I haven’t gotten to the conclusion of Irene and August yet, though I’ve heard bad things about them. Same thing with Acnologia. Either way, I won’t talk about them because I’m not there yet.

What I can talk about is imo the Spriggan that disappointed me the most: Invel. It hurts having to watch his character potential destroyed as Gray basically ORA ORA ORA’d him to victory.

For most of the war, he was the Spriggan accompanying Zeref. Although Irene and August are stated to be the strongest, there should be something special about the Spriggan who’s always standing by the emperor’s side. They even gave him the epithet of the Winter General for his...wait, “cunning use of ice magic”? Despite what he’s built up to be, I didn’t see him do a single strategical action as a commander nor as a fighter, unless freezing Gray’s ice magic is supposed to count, but that sounds like bullshit to me. Also, he’s pretty dumb for a general. He probably caught a case of plot-induced stupidity, which is why he went out onto the battlefield when his magic was the only thing restraining Mavis. And on a side note, when Zeref teleported to Natsu in their first fight, how did Invel follow him to the front of the army? Did Zeref drag him along, or...?

(I’m lowkey certain that at least half my salt over Invel comes from him giving off the same vibes as one of my favorite OCs, so to see him get crushed on screen without doing anything hurts me more. Oh well, at least he’s hot.)

Alright, what else is there? Oh, right. LARCADE. Seriously, what the actual hell was that fight? You’re telling me that while Sting and the literal fuck boi were duking it out, every non-virgin was orgasming to death? And he was supposed to be Zeref’s plan to defeat Acnologia? That’s gotta be a joke.

Of course, you can’t talk about the final season without mentioning the fake out deaths. I can’t believe anyone would defend this blatant, atrocious writing of killing off characters for cheap shock without having any actual consequences. Yes, I know that Juvia’s “death” was supposed to be the catalyst for Gray to fight END, but there are other ways for that to happen that don’t involve death and are just as emotional. What makes matters worst is that she was revived in the next fucking episode, which completely absolves any emotional impact her “sacrifice” may have had. At least Gajeel didn’t come back until Universe One, but Juvia’s “death” was so dirt cheap I can’t even—

Not only is reviving the characters cheap, it means that I can’t trust the show to actually go through with killing its characters. I’m referring to Makarov dying in order to use Fairy Law. It’s supposed to be a sad moment, but after Gajeel and Juvia, I’m just expecting him to come back to life somehow by the end of the season. This means that even if he’s actually dead, all I can do at this point is shrug my shoulders because the emotional part has already come and gone.

On the flip side, the OST still rocks. I’m gonna go read FT City Hero because it looks like the fan fiction I didn’t know I needed.

Edit: FT: CH was a good salt cleanse

[idolizerp]

LOADING INFORMATION ON MAYDAY’S MAIN VOCAL SERENA MOON…

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 21 DEBUT AGE: 18 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 15 COMPANY: Midas ETC: She won an MSG sponsored vocal competition and was signed thereafter

IDOL IMAGE

serena moon’s image came to midas media like a vision.

she had traipsed on stage with the grace of a newborn deer, eyes wide and thoroughly in awe of every little thing, trembling slightly under the too-bright stage lights. her voice wasn’t made for such a huge stage ( granted, the competition venue was scarcely larger than the choir section in the korean church her family frequented in london ), and serena effectively hid behind the looming figure of the grand piano, her preferred place of comfort. but msg had saw her then, with her slow, accented voice and her occasionally sweet smile, they painted an image of your neighbourhood virtuoso: artistic, shy, and sweet. her soulful voice had been a happy coincidence, an added layer – they were convinced that they could extract the typical ‘girl-group’ sound from her before long.

it helped that she was a pretty teenager with naturally long limbs and a sufficiently tight waist.

they called her their little virtuoso, an intelligent edge to an otherwise pretty package. an innocent girl next door who sang like an angel that could tell you exactly why the chord progression of the song mimicked the feeling of falling while maintaining hope, and for the most part she had taken to the image with ease. it wasn’t too far from her own personality, of which she was lucky for she wasn’t that much of an actor. with the forming of the trainee group that became mayday, the company had instructed her to stay quiet, stay stereotypically innocent and thoughtful as was befitting of her artistically ‘elegant’ image. the measured and contemplative frame of the group’s pretty picture.

( “they aren’t just pretty and sweet, they’re also intelligent! what a well-rounded group” )

how perfect was she! the hardworking not-so foreigner with the lovely voice and thoroughly flawless dancing, the image soon became a larger-than-life pair of shoes that she could never truly fit into. serena would lay awake at night, the stress of not fucking up and the threat of being cut down even before taking flight prevalent with every dream.

many who knew her would laugh a little under their breaths and said conspiratorially: ‘you’re lucky that you look so sweet and innocent!’, for they knew the truth. her personally had been far too rough around the edges, far too brash with her words and a little too cool to be part of the country’s new little fairies. being silent had ensured that her personality stayed secret, and with her little smiles the public might be lulled into the image of quiet dignity, the shy loveliness that might lay beneath.

what they didn’t know was that she stayed aware with her watchful eyes, smoked her cigarettes by the open window of the dorms as she tinkered with the keyboard in her room. dreaming up songs that she probably wont ever sing.

IDOL HISTORY

the concerto of serena moon in g minor 1st movement, vivace

joohyung “james” moon had been a businessman with big dreams in his mind. lee mihyang had fallen in love with him and had no choice but to follow him to the ends of the world. he had studied in london and brought her with him, believing in his prowess like a mantra he wont let go. he had promised her a charmed life: a little flat that would house their growing family in the middle of the city, a growing business that would gain their children entrance to elite schools and circles, a climb that was so far above the struggling lives of their countrymen – riddled with unfair advantages for the rich. in the western world, he had assured her, one could succeed with hard work and be accepted with open arms.

however, the tiny flat was on the outskirts of town, and business turned out to be a small grocery store nestled between rundown shops that hardly scream english refinement. but james stayed positive, and mihyang was blinded by love – thus resulted in four lovely bundles of joy: amelia, twins charlie and serena, and little oliver, rounding up the litter.

the children did not attend prestigious schools, for they had too many mouths to feed, but they flourished nonetheless, their childhood as happy as any.

serena moon was first placed in front of a piano when she was seven. the family was in a nondescript strip mall on a saturday afternoon with the children amusing themselves by the display of second-hand pianos for sale, while john and mihyang strayed towards the booth nearby. they halfway negotiating a deal for a used station wagon when they heard a bubble of laughter and a familiar voice singing out a tune of aladdin’s ‘a whole new world’ along a simplified piano accompaniment.  

“that’s cute, did you enrolled serena in piano lessons? is that where our money went the past few months?” “i didn’t… don’t they learn instruments in music classes at school?” “not piano, we bought all of them recorders for school last week.”

a pause, widened eyes. john and mihyang moon abandoned their negotiations and bought a rickety old piano instead, setting it in an already crowded corner of their flat. the little girl played whenever she had a moment to sit down for weeks to come, to the point that had her siblings rolling their eyes when the novelty ran out. mihyang took up a position as a receptionist in a nearby dentist’s office to send their little girl to a prestigious conservatory near the city centre. amelia had muttered to her little sister, not unkindly, that “it was good (she) found something that (she) did well, it wasn’t like (she) could get a scholarship for anything else anyway”. serena blinked and let the jab slip off of her like it was nothing – and dutifully took the tube down to the conservatory every tuesdays and thursdays.

2nd movement, andantino

by the time she was ten serena was considered impressive, but hardly the best.

the problem with being uncommonly gifted was that when the novelty wore off, there was hardly any merit left. at ten years old, she was playing circles around her same-aged counterparts but still falling behind the older, more experienced students. she loved playing the piano, that much was true, but it became evident that in her inquisitive mind that she loved the attention that her parents gave her because of it even more.

what she passionately loved even more was singing.

serena had asked her mother once, just out of curiosity, if she could perhaps join the vocal class in the conservatory along with her piano classes. her mother had looked at her with astonished eyes, as if she was unable to believe her ears, and asked if her younger daughter was feeling the least bit ill before coming into the conclusion that she only felt that way due to the lukewarm response to her latest recital. serena never asked again, but hid away in the spare rooms of the conservatory to play pop & jazz songs while singing along, for she was allowed hobbies and interests, wasn’t she?

on the eve of charlie and serena’s thirteenth birthday, the comfortable balance was soon disturbed. her father’s failure to provide for the family could no longer be ignored, and under the guise of dealing with sick relatives ( that amelia, now sixteen and a grown up who could understand grown up problems, had explained in hushed tones to her younger siblings ) the family was to return to seoul. so serena played one last mournful minuet on her first piano as her family packed up their belongings, their decade-and-a-half long existence in england fitting into eight suitcases and flew into a country the children hardly knew a thing about.

( perhaps it was fortunate then, that lee mihyang had insisted that the children spoke in full korean at home )

now seated in her uncle’s spare apartment in yongin district, serena stared, open-mouthed in wonder, at a group of beautiful girls singing about ‘being a genie for you boy’. she had asked her brother if she was pretty enough to be on television like them, charlie had replied: “it doesn’t matter, you sing better than the lot of them anyway.”

cadenza: a pause before the resolving chord

serena loves her twin brother so, one could not ask for a more supportive force. he was the one who took her to karaokes, letting her sing to her heart’s content – he was the one who linked her to korea’s wealth of underground artists. they would take the long way home after school, stopping by the buskers in hongdae and noting the various late-night shows by indie bands. they would sneak out after curfew by fifteen, slipping past the bouncers with their fake-ids that charlie got from a particularly wily classmate.

it was him who pointed at a particularly shiny poster for a singing competition, and strongly suggested that she might destroy the competition after a verse.

3rd movement, the minuet & trio, marcia moderato

serena moon joined the competition without telling her parents, and prepared a performance of haru haru by tashannie – a song she could sing perfectly with her eyes closed. so she practiced on her electric piano in her room, with the earphones plugged in, only humming in soft tones to the melody. on the day of the competition there was only charlie and oliver in support of the girl that went second-to-last. their parents would undoubtedly think that the whole thing was a farce, a ‘step-down’ from a prestigious career as a classical pianist educated by the royal british conservatory, and amelia, was far too much of a tattling bore to support something she shouldn’t.

but the whole business of keeping it all a secret was taken into question when serena won, against all odds – a surprise to everyone involved. the moon children, how utterly good their sister was even with the standards of industry bigwigs, and midas media, of which the whole competition was sponsored by, that a scarcely vocally trained girl with an accent had blew the competition away. they were so impressed, in fact that along with the ₩1,000,000 prize money, she was to be offered a training contract with the famed entertainment agency.

there was no keeping it hidden now, and sensible charlie had explained it all to their parents. serena kept quiet, knowing full well that if they knew the extent of her preparedness to defy their orders anyway and fake their signatures for the contract no matter what, they’ll lock her up in her room with no way of escape. so with charlie’s smooth words, john moon and lee mihyang had no choice but to take the prize money and agreed to sign away their daughter into the system.

serena had cried with happiness at their assent.

soon after, she was whisked away to after school lessons in the company, finally receiving the vocal training she had so desperately wanted for years on end. the trainers had gone hard on her, only showing a moderately pleased expression at her raw talent once, before swiftly moving on. she needed to work on her breathing, so they sent her to swimming sessions at dawn every day, she needed to sustain with more power, so they sent her to the company gym to work on her core strength. the young girl was pliable, and so thoroughly willing to make all the changes that it was hard to reprimand her. serena had also been intensely trained in dance into exhaustion, her limbs barely making it up and down the stairs of the subway for her commute home every night. the natural progression of her training meant that she was going to be moved out of her parents home and into the trainee dorms, a common way for management to keep an eye on the their trainees’ individual character.

so she left her home at dawn one day, sending a text to her parents and siblings, and only receiving a reply from two out of five. the pretty little thing did not lament at the loss of interest from her parents, for they had three other children who had climbed gracefully into the prestigious space she had created. amelia at this point had been admitted to seoul university medical school, and their parents wasted no time in showering her the attention that she had so wanted since their childhood. serena did not mind, she was singing now and was praised for it, her trainers seemed to be more invested in her development than her family ever was. she must be grateful that anyone would care at all.

4th movement, allegro

mayday was a gift that she did not expect to receive.

after spending almost four years training with girls that came and went, serena slowly shared their desperation to debut. the old serena had been grateful for a place to sing, a place to create, no matter how hidden or secretive, but the new serena had started to seek the validation of strangers, started too wish for more moments on stage. she became most greedy, the way most trainees were, and the dangling promise of a debut had only made her all the more so.

her image was set from the very moment midas scouts had laid eyes on her, and in her eagerness to step into the spotlight she had forced herself into the role of the quiet artist. despite being one and not the other, serena had smiled through most interviews, letting her members speak for her – even when she wanted nothing more than to speak her mind. she became beloved by the fans for her beautiful voice ( still a little too dark a timbre for a typical girl group, but msg had not been named ‘experimental’ for nothing ) and her hardworking, quiet image.

sometimes, in an occasional fan-meeting or a particularly ‘unscripted’ v-live broadcast, the fans would get a swift glimpse of the girl she truly is: a carefree city-girl who took music lightly, and made decisions with her gut feeling above all else. they had praised her for being both light and dark, a mess of contradictions that make up a human– simplifying her complexities and branded her as their little ‘girl of reversals’: someone who looked quiet and soft on the outside, but was actually a nonchalant city girl on the inside. serena didn’t have the heart to correct them that the only thing sweet and soft about her was the way her smile looked under stage lights.

mayday grew in unprecedented speed, and the young girl almost hurt herself from the whiplash. from loveable nobodies to the nation’s little sisters – or something to that effect – mayday had the whole country screaming cheer up! or TT! serena could only imagine how her sister might feel, undoubtedly having to hear mayday’s tracks in various coffee shops around seoul. charlie and oliver had sent reaction videos the first few times it happened, before the novelty ran out. for serena, it was fascinating, and thoroughly rewarding to hear her own voice played back to her – and she enjoyed the feeling of success, basking in it’s light until it wont be enough.

coda: an ending, unresolved

for now serena moon endures, for she still had a long way to go. mayday’s success almost felt like a promise that was granted, and despite so, she kept her head down to compose, create a sound that was less mayday and more serena. she started a youtube channel, the identity of which was part british vlogger - part musician, a soothing balm of a temporary fix, while she’s looking for something far more permanent. a green leaf in years and in her career; only time could tell if she would shudder and rebel, or sink into the cartoonishly unattainable image of perfection.

[mybookplacenet]

Featured Post: Havenwood Falls High Vol. 1 by Morgan Wylie

"About Havenwood Falls High Vol. 1: Welcome to Havenwood Falls, a small town in the majestic mountains of Colorado, where nobody is what you think, where truths pose as lies, and where myths blend with reality. A place where everyone has a story, including the high schoolers. These are only but three. The first three novellas in the young adult paranormal fantasy series Havenwood Falls High, Home of the Dragons – and vampires, wolves, fae, and much more. Written in the Stars by Kallie Ross The Kasun wolf pack has always been led by a female alpha, and now that Willa Kasun’s about to come of age, she’ll be taking that role. Except Willa hasn’t shifted yet. She has until her next birthday to shift and claim her place as alpha, or she’ll lose it forever. But Tarron Wilde, a sarcastic and striking elf, makes her wonder if being alpha is really what she wants. The future of her entire pack relies on Willa’s choice—embrace what was written in the stars so long ago or choose to fight for what her heart desires. Reawakened by Morgan Wylie Like all young witch hunters in Havenwood Falls, seventeen-year-old Macy Blackstone has been spelled to control her killer instincts. When she’s reawakened too early, though, she’s overwhelmed with the new sensations and flees town, only to discover more witch hunters living nearby. They are nothing like her family, though, and she has one moon cycle to uncover their nefarious plans and return home before the town’s wards wipe her memory and she forgets her family, her home, and her one true love. And if she can’t remember them, she won’t be able to save them. The Fall by Kristen Yard An introverted “late-bloomer," seventeen-year-old Serena Alverson has no interest in a social life. She’s never had a serious boyfriend and has rarely left the safety of Havenwood Falls. But she has big dreams for her future—to travel and study the great artists of the world while developing her own craft. When Mother Nature finally comes knocking, she hands Serena not only her womanhood, but also a wicked lifetime curse with the potential to destroy everything and everyone she loves. Targeted Age Group: 15-30 Written by: Morgan Wylie Illustrated by: Regina Wamba Buy the ebook: Buy the Book On Amazon Author Bio: DISCOVER THE MAGIC OF HAVENWOOD FALLS! Located in a box canyon in western Colorado, picturesque Havenwood Falls offers breathtaking views, four beautiful seasons, and the quaint charm of a small town. A couple hours’ drive from the nearest box store, and surrounded by mountains, thousands of forested acres, and crisp streams and hot springs, it provides seclusion that its supernatural residents and visitors enjoy, allowing them to be themselves—at least some of the time. Common belief is that Havenwood Falls began as a Victorian mining town, evident in its many structures of that era, but if legends are true, the history may go back much further. The originating families of this small, unusual town want the world to believe it’s a fictional place, that it doesn’t truly exist. As you become immersed in the stories of Havenwood Falls and its people – er, characters – you will come to believe that it’s not only real, but that you want to be there. That is the beauty of master story-telling by our talented authors. The stories to be told about this little town are endless, encompassing all areas of the paranormal and fantasy genres, including paranormal romance, urban fantasy, supernatural suspense, and supernatural mystery. This is a multi-series, multi-author shared world where each story is an original creation by one of our many authors, some best-selling and award-winning and others making their debut. Each series launches with three novellas followed by a new release every month, as well as bundles. Because not only do the adults get to have fun in Havenwood Falls, we have a multitude of stories to share about the teens. Growing up in a town like this has its advantages – and its pitfalls. Come discover the first-love romance, teenage angst, and trials and tribulations of the students, human and supernatural, of Havenwood Falls High, our Young Adult series. Each series is separate and each book is (usually) a standalone, so you can skip along however you like or read them all! Follow the author on social media: Learn more about the writer. Visit the Author's Website Facebook Fan Page Twitter Instagram Read the full article

[undercityrezident]

Pokeani Week

This week has been quite the whirlwind for me, but I wanted to do something, if at least small, for Pokeani Week!

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Day 1: Favourite Saga

I’ve deliberated this in my head for days, and as much as I love one, I can’t displace the other. For that reason, I’m compromising and picking my two favourites: Diamond and Pearl, and XY&Z.

These two have places in my heart for very different reasons.

I should probably, by logic of critique and empirical evidence, choose DP because of what I see as persistent and excellent writing and pacing throughout the series,  and great character growth for Ash, Dawn, Paul, and their pokemon; especially Chimchar/Infernape. And let’s not forget how this whole story of Ash and Paul’s rivalry came to a crescendo, referencing nearly all of their encounters throughout the saga, and the striking climax that to this day, still makes me hold my breath in anticipation.

On the other hand, I have a singular connection to XY&Z that is deeply rooted in me emotionally that I cannot dismiss either. It’s the saga that introduced my favourite character, it’s the first saga I had the chance to watch air live week to week in my adulthood. Moreover, I felt even more personal involvement due to my role in the Pokeani RP, playing Clemont and feeling like I was living the saga day to day. I love the character ensemble in this saga, I love the growth of Serena and Clemont in tandem, I love Bonnie’s unconditional love for all pokemon and her rigid determination in the face of horrors that would’ve destroyed me at her age, and most of all, I love the parallel arcs between the main show and the Mega Evolution Specials that allowed us to have one of the best villainous team arcs, if not the best, that we’ve seen (in my opinion at least).

These series’ both resonate with me, and I cannot bring myself to pick one over the other.

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Day 2: Favourite Character

Anyone who follows this blog regularly could see this one coming a mile away. My favourite character in the series is Clemont.

My attachment to him is one mostly of personal relation to him in the sense that I feel like I can empathize with him. Clemont is, a geek, a nerd, and a host of other terms in a similar vein that both he and I embrace. But he does far more than I ever could to back that up. He’s an inventor. A man of science who won’t stop to make sure that he learns and applies all that he knows to the betterment of people and pokemon. He represents the best of what I would want to be or could be, and yet at the same time, exhibits so many of the same flaws and struggles as I do as well.

Clemont uses his keen intellect in both battle and in his scientific pursuits to great, though sometimes calamitous effect. He’s had many success, but perhaps more failures. Such is the path of science, since the scientific method calls for experimentation and repetition to find the truth or to confirm a hypothesis. People might just look at him and see a comic relief character whose only existence was for a badge and a few running gags, but I saw a character with so much more potential, and one who had some of the most poignant moments in the entire XY saga.

His struggles define him as well. As you might expect of one of his relative geekdom, he’s shy, reserved, reactive rather than proactive in a social sense, and has some difficulty acting on anything in an emotional sense rather than a logical one. That being said, he’s hardly one dimensional in that respect. He’s fiercely protective of those he considers his family, especially where his sister is concerned (another thing that I can personally relate to). He wants to act and to make his decisions by the cool and steady hand of logic, but even he can be overcome by emotion and make heated – even rash – decisions.

So much more could’ve been done with him, but even the little we saw of him and his potential has cemented his place as my favourite character in the series.

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Day 3: Favourite Travelling Companion

Now if you’re expecting me to continue to wax on about how much I love Clemont… please give me some credit.

In light of already having cited Clemont as my favourite character, I felt it only appropriate to choose another character as my favourite Travelling Companion. It proved a difficult decision as I love them all and their bonds with Ash so much.

However, in the end, I had to go with Dawn.

Dawn was a perfect travelling companion for Ash. I’m actually certain that even if Brock hadn’t accompanied Ash on his journey through Sinnoh, Dawn’s presence would’ve still allowed the group and journey to feel complete (and this is not a jab at Brock in this saga, if you’ll allow me to explain). Dawn paralleled Ash in so many ways. Dawn mirrored Ash in his own start to his journey, allowing an interesting contrast and comparison to emerge in their time together. They’re both steadfast, determined, and share a great love of pokemon as well their respective disciplines in training them.

Now don’t get me wrong. Despite the similarities to Ash, Dawn is still very much her own person and undergoes her own growth and development as a person and coordinator. She, in fact, even inspires and helps Ash in his journey as well, despite being his junior in terms of experience. Her confident start belies small doubts that manifest soon after her first losses, and mount upon one another as she goes on. But that’s hardly something to stop her. Finding proper inspiration and guidance, she comes back from the edge that she once found herself staring off of and gave us aweing performances that left me stunned.

And all through the saga, even with a little give and take with some sass and arguing, Dawn and Ash’s relationship is one of the most precious and endearing in the series. Between their tag team battles, mutual drive to do good and to see their dreams come to fruition, they are exceptionally supportive of one another, and have a good instinct for what one or the other is thinking and feeling, both in and out of battle. Of all of my Ash-based ships, this is the one that I could probably see going the distance, whether romantically or not.

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Day 4: Favourite Rival

Paul… that jerk.

Well, that’s what I thought of him at first, and even with that said, there’s not a lot to excuse his behaviour, especially early on. Truth be told, I didn’t like him at all at first. He was everything I didn’t like about ‘using cold hard logic to win’. Then we got some actual character development about him and I grew more intrigued with him. I became more invested in seeing where this went, not just for Ash, but for Paul as well.

But even before I came to see what Paul himself was about, I felt he was my favourite rival because a simple fact: He was the antithesis to Ash that he really needed in a rival. Gary was the childhood rival that exceeded OS Ash’s sass and skill (at least on the onset), but Paul was someone who challenged Ash in not just skill, but in moral alignment. Where Ash placed his faith in instinct and the bond with his pokemon, Paul was calculating and left nothing to such intangible sentiment. The clash between these ideals and beliefs was one that I was wholly invested in because it made Ash all the more determined to show that what he believed in was right. And the connection between Paul and Ash in the form of Infernape, especially in that last battle, was the keystone to that clash of ideologies. It was masterfully executed, and was probably my favourite aspect of that series.

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Day 5: Favourite Relationship

This one gave me a bit of conflict in making my decision because it wasn’t just a matter of my favourite ship or ships (as absurdly plentiful as they are because… well… look at my blog).

Before I give my answer though, I will say that my favourite ship is in fact Electricbounceshipping (Clemont x Shauna) due to my time in the Pokeani RP.

That being said, I felt like in this particular prompt, I needed to give an example of a relationship that at least had some presence on the anime itself. Pearlshipping and Pokeshipping both came close to stealing it, but I had to concede to the beauty of another ship that captured my heart over a much more gradual course of time through the XY series.

That ship is Diodeshipping.

Much like how I went on about Pearlshipping in my favourite companion segment, this is a relationship that can form around a platonic friendship and remain as such and still be absolutely precious and wonderful to them both, or it could evolve into romance and be just as healthy for them both.

Ash and Clemont’s dynamic is wonderful. Where the male travelling companions we had before tended towards elder brother/father figures for Ash, this is the first time we had someone whom inspired and taught them instead. Clemont, despite being a gym leader, and an eventual roadblock to Ash’s path forward to the Kalos League, was someone who was constantly learning from and developing himself in Ash’s image. Where once he battled only in cool, logical style with a plan and back-up plans, Clemont learned to battle by instinct, just like Ash. Their gym battle exposited both sides of this. Clemont went into it, knowing Ash, his battle style, and his tendencies, and planned around it. By the end, Clemont realized that the only way to overcome his mentor figure would be to emulate him more closely, and gave into instinct (appropriately with Luxray, whom I find to be Clemont’s most instinct-based pokemon, given his lonesome upbringing). In the end, Ash still claimed his badge, but Clemont learned so much and more from the battle, about himself and his opponent and friend.

And it doesn’t stop with battles. Clemont learned and applied these lessons to life outside them as well. No better can this be seen as it was in the Flare Arc, where Clemont combined both his scientific and battle prowess to re-take his gym with all the grit, determination, confidence, and courage that he’d learned from Ash. He has no doubt become a better person for his time spent with Ash.

And Ash has gained a lot from Clemont as well. While Ash might not be the most scientifically oriented, he’s learned a lot from Clemont, and his aid during the initial stages of learning about his Ash-Greninja ability were undoubtedly helpful. But more than that, he challenges Ash in battle, making him become stronger and even cleverer to defeat the strong opponent that Clemont is. And they both love it.

Over their time together, they’ve definitely grown close, and their departure, wholly and appropriately coming in the form of a battle, resonates strongly in my heart, as they both cherish the thrill and the heat and passion of battle, one that they will always drive to greater heights every subsequent time that they meet.

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Day 6: Favourite Movie

I never think about the movies too much since they don’t always link up with the anime’s continuity, but one that tends to stay rooted in my mind is Pokemon Ranger and the Temple of the Sea.

This is a pretty fun movie, but even it gets a bit dark in places, providing a good balance throughout. May mothering Manaphy is simply one of the most heart-melting things I’ve seen in the anime, and their final parting has me struggling not to tear up.

But hands down the best part of this movie is the final sequence in the titular Temple of the Sea, where Ash seals May and Manaphy to save them and embarks on the most epic, parkour and water-filled dash to replace the crystal to save them. The whole scene is tense, action-packed and even contains a heaping helping of emotional investment when May and Manaphy intercede to help Ash who otherwise would’ve perished without their help.

This movie is as epic as they come, and though it’s not usually one of my big ships, this film never fails at making me ship Advanceshipping pretty hard for the week or two following my viewing.

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Day 7… hopefully something more substantial than me just writing essays on what I like… coming tomorrow!

[seyaryminamoto]

How sexist is the Fire Nation? It's interesting to see how they have female soldiers in the main islands, but don't have any on the invasion forces. This seems to be a reference to Total War, World-War-style societies, where women and old men held the Home Front, and these were pretty sexist societies... although much less sexist than even a few decades before.

Tbh I hadn’t quite thought about it that way. I had thought about the fact that I can’t name any high-ranked women in the army, though. You have a great point with that, though. I do reckon the Fire Nation was progressing in regards of equality for the sexes, but they’re not 100% there yet by ATLA’s time.

Goddammit, I know I’ve ranted about the softcore sexism in the Fire Nation before, but I can’t find the post. Linking you to it would have been a lot more useful than going on about it again, but what the heck. I guess I’ll have to do it again after all! :’D Brace yourself! Long post!

I agree completely, the Fire Nation isn’t sexist on Water Tribe levels, but either because of Bryke’s own understanding of the world or I don’t even know what, there’s a strange lack of relevant female characters in the Fire Nation outside of Azula, Mai and Ty Lee. You might think about Iroh’s prison guard, too, but she only shows up for one episode, just feeds Iroh, just gives Serena Williams her chance to be in the show xD but plot-wise, she’s not exactly a big deal.

There are also, as you said, other women in the Fire Nation defenses in Book 3, but what I’m wondering, always wondering, is why aren’t there any other named female firebenders in ATLA aside from Azula. There’s some in the background, some in the Boiling Rock, some in the main islands. But they are just as irrelevant as their nameless male counterparts. In that sense, sure they have perfect equality.

But that’s regarding low-ranked officials only.

High-ranked ones, on the other hand… just how equal are we here, I wonder? 

Let’s go through the Wikia’s pages on Fire Nation military leaders, shall we?

General Bujing, male.

General Iroh, male.

General Mak, male.

Colonel Shinu male.

Colonel Mongke, male.

General Shu, unknown, but with that name it sounds like a guy to me.

General Mung, male.

Mai’s Warden Uncle, obviously male.

Constable Sung (from Smoke and Shadows), male.

Warden Poon, male.

Admiral Chan, never shown but known to be male and to be young Chan’s father.

Admiral Jeong Jeong, male.

Admiral Zhao, male.

Even Captain Li, male.

And Captain Chey, male.

In short, you’re not wrong, there are women in the Fire Nation Domestic Forces, as they’re called by the wikia: but even then they’re not commanding officers. I can’t name a single female Fire Nation official in a position of power. If they exist? We never saw them. Instead, we saw this:

Zhao’s war meeting. All men.

Ozai’s war meeting. These are the best shots I have of it, but still, they prove all the people gathered around the map are men. 

There’s one woman in a figure of power in these scenes, though! :’D Aaaaaaaaaaaaand…

It’s Azula. As usual. Our only female firebender with a name in the entire show.

And I’m not done yet @_@ can you believe it? xD

On with something I’ve heavily relied on for Gladiator’s worldbuilding: we don’t know of a single female Fire Lord in Fire Nation history until LOK’s Izumi. Before her?

There’s Zuko, no portrait, but no need to have one because we know he’s Fire Lord anyhow.

So, there’s Ozai:

There’s Azulon:

There’s Sozin:

Sozin’s father:

Sozin’s grandfather:

SOOOOOOOOOOOO… is Zuko destroying sexist traditions by giving the crown to his daughter, making her the first official female Fire Lord in history? I’m very much inclined to think so. How likely is it for every single one of these men to ONLY have male firstborns? Isn’t it more likely that they passed over any potential female heirs in favor of males? Because that’s what I’m pretty sure happened. 

More, though! Education! A society where men and women are viewed as equal would not have different education for boys and girls. But the Royal Academy for Girls is where Azula, Mai and Ty Lee meet and become friends. Royal Academy FOR GIRLS. 

Of course, the argument can be made: The Headband shows a school where boys and girls are in attendance!

If anything, that argument proves that the Fire Nation upper class differentiates between male and female, while the middle-low class won’t do the same thing. Great for the middle-low classes! But… who are the ones who rule this nation, again? Who’re the ones who have the most power? That’s right, the upper class. The probably-traditionally sexist ones.

So this means, as I’ve proved with the evidence of the Fire Nation military, that the higher you go in the Fire Nation society, the less women you’ll see in positions of power and the more men you’ll see instead. Heck, the Headband is great proof of this: who was our teacher?

Ms. Kwan right here.

Who’s our Headmaster? Who’s HER BOSS?

Another man. Again.

This is really in no spirits to make the Fire Nation look as “bad” as the Water Tribe, because no doubt that’s NOT the case. But this is still part of the problem: if men and women were equal in this society it should be fairly obvious in every regard, in every level of society, and not just regarding the way that the Fire Nation allows women in their Domestic Forces while the Water Tribe never would.

Now, regarding that matter of comparing nations… I’m sure every case I’ve made about the Fire Nation’s underlying themes of sexism can also be seen in the Earth Kingdom. I cannot for the life of me remember any women with genuine power in their armies either, in fact I can’t remember any women in their fighting forces at all… so haha, they’re worse than the Fire Nation! :’D but alas, that the Fire Nation is better doesn’t mean it’s ideal either.

I’m not doing this to shoot down the Fire Nation’s one and only redeeming quality in the eyes of many, but I am saying that their equality isn’t all it’s made out to be by the fandom and even the wikia. It’s better than the other nations? Maybe. But it’s still not 100% equality by ATLA’s time (I’d like to think Izumi’s appointment as Fire Lord is actually proof of the Fire Nation becoming all the more progressive once the war ended… but that still doesn’t apply to the Fire Nation as we knew it in ATLA).