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A Holiday Bash - mature oops - Wallace - 11-08-2018
The Opening Act
She sat propped on a cold wooden stool in complete darkness. The paint was chipping off in some places, weathered and worn from over the years of fancy singers sitting in this same spot. She knew it, because the coating kept cutting under her fingernails as she scraped the bottom of the seat, her hands holding the rounded edge like so many others before her might have, as if it might help her breathe to sit so still.
She wasn’t nervous though.
She didn’t have enough care to be nervous.
Besides. She could sing. She just didn’t like to.
They were preparing to introduce her. The crowd was shuffling restlessly in the quiet on the other side of the curtain, curious to see who would open for her son, an already famous pop-star the girls wildly adored. She thought back to a few minutes before.
”You look hot, Mom,” he’d told her backstage with his daddy’s smirk on full display when he’d caught her smoothing the fabric of a skirt far too short like it might suddenly decide to grow into a size that actually fit.
It didn’t.
She was all dolled up. Her thick, black lashes matched the inky black of her little heels, strappy enough to show off her tanned skin. Her slender legs were left completely bare, disappearing beneath the bottom flare of the tiny dress. It was lined in white fur, and her lips were painted a bright enough red to match. The front was laced up purely for looks, exposing far too much cleavage before precariously depending on the tiniest damn straps to hold the weight of her breasts. She swore those vital little threads were going to snap the moment she moved.
Hair plain brown hair cascaded in waves from a complementary fur-lined little Christmas hat that probably looked completely ridiculous. She probably looked completely ridiculous.
”I mean it,” he reassured her, reading her thoughts. She sighed.
Well, it was a bit much for her, but she was already cinched up in it all, so whatever. She’d then given him a brief flash of an empty smile. She’d do it for him. He’d asked and had provided this ridiculous outfit. And he’d only grinned with delight and mischief in his grey eyes when she thought that too, making her blush and look away from him.
Teenagers were impossible.
And then it was her time to shine, so to speak.
He’d sing soon, the announcer promised. Her son, he meant. The gorgeous pop-star. But first, a rare new voice they hadn’t heard yet. And they weren’t exactly booing her off stage yet, but it was clear that her boy was the one they wanted. Completely understandable. He was the spitting image of his father.
They kept the stage in darkness as the red curtains drifted in a soft whisper across the worn wood floor, a musical tinkling beginning the start of the song. She breathed, taking a slow breath. And then she sang, her vibrato clear in her throat, lifting into the quiet darkness.
“I.. don’t want a lot for Christmas..”
She really hated this song.
She’d do it right though, as she took her time with the slow notes.
For her boy, she would do it.
“There is just one thing I need..”
The lights gradually raised a little brighter, revealing her soft brown hair and candy-cane-red lips. The holiday tree behind her flared to radiant life. Good. Maybe it would distract them from staring at her. She hoped she didn’t know anyone in his crowd of fans, or rather, that they didn’t know her. This was a lot to ask of her. But she’d do it.
“I don’t care about the presents,
Underneath the Christmas tree..”
She let herself drift into the song, into the words, her body gently swaying as she warmed to it. Her eyes remained closed as she felt through the notes with deft fingers, her lashes on her cheeks and her hand wrapped around the smooth metal of the microphone. She let herself feel it, really sing it. She’d do it right.
And she felt it too deeply.
“I just want you for my own,
More than you could ever know.”
God damn, her precious boy for choosing this one. He’d done it on purpose, but she couldn’t imagine to what purpose it would serve him. It certainly wasn’t doing anything good for her.
“Make my wish come true…”
It’ll never happen, Lacey.
Her eyes opened, the dark liner making them look a lighter brown, making them pop in the overhead light.
“All I want for Christmas,
Is you..”
The music keyed up higher, and she really didn’t care at all for any of this. She played her part, though, adding a little energy in the way she moved. Her attention was solely on her voice, on singing this damned song for him and doing a damn good job of it. Maybe he’d never ask this of her again if she did well enough.
She wasn’t really aware of the crowd’s reaction, nor did she care. She swept through every emotion she felt, sometimes smiling wider than she has in years, her eyes shining with the promise of a young, naive heart. Then dark with old hurts, a life stolen away, a life denied. A softness befitting of a real mother, full of love for her children despite how terrible of a parent she was for them. She’d do anything for them.
More joy lit her face, winning out the battle of brilliance warring between her pleasure and those twinkling lights, singing her foolish heart out and fine, enjoying it. She cried out these stupid things she’d never speak of, taking expert breaths between refrains and letting them out so boldly in the melody with the authority of a stupid girl that had lived them. It was probably just a simple song to them, but every word was genuine to her, felt so deeply, and maybe that’s what made her performance so damn good.
Her boy was truly cruel.
And maybe too all-knowing.
When a glance showed her he was part of the band, playing the music for her, taking a background part when he was such a center-of-attention boy, her eyes watered at the rim. He was staring right at her, playing the drum set (though he knew just about every instrument there), and grinning ear to ear with that dazzling smile. It reflected in her face to see him smile that way, to see him happy. To know it was because she was finally enjoying herself.
He was a little too all-knowing.
She could nearly feel his laughter at her thought, but her eyes went over the crowd, sharing openly the end of the song and her sad story buried within it. It was meant to be a happier song, she was sure, and she was smiling.
But it was a tragedy she told them.
When the song ended, the delight faded slowly from her face, her chest heaving gently for breaths. Tears of joy, and of sadness, still held tightly to her eyes as she dropped her gaze. Her shoulders slumped in just the slightest, so subtly, and she turned her face to the side, her arms down. The lights dimmed and she walked away, passing the microphone to someone she didn’t really see, her damned broken heart in her chest bared so nakedly for all of them.
Her boy was so cruel.
She wasn’t sure if he was driving it home or trying to give her hope when his first song struck up strong, his voice ringing out better than hers ever could as he sang Last Christmas.
And of course the crowd went wild for him.
She wasn’t nervous though.
She didn’t have enough care to be nervous.
Besides. She could sing. She just didn’t like to.
They were preparing to introduce her. The crowd was shuffling restlessly in the quiet on the other side of the curtain, curious to see who would open for her son, an already famous pop-star the girls wildly adored. She thought back to a few minutes before.
”You look hot, Mom,” he’d told her backstage with his daddy’s smirk on full display when he’d caught her smoothing the fabric of a skirt far too short like it might suddenly decide to grow into a size that actually fit.
It didn’t.
She was all dolled up. Her thick, black lashes matched the inky black of her little heels, strappy enough to show off her tanned skin. Her slender legs were left completely bare, disappearing beneath the bottom flare of the tiny dress. It was lined in white fur, and her lips were painted a bright enough red to match. The front was laced up purely for looks, exposing far too much cleavage before precariously depending on the tiniest damn straps to hold the weight of her breasts. She swore those vital little threads were going to snap the moment she moved.
Hair plain brown hair cascaded in waves from a complementary fur-lined little Christmas hat that probably looked completely ridiculous. She probably looked completely ridiculous.
”I mean it,” he reassured her, reading her thoughts. She sighed.
Well, it was a bit much for her, but she was already cinched up in it all, so whatever. She’d then given him a brief flash of an empty smile. She’d do it for him. He’d asked and had provided this ridiculous outfit. And he’d only grinned with delight and mischief in his grey eyes when she thought that too, making her blush and look away from him.
Teenagers were impossible.
And then it was her time to shine, so to speak.
He’d sing soon, the announcer promised. Her son, he meant. The gorgeous pop-star. But first, a rare new voice they hadn’t heard yet. And they weren’t exactly booing her off stage yet, but it was clear that her boy was the one they wanted. Completely understandable. He was the spitting image of his father.
They kept the stage in darkness as the red curtains drifted in a soft whisper across the worn wood floor, a musical tinkling beginning the start of the song. She breathed, taking a slow breath. And then she sang, her vibrato clear in her throat, lifting into the quiet darkness.
“I.. don’t want a lot for Christmas..”
She really hated this song.
She’d do it right though, as she took her time with the slow notes.
For her boy, she would do it.
“There is just one thing I need..”
The lights gradually raised a little brighter, revealing her soft brown hair and candy-cane-red lips. The holiday tree behind her flared to radiant life. Good. Maybe it would distract them from staring at her. She hoped she didn’t know anyone in his crowd of fans, or rather, that they didn’t know her. This was a lot to ask of her. But she’d do it.
“I don’t care about the presents,
Underneath the Christmas tree..”
She let herself drift into the song, into the words, her body gently swaying as she warmed to it. Her eyes remained closed as she felt through the notes with deft fingers, her lashes on her cheeks and her hand wrapped around the smooth metal of the microphone. She let herself feel it, really sing it. She’d do it right.
And she felt it too deeply.
“I just want you for my own,
More than you could ever know.”
God damn, her precious boy for choosing this one. He’d done it on purpose, but she couldn’t imagine to what purpose it would serve him. It certainly wasn’t doing anything good for her.
“Make my wish come true…”
It’ll never happen, Lacey.
Her eyes opened, the dark liner making them look a lighter brown, making them pop in the overhead light.
“All I want for Christmas,
Is you..”
The music keyed up higher, and she really didn’t care at all for any of this. She played her part, though, adding a little energy in the way she moved. Her attention was solely on her voice, on singing this damned song for him and doing a damn good job of it. Maybe he’d never ask this of her again if she did well enough.
She wasn’t really aware of the crowd’s reaction, nor did she care. She swept through every emotion she felt, sometimes smiling wider than she has in years, her eyes shining with the promise of a young, naive heart. Then dark with old hurts, a life stolen away, a life denied. A softness befitting of a real mother, full of love for her children despite how terrible of a parent she was for them. She’d do anything for them.
More joy lit her face, winning out the battle of brilliance warring between her pleasure and those twinkling lights, singing her foolish heart out and fine, enjoying it. She cried out these stupid things she’d never speak of, taking expert breaths between refrains and letting them out so boldly in the melody with the authority of a stupid girl that had lived them. It was probably just a simple song to them, but every word was genuine to her, felt so deeply, and maybe that’s what made her performance so damn good.
Her boy was truly cruel.
And maybe too all-knowing.
When a glance showed her he was part of the band, playing the music for her, taking a background part when he was such a center-of-attention boy, her eyes watered at the rim. He was staring right at her, playing the drum set (though he knew just about every instrument there), and grinning ear to ear with that dazzling smile. It reflected in her face to see him smile that way, to see him happy. To know it was because she was finally enjoying herself.
He was a little too all-knowing.
She could nearly feel his laughter at her thought, but her eyes went over the crowd, sharing openly the end of the song and her sad story buried within it. It was meant to be a happier song, she was sure, and she was smiling.
But it was a tragedy she told them.
When the song ended, the delight faded slowly from her face, her chest heaving gently for breaths. Tears of joy, and of sadness, still held tightly to her eyes as she dropped her gaze. Her shoulders slumped in just the slightest, so subtly, and she turned her face to the side, her arms down. The lights dimmed and she walked away, passing the microphone to someone she didn’t really see, her damned broken heart in her chest bared so nakedly for all of them.
Her boy was so cruel.
She wasn’t sure if he was driving it home or trying to give her hope when his first song struck up strong, his voice ringing out better than hers ever could as he sang Last Christmas.
And of course the crowd went wild for him.
RE: A Holiday Bash - woolf - 11-09-2018
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
RE: A Holiday Bash - Wallace - 11-09-2018
The Opening Act
She couldn't disappear quick enough. Luckily, she didn't think anyone here would know her. It probably helped that she was so dolled up as well. And dressed like this. The young woman in the mirror earlier had been hardly recognizable to her. And fake. A faux blush of happiness, a pretend light in her eyes from dark liner around them.
She'd just make her escape now and be alone again.
Find a way through all the emotions inside her that she'd kept locked down so tight until now.
She gasped quietly in surprise as a hand curled around her arm, her eyes wide and flying up to meet a vibrant green stare. Her pulse skyrocketed and she tugged her arm gently against his hold to test the strength of it. She knew what it was like to be trussed up and bound.
A blush spread up her neck as his eyes sat for a moment on her lips, and then slowly up. History could've been repeating.
"Nice song." She pressed her mouth firmly together, forcing her gaze to stay in his though her blush deepened and a hurt flashed behind her eyes. She glanced at the bartender that obeyed him and then back again, cautiously allowing him to lead her into the seat next to him.
"It's been awhile, Wallace."
She swallowed and looked away, once again perched on another stool with legs crossed to hide herself as well as she could with this revealing outfit. She hadn't forgotten his name. Or those eyes. That whiskey-rough voice. He had a gravity and a steadiness that no other had. But an explosive side too, she remembered.
"A while," she agreed, her hand curling around the cool glass when her drink was passed to her. It hadn't been long enough to heal though. To stop being so damn stupid. And stubborn. Her heart was so foolish and relentless and she'd wished it would just give up already. Probably everyone wished for that.
She tipped it back and let it burn her throat. He wasn't around to know how many times she'd thought about reconsidering. How many times she played out how life might be if he'd taken her memories of that time. If she didn't have to feel like this anymore.
He never came back to the island, though she hadn't expected him to. She would say so to him now for small talk, but it was pointless. She didn't like thoughtless chatter. She suspected he wasn't wild about it either, though she'd only met him the once so long ago.
"I am no better," she whispered, defeated. He probably thought her so foolish. She'd hoped keeping the memories would be a lesson, a life experience. That they might make her stronger in some way.
But she was weak.
She was nothing.
"Did I choose wrong?"
She'd just make her escape now and be alone again.
Find a way through all the emotions inside her that she'd kept locked down so tight until now.
She gasped quietly in surprise as a hand curled around her arm, her eyes wide and flying up to meet a vibrant green stare. Her pulse skyrocketed and she tugged her arm gently against his hold to test the strength of it. She knew what it was like to be trussed up and bound.
A blush spread up her neck as his eyes sat for a moment on her lips, and then slowly up. History could've been repeating.
"Nice song." She pressed her mouth firmly together, forcing her gaze to stay in his though her blush deepened and a hurt flashed behind her eyes. She glanced at the bartender that obeyed him and then back again, cautiously allowing him to lead her into the seat next to him.
"It's been awhile, Wallace."
She swallowed and looked away, once again perched on another stool with legs crossed to hide herself as well as she could with this revealing outfit. She hadn't forgotten his name. Or those eyes. That whiskey-rough voice. He had a gravity and a steadiness that no other had. But an explosive side too, she remembered.
"A while," she agreed, her hand curling around the cool glass when her drink was passed to her. It hadn't been long enough to heal though. To stop being so damn stupid. And stubborn. Her heart was so foolish and relentless and she'd wished it would just give up already. Probably everyone wished for that.
She tipped it back and let it burn her throat. He wasn't around to know how many times she'd thought about reconsidering. How many times she played out how life might be if he'd taken her memories of that time. If she didn't have to feel like this anymore.
He never came back to the island, though she hadn't expected him to. She would say so to him now for small talk, but it was pointless. She didn't like thoughtless chatter. She suspected he wasn't wild about it either, though she'd only met him the once so long ago.
"I am no better," she whispered, defeated. He probably thought her so foolish. She'd hoped keeping the memories would be a lesson, a life experience. That they might make her stronger in some way.
But she was weak.
She was nothing.
"Did I choose wrong?"
RE: A Holiday Bash - woolf - 11-11-2018
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
RE: A Holiday Bash - Wallace - 11-11-2018
The Opening Act
He raised his brow at her for drinking this way, but her nerves were wild and frayed and could use a little smoothing back down. Reilly could get her drunk without the drink, thanks to his magic, so she was accustomed to this. Or so she told herself. Fine, maybe he hadn't gotten her drunk with his magic, not really, but it was just the same anyway.
Just tasted a bit worse.
And burned.
Sudden warmth sank into her as his jacket settled on her slender shoulders and she was immediately enveloped in his scent, a dark masculine spice. She felt like she could wrap up in this smell and just curl up and sleep, get swallowed up by the darkness, forever warm and kept. Safe at all times. Cherished in secret. It didn't mean he was that way. She would assume not. But the cautious serenity was there in his scent for her nonetheless and she welcomed it.
His touch tilted her face up and she realized he was talking, her brown eyes wide on him and refocusing. She'd only had the one drink, she's got this. This was nothing. Green. She used to wish she had green eyes. She could never wear them as he did, with that raw look of strength and power in them. She couldn't help the fleeting thought that wondered if they could ever be soft.
Her face flushed with a heat. From the alcohol, she was certain. She should not take that second glass as his hand dropped from her chin but she did. She cupped it and leaned it back, savored the burn once more. Get it together, Wallace.
"I could give you many things, Wallace," he said and she looked to him warily. He could. He had that power. But why would he? He wouldn't. Her eyes caught on his scar as he continued, feeling his heavy gaze on her. "If you could have anything, what would you ask of me?"
She closed her mouth and looked away. It was a game, just a drinking game or something. Just a strange conversation topic. "All the riches in the world," she said dryly into the edge of the glass before tilting it back again. She didn't care about such things, really. But how else was she supposed to answer that? It wasn't the first time he'd asked. Hadn't that been what he'd asked her before? Hm, she couldn't remember now. Things weren't completely clear just then.
She sighed and respected his question enough to consider it seriously. There was only one thing that hit her heart just then, that she wished she had the power to make right. If she could wish for anything, it would be, "Reilly's happiness." He loved her, he must. But she was just an empty shell with nothing left to give. She knew what it was like to love someone that couldn't return it. He deserved better. She didn't want him to live this life she lived.
"I'd give anything for that man to be happy. He might want me. That may make him happy. But there is nothing left of me." It was just the tragic truth.
She was speaking too freely now, though. Her gaze turned to him again, lips drawn up in one corner with a hesitantly playful smirk. She leaned forward, cradling the quarter-full glass in her hand and looking up at him. "What would you wish for, then?" And now that she'd asked it, she was even more curious. That was actually a good question. She should drink more often.
What on earth could a man so powerful want that he couldn't just create himself or take for himself?
Just tasted a bit worse.
And burned.
Sudden warmth sank into her as his jacket settled on her slender shoulders and she was immediately enveloped in his scent, a dark masculine spice. She felt like she could wrap up in this smell and just curl up and sleep, get swallowed up by the darkness, forever warm and kept. Safe at all times. Cherished in secret. It didn't mean he was that way. She would assume not. But the cautious serenity was there in his scent for her nonetheless and she welcomed it.
His touch tilted her face up and she realized he was talking, her brown eyes wide on him and refocusing. She'd only had the one drink, she's got this. This was nothing. Green. She used to wish she had green eyes. She could never wear them as he did, with that raw look of strength and power in them. She couldn't help the fleeting thought that wondered if they could ever be soft.
Her face flushed with a heat. From the alcohol, she was certain. She should not take that second glass as his hand dropped from her chin but she did. She cupped it and leaned it back, savored the burn once more. Get it together, Wallace.
"I could give you many things, Wallace," he said and she looked to him warily. He could. He had that power. But why would he? He wouldn't. Her eyes caught on his scar as he continued, feeling his heavy gaze on her. "If you could have anything, what would you ask of me?"
She closed her mouth and looked away. It was a game, just a drinking game or something. Just a strange conversation topic. "All the riches in the world," she said dryly into the edge of the glass before tilting it back again. She didn't care about such things, really. But how else was she supposed to answer that? It wasn't the first time he'd asked. Hadn't that been what he'd asked her before? Hm, she couldn't remember now. Things weren't completely clear just then.
She sighed and respected his question enough to consider it seriously. There was only one thing that hit her heart just then, that she wished she had the power to make right. If she could wish for anything, it would be, "Reilly's happiness." He loved her, he must. But she was just an empty shell with nothing left to give. She knew what it was like to love someone that couldn't return it. He deserved better. She didn't want him to live this life she lived.
"I'd give anything for that man to be happy. He might want me. That may make him happy. But there is nothing left of me." It was just the tragic truth.
She was speaking too freely now, though. Her gaze turned to him again, lips drawn up in one corner with a hesitantly playful smirk. She leaned forward, cradling the quarter-full glass in her hand and looking up at him. "What would you wish for, then?" And now that she'd asked it, she was even more curious. That was actually a good question. She should drink more often.
What on earth could a man so powerful want that he couldn't just create himself or take for himself?
RE: A Holiday Bash - woolf - 11-12-2018
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
RE: A Holiday Bash - Wallace - 11-18-2018
The Opening Act
He warned her to go easy on the drink and she blushed faintly, then darker as he reached to touch her forehead. She tensed and sat so still and rigid, plain brown eyes wide on him. The slowly spreading darkness on his shirt caught her gaze though and she frowned lightly, reaching out to touch gently with a murmur of concern. “Woolf..” She stopped inches away though and quickly dropped her hand. The steadiness that trickled into her was hardly even noticed, and honestly she chalked it up to the drinks.
She peered up at his face again, studying the wrinkle in his brow when he frowned like that. He was stupidly handsome and it made her a little uncomfortable. Attractive men could never be trusted. That had been a lesson learned the hard way.
Except Tiphon. And perhaps Sabrael.
And fine, maybe Woolf. Maybe.
”That’s an excuse. You have plenty left to give.” She held the glass tighter in her hand and looked away, shame burning her face with another blush. He leaned in closer, near enough to be further blanketed in his scent. She held tense, turning to look at him again and realizing with a riotous heart beat that he was even closer than she had thought. ”You could make him happy if you wanted to.” Her eyes fell to his lips which were startlingly close as well, stealing her breath with the wicked tilt that lifted them. She blushed, then scowled prettily. He was toying with her, mocking her inexperience in some way.
He leaned back and she was glad of it. She hadn’t quite came to the decision to shove him back yet and now she wouldn’t have to.
His face turned up to the ceiling as he seemed to fully consider her question. Her gaze wandered to the scar on his neck, his chest. ”An unsolvable problem,” he answered after a time of thought. ”I’d wish for an unsolvable problem. Something to keep this working,” he tapped his chiseled temple at her. Then he touched his damp chest. ”Something to make me feel alive in here.”
She was uncertain how to take that. But after a moment, she smirked at him with a quiet taunt, her eyes almost glittering with wit as they once did. “What? And you can’t magic that into being?” She was not convinced he had the limits he hinted at. He could probably easily set this ideal desire in his mind and let his magic drive him to it, couldn’t he? Or she could only guess that he might be able too. She’d never had any magic of her own, and never would.
She leaned forward, gently plucking an unseen wrinkle of his shirt that was beginning to stick to his skin and pulling it away from him a good few inches towards her with a hint of the boldness she hadn’t felt in a very long time. “And what makes you feel alive, Woolf?” she murmured just barely above a whisper with a sly little smirk.
She peered up at his face again, studying the wrinkle in his brow when he frowned like that. He was stupidly handsome and it made her a little uncomfortable. Attractive men could never be trusted. That had been a lesson learned the hard way.
Except Tiphon. And perhaps Sabrael.
And fine, maybe Woolf. Maybe.
”That’s an excuse. You have plenty left to give.” She held the glass tighter in her hand and looked away, shame burning her face with another blush. He leaned in closer, near enough to be further blanketed in his scent. She held tense, turning to look at him again and realizing with a riotous heart beat that he was even closer than she had thought. ”You could make him happy if you wanted to.” Her eyes fell to his lips which were startlingly close as well, stealing her breath with the wicked tilt that lifted them. She blushed, then scowled prettily. He was toying with her, mocking her inexperience in some way.
He leaned back and she was glad of it. She hadn’t quite came to the decision to shove him back yet and now she wouldn’t have to.
His face turned up to the ceiling as he seemed to fully consider her question. Her gaze wandered to the scar on his neck, his chest. ”An unsolvable problem,” he answered after a time of thought. ”I’d wish for an unsolvable problem. Something to keep this working,” he tapped his chiseled temple at her. Then he touched his damp chest. ”Something to make me feel alive in here.”
She was uncertain how to take that. But after a moment, she smirked at him with a quiet taunt, her eyes almost glittering with wit as they once did. “What? And you can’t magic that into being?” She was not convinced he had the limits he hinted at. He could probably easily set this ideal desire in his mind and let his magic drive him to it, couldn’t he? Or she could only guess that he might be able too. She’d never had any magic of her own, and never would.
She leaned forward, gently plucking an unseen wrinkle of his shirt that was beginning to stick to his skin and pulling it away from him a good few inches towards her with a hint of the boldness she hadn’t felt in a very long time. “And what makes you feel alive, Woolf?” she murmured just barely above a whisper with a sly little smirk.
RE: A Holiday Bash - woolf - 11-23-2018
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
RE: A Holiday Bash - Wallace - 11-25-2018
The Opening Act
He was so damn cool.
Look at how he tapped the bar and the bartender just jumped to do his bidding. He must get that a lot; everyone jumping to please him. She almost couldn't blame them, but even beat down as she typically seemed, she felt the familiar flare of defiance press against the inside of her breast. She wasn't much of anything, but she was more than doing anyone's bidding. Not that she thought he'd ever ask anything of her.
The conversation was easy as she listened to him explain why he couldn't just create what he wanted. He'd already know how it worked.
"But you on the other hand."
Her heart caught in her throat and her gaze flew to his face again, suddenly feeling a little like prey. Or something beneath his expert lens, trying to find what she was made of, how to tear it down and build it back up. If he chose to.
"You are something I haven't been able to figure out just yet—and isn’t that a frustrating problem to have?”
She thought she'd had everything in control, but she was so wrong as his hand shot out to grasp her wrist. He held it, a look in his eyes that was so intense and confusing. He couldn't be looking at her that way. That was crazy. But she could see the reflection of her wide eyes in them, nearly fearful as her gaze fell to her hand in his strong grip. He turned it in his, so slowly she could feel each beat of her pulse push against his fingers.
Heat overwhelmed her, rushing to her face, in her eyes, and through her veins as his lips brushed lightly over her skin, his teeth firing all kinds of wild nerves in passing. Her lips were parted and she couldn't breathe. This was a game, just a game to him. He shouldn't have any effect on her. Don't let him in.
"I feel pretty alive right now," he whispered, and she bit the inside edge of her bottom lip to keep silent, just barely a sliver of white showing. Don't gasp, don't groan, don't give anything away. He was such a rough man, so hard, and yet capable of all this gentleness and it was too much. He was perfect. He was too much. He did this on purpose. Why did he want to make her struggle this way? What did he gain from any of this?
He kept his trophy, lowered their hands to rest over his thigh. He ignored the fresh drink beside him, seemingly too interested in her but that was impossible.
"What about you, Wallace? Do you feel alive?"
No. She was probably dying. She would have a heart-attack for how it clamored in her chest so desperately, more frantic than a hummingbird's wings. This glass in her hand should become a weapon splashed in his face as she ran for cover and made her escape, but she was paralyzed.
"Woolf." It was barely a breath, almost a plea. But she would NOT beg. He was killing her with this game. This wasn't a fun game for her at all, not anymore. Not when he held all the cards and she was helpless. She was not helpless. She would not be helpless again, like before. Her jaw tensed and her eyes flashed sharper. The curve of his sharp jaw was in her free hand as she turned this around, stared him down with a delicate hand on his face. She would hold onto her goddamn cards, no matter how worthless they were.
It was a wild bluff, and she didn't care. She leaned in regardless, resting her lips so lightly at the cornered half of his and speaking against them in a low murmur, her eyes on his.
"I don't know anymore what alive is."
Look at how he tapped the bar and the bartender just jumped to do his bidding. He must get that a lot; everyone jumping to please him. She almost couldn't blame them, but even beat down as she typically seemed, she felt the familiar flare of defiance press against the inside of her breast. She wasn't much of anything, but she was more than doing anyone's bidding. Not that she thought he'd ever ask anything of her.
The conversation was easy as she listened to him explain why he couldn't just create what he wanted. He'd already know how it worked.
"But you on the other hand."
Her heart caught in her throat and her gaze flew to his face again, suddenly feeling a little like prey. Or something beneath his expert lens, trying to find what she was made of, how to tear it down and build it back up. If he chose to.
"You are something I haven't been able to figure out just yet—and isn’t that a frustrating problem to have?”
She thought she'd had everything in control, but she was so wrong as his hand shot out to grasp her wrist. He held it, a look in his eyes that was so intense and confusing. He couldn't be looking at her that way. That was crazy. But she could see the reflection of her wide eyes in them, nearly fearful as her gaze fell to her hand in his strong grip. He turned it in his, so slowly she could feel each beat of her pulse push against his fingers.
Heat overwhelmed her, rushing to her face, in her eyes, and through her veins as his lips brushed lightly over her skin, his teeth firing all kinds of wild nerves in passing. Her lips were parted and she couldn't breathe. This was a game, just a game to him. He shouldn't have any effect on her. Don't let him in.
"I feel pretty alive right now," he whispered, and she bit the inside edge of her bottom lip to keep silent, just barely a sliver of white showing. Don't gasp, don't groan, don't give anything away. He was such a rough man, so hard, and yet capable of all this gentleness and it was too much. He was perfect. He was too much. He did this on purpose. Why did he want to make her struggle this way? What did he gain from any of this?
He kept his trophy, lowered their hands to rest over his thigh. He ignored the fresh drink beside him, seemingly too interested in her but that was impossible.
"What about you, Wallace? Do you feel alive?"
No. She was probably dying. She would have a heart-attack for how it clamored in her chest so desperately, more frantic than a hummingbird's wings. This glass in her hand should become a weapon splashed in his face as she ran for cover and made her escape, but she was paralyzed.
"Woolf." It was barely a breath, almost a plea. But she would NOT beg. He was killing her with this game. This wasn't a fun game for her at all, not anymore. Not when he held all the cards and she was helpless. She was not helpless. She would not be helpless again, like before. Her jaw tensed and her eyes flashed sharper. The curve of his sharp jaw was in her free hand as she turned this around, stared him down with a delicate hand on his face. She would hold onto her goddamn cards, no matter how worthless they were.
It was a wild bluff, and she didn't care. She leaned in regardless, resting her lips so lightly at the cornered half of his and speaking against them in a low murmur, her eyes on his.
"I don't know anymore what alive is."
RE: A Holiday Bash - woolf - 11-26-2018
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste