#emorylight

Send me “~”+ any word/name and I’ll create an aesthetic board based on that word

Ready Aim Fire by Imagine Dragons 

Monsters by Ruelle

Until We Go Down by Ruelle

Heathens by Twenty One Pilots

Glory and Gore by Lorde

Warriors by Imagine Dragons

Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Lorde

Kissing is a language of its own. It speaks to different expressions when lips crash or gently meld; if the mouths are open or if they're closed off; a fleeting peck or a searing length until breaths are lost. Constantine and Emory may not be the typical pair that one would think fall in any of these descriptions, but they share a fluency in this language with heavy accents that distinguish where they come from.

The two of them were walking into the elevator that led to Constantine's penthouse in Tribeca. The doors were barely closed before the true voice of a brat filled the small enclosure. The topic was irrelevant to be retold, but the tallest of the two had his eyes roll to the top of the ceiling, straining, before falling back on the blond by his side in a fluid motion. The words were gradually tuned out, blending together for him to hear the voice and see the movement of the lips they dripped from.

Another syllable was formed, a breath carrying it out, before Constantine snatched it from him. A spontaneous action of crashing lips, just to bring silence into their dominion. His hand clutching the front of the other's shirt, dragging him in, the moment lasted until the doors parted. Barely separating from each other, the eldest capitalized on the half-second of pause with the typical sarcastic smile.

"Tongue tied?"

The next connecting shard of time was occupied with a button being pressed, shutting the doors and having the elevator remain idle right before Constantine's residence.

A kiss bred in irritation is not uncommon for the pair, but it has gradually dwindled with time. When Valentine's Day was upon them, there couldn't have been a better battleground for each of them to show-up the other in the eyes of the public. In their high-status positions, the media has glommed onto their antics, taking them at face-value. There's likely still the scent of flowers still lingering in the psychiatrist's office in the Crowne's New York complex--not an unreasonable assumption when there had been countless amounts of bouquets filling the area, so much that Constantine had to send most of them away to others within the building. Emory Light may have fired the first shot, but retaliation reached him when the day was in full bloom of occupancy.

The blond was in the process of giving a speech, furthering his relationship with the organization that was being changed under the new leadership. With popularity on the rise, the hall was packed with those that were local officials, office personnel, press, and Constantine himself. Within the middle, however, a new, peculiar arrival entered. It could be seen threading down the aisle, gently brushing into the seated people in the audience, making them turn their heads to gaze at it with either a laugh or confusion. By the time it reached the stage, everyone had had a clear view of it, only better when the light revealed the over-sized plush dog with the man holding it utterly lost behind its enormity.

Constantine simply stood up to take it off the hands of the carrier before immediately pushing it onto Emory Light, making the dog's giant head bop the new Executive Director's face for a kiss and ruffling his hair in the process. Sharing the weight of the toy with him, he leaned forward to faintly have their mouths touch as he murmured to him.

"Those flowers are still going on your grave. The dog is your coffin-mate."

In time, they've evolved from irritated to playful, but the transformation is a continuous one. Playful can take on a different shape, able to be molded into something more meaningful. Taking trips together has afforded such occasions to appear, but Monte Carlo was an eventful point. Now infamous, speculated to be their honeymoon by the media that's enchanted with conspiracy and romance, the two shared part of their night on a balcony. It may have started as a way to fuel their game of mistreating the public eye they were in, but the idea didn't carry on once in motion.

It was a tepid day in New York, the perfect conditions to walk through the Tribeca neighborhood Con knew by instinct. With Emory walking alongside him, the moment felt normal. It was a breath of peaceful air to simply move through the city, passing shop windows to remark about the items--"You should get that black shirt; it'd match your heart."--and the wide windows of restaurants to play a five second profiling game of the patrons inside--"He's breaking up with her because he only got a coffee while he let her get 'the last supper.'"

Both of them looked as though they were enjoying themselves in their own way. Constantine's lips perpetually held an effortless smirk, playful and pleased, sometimes melting into a genuine smile; Emory's icy blue eyes sparkled occasionally when he gave a particularly good jibe back at the other, and his golden hair added a lightness to his face that was rare to see. For a moment, the brunet took in his profile as they walked, and even while he watched, all of his varying levels of consciousness understood that he was merely waiting instead of admiring. The only question was, what was he waiting for?

He looked ahead, shaking off the feeling, until he realized the blond was no longer to his side. The street was busy as it usually was, but when he looked back his focus stayed on Emory. He only stood there as if something had frozen him in place. Constantine took a step closer, having his shoulder bump into another passerby without choice.

"What's wrong?"

Emory didn't answer, making a frown appear on the psychiatrist's face before noticing how his eyes had glossed over. They reminded him of the dish the woman from the restaurant was served--a whole snapper with its head still attached, staring lifeless up at her, the last supper.

In an instant, the younger of the two dropped. Constantine's arms flung out to catch him, looking him over quickly to make sense of it. There was no blood, no wound, no injury of any kind.

"Emory! Get up!"

Smoky blue eyes looked around, seeing no one noticing the oddity. They didn't care. They walked around them without glancing while Constantine went back to checking his pulse. The skin was frigid before he could even press against an artery. His lips parted, at a loss.

"Emory!" he yelled again, giving him a shake as if it would bring him back to life in this impossible situation. "Emory!"

Constantine sucked in a breath, waking up to stare at the ceiling in his penthouse. His eyes blinked a few times with purpose, trying to digest the dream before sitting up in his bed to feel the warm balls of fluff known as Cosette and Jean still asleep by his legs. He rubbed at the back of his neck, gradually removing himself from the haze while his mind still settled on the image of the blank eyes.

Carefully, he got out of bed, letting his dogs enjoy their sleep before finding himself at the rooftop. A glass of gin was accompanied by a lit cigarette--something he hadn't indulged in much lately--while looking over the city stirring in the middle of the night. A stream of smoke was steadily released from his plush lips, dissecting what he saw with as much of an impartial view as he could provide.

It wasn't just him dying; it was that no one cared but him. The act was spontaneous, too, as if it could happen at any moment with as little warning as what he was given. There was also the dread, Constantine's personal dread upon looking on to see him lifeless in his arms. And did he call him “Emory?” 

He took a sip from his drink before his face lit up from his smartphone screen. 4:15am. The device twisted in his palm until lighting it up once more, messaging the one listed under Brat.

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