#spitsfire

@spitsfire

In the brisk dawn of an early morning, whence art the crowds tendered and the nearby Tour borne onto a delightful halt, Roland is unshaved, burly and loose in his sleepwear of a long sleeve and patterned, cotton pants, borne of swirling daisies a'fore a baby-blue print. Art there ancient bags under Roland's eyes that tell of a bone-deep exhaustion, that fret of fairy lights dangled forever before his opened eyes, but his face is peaceable, friendly in this amiable, delicate teasing.

He wanders to her in a morning hum, wrapping limbs around her as cuddled for a teddy bear in a sweet, jaw-cracking yawn; nuzzling his face against her warm throat. "Thou art borne as if it belongs to thee," assents he, murmuring in low sounds, drooping against her.

Networking like a housewife at a Tupperware party had soon become Viktor's priority during his time in prison. With networking came new friends, and with new friends came new mutual interests.

Unfortunately, there had been a bump on the road. Danila had killed a friend of Viktor's friend. Now, it was a regrettable misunderstanding; had Danila known, he surely hadn't done it. But the reality remained. And the reality was that Viktor's friend was upset. So upset in fact, that his friend had demanded him to have Danila killed in turn.

Naturally, Viktor had it arranged. A friend's interest is his interest. Especially if that friend would otherwise become a foe. Though he was 70% sure Danila would somehow pull through with his survival skills that rivaled those of a cockroach's.

Be that as it may, it was out of his hands now.

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Strobe lights dyed the dance floor with every color of the rainbow while a pungent mix of sweat, spilled beer, and perfume wafted through the room. The band of the evening – an up-and-coming Russian American new generation rock band – had been intriguing enough to lure Danila into the nightclub.

Out of breath after an hour of jumping in front of the stage, Danila stole a seat next to the bar. To continue the night or not to continue, that was the question.

@spitsfire

Gloriously naked, married with smatterings of iridescent glitter and drying sweat and stains from her lipstick at his breast and hips, smeared at his mouth, he holds the weight of that leather purchase in the middle of his outed room, the yawn of the sliver of sunrise peaking through those blinds that demand privacy from the many eons of phone-recorded fans and the frenetic paparazzi.

He beams and cheers and waggles the long length of the leather pants to hold them in front of his hips, chortling in flattered laughter. "Thou art too kind, darling," murmurs he, as he waggles his brows fantastically to her upon that lounge of her thrown, tousled state.