#tweety:thread

later-- when the shots are too many and she is tired of being the center of attention she makes her way into a small room-- quiet and full of books. her natural habitat. fingers trace the spines of books, taking in the titles until she hears someone clear their throat behind her and she jumps. she spins around, surprise on her face. “oh--- you.” the eyes--- her gut sparks in recognition and then she takes in the rest of his face-- a vague memory fills her mind but she’s a few shots in and it slows the gears of her hyper active mind until-- “isn’t this-- your party? aren’t you meant to be you know.... cavorting with the plebians. hiding in the library isn’t your style is it? rumor has it you’re more cocaine and rum than-- tolkein and walker...” she arches a brow. “but i’m open to correction.” she tilts her head-- the memory of numerous warnings flit through her mind. but the thing that causes her the most worry is the fact that her stomach won’t stop sparking to life at the sight of him. “i’m trying a new thing-- it’s called not being judgemental. i’m zahira by the way.  but my friends call me tweety--and i promise i’m not going to steal your books. just wanted a little less-- that.”

“i’m not going to fall for it.” tweety can’t meet their gaze-- and despite the bravado in her voice, she isn’t sure she sounds convincing. it’s hard to sound like she doesn’t want to be here, when they both know that the only reason she comes to this diner is to flirt with them...and the fries. tonight is no different-- she’d left a party to spend the early hours of Saturday morning pretending she wasn’t interested in them. “the whole-- surly-- rebel without a cause thing-- it’s cliched. you know that right? it’s not half as cute as you think it is. mostly it’s irritating. and you’re confusing--” she watches as a hand reaches to steal one of her fries-- and swats it away. “and a shameless fry thief.” she smiles warmly at them. “you could at least say please...”

there are a lot of things tweety could say to the artist who was supposed to be painting her portrait-- hello.. how are you....? would be a good start.  what’s your name, man who i left sleeping on a pool bed as i hobbled out of a versace after party still leaking your cum-- might be an even better one, with the circumstances being what they were. instead--she drops her tea cup and spills the milky liquid all over her father’s persian rug. “bugger.” his eyes were greener than she remembered-- piercing in a way that made her feel naked. “sorry-- father. i’ll-- see to the clean up-- um--i can talk the portrait over with him-- no problem.” her father-- is too busy to feel the obvious tension in the room-- he simply nods--and stalks out of the room, his ear pressed to another phone call. the maid cleans the carpet in seconds and takes the offending china away in a flurry of activity that gives tweety a chance to compose herself. once their alone-- a silence blankets the room-- for a few precious seconds. “uh--double bugger. you... i don’t even think i got your name. which is strange-- because i’ve never really had a man make me cum when we’ve had sex--and i’ve definitely never let a man cum in me--that seems like the kind of thing where you should know...the other persons name--right? i-- oh-- would you like some tea-- it’s oolong? sit-- please.” she laughs breathlessly. “if we’re going to be uncomfortable--there might as well be tea.”

she isn’t sure how she got here-- clad in nothing but her panties--pressed against the side of a pool in milan--at some fashion week party. her head is full of champagne, and the warmth of him pressed against her. she’s choking on sensation-- kissing him with the kind of reckless abandon that comes from downing the better part of a bottle of veuve cliquot. her legs wrap around his waist--and she’s well aware-- that he’s got her pinned-- but she’s happy to be here. his mouth drifts and her head rolls back. it feels like an alternate reality-- like she is both in her body and watching an alternate version of herself. the one that shed her pretty little versace dress and dove straight into empty pool with a boy who’s name she can’t remember-- but who’s face she’ll never forget. “bloody-- hell--” her nails dig into his back-- “just take-- can you just get rid of my underwear please--? i think it’s more than served it’s purpose.” she giggles softly-- the sound echoing in the empty room. “c’mon--” she’s never been a patient one.

“tell me how i ended up on a blind date with a batshit crazy racist daddy’s boy who actually called me a beautiful negro-- like he was trying to purchase me from a slave merchant?” tweety is too sober for the night she’s had-- her feet are sore from the heels she wore-- her body is still wrapped in scandalously short orange silk-- she still looks like a million bucks-- even if the notes are a little worn. “...i’m done. i’m done. no more oil barons. no more millionaires with big egos and no self respect.” she pouts slightly. “he said he wanted to rub my head. my fucking head.” she groans softly-- resting her head against their shoulder. “...i feel ugly. or at least cursed by a very angry god. why can’t a guy just think i’m beautiful and smart and treat me like i’m.... a person. not a weird disembodied fantasy--you know?”

“I’m going to ruin your underwear. M’not sorry.” She shudders against him. When he curses— she smirks against his skin because that’s what she’s looking for. Maybe they’ll just have today— and this moment but tomorrow he’ll be wearing the shape of her mouth all over his neck. She moves her mouth down his neck— nips at his skin. He tastes like sin and something sweet and something wholly Jesse. She shifts her hips up— helps him as he tugs off her underwear— and then she’s bare for him. She can feel his gaze on her skin like it’s a physical caress— and she bites her bottom lip. “How’s the view?” She watches him as he gets rid of his boxers and she wants to touch so badly— “You’re so beautiful..” Her voice is quiet and reverent. She moans softly as he kisses underneath her jaw— she tilts her head— exposing more skin for him to touch. She can feel the brush of his cock against her wet heat and she’s shuddering again— “oh—“ she pushes back, whimpering at the feel of him— catching on her wetness— hard and pulsing against her. She shifts up—slightly. “Can I— want to feel you inside me. Please Jesse.” She knows she’s whimpering— that she sounds so needy. But she is— and she knows he can tell.