little by little they ROBBED and stole

 there is a brief flicker  —  an involuntary muscle JUMP at the corner of one narrowed eye, the residue of a scoff he reminds himself not to allow to rise higher than the bottom of his chest.  ‘ snuck in to make up. ’   covering manure in fondue won’t make it smell any sweeter. 

 still, only a novice would believe he’d leave his whereabouts so carelessly out in the most obvious place it could’ve been.  at least now when she rides in on her black goat to completely ruin a plan he’ll have prepared a contingency, disappointing, but not unexpected.

(MEME.)

THE RHINOCEROS FANCIES ITSELF A LION ! there is the slightest of twitches to his brow, tongue folding his own amusement neatly in his mouth before he allows it to unravel delicately in a soft laugh that would have made one harold cooper blush. preaching to the choir — the choir, the organ, the nuns, the entire orchestra. even the mighty apex predator has a tendency to outsource. there's nothing like fearing for one's life that sets the senses firing off, every minute detail heightened, many think they want it, until it becomes real. or until the game feels rigged as it so often becomes.

❝ as my grandmother used to say, it's good to have friends in low places.  we should be workout partners. lord knows we could both use it, you haven't known danger, hunting or a challenge until you've tried to prise me off ginny's cheeseburger chowder to go do something productive like jazzercise or TABATA class. ❞ fair lashes flutter, hand lifting to well-padded chest as if he can both TASTE and SMELL from memory. ❝ i mean the ground chuck and spices... the melted cheese... would kill for.  ❞

he has never met his grandmother, but from whatever slavic hell her loins had borne fruit, he hopes the impression does her service.

✚

there’s something    mildly guilt-tripping     about the way that lush pout manifests ,    like she’s auditioning for a role on tv ,     all sweeping lashes   &   innocent brows .    ❛    you know i loathe  attending appointments  unaccompanied .     ❜     this is to say:   it’s all your fault,   you should make it up to me .    because of course ,      she doesn’t   really   mind ,    it’s   foreplay .   she’s only unapologetically jealous of his time when he's  there .    

adelaide stops to reflect on the   last time   she’d not unconsciously   shied away   from touch ;    even her mother’s ,   now  feeble ,   veiny hands  ,       make her pale skin itch as though it was being prickled by needles .    she couldn’t .     but she cherishes him ,   whatever their relationships entails ;   a way that’d has her   reaching   as she’d reached for her favorite toys as a child :     a way that could tear through every bone   &   balled join ,   leaving mangled bits of plastic scattered all over the carpeted flooring .    she’s a ravenous thing ,     she knows now  —  but he’s not nearly as tender as plastic .    ❛    “cats don’t chase dogs”…    i’d love to tell you if it’s good, but rafa hasn’t finished yet.    though , from what i’ve heard ,    it’s done   wonders   for his love life !    ❜      those mirthful eyes are  infused  with a lovely poison ,    the kind that kills slowly with each  waft  .     she’s let go of him ,    reluctantly :     her new favorite thing in the room —   to make all the way back to the 3ft mirror by the wall  (  surely one of the many reasons she favors this place  )  ,    and stare ,    fumbling with a single earring ,    as women tend do ;    some unspoken feminine ritualism before public outings .     ❛     i am   not   consoling some   heartbroken   socialite after you   eat her mini cakes &    don’t call her  in the morning .     ❜

LIDS LIE HEAVY,  light-feathery lashes twitching with the lazy way eyes follow her, with the languid curl of his lips. adelaide montserrat is a true ARTIST. it is impossible not to appreciate every stroke, every pencilled in detail, every tender shape, carefully sculpted. it takes a certain self-awareness, when one is both auteur and subject.   ❝    now that’s a lie addie, you absolutely adore stealing the show, and then leaving with the crown jewel.   ❞   and he would end up on a delightful journey through a secret garden where he would gaily pluck the heavy fruit of SIN from conveniently low-hanging branches and gorge himself on their secrets.

soft chuckle, drops in deliberate rhythm, on cue.  head shakes, with equal vigour, or lack thereof,  OF COURSE, she has rafa read the books !    ❝    what kind of charlatan would i be if i did that,  you misread the situation last time,  ❞  shoulders lift, riddled with relative innocence — there hadn’t been time to explain.  ❝    i’m here to propose that you clear your schedule. i need you,   ❞   brow twitches and head tips to the side,  ah, he shouldn’t lie,  nice as it sounds.  ❝    not as much as i want you there, it’s more fun when it’s you. edward already has you on the manifest, you’ll need insect repellant... and plenty of mousse.  ❞

SHADOWS OR IN PLAIN SIGHT, he's allowed her near for so long, too long, that wherever he stands, whatever sheath he uses, she will recognise him the way she does now — blues locked onto grey — she sees in his gaze. it is no longer a feeling of exposure that spirits through his veins, there is still a cavernous capacity in him for secrets, unknowable things she will never know to look for. he EXISTS only in shadows. but it is that in crafting her own evolution, sharpening every edge, polishing every periphery, consuming every left-behind morsel just to see him better, she bares herself. built to catch the light, to entice, invite, comfort, he’s seen the effect she has on people, seen how she wields it, how her appetite for POWER has come through in their little war games, ravenous, deceptive and iron-clad. if she’d stayed home, he’s often contemplated who she might have become. 

dangerous. a worthy opponent, maybe. 

OR it’s wishful thinking — he may not have spared her a second glance. even if he HAD, the playing field would never have rolled evenly. there is an electricity in her gaze so clear in what she wants, he’ll hazard a guess that she knows that as well — learned with effort and has the battle scars to prove it. 

her head tilts, words landing heavy to settle between them; the beginning of the PERFECT STORM, but not heavy enough to supersede the full weight of the way he stares back, eyes only on her, all of her. he knows how it makes her feel, the kind of concentrated attention he is capable of giving — knows how she feeds off of it, the only thing he’s ever TRULY been able to prove her greed by. she isn’t the only one who knows how seize an advantage, stroke gently at its neck, whisper suggestions that embolden rather than deconstruct. 

❝   no.   ❞   he breathes into the quiet, daring her further. what will she do if he holds her back ? plays a part she cannot anticipate ?  he’s seen her lash out before, the plans she has unspooled, property she has broken, attempted disappearances time and time again. 

‘ yes. ’   she’s even learned the language, checking his meaning in out in the open. you will. it defies — but it is not a challenge.

❝   no,   ❞   he is even softer now, but the distance between them closes, hand finding the softness of her hip, thumb pressing insistently into it before travelling beneath the hem of her dress — so very tender where the fingers of his free hand weave into her hair and twist to pull her head back none too gently in tandem, when he dips his neck to have his lips plied to her throat to heat the vessels further under her skin. he can feel her pulse, with each gentle tug he makes, but he doesn’t let her hold him long enough to feel how his heart pounds, harmonising with the hurricanes they conjure, reliving this fever again, and again. 

WHEN LIDS FALL OVER HIS EYES in their natural movement, the roll of his pupils to the back of his skull is almost painful to pull back. tongue scrapes against his molars, the three-step shake of his head unseen, with a lift of a brow. there is a ready answer for statements like these, thought of well - beforehand, delivered with the sort of off-the-cuff spontaneity he's become so adept at manufacturing. he knows a GREAT many things. but when it's the expected response, all the fun is sucked out of it — and quite frankly this feels like somewhat of an insult, a pleasure sucking waste of time. she is stalling.

AGAIN.

and he still cannot bring himself to disconnect. some old habits, he finds himself unable and powerless to shake, the fact crunches empty between his teeth before softening the movement again with his tongue. ❝   .  .  .   yes. glenn close called, she wants you to stop copying her. you're a smart girl, i'm sure you don't need me to state the obvious. goodnight claire.  ❞

THE AIR IS THICK WITH THE SILENCE HE CREATES. this isn't the calm, accepting quiet he'd infused, mind, body and soul with, years ago at a monastery. it comes with the crossing of a threshold of pain so caustic in his throat it BURNS and solidifies, held calmly in the hollow of his neck. his jaw pulses, but he wills himself not to swallow — wills himself not to look away as he watches every perfect cultivated part of her, splinter in earnest.

he wonders sometimes, how many linger in her thrall, infatuated by the perfect fit of her dress, the impossibly smooth sheen of her skin ( it is impossible to forget ) , each time perfect posture ripples, to twist towards something or the other. if they could see him now , refusing to take the vulnerability she so willingly thrusts between them without an ounce of soft hesitation. what kind of punishment might they feel he deserves ? how many alternate responses might they devise imagining themselves in his place ? he is her chosen poison. but the sickness he will take from her, no matter how many times she makes him feel like he's CRUELLY snatched it bare out of her hands.

arms cross loosely in front of him — the only time dry tongue dislodges from the roof of his mouth to seek shallow warmth against the inside of his cheek, disregarding the the statement entirely. ❝ let me make myself perfectly clear. your career, is of little interest to me. you're doing rudimentary job of screwing up on your own. but this deal ? if you continue to pursue it, i take no responsibility for the layers of defeat you will suffer when it inevitably ends one way or another. even if i have to do it myself.  ❞

  @waredsin​ :     liked for a starter                 ↳               –           [ call ]

blond bangs hang  like a gilt chandelier over her hollowed cheekbones and bared shoulders,   combed into unruly submission .    adelaide was relentless in her pursuits ,   meticulous to the point of neurosis — sometimes it was a gift,  sometimes a curse ;   but everything had to be   perfect :   from the light shade of red that added a much needed flush of color to her pale skin ,   to the precise little half-moons of her dainty fingernails .

she looks down at him ,   leveraged by a high pair of black heels strapped to her ankles ,  all tender and mild ;  golden lashes descend in a slow frame to hover above frosted eyes in this cloak of newfound joy ,    her voice always gentle,   and impeccably calm .     ❛    mon cher,   look at you!    don’t you look just  ravishing ,   ❜      she gushes ,    lips reeled into a tight simper that is stripped of presente as it nears him .     she leans in forward ,   as to ritually plant a feathery kiss on each cheek ,  and his lips ,    unceremoniously proceeding to smooth down the fabric draping his shoulders ,    she’d carelessly wrinkled .      ❛     you rescued me from a mind-numbingly boring   book club night ,     however shall i repay you, hm?      ❜   

HER VOICE RESONATES,   like the finest pashmina spun with jazz and fairy dust  —  floating over him,   falling lightly on his cheeks;  it’s intoxicating.   lids drop languidly,   returning the touch to the lips with equal enthusiasm.   he is in the presence of a   VIPRESS,   immaculate as always,   he’s all but bracing himself for the tempest of her company;   a chuckle punctuating her question,   hitting the very notes he always plays in her presence,   watching how she orbits him easily without taking another step in one fluid swish of the hips.   talented,   tenacious and treacherous.  he enjoys every facet.    ❝    calisthenics.   been getting   back   into the habit.   but   you   my dear,    ❞     gaze drifts with interest to her hair.     ❝     due for a trim ?   and what was the book,   i’ve always   WANTED   to participate in book clubs.   the wine or the champagne...   maybe a charcuterie board...   little savoury pastries and cut fruit.  agh !   heaven.    ❞

          there’s an inquiry primed to fall from the tip of her tongue, rendered silent as his fingertips brush just above her elbow, a reserved smile replacing it as she files the thought away for later.     ❛   yes, let’s.  —  it was nice to meet you all !   ❜    it’s a genuine sentiment, even if it is offered with a bit of haste, a touch of selfish curiosity inspiring her to agree to his suggestion a shade quicker than she otherwise might have  —  the aura of surrealism has not yet left her, and as she steps away with him, blue eyes are drawn back to his profile, and before she can be caught in a potentially embarrassing bout of preoccupation, she laughs of her own accord, a sort of giddy disbelief brightening the sound as it leaves her.    ❛   i really can’t believe this .  .  . i mean, what are the odds.   ❜    her head shakes as she forces her gaze forward, dodging elbows as they trace through the thin parts of the crowd, seeking the outer edge. she leaves her glass on a table as they pass by,  and as they emerge from the bulk of patrons, she slows, unsure of precisely where to go but pleased in any case to be a little farther from the noise, and distraction.    ❛   so, about these details i shouldn’t be bothered with .  .  .   ❜   

           the undercurrent of the looks she is thrown at her farewell, almost physically pains him — innocent, perhaps teasing on the outset, but he knows them, knows what those glances really mean. instead, as they move away from the group, his smooth irreverence is only bolstered by how his tongue twists inside his mouth instead of allowing the jaw to harden: he doesn’t need to be their bridge — they don’t belong to the same life, one present and one past. his friends don’t see what he sees — no, what he’d once seen. it’s too early to tell if they are both wearing beloved disguises or if time has simply eroded the avatars they’d chosen for a persistent journey through north india. like lines drawn in the sand.

            it feels like cosmic irony almost, that it is sand that they are approaching. it adds an extra glint to his eyes, private amusement that he rarely ever shares.

          ❝   i used to ask myself the same thing.   ❞   he’s led her down the steps behind the lavish mansion, the noise growing further away, pausing where the pebbles end at the base and the sand begins, to slip his shoes off.    ❝    what are the odds .  .  .  ?  that of all the females on god’s green earth to be stuck on a tour-group with, it had to be the brattiest teenager to ever come out of texas. no improbability shocks me after that.   ❞