No Limit

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

Turn-ons:

Full lips, white teeth, silken hair, and well-shaped thighs. Good red wine, a cozy environment, and dim lighting. Smooth, fluid movements; a softness paired with the bright spark of intelligence. Just as he is a master of communication, people with a strong, yet substantiated mindset or opinion attract him. All the more so when carried forth by well-shaped lips and a silver tongue. Rather than focusing on appearances, the barkeeper finds himself drawn to the individual with a strong presence and purpose, one, who is confident and radiant, speaks only when necessary, and knows how to weave the silken structure of seduction with subtlety. 

  Turn-offs: 

How misanthropic are they? 

The gush of light seeping through the windows carried forth a soft luster, a forebode of twilight, that bathed the lazy waltz of dust in gold. Zico watched the glowing shadows of sunlight pouring in from dirty windows grow longer, waiting in silent anticipation for them to crawl onto his counter and kiss his busy fingers with their warmth. Laced in the passing day’s afterglow, for a short hour the bar seemed to melt into another dimension whereat time would cease in existence in the splendor of the blue hours before dusk. For those who witnessed such, the bar, laced in this soft golden glow refracting from countless glass surfaces such as bottles and glasses and mirroring even from the polished tables, appeared sacred - A blasphemous antagonism to its purpose.  Albeit its comedic quality, the thought only evoked a faint sense of longing within Zico, a feeling he couldn’t quite place but walked hand in hand with loneliness, so he busied himself.

It was these hours that Zico awaited each day. Not for the serenity of the golden silence that settled in absence of customers or the slowly retreating heat but for the curious visitor that would pose a grand contrast to the placidity he would shatter with his entrance. Breeze-like the boy would sweep in and disrupt the careful equilibrium the premise had settled in. It was a welcome destruction of a peacefulness that would have become heavy on Zico’s temper by the time the whore would make his entrance.

While Zico had occupied one hand with the task of polishing an already shining counter, his other set of fingers started strumming a nervous rhythm against the wooden surface. It was about time. A little irked, the owner glowered at the door that wouldn’t swing open before casting a glance upon his wrist to catch a grasp of the time. He was late. While Zico entertained the question of the cause to his observation, a soft creaking of the door announced an arrival and, immediately, Zico’s attention snapped back to the front. The hint of a smirk ghosted across his features, wiped the frown away, and beckoned the corners of his lips the slightest bit skywards.

“Where’s the love of my life?” The newcomer’s shadow grazed Zico’s knuckles, which stilled their movement as the familiar greeting chased an obstructive silence to the far corners. Sarcasm always dripped forth from their lips thick as poison and somewhere along getting to know each other the whore’s mock-contemptuous personality had cauterized a strange liking for the boy into Zico.  

I still have plenty of ideas ghosting across my mind. One of which will be called "Beauty And The Beast" and it's gonna be of a more mature nature which I'm gonna post up soonish too. 

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

 Placid light bled from the windows, drawing faint squares onto the wooden floor in antagonism to the shadows juxtaposed. With the immediate absence of illumination, the twilight, radiating from the partitions in the curtains, changed half the room into a dull pinkish-orange color. Everything it touched lost the usual patina it held during day, growing dim and faded.

”You did this yourself.”

 There was a moment of utter silence between them, where it almost seemed like dusk, finished snuffing out the light outside, had crept into their room and done the same to the sound. They were no longer simply fighting a battle of wits and knowledge, or games of mind and power; they were ultimately fighting the beginnings of an attraction, one that bled from deep within – a slow, sweet poison that threatened to taint their standings and everything they stood for. In the end, however, Zico wouldn’t cave in to such desires. His heart was of the same adamant quality as was attributed to the gun rifle pointed at his chest and no one had the power to change that, change him. He’d succumbed to the same kind of darkness that lingered in his aggressor’s eyes, a rotten tendency to the poisoned even though their crooked trajectory was leading them slowly groundwards to the certain impact. Zico could see the impending wreckage swimming in the pond of the other’s eyes; the wildness, hopelessness, despair, and, ultimately, regret. Until it all spilled over, determination wiped out by rationalization. There was no salvation for that boy anymore.

“Liar.”