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 Posted: Sun Nov 01, 2015 10:13 am
The evening passed slowly, if monotonously.
Isaiah was unaccustomed to time off. However, injuries necessitated time off - great bruises rose on his body where whole chunks of meat struck him from the train. It dissuaded him easily from strenuous activity, and coming into work meant he would undoubtedly face customers for the length of the day. And when in pain, Isaiah wanted no part of babysitting. However, as a man who worked nigh daily for the past years, he lacked appreciable hobbies to fill the time.
So he tried exploratory shopping, and combed the commercial district near his work for something fabulous and sparkly to catch his eye. He stopped by a local jeweler company to judge the wares they sold (and did so successfully - all manufactured diamonds or cubic zirconia for the plebs), he peeked in the window of a candy story, and he located a clothing shop that might have something he liked every few weeks when they felt like getting particularly edgy shipments. The rest of the time he spent pacing down the streets, reading shop names and deciding whether it necessitated that he window shop there. Mostly, he found, Destiny City only employed the dullest of shop names to explain to the consumer their exact wares.
I don’t even remember how to shop anymore. If I don’t already have something through my business, I just shop online. This is getting pathetic. Finally he forced himself to duck into a liquor store, privately owned by the look of it, and find something to take home. He assumed it would be an easy task, given how regularly he visited his liquor cabinet. Alcohol was organized by type, and he picked himself up a new bottle of Three Ships five year aged and started toward another aisle to replenish his kahlua.
When he rounded the corner and spied a mint-haired girl checking out the nearby wares, his first thought was to flirt with her. This thought was soon railroaded by a second thought, based on the youthful look of her - she might not be over eighteen. So he crossed the aisle, stood next to her, and looked among the assorted specialty drinks for the kahlua he had in mind. All the while, he spoke without making eye contact.
“Come here often to shop for your grapefruit juice? Most people go to the grocery store.” Isaiah spotted his next conquest and pulled it from the shelf to add to his collection.
Desdemona wondered if she’d enjoyed shopping before - she didn’t do it often now. But today, well, after the train incident… she hadn’t really bothered going back to school since, and it’d been days since then. With Poppy at school (where she belonged, not Desdemona) and so many more hours in a day, she was trying to find ways to fill the time. Training was important, but best done in moderation, and there was little for Amphitrite to do yet during the daylight. She had tried some clubs, met some interesting people - very interesting - and more now, which was infinitely more appealing than clubbing.
Shopping, too. Even if she didn’t buy a thing, she enjoyed just traversing the stores, taking in the people more than the things. This too, though, had limited appeal. There wasn’t really much Elle’s departure had left her wanting for besides family, and they’d filled that gap with Poppy. More people were interested in ignoring each other than talking, and while people watching was fun - well, watching people was less fun than playing with them, honestly.
So when she was contemplating a captain on one of the bottles, musing to herself whether or not she’d drank before - just as she wondered with the rainbow pixie if she’d ever smoked before - the voice that broke her train of thought surprised her, teal eyes wide as she looked at him. Taller. Dark hair. Thin. Interesting.
The mild surprise faded, and as she turned back to the bottles with a smile, her stance shifted, hands clasped behind her back and back arched just a bit. “You’re funny.” She leaned forward onto the balls of her feet, examining the bottle more closely. “I prefer grape, though. I mean, to grapefruit. It’s sweeter.”
Did he need any grapefruit juice? No, but he was running low on grenadine (and hands, he realized, after he claimed that bottle in the same hand as the kahlua). However, in examining the back of the bottle, he found its ingredients entailed high fructose corn syrup with red food coloring. That bottle quickly found its way back to the shelf in favor of a far more expensive grenadine. He reached for it carefully, as to avoid disrupting the girl’s examination of juices.
“I could say the same of you,” he answered back. “No reason for a liquor store to stock grape juice. Not much, anyway - there’s plenty of sugar in alcohol. Unless you’re on the fast track to diabetes, it’s probably a bad idea to imply mixing such a sweet juice with your poisons.” Then again, orange juice. Then again, simple syrup. Then again, grenadine. Isaiah sighed to himself. I’m getting diabetes before I turn thirty.
“Nevermind.” Did he need rum? He felt like he needed rum. Liquor stores did not often afford baskets to their consumers, and his hands were getting full. Well, if this girl intended to hang around and examine the merchandise, then she could get the full tour while he restocked his cabinet. And if he found out the last bottle wasn’t quite empty yet, he knew he’d go through this one and the next quickly enough. If nothing else, he could throw a party (but doing so, he realized, implied friends and he wasn’t certain that any of the powered folk he met here reached the ripe young age of twenty-one yet). Not that he was terribly concerned.
“Help me carry all of this and I’ll buy you grape juice at a real store.” He didn’t particularly care if it was the expensive organic 100% juice kind or not - but his arms hurt terribly from the impact of meat and chyme, and he wasn’t interested in furthering damage to his already pained limbs. Alcohol in glass bottles proved heavy, and she looked like she could use the weight-bearing exercise of carting them around, and not particularly well-supervised anyway. Shouldn’t she be in school? ******** it, he didn’t care.
Desdemona’s smile broadened a little. He was a silly one, wasn’t he? “I wouldn’t really know, “ she said as she eased back onto her heels again, giving a light shrug of her shoulders - toned from training, and she would cling to wearing tank tops more often than not until the weather demanded a change. “I’m not much of a drinker. Haven’t found the right one yet.” Deliberately, no mention of being too young, and although she wished more than once that she’d settled on a higher age for herself, eighteen felt right. Both believable and convenient for her living situation.
It’d been fun to get the pixie’s attention - like she’d gotten the man in the Pac-man shorts, the man with the arcade. It seemed like a prime chance to try her luck again - although he’d been the one to approach her - so what did that mean? Was he interested? Was he lonely? Was he simply friendly? - no matter what the outcome, he was at least the most riveting thing she’d been today.
She turned back to him, her smile more coy now as she teased her lower lip between his teeth. “It seems like you know plenty, though - so how about this. I help you carry this, ” and she held out a hand in open invitation, tilting her head to a side, “And instead of buying me some juice, you help me find a drink that I like. What do you say, huh, mystery man?”
”It’s a terrible habit to get into. You should never drink without company, you know.” A rule that he often broke. He supposed he could find a pet - maybe a snake, or a dog if he was feeling particularly devoted - and that would ensure he never drank alone. He neglected to mention the dangers of drinking with others, but he figured such warnings were so loudly apparent through advertising and school functions that there became no need of it anymore. Rohypnol became a household name, right alongside Prozac and Viagra. Beside Percocet. Beside contraceptive Prophylactic.
At the counter offer, Isaiah’s eyes grew lidded. He considered the laws against straw sales, and this didn’t quite fit - the purchase was not for her, and she wasn’t exchanging money. Buying alcohol with minors present remained at the discretion of the business, so he may find himself refused service by the particularly wary, but… In a city descending into madness, were there often honest businessmen anymore? Isaiah knew there was a reason he found a home here, and it wasn’t for his wholesome ways. The surrounding states allowed alcohol consumption on private premises for minors with parental consent, but very few states allowed it without parental consent. Of course, this assumed the pair were caught, and that she was under twenty-one. She hadn’t said as much, but she looked it.
She didn’t dress in the same manner as he’d expect of a teenager, though.
Isaiah sniffed, then offered his consent. “Alright. You can carry the heavy ones.” He offered her the kahlua and whiskey bottles. “There’s still rum to get, and juice and flavored vodkas if you think you’re the kind to like fruity drinks. They’re easier if you dislike the taste of alcohol.” And disguise the strength well - he had more than a few glasses of green apple vodka and cranberry juice that laid him out in no time.
Not much further down from where he stood, a small aisle marker stood out with the label of ‘Rum’. He skirted the girl to make his way there, and stood as far back from the wall as the width of the aisle would allow - the ‘butt-brush effect’, he knew, from his own store. “If you want to be particularly useful, help me find one called ‘The Kraken’.”
Desdemona watched him as he mulled over her proposal - and even if there was always a chance he could have said no, she never really considered it as an option. More and more, barring some bouncers at clubs or certain people when she plunged her hand into their chests to pluck their starseeds, she was finding people just didn’t say ‘no’ to her anymore. Not even Laurelite herself had turned down Amphitrite’s request for an audience, her questions and proposals - and that was truly saying something, wasn’t it? She was still testing her limits, of course, what was and wasn’t acceptable for her to pull, but… it was thrilling. So, so thrilling not to know where denial lay.
She took the bottles easily, without so much as batting an eye, and made it a point to brush her fingers at least once over the bony ridge of a wrist. “I don’t really know what I like and what I don’t, “ she said, and deliberately kept her tone vague, a sly smile on her lips; it was actually much the same as it’d been in the alley with that girl as she added, in that same sort of way, “I’ll try anything once, though.”
There was no name for that kind of tactic in her mental dictionary, but Desdemona’s brow arched, and her smile did not fade. “Kraken, “ she echoed in a soft murmur as she eased to the side, bending down with her hands on her knees for a few seconds to take a look on the lower shelves. Maybe a little surprisingly, “It’s right here, “ she actually found it; but then, she’d been here and carelessly examining the shelves before the man approached her. A name like ‘Kraken’ did sort of stand out.
The touch caught his attention, and Isaiah’s gaze lingered on her momentarily. She still looked young - so, so young. Young like Sid did when they first met. Maybe not quite as young as that, but still young. It left him wondering if he should proceed with this disastrous plan, or if he should leave her at the liquor store with no harm done and nothing ventured.
Once she found the bottle, he claimed it to her in a return of strokes, fingers brushing over the hand that claimed it purposefully before he usurped the bottle. It felt heavy and awkward in his grasp, as his muscles still ached from the aftermath, but he paid it no heed. His shopping was done, as she never mentioned a particular interest in any one liquor. Besides, she acted as such a good sport for carrying around his vices - surely she deserved reward for it. And if this is some sort of a sting, they’d be terribly hard-pressed to arrest me. Or so he hoped.
Isaiah crossed to the counter where he greeted the clerk by name. Bernie, he was - an older fellow with a nose distorted from heavy drinking. He breathed laboriously whenever he moved more than five feet, and especially with a burden in hand. Inwardly Isaiah always wondered when the man’s body would give out on him, or when the liquor store would finally fire his a** for being unable to lift a six pack. He had a hand scanner, though, and a relatively kind attitude toward customers. He supposed, then, that everyone was expected to lift their purchases for Bernie and avoid staring at his balding head or his liver spots or his too-blue eyes that looked much too kind for a city like this.
But Isaiah smiled in his usual Customer Service manner, returned Bernie’s greeting, and leaned against the counter in silence while the girl accompanying him (whose name, he realized, he never asked for) placed the bottles on the counter. He wagered it totaled over 50 easily, but it wouldn’t matter.
And surely enough, when Bernie leaned in close to read off the total, 63.79 surely went over fifty. Isaiah suched in a breath between clenched teeth as he brought out his wallet and subsequent credit card. With the purchase on plastic and the purchases painstakingly bagged one after the other in brown paper, Isaiah was finally ready to take his Drown One’s Sorrows fund out and spend it with the mint-haired girl at his side.
“So,” he started as he stepped out, “I need to know your name before I get you shitfaced.”
That touch was deliberate, and he’d offered it without the same open invitation as she’d extended to Pac-Man or Emory - again, he was more like the pixie, and that was fine by her. Manners were all well and nice, she supposed, and there was something charming in the way they waited with baited breath for her to make a move. But she enjoyed this, too, the little thrill from what might or might not be yet, the heat of fingers against skin that didn’t need to be there.
For his part, he was - again - interesting way the best word for him, and she examined him again as they headed to the counter, unphased by the weight of the bottles in her arms. (A few months ago, after her wrist had healed but weakness had still clung to it, it would have been a whole different story.) His style was unique. His skin was so milky white and pale, and even if he was taller, she mused that she might be able to lift him if she tried. And all those piercings - she thought back, unintentionally, to the pixie girl with her tongue piercing and how thoroughly she’d enjoyed that.
(It was hard not to think back on the DJ in the alleyway; she’d toyed with Pac-Man and dated Emory once, but she was still the only one that Desdemona had ever… at least that she could remember. Not that it mattered. None of it really mattered.)
She, too, smiled warmly at the man behind the register, and idly mused whether his starseed might be blue like his eyes while her companion finished up his transaction. Then there, tugging the brown paper bags into her arms, standing herself a bit too close, she tilted her head to flash him a playful smile. “Desdemona.” She laughed, lightly, as she adjusted the bags in her arms. “It’s a bit long though, so Des or Mona are fine - whatever you like.” Tilting her head to a side again, she nipped once at her lower lip and asked, “And what should I call you, mystery man?”
”You’re right, it’s too long.” He wondered if her lovers ever moaned out her full name. Likely not - in a mood like that, only shortened syllables were bartered for. He imagined she heard Des more than Mona, unless the mate particularly preferred feminine nicknames. However, she looked feminine enough in the manner of dress and the curves of her body. Her breasts were noticeable, if not on display for the way her top cut low to offer a sample of what he might have by nightfall. Not that he particularly minded - sneak peeks afforded him something to think about.
If she’s going to my house, she’ll see my real name without a doubt. It’s on the portraits, the diploma... Isaiah breathed a sigh of the outside air, and fished into his thin jacket for a pack of cigarettes. He opened the flip-top box without a thought, pursed a cigarette between lips, and used the jet lighter on his necklace to light up. Isaiah figured that, if Desdemona was the smoking type, she might ask for one if she found a particular need for it. Otherwise, shotgunning or outright stealing the cigarette existed as more entertaining options. “‘Demon’ is also a part of that, you know,” he muttered around his cigarette.
Isaiah took a long drag and exhaled two plumes of smoke to the sky before he answered for his own name, and he seemed to do so only under veiled disappointment. “Isaiah Zähne,” he surrendered at last. “Some people call me Ice.”
Please, if there is a God, don’t let her know that damned song.
“To preface this, you look terribly young and that has me wondering if you’re old enough to drink, Mona.” He paused only to unlock his car and open the passenger door for her. The black Charger sported leather interior seats and a series of aftermarket accessories replete with blue LEDs. His hands hung lazily over the top of the doorframe. “But, I figure at about one and a half cocktails in, I won’t give two shits if you’re sixteen or sixty.” Past experiences informed him of at least that.
In some ways, it reminded him of when he first met Sidney James, though Desdemona lacked much of the forward nature that he expected out of his ex-fiancée (and for this, he was quite thankful). Luckily, with years of experience had, no chance encounter would turn out quite the same as that bleak disaster.
She chuckled when he agreed - and if he’d asked her about the bedside manner, Desdemona probably would have just laughed. Really, for how long her name was, a lot of people just defaulted to it no matter how many times she told them it was really just too much. To date, she’d only gotten one person moaning, and that - well, again, her remembered experiences were limited. She wondered idly if her old name had been long or not, but didn’t really think about it all that terribly hard.
Sneaky though those peeks might be, she caught one or two, and her smile became sly. If there was one thing she had come to learn in the past few months, it was that she really enjoyed eyes on her and the surge of power that came with it. She knew she was worth looking at, but it felt so good to know other people knew it too.
“Demon - I like that one, “ she half-purred with another playful little peal of laughter, leaning in to set the bags down into the car before she leaned back out to regard him. The cigarette was given a thoughtful look, and she remembered inhaling the smoke from the DJ’s mouth and what that had done - and truthfully, beyond that, Desdemona had never smoked a day in her (remembered) life.
Moments like this were meant to be impulsive, though - it got her more than coyness - and so she plucked the cigarette from his hands and took a drag, more curious than intent. She didn’t cough or anything ridiculous like that, although she wasn’t altogether sure if she liked the taste - it didn’t stop her from dangling it between her fingers, flashing him a toothy smile. “Ice - you’re so cool, huh?” she teased, and then winked at him. “I’ve been told I’ve got a young face - don’t know about the rest of me though.” Honestly, again, she was more just going based on instinct than anything else; she had some more idea now than she had before the DJ, true, but she was still learning. “I promise you won’t get arrested for keeping me company if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Abruptly, her eyes widened, as if just remembering something. “Oh. And - “ She reached into her pocket and fished out a small packet of green. Not that he’d get much of a chance to see it as she slunk her hand around and just slipped the two twenties into his back pocket. “ - I’m not cheap, either.”
”I met a demon once,” he started as he took another drag and watched her lay the bottles in the car. One arm hooked over the door frame to leave his elbow pointing toward the car. The remainder of the window simply dug into the armpit of his smoking arm, not that he minded. When he spoke next, smoke came in small breaths that dissipated without pomp. “Not that it makes much sense, does it? Said her name was Cinnabar. Tall, horns, tail, that sort of thing. Black sclera, interestingly. Knew how to use her mouth, too. I thought she was a dungeon queen from Vegas or something. My point is, you’re a bit far from a demon to earn that kind of nickname, Mona.”
Of course, she could prove him wrong in the bedroom. He wouldn’t surrender such a nickname easily, nor would he object to attempts to do so.
Her response to his nickname provoked both a sigh and a roll of shadowed eyes. Isaiah would’ve pressed palm to face if he wasn’t so certain it might smear his eyeliner (or he’d end up with mascara on his hand - both proved tragedies). “You’re just as terrible as half my friends and most of my enemies.” Perhaps he should’ve done away with that nickname entirely. He only found it entertaining in his days of drug abuse when he was compared to his namesake - that, he found, was more a confidence booster than listening to some inane song or enduring chemistry jokes. But what would Mona know of it? She looked like she never dabbled in such substances (which, to him, was for the better).
But perhaps the most important takeaway from their interactions yet was her declaration that he wouldn’t get arrested for keeping company. Suddenly, making forward moves offered much fewer repercussions than before. The money, however, was less well-received for the intimations that he was some sort of call boy. The money was promptly fished back out, stuffed into Desdemona’s bra to distract, and then he spent the remainder of the short motion probing for a wallet in her back pockets. Wherever one wasn’t found received a firm squeeze as he found no reason against sampling the merchandise, but he needed to see for himself if she wasn’t simply lying about her age.
His left hand lingered in one of her pockets while the right produced a thin wallet, bifold-style, composed of disingenuous leather. Using thumb and pinky to prop it open, he spotted her ID card and scanned the age with an expert eye. Over eighteen, though just barely - which accounted for her youthful look. Also included in the picture inlays were candid shots of her and another girl with mint hair, who looked markedly younger. A sister? “Cute.” He handed the wallet back to her without further comment and withdrew his remaining hand from cupping her a**.
Isaiah crossed toward the driver’s side and sat in the leather with a short huff. “Oh, and sorry about your ears.” As he started the car, impressively loud industrial music boomed back at them with an electronic edge. He did, however, turn the music down to background level before he shifted into gear.
Cinnabar. Although she visibly read casual interest, inwardly, Desdemona’s - well, really, less the mask of Desdemona and more the core of Amphitrite lurched at the mention of her. It was so interesting to hear someone else speak of her, someone with no idea who or what the general was. Yes, she knew all about Cinnabar and how stunning she was, although the mention of her mouth - she wasn’t sure why it bothered her, or if it really did, but it did something, imagining to herself what she might or might not have done to Isaiah.
“Whether you’re right or not, Ice, “ because whether he liked it or not, she liked the way it rolled off her tongue. “The worst demons are the ones with the sweetest faces, you know.” One day in the Negaverse would teach him all about that. She wondered idly if he had the potential for it - it wasn’t the first time she’d had thoughts like that about passers-by, though, and it was a bit of a moot point for someone like her. Maybe if Umber ever unlocked the key to determining what each starseed meant, if the person had the potential to power or not...
Again, not worth considering now. She laughed again when he gave his dry response to her silly little quip. But the laughter died in her throat when he took the money and, in a rapid succession of movements, had shoved the bills back into her bra and shoved his hands into her back pockets. Her face burned, if only because Amphitrite - because this was all Amphitrite - was torn between frustration at being taken off-guard (that hand close to her chest had come too close to where her starseed laid, and against her will, Leucite came to mind) and something else entirely because of where his hands had gone, and this was unlike anything she had encountered before. She resisted the urge to catch his wrist and squeeze, just as she bit back a small sound as he squeezed her.
Ultimately, she didn’t push his hand away as he fished out her wallet, her heart beating harder than she’d expected from the rush of adrenaline, and in the end she got a ‘cute’ and the wallet handed back to her just as simply as that.
The music, although she cringed initially at the volume just for the suddenness of it, didn’t actually throw her off - she was a fan of clubs, when she could get in - and as she slid into the car beside him, taking the money back from her bra and making a face at him. “Remind me not to try and pinch in for dinner, “ she teased - and then paused and laughed again, mischievously. “Or maybe I should, if that’s how you’re gonna be.” Because no, for all her defensive instincts - that had been the first time anyone whose attention she wanted had been so blunt and borderline forceful.
“Oh, also.” She leaned over, lips close to pierced ears as she murmured, “Careful, Ice.” Then, she leaned down and nipped at his neck. Because he’d still gotten the drop on her, and even if she’d liked it, she wasn’t about to let him get off the hook for it either. “I might not be a demon yet, but I still bite.”
”Dinner defeats the point of drinking. Can’t get as drunk if you eat beforehand.” He didn’t want to outright tell her that he wasn’t buying her dinner, because if she asked for it, he would - but he loathed traditional dates and the implications therein. Although, her helping to purchase dinner sounded much more amenable to him. It lacked the potential to get arrested due to prostitution, and he got a free meal out of it. His disinterest in eating prevented him from initiating the suggestion, however. “But… If you really needed to eat first, I suppose I could let you pay for it.” He spared her a wink that suggested such sarcastic banter was solely for entertainment purposes.
“You have a nice a**, by the way.” Slipping out of parallel parking was executed easily, and there lay only a handful of traffic lights between the liquor store and his condominium - which was, in part, why he chose the location. Falling into traffic patterns offered no challenge to him, and while the time of day harbored a sluggish commute, he didn’t appear outwardly perturbed by it. Occasionally he sang along with the chorus of the music playing, and while he received no classical training in it, his effort and experience were audibly detectable.
They sat in silence a moment, and under his breath he muttered a handful of suggestive lyrics. “Synthetic ecstasy, when her legs are open.”
But she called his attention, and he turned his head to regard her, but hesitated when he felt her breath so close to his ear. Such tantalizing closeness always beguiled him, and he froze momentarily with hands on the wheel. Goosebumps rose, and for the moment he didn’t want to breathe. Complications ensued when he felt teeth on his neck, which sent his gaze skyward slightly. Breath came in a stammered sigh when she pulled away and the temporary veil drew back. His interest felt obvious now, and tight leathers weren’t the proper pants to wear for this particular occasion. He had little means of hiding it, though, given that all limbs were occupied in the process of operating a manual transmission ******** my choices, he thought bitterly.
Once reaching a stoplight, he held the clutch and dropped gear. “That’s all the more reason to like you, Desdemona. You might be my best bad decision yet.” Especially if you gave road head. His fingers tensed around the stick shift as he considered it.
Was that so, about the food? She didn’t want to ask outright because she really didn’t want to come out and betray just how much or little she actually knew, but it was an interesting factoid to file away in the back of her head and revisit later. “Aren’t you just so damn sweet, “ she teased back, and this was something she truly appreciated - banter. Her magic might not be useless, but her words and her body, those were easily her most powerful weapons in either form. (Not to mention banter was just fun.) Then he went and slipped in a compliment, and her smile broadened, although she neither thanked him nor rebuked him. Not yet.
It took her a little by surprise how much she enjoyed his singing when it rose above the music. Then again, she’d been pretty into Pac-Man’s guitar playing too - she didn’t think she’d played instruments or anything like that before, but she still appreciated music, sometimes more than others. Now was a good time, and although she didn’t come right out and say anything about it, she watched his lips move from the corner of her eye as he sang.
Then, finally, after some degrees of silence followed by muttered lyrics, she’d made her move - and was rewarded for it, taking in that upcast glance and the stutter of his breath with a surge of heat and satisfaction that was more familiar to her now than it’d been in the alley by the club. More than that, though… a glance downwards had a much, much more visible impact on him than it had on the pixie, or any of the men she’d seen fit to lavish with attention.
Desdemona, again, did not want to seem like she was inexperienced. And she was learning more about sex, especially after the pixie, and her own growing interest in it had led her to do some ‘research’ on her own - and that after Leucite’s violation of her essence, followed by Laurelite touching it and enlightening her, this, the physical, it meant much less and was something she could take much more enjoyment out of. But she was considering the bulge in his pants, the rush of euphoria of knowing she had caused that in someone, and what she now intended to do about it.
Then, he spoke - full name and all - and ‘best bad decision’ was a title she could embrace, a wicked little smile on her face. And if she herself was the best bad decision, what was the worst she could do? His fingers were tense on the stick, and there was really nothing he could do, and -
Tilting her head to a side, she flicked her tongue out once over her lips as she leaned over, brushing her fingers over his thigh and savoring the smoothness of the leather as her hand trailed to the bulge in his pants. There, she pressed down, leaning in so her breath ghosted across his neck.
One more light, he reminded himself. He stared at it now and waited for the deep red circle to imprint on his vision. Every time he blinked, he saw its ghosted image rise over the car in front of him. Isaiah hadn’t suffered such anticipation in a while, and he started to wonder the cause of it. False sense of security from Sid not being around? Though he knew now that she paraded through the streets of Destiny City, and it pained him in a manner indescribable to think about it. Was it due to taking home mostly male lovers? Did she have further allure as the fairer sex? Or was it simply that she was willing to take charge and make her own moves, as Cinnabar had?
While he couldn’t be certain of that, he knew with great obstinance that this traffic light proved to be the longest light in the history of his driving career (which was, curiously, slightly shorter than his carnal career).
Isaiah noted that when adrenaline struck in situations like these, he never felt his heart pounding in his chest so much as in his throat - or somewhere near his clavicles. Perhaps because of his erogenous zones, he figured, and the added nerves there. He couldn’t say. But it drew his attention while he waited for the light to turn, while he waited for Desdemona to sit quietly on her side of the Charger and politely keep her hands to herself and kindly refrain from exacerbating his already compromised position (which, of course, she obeyed none of the previously stated).
And Isaiah should’ve known that when she next touched him, her fingers drew a certain excitement along their path that prickled the skin and tantalized him further - that dried his mouth out with a thirst that found no quenching in a car. The pressure from the heel of her hand excited him and he pushed upward somewhat automatically, before he could speak or think or move. It was probably what she wanted, he figured. That, and to rouse fresh gooseflesh with her breath on his neck. In fact, he was almost certain that she could feel his pulse - if not through movement of air near her face, then surely in her grip - and suddenly he regretted that stick shift (‘I’ll look fabulous driving it’) even more.
Swallowing back a moan hadn’t proved so difficult in quite some time.
Finally the light turned, and his hand slipped off the shifter in a slick of sweat. A car behind him honked for him to go, and he seized the shifter by the neck to swap into first and work his way up. At least, in driving he had something else to think about. He turned into one of the few free covered parking spaces before he cut the engine with a sigh, hoping to disperse some of the pent-up lust. It didn’t work that way.
It never worked that way.
“You’re trouble,” he said at last, and brought a hand up to caress her throat between thumb and forefinger. His gaze lingered on her lips for a moment, then he seemed to decide against it as he unbuckled seatbelt. It drew back behind her hand seamlessly. “At this rate, company is going to be kept before I can even mix you a drink.” He wondered if that, too, was part of the plan.
He remembered quite keenly how her teeth felt against his skin, and he wondered if it wasn’t such a bad idea to finally christen his car.
All the reactions had thrilled her, but none of them nearly as much as the push of heat against her palm when his hips arched. She drew a soft, sharp breath, her eyes half-lidded as she could feel his pulse pounding away, and she had done that. It wasn’t the same as a bite, and she doubted it would garner the same kind of reaction as her teeth, but she couldn’t resist the urge to press her lips against that pulse for a few fleeting seconds before she eased away. The warmth was missed from her hand and her lips, but soon she had a delightful distraction in his little slip-up, biting down lightly on the knuckle of her pointer finger to keep herself from laughing - because she’d done that, too.
The drive was short after that, and Desdemona’s own pulse increased as he turned to her, his caress making her hum a bit. “And you’re not?” she asked in that playful way, and yes, somewhat deliberately she flicked her tongue over her lips when she realized he was looking. (She would never get enough of people looking, never.) “You know, we might be different people after a few drinks - “ she mused as she leaned a bit closer, reaching out and toying with a lock of dark hair. “ - so really, it’d be sort of a waste if we didn’t keep company, wouldn’t it?”
It probably sounded like a ridiculous excuse. Which was absolutely because it was and she had no better way to do it, and she tugged that lock of hair in her hand to beckon him closer as she pressed her lips greedily against his - because she knew he had piercings and she knew she liked those.
She did not allow him to retire his attention from her. It delighted him to see the enjoyment in her eyes, to feel the way she sought his hair. Her tongue traced her lips and he noted no tongue piercings, which often panned out for the better in case of hoops and his own studded muscle (or muscles, considering). Not quite, honey, he thought sharply. You haven’t been drinking enough to know, have you? No, the real danger here is whiskey d**k. His cigarette was promptly tossed from the window.
But he surrendered no objection, and neither did she. When Desdemona pressed forward, his hand circled around to the back of her neck where long nails played lightly over the nape. Her lips felt hot, and delectably wet after the way she licked them. He returned the kiss by first taking her lower lip into his teeth, folded, then settled into a fervent open kiss. Soon after nails dug into a firm trail down the thick cord of nerves on either side of her cervical spine. He spared no more than a few seconds for the kiss before his studded tongue sought to meet hers past teeth. Luckily, he missed cracking the balls over them.
The first taste he noted was a searing mint, mixed with clove from the cigarettes. His own sense of taste deadened with each passing smoke, but he tasted a faint salt from her as well. When he found the timing for it, he drew her tongue into his mouth with a vacuum that held it in place, and wandering hands found their way down the lengthy spine of her toward the hem of her shorts where fingers splayed just beneath the material. He hesitated then, though not in the kiss.
After a moment’s consideration, he denied instinct and broke from the fervent engagement. “Trust me when I say there’s not enough room in here, and all the fun s**t is upstairs.” Isaiah had to at least make an effort to reach the endpoint before they screwed each other senseless. It proved terribly difficult with the way she often sought the initiative. He withdrew his hand from her shorts and caught her wrist instead so she might not stop him twice. Once he managed to get himself half out of the car, he released her wrist and used the door to straighten up.
Isaiah found it was always a gamble to stand with a raging boner. Luckily he managed to do so without his legs giving out. “Fourteenth floor, but there’s an elevator and an emergency stop.” Both of which he found important in his explorations of the condo complex. Walking to the door hurt terribly, but he was certain his efforts would be worth the pain and suffering.
That was the first time she realized his nails were long - and it wasn’t the first time Desdemona had realized that, like piercings, long nails could be very nice. Her head tilted forward a little as he dug his nails in, a sigh escaping between their mouths.
Although she’d initiated, she was the less experienced kisser, and that became wildly obvious very quickly - not that she minded, humming again as her tongue slipped out to meet him, the sound bubbling more fervently when she finally got to those piercings, all lined so delightfully in a row. He tasted sweet, sweeter than she’d expected - the flavor of cigarettes was overpowering, although better than when she’d tried a taste of his, with a strong note of vanilla and a softer, underlying trace of strawberry. Not pure strawberry, but something else, like… crepes, maybe? As she leaned over, one hand fell to rest somewhere on his chest, sliding slowly, idly, up and down, the other still curled in his hair, stroking it and savoring the soft sensation between her fingers.
She responded enthusiastically to being in his mouth, tongue exploring and sliding sensually against his own (kissing was something at least she’d experienced), and felt a surge of almost nervous excitement when she felt his hands traveling to her shorts, fingers splaying beneath. Her pulse quickened and she eased a little closer - only for the kiss to break and the heat to leave again, and Desdemona resisted the urge to make a face at him as he caught her wrist and pulled away, easing out of the car. Even if he was right... she knew he was right, but...
But it was okay, she mused to herself, sliding out of the car with his bags and glancing back at the front of his pants again with a rather satisfied little smile. Because even if he’d exercised some power to end it - and that’s why she was frustrated, she realized now - she’d still caused this situation in the first place. The power was ultimately still her’s to keep, especially watching the flash of pain in his eyes as he walked. “Oh no! Are you gonna be okay, Ice?” she asked in that half-purred she’d given him a taste of before, walking alongside of him now. “You look a little uncomfortable - is there something I can do to help?”
”Oh Mona, I’m so glad you asked. You’re such a saint.” He shot her a b***h glare befitting of his heavy lids as he kept walking. Waddling might be more accurate, but he considered himself above that word. “You can help by getting me to the condo so I can peel these damn pants off.” More and more often, lately, he discovered that wearing pants in this magnitude of tightness often turned out for the worse. First Quenton, and now this little demon. What was he to do? Wear a chastity belt?
“Get the elevator for me. It’s down the hall.” He pointed to the side, where the sets of double doors stood apparent with their constituent switches. Several people lingered around the reception area in clusters, and the doorman greeted him with a glance that indicated sympathy. Every man endured the same story before - he was just the unlucky one that endured a retelling every month or so. Luckily most of the rest of the commiserating guests and tenants stuck to their own circles rather than acknowledge him - to do so would put Ice in a precarious situation.
Unfortunately, as the elevator doors opened to welcome more riders, he knew in an instant that they wouldn’t ride alone - at least three more people got on before he could meander his way to the elevator, and in boarding, an older woman shot him a reproachful look. She frowned sternly at him over her thick frames, and then shot the same elderly scorn toward Desdemona. “Are you with this young man?” She asked, her tone wobbly and pejorative.
“She’s the milk maid,” he muttered under his breath. Deaf grandma didn’t hear him, and if the only other occupant without earbuds did, then she showed no recognition of it. Rather than listen to the old lady blather on, Isaiah stared toward the ceiling where its reflective surface offered a prime view of her female pattern balding. Additionally, the man in headphones suffered much of the same issue, though at a far younger age. In fact, he didn’t look much older than Isaiah.
The constant tremor in her movements suggested tardive dyskinesia to the trained eye - thorazine overdose. “You ought to dump him while you have the chance.” Her words drawled out like she hated to let go of them.
This time, Desdemona made no effort to conceal her laughter, because that glare was just perfect. She shifted her bags to one arm, surprisingly efficiently, and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, sliding it down his arm to about his elbow before it dropped away. “You’ll peel them off? - you’ll need help, “ she teased lightly under her breath before she went off and did as he’d asked of her, biting her lower lip to keep her laughter in check.
She waited there for him, but sure enough, they were not alone - and she was left, again, in this precarious position of trying her hardest not to laugh the whole damn time, idly biting at her knuckle and smiling around it as she kept stealing glances as Isaiah. And no, she wasn’t even remotely sorry.
Hey, it was his bright idea to come upstairs, why should she feel bad?
It was even better when the old lady threw him such a sour look like he was the foulest little bug for getting an erection, and it was that much harder not to laugh when the grandma turned her attention to her - and then Isaiah made the ‘milk maid’ crack and no one else responded but she definitely heard it and it made it impossible to respond to the older woman at first.
However, it also gave her more time to think up a suitable response. Her finger fell from her mouth and she bit her lower lip, sliding back away from the older woman and shooting her a half-lidded look. “Oh, sorry, but… “ She looped her free arm into Isaiah’s and dropped her chin onto his shoulder, distinctly pouting a little and batting her eyes. “But Daddy says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”
Damn right I’ll need help peeling my pants off, he thought to himself. I might need your teeth for the assist. It was much too difficult to voice such phrasing around the older woman without pissing her off and subsequently getting the cops called on them both. He was well aware of how young Desdemona looked, and apparently the old bat wasn’t fooled either. Her ID looked legitimate, though, and he was placated by that.
When her arm wrapped around his, Isaiah slipped a few fingers in the rim of her shorts in a hook - not far enough to explore new boundaries, but it proved obvious to onlookers where his fingers had disappeared to. A coy grin graced his features when the older woman looked back to admonish him, but the elevator doors rang with floor five and she stepped off with one final harrumph. A handful of other waiting around for an elevator looked back at them but made no move to get on.
After the doors closed and the elevator started its upward trajectory again, Isaiah spared a glance toward the other two occupants. The older of the two, the balding one, had earphones in and all attention directed toward his phone. From where Isaiah stood, it looked like he was playing Angry Birds or a similar game. The other one, a teenager possibly no older than Desdemona, sporting heavy punk makeup in amateur style and great pompoms for pigtails. Isaiah expected that she spent a half a can of hairspray to accomplish her overall look, and then added in temporary hair dye streaks after she left her mother’s house. Tattered fishnets, a crop top, and the ugliest jean shorts he’d ever laid eyes on completed the look. However, she didn’t seem to notice him staring, or that she was even in an elevator with strangers - she simply stood there, eyes closed and perfectly still. Idly he wondered if she slept.
Without so much audience present, Isaiah tugged Desdemona closer by the rim of her shorts. Leaning just so, he stole another kiss from her in a much slower fashion, as if he was savoring how her lips pressed against her own teeth with just the right amount of pressure. As if he were assessing the plumpness of them each time his teeth caught a swell. She tasted delectable, and he expected she might taste even better after a mint mojito or a tequila sunrise. See also: swapping alcohol. See also: body shots.
The elevator sounded again. Tenth floor. Someone disembarked - Isaiah guessed it was the man with the headphones.
Again, it beeped. Twelfth floor. No one got off - someone got on. They said nothing. Isaiah didn’t notice what they looked like, or even their gender. He didn’t particularly care at the moment.
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Posted: Sun Nov 01, 2015 10:13 am
Desdemona was laughing quietly to herself for a good ten seconds after the lady had gone, because it couldn’t have been any better really - she was like one of those archetypal ladies from one of those movies that - come to think of it, she couldn’t actually think of a specific movie that someone like that had been in. She knew they existed, it was a thing, but… corruption memory loss struck again, it seemed. Still, there were worse things chaos could have wiped away.
Either way, with her gone, Desdemona could better appreciate Isaiah’s closeness and his fingers in the rim of her shorts - even if his eyes weren’t on her. It wasn’t exactly as though she were annoyed by it (she didn’t have the attachment to be jealous or anything like that; competitive, maybe, but it wasn’t the same as jealousy), his eyes lingering on another girl, but more just - why? She wasn’t unattractive or anything, but there was just too much hairspray and that jacket -
Then, abruptly, she didn’t have to wonder why he was looking at anything else - Isaiah made it very clear where his attention was when he tugged her closer and kissed her again, slower and more sensually than they had in the car. For a second time, a sigh was lost between their lips as she returned the favor, her eyes sliding closed as she thought to herself that perhaps she was beginning to see the appeal that lay in cigarettes after all - the flavor was growing on her.
She could care less who was or wasn’t on the elevator; this wasn’t her apartment building, after all. These were pitiful, weak people she would never encounter again bar maybe stealing their energy or their starseed in an alleyway. What did she care if they thought she was shameless for kissing a hot guy in an elevator? - yeah. Exactly.Her hands didn’t light in his hair that time - perhaps she favored more force in her kisses. She might be the type that enjoyed fighting for dominance. He could play that game. Hell, he could play about any game, given his eleven year career of carnal explorations. His fingers straightened out beneath her shorts line and he probed for hints - hair where it should be, underwear lines, anything that might give him further hints on how Desdemona cared for herself in a more private manner. However, the elevator chime went off a last time to indicate his floor, the fourteenth, and he reluctantly cut his ventures short.
He withdrew from her and straightened to leave the elevator. As he crossed the threshold, he spared a last glance back to note that his friendly neighbor had boarded - a slightly older man with a scruff that women often died for (and Isaiah wouldn’t mind abusing). He flashed the man a smile as he left, and his neighbor wolf whistled in return. Good boy, he thought to himself. You, at least, get it.
Running was out of the question given his painful predicament, but Isaiah walked with as much speed as he could muster without further complicating matters. His door wasn’t terribly far from the elevator, either, and once he reached the number, he pulled the keys from pants pocket with a brief struggle. His apartment lacked the messiness of normal living due to neurotic habits and very little time spent at the location. The worst he ever had was a dusty floor coupled with a few empty scotch glasses near one of the chairs. Luckily that wasn’t the condition that she would find the place in - he failed to quell his neurotic itch and cleaned up first thing that morning.
He opened the door to an apartment of markedly industrial style - most furniture was composed of metal, and either glass or wood accoutrements. The display shelf on the left held his diploma, a few books pertaining to academics, and the lower shelves held an elaborate pen collection in their own display boxes. Beyond that, the room was separated into smaller spaces via bookshelves with glass fronts. This arrangement offered a sitting area implied for reading, a bar-style dining area, his kitchen as an alcove, and an entertainment portion. Metal stairs with glass plated banisters climbed from the seating area by a coffee table, and led up to a partially visible loft bedroom with frosted glass as privacy screening. Isaiah crossed the carpeted runner toward the first bookcase.
“I figure you have two choices,” he started as he half-turned. Two fingers went up in response. “One,” and his middle finger retracted, “you can get a drink first, and I’ll look so much better with a little booze in your system. Two,” his index and middle swapped places for an obscene gesture, “we get right to the fun.”The thing he wouldn’t know about Desdemona, simply because she deliberately did not broadcast it: she didn’t know, yet, what she favored beyond the attention and the sensation of others’ eyes and hands on her body - certain hands, anyway. (She did have standards.) But there was something to be said about the newness of it, the thrill of discovering what she did and didn’t like - and she did, she thought to herself, enjoy the edge of danger that came with something like his hand in her shorts on an elevator. Although she was hardly aware of the people, she knew they were present and that they could see. It was brief, hardly long enough for fingertips to brush the line of a trimmed hairline beneath low cut fabric - and although it was cut short, frustratingly short, she couldn’t help but smile to herself at the wolf whistle, a surge of satisfaction sweeping through her.
Carnal pleasures had so many interesting angles to them, didn’t they?
She toed off her flats at the door and scanned the apartment with a wandering eye, and a hint of curiosity tugged at her again - like it had at the liquor store, wondering just what sort of man he was. Here, there were hints and clues strewn about, pens and metal and more. It was so much different from her own apartment, which retained the homey feel that Elle had wanted for it - part of why Desdemona had been so relieved so stay there. It reminded her of her mentor every day.
Desdemona turned fully to him, arching a brow and unashamedly giving him the once over. “You mean you get better?” A little flattery never killed anyone. She took a step closer and laid a hand on his chest, palm-first, fingers spread in every direction. “Look at you, giving me a choice - and after all the suffering you went through to get here… “ she murmured, sliding her hand a little lower, down over his stomach. “Does it hurt, Ice?”
Then, promptly, she dropped her hand and clasped them both behind her back, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, chaste as anything. “Okay. A drink first, then. - make it good.” Her eyes glinted playfully as she stepped away.Flattery caught him by surprise, but Isaiah soon smoothed over his falter with an easy grin. “Of course I do. Everyone gets better when you’re a little drunk.” The comment came out slighting himself, but hopefully Desdemona found more humor in it than reason to object. Her mind still lingered elsewhere, regardless, and he felt the weight of her hand on his stomach as pins and needles. It delighted him - until she withdrew her hand.
His unimpressed gaze fell on her for a moment at its lengthiest. Of course you’d say that. Tease. “Imagine someone pulling a rope between your legs that’s so taut it cuts into your crotch to the point that it’s throbbing. Have you ever worn pants that tight? Now imagine dealing with that for…” He checked the time on his cell. “The better part of half an hour. No, Mona, of course it doesn’t hurt.” Perhaps not so much ‘demon’ as ‘a*****e’.
“On second thought, I don’t particularly care to look good.” Her hand might’ve dropped, but she still lingered near. Isaiah caught her waist in an arm and brought her forward, then leaned to press a kiss to her neck. The skin felt hot, pulse readily pumping beneath his lips. He knew that feeling, and the subsequent pounding as hard as her pulse ran fast. She was in this for the game, much like he. And while he considered that their time together might proceed better with a few drinks in their systems, he decided the toll he exacted constituted an exchange - goods for services. Sex for fine drinks. Mutual enjoyment of each other for more mutual enjoyment.
His hand released her waist and fell to the cleft of her butt, where nails drew upward just beyond the hem of shorts to tease at the skin. She felt fit, and he expected a certain level of endurance should follow.
And this time, when his hands strayed to the hem of her shorts, they didn’t hesitate at the middle knuckle.
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