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City Hall, on a Friday afternoon with the clock ticking dangerously closer to four, is a monochrome of dinner plans that then crest and pave way for weekends, doted on by momentary rest and effervescence of being at two places all at once. A chatter, a battlefield most like of tossed inquiries, fawned over by conversations related to dates with significant others, and potential significant others.
A never ending conversation, cyclical, routine at this point that she has long droned out, considering that she has never, not once, have ever contributed to it with something useful apart from dinner plans with a brother, or a mentor at the ballet studio. Yor nods, minutely, distractedly, eyes averted, in a trance in front of a blinking blue screen, and an insertion point asking words to be vomited, transcribed. There is a week long crick on her neck, and stiffness at each joint of her hovering fingers, and all she is thinking about is perfumed bath water, a book or maybe a tab open to a fan fiction she had been reading about a spy and an assassin falling in love for the hundredth time. Maybe a glass of wine or three, and then some cheap pasta from across the street as she tries to erase loneliness by chasing it with someone, someone fiction, else’s state of love.
Living vicariously, as often as she can, through prose and poetry.
Yor has long promised herself that she will eventually go out, plans, that which, have been extinguished over and over at the thought of being miserable, sitting across someone she would rather not know or drinking expensive alcohol over music that barely is, well, music. A question she often asks herself after swathing red lipstick over her lips, and staring at herself in the mirror – why be lonely surrounded by a crowd when she can be lonely surrounded by candlelight and words instead?
And alas, the itch dies, if only by a fraction, though accompanied by the rattling feeling of life passing her by as though she is standing in front of a train, speeding, blurring the many passengers who are going through life differently than she is. And as always, Yor peers through the windows, ever the outsider, then finds herself lost in the crevices of paused and overwritten skylines that seem as lonesome as she is. Yor knows that the clouds are not staring down at her, and the sky is not painted in a melancholic blue, but most of the time she projects, and yet time and time again, she remains still.
A continuous tug and tug and tug, and she knows, she will move somehow, for appearances, for herself as reassurance that sometimes it’s not her, it’s the world that is just too strange for her to ever fit in. And even then, she knows, within her, such is not the case.
Yor tries, but she also doesn’t. Though, she argues, she reasons, it’s not because she does not want to try harder, but she does not know how to, where to start. She’s outside, living, associating, but she still, sadly so, feels and is out of place.
How does someone strike a conversation so randomly, so endearingly? How does one become approachable over sunshine, moonlight and neon lights? Is there a step she is missing, a direction she needs to go to? She has looked through the internet, had surfed the web time and time again, has sought pile after pile of pieces of advice, and yet, she still feels like a kitten convinced to be a bird. Does she need to walk slower, be more present, avoid looking like a tourist, eyes trained ahead, but still soft, encouraging? If she is out drinking or eating, should she put her phone down, face down, and look as though she is looking? But then again, she has been told not to, but then again…
It's a troubling thing, trying to figure out to be normal, to fit in, to be a puzzle piece that actually belongs in the jigsaw, and Yor tries, she definitely does, but sometimes it feels like a mathematical equation she does not have the right formula for.
So, if anyone asks, which she knows, by the way Camilla is tapping incessantly on her shoulder, that someone, as usual is definitely asking, that this weekend will be a date with an author on some website. Yor momentarily thinks, today maybe, she supposes to spare Friday evening, maybe she would check the apps. But then again, she will get bored of it easily, and she has never had notifications on, so truly, ruefully, this feat is a dying battlefield. Furthermore, she counter argues, with no one but herself, and later on with Camilla, that no one sane enough will drop Friday plans for an impromptu date.
So when they ask if she has tried, she will say that she has because Yor does try.
And Camilla does, too, with the impatient shaking that wakes her, and takes her away from this trance. Red eyes meet blues that are piercing, a frown adorning it like a final icing to the cake. There’s annoyance clearly there for being unheard, and Yor thinks, there’s never really anything deep into it.
“Yeah?” She asks, tilts her head quite so, but does not move to pry her co-worker’s hands from her shoulders.
Her fingers are still hovering about the keys of the keyboard, the blue screen still blue and blinking, the insertion point waiting, the clock ticking, and Friday and her weekends still vacant. Whatever Camilla will ask will be met with the same answers she has rehearsed, and then they will provide suggestions like pieces of paper, which Yor will say she will try some time later when later is out of guilt and out of appearances than actual trying.
“I said, you should go out tonight,” Camilla says, repetition something she has learned to finesse when in conversation with Yor who barely listens when she’s off to somewhere in her head. “There’s a bar that opened a few blocks away from your apartment.”
Yor sighs, an exhale that’s whistled, as she stretches her fingers, the insertion point from the discontinued word document looking at her offensively. “I have plans.”
Camilla rolls her eyes as she huffs out a sigh, and then she is shaking her. “You do not have plans – you never do.”
“Ballet studio,” she replies so easily, even when she does not. She has not had any sessions where she’s needed now that school is back from summer.
“You’re a terrible liar, Yor Briar,” Camilla replies, and then she is letting her go to hand her a pamphlet swathed in neon lights – WISE it says, even when, Yor thinks, there is never anything wise about bars and drunkards. She knows from experience, intoxication never gives birth to intelligence. “Come on.”
Yor studies it momentarily, the neon sign, the vintage speakeasy chairs used to market the bar, and purses her lips. Friday night, alone at a bar, nursing a drink that costs more than her typical bottle of wine, and Yor knows, she will also spend majority of her time there reading on her phone or logging on Twitter, doom scrolling. Loneliness dressed in a different outfit.
“You’re coming?” Yor asks Camilla, even when she knows, she isn’t.
“I have plans,” Camilla says, and it’s never anything crude, the intention, just a suggestion, always a suggestion she never runs a shortage of. Sometimes, Yor wishes she does.
Yor swallows, and then she is turning back to face her computer, and the insertion point that is still blinking at her like a pulse. “You want me to go alone?”
“You’ll be fine, and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“I never meet anyone,” she states, and it’s true, she never does, save for a few old men that she has threatened with a glass once, and some college guy who seemed not to know which of his feet are right and left or if it’s both. Yor shudders.
Camilla rolls her eyes, and Yor catches it through her periphery. “You won’t if you’re always in your apartment.”
“I like my apartment.”
“That’s the point,” Camilla says and jabs a finger against Yor’s shoulder that Yor frowns at. “I need you to stop loving your apartment, and be in someone’s!”
“Camilla, please – “
“ – You’re going out tonight; I have a very good feeling about this,” Camilla argues, and there’s that glint in her eyes that makes her eyes more menacingly blue that tells Yor that she will make sure that she does go out.
Her bed, once so pristine, decorated with differing stuffed toys of various shapes and sizes and colors from different phases of her life, is now a wasteland of clothes strewn haphazardly in dastardly order. Yor thinks, muses, it is a lot like her nerves – a masterpiece of jumbled technicolor, screeching for a reprieve that never comes as Camilla tuts from the screen of her phone. In the background is a restaurant, and she hears, amongst the sea of voices and cutlery, Dominic tell her about some random video game that Camilla drowns out with a wave of a hand.
As usual, Yor finds their very dynamic questionable, and a bit endearing, how they can have their own little thing, and be comfortable to be in that own little thing while in the presence of each other. Yor’s stomach churns in that plummet it does that is not a flutter of butterflies, and she thinks, maybe, maybe, just maybe that Camilla is right about going out tonight.
A little company never hurt, she supposes, and she has been, a little bit, a tiny bit, getting tired of the washed out blues of her walls and the same Twitter and website screens. She knows she would be doing the same while outside, but at least then, she is looking at a different wall under a different light with different music that’s piercing and does not let on for conversation.
And she supposes, come Monday, she has a different story to tell than a twenty-one kilometer run or a cat she passed by the park, a little color to her narration, and maybe, just maybe, that will also put off Yuri’s eternal worry. She can tell him she has a life outside, even when it is, well, barely a life at all.
“I like that one,” Camilla says, after swallowing a fork full of pasta, pointing at the number Yor is holding as if she is there herself – a black, backless halter top that’s almost a corset, but not quite, held together by tiny strings on both sides. It’s the only thing she owns that passes as appropriate for a bar.
Yor considers it for a while with a pursed lip, and then she is nodding as she glances over at her Apple watch, noting the time just shy before nine in the evening. “Okay – I usually wear leather pants with these.”
“Add a pair of boots, too, and keep your hair down, gold headband – the one that you always wear with the roses and thorns then your usual earrings. It’s you, but it also isn’t,” Camilla says like a fashion connoisseur that reminds Yor of Miranda Priestly. Somewhere, behind her, Dominic diverts over to a different topic, a movie that they should see, and then he is moving, coming into frame.
“Hey, Yor,” he greets, and there’s no malice there nor complaint that she is practically a third in this dinner plan.
“Go back to your pasta,” Camilla berates as she pushes him off frame, and momentarily turns to scold him. “I’m trying to get Yor out the door, and spending her Friday night somewhere where it’s not her bathtub and her apartment.”
“Sorry for crashing your date, Dom,” Yor says apologetically, but Dominic just smiles at her before disappearing once again.
“Don’t mind him – go change. I need to see you before I send you out the door.” And Yor knows, the call will not end there; Camilla will make sure she actually goes out the door, and into the bar’s.
She does not know what she’s expecting, but it’s certainly not this – a blanket of silence with barely enough music through speakers erected at each corner, neon lights bathed in the incandescence of fluorescent, white lights, and a space that is spacious, too spacious for a lone woman and a bartender rhythmically polishing each glass. Yor’s fingers tighten around the strap of her bag, shoulders hunched over as her red gaze sweeps through the oceanic room, apprehensive with a plummet at the pit of her stomach.
Yor tries, but the universe? The universe lets down.
This is what she meant, always meant, but was never understood. She puts herself out there, and in turn is this, and a certain type of quiet, a cajole that she, often times, does not find the comedic punchline to. Yor breathes out a sigh, debates texting Camilla, itches to as she glances over at her Apple watch – ten forty-five, and the bar is empty save for the blond man so concentrated making the glass shimmer and a twenty-seven year old seemingly passed by life.
How poetic, she thinks. A prose for a type of tragedy.
“Oh,” the blond man suddenly speaks, blue eyes cast over at her figure, and there’s a spark there, if only Yor turns to see. “Hi – you’re quite the early bird.”
Yor blinks, awoken from a momentary lapse, a temporary trance, and then she is walking over to the bar, and sitting on a bar stool, inches closer to this man with hay for hair. “It’s almost eleven,” she replies, brows knit underneath her bangs, ignoring the way her cheeks heat at the sudden attention and the need to speak to a stranger more than a word necessary.
She feels her pulse skitter, and she blames it, well, on the one cup of coffee she has had all day.
“We don’t get much people until twelve usually, but it’s okay,” he says with a roll of his shoulders, and it’s just then that Yor notices the planes riddled with corded muscle underneath the black dress shirt – oh. “I could use the company,” he flashes her a grin that makes her heart soar, a tiny bit, a little bit, enough for her to fluster a dust of pink. “What are you having for tonight?”
Yor purses her lips, and then she’s trying to make out the various cocktails drawn and written prettily above the chalkboard hanging above the bar. They’re such complicated names, she muses, unique and creative, in a way, written like codenames – Twilight, Nightfall, Daybreak, Fullmetal Lady, and so, so much more that Yor barely understands the ingredients that make of it.
“Hm,” she hums, and then she’s shrugging as she looks back at the bartender, who has been studying her with that spark in the sapphires of his eyes. “Can you tell me which one of that is red wine?” She asks with a tilt of her head, and she’s a bit embarrassed, really, she should have been able to read it, but with the height, and the odd use of words, well, it could be nowhere.
“It’s not there,” he says, confirming her suspicion, and then he is handing her a plaque with a QR code. Yor makes a face at the thought of needing to pull out her phone – she had been fighting the urge to, knowing it’s a mire, and then she will end up spending her time on it – that he catches on quite easily. “We also have this one for our special customers.”
Yor wrinkles her nose, but she takes it without meaning to go through it as she lifts her gaze to meet his. “Red wine, please.”
“Not even going to try to read the codename I wrote for it? Ouch – you wound me, miss,” he says so playfully as he feigns being shot in the chest, and then he is chuckling so lowly that Yor feels it vibrate through her skin, through her bones.
He’s just doing his job, she reminds herself, tucking the hope somewhere, anywhere where it can’t embarrass her.
When Yor doesn’t respond, unsure what ever to say to that, he gives her one last smile and puts himself to work. She watches him for a while – the way he skillfully wades through a very narrow workplace, and moves through it with finesse she thinks he might as well be a ballet dancer. Before the music can even shift from one diluted song to another, he is back in a flash with a glass of wine in his hand that he is depositing right in front of her with an exaggerated bow.
It's charming, and she charts it off to excellent customer service.
“Thank you,” she says as she grasps the stem of the glass, and drinks as though it will help speed the time.
“Always – I’ll be over here if you need me,” he replies with that same smile he smiled at her with, and Yor fights another fluster as she avoids his eyes and decides to fix her gaze by the door as though expecting someone to come in.
It’s a tell-tale act. This – looking at the door, waiting, hoping for God knows what, anything really that is interesting, that can take her away if only for a moment, a little while, or maybe someone who can talk to her. And Yor thinks, if ever one comes, she will need liquid courage if she is already blushing by simply talking to a handsome bartender who is just doing his job on a relatively slow part of the night.
Time ticks slowly as if it hates her, but each drop of wine is drunk as though time is non-existent. It’s not too long that she has reached the bottom of the glass, and she is staring at her own red eyes instead of red wine. One then three people come in, but neither of them give her any attention, and before Yor knows it, she is tapping her nail against the counter, and debating a second glass at only eleven-fifteen in the evening.
Her phone vibrates just as a man slides in the entrance, who spares her a small glance, and before she can get any hopeful, a woman follows him, and slinks an arm around his. There is that plummet again, a flutter of disappointment that she tries to flush away as she fishes for her phone, only to see a notification from a silly post she made earlier this morning.
“I promise the night gets better,” the bartender suddenly says, one hand preoccupied by a dish towel, and the other a glass of red wine that he slides to her. She blinks at it in surprise, then blinks at him in surprise, and then he is as red as the wine in the glass. “Sorry, was that presumptuous of me?” He asks, and it’s cute really, how the blush travels from his neck to his cheeks then to the tips of his ears.
She must have looked like ready to fight him for him to redden so much. Yor tries a smile, and he blushes further, deeper. “No, it’s okay. I was trying to pace myself, though, but it’s okay. Just – Just add it to my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab,” he blurts out, and then he is blushing again, scratching the back of his head. “I mean, you can, I would just need to get an ID, so you know, you don’t escape.”
Yor blinks at him, then narrows her eyes before she understands what he’s saying, and then she’s fishing out her driver’s license that she has never used that he takes gingerly into his hands. He looks at it once, twice, in the front then the back, and then he’s smiling, looking at her.
“Yor Briar,” he whispers her name just as the lights dim, and there’s just something about her name on his lips that sends something to her spine – a shiver that she feels like heat pool at the pit of her stomach. He’s just being nice. “Is that how you pronounce your name? Yor?”
Yor furrows her brows as she leans closer to look at her driver’s license herself, and something tells her, he’s asking more than just that, that she completely ignores. “I – Uh, yes. Um, Yor.”
“Like the rose – your last name, I mean,” he says again, and it sounds like the smile is in the timbre of his voice as he looks at her then back at the ID. “Your name makes it sound like you’re someone’s rose – it’s beautiful,” he adds, and the blush is like stardust across his cheeks, and Yor wonders now, does he do this all the time?
“I – thank you,” she replies, and briefly catches something that sounds a lot like “you’re beautiful” that’s drowned out by music that’s increased in volume as people pile in. Huh, when did it get so crowded?
“You’re welcome, Yor,” he says her name as if he’s saying something reverent, and perhaps it’s the wine, but there’s something electric there as they share a gaze that they immediately break.
Starlight shared that she feels tingle through to her skin as she watches him walk back to the till, and talk to a woman she didn’t notice had been there. The woman gives her an icy stare, territorial, and Yor thinks, deflated, oh, of course – he’s in a relationship.
And Yor does try, she absolutely, kind of does, and she’s glad that she hasn’t tried flirting with a nice man who was just doing his job.
Yor takes her phone out of her bag, and decides, what the hell, who is she hurting, and scrolls through her feed only to see a vast full of nothing. People watching has been abandoned in favor of debating whether or not to read the update to a story she has just received a notification for. Her wine a finished thing that she has drowned earlier before he can decide to come back and chatter her up into hoping, and her space is an invaded thing as more people pile in.
He had not been kidding when he said that the place does get busy, and in the sea of it, Yor finds nothing interesting except for her phone in her hand and that story she has been wanting to hear. The music has switched into something techno, something louder, and by then, the alcohol is a heady thing that clouds her thoughts. An exhale leaves her lips, and she knows, she should have paced herself, but alas, his eyes and his smile and his well-meaning was enough to send her into accepting the wine.
If Camilla had been here, she would have been scolded, told how easily she can be kidnapped and murdered, accepting drinks from charming strangers. Yor huffs, and then, like a string being pulled, she’s looking up, and meeting his eyes across the room, where he’s raising a thumb’s up at her to ask if she is okay.
There is that flutter again, a warm thing that she feels through to her toes, and then Yor is nodding, and beckoning him over for a drink. She doesn’t look at the menu, barely does, as her breath stills the moment he easily finds himself right in front of her as though there had not been other bartenders manning the area, acting as tides in this ocean of Friday night frenzy.
“Hi,” he grins, and the smile is so sincere, too sincere for it to bear no meaning. “Having fun?” He asks as he waves away a man with wild hair without looking at him, and then she finds her head spinning, and spinning, and spinning. Yor blames it on the alcohol.
“I guess,” she shrugs, and she means it – she doesn’t know if she is having fun. She has been spending the whole evening disassociating, and debating reading a piece of fan fiction about a spy looking at his wife of an assassin just like – Yor glances at his name tag – Loid is looking at her.
She blames the projection.
“Waiting on someone?” He asks, and there is a hopeful glint in his eyes that Yor tells herself is just the neon lights.
“No, I’m here alone.”
“Oh, could have fooled me,” – what does that supposed to mean? But Yor doesn’t ask as she sees the grin grow fractionally wider, revealing fangs she had not noticed before, and dimples she definitely have not seen before. “So, what can I do for you, Yor?”
“I would like to try another drink,” she says as she brings up the menu, plays Russian Roullet, and lands on a drink named Twilight.
Loid looks at the drink she has pointed to, and then, he’s nodding, feigning offense. There is something he wants to say, a joke, a quip by the way his lips quirk, but it never comes as he disappears to work on her drink that looks a lot like the death of the evening, and the birth of the morning. She watches him do what he’s paid to do, and for a second there, she thinks he is putting on a show by the way he is playing with the shaker and maintains eye contact with her. The other bartender from earlier says something that she does not catch that pisses off the woman by the till. Yor tries to look away, but then, the woman is already being pulled aside by the same bartender with a joke in his lips, and Loid is still looking at her as though spellbound.
The warmth at the pit of her stomach has returned, and it does not alleviate especially when Loid closes the distance, and brings her what she’s ordered. Yor is, absolutely, veritably, woefully, sure right now that she is burning, blushing and she tries to hide that by immediately taking a sip of her drink that ends in a wince as the alcohol, whichever type it is, slides horribly down her throat.
And of course, its maker, this man with halo for hair, notices.
“You don’t like it?” He says, and she hears a bit of disappointment in the playfulness. Yor wants to drink all of it just to alleviate it, but she doesn’t.
“I think – I think I’ll call it a night,” she replies, sadly, considering she’s already tipsy, and causing, what she thinks is relationship problems.
“Oh, okay,” Loid whispers, deflated, and then he’s nodding, and then, and then, and then… “I can remake it as a mocktail if the alcohol is what’s causing you to leave?” He asks, hopeful, and she –
“ – He’s single, by the way,” someone interjects, the bartender from earlier that Loid now chases down with a wet, dish towel. The towel lands on his face with a smack, and then a threat, and then a redhead pulling them apart.
“I – “ Loid yells, tongue tied, gob smacked, offended, and then he’s preoccupying himself with taking her ID from the cashier that’s already someone else. “You know what, just for that comment alone, drinks are on me. Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
Yor does want to stay, but why? Under what pretense? Loid is single, and then, now what? What does that have to do with her? He’s not asking her out, just asking her to stay, and Yor’s foot is in her mouth, horribly, and before she knows it – “You’re just asking me to stay because I’m a paying customer.”
But she isn’t, she knows that, he offered, but before he can say anything else, she’s walking away because that’s just stupid, isn’t it? He’s being kind, and she’s being embarrassing, and she’s way out of her league, and she can’t just –
“Wait,” Loid says just as the night air kisses her face, the starlight her witness. “You forgot this,” he adds, and of course, what did Yor think, but then again, he’s saying something else just as he is handing her the driver’s license, and what was that?
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Have been for the past few hours, but thank you for noticing.”
“So you think I’m beautiful?”
“Honestly?” And Yor tries, she really does, and the universe finally rewards her for that with a searing kiss underneath the moonlight that seizes her footing and her woes.
Yor does not know what to expect, but it’s not this with someone’s tongue down her throat, her back pressed against the wall, someone’s fingers buried into the midnight of her hair, her voice reduced to a series of trembling sighs, echoing in someone else’s apartment. One leg, naked, is hiked above his waist, trying to find her equilibrium in this mess of kisses. She feels something press hard against her core where she is most wanting and weeping, the crotch of her laced panties rubbing deliciously against her clit as he grinds his hardened length against her.
The denim of his jeans is just enough pressure for her to see white, and Yor forms crescent moons against the back of his neck before smoothing her palms against the planes of his shoulders. He bucks his cock against her as he is pulling away from the kiss for air, and then he is mouthing pretty little things down the slope of her neck, petaled bruises that will tell everyone that he has been there to claim what is his.
“I want,” she whispers, and she is putty as he edges his cockhead into her clothed pussy, the barrier making her reel, making her purr against the crown of his head as he descends further downward.
He ruts into her further, presses himself against her as though chasing the same high, and Yor thinks, she will come apart just like this – on a stranger’s jeans, in a stranger’s apartment, and she doesn’t mind it, not quite as she moves her hips in time with his, seeking friction, seeking release. Loid bites at the skin in between her breasts, marks her there before smoothening it with his tongue, and she wants, she wants, she wants…
“God,” he murmurs against her skin, and then he is peering up at her as he grinds his hardened length against her clit, the lace rubbing against her, and – “Oh my God,” he sings in time with hers, and Yor thinks, it’s kind of cathartic really, to come apart just like this, to have someone come apart with her just like this.
Her chest heaves in time with his, and she’s hot, and delirious, and intoxicated by him. Loid looks at her like she is something divine, and then tastes her reverently with a fleeting kiss. Yor wants to return it, to drink him, but then he is descending, and descending, and descending, and the lace is a cuff by her ankles, and he is kissing her there, just right there, and oh – ! Her eyes are rolling at the back of her head, her leg now hooked on a shoulder, his tongue laving at her clit. Her skin sings with it, with this absolute inebriation, and Yor thinks she is just about to die like this.
“Please,” she mumbles as she arches her back against his wall, as she grinds her weeping pussy against his face.
Loid smiles against her as he reaches for her hips, keeps her in her place, from falling apart. He moves to fuck into her entrance with his tongue, and oh my God, Yor is glad she listened to Camilla and went out. “Like that?” He whispers against her as he peers from where he is kneeling, his eyes a darker shade of blue, lascivious and wanting, and Yor wants to swim in it, to drown in them.
“I – “ her breath is stolen just as his hand abandons one side of her hip, and descends where he is, where he is lapping at her, mouthing pretty promises against her heat. “Yes,” she murmurs, barely coherent as he sucks on her clit, and enters her with a single finger – in and out, in and out, in and out, and then there’s two, curling inside of her weeping cunt.
“You taste so good,” he tells her, worships her, and then he’s sucking again, harder as he hears her weep, as he feels her walls flutter against his fingers, and then she is coming apart once again, and this time on his tongue, and he drinks her in like she is wine, and he is desperate to be drunk in it. “So, so good.”
Yor feels herself melt against the wall, subdued, completely drunk in him, in this, in them, and the second orgasm he elicits from her. She is a mess of limbs against him, her thighs framing his face as he kisses her inner thighs in a promise for later, a promise for more. Butterfly wings that allow her to come down from her high to seek. Yor reaches for him to card her fingers through the golden rays of his hair, and he smiles at her as though he has not just debauched her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her as he ascends to meet her where she is, and then he is kissing her again, stealing the air in her lungs as she tastes herself in his tongue like shared wine. “I don’t want this to be a one time thing,” he says as he pulls away, looks into the rubies of her eyes, hoping, seeking, wishing. “If that’s okay?”
“That’s okay,” she whispers against his mouth, and then she is nipping at his lower lip as though she is mapping the topography of it, memorizing each curve, each sigh that he makes. “Are you sure?” She asks, even when he answers her by maneuvering them further into the apartment, deeper where his bed waits.
“Darling,” he kisses her – once, twice, thrice – and then, he is laying her down the bed, her hair a veil of the evening behind her. “I was sure the moment you walked in that door.”
Yor looks away, flustered, a mess of crimson that bathes each skin – from her cheeks to her supple breasts, and to her legs. A beautiful swathe of rubies, Loid thinks as he brackets, frames her head with his elbows to capture her lips in a searing kiss. Yor presses herself against him, and she whines when her nipples meet the fabric of his shirt. He chuckles against her mouth, but makes no move to remove it as he presses himself further onto her until she’s writhing, seeking, and wanting again.
“I want,” Yor says, and it’s a fervid whisper that he swallows as she snakes her hands between them to unbutton what she can.
Her hands tremble during their descent as Loid presses his knee onto her cunt, and grinds onto the obscenely wet core until she is whimpering again. Yor shakes her head, sensitive still, as she feels her lower belly tighten, as she feels herself teeter once again over the edge so soon, so terribly soon that she bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. Loid moans against her lips, and he presses his knee harder, rougher onto her clit in a rhythm that steals her breath away.
“One more,” Loid says as he pulls away from her, as he continues his ministrations, and watches the wet patch on his jeans grow fractionally larger. “Come for me one more, please?” He pleas, and she keens, her toes curling just as he rubs her quite so, and oh, what a rush, what an absolute rush, her head is spinning, and she is crashing – “I’ve got you.”
And he does, he truly does as he holds her, lets her ride what seems to be her third orgasm, and they haven’t even had sex yet. The room is blanketed by silence for a moment, littered only by her ragged breathing, and the sweet, sweet nothings he is whispering in her ear. Yor thinks she has gone blind for a moment – all white and bright before her vision settles, returns to latch on this beautiful man smiling down at her.
“Are you okay?” He asks her, the smile oh so sweet, and she reaches up at him to cup his jaw, and taste it.
“More than okay,” she nods, and she thinks, she has never been so beautifully drunk before.
“Good,” and then he is kissing her again, starting softly before growing exponentially hungry, teeth clashing, tongues meeting as she pulls him closer to her, as she reaches to take off his dress shirt, as he reaches between them to take off his jeans that has long gone sordid with both of their orgasms.
“I want to taste you,” Yor says as she watches his stiff cock spring free from the confines of his boxers, her tongue peeking out, darting across her lower lip in a slow swipe.
She sees Loid’s eyes widen, and then he is shaking his head as he reaches to stroke himself to further attention. “Next time, darling,” he tells her as he bends down to kiss her. “I won’t last if you do. I want to feel you for now.”
Yor wants to protest, she truly does, but then he teases the head of his cock against her clit rhythmically she almost loses it the fourth time. She hears Loid laugh endearingly on top of her, and then he is cupping her face with his free hand, looking at her with a question in his eyes that she answers with a kiss.
Yor reaches between them to guide him to her entrance, and then he is slowly sinking into her, inch by inch until he is fully seated, fully sheathed, and his pubic bone is against her throbbing clit. All the air in her lungs vacates her, and she is sure Loid feels the same way as he breaks the kiss to press his forehead against hers, muttering curses with his eyes closed, almost as if he is fervently praying.
“God,” he vocalizes as he remains still, pressed against her.
Yor has never felt so full, so deliciously full that she is at the brink of losing her mind, and she thinks again, she is glad that she has taken Camilla’s advice. Loid, as it seems, has marked himself into her, through to her.
“Are you okay?” He asks again, what little control he has, fraying at the edges, apparent in the way the blue in his eyes is barely there, just a hint of the ocean that is as dark as his irises.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she murmurs, and then she is tilting her hips to get him to move. “Please,” and she is breathless, weightless as she asks, pleads him to let go.
He does.
Loid moves into her slowly, agonizingly slowly, working a rhythm that has both of them losing their minds. Yor’s cunt clenches around him, sensitive still from the multiple orgasms he had drawn out of her.
“So good,” he whispers against her lips, and then he is moving, pulling away as he unsheathes and sheathes himself into her in a different angle that has him hitting her cervix, marking, claiming, etching himself into her.
Loid skims his lips against the slant of her neck, mapping the earlier bruises he had left before working his way to her pert, pink nipple. He brings his mouth onto her, and sucks until he hears her suck in a breath, until she is cursing, whimpering against him. His other hand reaches for her other breast, and kneads, providing equal, fervent attention before switching.
“You take me so, so, so well, darling,” he says as he snaps his hips in time with her own, relishing the way her cunt clenches around him as though asking him to claim her, to fuck her harder. “Made just for me.”
“Loid,” she whimpers, whispers, his name a silent prayer as she teeters once again, so close, so soon, so deliciously over the edge.
The wine red in her eyes is darkened, blown out, meeting his that is equally as dark as the trenches. Loid lifts her left leg to his shoulder, fucks into her deeper, harder, the obscene sound of his cock slamming into her filling the room, accompanying her sighs, her whimpers, her whispers of every version of his name. He keeps his eyes trained into her own, desperate to watch her fall apart, to see her, to stich this, to commit this to memory even when he has every intention to see it again, to do it again, to make love to her again.
Yor reaches out to him as though he is the sun, and he takes her hand in his to kiss her palm as he coaxes her into her climax, angles his hips quite so that it’s bruising her throbbing clit. “I’m so close,” she murmurs, and there are tears in her eyes that he kisses, erases with each feathered touch of his lips.
“Let go for me, darling,” he says, and he feels her shudder, shatter against him, and there’s a plea in her eyes, an ask that he cannot ignore, and then, he’s asking for permission, for an allowance. “Where do you want me, Yor?” He asks her, and he can tell, once she lets go, he will, too.
“Inside, Loid,” she says, arches her back prettily as he hits a certain spot over and over. “I want you inside of me. I want to feel you.”
And it’s enough really, to come undone, to spill every bit of himself in her crumbling walls, to allow her to milk him with every fiber of his being. “Yor, Yor, Yor,” he murmurs as he is cradling her face, losing himself into the kiss as he comes down with her, empties himself inside of her, painting her walls white and with his seed.
Saturday morning is beyond expectation. There is sunshine spilling through the cracks of the curtains, a golden thing that has been allowed to spill through fractalized in varying shades of rainbows. It touches the sheets in a soft glimmer, a warm sort of afterglow that teases her eyes to open. Yor shuffles against the silk of Loid’s sheets in rebellion against the morning, her current state forgotten until the memory of last night comes in the form of shared kisses, sighs, moans, and promises.
Yor feels herself throb sorely in between her legs, something warm and wanting, and then she is waking up to blue eyes and a kind smile that’s more than just a dream. She blinks at him, and then she is adorned with the sweetest of kisses that are featherlight and just as soft as his silk sheets.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice ragged, his lips bruised, and Yor bruises it again with one more kiss.
“Good morning,” she replies, voice softer like butterfly wings as she inches closer to him, as close as she can get.
“So,” he starts as he reaches out for her, runs his palm against the curve of her waist, disappearing into where she is weeping for him, and oh!
“So,” she continues, even when she is melting once again against him, even when she is a puddle as he enters her lazily with one finger. She feels him hard, and waiting against her knee, and Yor wants, wants, wants…
“Stay over for the weekend?” He asks her, hopeful, and she kisses him, tenderly, softly, even when he adds another finger into her, even when he is fucking into her so early into the morning.
Yor sighs, pliant, a mess of clouds against him as he switches the angle so he can rub the pad of his thumb against her clit. The answer is right there on her tongue, but Loid decides to capture it as he sucks in time with his thrusts. Yor feels heat build up at the pit of her stomach, and she knows she is about to come undone once again, so soon, so early. Loid increases the speed in a different angle, and bruises her clit just as he feels her walls tighten around him, and then he is coaxing her again to fall apart and catches her with open mouthed kisses.
“Or,” he drawls out as he slows his thrusts, drawing out her orgasm as he pulls away from the kiss to look at her in the eyes. “Stay forever?”
It’s hopeful, the look he has in his eyes, and Yor finds that she doesn’t mind as she nods, and kisses him to affirm, to say yes, to commit to whatever this is that they have started. Loid cracks a grin against her lips, the one she likes, and then he is slotting his body against hers.
“Yes,” she answers back because it has to be said, needs to be said, and then she is reaching in between them to sheathe him into her in a slow, lazy entrance.
Loid shudders against her shoulder, moving into her so slowly, so endearingly, his hand still on her hip, guiding her to a rhythm that feels quite like a dance. The morning is basked in sunlight, their shared sighs, and the lascivious sound of their union that should be obscene, but has become reverent. Loid shares her gaze in a promise, spellbound, bewitched, and the he is kissing her once more softly as they both move languidly.
Yor crests once again, her walls fluttering against him, and he meets her in kind as he reaches in between them, where they are joined. Pleasure is a ripple that she feels through to the tips of her fingers, magnified by the way Loid is watching her, waiting for her.
“I’m close, Loid,” she whispers once again, murmurs, and the burgeoning climax is kind, tender, as tender as they are moving right now.
Loid nods in understanding as he presses the pad of his thumb on her throbbing bundle of nerves, keeping it there as a pressure as he increases the speed of his thrusts minutely, hoisting up her leg over his waist to change the angle. Yor melts against him once again, pliant like water on a river stream as she presses herself close, close, closer to him, to his chest where she can feel and hear the way his heart beats erratically for her.
“Yor,” he whimpers into her hair as she tightens around him, and brings her with him in this crash against the shore. “Yor, Yor, Yor – mine, mine, mine,” he says as he spills into her, as Yor feels him empty every bit of himself inside of her.
And it’s cathartic, really, to be claimed, to be wanted, and she relishes into it, into this as she allows him to claim her the way she has already claimed him. The morning once again is blanketed with silence as they both come down, their sighs and whimpers quieting down until their heavy breathing settles, and their hearts beat in tune.
“I meant it, Yor,” he says after a long while as he brings both of them to a sitting position against his headboard. “I meant it when I asked you to stay forever.”
Yor smiles, and it feels like sunshine is injected into her veins as she lets herself dissolve into the warmth of his embrace. “I meant it, too,” she says as she reaches to cup his jaw so she can look him in the blue of his eyes. “When I said I will stay.”
Loid looks at her as though he cannot believe what he is beholding, and then he is kissing her again as though she is the oxygen he desperately needs to breathe in. Later, when they have both decided to come out of bed, Yor declines Camilla’s invite for brunch after Loid accidentally answers the video call for her.
Yor doesn’t even have to try.