F01 - Blackbook, Grand Opening Pt. II

[Vanta 0]

~PH~

[Oscar 0]

Dammed, damned emotions.

The mystery began to unravel. Still ignorant of her story, but the miasma began to clear. He now possessed the what and the why, but not the how. His curiosity could wait. Attention enraptured - enthralled - by the weeping woman held in his arms. Perhaps it had been a mistake, he thought. Charm had been wielded irresponsibly, temptation beckoning without forethought. Objectively, it had been. The goal was never to make someone cry. Only to feel. And the ironic tragedy was that by feeling, he had demolished that dam that walled off her emotion. The waters burst forth, sweeping and drowning. It was no small wonder she was in such a state.

But there was no going back now. All he could do was ride the deluge with her. With any luck, he might be able to ferry her to dry land.

“Irony is -” Oscar said, gingerly grasping her by the wrist. He brought her hand to his face, his lips gracing each digit with the softest of feathered kisses. “Feeling should never be denied.”

Repression was the silent killer. How can one understand what it means to feel if they deny their emotions? How could such a thing be considered holy? Oscar knew too well the evils repression propagated. How people lost themselves without an outlet. How the tension and the pressure and the hate transformed someone into something entirely inhuman. He wore the scars from such decisions. A boy, swallowing it all, made a decision in haste and in hate. Three bullets - each one the nearest of misses. All because he was forced to stifle and deny the very essence of himself.

“Who says you have to stop?”

The words of a fool. He should be trying to let her down slowly. Shepherd her to dry land, allow her the freedom to learn herself. Oscar did not want that responsibility. And yet - what was meant to be a tryst for the evening seemed to be developing into something more. As he gazed into her eyes, all of the words and all of the phrases that he would have used - should have used - in such a situation left him. He shouldn’t get himself involved anymore than he already had. But the mystery was too alluring. Her voice was too sweet. Her eyes too deep. Oscar was drowning. So close to the sun, praying his wax wings did not fail him. Everything told him to dive low, back to the cool ocean breeze. At least to collect himself. But she just had to speak again.

Kiss me.

And he obliged, with zero hesitation. He lunged forward, taking her face between both hands. The Magician’s Pleasure - The Blackbook’s Authority - carried them away from the party. Whisked through space. Muted sounds graced their ears, more felt than heard. Bass thumped beneath them as he pressed her into that downy mattress. Lights low, door closed - a private room. The decor - the walls and the furniture - a haze. Focus narrowed, fixation bringing shadows to his periphery. He bore down upon her, hand sinking into the downy surface as his body engulfed her frame.

Hips met, lips touched. Passion unleashed. Heat building. She burned him. Seared herself onto his skin - onto his lips. He should go. Flee. Hide. Leave her to struggle through her fall.

But he didn’t. He was too cruel to do so. It would have been a mercy. 

Here, now, mercy was the thing that Oscar lacked.

His fingers tangled in her hair, his kisses wild and sinful. His lips graced her jaw, her neck, down to her collarbone. Eyes fixed, unflinching, almost unblinking. His pulse quickened - breath heavy and hot against her skin. They were on a collision course for something beautiful - future complications. Future emotions. Future connection. This would not end at sunrise. He would, full of selfish desire, draw her into his world. The blood and death, war unending. Would it bother her, when she was confronted by it? Would she hate him for making her feel? For all the things he wanted to do to her? All while knowing full well the depths of his own monstrosity?

“Tell me what to do,” Oscar invited, his words muffled against her skin. He took the liberty to leave his mark, a ring of fangs sinking into her flesh.

He didn’t care anymore. Sense and logic had died at the hands of want.

@Winnie