purple-prose-porn

[purple-prose-porn]

Pluvia Gardens: Loft 1406

He didn’t need the call from the front desk to tell him his newest tenant was there, he didn’t need Cecilia to text him the second Delia’s inheritee walked through the lobby doors. He didn’t need it because the change in the atmosphere was palpable, he’d been playing with a Set of six for the last two years and now, suddenly, was the final seventh. Different from the last, different from Delia but no less delicious and even if pain wasn’t something he minded, it was something that got under his skin and hummed.

He remembered Delia’s first time through those doors, all painted smiles and dark eyes and carrying a single bag. She’d been so young then, barely twenty and ready to leave behind everything of her old life to become rich and famous and live a life more glamourous than the movies ever told her. He’d felt her too, she’d been a gentle tone, the harmonizer to an already flawless choir because her arrival had come as planned. Her inheritee though, Aryn, his arrival was late and his arrival was more of a bell chime after a long day of off pitches.

Nazar breathed in deep as he thought about all the lovely fun to be had with a full Set again. Desmond and Isabella were the only generational pair he had at the moment and it was interesting, so interesting to see them interact with each other whenever they were here together. He would have loved to see Delia and Aryn here, would have loved to see the brash, bold bitch and her demure, dour son.

Delia’s dead though, had been for the last two years and it was tragic. He could remember all the tabloids and newspaper articles and social media posts about it, Delia Daniels Dead, at least she got to keep her alliteration. He remembered how many people flooded his apartment building, how many people demanded to see where the woman had died, how many of them had tried to steal bits and pieces of her chandelier. Investigators, police men, grieving friends, even the random fans who made it past Cecelia, all of them wanted a piece of their idol.

“Something just called to us. It’s…it’s just so beautiful!” they’d all explained, excused and stuttered when they all got caught. Nazar wondered what her son would think of her monument to her own vanity, from what he knew about Aryn, he wasn’t the type to like gaudy things. Who knew for sure though? Surprises and all that.

Nazar waited an hour, not longer, not less, to go visit his newest tenant. He lounged in his own room, listening to the sounds of his apartment, Isabella was late for class again and in this rain she wouldn’t make it. Oh well, another weekend of drinking to make herself feel better, drinking and fucking of course and maybe he’d see if she wanted company. He could hear Marissa and Jack arguing again, over something banal, and then something crashing against a wall. He didn’t even have to count the seconds before Marissa went storming out and Jack started punching the walls.

He breathed in the scent of the rain as it poured down, so cool, and heard the sounds of all the other tenants of his apartment. He heard the shower start in Delia’s, heard her son peel out of wet clothed that slapped on the bathroom floor. He heard Marissa catch up to Isabella, heard someone being slammed up against the wall and someone else being kissed, heard the breathy little moans start up and knew Isabella would definitely miss her class now.

He let them play for a little while longer, listened to them grabbing at each other, heard a hand snaking under a skirt and rubbing smooth thighs on the way. He let them get as far as grinding against each other, knew that they were five seconds away from outright fucking before he leaves his apartment. He hears Aryn open the door, catch sight of the pair of whores then shut the door, it was the perfect time to introduce himself.

Marissa and Isabelle didn’t even look up when he knocked on the door, not that he expected them to.

“Ah, hello.”

Well, well, well, not the voice he was expecting, much higher pitched, much more sultry than he would have guessed. Nazar has never spoken to Delia’s son before, never had the pleasure of it but he knows it’s something he won’t get bored of. Not when the boy could barely look him in the face, eyes sliding over and away in a perfectly practiced movement so unlike his mother. Aryn was so unlike his mother in so many ways but so like her in others and he couldn’t wait to find out more.

“Hello, I’m Nazar? The landlord, I thought I’d come introduce myself,” he explained smoothly, resting a hand on the doorknob and angling his body towards the apartment. He knew how to play this game, how to keep his hands to himself and keep his tenants at ease. Not many of them needed it anymore but the first time, the first day, it’s always a shock to them, so different but they can never pin point why.

“May I come in?” he prompted, noticing the way cool grey eyes had slid past him automatically and stayed over his shoulder, not even flickering at his mouth as he spoke but plain not looking him in the face at all. Different than anxiety but somewhere close, less erratic, a little more trained? Hmm, how interesting.

Aryn didn’t even seem to hear him for a few seconds, too busy staring past him and into the hall, too busy trying to figure out what was wrong here maybe. Nazar was willing to wait though, he had all the time in the world for his new guest and he knew how to wear down a person. Drop a shoulder against the door frame, shift weight to the back leg and tower over them even if he wasn’t actually taller. Confidence and appearance were so easy to use and manipulate, just wear certain clothes, just smile a certain way, just speak with the perfect cadence and worm your way into their worlds.

“Yes, please. I’m Aryn Poe,” the boy answered after a beat too long, not long enough to be awkward but long enough to be noticed. Nazar noticed though, he noticed everything about the closed off body language, the fingers that slipped off the doorknob the second he grabbed the other end of it, even the head dip to make sure eye contact couldn’t be made. Aryn wandered off into the apartment without a word, crossing the smooth white marble with smooth steps but it still came across as nervous.

Nazar enjoyed it though. He loved getting to know every new guest and all their little quirks. Aryn seemed to gravitate towards the windows, the balcony, and the rain beating down. Aryn slouched and didn’t initiate conversations, he didn’t ask questions either and didn’t even seem to mistrust the strange man showing up and claiming to be the landlord. How exceedingly different from Delia but…not quite, not exactly.

“Yes I know, your mother left your name in her will. She was an incredible woman, my apologies for your loss,” he said as he watched the boy stiffen, watched shoulders hunch and spine curve. Even the spill of black hair down his back didn’t hide the way the boy was trying to curl in on himself, to be smaller and somehow end the conversation. Nazar liked it, it was a trained response to attention, he’d seen it plenty of times before, mostly self-taught but not always. He even let himself smile before closing and locking the door behind him.

“You look like her, same face, and Delia liked the rain too,” he added as he sauntered over to the alcohol cabinet and Aryn flinched away from the glass. Clearly the poor darling had mommy issues, mommy never loved him, mommy left him, mommy died and left him millions but he couldn’t touch any of it. He doubted this as about the money, he knew Delia had sent money back to take care of her pet, made sure that her son grew up well taken care of if nothing else.

He knew it was deeper than that, more of what Delia represented than who she was. Maybe she was an ideal, a success story, rags to riches and all the juicy bits in between. Maybe she was just another errant mother, too high on her own life to care about the brat back home and Aryn never got to forget that, not for one single second. Could be all of them, could be none, he’d have fun picking through all the bits and pieces of trauma to find out which.

“She also loved this whisky, it was her favourite. She was my friend and I can’t tell you how many times she invited me over to drink with her,” he explained as he picked out one of the bottles lining the shelves. He’d kept the cabinet and all the drinks pristine, made sure all of them were still as potent as the day Delia had bought them, and she appreciated it still. She’d liked the smoothness, sweet enough to help ignore the burn and easy to get drunk on.

He debated mentioning how she’d been drinking her favourite whisky the night of her death, dancing back and forth this very room as she sloshed it all over hands, down her throat. Would it be too much too soon? Possibly, but it would be a nice little nugget of information to drop on the poor, poor dear later. The poor dear who was so agitated that he was combing through his hair, angled away from the balcony now, angled towards him but still not looking at him.

“I-I don’t drink,” he muttered-no murmured, softer, not as exasperated or frustrated, there was no edge to the words though he knew it was lurking around. More of whatever was lurking just under that pale skin, more of the anger he could just barely taste, more of the frustration like a wisp of smoke after hours of breathing in nothing but flowers. And it could be Marissa, it could be Jack, could be their anger leeching down through the floors, could be feeding this new guest of his but he didn’t think it was that simple. Such a complex boy.

“For me? I’ve missed drinking with Delia, I…I was the one who found her,” he admitted, pouring the whisky into the glasses she’d left in the cabinet and bringing them over to her kitchen. He’d always enjoyed the openness of her apartment, so easy to see everything going on, even though he preferred closed off spaces.

Aryn still wasn’t looking at him but he was moving away from the balcony, more hesitantly than he’d gone but coming close all the same. Nazar knew why, there was just something inherently off about him, something strange about his light brown eyes, something different about his creeping smiles. Desideria had known from the start, had dragged him over a table into a kiss much softer than her viciousness would bely then begged him to fuck her; he liked her.

He wondered how long it would take Aryn, longer than his mother, less? Delia had known in a month, a whole month of crying and screaming and trying to lie to herself before she gave in and accepted it. What a lovely month that had been, a replacement for Taylor years before he needed one, it’d been great, and now he finally had Delia’s replacement. Here in front of him, reaching for a glass of whisky with trembling fingers and eyes focused on the innocuous glass.

“We had a lunch date planned and she didn’t show up, or call to cancel, I got worried. I couldn’t have guessed what I’d find though, I thought she was just passed out on the couch again, she did that a lot,” he rambled, swirling the alcohol in his glass and casting the webs of his lies. He’d known, how couldn’t he? Delia’s contract had come to an end, her eighteen years of freedom and debauchery and Sin had come to an end and he’d been there to collect his dues.

The song had been unexpected but it was Deali through and through, she was a diva, she needed everything to be dramatic even if she didn’t quite understand what was going on. He didn’t think she’d even realized what was specially about the night, probably hadn’t even caught on til the very end. Of course he could ask but he preferred to leave some of life’s little mysteries unsolved.

“She was wearing her favourite dress, a golden one, and her make-up was all done up. I guess she’d been planning it for a while, I didn’t even realise,” he trailed off pensively and drank the whisky. Not his favourite but he so rarely got his favourite these days, maybe he would now but he doubted it would be too soon. Aryn copied him at least, still refusing to sit and preferring to stand as though being able to run at a second’s notice would help him. Still, it was easier to just refill the glass, adding a touch more than before and fighting a smile when grey eyes started flickering around the room.

“The whole building was so shocked, we’d never had a suicide here before, and everyone loved Delia.” Maybe not the exact truth but close enough, they didn’t have any suicides at Pluvia Gardens and sure everyone had loved Delia in the way all his Sinners ‘loved’ each other. They’d all been at her funeral, all been somber and sober as she was lowered into the hole and then they’d all went back home and drank until they were numb in her memory. The truest love.

“I didn’t know her, m-much, she never…I don’t remember her,” Aryn said instead because Nazar could hear the redirection. He would almost be impressed if the quiver wasn’t under the words, if every syllable didn’t sound as though it’d been dragged out of the boy’s throat. Oh it was shocking, he wouldn’t have guessed Aryn could speak so many words at a time but at the same time, it was still disappointing.

‘She was never’ what? Around? A real mother? Someone I loved or cared about? There was the resentment, the delicious smoky resentment but it was being quashed down by the sugar sweetness. He wanted to breathe the flames in, he wanted to feel them burning smoother than any alcohol on the way down but that was maybe asking too much too fast. He could smell the smoke and that was enough for now, enough until he could get a decent few embers kindled.

“Hmm, she was an incredible woman, very driven. She liked to have fun though, she was always partying between her shows and tours,” he hummed, pouring a third glass of whisky for Aryn and sloshing more than half of it on the table but oh well, sacrifices had to be made. Made and kept.

“Once, she went out on that balcony during the pouring rain and screamed until she couldn’t anymore then she came back in and fucked her plaything of the month,” he laughed and it wasn’t even a lie. Delia had been one dramatic, crazy bitch, she loved soft boys younger than her, she liked dressing them up and having them model for her. She liked girls too but decidedly not soft, she liked women who could rough her up, women who would fuck her just as hard as she wanted and harder.

“I think his name was Aaron, very pretty, liked to wear thigh highs and her lipstick,” he continued and he could see the tremor go through Aryn, knew how much he didn’t want to hear this. He drank the rest of his whisky, probably thinking it would help, or get him drunk enough to not hear about his mother and all her preferences. Nazar didn’t even bother filling the glass again, he just pushed the bottle across the table until it was close enough for Aryn to snatch it up.

Delia’s been dead two years but here and now Nazar sees her again. In Aryn, in the way he grabbed the neck of the bottle with slim fingers, in the way his eyes were unfocused as he lifted it to his mouth. Yes the hair falling in his face wasn’t golden, yes the bob of the throat was more pronounced, yes his eyes were clear silver but this was still Delia. Still her drowning her problems and troubles and realities in whisky, still Delia making deals and promises she didn’t know how to keep. He almost missed her.

“I think he had a break down when she broke it off, he was outside her door, beating his hands bloody against it and crying and begging her to take him back. Security had to drag him out, kicking and screaming of course, Delia loved it.”

Aryn didn’t even bother to hide the grimace, mouth turned down at the corners and a twitch around his eyes that could be a flinch. He didn’t bother to hide the way he was folding in on himself again, he didn’t bother to even pretend he was looking over a shoulder or at a throat, he just plain looked away. Nazar drank the rest of his whisky slowly, savouring the taste of it and comparing it to the smoke in his mouth, almost thick enough to coat his tongue, almost strong enough to smell.

“She was an addictive person, easy to love and keep loving, hard to give up and harder to keep,” he mused and there it was. The full body flinch, flinching away from a blow or words, familiar words? Regardless, the flinch sets the boy in motion, takes him across the room on stiff legs, back stiff, one hand tight around the neck of the bottle and the other tangling in ink black hair almost absentmindedly.

Nazar watched again for a while; the spill of black hair was different from Delia’s, straighter and showed silver where the light fell on it. Delia was the golden girl, the beloved golden girl and she’d given birth to a silver child, a lovely piece of silver pounded into shape under a rough blacksmith’s hammer. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on that silver, to shape it the way it deserved to be, to carve all kinds of delicate phrases into it and make it worthless.

Aryn had a lovely pair of legs though, just as long as his mother’s in slim black tights and they were roughly the same size, roughly the same shape. Hmm, wouldn’t it be something to see Aryn decked out in his mother’s favourite dresses, in shimmering gold and clinging black and lacy white and bold reds. Watching him fold himself onto the couch, slipping his feet out of his rough boots, curling up with his legs underneath him and the bottle clutched just as tight as his hair it wasn’t hard to imagine. Delicate was the word that came to mind.

“Do you want to know how I found her? I’ll never forget it,” Nazar purred, getting out of his chair but taking it with him. He’d had the wooden floors ripped up, replaced them with pristine white marble, he’d taken down Delia’s paintings and put up different ones. He’d changed subtle things in preparation for his newest tenant and at the time he hadn’t thought it would take this long to get them but it was fine now. It was alright and fine and perfect.

The chair didn’t scrape on the marble, it glided smoothly and stayed where he set it. The chandelier hadn’t been turned on in two years but it had been kept in perfect, meticulous working order. Nazar didn’t even bother to walk over to the switch, he just snapped his fingers and let Aryn think what he pleased when the crystals lit up.

Two years since the last time the chandelier had gotten to dance, to throw it’s light on the cream coloured walls and the white floors, two year since the scene of partiers got to dance. Now though, now it was like nothing had happened or changed, the shadows fell the same, the chandelier turned the same. Everything was the same except for Aryn on the couch, wide eyed and tugging at his hair more than hard enough to hurt.

Nazar loved the softly parted lips, the premature words they curved and sighed around. He loved the desperation in quicksilver eyes, the questions and confusion and horror or was it fear? He loved the tense set of slim shoulders, the steel straight posture and the vein jumping in a pale throat.

He didn’t have to look up to know what Aryn saw, he could feel the shade brushing against him.

“Now and in the hour of my death, it was a favourite line of hers,” he murmured as he climbed onto the chair and turned to face the shade. Delia’s shade.

“I found her just like this, hanging here, twirling with her chandelier. She never looked more beautiful or more peaceful,” he said as the shade blinked at him, mouth working words it could never speak. Shades in his building were near substantial, better than they would get anywhere else but they were still shades. Delia’s was no different, a pale, translucent copy of the vibrant woman she’d been, no less beautiful though.

“She was drunk, as always, she’d broken a glass on the floor, just like that,” he punctuated his little speech by flinging his empty glass on the floor, in the corner, right next to the grandfather clock that happily chimed the half hour.

“And she hung herself with a silk scarf, specially made for a movie that she got attached to, it looked exquisite wrapped around her neck,” he sighed as he grabbed the shade’s face, just barely feeling the warm of it but holding it all the same. He knew Aryn couldn’t see the metallic golden lipstick or the wide blue eyes, probably couldn’t see anything but the outline of his mother hanging by her own scarf but it was enough.

“Speak to him pretty,” Nazar whispered and the shade blinked, swallowed and choked on it but in a delicate, lovely way. There weren’t any bruises around her neck, no bulging eyes, no black tongue or blue tinged skin; she looked as lovely as the second she slipped off her chair.

“Hello. Pet.”

The scream was unexpected, Nazar hadn’t thought Aryn was capable of noises that loud or as piercing but it was fun. A nice little tidbit. Aryn’s scream was loud enough to make the shade wince, loud enough to grate on Nazar’s ears but it was the good kind of grating. He didn’t even bother looking back over his shoulder at the boy, a lone shriek was nice but he wanted something more.

So he kissed the shade.

They were always so insubstantial first thing in the day, always sluggish and weak but Delia kissed back the way she always did. She was a good girl for him, she moved her lips and grabbed at his clothes with shaking hands, ghostly fingers dragging along his hips before they fell away. Nazar didn’t bother to put much effort into it, he kept it lazy and soft, made it a show for a single person and breathed in the thickening smoke.

“Isn’t she pretty? But not as pretty as you, Pet,” he said, letting his lips pop on the ‘p’ and whipping around with a sharp smirk. Delia’s shade sighed some nonsense behind him but she wasn’t the important one anymore, she wasn’t special anymore, oh no, he wanted to see her son. He wanted to see Aryn spread out on the couch, hair a frazzled mess from fingers running through it, hair a mess tangled around slim fingers. He wanted to see Aryn with wide unfocused eyes and perfectly shaped nails scratching at his forearms; not frantically, not manically, but methodic, up and down, up and down.

Nazar took in the short, sharp breaths as they made the boy’s chest rise and fall, took in the quivering lips and expressionless face and jumped down from the chair. Delia kept twirling behind him and Aryn kept looking past the room, probably retreating somewhere into himself, maybe trying to rationalize seeing his mother for the first time in years and it wasn’t even her. Around them the shadows kept dancing, round and round in their eternal party.

Aryn didn’t even flinch when Nazar dropped onto the couch next to him, didn’t blink as he was dragged into this strange man’s lap. He barely even reacted as Nazar untangled the hair from his fingers and just whimpered quietly when his nails were forced away from his arms. He didn’t react a tall when Nazar rested a hand on either thigh, stroking up and down slow and sweet, or when he dropped his chin on a thin shoulder.

“She used to talk about you, you know? She called you, The Pet Back Home, and she’d laugh about it,” he whispered, kissing the spot just behind Aryn’s ear softly, gently. There wasn’t even a change in breathing, nothing to show he was even listening but that was fine, Nazar didn’t need any physical cues. He could smell the simmering smoke, clearer yes but still just short of a scent memory and nearly drowned out by musky arousal.

“I knew you had to be lovely, her child couldn’t be anything but stunning, but I didn’t expect you to be better than her, Pet,” he crooned, slowly spreading those slim legs until they rested on either side of his thighs. He didn’t change his touch though, didn’t speed up, didn’t move his hands and didn’t leave anymore kisses though he loved the feeling of the smooth skin under his lips.

“I can’t wait to play with you, there’s so much I can’t wait to do with you, to you,” he hummed with a happy sigh.

“I can’t wait to train my Pet,” he cooed, glancing up at Delia then closing his eyes and pressing his face to soft black hair. He breathed in deep all the smells of his apartment; lust and arousal and metallic anger and damp loathing even desperate cloying loneliness. He breathed in deeper and smelled nothing but the sweet, cleansing rain beating down and washing away all the Sins of the world.

[purple-prose-porn]

Lovely, Loved and oh so Lost

The clock strikes three and Delia raises her glass to the chimes that echo through her apartment, bouncing off the thick walls and coming back to her softer but just as piercing. Every chime of the clock is a drink, she’s had the shots lined off since her alarm woke her at twelve, midnight of course. Three shots of tequila that burn on the way down for the three chimes of the clock and a glass of finely aged whisky to top it all off.

She actually has no idea why today is so special to her, there’s no real rhyme or reason to it. She doesn’t have any movie premiers to go to, no galas to attend, no exclusive parties or clubs to visit. There’s nothing too remarkable about the day but it feels special to her for some reason and she supposes that’s enough to make it special.

“I wish I was a bottle blonde,” she sings, soft and sweet in a deeper voice than she usually would and wonders about that for a bit before she pours herself another glass of whisky. She loves her golden blonde hair, combined with her vibrant blue eyes and full lips she’s very classic Hollywood and she’s always loved it. She’s perfect to star in all the movies, she’s perfect to sing all the lovely romance songs, she’s always the perfect cast and she loves it.

“I don’t know why but I feel conned,” she hums as she pours herself glass after glass of whisky and enjoys the honeyed texture of it, slow and warm. There’s something comforting about a nice glass of whisky, one that cost more than most people’s monthly incomes, one that went down so smooth it was like liquid silk. Is decadent the word she’s looking for? Or satisfying? Hmm, she does love her life, her extravagant, wasteful, sinfully, hedonistic life.

What’s better than having what other’s don’t? What’s better than having everything she could possibly wish for? What’s better than being everything she’s ever wanted? She’s thirty-five and there’s nowhere to go but up, no boorish husband to hold her down, no annoying brat to hold her back.

“I wanna be an idle teen, I wish I hadn’t been so clean,” she mumbles into her…fourth glass? Fourth or fifth? Sixth maybe? Delia blinks irritably at the bottle and clucks her tongue as she tries to remember, when was the last time she spent time getting so deliriously lush? A week? Two weeks? Anything more than a day is obviously too long so she doesn’t feel any kind of guilt as she pours herself another glass, another one just to make sure the rest have company. She’s a caring woman after all.

Oh she’s very caring. She cares about so many things, so many charities and protests and movements. She’s a good person, always the poster girl for all the good, nice things in the world, it’s terribly ironic when it clashes with her party girl life but it makes for such good press. There’s nothing she loves better than some good press, scandals are the most fun and they’re so easy to make these days. Look at someone wrong, tweet something, imply just a little too much and the whole house of cards starts to totter.

“I wanna stay inside all day,” she giggles as a soft rain starts bashing itself against the kitchen window, “I want the world to go away.”

The rainy season, such a lovely time. The rain covers all the dirty pieces of this city so well, she can go out on the roof during a storm and scream as loud as she wants. She can sit on the edge of the building and look down, down, down all those dizzying stories down and not have anyone threatening to drag her back to ‘safety’.

She’s not suicidal, why would she be? Her life is great, it’s grand! She has everything, money and fame, a reputation. She has everything she ever wanted when she came on the scene eighteen years ago, when she was foolish enough to be with a man who did nothing but hold her back. She was suicidal back then, wanted nothing more than to take a pair of scissors and slice her own neck open. At least in death she would have gotten the recognition she deserved, the recognition that had been so selfishly kept from her during life.

But. But she’s not there anymore, she’s in an expensive, luxurious apartment with her alcohol collection and her custom made chandelier. She has a wardrobe full of lovely, design clothes that cost more money than she ever thought she could have. She has everything. She has another glass of whisky.

“I want blood guts and chocolate cake. I wanna be a real fake,” she sings drunkenly because she is drunk now, seven or eight drinks in and she’s up and dancing around the apartment. She turns on her chandelier, her specially made crystal chandelier and dances as it spins serenely above her. She loves that chandelier, all the pieces were carved and sculpted by hand and put together one at a time, made so when the light was turned on, made so when it turned, the shadows cast would be scenes.

Scenes of people dancing with her, people in lovely clothes, people like her. The chandelier was the first piece of furniture she brought to this apartment, she slept on a bare mattress in the bedroom while it was made. She ate over the kitchen sink while it was made, she sat on the floor or the counter, while it was sculpted. She refused to bring anything else until she had that, she’d always wanted one, she’d promised herself that she would have one, she’d sworn.

“Yeah, I wish I’d been a, wish I’d been a teen, teen idle.”

Now she has one. Now she’s dancing around her apartment with all the lovely shadowed people that it casts and is having the time of her life. The rain beating against the windows even sounds like a beat, one that rises and falls with her heart, chasing her steps as she stumbles every so often. She still has her glass in hand and every stumble sends some of the lovely whisky sloshing out, onto the carpet, over her fingers but she doesn’t care.

“Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible,” she hiccups and she’s sure she skipped a line or two but that’s not important. It isn’t her song so it doesn’t matter, it’s a good song but not good enough to be hers and the only reason she likes it might be for that line. She did burn a bible at sixteen, she burnt it to ashes in front of her God fearing mother’s house. She did it out of spite because it was the last thing she could do to spite the old bitch, to spite her for throwing her pregnant sixteen year old out on the streets.

‘Whore! Slut! Harlot!’

Delia remembers all the slurs and words her mother hurled at her, some of them thrown so hard they bruised, some falling just in front of her, some so far off mark they couldn’t ever hurt. Oh yes, her mother was a terrible old bitch but that was fine because she was a terrible old bitch who died of smoker’s lung not two years later.

She can still remember her father’s call in the middle of the night ‘oh Deli you need to come to the hospital, your mother’s been in a terrible accident.’ She can remember nearly word for word her sisters’ texts the next day ‘Deli mom’s dead!’ ‘Deli please come home, we need you’ ‘Deli she was sorry, she forgave you, it’s okay’. She doesn’t remember how any of them got her new numbers but she does remember calling them, acting like she was going to leave her tour to come home. She remembers how grateful they all sounded, how they were putting off the funeral until she got there, and she remembers calling her manage to confirm the next concert in Europe.

“The pretty lies, the ugly truth. And the day has come where I have died,” she tries to carry the note but she can’t, her voice cracks as she slips but it’s okay. Delia crashes into her liquor cabinet and her glass smashes on the floor but that’s okay, it’s fine. She shakes her hand, wipes off the alcohol on her…dress.

She doesn’t know why she’s wearing a dress, today wasn’t supposed to be special but what does it matter? She’s drunk, past tipsy and well, proper drunk and she can’t even sing straight anymore but it’s fine, it’s fun! She’s dressed in a lovely golden dress, one that hugs her curves and shows off how darlingly slim she is. She’s wearing a lovely golden dress that matches her hair, compliments her eyes and makes her stunning, she’s a lovely train wreck in action and there’s nothing she loves being better.

“Only to find, I’ve come alive!” she screams to the empty apartment, screams as loudly as she can, listening to the screeching way her voice breaks again and smacks her hand against her cabinet. She can hear the grandfather clock wind up again, even though it’s across the room from her, even though she shouldn’t be able to. She hears the gears whirring and feels every little ‘tick’ echoing around her skull.

“I wish I wasn’t such a narcissist,” she whispers, pushing away from the cabinet and stepping on the glass but not caring. She listens to every little tick, steps in time with it and spins herself back under her lovely chandelier.

“I wish I,” the words die off in her throat as she looks at the crystals, watches them shine and shimmer as they go around and around in time with the clock. She knows every piece of it, what makes it go, what makes it tick, and she knows there’s something wrong. She can’t see it from the ground but she knows, call it intuition, and she needs to fix it.

“I wish I didn’t really kiss,” she repeats under her breath as her grandfather clock strikes the half hour and her chandelier…stops…moving. The chandelier stops turning, the party full of people stops stock still, even the echoing chime of the half hour stops on the second echo and Delia. Delia stares, she stares and stares at the glimmering chandelier, her chandelier.

“No,” she mumbles, ignoring the bloody prints she leaves across the nice hardwood.

“No, no, no,” she hisses as she grabs the back of a chair, a heavy wooden chair made of mahogany, a lovely chair, part of a set chair.

“No, no, no,” she snarls as she drags the chair, yanks and pulls it across the lovely hard wood floor, all the way from her tiled kitchen to her living room where her chandelier has stopped. She doesn’t care about anything else, nothing else matters to her; not the pain of glass, not the screeching of wood on wood, not the thundering tick of the grandfather clock.

Nothing else matters to her as she climbs up, nothing else matters as she gets on tip toe to reach the chandelier. She doesn’t think about turning off the light, she doesn’t think about calling anyone, she doesn’t even think too hard about the length of rope in her hand. She doesn’t think about how she doesn’t keep rope in her home, she doesn’t think about the perfect noose she ties with it. She doesn’t think about the way her fingers move along the rope, practiced and sure but mechanical in their surety, it should be unsettling but isn’t.

“The mirror, when I’m on my own,” and somehow she’s still singing her song and she feels a genial smile tugging on her lips again, pulling them up. Her name is Delia Daniels and she’s the best, she’s beautiful, she’s talented, she’s rich and famous and lovely, ever so lovely.

“Oh God!” she giggles, laughs, cackles, because God has nothing to do with it and she doesn’t even question slipping her head through the perfectly tied noose. She laughs as it rubs against her neck, she laughs harder as she loops the other end of the rope around the sturdy support of the chandelier; her chandelier.

“I’m gonna die alone,” she gasps between the choking laughter, stuck in her throat laughter, tight around her neck laughter, not enough breath in her lungs laughter. She’s gasping around the bubbling, boiling laughter in her mouth, the laughter that’s wrapped itself around her neck and is squeezing tight, tighter, tighter.

She…she’s choking.

Choking, but not on laughter. Breathless, but not from humour.

Her legs are kicking free, she can’t find the chair, she can’t see her chandelier. Why did she, did she jump? Why did she, why did she make a noose? She doesn’t understand, why did she, she is she…

“Delia, dearest.”

She can’t see her chandelier but she can see the grandfather clock. She can see the elegant golden hands; short hand three, long hand just past six.

“I did enjoy you.”

She can hear the tiny ticks, tick, tick, ticks. She can count the spaces. One. Two.

“But a deal’s a deal, yes? Of course, and I know you don’t break your promises.”

Three.

“Now, just close your eyes, and die. Die pretty, die lovely. You’ll be plastered over all the tabloids, every website, all of them will have you, dearest. They’ll get it wrong, they’ll say it’s a cry for help, they’ll forget the whisky on the table, they’ll ignore the glass on the floor. They won’t know the time, they won’t see the rhyme, or reason.

My dearest, no one will ever understand what you did or why, not even yourself. No one will understand because this is beyond them and when he shows up, your lovely darling boy won’t either. I look forward to him, dearest, I look forward to your death and all the rewards I get to reap, and all because you couldn’t spare a few seconds for the fine print.”

Ha, hmm, it’s so…tragic. Oh so tragic.”

[purple-prose-porn]

The streets are empty and cold, my love. The pitch beneath your feet is rough, my sweet.

Why do you go swimming between butter yellow pools of light? Why do you wade through the darkness that clings to your skin?

Come in, out of the cold, into my arms Come to me and off these rough streets.

Don’t you trust me and mine, my darling? Don’t you want to rest with the one who knows best?

The streets are wet and chilled, my dearest. The night is dark, and yet, this is where you belong, pet.

[purple-prose-porn]

“1Br 1Ba” Enter Aryn Poe

The seasonal rains laid heavy over the skyscrapers of uptown Clearcrest. The ashen skies split in harsh strikes of dull periwinkle amidst the clouds, hitting poles and buildings alike. The rushing waters cascaded on the windows of melancholy limousine lulled its passengers into a muttered daze as they traversed the slick streets towards their destination. Color was dimmed by the showers and sound was overpowered by the storm save for the abruptly blown horn of the other travelers. Ayn’s head rested against the back window, forehead pressed against the cold glass as soft exhales from his nose misted the surface.  Aryn was locked in far too deep of a sleep with the amount of noise around them. Of course the gentle shush aided in keeping him under… as well as the excessive amount of chemicals.

The car came to a stop and Ilario De Lupo , Aryn’s legal guardian– at least until he was of sound mind – reached out affectionately to brush cheek with gentle fingers. He pushed back heavy spill of aphotic hair and slipped it behind his ear with a gentle smile at the softness of it. That at least was taken care of even when Aryn couldn’t take care of the rest himself. Brown eyes held a warm glow as gray laced brows arched at the sleeping boy before patting his pale cheeks mildly.

“Mmm…?”

“We’ve arrived. Hop to it, boy.”

Aryn groaned at the command and cringed a bit at protesting aches throughout his body, wishing the ride had been longer – or at least long enough for the medication to not still blur his vision. Lids parted and dim daylight brought eerie glow to mercurial irises that fell upon Ilario with an almost concerning listlessness. It took a moment, several blinks to push away the glaze, but Aryn slowly became more aware… though dilated pupils and heavy circles beneath them spoke differently.

Ilario looked upon him with sympathetic eye and once again his hand found thick, silken strands, threading through them once more despite never receiving much reaction. How much of it was because of the drugs and how much of it was out of being accustomed to being touched, the lawyer wasn’t sure. He gave a sigh and pulled back, running a shaky hand through his own short, combed back salt and pepper hair.

“The least you could do is be a bit more excited, Aryn. Your own place? A real home for you.”

“I’ve had a home,” Aryn replied, voice a soft alto that belied it had never broken as it should have.

Ilario thought it was beautiful, angelic in his softness but also disconcerting in its monotonic cadence. “We’ve talked about this. We’re leaving all that behind and you’ll begin a real life.”

Aryn nodded, not speaking again.

The chauffer came out with and umbrella to let them out, a spare already on the crook of his arm waiting to be used. At Ilario’s urging, Aryn arched his neck to pull shoulder-length tresses from his back to tuck securely into hood. He climbed out of the car, taking the umbrella from the driver and holding it over them as he opened the other.

Ilario followed, adjusting his suit and brushing away any lint that might have accumulated during the ride. The driver pushed the shelter of the umbrella over him and the lawyer took it. The chauffeur nodded and returned to the car, pushing up the collar of his rain coat.

Aryn walked forward and tipped his head back a bit to take in the colossus of steel and glass that reflected the chaos of the skies above them. Thunder erupted hard near them and vibrated the world around them in fury.

“Is this the right place?”

“Of course it is. The Landlord was very specific about the address,” Ilario explained almost haughtily. As if he would get such a detail wrong. “This is where she lived before she married your father.”

“And she kept it… she stayed…”

“Yes. It was her first major purchase after her career took off. Only four lofts on the top floor too, a truly elite place. However your loft is on the fourteenth.  It’s truly nice accommodations, though.  I doubt I’d leave it behind either.”

“She never did…” Aryn’s eyes feel from the peak of the building to the glass doors and metal canopy. “I… I want to go back to the apartment.”

“Nonsense. Now is not the time for this.” Ilario wrapped his arm around his shoulder. “Come. It’s time for you to be an adult. Do that, for Uncle Ilario.”

Aryn averted his eyes from the door, shoulders slumped and hands gripping the slightly too long sleeves of his hoodie. He moved as he was urged, never speaking up as they entered the door. They entered the reception area, his heavy boots making a dull thud on the immaculate marble floor and making him feel instantly out of place. A worn out security officer sat patiently behind a sleek mahogany desk. They approached her and the woman eyes him critically, before putting her book – a romance novel by the look of it – aside and carded her fingers, looking up at them expectantly. Though her sharp blue eyes drifted to the arm wrapped securely around Aryn.

“Your identifications please?”

Though expression remained the same, Aryn’s eyes flicked up at the gruffness of the woman’s voice. It carried the heavy scratch of a long time smoker. Aryn was already reaching into his jeans pocket immediately, but Ilario squeezed him.

Ilario held up his hand. “No need. We already have the keys.”

Azure narrowed to slits and she tilted her head. “You must be Aryn Poe. You’re a half hour late.”

“I warned the landlord that we would be and that we did not need his assistance. If you please?”

“Mm.” Pursed lips set against deep smile lines made Aryn avert his gaze once again. “You are loft 1406,” she explained handing them a manila folder. “Here is your lease to sign, on your way out after inspecting you dwelling, return it to me.

Ilario rolled his eyes and took the folder at Aryn’s hesitance to even move. “Forgive him, he’s on medication and he’s not quite himself. Thank you.”

“Mm,” she said again, skepticism coloring her stare. “The rules and regulations of the building are all included. Assistance is available 24/7 for any complaints, repairs, and emergencies. Any noise violations will be taken on police record and all renovations must be approved by super. Pats must be approved case by case.”

“yes, yes, thank you miss?”

“I am Cecilia Daae,” she said, just as snappish. “I am the day guard and I am licensed carry. Please do not disturb the peace.”

“I’m certain your expertise won’t be needed.”

Aryn breathed a heavy sigh of relief once they got away from the desk and made it to the elevator. It was a quiet ride as Aryn stared at the floor not truly taking in his surroundings. Once they reached the fourteenth floor, Aryn stepped out behind Ilario, only then lifting his eyes to taken what he saw. It was strange… how… drab everything appeared. Colorless hallway, neutral carpet tone, dark varnished doors. It all appeared… old. Like a luxury hotel that was locked in a time where such aesthetics were a pleasure now tacky and out of placed. So… dull.

“The movers brought what little you had,” Ilario explained as they approached his door, the place very empty, not a peep heard. He unlocked the door and opened for him. “Go on. Its yours. You should go first.

Aryn barely heard him as his eyes widened and his lips were slightly parted in awe. The floor was solid marble and Aryn was almost reluctant to step onto them with his heavy boots for fear of staining it. Walked in slowly and looked around at the fully furnished loft. Abstract black and white, just like he liked it….just like his mother liked it. Painting littered the wall tastefully with monochromatic style. A white sectional sofa and a glass coffee table sat atop a plush rug in front of a flat screen TV. A liquor case was on full display showing various top shelf brands and near a corner there was a small recording stereo. Above was a lovely shaped chandelier that made it appear a bit gaudy, but it was beautiful all the same. A furred rug was near the plush couch and a throw of bright red was draped over its back. Close to the floor to ceiling window was a dining set with a gorgeous view of the city through the kaleidoscope of rain running down the pane. A gentle awe came to him at the sight of the fully furnished kitchen.

All of these… vintage items reminiscent of a musician at the height of decades past. A lifestyle that had long sense died was locked in this room. It was… overwhelming to the senses.

Aryn rubbed his arms as he walked slowly around the apartment as Ilario watched him.

“Much of this was upgraded per the landlords discretion but he didn’t bother to move or change anything about the way your mother had this apartment set. The fridge and cabinets have food, so please, please eat regularly. You’ll be getting a monthly allowance to care for yourself.”

Aryn nodded, only half absorbing what was said. He ventured hesitantly to the bedroom and peered in. Empty… lackluster. Bare minimal of King-sized bed, black and white sheet set and plane dresser and table. Compared to the aesthetic preserved in the living room, this seemed… quiet. He would find this place the most comfortable.

Aryn dared to traverse a bit further and found an old framed playbill for one of his mother’s concerts. She was dressed down in a beautiful black dress with studded rhinestones littering the bust. Her obsidian hair was pulled back and curled into large spirals and her mouth was open in song, a smile just at the corner of her lips. He had many pictures of his mother, but none of her so young. The article attached to it read that she was only 17 when she debuted. He wondered what happen to her between then and when she became pregnant… what happened that made her…

What did a woman who’d gained everything have to be so absolutely sad about that she’d had no way out?

“I’ll have to leave, Aryn.”

“Ah…I…”

“You’ll be fine. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow. But I have other things to do.”

Aryn lowered his head once again and nodded. “Alright.”

Ilario moved to slid his arms around him and hug him close. “You’ll be alright.” He pressed a face into Aryn’s neck. “I’ll be helping you every step of the way, but you have to learn to live, understand.”

Aryn nodded, staring blankly at the door behind Ilario, his skin becoming pins and needles in the embraces. Ilario stepped back with a fatherly smile.

“I’ll handle your lease. Rest and take your medicine.”

Aryn nodded again. A few steps. A click. He was gone.

Once he heard the steps no more, Aryn collapsed on the couch and slipped off his boots. He let his head fall back on the couch, taking in deep meditative breaths. Out the corner of his eye he could see the small stack of his few belongings the movers had piled near the dining table. A few steps beyond that Aryn spotted the door to the balcony and grew curious. He slipped out of his jacket and walked barefoot to the door. The Marble was freezing but when he opened the door, the summer warmth came rushing despite the falling rain.

He slid down his hood.

Aryn stepped out onto the balcony where he walked along the edge where there was no cover from the falling rain. He tilted his head back letting it fall over his face in cool caresses. His hair became heavy with it and his shirt soaked. He never understood why but he loved the rain. It was always soothing, always gentle to his nerves when he felt the weight of his responsibilities baring down on him. From never getting to know his mother, to replacing her in his father’s liquor tinted eyes, the rain had always been the only thing he was allowed to enjoy that his mother apparently did not.

He leaned over the balcony to peer down from the great heights at the far off streets below. His hair slipped down over his shoulders, waterlogged and heavy, the view making him feel a bit light headed. He lifted his head and body from over the edge and brushed back his hair to look up at the grey skies. He breathed in deep and let it out finding comfort in its cold caress and its soft lull.

The fuck are you doing out there! Get your ass in the house!

Aryn cringed, hearing his father’s voice clearly and pulled away from the balcony, going inside with a muttered “ Yes, sir, Sorry sir.”

Get clean. Get clean. You’re not allowed to be sick. Get clean and get dry.

After a hot shower and drying himself and his hair thoroughly, he sat down on the couch to brush through hair. Detangle it. Make it soft. Always brush, always dry completely, always primp. He had to keep it nice and healthy…

Each motion of his hand lulled him somewhere nice… somewhere safe… somewhere far

Thud

Laughter

Aryn blinked and put his brush down, getting up to go to the door. Thin fingers hesitated on the latch, swallowing growing panic. It was just a sound. New neighbors. He didn’t have them last time. Running tongue over dry lips, Aryn unlatched the door and cracked it open, peeking out to see what the noise was.

Bodies pressed against the wall. Moving, Rubbing. Intertwined.

Shh. Spread your legs, pretty.

Moans, giggles, soft cry.

See? It feels good. Listen at you.

Eyes widened and Aryn immediately shut the door. He turned the deadbolt and pressed himself back against the door, heart pounding and hyperventilating. The world tilted, turned and distorted and he shook his head, closing his eyes tight as his nails dug into his arms.

Safe. Safe. It’s fine. It’s safe. Just got here. Its okay.

Knock. Knock.

A whimper escaped him and he clenched his hands over his ears, shaking. Get up. Get up. Get up. Answer it. Just answer it.

He opened his eyes once against, trying to ignore the flitting shadows out the corner of his eye or the way the room bulged and distorted. It’s fine. Just need meds.

A soft whine escaped him as he fought down the nausea and stood, turning to the door. He unlocked it and cracked it open once again to peer out; meeting the… warmest eyes he’d ever seen. He shifted his gaze past them, just over shoulder.

“Ah…ah…Hello.” He managed with voice slightly hoarse from his shaken state.

[purple-prose-porn]

[purple-prose-porn]

Blue is the smell of the rain in the air Blue is the taste of drowning in his dreams Blue is the feeling of being muddled, unclear Blue is the strangeness he always feels

Red is; love, hate, lust, hearts Red was the colour he chose from the start Red reminds him of something erotic Red was always something tantric

Bottle blonde beauties and sky blue eyes Darkly handsome lovers and lost time between dreams Blue rain pouring and roaring from the skies Red love burning down the whole scene

[purple-prose-porn]

The rain is just rolling in, just now starting and he can smell it in the air and feel it soaking into his bones. The season starts with a coolness that’s a balm to his skin and throws a blanket of desperation and depression over the entire building. There’s no better drink to welcome in the change in weather than tasting the silver slick depression seeping from every apartment.

He tastes the sighs that spill from his sweet little sinner’s mouths and breathes in the little loss of pleasure that shivers through them all. They’re a lovely, gorgeous bunch this time around and more resilient than he’s seen in much too long. There’s a lot to be said for the tangy sweet medications they have nowadays, helps keep his sinners going far longer than they would on their own.

The first drops of rain splatter, patter against the glass, rolling in with a burst of cold that blows back his hair and sweeps through the apartment. A half open window lets him hang half out of the building, to turn his face up to the sky and smile slow and lazy. He doesn’t care that he’s soaked in seconds, it cools the burning under his skin and drowns out the quiet whispering that sneaks through all of his apartments.

Delia’s apartment will be occupied in a few days and after years of it standing still and empty next to him, the change is welcome. She was a favourite of his, selfish, ruthless, careless and carefree to a fault, to a sin. She tasted the way she sang, rich and smooth with just the barest hint of honey. Her kisses were slow and drunk, she took her sweet time unraveling and falling apart, layer by rotten layer until he had the heart of her; bleeding and black in his hands.

He wonders if her child will be just as fun, just as slow to break, just as completely to fall apart. He wonders if her child will know what he is, sometimes the generational…tenants see through their own haze long enough to realize where and when and what but not often. Maybe Delia’s spawn will though, might make the game more fun. Hmm, it’s been so long since he’s had a nice, delicious tenant, he’s almost bored.

“Tragic,” he sighs throwing his head back as a deep, growling laugh bubbles up and bursts out of his mouth, “oh so tragic!”