#he'd really punch somebody in they shit over malachai and he doesn't even know her name yet

[heartdesire]

     star   athlete   begins   to   grow   bored   as   seconds   drift   to   minutes,   women   attempt   to   approach   like   sirens   traversing   through   saltwater.   promises   of   a   night   he   would   be   unable   to   forget   heavy   on   their   tongues   and,   really,   if   he   had   been   anyone   else   one   would   allow   himself   to   be   pulled   under   tumultuous   currents   without   a   fight.   however,   chance   hayashi   is   particularly   fastidious   in   his   choice   of   women.   news   outlets   and   zealots   in   internet   forums   take   their   time   to   meticulously   piece   together   attributes   of   every   women   athlete   is   identified   with   no   matter   how   obscure   photographs   may   be.   a   woman   of   shorter   stature   is   nothing   atypical   to   him   yet   deems   it   a   necessary   quality   nonetheless;   quadruplet   brother   once   commenting   it   could   tie   into   athlete's   constant   need   to   be   venerated.   women   that   would   place   him   on   the   highest   of   pedestals   before   singing   him   his   praises   (   .   .   .   )   a   behavior   akin   to   religious   worshippers   falling   to   their   knees   upon   holy   ground   for   higher   beings   with   rumored   ability   to   cleanse   mankind   of   their   sins.   prefers   a   woman   beauteous   enough   for   men   to   look   at   him   with   utter   disdain   knowing   anyone   on   his   arm   would   never   dream   of   going   for   lesser   than   him.   however,   no   one   possesses   enough   gravitational   pull   to   captivate   him,   shooing   them   away   to   pick   apart   at   his   teammates   with   a   dismissive   wave   of   his   hand.   he   sits   atop   chesterfield   like   sovereign   sitting   on   a   throne,   ennui   clearly   present   on   countenance   while   eyes   flicker   around   cabaret   in   disinterest.   lip   of   cognac   grande   champagne   rests   on   lower   brim,   bottle   nearing   its   end   before   he   realizes.   ❝   'm   gonna   head   to   the   bar.   ❞   states   to   companion   on   his   right,   unsure   of   why   he   does   so   to   begin   with   —   would   not   be   bringing   the   other   back   anything   for   his   efforts   and   entertainment   swirling   her   hips   in   his   lap   has   him   fairly   enthralled.   homme   rises   to   feet   without   even   a   sway   to   his   step,   years   of   sneaking   alcohol   consumption   into   daily   adolescent   life   preparing   him   for   moments   such   as   these,   manuevering   languidly   through   the   groups   of   people   conversing   or   throwing   their   finances   on   stage.   though,   if   he   were   moving   any   faster,   he   surely   would   have   missed   cherub   seemingly   making   a   beeline   for   the   section   he   left   behind   mere   seconds   ago.   blush   -   colored   ensemble   emits   a   fetching   gleam,   pulling   him   in   similarly   to   a   lighthouse   beckoning   a   naval   vessel   to   harbor.   chance   doesn't   have   to   think   about   his   next   course   of   action,   long   limbs   closing   the   distance   between   them   and   successfully   intercepting   her   path,   a   steady   hand   coming   up   to   perch   on   her   shoulder   to   avoid   collision.      ❝   you   do   private   shows,   right?   ❞   question   doesn't   precisely   need   an   answer,   albeit   he   allows   it   to   sit   between   them   for   a   moment.   ❝   you'd   have   a   way   better   night   with   me   than   with   anyone   else   here.   ❞      cannot   help   the   way   eyes   oogle   prize   delievered   to   him   on   a   silver   platter,   immediately   checking   off   boxes   on   mental   checklist.   this   was   an   opportunity   of   a   lifetime   for   her   and   one   thinks   she'd   be   a   fool   to   deny   him   of   what   he   wants.

˚   ₊   ‧   𓈒   ❀   spotted,   the   upcoming   season's   incomparable,   nestled   in   some   hole   -   in   -   the   -   wall   nightclub,   humming   a   melody   plucked   straight   from   dark   matter.   it   is   like   all   of   the   ones   that   have   come   before   it,   nameless   and   teetering   between   simply   inexpressible,   as   lithe   figure   reposes   against   a   folding   canvas   chair,   a   doe   -   foot   applicator   dipped   in   a   crystallized   gloss   skimming   across   heart   -   shaped   petals   when   it   happens   ———   cabaret's   makeshift   dressing   room   descending   into   pure   anarchy   as   women   her   age   and   older   shuffle   in   and   out   with   nothing   but   malachai   on   the   tip   of   their   tongues.   and   while   it   takes   femme   a   heartbeat   too   long   to   notice   that,   yes,   that   is   her   name   (   however,   she   has   told   them   an   uncountable   amount   of   times   that   she   is   far   more   impartial   to   kai   .   .   .   )   she   knows   exactly   what   is   expected   of   her   before   it   is   even   uttered.   ❛   let   me   guess   (   .   .   .   )   she   struck   out   with   some   golden   state   warrior   and   now   you're   sending   me   out   there   even   though   i   told   all   of   you   i   have   a   client   tonight   and   don't   have   time   to   entertain   some   has   been   ?   ❜   manicured   digits   are   able   to   grasp   at   seat   when   she   turns   and   faces   them,   cranium   tilting   to   the   side   in   a   way   that   resembles   a   cat   who   has   yet   to   figure   something   out,   deep   -   brown   orbs   undulating   at   scattered   responses.   ❛   you   better   decide   which   one   of   you   is   forking   over   your   tips.   i   don't   even   have   time   to   change.   ❜   last   sentence   is   murmured   to   self   as   kitten   heels   meet   flooring   beneath   her,   unable   to   overlook   the   vexation   she   feels   when   she   takes   a   final   glimpse   at   the   mirror.   tonights   costume   is   everything   that   her   client   likes   ———   and   while   it   cannot   be   further   from   what   she   dons   in   her   day   -   to   -   day,   all   dollette   can   hear   is   managers   antagonistic   (   the   client   is   always   right   )   tirade.   an   obvious   downside   of   her   occupation,   but   malachai   ishihara   is   twenty   years   old,   and   has   only   lived   the   sort   of   life   where   she   can   do   nothing   but   she   has   been   directed   to   do.   it   is   not   something   she   can   dwell   upon,   especially   when   she   steps   out   of   discotheque's   wardrobe.   fluorescent   lights   are   unable   to   capture   every   feature,   such   as   the   rosiness   of   her   cheeks   or   her   wispy   eyelashes,   and   yet,   there   she   stands,   an   ethereal   beauty   amongst   them   all.