Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-08 19:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing
Warning, this memory contains: No warnings needed.
You’re marooned on an island of white cushions, in an ocean of expensive flooring. It’s an odd place, this, buried as it is by the yawn of the lake. It isn’t hidden, you know hidden very well. Hidden is neurotic and mildly ashamed of itself for existing but this is a grand scale state of being. This is showing off from a distance, it’s photos of skiing holidays in Gstaad sent in Christmas cards at the holidays. (You’ve never been skiiing in Gstaad. You’ve only ever heard it said, but it sounds expensive.)
You’d expect a show-off. A control-freak, actually. Somebody’s spent considerable money on fitting this place together until it’s almost aggressive in luxury. It’s not comfortable or lived in. You know wealth those ways very well; you’re not at home in them but you do a good imitation. It’s enough to keep the talk of Gstaad bubbling over ahead rather than directing pitying looks at you as you hold your champagne awkwardly and hope you’ve not picked the wrong shoes. This isn’t that kind of wealth at all. It’s not lived in, it’s designed to leave you at arm’s length, lost. Overpowered. Yes, that’s it. Overpowered. You’re meant to be overpowered but you’re not. You’re not lost, or overwhelmed.
Because perhaps all that aggressive ostentation means you’re not alone in being marooned, on white cushions. You’re temporary, hello, passing through. Somebody else is building a fortress to be lost in. You’d believe this to be aggressive: a giant fuck-you to all and passing, if you hadn’t seen warmth ripple to the surface, hadn’t seen the careless destruction of any pretension at arm’s length, fortresses and walls. He’s like that, for a particular set of people. It’s a fissure in a very determined set-up and you’re curious. You like to shove fingers in and wiggle, to see if fissures widen under pressure. To see if it blooms, when exposed to sunlight, if it’s been closed and cut off for a while. You think he’s like that. A little affection and he’ll rub up good, shiny as silver.
You’re joined. Weight sinks beneath your hip and you slide sideways into the warmth of somebody else’s length of thigh. The expensive cushions don’t hold up to much abuse any more than the regular kind do. You’re knee to knee and you’re ambivalent on what’s next. Because it’s not the body on the couch - the one whose breath smells vaguely of juniper and whose head is tipped back against the couch, loose hair unwinding cat-like - who really has to make a call here. He wants. You know he wants, he’s unashamed in the wanting. And really, he’s lonely. It must be, to sit in the middle of a castle and throw boiling oil over the sides with expensive cars and luxury alarm systems. It’s all very medieval in a GQ-magazine cover way. He’s lonely and you can see it glint in the crevasse he’s exposed, the flash of it in the shape of his smile, the way he looks at you. He wants to be wanted, and he’s for the time being, fixated on you.
And he’s good in bed and you’ve got an affinity for this, as his palm leaks heat to your thigh through denim and his pupils blot wide as he looks at you, as he strokes you. You’re good at this, you could make him feel wanted, crack him open. He’s happy in this minute and the next and you could cultivate that into a series of minutes. Many, in fact.
But it’s not his call. Because you see, you’re aware, here, in marooned in a pool of luxury in a town dedicated to weird and a home rather too dilapidated to be anything other than hidden that you’re lonely. Madly, in fact. That it has been a long while since you were not and that it’s terribly easy to lay down burdens for the duration and indulge. That makes it not generosity at all. You’re not sure, at this minute that you’ll stay ambivalent.
But his knee nudges yours and you’re bobbing on the surface of sensation until his fingers curl under your jeans and you decide for now (now, while you’re arching toward him, until you’re a tangle of limbs and it’s a very good idea indeed to have such enormous couches) that it’s not a conundrum that needs untangling. For now, it’s enough. Heat, salt, the laughter, the friction of skin and being marooned (for now, together) is enough.