[Memory] What: Memory Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing. Warning, this memory contains: Nothing graphic.
Oh, it's divine. You're in the air, and there's so much glitter on your wrists that you think it's going to bring you down. If you swandive like this, then so be it. It's a gorgeous night. Dark, smoggy, and the moon gladly kisses the sooty edge of the cloud that flirts across it. You can see your breath ghost from lips painted red, and the suit fits you like a glove. Sleek and black, and there's not a bit of softness on you that doesn't serve to make you feel female. You feel confident, and there's sex in every exertion of muscle as you swing from one building to the next. Your whip, which impossibly carries you 20-stories over the city, it creaks.
Come on, it's not as if you're a secret. Out here, everyone knows your name. Not the one on your birth certificate. This isn't about the silver spoon that was wrenched from between your teeth. This is about who you chose to become, and why hide? Everyone in this town knows your name. The cops can't hold you, no prison can keep you, and everyone wants to fuck you. And, you? You just feel alive.
The wind whips against your cheekbones, and you're running. The roof you've landed on is long and damp, and you run. The edge is coming, it's coming, it's...
It comes, and you jump without looking. You flip through the air in a sublime arc, and you land in a perfect crouch of bent knees and gloved hand on stone. You laugh, and it's the throaty laugh of a young woman in her element. The diamonds at your neck glitter. You see their reflection when you look down, and your goggles just make them seem more brilliant. Your suit is black, but you shine, and you know you'd shine just as brightly if you slipped the suit off. Which...
When you break into the Manor, the lights are off, but you don't need them. You've always seen perfectly well in the dark. Oh, well, not always, but certainly since that pesky fall off a building at 16. But you can see, and, anyway, you know these ridiculously expensive carpets that you're treading with black stilettos that most women would topple on. Your hips sway, and you lose gloves and cowl along the way. The goggles clatter as they fall, and you know they'll give you away. But he already knows you're there. He always knows you're there.
The zipper comes down last, and you pull the suit from bare shoulders as you step into his room. He's there, of course. He's waiting, of course. You smile a lush and red smile, and you know he's going to want the diamonds back. He always wants the diamonds back, and you like the chase. It works out for both of you, and your knee is light on the bed, suit puddled at your feet now.
"Lecture later," you tell him, and you crawl across the bed.