Paresthesia Pt. 06

For a house so full of glass, it is dark as the deepest night. The whole shell came down once the one breach was tracked. Metal rolling shutters too dense for heat and punches to go through. I fumble in the dark for a switch to flick on. Riot is the one to find it.

I groan at the room. It's glass. Everything is glass. The table is glass. The chairs are glass. The couch is glass and see through. I don't like it. This place should burn down. I don't care much for optics, but the sheer number of angles and curves have to mean that one of them is for starting fires. At least some of the glass is stained. Sunshine yellow, sunset orange, pure sky blue, cloudy white. But still, every single surface I can see is shiny and translucent. It's all open concept, which I can appreciate, and it seems like this particular area of floor is designated as a kitchen.

"I don't like this place," Riot says, "It's so weird. Why is everything like this?"

"Can't buy taste," I sigh, "I bet there's a water feature in here somewhere too."

That gets a played-up gag from her. I don't think it's that exaggerated. The one bit I do appreciate is the see through cabinets. He's a cereal guy, it seems. And it's all the ones with his face on them. Solar Rings, Choco Solar Rings, Fruiti Solar Rings, Solar Rings with Shmallows. I check the date on the last one. They discontinued it years ago, but this one is open. I dump it out for the little plastic prize. But it's gone. I don't trust any of this. It's all dry and stale.

"Dude really needs to eat more veggies," Riot calls, rifling through his fridge, "There's just beer and what looks like a pizza that turned fuzzy blue."

"Give him some slack. He doesn't live here anymore. I'm just surprised he didn't clean any of this out," I say back.

"Think he just left it to a housekeeper or something?"

"Probably. Same with the lawn. Budget cuts probably had to snip both the maid and the gardener."

"Should have got some of the house too. Damn. I was living in a studio for the last couple of years. It wasn't even an Upper Waters studio. Like, I could understand that at least."

"I don't think he spent much time here. He was always at the hall. He practically lived in his office while I was there."

"He only got worse. I don't even think him and Serpentor lived together."

"But that's like the best part."

"I know, right. It's a sleep over that never ends and there's never school the next day."

"We can have pizza every night and be as loud as we want. And the sex."

"And the sex."

She starts giggling and that makes me chuckle as she saunters over and touches her lips to my cheek. She gets a pinch on her ass. I get one of mine and the gift exchange ends with a small, delighted squeak.

It feels weird to be happy here. Everything's cold and sterile, fine dust on each and every thing. He hasn't been home in a long, long time, longer than his trip out to Vegas. Maybe he really did live in the Hall, under his desk in a little cot. That brings me some satisfaction at least. He would have been super uncomfortable. He deserves it.

What passes for his TV is honestly kind of neat. Another glass piece but curved and wafer thin. No back to it, but from what I can tell, there's a light on the bottom that does the whole projection thing. Might need to look into that. But for the most part, none of this is really all that stealable. Its glass and that sort of thing's fragile. Transportation is an often overlooked logistic of robbery. A million pounds of gold is worth a lot of money, but it's also a million pounds. And paper money gets heavy quickly. Part of the reason I think Violence goes mostly for gems. Lot of value in a tiny, tiny package.

"Beat," Riot calls, "I found the stairs. They're slippery so be careful."

It takes a moment for me to find them as well. Dim lighting and transparent material don't quite make an easily navigable affair. But a few banged shins later and I am slowly smudging glass with boot tracked mud, thumping a bat into the wall every other step. I am somewhat more hesitant to start breaking things with myself inside. I do not know what is a load bearing pane.

That said, he at least had the sense to make the floors opaque. And some of the upstairs walls. Bad things happen upstairs and the world does not need to see everything. It's nice to have four walls and a ceiling that all block the view. Granted, I have also lost sight of Riot and that's terrible.

She's laughing though. That makes it easier to find. Sunburst paintings and tacky art, thin rugs and cloudy glass, but there is a woman snorting with laughter on the other side of one of these walls. It's the third one I find, and I laugh too.

It's a room about him, just him, only him. Newspaper clippings, framed in gold, pictures with a shining smile and a firm handshake, every single bit of merch that ever even thought about having his name on it. But the real kicker is in Riot's hands. A pin up calendar, there is a pin up calendar. And it is all Solar.

"What is up with that treasure trail?" she giggles.

"I have a treasure trail," I say, "Not to defend him or anything. But still."

"Yeah, but yours is blonde and kind of natural. Like look at that."

"So, he shaves it. Big deal."

"Beat, it's in a starburst. That's weird. That's really weird."

"Should I do mine in like a mohawk shape?"

"No, god, please no. You're perfect. Don't shave or do anything. Oh my god. That Santa hat on his dick. How is it staying there?"

"I have some ideas."

"I refuse to believe that he can pull off that trick. Now, if he was in some lingerie, that might be something worth writing home about."

"So, I know what I'm wearing for your birthday."

I like the look she gives me when I say those words. It's scary and tempting and I am not sure I will be able to survive the other end of the look. But then that's the type of bad time I appreciate.

"It better be red. I have some ideas. I'll show you later."

I keep moving through the hall of remembrance, with a delightfully scary look to my ass. I make sure to bend and stretch a bit more and she seems to appreciate that. I think that it will be green, though, a little bit of my own brand on it.

His office comes to my right, marked with a sun shining down on a birch door. It's even locked. Now, the act of melting and knocking are a bit beyond me, a baseball bat does a fine job of getting through the worst of it.

Light wood, beech and birch and all sorts of things that can be classified as such. I am not sure. The types of wood beyond what I am told don't really fall into my knowledge baes. I am glad it is just not glass. But it is an office with a computer and a desk and a shelf full of binders, full of files, full of numbers and calculations and all sorts of wonderfully boring things. Dude invested a lot. Smart move, honestly. Construction, mostly. Always a good call. Things will always be built because the world always seems keen on tearing them down. Good ROI's, good diversity, good strategy. I rifle through it all, eyes glazing over page and page and page of interest rates and stocks and bonds and all sorts of fancy accounting terms that make my brain turn off. I am not good at math, not in the slightest.

The computer boots up still, to my surprise. A splash screen with a login, and I sigh. The name's already in there, but the password's blank. No ideas spring to mind, but I keep flowing through each and every drawer. Fun things in there, more files, more papers, more sorts of things that go in drawers. Toy drawings, new line of action figures. I like the Azure Dream one, honestly. Good articulation, what looks to be some good stands and coloring. I would buy it for a hypothetical nephew with bad taste and overactive disposition.

The next one, a Serpentor adult coloring book, finally gives me something to smile about. And a clue falls from between the sexy page and the snaky page. A sticky note with symbols and dashes and letters and numbers colliding together in some random gumbo. All of that wonderful glee once again falls down to disappointment. The first time trying it gets a rejection. The second, the one where I click that all seeing eye to confirm, also comes back with a big fat no. I stop. The third time will be my last and that's not worth the shot. Later, I will come back later once I have another brain to think this all through.

I am severely tempted by the next room. It is a bedroom, and it is glass. The bed is a glass slab that sits on a glass stand, holding a mattress inside that is surprisingly not glass. The sheets aren't glass either, which is surprising. I thought they would be. I don't know how many more times I can think the word glass before going insane. And there is even a glass wall here, leading into a bathroom with an overhead shower.

Therein lies my temptation. I have been stewing in leather for the better part of two days, with the remnants of a night well spent soaking in my skin. I think the lipstick is still there, although finally smudged with the day's passing on. It would be heavenly to sit and stand under the hot water and let the time slip slide away into nothing at all. The door opens behind me.

"So, he also has a body pillow," Riot says, "Not a real one though. There are some fun drawings of him in poses that he was going over. I don't know who would buy them. Now a Serpentor one, that might be a good idea."

"I'd get one of those," I ponder. It would be nice to sleep with when the actual person couldn't be bothered.

"Me too. And we have the real thing to hug."

"There's a shower there. And I have an idea."

"Not the worst idea I've heard."

"I didn't even say it."

"Yeah, but I had it too. And we're not going anywhere."

---

I am naked. Riot is naked. The shower is slowing warming up and we keep rummaging through the drawers.

"This one's 'Sunrise Citrus," Riot calls, "What have you found."

"Sunshine Ruby Grapefruit. I think our friend has a theme," I say.

"It's not a theme. It's an obsession. You don't have punk themed shampoo."

"They don't make punk themed shampoo. The closest thing is those weird black tubes that have one-word names like Mist, and Rain, and Hail."

"Hail smells good though. That's what I use. More 'Sunrise Citrus.'"

"Then just do that. It's all he's got."

"And it's not too bad. Oranges smell good."

Steam, glorious cleansing steam pours through the room, ankle high. It's warm, so warm and filling and suddenly everything is that much better.

"Oh my god," squeaks Riot, "I love Kieran. I love her so much. She's the best. She's the best ever. We need to get her something. I don't care how much it costs. She needs something."

"What is it?"

"She wrote a heart on your ass. In lipstick. That's the best thing I've ever seen. I'm doing that. I'm doing that on you and you can't stop me."

I gaze at myself in the mirror. The shape is blurry, but there it is, curve to point and deep, deep green against pale skin. I laugh. It's sideways. I move my hips and the shapes move with it. Smudged sure, but I like it. It fills a weird hole in my chest that I didn't know was there. The marks on my pelvis, down my front, down my thighs are still there, faded with time and sweat. Riot keeps her eyes there. And I keep my eyes to her marks.

The statue has been vandalized, canvas of skin torn and protested against with lipstick marks of the natural world. She does look good painted. It suits her. And despite her insistence that I am too pale, she is much the same. Marble clay toned and chiseled down and painted into something defaced. They should be my lips, but I will accept the reminder of Kieran in our lives. She stretches. She knows I'm watching her through the fogged mirror and the statue needs to be appreciated with touch and taste. The gaze will suffice for now. Not for long, but for now.

I am lost in admiring the color slowly run down from steam and heat. A knock pulls me from my own body and the odd thought that everything looks a bit better when I stand on my heels. It's the other naked body I happen to share a room with. And it's currently pressed against the glass. There is not enough for her to spill over from the pressure, but there is enough to change shape and become more and more enticing. Even more so when she turns around and presses her back to the glass. That is a much better thing to turn and press and squish and pinch. Especially when she is spreading it and bending over in order to pull me closer. She is very inviting when she wants to be.

Her hands are on me as soon as I feel the hot water run down my back. I decide that I now need to get an overhead shower. It is so much better than anything given to me by a nozzle at an angle. It is a rain shower from a loving god of warmth and care and infinite affection. It happens to smell like oranges, but oranges still smell more or less good. Don't care for their juice, but still.

Her hands, her hands soft stone grip and feather rick touch, they find me as I am and trace bone through skin. Shapes and lines, the artists' brush turned back to the art in front of her.

"Why are you always so smooth," She hums with half lidded eyes, "Like I don't think you do anything special. Unless you have secret lotion."

I shrug and take my hands to her. She is hard, rock hard housed within just enough give to be called organic. She is fun to poke into with the pleasing spring back. She retains the shape and there is not enough force in the world to make her something else. She will always come back to the form.

"Why are so fun to touch," I growl. She likes the little bit of menace to my voice, the little bit of manic excitement that creeps into the edges at the thought of further euphoric exhaustion.

"Oh, you are trying today aren't you," she purrs, "Did last night do something to your pride?"

"I don't know what you are talking about. I won, remember?"

"Sure, sure. But still. I saw your face. You were terrified."

"And you weren't?"

"She was gentle with me. I didn't need to be scared to get off."

I kiss her. That seems to stop any sense of teasing. There are better things to use a tongue and lips for. I pour myself into her. Hands roaming and fingers gripping, it is routine, a well-trodden road into my wonderful paradise. She is meandering and flowing, in roads and trails, an endless expanse of smooth stone world. I enjoy her back, the large dips and valleys and of my muscles, the line from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Muscle and bone, perfect slotted together thought iron forged will and it sinks into me with each and every second.

She pulls away and for once, I don't mind all that much. The water is there to keep me warm. Her hair is starting to soak and stick to her back. I imagine mine is doing the same. It's not ugly per se, but no one looks good with wet hair in the shower. The body makes up for it. And the generous pile of orange goo her palm starts the process of some true fun.

She rubs her body, just the same way as I was. It's terrible. I should be touching her, petting her, rubbing against her, slick and slide over toned flesh. Those hands do not deserve such glory. But she goes up and down, up and down her chest, never breaking eye contact with me as she lathers and builds up golden bubbles on her skin. There is more soap pressed into her hand and the lather grows denser.

Our bodies touch and she is slick and smooth and rubbing over me, washing me and washing her. It is slick and slippery and moving and sliding one and all of our union. I lose track of where I touch. I am everywhere on her and she is everywhere on me. Line and press, each and every single thing slotted into spots where everything is everything.

She is on me and in me while I run my hands over her chest. I touch her and she touches me until there is nothing left unexplored. Even then, there is simple wonder, simple joy into pinch and touch and squeeze and shift. For the one time in my life, I settle in her chest, sliding her breasts up and rolling them in my palm. She sighs and hums keeps to my chest as well. Muscle, she finds muscle to play with and move in her time. Her fingers carry the shockwave in her core. I groan and moan while she sighs and hums. We are a symphony together.

I slowly sink, trying to bring her down with me. We need to be down. I don't want to do something so incredibly sophisticated as standing up. There is a small puddle of warm water forming to take us in and keep us comfortable. She resists, thinking that this is some sort of weird resistance. I come to her thighs and her wants suddenly become more apparent and I change my intent.

Digging into her hips, I lavish her, moving past the scent and taste of fake citrus. It's not pleasant, but I don't care. I am washing my mouth out with her and her alone. I kiss her thighs, working my fingers into the marks of makeup still clinging to skin. They fade. With great effort and heartache, they fade down her legs in deep green rivers before disappearing entirely down the drain. Reborn, refreshed, all the sins of the previous nigh fading away. Even my headache seems to be fading into the mist of hot water.

Her hands are in my hair, trying to drag me along to spots she deems needy. I refuse. If my grand act of repose is not on the table, then my worship of her legs, toned slender legs bending and flexing, that worship is all my own. I kiss her thighs and feel the growing annoyance at my rebellion. I am here. I am so close to where I belong, but I refuse my home for the cold wilderness of white-water rapids. I nip and bite and that sends the message I am not to be tame. I do not look up. She is pouting. If she is pouting, then I will feel bad and do as she wants me to. It's one of her ways to get me to do things. And it works. She's cute when she's annoyed, and it's my job to make sure she is annoyed at every single opportunity.

"You better start licking me, or I'm going to get mad," she thrums.

"Good things happen to me when you're mad, though," I smile up at her and she is annoyed, pouting, cheeks puffed and eyes doing calculations. She likes me being on my knees. But only when I am compliant and quiet and obedient. I am not any of those things right now. I am needling and prickling and she is trying desperately to find some way to get me to be what she wants me to be.

"Was it pissed off that means bad?" she sighs, "Or angry? I forget. I'll be the thing that you won't like."

"There's nothing you could be that I won't like."

Now she's more annoyed because I am sweet to her and that means she can't be mad at me without being the bad guy. Good thing she is a bad guy now. She can be a jerk and that's what the people want.

Case in point, she pulls my hair a bit harder, just enough to pull a sharp needle of pain through my scalp. That is a good enough sign to actually do as she wants. Like everyone else, I am averse to most types of pain. This is something that kind of straddles the line. But it all ends with me deciding to obey with the reigns being pulled.

She crushes me with toned stone muscles. I am in her, lips to her, opening and parting and giving her whatever she wants. The hands in my hair seem to like that. However, it seems that her liking things means that she grips harder and harder. I am confused. I did the thing she wants, but then I got a bad thing in return. So, I don't know what to do.

I just kind of do whatever at this point. I kiss and lick, the standard play I have learned with her and she approves with her own song swiftly coursing through her. Part of me wonders where she pulls the urges from. We had last night. We had the night before that, and the night before that, and the morning after that. Even today, before we realized how late we were, there was a long moment spent idly stroking each other while simply basking in the warm glow of a sunrise and each other's gaze. Even now, she is slowly rising to some terrible hunger in her depths. I can't say I'm that different.