025, an empty balcony while a party goes on inside.
πππππππ ππ πππ πππππππ, πππ ππ πππ πππ β¦ it all began to look the same, feel the same. Though he craved the limelight and the endless attention from every angle, πππ πππππππ ππππππ was feeling... homesick.
Nostalgia ran through his Godlike frame whilst a heavy heart weighed down his feet that near dragged across the penthouse floor. Thumping rave music pound into his ears and beat against his heart, seemingly bewitching the organ's beat to match the mind numbing 'UNN-UNN-TSS-TSS' that played on a three minute track.
For hours he was the life of the party, drinking and kissing strangers with tongue while grinding and dancing and stealing un petite coup from the various necks of ( extremely high ) partygoers.
Now, he began to sober up at the thought of him. But was there ever a moment his head was free to think of anything else?
He makes it to the empty balcony, sliding the underside of his forearms against the cool metal railing. Cobalt eyes glowing bright from the jarring lights of the great city below. It wasn't NOLA, it wasn't his home. There was a melancholy taste on his tongue.
The wet muscle prods past his pink lips to wet them nervously. A gust of wind glides up the side of the building and cuts through the Rockstar's curls, blowing them back and over his broad shoulders.
There was a sudden preternatural presence behind him that stood in the doorway, he could not decipher if they were a friend or a foe. Friends were hard to come by now a days. Foes were expected.
βIf you're looking for an autograph, you're out of luck,β he paused and he turned around, now resting his back and elbows against the railing; chin raising slightly with an air of superiority about him. βI left my sharpie in someone's pants.β He scoffed, knowing full well this creature wasn't here for a fucking autograph.