I'm curious: between you and Kuroro, who was (initially) the pursuer and who was the pursued? Or who made a move first? 👀
oh mon amour........ kuroro was the pursuer i think... he's the type to see something and need to have it. can't rest until he can call the object of his desires his. there are many worlds where we meet... my top two are: offering to light my cigarette outside the library / picking me up at a bar. it all depends on how old we are-- the former is older and the latter is younger. ten million jenny is the former and starting over is the latter.
i think when we're younger we have to fight to kiss the other first, but kuroro ultimately wins. and then when we're older, he kisses me first (he's a little younger than i am and less hesitant about it all). he's just so possessive.... he needs to have me in every which way. he paints me first, he writes about me first (publically and privately, i firmly believe kuroro keeps a diary), he initiates pda first.
some bad habits linger ahead. but we've made it. tw drug use
It’s raining in Tokyo. The soft pelt of the rain against the window is quiet in the background, drowned out by live music and the chatter of friends-turned-family. In the kitchen, a mixologist has been hired for the night. Prim and proper, in a black button down with slicked back hair, graying at the temples, glasses upon his face.
He’s paid to not look around for too long.
Leaning against her new bar, Ophelia watches as her martini is mixed before her eyes. The stainless steel shaker is frosting on the outside. The glass is still chilling.
She looks just as beautiful as her martini will look, as good as the jazz band sounds. She’s always been partial to browns, always enjoyed bathing herself in colors of the earth– browns and greens and linens and wools, borrowing silver jewelry from the moon and stars.
A firm hand, more so suited for playing the piano than the violence he subjects himself to, rests on her hip. For once, her husband’s hands are simply scarred instead of healing, knuckles paler than the rest of his skin, but not bloody.
There’s a smile across his face, wide and beautiful. Free from any burden for the night. His purple satin shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off the whispers of his tattoos, which crawl over his shoulders to rest on his pecs.
“Come upstairs with me,” Kuroro urges. He dips his head down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then down to her shoulder, hands sliding over the sequined fabric of her dress to rest on her hips.
Ophelia turns her head, looking up at Kuroro through her lashes. “What’s upstairs that’s not downstairs?”
“My private company,” Kuroro says, voice a whisper above the music. “Just for a few moments. Minutes. Just one or two.”
Looking from his eyes, a brownish gray, to his lips, soft and pink, then back to his eyes, Ophelia hums, out of tune with the music. “My drink first.”
“Of course, darling,” Kuroro concedes. Who is he to argue with a beautiful woman he’s taken halfway across the world?
The mixologist bows to Kuroro when he presents the drink to the wife of the house, and Kuroro does thank him in tandem with Ophelia. Glossy lips touch the rim of the glass, and Ophelia takes a careful sip of the drink. Ice shards skate along the top of the drink, tapping against her lip.
Upstairs, tucked away from the guests, Kuroro pushes open the door to one of the many guest rooms. It’s fully decorated, in washes of warm colors found upon the earth. Dirt and jewels.
“We should put that painting of you in here,” Kuroro says, coming to the dresser without any art or a mirror above it. He reaches into the pockets of his trousers, pulling out a little container. Silver and intricate, a spiderweb imprinted on it with mother of pearl.
Ophelia laughs at that, sitting down upon the bed. “Which one?”
Kuroro taps white powder from the case onto the dresser, forming a little pyramid.
“The one of you in March,” Kuroro says. He plucks a spoon once used for serving caviar from the silver tin, using it to scoop some off the powder.
“March?” Ophelia asks. “In pink?”
Kuroro nods. He slowly brings the bump over to his wife.
“I’m practically naked in it,” she says— says, no protest. The pearl spoon rests below Ophelia’s nose, and Kuroro takes it upon himself to block off her right nostril.
She sighs, once she’s inhaled the power, eyes rolling back slightly.
“I know,” Kuroro says. His hand comes to cup her jaw, thumb sliding over her cheek. “But who’s going to stay here?”
Humming, Ophelia shrugs. “You, when we get into an argument.”
Smiling, Kuroro pulls away. “Exactly. Give me something to remember you by when you’re cruel to me.”
“You create your own cruelty.” Ophelia takes a sip of her martini, looking out the window. “Besides, I’m wearing pink in that one. It wouldn’t match.”
Kuroro sets the tin down and lines himself up a helping with the caviar spoon. He pulls his wallet from his pocket, thin and leather. Producing a note, he rolls it tightly.
“I’ll paint you again, then.”
He dips his head down, breathing in the powder like routine. Closing his eyes, he takes some deep breaths.
“Let’s go dance,” Kuroro says, packing up the tin. “Want to dance?”
“Always,” Ophelia says, standing up.
Kuroro smiles, white and sharp. He’s always had sharp canines, flat incisors. Secretly, Ophelia despises him for it— how does someone come from poverty and make it out with better teeth?
One of Kuroro’s arms wraps around her waist, pulling her close to his side. The thought dissipates, banished by the warmth of his body. His head dips to press a kiss to her lips, which she gladly returns.
She hums into him, words that would otherwise be said. Lustful words, beckoning him in closer, onto the bed, inside. But his arm is firm around her waist. His lips are steady, albeit hungry, against her own.
“Just a few minutes,” he breathes as he breaks away. He has the mind to shut the door all the way, before he begins backing his wife up against the bed, paying no heed to her messy lip product as he slots against her again.
doja's lipstain is a kurolia song if I ever heard one
nonnie….. you are so right. he’s buying the pheromones because he loves seeing the expression on men’s faces when they realize im taken…… i just know he has perfume control issues……
also he should have some part of me tattooed on him and while he’s planning the tattoo he loves lipstick marks on him… especially when we’re going out it’s like jewelry to him.
