VidArth FF - The Dream Seller and His Keep - Part 3 on Page 2 - 10/03

a/n: This is a PG15 fic. It contains violence, nudity, psychological trauma and other graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

i.the assessment[,]
comma

noun

a punctuation mark (,) indicating a pause between parts of a sentence or separating items in a list.

He feels his body breaking. It's been a long day and he feels exhaustion down to his very bones. He knows he should just switch off and call it a day or in his case, night. He looks down at his watch and realises its only 3am. It's too early and so he straightens up and calls for the latest consignment.

Logically, he can just leave. There is no one stopping him, questioning him, keeping tabs on his routine. He's worked hard to earn that freedom and that is exactly why he doesn't exercise it freely. With great power comes great responsibility, he had read once and he isn't one to endanger his power just yet. Besides, he has an example to set to his crew. And he can't let go of his iron-fist control. At least not here, not in front of them. There are other places and other avenues for that. This, in his smokey, barely-lit den surrounded by men willing to give up their lives at a snap of his fingers, isn't one of them.

He takes a pinch of the white powder and feels it between his fingers. He can feel waves of tension around him. He had trusted Monty with this new batch. He knew someone who knew someone who had it shipped in from Mexico. Parth had been cautious at first. He had built his empire from scratch, fighting other organised rings - some of which he had even been a part of to gain experience, others to steal intel and contacts. Because that was the kind of world this was. Eat or be eaten. Steal or be stolen from. Kill or be killed. Although, he hated being involved in the whole death business. Too messy, too many details to work out, too arbitrary - after all, one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist. And he hates being caught in the crossfire between ideals. He has read enough about them to steer clear of them completely. They're all shams anyway. If his business has taught him one thing, it was this. The world, the real world, runs just like his business does - for money and power. He is just being honest about it is all. Unlike the politicians, businessmen and all those noble honourable men. He knows because he was one of them once.

He keeps a straight face as he rubs his fingers clean and motions offhandedly. One of his men jumps into action and starts cleaning the table before he can lay a small line of the new batch down for him. Parth looks around the room. He has a good team here. Men he trusts, men who obeyed him blindly. But men with enough sense to make suggestions and bring more to the table than just brawn and muscles. Men smart enough to know better than to cross him or underestimate him. Only those that had earned his respect were allowed down here. And there were very few who could boast of such an accomplishment. Which was why, they were all strung tight right now. This was the first major decision he had ever taken solely on their recommendation. After all, loyalty and trust were two way streets.

He bends down and inhales a line, letting his senses take control. When it comes to his goods, he always trusts his body. He falls back and makes himself comfortable, taking longer than needed to open his eyes and savouring the tension he can feel building up in the room by the second. The hit combined with the anxiety he feels all around him is giving him a heady rush. He feels powerful. Everything balances on his one word. This, right here, is everything he has worked for, everything he ever wanted in his life. He feels like he has the world in the palm of his hand. He feels invincible. Like a god with all their hopes and dreams hanging in the balance.

He opens his eyes, straightens up and feels everyone inhale. Then, subtly, once he knows all eyes in the room are on him, he gives a curt nod. As soon as he does, the tension cracks open and everyone is cheering around him. They just went international. He can feel his blood sing in his veins and his lips curl up into a smile.

The call comes as he is getting into his car. Tonight it seemed, all the stars were aligned just right. Not that he believed in fate, karma or kismat. He had learnt a long time ago that what you had was here and now, and all that mattered was what you did with it, irrespective of the hows, the buts, the what ifs, and lingering doubts. There were no here-afters, just mere consolations for the weak and the meek who couldn't do what needed to be done, given by the strong to ensure they stayed that way. He shook his head. He didn't need the clutches of faith, not when he knew how to pave his own path.

He motioned for his driver to leave, took the wheels and headed down a familiar path. Kadambari Devi had come through, like he knew she would. Their alliance was years old but that wasn't why he still kept her around. It was just a need based relationship. Like every other that existed in his life. She had just been really good at looking after his needs and she had yet to let him down. He was looking forward to what she had in store for him tonight.

--

Kadambari Devi watched the girls walk into the room. They were all fresh and young - pretty little things. She walked around them, taking them all in from up close. She had curated a good selection this time. They came from all over the country - short, tall, thin, athletic, plump - this time she really did have a good stock. He was sure to find one up to his standards. They were after all, petrified, broken and untouched. Just the way he liked them.

She's still standing there admiring her finds when he enters the room followed by her manservant. She rushes over to greet him but he stops her with one raised hand, his attention captivated by the girls put on display for him. He walks around them, sizing them up. They are interesting for sure. Better than the last time. Kadambari Devi must have a favour to ask of him. He can see she went the extra mile this time, and no one does anything for no reason. Since she had taken all that effort, it wouldn't hurt for him to take his own time.

He holds one of the girls by her chin and turns her face to get a better look watching her carefully. She remains impassive, doesn't even lift up her eyes. Completely placid and well-trained. He likes that. Kadambari Devi, unable to contain her excitement any longer, starts telling him how exquisite this one was, where she came from, how old she was. He hated being spoken to without asked for. Seemed like she had forgotten that. He also abhorred people making assumptions about him. Thinking he was predictable. With an unsavoury taste in his mouth, he steps away from the girl.

"Take her away from my sight." He says and turns his back on her, as if her very being irked him.

Kadambari Devi stops mid-sentence. She had crossed a line and she knows it. But before she could rectify her mistake, the deafening silence was broken by a commotion outside. Kadambari Devi looks sharply at her manservant who immediately runs out to find out what was going on and to quieten it promptly.

"Maaf kijiye ga bhau, pata nahi kaun kambakhat aaya hai is waqt. Aap baithiye. Main dekh ke aati hun." She says as she scurries away. Thanking her stars for the distraction that gave her time to compose herself. She prayed fervently that his anger would recede by the time she came back and that he would be too taken by another one of her offerings to hold a grudge against her.

He looked at the other girls disinterested. His anger mounting by the second. Perhaps it was time to end this association. He wasn't just any of her other visitors that she could keep waiting and she would have done well to have known that by now. Shaking his head, he gets up and heads out.

But out is blocked by the loud group at the door. While Kadambari Devi seemed to be having an argument with a weasely-looking man who was clearly not in his senses, her two manservants were trying to negotiate with a low-life thug. But what caught his attention was the wispy girl who stood quietly amongst the whole commotion. Her hair in a state of disarray, her clothes clearly hand-me-downs, dirty and mismatched and her face covered in dirt. There was some blood by the side of her face where she had clearly been slapped. But what intrigued him was her stance. Defeated and bound. No matter how slow, she had to know where they were, had to know she was clearly the subject of the argument. And yet currently she was entirely forgotten. There was no one holding her captive, no one watching her, this was her chance. If she wanted to, she could easily slip away undetected. And yet she stayed. Disinterested and stoic. Like she wasn't even really there.

He felt a sudden urge to shake her, to break her out of her trance, to make her fear, weep, cry, scream. To bring her to life.

"I want her." His voice boomed. Instantly, the entire room fell silent.

All eyes were trained on him. All except hers. She didn't look up. It irked him.

And as suddenly as the room had fallen quiet, it erupted with voices again. Kadambari Devi came rushing to him with the drunken man in tow, both talking at the same time. He held up a hand and they both stilled.

"I want her", he repeated and paused, "As she is." he emphasised.

"And you", he pointed at Kadambari Devi, "make it happen. I'll be upstairs in my room."

He walked away, not sparing the girl a single glance.

--

When he steps out of the shower, she is waiting in the room. Not sitting on the bed, nor on the couch, just standing there in the middle of the room looking at the floor, motionless. He smirks at that.

Shaking the water out of his hair, he unwraps the towel from around his waist and throws it at her.

She doesn't catch it and it hangs off her shoulder. He walks up to her and lifts her face. His fingers look big against her petite face. Slowly, gently, he traces the edge of her jaw. Its sharp and he feels her skin tensing. Finally, a reaction. Curious, he lets his thumb caress the wound, its still fresh - fairly recent. Then on impulse, he presses it harder and watches fresh blood pour out as she hisses in pain. He wipes it away. She's watching him with glassy eyes as he slowly takes his bloody thumb and sucks it off. Her gaze doesn't waver. Pleased, he steps closer and bends down slightly, rubbing his stubble against her cheek.

"Shower. Now." He commands and watches her hands tighten around the towel and pull it down. She steps back from him and walks sideways to the bathroom. She never turns her back to him. His smirk deepens. He picked a good one this time.

For a moment he wonders how she understood him but chalks it away for later examination. There would be plenty of time to find out more. But now was not it.

He puts on his track pants, pulls out a novel from the side drawer and makes himself comfortable on the bed. This is the other reason he likes coming here. Aside from the obvious of course.

He had a room for himself with his things, they knew his preferences and they feared him. It made for a pretty good arrangement. Besides he never had to take any of them back to his place, it was no strings attached, and hassle-free. Pretty much ideal.

He doesn't look up when he hears the soft sound of the door closing. Instead he continues to read. He places the bookmark in place after finishing the chapter, closes the book and places it back at the bedside. It is only then that he turns to see the girl standing with her back to the bathroom door clad in nothing but the wet towel. Her hair a dripping mess of semi-curls and tangles.

The bruise on her face is darker now and appears bigger without her hair taking the attention away from it. Her dusky skin has a sheen of moisture and glistens. But it is her eyes that stand out the most. Vacant, dry and dead. A stark contradiction on her otherwise lively face.

He motions for her to come to him and she does. With slow, steady, small steps. Her brown lithe body more pronounced by the small white towel and he finds himself wondering if she would taste bitter and dark like coffee or smooth and sweet like caramel. Then shakes his head at his own ridiculous thoughts. She stops in her steps.

He doesn't need to wonder. He can find out for himself. Getting up in one smooth motion, he is before her in moments. She was too cautious, too timid, too slow and while he had appreciated all those qualities just a few minutes ago, they seemed like a hinderance now.

She's looking down again and he hates that. Wants to see her eyes, to see acknowledgement in them, he wants her to know what is happening between them, feel it, experience it, understand it. She's a dark marble statue and he wants to break her down. Wants to hear her cry, scream and moan. His eyes fixed on her bruise, he wonders if she did any of those when she was slapped. The colour looks good against her skin and he reaches out to touch it again.

When she flinches a second before he actually touches her, he grins and curls his hand in her hair instead. Pulling her face back, he looks down and sees himself in her eyes staring up at him. That's more like it.

He twists her hair harder and her eyes widen as does his grin. "Careful now," he whispers to her huskily, "The fear is starting to show in your eyes, it makes them bigger you know and I...", he lowers his face closer to hers, "I quite like that." And with that he captures her lips with his.

She's smart enough to not resist and opens up to him without any persuasion. she tastes like missed chances, broken promises and swallowed words. Its a heady mix and he can't get enough of it.

She's surprisingly compliant and willing. Allowing him to play as he wants, explore where he wants, and doesn't put up any resistance. It should please him, but disturbs him instead. He wonders if she's done it before. Kissed before and he wonders how often she has. He doesn't like that idea. Doesn't like used good goods and doesn't like competition - prefers them untouched. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, his actions become rougher - a need to stake his claims. To get her to respond, to react, to attack, to do something. Even as his fingers dig deeper into her skin and his tongue attacks hers calling for a duel, hers remains disappointingly passive. Infuriating him further. She's behaving almost as if she doesn't care. Not about the kiss, and definitely not about what's going to happen next. Well she should, he thinks as he bites down on her lip and swallows her gasp of pain, otherwise he has ways to make her. The metallic taste of the blood gives him a rush. He sucks a little harder, then ends the kiss with a push.

She stumbles back, steadies on her feet and clinches tightly to her towel. Then she goes back to standing before him, with a bloodied lip and her head bowed down.

Had he picked one of the girls on display for him before or waiting a few days for this one, it would have been a very different story. He thinks as he watches her.

She would have been disciplined, trained and willing. Not this combination of hot and cold, this strange push and pull that left him reeling and thinking. He hated to think at times like this. He's never been one to force himself on a woman, finds it weak and unmanly. Besides, what was the fun in that. Not when you could coax them to come around, to give into their own body's desires, desires that battled with their sensibilities. Later, they had no one to blame but themselves for having enjoyed it, for hated having enjoyed it. He much preferred that. It gave him a thrill to have them give into their untapped needs, to get them to do what they didn't think they wanted. To hand over their innocence to him willingly. He was doing a good deed really. Offering them a good first time, making it memorable and pleasant. It was his own form of charity.

There were always the willing girls of course, girls who threw themselves at him all the time. Because of who he was and what he could offer them. Girls willing to trade their bodies for a single hit. It was pathetic. Easy but a hassle in the long term. He would have enough eventually but they never did. Addiction worked like that, insatiable, relentless, clingy and destructive. He much preferred this.

Girls who had no expectations, no experience, who needed the money as much he needed the sex. A clean, simple, sorted business transaction. Where they both knew the terms. He wonders if she knows the terms. If he should speak to her about it. But decides against it. It would be more fun to let her discover them slowly, for him to show rather than tell. She was different from the others. She'd come to him first, before Kadambari Devi. She was his own little challenge - untrained yet willing, scared yet stoic, calm yet chaotic. Oh how he would slowly pull her apart and then string her back together again.

He walks up to her again and stands before her. She's short and petite, if he were to engulf her, he's sure she would disappear in his arms. But he needs her here, far from safe and comfortable, far enough for her to break out of her shell. He watches her jaw tighten and breath hitch as he slowly slides up his hand over her bare arm, traces her skin feeling the goosebumps rise up with his touch. Soft, slow and steady. His other hand reaches out for hers. Playing with her fingers, rubbing circles on her wrist. It takes another few seconds until she breaks. Moves to remove her hand from his and thats when his hand clamps around hers while his other pushes her trembling body into his arms, against his.

That's it. He's found it. Easy as that. It didn't surprise him that for a girl who had so much control and endurance, her weakness would lay in tenderness. Her downfall would be compassion. He understood people well, defense mechanism and all. And he had just figured hers out.

She was breathing heavy now and he hugged her tighter enveloping her in his arms. When he started rubbing circles on her back, he felt her body give in and slump against his. With a smirk, he lowered his head and buried his face in her hair, then very quietly, he nibbles her ear and whispers his name. He wanted her to know his name, she would be moaning it soon after all. Besides he also needed to know hers. Names were like weapons, when used right, they could cause havoc and wreck down barriers. And he knew how to use them just so when the time was right.

He tightens his arm around her and softly grazes his stubble against her cheek. She remains quiet. If she wants to play, well so will he. Bending low, he kisses her cheek, "Parth", he tells her again. She remains quiet, her eyes closed. He kisses her chin next. "Parth" he repeats. No reply. He then proceeds to kiss her eyes, still nothing. Holding her face in his palm, he pushes until she opens her eyes. Making sure he has her attention, he bends down to kiss her nose, "Par..", he starts to say.

"Vidushi", she mumbles and tries to move back from him. His grip on her face tightens as does his arm around her waist and he pulls her forward. "Vidushi", he whispers and grins down at her before kissing her again.

He continues to kiss her even as walks her backward towards the bed. She notices but doesn't react. There's plenty of time for that he thinks and pulls away from her and pushes her on the bed, snatching her towel away from her in the process. She looks up at him shocked, automatically covering herself with her arms. He grins.

"There's that fear again" He informs her as he crawls up the bed towards her with a smirk, "Got to be careful, pet. I just might get used to it."

She scoots up higher, trying to maintain the distance between them and his grin widens. "What's wrong Vidushi? Your first time?" He asks to confirm but she looks away from him. In an instant he's over her pinning her down. "Isn't it?" he asks again, his voice hardening and a glint of madness in his eyes.

She nods and his hands tighten around her wrists. "Say it." he demands, "I want to hear you admit it."

"Y... yes." She mumbles and looks away. Would he have believed her if she had lied, would he have left her alone, thrown her out? Or would he have been rougher with her, would he have hurt her instead?

He's glad he doesn't have to find out. Glad he doesn't have to make those decisions. Even though he's pretty sure with the sight she makes now, so dark, wild and damaged against the sheets - he wouldn't have been able to let her go anyway. It was just a matter of rough or gentle, his pleasure or hers. Besides even if she had lied to him to save herself, he'd find out soon enough.

Placated for now, he touches her like she's made of glass - reigning in his monsters so he can free hers. It's inexplicable but he enjoys watching the reactions he can draw out of her, watching her bite her lip to hold in a whimper or grunt as withers under him in abandon, loves watching her control and thoughts fall apart. His fingers and mouth wrecking havoc on her body until she is nothing more than a keening quivering mess of want and need all rolled into one. Here, under him, she's volatile and violent, frantic and vocal, a far cry from the girl he's seen downstairs. She's a dark tornado trapped in a lithe frame and he enjoys her intensity. Wants to meet it head-on.

He moves away from her and hears her cry of disappointment that escapes her before she can bite it down. His grin widens. The rules of his game were simple. They had to want him more than he did them. Always. He doesn't move, doesn't budge, just stares down at her, all sin and decadence. It is only when she finally gives in, loses the raging battle within and laying down her defenses, reaches out her arms for him that he touches her again.

Lowering himself, he covers her small body with him and realises he could crush her if he wanted and it would be so easy, so effortless and she wouldn't be able to stop him. Wouldn't be able to do anything. The possibility, the responsibility, the power makes his blood sing. Holding himself up on his arms, he looks down at her. Waiting for acknowledgement, permission, affirmation.

When she reaches up and wraps her arms around and lowers him, her touch makes his skin burn and he reciprocates.

There's an explosion of sensations and he feels suffocated and trapped. Too much and too little and too close and not quite enough. All together even as he feel like he's coming undone, falling apart. He looks down and sees her wide eyes staring up at him He'd trapped her voice with his palm but her eyes are screaming and he sees his own inferno burning deep inside hers. His world melts away then until there is just him and her and too much skin and not enough air and all encompassing need to consume, to burn, to burst, to disappear.

When he comes to, he's laying above her and he can feel her eyes searing into his skin. He keeps his own closed and lets her watch, lets her memorise the contours of his face, wants her to remember it for a long time. Moments later when he feels like he can't breathe anymore, like her heavy gaze is slowly seeping through his skin. He doesn't have room for her, he can barely contain himself at times. He opens his eyes and locks them with hers.

Her lips are swollen, there are trails of tears on the side of her eyes and her skin looks rubbed raw glistening with a sheen of sweat and a glow that seems out of place. When she looks away from him immediately and lowers her eyes, he reaches over and licks away the remnants of her tears. Then placing a chaste kiss on her lips, a contradiction to everything he stands for, everything he is, everything they have been together, he gets up and heads towards the bathroom.

She's up and wrapped in the bloodied comforter, sitting on the bed hugging herself when he walks out. Not crying, not sobbing, just silent and lost in her thoughts. He watches her for a minute and wonders what her story is. Knows it wouldn't be anything exceptional, just another everyday sob story but he wonders how she would word it. Wonders if she will revel in her misery or shove it away like its a matter of fact, as average as the colour of her eyes, just another face of reality. He wants to find out, wants to hear her, wants to hear her torn and hoarse voice from last night give life to her broken life.

He approaches her and she looks up at the sound. Improvement. She would have ignored him before. When he sits down next to her, she lifts her head up and looks up at the bathroom door. Then looks at him. Seeking his permission. With a small smile, he nods. She's good, much better than most.

Making the least amount of noise and with jagged movement, she slowly gets up and stumbles across the room, not turning her back on him once again. He watches her until the door closes. Then gets up and starts getting dressed. Today was a big day for him and it had started on just the right note.

He hangs up as soon as he hears her step out. She ought to look as she did last night and yet she doesn't. She looks smeared, tainted, touched and prettier than he remembers her. Walking towards her in big strides, he corners her into the bathroom and turns her around to face the mirror. Then he stands behind her and grins into the mirror as her big fearful eyes look back at him. They make quite a sight. Her dusky skin and his white shirt, her head barely making it to his chin, her soft curves against his hard edges. But the world's upside down, works in reverse, and is strung inside out. After all, he's black and she's white and together they are shades of monochrome.

His eyes keep hers captive as he bends down to deepen the mark on her neck, leaving a touch of red in their grey lives.

"Till I see you again, pet." He bites the term of endearment into her skin and leaves her standing alone in a room full of steam.

- fin -

Reserved.
Will comment tomorrow.
Also. I regret nothing

God you need PR! Uggh. Lemme go spread this around!

OK, can I first reaffirm that I have no regrets?
Especially when it became an FF and not a one shot.
It became a verse and not a one night stand that eats at your head and your heart. It better not remain a single solitary piece ok? I will bombard you with endless plot bunnies and pic inspirations until you crack and provide us with more of this Verse. I'm calling it Sugar Verse in my head, I have no idea why Sugar verse. Because this story might just be the darkest thing you've ever written and maybe the most delish one. You had me at the summary. Hook line and sinker.
This fic was delish sinner dinner.

First, Parth in this fic: He is bloody powerful and messed up. Complex and he knows he is fked up. He doesn't like being simplified. He doesn't like anyone trying to reduce him to a descriptor. Who am I to not fall for his qualities. He scares the shit out of people. And he's into power games. Reinforcing the fact that he's the apex predator.
The circle of people he holds around him with leashes on their necks. The kingdom where he is in control. It all makes a very vivid picture and he becomes a believable character. A wolf. A man who has his own twisted principles that give him a semblance of sanity in a chaotic world. And this is extremely visual. I can see things happening as I read ok. You make me weep with the realistic awesome things you write. I do not read your words. I feel them.

The second. K Devi. I rather liked her. She wasn't loud or vampish. Not at all stereotypical. She did not over power the narrative anywhere and her pragmatic business transaction with Parth and they way it was described just. you made her seem human and not a prop. Howw?

Third. Vidushi. I'd demanded a Damsel in Distress Vidu. And did you deliver? I cannot even. I had to nearly pinch myself to believe it was real. Vidushi. Like this. And that doesn't seem OOC. How did you manage to make her loveable and not pathetic? How? She was a beautiful disaster. A fascinating train wreck. And tenderness being her weakness? I nearly wanted Parth to take her home and take care of her.
Gah.. I'm a Darth lover but also a fluff addict.
And you didn't disappoint on the gentleness front.
He was dark, twisted but gentle in his own way because he could have made it horrid for her. But it was about her pleasure,him being gentle with her gave her hope. And that perhaps is a cruel thing to do to someone who has a future that is far from bright in front of her.
That's how he is twisted. He doesn't like things easy, he likes them just as twisted and unpredictable as he is.
Him calling her pet, warning her that he might get used to her fear.
His interaction with her, his thoughts of her, his speculations.
He wants to detangle all that she is. Know her story in her voice.
That just made me wonder if he gave this much thought to the other girls.
He kept contrasting her with them.
And he kept contrasting her with himself.

the monochrome that they are. Just. Delish.

And the promise that came with the hickey. Until they meet again bit.

YOU HAVE TO CONTINUE THIS.
OR I WILL PELT YOU WITH MAFIA AUS.

There are rare times when my words cannot carry the weight of my feels.
This is one of them


MOAR POTATO SCRIBBLES.

-Ash

and it's a res :3

Originally posted by: AshReeSha

OK, can I first reaffirm that I have no regrets?
Especially when it became an FF and not a one shot.
It became a verse and not a one night stand that eats at your head and your heart. It better not remain a single solitary piece ok? I will bombard you with endless plot bunnies and pic inspirations until you crack and provide us with more of this Verse. I'm calling it Sugar Verse in my head, I have no idea why Sugar verse. Because this story might just be the darkest thing you've ever written and maybe the most delish one. You had me at the summary. Hook line and sinker.
This fic was delish sinner dinner.

First, Parth in this fic: He is bloody powerful and messed up. Complex and he knows he is fked up. He doesn't like being simplified. He doesn't like anyone trying to reduce him to a descriptor. Who am I to not fall for his qualities. He scares the shit out of people. And he's into power games. Reinforcing the fact that he's the apex predator.
The circle of people he holds around him with leashes on their necks. The kingdom where he is in control. It all makes a very vivid picture and he becomes a believable character. A wolf. A man who has his own twisted principles that give him a semblance of sanity in a chaotic world. And this is extremely visual. I can see things happening as I read ok. You make me weep with the realistic awesome things you write. I do not read your words. I feel them.

The second. K Devi. I rather liked her. She wasn't loud or vampish. Not at all stereotypical. She did not over power the narrative anywhere and her pragmatic business transaction with Parth and they way it was described just. you made her seem human and not a prop. Howw?

Third. Vidushi. I'd demanded a Damsel in Distress Vidu. And did you deliver? I cannot even. I had to nearly pinch myself to believe it was real. Vidushi. Like this. And that doesn't seem OOC. How did you manage to make her loveable and not pathetic? How? She was a beautiful disaster. A fascinating train wreck. And tenderness being her weakness? I nearly wanted Parth to take her home and take care of her.
Gah.. I'm a Darth lover but also a fluff addict.
And you didn't disappoint on the gentleness front.
He was dark, twisted but gentle in his own way because he could have made it horrid for her. But it was about her pleasure,him being gentle with her gave her hope. And that perhaps is a cruel thing to do to someone who has a future that is far from bright in front of her.
That's how he is twisted. He doesn't like things easy, he likes them just as twisted and unpredictable as he is.
Him calling her pet, warning her that he might get used to her fear.
His interaction with her, his thoughts of her, his speculations.
He wants to detangle all that she is. Know her story in her voice.
That just made me wonder if he gave this much thought to the other girls.
He kept contrasting her with them.
And he kept contrasting her with himself.

the monochrome that they are. Just. Delish.

And the promise that came with the hickey. Until they meet again bit.

YOU HAVE TO CONTINUE THIS.
OR I WILL PELT YOU WITH MAFIA AUS.

There are rare times when my words cannot carry the weight of my feels.
This is one of them


MOAR POTATO SCRIBBLES.

-Ash

Damn woman , you just took dark and ran with it 👏. Res-ed because my net is being all out moody

ii.the anomaly[;]

semicolon

noun

a punctuation mark (;) indicating a pause, typically between two main clauses, that is more pronounced than that indicated by a comma.

It's not the first time he has left with a promise. He does it all the time, has made plenty in the past but none that he has fulfilled. None he ever intended to keep. There's been no reason to. They had each fulfilled their purpose and couldn't offer him anything more. And he left them with a glimmer of hope because he could. Because that is what he did, sell dreams of a better life, of happier times. He was after all, a merchant of hope and he knew its effects. Knew it was a heady mix that slowly killed them from the inside.

But he had also watched people wither away into nothingness without it. Lose themselves and become a shell. Having nothing could make one more dangerous, more fearless, more alive. Become bigger, greater, more fierce without it. Hope was an invisible chain that kept your wings tied inside, clipped their flight. Besides, some people had a fear of heights. Too afraid to look their own capabilities, their power in the eye. They sought sanctuary and paradise within the confines of their homes, the universe within their minds. It was an excuse, a clutch they sought and so it was better to give them something, however futile than nothing at all. A small glimmer of hope to cope through their dark lives.

Besides he couldn't set them free. Couldn't do that to Kadambari Devi, not after all that she did for him. He made empty promises to help her harsh reality along. This was, after all, how their association worked. She found them; he chose from them and gently initiated one of them into the business. Then made sure they wouldn't think of leaving because they had something to look forward to, something to hope for - his return (or perhaps someone like him) and their escape.

--

It is not until a few hours later that he first realises that something is amiss. They're driving down the usual street and he looks up from his phone when they stop at the traffic lights expecting the usual horde of beggars, change ready in his hand. As usual, his driver lowers the windows and a young girl quickly makes a beeline for his car, a child holding a smaller, dirtier child. He wonders if it was hers, wouldn't surprise him if it wasn't. Wouldn't shock him if it was. But it is her eyes, not her shrill loud chirpy voice nor the hand she's got stretched out that holds his attention. They're bright and hawk-like, peering into the car, taking in his appearance, and calculating how much she thinks she'll earn from him. As he's handing over the money to her, she seems to have already gone quiet, her time with him apparently over and his value diminished as her eyes skirt around to zero-in on the next big ticket.

Her gaze stays with him longer than the smog of the busy intersection. The shade was just the same, and yet their glint was a sharp contrast to the dead pools he'd wanted to bring back to life. They had never glinted as sharp. Not even when they had been stretched in shock, crippled in fear or moistened with pain and pleasure and everything in between. He's remarkably disturbed by that discovery, the bitter taste of failure foreign on his tongue, the twist of disappointment heavy in his guts. He hates it, and in that moment, hates her.

They're expecting him when he reaches the headquarters and he sees the people scurrying into action much before the car comes to a halt. Under normal circumstances, the sight would have amused him. His driver knew, which was why he always slowed down, subtly and without ever having been asked to, whenever they were nearing the entrance.

When he steps out of the car, the strong rays bouncing off the tall glass building, bathe him in golden light. He grins at the irony and steps towards the waiting team of suits strung tight with obedience and nerves, jittery with bound energy and speaking in revered low tones. Their words are carefully selected, measured and tested. They only have a few moments and they have to make the most of it. He has a difficult time controlling his own warring emotions. Running thin on patience and high on dislike.

The meeting that follows runs on for a long time and as usual has very little matter to offer. Most of what they are saying, he already knows. More of a recount to appear overbearing and important, to eat up their times to justify the fat salaries they earn. There is very little that piques his interest and there's nothing they're saying that does.

He grew up in this life. Was trained for it since he was a child, to one day sit in the very chair he is sitting in now, with the position he calls his own. He knows every one of these people in this room hate him, hate his entitlement, hate the fact that he inherited rather than earned his position. But they can't possibly hate it more than he does.

He isn't a man that can be limited, restricted, be denied much, but blood ties and familial bonds have, over the years, weakened his resolve and where he was raging fire and rebellion once, now he is silent resignation and burning embers. No longer trying hard to take the world head on, he's learnt slowly, effectively, to bend it to his own will. Besides this corporate life, this unwarranted title offers him freedom in its own convoluted way, it keeps the fire burning, keeps him pushing and offers him the perfect cover, the perfect excuse, the perfect public life.

As the voice of one of the executives drones on, he relaxes and leans back in his chair, at the head of the room - because he can, because it will incite them, because he enjoys that - undoes his jacket buttons and watches the people in the room with a stoic face.

They are the usual kind, aging men in ill-fitting suits with big salaries and bigger appetites. He wonders what motivates them, what stops them from shooting themselves in the head every night, wonders if money really is all that powerful, then looks down at himself and realises it is. Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he needs to see people chasing it to see its value, to be reminded of its worth, to see it as more than a mere norm, just pieces of paper.

Then there is the younger crowd, eager to please, over-enthusiastic and ever attentive. Jotting down every word and nodding vigorously. He envies them their naivety, their disillusion, their blind drive towards utopia, a promised land of success and happiness that doesn't exist - but they're too young to realise that. Too disconnected from the real world. He pities them too but it is their passion, their blind belief, their inherent faith that they could change the world, would change their lives that he wished he had. He was too old for that, had seen too much, had done more, to hold any such illusions. They were empty comforts after all. But sometimes, he missed the security they provided.

There was a young girl talking now. The old raspy monotone had been replaced by a warmer, calmer one that pulled him away from his reverie. She's new and surprisingly good. Articulate, intelligent and appears to really know and understand what she is talking about. She's wearing a satin white shirt, professional yet individual with serious black pants. Just the right balance between sexy and professional.

For a moment, he entertains the thought of promoting her to his PA, then instantly drops it. She could spell trouble. Smart enough to figure out his ways, determined and persistent enough to not be easily swayed. No, he needed sheep he could command, not gazelles that had a mind of their own.

As he watches her talk, something catches his eyes and throws everything into overdrive. In an instant, he loses his entire stream of thought and the boardroom blurs away.

His entire world narrows down to her full red lips. Lips that look almost bloody but aren't. Lips that remind him of a pair of another. Lips that are too full, too clean, too made up and yet they're almost the same shade, almost but not quite, and scream loud against her pretty face. His fingers twitch and he fights the urge to reach out and run his thumb across it, smear the colour across her face.

Instead he gets up in a flash. Abruptly halting the meeting mid-sentence. All eyes turn to him as he heads straight for the door before they can have a chance to phrase, rephrase and figure out what to say, how to ask him, stop him.

When he takes the wheels, he's only got one thing on his mind. He knows addiction well, deals in it, thrives on it. But always others'. Never his own. He prides himself on being a man with no weaknesses, no addictions, no shortcomings. Always calm, always collected, always in control of his senses. He doesn't like addictions. He doesn't like distractions and he definitely doesn't like the thought of that chit of a girl invading his mind, interrupting his daily life.

The most puzzling thing about the entire episode though, is the sheer lack of logic. She isn't exceptionally beautiful, doesn't have a body to brag about nor a particularly presentable persona. She's average. In fact, she is sub-par compared to the women he has hanging around him on a regular basis. The kind of women who bitch, cling and claw to get his attention, to maintain it. The kind who only know him as his father's son, as the legacy. The kind of women he hates. The kind that want, demand, desire and crave.

And then there is the other kind of women. Women of the night. Women he sees only once in his life. Women with no right to ask anything from him, of him. Nothing to offer him but the liberty, the freedom to unmask, unfurl and unwind. To shed the mask of decency and restrain and control, to unleash all the darkness, all the madness, all the decay he holds inside. They accept it all without asking for anything of value in return. And he is reborn each morning a new man with the old mask tightly put back in place. These are the kind of women he likes. The kind that take, submit, serve and fulfill.

She's one of the other kind. The temporary kind. She was supposed to be a one-off and was supposed to stay that way. A comma in the story of his life that serves its purpose and stays put in the past as he goes on his way. Only, she was turning into a semicolon. Forcing him to stop, to pause longer than he wished. To reflect.

He needed to put an end to it. And there was only one way to do it. To see her one last time, to figure out what her appeal, her pull, her allure was. And then get past it, over her.

Addictions were simple that way. All you needed to do was work out what exactly you were addicted to, and then deal with it, resist it, move past it. It was all a game of will power and resolve, something he was an expert at. He was smart, he knew when he had an issue, a problem, a small glitch and he knew what he had to do to fix it.

By the time he reaches Kadambari Devi's mansion, he's a tangled up ball of rationality, curiosity and determination all rolled together with a tinge of excitement he can't quite put a finger on. So caught up in his own thoughts, he's forgotten to call her beforehand and upon reaching doesn't bother. Didn't matter anyway, it wasn't as if there was supposed to be any arrangements made.

The manservant that answers the door on his pounding - quicker than bells, he's come to realise - looks like he's seen a ghost. He barely manages to escort him inside and hurriedly gets him seated before scurrying off, most likely to inform the lady of the house. But he hadn't come to wait and he hadn't come to see Kadambari Devi.

He's up and on his way towards the backdoors, where he knows the girls are kept or live. Glass half full, half empty. It's all a matter of perception really. No manservants in sight, nor anyone else. The mansion looked deserted. He's halfway across the room when he hears the sound of a glass smashing. He pauses. Well, almost deserted. The sound seems to be coming from the far end of the house, where the other rooms are. Rooms for hire, just like the girls.

For a moment he wonders if he should go and find out what the commotion is about, then remembers why he came here in the first place and where he actually is. Turning his head with a shake, he continues on, his big strides eating up the room, putting a distance between him and the chaos behind those closed doors.

"Not his problem, none of his business, don't care, shouldn't care. Walk." He tells himself.

The next time he comes to a halt before he gets where he wants to be, it's because Kadambari Devi is blocking his path.

"Bhao aap?", she's looking at him nervously, her fingers fidgeting and her body tense with tension. Her eyes flicking back to the closed door.

He wonders what he looks like at the moment. What's showing in his demeanour, on his face. How much he's giving away. Conscious, he straightens up and hardens his expressions.

"Vidushi." He says. The name, explanation enough.

He watches the colour drain from her face and without missing a beat, he's turned on his heels and running towards the very doors he's been determined to ignore.

- fin -