To be read preferably listening video games by lana del rey, don't be lazy, put it on youtube.
To anyone that has liked anything I've written before, I am sorry.
I called it like another song just because; video games is not a very appealing title and I do mention hopeless some place in here, and that is really the backbone of all this.
OOC?, to you all probably, not quite to me. Well thought out? That's a definite no. It is sugar coated and I don't even think I like it, but meh, I wrote it to publish it and if I am not ashamed to upload my bad french then it means I am truly shameless.
May be difficult to grasp, yet again.
Enjoy, ha.
She lifted her foot and felt the cooling little drops of water sliding down her skin. They fell, splattering that reminded of several drizzles on the cobblestone of London by her feet; now soothing, then, the first motor vehicles had blown a freezing breeze on her indecently uncovered chest.
She had been a dissolute one.
She joyfully shifted to be buried beneath water. She opened her eyes, experimenting on how clearly she could see the ceiling above, beyond the waves, like a little kid.
She emerged and pressed her hands against her face, her eyes clenched, removing as much water as she could, so her eyelashes or brow wouldn't be raining on her.
The wall before her was the color of gold and wine. Her long red hair stuck everywhere where it fell, her shoulders, nape and back.
London was cold. The hotel was beautiful.
She stared and wondered at the sheer romantic folly of her motives to be back in London.
Holmes had been rather handsome when, while hunting her, that night he had turned his face to her deep good evening, at the door of Baker Street beneath the streetlamp.
"Good evening" he had replied with formality.
She had ridden herself of all trimming, washed-out face, disappeared off his notice beneath man's clothes.
But that had been all.
It's you, It's you.
I watch him leave his home hiding kitty-cornered, my face against gray brick.
I wear black for I am not about to flash him with my big pompous gowns. He wears a hat that may conceal his eye rings to anyone else but me, and convey elegance to his three-days'-growth-of-stubble-face.
He walks with ease and so I know he's off to attend a case over which intricacies he's sure to conquer; yet again.
I follow him.
It is not his intelligence what pulls me so. I have just realized, through a process that seizes truths far greater than logic ever does, that if I shall not love him I am a hopeless case.
If I shall not love him, I shall love no one. I will give it a try.
It's you, It's you.
I don't know what marble-sized evidence I dropped and told him he was being followed. He turned around and sniffed, darted his eyes everywhere, every vertical direction and swept all the area encasing him, searching for me with all of his senses.
I know he didn't have a feeling he was being followed, I know, he had the certainty. He is precise as a scalpel, o so damn outright. It is never intuition with him.
So I had to desert for the day.
Now, as I roll a cup of wine in my hand, I can't help but wonder, if - due to the late hour - across the city he lies in bed.
Lying in bed, might he think of me.
Have I stirred him even if it is the only way I know he can be stirred - by intrigue. Cloak-and-dagger.
He's lying in bed with me in his mind, to what purpose.
Tell me about the things you want to do. I heard that you like the bad girls, honey, is that true?
I had to do nothing. I just sat at the café across the street and ate strawberry pie while waiting for him.
He faced the chill of eight o'clock burying his hands inside his coat's pockets. Frenzied, he crossed the street in strides disregarding the force of the horses that could have run him over, and he came charging in.
He was oddly agitated, skittish. Of course, of all things it is my intentions which must have confused him, the only thing he mustn't have elucidated. He must believe them sinister; he must be taking them way far into the darkest conclusions, to either him or me.
Has he confused my seductive motions with mortal pronouncements?
It's you, It's you, It's all for you. Everything I do.
- Mrs. Norton, why are you following me?
I smile my most unfathomable smile, and then arrange my face to be stone cold.
- It's Miss Adler now.
It's true, I divorced him. I married him for nothing other but the pleasure of thoroughly destroying his life.
I have no intention of doing that to you, honey. Please sit down.
He sits in front of me and I skillfully initiate conversation. How to draw Sherlock Holmes into a plain worldly conversation? Make him believe he's got loads to read between every line.
Now, I am telling him: - I am only on vacations.
He smirks. The riddle I offer him seems to have no limits from which to depart or where to arrive, just as his vast brown eyes, with which he dares me. They sparkle, his smirk blossoms in my chest, he tilts his head.
His smirk. Mischief. Boy. Sarcasm. Cigar. Vivacity. Man. Twinkling chocolate eyes. For the life of me I cannot remember being witness to anything as disarming.
Tell me about the things you want to do.
Somehow I have managed to have more encounters with him. I can tell I have fallen irrevocably in love with him.
We have become something not quite as distant from friends, comrades with no solidarity. A halo of secrecy on everything, dirtying it all like a thin layer of dust.
And then he let me into his home, no second thoughts, no wariness, no prudence. This is about the ninth time I'm in his sitting-room.
He's smoking lines and clouds and circles into the ceiling, his head lolled on the back of his armchair.
I dream of sitting astride him and fluttering kisses on his rough neck, feel him shudder into a sigh.
I daydream of his little charming smiles, and he tells me a joke, an innocent secret.
I bite my lower lip.
- For the life of me, I cannot decipher you Irene. It's been one month, three weeks, one day, and you keep dancing around me. I have hazarded you were here to kill me and haven't gathered the courage to finish your task.
It's you, it's you, it's all for you, everything I do. I heard that you like the bad girls, honey, is that true?
- Well, Sherlock, have you wondered if I'm here to kill Mrs. Hudson?
He breaks into frank laughter.
Looks at me with mirth.
It's better than I ever even knew. Tell me about the things you want to do.
Today I am arriving, wet from my own perspiration to his home. I just stole and I feel alive, adrenaline shot. Derailed train. I feel in this state I might just influx my lust for living into him. My lust for all wrecked things.
I wish to make it all evident, and that is why I hold the portentous revolver hanging loose in my right hand.
He comes out of his room deranged. I yet don't know how it is that he knows all things, but he certainly knew this. I hear and get the flares of the fire in the grate, and so I know he was expecting me.
He throws a glance to my revolver. I smile, cat-like.
- Irene, what did you just do? I knew it since our last meeting. Please tell me I'm not wrong, you stole, didn't you? You stole jewelry, that's all.
- That's all?
- This would be only like that hundredth time you stole. It is only the first time you come racing to me after the fact.
- It's not very wise of me is it? Why with you being a detective and all… - I venture a question that I know to be fateful, it is faltering that I murmur it, - …Will you give me away?
I have managed to blend this milkshake of all that this world is and pour it into this question. To the both of us it echoes like the eternal is there a God?
I heard that you like the bad girls, honey, is that true?
He keeps silent for some seconds, and he seems so shaken I do fear his answer. And then I realize, if there is fire in the grate he must have been expecting me.
I can almost hear the clumsy steps of Scotland Yard enclosing us.
And suddenly: - … No… -, he answers quietly.
I am hollowed and my ribcage sinks. It is tender, his stab, but it robs me of air nonetheless. Whatever reservations I had gathered within have evaporated, and I find myself feeling candidly vulnerable.
Oversensitive to his calm march towards me.
His fingers on my wrist are soft and they entreat the revolver off my weakened hand. He puts it on the chest of drawers behind me.
This close to me my limbs melt, I am his ragdoll.
It is unjustified that I close my eyes, but I feel I must take special care in breathing. I concentrate in blackness and to my surprise I find I breathe out of rhythm; my chest heaves frantically. And I reopen my eyes to see what might be his reaction in noticing the pounding of my heart.
He only seems satisfied to be able to exchange looks, establish some sort of wordless fundamental understanding.
He draws closer taking me in his arms, and I can feel him ever so slightly quivering. When he brushes them, they are wavering, on mine, his lips.
They chance an advance and my arms fly around his neck, bracing myself.
Moisture. He kisses me deeply and fingers my ribs.
It's better than I ever even knew.
Holmes the detective has muck on his face. Of course, he comes from the sewers. We don't mind.
He tells me about how he went running after that poor scraggy boy with the vulgar accent and pitiful aspirations. A huge rat scurried over to his right shoe; he wailed, wailed high (his own words), dodged it with a bit of a twirl and a leap and fell face first on the sludge.
He cackles and I say to you all that he's got some nerve, my insolent, cheeky man. Nerve, of course, what is a man if not brave and audacious.
As we saunter home side by side, nay, arm in arm, his repellent odor clashes with my expensive perfume, and his marred scowl does with my red smile. The people we cross are pitying me and I feel proud, I take pride in this being something other. Exceptionality clothes us, weaves with our skin, and that is why I take it only as a wonder that there's a we, and then there's the others.
- Really Holmes, tell me when there's a rat on sight, I'll go kill it for you and spare us all kinds of disasters.
He chuckles.
- Oh but you would only kill it by shooting wouldn't you?, you would bust it into pieces with a bullet. In a public place that would be much more of a disaster than me wailing.
- Come now Sherlock, hopefully my aiming would be precise.
We both smile, he rolls his eyes and grips my hand to pull me way home.
Tell me about the things you want to do. I tell you all the time, heaven is a place on earth with you.
We're sitting on the same armchair o so pleasantly duty-free. A leg of mine extends over him and drapes down the contrary arm of the chair. With his right he's loosely holding my waist, the other cushions the back of his head. I roll my front on his shoulder.
Lazy, there is time for nostalgia, for revivals.
- Why did you come here Irene?
Sleepy, I purr and strengthen my hold of him, peck his tough neck. – Don't you like the bad girls?, see, that's what I heard.
He smirks slightly, bows his head and kisses me swiftly, tantalizingly.
I stretch a little to try and kiss him again, but his warm breath voices something and leaves me eager midway.
- Is that what you want from me?
- Certainly. I kiss him, just for the mere pleasure of it, or maybe also because I heartily feel my own words. –Love me. I kiss him again. – Just love me.
They say that the world was built for two, only worth living if somebody is loving you.
His hand lies on the side of my face, bends me, accommodates me to his wishes. He kisses me with lust.
I tug his shirt out of his trousers and I can feel his skin beneath. His member stiffens and rises and I say it is paying me homage.
He takes my face in his hands and pulls it away from his, I see, only to admire it and dip again to bite my mouth.
I can hear myself moaning and that is all I'm aware of besides the sensation of floating. Squeezed together in this armchair he lays between my legs.
"I am out of my mind", I heard him whisper one day, hotly against my ear, "It is remarkable you realize, that you take from me the ability to think. You are, breathtaking."
It is unnecessary to say we were both transported, to a realm where our personalities and every object dissolved with poetry.
I tell you all the time, heaven is a place on earth with you. They say that the world was built for two.
"Mean childish woman. You thief."
I sat above him, naked, on his bed. Looking up at me his wide brown eyes were thick like mud, and they shone. I remember deeming that they were like both the earth and the sun. "Not a thief, but a ghost".
He smirked. "Is that so?"
"Yes. I wander the world with no aim".
From the back of my head he pulled me forcefully down to him. My wet pussy slipped over his hard member. "You're my lover now", he gasped through sharp teeth, and we kissed wildly.
In such a situation it wasn't wild to give away wild confessions.
"You're everything to me", I said.
He caressed the semi-circles of my waist, as I teased his ear, and so he had his eyes closed when he asked "Then why are you leaving?"
I didn't know he knew I was leaving abroad yet again, but I couldn't admit he hadn't found out. I wasn't taken by surprise.
"Because I'm coming back."
They say that the world was built for two. Only worth living if somebody is loving you…
Baby now you do.
I sink my tongue in his mouth and he tickles my hipbone, and I feel wet and I leave his stomach wet, and he masses my breast playfully, and he arches his throat. And I feel him within me, full and strong.
Our stomachs grind in waves. His hair is everywhere and enraptured his skin tightens over every contour of his muscles, and he gasps and groans deep, sounds I want to in turn elicit and swallow.
My tongue deep in his mouth.
He's the man for me.