Main House
For what it was worth, Holly seemed sincerely happy to see you, her mood lighting up at the sight of you — or at least the initial evidence implying the presence of you, like the way atmospheric spectrography can suggest exciting ideas about a planet's capacity for life.

Weed smoke, empty whiskey, the dialogue of… what was that, Friday (1995)?

Holly's characteristic stiletto tap was absent in favor of sneakers, sneaking un-sneakily given the soft rustle of light plastic for the dress she was carrying in.

"Holy shit is that Ice Cube?" Holly offered with a casual lilt to her voice, finally letting her upraised arm relax to allow the tail of the dress bag to drag, or more accurately glide along the spotless floor that you kept, destined to be hung in the bedroom pending a closer review, where she wouldn't linger but instead rebound right back to the greatroom to… perfume herself in what you've inundated the space in.

She faced a choice to make, because her impulse was to crack a joke, like 'What are you, a living stereotype?' but that expensive and faceted and Empty bottle of whiskey compelled her to pick something softer to open with, footsteps softer on her second approach as she tried to appear, drift in from the periphery like a ghost, one that lowered into the other side of the couch.

Chris Tucker's falsetto voice followed up: 'Yall ain't never got two things that match… Kool-aid no sugar, peanut butter no jelly, ham no burga, dayum!'

Brix no Holly.

"I ain't ever seen this one, what's it about?" It was a weak way to open conversation, weaker still was her voice behind the sandy texture like she wasn't entirely prepared to open conversation but she couldn't just dwell in silence with the movie to fill the noise instead.

Main House
This was the second time in recent memory that the fancy exterior lights that bathed the outside of the house and circular drive were out. Even the Huracàn's approach left the motion sensors blind. Someone must have gone into the garage and manually turned the lights off. Or perhaps flipped a breaker.

Upon your entrance, which would chirp with the breaking of the magnetic connection hidden in the wood of the door and jamb, the interior of the house was likewise dark. Maybe Brix was setting up for another awards show.

Then again, maybe not. The pulsing of light, kaleidoscoping in soft reflection off the myriad of glass in the greatroom at the end of the hall betrayed the fact the projector was on, and something was playing at low volume. The shadowy hallway towards the light was dark, but if you turned the lights on, they would respond. No physical removal of oddly-specific lightbulbs this time.

Just darkness. Quiet.

What wasn't quiet though, what seemed to speak volumes about the situation at hand was the overturned whiskey bottle, laying empty behind the tall back of the couch. There it sat, glinting with every off-chance reflection-of-a-reflection of light, like a small claymore mine, halfway between the Kitchen and the pathway around the couch to enter into the entertaining area.

The smoke above your head, sitting heavy like a haze in the cascading lights, smelled of weed and a bit like tobacco. The roll of a blunt easy to spot, in this home.

When, or if, you got closer, the sound would pick up, as it seems Brix was watching a movie of some sort...

A voice, yelling, but with the volume down... "...Ms. Parker! Ms. Parker! Can I talk to you a minute, Ms. Parker!"

A second voice, calmly... "See? The Weed be lettin' you know... Evil Lurks..."

If you got into the living room, you'd see Brix laying on the couch, eyes on the screen. A smear of powder-residue across the table in front of him. A second bottle of whiskey, nearing it's end. The smoldering edge of a Blunt, gently burning away like forgotten incense, sat in a ceramic ash-tray that was to be used for weed only, so it could stay inside.

Returns from elsewhere.

I like the word.

Nods.

And the underwear.

Mmmm sexy kisses. Love riding you

I feel you too... and I hope I will feel you again...

*blows you a kiss but has to go*

((rt is pulling me away now so sorry))

I feel you mmmmm

Feeling you deep I orgasmmmmmmmm

Ready to orgasm again

Ahah sorry I got into a scene!

Main House
The Huracàn basically idled down the driveway and across the circular driveway outside before ceasing its machine gurgle, leaving Holly staring up at the pristine edifice of the house. Still haven't given it a fun, quasi-pretentious name.
House of Brix, even though there isn't a single conventional brick in sight?

Whatever. She had her dress on a foam-lined hangar under a paper top and plastic veil, carefully folded over her back in the passenger seat, herself having just changed into a tee back home. Her family had enjoyed a couple days of leisure and shopping in The City and got the all-clear to head back home, though they were warned that Leo might swing by on the off-chance he needed some shelter or just a place to crash as backup.

Mom was… apprehensive. Molly was curious. Wally was standoffish.

Holly got out of the car, carrying her dress which had indeed been a little damaged from her sitting on the concrete curb. It was tiny, so maybe Holly could go get it fixed or just shove it to a professional, who knows.

Speaking of professionals, maybe she should try and schedule some time with Lilly, given the less noticeable, less repairable, less subtle damage in her quietude. That psychic noise which buzzed like mental tinnitus. Layers on layers that recalled rules written and unwritten, stories and facts and perceptions and feelings like the most convoluted board game that you dust off and make a move on a few times a year.

A movement due, something she felt ill-prepared for, but couldn't ignore for her health and for Brix's.

A rustle of thin plastic followed her movements, making the slight breeze even noisier as she awkwardly ascended the steps with her arm raised high overhead to avoid the danger of the dress's mermaid train from dragging, even though the bag was loosely tied off at the bottom to prevent fabric from being exposed.

Moving on top of you, impaled on your cock, I place your hands on my tits, riding you, pussy gripping you, milking you, close your eyes and feel me, riding you

Do you want to ride me, sexy?

Feeling your throb, your knob rubs deep, dreamy

Bucking under you, gushing trembling spasms

Pffft.

Haven Underwear Posts- Everyone stays.

Echo Underwear Posts- Everyone leaves.

Fine, I get it.

https://64.media.tumblr.com/56a70402b551a9ec5e339fb8062059be/9aabb2b25285f90a-21/s640x960/78646bc573506da675fa3c3d08eacd7ee0954be1.jpg

..........I think you said it to me. *suddenly has a vague recollection of it*

https://64.media.tumblr.com/00ef11ee06dfcd6314e55ee4bc0d7da4/cd44b1e27ec2ee5b-07/s640x960/31acdebf39847ff7a5fa64314a57040caba9efe4.jpg

Has literally used “Schrödinger's Douchebag” before.