Delia Tolson
Libra ♎
Posts: 7
Age: 24
Occupation: Artist
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Jenny
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Post by Delia Tolson on Jun 4, 2013 0:53:33 GMT
Faces. There was so much richness in them. From the texture to the tones, and the entirely unique features animated even further by expressions. Delia loved them. Each soul had that individuality that she craved in her art. Whenever she was looking for integrity to fill in the cracks of her pieces Delia tended to choose the less desirable places to find it. She desired the grit, the harshness of reality hitting people full on in the gut. In turn, that led her to the ghettos around New York, and sometimes eve venturing into New Jersey. That day, her feet had led her into Harlem. Being small, unintimidating and alone in the rougher neighborhoods wasn’t the smartest of ideas but Delia didn’t think about those things. She was a big believer in fate and usually her personality had people feeling at ease around her, not to mention if she made mention of the people’s role as muses, that had a way of defusing any unfortunate circumstances. Walking down the streets her gaze flickered over the graffiti covered walls, the battered streets with their pockets with dirty puddles and splashing occasionally as a heavy bass-pumping vehicle crawled on by. On occasion their had been a wolf whistle or cat call directed at her with less than charming comments made to capture her attention. It wasn’t because Delia was overly good looking though, merely the way of things and the next girl down the line would get the same goading and be men in the car would have things shouted out them and a middle finger raised in salute to their unwanted advances. Delia carried a messenger bag slung over her shoulder that cut across her chest blemishing the cream crochet top with its hemp strap. The only thing visible on her of higher materialism was her camera. It had been a going away present to her from her parents when she’d first left for college. Years later and she still had it though she wanted something different for a different quality of photos to add to the flavor of her pieces. Snapping a few photos of passing faces no one seemed to really notice too wrapped up in their own lives. As she went through a neighborhood Delia passed a group of girls jump roping and grabbed a couple shots of that, as well as the elderly man three stoops down drinking from a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag, likely a forty. Feet pounding the pavement Delia made it all the way to the famed Apollo Theater and stopped there. Her eyes drifted shut and she found herself swaying lightly to the picture that was painting in her head. Delia pictured it at night, back in its hay day and could have sworn that she heard jazz coming from within. wearing this.
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DAEMON BLACK
Cancer ♋
Posts: 6
Age: 26
Occupation: Mechanic
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Sky
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Post by DAEMON BLACK on Jun 18, 2013 23:32:05 GMT
Daemon had a bad habit of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. So, after twenty-six years, he just went where he pleased; without much thought of the consequences. That was his frame of mind as he rolled through Harlem on his old, black motorcycle. It was an old Indian; he'd gotten it a few years back, from a client who didn't have the money to pay him -- and had offered the black beauty in exchange. It was Daemon's baby; he was in love with the hunk of metal fitted with chrome, and he rode it every chance he got. The city was the perfect place for motorcycles; good for weaving in and out of the otherwise heavy traffic. Sure, that had gotten him into a few run-ins with the cops . . . but, what the hell. The crazy motorists sometimes made him wary, but other than his old, beat-up pick-up, the bike was Daemon's only mean of transportation. He hated the subway, it made him claustrophobic, and cabs never stopped for him. There was just something about Daemon; he gave off that impression, that he was trouble. Then again, his dark hair, tattoos, devil-may-care grin, worn leather jacket and mirrored aviators didn't help. Either way, he really didn't care what people thought -- he'd stopped caring a long time ago.
No one ever gave him trouble here. In fact, Daemon had helped a few of these people out once or twice. There really wasn't anything the man couldn't fix. He loved engines, but he could do plumbing, electrical: you name it, Daemon did it. He knew a lot of them didn't have money for "professionals" -- so he did what he could when he went through. In return, no one pestered him. And considering this was one of the fastest routes back to his apartment in Brooklyn, why not?
He was on his way back from a client's -- some guy who couldn't get his old, worn-out station wagon to start. A tourist, actually. How the man had found him of all people, Daemon would never know. He hadn't bothered to ask. He'd spent most of his time reigning in his impatience at the man's incompetence, actually. The thing had only needed new spark-plugs and an oil change; easy work for anybody. Most people could handle that, but apparently not everyone. The money in his wallet had been worth his while, though, so Daemon didn't plan on complaining.
He was just glad to be on his way home. He'd been looking forward to stretching out on his couch for most of the day; he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. But as he rode down the road, something caught Daemon's eye. His eyes narrowed behind his mirrored sunglasses, confused. It would be rare enough to catch a young girl down in Harlem during the middle of the day, but it was nearing sunset. But his eyes weren't deceiving him. It was a young girl -- woman, rather. With a camera. Daemon wanted to huff; did she have a death wish or something? But he clenched his teeth and drove past her; she was none of his concern. If she wanted to get shot or raped . . .
The young man let out a sigh. He knew what he was going to do. It would be stupid and a waste of gas to keep going, deliberating, when he knew he was just going to turn around anyway. Turning the bike around in a neat half-circle, Daemon puttered back up the street; annoyed with the young woman for having the sense of a kamikazi pilot. But more annoyed with himself for turning around. She wasn't his problem to worry about. Nevertheless, he pulled up at the curb, balancing on the big bike, lowering his sunglasses just a bit, so his dark eyes were visible.
He studied her for a moment, raising both eyebrows. Was she dancing? Daemon shook his head, and cleared his throat, "You know that place is good as dead, right? I haven't seen anybody in there for months. Just a lot of dust and cobwebs, sweetheart," he said, leaning lazily on his handle bars. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world. But his eyes were curious; wondering what would possess her to walk around Harlem, all alone.
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Delia Tolson
Libra ♎
Posts: 7
Age: 24
Occupation: Artist
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Jenny
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Post by Delia Tolson on Jun 19, 2013 11:57:39 GMT
It was an interesting life that she led. One might have said that she was adventuresome, but Delia had never been a thrill seeker. Her actions weren’t stemmed from a need for an adrenaline rush but rather out of a necessity for pure, unfiltered freedom. Perhaps that was reckless of her, some thinking her actions were death wishes. Delia only had a desire to live. So many people in this city simply existed. Not her though, she was fulfilled and fulfilling. Each day was a new journey and the destination wasn’t nearly as important as the path that she took to get there, the people she met along the way and what she came to discover during that time. In this thinking that might have made her peculiar but she didn’t care.
Delia lived the way that she wanted to. She made herself happy in her starving artist kind of way. More often than not she was penniless and the art that she sold was only for the bar necessities like the studio flat that she lived in, in Brooklyn, the clothes on her back- shopping at thrift stores mostly, the food in her belly- though she didn’t eat much to begin with, and the supplies that it took to continue letting her artistic eye create her masterpieces. Delia had never had much and yet she was one of the few people that could claim they were never left wanting. She had a humble lifestyle while taking the initiative to go out and get it. Delia wasn’t bound by social norms and acceptances, instead marching to the beat of her own band.
So, swaying to inaudible music in the middle of Harlem was hardly the strangest or most dangerous thing that she had done in her lifetime. The voice sounding behind her had Delia snapping out of her dizzy daydream to whirl around and face the source. Looking him over there was probably a lot that people said about him. Maybe that he was a criminal because his body was tattooed, or that he was a bad boy because he wore a leather jacket and drove a motorcycle, could have been that he had a dark personality to match his dark features. And it could have been that the cover matched the text within, but Delia wasn’t one to let stereotypes determine her judgment. True enough they flashed through her mind like they would anyone’s, but she wouldn’t be wary of a stranger for any reason.
A quirk of hers she supposed. Delia saw the world in such a way the a knife wielding attacker could have been misconstrued as a person simply wanting to cut the tag off the lady in front of her outfit. Was it naivety? It was a good possibility, but it was also a sense of imagination, hope, and a general belief in good. His comment had her smiling- in part because he’d called her Sweetheart and like most females, a term of endearment spoken from a handsome man did make the heart skip a beat, but more so for other reasons.
Delia shook her head at him, taking a few steps closer. ”Oh no. It’s very much alive still.” Poor man just didn’t realize it yet. She closed the space between them putting a hand on his arm and closed her eyes. ”Just listen for a moment.” The advisement either would or wouldn’t be taken but Delia was listening. ”Everything that once was still remains.” She looked back to him deciding to further explain her meaning. ”When time passes and people are gone, the soul of any event still lingers on. There is so much history inside those walls. The music is still playing somewhere as long as someone has the decency to remember. “ Delia might not have been there in person herself, but maybe she had been in a past life, maybe that was why she could see it so vividly in her mind.
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DAEMON BLACK
Cancer ♋
Posts: 6
Age: 26
Occupation: Mechanic
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Sky
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Post by DAEMON BLACK on Jun 19, 2013 15:10:41 GMT
Daemon never had a problem speaking with people, but it wasn't his fault if they found his tone, and low, knowing voice offensive. He'd never been popular with the general populace back home, and if anything New York was only harsher. There were more people like him here, though -- with tattoos and smartass personalities, among the other things that made Daemon Daemon. But back home he'd been an original, and he liked to believe he still was. Like the fact that most of those same men would not have turned their bikes around to check up on some pretty stranger wandering the streets alone. Well, maybe they would, but for completely different reasons. When the stereotypes ran true. But in Daemon's case, most of those were false. He just liked basking in the thrill of it all; it amused him rather than annoyed him to be looked at with distrust.
But the young woman had spun to face him with anything but distrust. He was almost taken aback with surprise when she smiled at him. Smiling at a stranger; a stranger, dressed as he was, inked as he was, in the middle of Harlem at twilight. He hadn't wanted her to be afraid, but Jesus. She didn't know him, he could have a gun tucked inside that jacket -- he could have knives tucked up under his sleeves. Some of the stuff that happened down here at night were chill-worthy; but it was the lone women who were always targeted that disturbed him the most. Daemon couldn't be called a gentleman, but he couldn't imagine ever hurting a woman. But he often wondered as he rolled through, what the hell was going through their heads that possessed them to take a midnight stroll through one of the city's most violent areas.
And she continued to push his puzzlement. She stepped closer, laid her hand on his arm, and closed her eyes. Daemon removed his sunglasses with his free hand, raising his dark brows at her -- mouth set in a line of indecision. She was either two things at this point, in his mind; either very, painfully, stupid . . . or extremely naive. After looking at her for a long moment, deliberating if she was crazy -- he decided she wasn't a threat. She had a camera, and a woven bag. And weighed all of about two pounds. It was rare to be in a situation where he was the one unsure of himself. Usually the feeling would have been reversed. Giving her one last look, he cursed himself for a fool, and shut his eyes. And he listened over the sound of her calmly excited voice . . . maybe he could imagine it. Maybe.
But Daemon's dark eyes flashed open after a few moments; feeling foolish and childish. His gaze flicked to the old club, and then resettled back to the young woman standing so close.
”Everything that once was still remains.”
That though, struck him. For a painful, brief moment, Daemon was reminded of his brother. And before he could reveal how deeply the memory still cut him, his handsome face hardened to its usual composure. A low chuckle escaped him when she had finished, and Daemon shook his head -- not unkindly -- just further and further puzzled by her. Apparently appearances were deceiving. "Do people quote you on this stuff?" he asked, dark gaze back upon her. Her elegant words and soothing voice had to leave an impression. But his attention flicked to her camera. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before, and he sized her up a moment, "Let me guess. You're some kind of artist, out on some dangerous escapade to create some of the best work of your life," he mused, fingers absently tapping on the handle bars of his old bike. His words were not unkind, but no doubt true to that smartass, cynical humor of his. "A pretty thing like you shouldn't be here. Especially when it gets dark," he said, his own eyes flicking to the street; soon the less friendly members of the Harlem community would be out. And they wouldn't simply leave the young woman be; they would snatch her up . . . and then God knows what.
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Delia Tolson
Libra ♎
Posts: 7
Age: 24
Occupation: Artist
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Jenny
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Post by Delia Tolson on Jun 20, 2013 1:59:50 GMT
Normality had never been something associated with Delia. Her parents had raised her strangely and she grew up to have quirks of her own that made her just as peculiar. She didn’t mind that though. Being unique was a gift because when you ventured out of the status quos you had better luck of finding yourself and better understanding what you wanted in life. For Delia, she wanted to live simple. Her means justified her ends, in whatever form they came in. Perhaps in another lifetime, with her words of wisdom, she could have been a high priestess of greater knowledge, an educator, philosopher, but in this lifetime people seemed to look at her as though she were from another planet. For all anyone knew, maybe that was true. Delia was never one to completely disregard any idea.
She watched him do as was suggested. Someone as burly as this man seemed to be normally wouldn’t have even bothered to humor her for a moment, let alone seem genuine in the effort. But there he was, surprising her. Delia was impressed by his courage. Having met a stranger on the side of the road, would you have closed your eyes and tried to listen to music that wasn’t really there? Probably not. For Delia, it was a daily thing- she often did the unexpected. People would have said that her shock value was unrivaled by any average person you might pluck off the street to do a comparison. She wore that like a badge of honor though. Delia liked being able to keep people guessing with the only hint being that they shouldn’t ever think there was something that she wouldn’t do.
He was confused, or so his expressions led her to believe. Delia let out a soft chuckle at his question. ”I don’t really know, honestly. I’ve never asked.” Most people that her advice fell on their ears she never saw again. New York was such a large place and she was anything but a creature of habit so had no place that she frequented often, more a vagabond when it came to the places she visited. That wasn’t to say she wouldn’t visit the same place twice, Delia did, often, but no place was a regular for her other than home. He seemed to be trying to decide something about her. Delia was curious to see what he came up with. Some things were obvious others were not.
Her smile broadened at his description of her. ”I’m an artist.” That much he had gotten right. ”But everyday is an adventure, some dangerous, others no threats greater than a family of ducklings swimming in a pond. I don’t suspect a person can truly be measured from one piece of their life. The best work of my life is simply living it and all the things that happen to me and that I accomplish everyday I live it- the people I meet, the things I come to learn. My masterpiece will be my life as a whole.” His humor didn’t have any negative effect on her, nor did the way that he looked at her. She just assumed that was the way his face looked, not that he was trying to offend her.
”You’re kind to heed warning.” Delia appreciated that, she did. Harlem had always treated her well enough. Some people made unkindly comments toward her even leered but she’d never felt like her life was being threatened. People who talk of things to scare you weren’t nearly as likely as those that simply stuck to actions. She wasn’t afraid to take risks, even if they were stupid and foolish ones. ”If you’re really concerned though, you could always take me home.” Such a bold suggestion, but Delia meant it. She would hop onto the back of his bike same as she would walk the streets of Harlem at night. It wasn’t that she was oblivious to fear, just that Delia refused to let that fear control her life.
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DAEMON BLACK
Cancer ♋
Posts: 6
Age: 26
Occupation: Mechanic
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Sky
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Post by DAEMON BLACK on Jun 22, 2013 4:07:59 GMT
Daemon had never had much interest for the whole artistic lifestyle. He wasn't artistic. Or maybe he was, in his own way, without realizing it, of course. He was a cynic and always had been. He'd been brought up in a lower class home with a meager income; his parents had never paid him any mind. Well, that was a lie. When his father drank, he'd liked to slap Daemon around. All because Daemon was the disappointment, the useless child. After Kevin had died, it had gotten worse . . . but Daemon mentally shrunk from the memory. He hated to think of his older brother, he despised the sense of guilt that seared him every time his dead sibling's name was spoken. Or remembering the look in Jocelyn's eyes, the hatred in them. He'd ruined everything. Like usual, but on a much larger scale.
But he didn't like to remember those things, those moments were too easily relived. Most nights he woke with a jerk . . . thrown back into the real world; the hair on the back of his neck on end from the too-real sound of screeching metal, and the smell of burning rubber. Even now he avoided looking at the Harlem road. There was glass scattered across it; the crunch it made when his boot settled too heavily upon it made his heart beat a little faster. It'd been eight years, but he knew by now that that night would haunt him all his life.
And he didn't have the decency to remember. Because remembering hurt; and he didn't like the way this young woman was so ignorantly -- but innocently -- inviting his ghosts back to play.
Daemon shook off his melancholy mood, crookedly grinning at the woman's chuckle. And then she was giving him the artist's answer, no doubt. But he didn't interrupt, merely nodded, dark brows arching as she finished in curious thought, "Shouldn't have asked," he said -- bemusement in his eyes. He was rather perplexed by the daring stranger as a whole, but she was interesting -- he had to give her that. And she had courage for going wherever the wind took her. Either that, or she was just reckless. Because he was past the point of believing her to be simply unintelligent. The way she spoke suggested otherwise. Maybe she was just a good actress. But what did Daemon know; he'd known her a full three minutes.
”If you’re really concerned though, you could always take me home.”
Daemon sized her up, that curious look again entering his eye. He leaned forward on the big bike, unable to take the chance, "You really are fearless, aren't you? How do you know I'm not one of those shady characters I've been warning you about?" he asked, arching a daring brow. He had that devilish, crooked smile going -- the one that either sent women running for the hills, or running after him. "How do you know I'm not going to whisk you off to some dark alley and have my way with you?" His testing her was juvenile, and he knew it -- of course he had no such intentions. A lot of what she had said had hit a little too close to home, and he was putting his walls up. The walls that fed off the stereotypes of his appearance. But he was being foolish. He really didn't want to see anything happen to her; but he doubted his words would scare her off. She didn't seem easily flustered.
"If you're so sure, hop on."
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Delia Tolson
Libra ♎
Posts: 7
Age: 24
Occupation: Artist
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Jenny
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Post by Delia Tolson on Jun 24, 2013 5:06:43 GMT
Delia was more a fan of creativity than she ever had been of intelligence. She could have argued that the two often went hand in hand but also parallel to one another. For her, she was a smart enough girl, but she was far more innovative than she ever had been book smarts. It was about adapting to the elements. While he might have seen a young, helpless young lady walking the dangerous streets of Harlem at dusk- Delia saw something different. She saw an explorer trekking the land to find something worthy of discovery. The terrain didn’t matter much to her, it was all different sceneries and all held different dangers compliments of the elements but it was in adaptation that slowed her to survive it. Delia tried to connect with the people that she met along the way. Take him for example. She’d shown no fear or prejudice toward him and others might have looked at his dark features and persona and saw something to shy away from but Delia had walked right up to him and was holding a conversation.
A lot of people that she came across on the streets were curious about her too, found her to be a curious woman. But almost always Delia had been able to make them feel as though they could relate to them or endear them in such a way that any ill will toward her floated away to be forgotten. Nine times out of ten she left people feeling special about themselves and with a smile on their face. Delia tended to wind up flattering people with her interest in them or her craft of words. She could wrap a person up in them like a warm and safe cocoon putting their guards down. It didn’t work with everyone and it wasn’t an intentional thing that she did- merely something that came naturally to her.
She nodded. For all she knew he could have been a bad person wanting to do her harm. A smile came onto her lips though seeming contradictory to that smirk of his. Delia was neither running from or toward him though, quite complacent in her current standing. ”And how do you know that you don’t have to watch out for me? Maybe I’m the one with naughty intentions.” Posing that to him in return, there were worse things than him having her way with her. In fact the notion didn’t shake Delia in the least. It was more of a pleasurable shiver in response. He was attractive and the rapport that they were forming seemed to have an alluring sort of banter to it that Delia was enjoying greatly. She’d found far less appealing people attractive in her past. Delia was a fan of free love, a one-woman revival to the 70s mentality, though she didn’t sleep around nearly as much as she could have. For her there just had to be some type of positive connection.
With his agreement though, Delia moved around him, to the back of the bike and put her camera back into her bag adjusting it a bit more behind her versus against her side then climbed on. Straddling the bike Delia snuggled up to him wrapping both arms around his middle and rested her cheek on his shoulder. Her torso firmly pressed up against him for security. ”I live in Brooklyn.” Little did she know that they were almost neighbors, living all of two blocks away from one another. The thing about big cities was that even those nearest to you could be strangers. ”Do you have a name or shall I call you Hoke?” Referring of course to Morgan Freeman’s character in driving Miss Daisy.
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DAEMON BLACK
Cancer ♋
Posts: 6
Age: 26
Occupation: Mechanic
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Sky
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Post by DAEMON BLACK on Jun 24, 2013 15:22:18 GMT
Daemon had always had walls up; he was more of a reserved person, if only in the way that he adjusted stereotypes to be his armor. He adopted that behavior, if only to keep people away. His family had convinced him that the less involved you were with people, the more content you'd be with your life. The sarcasm and smart ass remarks came naturally though, that was the one part of himself he let shine through. Most people found it disagreeable, but half of New York had the same attitude, so he was just one face among millions. And that was fine. More than fine; he never wanted any spotlight, save that for the celebrities and high rollers. All he needed to be happy was his bike and his garage, and his desires were simple in that degree; he was probably one of the few people who came to the city not looking to make it big, but to lose himself somewhere between the countless individuals who made New York their home. So far, it was working brilliantly.
Her interest was almost uncomfortable. He wasn't accustomed to anyone caring, in any way. And at the same time, his curiosity for her was dwindling those walls to dust. But that was probably obvious. He'd turned his bike around to look after her; the first thing out of his mouth had not been a pick-up line, but a quiet warning. Daemon wasn't a fan of telling people what to do; he'd never done what was expected of himself, and he couldn't stand hypocrisy.
He found himself eyeing her, wondering what she would have to say in response. Something told him she wouldn't head for the hills. No, a girl who was able to stroll through Harlem at twilight had more courage that that; he doubted his words would frighten her.
”And how do you know that you don’t have to watch out for me? Maybe I’m the one with naughty intentions.”
Daemon raised and eyebrow, chuckling quietly. She had a point. And he nodded; fair enough. Seldom at a loss for words, Daemon grinned, shaking his head. She wasn't a coward, but she was something else. Oh yes, he doubted there was very much in this world that unnerved this pretty, young stranger. So they had something in common. "You're right. I'm absolutely terrified," he replied, amusement flashing in his dark eyes. He hadn't expected himself to be enjoying the company of the young woman who he had considered half-crazy on sight, walking through Harlem like she owned the place. Maybe he needed to take this way home more often.
He glanced over his shoulder as she adjusted her things, taking the moment to study her. No, he wouldn't mind having her on the back of his bike -- not at all. It was actually quite the place of honor. Daemon was rather picky about who he allowed within close proximity of his bike. But the young woman straddled it with ease, her arms suddenly around his waist -- her body pressed against his back. No, that was more than all right. Daemon raised his foot, balancing on the other, getting ready to speed off again. Actually, he was quite the scoundrel. He used the speed to his advantage whenever he let a woman on his bike; their natural reaction was to cling tighter, but the young woman was already quite molded to him.
He laughed as she mentioned where she lived, "What a coincidence," he said. He revved the bike and had it turning slowly, so that he could resume cruising up the street.
”Do you have a name or shall I call you Hoke?”
Daemon turned his head, flashing her a smile as he regarded her out of the corner of his eye. "As charming as that is, you can call me Daemon. I'm not sure I look like a Hoke," he replied, turning his head just as the bike came around; and he had it flying down the street, feeling the need for an adrenaline rush. And, after all, it was a habit whenever he had a pretty girl sitting just behind him.
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Delia Tolson
Libra ♎
Posts: 7
Age: 24
Occupation: Artist
♡ Status: Single
OOC: Jenny
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Post by Delia Tolson on Jun 30, 2013 22:51:20 GMT
As fanciful as Delia might have been she didn’t really entertain the thought of him being terrified of her as anything further than a joke. He was all large and in charge with his dark looks and snarky attitude that she could imagine he wasn’t the kind of man to scare easily. Just as well because she wasn’t looking to intimidate anyone. There were lots of ways to do that though and for all she knew, shed already accomplished that unwittingly. It could have been as simple as shaking him with a smile or as complicated as triggering a memory from something she’d said. Delia thought on it, sure, but she didn’t let it really effect the way that she dealt with him. The man had engaged her and she was going with the flow of it. Delia was just being herself and seeing where that took her with him. So far so good.
There wasn’t an ounce of fear in her cozying up to him on the back of his motorcycle. No, Delia hadn’t spent an express amount of time on them but she didn’t have any hesitations. Being uninhibited had its pros and cons but Delia tended to spin things in such a way that all those cons could be viewed as pros when put into the right perspective. For her the ride wasn’t just a free means of transportation. It was so much more than that. It was the chance to have the wind in her hair, cozy up to some devilishly handsome honey, and maybe even walk away having gained a new friend, or at least acquaintance. The negatives were ignored by her but still lingered in the air. Some of them the same things that he’d posed to her earlier about his integrity. Maybe he was a bad guy, she didn’t know.
She was assuming the coincidence was that Brooklyn had been where he was heading, which was fair enough because it was a pretty direct route to there but she wouldn’t comment on that. Delia figured he already knew that. His smile was magnetic and had her grinning in return. Hearing his name she couldn’t help but to be amused by it. ”You’re right. Devilishly handsome guy like you; Daemon fits best.” It was ironically delicious really but something that Delia was accepting. The faster he got the more of a reversed effect than he’d anticipated was occurring. Her grip on his wasn’t tightening but loosening. Delia wanted to be able to fly. Slowly she let go of him and spread her arms out to the sides, smiling triumphantly at the rush that was over coming her. ”This is great!” It was no wonder he had a motorcycle and actually more telling about his personality than just it being a bad boy thing. She wouldn’t keep herself like that for too long and return to holding onto him. When she did Delia leaned in close to his ear so she wouldn’t have to shout. ”You like freedom, don’t you?”
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