From Peter

Jun. 18th, 2008 07:48 pm
changehistory: (I'm *not* a bad guy....)
I am not: evil.
I love: a chosen few.
I hate: what's becoming of the world.
I fear: anonymity.
I hope: for a better future.
I hear: the sound of the kittens purring
I crave: understanding.
I regret: nothing.
I cry: rarely.
I care: more than people think I do.
I always: keep hoping.
I believe: in myself.
I feel alone: always.
I listen: to my instincts.
I hide: from no one and everyone.
I drive: a very fast car.
I sing: at the bar.
I dance: quite well, but not often enough.
I write: letters I never send to people who no longer care to receive them.
I play: a lot of games.
I miss: my family.
I search: for the way to fix it.
I learn: constantly. Life is about learning.
I feel: ...old.
I know: that I have things to teach, if people would choose to listen and learn.
I say: things no one else is willing to.
I succeed: when I remember who I am.
I dream: of peace on a new earth.
I wonder: what went differently in that world.
I want: to not be alone.
I have: my sword back.
I give: them something to believe in.
I fell: for the one person who can stop me.
I fight: my darker impulses.
I need: to be loved.,
changehistory: (Contemplative)
[NaF!verse and Open!verse]

- Research publicly traded companies
- Get the cats their six month check up. See if blood worked.
- Get info from Columbia (Business, Neuroscience, Psychology)
- Pick up new sheet music for the piano
- Consider house at beach. And a boat.
- Get info from Mt. Sinai (Humanities and Medicine program, Graduate School of Biological Sciences)
- Get season tickets at the Met
- Locate Trina's children--make sure they are adequately provided for
- Look in to a more permanent arrangement at the bar

[Open 'verse only]
- Plan trip to Barbados. Make sure to have boat first.
- Get tickets to Vegas.
changehistory: (BW close up pretty eyes)

Your Ideal Relationship is Serious Dating

You're not ready to go walking down the aisle.
But you may be ready in a couple of years.
You prefer to date one on one, with a commitment.
And while chemistry is important, so is compatibility.

changehistory: (Brooding)
Patient: Adam Monroe
Fandom: Heroes
Words: 960
Partner: Peter Petrelli ([ profile] heroicpotential)

If we break up, it will probably be because...

Either I screwed it up again in any number of ways and he finally lost patience, or because Nathan asked him to end it.

I've done a lot to hurt him. I used him to further my own agenda. I kept my past relationship with his mother a secret, though I did tell him when it resumed. I didn't tell him it was a possibility I was his brother's biological father. I tried to destroy the world. I went after Bob without bringing him along. He thinks I don't get it, don't see how my actions have hurt him, the wounds I've inflicted, but I do. I know all too well what I've become through the years. I'm the one who lives with the chill of it inside of me every day. The isolation, of always being outside, always being the one who has to survive not just those I love, but the world itself, who always keeps's taken its toll. I know I see the world in a way most would say is very fucked up. I know I tend to keep up walls to keep anyone from getting too close. I know I keep my own counsel. I'm not used to confiding in people. It's never done me any good, and has, in fact, caused a great deal of harm in the past. I learned not to trust, not to open more of myself than necessary, how to give little while seeming to give everything.

I know too well what I am. And although I would like to change, even though I am trying to change, for both him and for Nathan, I don't know if I will be successful. I don't know when something might set me off and I'll fall back to what seems to be my natural instincts now. I hope never, but I'm too much of a cynic, I suppose. But I try. I believe in him, in his power to change the world, and if he can do that, if he can truly save the world, there's a chance he can even save me. But I know change doesn't come fast. There's centuries of damage to heal, and I worry he'll lose patience, or that he'll see setbacks as me not caring, not trying. That he'll get tired of waiting, that I will fuck up again, hurt him again, and he'll be gone.

And under all of that is the sure knowledge that even if I am absolutely perfect, everything he dreams I could be, the perfect lover, the hero, the considerate one who puts him first, and shares everything he needs me to share, and opens up and really lets him could all end on one word. )
changehistory: (Uncertainty)
What My Psychic Said To Me

In the next few weeks, there will be major changes in your:
significant other

If you need help, seek advice from a:
family member

The animal you should be like:

The color you should surround yourself with:

If you're wondering whether to change something:
Get advice

If you're searching for something, look for it:
You've had it all along
These predictions were made by agentcampbell, who is 73% psychic.
See how psychic I was!
Take the quiz and get predictions at

Most 'verses: Huh.

NaF -- Really nothing I needed to hear right now. Or maybe I did. I don't know. It's a stupid internet thing.
changehistory: (Upset/looking down)
Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Pick up on one and leave the other one behind
It's not often easy, and not often kind
Did you ever have to make up your mind?

Did you ever have to finally decide?
Say yes to one and let the other one ride
There's so many changes, and tears you must hide
Did you ever have to finally decide?

She'd thrown him out. Adam supposed that he should have expected it, really. Whatever his view of the situation, and despite how they both insisted he didn't understand, he did. His view of the world, of relationships, of love itself was so different from anything they could comprehend. He had to remind himself of that. He couldn't understand why Peter didn't understand his hurt, though. He'd been hurt when Caitlin left. Was Adam supposed to be less hurt at the thought of losing Angela? Peter was no more happy about Angela than Adam had been about Caitlin. The parallels seemed so clear to him, and he had at least tried to understand, hadn't he? Had he let him down with that, with his own insecurities, his own fears?

He'd loved before. He'd lived so many lives. He's promised "'til death do us part" on ten separate occasions...and death had parted them. Of all the things he'd never done, the one thing he'd never known was what forever felt like. He wanted to know. Did that make him a bad person, above and beyond everything he'd done? Was that what tipped the scales? It was selfish, but after thirty years in that place, didn't he have the right to be a little selfish?

Except he had a son, now. And his son...possibly had little to no use for him. Because of Peter. That hurt, cutting deep, because he didn't know if it would make a difference. If he chose Angela, did as she wished and walked away from Peter, would Nathan want a relationship with him, then? Or would he hate him for hurting his brother? Would Angela ever forgive him, even if he did choose her, or would he pay until she died?

And when she died...would Peter ever forgive him for having chosen her? Would he be throwing away his entire future happiness with one choice? Eternity with someone who challenged him to be better than he was, who inspired him the way Hiro had back then, who made him believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be a hero, could be someone to make...

Someone to make Nathan proud.  )
changehistory: (Emo)

...The way her eyes were bright with unshed tears when you told her what you had done. The words you tried not to say, love him, always, forever, trying to phrase it so carefully, but knowing the truth was sliding out of you unbidden with each shard of her heart you saw break.

...The way he looked at you, like you were some sort of monster he could not understand, when you hungered for the blood of your tormentor, and vengeance roared through you in barely leashed fury. The promises pulled out of you, when the two of them combined. Can't lose them, can you, chained by need you don't want to hold you back, but you let it anyway.

...The shattered look in his eyes when he told you the truth that ripped his world apart, calling into question all he thought he knew about who he was, what his life had been. You want to tell him that blood doesn't change things, not truly, and a parent is more than blood and seed. You think of your granddaughter, of the man she calls father who isn't the one before you, and wonder if the two of you will ever share that common bond, understanding, pain, but you don't say anything like that, not now. Maybe not ever.

...The feel of wood and stone surrounding you, the weight of the Earth pressing down, suffocating you as the air thins and visions dance before your eyes. The blood that ran down your skin where you slammed your hands into the wood, ripping skin that healed, pushing splinters back out. Nothing impure allowed to remain, except everything that's in your soul. The taste of bile and tears and the stink of fear and loss as darkness comes.

Let it go.

Forget... )
changehistory: (Hiro -- Wounds aren't healing)
[OOC: Based on current RP storyline in [ profile] nota_fairytale. Bob, Elle, the Haitian, and Hiro are all NPCs in this 'verse and nothing in this prompt or any RP that follows it is binding on those muses.]

The straps were tight enough around his wrists to be painful. Apparently cutting off his circulation was not an issue for them. He somewhat doubted it would have been an issue even if they hadn't known of his ability, but that they did seemed to give them free reign to be extra vicious. Staring at the ceiling, Adam idly wondered what it would be today. After his interlude with Elle the night before, he'd foolishly hoped she'd temper whatever it was, but the tightness of the restraints seemed to prove him wrong.

The room was empty except for him, and it stayed that way for a long time. Of course, anticipation of pain was sometimes worse than the pain. One time, they'd left him strapped down for nearly a full day before finally just releasing him and taking him back to his room, the sadistic bastards. He'd sobbed when he got there, curled in a sick ball on the bed. Perhaps this was that, then.

Or not.

He watched as the Haitian entered the room. Slow anger seemed to burn inside the other man, and he wondered just how many times he could escape and be recaptured before they broke him, finally. There was a flicker of hope there, then, though. Because from what he knew, and what they did not, the man's allegiance lay with Angela, not Bob. Which meant there was a chance...He saw Bob's face over the Haitian's shoulder and hope flickered and died. This was bad.

"His power doesn't work on mine," Adam protested quietly. "He can't stop the healing..." They'd tried that before.

"No, he can't. But his other power works," Bob said with a bright smile.

The memories? Adam frowned, confused. "It never takes, not for long."

"That's because he didn't go far enough back." Something twisted in Adam's stomach as Bob leaned over him. "We go far enough back, Adam, and there's not anything to anchor you, pull you back. He couldn't do it before, as a child. He didn't have the capacity then, but now?" He glanced at the Haitian and stepped back. "Take as much as you can. As far back as you can go. Try and hollow him out."

The large, dark hand descended toward him, and Adam struggled, desperate to shield his memories, of Angela, of Peter, of Nathan, to keep the Haitian from finding them, reporting them, taking them, anything. Those were his, and he fought, clinging at the same time that he tried to shield, using what he'd learned against Maury, though it wasn't the same. They struggled in his head, his mind working to heal as fast as the Haitian could take, while he clung to the three of them. But then a wrenching feeling tore through him, and he felt something ripped away, then another, then another.

The rest flowed easily, though he watched the man sweating, and he was confused. A light burned across his brain, and he screamed, and then there was nothing but blessed blackness.

* * *

Kensei came to into a world of pain. Lights as bright as the sun, but colder, burned over him, in his eyes, on his skin. Men with masks and cold eyes held weapons covered in blood--his blood, he realized--and he felt things heal, only to be cut again. There was metal and things were beeping and they cut open his chest and he wondered, then, if they were the dragons tearing him open. He struggled, but they'd bound him down, and he tried to fixate on the one thing that he had to keep fighting for. He had a mission. He had a purpose. He had a friend, and these men, these monsters could not find him.

But when the sharp knife sliced again, inside of him, he screamed for him anyway.


* * *

They threw him on what must have been a cot, though it was made of strange material. The walls frightened him, and there were things all around that made no sense. The lights. The amount of metal. The ... looking glass was huge, and terrifying in its own right, over a basin that held no water and another that seemed to float out of the wall. A privy of some sort? Inside? He tried to process it, but things were too strange. The world was too strange. And he huddled up on the cot and tried to remember how he'd come to be here, who these people were.

And where the bloody hell were Hiro and Yaeko?
changehistory: (Burning thoughts)
It was cold at the cemetery, but then, it was cold most everywhere in the City at the present moment, so Adam didn't figure that there was much to be remarked upon, except a passing comment only he was alive to remember.

Hell will freeze over before you touch her, or see the boy, again, Monroe.

Adam cast an amused glance at the frozen earth and wondered if New York City counted as hell. Doubtful, though he had his moments of thinking it had to be. For all its verve, it lacked the grace he preferred, and the hole in the skyline reminded him too much of how lost the world had become and how hamstrung he was to do anything about it. Everything was so inelegant now, rushing and dark, polluted, dirty, the snow not even able to fall pristine, and here it mixed with mud disturbing the sanctity of the dead.

He stood by the grave, looking down at it. Snow covered the stone, but he could still make out the name, the dates, the inscription. Kneeling a bit, he brushed the snow off, rendering the name visible of the man he'd thought to make a friend, but whom he'd spent forty years hating. Rivals, from the moment they met. For Angela. For Daniel. For power. For the boy. Fury laced through him, and he could almost see his face through glass that was no longer there.

Angie and I just got back from Rome. Nathan loved it there, and didn't want to come home.

Can I tell you, Monroe, I used to hate you, but this morning, I think I have to thank you. That little thing you taught Angie with her tongue...God. I am a lucky man.

A smirk, a chill in brown eyes staring mockingly at him while they strapped him down.

He's graduating today, Adam. Valedictorian. You should have seen him up there on the stage. My son. I'm so proud of the man I've raised...

Glancing around and seeing no one, Adam snarled and kicked the headstone hard, feeling the impact reverberate up his leg, welcoming the pain, because it meant one sure and solid thing.

He was alive.

His lips curved as he squatted back down, low voice murmuring to the stone before him. He told him, in the same exquisite detail he'd been told, exactly how Angela had looked, stretched out with nothing on but the necklace he'd given her for Christmas. The way his name caught in her throat like something holy; how she remembered, even now, exactly how he liked to be touched. He whispered the secrets only a few knew about how she tasted, and the way she screamed and begged him for more. Dinners spent lingering over wine and whiskey, and laughter and plans, and how she'd betray them all now, again, this time, to be by his side. Always his, no matter what she felt for the cowardly corpse rotting beneath him.

Settling more, he told Arthur about pool games and whiskey, and blood tests. About fragile trust, and a relationship starting. How Nathan asked him not to leave, wanted him here in New York. He talked about kittens and a boy longing for approval that the man beneath him never gave, and how he could give it, could love enough to overcome whatever stubborn pride had kept Arthur's lips sealed. He chuckled at the memory, of the two of them trying to carry seven cats onto a subway and the looks they'd gotten, and the coffee they'd shared and how Peter had grinned in absolute delight.

And then he told him about Peter. About forever. About love that forgave even mistakes such as his. About how the furniture all ended up on the beach, and they'd had nothing but melon balls and figs and that was perfection, because they had each other. His son, the boy he'd never mentioned, had hidden from Adam, but Adam had found him. Had loved him. Had made him love in return. Movies and popcorn and a life free of the rest of the mistakes they'd all made. Free of Arthur's corrupt legacy. Free of his violence. Free of Daniel's taint. The world at their feet and all the time in the world to play with it, to see it, finally, remade and whole.

By the end he was flushed, eyes bright and fevered, almost laughing with a near unholy glee. Leaning in he pressed his lips to cold stone.

"Rot in hell, you fucking bastard," he murmured, almost lovingly. "I win."
changehistory: (Nathan -- Beside Myself)
"Strike the shepherd and the sheep will scatter." - Law #42, "The 48 Laws of Power" by Robert Greene

He had been willing to go alone, to take care of it, to be done with it, to cease and desist dancing around the issue. The night they'd taken the kittens to Peter, he'd been ready to storm out of there and slit Bob's throat in his sleep, but one thing led to another, and he hadn't gone and then there was Angela. But he'd stuck to his resolve to get it done, to stop any holding back. He'd promised not to torture, but he needed a kill, some primal violence learned young and ingrained welling up until he nearly wandered to the Park to be a target just so he could fight back.

Instead he was here, waiting with Nathan silent at his back. )

[OOC: Written based off of and to spark RP in [ profile] nota_fairytale. Nathan is [ profile] vote4nathan and used with permission of his mun. Bob and Elle are NPC's in that universe and nothing in here or any RP based off of this set up is binding on or meant to implicate [ profile] itsjustbob, any other Bob muse/player, or any Elle muse/player.]
changehistory: (Peter -- Intense)
The broken clock is a comfort
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time
And I am here still waiting
Though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out

He shifted through the warehouse aimlessly, fingers sliding over the face of the clock that always looked sad in a twisted reminder of fate. )

The broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded
I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyes
That are looking for purpose
They're still looking for life

He'd say later it was his plan all along, his ambition, carefully guiding them to what he always intended, had worked toward for fifty years or more. )

I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you'll throw my way,
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I will, will be okay
The broken lights on the freeway
Left me here alone
I may have lost my way now
Haven't forgotten my way home

The aftermath was brutal. )

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm still holding
I'm barely holding on to you
changehistory: (Waiting for the light to shine)
Standing all alone
I bled for you
I wanted to
Each drop my own
Slowly they depart
But fall in vain
Like desert rain
And still they fall on and on and on

Hiro )

Drifting through the dark
The sympathy
Of night's mercy
Inside my heart
Is your life the same?
Do ghosts cry tears?
Do they feel years?
As time just goes on and on and on

Angelica and Angela )

I'm looking for you
I'm looking for I don't know what
I can't see there anymore
And all my time's been taken

Is this what it seems?
The lure of a dream
And I'm afraid to walk back through that door
To find that I've awakened

Peter )

The night seems to care
The dreams in the air
The snow's coming down
It beckons me dare
It whispers, it hopes
It holds and confides
And offers a bridge
Across these divides
The parts of my life
I've tried to forget
It's gathered each piece
And carefully kept
Somewhere in the dark
Beyond all the cold
There is a child
That's part of my soul

Nathan )

Got to get back to a reason
Got to get back to a reason I once knew
And this late in the seasons
One by one distractions fade from view
The only reason I have left is

*Lyrics: "Back to a Reason" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra
changehistory: (The masks we all wear)
The two-room cabin was cold, but a fire in both the fireplace and the wood stove slowly warmed it, though, either way, Adam barely felt it. He’d tossed his backpack down on the bed in one corner of the room, lit several candles and built the fires, then settled on the rug in front of the fireplace to stare into the flames. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they’d feel like, licking up his body, over skin, burning it away, before it healed right back up again. He’d felt it, more than once. It was a familiar pain, that, but one that went back to the heart of everything.

A hand extended. A curse. An explosion. Pain, physical and mental. A girl, and then another, and another as he ran across continents to escape the shadow of the man he had been and the outstretched arm of the one he could have been. A hero. A villain. A merchant. A sailor. A mercenary. A soldier. A courtier. A hunter. A leader. An assassin. A rum runner. A gambler. A bank robber. A mob boss. A decorated war hero. He had been so many things, so many names, so many lives, tried on, worn for a while, then tossed aside.

They said they wanted him, but they didn’t even know who he was, who he had been. Did they want Takezo Kensei, mythical hero of Japan? Richard Sanders, reckless charlatan with the charming smile? Adam Monroe, leader and visionary who dreamed of a world reborn? James Maddox, the boy from the streets who watched his mother and sister burn, not knowing he had an ability that could save them, and his beloved, his brother fall with no way to know how to heal his wounds?

His lips curved in a cold smile, fingers curling into his palm as nails bit through skin. The Company got Adam, all the way. Cold, ruthless, hard, with a shell around his soul, his heart, that they could not break through. Oh, they cracked it a time or two. They made him scream. They even made him beg to die, but he’d done that before. Always, he pulled it back around him, the façade, the person they saw, with ice blue eyes that mocked their cameras and took what he wanted from under their noses, giving nothing back—no remorse, no repentance, no answers to questions only he could.

But three pairs of brown eyes had burned through that, looking at him, needing something he did not know if he could give. )
changehistory: (Deadly)
All verses:

1. My father's desertion.
2. The things Stephen and I let gentlemen do to us to put food on the table.
3. Losing Stephen.
3. Hiro. And Yaeko. And Hiro.
4. Wanting to release the virus. Twice.
5. Thirty years in captivity in the Company cells and adjusting on the outside, as it were, and what they did to me in those thirty years, though I doubt there are many therapists who could stomach it.
6. Being buried alive.

Cut for specific therapist issues by RP 'Verse )
changehistory: (Peter -- Intense)
Remember how I found you there
Alone in your electric chair
I told you dirty jokes until you smiled
You were lonely for a man
I said take me as I am
'Cause you might enjoy some madness for a while

The walls weren't thick enough to hide his moans, even if he tried to hold them back, muffle them in his pillow. Adam didn't bother to hide his own in between the words he murmured, painting a scene of what he imagined doing to this boy whose face he'd never seen. The delicate strength in his voice, the need, the hurt, the shattered pieces that scattered there, they all thrilled, making Adam's breath catch. This was what he had waited for, so long, someone he could twist and turn and make his own. A weapon against them. And then the voice had changed, sliding along his spine until he found himself wondering other things, his whole body charged, the more the boy talked, the more he learned, everything he didn't.

A whispered admission of loneliness. A more personal confession in the dark, caught when his breath caught on a moan, fingers brushing over himself, embarrassment almost at his need, and the boy's soft acceptance of that. It had started slowly, over nights, a quiet plea. What he imagined he felt like, imagine those were his fingers sliding over skin, lower, the things he wanted to do with his mouth, what he dreamt he tasted like, how he wanted to hear his name on his lips as he fucked him, curled up behind him, hands touching him all over, safe. Home. He didn't have to be strong, not for him. He could take it, for them both. He'd taken everything else...and a soft, strangled cry from the barrier between them, then pulsing pleasure and wetness on his fingers as he followed him, working to catch his breath, to believe that the scent of sex mingled through the vent with their voices, connecting them, making them one.

Now think of all the years you tried to
Find someone to satisfy you
I might be as crazy as you say
If I'm crazy then it's true
That it's all because of you
And you wouldn't want me any other way

It was faster than he'd imagined, hurried and needing and the time he'd wanted to take disappeared in heated touches and burning desire until he was buried in him, moving, lips clinging and fingers holding as they rocketed toward mutual satisfaction. No desire was too much, he thought, not for them, not for what they could do. No need to be easy, when the body demanded something else. No time constraints of mortal heartbeats racing toward a final moment and last breath.

Only now, alone, pacing floors in measured steps of ritual movement, sword in hand, only the night as his companion, he thought that perhaps he had been wrong. )
changehistory: (Deadly)
"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed". -G. K. Chesterton

He waits now, always. There are shadows that make him skittish, imagining a blade within them. Where before, eternity stretched out at his fingertips dragging on with limitless possibilities, he feels now that he treads lightly forward on borrowed time. He listens, always alert, breathing slow and shallow, as soft as he can make it so it won't cover the whisper of sound of time about to stop.

It's futile, though. When time stops, he'll never know it, he'll have no warning. He's clawed his way back into this world, holding tightly to renewed life, but in an instant it could be gone. It is a frightening glimmer of mortality that haunts his steps now. Once escaped, he cannot truly think he'll be imprisoned again. It won't be a captor that comes for him, hand on his shoulder, fingers cutting in with a passion born from twisted responsibility. It will be Death.

Time was not the dragon, not truly. He was, always, and now he knows himself to be hunted. An empty grave lies waiting for him, and the hero has always known how it must end, if it is to truly be over. A blade, his blade no less, swift and sure. It won't be fair, steel to steel. He won't even see it coming, he knows. A breath, a moment frozen, a flash of steel, and the dragon will fall. Today. Tomorrow. A week from now. A month. A year. A century. It doesn't matter, when time dances at the hero's will, and he can skip across it like a stone across a lake, never resting. Wherever the dragon goes, he will be found. However long the hunt takes, one day it will be over.

Even he knows enough to know that is how the story must end. It is just a matter of time.

330 words
changehistory: (Uncertainty)
In the end, he decided against the brownstone and chose a flat in the East Village. It had always been somewhere he was more comfortable than the Upper East Side or any of the fancier neighborhoods. From the son of a whore in the slums of London, he'd risen to become a courtier at Versailles, then a gentleman of the South, easily mingling among the various strata of society, but the upper echelons always made him twitch with their hypocrisy. The aristocracy--even when born out of the American bourgeoisie--never changed.

The East Village had been gentrified during his imprisonment, until it was trendy and expensive, but it still kept more of a bohemian vibe, and part of him couldn't bear to actually move to Brooklyn.

The flat was in an old pre-war building on Avenue C. It had high ceilings, exposed brick, and hardwood floors throughout. The kitchen was small, but since he didn't cook much, it didn't much matter. A fireplace nestled in one wall in the living room, and the price came in solidly under one million dollars so he was pleased by that as well. He paid cash, took the keys, then set about having some of his things transferred from Montreal. The furnishings he picked out himself--reds and browns to compliment the tile and brick, a large sofa across from the fire, a comfortable chair by the window, a table and two chairs tucked in a nook. He turned one bedroom into a library, lining three walls with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling with a futon against the fourth wall for any guests. His bedroom he did in shades of blue and grey, with a feather bed and down comforters piled on top of a King size bed. He never wanted to sleep on a thin mattress on a cot again. If he didn't sleep much, it didn't matter. The bed would be comfortable, dammit.

When it was done, he was pleased, or as pleased he could be about being in the City. It wasn't a location Bob would think to look. They all knew about his money, they'd look somewhere more posh. But this, he decided, suited him just fine.

Pics under cut of place )


changehistory: (Default)
Adam Monroe

February 2014

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