So Hey Slut! =) (Damien/Hunter)

[damien michael cobrani]

Down. Down. Down.

So movie lines suck don't they?

Damien was standing idly buy in line at the Santa Ria Cinema. A nice little desert outpost of culture he supposed. With it's proximity to Los Angeles, they got to see things a little earlier than most like the rest of California and it made if fun sometimes to just spoil it for people. Good or bad, spoilers were fun.

What wasn't funner than screaming in a theatre that "She Dies!" or "They Get Married!" or something like that. The reactions of the people wishing to kill him was priceless. Mainly because he knew that wouldn't.

They were fools. Powered by a faux rage that failed them in every way. Sure they'd punch them, but they are just regular folk. They don't have a killology. They don't know what it is to watch something die in your hands. Hold a gun to a head. They don't even know what death is.

They feared it like a baby fearing the dark. They needed nightlights and being told everything was going to be ok. Fools.

Damien tapped his foot impatiently and put his arms in a cross. Today was a little different. Dressed in a usual black Armani suit, Damien was following his normal creed. Always look your best. His hair was kept well, but made into a slacker mess. His smile was crooked, and his shades reflected the soul of the person in front of him.

That's what they all were really. Reflections on a mirror. So he guessed, so was he. What was taking so long!? Was it some person up front complaining, or was it just California timing.

No where else to go, so why bother?

[hunter chase whitley]

After a whopping twelve days in Santa Ria, Hunter was bored with the city. For all its raving reviews about being “the most interesting place to live in California” (with the unspoken, parenthesized “besides Hollywood”), Santa Ria was letting her down royally. There was only so many times that she could beach-dwell, working on her already glowing but not orange tan or flirting with one of the locals sexy enough to flirt with. There were only so many end of summer bashes to crash; only so many stores with only so many cute clothes working of blowing daddy’s money on.

As there was only so much to do in the overrated city, boredom had forced her hand. In any other town, under any other circumstances, for any other boy, she was have already left. A girl leaning against a movie theater arcade’s air hockey table, checking her phone every two minutes painted the picture of an anxiously impatient girlfriend. And Hunter Whitley was anything but an anxiously impatient girlfriend.

“C’mon asshole,” she growled at the phone sitting dead in her hand. “You’re the one who invited me to the movies. Text me back already.” The blank, black screen stared up at her uncomprehendingly.

With every minute that tick-tocked by, the feeling that she’d been stood up bubbled and brewed uncomfortably inside her stomach. Before long, she was ready to throw her phone across the lobby with a prayer to God that it died a tragic, cold death via drowning in some random stranger’s slushy.

If only she knew his name! A catalogue of Jacobs, Kyles, Marks and Brads cluttered her contacts list. Any one of them could have invited her to this salt, butter, and calorie filled hell. Her morningly habit of erasing both her inbox and sent box while still half asleep prevented her from even double checking who the bastard was who had the nerve to ditch her.

What was his name!? Ryan? No, too skater. Ricky? Too boy band. Whatever. IF I see him again I’m going to shove my cell phone down his thr- Was that Armani?

The simple sight of a designer suit in a movie theater shocked the brunette out of her mental rampage, instead urging her to use the brain energy to do a triple-take. Upon confirmation that that was, in fact, an Armani suit and discovery that the male wearing said suit wasn’t half bad looking, a smirk twisted its way onto Hunter’s glossed lips. Maybe this wasn’t a waste of time after all.

tagged: dami/ben!
word count: four twenty-two
lyrics: none yet
notes: your move

[damien michael cobrani]

The Boys of Summer Have Gone...

Eventually after a normal California ten minutes, or thirty minutes of those who have never been to Los Angeles, Damien was in the theatre with his ticket. What had held up the line was a person trying to get into an R-rated movie with a fake ID, and the caught him.

It was an obvious fake ID. It was on a cereal box piece, and he still fought it until they got the mall cops to get him. Stupid kid. It was a nice day at the end of summer. The Pacific breeze was nice and cool, and the heat from above sweltering. Nobody was on the beach nowadays, the streets empty again. School had obviously started and those obnoxious surfer boys and Hollister girls were long gone.

Damien took off his shades and placed them in a case in his suit, Rayban. Fixing up his hair, Damien looked up at the big clock over his head. He has a good hour until showtime, and well he needed some entertainment. It was one of those end-of-summer blockbusters that were decent, but surely could not compete with the big boys earlier in like July. So they always came out right before school started for those bored children on the last week.

Shaking his head, Damien looked at his watch and smirked. Damien was almost a walking billboard to get mugged. A rolex, raybans, and an Armani suit. Though Damien always had a trump card beyond his usual heat. A nice little Russian pistol tucked behind his calf.

Damien had those eyes of him, the eyes of someone who's seen the blood drip from his own hand. The eyes your don't cross. That was his weapon. Intimidation, fear. Sure, let some poor sap mug him. He wouldn't get far. He just wouldn't.

People were so fickle.

Without another thought, Damien walked into the arcade and opened his wallet and placed a dollar in the change machine. Grabbing quarter, Damien went to an archaic arcade machine. Space Invaders.

Damien laughed a little, with the Rush soundtrack playing in his head. Without a second glance, Damien moved to the motions and began playing the game. He hit the buttons with diligence, accuracy, and great speed. It was his game. Him against millions.

Who would win? Surely him. He felt it though. Someone was watching him with wandering eyes. Oh who could it be. Would these be his last seconds?

Or was it some silly money-hungry girl wondering where this walking billboard came from?

All that went into his head was.

"Let the games begin."