Post Samples: Xx-Alexis-Xx [Dont post]

[Xx-Alexis-Xx]

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►►xι ωιѕн ι ¢συℓ∂ нανє qυιт уσυ,x◄◄
►►llxxωιѕн ι ηєνєя мιѕѕє∂ уσυ,llxx◄◄
►►xσя тσℓ∂ уσυ тнαт ι ℓσνє∂ уσυx◄◄
________________every time I ******** you.

Hurricane Annika was coming, and quickly. Darren, already excited by the shuffling of feet, looked up nonchalantly as his girlfriend approached. By her bloodshot eyes, he could already tell that she was high. As she drew even closer to him, he could smell it on her strongly. Draco Malfoy? She certainly must have been seeing things. Standing, the Head Boy towered over her, the collected figure that he always was. He raised his hand, drawing it across her tear-stained cheek flirtatiously. Though she was quick to threaten him, he seemed unaffected by her brave front. Tugging her close for a moment, Darren hissed into Annika's ear. "You don't mean that. You might think you're strong, but you're no match for me. What if I tell the Headmaster that you've been indulging in drugs? Wouldn't that just make mummy and daddy so proud, Annika?" He paused to smirk, kissing the side of her face delicately. "Besides, it wasn't like I enjoyed the little brat. No one can compare to the way we ********, can they? No one can make you scream like I do, isn't that right?" Darren felt powerful, like he was once again manipulating his girlfriend. In her distorted state, she would get over the incident quickly, and in no time, they'd be having make-up sex again. As he felt her grow limp in his grasp, he released her, allowing her to stagger back. Once she left the Great Hall, Darren snickered and sat down again. He felt as if he was a snake that had coiled snugly around her heart. Though she tried to struggle and breathe, he would always have her secured and under his control.

He tilted his head slightly as he heard someone mumble a spell from across the room, which was directed towards a Slytherin boy beside him. The blonde boy immediately erupted in boils, but Darren didn't do much to assist him. A few of his friends escorted him to the Hospital Wing, making more room at the Slytherin table. He slid down instinctively, dragging his plate along with him. Though he could hear everyone whispering and commenting on the incident, he shrugged and piled a few sausages onto his plate. He poured himself another goblet of pumpkin juice, and yet it tasted even sweeter than before. The Slytherin sputtered, spitting the liquid back into the cup with distaste. He recognized the sweet, strong flavor immediately, as he had run into it many times before: a love potion. Closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, he felt his stomach churn. He hadn't swallowed much, but there was probably enough in his system to influence him. As he considered the idea, his ego got the better of him. "I can overpower some stupid potion. Please! They didn't make me Head Boy for no reason, I'm better than a few crudely-mixed ingredients!" He felt confident, then turned his head when he heard someone speaking to him. His eyes opened, but immediately focused on the girl beside the one speaking. Why didn't he know her? He needed to know her. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, though his ego still rejected any possibility that it was the love potion.

"Darren?" The girl asked again, which made the male focus again.

"Who? Oh, right, her. Ah, nothing too serious. She's probably just on her period or somethin'." He didn't care much about Annika at this point--she'd cry, she'd whine, she'd smoke up, she'd get over it. Personally, Darren was growing somewhat tired of her constant escape from reality. Though the two had enjoyed smoking and drinking last year, he felt too driven by responsibility to ******** up now. He turned up his nose at the sight of a joint, grimacing every time Annika's breath tasted like marijuana. "I bet she doesn't smoke." His brain oozed as he focused back on the girl before him, who absently played with her food. Those gorgeous honey locks, pooling around her face, her plush lips. His tongue subconsciously swiped against his lower lip, and he reluctantly averted his gaze from the girl. Though he noticed Faye Gillette following after Annika, he didn't make the connection that she might be after her. Even if she was, he was too distracted by his new object of affection. Though he usually just wanted to have sex with girls, he couldn't help but feel...different.

"Orchideous!" Darren said firmly, causing a few students around him to jump. Were they afraid he was going to cast the Cruciatus curse or something? His mind fuzzy and blurred by his feelings, a bouquet of red roses sprouted from the end of his wand. Though the girl who had spoken to him originally blushed and smiled, she frowned when Darren extended the flowers to the girl beside her. Though Darren was too distracted by the girl of his sudden affection, the betrayed girl glared at him venomously. If the Slytherin boy was at his full mental capacity, he probably would have been trying to figure out who dumped a love potion into his cup. While he was distracted with Annika, someone near him had tried to sway him into loving them. Though he tried to reason that he should be returning to his meal, he decided that he was no longer hungry. He didn't feel like standing, and yet his mind controlled his body easily. Darren, his head rushing as he stood quickly, neared the girl he had never met before. He took her hand, gently but firmly and guided her out of her seat. He could feel the stares of her friends and the rest of the Great Hall, but ignored them. The smell of the fresh roses kept him lulled in a state of romance, his fingers delicately intertwining with the mysterious Slytherin girl's. Rounding a few corners, Darren brought her to a hallway that was frequently unoccupied. Since it used to lead to a classroom for Muggle Studies, the administration forbid anyone from even approaching the area. They would be safe and unseen.

Cornering the girl against the wall possessively, Darren leaned in, capturing her lips with a passionate kiss. He closed his eyes, marveling at how soft and comforting her lips were, enjoying them thoroughly. Annika's lips were often chapped from her constant use of marijuana, and though he cheated, he never kissed other girls. His sudden encounter with the unknown girl before him was special and foreign, and he enjoyed every second of it. After a few moments, he reluctantly broke the kiss. He stared into her eyes with a smile, his fingers brushing against the petals of her roses. "Do you like them?" He asked quietly, his eyes darting down to the flowers, then back up to meet her gaze. Had his ego been willing to subside, he would have considered the possibility that he had swallowed too much of the potion after all. He gently ran his fingers through her hair, leaning in again to eagerly kiss along the nape of her neck. "What's your name?" He asked her as he made his way back up, his hand trailing down to protectively cup her hip. Pulling back slightly, he looked her in the eyes firmly, his eyes dialated. "Kiss me." He whispered, not willing to tear his eyes away from her own. Even in his hazy state, he wanted control of the situation. He wanted to feel wanted, and thrived on making others fall for him. He never wanted it more than right now, however, as he held his new prize against the wall.

[Xx-Alexis-Xx]

_____________________________________

It's torment into ecstasy.


Deep in the basement of a Louisiana manor, the last bits of sunlight crept into the shadows, leaving it cold and dark. It was relatively quiet -- a few rats could be heard scurrying around, the pipes creaked every now and then, but otherwise silence. Had someone bothered to poke around in the seemingly-deserted home, they would have stumbled upon a few interesting things. Among the cobwebs and rats, there were priceless jewels and military uniforms that varied in style. Some were ancient, others were covered in just a thin layer of dust. Just beyond the final uniform lied a coffin, shut tightly and free of any traces of dust. The loud chiming of a grandfather clock rung throughout the manor, chiming a total of seven times before falling silent. The door of the coffin swung open easily, revealing a young man inside, who climbed out of the wooden box with ease. Exhaling calmly, the man weaved between his scattered belongings, making his way to the staircase. Leon Ghaslain was awake, and he had business to attend to.

After a quick shower, the vampire took the time to carefully choose his wardrobe for the evening. Although he typically wasn't one to worry about his appearance, even he knew the importance of a first impression. One thousand years and still no ward for himself? He considered his future-ward to be his own personal birthday present, they just didn't know it. He wasn't concerned with gender, age, or appearance -- he would choose whoever looked like fun. The consent of his mystery companion wasn't necessary or preferred, he wanted a challenge. Besides, what was the point of being a vampire if you didn't glamour? It was 7:30 now, but Leon was in no rush to find prey. He hadn't eaten the night before, only because he was preparing himself for a big dinner. Draining someone's body of blood was no easy task, after all! He likened it to those stupid contests that humans had, eating food until they threw up. Leon hoped that he would not suffer the same fate, but pushed the thought aside as he headed out for the evening. For the past sixty years, he had occupied what used to be the Bowman manor, as he had persuaded it's previous owner to bequeath it to himself. Leon found that he never had a problem getting into human's homes -- all it took was a crafty glamour, no big deal. As he walked, he found himself enjoying the cool air. Soon it would be Winter again, and though he didn't necessarily mind the cold, he much preferred the mild Autumn weather. As usual, he went wherever his legs took him. He'd try a new direction every time he went out, often stumbling upon stores, drive-ins and other places where he felt he stuck out like a sore-thumb. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of yelling. He found himself somewhat disappointed when he identified it as a happy human noise, rather than a terrified one. It would have to do. He approached a bar which he considered to be a hole-in-the-wall, but found himself entering despite his hesitation. He stuffed his hands into his black jeans, squinting cautiously as he waited to be assisted. "Welcome to Merlottes!" The bartender shouted from across the room.

"Surely you mean Merlots?" His accent on the french word was impeccable, hinting that he knew the language extremely well. After a few back-and-forth snide remarks, the bartender pointed to a booth in the corner, and Leon strode over calmly. He reasoned that if he became angry, he would be out of luck in finding a ward. He didn't feel like being kicked out of some redneck bar just for a mispronunciation, so he kept his thoughts to himself. His eyes wandered to his hands as he scratched at his fingernails -- what was that on them, dirt? Not the most attractive accessory for his wardrobe, but he'd be completely covered in it soon enough.Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. 'Text text text text text text text text text text text text text.' Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text. Text text text text text text text text text text text text text.


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"I want that hot breath of life in me."

lovetohatelovetohatexx

[Xx-Alexis-Xx]

x████████████x████████████x███████████
xx
██
x████████████x████████████x███████████
xxxxx ☯☯☯ ALDOUS SNOW xxxxxx ☯☯
x x x x x x x x x x x xLittle bird, drink the champagne from my lips
x x x x x x x x x x x x x xtake a flying saucer trip to the stars in my eyes.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x Little bird, sittin' on the tip of my tongue, though _
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x you look a bit too young, rip the stars from my eyes.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x ☯ ☯ ☯ xxxxxx

[Xx-Alexis-Xx]

x████████████x████████████x███████████
xx
██
x████████████x████████████x███████████
xxxxx VERY MARY KATE xxxxxx ❥❥
x x x x x x x x x x x xThis is a picture of Antarctica,
x x x x x x x x x x x x x xit's like totally BRRRR down
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x there, and yet some how not as _
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x xBRR as this room! In conclusion,
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x xt a l k i n g_ m a k e s _m e_ t i r e d .
x x x x x x x x x x x x x ❤ ❤ ❤ xxxxxx

[cocaine cannibal]

Waking up was always an easy task for Oliver East. Often times, his dreams were haunted by images of his dead parents, or of memories of his time on the streets. Escaping those thoughts and images was something he was too happy to do every morning. He had never been one to be groggy and whiny in the morning. He got out of his bed swiftly, tugged a shirt on and went off in search of tea. Unlike his almost-sister Charlotte, Oliver had no interest in parting the sea of coworkers. He weaved back and forth between clusters of agents, ducking out of any potential conversations. He could hear them whispering about Charlotte and Peter, about Faye, and about him. He ignored it. Once he made it to The Company kitchen, he stood around uncomfortably, waiting for his tea to set. He habitually ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't think about anything too interesting while he waited -- in all honesty, he was debating whether he should open his new horse-hair brush, or stick with Old Faithful, his first paintbrush. A quiet clearing of the throat interrupted him from his thoughts. He glanced towards the door nonchalantly, eying the intruder. It was Janet, Mr. Grey's personal assistant. Her power was seen as useless around the office, but Oliver appreciated it. It wasn't often that you met someone who could glow. Janet, however, could only glow when she was blushing. Everyone mocked her, but Oliver would have his day sometime in the future. Maybe one day he'd drop his keys in a dark parking lot and Janet would help him find them! "Oh, good morning Janet. I trust the day is treating you well thus far." She was glowing a florescent yellow, and began nodding slowly. She never really said much. Oliver picked up his tea once he felt it had soaked enough and nodded politely to Janet. He uncomfortably eased around her and made his way out the door, but stopped when she stammered after him.

"M-mister Grey would like to see you in his office." She was glowing a little brighter now, clearly embarrassed.

Oliver simply nodded his head again and continued on, stopping in front of Noah's office. He knocked twice, and the door immediately swung open. "Oliver! Good to see you! Come on in." Mr. Grey patted the young artist on the back and ushered him inside his office. Oliver obediently entered and took a seat across from Noah's desk, his tea still in hand. He felt too uncomfortable to take a sip yet. He could tell by the boss' body language that he was uncomfortable too. He had a lot on his mind, but Oliver didn't feel like initiating a conversation. Before it got awkward, Noah spoke up. "Oliver, I've been thinking a lot lately. Soon enough, there'll be a time when I'm not around. And I want to make sure this Company is taken care of. That's why I'm leaving it to you." Silence. Just as Oliver opened his mouth to protest, Noah Grey held up a hand to silence him. "You can't convince me otherwise. We need a strong, intelligent leader. I know Charlotte is my daughter, but she's not serious enough. She'll ruin this Company." Noah definitely seemed sure of himself, and Oliver knew that nothing he could say would convince him otherwise. That was one thing he never really liked about Mr. Grey -- he didn't take no for an answer. If he gave you something, whether it was an opportunity or a gift, he expected you to love it. If you didn't? Well...let's just say you'd be better off quitting right then and there. It seemed people who were disappointed with their Christmas gifts ended up getting struck by lightning. Coincidence? Maybe, but probably not. Just the thought of being struck by lightning made Oliver squirm. "Now, I know you're probably worried about Charlotte hearing of this, but don't worry about it. I've got it covered. I'm going to talk to her today. I'll tell her that I want her to get married and have a child before she runs The Company." Noah stood up and began pacing, a tell-tell sign that he had planned this all out. "Now, you know Charlotte. She's never been serious...if she magically did end up getting married and having a child, she'd be too distracted and wouldn't want The Company. Either way, it's yours." Noah seemed extremely thrilled about the entire thing. Oliver just nodded dumbly. His tea remained untouched.

After a long, awkward conversation with Mr. Grey, Oliver was officially written into the will. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt about the whole thing. The way Noah led The Company was frightening to say the least. Oliver suddenly considered his ability to run it with an iron fist -- he was ********. Even the way Noah treated the staff was foreign to Oliver. After all, he considered the secretaries to be just as important as the agents, so why did Noah think Oliver would be a good fit? At least Charlotte was just as unfair as he was. Mr. Grey was probably just biased; he never really did have faith in Charlotte. Maybe he felt Noah should have The Company because he felt guilty about the death of his parents. The thought made Oliver uncomfortable all over again. He absently took a sip of his tea and grimaced. It was cold. Ugh. "Can I help you with that?" Oliver took a step back as an agent stepped in front of him. He was confused for a moment, before she pointed at his cup. "Your tea. By the face you just made, I'm guessing that it's cold, right?" She smiled, but Oliver was too distracted to reply. Georgia Faust looked much like you would expect a firestarter to look. She had long, thin legs and fiery red hair that stopped at her shoulders. It held a natural curl to it, implying that she didn't have to do much to it in the mornings. She had always been one of the less-aggressive agents, which was why Mr. Grey demoted her to the file room, at least temporarily. She let her hand sit over his cup and focused for a moment. Oliver couldn't help but stare as her hand began to glow a bright red color. After a moment, the liquid inside began to bubble, and Georgia removed her hand. "Hopefully that's not too hot for you. If it is, I'm sorry. Going from throwing fireballs to heating up tea is a tough change." She faked a laugh, but Oliver could see the sadness in her eyes. He wanted to tell her everything would work out, he wanted to assure her that once he was the owner of The Company he'd promote her. Instead, he just mumbled a "thank you," and made his way back to his room.

Once inside, he glanced over at his bedside clock. 7:30 AM. The other villains probably weren't even awake yet. Upon thinking of the other villains, he suddenly pictured Faye. Oh god. He definitely didn't want to be around when she woke up. Faye always seemed to be extra clingy in the mornings. He grimaced at the thought of her cuddling up to him, probably before she even showered. Oliver had grown somewhat disgusted by poor hygiene since he was brought in from the streets. In fact, he was probably the only person he knew who took showers twice a day. He took another sip of his tea, finding it was the perfect temperature, thanks to Georgia. He picked up a paintbrush and rummaged around through his canvases, trying to find a blank one. Unfortunately, they were currently all filled up. He would have to make a trip to the store today and purchase more. Usually Noah took care of that, but clearly, he had a lot on his mind. Scrambling through his belongings, Oliver managed to find a blank piece of white paper. It wasn't a canvas, but it would have to do. He stared at the paper for a while, trying to decide what the paint. Lately, he had been on a paint rush, preferring it to sketching for the time being. He began to look through his paintings again, noticing that a good 3/5ths of them were Natasha, the Speedster. He fidgeted as her piercing blue eyes met his, so he turned his attention back to his blank paper. With Natasha Isotova in mind, he squinted and leaned down, resting the paper on his easel. He dipped Old Faithful into red paint, then made careful, slow strokes along the paper. After about ten minutes, he had finished with his painting. It wasn't his best work, and it wasn't too intricate, but it was good nonetheless. The vivid color made it seem real already, as well as the tiny thorns along the stem. While the painting dried, Oliver made his way into the shower. Noah had been nice enough to build a bathroom that attached to Oliver's room -- he always seemed to be giving the world to the artist. After a thorough wash, Oliver slipped on some tight-fitting jeans, a plain white shirt, and a gray blazer. He stepped into his loafers, folded the small painting into his pocket and exited the room. Borrowing a car from The Company was never a hassle. The staff knew that Oliver had no exemptions. Charlotte and Faye might have had some restrictions here and there, and even Peter was questioned when he requested a Company car. Oliver, however, could pick any car at any time. Even so, he didn't use his privileges as often as one would expect. The only time he took the car was when he needed to purchase something. Otherwise, he would prefer walking to his destination. Carrying a canvas through LA would definitely been annoying, though. He took the BMW, naturally.

Miraculously, the traffic wasn't too bad. By the looks of things, Oliver could have guessed that he had just missed the latest traffic jam. Lucky him. Looking at the car's clock, he frowned, realizing that the art supply store wasn't even open yet. He wasn't in the mood to linger around until they opened, so he decided to kill some time. After a minute or two to think about it, Oliver decided a trip to the art museum would be ideal. When he was homeless, he used to sit outside of it all the time, desperately wanting to go inside. Unfortunately, as he grew up, Noah had more in mind for Oliver than a simple trip to the museum. It wasn't as if he banned him from going, but Oliver didn't like to think he was disappointing Mr. Grey. After finding a choice parking spot, the artist entered the building, stuffing his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. People were so stupid sometimes. His face may not have been showed on the news every five minutes, but surely someone should have recognized him. Walking by unnoticed, Oliver chose to enjoy the moment away from the public eye. As he walked, a figure passed by him, forcing him to stop in his tracks. His eye followed her, looked her up and down for a moment, then stared. He couldn't look away. It wasn't just that he was entranced by her beauty, but something about her was so familiar. She turned her head slightly, examining the rest of the picture. It was her. The speedster. Natasha. Oliver felt his heart racing in his chest and swallowed hard, simply standing a few feet away for a moment. She hadn't even seen him. What should he do? Should he try to fight her? Or maybe...maybe he didn't have to. Surely she would know who he was though, right? Though nervous, he no longer felt he had control of his body and began to step forward. He stood right beside her and pretended to look at the painting as well. He could see her smiling out of the corner of his eye. "You know, Van Gogh's last words were 'The sadness will last forever.' It's a shame, really. With great art comes pressure, and with pressure comes doubt. I suppose I know that to be true." He began to ramble. He always rambled when he was nervous.

Well, that's a little depressing. I take it you're an artist too then? My parents tried to get me into art, but... My hands aren't steady enough, and my teachers always got fed up with my shaky lines. So I like art, but I can't make any. Not as wonderful as this, anyway." She said softly after a moment of contemplation. Oliver did his best to hold in a sigh of relief. She didn't know who he was, she probably didn't even have the slightest clue. He looked her over carefully, taking in her form while it wasn't engaged in battle. She looked so different when she wasn't...well, a blur.

"An artist? I guess you could call me that. But I'm not anyone worth knowing. Just someone who likes to paint. He was definitely playing the modest-artist card, hoping she wouldn't identify him. As his heart beat in his chest, he reached out to her in a moment of compassion. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. People say it's about technique, but in reality, all it takes is passion. If you want to see it, it will come to life eventually...You just have to give it time."

"Well, you may think that now. But just because no one's noticing you now doesn't mean that they won't later." She turned back to face the painting. "Like van Gogh. He's much more popular now that he's dead than he was in life. But hopefully someone'll discover you before you're dead." Her smile nearly knocked him out, but he held his composure. She didn't really understand him, but for now, he was grateful. He could hardly recognize what he was saying anymore. He just kept rambling, probably saying something depressing. He always got depressing when he was nervous.

"Perhaps. But not all of us paint things that the world like, and sometimes the world never appreciates an artist. To paint is something one must do for themselves, not for the fame and fortune. Though, I suppose I'm a little hypocritical in that regard." He stuffed his hands into his pockets again and felt his phone vibrate. He snuck a peek at it for just a moment and saw that it was from Georgia, the firestarter. "Don't be gone too long. I might miss you too much." It read, an obvious show of her crush on him. It struck him in the wrong way, however, as it made him remember that Natasha was supposed to be his enemy. He needed to get out of there, not just for his sake, but for her's as well.

"Hm. I suppose. Cyril Connolly said that it's better to write for yourself and have no public than the other way around. But I suppose that if what you're doing makes you happy, you should keep doing it." She looked at him again, and those icy blue eyes just bored into his soul. His lip quivered, and he nervously lifted his hand and ran it through his hair. As he considered Natasha's words, he couldn't help but sigh quietly.

"Yes, but what if you aren't sure what truly makes you happy anymore? Ah, sorry, my problems aren't something you should concern yourself with. I'm sorry to have bothered you. Here, this is for you. I don't think even Van Gogh could paint something as beautiful as you, but here's an honest attempt." He just wanted to get the hell out of there before she convinced him to cross over to good or some s**t. Even though his mind was trying to think cynical, judgmental insults about the blonde, he just couldn't find it in his heart to believe them. He hastily handed over the folded painting he had created that morning. While she was distracted with it, he swiftly walked away, pushing his way through the nearest exit and walking all the way back to his car. He drove off in a hurry, nearly barreling over some poor old lady. After a twenty-minute drive, he realized that he had been circling The Company for the past ten minutes. He finally parked the car, then sat at the wheel for a while. He had never felt so embarrassed. He was positive he sounded like a condescending a*****e trying to cop a feel on an innocent girl. Oliver ran his fingers through his hair again, closing his eyes to think. He remembered the painted rose he had given Natasha, and tried to imagine her reaction to the painting. Gripping the steering wheel, Oliver focused on the rose and gave it life in his mind. He imagined it lifting from the paper, forming into a real, beautiful rose. He shuddered slightly and opened his eyes, unbuckling his seatbelt. Hopefully she wouldn't be too upset when she realized who had flirted with her.

In his haste to get away from Natasha, he had forgotten to buy canvases. Oh well, he was going to be the boss, right? Couldn't he just have someone else do it or something? Shaking his head, Oliver reentered The Company, trying to get over his lapse of rationality. All he could do was hope that Peter didn't find out about it.

❝ __i hate it when__
y o u __s a y __y o u __ l o v e__ m e__
___c a u s e __i __ d o n ` t __k n o w__w h a t
_____y o u __m e a n ! _ n o __o n e__b o t h e r s__a s k i n g
_____why this DARKNESS is in me.__❞