Philip Lombard // {ATTWN}

“It’s them, it’s the Owen's,” Armstrong whispered to Blore. “Just had to ruin everything as always, Armstrong?” Lombard thought to himself. The four of them had been having an extravagant time, classical music flowing through the tension ridden air, alcohol strewn about the table, the powder stimulant that the long dead Anthony Marston had been huffing.

It was enjoyable, everyone was laughing, awake and the memories of their impending deaths didn’t loom other their heads like a branding. Maston, Macarther, Miss Brent, Mr. and Mrs. Roger, Justice Wargrave; they didn’t matter in the moment, didn’t exist in the moment. Nothing mattered at all, but the buzzing feeling that ran through everyone's bones.

After hours of slow dancing Blore got fed up with Armstrong's constant blubbering complaints and threw his hat on the floor and stormed out. Muttering nonsense under his alcohol tainted breath. He said something about the party being over. But Lombard and yourself just stood there swaying in each other's arms, Lombard's chin rested gently on the top of your head.

Lombard laid a gentle kiss on your forehead and nuzzled his head in the crook of your neck for a few minutes before Armstrong left the room as well. Once they all retired to their rooms, the click on locks can be heard echoing through the halls and the thin walls. Lombard, being as sly as a fox, slipped through his door and into the hall. His footsteps made no sound on the wooden floor.

He crept through the long hall that looked like it stretched on for years in the almost pitch black that was illuminating only by the lightning that flashing through the long curtained windows. You left your door unlocked because the looks Lombard was giving you from down the hall before everyone was hidden inside the walls of their not so safe rooms.

Your door creaked open and Lombard stepped into the room his blue dress shirt slightly unbuttoned, his hair ruffled and messy from the party earlier. His breathing was coming out in short huffs as he approached you. You half expected him to stab you to death from the way his eyes were glaring at you, but he just grabbed you round the waist and pressed you against the door which lightly clicked shut behind you.

his breath was burning hot against the cool skin of your neck. He lifted his head so his deep brown eyes met you, and he pressed his forehead to yours and your lips collided. At first the kiss was soft, but Lombard got over eager and pressed harder. You could feel the pressure in your head intensify. Lombard’s hands ran up your shirt, rubbing circles on your sides.

“Fuck...” he gasped into the continuous kisses. his hands drew back and he practically ripped off his dress shirt, a few buttons popped off but he didn’t seem to process the matter.