the monster electric

The smoke obscured her delicate face in a grey cloud but Raleigh watched as her eyes darted down toward the quarter on the ground. Luck was an odd concept to him, but that might have been because luck was not necessarily always in his favor. Were he a superstitious man, he’d say his entire youth had been one long period of bad luck. Like religion, maybe it was easier to look toward luck and fate. Either way, neither God nor coins on the ground had been much use to him.

“I thought the real saying was that it’s only good luck if it’s the opposite of what you get.” He flicked the edge of his own cigarette with his thumb, sending ash trickling to the ground. He glanced back to the flower’s face, searching for her reaction to the bad news. In the back of his mind, he briefly remembered his mother making le corna, twisting her fingers into a sign of the horns whenever she knocked a broom over or broke a mirror. 

“Do you get nothing if it’s tails or strictly bad look?” Curiosity had him asking.

he has a face like an in-between season. no one could quite call him february frost or indian summer july heat, but he looked a great deal like fall. mickey thought she could hear leaves crunching underneath feet as he spoke. maybe that was only her subconscious trying to block out the drabble of another unnecessary man.

she seems to study him for a moment, still dragging on her burning cigarette, curious as to his reaction to catching her odd movement. 

“what do i know?” she shrugs, looks past his shoulder into the distance for a moment. her gaze returns back to him. “pick it up and tell me about it.”

“Oh, Satan! Love that guy,” they chirped without skipping a beat. The woman they had just disturbed was all but glaring at them. It might have driven them away had they not thought she looked familiar, but not familiar enough. It wouldn’t do for them to not know someone in Dertosa, now would it? Not when Night needed them prepared to get her any information she wanted.

So, though it seemed like clearly the wrong response to her demeanor, they sat themself down across from her anyway. “I prefer the Paradise Lost version most, I think. Fascinating how he’s so tragically misunderstood, even though we know exactly what he does and why he does it, and none of his motives are technically sympathetic.” They drummed their fingers on the table. Perhaps they could ingratiate themself to this stranger if they came at her with a unique approach. Or they might fail miserably and only annoy her further, but you miss every shot you don’t take. “Or are they? If God knows Lucfer is going to succumb to his pride but does nothing to stop it, isn’t Lucifer doing exactly what God created him to do? How can anyone call that a sin?”

satan! love that guy.

if the individual had left it there - proclaiming an infatuation with lucifer - mickey might have shifted aside and opened her ears, even lent her head onto their shoulders to hear more. they had a good opener. their problem was that they thought she actually wanted to hear them talk.

               Nightshade had always been fascinated by the lives of Flowers. They were mysterious in their own right, living a life that would be sure to drive her insane. Perhaps it was why she hung around The Garden of Eden, at least, that’s what she told herself. In truth, it was her revenge that brought her to linger around the building, often seen pacing back and forth trying to figure out which Flower had been the one to know of her brother’s death before it had happened. She was aware that she was starting to get a bit annoying, hanging around so much. Which was why she stood outside instead, hoping the summer heat of the night could spark some sort of epiphany. She sighs considerably, crossing her arms when a raven-haired woman comes to a halt only a few feet away. “I guess it’s your unlucky day,” she responds, noting that it was face-down. 

it’s almost too predictable, too obvious that she was going for his body couldn’t she have her next line of coke. he’d lie if he’d claim he didn’t enjoy it. he leans up, fingers slipping from her pantie-clad ass as braces his weight on his elbows, a knowing smile gracing his lips ‘ there is another reason—- isn’ t there? ’

hips flex as she finds what she is looking for, roll against hers. ‘ you know that I always have more than one line or two of your favoured white powder with me. ’ she just didn’t know where and isaiah intended to keep it that way. ‘ there is no need to search for it either… ’ he’s tempted to tug her down, to pin her with his weight to the mattress and continue exactly how they’d ended last night, but he leaves her on top of him for now. quite enjoys the game she’s playing too much to change it around. 

they were a constant give and take, either getting out of the other what they came for. drugs and sex, a few hours to let loose, to forget. in his case at least; mickey did a fantastic job of getting him out of his mind; when they got along at least. catch either of them on the wrong foot and their relationship turns all the more destructive. still, he liked having her around.

bored eventually of her little show, he does sit up, fingers returning to her ass, the other resting against her hips, pressing her against him as he shifts, hips rolling against hers ‘ care to show me exactly what for besides drugs you keep me around? ’

she makes a rumbling noise of surprise as he shifts her, fading into a throaty sound that might have been called a laugh. but she was mickey, so it nobody would. to balance herself, her hands rest palm-flat on h’s abdomen, the heel of her hand on blanket, the fingers on skin where the quilt had pulled down. he was warm, or her hands were cold. it didn’t matter which.

“ah,” she intones at his question.lifting her chin as if in register of his implication. “is that what you want, baby?” her head cants to the side, hair falling over her shoulder. as if she might just display as much for him, her pelvis gyrates with his for a single moment, and then -- full stop.  “that’s something you’re supposed to prove to me, dickhead.” 

a term of endearment from mickey slim in the early morning. with that she lifts herself off him, long legs swinging over the bed and onto the cold floor. “i need breakfast.” she states simply, lifting a leather jacket off the floor to root around in its pocket until she receives what she’s looking for: a white, rattling package of cigarettes. she pulls one out and sticks it between her teeth before moving to the dresser and grabbing her lighter. breakfast was -- naturally -- nicotine. a girl that hated the gym as much as mickey made a steady diet of cancer sticks. all but ignoring isaiah, she steps unfailing over the mattress and across the bed, over to the window, which she subsequently pulls up and shimmies out of, feline-smooth.

“Helps ween out the worthless from the worthy.” Or it had in Arsenic’s history. If a person wasn’t willing to give, they weren’t worth the time and she knew they wouldn’t be any good in bed anyway. Sipping from her glass, her eyes scanned Mickey, taking in more information the longer they interacted. She shrugged, noncommittally. “If I get an idea, I might act on it. So far nothing worthwhile has come to mind.”

how strange, that some might look at them and think them similar. two dark-haired girls, one seated atop a bar, the other in a stool, both drinking things too strong for “petite little frames” like their own. arsenic and mickey’s only similarities were the toxic parts in their mixture. the rest was completely distinct. still, that didn’t mean mick couldn’t have fun with her. “mmm,” she hums, inhaling audibly with her eyes cast to the ceiling before stretches out her legs to rest the points of her heels on arsenic’s thighs. she leans at the waist, elbows on her knees, her face closing in. “what if we come up with something together?”

At the approach of footsteps, she looks up, unaffected and unbothered. The woman takes another drag from her cigarette and narrows her eyes.

“It’s only good luck if it’s face-side up.”

A glance downward. It’s tails.

a chuckle, low and raspy, his voice rough from lack of use. fingers dance along her thighs, settle against her hips, thumbing the hem of his shirt she still wore. it did look good on her. ‘ I would have loved to see your face—- ’ a hum, fingers inching under the shirt, tracing along soft skin. he was quite content like this, with her weight on his lap. ‘ when you’d have discovered that there is no cash clip, no money, no drugs in those pockets. ’ he’s no fool, trusts few. rarely takes anything that could be of use to strangers and supposedly friends alike. and if, he carried money, drugs or the like it was well concealed. and mickey? he trusted about as far as he could throw her, knew there was one reason and one reason o n l y why she kept coming back to him. or perhaps there were two if he counted the sex they had too. drugs were what she was after, coke to be specific. he sat right at the source, of course she would come to him, again and again.

fingers slip, wander down along her back, curve around her ass. ‘ so it looks like there is only one way left for me to get fucked. ’ 

“mmph,” she hums a throaty, dissatisfied sound, bottom lip rupturing from the perfect placement of her closed mouth to create a recognizable pout. her palms slide over his barrel chest, barrel like a gun, barrel-like thick wood, housing something unknown beneath. 

“why do i even keep you around,” she intones lazily, eyebrow arching in feline-affected disinterest. the stripper and the drug king was a predictable trope, which meant they were earnest about what they wanted from one another. mickey, for instance, wanted to be both fucked and fucked up. 

at the reach of his hands to her ass she perks, inhaling. “ah,” her mouth curves, tongue now swiping over her bottom lip as she looks down at h. “that’s why.” it’s fucking early, the sun with only just enough energy to race shadows into the corners of the street, and mickey would goddamn hate the creeping aesthetic of gold sun pouring onto dertosa’s cold sidewalks if it wasn’t for the residual high. she’d hate him too if it wasn’t for the body. 

i’m already a lost bb and want to keep track of shit so here:

Arsenic watched every calculated movement, she knows the game being played and it’s being played well. She didn’t even have to look down the bar to know that her eyes were not the only ones on Mickey. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” To the point. There was no need to fluff anything up. Telling people off in proper Arsenic form took an amount of energy she didn’t want to put out at the moment. Plus, Mickey took care of it for her and she hadn’t even had to ask. The match fell from the woman’s hand, still lit, the alcohol going up into flames as the fire hit it. Arsenic didn’t flinch. Seemed like a waste of booze but she didn’t have the energy to be bothered by it. Getting another drink wouldn’t be a problem. Eyes raised from the glass to meet Mickey’s. “Not tonight.” She raised a hand to signal the bartender for another drink, smoke rising now from the glass in front of her. “Giving isn’t really my thing, more of the receiving type.”

They’re quick to dismantle the flames behind her. The barkeep reaches for the flaming glass with practised quickness, eyes clear and unbothered as if by experience as to the fires that Mickey starts. Some don’t go out quite as easily as slipping the glass under cold water. Mick watches the interaction with disinterest and nods in the direction of Arsenic, gesturing for another drink. Her mouth turns the shape of a sardonic comma, a half un-smile around her cigarette. “An oracular guide to womanhood,” she snarks.