.:{claim my body like a vandal}:. [lalia]
Feb 28, 2014 17:07:45 GMT -5
Post by sadniss everdeen on Feb 28, 2014 17:07:45 GMT -5
Sometimes you wonder if there's more to life than this.
Your nails - red, bold and bright to contrast your black dress and the fabric that hugs your frame like spandex - trace across the rim of your martini glass as you languidly wipe the condensation away and bring it to your mouth to taste. It has the familiar tang you're used to, rich and bitter at once, and your lips curl into a slow smirk that has smoke escaping from the corners where the skin stretches too far. Watching dancers on a Wednesday night flaunt themselves for cash wasn't something you'd usually do - save the debauchery for the weekends, Gabby - but since Piscatus, you've found your morals and your willpower taking on a distinctly darker shift.
Bodies brush past your arm and the Other one, the one that pants and howls with an animal paranoia, forces you to take a discreet look over your shoulder. Ever since that doomed trip into the oceans it's been louder, more insistent, and its whispers echo in your head in a way that has you shaking them away. You aren't like the First One - you don't listen to its confused murmurings, stuck in that place with the killing and the screaming where a monster lurked and waited with bated breath. Back in the District all you want to do is forget (they say she has trauma and doesn't remember, but you do), and with your cigarette slowly smouldering to ash, it's what you intend to do.
Your teeth ache for blood, and each of these dancers could give it to you without a fuss. They've all been making eyes at you all night; a pretty girl is uncommon in this seedy shithole, but a gorgeous one? Your pickings are slim but not dismal, and the way the little blonde is grinning at you from on stage makes the juncture between your thighs with a desire for another thing entirely.
The sound of running water catches your attention over the dull pounding of the shitty soundspeaker, and you avert your eyes from the girl in time to see another drink being poured into your glass. The culprit makes a point to brush against you as they circle, breasts pressing against the delicate span of your shoulders, and your eyebrow raises as another girl unceremoniously sits herself down before you. She may be gorgeous but you recognize the look - hungry, you see it on yourself all the time - and cross your legs languidly, being sure to trail the tip of your foot up the strong line of her calf. Your rouged lips pull into a smirk.
"You want something?"
Your nails - red, bold and bright to contrast your black dress and the fabric that hugs your frame like spandex - trace across the rim of your martini glass as you languidly wipe the condensation away and bring it to your mouth to taste. It has the familiar tang you're used to, rich and bitter at once, and your lips curl into a slow smirk that has smoke escaping from the corners where the skin stretches too far. Watching dancers on a Wednesday night flaunt themselves for cash wasn't something you'd usually do - save the debauchery for the weekends, Gabby - but since Piscatus, you've found your morals and your willpower taking on a distinctly darker shift.
Bodies brush past your arm and the Other one, the one that pants and howls with an animal paranoia, forces you to take a discreet look over your shoulder. Ever since that doomed trip into the oceans it's been louder, more insistent, and its whispers echo in your head in a way that has you shaking them away. You aren't like the First One - you don't listen to its confused murmurings, stuck in that place with the killing and the screaming where a monster lurked and waited with bated breath. Back in the District all you want to do is forget (they say she has trauma and doesn't remember, but you do), and with your cigarette slowly smouldering to ash, it's what you intend to do.
Your teeth ache for blood, and each of these dancers could give it to you without a fuss. They've all been making eyes at you all night; a pretty girl is uncommon in this seedy shithole, but a gorgeous one? Your pickings are slim but not dismal, and the way the little blonde is grinning at you from on stage makes the juncture between your thighs with a desire for another thing entirely.
The sound of running water catches your attention over the dull pounding of the shitty soundspeaker, and you avert your eyes from the girl in time to see another drink being poured into your glass. The culprit makes a point to brush against you as they circle, breasts pressing against the delicate span of your shoulders, and your eyebrow raises as another girl unceremoniously sits herself down before you. She may be gorgeous but you recognize the look - hungry, you see it on yourself all the time - and cross your legs languidly, being sure to trail the tip of your foot up the strong line of her calf. Your rouged lips pull into a smirk.
"You want something?"
