bloodsport @snapdrcgons-blog - Tumblr Blog

* cigarette burn.

mickeyslim:

she hurts him, twists her sharp angle into his tender like fitting a love letter into an open mailbox, waiting to hear thank you. it’s a glove, a stomach emptied of organ. made to come together and then disembowel.

“it’s cute that you think you get a category at all.” her laughter rumbles in the smoke, in his mouth, rock tumbling through velvet beneath her ribcage. thum-thum-thum. snap, snap, snapdragon. “there’s nothing here for you, little whore.”

she hurts him and he hurts her back and they both like it, because the affection of nocturnal animals is misunderstood. it has no sweet meaning. the pain is delicious enough. his breath hitches and she swallows it, mouth first, teeth digging into that swollen petal bottom lip at the inhale. mickey doesn’t believe in adding insult to injury, she adds violence to violence.

his hands making a rope of her hair and her eyes close, releasing the raw tear she has on his lip for the sound of ecstatic surprise. god, hurt me. hurt me like god. her lips pull open like they’ve been slashed at the sides, a bloody smile. “i make a point not to know anybody.” she wants to bend this boy in half then run her fingers over the crease. “i can see why.” her thumb swipes over the place on his lip where she has drawn blood, a thief and her quick paw. mickey pulls the tip of her finger into her mouth and makes it clean again. “you hardly seem worth the wait.”

and doesn’t this remind him too much of knives pressed through crevices of ribs, blood dripping into mouths and swallowing it? that wrong-right of bodies atop him, unmoving. girl reminds him of this, sunrise draped over the carnage. makes him hunger for that knife again when it looks like this smile before him, makes him want to run a bloody stripe up throats with sharp tongues just to know what hell tastes like; if it is just like him, dragon for a name for how he bites.

there is no tenderness with how mouths press against the other’s, tongue over teeth and blood all over - just how they like, all slashed smirks when there’s a space to breathe again. “nothing here, but it looks like that’s my blood in your mouth, mickey slim. little whore sounds even better coming outta your pretty lips like that.” he tilts his head slightly, nose brushing hers and eyes darkening. “means ‘m doin’ my job well, hm?”

tongues swipe over lips, catches blood and licks it slowly, close enough to catch her teeth in the process. pulls harder with hands twined in hair, wants to feel her skull under his hand. wants to have mouth explore the hollows of it, lips on exposed jawlines and biting, purple-blue to match hands gripping too hard on waists. call it a blooming, call it an exploding of nebulas, black-hole-void things devouring, devouring.

“and you’re hardly worth the tease.” he smiles, all teeth. “lucky you and i aren’t here to get our money’s worth outta anything, no?” hands dance over throats lightly before closing over pale throats too tightly, pulling her close with grips too harsh, mouth over hers to steal jagged breaths with blade-smooth grins.

#i cannot BELIEVE #taryn wrote THAT and expected me to match her level like wtf #this... u ask too much of me.... i am waving my white flag in surrender #truly i was muffled screaming during the entirety of the writing process and this is all i can do just. end me now. pls.#mickey slim #mickey slim 001.

ofxfrenchie:

Frenchie’s brows furrowed as she watched the boy near her, her eyes trailing over his frame as he slinkily walked. All she could do was watch as he teetered on the edge of shadow and artificial light, his words slowly driving her crazy in accompaniment with the buzzing of the single yellow light just above the door. She knew the boy as one of Eve’s workers, beautiful like oleander, enticing you by his soft appearance, but poisonous all throughout — a sweetly scented killer. Death by pleasure, or by word, apparently.

Her mouth opened and closed repeatedly throughout his whole spiel, wanting to interrupt and correct him like she normally would, and yet, she never did it. She remained silent as he spoke, her eyes darting away when he gave her that sinister smirk. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, she wanted to say, but the words were lodged in her throat, stuck behind that lump that threatened to make her voice crack with sadness if she attempted to speak. Instead, she found herself relaxing her arm and unscrewing the cap, his words, her thoughts, growing louder and louder with his decreasing proximity to her.

Lifting the bottle up to her lips, she took a generous drink and tried to literally drown her sorrows with the amber liquid, hoping that the sound of the alcohol gurgling would drown out his words. But it didn’t. Frenchie’s face pinched in response to the harshness of the drink, and her eyes flickered back to the boy, her arm extending to push the bottle into his chest. “Take it and shut the fuck up.” She said growled, turning her back to him as she took a few steps away.

She scoffed at his last sentence, her fingers curling up into a fist so tight that she could feel her nails almost piercing through the palm of her hand. Lucky? The Laurents were never granted that blessing. All they knew was misfortune; between their piece of shit father, and their mother passing, bless her heart, the word ‘luck’ held no meaning to Ava and her siblings. “They didn’t grow up luckier than me,” she said, turning to face the boy who knew everything and nothing at all, “I made their life easier than it would’ve been. Luck had nothing to do with it, I made their fate.”

hm. oleander. perhaps i should have given him another name.

(white oleander, half poisonous thing and ever so pretty on the lips; half-mad mothers not knowing what love is, blood on hands and is it his? breathes into neck, of course it is. silly boy. white-oleander -pale bodies pressing on top of him, beautiful in this desert hurricane, in this alleyway. should be damn criminal)

(means caution. means love. do not be mistaken - boy knows neither. snap, snap, snapdragon, sound he makes when he smiles with all his teeth; your heart breaking under his heel like this. charm with a serrated touch; ask dead mothers, ask dead playthings. means a pretty deception. means he’s got a devil in him. needs no poison to protect, stain his lips for him. snap, snap, snapdragon, twist the stem around a throat and call it love - no, this name is fitting)

he is too close to her, can smell the alcohol on her lips - biting, like words try to be when bottles are shoved into hands after a long swig. boy laughs and it is a ringing thing, taking a long drink for himself, wiping mouths on the backs of hands and still grinning when he looks at the girl’s form - all steel, almost protective.

“tastes better with company, no?” he arches a brow at her, lips curling. “i can’t imagine how lonely it gets drinking alone in an alleyway like this, dear frenchie. i won’t even charge you for my time, not if you keep this a little secret between you and me from eve, hm?”

boy takes note of the quiet anger simmering in her hands, in those teeth and the voice in the back of throats. he almost smiles wider because of it. “is it tiring, my love, to be burdened with such a heavy thing?” he asks, half-drawled as he leans towards her, eyes fluorescent-dim. “do the fates listen when you hold them at gunpoint?”

he passes the drink back to her, leaves words a whispering in ears. “and if you made their fate, what have you made of yours, dearest frenchie?”

#me: i'm gonna keep this short n sweet #also me: i'm such a sLUT FOR PROSE MY DUDES #sNEPsnAEPSNapfdRAGIN #never let me write anything again what have i done #frenchie.#frenchie 001.

yourxvngel:

where: The Lab when: mid-day

Angel found herself at The Lab once more, a place she frequented often although she had no desire for a tattoo or to make nice with any of the customers. Much to the chagrin of Heroin, who just couldn’t seem to get rid of her, Angel found the environment completely relaxing. Which was why, she was there currently, sitting in the window, watching people walk by, trying to pick out her next victim. She ran her hands along the sill, pulling back dust covered fingers and scrunching her nose at it, as though the very dust particles themselves had insulted her. “You know for a place that needs to be so clean to avoid a health code violation or something, you’d think someone would do a little dusting.” The blonde said, holding her hand up to the person next to her. “I’d rethink your choice of tattoo parlor.”

“you expect too much from any place in a city like this.” words come from tongue pressed in between teeth, grin curved in lazy playfulness. “i don’t think cleanliness is at the top of anyone’s agenda - quick ‘nd simple ‘s how most like it. usually even a bit messy.” he winks, hair falling into face. he laughs at her last statement, already lounging on the leather chair with shirt half-buttoned. “mm, i would, but ‘m in need of a touch-up before my next client at eight. are y’gonna be helping or just here for the show? could give you a good one if you’ve got enough on you for a pretty tip.” only half-kidding, of course. the smirk playing on lips says as much.

#hELLO !!! i am here and ready to love ur girl down wjgwkjekwjeg #angel dust.#angel dust 001.

handscanheal:

Winston was elated to see that the person he approached seemed entirely not bothered. It was nice and through some transference of the universe, he grew unbothered. His expression softened and settled into a relaxed smile. Maybe a touch tired as well, but that didn’t wear his bones down all too much. There was a mystery in the man’s easy movements and smile that Winston followed with a slight look of intrigue. And he wasn’t all too sure why.

His stomach scrunched itself up as his drawing was scrutinized. Sharing was never an issue to him and still, his little doodles were something special to him. In a silly, schoolhouse way. Little pieces of his subconscious that his hands translate in shaky, short movements like coffee jitters.

“Oh geez, thanks. That’s nice of you to say,” he said, sincerity stretching his lips wide and flashing teeth. At the suggestion of being an artist, he laughed and folded his arms loosely across his abdomen. “Oh no, not really. Not at all. Unless little bitty doodles count.”

Teeth worried at the dry corners of his lips. That mystery in the man’s grin grew a little more uneasy, but Winston’s stomach un-scrunched itself as he also looked at the sewer. Dark brows drew together, a slight twitch to the right one. Still, he refused to frown and his face stilled to placid waters as he considered the other man’s words.

“Well I guess it wasn’t, but maybe the sewer’ll like ‘em,” he said carefully. He didn’t know why, but looking at the sewer brought up a thought that fascinated him years ago. Any tension in his face drained immediately and he started to laugh. “Maybe the sewer gators will make somethin’ of it. Does Dertosa have any funny stories like that?”

“if old men in france can throw paint on a canvas and call it art to sell it for millions, i think little bitty doodles count.” the echoed words are done so with a lilt that is drawn up in something not unfriendly, boy grinning with an eyebrow raised at the other. “i think it’s quite lovely myself.”

unease colours the other’s features, and soren has to bite back a laugh - likely inappropriate, but boy has never been anything but such. comfort was paid for with him, and as it so happens, both were off duty for the moment. he takes a step closer, takes up the space between them.

at the other’s enthusiasm, smiles widen, more teeth but no more light in eyes. “mm, no dertosa sewer gator or clown living in ‘em - least that i know ‘f, anyways. mother dearest always told me ‘bout the boogeyman next door, said if i wasn’t quiet then he’d sleep in my bed ‘nd get me.” he tilts his head to look at the man, as if surveying him curiously, arms crossed slightly. “turns out, boogeymen like their boys screaming - ‘nd they pay you well for it too, hm?”

a laugh, perhaps too casual, smile dipped in something less pointed, more soft-cheeked like a thing of twenty-three should be.

“funny thing, innit? think i might like your sewer gator better though - smart thing, could take your artwork ‘nd sell it for more than boys and girls are worth. a better businessman than the boogeyman, don’t’cha think?”

#ok so where are the adoption papers for me to sign to take winston as my child #i want to protect him and mAKE SURE HE EATS RIGHT EVERY DAY FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE #winston.#winston 001.

fcxglcves:

petal-pink lips purse as she blows a kiss at him. dear soren, the only one of her fellow flowers she’d even begun to feel a real connection to, try as she might to deny it. “there are no bigger fools than you, my sweet.” graceful fingers trace the two necklaces daintily as she examines them, and she picks up the leather one after moments of contemplation with a wicked smile. “this should get you more than enough excitement, yeah? especially with those assless pants i got you for your last birthday.”

he play-pretends to catch her kiss easily, presses it to his own lips, grinning. “for you, jae, i am a fool of another kind.” he teases, tongue between teeth. he is too fond of the girl, he knows, but in a city like this it is hard to find a companionship as easy as this unpaid for.

laughs are too loud at her words, putting the other necklace in his pocket and holding out the leather one to her, turning so backs face her - a request when he half loops the material around necks, an unspoken request for help. “you truly spoil me, jae - what my business would be without you to keep me so tantalizing. how ever can i match for your birthday, hm? crotchless underwear? more of those chains? whips? do you get enough calls like that for one?”

#sorry this got so long ahhwegwejg pls don't feel the need to match i always ramble #but pls i love these two so much don't do this to me i'm weak for this fluff #foxglove.#foxglove 001.

mickeyslim

* cigarette burn.

snapdrcgons-blog

mickeyslim:

so he is a knife wound. deep, begging to have a finger stuck into it and wiggled until the gap widens. meant to have the sutures cut and made raw again at the edges. made to have her fist fit through so she can grip the bleach-brittle bone beneath tight enough to snap (snap, snap, snap-dragon. flowers smell the sweetest when you crush them in your palm).

she watches the discard of his shoes, appreciates it as a submission at her alter. leave your oxfords at the door when you speak with god. the heist of her cigarette also amuses her in the way permanently angry gods laugh at warfare: the insult excites her. her body holds its slant as it leans to it, though she picks those long cancer sticks of legs off the table and drags them under, setting her thighs across his knees.

“i don’t have companions,” she’s all honestly because they like blood here. “there’s the people i fuck, and the ones that want to fuck me.”

how terrifying their intimacy is. “plenty, sugar.” the game of her foot down his leg is olympic silk ribbon, a performance over his pant leg then just under the hem as she cocks her toe up. the heel of her shoe stands against his exposed foot. “but you only just got here,” she grinds down into the tender of his vein like she’s stubbing out the tip of her stolen cigarette. her nose brushes against his. “don’t you wanna show a little patience?”

and you know things asking for a ruination - is one themselves - smiles so pretty when sharp hands, sharp heels press to skin, sharp hiss of breath leaving lips. says it’s part of the job description, to bleed like dew stains on hands, to leave behind petal-bodies beautiful enough to forget that we all rot the same, if not uglier with how you were torn inside-out before you even got here.

she digs herself deeper into him, and he smiles. calls it a love in its own right, this slow drag of palms on thighs, calves, before settling on waists, thumbing hipbones with-without permission. boys like him have never needed to ask for it, gets what he wants - this tongue-to-collarbone gaze, this knife-to-throat touch. all careful ruinations with how bodies move in tandem with each other.

“and where am i? one or the other? both?” he breathes smoke into open mouths, smiles against red lips, pressing his against hers lightly. “or do i get a separate category of my own, dearest mickey?”

and that sharp intake of breath, that sudden grip hardening around slim waists when heel meets vein - a knee-jerk reaction of them both to respond to the other with small violences. “and here i thought you knew me better, love.” he says, tone a teasing dipped in dark clublights, hands winding themselves into hair, fingertips on the verge of bruising. “when have i ever been a thing of patience? they pay me for the fucking, not the foreplay.”

#idek what this is but just ?????? before taryn my words always go wjegkjwegkwjegkjwegj bc what even to her my true saving grace #we doin it bois #what are we doin?? idek but it's gonna be NASTY bc it's them wegkwjeg #mickey silm.#mickey slim 001.

@streiknine

“called for an order, love?” boy purrs, eyes half-lidded and leaning against the doorframe too casually, letting shirts fall off exposed shoulders and smiles become things too curved with suggestion. for him, though, there is a lilt of something else there, glint in eyes not half-dimmed like lowlights in a club but rather, closer to something like playfulness instead.

he sets the cup of hot chocolate down on the table in front of vincent, leaving one for himself and bringing it to his lips, smirk too evident as he makes himself comfortable in the other’s home, already lounging on chairs as if his own. “gotcha extra chocolate sauce, just how you like. you can tell eve that my customer service is the best - full package ‘nd all.”

he crosses his legs leisurely, sipping on his drink slowly as bright eyes follow him. “are we cookin’ tonight, or was i supposed to bring food? ‘cause the only thing i brought to eat was - mm, me, to which i wouldn’t be opposed to either.”

#me @ soren: y u like this #i hope this is okay love !! lmk if there's anything that needs to be fixed and i gotchu #and sorry this took so long i'm a hOT A MESS JWEGJWEG #striker.#striker 001.

mickeyslim

* cigarette burn.

snapdrcgons-blog

mickeyslim:

( @snapdrcgons )

she lived inside a bruise – purple-tender all around, growing darker each time a thumb was pressed into it. mickey was a butterfly with wings made of leaves caught in a brush fire, singed and black and disintegrating at the edges, and she burrowed into flesh to make a cocoon under a blooming spot of skin. she didn’t know any longer if she had had any conscious part in making a home of this hot-tender place, if it had been her choice to take everything violently, to see the world in shades of red and sallow, or if this would have been her end no matter the things she had done and had done to her. but she knew now, with certainty, that she looked like the flesh wound too: a spot violence had only just been enacted, or would only just in a moment begin upon, as if the distorted circle of discolouration was a stage upon which to shine focus upon. she knew she looked like a woman you fight over, because she was.

she was the bitch you die for.

the crowd of the place has an awareness of it too. they swelled and gravitated or parted and resigned at the sight of her, having knowledge by face, reputation, or the overwhelming turning feeling in their gut of who the woman was. she wears her solitude like her cigarettes, the pair of them constant in their togetherness, vaguely inappropriate and curious. she raises her legs onto the table and crosses them at the heel. there’s a drink at the edge of the table. mickey extends her foot and knocks it over when he walks by, the red sea replaced by a red dragon swelling over and unto his shoes. she exhales smoke.

“enjoying yourself, baby?”

so she is a bruise. something teeth-gnawed into neck, pressed into thighs with fingertips burning; no overused metaphor for a flower, but moreso an uprooting. a taking. says, this body is mine as i claim it. says, this body is mine as i use it.

a fitting comparison. girl walks in and paths part; bloom of red-black-purple-blue amongst things more pallid next to her. boy has always been more of a knife wound himself, something you put your mouth to and let run past lips. tongue to marrow; a savouring. boy walks into the room and sea does not part, but drowns him. prefers it like this, walks in and hands on hips, tongue in mouth, fingers slipping past waistlines, searching.

cross my heart and hope to die for this bitch.

cross my mind and live in it, you whoreish thing. until you wither in it, pretty little snapdragon.

they are things not so different.

she spills wine like blood onto his feet, breathes smoke like ghosts of dead things when she speaks. smiles back at her, half-teeth, all hungry. .he steps out of the ruined shoes carefully, kicks them to the side of the bar and grins, takes the cigarette from between slim fingers, presses lipstick-stained edges to his mouth; calls it a kiss and breathes in. slow, deliberate as he exhales smoke, lets it mix with hers.

“always, baby.” he replies too smoothly, fingertips tracing shoulders, an illusion of tenderness. they both know better. “‘s that what you like to hear from all your companions, dear mickey?”

he smiles at her, mouth almost to lips. “not quite yet - you could do better than that. what else ‘ve you got to ruin of me tonight?”

#me: replies in 30 seconds because taryn said so and as my everything i must it is law i don't make the rules???#also wOW am i gay for mickey amazing #also idek what this is i'm try but i can never match to ur Level #mickey slim 001.#mickey slim

fcxglcves:

foxglove lifted her head at the approaching footsteps. she wasn’t supposed to be anywhere in particular right now. no clients, no meetings with eve. right? still. better safe than sorry. “is there something i can help you with?” she smiles prettily up at the interruptor of her calm.

“dear jae.” he croons, eyebrows quirked in half-amusement. “save that pretty smile for someone who’s a bigger fool than me, won’t you?” there’s a lilt in his voice that is familiar, playful. he lifts hands to show the girl the two necklaces in hand; all diamond, all leather, contrast stark between them. “help me pick one out, hm? ‘m bored tonight and ‘m looking for something that’ll get me some fun later on, yeah?”

#hope this is okay love !!!#idek what i am doin but i am try wegjwkejg #foxglove.#foxglove 001.

handscanheal:

open to: all.

where: not far from the med center ER or anywhere tbh, i’m easy. dude likes to walk doodle.

when: early evening.

“Oh, shoot.”

Winston pushed his glasses up and frowned as he watched his scribbled doodles disappear into the sewer. Later, he would write to the mayor’s office that the uneven sidewalks really were a safety hazard. Eyes back on the sewer, he’d read enough Stephen King to know not to touch that with a ten-foot pole and instead resigned himself to his doodle-less fate. If anything, he probably should have paid more attention and shrugged it off. Rush hour at work had his brain a little frazzled. Until he saw that one doodle hadn’t joined the others in the water and was instead under someone’s foot. Something could still be salvaged. He smiled, took in a sharp breath, and wrung his hands together as he approached.

“Hi there, sorry to bother you!” He said, voice soft and his hands slowly twining around each other to wring out the nervousness in his body. “I, uh, dropped somethin’. Just a little drawin’, nothin’ special, but you’re standin’ on it…Not that you knew, probably, so it’s totally okay.” He was quick to make that certain. “Just wanted to ask if I could just grab it real quick without botherin’ you too much.“

he pays no mind to the other until he approaches him, smile easy in contrast to the other’s nervousness, cocking his head to the side slightly as he speaks, maybe-mocking, maybe-interest in the movement, in that curve of lips.

he pauses after the other finishes, movements languid as he stoops to pick up the drawing under his foot, no care in responding to his request with anything other than that half-smile. merely holds up the paper, long fingers careful in tracing the lines, eyes staring at the doodle for perhaps a touch too long, treading on uncomfortable with how the boy takes his time.

‘‘s pretty.” he muses, careful ignorance to what the other has said. when eyes move from paper to man again, eyebrows are half-quirked and smiles have teeth underlying them. “are you an artist?”

“‘ve you got any more? can’t imagine something like this would be a standalone - can i see?” he asks, eyes flitting to the sewer, grin widening.

#i love winston already and u can't stop me from aDOPTING HIM AS MY OWN #winston 001.#winston.

cassiopivm:

Cass was certain that there were at least a handful of people who saw her presence in the Forbidden Vices as disrespectful, rude, or incendiary; however, she had no intention of causing any trouble or inspiring ill will. It was only natural that she would appear from time to time, in a booth in the back with a drink in hand, to observe the goings-on of her former workplace. Though Poppy was gone and Opium had taken her place, that did not mean that the young women cared any less for the people under contract with Eve. She had too big a heart, perhaps, to be hardened and toughened like her mentor’s just yet. A glimpse of the girl who was almost gone now. And so she sat with her drink, not looking up immediately when she felt someone else’s presence. “Busy night,” she commented idly.

things shouldn’t be sitting alone in a place like this - it’s a crime, almost - and boy slides into the empty seat next to her smoothly, drink in hand and teeth on the edge of it, grinning.

“does it count as night here if it isn’t busy?” he smirks, eyes half-lidded - either from the drink or from the low lights, no one wonders, no one questions. “can’t imagine this place as anything other than such, especially at this hour. ‘s bad for business for it to be idle, no?”

he takes a sip from his drink languidly, eyes scanning the crowd alongside her, lazy interest as he flickers from face to face, almost bored before turning back to her, corners of lips lifted slightly, pressed to glass, throat still burning.

“and you? are you busy tonight, hm?”

#hope this is okay love !!#cass 001.#cass.

ofxfrenchie:

@snapdrcgons

“—so excited for you!” Frenchie gushed as she cradled her phone to her face, pressing it so hard against her ear because she didn’t want to miss a single word from her youngest sister. She was seated on a wooden box in the alleyway behind the club, a bottle of whisky resting on the concrete beside her, a lit cigarette in her left hand. “And how are the boys? Still causing trouble, I’m sure.” Her voice cracked at the end of her sentence, feeling a thick knot form in her throat as she tried to swallow the sobs that threatened to escape her. She listened as her sister kept her up-to-date on everything going on in her life, but it was cut short when the girl abruptly said she had to go. “Oh,” she said slowly, “Okay, shoot me a text later when you get home.” She took a drag of her cigarette after the call ended, her eyes watching the tip of it burn a bright orange while the smoke filled her lungs.

Even after the almost six years she spent away from her family, it was still so strange to hear everything that her siblings were up to, but not being there to experience it with them. Jobs and significant others, hearing about them going out and living their lives — there were so many different emotions that the girl felt every time she heard more. Of course she was happy that they were living their lives — it was what she had worked so hard for the first 22 years of her life. They were doing all the things she wished she could’ve done, getting all the things she wished she could’ve had, all because of her. She should have been proud of them. But why was it that she felt a pang of jealousy? A sense of resentment?

Frenchie couldn’t wrap her head around it all, what exactly it was that she was feeling or why, but the more she tried, the more it confused her, the angrier she got. “Fuck it.” she breathed as she tossed the butt of her cigarette, fingers reaching for her trusted bottle on the ground. It was then that she heard footsteps approach from down the alleyway. Her head instantly snapped up at the sound, but she wasn’t quite able to make out the figure. “I’d watch it if I were you,” she called out, “While I would hate to waste a bottle of fine whisky, I have a whole back room stocked up in case I should have to.” Her fingers curled around the neck of the bottle, lifting it up to show it off, “It’s heavy and when I throw, I don’t miss.”

“if you wanna toss that bottle of whiskey at me, i won’t stop you - though i wouldn’t have taken you as a type to hand me alcohol for free ‘stead of at least sharing it. least then you can get a sip or two for yourself, hm?” boy half-emerges from the shadows of the alleyways, letting just enough light from streetlights and moonlight to illuminate the ends of a pointed grin, hands in pockets and shoulders lax against the brick walls.

it’s been a long night, but perhaps not enough for the boy - shirt haphazardly buttoned and hair ever-tousled, no telling if merely a job or pleasure - (or both, both when it comes to him) - boy already lighting a cigarette and letting smoke trail through lips as he speaks.

“c’mon, frenchie. ‘s not like i was interrupting anything important now, was i?” he steps closer, smirk growing, too slashed on red-bitten lips. “‘s not worth much if you’re in some back alley doing it - unless you’re on your knees, but that’s a whole different story.”

he steps easily to where the girl was just sitting earlier, lounging casually on the crate as if it was a chaise in some penthouse suite, looking up at her expectantly, taking a long drag and ash on lips as he smiles.

“well? ‘re we gonna share the bottle or what?” he asks, head tilted slightly. “might as well, while i’m here and not something that’s - ah, what was it - gotta go because something more important came up, sorry - ‘m i right?” he rests his chin on his palm, bent forward and closer to her. “shame. sounds like a sweet kid. they usually tend to be, don’t they? the ignorant ones - grew up luckier than you, stuck with me ‘nd whiskey and not some romantic candlelit date.”