mickeyslim

[mickeyslim]

lithiumlegacy‌:

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.”

[mickeyslim]

thusnarcissuswept‌:

“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.

mickey’s eyes, now turned away from the pages of her book, were blank and unliving (in other words: dead). whether boredom or annoyance ruled in her irises was an undetermined war. a stalemate. she keeps looking, unafraid of her own visible disinterest, quiet in the beat after they finish. “what the fuck are you talking about?” 

[mickeyslim]

NIGHTSHADE.

               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. 

mickey looks properly at the dark-haired, fine-featured woman. “mmph,” she snorts a laugh on her breath. “every day is my unlucky day, sweetheart.” she arches an eyebrow, making no effort to hide or lower her one-sided smirk. “i prefer it that way.” evidently -- as she had been caught turning over a penny to avoid giving anybody good luck. how cruel, how fatalistic, how wonderfully terrible. “don’t tell me you’re looking for something to ease your troubles?” she asks sardonically.

[mickeyslim]

HEROIN.

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.

she mumbles from the fire escape as she lights up, calling half-interrupted by the white stick in her mouth, “breakfast is served, honey.”

[mickeyslim]

ARSENIC.

“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?”

[mickeyslim]

she’s high. or maybe she’s just drunk by now. she sweats a lot of the coke out in her routine, and she’d only had a tiny bump right before taking off for the night. so maybe she’s high. maybe she’s drunk. maybe she’s just real fucking tired, and that’s why these perplexing swirls of fish tails were so goddamn interesting. she taps to get their attention -- once, twice, - four time times -- more -- - until she’s interrupted, forcing her to turn her chin over her shoulder.

mickey pops the remaining half of a fortune cookie in her mouth, crunching down on it in a decidedly unladylike fashion. “are there brains even big enough to be scrambled?” all illicit goods aside, it’s a legitimate question. pivoting to face the blurry-faced individual (okay -- she was at least a little drunk), mickey crumples up the paper fortune without looking at it, reaching her hand up to drop it at the top of the tank.

✘ o p e n location: some lil chinese food joint in the jade district time: whenever. probably late night. like 1am but can be earlier.

He’s in his zone. The smell of grease in the air, a steady film of THC coating the nooks and crannies of his brain, the sound of woks sizzling and a huge fish tank bubbling (salt water, of course, those were quality)—that was al the man needed in life. The only thing that could disturb him is someone tapping against the glass, bothering not only him, but the fish.

 In the moment they were one in the same, he and those slippery phylum chordata. He imagined himself in the tank, feeling the soundwaves of the large finger tapping against the glass. He was a fish, and he was bothered.

“Man, don’t you know you ain’t supposed to do that?” he muttered. “You’re, like, scrambling their brains n’ shit.”

[mickeyslim]

there was a misconception that strippers must not be well-educated because of their career choice, when it should have been well documented that they were the only ones with adept enough minds to identify the best way to survive. mickey hadn’t gone to college, but she hadn’t needed a degree to bury her boyfriend in the nevada desert. 

how do you define hom-i-cide? a shovel, 2am, and a decapitated snake head in a pit.

mickey looks up from her book at the sudden inquisition, disinterest and a palpable level of annoyance held just behind her eyes. “satanic bible. updated version. you can find it over there.” she cants her head to the side, towards some aisle she hadn’t ever walked down.

you’ve no idea how lonely i sometimes am pulp kitchen, post-gala open to all !!

Julian was, for once in their life, perfectly content to stay right where they were: smack in the middle of a beautiful sunbeam, leather-clad feet propped up on the windowsill they sat beside. Settled in with a book in hand, they were prepared to spend the afternoon reading in peace. Or rather, leaving everyone else in peace. Within minutes of starting the book, however, that constant inclination toward striking up a conversation with basically anyone crawling into their very bones. 

They fought it at first, adjusting in their seat and refocusing on a line of text they had already read three times without absorbing one bit. If someone wants a conversation with you, they’ll approach you, they chided themself. Besides, alone time was supposed to be good for you, right?

Wrong, wrong, definitely wrong. Five minutes later they were out of their seat, heading toward the first person they recognized armed with a smile. At least nobody could say they didn’t try.

“Pardon the interruption, but you look so engrossed it’s hard not to take interest,” they said, almost theatrical in tone. “What are you reading that has you so fascinated?”

[mickeyslim]

Mickey had spent enough time being a black cat, a broken mirror, spilled salt. She ruined, cursed, and broke – sometimes her own life, at times others. A self-serve bad omen. Even if she showered and combed through her hair and shook out her pockets, bad luck seemed to hang on her, an extra appendage on her shadow. Perhaps because she knew what it was to poison your own chances, or perhaps because she was a bitch and a fool, Mickey stopped for the small twinkle she passed on the ground, pinched the loose change in her fingers, and turned it over. 

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.

[mickeyslim]

[mickeyslim]

HEROIN.

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. 

appreciate as she is, mickey makes a gesture of rolling her eyes towards the ceiling as if in thought. “and -” she begins, her hips suddenly moving at various angles as if to find an answer, her face painted with a faux question. she grinds against him through the blanket until settling atop what she desires. the quizzical look on her face fades to satisfaction. “-- that’s why too.”

[mickeyslim]

* TRACKER !

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

mickey x @sweetxarsenic . completed.

mickey x @snapdrcgons . completed.

mickey x @salvatin . completed.

mickey x @awomanlikeecstasy . waiting on.

plotting with: @handscanheal / @rebelliumhq / @tequilsc / @jackdvniels / @fcxglcves / @dcncghuex / @tertiovitae / @angelofmore / @cassiopivm / @ofxfrenchie / @bridgetloi??? who am i missing

aka i still need to plot with!: i will tag everybody tmo bc im so sleepy but i want things w ALL OF U

[mickeyslim]

she makes habits of a lack of habits, creating a pattern of unpredictability to ensure a permanent instability -- nobody could touch her if they couldn’t so much as keep their legs to follow her. but sleepovers were a stark, red (lipstick on his hip) and black (bruise on her neck) no. there were no exceptions that would open up her bedspread for the non-waking hours, no caveats or clauses for any man and his slumbering form. -- drugs, however. drugs mickey would make love to all night and kiss open-mouth first thing in the morning. and if they came with a six foot, two-hundred-pound pusher with a good dick to sit on in the meantime, so be it.

she turns at the sound of his voice.

“is that what you think of me?” her voice sounds like all the clothes on her floor: half-wrecked, unready, filled with at least one hole. mickey pivots to the bed, setting a knee up onto the mattress and crawling to straddle h at the waist. “you were gonna get fucked, baby.” her head cants, hair falling into her eyes. she’s still fucking high. “those were your pants. i was looking for your wallet. you wake up, i’m gone, i’ve got your cash clip. good morning. you’re fucked.” it’s a joke. probably. while it wasn’t above her to empty a man of his pocket’s contents, mickey wasn’t much of a petty thief -- she prefered to take everything.

he’s a light sleeper, has been for as long as he can remember; so he wakes when she shifts, when her weight leaves the mattress, but then it’s 5:00am. so at least the blaring red numbers of the radio-clock beside him, on the bedside table, inform him. perhaps mickey hadn’t woken him after all. he watches her quietly for a beat, watches her search through the heaps of clothes on the floor. did she already crave her next high? no. she get’s dressed, collects clothes randomly and shrugs them on. a shirt, his shirt and panties. hadn’t she realized he was awake too? ‘ baling on me in your own home? ’ eyebrows raise, as he makes himself known, decides to do so when she reaches for a pair of pants. ‘ after all that, we’ve been through? ’ mock offence, he couldn’t care less. ‘ you disappoint me mickey, leaving already without a good morning fuck. ’

@mickeyslim ♦ plotted starter

[mickeyslim]

ARSENIC.

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. 

Her body goes angular next, leaning back on one arm. “So, you gonna cause a little shit to make up for that mood, or what?”

[mickeyslim]

SNAPDRAGON.

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.” 

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.”

* cigarette burn.

[mickeyslim]

[mickeyslim]

toxicityrp + TEXT POSTS  —

ft. @streiknine, @agentflanders, @fcxglcves, @cassiopivm, @mickeyslim, @rebelliumhq @sweetxarsenic, & @madhatmercury       2/???

[mickeyslim]

[text] I am available for nakedness

[ TEXT ]: I know, honey. Your dick is out for anyone with a few bills or Eve’s phone number.