Who: Peter Vincent, NPC girl What: Slipping back into old habits Where: Purgatory When: Wee hours of the morning, October 25, 2013 Warnings: Peter's foul mouth, implied sexual content Status: Narrative... short one this time!
He wasn't thinking about it.
He wasn't thinking about flashing shark teeth, or ink-coloured eyes, or icy cold welling up from within. He wasn't thinking about the bickering and bitching on the boards, his friend's exasperated insults that really, were true enough. He wasn't thinking about missing Andrew tonight. He wasn't thinking about telling his mother all the horrible secrets he still kept from her. He wasn't thinking about trying to help hold the world together, smearing the cracks with holy water and news stories and it didn't matter anyways, he'd only be in the way. He wasn't thinking about exposure or sanity or giving up or keeping going.
He wasn't going to think about it. Not tonight. Tonight, his head was full of Vegas.
He was thinking about the burn of the alcohol sliding down his throat, the candy-sugar on his tongue, sickly sweet. He'd lost count of his drinks. Experiment a failure, he supposed. Not that he was complaining, though he wasn't nearly so drunk as he'd have liked. He was watching the neon glow and heady beat of the club around him, crowds of people with sweaty empty faces and limp-hanging animal print and sequins. Fill the hollow with flash and smoke, and then he could ignore it, and so could everyone else, then. People see what they want to see.
He had magic in his eyes, tricks of the light, fast fingers, the fine art of misdirection. Rose's smile... who could ever deny her anything, with a smile like that? It would have to be something fantastic, for her, because if anyone deserved fantastic it was Rose fucking Tyler. Vague trick ideas crossed his mind, teasing, but the alcohol made it too hard to focus on being creative right now. He'd figure out details later.
He was thinking about heat and skin and hungry lipstick kisses. Light feminine voice in his ear and smooth legs in a sinfully tight miniskirt. Dark hair and smoky eyes, nicotine and an edge of something else that he'd not tasted himself in an age on her tongue. She pressed up against him, half pulling him off his stool by the waistband of his leather pants. Her hand slipped lower. He swore, head dropping to his chest, and she tittered, trying to sound pretty. "Let's go," she whispered against his neck. He shivered, leaning away ever so slightly. She didn't notice; she was already backing away from the bar, her fingers hooked around his, beckoning. "Come on," she said, dark eyes full of promise. Silently, he followed.
He was thinking about burning up from the inside out.