it's a haunt she shouldn't frequent as much as she should. it's the same haunt where the ghost of her past self, shy only a few months now, mind you, met the man who offered her salacious salvation. though that would be giving him too much credit. her empty cat's eyes had drawn him in and snapped him up - taken him, as much as he'd taken her. 

there is an odd sentimentality she feels now, especially now that he is working more. especially now that their joint project is complete. especially now that she is not convinced she's no longer enough of an asset for him.

another sip of her manhattan and the jazz moves slower. the bassist is playing just for her and he is pleading with the curve of his bow for her to spread her legs, to turn her head so her hair falls just right over her cheeks. and yet the alcohol-tinged blush upon those cheeks is still no more than that - a blush. a touch of something. 

her gaze wanders. the pianist takes over the lead and she turns away from the stage. cool eyes wander, and stop, on another woman.

"another, marcus," she says when silence lapses. in that moment right before the crowd starts their clapping and their reveling - until the music starts again. with her bartender busy with her drink, she plucks up her clutch and moseys her way to the woman. 

next to her is a man with a sideways grin, one hand on his knee, the other marveling at what the woman's skin might feel under his fingertips. anya touches his knee, his hand, and snares his startled gaze. ruby lips purse and he opens his own, wanting. 

"i believe you took my seat," she says and he blinks. looks as though to argue, but then marcus is on the opposite side of the bar, sliding her manhattan over and saying, "here you go, molly."

she steps aside and he gets up and his confusion tickles her. she's still smirking when she raises her drink to her lips and cocks a brow at her companion. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli
(mentions of FERNANDO SILPH )

☉

she laughs. it's a musical sound. her lips find the rim of the glass and she waits for the crescendo on stage to reach its apex and then fall to a more mutable sound, low enough for conversation, before she speaks again. 

"darling, did i say i was doing that for you?" her smile is playful - a light lilt to her lips - but it does not reach her eyes. those are startlingly blue and just as startlingly empty. hypnotic, some men have said - because who wouldn't want to bed the devil herself? 

"i don't pander to the defenseless," she says. her lips leave a sticky red print on the rim. the whiskey runs warmth down her throat, over her skin, and she runs her tongue along her teeth. 

"i do, however, enjoy remarkable company, when it makes itself known. but ah, it looks like corinth is vying for her solo." the celloist's bow dips and a low, forlorn note smothers everything around it. the rest of the band shifts to complement her and she takes the opportunity with a flick of her wrist.

the long, drawn look on her face hushes the remainder of sideways conversations. anya crosses her ankles and delicately holds her drink under her nose, tasting the bouquet while she watches. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

"places like this always have their fair share of regulars and passersby." she recognizes a few of the patrons. some of them she's even slept with. a couple have purchased paintings from her. they help substantiate the fiction of molly fouller. they give credence to her life here, drawing her further and further away from the woman she once was (and still, undeniably, is). 

when corinth blows the rest of the band out of the water, anya smiles. she raises her martini glass to elisa's and the clink chimes neatly, hanging suspended until the pianist dominates the room once again.

"a pleasure, elisa. so then," she says, stirring her bar cherry around, "what do your enemies call you?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

the kalosian still tickles her behind the ears, crawling down the side of her neck, sinking a fleshy, heavy weight at the top of her spine. cradling her head and whispering sweet wiles; tugging at flayed heartstrings, memories long untethered. her head tilts, as though whisking away a presence - but there's nothing there.

at her companion's quip, she only offers a sly half-smile, eyes still wandering over the band. there is a soft glow around them, a hazy energy curling from bow strings and low tenors, from sweat and hard breath, red rancor lights sweeping over them and drawing their blood. 

lazily, she places her now-empty martini glass behind her. marcus hooks it by the stem with one pass and begins on another wordlessly while anya leans back, elbows propped up on the bar. slowly encroaching on the blonde.

"petite fleur." her mouth betrays her. some cognitive function greased up from the manhattan, oiled down and liquored up. the words are acrid and sting the back of her throat. that sly smile falls to a thin line. contemplative. 

"i have no enemies," she says shortly after, reaching for her newly made manhattan.

"your parfum is lovely, by the way." blue eyes finally leave the band to flicker over to elisa.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

skin bubbles and pops. the plastic snake of an iv tube succumbs to the heat, melting and mixing, forever-fire dismembering. sand in the back of her molars, crunching, with wildfire copper in the sky. bruises and melancholy tell the story of a hundred others like her, spun from jazzy opera and ringed by velvet curtains. 

fickle lobotomy. no one else could have broken her open and sewn her back up. her head hurts. she leans into her fingers, sideways, as though pondering the music. pressing into her temples.

and her addiction swings hot and heavy; the craving for FERNANDO SILPH's pink release moves through her in waves. 

"lily-of-the-valley is poisonous to human and pokemon, is it not?" she says, voice still smooth as silk. she leans into elisabeth's closeness, but her mouth is still an unreadable line. perfect arched eyebrows do not twitch; eyes do not flicker.

"i've worked quite hard to keep it that way." their graves are nameless mounds of dirt. they live on nowhere - not even in her memories. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

"not very well," she admits though there is a decent amount of knowledge tucked into the recesses of her brain. the gesture does not invoke an emotional response from her, but she reacts in kind, masking as she is want to do around strangers. her own leans back in kind while she lazily strums her fingers against her knee to the music. 

"i've found success if you just pour enough toxicity into the soil." create a barren landscape where nothing can flourish, where each step is to suffer and wither, further and further into wilted eventuality. 

"ruthless tenacity," she repeats with a glimmer and a bit of a chuckle. "darling, we're speaking of flowers and weeds, surrounded by prey who think they're predators. however could you draw the conclusion that i'm ruthless, nevermind tenacious?"

but isn't she? woefully bound and shackled to a man and their child, enraptured by a motherhood twisted with vile discovery. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

amusement lilts her lips, colors her cheeks. she takes another languid sip and stretches like a cat, back arcing against the bar. clasped ankles twitch, toes tapping to the feverish rhythm as the musicians struggling against each other. it's always a shitshow when corinth's had a few drinks. anya longs to dance. 

and anya does not long for much.

at her last perfunctory statement, anya cannot help the laughter that crawls out of her throat. she tucks her glass back onto the bar before she can risk spilling it; intense blue eyes stare down her companion, delighted. 

"and yet we have such passion for creation, don't we? such martyrs we are. come, dance with me." she holds out a slender hand.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉