she is punctual, of course. debts are something she does not take on lightly and the underboss running the meeting is someone who currently casts a shadow over her. anya's not entirely convinced her laboratory isn't bugged, her communications tracked. it's fair enough.

though arriving a couple of minutes before the meeting starts, she is unable to beat jayden. she fetches a glass of water for herself, unaffected gaze sliding over lulu's poipole. 

"i hear my colleagues and i have much to live up to," she says by way of conversation, not yet colloquial enough with the woman to offer her a casual congratulations.

Lulu Flint jayden cross
congrats pog

☉

her office overlooks the gardens. a back entrance affords her a shaded porch, covered with overgrown ivy. smoke still clings to her bodice from when she'd stepped out earlier. an oversized purple cat lays on a velvet bed, tail twitching at the footsteps down the hall. 

she is still settling in. small projects give her little enthusiasm at the moment and when she attempts to lose herself in her work, her mind wanders to her child. 

the sharp rap on the door and the entrance of one of rocket's beasts draws her attentions back to the physical world. she regards him plainly; cold blue eyes do not bother to give him a once-over. they just hold his gaze until he greets her and then she goes back to peering over her paperwork. 

"to what do i owe the pleasure of a visit from a beast?" she asks. 

Zev Harcourt

☉

her gallery is tended to in the interim of his rescue and his recuperation. she paints her days away - her cornflower blue daydreams about her child's watchful eye above them, the viscous red spiderweb trickles of lonely nights spent writing her research. analyzing the process. marveling at the tape of its completion. 

half of her depresses over the gestation, those moments where she felt closest to its pulsing. and to him. 

it would be unwise to visit him in his hospital bed (the scrutiny is too great) and yet part of her is glad for the excuse. seeing his ruined face, his power stripped of him - it might shatter the glamour.

time stretches and eventually, when the hubbub dies down and he is just another casualty put on a pedestal - our councilman, the victim of rocket's injustice - she goes to him. 

she waits languidly on his couch with a glass of beaujolais in hand, another waiting on his coffee table. 

FERNANDO SILPH

☉

anya gathers her thin layers around her, lazily snagging her pack of smokes on the way out. she spares one curious glance over her shoulder and finds the blonde with her covers drawn, lids closed. as she crosses the short distance from her bedroom to the back patio, a liepard's ears flick. 

she cracks one emerald eye open and then slowly gets to her haunches, stretching heavily onto the floor. sleep-laden paws trod after the woman; she leaves the door open a few extra moments behind her to allow the cat to join her. 

a flicker of flame and then the rush of nicotine, burrowing into her brain. she holds it and then exhales through her nose, eyes slitting. 

out of the corner of her eye, the shadows move. envy hisses in low warning and anya pauses, then flicks ash nonchalantly. the kecleon scuttles off into the night.

and when she's done, and when she tires, she returns to bed, wondering at the unseen scars that trouble the woman beside her. it's why, in the morning, she's careful to wake before her. 

when elisabeth awakes, that same purrloin will be watching her at the end of the bed, paw pressed lightly on a folded piece of paper.

Let this be your sanctuary.
- M

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

life pools into her ice blue eyes now, what little dregs of humanity she has returning at the beck and call of satiating her desires. manicured nails draw elisa's zipper down in a slow curve; her other hand draws a line down her spine, coaxing more of that bundled up, tangled desire in her. 

and the rest of it is willful compliance. the start is slow and languid, pressing and touching those vulnerable places only intimates allow - the side of her ribs, the small of her back, the inner stretch of her thigh. but when she sinks against her, lips parted, she fulfills her wishes over and over again with tongue and hand. 

minutes creep into hours and only when she herself is shaking from exertion, curls warm against her neck with sweat and makeup smeared, does she withdraw. they're in her bedroom now and pale moonlight slices elisa's bare form into silver little ribbons. 

she wipes her mouth with her thumb and then flicks out her tongue while holding elisa's gaze. 

after a moment she slips off the bed and draws on a sheer nightgown. "it's late," she says, voice husky, and then clears her throat. "you're welcome to stay. i'm stepping out for a smoke."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

lights spill over the road, incandescent in the aftermath of a rain she hadn't known had come. lilycove is quieter, but some of its late night scene is still active, and so every once in a while their golden road is cut through with elongated shadows. umbrellas blur as she leans into the speed, weaving around the few cars that mosey down the street.

they're a short distance away from the bar. she thinks, idly, that she's technically not sober enough to be driving. but as soon as the thought is had, the engine is going from a roar to a dull purr. her hands go to the ones wrapped around her waist as she leans back up and to the side. 

"don't i?" she says, unsure if elisa will even realize she's answering her now, and waits for her to get off before she swings her own leg over.

"come, ma fleur," she says and then walks up the short steps to her flat. after a moment, she adds with a smile, "or don't."

but of course she will. of course she does. when the door closes behind elisa, anya has already turned around. her movements are slow. fingers creep over her shoulders, under the lip of the leather to slowly draw it off elisa's frame.

and for her, for her and no one else, anya says, "tell me what you desire."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

this has nothing to do with devotion or loyalty. FERNANDO SILPH is her obsession. he is her rapture always, though their coupling is not enough to satiate her desire for flesh. the sweat of her lovers is cleaned before he lay with her, but they linger like perfume on her body, scattered over her clothes. 

they have a mutual understanding; monogamy is for shallow fools, out of touch with their most primal, primitive instincts. 

so she chuckles when her mating dance ensnares the woman in her arms. lifeless eyes analyze her want, measure it against her compliant hips, the stuttering of her pulse. still, she gives her every opportunity to say no as she digs her fingers to her back and draws her through the crowd, past the plush velvet curtains that lead to the back room. 

cozy couches ring cramped around a few tables; orrenian rugs lay underfoot and more thick curtains swathe the walls.

a woman, only several feet away, presses her lips to a stranger's neck. but anya doesn't stop or draw elisa to the couches. no, she takes her jacket from the coat rack out back and slides it around the leather around the woman's shoulders. 

the back door yawns open and she arches a delicate brow and nods towards the sleek black bike a few paces away.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

the music does not afford them more discussion, but skin to skin and heart to heart, they do not need words. that is always the problem, anya agrees. a problem worth exploiting, worth turning into an advantage. 

as a savant, it has not taken long for her to catalogue the cadence of elisa's body language. so her movements are effortless. she becomes part of the music elisa claims so enraptures her, wrapping around the woman. lifting her with scattered, featherlight touches when it matters. possessive, hard-dimpled as needed. 

her cheeks flush as her stilettos strike the floor. as they twist and turn upon each other, corinth drawing breath and sweat from their bodies, anya tells elisa that she only has one idea of what to do with her. 

and when it is over and the song peters out and the crowd sings their praises before they begin again, anya finds her hand at the small of elisa's back, lips leaving a brushed touch of red on elisa's cheek. 

"i see no weakness," she murmurs. 

Elisabeth Fiorelli

☉

it's with elisa's hand barely touching her back, held by her own with fingers curled, that she leads them to the small dancefloor at the front of the stage. her presence demands attention and space and the few swingers in the pit give them enough of a berth that she can turn and touch down confidently against elisa's hip and her shoulder. 

"a shame. i'm sure a man has no idea what to do with you," she purrs. she is not surprised in the slightest. not all beings can step outside of their neatly constructed boxes, their false barriers. 

lust is lust, at its purest form. a body is meat and theirs is all the same, in the end. 

"i'm an artist, darling. of course you find me tempting." corinth, spotting her flash of red on the dancefloor, jilts into a fast-paced jig. anya flashes a smile and tightens her grip on elisa. suave steps quickly close the distance between the two women before either can bat an eye. 

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

☉

"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

☉

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

☉