Murdoc x Paula x Cocaine... woot.
Sunshine in a Bag
Her eyes followed the smoke twirling from the end of her cigarette, lazily imagining the little clouds as entities unto themselves, which, like everything else, eventually fades away into the expanse of infinity called the universe. Quite suddenly she exhaled a large puff of air, watching as the beautiful swirls were ruined and dissipated into nothing.
She closed her eyes and chuckled, taking a long drag off her cigarette and reaching over to find the bottle of whiskey she'd let rest on the floor. She grinned before taking a swig, revealing slightly yellowed, somewhat vicious looking teeth before sitting up and turning the bottle up. At that moment, light infiltrated the winnebago kitchen.
"Startin' a private party, are we love?" A dark, deep voice rasped from the doorway. Without opening her long, slanted eyes, the sallow-skinned brunette simply smirked in his direction before replying,
"Just the openin' act, Murdoc," she began, before focusing bloodshot eyes on him, "You gotta wait t' get t' the headliner. You should know tha' by now."
Murdoc smirked back at her, walking inside his hazy home, tossing his jacket on the cushioned seat across from where Paula sat, puffing her cigarette, legs crossed and eyes excited. He quickly walked to his cupboard, opening it and smiling as he pulled out a smooth, silver platter.
He turned toward her.
"Then let's get this shit goin', sweetheart, it's been a while." The platter clattered onto the table positioned between Paula and Murdoc, and she quickly snuffed her cigarette, pulling out her own additions to the table; a lighter and a dollar bill.
He glanced up at the woman across from him, smirking in his almost-smiling way, a palm-sized plastic bag subsequently falling from his green-tinged, nicotine-stained fingers. He watched her eyes widen slightly with excitement, her nose scrunching up in a sniffle, her nose already anxious to dance with the white lady all night long.
Murdoc sat back, lighting a fag serenely as she crunched up a small portion of the snow clump from the bag, using the lighter to crush the blow beneath the dollar bill. Her nimble, practiced hands made quick work of the powdered white dusting the silver platter, forming two fat lines in the center. Smoke filled her vision as her counterpart exhaled hugely, and she smirked at him while she rolled the dollar bill into a tube. She offered him the dollar bill, and he shrugged, passing her his cig and accepting.
"Get ready for anotha' late night, love," he smiled deviously up at her, baring fangs and all. And almost as an afterthought, "Two dents in lala land for the night? Cuz there's gonna be fuckin' goin' on over here."
He nearly chuckled when her eyes narrowed at him.
"It ain't gonna 'appen again, fuckwit," she sneered, though only halfheartedly. Most of her attention was on that magical substance that brought them together for the night. She felt herself growing impatient, and tapped her fingers on the table before grinding out, "Well get on with it then! I need a fuckin' bump."
That time he did laugh. "Think wha' you want, Pauls, you know you can' resist a shag when you're off."
She inhaled on his fag down to the filter. Sometimes he strait up pissed her off, even if he did get some of the best shit she'd ever blown.
Murdoc obeyed her, leaning over, shutting off one nostril, and breathing deeply, moving his face along the line. The soft particles followed the air into his nose, down his throat, and hit his stomach, and then suddenly, his brain was numbed by the cool snow that flowed through him. He felt his heart skip a beat, then speed up, a strange calm, surreal, familiar happiness washing over his entire body. He leaned back, passing Paula the rolled up bill, sniffling and rubbing his nose to make sure every bit of delicious sunshine slithered down his throat so that his mind could stay in its miniature paradise.
Paula eagerly grabbed the dollar, repeating Murdoc's actions, if a little less carefully. As she felt the same peace and rushing thrill wash through her, she noticed that everything she was sniffing back seemed a bit thick. She licked her lips, and tasted something different from the metallic, medicinal taste of coke; the metallic, disconcerting taste of her own blood.
"Fuck. Fuckin' nose... always fuckin' bleedin' every fuckin' where..." she said dreamily, her words coming a bit slow as the initial numbness set on. She casually wiped under her nose with the back of her hand, before reaching over with her other hand to gather up the excess cocaine from the platter on one finger and rub in on her teeth.
Murdoc faded quickly from the numb stage, his mind beginning to race with that familiar alert security, the happiness and the inhuman strength he felt burning through him like paper on fire. He looked at Paula, her face half smeared with blood, her nose still dripping a bit from where she'd somehow managed to cut the inside of it with the bill, her eyes a hazy mist of clarity and alertness, her red mouth lightly sucking on a freshly lit cigarette.
"Dunno where you get this bloody shit, Satanist," she exhaled and looked him in the eye, "but fuck if it isn't pure. Gets me higher than the fuckin' moon every time."
He gave her sultry look, deciding right then to fuck with her a bit tonight. "Course I get the best shit. Every bloody time baby, every bloody time... I always get what I want."
Paula caught his meaning, and as her mind began to speed up with the high of pacing cocaine, her mood lightened considerably, and her response was very different from her previous ones. "Not always, Muds. You know ya gotta work t'get some things. It's not like everything jus' falls into your 'ands all the time. Besides, sometimes what you want is already someone else's."
'There's my bird,' Murdoc thought, his little coke-fed inner devil rejoicing in the fact that he'd get to fuck the dullard's girlfriend again.
Heh, all because she had a little bit of a cocaine problem. But just a little bit of one. Of course.
He licked his lips, though he felt neither his tongue on his lips nor his lips on his tongue; the sweet numbness of his face stole away the feeling. Not that it really mattered, though. Feeling certain things was entirely over rated. His hand reached idly under the table, fingertips tracing the outline of Paula's bare knee. He felt her move into his touch, and thought to himself that this girl might just be as fucked in the head as he was. Not that there was anything wrong with that; after all, it completely allowed him to follow his religion by indulging in and worshipping himself.
And however much she didn't want to admit it, they both knew, right here, staring across from each other, minds racing on the same snow-covered track, that she gave just as much of a damn about herself as he gave about himself. And that was more than either of them could care for another person at this point, including blue-haired drugged-up innocents passed out on painkillers just a few hundred feet away.
His hand edged up her knee gently, fingers barely touching the inside of her lower thigh. "I may 'ave to get through some... obstacles... but, love, I always get what I fuckin' want." With that he removed his hand from her to light a fresh fag, and she shivered both from his touch and the loss of it, barely concealing her movement with a quick pull from her own cig.
She knew he was going to mess with her. She fucking deserved it, and she knew that too. Dear God, she was so fucked up. Was this what really mattered? She was the world to that boy, and she was willing to give that away to get her fix and her fuck, and just what the fuck kind of person was she to be doing...
Ah, numbing. Ah, sweet numbing. Just a little blow on the end of a cigarette, all your worries fade away. You aren't fucked, it's the rest of them that are. You're happy, you can feel it, and nothing is wrong for you, how can it be when you feel like this? And this man, he wants you. You, because you're beautiful. Can't you feel your own peace, your own beauty? Why not revel in it, enjoy it, if it's here, before you? This is what matters. This is now. This is beautiful. This is fast, this is time space matter and creativity all in one, slow but speeding in your head towards feeling, emotion, power, it's powerful.
He can see her losing her battle again. The doubt flutters in her eyes, but they're both masters at shoving it away. Murdoc knows he's better at it than she is, because he doesn't feel as much. But mostly that's because he's so damn jaded that it doesn't matter too much anymore. And her fucking nose is still bleeding, but she dipped the filter in the coke now and everything fades away -- he can see her eyes glaze over and once more she is focussed on him, and she is his toy, and he is her toy, and they are only here to play with each other, because otherwise life gets complicated, and neither wants that.
They don't know how to handle complication. They only know play, because other things are serious, and serious things hurt.
But cocaine doesn't hurt, and neither does sex. In fact, it feels so good to fuck on coke it's the heaven of the material world. And people who say fuck off to their own soul and morality, well, their world is entirely material. Or at least that's what they wish.
After all, every high comes down eventually. But not yet.
They sit in quiet, each thinking too quickly to speak, before Murdoc shatters the silence with speech. "Think faceache knows about us? You, me, and the lady in white, that is."
She looked away from his horrible, strangely handsome face. She licked her unfeeling lips, blinking quickly, her mind racing across images of 2D and pills, sex, showers, hand-holding, kisses, and lies. Lies like how she had to go home to see mum tonight. Guilt like how she didn't care that he'd forced himself to pass out off of codeine, just like she planned, because he was distraught at the thought of her absence. Desire like the need to sit here tonight, across from Murdoc, away from her boyfriend, secretly doing more blow in a night than most put away in a week.
Her eyes met his again, her immediate thoughts fading quickly from her mind to be replaced by the question he'd just asked. "Not very perceptive, that one," she said, her words spilling from her mouth in an eloquent flood. "I dun think 'e'd know even if I came in with white paste flowin' from my nose and my eyes blood shot to hell."
Murdoc eyed her a minute, noticing his cigarette running low. He tossed it over his shoulder and into the sink before reaching around Paula to the floor where her bottle of whiskey rested at her feet. He took a swig from it, mind flustered with thoughts of the dullard.
What a fucking guilt trip, if Murdoc had a conscience. Good thing for him that he'd killed those brain cells with drugs and alcohol years ago. Plus he knew how to get rid of any thoughts that weren't to his benefit, in fact, he was doing that right now. His warm sunny days came in the form of long nights spent dancing round the sky with a pale, blonde woman, dressed from head to toe in the most beautiful, glowing white dress.
He had his sunshine in a bag.
He shook his head gently, post-swig, only half feeling the burn sweep through his numb mouth.
"What d'you think 'e'd do if 'e found out about all this?" she asked suddenly, her face emotionless, her ability to feel anything but happiness and the immediacy of the people around her destroyed by the flood of thoughts in her mind. He looked back at her, smirking a bit as he felt the answer pop into his head with a quickness.
"Cry like a fuckin' pansy."
Their eyes locked, and she smirked back at him, the guilt she felt for disregarding 2D overshadowed by her desire to feel... to feel everything, right now. Because, after all, she could do no wrong. Everything she did was kind, because that's the way she felt it was. Because it was. It was reality.
In that moment they both stood up from the table, and he grabbed her, pulling her to him, licking her neck and tasting nothing as she breathed in a rush of lustful excitement against him.
"He'd cry like a fuckin' pansy. Cry because he knew we fucked. Because he knew you liked fuckin' me. That you loved fuckin' me. And you love this feelin', you love blow, you love it all, and you wanna fuck so bad right now it hurts..." He nipped gently on her neck, and grasped her ass firmly, caressing and massaging as her leg rose to wrap around him. She gasped, and gripped the back of his shirt, eager to rip it right the fuck off.
She wasn't about to be outdone, though. "He'd cry like you cry out for me to come... Cry hard because you have to fuck me, if only because I'm not yours... Fuck!" At that moment, he bit roughly into the side of her neck, drawing a small amount of blood.
"You're already mine, sweetheart. Mine to fuck, anyway."
She pulled back to slap him, a temporary anger flitting through her at his fucking arrogance and goddammit, he caught her fucking hands and now he was kissing her, and they both couldn't feel it, their mouths too numb to notice whose tongue was whose, thrashing against teeth because with that pain there was some sensation. Oh God, fuck, this was it. Power, raw, feeling, numbness, sex.
She found herself on her back faster than her mind was going. She felt her body heat up at the fucking speed of light because, gods, sex was intoxicating when you had been snorting cocaine. Every little touch to her breasts, every squeeze, every not-so-gentle tug or nip sent her reeling, and it was so fucking good. She wanted him to touch her, fuck her, dammit! She needed it!
Her hands reached for his fly, quickly undoing his pants and shoving them down as he hiked up her skirt and pushed her underwear to the side. His fingers caressed her gently, only half caring whether or not she was wet, but getting just that much harder when he found she was.
They both knew she'd be ready. She'd been ready to fuck him all day, she just needed a little blow boost to get her to do it.
And with that he slammed into her, and they both felt that rushing mix of euphoria that was induced by endorphins and blow, and each thrust was like an orgasm unto itself. Their speed and synchronization were unmatched, their heightened state of awareness and alertness making them both in tune to the physical ecstasy they were sharing to the point where they were just one.
But they weren't one because they were making love. No, they were one because they were fucking on blow. And that was real to them, just like the wedding night is real to two people who loved each other more than anything in the world. But they couldn't handle a wedding night, and they knew it, so they were willing to settle for this.
He looked down at her lust laden eyes, her face still smeared with blood, a little line of it drying from where it had leaked from her nose. Sweat beaded on her forehead as they rutted into the stained winnebago carpet, and he loved the sound of his body slapping against hers as they fucked.
In moments it was done, both sated, and both had come, with little more on their minds than how fucking good it felt. He'd rolled off her, and she stood, righting her skirt, and sat back down at the table as he lay on the floor and lit a fag.
Guilt and all of her unreality threatened to break into her reality, and she watched with two dull, weary eyes, the Satanist, who sat with his pants half off and his dick out like it wasn't unusual.
"'Nother bump?"
"... Sure, love."
Because eventually, they'll have to come down. Your reality can never last forever.
And they know it.