store bought bones .

[zelda atwood]

The crowd parts like a flock of pigeons as Zelda Atwood presses her way through it. Her heels strut in front of one another, dancing between every Texan in her way as though she were playing Tetris. She is trying to remain inconspicuous, to divert attention, but she finds herself leaning her upper body against the bar. Not unusually, she doesn't know what she wants. Not wanting attention, but at the same time putting a show of cleavage on the counter and wanting the attention of the bartender. Her smoky gaze follows him, watching as he sloshes liquids together, and presses together a Boston shaker. She's so completely fascinated by the show of mixology; the quickness of his hands, the way he slides a lemon wedge around the rim of a Tom Collins, and pushing it towards the beckoning customer. She hardly notices when he's standing right in front her her, her eyes flicking up towards her. “Another?” he grabs the empty rocks glass from the table, and the romantic lolita hue of her lips pull into a smile. He's remembered. “Two actually... and can you make them doubles?” For some reason the rowdiness of the crowd becomes more obvious as she's trying to exit, the males are less willing to let her go than let her in. She holds the drinks shoulder height to prevent them from spilling, pushing bulky bodies with her hips, and when they finally spit her out, she feels more dishevelled than when she arrived. The tips of her body as still touched with expense, adorned with jewels. A “diamond” encrusted necklace plunges down her breasts, ears are hooked with gold, a fat golden bracelet sits on wrist, and of course, an exaggerated diamond ring takes rent on her finger. Her body is fitted in a short black dress, with a deep neckline, and a skirt that cuts off so short it exposes the presence of the thigh highs she's wearing. To complete her “million dollar outfit”, her feet slowly lose feeling in a pair of black Louboutins. “Mr. Atwood, million dollar cocktail?” her voice flattens out, she stands semi bow legged in front of their tall round table. Before he can answer, she sets both glasses on the table, and heaves herself onto the barstool. Her fingers grasp to adjust her thigh highs, her long skinny legs crossing neatly at the ankles. Zelda's lips pout in silence, her manicured fingers grabbing her glass at the rim and giving it a wag before taking a sip. The whiskey ignites her tongue, and as the cinnamon taste licks down the throat she again feels more expensive, forgetting about all the cowboy sweat she's probably wearing.  Notes: I'm so sorry, this is nothing. Listening: BB.

[joel marston]

Zelda is walking away, and Joel's line of vision falls to her feet, the flash of scarlet distracting from her otherwise dark ensemble. Those heels seemed to be everywhere at the moment, and before he can stop it he's remembering Zara being crowned, Zara fanning away at invisible tears, Zara twirling and the same flash of red at her feet. Not for the first time he rued the day smoking became too taboo to be permitted indoors. Despite initially feeling the part, his suit was becoming constricting, and Joel tugged on his tie to loosen it, or maybe just to keep his fingers distracted from their need to hold a cigarette. Soon Zelda is engulfed by the crowd, and for a moment he feels guilty for not doing the gentlemanly thing and going up himself. But then she's bound to get served more quickly than he is, and they're not actually married. Are the laws of chivalry supposed to extend to all female companions, regardless of sexual history (or lackthereof)? It's a thought that keeps him occupied until she returns, effectively solving the dilemma. He nods his thanks for the drink, rolling his eyes. "I'd still prefer a beer, but when in Rome..." lifting the drink, he clinks it against hers with less grace than intended, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. It burns his throat pleasantly, and the combination of two old friends - whiskey and Zelda - puts him completely at ease... to the point that his eyes follow her fingers as they fidget with her thigh highs, lingering at the point where her skin meets the fabric. Realizing his mistake, he drags his eye-line up to her face, to her perfect pout and sculpted cheekbones... that's no good either, a crushing feeling spreading across his chest. He'd underestimated how much she'd remind him of her sister. Trying to force memories of her from his mind, he finishes his drink in one. "Do you want another? I wouldn't feel good about sending you up to the bar twice in a five minute span." Getting to his feet too quickly, he sets a hand on the table to steady himself. "On second thoughts, maybe I'll take a breather." A grin inches across his face as he sits back down. Running a hand through his hair, he remembers the premise of the visit and straightens up. His posture is usually fixed in what he likes to think of as a 'hunched over a bar in an existential malaise' fashion, but in his suited and clean shaven state, it seems out of place. With shoulders pulled back, he pulls her stool a little closer to himself in a pretence of maternal possessiveness. "Darling, couldn't you have chosen a place with table service?" he asks, casting a derisive glance at some nearby men. "That's what I get for letting the wife choose the venue. I never learn." Notes: this is much worse and i stole your code. i am the worst. Listening: metronomy.

[zelda atwood]

She pauses her hand as he offers her a cheers, a sculpted eyebrow arching at the sense of gratitude (or lack there of) she's receiving. “Don't be a prick, I'm wearing Cologne a la Dallas Cowboy for you,” her voice is stern, her drink wavers before giving in to chime with his. The atmosphere causes Zelda to fidget, her million dollar ass sits uneasily in her seat as she props her elbow on the table and her chin to her palm. Wide eyes surveying the people around her, she slants her view to look at them in more detail. It's a funny bar, and looks as though it belongs in the middle of the Wild West rather than in downtown Dallas. Longhorn skulls and rifles decorate the ashen grey walls, the bar is illuminated in a romantic light, warm yet soft. The floor creaks with every step you take, the music is low and barely audiable. And the company it keeps is quite disappointing. There's Zelda in her sexed up black dress, and Joel awkward in his suit, but besides that there's chubby men in plaid and dorito-dusted women in daisy dukes. The petite brunette yearns for some Rooster Cogburn lookalike to push through the waving doors, but her expectations drop with every passing moment. Her daze is broken when her partner rises and sways, her hand quickly grabbing his suit sleeve. “Pace yourself, lightweight,” she cringes as he sits down, taking her third sip of the stiff liquid. Her teeth catch a cube of ice, and alike a child at McDonalds she finds herself chewing on the frozen square, pressing it further in her molars and crunching it into shards of ice. Exotic eyes catch a stranger's and she shoots her gaze back to Joel, who is already set on her. “What? Stop,” she's pressing her hands to the seat of her chair, pushing her body upward. As her pulls her stool, she reactively grabs the table for balance. Her lips purse as she listens, cocking her head, and swinging her legs to sit sideways in her seat, brushing her calf against his intentionally as she uncrosses them. “You sound so completely ungrateful, Howard,” she hisses barely audibly at him, lifting her glass, noticing the fine details her lips have stained in the translucent glass. “I feel so freaking unappreciated! After all, who is the breadwinner?” She sloshes down the rest of the golden whiskey, leaving her hand to twirl her “wedding ring” off her finger. “You're such a misogynistic pig! I'm over it, Howard! I'm going to go find myself a real man, ” Zelda shoves the ring into the palm of his hand spitefully, lifts her glass and drips the watery cubes on top of his slicked back hair. “Goodbye, you tyrant,” the stool screeches as she forcefully pushes it back, the floorboards moan loudly as she jumps off and struts toward the exit. Notes: except it was your code to begin with! Listening: BB.

[joel marston]

Despite it being empty, Joel swirls his glass as if there's liquid there to be stirred. Alcohol is dissolving the boundaries he had firmly put in his mind before leaving for Texas, putting such topics as his ex wife, as work, as Bianca, all off limits. Now he's wondering where Bianca is, whether she's still mad at him... stupid question. His wedding band glints in the dim light of the bar, causing his chest to constrict all over again. Unlike Zelda's - at least, he assumes unlike Zelda's - his is the real deal, a strip of precious metal that had previously stated his commitment to her sister. He should have thrown it away, or at the very least pawned it. But then he couldn't have played millionaire couple, and what's a little heartache when drinking games were involved? A small smirk graces his face at her belligerence, and he puts a hand over his heart as though touched by the gesture.  "My favorite. Brings out my repressed Brokeback tendencies," he said, casting another woeful glance at his wedding ring, tempted to whip out pictures of Nix. Possibly too far. He raises his eyebrows at being called a lightweight, mock offence written all over his face. He flicks her near full glass. "What's up with you? You're nursing that like it's the last you'll get. Annabelle, what kind of man would I be if I didn't get my wife thoroughly hammered in the hopes of her finally getting a glance at her naked?" The more he drinks the easier the act becomes, and he's even eyeing her drink with some temptation. But a guy nearby titters loudly, obviously having caught the last bit of his little speech, and Joel points over his shoulder at him. "This gentleman hears me. Wives, right? Guantanamo Bay is less impenetrable." He's trying to keep a straight face as he turns back to look at her, watching her jaw work over a cube of ice. It's a sign of iron deficiency, chewing ice, and he makes a m ental note to mention as much when he's less busy pretending to be her pig of a husband. Her calf brushes against him and it takes him a moment to get a grip on himself. When he comes to, she's laying into him about her martial grievances, and he does his best to try to keep his look of horror bereft of the amusement he felt. "Annabelle, baby, princess..." he starts as the ring is pushed into the palm of his hand, tellingly lightweight. Before he can say anything else however, icy, sticky, heavily alcoholic liquid is being dumped on his head, and this time the shock is no act. Laughing incredulously, he picks up a napkin to mop at his face, getting up from the stool to follow her. The same guy who laughed earlier is staring at him with a grin twice the size as before. "Did you know only 7% of the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge goes to the charity?" With that he goes to run after Zelda, grabbing her elbow just outside the bar. The cool night air feels cooler against his damp skin, the smell of whisky carrying on the breeze. He pulls her in close, lowering his voice to a husky whisper in her ear. "You're a dead woman walking." But that familiar grin is back, and he laces his fingers between hers, dragging her down the street. "Was that therapeutic? Maybe now we can skip the marriage counselling. That'd give me more time to carry out my affair with my barely legal secretary." Notes:  i think it was originally holly's! SOZ HOLLY. Listening: kasabian.

[zelda atwood]

The brunette finds it extremely difficult to maintain a serious composure during the millionaire act, further proving she isn't her sister as she's lacking serious acting chops. Her lips are pursed to hold back a grin that's fighting the reins, and her gestures are worse overacted than a Nicolas Cage film. Zelda's mouth opens in shock-horror, a frown folding toward the cackling man who is just in earshot of their table. Her eyes cut through the man, and she steals his glee quickly, but not for any length of time. It takes only a moment for Howard to push Annabelle over the edge, before long she's plucking the massively obese diamond from her finger, and slamming an empty glass down on the table. “Tyrant” she repeats the word with strength, grabbing her purse and booking it out. The night air relaxes her immediately, the shock of it seemingly releasing a few endorphins. Though it's only August the air is cooler than it had been a month prior, the threat of autumn nipping recognizably. Zelda pushes the chain of her black book purse further up her shoulder, her heels kicking forward as she waits for Joel to follow her. That takes less than a minute, and as he latches on to her she spins at him, giving him a shove with both hands. “Get off, Howard,” she whines in her rich girl voice, before her lips cross into a goofy sideways grin. Her hand clasps around the shoulder of his suit, and she pulls him back to her, “you were all too good at that.. a bit worrying.” Zelda slips her skinny hand into his, loping behind him like a leashed cat, her heels clicking more slowly than he probably would have liked them to. But she's distracted, her fingers soon falling from his as she halts to burrow deep into her purse. She half forgets what she's looking for, the last cocktail now making her mind fuzzy. Till the tips of her fingers hit cold steel, her face lights up, delighted.“I brought you a present,” with a coy smile she lifts a silver flask out, all too pleased with herself. Long legs step out in front of him, dropping the flask into the front pocket of his suit, her fingers following the curve of his collar before deciding to pop it up. “Scotch, for the Lord of Denver.. we can that monogrammed tomorrow,” with that her hand is crossing back into his, and she's leading with force. “C'mon, adventure time, where to?” Notes: TY HOLLY. Ps: i'm sorry for this is rushed Listening: james vincent

[joel marston]

The cool air washes over him, and though his skin is sticky with cocktail, it feels good. As cliche as it may be, this night was proving to be the first time he truly felt alive in a long time. His life had been stuck on repeat, even when he and Zara were happy - start the day with black coffee, read the paper, go to work, meet Bianca, fight with Zara, crash out drunk. Sometimes the order would get mixed up, but those six things were the basic building blocks of his day. It was odd to think that in playing pretend he felt most like himself. Or maybe it wasn't so odd, really, given that he'd spent his whole life pretending to be a character from a 1940s film, even as a child. Still, it's with a barely disguised smile that he catches up with Zelda, herself looking as noir as could possibly be in her timelessly chic little black dress. As her dainty hands push him away from her, he holds his own up in surrender. The southern cadence of her voice means she could say anything and he'd find it charming, and even heavily laden with her rich girl intonations he finds himself wanting to hear it more. It's so full of color and music against his own blank neutrality. "What can I say, I'm a closet misogynist. Women. Just hate 'em." There's a chance he was channelling some genuine bitterness there, but to admit that would be too much. He's not sure why he's decided to grab her hand, the gesture an uncharacteristically affectionate one and one he expects her to reject. But to his surprise she doesn't, and her soft hand in his brings yet another smile to his face, reassuring him that she is his friend after all. All too soon her hand drops from his. With a heavy sigh he turns to watch her, like the bemused but impatient father of an easily distracted toddler. Soon enough she's dropping a flask in his pocket, and the aptness of her gift makes his smile widen, his hand returning to his heart more genuinely this time. "You know me so well! I'll have to give you your present when we get back. Alongside the mug." He picks the flask up to inspect it, impressed by its apparent quality. But then he was drunk. Her hand finds its way back to his, and the fact that she's reinstated the gesture pleases him, giving it a small squeeze as he drops the flask back into his pocket. "Thanks for this. But you tell me, this is your playground. I'd be happy going back to yours and watching Adventure Time, but if you think we can get in anywhere with me reeking of whiskey, I'll take your word for it." Notes:  sorry this was so quick i'm just an eager beaver today k. Listening: kanye.

[zelda atwood]

Over the past year Zelda had built a wall, brick by brick, blockading herself off from men. She stowed vulnerability away, and buried the hatchet. Thinking ahead of herself, and blatantly avoiding potentially hazardous situations. She has become careful not to expose herself, becoming flighty at the sight of danger, whether it be a gesture as little as brushing her forearm, or at larger a kiss gone awry. The last so little but large enough to cause her to fly back like a surprised animal, and cuss out, a man's touch as vicious as an electric shock. Her tendency to over think a situation, and make something so simple a problem had become like a sticky tar she was unable to wipe from herself. But here with Joel she was practically in her element. And by element, I mean that she was comfortable with herself as well as her company. Especially outside the bar, free from sweaty cowboys scaling her with their eyes. Once out the swinging doors it's all too obvious she has shaken a layer. Her shoulders have loosened and she's even become more silly, letting the alcohol take more control than it had before. She peers down at the flask as Joel inspects it. It's a pretty thing, far more valuable than priced in the flea market she found it in months prior. She'd spent a good hour shining it up with toothpaste to remove the grim, revealing the gleam of silver and design. Zelda knew it was Joel's before she'd even had it appraised for curiosity’s sake, she couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate it more. “A present?” her eyes widen with a child's amazement, fingers fishing through his, flexing in his grip. The girl swings her arm with his, lips pressing and humming her thoughts. She felt like another drink, but she didn't feel like become claustrophobic in a group of burly Texans. “But you smell div-ine!/font]” her accent thickens intentionally, emphasizing her words. “You're a millionaire, you can get in anywhere,” her arm swings higher, “anywhere!” Her own posh demure is shedding, and the only thing expensive about her is the shoes she's wearing. “Let's make a plan.. first, we find somewhere to get a couple of shots, we have to keep this up for the ride home. Somewhere like...” her spare hand flicks toward a seemingly quiet bar across the road. “There! Then we'll take a ride – a magical ride – back to my place, make a blanket fort, open a box of cereal, and watch terrible 80's movies.” Notes: lol wtf is this. Listening: elephant revival

[joel marston]

If one needed confirmation of Joel's happiness at this point in time, one would need only to tune into his ever-present internal monologue. It was the ind of evening that could easily be cast in black and white, the cool breeze blowing Zelda's dark hair around her fair skin, her dark dress offset by vividly red lips. For all its shiny buildings and mod cons, Dallas was still a Texan city, and Texas was a state that was resistant to change. Or to put it less negatively, faithful to tradition. Though Joel's attitudes leaned towards the more liberal, his tastes were firmly in the America of the past. Like New York, Dallas still had bars that scoffed at a drinks order that was any more extravagant than two fingers of whiskey, and women who could stand under a streetlamp and exhale a puff of smoke like it was the sexiest thing in the world. Women like Zelda, whose abundance of natural charm meant that she didn't have to try at all. Sometime while Joel was lost in thought, she had regressed to girlhood. Swinging his arm to and fro, her big dark eyes had lit up at the mention of a gift. "Nah, don't get too excited, it sucks. Sucks compared to what you got me anyway, I almost hate you for knowing me so well." Now that they're passing under a streetlight he wants to pull out the flask again to inspect it more closely, but resists the temptation as it would mean freeing his hand of hers. She's telling the story of their evening with fairytale flourishes, animated by alcohol or excitement or both. "C'mere," letting go of her hand, he finds her waist instead, pulling her in close to him. Gazelle-like in those skyscraper heels, the thought that she might trip and fall crosses his mind even though she seems stable enough. It's as good an excuse as any. His eyes follow her pointing finger, and sure enough the bar across the road does hold promise. It's the sort of place that looks like it would be thick with smoke were it not for that pesky indoor ban. Not that that was a massive issue for a fantasist such as Joel, who'd sit there and stop just short of actually batting away imaginary cigarette smoke. Pulling her in yet closer as he stepped into the road, he threw a cursory glance each way before leading her across, her frame even tinier than it looked now that it was in his arm. "You need to stop whatever juice cleanse you're on, you're wasting away. We'll get a pizza on the way back. I'm also vetoing-" ugh, cue thoughts of Bianca. He cleared his throat, pushing them from his mind to continue, "I'm putting my foot down about eighties movies. I don't watch anything produced later than 1958, and even then it's really just Touch of Evil and not a lot else." Upon entering the bar, all his very best dreams are realized as one thing drifts into earshot: soft jazz. Soft jazz. Delighted at his very forties turn of events, he beams, having to hold himself back from actually skipping to the bar. Instead he slopes, clearly having abandoned millionaire couple for his favorite game of Noir Detective. "Two shots of your finest whiskey, if you'd be so kind," he says to the burly bartender, trying to force as much world-weariness into his voice as possible.  Notes:  i gave you nothing, ik it seems like it must have been intentional but i promise it was not. Listening: the la noire soundtrack. juuudge me.

[zelda atwood]

Whiskey made her dopey, she thought anyway. Her drink of choice floated through her veins, thinning her blood with confidence, and while Zelda usually tried to appear sarcastic and uncaring, the whiskey stripped her of most of that. Bar the odd sarcastic comment, the girl was more filled with pokey-humour, and she turned loving, her touch gentle. In this company that was the case, among friends her hardness seemed to fall wayside to fawn at them and grin at her own stupidity. And right now is one of those times, her eyes have fallen to the ground and her lips are smiling, her bottom lip tucked between her pearly white teeth. Her eyebrows raise, her voice solemn, “but I am excited. I don't like a lot of people, but I don't hate a lot of things.” She's surprised the streets are so quiet. There's the odd straggler here and there, people perched outside the doors of the bars, cigarettes hanging loosely in their fingers. She suddenly feels the twinge of a craving, her mind wandering to the treasures in her purse, and if there was an emergency pack stowed away. Though the want for a cigarette doesn't last long, her hand suddenly feels naked, and for some reason she feels panicked without it, once again like a child. The panic lasts less than a second, the security blanket stolen then replaced with the warmth of his arm, and Zelda side steps into his frame. As her own arm strings across his waist, she takes her own glance across the road. Olive eyes darting down the silent street, the bright white streetlights reflecting on the shiny cars that line each side of the road. At the mention of her weight, she withers from his grip, sliding her own arm from around him and distancing herself from him. Her annoyance is obvious, as she readjusts her purse and runs her hands down the black fabic of her dress. She doesn't feel the need to shout the words, 'I do what I want', as her body language really does say it all. “It's not that I have anything against Touch of Evil..” she trails off, stringing her words together in the quick moment, “I just really had my heart set on Simon & Simon.” Smooth jazz tones hum gently in the bar, the light is low and the air musky, it's so coincidentally Joel's place. It's hard to keep a dramatic eye roll from occurring, as he forgets his expensive title, leaving it for his favourite role. Zelda trails behind, the tips of her heels clicking on the dirty ground, her long stems cross over each other slowly, and rather than sitting at the bar she decides to lean her anxious body against it. Oval eyes watch the bartender pour a pretty bottle into two shot glasses, the light's so dim and with her sight bad to begin with she can't make out the label. She grieves silently for the whiskey, thinking it's such a waste just to shoot it, but she gives Joel a look at of the corner of her eye and pours it into her throat anyway. The spice kicks at her throat, the rusty colour burning all the way to her stomach, but she hardly grimaces. “Do you think you go through phases?” she finally turns to face him, and pushes herself onto a chair. “Phases between who you are and who you want to be? Like there's you, there's your silhouette, then there's no one?” Notes: i also give you nothing Listening: nothing