((Everything here is co-written with Sin Incarnate))
Holiday Cheerful circa December, 2017
Dubbed, ironically, as "Schlub" by a few of the Rhy'Din denizens, and boasted himself with no lack of sarcasm, he decided to intermingle with the masses tonight. Branching out instead of congregating to the main, predictable, point of Rhy'Din where it seemed to be a habitual routine. He found a uniquely styled pub that didn't smother him with modernized neon lights and impale his ears with Today's Pop Hits.
If there was one thing he admired of this city, it was the incongruous collaboration of modern and old, molded into one.
Enjoying the cool, fresh air outside before returning inward, his shoulders were set against the warped, old wood of the building. Tailored in a suit of decadence, it gave no hint of its reason for wear. He could very well have stepped out of a meeting with a client, or attended a funeral of the upper class. Either way, he wore it like his own second skin. Unbuttoned, his black suit jacket gave view to the crisp white shirt and silk, delicately designed crimson tie that laid flat against his chest. His slacks were of the kind of comfortable fabric that screamed money and logic, to be worn through the daily grind without hitch or discomfort. His silver-grey hair was off-color to the brown of his neatly trimmed beard stubble that covered the secrecy of a square, sharp jaw.
Scissored between two fingers was a cigarette out of idle boredom, the same expression plastered on his face perpetually, periodically drawn from. A tap of the filter here, a glance of his eyes there, as if he was simply a part of the scenery. Expensive backdrop.
Inappropriately dressed for the weather, Meadow stalked in on the towering stiletto points of a pair of ludicrously expensive silver heels. The thin, elegant straps that criss-crossed the top of her foot and spiraled along breakably delicate ankles were encrusted with a subtle flash of crystalline rhinestone, catching what dim lights the ambiance afforded in the occasional twinkle of interest. Her dress was stereotypically tight, figure hugging like a second skin, black against the California gold flesh she took some strides to maintain. A coat in lavish faux fur hung open, its blood red silk lining serving as the perfect backdrop for her shapely silhouette, showcasing a body made by good genetics, personal trainers and methamphetamines.
Her makeup carried the subtle shimmer of festive holiday glitter — proof positive that she was on her way to, or back from — some upscale holiday soiree. Grey eyes like the midnight sky pregnant with a promise of imminent snowfall scanned the quiet place's interior with interest, a sleek cell phone cradled in the outstretched sprawl of her right hand fingers. She seemed to be checking something on the screen against the club's interior, but whatever she was looking for, she appeared not to have found. With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she made her way deeper inside, towards the bar.
Every so often, he'd watch the movement of those scattered about. A flash of interest here, an inconspicuously curious glance there. None of which lasted more than a few moments before any spark was lost by the subzero temperatures of his irises. His chest expanded, then deflated, in a heavy sigh as he considered abandoning the spot, to move on.
The brief glimmer of rhinestone, a flash of blood red set against black - two of his three favorite colors - drew his attention. Eyes squinted through the filmed veil of smoke, the killing blow to the disappearing white paper of his cigarette bled into filter. Jaw set, muscle shifting beneath the neat stubble, his back slid away from the wood showcasing as his leaning post. Interest pointed to the bar and a spike of Wrath had him casually dropping the spent filter into someone's drink upon the way, sprouting an angry look up at him he hardly noticed. "That was my drink, ****."
His lips twitched, nearly a smirk that didn't quite meet its mark. "If that's what you'd like to call it," he murmured, dismissively, as he drew closer then fixed himself against the edge of the bar.
Bending to embrace a lean of propped elbows on its surface, he tapped a ringed middle finger to the bar with a pointed look to the tender. "An Old Fashioned, please," he smiled, straight dull teeth that were white as a commercial smile. "And any drink she desires, put it on my tab," he requested, with a nod to the faux fur clad Californian as she reached the bar.
It was only then that he turned, draping himself over the edge of the bar with an expectant raise of brow, waiting. Challenging her tastes. Tempting her to humor him.
She'd overheard his directions for the bartender, that Californian, a scowl of disinterest just barely held back in her teeth. Typical... Meadow was all set to reject the friendly-ish intended advance with a feral flash of her own Crest kid (veneered) pearly whites when she really took a look at the man who was doing the offering.
She wasn't shy or subtle about it, the way she paused just a foot from the bar, one long bronzed leg ahead of the other in the act of advancing towards a vacant stool. Reddened lips pursed as her gaze travelled the length of his lazily-draped frame from head to toe and back again, taking in the details —expensive cloth, tailor made cut, well groomed facial hair, silver gray coif that marked him as both moneyed and mature— and she swallowed the biting remark whole.
The smile she gave him instead was deferential, flattered. "Why thank you, handsome." Her gaze easing past him to the bartender, she hesitated only a moment before giving her reply.
"I want the bourbon and the smoked orange, but not the sugar or the bitters." She wanted the same drink as him, but more complicated. Of course.
Her gaze reverting to the man who was buying, one perfectly manicured brow lifted higher than the other. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
His chin lifted, watching the shift of her expressions as she rethought any possible remarks. His lips spread as she drank him in like fine wine, and there was no shame nor subtlety to the way he offered her the same respects. Instead of a profile view, he could inspect her head on, from the crystalline rhinestones on her strappy heels to the sunkissed tan of her legs, the figure hugging dress that he seemed to linger on for a moment - indecisive on whether he liked it or not.
It wasn't overly showy, or suggestive, a balanced amount of provocation that left little to the imagination, but didn't smother it either. Up further, to the faux fur that while fake was no hint of cheap. Her Crest kid smile that had become amiable, instead of defensive. His brows lifted to the complicated order she made, and his Wall Street smile broadened with approval whether she wanted it or not. "You heard her," he side stage told the tender, not once pulling his eyes away from the girl who seemed to have his undivided attention. "Ace," he told her, simply. "And what would be the name to match such a ravishing creature?" His smile was coy, playful among the maturity of his appearance.
"Ace" Really?" Her gunmetal grey eyes sparkled with mirth; it was the most Hollywood name she'd heard since, well, since she'd left Hollywood. Lipsticked lips parting in a smile, Meadow didn't quite laugh, but it was a near thing. "Nice."
Tipping her head towards him, she nodded at the bartender. "See" He gets it," she said by way of explanation. Stepping closer to him, she gave him his answer, "Meadow Starling," the syllables rolling off her tongue like honey.
It was one of those names; you either immediately knew who she was, or you didn't. Famous more for her daddy's guitar skills and her supermodel mama's looks than anything she herself had yet accomplished, Meadow turned her back to him, then glanced over the smooth rise of one shoulder in his direction. "Help me with my coat, Ace?"
His brows rose to her amusement in his name, soaring nearly to his hairline. "Yes, really," he laughed, shifting in his propped lean. "Sure, it's not my given name, but it'll do just fine," he snickered. His eyes followed her, and he didn't seem to move from his lax position when she stepped closer, sporting a casual disposition in the affair.
At least until her name was mentioned and his attentions seemed to zero in on her even more. Eyes so dark they may as well be black, incapable at the best of times of being deciphered between iris and pupil unless caught in the right lighting, fixed on her now. "Starling...?" He eyed her more scrupulously. "Your father wouldn't happen to be a musician?" He inquired, just a second before she asked for his aid. Smiling amiably, he finally drew himself out of his lean with the languid motions of grace.
"Who am I to say no?" He purred, cutting distance to feel his radiant presence behind her, but not too close to breach the lines of acquaintances, his fingers hooked into the collar of her coat, dusting exceedingly heated fingers and warmed silver of rings absorbed with body heat over the slender slope of her shoulders as he fluidly eased the fur from her frame.
"Oh, so you've heard of us." Meadow laughed pleasantly, her shoulders rolling underneath his warm touch, rising to the contact.
"A time or two.....Ms. Twitter extraordinaire," he chuckled, his smile coy in it's admittance to maybe having come across her feeds. Which, really, was all it was. Who was "in" lately, who was "out". If it was a trend, he at least brushed the surface, dived in deeper should his interests afford him to linger on it until he inevitably got bored. It was a perpetual curse of his, boredom.
"Yes. Four paternity tests, a lawsuit, and one spectacularly gaudy wedding later...yes." This was a woman who had grown up on the cover of TMZ, a strange witches' brew of Hollyweird plastic and genuine artifact. So much false front perfection overlaid seeds of genuine brilliance, celluloid and concert cello coexisting uncomfortably in the body of a bombshell with an Elvis rocker sneer.
"Well that's a headline story, isn't it?" He snickered, and he hadn't missed the way she'd risen to his contact, making sure to casually offer a brush of his fingers down her arm in the removal of the jacket until it was gone as casually as it'd come. Offhand, as if it hadn't happened at all, subtle enough to be taken as an accident.
Freeing one arm and then the other, she turned to face him, offering to reclaim the coat with outstretched fingers. "Thank you," she said again, polite almost to a fault. All those cotillion classes showing up again, and nevermind that she had come here to score drugs. Looking him over anew, a brow arched curiously. "You are overdressed for this establishment, I think, but I approve. Should I know you?"
His eyes found hers when she faced him, taking in the delicate features of Trouble wrapped in a youthful package that just skimmed by to pass. "You're welcome, doll." Polite, but not quite so formal as he could be at times while he returned the jacket to its owner.
Their drinks came one, then the other, slid along the side of the bar closest to them. "Thank you," a dismissal of gratitude as he reached and collected his glass with the clamor of metal rings to glass when he lifted it. He peered down to his attire, a questionable brow lifting as his gazed ticked back to her. "Well....someone has to advocate class," he told her incredulously. "It's a slowly diminishing industry," he frowned, quite serious on the matter before he smiled at her question.
"Austin Kelly," he told her more directly, "unlikely you know of me. Just a Wall Street investment broker moonlighting as a collections' agent, sweetheart. But should you know me?" His smile was a blended cocktail of sins, with no one too dominant over the other but working together in blissful harmony. He tipped his drink to her with a finger lifted to point in her direction. "That's a matter I'll let you decide for yourself..."
Holiday Cheerful circa December, 2017
Dubbed, ironically, as "Schlub" by a few of the Rhy'Din denizens, and boasted himself with no lack of sarcasm, he decided to intermingle with the masses tonight. Branching out instead of congregating to the main, predictable, point of Rhy'Din where it seemed to be a habitual routine. He found a uniquely styled pub that didn't smother him with modernized neon lights and impale his ears with Today's Pop Hits.
If there was one thing he admired of this city, it was the incongruous collaboration of modern and old, molded into one.
Enjoying the cool, fresh air outside before returning inward, his shoulders were set against the warped, old wood of the building. Tailored in a suit of decadence, it gave no hint of its reason for wear. He could very well have stepped out of a meeting with a client, or attended a funeral of the upper class. Either way, he wore it like his own second skin. Unbuttoned, his black suit jacket gave view to the crisp white shirt and silk, delicately designed crimson tie that laid flat against his chest. His slacks were of the kind of comfortable fabric that screamed money and logic, to be worn through the daily grind without hitch or discomfort. His silver-grey hair was off-color to the brown of his neatly trimmed beard stubble that covered the secrecy of a square, sharp jaw.
Scissored between two fingers was a cigarette out of idle boredom, the same expression plastered on his face perpetually, periodically drawn from. A tap of the filter here, a glance of his eyes there, as if he was simply a part of the scenery. Expensive backdrop.
Inappropriately dressed for the weather, Meadow stalked in on the towering stiletto points of a pair of ludicrously expensive silver heels. The thin, elegant straps that criss-crossed the top of her foot and spiraled along breakably delicate ankles were encrusted with a subtle flash of crystalline rhinestone, catching what dim lights the ambiance afforded in the occasional twinkle of interest. Her dress was stereotypically tight, figure hugging like a second skin, black against the California gold flesh she took some strides to maintain. A coat in lavish faux fur hung open, its blood red silk lining serving as the perfect backdrop for her shapely silhouette, showcasing a body made by good genetics, personal trainers and methamphetamines.
Her makeup carried the subtle shimmer of festive holiday glitter — proof positive that she was on her way to, or back from — some upscale holiday soiree. Grey eyes like the midnight sky pregnant with a promise of imminent snowfall scanned the quiet place's interior with interest, a sleek cell phone cradled in the outstretched sprawl of her right hand fingers. She seemed to be checking something on the screen against the club's interior, but whatever she was looking for, she appeared not to have found. With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she made her way deeper inside, towards the bar.
Every so often, he'd watch the movement of those scattered about. A flash of interest here, an inconspicuously curious glance there. None of which lasted more than a few moments before any spark was lost by the subzero temperatures of his irises. His chest expanded, then deflated, in a heavy sigh as he considered abandoning the spot, to move on.
The brief glimmer of rhinestone, a flash of blood red set against black - two of his three favorite colors - drew his attention. Eyes squinted through the filmed veil of smoke, the killing blow to the disappearing white paper of his cigarette bled into filter. Jaw set, muscle shifting beneath the neat stubble, his back slid away from the wood showcasing as his leaning post. Interest pointed to the bar and a spike of Wrath had him casually dropping the spent filter into someone's drink upon the way, sprouting an angry look up at him he hardly noticed. "That was my drink, ****."
His lips twitched, nearly a smirk that didn't quite meet its mark. "If that's what you'd like to call it," he murmured, dismissively, as he drew closer then fixed himself against the edge of the bar.
Bending to embrace a lean of propped elbows on its surface, he tapped a ringed middle finger to the bar with a pointed look to the tender. "An Old Fashioned, please," he smiled, straight dull teeth that were white as a commercial smile. "And any drink she desires, put it on my tab," he requested, with a nod to the faux fur clad Californian as she reached the bar.
It was only then that he turned, draping himself over the edge of the bar with an expectant raise of brow, waiting. Challenging her tastes. Tempting her to humor him.
She'd overheard his directions for the bartender, that Californian, a scowl of disinterest just barely held back in her teeth. Typical... Meadow was all set to reject the friendly-ish intended advance with a feral flash of her own Crest kid (veneered) pearly whites when she really took a look at the man who was doing the offering.
She wasn't shy or subtle about it, the way she paused just a foot from the bar, one long bronzed leg ahead of the other in the act of advancing towards a vacant stool. Reddened lips pursed as her gaze travelled the length of his lazily-draped frame from head to toe and back again, taking in the details —expensive cloth, tailor made cut, well groomed facial hair, silver gray coif that marked him as both moneyed and mature— and she swallowed the biting remark whole.
The smile she gave him instead was deferential, flattered. "Why thank you, handsome." Her gaze easing past him to the bartender, she hesitated only a moment before giving her reply.
"I want the bourbon and the smoked orange, but not the sugar or the bitters." She wanted the same drink as him, but more complicated. Of course.
Her gaze reverting to the man who was buying, one perfectly manicured brow lifted higher than the other. "To whom do I owe the pleasure?"
His chin lifted, watching the shift of her expressions as she rethought any possible remarks. His lips spread as she drank him in like fine wine, and there was no shame nor subtlety to the way he offered her the same respects. Instead of a profile view, he could inspect her head on, from the crystalline rhinestones on her strappy heels to the sunkissed tan of her legs, the figure hugging dress that he seemed to linger on for a moment - indecisive on whether he liked it or not.
It wasn't overly showy, or suggestive, a balanced amount of provocation that left little to the imagination, but didn't smother it either. Up further, to the faux fur that while fake was no hint of cheap. Her Crest kid smile that had become amiable, instead of defensive. His brows lifted to the complicated order she made, and his Wall Street smile broadened with approval whether she wanted it or not. "You heard her," he side stage told the tender, not once pulling his eyes away from the girl who seemed to have his undivided attention. "Ace," he told her, simply. "And what would be the name to match such a ravishing creature?" His smile was coy, playful among the maturity of his appearance.
"Ace" Really?" Her gunmetal grey eyes sparkled with mirth; it was the most Hollywood name she'd heard since, well, since she'd left Hollywood. Lipsticked lips parting in a smile, Meadow didn't quite laugh, but it was a near thing. "Nice."
Tipping her head towards him, she nodded at the bartender. "See" He gets it," she said by way of explanation. Stepping closer to him, she gave him his answer, "Meadow Starling," the syllables rolling off her tongue like honey.
It was one of those names; you either immediately knew who she was, or you didn't. Famous more for her daddy's guitar skills and her supermodel mama's looks than anything she herself had yet accomplished, Meadow turned her back to him, then glanced over the smooth rise of one shoulder in his direction. "Help me with my coat, Ace?"
His brows rose to her amusement in his name, soaring nearly to his hairline. "Yes, really," he laughed, shifting in his propped lean. "Sure, it's not my given name, but it'll do just fine," he snickered. His eyes followed her, and he didn't seem to move from his lax position when she stepped closer, sporting a casual disposition in the affair.
At least until her name was mentioned and his attentions seemed to zero in on her even more. Eyes so dark they may as well be black, incapable at the best of times of being deciphered between iris and pupil unless caught in the right lighting, fixed on her now. "Starling...?" He eyed her more scrupulously. "Your father wouldn't happen to be a musician?" He inquired, just a second before she asked for his aid. Smiling amiably, he finally drew himself out of his lean with the languid motions of grace.
"Who am I to say no?" He purred, cutting distance to feel his radiant presence behind her, but not too close to breach the lines of acquaintances, his fingers hooked into the collar of her coat, dusting exceedingly heated fingers and warmed silver of rings absorbed with body heat over the slender slope of her shoulders as he fluidly eased the fur from her frame.
"Oh, so you've heard of us." Meadow laughed pleasantly, her shoulders rolling underneath his warm touch, rising to the contact.
"A time or two.....Ms. Twitter extraordinaire," he chuckled, his smile coy in it's admittance to maybe having come across her feeds. Which, really, was all it was. Who was "in" lately, who was "out". If it was a trend, he at least brushed the surface, dived in deeper should his interests afford him to linger on it until he inevitably got bored. It was a perpetual curse of his, boredom.
"Yes. Four paternity tests, a lawsuit, and one spectacularly gaudy wedding later...yes." This was a woman who had grown up on the cover of TMZ, a strange witches' brew of Hollyweird plastic and genuine artifact. So much false front perfection overlaid seeds of genuine brilliance, celluloid and concert cello coexisting uncomfortably in the body of a bombshell with an Elvis rocker sneer.
"Well that's a headline story, isn't it?" He snickered, and he hadn't missed the way she'd risen to his contact, making sure to casually offer a brush of his fingers down her arm in the removal of the jacket until it was gone as casually as it'd come. Offhand, as if it hadn't happened at all, subtle enough to be taken as an accident.
Freeing one arm and then the other, she turned to face him, offering to reclaim the coat with outstretched fingers. "Thank you," she said again, polite almost to a fault. All those cotillion classes showing up again, and nevermind that she had come here to score drugs. Looking him over anew, a brow arched curiously. "You are overdressed for this establishment, I think, but I approve. Should I know you?"
His eyes found hers when she faced him, taking in the delicate features of Trouble wrapped in a youthful package that just skimmed by to pass. "You're welcome, doll." Polite, but not quite so formal as he could be at times while he returned the jacket to its owner.
Their drinks came one, then the other, slid along the side of the bar closest to them. "Thank you," a dismissal of gratitude as he reached and collected his glass with the clamor of metal rings to glass when he lifted it. He peered down to his attire, a questionable brow lifting as his gazed ticked back to her. "Well....someone has to advocate class," he told her incredulously. "It's a slowly diminishing industry," he frowned, quite serious on the matter before he smiled at her question.
"Austin Kelly," he told her more directly, "unlikely you know of me. Just a Wall Street investment broker moonlighting as a collections' agent, sweetheart. But should you know me?" His smile was a blended cocktail of sins, with no one too dominant over the other but working together in blissful harmony. He tipped his drink to her with a finger lifted to point in her direction. "That's a matter I'll let you decide for yourself..."