i dream of massacres. / i am a garden of black and red agonies.
— sylvia plath
PERSONAL DETAILS
NAME... nicolette van arsdale
NICKNAMES / OTHER NOTABLE... nicki, nica, nicola, lottie, ms. van arsdale
PRONOUNS... she / her
AGE... thirty-two
OCCUPATION... dirty socialite for the vitelli's, nepotism baby, law degree ( never used )
RESIDENCE... manor suites
BIRTHDAY... may 23rd
STAR SIGN... gemini
SEXUALITY... pansexual / panromatic
ALIGNMENT... chaotic neutral
PERSONALITY TYPE... esfp-a ( the entertainer )
ENNEAGRAM... type four, the individualist
INFLUENCES... madeleine perez ( euphoria ), lily ( black swan ), jennifer check ( jennifers body ), marie antoinette ( marie antoinette, sofia coppola ), elizabeth shelby ( peaky blinders ), zoe barnes ( house of cards ), lorraine schleine & molly gunn ( uptown girls ), marla singer ( fight club )
SUBSTANCE
pressed flowers in red; the smell of gasoline and perfume; a shiny, well sharpened pocket-knife stored in tiny purses, only used thus far for opening packages and making pretty, straight lines of white; battered feet and ballet shoes, abandoned in the back of a closet, they wouldn't fit anymore even if she tried; missed phone calls, a full voice mail box; an almost empty, crumpled carton of cigarettes; shiny jewelry, glittering under party lights; a long nail dipped in powder; smeared eyeliner in the mirror, come downs in the middle of the day, tied in sheets and lonely
APPEARANCE DETAILS
HAIR... long black hair, down to mid-back
EYES... dark brown, generally narrowed
BUILD... slender, fit
HEIGHT... 5'6"
NOTABLE MARKS... decidedly visibly unmarked, some scarring along the backs and toes of her feet from years of ballet. soft hands, soft skin, long, slender neck. no scars, no tattoos, pretty white teeth like little pearls.
USUAL COUNTENANCE... glittering, shining, diamonds aren't just any girls best friend — they're hers. alternative yet clean fashion, greys, black, and dark blues. fitted clothes, glossed lips, eyeliner and dark shadows. long, almond shaped nails painted in inky tones, high heels, platforms, and boots are a must. a little rude, but sharp with it's usage.
She was raised into opulence, but she was the very first of her family blessed with such a thing. The money, the houses, she remembers it all beginning to come when she was very young, the first home she was born into a one bedroom sharing the bed with her parents as a child. The building dilapidated and falling apart around them, but she doesn't recall much else from that time. She was still small when it began to build around her, her father, an all American man raised in the foster system, and her mother, born and raised in California in an immigrant family, had never thought they were made to graze such things.
Then came the Vitelli's, taking a liking to her father's company and needing new ways to wash money ( something she wouldn't learn until much later ), they became partners. He sold half his business, and in return they paid him more than he was owed, and worked closely. This secret her father kept from her mother for a very long time, the struggles of her youth, the implications of his; everyone wanted them to be criminals, and she refused it to her dying breath, but he wanted more for his family, and was willing to do anything to make it happen.
Before the storm, the realization that the last six years of her life was shrouded in lies from her husbands mouth, her mother did everything for her; ballet, clothes, shoes, homework, anything she could want or need. She was a gifted dancer, smart, pretty; destined for greatness. The day came and went, the truth spilled, and her mother took her and left. Nicolette was only eight when it all began to fall apart, their separation lasting only a couple years before her mother got sick, the illness like a knife in the chest.
She died a year later, Nicolette was twelve, moving her back in with her estranged father who was never the same since the day they parted. He wasn't a bad father, but he was incredibly distant. She was fed, had a roof over her head, and the older she got the more freedom she was given; too busy to pay attention to her. It all spiraled in her teen years, the heart of Las Vegas no place for a pretty teen girl, falling in with the wrong crowds, drugs, sex, and alcohol. Her first stint in rehab came shortly after her high school graduation, she maintained her grades enough to pass, but not enough to follow the image laid before her.
He greased some palms, made her swear off the life she built, and sent her to law school. Her spending was closely watched by the accountant, any cash withdrawals noted and questioned, a loose leash with a tight collar. She somewhat.. vaguely maintained sobriety through school, still living at home locally to be under lock and key, graduating and even passing the bar; such a good girl. Her father was proud, she was allowed to move out, he paid all her bills, and she got greedy once again. She didn't take money out of her father's account, too risky, instead did something arguably much worse.
Nicolette took loans from the Vitelli's without her father's knowledge, building up a debt that strained his relationship with the family unknowingly, under their command and a part of their PR ploys; which brought her to Dion Baldwin. An unwelcome change in her life, once again being told what to do, where to pose, when to smile, and he seems rather unhappy about it as well; C'est la vie. Another move to her ticket to freedom, all set before her in pretty white lines, under the glitz and glamour the heart of Vegas — let them eat cake.
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He's really only ever seen this small of a person harboring this kind of anger in one other person, and that is one Rosalin Helladius.
And then he's shaking his head once, quick, out of his stupor. He's supposed to be working, but this woman's doing his job for him with the heat of a thousand fucking suns as she reels her leg back and kicks the man, hard. There's eyes being drawn from around the bar and, rightfully, they seem to be looking expectantly at Jasper to do something. "Blue steel?" His face scrunches up. He's at least Magnum.
She's made her point, though, Jasper doesn't really have much else to do here but walk her out. He glances around, locks eyes with the other guard in this section, and gives a quick motion to come and get the man on the floor. Jasper guides her away while the poor bastard on the floor wheezes dramatically, her arm looped through his like they're headed to brunch instead of the exit, Jasper snorts. He doesn't pull away; if she's gonna play it like a date, he can at least commit to the bit.
Outside, the cooler air hits them both, and Jasper lets go. He's not technically supposed to be on break right now, but he's fishing out the pack of cigs from his pocket anyway and offers her one, lights it with an ease that says this is not his first rodeo escorting chaos into the night. He's also technically not supposed to be smoking outside with the people he kicks out, but here he is, pretending he isn't like, a little into whatever that was. He lights his own, smoke and nicotine soothing his lungs. "You should look into security," he teases, squinting at her through a smile, smoke blowing from his lips. "You probably got more of a future in it than I do. Shit. I think you made him cry."
A brisk pace, the man playing into her game so well. The air outside cool and refreshing after the drinks and the intensity of the energy and haze of smoke inside the casino. She flips her hair, so dramatic, and leans in for him to put the cigarette between her lips, eyes trailing up to his face as he lights it, leaning back with the first blow of smoke directly into his face, a slight narrow of her eyes, a fucking glint in them, an intonation of, "Such a good boy." Then she gives a scoff, a raise of her brows, "Security? Me? No, baby, I can protect myself but I'm not putting my pretty little ass on the line for strangers."
She runs her gaze across his body, a little tilt of her head as she pulls on the cigarette. Honestly, he's too pretty for security too, only a matter of time before someone breaks that cute little nose of his and fucks up the whole look he has going. Such a shame. "Really, you should've thrown him out for being a cunt, not me. I was being a perfect lady until he opened up his nasty fucking mouth, he's lucky his balls are all I went for. The last thing this city needs is him repopulating."
Nicki leaned in and all of Naomie’s problems went away. This close to each other, Naomie almost forgot she was in the gulch. This close, it was just Nicki and Naomie, and the kind of friendship that made Naomie wonder what she’d done to deserve it. Her hands lazily hooked around Nicki’s neck, brushing the other girl’s hair back over her shoulder at the same time. “Like fucking music to my ear,” she replied, fingers playing with Nicki’s hair. Naomie focused, traced the curves of Nicki’s face with her gaze, the glitter eyeshadow, the fullness of her lips. The other woman was hot. She’d joked once that if Nicki really wanted to, she could put Naomie out of a job.
Naomie pressed her naked thighs inward as she adjusted her sitting position on Nicki’s lap. It always felt warmer in her current outfit when she had a warm body underneath her, there was a lot of skin and not a lot left to the imagination. Lexie’s outfit of the night was a chrome coloured g-string with a matching bikini-top that crossed over above her breast and tied at the back of her neck.
A lean forward and Naomie pressed her glitter-streaked forehead to Nicki’s. From here, Nicki was all vanilla and nicotine and Naomie wanted to eat her up. She met the woman’s dilated eyes and then leaned back, feigned shock on her face. “Oh you sly dog, have you been having fun without me?” This was something that needed to be rectified immediately but that definitely needed and deserved privacy offered only by the finest dressing rooms the glitter gulch had to offer. Naomie disentangled herself from Nicki and stood, gave the girl a spin and stuck out her ass so Nicki could slap it.
“Come on, baby girl, it’s time for my break.” Naomie threw a look over her shoulder, adding, "and I've been dying for your hand with something new."
"Baby, the party doesn't start until we're together." Foreheads pressed, blown pupils meeting pretty hazel, hands brushing down her thighs. Her eyes trail over her face and body, a low whistle in her throat, entirely indulgent, fingers splaying over her bare sides. "This place doesn't deserve you." A cheeky tone, teasing and fond. What a sight, she is; the pair of them together absolutely dynamite, trouble incarnate, magnets. They're two sides of the same coin, a familiarity in each other's gazes and touch, a mixture of indulgence, gluttony, and affection. A dangerous cocktail, her head turning slightly to the side, brown eyes cast up at her friend, knowing they're moment away from causing chaos, always bordering on being in trouble and just being just too damn cute to be convicted.
Naomie gets up, Nicki's hands following her until she begrudgingly lets go, giving her the complimentary slap she's cued up for and standing herself, brushing her hands down her skirt to smooth it, flipping her hair over her shoulder, the whole nine yards. A wicked smile, pretty glossed lips and she trails Naomie, the clacking of heels, holding hands and winding through the crowd. Her ears perk like a dog, an excited raising of her brows. "Something new, you say? Oh honey, you have my thighs quaking already."
cartwheel convenience and drug store, around ten am
with @boneyardstarters (5/5) CAPPED
Nicolette was hungover, not just hungover but fucking hungover. She woke up covered in glitter on the couch, stripped down to her fishnets and bra, the sun pouring through the window far too bright, the noises of the city outside far too loud, alarm blaring from her phone lying half dead on the floor. She rolled off the couch, scrubbed her eyeliner off her face in the sink and threw on something comfortable; sports bra, sweatpants, an ugly sports cap that probably used to be a mans, and big, wide framed, dark tinted sunglasses the covered just about her whole face, and trekked down the street to her usual hangover haunt for coffee, the convenience store. She doesn't have to worry about seeing any people she knows, the coffee's cheap, and it's incredibly close to where she lives; triple win.
That's how she found herself with a shitty drug store styrofoam cup in her hand, arms crossed over her chest impatiently as she stood in line. It wasn't until she got to the front that she realized she didn't have her wallet on her. "Come on, you know me, I'm in here all the time I live just down the street. I'm good for it, I'll run and get my wallet and come right back!" The cashier, an asshole, insists she has to leave the coffee to do so, won't let her take it out of the store without paying which she thinks is ridiculous and goes on to say so, "What? So you're just gunna let it sit there and get cold? Let the coffee go to waste because you can't spot me seventy fucking cents? I have the money, I'm coming back, I need this right now." A stomp of a foot, the sign of an incoming meltdown. It goes on longer than it needs to, raising her hands with the cup held in her right.
"That's it! I'm just gunna take it, I'm taking it, try to fucking stop me." She takes two steps away from the register and the cashier starts threatening to call the cops, and right at their most glorious moment, seconds before snaps and reels back to throw the coffee cup at his face, the person in line behind her blissfully speaks up, drawing both her and the cashiers attention with something like surprise, as if they forgot this was an incredibly public affair.
Aviel gives a sideways shrug. He has too much money to not offer a free drink, especially if it means he won't be wallowing by himself for a little bit. Things are fleeting - people come and go. Though, alcohol has softened the edges of his sadness enough for his wolfish grin to return, at least somewhat.
"Well that's why I wonder. I don't do have the hip movement, and I know many a retired investigator and police chief with hip dysplasia."
He leans against the counter too, abandoning his pity corner for better company. The cigarette is mostly finished between his fingers and he takes one last puff before stubbing it out in the nearby ashtray. "On my tab- with another lemondrop, babes, please?" Avi asks the bartender with his own dangerous grin.
There's a curiosity to her glance, something sharp and questioning though she doesn't pursue any answers. An interesting man, the way he speaks, a certain flourish, je ne sais quoi, she very quickly decides he's most certainly not hitting on her, which makes her suddenly more inclined towards continuing the conversation. Her ears perk slightly at the admission of knowing investigators and a police chief, seemingly not meant to be a revelation or even a secret, but it's news to her, making it clear he's likely in law enforcement himself. Always good to have a cop in your pocket.
"It's all in the stretches, baby, gotta keep those hips nice and loose. You should try yoga and do more squats." Nicki's handed her drink and she rounds the space where he sits, perching herself on the end of a chair nears his, well postured, a cross of one leg over the other. She extends a hand, ever so polite when prompted. "Nicki."
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"The fuck?" his face pinches, sheer disbelief at the audacity, has to school it so his own undereye mask doesn't shift on his face. "Sounds like some closet case bullshit to me. I definitely remember her talking to Rebecca about her little experimental phase in college." He scoffs. "Heard she fucked a girl with a Princess Diana piercing and bragged about it. Like, who hasn't?"
It's not an unusual scene for the two of them; he's sure half of Manor Suites is used to their antics by now. It might be a mistake to allow them to reside within the same 5 miles of each other, let alone the same condominium. Maxim Crane has a plethora of friends but none he could count as particularly close -- his own doing, of course, the man wore far too many masks, a social chameleon, a mirror of what you want to see. Fortunately for him, when he looks at Nicolette Van Arsdale, the mirror image is almost exact. No performance needed.
Which might be the exact reason they're inside tonight rather than out, though he hasn't decided yet if he'd rather be out -- Nicki's got a sixth fucking sense for his moods. Shit talking and gossip might be the next best thing, really, especially when it's with the one other person he thinks rivals his own need for it.
"Has Dougie ever looked like anything other than shit?" Par for the course for him. He takes the glass from her, practically downing half of it in one gulp and resting an arm back against the couch with it in hand as she settles in his lap. "That's what happens when you make commitments, I'm telling you." He turns the TV off without fanfare, tosses the remote, lets his free hand tuck the stray hair behind her ear. "They always fall through. People are selfish. Why the fuck wouldn't he cheat on his girlfriend if he's got another offer on hand? Obvious choice." He brings the glass up to his lips, mumbling into the wine before taking another sip. "Which is why I won't do it."
"No literally, like you aren't special, and if you’re into girls I know damn well I'm your type, let’s not play coy." An exasperated sigh, Max's fingers in her hair is a lovely sensation. She closes her eyes temporarily, a little hum in agreement. "I guess not, he's going for the whole addict chic thing but he's missing the mark entirely, it’s like baby, wash your hair it's not cute you that you're greasy as fuck."
Then her eyes open again, a sort of narrowed look up at his chin from where she's laying, a very slight broach of topic that she doesn't even know if it's worth pursuing. Max is known as a far more... flight than fight kind of person, and backing him into a corner turns him into a hungry, scared little racoon. Delicacy is an art she's only half mastered, it’s a gamble. Fuck it.
"Riiighttt." Okay, so not sly or delicate at all, who fucking cares. She thinks for a moment, shifting to her side to face him better, cheek pressed to his thighs. “Okay so, you know how I love Keanu Reeves, he’s my baby daddy, right? So Keanu and I, we have something special, but if Brad Pitt calls and he’s all, “Nicki I need you, come hit, girl,” l’m not gunna say no. Unless, of course, my heart and soul, Mr. Reeves, who I’m sure has a massive cock, was like “please, baby, don’t fuck Pitt.” I just simply wouldn’t do it, ‘cause then I lose Keanu and I’m just left with Brad who is hot but he just doesn’t give me the same tingly feeling inside.” Is this a convoluted? She may have lost him, she kinda lost the plot herself at this point. Whatever. “I’m just trying to say that not every new offer is necessarily a better offer.”
Yeah, she thinks she pulled that back nicely, sitting back up and sipping at her wine, looking up through long lashes as him, all innocent demeanor. Nicolette decides that it isn’t worth mentioning that she would get violent if Keanu stepped out with say, Jennifer Anniston after all the love they shared because it feels a little insensitive. It’s true, though, that bitch would be living on borrowed time if she took her man but whatever. She leaves it there, giving him the option to entirely change the subject or follow the train of thought as he sees fit, knows it’s likely going to be the former.
closed starter: wyatt for nicolette (@thevainglory)
where: manor suites, nic's digs (for like 5 mins idk)
when: 11pm.
"Absolutely fuckin' lush," he gushes, sincere and warm and fighting a crooked grin as he looks at her in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. She didn't ask how she looked, but the words fell from his mouth anyway. Maybe because he's antsy to get to the fucking club already. Maybe because he knows she likes to hear it. Definitely because he likes to see the reaction he gets when he means it every time.
He's out of place, but what else is new; a boxy graphic tee that he's cut the hem off himself, left raw and unfinished and exposing his navel, his hips, the obnoxious carving of taut skin and dimples at the small of his back. Above the waistband of light denim that cast down to worn converse.
He's resigned to stand in the doorway after daring to open just about anything that had a clasp, or would make a satisfying pop when air released from a tube. Fidgeting with things until she snarked at him, and he squeezed at her hips with large hands, tapped the pads of long fingers against her ass in a polite hurry up. It's a far stretch, she's fucking tiny, but his hand lands soft and shameless.
Thank fuck he told the cabbie not to wait.
He knows better than to rush her by now—at least out loud—so he's carved an uncomfortable nook between his shoulder blades with the frame of the door. Has hands folded over his chest, a temple leaning against the doorframe, pursing lips, unpursing them, drumming fingertips against his forearm, pivoting on his shoulder forward and back. Restless energy and occasional glances at her through the mirror, concentrating on the outline of her lips, the swift brush of mascara through lashes, the pop of lipstick from a bullet. And there's something mesmerising about it all. Calming almost, made obvious in the way he settles; wears that stupid grin with a tilt of his head like a dog waiting for a command. Has that glimmer in his eyes that says he could watch her trace her lips with lipstick all damn day.
Knows, though, that this is the end of her routine and the beginning of his.
"Finally," he teases with a clap of his hands together and the rub of his palms. Down to fucking business. "Right, shot?" It's not so much of a question about what kind as it is how many.
The doors unlocked when Wyatt arrives, Nicolette knows he’s coming and she can’t be fucked to leave the bathroom when he arrives; they have a system. She’s in the midst of finishing touches, well timed and yet still fashionably late. He sidles next to her in the mirror, her gaze pulled towards his reflection, a pursing of her lips in a kiss. “You think so, daddy? You’re too sweet to me.” She half heartedly slaps his hand away from an expensive setting spray before turning, pressing glossed lips to his cheek with a smack, and stepping back to take him in, a leisurely drag of her eyes from head to toe.
“And you look big and hunky as always. I like these pants.” Always too fucking tight, she grabs a handful of his ass with a purr. Incredible. It’s a shame she’ll never get a piece of that but at least she can sleep well at night knowing it goes to good use. “Shirt could use work though, I might have something for you, if you want. Stretch it out reaaal nice.” Forever a critic, and it’s not her fault Wyatt dresses like shit most of the time, between her and Max she’s sure they’ll be able to get him in line soon, new wardrobe, throw out all his ugly fucking shorts he likes wearing. So much potential, it’s a sin.
She doesn’t even have the time to get into the semantics of the shoes and why she hates them but she does give them a disapproving look. She couldn’t help with that, his feet are way too fucking big to slip into any of her sexy little strapped heels. “Baby, why do you fuck all these rich men if they don’t buy you things? You need new shoes, mention it to one of your little boyfriends next time they try to steal you away from me in the night.”
He’s sugar baby material and then some, Nicki would do it herself, sugar mommy down that big, sexy man, but he’d have to let her strap up. Now that’s an idea. She puts a pin in that, will return to it later.
She perks at the mention of shots, turning and giving herself one more good look in the mirror, tight little dress and thigh highs, scrumptious. “Okay, yes, I have some wonderfully poisonous tequila in the kitchen. Come.” Knowing he’ll follow like a good dog as she saunters out of the bathroom, through the living room, reaching into the cabinet to gather shot glasses, looking even further up to where she stupidly stored the alcohol on top of the fucking cabinets. Helplessly, demandingly, she points up at it, refusing to get on a step stool in high heels when he can reach it naturally.
The Gulch got a second wind whenever Nicki came in, strolling through the front doors all hair, nails, and attitude that commanded the space with practiced ease. Nicki wasn’t a dancer, but when she entered the Gulch, she performed. It was how Nicki had drawn Naomie into her orbit in the first place all those years ago at a shitty dive bar off the strip. Her boyfriend at the time had been there to sell. Nicki had gotten a bump off him, then looked at Naomie, grabbed her hand and said I’m stealing your girl for a dance to which her boyfriend had said that’s going to cost you. Nicki had turned, a kind of wild rage in her eyes, and said I don’t remember asking for your fucking permission. He had laughed at that, but Naomie remembered thinking that was the hottest thing ever. She also remembered thinking, damn, can I do that too?
They had danced all night. Nicki had written her phone number on the back of Naomie’s hand after and then kissed a lipstick mark below it. If you don’t call me, I’ll kill him. She hadn’t called, but then he’d wrapped his motorbike around a tree a few weeks later and Naomie eventually ran into her again. She had always wondered if somehow Nicki had manifested as a pothole out of revenge. Afterwards, Nicki was the one to tell 19 year old Naomie that she should work at the Gulch. Your body is to die for, men would go to war for you, Lexie. The rest was history.
In many ways, Naomie was jealous of Nicki, of how easy it was for the girl to live a lifestyle that felt almost performative. Nicki made drug use look hot and sexy, and Naomie felt less disgusting about it whenever she was with her. But Nicki had money and friends and party invitations and Naomie was almost certain she’d been educated at some point. Naomie had dropped out of high school and was working as a sex worker and yet Nicki never made her feel like they were on uneven footing. If anything, Nicki hyped Naomie’s lifestyle to the point where Naomie felt a little better about it all. I wish men paid to fuck me, Nicki had said once, mid-straddling Naomie as she helped apply lipstick, I bet that feels so hot. People wanted Nicki around, and soon enough they wanted Naomie around too. They became inseparable, the kind of friendship that TVs would run Say No To Drugs campaigns about and that historians would probably later study as a a toxic cesspool of femininity.
So when Nicki came to the Gulch, Naomie got a second wind too. “Hi baby,” she crooned as she came over and straddled her girl, “you bring me anything special?”
Nicolette was already a little tipsy, another bar with other friends that she didn't hesitate to abandon, a classic Irish goodbye and a hop in a cab later; glitz and glamour. She knew her baby girl was working tonight, and while she didn't technically work there, she didn't like missing one of Naomie's shifts, enough that she was waved around the line by the bouncer like family. She gave him a big, wet kiss on the cheek, on her tippy-toes even in her stilettos, and sauntered easily into the club.
As soon as she passes the threshold the pounding of the music makes her tingle, well, that and the bump she did from the curve of her nail in the back of the cab, locking eyes with the driver with a sickly sweet smile and wave. Nicki had a tendency to get away with these things, maybe because she was so charming, but more likely because she had a push-up bra and mini skirt on, all glittery eyeshadow and plumped lips; just try to tell her no.
She moves through the club with the same familiarity she has in her own house, a wink at the bartender, hugs for a couple of the girls, a shimmy for the fucking DJ. Strip club royalty. She's craning around, looking for her sweet little doll face, leaning into one of the security guards ears to shout a demanding, "Where is she?" In return for a no further questions point in a general direction. She followed, she spotted, and wolf whistled like a man, wasting no time moving to lounge in the nearby booth, a cheeky little pat of her lap.
And here she comes, her sexy skimpy little outfit, a couple dollars tucked in her g-string, not nearly enough, Nicki thinks, we can do better, and hops in her lap, long hair over her shoulder, big, bright eyes. Absolutely stunning. She leans into her, blinking up prettily. "Just a shit ton of coke and all the love in my heart for you, baby."
manor suites, nicolette's condo, late night
with @thoroughfxre ( maxim crane )
"And I told her like, if you wanna fuck me just say that? She's so desperate for it, it's embarrassing." Nicolette rounds the corner from the kitchen, charcuterie board in one hand, a bottle of wine and two glasses held haphazardly in the other, wearing an open bathrobe with a lacy little red bra and embroidered sweatpants, hair up, face mask on. "Get a grip, bitch." She saunters over to where Max is on the couch, putting down the board and handing him a glass.
She starts opening the bottle, sitting on the couch unceremoniously, "And you know what she said? She said I'm not her type, like you're so full of shit, stop staring at my ass all the time then." She pops the cork, pouring some red for Max and then herself, waving a hand as she takes the first sip. "Oh, God, and I saw Dougie the other day? Looks like shit, of course."
Her relationship with Maxim Crane was that perfectly fit for the elite of Las Vegas nepotism babies, shiny and beautiful, known for partying and looking damn good in candids. It goes back, the two of them having torn through friend groups like a house fire, endlessly rude, blunt, and fucking soul bonded. Normally at this hour they'd be tearing up a bar and three lines deep, but Maxie wasn't feeling so good, one of their little party friends stealing his man on the front page of the daily paper. Brutal, but she insists she never trusted that bitch anyways.
"That's what you get for cheating on your hot ass girlfriend in front of everyone, I guess. Karma." She puts her glass on the coffee table next to the charcuterie board, laying her head in Max's lap, glancing at the television. "What are we even watching right now? Baby, turn this shit off."
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OPEN STARTER for jasper kang. ( 6 / 4 ) MAXED
@boneyardstarters
riviera casino, late.
Jasper had been working security at the Riviera for exactly seven days, and already he was tired. It wasn't the hours - those were nothing. It wasn't even the drunks; Vegas drunks were predictable, sloppy, and loud about their sins, no amount of time away could get rid of that. It was the pretending, the uniform, all a part of the hunt. A thousand other things were going on in the underbelly of this city, but Jasper had no choice in the sacrifices he'd make to obtain it. This job wasn't just a paycheck, it was a vantage point, and being watched while you watched back was its own special kind of layer.
Which meant, of course, someone had to make it his problem.
He's was posted near the main floor, neon bleeding into everything, bass from the lounge vibrating through his bones. The disturbance was small at first; too close to a dealer's space and a voice pitched just loud enough to draw eyes. Jasper clocked it immediately, the tension in the shoulders, the off-kilter energy, the way the crowd subtly leaned away. Could've been drunk, could've been so much worse. Either way, it was happening on his shift, which meant he had no choice. He stepped in with a practiced ease, all relaxed posture and professional calm, one hand lifting in a casual, disarming gesture, but ready to escalate if need be.
"Hey," Jasper said, voice smooth, firm. "We're gonna take a little walk. I think you're done for the night."
Was she fucked up? Yeah, of course, but she was also incredibly sexy, way too sexy for this treatment. There was a man leaning against the main bar, barely looking in her fucking direction saying some slick shit under his breath and she really didn't have the patience for that, too many drinks and coked right up, ready to fight. She's clapping in his face, leaned over, all attitude and tight little black dress, ripped tights, expensive thigh high boots. "You better watch your attitude you big head ass bitch." Her friends were spread out across the casino, leaving her to defend herself alone; not that that was ever a problem, she could fight dirty. She could scratch, bite, pull hair, his balls were looking might kickable.
Yeah, that's the one. She veered her leg back, ready to swing between the mans legs when a smooth voice comes over her shoulder, a tight, pinched expression as she looks over at the new man in her orbit, "Fuck you, Pierce Brosnan." And swings before he can grab her, the man at the bar doubling down on the floor, straight fetal position, bitching and whining. She swings her hair over her shoulder, a sigh, recollecting herself, veins pumping with adrenaline.
"Okay, we can go now." She slides her hand onto his arm as if he were a suitor and not security walking her out, the rage immediately leaving her body with the joy of seeing the man thrashing on the floor in front of her. "You better have smokes on you, babes."
To say that Ava was out of her element among the more macabre curios in Alchemy & Co. would have been the understatement of the decade (at least, according to Ava, but she had a penchant for being overly dramatic). In her bright red leather jacket and light pink plaid skirt, the blonde seemed to stick out among the darker and more bohemian offerings of the establishment. But with her anniversary coming up, she was determined to find the perfect gift for her girlfriend, whose style skewed considerably more in the direction of "The Craft," rather than Ava's "Clueless" inspired aesthetics. Needless to say that every piece of decor that was black and gothic in the trailer they both shared was courtesy of Nadine, while Ava contributed the colorful and frilly touches to their home.
"Ah, excuse me!" she chirped to the first person to cross her path. Ever the social butterfly, Ava aimed her best beaming grin at them, lips glittering with a fresh layer of gloss. "So sorry to bother you. I just need a little advice. Which one do you think is better for an anniversary gift: this coffin-shaped picture frame ooor this pair of butterflies in a shadow box?" she wondered, presenting both options in either hand, holding them out for her companion to see. "My girlfriend loves this kind of stuff. I'm just not sure which is more romantic, you know? I don't usually shop here, so if you have recommendations, I'm all ears."
She has a love for the macabre, what can she say? The grunge fad had an effect on her, even if she toned it down with own flair of sexy opulence; tighter clothes, shinier jewelry, luxury purses. She's browsing an aisle of dead things, preserved bat skulls, pinned butterflies; a new emerging interest in taxidermy when a sweet little voice peeps up beside her. She looks over at the cute, tiny, blonde girl with a raised sharp brow, a hum in her throat. "Your girlfriend must be hot."
Hot girls like dead things and pretty blondes, she could vouch for that. "Oh, you know what? I saw this piece over here that would be perfect for an anniversary, follow me." She turns with a little flourish, simply trusting and expecting the girl to follow her down an aisle full of trinkets and jewelry, reaching over and picking up a chain, a heart locket in tarnished silver dangling from the end, engraved with a red heart in the center. It was stunning, she'd marveled it herself for a moment, debated the purchase but had to come to terms with the fact that she had far too many necklaces as it is. "Put a picture of your pretty little self in here, any pets you might have; you'll have her purring."
open starter ( @boneyardstarters )
location: glitter gulch lounge
Smoke plumes from behind his teeth as the 70 year old CSI lead lays somewhat supine on a chaise. A canary yellow martini sits half-finished on the closest table, and Aviel lets the cigarette dangle from ring-adorned fingers as he idly watches one of the dancers shift very low, swing her hips in a way that looks actually a bit uncomfortable.
He's not really there to watch the bodies gyrate - he's there to wallow. Easy enough at the end of a very long day. "Wonder if there's a correlation between people who've been strippers and people who ended up needing new hips, aye?" Avi fishes through the pockets of his nice blazer to find a few bills. "You want a drink, babes? Think there's enough there for a glass of something. My tab's open, too. Go on."
Lights flashing, music thumping, a slight sheen of sweat from dancing her ass off as if she were the one getting paid for it. Nicolette has a half empty martini glass between well manicured fingers, her lip gloss in the other applying a fresh sheen as she pushed through to the bar with a solid hand, leaning over the very end of the wood top with a little wave, impatient. A voice rings next to her and she doesn't look over until the bartender locks eyes with her.
"I've tried pole dancing, those sexy bitches have washboard abs. They'll be in better shape than Olympians in their old age if they lay off the oxys." She finally glances at him to take in his demeanor, sad and old. Yikes, weird place to mope but Nicolette's never turned down a free drink and won't start now. "Aren't you sweet?" She says with only half the enthusiasm, the bartender arriving and she gives a dangerously sharp smile, all fake but still so pretty, "Vodka martini with three olives. Shake it hard for me, baby, I want it real cold."