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OPEN STARTER capped ( 0 / 5 )

the glitter gulch, midnight, 30th of may

@boneyardstarters

Nikitha had her arms crossed, letting the sounds and sensations wash over her as if in doing so she could stretch her awareness to encompass everything within the boxed in space. She counted up to a hundred, sifting through memories and impressions. Then when she had, she let out a long breath. For good measure she breathed in again, held it there for four seconds, and then let it all out, emptying her lungs of anything that could hold her back.

It didn't truly happen, but it felt like her vision cleared, like everything was brought back into hyper focus. She did this once every time she entered a new space, centering her to the present. Because the past was a heavy cloak that needed to be lifted off her shoulders and dropped, only to be donned as soon as she left for a new place.

"Are there bets going on on the bull riders?" she asked, face remaining still as she turned to the hyped up audience. "Or is it over so quickly that nobody has the time." She slipped both hands into the pockets of her bomberjacket and started counting again, a hit for every criminal she saw. Tonight was not the night she found intell, but it was hard to break this new habit. She knew how to bide her time, she'd learned patience from the best. "We could bet between the two of us?"

casquettes

Say the word betting, and there was a good chance that Bandit would manifest out of the woodwork and make herself known, as a gamble was ever enticing. Besides, a game of chance was rife with that, and she didn't need her slot machine fix of the evening. "Hell yeah. I'm gonna be the one gettin' up on that pony in a minute and seein' how long I can last. Whatcha say we bet how long one'a us can stick on it? Sounds more fun than standin' by an' watchin' the action pass us without gettin' to be part'a it, huh? Say yes, girlfriend."

A wide grin spread across Bandit's features, waggling the wads of ones that had been stuffed in her bra that was peeking out underneath the sequined crop top. They had gotten off shift at the lounge, braving the fear of missing out throughout most of their serving of lemon bars and blondie bars ( some of which had suspicious gone amiss under her watch, and others smuggled out to one of her best friends. Stella was off somewhere, loaded down with that shit. ) "Unless ya think ya can't take the heat on the big, bad bull. It isn't even real, though, so I might judge ya if ya say no. Hunk'a metal never hurt nobody."

The other was cute, honestly. Bandit tried not to get involved with too many strings, once the falling out with Iris had happened — no need to further the wound in her heart, as that would require conceding that there was one, at all. "...Have ya ever come 'round to this lounge before?" The grin had morphed into a smirk, leaning herself up against the table, and doing a sweep with her eyes. "I woulda remembered your face. Interested in comin' by for a private show when we're not servin' up slop to cowboys?"

#c: nikitha #b4rredteeth

b4rredteeth

OPEN STARTER capped ( 0 / 5 )

the glitter gulch, 30th of may

Matevos Hakobyan had ridden the bull four times already. He nursed a bruised shoulder, a split lip - very unfortunate altercation between his face and the bull’s head -, and more small bruises along his legs and arms. Didn’t matter though, he was hyped up and grinning. He’d lasted longer and longer every time he got on. He was planning on breaking his own record of a stellar fifteen seconds. After he had a drink to renew his energies.

“Really, you should try it. It gives you such an adrenaline rush! The falling is just part of the game, but as far as I know nobody has broken anything yet! Aside from some fingers and a toe. But hey, that’s part of what makes it funny, isn’t it? The danger of getting hurt doesn’t overshadow the sensation of being weightless for a moment when you crash on that bull!” Matevos assured his conversation partner. He gently touched his lip. Oh, was he getting a bruise on his jaw too?

“I look handsome even rugged up, right? I have a date later tonight with a pyromaniac.” Lie, this time it was a horse girl.

casquettes

"Oh, I'll be the judge'a that one, honeypie," Bandit declared, hands on her hips and taking a step back to give the Cactus Cat a good once over, and then her eyes flirted around the inside of the Glitter Gulch, teasing, "Is it that fella over there?" A finger inclined toward the owner of Phantom of the Pyro. "What'shisname? He comes 'round the club an awful lot. Boris, I think?"

Looking back at him, the dirty citizen scrutinized the biker with pursed, tinted lips, and plucked the hat from her own head, plopping it atop Matevos's. "Ya might want this to cover that ugly split lip ya got on ya now that ya showed that bull what for. I got some lip balm in my purse if ya want it."

The perils and spoils of the bull weren't beyond her — Bandit had made it this far and been talked out of it, as the cocktails she'd guzzled in the Dollhouse already had her gait unsteady, and there was an elongated drawl to her words that couldn't hide her inebriation for long. "Yeah, I didn't get a chance to wrangle it just yet. I think my friend played hooky on me right at the last minute. If I'm gonna get on her, I gotta have someone to take down with me in the next round. That mean you wanna hop on again after I go, or have ya thrown in the towel after four times over?"

#c: matevos #b4rredteeth #kind of assumed a connection here since she's a dirty citizen for the cats!

aster-writcs

⠀⠀⠀⠀──ˋˏ ★ with @boneyardstarters ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ WHERE: THE WAREHOUSE. NIGHT - MAY 30

while the rest of the city had dressed itself in imitation—cowboys, rhinestones, and other borrowed mythologies the strip sold back to them at markup—the warehouse continued as it always did. unremarkable. untheatrical. functioning regardless. even if he had intended to take the night off, and had nearly been persuaded otherwise by one flower-named roller-skating variable of chaos, he could not ignore what the crowd became when half of the city was otherwise occupied by spectacle above ground. less restrained. less interested in pretending otherwise.

instead, he remained beneath flickering warehouse light that never fully committed to illumination. someone nearby coughed into a towel already too used to be called clean. the irony, at least, was consistent.

the third fight ends the way most of them do—loud enough to convince the room it mattered, abrupt enough to suggest it never did.

the ring is already dissolving into its aftermath. one fighter sits half-folded against the corner post while gauze is wound around skin that is too weak to hold itself closed. another is being guided off with an arm slung over shoulders, weight dragging behind them. someone wipes the canvas down with a towel, even more blood and grime within its fibers.

the crowd has already begun to forget it happened.

then, finally, toward the newest arrival. a pause. “if you were going to take anything tonight,” he adds flatly, “that would’ve been the one to bet on.”

casquettes

Who said a drunk girl couldn't take her fun somewhere else? One too many spiked lemonades later, she had stumbled right into the Warehouse, and hadn't sobered up any since — betting on people slugging themselves bloody was another form of gambling, and honestly, the promise of turning money into more money came attached with a clause that said say no fucking more, I'm in!

The crumpled dollar bills that had been stuffed into her bra after her last shift at the Glitter Gulch before the rodeo were crisply smoothed out and she belched in front of the bookie with such ferocity that she thought she might throw up for a second, too.

A fist curled in front of her mouth. "Gosh, 'scuse me. Ya tellin' me that I already missed the good shit tonight? Jeez." Her eyes scrutinized the billing for the evening, although it was proving to be harder than usual with the double vision.

"...On second thought, is this enough for me to get in that ring myself? 'Cause these odds got me thinkin' I got a big ol' chance of winnin' myself if I can just..." Two fists closed around the crumpled dollar bills, holding them up in front of her face and miming a swing. She lost her footing in the next moment, and stumbled. "...Ya'know, like that."

#c: siddharth #eremitionisms #saw your starter and immediately an idea was hatched #sry to sidd you don't deserve to deal with her

thesw0rd

Where: Glittering Gulch With: OPEN When: May 30, 1997

The loss of the territory didn't keep Dominic out of the club. Though the recent peace treaty left his old hangout back open without consequence. Even if it hadn't, he was unlikely to catch anyone's attention tonight.

Dim lights highlighted sweat-slick skin, smoke sticking to those places on contact, shoes sticking to the split liquor on the floor as it dried. He liked grittier places. Something about well put-together people caused an irrational irritation to rumble behind his ears. Nothing quite felt like home the way blood and stale smoke did. Even tonight, with the stupid country theme draping every dancer and drunk girl on the bull, it was more comfortable than most places.

Dom wouldn't be caught dead playing dress up, not that his lack of costume made him stick out. Faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt blended in anywhere.

"I bet the next round your dumb ass can't last two minutes on that fucking thing." He was drunk already, eyes beginning to glaze as he tried to escape the shit show that was his job here lately. He was starting to worry he wouldn't have one soon. At the rate the Vitelli's were going, he'd be out of employees.

With the gesture of his hand, he called over the bartender. It would take her probably another ten minutes to get to him, but that wasn't her fault, and he wasn't about to make his empty glass her problem.

"Shit, a shot just to see you try."

casquettes

"Heya, sweet stuff." Bandit rotated the same greetings for anyone who hung around the club regularly. Including those that weren't her type, like this one. Hot pink cowboy boots thudded on the ground when she plopped down in a chair next to him — sure, she planned on being one of the volunteers of the workers at the lounge to serve up those lemon squares. Right now, a girl was looking for her fill of the thrill for the evening, and she laughed. "Ya really wanna challenge a girl? There's a reason we do all the ridin', if ya know what I mean. You're gonna have to bribe me with a lil' more than one silly drink if ya wanna see me up on that thing."

Hey, it didn't hurt to fish for tips, whether or not she was on the clock... right? This way, the house mom couldn't dip her sticky paws right into them.

Sparkly red shadow winked back at him, and selfishly, she let him order the shot — and fully intended that she wouldn't let him get away with just that. "Mm... I'll do it if ya let me give ya a makeover. No makeup, but ya don't look rowdy 'nough for these parts. Ya gotta look like a rootin', tootin', shootin' cowboy if you're gonna hang 'round the lounge. Or me, at least. What d'ya say?"

#c: dominic #thesw0rd #i assumed a connection but lmk if i should change it #she's a menace sry #alcohol tw

thephantvm

OPEN STARTER: ( @boneyardstarters ) LOCATION: waffle cottage. DATE: mid may, around 3:00am.

Las Vegas never really slept. At three in the morning, the city still buzzed neon-bright outside the diner windows, all flickering signs and tired dreamers stumbling through another endless night. Iris sat tucked into the corner booth with a cup of coffee cooling between her hands, dark eyes following the blur of headlights outside. The jukebox near the counter crackled softly with some old love song from years ago, and for a moment the whole place felt suspended in time; like maybe the rest of the world had stopped moving while Vegas kept spinning. She looked human enough under the dim lights; a careful smile, leather jacket tossed beside her, exhaustion hidden behind practiced ease. Nobody ( at least she damn well hoped ) here knew what she was, and she preferred it that way. The waitress had stopped asking if she wanted a refill almost an hour ago, but Iris still came here most nights for the comfort of noise and company she didn’t have to explain herself to. When the bell above the diner door rang, her attention drifted up instinctively toward the newest arrival. A small smile tugged at her mouth as she slid a fry absentmindedly around the plate in front of her. “You look like you’ve had a worse night than I have,” she said gently, motioning toward the empty seat across from her. “That’s honestly kind of impressive.”

casquettes

Bandit wasn't too worn out after a night on the pole and a bump of the white stuff in the dressing rooms. Her penchant for dabbling came and went as much as other cheap thrills, the sole vice to stick to her like glue being the razzle-dazzle of the slot machines when they turned over and over and eventually squealed with the jackpot. Adrenaline was her friend, although she resembled a hot mess with makeup blotched from here to there to everywhere, and the gym clothes she threw on when she discarded her skimpy outfit that smelled like body odor were sticking to her glimmery arms and chest. She didn't have to looking through the menu before one of the night shift waitresses noted down her usual coffee and took off. The rush had been waning, exhilaration melting into the hot pavement outside the building. The sound of familiar voice struck her out of it, and she looked over to lock eyes with her ex-girlfriend.

Bandit did what Bandit always did best: pretend that it didn't bother them at all, grinning like they'd found an old friend and hadn't dug up a wound that hurt as deeply as the fresh salt that had been originally poured into it. "Well, if it isn't my favorite girl. How ya been?" she asked, averting her eyes and lingering dilation of pupils, training instead on the lukewarm cup of coffee that had been sat down in front of her and scooping it up in both palms, running her hands over it. Lips pursed, and there was an awkwardness that she simply didn't subscribe to. So, she didn't. "Oh, hunny, no night is worse than yours from how I hear it," there it was, harsher tongues softened by New Orleans drawl, and waving a hand, "I'll be right as all rain after I get my hands on a stack'a those hotcakes and carry on my way to the casinos."

#c: iris #thephantvm #drugs tw

cfstvlla

where : the dollhouse burlesque when : may 30th, 1997 who : @boneyardstarters

"I DUNNO WHAT'S WORSE, the possibility of goin' home and having goddamn country stuck in my head for who knows how long or how many cowboy boots have almost stepped on my feet. Think maybe there shoulda been a bit more practicin' for some people before confidently joined a line dance." Quite the line coming from someone who had only recently recovered in the last few years from a bad case of lifelong two feet on a dance floor herself, but if there was one thing that hadn't changed since her last name did, it was her ability to boast hypocrisy when it supported her complaints. As if on cue, ironically considering her complaints implied she hadn't thought anyone on the floor was capable of hitting a cue with accuracy, she took a step back to narrowly avoid a couple left one half of the pair was dipped into her. Eyebrows rose as if in a silent see, an elbow jutting out in front of her holding the possibility of turning the jamboree into a brawl were someone to get too close again. Credit due where it was deserved, not a single yawn had left her mouth since being she was in the midst of the western-themed antics around her, a true success, even if there was no lack of complaints that did, as she wasn't exactly picturing her first evening truly out of the house and with a babysitter like this. "One more time and you better take this lemonade before it ends up on someone. Isn't there supposed to be a mechanical bull 'round here somewhere, or is that at one of the other places? 'Cause watchin' people getting thrown around sounds a lot more fun. Y'think they'd let me get my hands on the controls if I bribed 'em so I can really send 'em flying?"

casquettes

"Aww, Stell, admit it, you're secretly havin' fun or ya damn out of your gourd!" Bandit had all but bounced up to Stella the moment that the skunk-haired punk was alone, a plan already set in motion and both hands gripping at the bicep of the biker's arm, eyes twinkling under the Dollhouse lighting. With a grin the size of Texas itself, and started to give a pull in the direction of the cowboys that had narrowly avoided bumping right on into her. "And since youuuur cowboy has left ya all alone, i think ya gotta give your ol' friend a dance. Ya don't wanna see lil' ol' me tearin' up the floor all by myself an' miss out on all the fun, let's go!" Unfortunately, the queenpin was made of steel, and Bandit wasn't getting very far without her heeled cowboy boots sliding on the floors — the people would get a little too much eyeful of Bandit Vaddhana's rear end if she slid into the splits right now. "Isn't it, like, a special night for ya to be out here anyway? What was it, um... it's somethin' t' do with that husband'a yours, I know that much!" Chipper as ever, harsh and polarizing against the stickler she was determined to groove with, she rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, the bull's over at the Gulch, an' everyone will get an eyeful of my ass shakin' on it soon 'nough, right after ya gimme that dance! Promise I'll tinker 'round an' see if I can let'cha mess around with it if you doooo." Giving another hardy tug, the dancer only succeeded in throwing herself backwards — without Stella Fawn — and landing precisely on her ass.

#c: stella #cfstvlla