` boy, you're invited to my fantasy { elle/open

[Crush]

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[atrb=background,http://i1189.photobucket.com/albums/z431/poshiloh/Kings%20and%20Queens/middle-3.png] [scrolly:h(329),w(480),sy] Well, that had been easy. Almost too easy. They must have been used to good little kids who followed the rules to the tee, cause it was definitely nine o clock at night when she got out of her dorm, and it was totally past the time she was supposed to have been back on school grounds. Yeah, like they'd ever know. If they found out, what were they gonna do, tell her mother? Her mother didn't care, and Nate would never know so he'd never come bother her. There were no solid restrictions on her life, just the way she liked it, and it was far away from home. Nonetheless, she still gave a wide berth to dark alleyways. She slid up to the door, flashing her fake id. Elenor Bartlet, twenty one, and completely legal to buy her own drinks. Best of all, not a full lie. Elle could be a nickname for Elenor too. He looked slightly suspicious, so she threw on a vaguely annoyed look, as if she couldn't believe they were doubting her age again and he rolled his eyes and let her in. She gave him a smile that had often caused everyone to chase after her for that sign of approval and stepped into, the loud music washing over her instantly. Oh, yeah. Tonight was bound to be wonderful. She slid over to the bar, requesting vodka and sliding money over to the bartender. Within seconds, there was a cup in her hand and a sly smile on her face as she took a sip, burning sensation traveling down her throat. She brushed deep blue strand of hair away from her face, eyes grazing the black tips. That had been her first matter of business when she got here; dying her hair this wonderful blue that rather shimmered in the light and tinting the ends as black as she could. Her best dye job yet, as far as she was concerned. She finished off her drink, setting the glass down on the bar, head moving with the beat in perfect timing. [/scrolly]

[echo]

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[atrb=background,http://i775.photobucket.com/albums/yy35/BaileeDanielle3/tables/2.png] [scrolly:h(156),w(390),sy] Sliding a hand through his hair, Slate sat at the bar, his head hung forward and both arms resting upon the top. Lips pursed as he stared down at his drink in his cup. Straight up whiskey- specifically Canadian Club. Imported directly from Canada, aged for twelve years- the classic kind. Just what he liked, the burn that traveled all the way down his throat and into the pit of his stomach. He couldn't drink it all that fast, it made him feel sick if he did, but the coyote shifter definitely had been here long enough to drink quite a bit of it, plus a little bit of Smirnoff. This mixture of alcohol and time, he'd definitely got himself wasted. So, despite looking like a depressed emo kid, leaning forward with that dark hair of his creating a tunnel to that glass of whiskey, he was far from depressed at this moment. He'd been feeling way down in the dumps before he'd reached the club. But this alcohol had washed all that away, and now he was feeling elated. With one swift movement, Slate leaned back, taking the cup with him, and downed what was left of it with his head tilted back. It was only then that he noticed the girl that had entered the club, and sat right at the bar- not too far away from him. So, clumsily, he shifted a couple seats over until he was one seat away. Normally, he'd wonder if he appeared intimidating. After all, tonight he was wearing a more rugged style of clothes- ripped skinny jeans with vans shoes (always), a leather jacket zipped up that said "Sick F*ck" on it, his typical slight bit of eyeliner, and his hair was messy, revealing the large gauges in his ears. Add that with the couple piercings he held, and the tattoos slightly exposed on his chest and right arm.. yeah, not all too friendly of an appearance. "Heyy. What's your..." He took on a confused look, before he chuckled to himself and finished his question with a cocky grin, "name?" ----- Words: Three Hundred Fifty Six XP right as you went to sleep! [/scrolly]

[Crush]

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[atrb=background,http://i1189.photobucket.com/albums/z431/poshiloh/Kings%20and%20Queens/middle-3.png] [scrolly:h(329),w(480),sy] Her lips left the rim of the glass as he slid over, eyes catching sight of him in her peripherals, head turning to watch him, more out of an intense need for caution than much else. Her hand tightened slightly around the glass, but he was drunk and alone and they were in a crowded club, with the bartender right there. She forced herself to relax, and the fact he could hardly finish a four word sentence rather helped with that regard. little smirk lifted the corners of her lips as she pushed her worries away with another sip. Elle. Though, if you can even remember your own name seems a valid question. She didn't typically play nice, not unless she had to to get what she wanted. And, right now, in this moment, she didn't want anything. She had alcohol, loud music, flashing lights, and a pack of cigarettes in her jacket pocket. For tonight, she was golden. A pretty boy would have been nice, but she could live without one. And, nothing personal, but he wasn't exactly on her list of "pretty boys". He simply wasn't her type. She wasn't often picky, but she was picky enough. She may not remember what the gang had looked like, but he very much looked like the stereotypical picture of a troublemaker. She had nothing against him, personally, but it didn't make her any less cautious. Never letting her smile fade, despite her thoughts, she downed another gulp, fingers clenched around the glass as the bottom touched the bar again, as if her life depended on holding onto that liquid. And as far as she was concerned, it sort of did. [/scrolly]

[echo]

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[atrb=background,http://i775.photobucket.com/albums/yy35/BaileeDanielle3/tables/2.png] [scrolly:h(156),w(390),sy] Slate could not help but grin at the suggestion he may or may not remember his name. Sure, he was intoxicated- was there a state past intoxication? If there was, he might have surpassed that by now. But there was no way he'd forget his name.. even though it wasn't quite his birth name- just a nickname he'd given himself as a child. He never gives his real name to anyone- not that he's ever even bothered to recall it- not wanting to have the painful memory of his dead mother laced with his birth name. That thought aside, Slate shrugged lamely, swirling his whiskey in that cup calmly. He preferred it straight from the typical flask-shaped bottle, but they didn't exactly provide such a bottle. The glass of that said bottle was thick and would be quite painful if smashed over someone's head he assumed. Not that the place had a history of violence... but it was a probability. Even so with the coyote-shifter. He didn't smash people over the heads with bottles- but he did get into bar fights quite often. "I remember my name," the black haired man slurred. But really, erry-one calls me Sslate." Shifting in his seat, and taking a swig of that Canadian Club whiskey, that grin stick to his lips as he rolled his shoulders back. ----- Words: Two Hundred Thirty Three OMG I POSTED SOMEWHERE. [/scrolly]