death & company.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

Perhaps that was the best part, legs spread at the knees, some semblance of underwear tangled around her ankles in the back of Pianos. One hand fitted in the back of the bartender's hair, a joint dangled from her other set of thin fingers, lungs guzzling the skunky vapor on deep inhales. Her spine arched happily, and Sinthia blew a cloud of smoke into the air, quite content to let her head fall back as she took in the beautifully hazy moment. Her tongue was wet with the taste of pot, and as the bartender pulled away from her, she insisted that they kiss, before releasing him completely. It seemed almost poetic, as she pulled up her underwear and sat stoicly against the bar, ashing out the joint into the remanence of Jack & Coke and allowing it to steam away. In theory, she was supposed to be practicing, or at least, that's what Sara had told her to do. Yet, the veil of apathy settled over her, and despite her desire to be passionate about something peeling herself from the floor behind the bar seemed like more effort than it was worth. Her clothes were rumpled, threadbare and slightly torn, which looked slightly out of place in combination of honey skin and golden hair. The lipstick that had once been thick and opaque was now smeared and the only color that remained was a simple stain. As light eyes flickered about the bar, a grin spread wide on her face as Sara appeared in front of her, neck craning as a smirk pulled on plush lips. "You look so fucking hot, you know?" A hand came up, sliding up Sara's thigh as her head slumped lightly, her voice a low chuckle as Sinthia pulled herself to her feet. "It has been suchhhh a good day." Her thin rear was suddenly one with the bar as she crossed a leg, pulling a bottle from the cupboard just under her and setting it on the counter. "C'mon darling, let's celebrate our success" If this was bad behaviour, then that was something that Sinthia didn't recognize. At this point, there wasn't much that the young woman did understand. The ocean of her eyes were glossy, peering at her friend and band mate out from under dark lashes. The grin that was permanent on her lips did not match the distance in her eyes. If Sara was going to be mad about her current state, there wasn't much she could do about that. Sinthia wouldn't be meeting sobriety for a few hours. Sloppily, she poured a dark liquor into a glass cup, garnishing with the relish of a lime. It was mismatched and straight booze, the only added ingredient being ice. In retrospect, it would most likely taste like shit. Pushing it towards Sara, the blonde giggled, lifting the bottle to her lips as she watched the young woman through deep sips. Notes: this is poo. Tagged: sara holland Listening: young blood - young and famous.

[sara holland]

She was tired, that was the short way of putting it. Sara had spent two weeks on the road, hundreds of hours jumping from cars to music venues, babysitting grown men, and surviving off junk food as well as coffee, she was completely and utterly fucking drained – that was the long way of putting it. Of course she loved every moment, the road was her second home, it was practically an instinct of survival to the young twenty-two year old, but sleepless nights had caught up with her, despite her every attempt to defy being human. Around the band she was on a constant high, full of smiles and constantly collaborating with them, rambling on about music over beer, never ending electricity. But now, alone, she was teetering. Sara pulls a shirt over her head, her big doe eyes batting slowly in their shallow sockets in that quick shock of darkness. She had literally been home for fifteen minutes, her hair was still soaking wet from the shower, and her makeup as minimal as it got. Looking in the bathroom mirror, her upper body leaning forward, and her lace-clad booty popping out, her index finger wiped a smudge of mascara from her lower lashes, and quickly applied a rusty rose colour over her lips. Body shifting back, she stared critically at her reflection, loose lips blowing a sigh; a layer of concealer to hide those dark eye circles and a sweep of matte lipstick and that was as good as it was going to get. She ignored the mess in Jonny's apartment, dodging clothes on the floor as she danced her way to her own room to pull on a pair of leather pants. “Pianos,” her tone was short as she spoke to the cabby, lifting her guitar case in with her, wedging it between the front and backseat. A blanket had been placed over top of the city, tucking in the stars along with the sunlight. New York made it's own lights, in the form of dismal LEDs, and tall dank streetlamps. Her appearance was mirrored in the tinted windows, eyes locking with her exhausted image, glancing away to look forward at the Indian cab driver. He looked nearly identical to the kid from Slumdog Millionaire, but maybe that was Sara being stereotypical. Blue eyes watched the meter ticking up, fingers sifting through bills, and finally, upon reaching their destination, plucked a green leaf from her purse to hand to him. Sinthia was a wreck, and Sara, seeing this, was pissed. Normally she'd brush it off, more frequently than not she'd join in. If this were any other night, or just a practise, she'd have a glass of tequila propped in her hand, and a stuffed joint in her mouth. It even crossed her mind to do just this, reach into her purse like Miley fucking Cyrus and lite one up. “Get your shit together,” her voice was carried with annoyance, fingers wrapping around the offered drink and sliding it out of her reach. “ There's a fucking label rep here tonight, and you don't clean the fuck up we're not playing,” rolling her eyes at Sinthia, she practically glared at the bartender. “Where's the sound guy?” the scruffy, skinny man nodded towards the back, and Sara picked up her Les Paul case to head towards there. “Don't screw with me, Sinthia,” stern words fell from heart shaped lips, black pumped striking the tiles as she sought the soundman. Notes: sorry...... (ur code) Listening: shame & misery - the greenhornes.

[sinthia clark-kaplan]

Sinthia's response to Sara's apparent anger was to simply roll her eyes. Yet, she did replace the bottle on the counter, turning to where her clutch sat and pulled out a cigarette. The spark of her lighter, not at all expensive -- just a pale blue bic lit the ember, and the blonde inhaled, sliding off the bar before brushing past her friend, only the slightest of scowls on brutally symmetrical features. In all fairness, the blonde felt that she had just cause for being as trashed as she was, for while Sara had been off playing groupie and roadie all over the country, Sinthia had sat holed up in the great apartment Edmund paid for, practicing. Yet, a swift sense of entitlement settled over the drummer, and despite her usual love for the girl in front of her, she was blatantly annoyed. "Fuck off, I'm not that drunk." Sliding from the bar, the blonde bent to gather her shoes, slipping into them, which grew her 5'10 frame to an almost terrifying height. Blue eyes flashing only slightly, her mouth captured the cigarette again, blowing smoke into the air in an almost rough exhale. The sound her Manolo's made was nearly ridiculous, clicking on the rough surface of the floor as the young woman moved in the opposite direction. Sara could deal with it if she felt so fucking special. Slender hands pushed the door to the bar open, the cold hitting her face, flushed from illicit activity of all kinds. Her lungs screamed, begging for the fresh air of the night, but Sinthia simply took another drag, leaning against the front brick of the bar. The cold sobered her slightly, but the young woman almost wished she'd taken the bottle with her. In all honesty, this was not something that Sinthia took seriously. She expected to coast on her good looks, the small amount of talent behind the drum kit that she inherited. It wasn't that she was completely egotistical about it, as if she thought she was too good to take anything seriously, but it never occured to the young woman that this could be something big. She was still stuck in the stage of playing raging feminist songs in someone's garage. There was a small piece of her intoxicated mind however, that was attempting to see reason. It was that small piece that made her put down the cigarette, still lit and smoking on the pavement, and return inside. "Try not to take yourself too seriously babes, it's not a good look." Of course, her ego wouldn't allow for her to be completely pleasant, but Sinthia took her rightful place behind the drum kit, slender fingers curling around the two sticks stuck to the side of her instrument. Her limbs were fidgety, itching, watching the sound guy with a bored stare as he spoke to Sara. They had ages, knowing full well representatives from the label never showed up to these things on time. She reached up, running a hand through her hair, the room hazy with her high and intoxication, yet a sick little grin settled over her face. She loved every fucking minute of this. Notes: GHSDF hiiiiii. Listening: crystalised - the xx.