"Shouldn’t have let a guy like me know where you work, love," came Charles voice, tinted with its usual playfulness. "I could be into arson and murder—or worse, I could be into petty vandalism.” Riza Shea piqued his curiosity, but not in the usual ways his curiosity could possibly be piqued (certainly, because he wasn’t the kind of guy to fuck girls on their late teens; that was all reserved for his own old man). Perhaps she’d be able to handle him; god knew Charles bordered on hermit-like interpersonally-wise. With sex, work, and general misanthropy, he didn’t allow himself much for interactions.
But he shrugged one shoulder, eyeing her intently. “Or I might need a place for the night.” He’d looked at this place and genuinely considered it. Just because he was used to the alleyways it didn’t mean he’d take them every day of the week over a bed. Compared to the pavement and littered corners, Safe Passage felt that, safe. And for once, he’d like not to wind up in a public bathroom wiping blood off him and tending wounds. The streets were everything but kind, and in Mutant Town? That seemingly-pathetic thug might as well be able to kill you without batting an eyelash.
"Looks like someone did a number on you…" Isaac sneered slightly at the man who was all bloody and bruised as if the Fight Club had some sick Christmas special — probably the reason why he’s out of the bar instead of inside drinking. "Please tell me you at least punched back..
"Holy fuck, I had not noticed…" Jackson blinked, matching the guy’s timing almost to a T. He beamed right up instantly after, however, with no hostily laced in the gesture. He just sat there on the gritty pavement, the coppery taste in his tastebuds making him click his tongue a few times before speaking again. Ever-so-charming Jackson, even with dry blood plastered all over his mouth. "Let’s just say—" he began, coughing a little, "in all its clichéd glory, you got to see the other guy to believe it.” It was no lie, at least, but he shrugged. “I’m not a sight for sore eyes, now am I? Sadly. Best you move along, lad, don’t wanna take away from your drinking time.”
"Only things I’m against are organized religion and government. And those god awful shoes —Crocks, I think?— that are an embarrassment to this other embarrassment of a country…"
Amusement was thick in Ivan’s humming. Rather than providing any type of vocal answer, his hands wandered upwards, a path from each of Parson’s sides to his neck, pulling him closer by the collar (fingernails piercing a little only by chance), gentle yet demanding, slight yet present; it was almost thoughtful. Were he someone else, or were he different, he’d not give little warnings such as those, little cues that prodded Parson into ceasing his chatter and focusing on the task of appeasing a growingly idle Ivan—for his own sake. Idle Ivan was not good for anybody.
Zoya flicked hair out of her face with one graceful shake of her head and leveled her gaze at him. “No, trust me. I am a complete and total cold-hearted bitch.”
"But I’m not blind. Nor am I liar." And good looking men were always her weakness, no matter how hard she claimed to be. This one hadn’t even run at the mention of a period. Weird.
Malcolm chuckled, eyes never leaving hers as she spoke to him. When she wasn’t, he made no attempt to hide he was checking her out; hair, lips, neck, breasts (sue him right then, right there), hips, legs. He’d spent the entire conversation evaluating of sorts, as thoroughly as something like that could be, concluding: he kinda liked what he saw, which more often that not improved the worth of someone’s company. More often than not that made ‘em uncomfortable too, man or woman, and he found it funny. Pretty sure she’d rip his head out if only she could; perhaps he’d let her then, if only for what it entailed. “It’s all good in my book, dear. Such a catch, aren’t ya? Makes me wonder what you’re doing all by your pretty little self—no, no, forgive me right there,” his fingers tapped his cheek thoughtfully, “you’re more than capable all on your own, right? See, I learn fast.”
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Don’t compliment me. I already know I’m beautiful.
You’re lucky because if you were ugly I would have already left. But I suspect you know you aren’t bad looking either, hm?
"Been told once or twice," he commented, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Now, now, Look at yourself; that sounded almost… sociable. I’m callin’ that progress, and I take the credit for it. Seems you’re not such a cold-hearted bitch. Not a fully one, but you got a bit of it. It’s my kinda type.”
"Hmmm… guess I shouldn’t have done that."
"Such is life. Got its ups and downs," he mumbled thoughtlessly as he wiped the blood off his nose as best as he could, "fights to win and fights to lose. I shouldn’t have fucked his girlfriend, but to be honest with you, I don’t really regret it."
"You could borrow some of my testosterone, you know. It’s starting to become a nuisance —- my shower drain can only handle so much body hair."
"That sounded all kinds of disgusting. 8 out of 15 in the Disgusting Meter, in fact."
"Do you talk about your pubic hair to strangers often?"
My ass is not for you to look at. I am not a piece of meat.
I would rather dive with sharks during my menstrual cycle.
"Unluckily there’s no ocean for you to jump into nearby, so you’re pretty stuck w’me.”
“We’re just havin’ a conversation over here, love. I never said your ass was a piece of meat. I said that I’d look at it if you turned around. It was a little compliment.”
Why are you still talking when I told you to stop five minutes ago?
"I like talkin’, sweetheart."
"Silence’s not my thing. Feel free to turn ‘round and walk out anytime. Least I’d get to see your ass.”