manofmyword | (no subject)

(no subject)

There is a man in the bar, sitting alone at a table for four with the Observation Window directly on his left, close enough to touch. He has an enormous glass jar of jelly beans and he is methodically sorting them by colour into a number of smaller bowls laid out in front of him.

Other things about him that might come off as odd include: the fact that he is wearing a ferociously lilac button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows under a muted green vest; the fact that he is not wearing any shoes, and his socks don't match, one of them yellow with a black pattern of bats and the other black with little yellow smiley faces; and, finally, the scars on his face, extending the sides of his mouth into a permanent crooked smile.

He might welcome company. Or he might not. It's not always easy to tell.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"'Kay."

Serenely, he shuts the door.

Tony is still kind of side-eying him as he turns and leads the way towards the stairs. One more flight up takes them to his room, which is practically unused.

Also noticeably free of deadly weapons.

"Didn't like the shotgun under the bed? I don't blame ya," he says cheerfully. "Tell you the truth, I mostly forget it's there."

"Yeah, guns kinda kill my boner."

"Mm," and he licks his lips, "they don't kill mine."

. . . So did we mention Tony's wary look?

Yes. Yes you did.

"Sorry, hon, am I frrreakin' you out?"

"Nah, man, it's cool."

YES, YES YOU ARE.

He snorts.

Your lying is not up to scratch, Tony.

He rubs the back of his neck.

"Look, I just want a nice fuck with no trouble, okay?"

"Sure," he says cheerfully. "No problem. If you're not into guns, we won't talk about guns."

"Okay," cautiously. "Cool."

"So, what are you into?"

Tony shrugs, rubbing his neck again, and reaches into his pocket to get his key as they reach the room.

"Whatever you like, long as it doesn't involve blood or piss or shit or anything like that. Or," wry, "guns."

Edited 2012-12-17 01:56 (UTC)

"Good to know," he says, touching his tongue to his scarred lower lip. "Not quite what I meant, though."

"What'd you mean, then?"

He opens the door onto a room that could have come out of any mid-range hotel on 20th-century Earth: bed, desk, chair, TV. The bed does have a headboard and posts at the foot, all of which could maybe be suitable for tying someone to. If you were into that kind of thing.

"Mm... not just what're you okay with, but what really gets you off?"

He snorts.

"Nothin' that's a good idea for a hooker."

He laughs. "Ooh, I know the feeling."

"Yeah, I bet."

With the guns and scars and all.

"Still. We can have some fun together, don'tcha think?"

"Man, I'm always fun."

Yep, we're back in bravado territory.

"I can tell, sweetie, I can tell."

"Sooo." He glances around the room, cocks his head towards scarred-guy-who-we're-going-to-call-John-now. "Whatcha wanna start with?"

Sure, John works. It starts with the right letter, even.

'John' hums thoughtfully and perches on the edge of the bed. "Dunno," he says. "You wanna kiss, or do the scars bug you too much?"

To all appearances, it is a question to which either answer is acceptable. He really doesn't seem bothered. John is, it would seem, difficult to bother in general.