SPACE STATIONS > The Libra

It's Called the Grand Hustle, Sweetcheeks (Cheesy)

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Cheesigator:
He mumbled something about a cigarette and Riley's eyes narrowed. "Eh? The fuck are you on about old man, learn how to fuckin spea--"

There was a moment where she saw something flicker in his eyes and she started to step back, but his hands darted out and grasped her by the shoulders and held her still. He moved and she prepared herself to try and twist out of his grasp to dodge a headbutt, but then all of a sudden his lips were crashing down onto hers. Her beat up sneakers squeaked on the floor as she struggled a little to get away from him, he tasted fucking disgusting. Like booze, cigarettes and probably shit or something.

He bit down on her lip and she snarled, but he pulled away before she could try to bite his face off in return; he sat down and asked her about 'that cigarette' and she stood there in a moment of shock, the anger still blatant and obvious on her face. She tasted iron in her mouth and reached up absent-mindedly to wipe her lips, blood smearing across the back of her hand. All it took was one glance down at it, and the next moment she was punching him in the face.

Because that's how you get punched in the face, Crowe. By doing stupid shit like that.

"CIGARETTE?! LIKE HELL YOU FUCKIN CHEAP PIECE OF SHIT!" She snarled, stepping back to grab an empty chair behind her as she pulled it out from the table and chucked it at him.

It's fine, she didn't plan on coming back to this bar again anytime soon anyways.

Lion:
Ha, the joke was on her. He hadn't even had a cigarette yet. So whatever she thought was tobacco flavored was probably just that rat-pastrami sandwhich he had earlier. Blech, the quality left something to be desired, but it was still fine enough to be something close to edible. Crowe sneered up at her, about to reach over the bar for another drink when he felt something hard and fist-shaped closing in on his face.

Crowe was knocked clear from his seat and across the bar and he managed to catch himself on the lip of the counter before collapsing to the ground.  What the fuck was this girl's problem! This was his bar and she was gonna waltz in on here with a shit attitude like that? Fuck that noise. Crowe climbed up to his feet, dusted himself off and cracked his neck.

Just to make sure he was ready before he pile-drived her into the floor.

"You're gonna be sorry," he hissed just before that chair went flying at him. He waited though, and walked closer, but kept himself between her and the exit. "I like your spunk. Name's Crowe. You want a drink?' he offered instead. He can save the pile-driving for later. She had enough spark to catch his attention away from his itch to smoke.

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