king-of-keyes

[king-of-keyes]

professorlietz:

[ He had started lesson plans for the following week, with the foresight of wanting to spend some quality time with his daughter this weekend, just the two of them. It was as he was sat in his classroom that evening, he realised the quiet of the halls tonight, so as the calm was disrupted and his door was knocked, Cam nodded and welcomed in the figure with a motion of the head. ]

“Y’know, I never could get the hang of thursdays. Anyway, what can I do for ya?” 

[ His tone warm before he’d even looked up to check the identity, finishing his last column before sitting up in his chair. Cameron was still in his teaching mind and held himself as such, back tall and shoulders square as he sat up from the slight slump he’d assumed over his desk. ]

[He’d done well in English in University. Top five percent of his class, it’d been nearly effortless. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of time reading. Before his days of belonging, before he’d carved a new version of himself, a fantastic wax replica. He’d read. Constantly. And though it’d specifically never been one of the many things Nolan flaunted, it was probably one of the reasons he’d been able to infiltrate himself so well into the lives of the privileged and believably pretend that he was privileged too.

The comment about Thursdays doesn’t register. It’s possible it’s not supposed to. It’s also possible that Nolan just missed something, but that seems less likely. He decides against engaging it.] 

Okay... Uh, listen, Lietz, was it? I wanted to ask you about joining your class. I know it’s listed us 30 and under, but they aren’t offering Lit classes for over 30 right now and I could.. use the influence of a subject more interesting than fucking statistics and presidential history. 

Cameron & ... || This Must Be A Thursday

[king-of-keyes]

london-bauer:

[His eyes are ‘up there’, as they say, but London’s definitely not looking at them as he climbs slowly into the tub. Deliberately slow, she thinks– - if he’s not a whore, he’s certainly putting on a good show of being one.]

Can you not just choose to be flattered that I thought you were worth something in the first place, like any normal man would be?

[She’s in no shortage of sarcasm or spice. A flavour that’s sharp on the edge of his tongue, and he likes her fire. She’s daring and he’s always appreciated a woman who keeps him on the edge of his seat. He laughs—a throaty, easy-going chuckle.] I didn’t say I wasn’t flattered. But I can’t give you a refund if I don’t see the receipt. So what do I owe you? Let’s hope you were a big spender, or all that flattery will be for naught. 

[king-of-keyes]

ryder--edevane:

king-of-keyes:

[A stroll to the daily fridges that he’s made so many times before. They’ll be very little of interest in them, of course, most of the courses uncooked or locked in the vaulted storage ones in the cage. Along with cans and cans of tasteless, factory made vegetables and starches. In a world like this, people are very careful with their food, whether it tastes like shit or not. 

He peruses the shelves, drawling and distracted.] Mm, I’m sure you’d find I have plenty of guilty pleasures… [He spots a bowl of fruit, nabs an apple, only slightly bruised, from the top of it. He rolls it in his fingers, checking for signs of rot, but finding none he closes the door and turns around to look at the civilian, teeth snapping into the taught flesh of the apple—it’s surprisingly crisp on his tongue, giving its hiss of fresh as he pulls off his first bite, licking syrupy juices off his lips in a swipe.] 

Just not the kind that includes chocolate creme. [He notices the way the comment could be construed, but he can never tell with these artsy-hipster types, if it’s sarcasm, seduction or boredom, and frankly, he hardly cares.] 

[Is he losing his touch? Ryder has to force himself to swallow to keep him from audibly sighing. There the other goes, saying a line that could too easily be misinterpreted as shamelessly flirty, the guy grabs an apple of all the foods in the kitchen, arguably one of the most seductive foods behind lollipops and popsicles… And then he goes on to talk nonsense about chocolate creme.]

[These stoic types are going to be the very death of him. He is so obviously flirting, and if they don’t give him just a tinge of validation, he swears… Though a purplish bruise is blooming on the flesh of his ego, he brushes the thoughts of his shoulders. He decides to go for coy, twisting one end of his lips in a smirk as he rolls his shoulders.] Suit yourself, [he says lazily, waving his hand airily before running his partially burnt fingertips over the fabric of his sweatpants before shifting his sitting position, letting his legs dangle over the counter. He pauses, arching a brow.] So you settle for apples instead?

[Nolan has made a life of watching people. He became who he became, accomplished what he did, by watching and learning, observing and mimicking. He draped all his discoveries over himself like a cloak, and it’d gotten him everywhere he needed to go. But like a chameleon, he’d become what he was surrounded by. He doesn’t know now if he could go back to being a penniless nobody, even if he wanted to. 

In spirit, anyway, because currently they were all penniless nobodies—an ugly, angering fact which he still resents. 

So by now he’s had enough time to note the way the kid moves, the way his gestures are thick with motivations. His breeziness is contrived and it only exists in his body, not his eyes. 

Ah. So that’s what’s happening. Nolan allows himself a moment to be amused. Stroked around the ego, even. Too bad he was as straight as anyone could be in this century. Now a days sexuality was a blurred line of scales and degrees. Had been for years. But if Nolan had even a stitch of queer inclination in his body, it would probably come out by some fucked, power complex, not by lust. 

Nolan Keyes had always been a ladies’ man.

Still, he’d play the kid’s little game because he wouldn’t turn down holding that kind of power over anybody. Manipulate every situation in his favour, that was his motto. ]

I don’t settle for anything. [He looks him hard in the eyes.] I take what I want. And what I wanted was an apple. [As he swallows his bite, he turns his gaze towards the fruit in his fingers, turning it around and gazing at it thoughtfully.] Sweet, succulent, tart... [He smirks, then takes another bite and looks back at him.] What more could a guy ask for?

[king-of-keyes]

clove--modius:

king-of-keyes:

[Typical. Women in power are so damn typical. 

Still, it never ceases to amuse him. He snorts.] Your authorization, hey? What are you going to do, put a recall on my imagination? Good luck, sweetheart. It may not be a free world anymore, but there’s still free will and unless you’ve developed an infection I don’t know about, I can picture whatever I want and there’s nothing your tight ass can do about it. 

Sorry. [He’s not sorry at all, and his smirk speaks of that truth]

[She pauses. It was a joke, of sorts, but if he thought her incapable of that maybe it was for the best.] You might consider minding your manners, Mr. Keyes. 

[It’s spoken with calculating softness. Time to see what happens when she throws the spotlight on him.] You’re not the only one who can scratch someone’s eyes out. [Might be he tries to demonstrate he still has power over her, in which case she’ll know he’s still sensitive about his fall from grace.]

[He’s planning on making a showing of raising his hands in surrender, planning on twirling his rest and mocking a bow of his head—a gratuitous show of ‘manners’. Manners which he thinks are irrelevant and fruitless now. What are curtseys and protocols when the entire planet had almost been wiped out. Weren’t they beyond tea parties and table manners by now?

But her next comment changes everything, and his eyes lift to hers. 

He doesn’t react. He has more control than that, when it’s concerning something like this, but he stares at her a moment, eyes calculating but otherwise expressionless. He’s licked his wounds, already, and he will not do so in front of her.

Finally, he lets a very slight grin touch his lips, but his eyes remain vaguely cold.] 

You know—I don’t doubt that. My money’d be on you in any cat fight—[an opportunity to retrieve a tone they’d diverted from,] Which you should invite me to, by the way, if you do. Wouldn’t mind watching something like that. 

[king-of-keyes]

call-corbin:

Yeah? Why’s that? Smilin’ makes yer face hurt? [He smirks]

No, music makes my face hurt. 

[king-of-keyes]

london-bauer:

[So, Nolan is absolutely a rebound interest. A not-quite-Damien. A never-could-be-Jason. If she was actually interested in him, she might have invited him to do something more intellectually stimulating than hot tubbing– - well, that’s not entirely fair. She’s interested in anyone who’s blinded a man. She likes his ruthlessness, his roughness. He won’t play nice with her.

But frankly, she’s content enough to simply see him with his kit off. London is a simple woman of simple pleasures, and pursuing anything ‘more’ with Nolan would be more complicated than she cares for right now. So, she dons her swimsuit (a slippery, silvery thing that’s a little worn because, like everything, its second hand), and sinks into the bubbles to see if he’ll turn up. She isn’t even certain he will; but then he is there, trunks clinging to his body in a way that London finds, honestly, indecent.]

…In my head you were wearing speedos, so I’m not going to lie, this is disappointing. Can I get a refund?

@king-of-keyes

[She’s everything a woman should be. Smart. Fiery. Funny. Looks great with her tits on display. 

She’s hot, obviously. In a dark, can’t-take-me-home-to-your-parents kind of way, which is exactly how he likes it. But she’s also got this fierceness to her, and this quickness about her wit that keeps him interested. And maybe it’s about sex—like, he hardly knows her last name and they’re meeting to sit half-naked in soapy water together—but she also has more of his interest than anyone else he’s flirted with here. Nolan flirts. Oozes sex appeal and innuendo. It’s what he does, because it’s what he does best, but London actually gives him something to compete with. Piques his curiosity in fresh ways. 

And oh, does she look good with her tits out. 

He smirks, as he steps up to the edge of the bath, sinking one foot in at a time onto the first landing. ] A refund? Oh, so you paid for me, did you? I’m just a whore to you?

[king-of-keyes]

[king-of-keyes]

clove--modius:

[That damn tomcat grin is probably what got him as far as he did, before control issues and other complications knocked him back. She bites her lips, aware she set this up and he’s taking advantage of her new, more humorous side. Too much advantage.] That—that’s not— 

[She’s struggling, but it’s with a half-hidden smile of her own as she remains in a good mood despite her better intentions.] You need my authorization to picture anything, Keyes. And you’re not getting it any time soon, not now I know what sort of music you’re into.

[Typical. Women in power are so damn typical. 

Still, it never ceases to amuse him. He snorts.] Your authorization, hey? What are you going to do, put a recall on my imagination? Good luck, sweetheart. It may not be a free world anymore, but there’s still free will and unless you’ve developed an infection I don’t know about, I can picture whatever I want and there’s nothing your tight ass can do about it. 

Sorry. [He’s not sorry at all, and his smirk speaks of that truth]

[king-of-keyes]

call-corbin:

Alright. We needs some tunes up in this joint or some shit. Startin’ to lose my bloody mind. 

I strongly disagree with that statement. 

[king-of-keyes]

clove--modius:

king-of-keyes:

[Ah. Maybe she’s unwinding, just a touch, because the disdain is on her face, but not in her words this time. She may be getting used to him. Or maybe she’s just tired of fighting him. Most women do tire of it, eventually. Most women eventually see him for what he is. Most women stop pretending to hate it and let go of any regrets somewhere around the time that he has their thighs over his shoulders and his name a breath on their lips. 

He smirks to himself. Crude though he may have been, that didn’t make him wrong.

He lifts a brow at her reply, tongue swiping over his lips drying from the cold.] Poison? As in DeVoe? To strip to? Nah. Not sexy enough. 

[Clove blinks at him flatly.] No. Not DeVoe. [She lets her tone become utterly scathing though internally she’s trying so hard not to burst out laughing. Her own attempt at humility has backfired, as now he just looks even worse than she would’ve.] 

The band, Poison. As in, ‘Talk Dirty to Me’? ‘Your Mama Don’t Dance’? [One of those ancient joke hair metal bands that some kids at school had emulated during retro phases, along with countless other randoms from bygone decades. She’d observed from a distance, never joining the trends but always cataloguing and memorizing what composed them—a little enviously, perhaps.] And you can’t possibly claim that ‘Look What The Cat Dragged In’ isn’t strip-able— 

[Now she can’t help it, and there’s a moment where she’s just biting on her lip, but no. No. Not good enough, she starts laughing, as she finishes the thought, breathless.] —I’m ninety-nine percent sure there’s an actual stripper in the music video, for Christ’s sake, Keyes.

[She tries to recover, and fails.] DeVoe??? Fuck… [She dissolves into very unprofessional snickering.]

[He may be laughing at her audacity. He may be laughing at the situation, or the thought of actually stripping to DeVoe. He may be laughing at the way her nose wrinkles in her acute, cute, disbelief. 

He isn’t sure, but he laughs regardless, and it’s guardless. Unusual, for him. 

Actually, unusual for her, as it’s possibly the first time he felt anything other than tense frustration around her.]

Alright, that makes a lot more sense. That I can picture. [He smirks, wry with the implication.] 

[king-of-keyes]

london-bauer:

king-of-keyes:

[Her amusement is contagious. Despite her talk of manslaughter and depressing childhood crushing of dreams, he mirrors her lifted brow and smirk. Sure, he’s not easily rattled—if he had been, he never would have come out on top the way he had—but even still, she deserves some of the credit. She’s a hard one not to mimic, to follow effortlessly into hills of mad tranquility. She seems so easy, makes those around her crave that ease, as well. A deviously preying tactic, in fact.] Ah. So I take it you never did the ballet thing? You’ve got the physique for it, I imagine. 

[He nods to her, eyes deliberately not scanning her small frame, though he has done it enough times surreptitiously already to know. To her comment about this world, he tips his head.] In what way am I suited to this world?

[She’s cheeky, of course he’s noticed, and she’s clever. Calling the tripping hazards so she’ll never be caught a fool. Not that he’d set any out for her. He chuckles.] That’s not why I’m asking, no. And who says it can’t be both? An innocent question that may or may not lead to the sex thing. [He smirks. A purposefully easy-going shrug.] And maybe. But aren’t they sort of the same thing?

Started when I was four and done it till I was thirteen, actually. [She’d make a comment about still being flexible, but honestly, he’s a big boy. He can read between the lines, and there’s only so much shamelessness London can spout before it starts to numb her. 

She does, however, lack a little of Nolan’s tact– - if you can call it that. He can comment on her body without poring over her like a dragon’s hoard, but when she thinks on the many ways in which he is suited to this world, she lingers over the broad jut of his shoulders; how confident his jaw is; and how careless his posture.] You know. The world rewards ruthlessness now. Maybe not our particular corner of it, but in general…

What, ain’t power things and blowjobs the same thing? Nah. Most blowjobs are power things, yeah, but not all power things are blowjobs. And like, I doubt your intentions greatly, but since you asked– I was gonna go for a soak in the hot tub after dinner. [She hadn’t been planning that, actually, until about three seconds ago. But he’s already expressed a veiled appreciation for her body, and she thinks she looks pretty great in a swimsuit, so.]

[A casual lift of a brow, the confident curl of a mouth.] Damn, I’m good, [he teases, chuckling and crossing forearms over his chest.] Why’d you stop then? I’d say too competitive, but why do I get the impression you’re good at the whole competition thing? 

[His smirk colors itself nefarious at the mention of the hot tub. He hasn’t decided if she’s shameless, filterless or fearless. Possibly a combination of all three. When he replies it’s something of a deep, rolling purr.] You sure know how to bargain a deal. [A pause.. He surveys pretty light eyes darkened with ash.] Sure. You’re on.

[king-of-keyes]

clove--modius:

[Her nose crinkles at the crudeness. There’s direct and then there’s just tasteless. Which, Warrant definitely qualifies as. It’s understandable, that his brazen behaviour is something of a charm in and of itself, but she does find herself reminiscing of the way it felt to be wooed, like she was someone who wouldn’t accept just whoever was laying about— or in this case, punching inanimate objects.] Charming. 

But along with so many other things, chivalry is rare, and even rarer found in someone interesting. The chances that both those qualities will exist in more than one person (she gives Quinn a pass) in some godforsaken Atlantic rock, slim to none. She needs to lower her standards.] 

[Or, she could always just leave… There were other men with anger issues and decent biceps around.] 

[But this one’s right here, and she’s feeling lazy. She gives in.]

I’m more of a Poison fan.

[Ah. Maybe she’s unwinding, just a touch, because the disdain is on her face, but not in her words this time. She may be getting used to him. Or maybe she’s just tired of fighting him. Most women do tire of it, eventually. Most women eventually see him for what he is. Most women stop pretending to hate it and let go of any regrets somewhere around the time that he has their thighs over his shoulders and his name a breath on their lips. 

He smirks to himself. Crude though he may have been, that didn’t make him wrong.

He lifts a brow at her reply, tongue swiping over his lips drying from the cold.] Poison? As in DeVoe? To strip to? Nah. Not sexy enough. 

[king-of-keyes]

ambiguous-tech:

king-of-keyes:

D-Day had taken everything away from him. 

It had taken everything from a man who had earned it, by tooth and nail and bleeding palms. By manipulation and charm and beautifully crafted lies. By his brains and his superiority—proof enough that he didn’t need money or power to come out on top. He could accomplish all that his asshole classmates had done, without the help of money or class or being raised under a fucking status. None of Daddy’s credit cards or mommy’s doting and fawning. 

And he realized now, as pain throbbed between his eyes and his nose bled onto his upper lip, that the apocalypse had taken more than just his career, and his pride and his status. It’d taken some of his ability to calculate, to predict. 

Because five years ago, he would not have underestimated the underdog. Because ten years ago, that’s exactly who he’d been, and it was when people underestimated him that they got fucked. And he got rich. And laid. and everything worthwhile in between. 

So he’d underestimated Pax, even if it was only for his strength—verdict still to come on whether his brains were a similar story. He would like to say he’s willing to bet that they weren’t, but with the blurry sight of stone smeared with his own blood swimming before his face, even his ego isn’t sure that’s the best idea. 

And narcissist though he is, he’s not too much of one to admit that this whole thing wasn’t the best idea that he’s had. Pax is, after all, an Elite, and Nolan did, after all, just get out of isolation, and holy fuck did he not particularly want to go back there anytime soon. Still, regret and acknowledgement are too very different things, and despite what his better judgement might know about his actions (too little, too late) he can’t bring himself to regret it, or to change course. Backing down now would make him a coward, anyway, and a coward was the furthest thing from what he was. A reckless asshole, sure. But not a coward. 

“Oh, but you should,” he muttered back, licking his lips and tasting the metallic tang of copper. “Didn’t your mommy ever read you the story of the little engine that could?” It was a hiss and a purr and then in a beat he was throwing his foot back and down, slamming onto Pax’s right set of toes with a fantastic crunch. The blow was enough of a surprise and a pain, Nolan would assume, to loosen Pax’s grip just enough for Nolan to twist out of it, and away from the wall. He stepped back, rippled into the background like a salamander camouflaging into it’s surroundings, and stepped around Pax to his other side, where he threw a solid right hook square into his jaw.

Ah. He was right. It was definitely satisfying. 

He pulled back, putting distance between them as he wiped his nose on his sleeve—which hurt like a mother fucker—and tried to sweep away some of the blood. His vision swam. He flickered back into appearance, about six or seven feet away down the hall.

“If you broke my nose, my friend, and you and I are going to have a problem.” 

But he smirked, because he knew that with this much blood, they’d have to take him to the infirmary before they could do anything else. He wouldn’t be put into isolation like this. Not yet, anyway. 

Ok this hadn’t been the brightest idea. But not the worst. Brutal and raw, enough to lift him by the scruff and shake Pax out of a long sleep walk. The downside: Nolan could entirely blindside him and put into play a severe show of force like he had in the past. Fuck him up in a debilitating way. The guy had a taste and a record to back up that notion. He hadn’t been stripped of his Elite status for a minor offense.

The upside was if Pax could crawl away from this he’d have survived the notorious fallen Elite. But. Downside again, he’d make a potent enemy. Which, considering how things had been going for Pax, wouldn’t be too out of character.

But there wasn’t much time to weigh his own recklessness. Nolan took a swipe at his mother.. which, if anyone there had ever bothered to get past his prickly outer shell, they’d know Pax had little connection to the woman. He had multiple tears in a worn Achilles heel. Any remote tease harkening back to childhood registered like a feather on a scale. There were words that could bring him to his knees and thank god this bastard didn’t have those in his arsenal.

And realistically, Nolan’s talk was just that. Excessive noise. Physically, however, the man was a force. Combined with the same infection Pax had, the guy could actually rule the whole mother fucking Colony. Pax saw no fear. Sure, looking at Paxton alone, no one should have any. But lock down - ultimately Nolan would be headed there. And it hadn’t hitched his step or caused one bit of hesitation in launching a full attack. Actually, Nolan probably had been cruising at 50%, not even giving it all he had.

It was kind of impressive. To know what horror he’d be in for, and Nolan didn’t give a fuck.

A strategic stomp on the foot loosened his hold enough to allow the slippery praeteric to fall away, only to throw another punch at his jaw. Any crunch that proceeded didn’t compare to what he bit down on - frayed shards of enamel pocket around an incisor and he bit down on harder from the pain.

The daze wasn’t from possibly losing a tooth, but from the sheer heat the surprise punch had been thrown with. Pax leaned over with his hands on his knees as a figure entered into a fairly watery view in the distance. Not a great position to be in unless he wanted to be fucked more. He spit blood once, and then twice, the lick of metal causing a raging twinge at the hinge of his jaw.

And Nolan was still going on. There were already heavy slaps of boots heard down the hall, but Pax couldn’t quite bring himself to type a message for help on the device around his wrist. “I think you’re gonna have more problems than a broken nose.” He dragged the cuff of his hoodie over his mouth and found a red that matched the clouding the vision of his right eye. Similar bright crimson lashed over knuckles. The rest of him was held together by a deep numb buzz insulating enough to keep Pax upright until that fucker would be dragged away.

“One more time with feeling.’’ He lifted a hand and wiggled the fingers, stiff as they were. ‘’We have the same infection, dumb ass. This can last forever, let me see what you’re really made of.’’ Last words, hopefully one of those good fucking samaritan Elites heard it to etch on his tombstone. But Pax couldn’t really help himself.

He is struck, suddenly and all at once, with the memories of himself playing poker in a smoky, dark room. The sound of chips hitting chips, cards dealing and played in their soft, feathery flicks. To bargain, to steal, to bluff and manipulate. It’d been his element, then. The very throne he sat in like a king. Too powerful to be denied anything, too prideful to take even his few losses as anything other than an opportunity to seek revenge. 

Revenge. A meal favorite, of Nolan’s. As though his old partner had owed him something, as though it’d been his fault that he’d been raised a pretentious, spoiled boarding school brat on generations-old money, and that Nolan’s lies and deceit to get himself there had been his marking of some kind of Robin Hood. Only when he took from the rich, the only poor he gave to was himself. 

And that was how it should be. Outsmarting and outplaying those who never earned shit, those who had everything handed to them, and playing them for the fools they really are. There is no challenge in a life that is handed to you, and Nolan has had enough challenge over the years to have earned himself a seat above the rest. He’s unstoppable. He’s divine. 

Divinity. Ah, if he only he believed in such things, as his vision swam and the weasely Elite clutched at his knees and inferred to Nolan’s inevitable trip back to a narrow holding cell. For his actions. For his digressions. 

 As far as he was concerned they were all unfortunate fools for not using Nolan like a weapon to their advantage. The Elite, even the NWRF. They could have him in power, on their side (or so they think—though in reality, Nolan is never on anyone’s side but his own) and he would flourish under it. Bring the whole fucking place down into a bow. 

Instead they have morons like this twerp, picking fist fights with Civilians and making a show of his ego, instead of using the power in his clutches for something useful. Nolan resents it. And he’s not sure if he’s more inclined to kill the man or to turn around and to not waste even a second more of his energy on him, but soon they both become irrelevant, because security guards are shouting from down the hall, jogging towards the scene with light weapons and restraints in their hands. 

He looks over, breathing hard and still hidden by his infection, and he sinks back into the wall, taking soft and quiet steps away, towards the opposite corner. He’s all but gone in a moment. 

↞ face off  | nolan & pax ↠

[king-of-keyes]

[king-of-keyes]

clove--modius:

king-of-keyes:

[He can feel her watching him. He’s torn between feeling smug and irritable. All talk, all ego, but nothing to show for it. She still comes crawling back to stare. It verges on being annoying, as it does satisfying. If she likes what she sees, she should just grow a pair and admit it, rather than waste time faffing about like she doesn’t give one wit about him.

He doesn’t even blink, or look her way when she speaks.] Not the point of the punching bag, I’m afraid. Training with a bag involves practicing technique, endurance, precision, strength. Sparring is totally different. There’s value in both, but there’s value in neither when you eliminate one. [He pauses, looking at her finally.] Don’t bother with the show-boating, Barbie. Not what I’m here for and neither are you.

[Oh, so he’s better than her, now. Hilarious. And waxes pseudo-philosophical about his training regimen— please. The noble warrior, lecturing her on balance from inside a physical form he probably doesn’t even acknowledge is mangled beyond any growth that training can provide.]

[But she keeps her amusement in check— at least until he levels with her. Or attempts to, she’s not really sure a person like him can stand anywhere near her level, but it’s cute to watch him try. She’ll give him a scrap of acknowledgement for the effort, maybe.] Most people like a little show. It makes them feel like they’re worth something to someone, that someone’s paying attention to them. [Her sideways smirk tells him that she’s referring to other people— not the two of them, apparently.] 

[But if this isn’t showboating right now, her acting like he’s surprised her into candour, then she doesn’t know what is.]

[He has to wonder if she’s used to getting what she wants. An only child, maybe. A princess. Daddy’s little girl. 

He’s has a handful of positive experiences dealing with women such as this, but most of them involve one particular mode of ‘combat’. 

These women who look at everything as a fight. Who claw and gnaw for a power they’ll never truly have only because they don’t truly want it. They want something else, instead. To fill a void, sometimes, to mend something broken, to heal a wound. Perhaps her efforts are admirable. Nolan simply isn’t the type to admire them.]

If a woman’s going to put on a show for me, I’d prefer it to involve nudity. [A shrug, as he lets the swinging bag where it is for the time being, wiping his upper lip with the back of his glove. He fixes her with his gaze, and a shrug.] Maybe a little Warrant... [He lets his expression slide into a smirk.] 

[king-of-keyes]

ryder--edevane:

king-of-keyes:

[He used to delight in docking points from civilians. Abusing his power left right and center because he could,and because it was the only power he had left—a fact which he openly resented.

Now though, he breaks all the rules partially because he has less of a right to. As an Elite, he’d had leeway. Now he doesn’t, and he’d rather spit in the face to that than he would abide by the margins that have closed in on him.

He scoffs as the scrawny little thing extends an offer about as pathetic as it was unnecessary.] 

You think I eat that shit with a body like this? Not even the apocalypse will do that to me, kid. 

[‘Helloooo there…’

It occurs to Ryder that he has some kind of Electra Complex… He dismisses the thought the moment he sees that slow, lazy smile.]

[He smirks a little, licking the chocolate off of the tip of his lip perhaps a little too slowly, tilting his head a bit as he stares at the stranger.]

No room for guilty pleasures then? Shame… [Normally the kid comment would irritate him—he’s nearly twenty-two, for fuck’s sake— but he’ll allow it, because it’s hard to stay mad at such a pretty face. That voice he hears sometimes is trying to say something, but Ryder’s having a fine time muffling it for now.]

Not that I can say I blame you. You’re obviously doing a stellar job keeping that form.

[A stroll to the daily fridges that he’s made so many times before. They’ll be very little of interest in them, of course, most of the courses uncooked or locked in the vaulted storage ones in the cage. Along with cans and cans of tasteless, factory made vegetables and starches. In a world like this, people are very careful with their food, whether it tastes like shit or not. 

He peruses the shelves, drawling and distracted.] Mm, I’m sure you’d find I have plenty of guilty pleasures... [He spots a bowl of fruit, nabs an apple, only slightly bruised, from the top of it. He rolls it in his fingers, checking for signs of rot, but finding none he closes the door and turns around to look at the civilian, teeth snapping into the taught flesh of the apple—it’s surprisingly crisp on his tongue, giving its hiss of fresh as he pulls off his first bite, licking syrupy juices off his lips in a swipe.] 

Just not the kind that includes chocolate creme. [He notices the way the comment could be construed, but he can never tell with these artsy-hipster types, if it’s sarcasm, seduction or boredom, and frankly, he hardly cares.] 

[king-of-keyes]

london-bauer:

king-of-keyes:

[Her modesty is cute because it’s forged. She gets high on flattery, on being admired; that much he can see.] And I’ll bet your ‘stubborn youth’ was exceptionally challenging. [He tilts his head] What were your parents like? [Who knows why he’s asking. A tactic, maybe. Or an inclination to get to know her—nothing says more about a person than their relationship with their parents.

He attempts to withhold the smirk as she describes him in detail—but it’s a trying thing to do, when she’s right time and time again. It pulls a chuckle from his chest, which is dark and deep and warm. His eyes cut up to hers and he has to admit—there certainly is something fascinating about her. Maybe it’s that she’s dangerous. Or maybe it’s that she’s not. ] 

Sexy-sleazy, [he echoes.] Sounds like me. Also sounds like my favorite kind of flattery. [A pause, and he thinks about his ex-partner, and the betrayal Nolan had handed him without so much of a blink of an eye.] You’re right. I wasn’t one to settle for second in command. And shit—[a bright, flashing smirk of white teeth]—do I miss my suits. Down to the fucking smell of them. Nothing else like it. Suit and a scotch. What I wouldn’t give to have those back, these days. [He grins wryly, as he eyes her carefully.]

What you doing later? 

[What sort of question is that? London can’t put her finger on what he cares about, but she can be pretty certain it isn’t her parents. One eyebrow shoots up, a humorous smile twisting her mouth. He asks, so he’ll get.] Ma was a bitter, failed ballet dancer who was in and out of prison all the time for petty theft and assault and hated me because I wasted my potential, and dad was a high school rugby coach with loads of smiles who accidentally manslaughtered her when I were thirteen. [Despite her best intentions, London supposes she’d turned out just like them. Her mother’s callousness, her father’s geniality. She’s got no problem talking about them, though, because somehow she feels distanced from it all.]

[She wonders how she and Nolan would have gotten on before D-Day; apparently her assessment was accurate (which surprises her, in fact, because he seems the type to enjoy defying expectation or reason). So if he’s pinned as the sleazy businessman, she would have been the flirty bartender serving him drinks as he wound down after work. They’re from different worlds.] I reckon you’re more suited to this world, somehow.

[’What you doing later’ sounds to London like an invitation to sex– call her one track minded. But she’s also noticed Nolan’s consistency. Twisted words, unexpected answers designed to baffle. So maybe he’s just baiting her. She decides to ask.] Are you asking because you know I’ll take it as a sex thing and then you can shut me down and say you were only asking an innocent question? Bet that power thing gets you off better than any blowjob.

[Her amusement is contagious. Despite her talk of manslaughter and depressing childhood crushing of dreams, he mirrors her lifted brow and smirk. Sure, he’s not easily rattled—if he had been, he never would have come out on top the way he had—but even still, she deserves some of the credit. She’s a hard one not to mimic, to follow effortlessly into hills of mad tranquility. She seems so easy, makes those around her crave that ease, as well. A deviously preying tactic, in fact.] Ah. So I take it you never did the ballet thing? You’ve got the physique for it, I imagine. 

[He nods to her, eyes deliberately not scanning her small frame, though he has done it enough times surreptitiously already to know. To her comment about this world, he tips his head.] In what way am I suited to this world?

[She’s cheeky, of course he’s noticed, and she’s clever. Calling the tripping hazards so she’ll never be caught a fool. Not that he’d set any out for her. He chuckles.] That’s not why I’m asking, no. And who says it can’t be both? An innocent question that may or may not lead to the sex thing. [He smirks. A purposefully easy-going shrug.] And maybe. But aren’t they sort of the same thing?