Who

Dione, Sammael

What

Dione experiments, possibly in preparation of exposing Sammael to her Pink Pleasure.

When

It is late night of the seventh day of the twelfth month of the third turn of the 12th pass.

In Southern:
It is the seventh day of Summer and 99 degrees. The night is clear and humid.

Where

The Tipsy Kitten, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 27 Jan 2015 08:00

 

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"I won't ask you to try the Pink Pleasure or the Smooth Surprise."


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The Tipsy Kitten

Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve.


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Belior: moon3.jpg

It's late at night, certainly late enough for most of the roisterers and really drunk drunks to have been dragged off by their mates, and the Kitten last shift slowly starts to wind down. It's really the quiet time in any bartender's life that they treasure, that moment when they spot the end of their work day. For Dione, who traded for this shift with one of the other girls, it's a moment to look left, look right and start lining up glasses — experimentation time. Experimentation with frou-frou drinks time, that is, from the mixers and liquers that she takes off the shelf, as well as the recipe bok she hauls closer. It's opened to a long glass shaded with blue. The title? Blue Ocean Blues, definitely not the best name ever, but her hands work quickly to construct the pretty drink.

On really busy nights, sometimes the Kitten has room for more than one bartender, though truth be told, Sammael is here mainly for the manual labor. He's stripped down to just a white undershirt with a towel tucked into his dark tan pants while hauling in the boxes that make up the Kitten's alcohol inventory. With the crowd having died down, this leaves plenty of room for the young man to do his duty: getting boxes and crates of materials from the shipment received via cart in the weyr's entryway. It's on the way in with a box in hand, the concentrated expression of holding the weight of a crate of bottles giving him an even more intense look and a touch of the flush of exertion, that Sammael spies Dione and her assortment of drinks. With careful control, the muscles of his arms and shoulders cording with the movement, the box is set down onto a growing pile. "… the fuck are you doing?" Sammael yanks the towel from his belt, the pants hanging low on lean hips, and wipes at his brow, the straw-colored hair shorter now which means its given to spiking up when he runs the towel over his head. Despite the vulgarity of the question, Sammael's textured baritone — a little rough, a little low, a little hint of an accent — is not as cutting as it could be. He actually seems a little curious.

The young woman looks sideways to assuage her thing for shoulders, of which Sammael seems to have a double helping. She's dressed in thin sleeveless tunic and a sarong wrapped around her hips — pretty and cool, see? "Fucking around," she answers in like vernacular; the grin that grows is juuuust a little tense at the precise measurements the drinks takes. "Come over here, I need someone to experiment on." One hand pats the bar in front of her, the other takes care to deliver the twist of sliced citrus just so into the glass before the entire mix is eyeballed. "It's for the ladies at the weyr that don't want whiskey-voice like you." Not that there's anything wrong with guy whiskey-voice! "Here, taste." Contrary to its name, it doesn't look like someone dredged up bilgewater from a boat. Nor, if he should taste, does it taste that way. Instead it's tart and sweet and fruity in turns, with the mule-kick neatly disguised. Who would think one could disguise a heavy helping of rum like that?

Dione just has to say the word 'experiment' and Sammael tenses, stilling and condensing into a male ready to slip to the killing edge, the muscles of his body coiling tight though he's learning to not react on his first instinct. That instinct being immediate and belligerent fighting; instead, the ex-convict gives pause before cautiously sauntering forward, the lean swagger eating the ground and dispelling any belief held that the young man lacks confidence, for it oozes from the very pores. "Before I taste anything," he finally states, voice low and still holding that arrested feel that suggests that the constant heated anger that drives the hellfire force within is never very far away, "You're going to tell me what's in it." To say that he is suspicious would be an understatement; to say that he is cautious, would also be an understatement. From the brightly colored drink to the girl's eyes, the burning blue of his eyes hold an intensity not so easily ignored. "Not that I don't trust you…" He lets his voice trail off into what might almost be humor, given the quirk of his lips. "… but. I don't trust anyone." And that thing looks BRIGHT. He might be giving it the hairy eyeball.

"Citrus juice. Coconut. Elderflower liquer. More rum than anyone should be shaking a stick at," Dione replies, frowning. "A little starberry, to give it that colour, but not enough that it'll turn your tongue purple." She learnt that lesson yesterday. "No poison. I promise. See?" Sticking the twist of citrus to one side with a dainty finger, she sips from the other side of the glass, swallowing before sticking out a still quite pink tongue at him. "See?" she says somewhat uncomfortably around it. "Very innocent." The drink is pushed forward again, this time as a challenge. "It's for ladies, but…" One look around the place is telling — no ladies of any description but herself, and perhaps that one greenrider over there drinking himself into a lonely stupor.

Still, Sammael gives the drink a long, lingering look, if only because his life has depended on knowing exactly what he has consumed in different times than this. Those chilling blue eyes flick up to watch Dione stick her tongue out at him from beneath the shelf of pale brows and something almost humorous twitches the corners of his lips shaded by the downy blond stubble. "Hmmmm…" Dubiously, he slings his towel around his neck and pitches forward slightly, catching his weight on the bar via the lean curve of hip. Catching up the glass, he sniffs it (can't be too careful) and then tastes it (again, careful) and then decides to just chug the whole damn thing. Did she want it to be artful? Sammael guzzles that hooker down like a man just stumbling from the desert into an ocean. This would be the 'lives dangerously' part of his hellfire'd existence. "Augh!" Practically slamming the glass down, he makes another guttural noise before sliding the glass back to her and muttering, "Not too shabby, not too shabby. I like mine a little less like licking a sugar stick, but the kick is nice."

Dione stares. She stares as it goes down like that. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" she mutters, holding up her hands. "Faranth, do you know how much rum is actually in that thing? You're supposed to sip, Shoulders, not slug it back!" Not that, eh, Sammael looks like he's the delicately sipping type of anything. Still, the compliment provokes a small smile afterwards, one that grows into a roguish grin. "I won't ask you to try the Pink Pleasure or the Smooth Surprise." She really needs to work on naming stuff. Idly, very carefully, she reaches out to pat his head, fingers flicking the blonde spikes back. "You're going to start drunk dancing after those suckers. Tonic water and ice? Thanks for carrying the stuff for me, I appreciate it." Not that she can't haul boxes, but eh. Why do it if Shoulders is willing?

"You didn't say taste it, you said drink it." Even if Dione actually said taste it, but who's counting? Sammael isn't. Well, in truth, Sammael is counting one: one drink, fully guzzled. "Fuck sipping. Sipping is for girls." The irony of that statement isn't lost on him and it comes with the upraised brows of sudden confused half-humor when she gives him a nickname. The man eyes her for a long, hard moment for all the smiles that tug a boyish charm to the man's face, the grip of that hateful rage that fires every cell of his body is never that far away. "Pink Plea — what the fuck?!" Even as one of her silly, froufrou names is rolling off her tongue is the man dodging and snapping a hand out to try to swat her hand away. The very fact that he wasn't on edge is probably what gives this move a comical air rather than a deadly one, since his hand is going to wave through empty air. He is one step off. "I—" Taking a breath, Sammael yanks the towel from around his neck and gives Dione a long look. Fingers gripping the towel, he works to contain himself but finally comes back 'round to a half-smile, embittered at the edges but nonetheless seemingly sincere, "Yeah, no problem. Actually, make it a whiskey sour." That grin deepens. "It's almost closing and I ain't got shit to do tomorrow but fuck off." Now, see? Sammael can be almost human! Almost…right? "And I don't drunk dance, besides one drink isn't going to get me near drunk enough." Something in the shadows of blue eyes hint there's not enough alcohol in the world to bury that pain.

Success! Of a sort, at least. Buoyed up by that, Dione's grin only grows, though her hand drops. "Pink Pleasure," she says too-innocently, given the wriggle of dark red eyebrows that accompany it. "And no, Shoulders, you're definitely not a girl, or we'd have a great deal more men in here even now. One whiskey sour coming up!" It's not that difficult a drink, and one she can make in her sleep, so she nudges her idea sheet over his direction. "I thought if there are more sweet, nice-tasting drinks, more of them will show up." Bourbon, citrus juice, sugar and a whole lot of shaking with a chunk of ice later she sets the glass down in front of him, luckily without little stir-stick or umbrella. "Challenge accepted, sir. I'll have you dancing on the bar with the rest of the bartenders yet."

Sammael’s expression yields nothing of this nickname Dione’s given him, though he’s been called a number for the majority of the last four turns, so it stands to reason he’s used to being called something other than his name. Perhaps a hint of a twitch of the muscle in his jaw gives some hint but, that grin doesn’t slip despite the burning blue of his eyes. Having watched Dione make the drink, the man isn’t concerned with possible poison this time so thick, calloused fingers sweep that glass up to hold to his lips. “You can try.” The grit of his voice adds additional texture to the muted accent that sometimes slips out before he tips the glass and sucks down that drink. “You want more women? Do more ladies nights.” That’s his suggestion, though his eyes fall down to her list, the curiosity within holding the reckless man arrested enough to read down her list of names. “I imagine chicks dig that shit.” With a jerk of his chin to her list, he clearly means the froufrou drink list. Though this is said with the rascal’s shake of his head. “I promise you,” this warning is given in a voice laden with the dangerous silt of seriousness, “You don’t want me drunk in here.” Tucking the towel back into the waistband of his pants, he pauses in a half-turn to return to those boxes. “You should let Sevreni see it,” the list, “S’good to show initiative.” This is driven from a voice that’s more used to driving belligerence like razor blades, and that defiance is still there, humming just beneath the skin, tightening the muscles of the arms and sending the veins up against the surface of his skin.

The man turns to the boxes, giving Dione a few luxurious moments to look at the back of his head quizzically. So many secrets in there — perhaps it's time to engage the services of one of the weyr gossips? "We had a poetry night in here once. You know, extemporaneous. I nearly died from the ding-dong I heard that night, but sure, if you think more ladies' nights are the option, then we can give it a shot." Even the thought of all the rough-and-tough female riders, not to mention all the old aunties each sitting with a gin and tonic, is enough to make a glimmer of teeth show in a grin. "You wanna help me with that? We could call it topless guy bartender night." She must be joking, right? "How's that friend of yours? The cute, grumpy one."

Sammael freezes and gives Dione a very patent, very male ‘You’ve got to be kidding me‘ look. The weyr’s gossip would be very thin on the man that was once a convict other than to say his release was uneventful and seems to steer clear of people. “Not… what I was thinking, but sure.” Giving his head a shake, he looks to the ceiling for help here, possibly. “I meant, like clear it with Sevreni to have either ladies drink free or really cheap.” He glances at the young woman for a moment, lips thinning beneath the downy blond of the bearded stubble that frames his lips. Turning on the balls of his feet, it is the dangerous predator’s stalk that sends him back towards the bar and where Dione lurks, and something in his eyes brings all of that rage bubbling up to the surface. Placing his hands flat, palms down, on the counter, he leans in as far as his frame will allow. Which, given he’s a fairly tall dude, pretty much almost clears the counter towards Dione’s personal space if he doesn’t move. Surprisingly, his breath smells of whiskey and some kind of cinnamon, “I promise you. If that were me, it would be a blood bath because I would likely be ripping the heads from the shoulders of the ladies that tried to leer at me.” The smile stays, which makes this careful control a little eerie. “Ulrik? Ahhh, darling, you should absolutely,” now humor does fill those blue eyes, so easily seen for how close he is, “absolutely go check and pose that question to him. Do it.” The rage is slowly replaced by the humor of a man who’s setting his best friend under the bus. “Now, I’ll help you most with these boxes, yeah?”

Okay, everything was okay for a second there. Harmless joking with a colleague, talking about drinks, and a little gentle teasing. That's until he gets another stick up his ass somehow, and then he's close to her personal space and she's trembling with the desire not to flee. One doesn't turn one's back on a predator though, and one definitely doesn't punch it, so she has to stand, and bit by bit her jaw hardens as her eyes narrow from sheer indignant terror. "It was a joke. If you didn't like it, just grunt or something, no need to … to loom." Her nose wrinkles. "I'll get my own damn boxes. And stop threatening to rip heads off, okay? It's gross. People are gonna look whether you want them to or not, whether you have a shirt on or not."

“I only promised to not willfully seek harm on Southern,” Sammael murmurs in that dark voice, “Not to not react.” This is perhaps a loophole that he’s working to his advantage here. Pushing off from the counter, it takes a few breaths while he does regain himself - this reintegration with normal society takes its toll - and gives Dione another long, long look. It’s an assessing sort of look that seems to search for the secrets that aren’t writ upon the flesh, and after a fashion he turns back towards his boxes. Whether the girl wants it or not, he’s going to finish what he started. “I’m serious about posing that question to Ulrik,” completely ignoring all that before it, Sammael allows himself a little chortle of laughter, an almost happy sound that’s complete with a little grin that bodes no good for poor Ulrik. With a two-fingered salute to Dione, the thick chain of the bracelet he wears catching on the bones of the wrist, the small mark-sized disc dangling against the ‘softer’ flesh of the underside of the wrist. Then he’s back to hauling boxes into the bar, the inventory that’s been dropped off slowly trickling in until there’s a neatly stacked pyramid. Probably with little else to say, though sometimes he can be re-engaged in that bantering humor, though the man is just one step off of normal polite society. The belligerence and defiance and suspicion hobbling him more than it helps!

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