For one, you're too heavy at the crotch and too light on the chest.
[Translation: needs more boobs and less balls. Other specifics could be named but hey, they've got all the time in the world to razz each other later. They might as well gather some good ammo first. From the little they've spoken so far Richie estimates it's gonna come part and parcel with conversation.
Perfect. Speaking his language, this Peter Quill is.
His aesthetics, not so much. Richie casts a look around the bar that speaks volumes. Not of suspicion, not of fear. More just a long, unblinking, "Really?"
He settles into the seat next to the man with one last glance over the shoulder, snorting under his breath at the shady game of dice being tussled over in the back corner, and outright snickering at the modifier Peter begs for.]
Good thing you remembered. Who knows how many extra appendages we'd sprout if you kept the lip zipped? [Can't even trust your own bartender. Fuck, he can't stand this place. The man slides them a pair of tumblrs, bronze-cast and with some tar-black swill swishing against the sides. It reeks of turpentine.
At last, he casts that raised brow on his gracious host. Richie's reaching for the glass but hell if he's not passing judgment.]
Should I be on alert for an ambush kidney harvest, or do you just feel better flying under the long arm of the law?
[Why would this be anyone's first pick of a gin joint?]
yo just wanted to say bless for using Heart's Barracuda on your Mantis log, that's my #1 oldies jam
[Translation: needs more boobs and less balls. Other specifics could be named but hey, they've got all the time in the world to razz each other later. They might as well gather some good ammo first. From the little they've spoken so far Richie estimates it's gonna come part and parcel with conversation.
Perfect. Speaking his language, this Peter Quill is.
His aesthetics, not so much. Richie casts a look around the bar that speaks volumes. Not of suspicion, not of fear. More just a long, unblinking, "Really?"
He settles into the seat next to the man with one last glance over the shoulder, snorting under his breath at the shady game of dice being tussled over in the back corner, and outright snickering at the modifier Peter begs for.]
Good thing you remembered. Who knows how many extra appendages we'd sprout if you kept the lip zipped? [Can't even trust your own bartender. Fuck, he can't stand this place. The man slides them a pair of tumblrs, bronze-cast and with some tar-black swill swishing against the sides. It reeks of turpentine.
At last, he casts that raised brow on his gracious host. Richie's reaching for the glass but hell if he's not passing judgment.]
Should I be on alert for an ambush kidney harvest, or do you just feel better flying under the long arm of the law?
[Why would this be anyone's first pick of a gin joint?]