Don't y'be callin' me t'at, [ Eamonn says easily, the chide nothing more than an amusement carried on by the lilt of his brogue. ] Makes m'sound old.
[ The hotel door shuts behind him with a soft click and he tests it once by the handle (locked) before marking the inside of the doorjam with a bit of saliva from the pad of his thumb. He gives Loren another one of those glances over his shoulder — kid in a candystore — before he returns to the matter of hand. Quick work: the markings traced over with charcoal, accompanied by a few words uttered to the Mother to watch over his prize. It all comes naturally to him, like he's done it a thousand times in the past. (How many girls has he squirreled away behind motel doors in the past? Did he think of them at all, or had he ground their memory to dust like so much sunbleached bone?)
The charcoal goes back into his pocket of his slacks along with his motel key. He jangles the lot of it as he ambles over like he hasn't a care in the world, eyes making note of this detail and that. Too wild, too unfettered and that's what makes her not really his type; Eamonn supposes that's ultimately a good thing for the both of them. Predators make for interesting bedfellows but those sorts of arrangements usually ended in blood and guts and it's not Eamonn's style (even if it may be hers). ]
S'a good look on you, [ he comments, knees brushing up against the bumper as he leans in and kisses her on the mouth. Copper and marrow and life. Oh, how he'd like to skim a little off the top. ]
no subject
[ The hotel door shuts behind him with a soft click and he tests it once by the handle (locked) before marking the inside of the doorjam with a bit of saliva from the pad of his thumb. He gives Loren another one of those glances over his shoulder — kid in a candystore — before he returns to the matter of hand. Quick work: the markings traced over with charcoal, accompanied by a few words uttered to the Mother to watch over his prize. It all comes naturally to him, like he's done it a thousand times in the past. (How many girls has he squirreled away behind motel doors in the past? Did he think of them at all, or had he ground their memory to dust like so much sunbleached bone?)
The charcoal goes back into his pocket of his slacks along with his motel key. He jangles the lot of it as he ambles over like he hasn't a care in the world, eyes making note of this detail and that. Too wild, too unfettered and that's what makes her not really his type; Eamonn supposes that's ultimately a good thing for the both of them. Predators make for interesting bedfellows but those sorts of arrangements usually ended in blood and guts and it's not Eamonn's style (even if it may be hers). ]
S'a good look on you, [ he comments, knees brushing up against the bumper as he leans in and kisses her on the mouth. Copper and marrow and life. Oh, how he'd like to skim a little off the top. ]