not that i have a flaming villain fixation / they're just more interesting / barways
( the duke | moulin rouge! )
The taste of iron is hardly pleasant (he suspects he cut his lip when Zidler socked him in the face), and neither is that of extreme jealousy. It still sits in the pit of his stomach (and as much as he'd like to deny it, it's always been there), added to by malcontent at a failed murder. When he reaches the bar, a white handkerchief appears on the counter. He looks mildly shellshocked -- when he'd left the theatre and the raucous cheering within it, he'd only expected the courtyard of the Moulin Rouge, not the bar. Still, he picks up the handkerchief, shaking it out once before pressing it to his mouth, flinching when he draws it away, a definite spot of red on the white fabric.
( mr. nick | the imaginarium of dr. parnassus )
There's a lanky gentleman sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, feet propped up on a small ottoman as he blows smoke rings into the air. He watches each person that goes by with a keen interest, although is overall manner is nothing if not unconcerned. Occasionally, the smoke manifests into other shapes -- dancing devils, fairies, birds, any number of creatures, ships, houses, but all gone in the blink of an eye. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, jacket slung over the back of his chair. A guitar sits nestled in his lap, and he's been picking out a jazzy sort of tune for the last fifteen minutes or so.
( henry blackwood | sherlock holmes '09/slight au )
Seated in a booth, Blackwood is fairly inconspicuous. A glass of water sits just by his elbow, largely abandoned in favor of a fairly worn copy of The Modern Prometheus, better known as Frankenstein.
( miles quaritch | avatar - pre-canon )
This Miles Quaritch hasn't seen Pandora yet. There are no scars on the side of his face, and he isn't a colonel yet. Still, he's a soldier, and the way he holds himself screams it. Dog tags hang around his neck, there's a gun strapped to the pack on his back, and he leaves a slight trail of sand behind him as he heads towards the bar. Sitting down heavily on one of the barstools, he lets out a heavy breath.
"A beer would be nice." Bar, unsurprisingly, obliges.
( lol bonus wildcard | charlie kelly | it's always sunny in philadelphia )
Charlie has fallen asleep at the bar. It's a hell of a nice change from his apartment (there isn't an army of cats outside, for one thing), and he can't say he isn't totally knackered. Around him are scattered papers, on which are scribbles that probably won't be legible to anyone but him, largely because they aren't actually words due to his status as a functioning semi-illiterate.