002. [Visual] | can't even sell my soul cause it ain't worth shit to take

[fireburned]

Harvestman has apparently figured out what showers are for. His choice of clothes are miraculously clean and look to be only a little bit worn out, the collar frayed, but at least he's got all the buttons there. He's even shaved. He's also, indicated by the clinking of buttons and the rumbling of tumble dryers, is in a laundromat

Comments

[ visual ]

[molotovmartinis]

Oh, lust. It's almost his least favorite sin, but Balthazar will make do. Oh, not like that. In his own inimitable way.

"Well, don't let them tell you class has anything to do with it," he deadpans, sitting back in his chair (the tablet must be perched on a desk) and loosening his tie a little.

[ visual ]

[fireburned]

"Class is overrated." He makes a show of drawling the words out, leaning back and folding his arms. "Class is what you take home to momma to her hate your choice in boyfriends a little more. It ain't what you need for a quick fuck."

[ visual ]

[molotovmartinis]

That provokes a lazy smile, though there's something restless about his eyes that doesn't quite fit with the rest of his reaction. There's interest, sure, but it may not be the kind of interest Harvestman's looking for.

"Oh? You seem to have it figured out. What are the requisite elements for a quick fuck?"

[ visual ]

[fireburned]

Harvestman rolls his jaw, considering Balthazar with a sudden wary look. This wasn't the kind of conversation he usually had with types like him, but more importantly, there was something about the guy he didn't like.

"Depends on if you're paying or not."

[ visual ]

[molotovmartinis]

His eyebrows raise incrementally, though really he's not surprised to hear that. There's no reason he shouldn't be, but after a couple thousand years, you get a feel for your sinners.

"From getting laid to getting paid," Balthazar notes with faked astonishment. "Two common areas of interest for you?" WHOOOOOORE.

[ visual ]

[fireburned]

"Do you want something?" His response is flat; his eyes are narrow and his lips thin against his teeth. He doesn't particularly need sex right now, and he certainly doesn't need this. "I charge for it when it comes to types like you."

[ visual ]

[molotovmartinis]

That serves to interest (and amuse) him more; it's evident in the little tilt of his head, the sharp little smile. "And what type is that? Don't," he says quickly, raising one elegant finger to forestall too quick an answer, "disappoint me, I want a good answer."

[ visual ]

[fireburned]

Harvestman scowls, and for a moment considers not answering. He does, finally, because there's been no real takers so far and he has nothing better to do.

"The ugly-suit wearing, arrogant sons of bitches. Always quick to judge, always so fucking smug," he says. "Happy?"

[ visual ]

[molotovmartinis]

At that, he grins sweetly, lacing his fingers together in front of him. "Funny that you say 'quick to judge'..." Balthazar uses Harvestman's own drawl back at him for the quoted portion of his remark. It's both uncanny and unmistakably Balthazar. "But you're not proud, are you? You'd still take me on if I had the right amount. Which is...?"

[ visual ]

[fireburned]

"What do you want?" His impatience's quickly turned to anger, his posture's tense and hostile now. Harvestman might as well just turn the damn thing off; this creep wasn't going to get him anywhere.