mayhaps some grim with a tall s/o if you’re so inclined
“Puuuuuuunch me... in the mouth.”
“... -- What did you just say?”
“Grim -- What?”
“Ohmygod --”
Grim, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers in the back booth of 79′s, isn’t surprised when Fennec drops his head to the table in exasperation. Fennec gets it, or... well, sort of. Not really. The Lieutenant is just beginning to realize he might of bitten off more than he could chew when tagging along with Lucky, Smokeshow, Grim and Shade for a couple of drinks.
Grim, sipping his Alderaan imported beer, juts his tattooed jaw in the direction of you. You’d walked by and... Gods... the things he’d let you do to him.
You’re in the middle of the crowd; dancing, laughing, looking world-endingly beautiful. And tall. Very tall.
Lucky groans, rubbing his eyes with his palms as he takes a break from his incredibly fruity cocktail, completely with little faux-lightsabers skewering the fruit dangling off the rim. “Not this again.”
“I’m sorry I have taste --”
Shade is quick to make a sound of agreement. “I’m into it.”
“See! Shade’s got taste, too. Tall women are a gift.”
Grim waves the other’s off, ignoring Smokeshow’s weighted consideration. The blonde has a type, one he typically doesn’t stray from, and it shows when he shakes his head and throws a finger in the direction of their lovely waitress, Sh’awna. The works every Friday, second shift. She likes the Talon boys... probably because they tend to be well-behaved and tip well enough for her to deal with Smokeshow’s never ending string of pick-up lines.
Grim makes a face. “Of course, it’s always the Twi’s with you, Smokes.”
“Can you blame me?”
“No.”
It’s a chorus of agreement, all the eyes at the table lingering on the passing hips of another waitress cradling a bucket of neon jello shots that glow in the bar’s black lighting.
Grim inhales, finishes his beer, and nudges Fennec. He groans.
“Move it, el-tee,” Grim chirps, “I’m makin’ moves.”
“Oh?” Shade laughs, leaning back in the booth, “Look at you, Grimmy boy.”
“Listen, unlike you chumps,” he places his hand upon his black decorated chest-plate as he speaks, drumming his knuckles on the table as he stands, “I’ve got game.”
“Psh.”
“Oh, c’mon --”
“Ladies love a boy who isn’t afraid to be the little spoon,” Grim winks.
And the gathered Talon Squad can hardly pick their jaws up from the floor when, sure enough, you’re trading your personal comm-link code with his -- and Grim is left to happily buy you a drink as you settle nice and close to him by the bar.
The smooth bastard.
