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</div></div><br/><br/><span style="font-size: 12px">"<i>You're cute</i>," Chance purred, her features beaming with amusement over Brock's latter comment. Reminded of long nights that didn't end with her entangled in borrowed sheets, the Fae bowed her head and found a moment of silence in the midst of music playing and patrons dancing and the officer's hand coming to rest on the cusp of her hip bone, where his fingers traced the curve of flesh beneath what little fabric dared separated them. "I can't remember anyone suggesting I make out with them, which is peculiar considering how many individuals I've made out with." But it wasn't his choice of words that threw her for a loop; humans said silly things ad nauseam. It was how Hazel and Colin danced, in their balance of ease and unease, and ultimately, in how she could see others in the steps they took. <br/>
<br/>
Gently, she hummed quietly to the tune of the song playing, her body tenderly reclining along the line of Brock's upper body. "I can't say my expectations were high. An oaf, lumbering or otherwise, isn't so uncommon when one is looking for a companion in a bar. Regardless of the magical nature of said bar, you're taking a risk each time you try your luck with a stranger." Chance didn't prefer one night stands over emotional intimacy - she merely knew better than to expect something weighty with shadowy figures from seedy places. She also had a tendency to eviscerate individuals she slept with because they made themselves disposable. She was always happy to oblige a deathwish, after all.<br/>
<br/>
"I have a cat as well," she admitted as her portrait turned sidelong, directed at Brock so she could brush her lips to his, her body soon following suit so she was pressed flush to his larger frame. "A relative of the first cat I ever owned. That was..." She found the words difficult because her attention no longer had any desire to discuss cats or how his phone played for strangers or how she had holes she would never fill and sex was only to pass the time of an incredibly long existence. The blonde sighed, listless and melancholic, beautiful in the way flowerbeds drowning in the rain were. <br/>
<br/>
"<i>A long time ago.</i>" The whisper fed into a kiss, her lips accepting his, surrendering the full embrace of needy buds seeking affection in any manner they might receive it. She didn't want permanence, no. Chance wanted something to make her nights seem less futile and her days less remorseful. <br/>
</span><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="2986" data-username="@GMO" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/2986/">@GMO</a>