#ripheart

His coat billows, rippling in a stray breeze kicked free from the supercell. Not one to belabor the point, his torso twists toward her. Arms unfurl then reconfigure. They float in the air around her as if impeded by a barrier unseen. Both hands brace the binoculars and guide them in front of her eyes. "You miiiiight have spoken too soon."

Regardless, she doesn't linger too long on the topic. They did have a case to solve, afterall. " We should go, they couldn't of gotten too far from here. And if they have, I'm sure we'll get them. "

His gaze glides back up to Rivet — whose lap he's not keen on leaving just yet — for further direction.

❝ It was… ❞ Deadpan tone indicated his growing displeasure. With a slow swivel of his head, Jabber fixed the younger Raider with a cagey leer, as if to say ❛ keep your mouth shut ❜, even though they seemed to be alone. Still, he paused, allowing her words to register. And she was right. The wind that hissed through the cracks in the walls had died. Nothing scurried. Nothing rustled. Nothing breathed, not even him. Darkness stretched onward, suffocating and weighing heavy on their shoulders. Whether a trick of the mind or not, the sensation of eyes on them had begun. Jabber broke out in goosebumps so suddenly it nearly hurt, every pore expanding and contracting with the hammering of his now-exhilarated heart. Staring into the mouth of the yawning hall ahead, into nebulous black, he made out the curve of what looked like a shoulder, the delicate line of a neck. Visible one moment, then dissolved into the surroundings the next. ❝ Just my luck Boss Man picked today to pair us up. ❞ Tongue clicked against a sharpened canine in obvious disapproval. Despite his intrinsic apathy toward his fellow Raiders, a slow, sinking sensation he preferred not to give name to forced him to reach for Momoa. Calloused fingers wrapped bruisingly tight around her wrist, almost tearing her arm from its socket as he yanked her behind him. If he'd been with someone else who could potentially hold their own, he'd have run off ahead, thrilled to find what awaited him in the shadows, but leaving Momoa behind was a risk. Despite his personal feelings on the matter, if something were to happen to her, he couldn't lie to their leader about the blunder, and despite his rampant desire for Zodyl's hands to brutally rain down on him, he didn't want to die by them. Not yet, anyway. Jabber's hold on Momoa loosened as he planted her hand on the back of his coat, indicating he wanted her to hold on. ❝ You let go, your ass is on its own, ❞ he sternly warned, though his excitement to keep walking warped it in a lively, deranged manner. Previous thoughts of her safety were forcefully shoved down in order for them to get a move on. ❝ I'm only sayin' it once! ❞

“Clooooose, but—” Thick fingers find the cigarette; effortlessly liberating it from her grasp. His advance is unimpeded, quick. The space between them — what little existed — is gone. “If you’re trying to shotgun, babe—” the end is aglow from the heavy drag he pulls. It's left to perch between his lips. He knows he'll need his hands for this next part. One rests atop her thigh; the other slides under her chin and tips it back. Aureate eyes sweep over her face, lingering on her lips. Oh. They’re closed. That can be remedied. His thumb sweeps up and catches her bottom lip. In one deliberate sequence, he tugs it down and releases a reciprocal stream of smoke . . . straight at her mouth. “You do it like that,” he purrs, “Need another demonstration?”

Desire churns within his molten eyes — viscous, glowing. The gears are turning. An idea is forming. A smile stretches slowly, and it heavily favors the left side. His fingers are no longer fixed to her wrist. "Relax," he whispers, "I'm alright." By now, they've drifted up through her hair toward the back of her head. Simultaneously, he angles his head and slowly lifts himself so their lips align. Two quick pecks test the waters. No time is wasted going in for a third. Though this time, he's a bit more demanding. Lips struggle to remain adhered, yet they resist his withdrawal. "S'nice to know you care, though," Enjin purrs, the same shit-eating grin tugging at his lips.

A growl rumbled from the depths of his chest, irritated to the core at how contentious Momoa could occasionally be. Yet despite his exasperation, his desire to keep walking, his inability to stop his eyes from rolling up to the rust-tinged sky, he came to a halt. ❝ Or you can hurry your ass up, ❞ he snapped back, quickly turning on her. ❝ How about that? ❞ It was then that Jabber realized just how slow she really was; how she seemed to struggle to even keep up with the stride of his shadow. They didn't have the time, nor he the patience, to move at her pace. Cursing under his breath, he lunged low for an attack. With his head ducking between her thighs, he gripped her legs near tight enough to snap them in two, then lifted her up and over his shoulders.  ❝ Pissing me off… ❞ he mumbled to himself as he started walking again. ❝ Short fuckin' legs, acting like that's MY problem. SHUT the fuck UP… ❞ But in his rambling, Jabber started to giggle, becoming gradually more and more amused at the way Momoa kept crashing into his back with each stomp. Something in his brain snapped. And then he started to run. In a fit of unhinged laughter, Jabber suddenly began to spin round and round, faster and faster with each rotation. ❝ SHOULD I SLOW DOWN NOW?! ❞