#sweetbitterbitten

his hand curls over hers where it lays over his chest, amplifying the thump each time it expands against his chest.

His right ear twitches, green eyes quickly scanning over her like he's trying to determine if she's actually, entirely serious. Suspicion takes his expression and Mordecai scoffs.

❛ I beg your pardon? ❜

She gives no immediate follow-up. No clarification or indications she may have misspoken. Mimzy simply regarded him with her tried and true confidence.

❛ I fail to understand the chain of logic that leads from imminent hostility to. . . ❜ He wrinkles his nose. ❛ . . . that. It's--- Why would THAT deescalate anything?❜

The initial tug draws Jon down closer to Mimzy's height. He's wise enough to hold that position as she slides along behind him. The pressure on his throat as she clambers on up makes him cough, but on instinct he's gently catching her thighs and making sure there's no chance in hell she's going to slip. From there, once she's secure, he straightens up to his full height with a heavy huff.

"Of course. Why the hell else do you think I do so many squats? Now- where can your driver take you this fine evening?"

things  said  or  done  with  a  cigarette⎯⎯⎯⎯ 

The stag simply just raised a brow, observing the woman calmly. He was a smoker himself. However, he had his likes and dislikes when it came to what he would smoke. And he certainly was not inclined to accept a smoke from anyone he didn't know. In fact, he didn't accept anything from anyone he didn't know.

People had attempted to target him far too many times for him to trust such a gesture.

So, in stead, he'd snap his fingers, a cigarette appearing between slim digits. Another snap, and a burst of hellfire lit the tip.

Mox was zoned out again. His mind was stuck somewhere between what's for lunch? and what's for dinner? and how quickly does someone die if a garrote doesn't crush their neck vertebrae fast enough?

Then Mimzy's got him by the shirt and she's tugging him down so hard he has to lean forward to maintain his balance, hands flying back, fingers cupping behind his back to counterbalance the pose. That striped tail flicks once, twice.

"You were saying, boss?"

NOW he's locked in.

______________

☛         ⊰  ℳ. ⊱ 

————————

                               Bare skin  ;      bare skin!                        Watch the slew of                                        belittled women go                                                                    round and round and round.

Must be tiring, chest out for the #girlpower box offices when Westminster tiles clack by the same feet that pressed on pinked pretty lips and pearly teeth, smelling.   I want it,   Blackwood had said.

But He, arms and fingers of a trillion variables, could fashion a little omelette with a flip of House of Lords. Crack a few bad eggs and suddenly, Parliament finds its single mid-life feminist u s e f u l. . . . Riches in Adler-plated vaults, safe passage on the canoe down the backs of men. An entrepreneur, a turntable of choice. Where she goes, whether she stays, she won’t be in one of those glass cases between her and him; tattered skin of a dead animal, sold for the art of it.

❝  Is it not yours?   ❞

{pours a cup of chickory coffee}

Initially, his eyes do not move from his notepad. He delicately takes notation, creating a note for himself.

After a beat, the cat sighs through his nose and juts the butt of his pen towards the already open door to his 'office' (more so a pantry closet he's repurposed for his own needs).

❛ Knocking is irrelevant. The door is already open, Miss Mimzy. ❜

It's difficult to tell if he's playing dumb or if he simply has no idea at what she is doing.