Log: Clarice & Kyle
Dec. 17th, 2017 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsBackdated to December 17, 2017, Kyle & Clarice decide to burn off some excess energy and anger with an old fashioned bar fight. Then they decide to go work out their energy in more private ways.
Clad in a pair of ripped skinny jeans, combat boots and a white and black flannel plaid shirt, Clarice knocked on Kyle's door instead of just barging in. "You ready?" she asked with a feral grin. "I know the perfect place to go. Wrap your hands if you want them to stay pretty."
Kyle snorted as he jammed one foot into a wooly sock and then a motorcycle boot - he hated shoes, he hated cold toes more. Plus, 'no shoes no shirt no service' meant no -beer-. "Aw, you think my hands are pretty." He said, grinning back. "I got tape in my pocket, what kind of unprepared idiot do you think I am?"
Rolling her eyes, Clarice leaned against the wall, "The kind who tapes his hands AFTER the fight begins," clearly, duh. "And why are you bothering with shoes? You hate them and you look stupid wearing them."
"I hate stepping on spilled beer more, it's gross." Kyle protested. "And ima not tape my hands until we get whereever. I mean, like, what if it's a gay bar and I gotta pick prettier tape?" He did actually have some sparkle tape that he was going to give Clarice, but for the right kind of bar, it might suit him more. "Is it a gay bar, because like, my hair is not gonna get me any dates." He was shaggy. Real shaggy. And not quite long enough to tie it back.
Okay, the spilled beer made a lot of sense. Ew. "Aaww, you think we're going to a gay bar," she cooed, amused, "Nah. This is more 'beers and steers.' And you're right, that hair is atrocious, but I thought you were just Jay-sexual when it came to guys? Or have I spent too much time in the labs again?" Entirely possible between the lab and her sewing machine. Clothing did not make themselves though.
"Way too much time, yo." Kyle said. "And eh, I mean, mostly only that guy, but I can be flexible, cause it's not like I'm getting laid much otherwise, and some dudes are okay. Quire's okay." Quire had in fact been way more than okay, if just a little younger than Kyle usually was in to. "Worthington's okay looking, which you know, feathers are my jam. Hank McCoy's not bad if you like, I mean, he's not really a bear but, you know."
Quire was okay? Clarice couldn't say anything, but she definitely did not agree. "Oh, I've banged Worthington. 10/10 would do again," she mentioned easily, "but he's in a relationship now. And being monogamous, which....is probably a good thing, but kinda surprising." Once he was ready, she opened a portal, taking them to a bar in Texas. She had promised beers and steers after all. "Hank is cute. Well, this Hank. Fucking duct tape world. I know it's terrible, but I just....hide in the lab and sewing because I hate it sometimes. The differences. And I am too sober for this."
"Yo. For reals. For the sober part." Kyle dutifully handed over the very sparkly very teal tape from his pockets and showed Clarice the much more boring black tape he'd kept for himself. "Won't match your mani, but I saw it in the limited edition bin. Dollar from every purchase went to Outsports." He'd bought five, the other four were down in the gym waiting to be adopted by whoever really wanted sparkly colorful wrap tape.
Oh, sparkly teal tape! "You get me the sweetest presents," she said, meaning it. Not many girls would appreciate teal sparkly knuckle tape, but she definitely did. "Eh, the mani changes. It'll survive. Or I'll redo it later," whatever. "Dude. Next time, buy it all, I'll pay you back," knuckles wrapped, she grinned, offering her fist to bump. "Ready to be muties?"
"I'm the best ex." Kyle declared. "Always. I could use some punch a redneck bigot after the week I've had. I haven't done that since..." He thought. "Jesus, I haven't gotten to punch a bigot since Alaska. Man. I am slipping."
"Way too long, for sure," Clarice opened a portal taking them to a run down bar along a desolate strip of highway in west Texas. "Beers, streets and now, queers. I wonder if they have that on the jukebox?"
They did not, much to Kyle's proclaimed disappointment as he dropped quarters into the jukebox at the entrance. Nor did they have any Tom Jones, nor anything else that he thought would lend itself to a really good start of a bar fight. He donated his quarters to the memory of Johnny Cash and punched in his cover of Hurt, because some brave soul had put that CD at the very end of the otherwise bland generic redneck country selection of music on the jukebox.
A little slow for a bar fight, but otherwise, completely apropro. Smiling ferally, Clarice turned, letting everyone get a good look at her and then, in turn, Kyle. "Howdy," she greeted the denizens, standing loose and ready. She was not disappointing as the first slurs were hurled while she strutted towards the bar, "Two of whatever's on tap," she told the bartender as he gaped at her.
At one point, that sort of scrutiny, the stares, bothered her. Now she knew, they were all waiting for someone to make the first move.
==
Kyle ducked a swung fist, and kicked it's owner in the shin, and glanced over at Clarice as she elbowed a guy with some really poorly drawn tattoos in the neck. "You wanna flee before or after they call the cops?" He asked, faux-casually.
"After," she replied, "Unless you wanna drive the gettaway car?" She ducked under someone swinging a pool cue, kicking the guy behind her before diving at pool-cue.
"I mean, you're the gettaway car." Kyle said, more thoughtfully than one might expect from a man who had just punched another man in the ear. "So like, on one hand, if you're offering, sure, and on the other hand, I think this bar is probably not ready for that."
The joys of long, pointed weapons. Pool cues weren't sharp, but that was their benefit in a fight like this, "I mean unless you wanted to hotwire one," she clarified, "which then requires more time and effort to y'know, get away. I'm much quicker. But I'm easy. And flexible," what was a little grand theft auto in situations like this? As she spoke, Clarice jabbed a guy in the stomach, catching the cue on his gut and using the momentum to swing him into his buddies. It was almost like bowling!
"'Rice, I've had, like, first-hand." Kyle pulled the original bigot who had objected to his ears and Clarice's whole face into a chokehold. "experience with your flexibility. I mean, I'm not saying no." He flipped the man onto the pool table. "I'm just saying if this bar fight's an excuse for a hookup." And then skidded out of the way of original-bigot's bigot-buddy's wild swings. "We outta do that at home where the beer's better."
Turning, Clarice just stared, jaw unhinged. She barely even noticed when some lug tackled her, body operating on auto pilot until she was upright again. "Hell yeah!" a hookup hadn't been her intention or expectation, but if it was on the table then she was absolutely willing. Kyle's stamina and flexibility were amazing.
"Hey now, no chance of hookup." The bigot - the second one, not the OG bigot he'd thrown into the pool table was making gagging noises, even as Kyle punched him in the ear. "If you let some redneck who..." And now Kyle got distracted and had to practically dive away from a swung bar stool. "Needs a shower. Yo. Dude." He had his arm wrapped around Bigot The Smelly's neck. "Bro. You need a shower. You smell like meth." He shoved the bigot into the pool table and broke the pool cue over his knee. "Seriously, do these guys smell like meth to you? Anyway if you let them hit you, then you'll be too bruised for a hookup."
"No such thing as too bruised for a hookup," Clarice protested, though she did manage to re-engage her brain enough to rejoin the fight, "Unless you think I'm not as cute bruised. In which case, fuck you," she kicked a guy hard in the nads, pushing him into a buddy of his, "And I don't know what meth smells like. They all smell like dead ass to me."
"I'm just being respectful!" Kyle protested, and shoved Smelly back into the pool table. He was a persistent bigoted meth-head, Kyle had to give him credit for that. "I mean, you're always cute." Also she could generally kick ass, which was pretty much Kyle's number one criteria for hookups. "You were cute bald with no eyebrows, but I'm not gonna assume the hookup if you're injured."
Okay, that was fair. There were probably people that thought they were too bruised for a hookup and needed to wait until they healed. Given that she had danced as a child before moving into fencing and then sword fighting and combat training well....bruises happened. They did not stop hookups. "I was not cute with that terrible blonde wig," Clarice grinned, slamming the meth head's face into the bar. "And stay down, you dumb fuck!"
"Meth smells like cat pee." Kyle shoved his way past another meth-bro towards Clarice. "And eh, I mean the wig could've been better but, I mean, you do what you gotta do when you're bald, right?" He would've spent more time considering this, but the wig no longer existed, at least in a way that meant it was on Clarice's head, ever. "I mean. Okay, can we go, because I don't wanna keep fighting guys who smell like meth if it means ima smell like meth."
"Oh, good," Clarice punched a guy who was dumb enough not to stay down, then opened a portal, "You numbnuts follow and you'll end up missing bits of yourself," she warned as a couple tried to follow them through.
Arriving back at the mansion, she grinned, "I burned the wig in effigy."
"Aw, man, and you didn't invite me?"
Clad in a pair of ripped skinny jeans, combat boots and a white and black flannel plaid shirt, Clarice knocked on Kyle's door instead of just barging in. "You ready?" she asked with a feral grin. "I know the perfect place to go. Wrap your hands if you want them to stay pretty."
Kyle snorted as he jammed one foot into a wooly sock and then a motorcycle boot - he hated shoes, he hated cold toes more. Plus, 'no shoes no shirt no service' meant no -beer-. "Aw, you think my hands are pretty." He said, grinning back. "I got tape in my pocket, what kind of unprepared idiot do you think I am?"
Rolling her eyes, Clarice leaned against the wall, "The kind who tapes his hands AFTER the fight begins," clearly, duh. "And why are you bothering with shoes? You hate them and you look stupid wearing them."
"I hate stepping on spilled beer more, it's gross." Kyle protested. "And ima not tape my hands until we get whereever. I mean, like, what if it's a gay bar and I gotta pick prettier tape?" He did actually have some sparkle tape that he was going to give Clarice, but for the right kind of bar, it might suit him more. "Is it a gay bar, because like, my hair is not gonna get me any dates." He was shaggy. Real shaggy. And not quite long enough to tie it back.
Okay, the spilled beer made a lot of sense. Ew. "Aaww, you think we're going to a gay bar," she cooed, amused, "Nah. This is more 'beers and steers.' And you're right, that hair is atrocious, but I thought you were just Jay-sexual when it came to guys? Or have I spent too much time in the labs again?" Entirely possible between the lab and her sewing machine. Clothing did not make themselves though.
"Way too much time, yo." Kyle said. "And eh, I mean, mostly only that guy, but I can be flexible, cause it's not like I'm getting laid much otherwise, and some dudes are okay. Quire's okay." Quire had in fact been way more than okay, if just a little younger than Kyle usually was in to. "Worthington's okay looking, which you know, feathers are my jam. Hank McCoy's not bad if you like, I mean, he's not really a bear but, you know."
Quire was okay? Clarice couldn't say anything, but she definitely did not agree. "Oh, I've banged Worthington. 10/10 would do again," she mentioned easily, "but he's in a relationship now. And being monogamous, which....is probably a good thing, but kinda surprising." Once he was ready, she opened a portal, taking them to a bar in Texas. She had promised beers and steers after all. "Hank is cute. Well, this Hank. Fucking duct tape world. I know it's terrible, but I just....hide in the lab and sewing because I hate it sometimes. The differences. And I am too sober for this."
"Yo. For reals. For the sober part." Kyle dutifully handed over the very sparkly very teal tape from his pockets and showed Clarice the much more boring black tape he'd kept for himself. "Won't match your mani, but I saw it in the limited edition bin. Dollar from every purchase went to Outsports." He'd bought five, the other four were down in the gym waiting to be adopted by whoever really wanted sparkly colorful wrap tape.
Oh, sparkly teal tape! "You get me the sweetest presents," she said, meaning it. Not many girls would appreciate teal sparkly knuckle tape, but she definitely did. "Eh, the mani changes. It'll survive. Or I'll redo it later," whatever. "Dude. Next time, buy it all, I'll pay you back," knuckles wrapped, she grinned, offering her fist to bump. "Ready to be muties?"
"I'm the best ex." Kyle declared. "Always. I could use some punch a redneck bigot after the week I've had. I haven't done that since..." He thought. "Jesus, I haven't gotten to punch a bigot since Alaska. Man. I am slipping."
"Way too long, for sure," Clarice opened a portal taking them to a run down bar along a desolate strip of highway in west Texas. "Beers, streets and now, queers. I wonder if they have that on the jukebox?"
They did not, much to Kyle's proclaimed disappointment as he dropped quarters into the jukebox at the entrance. Nor did they have any Tom Jones, nor anything else that he thought would lend itself to a really good start of a bar fight. He donated his quarters to the memory of Johnny Cash and punched in his cover of Hurt, because some brave soul had put that CD at the very end of the otherwise bland generic redneck country selection of music on the jukebox.
A little slow for a bar fight, but otherwise, completely apropro. Smiling ferally, Clarice turned, letting everyone get a good look at her and then, in turn, Kyle. "Howdy," she greeted the denizens, standing loose and ready. She was not disappointing as the first slurs were hurled while she strutted towards the bar, "Two of whatever's on tap," she told the bartender as he gaped at her.
At one point, that sort of scrutiny, the stares, bothered her. Now she knew, they were all waiting for someone to make the first move.
==
Kyle ducked a swung fist, and kicked it's owner in the shin, and glanced over at Clarice as she elbowed a guy with some really poorly drawn tattoos in the neck. "You wanna flee before or after they call the cops?" He asked, faux-casually.
"After," she replied, "Unless you wanna drive the gettaway car?" She ducked under someone swinging a pool cue, kicking the guy behind her before diving at pool-cue.
"I mean, you're the gettaway car." Kyle said, more thoughtfully than one might expect from a man who had just punched another man in the ear. "So like, on one hand, if you're offering, sure, and on the other hand, I think this bar is probably not ready for that."
The joys of long, pointed weapons. Pool cues weren't sharp, but that was their benefit in a fight like this, "I mean unless you wanted to hotwire one," she clarified, "which then requires more time and effort to y'know, get away. I'm much quicker. But I'm easy. And flexible," what was a little grand theft auto in situations like this? As she spoke, Clarice jabbed a guy in the stomach, catching the cue on his gut and using the momentum to swing him into his buddies. It was almost like bowling!
"'Rice, I've had, like, first-hand." Kyle pulled the original bigot who had objected to his ears and Clarice's whole face into a chokehold. "experience with your flexibility. I mean, I'm not saying no." He flipped the man onto the pool table. "I'm just saying if this bar fight's an excuse for a hookup." And then skidded out of the way of original-bigot's bigot-buddy's wild swings. "We outta do that at home where the beer's better."
Turning, Clarice just stared, jaw unhinged. She barely even noticed when some lug tackled her, body operating on auto pilot until she was upright again. "Hell yeah!" a hookup hadn't been her intention or expectation, but if it was on the table then she was absolutely willing. Kyle's stamina and flexibility were amazing.
"Hey now, no chance of hookup." The bigot - the second one, not the OG bigot he'd thrown into the pool table was making gagging noises, even as Kyle punched him in the ear. "If you let some redneck who..." And now Kyle got distracted and had to practically dive away from a swung bar stool. "Needs a shower. Yo. Dude." He had his arm wrapped around Bigot The Smelly's neck. "Bro. You need a shower. You smell like meth." He shoved the bigot into the pool table and broke the pool cue over his knee. "Seriously, do these guys smell like meth to you? Anyway if you let them hit you, then you'll be too bruised for a hookup."
"No such thing as too bruised for a hookup," Clarice protested, though she did manage to re-engage her brain enough to rejoin the fight, "Unless you think I'm not as cute bruised. In which case, fuck you," she kicked a guy hard in the nads, pushing him into a buddy of his, "And I don't know what meth smells like. They all smell like dead ass to me."
"I'm just being respectful!" Kyle protested, and shoved Smelly back into the pool table. He was a persistent bigoted meth-head, Kyle had to give him credit for that. "I mean, you're always cute." Also she could generally kick ass, which was pretty much Kyle's number one criteria for hookups. "You were cute bald with no eyebrows, but I'm not gonna assume the hookup if you're injured."
Okay, that was fair. There were probably people that thought they were too bruised for a hookup and needed to wait until they healed. Given that she had danced as a child before moving into fencing and then sword fighting and combat training well....bruises happened. They did not stop hookups. "I was not cute with that terrible blonde wig," Clarice grinned, slamming the meth head's face into the bar. "And stay down, you dumb fuck!"
"Meth smells like cat pee." Kyle shoved his way past another meth-bro towards Clarice. "And eh, I mean the wig could've been better but, I mean, you do what you gotta do when you're bald, right?" He would've spent more time considering this, but the wig no longer existed, at least in a way that meant it was on Clarice's head, ever. "I mean. Okay, can we go, because I don't wanna keep fighting guys who smell like meth if it means ima smell like meth."
"Oh, good," Clarice punched a guy who was dumb enough not to stay down, then opened a portal, "You numbnuts follow and you'll end up missing bits of yourself," she warned as a couple tried to follow them through.
Arriving back at the mansion, she grinned, "I burned the wig in effigy."
"Aw, man, and you didn't invite me?"
