Fuck, I really AM developing a God complex, he thought to himself as he followed Theo to their table, keeping his eyes locked with one of the less-made-up looking blondes. A waitress, who stopped dead in her tracks while balancing a tray full of drinks as she eyed up Graham. She was a girl-next-door type-- a simple, natural beauty-- which, very recently, has become his dish of choice. He'd pursue her later, he decided, and his attention turned to the more made-up (yet still incredibly arousing) witches on stage as he took his seat.
Why wouldn't he develop a God complex? In a few weeks' time, he'd be able to eradicate mudbloods, half-bloods, whomever the fuck he wanted from the planet. It was an added bonus that he barely had to look at a witch to know that she'd be his for the taking.
Theo's question knocked him out of his musings, and he kept his eyes on a topless brunette dancing a broom's length away from him. "Well done, Nott. Well done." Leaning forward, he reached for his firewhisky and took a shot, before lowering the glass once more to pour himself another.
"Just living the life of a professional athlete. I've got a top-notch flat in Falmouth. Quidditch practises thrice a week, matches usually once, maybe twice a week. Off the clock I'm usually going for a run during the day, pub-hopping by night. Usually alone, though sometimes a teammate or two will join."
He nodded in agreement. "That's why I'm hardly in London. Pubs just crawling with filth. Where are we, anyway? Does this... venue have a name?" For if he ever decides to visit again, of course, it would be far easier to apparate here if he knew what it was called.
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Date: 2010-08-20 07:23 pm (UTC)Why wouldn't he develop a God complex? In a few weeks' time, he'd be able to eradicate mudbloods, half-bloods, whomever the fuck he wanted from the planet. It was an added bonus that he barely had to look at a witch to know that she'd be his for the taking.
Theo's question knocked him out of his musings, and he kept his eyes on a topless brunette dancing a broom's length away from him. "Well done, Nott. Well done." Leaning forward, he reached for his firewhisky and took a shot, before lowering the glass once more to pour himself another.
"Just living the life of a professional athlete. I've got a top-notch flat in Falmouth. Quidditch practises thrice a week, matches usually once, maybe twice a week. Off the clock I'm usually going for a run during the day, pub-hopping by night. Usually alone, though sometimes a teammate or two will join."
He nodded in agreement. "That's why I'm hardly in London. Pubs just crawling with filth. Where are we, anyway? Does this... venue have a name?" For if he ever decides to visit again, of course, it would be far easier to apparate here if he knew what it was called.