2020-01-10 - Dangerous Game of Chicken

The club technically closes at 2 a.m. but most nights that means they roll out of here around four in the morning. The girls have all been seen safely off, which leaves Cristobal without needing to give anyone a ride home tonight. Left to lock up, Cris finally turns on the alarm before sliding out the back door, fitting his key into the lock to throw the deadbolt as well as locking the keypad that gives the girls entrance by simply entering a code. Turning away from the building, he starts swinging his keychain around his middle finger so it does one full rotation before being caught against his palm, only to repeat the process with a rhythmic swirl-clink swirl-clink as he walks to his dark blue '66 Ford Fairlane parked out back.

It so happens that his Fairlane has a loiterer attached. Slouched lazily against the side of the car, to be precise, a dark-haired, sturdily-built fellow in a hoodie and black BDUs. Legs loosely crossed at the ankles, he appears to be fiddling with his phone while burning down a cigarette. His eyes tick up as Cris approaches, following first the swing-snatch of his keys, and then crawling up the rest of the man until they reach his own paler blues. "Me alegro de conocerte aquí," he murmurs, crinkling a vaguely wolfish smile as he shoves his phone away.

"Yeah, fancy that, find me coming out to my own car." Cris slants a half grin at Ruiz before he reaches over and swats the man in the hip. "Don't scratch the paint." Being an older model car, there is no fancy key fob for unlocking the door, it takes a long silver colored eye with a square head put into the keyhole beneath the door handle like god intended. Cris just unlocks the car and pulls back the keys for now, giving Ruiz a slow once over in return. The black BDU's get a smirk. "Trying to fit into the shadows or did you just come back from SWATing someone?" There is a little upnod at the cigarette nearing it's filter as if to silently bid he hand one over.

"Don't scratch the paint? On this bag of bolts?" There's a snort of amusement from the cop, and he gives Cris a light shove in retaliation for that swat. "I'd be doing you a favour." He doesn't even address the comment on his attire, though it's possible he's rolling his eyes. He does, however, tug out his pack of smokes with an irritated noise, and taps out out for Cris. "Came to check on you. After.." Well, does he really need to explain?

"Bag of bolts!" Cris nudges Ruiz' shoulder with the heel of his palm. "Ten times sexier than that rust bucket you drive. I'll have you know men and women alike cream their jeans just by sitting in her seats. The best thing your ride has ever given someone is a whiplash from that shitty suspension." With a woof of a grunt he plucks the offered cigarette out and turns to lean his own back against the driver's side door jamb. "You mean you wanted to see if there's any new slash marks on my arms, or are you referring to the cold shower wack fest that had to happen afterwards while you blissed out on my couch from nose candy?"

He miiiiight be a little bit high at the moment. Or so the blown-out pupils and slightly faltering gaze would suggest. A chortle at the nudge, cigarette brought to his lips and dragged off of nice and slow. He exhales on a sigh, head tipped back to expel smoke out his nose and parted lips. "Grandes palabras para un niño pequeño," he murmurs low, and looks back toward the club as Cris takes up a lean beside him. "How the fuck does that work? Cold water tends to make it.." Shrink. He mimes with his hand. "But no, I wanted to make sure you weren't trying to finish the job. The fuck was that about, anyway?"

"Fuck you, a child. Just because you might be old enough to be my daddy, doesn't mean I'm going to start calling you papi." Cris digs out his own lighter, flaring it and bending his face to the flame until his cigarette catches. "The cold shower is for when jerking off doesn't do the trick. When the fucker won't go back to sleep because all it can think about is cramming into your grizzled face." Cris looks pointedly down at his crouch. "Shut up, I wasn't talking to you. Fuck off." Seems the talking about the memory of it is enough to cause things to start stirring. As to 'finishing the job' Cris grunts as to the why of it, "Got you to lay off, didn't it?"

"In your fucking dreams, Cruz," murmurs Javier around another pull off his smoke, nostrils flaring on the quick exhale. A column of ash is toppled off the end with a flick, flick of his thumb, and he sniffs sharply as if to clear his nose. "Anyone's going to be sucking dick, it won't be me." He touches the cigarette to his mouth again, and keeps his eyes on the club sitting opposite them. It's cold enough out here, he's started to shiver slightly; this weather clearly does not agree with him. "You pulled a knife on yourself. To get me to lay off? That is fucked up."

"You might want to direct your voice south of my belt, because he sure as fuck didn't get the memo." Cris talks to his crotch again, "He's a combative top. What? No, you tell him." Cris starts chasing towards Ruiz, leading with his hips. "He wants you to speak directly into the microphone." Laughing all the while he comes up to Ruiz leg and starts humping at it, completely ignoring the bit about the knife now, in favor of slathering a big layer of bravado on top so it get smothered out.

Ruiz probably has some idea of what Cris is playing at. He wasn't actually born yesterday. The bouncer comes at him, and he tries to grapple his arm behind his back. Except he's holding his smoke in his right hand, which means he has to use his left. Which is all kinds of awkward, and this whole thing with the dick-microphone is making him snickersnort. "Fucking stop it- you want me to bite it off?" He's probably not serious. Just a bit of playful tussling, right? Right? Hard to say, with de la Vega.

Cris' arm is swung behind his back, thankfully retaining his grip on his own cigarette or he'd just have to bum another one. "Oh, you want to dance first? Alright." Well instead of baiting into a fight, Cris is going all Magic Mike on Ruiz, shimmying up and down him while grinding the the very thing threatened by a bite up and down the other man's thigh. "How about you try to break it off when it's shoved up your ass instead?"

Cris may not be gunning for a fight, but a fight's what he's about to get. The comment about breaking it off when it's shoved up his ass seems to use up whatever good favour the man had in reserve with him, and he tucks his cigarette between his lips before winding up and attempting to cold-cock the younger man in the jaw. Hard enough to stun him for a moment, though it's unlikely to bruise. Much. Then he releases his trapped arm, and reaches for Cris's hair instead, aiming to haul him in close so he can murmur, "Why'd you do it? Cut yourself up like that? I want to know."

Cris' head snaps to the side, and although he'll be sporting a nice line of black and blue along his jaw, when he haul's Cris' face back, the bouncer is grinning and working his lower teeth back and forth to make sure nothing is severely damaged. "Aw, why'd you have to stop, soldado, I was getting so close. Just a little more..." He bumps hips again, what might have been a semi before is now raging, rock hard after that punishing blow. "Because it felt good." Is that answer to why he cut himself or why he was grinding on Ruiz' leg? Hard to tell with that shit-eating grin being displayed.

Javier's breath fogs the air as he pants a little, a faintly audible rasp as he watches the other man grin back at him. He seems on the verge of saying something, but then there's that lewd little nudge of Cris's hips, and it breathes a little more life into his own dick than he'd probably like to admit. Lips pulled back in a brief, agitated snarl, he shoves the bouncer away, drags off his cigarette once more, and tosses it to the ground. "I don't like you," he murmurs, grinding the thing out purposefully with the heel of his boot. "But I don't want you dead, either." His dark eyes find Cris's, and remain there. "So don't pull that shit again, or I'm going to be very fucking annoyed, yeah?"

"You don't like me?" Cris says as he goes back to lounging against the car, one hand is bringing up his cigarette to his lips while the other lazily goes to the front of his dark jeans and starts stroking his length through the rough material using his forefinger and ring to make it really stand out in relief against the material. "Or you don't like yourself there, Javier? You can't stand being queer, can you? Hate yourself because you want to bend me over the cold hood of my car and take me raw."

The cop's still standing there, as if rooted in place, while Cris's hand goes to the front of his pants with every intention of making it obvious what he's got going on under there. A slightly stuttering pant from the older man, his breath fogging the air thickly between them. And then he slams the flat of his palm against the side of Cris's car, hard enough to make the thing shudder on impact. Probably hurt like a bitch, too. Then he pushes off, prowls right on in to the man's personal space, and snarls a hair's breadth away from his ear, "Fuck off."

And then, assuming he isn't otherwise caught and stopped, he keeps right on going, headed in a beeline for that mean-looking Charger parked a few rows over.

The words 'Fuck off' in Cris' ear gets punctuated with an inversion of his grip so instead of the bouncer toying with his own erection, he's palming Ruiz' head instead. Firmly, but not hard until Ruiz turns to stalk off. "Have a good evening, Captain. And when you just can't managed to sleep without rubbing one out, grunt my name into your pillow later while you pump into your fist, wishing it was some tight bottom's asshole you were spilling into instead of staining your sheets."

No more words from Ruiz. Just his middle finger cheerfully flipped as he paces backwards a step or two, then pivots away to climb into his car. The ignition's keyed, and the thing guns it out of the lot a few moments later with an aggressive growl.