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Basile's eyes fluttered wide as he was yanked forward, caught in the tiger's claws. That. That didn't go as planned at all. One second Basile was smiling and undoubtedly charming his way into his new roomate's heart, and the next he was staring down his own demise.
“I’m fucking American. Bitch." The ginger instinctively tried to pull back, his beautiful nose dangerously close to gnashing teeth. “And it really isn't a pleasure, polla.” Basile stumbled back as the ferocious women tossed him away and returned to ignoring him. The gall. He straightened out the new wrinkles in his shirt and opened his mouth to retort, but quickly snapped it shut when her glare caught his eye. Instead, Basile made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and stomped out the door. It was certainly not a retreat, no the battle had just begun. Basile just really needed a smoke.
'Pollo', Basile scoffed, clamoring down the stairs, who the fuck is she to call me a chicken? "Salope." He muttered under his breath, digging out a cigarette and lighter from his pockets. The ginger abjectly ignored the other roomates in favor of scanning the apartment for an open window.
Stalking across the small living area, Basile approached the East wall. The sun was starting to set and a Monet of lights began to paint the city; no doubt a breathtaking sight for someone who hadn't spent their entire life here. Basile grumbled in irritation, unable to find a way to open any of the windows. "What's the point of a wall of windows if you can't actually use them." Basile wove his way through the small gathering in the kitchen and examined the microwave. He sighed, desperate times call for desperate measures, and turned on the exhaust fan.
Lighting up his cigarette, Basile leaned back against the stovetop, careful not to jostle any knobs, and tipped his head back, exhaling a plume of smoke. He watched as the fan quickly took up the majority, saving him the trouble of disabling the smoke director. He smiled faintly around another intake, at least the American couldn't ruin smoking for him.
“I’m fucking American. Bitch." The ginger instinctively tried to pull back, his beautiful nose dangerously close to gnashing teeth. “And it really isn't a pleasure, polla.” Basile stumbled back as the ferocious women tossed him away and returned to ignoring him. The gall. He straightened out the new wrinkles in his shirt and opened his mouth to retort, but quickly snapped it shut when her glare caught his eye. Instead, Basile made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and stomped out the door. It was certainly not a retreat, no the battle had just begun. Basile just really needed a smoke.
'Pollo', Basile scoffed, clamoring down the stairs, who the fuck is she to call me a chicken? "Salope." He muttered under his breath, digging out a cigarette and lighter from his pockets. The ginger abjectly ignored the other roomates in favor of scanning the apartment for an open window.
Stalking across the small living area, Basile approached the East wall. The sun was starting to set and a Monet of lights began to paint the city; no doubt a breathtaking sight for someone who hadn't spent their entire life here. Basile grumbled in irritation, unable to find a way to open any of the windows. "What's the point of a wall of windows if you can't actually use them." Basile wove his way through the small gathering in the kitchen and examined the microwave. He sighed, desperate times call for desperate measures, and turned on the exhaust fan.
Lighting up his cigarette, Basile leaned back against the stovetop, careful not to jostle any knobs, and tipped his head back, exhaling a plume of smoke. He watched as the fan quickly took up the majority, saving him the trouble of disabling the smoke director. He smiled faintly around another intake, at least the American couldn't ruin smoking for him.