Ishmael licked his lips, wishing they were not already so dry. The boxer was still pretty slumped against the wall; the bloodloss had done its work to subdue him, then. Poor thing. Between that and his injured hand, trying to start another fight was probably out of the bounds of possibility for tonight.

He carefully guided the man by his shoulder and arm downwards against the wall to a better resting position so that he could let go and take a step back - he was better in control of himself, but that didn't mean the glisten of blood across his chest and smeared under his nose wasn't still temptation, now that he knew how the stranger had tasted.

"Now, now, best not say that," Ishmael advised, supposing he was only being as sardonic as the other man, "or we'll have to do it again sometime." He'd never actually say no to a willing donor, of course, but he wasn't sure this was precisely the time to attempt to cultivate a new contact. The lack of consent and the broken hand had - soured the situation, some.

"No hard feelings, though, I hope?" Ishmael said, despite all that, hoping the man would see his stopping and the care he was taking now as some measure of goodwill. If not, he'd just have to leg it.

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