The man’s snark had softened in his weariness, it appeared. No hard feelings, indeed. Well, that was good. Even if that was a lie and he reported this encounter, there wasn’t all that much to go on besides Ishmael’s physical description; besides, what with the boxing and the stranger’s general attitude, he didn’t exactly seem like the Ministry sort.
So this was all fine and dandy - the boxer had survived (not-too-scathed, if not unscathed), Ishmael had had a convenient meal, the conversation was more civil than it might’ve been otherwise.
Now was probably time to take his leave. Except - Ishmael’s eyes snapped back to him suddenly - he had a question in return. His question was that was supposed to hurt.
“...Didn’t it?” Ishmael inquired, an eyebrow raised, licking his fangs noticeably with his tongue to suggest that it probably should, being bitten, being drunk from. He’d seen it before, men and their bravado, trying to pretend to be tough as nails, fending him off with fists and force like this poor bloke had done. If the insistent struggle didn’t kill them - Ishmael had used to play far freer with that possibility in his youth - it did tend to leave them cowering messes by the time he’d had his fill.
So this was a little unusual. If it hadn’t hurt, he wondered, eyeing the man more curiously, then what? (Ishmael wasn’t especially familiar with the sensation, himself. For the last hundred years, it had usually been him doing the biting, after all.)
So this was all fine and dandy - the boxer had survived (not-too-scathed, if not unscathed), Ishmael had had a convenient meal, the conversation was more civil than it might’ve been otherwise.
Now was probably time to take his leave. Except - Ishmael’s eyes snapped back to him suddenly - he had a question in return. His question was that was supposed to hurt.
“...Didn’t it?” Ishmael inquired, an eyebrow raised, licking his fangs noticeably with his tongue to suggest that it probably should, being bitten, being drunk from. He’d seen it before, men and their bravado, trying to pretend to be tough as nails, fending him off with fists and force like this poor bloke had done. If the insistent struggle didn’t kill them - Ishmael had used to play far freer with that possibility in his youth - it did tend to leave them cowering messes by the time he’d had his fill.
So this was a little unusual. If it hadn’t hurt, he wondered, eyeing the man more curiously, then what? (Ishmael wasn’t especially familiar with the sensation, himself. For the last hundred years, it had usually been him doing the biting, after all.)
