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    Summary

    "The Omega not to your tastes?"

    "Fucking Christ," Anti spat, only barely not spilling his drink as he jerked to look at the booth next to him, where Mr. Spice-and-Gunsmoke was leaning back and watching him like that was a totally normal thing to do. "You tryin' to be creepy as all shite?"

    The man hooked a crooked smile, and that did something interesting to his eyes. "Not particularly."

    "Well, congrats, you're a natural," Anti scoffed, and then slipped into the booth because fuck it. He needed a place to set his drink.

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