The former snorted, and the latter could not stifle a laugh that complimented the mighty clap to his back.
Which had—somehow, if he could stand straight—him staring into the eyes of the last fucker he had ever wanted to see.
Moloch smugly leered at him. "Well, well, well: What coincidence is this?" he drawled, placing his meaty hands on the table, hands that were all too close to the region Malik never wanted him to touch, if he was not appalled by his mere presence, at all. "It's been a while, right?"
Some inmates who were seated near the line perked their heads up in interest at the baritone voice, knowing that "The Bull" was one of those people you never fucked with, only get fucked by. Malik hid his scowl, though feigning neutrality was much more difficult than reining in the urge to throw the shitty food in the other's face—he could feel the watchful yet menacing states of his companions, and the shift in disposition provided a bit of relief to him, although the dilemma still pressed into his head, like a torturous migraine. Fisting the ladle, he snapped his head to the side and scooped up more of the mystery meat, attempting to dunk it into the metal plate and get it over with.
But Moloch had other plans.
"Come, why are you turning that pretty little face, hm? Indulge a man."
Malik withdrew his hand and did not look.
And the fingers that gripped his jaw were like ice.
Sardonically chuckling, "The Bull" wrenched his face to the font and grinned, much to the rampant amusement that flooded around the entire cafeteria, seeming to feed off of the excited chatter and looks of great interest. His heavy breathing gusted over Malik's ear as he widened his sign of pleasure, and the latter had to bite back a growl, as well as bile that rose to the back of his tongue. Damn the implied laws that were set in stone, aside from his status: He was not that same "fresh meat" from last year, but it still grinded his gears to know that all he could do was back off as best as he could, unless he wanted to get into deep shit. The very thought of his futile struggle winning the desire to punch the fatass' lights out had his fingers locked around the kitchen utensil—not even Bartolommeo and Shaun could have done much, particularly when the physical and social matters clashed into one big mess.
Slop Day, Every Day (3/7) of [1/1]
Which had—somehow, if he could stand straight—him staring into the eyes of the last fucker he had ever wanted to see.
Moloch smugly leered at him. "Well, well, well: What coincidence is this?" he drawled, placing his meaty hands on the table, hands that were all too close to the region Malik never wanted him to touch, if he was not appalled by his mere presence, at all. "It's been a while, right?"
Some inmates who were seated near the line perked their heads up in interest at the baritone voice, knowing that "The Bull" was one of those people you never fucked with, only get fucked by. Malik hid his scowl, though feigning neutrality was much more difficult than reining in the urge to throw the shitty food in the other's face—he could feel the watchful yet menacing states of his companions, and the shift in disposition provided a bit of relief to him, although the dilemma still pressed into his head, like a torturous migraine. Fisting the ladle, he snapped his head to the side and scooped up more of the mystery meat, attempting to dunk it into the metal plate and get it over with.
But Moloch had other plans.
"Come, why are you turning that pretty little face, hm? Indulge a man."
Malik withdrew his hand and did not look.
And the fingers that gripped his jaw were like ice.
Sardonically chuckling, "The Bull" wrenched his face to the font and grinned, much to the rampant amusement that flooded around the entire cafeteria, seeming to feed off of the excited chatter and looks of great interest. His heavy breathing gusted over Malik's ear as he widened his sign of pleasure, and the latter had to bite back a growl, as well as bile that rose to the back of his tongue. Damn the implied laws that were set in stone, aside from his status: He was not that same "fresh meat" from last year, but it still grinded his gears to know that all he could do was back off as best as he could, unless he wanted to get into deep shit. The very thought of his futile struggle winning the desire to punch the fatass' lights out had his fingers locked around the kitchen utensil—not even Bartolommeo and Shaun could have done much, particularly when the physical and social matters clashed into one big mess.