ashe barks out a laugh, smoke billowing from her red lips and floating up, up, up against the ceiling of the deadlock gang’s hideout.

“four kills? really?” ashe jeers at her men, jabbing a thumb in your direction, “you let this precious little girl work this mission all by herself? how did none of you take out any?”

she ignores your noise of protest, but ashe can feel the embarrassment from the prolonged attention drip out of you in waves.

“to be fair, boss, she just—” one of her crewmen starts, but ashe dismisses him quickly with a wave of her hand.

“nope. don’t wanna hear it. not ‘til you get your shit together and start workin’ better than a freshly graduated schoolgirl— a girl who can aim well-off with a rusty pistol than you could with the finest rifle in town,” ashe quips, leaning back on the couch with both her arms propped up on the headrest.

ashe’s gaze flicks to you.

“i’ll get you a drink,” she says, nodding to the bartender behind the counter— her employed bartender, her bar. daddy’s money had been real useful in starting her little gang hideout.

ashe continues talking before you can protest— she really does love interrupting people, doesn’t she?

“you did well today, sugar. surprised you showed these old men up,” ashe grins lazily, tilting her head, “come sit here on the couch. not those lousy ass stools those bastards are on, here. you deserve it.”

ashe pats the space on the couch beside her, before resting her arm (again) back on the headrest. she takes space— loves to.