leon looks up from his drink when he feels you lingering by him. you looked like a little doll. all pink and frilly. jesus christ. it takes him 20 seconds too long to realise you’re probably trying to flirt with him. him. you, princess of fucking fairyland.

“you’re not my type, gorgeous.” he gives you a little shrug. “not into little girls.” he turns back to the big bottle of whiskey in front of him, picking it up. he’s about to take another swig before he realises you’re still there. “the hell d’you want?” he sighs.