"I'm used to being alone. After all, being an abandoned child ... " She stopped, mid-sentence, taking a drag of the thin, white stick between her lips. In less than a second, she had rolled her eyes, and looked away from the man she was addressing, as if not seeing fit to disclose any more of her past. This was not exactly so. She had simply stopped trying to detail the status of her family tree ... not that she had ever started doing so at any given time. There was very little to discuss, in her opinion, anyway. As if forgetting she had ever said anything, she withdrew a small booklet from her pocket, not caring for the various people - namely men - who were clamouring around her upon glancing at the front cover.

"Ugh. Get your own, this issue is mine." She mumbled, though she did not exactly seem to care whether they looked or not. It seemed that her entertainment was a priority, and it was entertainment that could not be provided by any of the male inhabitants of the bar ... indeed, she was the only female sat drinking upon a cheap, mass-produced bar stool. As she glanced around the dank bar, she noted just how much she stood out against the other characters in the bar. Such a fact did not seem to faze the girl, however, as she leafed through the glossy pages of the magazine, her smirk growing wider with each page. She appeared to be enjoying the images of the barely-dressed (and sometimes not even dressed at all) women, placed in elaborate photo-shoots (and usually in more than erotic poses), much more than the men surrounding her - all of whom were fixated much more readily upon the lone female. To any outsider, it would not have been clear as to which reason they were staring; on one hand, she was an attractive female in comparison to most in the area, and a blonde - something of a rarity - to boot. On the other, she was clad in an outfit worth of most male gunslingers, made predominantly from black leather, and was leafing intently through a pornographic magazine designed for the male species. No man would have been blamed for being confused.

"The quality of these issues is decreasing." The woman was either unaware of the men surrounding her, or just ignoring them. Her address was to the one male in the bar she actually sought to talk to - the bartender.

"Nude models don't come as easy as they used to." He stated simply, seemingly not paying as much attention to the woman as he was the unpolished glasses that littered his bar.

"Yeah, well they should hurry up and come," She shrugged in return, closing the glossy pages and sighing, before leaning back on her stool, against the streaked wooden wall of the building - the group of men that had surrounded her had disbanded when the nude images had disappeared. She folded her arms, only ever removing them from their position to take sips of the amber liquor perched next to the closed magazine. "Hot chicks are getting as thin on the ground as valuable kills." By this point in the conversation, her expression took on a somewhat disgruntled tone, allowing the female to glance around the bar in order to, perhaps, scope out either any female who may have entered in limited period of time, or anyone who may have a price upon their head.

"Hah. There's probably a link between the two." The bartender chuckled a little to himself, as he attempted to polish the glasses, giving up almost instantly. From the look upon the girl's face, he was the only one who had found the joke funny.

"I'll be pissed if I've been killing my only chances of some fun - literally." Her expression did not betray her words - though rather than 'pissed', she looked, perhaps, only a little annoyed. The very idea of being angry did not strike the girl as something she wanted to engage in - it did not take an extreme amount of anger, if any at all, for her to kill a person. Indeed, killing to her, was something of a hobby, though as with all hobbies, she did not engage in it unless there was some form of call for it. For the most part, she would only kill another person if she would get paid for it soon afterwards. This being said, it was always an unwritten rule not to engage in a bar fight with the platinum-blonde ... it was always suspected that this was brought about by her intimate relationship with her guns, as well as several bodies riddled with bullet-holes that had been found in her last residence. It was only as the bartender leaned across the table to speak to her once again, having abandoned the dirty glasses, that her expression changed slowly.

"You know you could always try guys." Her smirk widened with his - she did not feel like she was mistaken when reading his face.

"Aw, Franz. You're my best friend. Best friends don't fuck." The girl stated this with complete simplicity, however, there was at least some truth in what she said. In her book, at least, she would never have sex with one she called her best friend - her reasons for doing so, however, remained as sealed as an unopened pornographic magazine. Perhaps it was a little sad that the closest thing to a best friend she had was her usual bartender, who was itching to have sex with her. It was just as 'Franz' (he did not have the heart to tell the blonde girl that it was not his real name) opened his mouth to speak that the door mimicked his action, allowing for a curved silhouette to be highlighted in the doorway, before emerging into the light of the bar. The smirk that had been growing on the girl's face grew even wider as she examined the girl that had just appeared - it was a situation in which most would have been even a little suspicious. Instead, the blonde was a mixture of amazed, entertained ... and naturally, aroused.

"Hey," a single word, spoke in a commanding tone, was all that was needed to grasp the other female's attention. It was that split second - that was all the blonde needed to set her 'plan' (if a stab in the dark at engaging in sexual activity could be called that) into action. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" The line itself, was one of the most overused that could be thought of, however, it was commonly overused by the male gender. It was rather easy to see that the flirtatious female was not male. Her words had already caused the 'new girl' to turn, and as she had done so, the flirt had taken the opportunity to slip a hand around her shoulder.

"Is this some kind of joke?" It was a look of indignation upon the other woman's face, which soon turned to an amalgamation of surprise and strange pleasure. It was apparent that this was something of a new experience to her, as both she, and the rest of the bar's population, noted the blonde female's thin hand making it's way down the shirt - if it could even be called a shirt - of the other female. This matter was, perhaps, helped, by the fact that the second female seemed to be a particularly buxom brunette, and so the opposing blonde was able to access her breasts rather easily.

"No joke." The blonde whispered, the smirk upon her face seeming to be permanent, as she teased, moving the second hand - which had, until now, been motionless - to the brunette's waist, poised to entertain much more than she was already doing. It was as if the males that drunkenly littered the bar were awaiting the moment with bated breath, preparing themselves to watch as much as the girl was preparing herself to move. It was just as her fingers snapped open the clasp on the buxom woman's skirt that the door of the bar opened - or in this case, detached from its hinges and came crashing to the floor.

"Butterfly." Where, at first, this word might have seen random, when murmured through the bar, the blonde girl dropped her stance almost instantly, looking toward the figure that had destroyed the door. He was, admittedly, handsome, though Butterfly was almost tempted to kick herself for admitting it. Although, handsome as he was (in a strangely worn and rugged way), he stood with an arrogance that she found unbearable. The expression on his face never changed from that of smugness, almost as if to say 'I'm better than you, no matter what,' ... such a smugness irritated her to what she could only call her finger tips ... or freshly painted nails, grown only to serve her in battle. Upon Butterfly's face was a look of near-exasperation - nobody could blame her for this, considering the arrogant male had just prevented her from claiming her prize - indeed, the brunette had picked up her garment and placed it back on, apparently not eager to continue.

"Ugh, you idiot. You always did have the worst possible timing, but of course you're too stupid to admit it," The female sighed, though fully intended to keep her words sharp as blades. The male in front of her had not changed in the slightest - she had not changed the way in which she addressed him. "I was about to have some fun ... " She continued, hardly changing her stance aside from, maybe, to cross her arms below her breasts. Admittedly they were not very large, however, she had always maintained that large breasts were for her hands to touch - on herself, they would be far too inconvenient.

"Hmm? You're no longer a man-eater, I see," Came the response from the male, his eyes narrowing as he stepped towards her slightly - Butterfly could not mistake the sensation that meant his eyes were upon her body, particularly because she was almost as tall as him ... and his eyes certainly made no contact with hers. "But you've turned to eating something else." The smirk that crossed his face connoted nothing else but his headstrong and overconfident nature. The female opposite did not detract from studying his eyes ... or at least, not until she saw a glint of silver in his pocket. At first, the girl guessed at some form of blade, though noted soon after wards that the male, much like herself, did not see fit to use blades - to the two of them, a gun was a much more reliable ally. As his hand seemed to move within his pocket, so did the weapon, it seemed ... and as Butterfly reached for her own, her pupils contracted - she could not fetch her coat now. As she scanned the male ever more, his palm turning almost continuously, she felt she had to think fast, and at least distract him from his plan - whatever it was - for as long as she could.

"Oh, and who's fault is that? The sex was so bad, Daemon, that I turned to girls, can ya blame me?" As dangerous as it was for Daemon to have a gun, it seemed Butterfly did not seem to be able to let her quick tongue rest. Apparently, he was insulted - she could only tell by the fact that the barrel of the gun had moved from inside his pocket, and was now pressed firmly against her forehead.

"You bitch. I was fourteen, you really expected it to be that great?" His voice had gone from something of a calm, collected, and entirely cocky murmur to a dangerous growl.

"What can I say? I had high expectations for a thirteen-year-old ... uh ... " Where Butterfly would usually have smirked, she instead bit her lip, formulating a plan in a less-than-cool environment. It was only as her eyes darted downward, to examine Daemon's pockets even further, that she reached a solution. Apparently confusing the male as she raised her hands to rest on the hem of her shirt, a smirk broke across her face once more ... albeit a slightly nervous one. "What say we make up for that night?" She did not know if she was fooling anyone ... but when guns failed, her body was the next weapon in line.

"But you don't go for guys anymore," The male had raised his eyebrow, obviously suspicious, though the look in his eye betrayed such a notion - as Butterfly began to slide the hem of her outfit down, he obviously wanted to see more. "What's your angle? You always were sneaky." He commented, not willing to admit that his eyes were still glued to her chest.

"And if the sight of you convinced me I wanted to have some fun?" She responded, desperately evading his eyes. In truth, the very idea of having sex with the male caused her to shiver ... but of course, she tried not to think about that. Hopefully, it wouldn't come to such a thing ... but she did not hold her hopes too high. As her leather shirt dropped, revealing the fact that she wore nothing underneath it (presumably for breathability and comfort), she could see rather easily that the male was stunned.

"Um ... why ... do I doubt ... that ... ?" It caused Butterfly to smirk knowing that she had stemmed his speech, if just for a few seconds, as her shirt had dropped. It also caused her to smirk feeling his grip on the gun relax a little, and the metal draw away from her forehead slightly. In an almost hasty fashion, her hands worked their way downwards, resting upon her leather work pants, seen more commonly on men.

"Why doubt it?" She murmured, attempting to be sensuous amidst her nerves. "Just drop the gun, and I'll drop my pants. I promise." Butterfly was, undeniably taking a rather forward approach in her plan - and by forward, it was the idea that she was in such a hurry to strip ... and the fact that her chest was thrust forward in spite of the cold metal against her head. It was easy to see that Daemon was going through some form of strange, inner turmoil - the decision to drop the gun and see all Butterfly had to offer now that she had grown, or to leave it in place where she was threatened appeared to be killing him. He winced deeply, as if something had wrenched his gut (and rather painfully) as he slid the barrel down a little, so that it was resting against the female's neck. Apparently, this was not what she had meant - her lower half remained covered by a considerable amount of black leather. "Drop it, Daemon." Perhaps her tone of voice could have been called dangerous, however, she was attempting to keep a smirk present upon her face, determined not to allow him the pleasure of pulling the trigger. In the so-called commotion it had, perhaps, not occurred to her why he was actually holding the gun - she had presumed her insult had triggered it. Her eyes narrowed a little as she felt the barrel slide down a few more inches, before leaving her flesh entirely ... though at that point, she did not know whether to feel relief or despair.

Unbuttoning her leather pants, she slipped them down in silence, allowing for her blonde hair to cover her face and shrouding it from Daemon. At this point, all eyes in the bar were upon her, and her various tattoos could be seen clearly - in particular, the large, black butterfly that adorned her back, laced in ink to her own design and an almost eternal mark of her alias. As she stood, she presented her body to the gun-wielding male, who promptly pressed the metal to her navel, looking up down at the almost-nude female.

"More, Butterfly. I don't want you to stop, now." His tone seemed to have become all the more lecherous in a small period of time. He ran his free hand through his hair, if it was at all possible - it was styled to the extent that it seemed rock-solid, and entirely detracted from his otherwise rugged facade. From there, the hand had travelled - resting itself upon the black elastic of the female's thong, as if ready to pull them down himself. At this point, Butterfly could not disguise the look of fear that flashed across her face for less than a second - just enough time for the male to know he had her where he wanted her. He tugged upon the elastic with one hand, the female knowing that if she slapped it away, she would most likely end up with a bullet-hole in her stomach. She sighed slightly, tilting her hips towards the male as he tugged, almost admitting defeat ... perhaps the thought of sex with him wasn't such a terrible thing; this idea was soon overridden by the night she had lost her virginity. It had truly been sex enough to turn her, and perhaps turn her stomach, too. She did not allow him to see her face, the way in which she closed her eyes and bit her lip as he slid the black thong down - he would have undoubtedly mistaken it for pleasure, and that would not be her ideal.

"You thought you'd gotten away with it, hadn't you?" The male's voice had turned to a hiss. Where Butterfly had expected him to stay at his knees, he had risen, and kept the gun pointed against her forehead once more. She did not open her eyes. Perhaps she might have enjoyed a last sip of her favourite drink before turning the lights out, but it didn't matter. She was disgraced at herself, however, for allowing such a thing to happen. Shot through the head, stark naked, by her ex-boyfriend ... not to mention a terrible fuck. Well, hopefully Hell would be rather nice.

As much as the inhabitants of the bar had braced themselves for gunshot, it was still an unexpected noise. With a last glance at his ex-girlfriend's bleeding body, Daemon turned, finishing her alcohol for her, and pocketing the magazine.