WHO: Silco & Others WHAT: 2025 Catch-all π WHERE: the world is our oyster WHEN: Day or night WARNINGS: blanket warning for drug references, other subjects will be warned for in threads
[The "gift he sent". It's probably in reference to the alcohol, but in a way, isn't his presence here also a "gift" in a horrible way? Here he is, in all his monstrous splendor. Here comes red-eyed death, to celebrate life, from Silco with all his love.]
[The look of the place feels so nostalgic as to be deja vu - these men with their weapons and implants could easily be Fixers or fellows from a Syndicate. But there's one major difference, he thinks, as he eyes them down.]
[They're not even half as strong as a lowly Grade 7 Fixer. The surgeries they have in the City can make the one LILITH offers look like child's play. One man comes at him, brandishing a large knife - and in seconds, and a single swipe, that arm is rolling on the floor. Another man, another blink, a vivid spray of red, and another man is gone.]
[And so it goes. The guns are vaguely novel - the City has its rules when it comes to them, and they aren't something he is used to fighting against regularly - but what does he care, when his muscles thrum like a car motor and he can move like a lightening bolt to stab through a chest? What does a bullet matter, then?]
[He gives no thought to Silco, not now. He moves like he's a machine. It's as automated as anything.]
[ The bodies fall, the blood goes flying, like he is an industrial wood chipper, ripping through men like wood, and Silco watches them all fall. It's almost unfair, isn't it? They don't stand a chance. Silco watches it all from behind him, like a long shadow, far enough away that he's tucked away where most won't notice, especially once Vergilius starts going, leaving long streaks of blood over the tables and scattered electronics and items all over.
Silco is used to watching these sorts of things, and normally it's merely... routine. Sevika is efficient and quick when she has to get involved directly (rarely) and it's even more rare that she pulls out her mechanical arm to fully rip someone limb from limb. It's always enjoyable to watch, because there is a moment at which they arrive there. The moment when a fellow Zaunite becomes too dangerous to allow to live. Here, of course, they don't have to worry about that.
The civilians here aren't their people after all. He can unleash Vergilius and watch him go, enjoy the sprays of blood, watch them lif their guns and β he rushes them faster than Silco can blink one of his eyes. It's interesting, and a part of him admits it's exciting.
Maybe it's because he now understands that there's practically engines that move his legs, make him so fast, or maybe it's because he's seen him in action so rarely since then. Maybe it's because Silco knows how to get the jump on him β or just maybe...
His eyes don't leave the man as he cuts a swath through the staff. People are coming from the backrooms, lured by the noise and stepping into the room Vergilius had started to... redecorate, using blood instead of paint. His face impassive, save for the slightest curl of his lips, even while blood flecked of from one of the next bodies, a few drops on his face.
He doesn't wipe them off, too focused on watching how he cuts through the whole lot of them.
[It reminds him of that painting from the auction. He still remembers Jumsoon's voice, talking about the gruesome fate of hundreds of people from that Syndicate, and the dying survivor who had painted that vicious, thorny canvas in her last moments. A canvas with two red splotches, like eyes from hell.]
[He knows this is what people see, right before he deprives them of life.]
[Silco doesn't have to worry about a thing. He cuts down people like trees, the sear of his gladius causing an acrid stench in the air. Sometimes, though, cauterization never happens. It simply reduces what it must, and the rest sprays across the room in its own dreadful canvas.]
[He sees the man's unseeing eye, meets it, sees that drop of blood.]
[He doesn't smile.]
[He simply moves forward to cut down more of the wave, as emotionless as ever, with eyes leaving streaks in his movement.]
[ His eyes streak through the room, and it reminds him so much of shimmer, streaks of violet that dart through the night when someone takes just the right dose, to allow them to rush through the fissures like creatures possessed.
He thinks Vergilius must be some kind of possessed too, moving through bodies like they are no more than water, waves parting to his gladius. Toppling like bloody dominos, leaving only their remains toppling to the ground, covered in blood and gore.
It is like a painting, artful violence spread out before him like a feast to take in with his eyes. Silco was not so blood-thirsty as to hunger for the death of random citizens, but there's a certain pleasure he takes in seeing an obstacle toppled, someone in his way getting taken out, like a peg in the overall structure. These bodies are pins in the plan, taken away to let others come to fruition. One thing down, so another can take its place. That it's being done for him makes this a feast. Paid and tendered, and every single krypto is worth it to watch. No matter how prickly the man was about it.
How many more are there? This is an organization, after all, but the numbers are dwindling.
Silco takes to walking the perimeter of the room, hands clasped.
Do any of them even look at him? Do they know that there is more than one threat in the room? Or are they only focused on the same thing Silco is? Could he blame them? They, at least, have a reason to be so worried about the man β monster β cutting a bloody gash through the room. ]
[This is what he's known for. This is the image that is conjured when people utter his title. He is admired and feared all at once. Colors are akin to forces of nature, at their most powerful. He may not have all his strength here, but its clear - these men that rush at him to their certain doom are akin to ants.]
[Silco, too, could be an ant. And yet, he's not. This is a man who's put a foot into his chest, metaphorically, and won over him. He won't be tamed. Not now, not ever in his lifetime. But Silco wants to have his leash, and tug it, too.]
[That image, and the deja vu from his massacre so many years ago, the first time he heard Lapis' name, make something cross his face - a burning anger. It's always there. He keeps it suppressed, and yet now, as he bisects a man before kicking another into the wall close to where Silco is standing, it oozes out of his aura.]
[Wrath is a familiar emotion to him. He wears it like a coat of blood, and it soaks him through and through.]
[ Silco is no stranger to wrath, to violence. To that beast, that thing, that lurked in the hearts of monsters masquerading as men. He recognizes it for what it is as soon as it crosses his face, that wrathful, hateful thing. Perhaps it says something, that he seeks out that burning red gaze as it moves throughout the space, perhaps it even says something that Silco sees this in his face, and he knows it for what it is.
He wonders, what brings this to the forefront of his mind. Anger. Before he had been so impassive, like it was merely a job. Now... it is not that he is enjoying it, and he is not impassive, it is like the beast is unleashed, snapping and hissing at everything around him.
A body bifurcated down the middle, another slammed next to him β the body hits the wall with a solid slap, skull cracking on the wall, where it started to slide down the wall, leaving a trail of blood. Some had made it out of the man's mouth when his head hit the wall, more blood everywhere. Silco knew some of it was on him β more than some at this point β but he couldn't be bothered to care.
The bodies are becoming fewer, aren't they? Vergilius is so much more than they are. Angry, he is even more. There's scant more than five, and they're mostly cowering. They'll need to be drug out, and executed.
The last to die would always be the cowards.
He hasn't seen him be this angry before. Filled with it, rage thrumming out of him like a palpable aura. Radiating off of him like a tempest, waves crashing violently against high stone cliffs. The only indication of anything from Silco is the sharp burst of air through his nose, watching this display, watching fury burn in his gaze, and it fuels the motions of his hand to slice through men like a knife through soft butter.
Does he know? How resplendent he looks, wreathed in anger like a mantle? ]
[There are a meager few. Vergilius see them cower, sees their eyes dart around for an exit. They ran into this mess to try to cut down the threat, and now their time has come.]
[One almost trips, trying to make a break for the backrooms on shaking feet, but he is intercepted in the blink of an eye. A red gaze is what meets him, as intense as a red sun. Vergilius punches the gladius through the chest, and that is that.]
[He also has seen this before. He has met with men at the top of it all who become reduced to blabbering children when they're about to die. He's heard the bribes, the begging, the offers, the appeal to the emotions of a beast to spare and give mercy.]
[Lapis's parent had uttered her name before their throat was slit. It feels like acid dropping through his throat to his belly. He rounds on thr next victim and cuts his throat before he can say anything and make it worse. The anger still burns like a fire that cannot be sated. And it is a wretched, awful fire that he wishes ever bitterly could have never existed. The City made this. It stoked it, coaxed it, and set it into the body of a man.]
[What a monster I am, he thinks, even as he steps over to another trying to vainly hide in the midst of all this gore to dispatch him with a swift strike. That dying survivor from the Syndicate, he still remembers her wide eyes, her trembling mouth.]
[The boss's password is Lapis.]
[And as thanks for the information, he had said, as a monster does, he let her die a slow death. She had painted that canvas at the end, and perished. His beastlike mercy, for all to see.]
[He doesn't even feel inside his own body as he finishes up his job, his mind here and there and everywhere at once. And he is still angry.]
[He should be angry at Silco. Technically, he always is. The man stares at him as if lovesick, as if seeing a masterful painting on a wall of a creature from hell.]
[But he is angry at himself. He always is. As the last body collapses, Vergilius heaves heavy breaths as his eyes continue to burn with hatred that he wishes could burn him up, too.]
[Unfortunately, it doesn't.]
[He will still persist like the shade he is, adding more souls to his blood-red sea.]
[ The last body falls, squelching and sick sounding as it dropped onto the ground amongst the rest of the bodies, the pile of suits and limbs, blood streaked across the floors and spattered across the desks and walls, a shoal of blood on the ground. His blade had cut wildly, through limb, bone, organ, everything. Parts are slipping out, the wild slashes leaving organs to slide to the ground, to join with the rest of the blood. At least where they didn't cauterize.
The smell of burning flesh fills the room. He considers lighting a cigar, but doesn't quite pull it out. ]
Quite thorough, aren't you?
[ He says it as he steps forward, from the edges of the room. Around the limb bent at an odd angle, that had fallen to the ground. His steps are idling, because as angry as Vergilius looks, this has put Silco in a good mood. The anger makes him think of the monster he knows is in there, the one he's been trying to draw out. To see it in full...
Vergilius had told him, once, that he was a sinner, that he felt guilt, that he hated this thing that he was. He wonders if that fire in his face is for Silco himself, for putting him toward doing this β or if it was for himself, for holding the blade. Did it matter, to him, that these men were no better than any other criminal? That they knew what life they were in? It wasn't as if a raid was unusual, and it wasn't as if they had done anything more than shortened an already short life. Silco felt nothing for these men, nothing like remorse. Hell, he barely thought of them at all.
They were already corpses from the moment he'd sent that money to the orphanage.
Vergilius, too, has spatters of blood on him, on his hands, his coat, his face, Silco looked him up and down, though he doesn't smile now. He feels as if he can sense the taste of his anger, as it burns like an aura, emanating out from the man. He fears it, because part of him is still instinct, but it draws him close too. Like a moth to a flame. He can do nothing but close in, in the middle of his bloody carnage. ]
Somehow, I think you downplayed your capabilities.
[ He admitted, stopping near him, looking up at him, taking stock of the blood on his face. ]
[He takes it in - and somehow also doesn't. The viscera, blood, bodies, and general gore seem to all blend into one. There's people here, but there are no people at all. Just remnants. This is what a Color does. They raze people like a farmer taking a scythe to wheat.]
[Silco steps forward through the mess of it all. He sees that he hasn't been spared, either, his face spotted with blood. He can't help but fixate on it, somehow, though he can't blame vampirism for it anymore.]
[The man's observation comes with a scoff, and he raises a hand to brush back through his bloody bangs and over his head.]
In the City, these "capabilities" come baked into the title of Color.
[His gaze flits down, fiery red and angry, always angry. This fucking bastard. He himself is a bastard, too.]
[ He notes, eyes slid from his face, from bloody bangs, and then down to the bodies at his feet. Really, truly, he'd said he was powerful, but watching him was something else. He could see then, why he had fans, when he moved like that. Mowing through them like they were nothing β they were nothing β and Silco had once, very, very foolishly, gotten the jump on him.
Did it sting, he wondered? To know that this man who could do none of this had slid underneath that armor, and managed to get attack him, months ago in the castle? Did he hate him for it? He supposed he must, of course. Silco didn't mind that, because all men hated him in the end. It was an expectation he was long-used to. He still... still, he was here. He'd accepted the contract.
Maybe it wasn't just hate. ]
I've never seen anyone move like you do, even on shimmer.
[ Even a world away. This was fluid and fast, and it was like watching death reach out its hand, and artfully dance through bodies like nothing. Silco had never really seen dancers on stage, but he imagined it would be something like that.
He wonders what it would do to him, even still. He can't help himself. ]
You have a bit of blood β
[ A bit, he says, with a quirk of his lips. He is so angry, but Silco doesn't mind that. He is too, always, always angry. He reached up, and brushed some of it off of his cheek. It mostly left a smudge.
[Of course it stings. He wasn't proud of his power, necessarily - only as much as a weapon could be proud of its own strength - but Silco worming his way in had always been a surprise. Then again, was it a surprise? He, who had let this man in practically by opening the door, holding his hand, coming back to him again and again?]
[Is it simply hate?]
[The compliment seems to slide into him, feeling like acid coming up his throat. He's never been good with them, never known how to react. He doesn't feel he deserves it. Good words aren't made to be given to a monster, a nightmare.]
[He wants to tell Silco to stop looking at him the way he does. Wouldn't it be so easy, to not have a heart, and be done with the man once and for all?]
[His employer reaches up - his thin thumb brushes against a sallow, stained cheekbone. It's useless. It only makes it worse.]
[He reaches up with his free hand to capture that wrist, but he doesn't yank it away, he doesn't put it aside. Simply holds it, unsure what to do.]
...Are you happy?
[He breathes, a rattle in his chest. He did a good job, didn't he? Did Silco take pleasure in it?]
[ It's a soft note, almost half-surprised, but he doesn't tug his hand away, does he? Silco's almost surprised by that, almost. It's always a guess with the man, whether he'll try to pull away, or allow Silco to reach out, and sink his thin fingers into him like hooks. Right now, he feels suspended between the two, the man looking down at him with those too-red eyes, and Silco's lips quirked into a brief, thin smile. ]
Oh, your work was exemplary.
[ He can hardly complain, can he? Not a man escaped, drawing them all in? He hadn't even had to worry about one of them reaching out to try and shoot him instead.
He is a monster, but Silco was one too, wasn't he? To enjoy this. ]
I'm quite pleased.
[ His thumb still rests against his cheek. He doesn't try to pull it away, he only brushes against Vergilius with it absently. It smears the blood, what a mess of it. ]
[The touch makes something crack a little, he thinks. He's always been too vulnerable to it. Very few have touched him in that way, and every time that craving opens like a yawning void, even though it reeks of hypocrisy and self-deception.]
[He can't let him touch him. He can't let him pull away, either. For a brief moment, its like they're back under the mistletoe, sharing sharp words.]
[For a brief moment, they're laying in a bed, hand in hand.]
[For a brief moment, they're on top of each other in a dark hallway, drinking each other's blood.]
[His lips twitch.]
You're a sick man, Silco.
[As obvious as anything, even as his eyes seem to tremble in their sockets.]
[ He asked. Something in the man seems to tremble, holding him there, like he's wavering at the edge of something. Like the very precipice loomed beneath him, and he was looking down at it. Does this scare him, he wonders? Looking down at someone smaller and weaker than him, who's just as sick as this monster is? That he doesn't blink (half, he cannot) at the gore, but instead he revels in it.
Because this is what it is, to live in a world like they are from. Destruction, brute force, bodies scattered about. How many upstart little gangs has he sent his men or Sevika to clean up? This is life, in their circles. This man is a Cleaner β and he certainly did Clean β and so he knows what it is to live in this violent arena. Every little hint of it; in his gladius cutting through a man's head β the way he'd slashed through a vampire only months ago, he'd known it was there.
Silco is pleased, because there are men here who were in his way, and they no longer are. He is pleased, because Vergilius is the one who did it, and that he was every bit the creature he kept thinking he was. He'd seen the shape of the beast in there, a monster wearing a man's skin. Is it so sick, to enjoy seeing that unleashed? He thinks it is not. ]
Well, perhaps I am. Yet here you are, even now.
[ His thumb still moves, like soothing the beast, or maybe just taunting it. ]
[The thumb continues to stroke him. It mixes like a nauseating heat into his chest, paradoxical emotions warring as he is frozen in place. He hates it. He loves it. This isn't the time. This is exactly the right time. Silco is a horrible man. Silco would fit right into the City as if he was made for it. They both are too horrible for anyone to behold.]
[His next statement feels tinged with poison.]
Are you calling me a coward?
[And something pulls him forward - that hunger that feels like its always been there, now at the forefront - and lets his hand drop from the other's to instead recapture him by the collar. Too many emotions. He doesn't want to be here. This place is where he deserves to be.]
[He dips his head down to place his teeth over the other's nose, lightly, lightly, right over thr bridge, to give a mild little bite. As if this could be a replacement for what he really hungers for.]
There's blood and bodies, but what does that matter? They're just meat, smeared across the ground, nothing under the force of Vergilius's blade. He looks at Silco instead, and there's something satisfying in that black little heart of his, knowing that he could turn that gaze away from the carnage, and back toward him.
His lips quirk, as he leans forward β almost disappointed when he bites at his nose β but isn't that what they've been doing? Playing a game, seeing who will break first? Even under the mistletoe, when Vergilius had challenged him, asked him if he was too cowardly; it was a game β who was going to break first? ]
No? It's dangerous to stay.
[ They're so very close right now, and his voice is low, as if a secret to share between them, even though every ear left is unhearing. As if anyone could listen in, as if it's dangerous. But it is, isn't it? Circling like sharks, the both of them lashing out when they can. It's a far better cry than... letting the other see something flicker behind either of their eyes. Something that looks like hunger, when neither of them want to show weakness.
Here they are, looking over a precipice. Hand in hand, feeling the call of the void all around them.
It's so very dangerous. ]
But, if anyone could weather it...
[ He tipped his head, just so, so his teeth were no longer at his nose, he doesn't quite bridge the gap, not quite. Not yet. To see what he would do, if he didn't. ]
[They're men who have been baked in the blood of their respective places, come out all the worse for it. They have to be strong. Any sign of weakness, and the place they come from will eat them, bones and all.]
[To be vulnerable, even if for a moment, seems like a sure guarantee to be open for destruction.]
[It was so easy back then. They had excuses. The pocky, the vampirism. (The hand holding had no excuse, but it hadn't yet turned into this.) Here, is there really an excuse? How dangerous that is. Silco tilts his head just so, and it makes Vergilius swallow audibly.]
[He remembers the taste of the man's blood in his mouth.]
[There's a speck of blood on the man's scarred upper lip. As if simply tidying up, he leans forward, a brief meeting of lip to lip as if he means to clean it up. Not really a kiss. Merely a hint of one, his own pride still not allowing him to take a metaphorical knee.]
[The same familiar iron taste spreads over the tip of his tongue.]
Maybe only a hint, but it's enough to remind Silco of everything he'd spent a lot of time excusing away as mostly nothing. A loss of control, because that's all it had been, hadn't it? Whatever the circumstances were, they'd been nothing really, just... circumstances. A loss of control β dangerous, of course, anything like that was dangerous β but it was just that.
But then again, weren't there times since that he'd thought about it? Idle moments when he should be working, or sleeping, and he remembered the things he said. Maybe it was the pocky, or the vampirism that urged him to say those rotten things that wormed into his mind and latched on. Then again, it wasn't either of those things that made him remember the way he looked at him, or remembered the things he promised in the dark. ]
Didn't you know, Vergilius? I can weather anything.
[ His lips quirk, looking up at him. Even leaning into his space, he has to stoop slightly down to his level. Just like him, to have to meet him down here in the muck.
Maybe just this time, though, he can drag him down into it β the mud β it's not losing the battle, is it? If he just β
β Tipped his head up, just so, and sought out his lips as well. Was there blood there? Oh yes, but he hardly pulled away to savor the taste of it. ]
[Maybe Silco is losing here, finally crossing the distance for good. In a way, it doesn't feel like he's losing. They finally meet each other, and Vergilius lets a little groan of a noise eke out as they finally kiss. No, Silco isn't losing at all.]
[It's always been excuses. How easy, to blame feelings and the like on circumstances and all. It is true, that he would've never been spurred into doing such things out of the blue, before. But what happened is that it inadvertently opened a door. He might have had his mind addled by bloodlust or a tainted cookie, but the thoughts that came afterward were had sober. The daintiness of the man's small waist that cups beautifully underneath his scarred hand. The sounds he remembers, the way the man whispered and moaned his name. The warmth that was so paradoxical to the both of them, sparking up and down into their spine.]
[Even now, he could find an excuse. He was angry, and vulnerable, and willing to turn to any sign of being human to stop him from thinking about his sins. To stop him thinking about Lapis, and the audition, and that painting, and-]
[Silco's lips slot into his like puzzle pieces. He gives them a little bite, breath rattling as he refuses to back off. The stench of blood is on both of them. He chooses to ignore it.]
[ It feels a little more like winning, when he can hear that soft groan escape from the man's throat, he swallows it down like he can consume it from him. Like it's his due, a payment in exchange for breaching the divide first. Swallow it whole like a monster ready to consume it.
This is different, maybe - or it's not different at all. It still sparks that heat that he so rarely indulges, the result of his breath and the prick of pain on his lips. He'd thought his head would be clearer if he did it again, now that there was no song of blood, or that rush of heat from those horrible little cookies. (Were they so horrible? Had he not ached for days later, his mind left thinking about it again and Again?) No, his focus still narrows to just this, only the smell of blood mingled with him -- so similar to that first night in his quarters where they're drank from each other and --
His mouth opened against his, teeth scraping against his lips, all sharp edges coupled with thin, pliant lips. He didn't even try to stop the shudder of air -- and worse; a too-satisfied sound against his. A pleased little thing, to have what he's wanting right now reciprocated. To see that desire reflected back.]
[His hand moves back and up and over to slot the gladius in its holster on his back, but he's not breaking the kiss. If he does so, its only momentary - for he's taking a brief hitch of a breath before diving back in.]
[With both his hands now free, he's letting them restlessly shift around the man to grasp into fabric, pull him closer. Hungry, hungry. They're both monsters willing to feed upon each other's bodies, pull out blood and flesh and desire for sustenance as need be.]
[This is what he felt deprived of, under the mistletoe. There's no one here - no one alive, for that matter - to witness this and make him self-conscious. He can continue as much as he'd like.]
[Malkuth had wanted him to be selfish. He had allowed it, back then, with uncertainty. A deer on feeble limbs.]
[Now he feels more sure in his footing, and he's letting his teeth rule the kiss with little half-bites and teases, matching Silco's little pleasure with a grumbling one of his own.]
[ He doesn't mind, particularly, if the man is selfish. Not if Vergilius takes his lips with those bites, and with the way he seems to steal his breath from him. It's odd, feeling so breathless, especially by choice, especially when it doesn't raise that sense of fear in the back of his mind. It's a pleasurable thing, and heady, to feel like he can barely surface to take a gasping breath.
There's nobody to see them, or catch them, and how dangerous that is, given the little games they've been playing, like two monsters sizing each other up, no honesty between them as they've been puffing up, and sending quick little snaps back and forth, each time shrinking back so that they don't get taken by surprise, not willing to expose belly or throat unless there's something else forcing it. It's different when there aren't those circumstances. When Vergilius has already felt him breach that line in the sand β he knows he wants something from him β but even still...
He's tugged him closer than before β they had already drifted closer and closer β it's easy for Vergilius to practically blanket him, tug him up and against him so he can feel his warmth, and Silco can reach up to touch his bloodied fingers to his neck, to trail along the sliver of exposed skin, and leave his mark of blood down his neck, a trail of carnage that felt a little bit like he was leaving a mark on the man.
Most were invisible, but this? He could do.
He tipped his head, a brush of chipped teeth against his bottom lip, biting down with no gentleness, tugging at it slightly with another soft 'hm' that sounded like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.
It lets him breathe, at least, only slightly, a sharp inhale through his nose before he releases his lip to press back in again, as if giving him the space to stop, and think would make him reconsider. He doesn't want him to do that β pull back, when he'd finally stepped across the line. ]
[Already, the tormented twist of feelings in his chest from before seems to ebb away. It's easy, here, to get lost in this. In the fingers on his neck that leave that wet scar of a stain, in the way Silco's body nestles against his. His anger will never abate - selfishness will only serve to stoke that fire in the long run - but for now he can eke it out in the way he causes retribution for these bites with his own rough attacks.]
[Silco's teeth are uneven against the swell of his lip, and he's pulling back. He knows it's a falsehood, that little pause. As if he could stop here. There's something perhaps a little desperate in this - as if the here and now must be realized before it gets shoved inside once more.]
[He should reconsider. In the past, its been like kneejerk reflex to do so. However, he can't, he won't. He's crossed the line. He can't simply just wander back, not when his body wants this, wants to avoid the self-purgatory of his own misery about adding to his sins.]
[Silco caused him to do this.]
[Silco added to his sins.]
[His eyes flare red as they come in - he bites down harshly on the man's lower lip, perhaps enough to draw blood, before he kisses him again. And again. His tongue presses in, groaning into the man's mouth as his fingers curl.]
[ It stings, but he doesn't mind. What does Silco care about a little blood? A little pain? All it does is make him think of that hallway where he'd bitten the man, the way he'd bitten back β the way he'd kissed him on the floor there, as if that was a normal thing to do β and how it had hurt so much more than this. Blood wells up from his teeth, and he offered a hiss of a soft sound, a half-groan against his lips.
Would he care, if he knew that Vergilius made this his sin? Could he care? Surrounded by the bodies, does he even want to care about them?
Silco's eye doesn't close, it never closes, it stares at him, drinks in that flare of angry red β he remembers what that gaze looks like β it makes a shudder of something draw down, something irrational that made him press tighter against his body. He opened his mouth for him, maybe not obedient, but allowing him in, a sharp nip of his teeth at his lips in warning, as if telling him he was allowing him in.
His fingers drifted up, to brush those bloody bangs back out of his face, leaving that burning gaze unimpeded, so he can stare back with his own hateful, angry pit of an eye.
He could always match him in this, though his always glared out at the world no matter what he did. ]
[It would be easy at a distance to deem this a lover's kiss. Closer its more obvious as to what it is - two monsters clashing their lips and teeth in the semblance of something more tender. Sure, he may feel something akin to tenderness for Silco, he may be loathe to admit it, but here and now the way Silco's blood bursts in his mouth feels more vicious than anything.]
[The man's spider fingers crawl up to press back his bangs. Deep down, he's always liked it - somehow, in a world where most avert their gaze, he gives respect to those who wouldn't shy away from his vivid red glow. Silco has one of his own. It's as if they're cut from the same cloth.]
[He's allowed in, complete with a nip. It's painful. It's wonderful. His hand slides up to grasp the back of Silco's neck, fingers gripping into his hair, as he further moves his tongue in to swallow down kisses hungrily.]
[There's a flush to his ears. There's a part of him worried this might go too far.]
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[The look of the place feels so nostalgic as to be deja vu - these men with their weapons and implants could easily be Fixers or fellows from a Syndicate. But there's one major difference, he thinks, as he eyes them down.]
[They're not even half as strong as a lowly Grade 7 Fixer. The surgeries they have in the City can make the one LILITH offers look like child's play. One man comes at him, brandishing a large knife - and in seconds, and a single swipe, that arm is rolling on the floor. Another man, another blink, a vivid spray of red, and another man is gone.]
[And so it goes. The guns are vaguely novel - the City has its rules when it comes to them, and they aren't something he is used to fighting against regularly - but what does he care, when his muscles thrum like a car motor and he can move like a lightening bolt to stab through a chest? What does a bullet matter, then?]
[He gives no thought to Silco, not now. He moves like he's a machine. It's as automated as anything.]
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Silco is used to watching these sorts of things, and normally it's merely... routine. Sevika is efficient and quick when she has to get involved directly (rarely) and it's even more rare that she pulls out her mechanical arm to fully rip someone limb from limb. It's always enjoyable to watch, because there is a moment at which they arrive there. The moment when a fellow Zaunite becomes too dangerous to allow to live. Here, of course, they don't have to worry about that.
The civilians here aren't their people after all. He can unleash Vergilius and watch him go, enjoy the sprays of blood, watch them lif their guns and β he rushes them faster than Silco can blink one of his eyes. It's interesting, and a part of him admits it's exciting.
Maybe it's because he now understands that there's practically engines that move his legs, make him so fast, or maybe it's because he's seen him in action so rarely since then. Maybe it's because Silco knows how to get the jump on him β or just maybe...
His eyes don't leave the man as he cuts a swath through the staff. People are coming from the backrooms, lured by the noise and stepping into the room Vergilius had started to... redecorate, using blood instead of paint. His face impassive, save for the slightest curl of his lips, even while blood flecked of from one of the next bodies, a few drops on his face.
He doesn't wipe them off, too focused on watching how he cuts through the whole lot of them.
Messy, messy. ]
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[He knows this is what people see, right before he deprives them of life.]
[Silco doesn't have to worry about a thing. He cuts down people like trees, the sear of his gladius causing an acrid stench in the air. Sometimes, though, cauterization never happens. It simply reduces what it must, and the rest sprays across the room in its own dreadful canvas.]
[He sees the man's unseeing eye, meets it, sees that drop of blood.]
[He doesn't smile.]
[He simply moves forward to cut down more of the wave, as emotionless as ever, with eyes leaving streaks in his movement.]
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He thinks Vergilius must be some kind of possessed too, moving through bodies like they are no more than water, waves parting to his gladius. Toppling like bloody dominos, leaving only their remains toppling to the ground, covered in blood and gore.
It is like a painting, artful violence spread out before him like a feast to take in with his eyes. Silco was not so blood-thirsty as to hunger for the death of random citizens, but there's a certain pleasure he takes in seeing an obstacle toppled, someone in his way getting taken out, like a peg in the overall structure. These bodies are pins in the plan, taken away to let others come to fruition. One thing down, so another can take its place. That it's being done for him makes this a feast. Paid and tendered, and every single krypto is worth it to watch. No matter how prickly the man was about it.
How many more are there? This is an organization, after all, but the numbers are dwindling.
Silco takes to walking the perimeter of the room, hands clasped.
Do any of them even look at him? Do they know that there is more than one threat in the room? Or are they only focused on the same thing Silco is? Could he blame them? They, at least, have a reason to be so worried about the man β monster β cutting a bloody gash through the room. ]
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[Silco, too, could be an ant. And yet, he's not. This is a man who's put a foot into his chest, metaphorically, and won over him. He won't be tamed. Not now, not ever in his lifetime. But Silco wants to have his leash, and tug it, too.]
[That image, and the deja vu from his massacre so many years ago, the first time he heard Lapis' name, make something cross his face - a burning anger. It's always there. He keeps it suppressed, and yet now, as he bisects a man before kicking another into the wall close to where Silco is standing, it oozes out of his aura.]
[Wrath is a familiar emotion to him. He wears it like a coat of blood, and it soaks him through and through.]
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He wonders, what brings this to the forefront of his mind. Anger. Before he had been so impassive, like it was merely a job. Now... it is not that he is enjoying it, and he is not impassive, it is like the beast is unleashed, snapping and hissing at everything around him.
A body bifurcated down the middle, another slammed next to him β the body hits the wall with a solid slap, skull cracking on the wall, where it started to slide down the wall, leaving a trail of blood. Some had made it out of the man's mouth when his head hit the wall, more blood everywhere. Silco knew some of it was on him β more than some at this point β but he couldn't be bothered to care.
The bodies are becoming fewer, aren't they? Vergilius is so much more than they are. Angry, he is even more. There's scant more than five, and they're mostly cowering. They'll need to be drug out, and executed.
The last to die would always be the cowards.
He hasn't seen him be this angry before. Filled with it, rage thrumming out of him like a palpable aura. Radiating off of him like a tempest, waves crashing violently against high stone cliffs. The only indication of anything from Silco is the sharp burst of air through his nose, watching this display, watching fury burn in his gaze, and it fuels the motions of his hand to slice through men like a knife through soft butter.
Does he know? How resplendent he looks, wreathed in anger like a mantle? ]
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[One almost trips, trying to make a break for the backrooms on shaking feet, but he is intercepted in the blink of an eye. A red gaze is what meets him, as intense as a red sun. Vergilius punches the gladius through the chest, and that is that.]
[He also has seen this before. He has met with men at the top of it all who become reduced to blabbering children when they're about to die. He's heard the bribes, the begging, the offers, the appeal to the emotions of a beast to spare and give mercy.]
[Lapis's parent had uttered her name before their throat was slit. It feels like acid dropping through his throat to his belly. He rounds on thr next victim and cuts his throat before he can say anything and make it worse. The anger still burns like a fire that cannot be sated. And it is a wretched, awful fire that he wishes ever bitterly could have never existed. The City made this. It stoked it, coaxed it, and set it into the body of a man.]
[What a monster I am, he thinks, even as he steps over to another trying to vainly hide in the midst of all this gore to dispatch him with a swift strike. That dying survivor from the Syndicate, he still remembers her wide eyes, her trembling mouth.]
[The boss's password is Lapis.]
[And as thanks for the information, he had said, as a monster does, he let her die a slow death. She had painted that canvas at the end, and perished. His beastlike mercy, for all to see.]
[He doesn't even feel inside his own body as he finishes up his job, his mind here and there and everywhere at once. And he is still angry.]
[He should be angry at Silco. Technically, he always is. The man stares at him as if lovesick, as if seeing a masterful painting on a wall of a creature from hell.]
[But he is angry at himself. He always is. As the last body collapses, Vergilius heaves heavy breaths as his eyes continue to burn with hatred that he wishes could burn him up, too.]
[Unfortunately, it doesn't.]
[He will still persist like the shade he is, adding more souls to his blood-red sea.]
....It's done.
cw: some gore 8)
The smell of burning flesh fills the room. He considers lighting a cigar, but doesn't quite pull it out. ]
Quite thorough, aren't you?
[ He says it as he steps forward, from the edges of the room. Around the limb bent at an odd angle, that had fallen to the ground. His steps are idling, because as angry as Vergilius looks, this has put Silco in a good mood. The anger makes him think of the monster he knows is in there, the one he's been trying to draw out. To see it in full...
Vergilius had told him, once, that he was a sinner, that he felt guilt, that he hated this thing that he was. He wonders if that fire in his face is for Silco himself, for putting him toward doing this β or if it was for himself, for holding the blade. Did it matter, to him, that these men were no better than any other criminal? That they knew what life they were in? It wasn't as if a raid was unusual, and it wasn't as if they had done anything more than shortened an already short life. Silco felt nothing for these men, nothing like remorse. Hell, he barely thought of them at all.
They were already corpses from the moment he'd sent that money to the orphanage.
Vergilius, too, has spatters of blood on him, on his hands, his coat, his face, Silco looked him up and down, though he doesn't smile now. He feels as if he can sense the taste of his anger, as it burns like an aura, emanating out from the man. He fears it, because part of him is still instinct, but it draws him close too. Like a moth to a flame. He can do nothing but close in, in the middle of his bloody carnage. ]
Somehow, I think you downplayed your capabilities.
[ He admitted, stopping near him, looking up at him, taking stock of the blood on his face. ]
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[Silco steps forward through the mess of it all. He sees that he hasn't been spared, either, his face spotted with blood. He can't help but fixate on it, somehow, though he can't blame vampirism for it anymore.]
[The man's observation comes with a scoff, and he raises a hand to brush back through his bloody bangs and over his head.]
In the City, these "capabilities" come baked into the title of Color.
[His gaze flits down, fiery red and angry, always angry. This fucking bastard. He himself is a bastard, too.]
So I don't usually have to...spell it out.
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[ He notes, eyes slid from his face, from bloody bangs, and then down to the bodies at his feet. Really, truly, he'd said he was powerful, but watching him was something else. He could see then, why he had fans, when he moved like that. Mowing through them like they were nothing β they were nothing β and Silco had once, very, very foolishly, gotten the jump on him.
Did it sting, he wondered? To know that this man who could do none of this had slid underneath that armor, and managed to get attack him, months ago in the castle? Did he hate him for it? He supposed he must, of course. Silco didn't mind that, because all men hated him in the end. It was an expectation he was long-used to. He still... still, he was here. He'd accepted the contract.
Maybe it wasn't just hate. ]
I've never seen anyone move like you do, even on shimmer.
[ Even a world away. This was fluid and fast, and it was like watching death reach out its hand, and artfully dance through bodies like nothing. Silco had never really seen dancers on stage, but he imagined it would be something like that.
He wonders what it would do to him, even still. He can't help himself. ]
You have a bit of blood β
[ A bit, he says, with a quirk of his lips. He is so angry, but Silco doesn't mind that. He is too, always, always angry. He reached up, and brushed some of it off of his cheek. It mostly left a smudge.
Ah, well. ]
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[Is it simply hate?]
[The compliment seems to slide into him, feeling like acid coming up his throat. He's never been good with them, never known how to react. He doesn't feel he deserves it. Good words aren't made to be given to a monster, a nightmare.]
[He wants to tell Silco to stop looking at him the way he does. Wouldn't it be so easy, to not have a heart, and be done with the man once and for all?]
[His employer reaches up - his thin thumb brushes against a sallow, stained cheekbone. It's useless. It only makes it worse.]
[He reaches up with his free hand to capture that wrist, but he doesn't yank it away, he doesn't put it aside. Simply holds it, unsure what to do.]
...Are you happy?
[He breathes, a rattle in his chest. He did a good job, didn't he? Did Silco take pleasure in it?]
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[ It's a soft note, almost half-surprised, but he doesn't tug his hand away, does he? Silco's almost surprised by that, almost. It's always a guess with the man, whether he'll try to pull away, or allow Silco to reach out, and sink his thin fingers into him like hooks. Right now, he feels suspended between the two, the man looking down at him with those too-red eyes, and Silco's lips quirked into a brief, thin smile. ]
Oh, your work was exemplary.
[ He can hardly complain, can he? Not a man escaped, drawing them all in? He hadn't even had to worry about one of them reaching out to try and shoot him instead.
He is a monster, but Silco was one too, wasn't he? To enjoy this. ]
I'm quite pleased.
[ His thumb still rests against his cheek. He doesn't try to pull it away, he only brushes against Vergilius with it absently. It smears the blood, what a mess of it. ]
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[He can't let him touch him. He can't let him pull away, either. For a brief moment, its like they're back under the mistletoe, sharing sharp words.]
[For a brief moment, they're laying in a bed, hand in hand.]
[For a brief moment, they're on top of each other in a dark hallway, drinking each other's blood.]
[His lips twitch.]
You're a sick man, Silco.
[As obvious as anything, even as his eyes seem to tremble in their sockets.]
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[ He asked. Something in the man seems to tremble, holding him there, like he's wavering at the edge of something. Like the very precipice loomed beneath him, and he was looking down at it. Does this scare him, he wonders? Looking down at someone smaller and weaker than him, who's just as sick as this monster is? That he doesn't blink (half, he cannot) at the gore, but instead he revels in it.
Because this is what it is, to live in a world like they are from. Destruction, brute force, bodies scattered about. How many upstart little gangs has he sent his men or Sevika to clean up? This is life, in their circles. This man is a Cleaner β and he certainly did Clean β and so he knows what it is to live in this violent arena. Every little hint of it; in his gladius cutting through a man's head β the way he'd slashed through a vampire only months ago, he'd known it was there.
Silco is pleased, because there are men here who were in his way, and they no longer are. He is pleased, because Vergilius is the one who did it, and that he was every bit the creature he kept thinking he was. He'd seen the shape of the beast in there, a monster wearing a man's skin. Is it so sick, to enjoy seeing that unleashed? He thinks it is not. ]
Well, perhaps I am. Yet here you are, even now.
[ His thumb still moves, like soothing the beast, or maybe just taunting it. ]
You haven't fled yet, are you going to?
[ From whatever... was happening here. ]
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[His next statement feels tinged with poison.]
Are you calling me a coward?
[And something pulls him forward - that hunger that feels like its always been there, now at the forefront - and lets his hand drop from the other's to instead recapture him by the collar. Too many emotions. He doesn't want to be here. This place is where he deserves to be.]
[He dips his head down to place his teeth over the other's nose, lightly, lightly, right over thr bridge, to give a mild little bite. As if this could be a replacement for what he really hungers for.]
I won't run.
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There's blood and bodies, but what does that matter? They're just meat, smeared across the ground, nothing under the force of Vergilius's blade. He looks at Silco instead, and there's something satisfying in that black little heart of his, knowing that he could turn that gaze away from the carnage, and back toward him.
His lips quirk, as he leans forward β almost disappointed when he bites at his nose β but isn't that what they've been doing? Playing a game, seeing who will break first? Even under the mistletoe, when Vergilius had challenged him, asked him if he was too cowardly; it was a game β who was going to break first? ]
No? It's dangerous to stay.
[ They're so very close right now, and his voice is low, as if a secret to share between them, even though every ear left is unhearing. As if anyone could listen in, as if it's dangerous. But it is, isn't it? Circling like sharks, the both of them lashing out when they can. It's a far better cry than... letting the other see something flicker behind either of their eyes. Something that looks like hunger, when neither of them want to show weakness.
Here they are, looking over a precipice. Hand in hand, feeling the call of the void all around them.
It's so very dangerous. ]
But, if anyone could weather it...
[ He tipped his head, just so, so his teeth were no longer at his nose, he doesn't quite bridge the gap, not quite. Not yet. To see what he would do, if he didn't. ]
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[To be vulnerable, even if for a moment, seems like a sure guarantee to be open for destruction.]
[It was so easy back then. They had excuses. The pocky, the vampirism. (The hand holding had no excuse, but it hadn't yet turned into this.) Here, is there really an excuse? How dangerous that is. Silco tilts his head just so, and it makes Vergilius swallow audibly.]
[He remembers the taste of the man's blood in his mouth.]
[There's a speck of blood on the man's scarred upper lip. As if simply tidying up, he leans forward, a brief meeting of lip to lip as if he means to clean it up. Not really a kiss. Merely a hint of one, his own pride still not allowing him to take a metaphorical knee.]
[The same familiar iron taste spreads over the tip of his tongue.]
Could you weather it?
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Maybe only a hint, but it's enough to remind Silco of everything he'd spent a lot of time excusing away as mostly nothing. A loss of control, because that's all it had been, hadn't it? Whatever the circumstances were, they'd been nothing really, just... circumstances. A loss of control β dangerous, of course, anything like that was dangerous β but it was just that.
But then again, weren't there times since that he'd thought about it? Idle moments when he should be working, or sleeping, and he remembered the things he said. Maybe it was the pocky, or the vampirism that urged him to say those rotten things that wormed into his mind and latched on. Then again, it wasn't either of those things that made him remember the way he looked at him, or remembered the things he promised in the dark. ]
Didn't you know, Vergilius? I can weather anything.
[ His lips quirk, looking up at him. Even leaning into his space, he has to stoop slightly down to his level. Just like him, to have to meet him down here in the muck.
Maybe just this time, though, he can drag him down into it β the mud β it's not losing the battle, is it? If he just β
β Tipped his head up, just so, and sought out his lips as well. Was there blood there? Oh yes, but he hardly pulled away to savor the taste of it. ]
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[It's always been excuses. How easy, to blame feelings and the like on circumstances and all. It is true, that he would've never been spurred into doing such things out of the blue, before. But what happened is that it inadvertently opened a door. He might have had his mind addled by bloodlust or a tainted cookie, but the thoughts that came afterward were had sober. The daintiness of the man's small waist that cups beautifully underneath his scarred hand. The sounds he remembers, the way the man whispered and moaned his name. The warmth that was so paradoxical to the both of them, sparking up and down into their spine.]
[Even now, he could find an excuse. He was angry, and vulnerable, and willing to turn to any sign of being human to stop him from thinking about his sins. To stop him thinking about Lapis, and the audition, and that painting, and-]
[Silco's lips slot into his like puzzle pieces. He gives them a little bite, breath rattling as he refuses to back off. The stench of blood is on both of them. He chooses to ignore it.]
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This is different, maybe - or it's not different at all. It still sparks that heat that he so rarely indulges, the result of his breath and the prick of pain on his lips. He'd thought his head would be clearer if he did it again, now that there was no song of blood, or that rush of heat from those horrible little cookies. (Were they so horrible? Had he not ached for days later, his mind left thinking about it again and Again?) No, his focus still narrows to just this, only the smell of blood mingled with him -- so similar to that first night in his quarters where they're drank from each other and --
His mouth opened against his, teeth scraping against his lips, all sharp edges coupled with thin, pliant lips. He didn't even try to stop the shudder of air -- and worse; a too-satisfied sound against his. A pleased little thing, to have what he's wanting right now reciprocated. To see that desire reflected back.]
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[With both his hands now free, he's letting them restlessly shift around the man to grasp into fabric, pull him closer. Hungry, hungry. They're both monsters willing to feed upon each other's bodies, pull out blood and flesh and desire for sustenance as need be.]
[This is what he felt deprived of, under the mistletoe. There's no one here - no one alive, for that matter - to witness this and make him self-conscious. He can continue as much as he'd like.]
[Malkuth had wanted him to be selfish. He had allowed it, back then, with uncertainty. A deer on feeble limbs.]
[Now he feels more sure in his footing, and he's letting his teeth rule the kiss with little half-bites and teases, matching Silco's little pleasure with a grumbling one of his own.]
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There's nobody to see them, or catch them, and how dangerous that is, given the little games they've been playing, like two monsters sizing each other up, no honesty between them as they've been puffing up, and sending quick little snaps back and forth, each time shrinking back so that they don't get taken by surprise, not willing to expose belly or throat unless there's something else forcing it. It's different when there aren't those circumstances. When Vergilius has already felt him breach that line in the sand β he knows he wants something from him β but even still...
He's tugged him closer than before β they had already drifted closer and closer β it's easy for Vergilius to practically blanket him, tug him up and against him so he can feel his warmth, and Silco can reach up to touch his bloodied fingers to his neck, to trail along the sliver of exposed skin, and leave his mark of blood down his neck, a trail of carnage that felt a little bit like he was leaving a mark on the man.
Most were invisible, but this? He could do.
He tipped his head, a brush of chipped teeth against his bottom lip, biting down with no gentleness, tugging at it slightly with another soft 'hm' that sounded like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.
It lets him breathe, at least, only slightly, a sharp inhale through his nose before he releases his lip to press back in again, as if giving him the space to stop, and think would make him reconsider. He doesn't want him to do that β pull back, when he'd finally stepped across the line. ]
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[Silco's teeth are uneven against the swell of his lip, and he's pulling back. He knows it's a falsehood, that little pause. As if he could stop here. There's something perhaps a little desperate in this - as if the here and now must be realized before it gets shoved inside once more.]
[He should reconsider. In the past, its been like kneejerk reflex to do so. However, he can't, he won't. He's crossed the line. He can't simply just wander back, not when his body wants this, wants to avoid the self-purgatory of his own misery about adding to his sins.]
[Silco caused him to do this.]
[Silco added to his sins.]
[His eyes flare red as they come in - he bites down harshly on the man's lower lip, perhaps enough to draw blood, before he kisses him again. And again. His tongue presses in, groaning into the man's mouth as his fingers curl.]
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Would he care, if he knew that Vergilius made this his sin? Could he care? Surrounded by the bodies, does he even want to care about them?
Silco's eye doesn't close, it never closes, it stares at him, drinks in that flare of angry red β he remembers what that gaze looks like β it makes a shudder of something draw down, something irrational that made him press tighter against his body. He opened his mouth for him, maybe not obedient, but allowing him in, a sharp nip of his teeth at his lips in warning, as if telling him he was allowing him in.
His fingers drifted up, to brush those bloody bangs back out of his face, leaving that burning gaze unimpeded, so he can stare back with his own hateful, angry pit of an eye.
He could always match him in this, though his always glared out at the world no matter what he did. ]
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[The man's spider fingers crawl up to press back his bangs. Deep down, he's always liked it - somehow, in a world where most avert their gaze, he gives respect to those who wouldn't shy away from his vivid red glow. Silco has one of his own. It's as if they're cut from the same cloth.]
[He's allowed in, complete with a nip. It's painful. It's wonderful. His hand slides up to grasp the back of Silco's neck, fingers gripping into his hair, as he further moves his tongue in to swallow down kisses hungrily.]
[There's a flush to his ears. There's a part of him worried this might go too far.]
[Isn't this already too far?]
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π nsfw...............
hate them
RATTLES THEM!!!
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i close my eyes
crying
why in the FUCk are they
me exploding silco and verg with my mind.gif
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π