(There are habits one adopts in a box. The ritual signs of I am not an easy target. You wear them long enough, and you forget they weren't skin.)
Silco lifts a glass from its background blur, the imagined clink of ice. There’s no bite to it: The SIRE’s never so thorough as you’d like, certainly not here, at the hatched edges of Lucifer’s attention. He’s familiar with affection, obsession; the worry-stone wear of light and colour. Moments rendered softer. Kinder.
He wonders, briefly, if he’s inflated her tits.
"She's pretty," He tips the glass to her retreating form. In truth, it strikes distasteful, a pairing of pigs. But — "I trust it went better from there."
Wry. Genuine. He drifts closer, a gesture tugging suit and cravat into place. Illusory as the rest, and reeking of half-remembered tobacco, but at least his scrawny chicken legs are covered. Leaned upon the edge of the piano,
sorry he's such a dick
Silco lifts a glass from its background blur, the imagined clink of ice. There’s no bite to it: The SIRE’s never so thorough as you’d like, certainly not here, at the hatched edges of Lucifer’s attention. He’s familiar with affection, obsession; the worry-stone wear of light and colour. Moments rendered softer. Kinder.
He wonders, briefly, if he’s inflated her tits.
"She's pretty," He tips the glass to her retreating form. In truth, it strikes distasteful, a pairing of pigs. But — "I trust it went better from there."
Wry. Genuine. He drifts closer, a gesture tugging suit and cravat into place. Illusory as the rest, and reeking of half-remembered tobacco, but at least his scrawny chicken legs are covered. Leaned upon the edge of the piano,
"How long have you played?"