[ Sometimes, Silco doesn't answer his little statements, just stares at him, as if he's satisfied to let him draw his own conclusions about whether or not it's true. Maybe the fact that he doesn't say anything is statement enough, though. He doesn't mind the little thorns, barbs, or knives thrown his direction, after all. Sometimes, they hit true, sometimes, they miss. He wants to obfuscate those moments, as much as he wants to make him see things that aren't there.
Then again, he leaves as many in return, doesn't he? More, maybe, in his own ways.
He steals a kiss β it's enough to get the cigar from him. ]
These? They barely taste like anything.
[ He scoffed, before he took it back, drawing another long pull from it, letting it settle in his mouth. ] One of the cigars where I'm from might kill you, if this tastes bad.
[ He leans in anyway, to scrape teeth and tongue against his lips, filling his mouth with smoke, as if to tease him with it. ]
no subject
Then again, he leaves as many in return, doesn't he? More, maybe, in his own ways.
He steals a kiss β it's enough to get the cigar from him. ]
These? They barely taste like anything.
[ He scoffed, before he took it back, drawing another long pull from it, letting it settle in his mouth. ] One of the cigars where I'm from might kill you, if this tastes bad.
[ He leans in anyway, to scrape teeth and tongue against his lips, filling his mouth with smoke, as if to tease him with it. ]