#late(tm)

his gaze drifts, settling with a wry sort of amusement on her, the wine, her again. loveless — for how do you breathe life into the dead? — although they play along with this farce, snakebite smiles with cataclysm at the edge of it, spitting venom one moment and swallowing it the next, endless cycle never ceasing ( save for the intermissions in the war they wage amongst themselves, these brief in-between times when the air is thick with peace. ) he does not love her, or anyone, but she strikes him, sometimes, into feeling small in her presence, with sardonic little quips that are mismatched in the face of her physical assets — then, he goes to her, silent in the closest to respect he can get, subdued if only for a while to pay tribute.  perhaps it is not entirely in self-interest that he approaches her. perhaps it is. leaning in slightly with sharp canines barely visible, there is an almost-catch in his voice when he does respond, debonair yet not; a smirk reflexively tugs on his lips as he speaks, low and sensual.