#stoppedheart

She had a look on her face. Not a particular expression, a Look. Was she still with them?

"Say something."

There were emergency lights casting patterns over side streets. Police and first responders had been called to a scene an intersection away, and streets had been blocked off. Traffic had come to an abysmal stop. The gutters of the place were flooded fat with rain water, and the sky threatened another round of the stuff, she could smell it.

She being the woman who couldn't physically make herself move much from the bench she'd sat down at. Of course, her company was going to come after her if she hadn't responded, and she certainly hadn't responded.

She didn't have the energy, or fluids. She'd disappeared again, slinking off to succumb to wondering what things would be like if one day in her life had been different. It's the kind of thing that put her in the camp of being lost in fantasies.

It dully registered to her that someone had nudged her in place, and touched her at all, and she blinked, numbly, and turned her head to look up. He didn't register at first, as a person, even though she could pick the individual features of a person out there. Nose, eyes, ears.

Person.

In a way, it's a bit mean-spirited because he pretends just as easily as he actually sleeps. A trick he learned many years ago, back when distorting the line between whether he was truly awake or not deterred those with more malicious ideas.

But from the moment the other man leaves the bed, he is awake. Waiting silently, buying time as he keeps his eyes closed and listens intently to the silent rustling moving about the room.

As soon as he's kissed, he strikes. With a grumble of annoyance, his arm reaches out and snakes around him, trying to pull Silas back down onto the bed.

"Where are you headed so early, hm?"

The Duke puts his book down and shoots him a glance, eyebrows raised in a way that expresses annoyed but not surprised.

from @stoppedheart

Send 💗 to kiss my muse tenderly without explanation

Is this simply the new normal? The question has been dancing in the far corners of his mind for many days now, and yet he cannot seem to find a moment when he wants to ask. There's a cloying feeling in his chest. A tightness when he contemplates how there is a chance the answer may be 'no' and he does not examine the reason why that sets him on edge.

Usually, he is content being alone. Other people have always been simply ships passing in the night. Interesting, for a time, but never bound to stay long.

Silas has endured. Unfurling and growing in the empty spaces around his apartment without any conversation about the fact. H.U.N.K simply knows that there's a spare toothbrush he sets in the bathroom now when there wasn't one before, and that a drawer in his bedroom has been intentionally filled with anything that he decides is the other man's property.

Of course, he loses sleep wondering why he's doing this. What the hell is wrong with him? Whether he is being careless or not. He questions the warm feeling that collects whenever he hears that voice calling from the next room over. He prods at his own thoughts like a tender bruise. Unable to stop himself when things are too quiet, and he has nothing else to silence his mind.

Standing in the kitchen, he peers at the mural of takeout menus that litter his fridge door and scowls at the options. He no longer attempts to strain to guess which room Silas's footsteps might be coming from, but allows himself to simply regard them as a familiar background noise. It's when he hears them coming up behind him that he turns around.

He intended simply to ask what Silas wanted. To prod discreetly, he tends to do these days, in order to see if he plans to stay for the night. Instead, the other man encroaches on his space. Pressing his mouth against H.U.N.K's and momentarily draining all of his focus. The world becomes static for a fleeting second. The sensation is jarring and inspires a surprised sound from him that he muffles by biting the edge of his tongue.

Not in a fetishy way more of like. A thing for aesthetics. Obviously HUNK is stupid handsome barefaced but like, a lot of guys got a face card. HUNK's face card is like if your credit card came in a cardholder that was made of 1930s iron bullet casings. Or to use a different metaphor, it's like one of those USBs that's disguised as a vintage lighter.

Idk if i'm explaining this well but for my guy the part of HUNK that makes him attractive is where he puts on Death And Guns And Metal as his day job outfit and then takes it off and there's just a normal, if good-looking dude under it.

For the record, Silas HATED the dress code during his time as Connections security and flouted it whenever possible, only really suiting up like a gas mask PMC when he absolutely had to. It's not what he's built for. HUNK is built for it and carries it like a part of him and that's...so....

*vague gesturing since nothing else properly explains how Silas likes his men anonymous and intimidating*

Silas pls.

"Any particular reason why you keep taking those?"

Not that it matters. He owns dozens of them at this point. If you dug through his entire wardrobe, it would feel like you'd gone entirely colorblind, actually.

He sits across from Silas. Casually swiping the coffee pot in order to top off his own half-filled mug. "Do you... not have any clothing of your own right now?" The question had hovered on the outskirts of his thoughts for weeks now. But only in this moment had he found the concept of saying it viable. Lifting his head, he stares across at Silas. His expression growing serious.

that's how he justifies it to himself as he holds hunk's chin in place - not harsh, just firm - and drags a razor through a patch of shaving cream on his jaw, watching hair come away cleanly. their faces are very close, but silas' eyes flick upward every so often are focused on the work, as he carefully draws another trail through the cream and takes note of every hair missed.

clearly he has to be doing this. no other option, y'know.

"What are you going to start a career as a barber now?"

The comment is teasing, but it's the only word that he speaks for the entire duration. While very aware that he could simply tell Silas that he doesn't need the help, and that he's been capably managing his own grooming for as long as his face has grown hair, there is something about the dedication that Silas places into the task that shuts him up quite abruptly.

Though he has never been to a barber before. He can imagine that the same steady strokes that he feels across his skin right now are akin to how it would feel. The edge of the razor, which is just as capable of carving open his flesh as it is of shaving him.

Silas has a way of pouring so much dedication even into small tasks. It is a trait that does not escape the Grim Reaper's notice. He is patient and perfectly still. He keeps his breathing shallow and tilts his head up or down whenever guided to. But those dark eyes scarcely seem to blink. They never leave Silas. Not for the entire duration.

When the other man looks away, some peculiar impulse momentarily takes over. He's almost finished. He can tell that Silas is just being a perfectionist at this point. His mouth parts, and the tip of his tongue creeps outwards without warning. Tracing across the razor itself, but also one of Silas's fingers.