Covered in his jewelry and his tattoo-ink, shaded by the half-light with his eyes glowing pale blue in his possession, there is something strange to the air of the pale, skinny man with the sharp nose and the black-lacquered nails.
"Who are you now?" There is a certain amount of fascination in the tone of the Necromancer who is leaning against the wall, his legs crossed and his expression speculative.
The body of the Sensitive turns its head towards the death-magician and smiles. Without speaking, it stands, forcing its chair to judder and shake where it stands. It crosses the room, its steps quiet and deliberate, and it bends down and looks at him straight on, matching intense gaze with intense gaze.
They kiss, and after they've been at this for long enough for them to be entwined into each other with not much by way of clothing between them, the errant soul leaves Finbar Wrong, who is horrifically confused for a split second before shrugging inwardly and continuing what he's doing. He's not sure why he's screwing Solomon Wreath, but now that he is, he is sure as bloody Hell not about to question it.
Or, you know, stop.
A/N: Finbar is such fun. :)
~Mademise Morte