Re: Second Class; Theater smoking room
"Yeah," said the horned man, with his soft, smoke hoarse voice. "I guess it is." His fingers were tipped in nails the color of ash, hard and sharp as shards of bone could be. He studied the flickering man with brief intensity, and the horns lightly tingled, reminding him that they were there, what he could do. What he could.
He took a cigarette from the case, plucking it between two clawed nails. He removed it with a deft ease that seemed comfortable, as natural as if he did it every day. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and watched as it lit himself, the contact of his lips enough to set the end alight.
He took a long drag and hummed with satisfaction. It soothed his inside better than the clear air ever could. The pull was short and airless, and he held the smoke in his lungs until he felt the smooth, vivifying burn of it fade. Everything about his body seemed new and old at once, changed but comfortable, sparking every few moments with pleasure.
Despite his long dark gaze and the dramatic curl of horns, there was something sweet in his smile, something that damnation couldn't touch. There were teeth, too, white and sharp under flush red lips. "That's a pretty neat trick too," he said, of the movie star's fluttering image, the horned man's curiosity spiraling quickly into a need to touch and see. He reached out a hand without asking, but with an innocent fascination. He was captivated by the celluloid man. He wanted to see if his hand went right through him, or whether, beneath the projection, there was a screen of flesh. "Do you feel anything?" he asked, as the tips of his fingers crept toward the other man's arm. Whorls of smoke trailed up from the cigarette at his side and wafted closer to his body, against the draft in the room. They curled around the arch of his bare hip bone, exposed over the top of his blue blue jeans.