The lapse of silence was breached by an eventual rat-tat-tat of caustic nails, a trill in gentle thrice-rolled syncopation. He leaned against the doorframe newly-fucked -- tousled, a bit more beaten&bruised, a hangover high on his face and blood still fresh in the crook of his arm where scar-tissue hadn't ruined the hit.
His hand ruffled absently through a burgundy birdsnest, heel tapping idly through the wait for an old familiar to open the door. Between his lips lounged a cigarette, its sugared paper damp from flicks of a venom tongue -- unlit, but ready to ignite the minute he was granted admission -- permission granted or no.