Finding blood upon his carpets is nothing of oddity to the SOLDIER, the occasional fight between lovers or comrades rendering flesh unable to contain the ruby liquid. Yet it is not many who know the codes into his apartment and less who have authorized keys, the scarce spattering of individuals rousing concern when the amount is noted. It is foreign too, not sharp and rousing like Sephiroth’s, nor earthy and comforting like Angeal’s. He detects a common man as the scents wash through his nose and over his tongue, eyes blaring frightfully when the door clicks closed.
Ah, what a fair angel is his Precious Flame, doused in the blood of the weak. Instinct bays him to croon a muted greeting to his fair, fine lady, ready to tousle her splattered hair with his hands and devour the richness of her lips. Yet it is not victory she bares with flames arching so high, but angry bitterness that sours the cinnamon in his mouth. She offers a trill of her own, but his croon has long passed. The shriek of a bird of prey is stifled by tightly pressed lips, her body trespassed upon as he consumes her area of personal comfort, lording over her as frightfully nude hands cover her cheeks. “And he is dead, my Darling Love?" The pitch and fever that roars in Mako eyes depicts his urgency for that fact, for otherwise she would be left alone to scrub away the filth.
She. Was. His.
His anger is a dangerous flame.
Hungry, lapping and consuming those around him in his rightful fury ---- it can scorch even her. His anger scares and excites her, rousing the sanguine lust within in hopes he might use her, but now it only intimidates her. She does not cower, however, mimicking his gestures and placing gentle hands atop his cheeks. Rapier hopes to soothe with thumbs caressing his features, so perfect were they. The saccharine evaporates from her face, from the atmosphere itself, but carmine circled by steel still shows admiration; adoration. She croons again, thumbs tracing the apples of his cheeks, but she understands the urgency of the situation and she wants no bigger fuss than one that already been made.
“ Yes, My Magnificence. He has perished for his transgression, scorched by the flames of Hell itself, for there are none who may lay hands on me and live; no other than you, My Master. ”
She chirps, nigh hoping it is monotonous in its tone; ultimately she's unsure whether or not happiness or further antipathy at this fact would only fan the flames or douse them. Instead, she hopes to quell his igneous ire with gently kisses along his chin, chaste as they were.
