This is what you get when I read smutlogs at work. Don't say I didn't warn you. Seriously.

For So Said the Gramaphone. And I own absolutely nothing.

His body doesn't heal as well as Dante's – well, maybe just as well, but nowhere near as quickly. Where shallow wounds would knit themselves back together in seconds on the older, Nero is left with scabs and tissue-deep bruises that last for days. It doesn't bother him, really. He's taken to admiring certain bruises, certain marks – more often than not bearing the imprints of teeth, the shape of fingers outlined in indigo.

He sees them as battle wounds … and is always inordinately pleased with how they'd formed. After the fact. Always after the fact.

(He's just returned to Fortuna, half a day spent in transit after two spent wrapped up in someone else's warmth, someone else's strength. Back in his own room, the quiet and comfort of the familiar, he starts stripping away clothing that still smells like the other, like smoke and gunpowder and leather. Bare, he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, blue eyes scrutinizing every inch of pale skin marked with splashes of shades of red and pink, blue and purple. He's sore, both from the trip and everything that had preceded it, but he doesn't think about it. Much.)

He brings his hands up, fingertips brushing over the line of sharp bites left along the curve of a shoulder, almost-abused flesh feeling warm and tender to the touch. They'd been nothing more than nips, really, just hard enough to register the press of teeth. A little bit lower, almost just above his heart, a mark that is the faintest bit darker, raised around the edges with the indents of less-than-blunt incisors. It twinges a bit, but it's a welcome discomfort. A reminder.

Lower still, the tracks of nails spanning the length of his abdomen from the bottom of his ribs to the rise of hip bones. Broken skin stings when he touches those lines, and he almost hisses. Mostly, it serves as just another vivid reminder of who could make him want that kind of pain. He knows Dante will always feel smug about it. Again, it doesn't bother him. Much.

Hips bear the shadows of finger-shaped bruises, those being the deepest yet, blurred shades of violet and vivid azure melding almost purposely. The contrast of light against dark startles him for a moment. It never has before, but he thinks idly that he'd stayed away a little longer than he normally would, and it was almost like Dante had held him a bit tighter than he normally would.

He doesn't think about it. Much.

His fingers drop to deeper tracks of fingernails, glazed over with the first traces of his own blood, and those do hurt, but again, it's a welcomed sort of thing. On the inside of his other thigh, thin red lines span almost to the bend of his knee, the slice of Devil Bringer's talons much cleaner, sharper than that of human nails, and somehow, they don't hurt as much. They burn, almost throb, and he relishes it. Almost groans in memory. It scares him, sometimes, if he thinks about it too much – of how much he seems to need him, to crave the touch of practiced hands, the heat of his mouth. To be drawn so tightly beneath that larger body that it feels he'll snap at any moment, break apart and shatter like tempered glass falling on concrete –

It's why he doesn't think about it. Much.

Nero turns around, back to the mirror, throwing a look over his shoulder and taking in the angry lines of broken flesh that criss-cross from his shoulder blades down. He can almost feel the heat pouring off of them like a bad sunburn, edges tingling as skin begins to pull itself back together, slowly, almost making him want to squirm at the sensation. It's awkward, always is, but not unpleasant. Never unpleasant.

He turns again, back to face smooth glass, eyes trained on the one blemish he's so far left unnoticed. It's healed over, has been for quite some time – but to Nero, it remains the deepest, the one that stays no matter how many other wounds are opened and closed. He doesn't scar, but this mark is different, unique, another reminder.

It's small enough to go unnoticed to eyes unaccustomed to looking, two shades darker than the color of pale skin. It rests at the junction where neck meets shoulder on the right side, the pattern almost swirling to encompass the shape of sharp teeth almost as though it's been left there quite on purpose.

The bite of the devil himself.

(He remembers what it felt like, the pressure, the surface of skin giving way with a slight pop, the rush of his own blood into the other's mouth. The guttural growl that follows, burrows beneath muscles shivering with need, with barely leashed self-control. He remembers growling back, allowing his spine to draw him into a sleek, sharp arc, baring his throat to who he's always conceived as an enemy, the enemy. Until he'd taken the time to open his eyes, actually look at him. He may be coarse. He may be arrogant – but he was familiar. Wanted. Needed. God, how …)

Nero has never enjoyed the idea of belonging to anyone but himself. Accountable for none aside from Kyrie. But this … these marks, but that one in particular, make him his. Whether he wants it or not.

He stretches luxuriously, reaching for his discarded black tank and inhaling – smoke and gunpowder and leather. You, old man.

He figures there are worse things in life than this. But he doesn't think about it.

Much.