[ His voice snaked out through a strained neck that still ached from the bruise that still lay there, a soft vibration against his lips. Low, coupled with something that isn't quite a chuckle, but there's a thrum of tension there, half like he's egging him on. Did he really want to kill him that badly? ]
Are you tempted?
[ He doesn't want to die, of course, but... Vergilius had Come here. He'd checked in on him. He'd stepped into his den, and now wanted nothing more than to kill him. He could feel the shake against his skin. Was it restraint, or was it something else? He doesn't understand him, and it leaves him agitated that he can be so confusing. He's used to sliding individuals away in neat little boxes, based on who they were. What buttons he could push, or direct. How to make them mad, or slip away silently. Why was it he didn't react exactly the way he'd thought?
He's used to his life being threatened.
So why didn't he?
His fingers never stopped digging. As if he could open them back up, expose the parts of him he wanted to see. He wonders if he should push them open more? The hand on his thigh is lean, and bony, but while he presses his fingers into the wound, his thumb moves, just slightly, brushing against his inner thigh. ]
no subject
[ His voice snaked out through a strained neck that still ached from the bruise that still lay there, a soft vibration against his lips. Low, coupled with something that isn't quite a chuckle, but there's a thrum of tension there, half like he's egging him on. Did he really want to kill him that badly? ]
Are you tempted?
[ He doesn't want to die, of course, but... Vergilius had Come here. He'd checked in on him. He'd stepped into his den, and now wanted nothing more than to kill him. He could feel the shake against his skin. Was it restraint, or was it something else? He doesn't understand him, and it leaves him agitated that he can be so confusing. He's used to sliding individuals away in neat little boxes, based on who they were. What buttons he could push, or direct. How to make them mad, or slip away silently. Why was it he didn't react exactly the way he'd thought?
He's used to his life being threatened.
So why didn't he?
His fingers never stopped digging. As if he could open them back up, expose the parts of him he wanted to see. He wonders if he should push them open more? The hand on his thigh is lean, and bony, but while he presses his fingers into the wound, his thumb moves, just slightly, brushing against his inner thigh. ]
Or is there something else you want?