[ There is a part of him that enjoys the way he follows commands; a thrill because he knows possibly better than most that he could die at any moment under his hands. He's not so strong that Vergilius couldn't reach out and tighten around his neck again, or drain him dry, or snap his neck with a flick of his hands, the same ones that tugged his shirt open in a quick motion, obedient. That's power, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh β was it from the chill air, from being so exposed, or from the press of his lips and teeth?
The other part is wary β so wary β from being so exposed around someone else. Particularly around someone who can kill him so readily. It's that double-edged sword, slicing both ways, leaving him carefully balanced on that razor's edge, not sure if he will teter off one way or the other β but it's the thrill of both, suspended in the air, crushed under his heavy weight. He has nowhere to go, he can't escape.
It makes the slight gasp around his thumb sound shaky. Underneath his shirt he's as thin and bony as the rest of him, his ribs ridges on too-pale skin. He twitches under his lips and bites, welts and bruises already left in his wake. His fingers search for his neck, or his shoulders, like finding an injury to dig into would yield the same as his attentions. His lips part, the occasional breath escaped like an uncontrolled secret being spilled, because giving anything away feels like a danger, even shaky breaths.
His control slips, the first real sign of some of that carefully constructed structure is crumbling under his white knuckled grip. His lips peel back around his teeth, fingers still searching at his neck for those still healing wounds β They go still the moment his hips bear down on his lap. He's crushing, bearing down on him. It leaves him pressed against the seat, barely able to move, barely able to breathe, with his lips catching the edges of his ribs. He feels a little mad, powerless, and trapped, a flush her rarely feels on his cheeks and then there's the β press of him. His fingers abandon his neck, his hair; snaking their way down to his thighs instead, thin fingers digging into the meat, beckoning him closer. ]
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The other part is wary β so wary β from being so exposed around someone else. Particularly around someone who can kill him so readily. It's that double-edged sword, slicing both ways, leaving him carefully balanced on that razor's edge, not sure if he will teter off one way or the other β but it's the thrill of both, suspended in the air, crushed under his heavy weight. He has nowhere to go, he can't escape.
It makes the slight gasp around his thumb sound shaky. Underneath his shirt he's as thin and bony as the rest of him, his ribs ridges on too-pale skin. He twitches under his lips and bites, welts and bruises already left in his wake. His fingers search for his neck, or his shoulders, like finding an injury to dig into would yield the same as his attentions. His lips part, the occasional breath escaped like an uncontrolled secret being spilled, because giving anything away feels like a danger, even shaky breaths.
His control slips, the first real sign of some of that carefully constructed structure is crumbling under his white knuckled grip. His lips peel back around his teeth, fingers still searching at his neck for those still healing wounds β They go still the moment his hips bear down on his lap. He's crushing, bearing down on him. It leaves him pressed against the seat, barely able to move, barely able to breathe, with his lips catching the edges of his ribs. He feels a little mad, powerless, and trapped, a flush her rarely feels on his cheeks and then there's the β press of him. His fingers abandon his neck, his hair; snaking their way down to his thighs instead, thin fingers digging into the meat, beckoning him closer. ]