[ That is when he fights, struggling against his hand pushing him into his chair, but it does little good, it just serves for the impact against the chair to make him huff softly in pain, and the whole thing groan from the force of his body slamming against it. Something about this shifts, like he's grasping for an upper hand that slips out of his fingers like sand. He sinks into the seat as if it would allow him to find that distance he's clawing for now. Not from this, but what he needs for control. Over himself, over Vergilius, something to wrest the situation to his advantage.
There's nothing to grasp. Even with power that vampirism gives him, it's not enough. It's never enough, is it? He can't escape β does he want to, really? β and there's a frantic quality to his fingers at his thighs, somewhere between tugging him closer and pushing him away. Like a part of him wants to wrest back from him everything that he'd taken in one swift push of his hands. With his shirt open all the way β was it not just tattered at this point? β his fingers find that wound, a remnant of the last time he'd been with his back up against a hard surface and out of control. He did what he did last time, he made him hurt, because Silco had never been the type to give up a fight.
He feels like there's a point to be made here, maybe Verigilus is making one too, but Silco's lips curl against his, the threat of fangs scraping against his. Was this the monster he was looking for all along? Had it only taken forcing him into a corner to bring it out. His heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that the only sounds in the room are beating hearts, heavy breaths, and the creak and groan of the chair, fighting to stay solid while they poke at wounds and bite each other raw.
He bites him back, his fangs threaten to puncture his lip. Silco would always be a fight, he promises, there is no gentle acquiescence or fearful cowing β a fight for domination, and the smaller man still has tricks up his sleeve. He'll draw the monster out, even if he feels as much fear as pride at pulling it out, like he's reaching into his chest to dig out the horrible parts of him and put them on display. He wants to see it, no matter what it takes to get him there, and looming over him like this, he feels it. Fear, so sharp like a blade bubbling in his chest and threatening to spill over.
There's no room for fear. For a lack of conviction. He could not tempt the beast like this, and not expect it to bite.
His breath is shaky, bordering on a gasp against his lips. Just nearly there, he only needs to push him just a little more, doesn't he?
But Silco's fingers drift up from his thighs β thin, dextrous things, they move quick where he can't see, Silco's eyes focused on Vergilius's and his teeth snapping back against his with each kiss.
They scrape at the edge of his shirt, fingers looking for flesh to scrape against, and leave furrows from dull nails. Like he's trying to silently remind him who he's playing with β a reminder he's playing with fire, and that he'll burn him when he gets too close, if he's not careful. ]
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There's nothing to grasp. Even with power that vampirism gives him, it's not enough. It's never enough, is it? He can't escape β does he want to, really? β and there's a frantic quality to his fingers at his thighs, somewhere between tugging him closer and pushing him away. Like a part of him wants to wrest back from him everything that he'd taken in one swift push of his hands. With his shirt open all the way β was it not just tattered at this point? β his fingers find that wound, a remnant of the last time he'd been with his back up against a hard surface and out of control. He did what he did last time, he made him hurt, because Silco had never been the type to give up a fight.
He feels like there's a point to be made here, maybe Verigilus is making one too, but Silco's lips curl against his, the threat of fangs scraping against his. Was this the monster he was looking for all along? Had it only taken forcing him into a corner to bring it out. His heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that the only sounds in the room are beating hearts, heavy breaths, and the creak and groan of the chair, fighting to stay solid while they poke at wounds and bite each other raw.
He bites him back, his fangs threaten to puncture his lip. Silco would always be a fight, he promises, there is no gentle acquiescence or fearful cowing β a fight for domination, and the smaller man still has tricks up his sleeve. He'll draw the monster out, even if he feels as much fear as pride at pulling it out, like he's reaching into his chest to dig out the horrible parts of him and put them on display. He wants to see it, no matter what it takes to get him there, and looming over him like this, he feels it. Fear, so sharp like a blade bubbling in his chest and threatening to spill over.
There's no room for fear. For a lack of conviction. He could not tempt the beast like this, and not expect it to bite.
His breath is shaky, bordering on a gasp against his lips. Just nearly there, he only needs to push him just a little more, doesn't he?
But Silco's fingers drift up from his thighs β thin, dextrous things, they move quick where he can't see, Silco's eyes focused on Vergilius's and his teeth snapping back against his with each kiss.
They scrape at the edge of his shirt, fingers looking for flesh to scrape against, and leave furrows from dull nails. Like he's trying to silently remind him who he's playing with β a reminder he's playing with fire, and that he'll burn him when he gets too close, if he's not careful. ]