[ Oh, for all of his protests that he wasn't at fault, he had enjoyed turning him, reshaping him into something else, leaving a mark on him that wouldn't just disappear or heal away, like he's got claws in him, lacing under the skin like a bitter and burning reminder. A burr stuck under flesh as unpleasant as the man himself.
He doesn't necessarily forget how strong he is; but hoisted in the air it's hard to think about anything but how much stronger he is, and that does something to his brain, makes it stallimg like it's catching on a stray thread and unwinding it, letting it tug free. He can't think of anything but that, up until β
He lands with a soft huff on the bed, uncoordinated and limbs askew. He almost lunges for him, a little bit of that fight still in him, unwilling to let Vergilius get the advantage β but he has it β
Silco's breath hitches against his lips. Legs all wound up in his pants he kicked his leg to get it free, but the effort is stalled by his hand on him, fingers wrapped tight, that strength held back to a solid, slow pump of his hand. His fingers are quick to find advantage, and they're clever things, his fingers, they tug in turn at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull it off β or rip it β it doesn't really matter what as long as it was off.
He thought he might be going mad, a blood haze that pounds in his head, hungry for just a little bit more β maybe everything he could take β if it meant a little bit more of what he saw in him, the man and the monster, that he could draw all of them out and sort through the pieces. Like he could make him break into pieces over him so he could help piece it back. He likes it, the power. Feeling like he has a leash on him that he tugged this way and that. Where he wanted him.
He rolled his hips into his hand, his teeth biting against his lips, another mockery of something that could be tender, but he was all sharp edges, like sleeping with a knife. Then again, he'd never expected anything different from Silco, had he?]
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He doesn't necessarily forget how strong he is; but hoisted in the air it's hard to think about anything but how much stronger he is, and that does something to his brain, makes it stallimg like it's catching on a stray thread and unwinding it, letting it tug free. He can't think of anything but that, up until β
He lands with a soft huff on the bed, uncoordinated and limbs askew. He almost lunges for him, a little bit of that fight still in him, unwilling to let Vergilius get the advantage β but he has it β
Silco's breath hitches against his lips. Legs all wound up in his pants he kicked his leg to get it free, but the effort is stalled by his hand on him, fingers wrapped tight, that strength held back to a solid, slow pump of his hand. His fingers are quick to find advantage, and they're clever things, his fingers, they tug in turn at the collar of his shirt, trying to pull it off β or rip it β it doesn't really matter what as long as it was off.
He thought he might be going mad, a blood haze that pounds in his head, hungry for just a little bit more β maybe everything he could take β if it meant a little bit more of what he saw in him, the man and the monster, that he could draw all of them out and sort through the pieces. Like he could make him break into pieces over him so he could help piece it back. He likes it, the power. Feeling like he has a leash on him that he tugged this way and that. Where he wanted him.
He rolled his hips into his hand, his teeth biting against his lips, another mockery of something that could be tender, but he was all sharp edges, like sleeping with a knife. Then again, he'd never expected anything different from Silco, had he?]