[ He's already flagging control, it's easy to feel it in his fingers or how clumsily his knee tries to pressure a reaction out of him in turn. As much as he would brag about his careful control over a situation, Vergilius has somehow figured out a way to slip in past those defenses, and pull apart the supports bit by bit, or maybe it was because Silco had tried to get too close, to understand him, and left all the weak spots unattended.
He is so dangerously exposed, naked save for the shreds of his shirt, pressed up against the bed where blood and sweat has already pooled from open exposed wounds, mixing and staining the sheets. His breaths are already harsh, and he feels his smile against his lips, something almost alien to either of them. So were the words he murmured before he returned to his jaw, sending a sharp, surprised shiver down his spine. He almost bites something out β that he doesn't have to just say things β but it devolved into something that's another gasp when his fingers keep moving, a tight grip around him.
He knew he didn't have a chance of holding onto his careful control, but he couldn't simply give him the satisfaction of taking him apart without taking him along with him. It's with a hiss against him, while he sucks bruises on his jaw, his knee slipping down, but his fingers replace it, from digging next to scars to tearing with his clever fingers to slip under the waistband of his pants.
But Vergilius's fingers flick over the head, and the flush across his cheeks blossoms into something deep, his mouth open, a lower, more honest groan than before slipped free, rawer. ]
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He is so dangerously exposed, naked save for the shreds of his shirt, pressed up against the bed where blood and sweat has already pooled from open exposed wounds, mixing and staining the sheets. His breaths are already harsh, and he feels his smile against his lips, something almost alien to either of them. So were the words he murmured before he returned to his jaw, sending a sharp, surprised shiver down his spine. He almost bites something out β that he doesn't have to just say things β but it devolved into something that's another gasp when his fingers keep moving, a tight grip around him.
He knew he didn't have a chance of holding onto his careful control, but he couldn't simply give him the satisfaction of taking him apart without taking him along with him. It's with a hiss against him, while he sucks bruises on his jaw, his knee slipping down, but his fingers replace it, from digging next to scars to tearing with his clever fingers to slip under the waistband of his pants.
But Vergilius's fingers flick over the head, and the flush across his cheeks blossoms into something deep, his mouth open, a lower, more honest groan than before slipped free, rawer. ]