[ Oh —

He would hold off, if he could; if he had the will to. But the man's lips on his neck, humming and biting, and there's the way his hips and hand finally find something like a matching pace. He doesn't bite back the hisses, gasps — the soft throaty moans are few, but they slip out when his eye slips closed, his other locked onto Vergilius's face, or the lines of scars on him, or his shoulder, wherever he can.

His words are what do it — the way they slip out unbidden, tickling against sweaty, sensitive skin; his fingers grip tight, riding him out —

He swallowed, grit his teeth, but his lean, small body trembled underneath him, and he leaned up to press his forehead against his shoulder, one eye closed. His hips moved, trying to match the pace, try to drag just a little bit more — his fingers still moved against him, messy from him, slick. ]

I'll — [ his breath shuddered, his words rougher than before. ] — Aah — I'll make you —

[ He tried to press more against him, as if he could split and push into his skin. Like he could wind his way in there, and he gasped, the sound devolving into another of those moans — louder this time — lips, teeth, fangs (it didn't matter; it mattered so much) found skin to consume, biting his way along flesh, hooking a single fang in his skin when he — finally —

It was so sudden, only seconds behind, a gasp that was louder than the rest, completely and fully out of that tight control. His hips jerked, his body taut, spilling over his hand and his belly. He could only see dancing stars in his vision, swimming between his vision, half-closed and open, blanking out sight of anything for a moment that seemed to hang in the air.

There was blood everywhere between them, and sweat, and —

He didn't move — he didn't think he could move, still with his forehead on his shoulder, a single fang caught into his skin.

He breathed hard against his skin, still fighting to find a way back to reality while it kept slipping through his fingers. ]