[ Vergilius is a welcome sight, laid bare, though he hardly has the opportunity to look, but he's starting to map it all out, the lace of scars and muscle, his fingers find the ones he always gravitates toward, starts at his neck, where he'd bitten him, and draw down from there, always beginning where it all started — or at least where it changed. He could admit it, that something had shifted, tipped like gravity went askew.

Again, it happens, he says things that catch Silco off guard, the heat in his face spreading a little further — it's a half thing, on half his face, over his nose, but the dead, mottled skin over his scar doesn't change. It might look healed over with the makeup he wears, but they both knew what it really looked like by now — Vergilius had seen him fully bare in every way, after all — and his lips part, before he leans in to scrape sharp, chipped teeth against his neck. ]

Please, that's because I'm in your lap.

[ He punctuates it with a slight roll of his hips, what little he can move it, with his large hands holding him down like he's liable to squirm out of his grip from the words. He doesn't, he just drives to press his lips and teeth against that space of his neck, the juncture where his jaw and ear meet, to press in there, and suck a bruising mark against him.

Fingers draw down, scraping across his skin, the scars, a familiar little path he'd been aching to touch all night when he sat across from him — even when he'd caught his eyes across the room — he always seeks him out, as if it's only natural to find sight of him whenever he looks across the room. Even now, even trying to duck his face away, he can't stay for long, pulling back to look him in the eye — despite the obvious flush — and his lips curled, reaching up with a hand to brush his bangs back. ]

I very nearly tried to pull you into a — hah — business meeting while we were there.

[ So, so, tempting. He'd admit it, there's addiction here; obsession. He aims to cling and not let go of him. ]