[ Breathing against his mouth, Vergilius can feel the way his breath catches when his fingers drift toward his groin, pressed up against him like he is, nestled so perfectly right against him, slotting in so neatly. His thin thighs tighten around him, as if he could escape — where would he even go? — as if he wants to keep him right here.

He teases back, nips at his lips, his unblinking eye stares at his. There's a lurch somewhere, like something draws him closer, as if he could be closer. Like he melds against him, his fingers still find the little scars, like tributaries on a map, he follows them down, down, down. Fingers graze against scars, the remnants of wounds.

He still wants to learn about them, the ones that matter, but right now — he's distracted, too busy worrying his lips with his own, teeth and tongue snaking out to tease him. His fingers holding him in place, touching him, and that blossom of heat where his fingers just teased at the edge of him. ]

Oh? I thought you liked it when I made noise? [ He asked, his words formed against his lips. ] Maybe you should. Take me aside... steal me away from whatever nonsense they force us into next.

[ A better use of his time, perhaps. He says it with a press of his hips, rubbing against him through paings, enjoying the heat pressed against his admittedly thin and too-tight pants. ]