[ What manner of man comes to him here, after what he did, and says something like that? He hated what he'd done to him, or so he fails. He wanted to look him, didn't he? Or was it that aggression that came from something else, that want he hissed into his ear? He could imagine that he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, and he could almost imagine he could hear the blood thudding in his veins too.
Their fingers interlaced, just like that night when he'd thought he could pull the skin apart and look at the man -- a beast -- beneath it. His grip tightens to match his, stronger than his lean frame suggests. ]
Ah - [ It's somewhere between a surprised... Something and... A low note that almost sounds pleased. More honest than he intended, perhaps. He hadn't expected him to admit it, it was easier to ignore when it was unspoken, a trend that he could pretend he was imagining to see.
He lifted joined hands -- still held down, with his lips at his neck, he didn't dare move his head -- forced his wrist close to mouth, fang scraped against flesh, and maybe he drug it out for longer than necessary. He liked that, pinning him in place without holding him down; forcing him to dangle over a precipice. Did he know the kind of power he'd just given him? Over him? This is a sort of power that he's is unused to, but it still evokes that sharp tingle of excitement at the rush of it.
He bit into him, fangs sinking deep into his wrist. It's a contrast, not gentle or kind, but sharp, all points and rough edges, his hand holding him still, as if he couldn't rip his wrist away. Hot blood flooded into his mouth, one of his eyes closed from the rush. Did it taste better, knowing how much power he holds? ]
[Of course Silco is sharp. Of course there's no real warmth to find here. There's no comfort. It's akin to taking thorns to swallow inside of him, hoping to bleed internally.]
[It's what I deserve. For my hypocrisy. For my deception.]
[That familiar voice stands the test of time. Vergilius feels the man's mouth dig in as if its always belonged at his wrist, and a low noise vibrates out of his chest. Maybe it's a groan. Maybe it's the sound of a dog whose been cowed.]
[Yes, of course, the anger is there, and even though he's been leashed like this, this feral dog still has some bite. He will chew on the hand that feeds, and petty, spiteful emotion makes him lower his head. He sucks another bruise into the bouquet of the others, before he bites into...well, at least not his carotid, but its close. Too close.]
[He gasps at the flow of blood, but its such a contrast to the hands below - they hold each other tightly, but the way his thumb strokes upward is almost, vaguely, tender.]
[ His neck is already aching from the bruises; they seem to keep multiplying around him β as if he'd known what a weak spot it was β but his breath gasped in a sudden burst, when he broke skin, his fingers white-knuckled against his, fighting for composure that seemed to keep slipping through his fingers. The blood was a small salve on the loss of his own, but this wasn't really about consumption, was it? Not really.
It was about something else, maybe something like reminding each other about the danger they were both in from each other β Silco from physical danger, Vergilius from the danger of being wrapped up in Silco's little plans and plots β but Silco knew exactly the kind of danger he was in, and hadn't sought to step back; he'd so often had his life threatened that it almost seemed to be nothing β and yet here he was, allowing him close. Closer than he'd even allowed the demon he'd sold his soul to.
This was foolish for how dangerous it was, but there was the power too. Like he had that feral dog's leash, even if it snapped back at him and bit him. When had he ever wanted safe, or kind things? No, he knew that Vergilius could kill him, and wasn't half of the rush the fact that he survived? Escaped with only puncture wounds and bruises that he made sure to match?
He isn't satisfied with one wound on his wrist, he pulls his fangs free, but the blood pooling in the twin wounds draws his mouth back to the wound, his tongue pressed to the puncture wounds, and did the blood just keep coming? Was his heart pounding that hard?
He bit him again, a second mark just a touch higher than the first, the blood smearing over his lips and cheek, a soft, satisfied sound seemed to escape from somewhere in him, when he sank his fangs back in. The scent of blood hanging in the air between them just made him want more of it, to leave a series of bites down his arm so he couldn't cover all of them up and hide them away. ]
[He drinks from him. They drink from each other. It dizzies him, to think of this ouroboros of blood, shared from one to another. They're the same. They're nothing like each other. Paradoxically, both can be true.]
[Maybe it is the blood and the vampire hunger. Something to land his blame on, easily. He can use it as a way to maybe explain the palpable full-body shiver that comes as Silco makes his move. A whimper of a gasp comes from his mouth as he pulls away, head knocking a little against the other's.]
[It's horrible. It's so, so good.]
[Hunger asks for so much.]
[His legs tremble - he finds himself shifting forward as if a magnet begs him so, and settles on the man's lap. He dwarfs Silco easily. Perhaps it isn't comfortable for him. Who cares about that?]
[His mouth trails down, leaving streaks of blood, before he starts to gnaw along the edge of the clavicle he finds, a dog to a bone.]
[ Compared to him, Silco is small, thin and reedy, and Vergilius has almost a foot on him when he zeroes in on him, into his space, and it isn't comfortable, but he doesn't crumple under the weight of him, he only shifts, swallowing the last of the blood from the latest bite on his arm. He almost snakes back in to take another bite, but he's too close, and dipping lower, and β
The weight of him feels a little like he's trapped, pressed into the seat, he can't escape, and it's claustrophobic like everything from the blood to the air between them is shared, he doesn't feel like there's enough to go around, and it makes him greedy to find a way to dominate, especially when he holds him down like this.
The sharp hiss of air through his teeth was audible, his fingers instinctively found that injury on Vergilius's thigh again β pressed so much closer now that he was in his lap β and he dig his hand in, to make it hurt, give as much as he got. His fingers relaxed, and he released his hand, to wind it into his hair, brushing it out of his eyes.
He tightened his grip, and tugged, not necessarily to pull him away from the gruesome bite, but to keep him in line. ]
Careful β [ Half a hiss of pain, half a command. ] β Don't leave a mess on my shirt.
[ It sounds less in control than he would have liked. ]
[Silco pulls him back, and with the pressure of the finger pressing into sensitive, injured flesh, his lips pull back in a definite hiss, punctuated with a gruff groan. Oh, so he wants to dictate what he should do, huh? How bold he is. A small man who doesn't ever want to relent. He likes that. He doesn't like it, also, but Silco never would have attracted him if he was simply the type to let life roll over him.]
[Now that his hand is free, he's reaching up to slide over his chest, hook his fingers on the edge of his collar. His exposed eyes, no longer hiding under the shade of bangs, are vivid as ever, like jewels. Inhuman, really. Hungry.]
....Maybe we should get rid of your shirt. [A simple solution, right? His hand starts to pull down on the fabric, trying to find the nearest button to pluck away from its slot.] Save you the mess.
[ He met his eyes β so often they were mostly covered, it's almost surprising how bright they are β he thinks they look like a predator, aiming to consume him whole if he didn't bring him to heel. Is that a thrill? It's feels like... something, a jump in his heartbeat when he looks down at his bright eyes glowing in dim light, and his bloodstained lips from biting his way down his neck, and lower. Truly like that dark beast stalking its prey.
His fingers left the wound β lifted to brush the blood from his bottom lip with his thumb. Maybe chancing that bite again. His other hand remained in his hair, and tightened slightly, tugging it just a little more. Maybe a threat? A bid to stop, but β ]
Stop taking your time.
[ Maybe not a bid to stop then.
He met his gaze when he lifted his thumb to his lips and sucked his own blood off of it. ]
[Silco feels like a king on a throne. He's never cared for royalty. The man underneath him makes his proclamation, presses his finger over those seeking lips, and licks off the blood that should belong to him. Ah, see, that's the hunger speaking. But which one? The vampirism? Or something else?]
[Yes, Silco makes him hungry. A gnawing sort of feeling, a worm that needs to find the core in this rotten apple. He wants to ruin the man. He wants to ruin himself.]
[And so, he heeds it with a glint of a grin as his hand grasps the fabric and simply - pulls. Yanks it, really. With his strength, it gives way as easy as anything, and just like that, the exposed chest makes him dive his head down. No more going slow. He's attacking in a flurry of kisses and light bites, teeth catching on the edges of ribs as he hums the whole while.]
[In the midst of it all comes a slower, definite shift of movement as if to drive the man mad. His hips are starting to curve into his lap, heavy as they come.]
[ There is a part of him that enjoys the way he follows commands; a thrill because he knows possibly better than most that he could die at any moment under his hands. He's not so strong that Vergilius couldn't reach out and tighten around his neck again, or drain him dry, or snap his neck with a flick of his hands, the same ones that tugged his shirt open in a quick motion, obedient. That's power, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh β was it from the chill air, from being so exposed, or from the press of his lips and teeth?
The other part is wary β so wary β from being so exposed around someone else. Particularly around someone who can kill him so readily. It's that double-edged sword, slicing both ways, leaving him carefully balanced on that razor's edge, not sure if he will teter off one way or the other β but it's the thrill of both, suspended in the air, crushed under his heavy weight. He has nowhere to go, he can't escape.
It makes the slight gasp around his thumb sound shaky. Underneath his shirt he's as thin and bony as the rest of him, his ribs ridges on too-pale skin. He twitches under his lips and bites, welts and bruises already left in his wake. His fingers search for his neck, or his shoulders, like finding an injury to dig into would yield the same as his attentions. His lips part, the occasional breath escaped like an uncontrolled secret being spilled, because giving anything away feels like a danger, even shaky breaths.
His control slips, the first real sign of some of that carefully constructed structure is crumbling under his white knuckled grip. His lips peel back around his teeth, fingers still searching at his neck for those still healing wounds β They go still the moment his hips bear down on his lap. He's crushing, bearing down on him. It leaves him pressed against the seat, barely able to move, barely able to breathe, with his lips catching the edges of his ribs. He feels a little mad, powerless, and trapped, a flush her rarely feels on his cheeks and then there's the β press of him. His fingers abandon his neck, his hair; snaking their way down to his thighs instead, thin fingers digging into the meat, beckoning him closer. ]
[He could list a million ways. Any good killer could. But here's a way that feels like its worming beneath both of their skins - an iron rope hitched to each other's bodies, tugging and pulling with every shift in this impossible struggle. Vergilius gains power. Then Silco, with his need for dominance, gains power. But who will win? Is there a point to winning? Is it too simple to think that anyone could win, here?]
[There's still a part of Vergilius who wants to reach down to pull Silco out of the muck. He, too, despite all he is, should deserve to live in a world where he could be at peace, and that hunger could be once and finally sated. But now, a very different part emerges. Something pettier, more vicious than he gives himself credit for. Silco gasps underneath him, a lovely little sound, and the thought is realized - he wants loss of control. He wants Silco to whine and howl and beg. It's also what he deserves, doesn't he? For all he's done? For what he did to him?]
[More, more, more. Silco's spindly fingers twist over his thighs, thick with muscle, and he's bowing to the order of them. He rocks into that grip, slowly but surely, as if to drive him down into the depths. His injury smarts, and his clothes are wet with blood, but who cares? His own breath comes ragged as his hands make more work of this pathetic clothing, tearing it this way and that. His scarred hands make a journey down below, cascading over this raw frame before he pushes the man's shoulders further back into the chair so he's practically enveloping him.]
[A bite of a kiss to his lips. And another. Even as the rhythm continues, the threat remains strong.]
[ That is when he fights, struggling against his hand pushing him into his chair, but it does little good, it just serves for the impact against the chair to make him huff softly in pain, and the whole thing groan from the force of his body slamming against it. Something about this shifts, like he's grasping for an upper hand that slips out of his fingers like sand. He sinks into the seat as if it would allow him to find that distance he's clawing for now. Not from this, but what he needs for control. Over himself, over Vergilius, something to wrest the situation to his advantage.
There's nothing to grasp. Even with power that vampirism gives him, it's not enough. It's never enough, is it? He can't escape β does he want to, really? β and there's a frantic quality to his fingers at his thighs, somewhere between tugging him closer and pushing him away. Like a part of him wants to wrest back from him everything that he'd taken in one swift push of his hands. With his shirt open all the way β was it not just tattered at this point? β his fingers find that wound, a remnant of the last time he'd been with his back up against a hard surface and out of control. He did what he did last time, he made him hurt, because Silco had never been the type to give up a fight.
He feels like there's a point to be made here, maybe Verigilus is making one too, but Silco's lips curl against his, the threat of fangs scraping against his. Was this the monster he was looking for all along? Had it only taken forcing him into a corner to bring it out. His heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that the only sounds in the room are beating hearts, heavy breaths, and the creak and groan of the chair, fighting to stay solid while they poke at wounds and bite each other raw.
He bites him back, his fangs threaten to puncture his lip. Silco would always be a fight, he promises, there is no gentle acquiescence or fearful cowing β a fight for domination, and the smaller man still has tricks up his sleeve. He'll draw the monster out, even if he feels as much fear as pride at pulling it out, like he's reaching into his chest to dig out the horrible parts of him and put them on display. He wants to see it, no matter what it takes to get him there, and looming over him like this, he feels it. Fear, so sharp like a blade bubbling in his chest and threatening to spill over.
There's no room for fear. For a lack of conviction. He could not tempt the beast like this, and not expect it to bite.
His breath is shaky, bordering on a gasp against his lips. Just nearly there, he only needs to push him just a little more, doesn't he?
But Silco's fingers drift up from his thighs β thin, dextrous things, they move quick where he can't see, Silco's eyes focused on Vergilius's and his teeth snapping back against his with each kiss.
They scrape at the edge of his shirt, fingers looking for flesh to scrape against, and leave furrows from dull nails. Like he's trying to silently remind him who he's playing with β a reminder he's playing with fire, and that he'll burn him when he gets too close, if he's not careful. ]
[So Silco unlocked the secret here. He can have his beautiful monster. He has it here and now, and its a beast that is currently taking a little too much pleasure in rocking so decisively into his lap. Silco's fingers find his wound, and the pain lances like a whip into flesh, but it only seems to spur him onwards with a little hiss and a groan.]
[His own scars are testament. He has received all the pain he could bear, and not a single thing has been able to break him.]
[Really, all it has is just made him worse.]
[Silco's hands move and tear over sinewy old skin. More attempts to hurt, to gain some control over what he wanted all along. Be careful what you wish for. He grins a little, finding it somehow funny in the heat and sound of this friction. Oh, he's hungry. This doesn't feel like its enough.]
[Will it ever be? Or is it too late, now?]
[He's sucking on the other's jaw now as he abandons his kisses for this short moment so he can growl against this ravaged skin. The man's sweat is mixing in with the metal smell of the blood already spilled.]
You asked for this. [One of his hands drops down between them, intentionally kneading down over Silco's groin as if to rudely punctuate his words.] I really should take you to the bed and make you see stars. Haaa. It might do you some good.
He doesn't even get to the point where the words can form, in its place is another of those gasps, like it's yanked out of his throat before anything else escapes. Another little crack in that armor that is his control, but he swallows it back with tight-fisted grip, his fingers seeking weak spots that don't exist. There are no injuries to poke and prod at, more like dull scratches against his skin.
He'd invited him in, hadn't he? Asked him to hurry up? Could he say that he wasn't dancing with the monster under his skin, if he hadn't given as much as he'd gotten? Crushed up against the chair, he hadn't stopped him, when he bit down and ripped his shirt to tatters. Could he say that he hadn't asked for it when he was sprawled beneath him biting β kissing? β him back, and threatening to sink his teeth into his lip?
It was too late well before this, wasn't it? ]
Should?
[ He reached up to thread his fingers through that fringe of hair again, before he tugged it back forcefully to look him in the eyes. It gives him a good look at Silco, with his scar exposed and stringy, his lips bitten, his normally too-pale skin flushed. If he has any control left, it's hanging on by a thread. ]
You didn't strike me as the type to be all talk, are you?
closing my damn eyes. Anyways. here be nsfw and yaoi
[He does it again. Pull the hair back, yank it like a leash, force his gaze out in the open. There are not many who can meet it. But he doesn't think he's ever met someone like Silco before, who taunts him, defies him at every turn. His grip, a leash, his gaze, a way to control.]
[He doesn't want to be controlled. He wants to be controlled. How can it be, this paradox of his? He wants to be hated and he wants to be loved, he wants to destroy it all and he wants to be destroyed. All these years, he has kept the balance inside his wretched heart in check. It was easy to do in the City.]
[But Silco comes in, falls into his life, and that paradox reaches out with hungry arms to envelope him into the heart of this chaotic heart.]
[What a lovely flush. He memorizes it - a part of him realizes he was disappointed before, when Silco had turned him into a vampire, that he wondered if Silco enjoyed it to his core. Not simply experiencing victory, but pleasure.]
[His mouth shifts up, bloodied, into a smirk. And instantly, he's pulling back, slipping out of the man's lap - and he doesn't even give a second to breathe before he's pulling Silco up by the collar like he's a stuffed toy. He lifts him over as easy as anything, tossing him onto the bed before crawling in on top of him with vivid eyes and a mouth wanting to tear and kiss. Hands find the edge of the other's pants before yanking the belt off, tossing it against the wall, and pulling it all down up and over his knees.]
[Another kiss for you, Silco. But there's a hand to dive down between his legs as well to fondle over him before gripping him tight, solidly giving it a solid pump.]
[ 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?]
[This is a far cry from the trysts he had with Malkuth - sweet, fun little things, full of smiles and twirled hair and teasing that warmed the cheeks and made the heart tender. Yes, this is nowhere near that - Silco reaches up, tears his blazer off, then his collared shirt which he also helps pull off of himself to reveal the expanse of muscled, scarred skin.]
[This is not a shared warmth between two people. This is a violent affair. A way to bring the other down to their level and use desire to string them up and crucify them to their heart's content. Why, Vergilius, despite his nature, finds pleasure in this. In the way the man's slender legs jerk against him as the fight in him has yet to die down. He will show the slightest amount of mercy to pull the rest of his pants and underwear off to leave him well and enough exposed.]
[And after mercy comes punishment. He dives his tongue past thin lips to tease the other to return the favor, still willing to bite in the midst of this fervor. He won't slack in his job down below, either - as he sighs into this vampire's mouth, his hand pumps as firmly as anything, trying to milk whatever reaction he can out of the man.]
[Silco wants to fight. So does he, in his own way.]
[ No, there's nothing kind, or sweet here. Silco's all sharp edges, as rotted to the core as the river he'd been drowned in. It's an insidious thing, maybe, trying to tug him down into the undertow with him, while his fingers found purchase and dug into healed-over scar lines like they were something he could hold onto, dig into. This is control, and maybe hunger β he feels like he can almost hear the blood rushing between them, open wounds everywhere they've bitten each other, or poked into open wounds β and he wants to pull him down.
His lips part almost automatically, his fangs are a sharp hazard, like everything else about him, and he's quick to drag them against his tongue, or his lips, whatever he can find, leaving a stinging cut against his skin wherever he can find purchase. It's half a kiss, half a biting, stinging response, snapping down against his lips when his hands sink downward, an automatic response that lacks whatever control he's managed to pull from his white knuckled grip on his side.
He fights back, not just biting kisses against his lips and tongue, or the tightly-dug grip against his sides β his legs now freed found place to rest, he pressed a knee against him digging in with just on the side of too much against his groin, pressing just too hard.
It was never going to be gentle, or warm. But there was something honest in that, the both of them were fighting, trying to break each other apart. What would happen if one of them broke?
He hissed out against his lips, that lack of control slipping out, escaping from that iron grip. His voice slipped out with it, soft, barely there, but the room is silent except for their shared breaths. It's hard to miss the edge of a groan into the quiet between them, while they try both try to pull each other apart piece by piece. ]
[No, he would be disappointed if Silco gave it up and laid there pretty. He would feel like a predator who has toyed too much with a mouse that its passed out, and its no longer fun. That notion brings a swell of heat into his ears, suddenly - because that doesn't feel like him. And yet, it does. He's the type of man to beat himself over the back for his sins, and yet...]
[Well, is this a sin? To break down an awful man, get him to experience this deconstruction by his hand? Even his gasps are delicious, the painful press of his knee into his groin betraying some possible leverage. His own arousal strains heavy, still trapped behind fabric, but he ignores the discomfort. He flicks his wrist, and strokes over the head a little more insistently.]
[Silco must fall. He has to go over the edge. He wants to bring him there. See his face, hear his cries of a total loss of inhibition.]
[And so, he encourages - by smiling into the kisses as he takes them one and all. Silco's scar feels rough against his cheeks, and it reminds him of kissing over that beautiful scar in that dark dark hallway.]
...How pretty you are.
[He murmurs - something sincere, but also something to make him act even more than he already is doing. No, a few gasps isn't enough.]
[He's greedy that way, he thinks, as he sucks on the edge of his jawline.]
[ 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. ]
[Silco is on the attack. Those scars itch and whine with pain, his jaw throbs with teeth marks. The man finds what lies below, and he has to cut back his own groan behind a bite of his lower lip as those fingertips brush against the swollen, needy hit. He would buck against that touch, if not only for the sudden piercing tone of what comes out of Silco's mouth.]
[He latches onto it, in his fervor. What a beautiful sound. Its enough to send his heart into his spine with an electrifying beat, making him shiver out a groan of his own. Words start to spill out of his mouth, unfettered. The babble of a madman.]
Silco. Silco, Silco. Oh, I wish you came prepared. I would've ground you into the bed for that. I would. I would break you.
[A haggard, rough little noise, as he pulls back a hand to help the man, unzipping his pants before he returns to his task. The pumps of his hand, scars and all, are thorough, but put of rhythm, almost a little too needy.]
Hah. [And his other hand yanks the man's hand right over his groin, to do as he pleases. Another kiss, another, with a definite growl from the back of his throat.] Say my name. Say it.
[ There's something about the way his words spill out, uncontrolled and honest that sent a jolt of a thrill down his spine, a shaky breath exhaled. He'd been swallowing them, his little hitches of breath and the louder gasps that he knew would give away how quickly this was spiraling out of control for him too. His fingers wrapped around his cock, nowhere near gentle, instead a nearly too-tight grip, but his motions are clumsy and just as out of rhythm as his.
He swallowed into his lips, another soft gasp shared between them like shotgunning a smoke β it devolves into another of those lower groans, his mouth open and pressed to his β the sharp scrape of fangs ever-present. It makes kissing him dangerous, and he's not of a mind to concentrate where his fangs pierce or drag against skin. It hurts, even while he can't do anything but acquiesce to him. ]
You should β have planned for that β Vergilius β [ It's half a command, but his voice sounds raw and rough against his lips. It's only soft because the room is small, because Silco doesn't dare speak up, promising something like this. ] Next time β
[ His words come with a soft groan, and like it's a battle, he swept his hand up against him, to swipe his thumb against his head, before he drug it back down slowly. Next time, he promises, like this isn't just a one-off encounter. Perhaps he doesn't intend it to be. ] β Perhaps I'll let you.
[ His hips roll, to match his pace, completely uncontrolled and unbidden. His free hand reaches up to loop around his neck, pulling him back in close, against Silco's neck so he can hum in his ear, teasing him with fangs against his flesh, hips fucking into his hand. A soft gasp against his ear. ]
Maybe I'll let you break me, Vergilius.
[ They both knew it was a fight to see who broke first. ]
[See, this is what he was missing from before. From their little encounter, body to body, in the dark hallway of where their blood mingled with one another. Reciprocation. Silco wants this. Wants him. What he says is everything. From the way he gasps his name, to the promise of a next time.]
[Oh, a next time. His brain is on fire. Brief glimpses of images. Silco's hips against his, completely. More sighs into his ears, more cute noises ro swallow one by one. Next time. The image of a headboard knocking against a wall. More of a flush in Silco's cheeks. Next time. His voice cracks at the weight of it, pouring through his being with a definite rush of heat and blood below.]
As if you would - gh - let me do that to you.
[Silco wouldn't lay flat and pretty. Even now, those fangs smart at his ear to make him jump and moan as the hum of the ear warms the flesh after. Vergilius starts to buck into his grip - shamelssly. A thrust, two thrusts, even as his own hand starts to try to time his own hips and their movement with the machinations of his fingers over Silco. More, more.]
Hrgh - Silco. [He bites over that beautiful slender neck, hums, and suddenly feels it, the tension about to snap like a taut wire.]. I'll do everything for -that-
[And he goes over, a wave to drown them both as he muffles a moan into the man's crook of his neck with the jerking shot of hot release. He lost the battle, perhaps. Or maybe he will win the war. So it shall be. They will sink together. Hand in unlovable hand.]
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 β 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 β the way they slip out unbidden, tickling against sweaty, sensitive skin; his fingers grip tight, riding him out β
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 β his fingers still moved against him, messy from him, slick. ]
I'll β [ his breath shuddered, his words rougher than before. ] β Aah β I'll make you β
[ 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 β louder this time β 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 β finally β
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 β
He didn't move β 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. ]
[He barely feels the fangs biting in his skin. He barely feels anything but the thunderclap electricity that shocks the system, makes him feel alive. But no, that's not quite true. Even in the throes of this horrific euphoria, the searing heat of Silco following right after him holds like a punch above the rest. It makes him shudder so perceptibly that it almost makes him let go, but he doesn't. His chest heaves. The smell of everything - blood, tears, and Silco - threaten to burn in his nose.]
[It was never like this with Malkuth. This feels like he, himself, has been reinvented. As his eyes start to register what's around him, he's more than conscious of his own body now, and the fang still buried in his shoulder.]
[He reaches up with a hand to yank the man off - only to chase him with his mouth to singe a kiss against his lips. He tastes good. His voice is raw, ragged, and yet he whispers for Silco and Silco alone.]
...I meant what I said earlier.
[Him being pretty? That he would break him? Any of that?]
[Why, he'll not even elaborate and let Silco pick up the pieces to give his own guess of an answer.]
[ His own brain buzzes with something, like his hearing hasn't quite returned like he can't quite focus on anything yet. It's all so raw and odd and terribly vulnerable. Silco's hand still curled around him, still gently, slowly rubbing against him, as if he could pull just a little bit more out of him, just a touch further. Maybe he still wants more, or maybe he wants to take a little more of him, like he's taking more from him.
It's all a bloody, ripe mess. He should hate it.
He doesn't mind it, shamefully.
Vergilius gets a soft squawk of surprise out of him when he pulled him off, his lips following it so that the sound is swallowed between them, shifting to something like a soft gasp against his lips.
He wants to know what he means by that β would knowing make it better? Or worse? Surely it can't be that he thinks he's pretty. Would he promise to break him? The near-memory of his desperate promise tipping him over β would it be that? The flush on his face β dusted across his shoulders too β They rise and fall with still too-heavy breaths, still coming down from the rush of seeing stars, just like he promised.
He pulled back to look him in the eyes β he refused to be the coward who looked away β unblinking eye staring into his. ]
Good.
[ His voice is hoarser than he wanted, uncontrolled. Does he know which thing? Did it matter? None of it had been... distasteful. ] I'll hold you to it.
[ He won't admit it; but he'll be thinking about it, and worrying over it, trying to put the puzzle together. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Their fingers interlaced, just like that night when he'd thought he could pull the skin apart and look at the man -- a beast -- beneath it. His grip tightens to match his, stronger than his lean frame suggests. ]
Ah - [ It's somewhere between a surprised... Something and... A low note that almost sounds pleased. More honest than he intended, perhaps. He hadn't expected him to admit it, it was easier to ignore when it was unspoken, a trend that he could pretend he was imagining to see.
He lifted joined hands -- still held down, with his lips at his neck, he didn't dare move his head -- forced his wrist close to mouth, fang scraped against flesh, and maybe he drug it out for longer than necessary. He liked that, pinning him in place without holding him down; forcing him to dangle over a precipice. Did he know the kind of power he'd just given him? Over him? This is a sort of power that he's is unused to, but it still evokes that sharp tingle of excitement at the rush of it.
He bit into him, fangs sinking deep into his wrist. It's a contrast, not gentle or kind, but sharp, all points and rough edges, his hand holding him still, as if he couldn't rip his wrist away. Hot blood flooded into his mouth, one of his eyes closed from the rush. Did it taste better, knowing how much power he holds? ]
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[It's what I deserve. For my hypocrisy. For my deception.]
[That familiar voice stands the test of time. Vergilius feels the man's mouth dig in as if its always belonged at his wrist, and a low noise vibrates out of his chest. Maybe it's a groan. Maybe it's the sound of a dog whose been cowed.]
[Yes, of course, the anger is there, and even though he's been leashed like this, this feral dog still has some bite. He will chew on the hand that feeds, and petty, spiteful emotion makes him lower his head. He sucks another bruise into the bouquet of the others, before he bites into...well, at least not his carotid, but its close. Too close.]
[He gasps at the flow of blood, but its such a contrast to the hands below - they hold each other tightly, but the way his thumb strokes upward is almost, vaguely, tender.]
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It was about something else, maybe something like reminding each other about the danger they were both in from each other β Silco from physical danger, Vergilius from the danger of being wrapped up in Silco's little plans and plots β but Silco knew exactly the kind of danger he was in, and hadn't sought to step back; he'd so often had his life threatened that it almost seemed to be nothing β and yet here he was, allowing him close. Closer than he'd even allowed the demon he'd sold his soul to.
This was foolish for how dangerous it was, but there was the power too. Like he had that feral dog's leash, even if it snapped back at him and bit him. When had he ever wanted safe, or kind things? No, he knew that Vergilius could kill him, and wasn't half of the rush the fact that he survived? Escaped with only puncture wounds and bruises that he made sure to match?
He isn't satisfied with one wound on his wrist, he pulls his fangs free, but the blood pooling in the twin wounds draws his mouth back to the wound, his tongue pressed to the puncture wounds, and did the blood just keep coming? Was his heart pounding that hard?
He bit him again, a second mark just a touch higher than the first, the blood smearing over his lips and cheek, a soft, satisfied sound seemed to escape from somewhere in him, when he sank his fangs back in. The scent of blood hanging in the air between them just made him want more of it, to leave a series of bites down his arm so he couldn't cover all of them up and hide them away. ]
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[Maybe it is the blood and the vampire hunger. Something to land his blame on, easily. He can use it as a way to maybe explain the palpable full-body shiver that comes as Silco makes his move. A whimper of a gasp comes from his mouth as he pulls away, head knocking a little against the other's.]
[It's horrible. It's so, so good.]
[Hunger asks for so much.]
[His legs tremble - he finds himself shifting forward as if a magnet begs him so, and settles on the man's lap. He dwarfs Silco easily. Perhaps it isn't comfortable for him. Who cares about that?]
[His mouth trails down, leaving streaks of blood, before he starts to gnaw along the edge of the clavicle he finds, a dog to a bone.]
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The weight of him feels a little like he's trapped, pressed into the seat, he can't escape, and it's claustrophobic like everything from the blood to the air between them is shared, he doesn't feel like there's enough to go around, and it makes him greedy to find a way to dominate, especially when he holds him down like this.
The sharp hiss of air through his teeth was audible, his fingers instinctively found that injury on Vergilius's thigh again β pressed so much closer now that he was in his lap β and he dig his hand in, to make it hurt, give as much as he got. His fingers relaxed, and he released his hand, to wind it into his hair, brushing it out of his eyes.
He tightened his grip, and tugged, not necessarily to pull him away from the gruesome bite, but to keep him in line. ]
Careful β [ Half a hiss of pain, half a command. ] β Don't leave a mess on my shirt.
[ It sounds less in control than he would have liked. ]
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[Silco pulls him back, and with the pressure of the finger pressing into sensitive, injured flesh, his lips pull back in a definite hiss, punctuated with a gruff groan. Oh, so he wants to dictate what he should do, huh? How bold he is. A small man who doesn't ever want to relent. He likes that. He doesn't like it, also, but Silco never would have attracted him if he was simply the type to let life roll over him.]
[Now that his hand is free, he's reaching up to slide over his chest, hook his fingers on the edge of his collar. His exposed eyes, no longer hiding under the shade of bangs, are vivid as ever, like jewels. Inhuman, really. Hungry.]
....Maybe we should get rid of your shirt. [A simple solution, right? His hand starts to pull down on the fabric, trying to find the nearest button to pluck away from its slot.] Save you the mess.
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His fingers left the wound β lifted to brush the blood from his bottom lip with his thumb. Maybe chancing that bite again. His other hand remained in his hair, and tightened slightly, tugging it just a little more. Maybe a threat? A bid to stop, but β ]
Stop taking your time.
[ Maybe not a bid to stop then.
He met his gaze when he lifted his thumb to his lips and sucked his own blood off of it. ]
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[Yes, Silco makes him hungry. A gnawing sort of feeling, a worm that needs to find the core in this rotten apple. He wants to ruin the man. He wants to ruin himself.]
[And so, he heeds it with a glint of a grin as his hand grasps the fabric and simply - pulls. Yanks it, really. With his strength, it gives way as easy as anything, and just like that, the exposed chest makes him dive his head down. No more going slow. He's attacking in a flurry of kisses and light bites, teeth catching on the edges of ribs as he hums the whole while.]
[In the midst of it all comes a slower, definite shift of movement as if to drive the man mad. His hips are starting to curve into his lap, heavy as they come.]
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The other part is wary β so wary β from being so exposed around someone else. Particularly around someone who can kill him so readily. It's that double-edged sword, slicing both ways, leaving him carefully balanced on that razor's edge, not sure if he will teter off one way or the other β but it's the thrill of both, suspended in the air, crushed under his heavy weight. He has nowhere to go, he can't escape.
It makes the slight gasp around his thumb sound shaky. Underneath his shirt he's as thin and bony as the rest of him, his ribs ridges on too-pale skin. He twitches under his lips and bites, welts and bruises already left in his wake. His fingers search for his neck, or his shoulders, like finding an injury to dig into would yield the same as his attentions. His lips part, the occasional breath escaped like an uncontrolled secret being spilled, because giving anything away feels like a danger, even shaky breaths.
His control slips, the first real sign of some of that carefully constructed structure is crumbling under his white knuckled grip. His lips peel back around his teeth, fingers still searching at his neck for those still healing wounds β They go still the moment his hips bear down on his lap. He's crushing, bearing down on him. It leaves him pressed against the seat, barely able to move, barely able to breathe, with his lips catching the edges of his ribs. He feels a little mad, powerless, and trapped, a flush her rarely feels on his cheeks and then there's the β press of him. His fingers abandon his neck, his hair; snaking their way down to his thighs instead, thin fingers digging into the meat, beckoning him closer. ]
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[He could list a million ways. Any good killer could. But here's a way that feels like its worming beneath both of their skins - an iron rope hitched to each other's bodies, tugging and pulling with every shift in this impossible struggle. Vergilius gains power. Then Silco, with his need for dominance, gains power. But who will win? Is there a point to winning? Is it too simple to think that anyone could win, here?]
[There's still a part of Vergilius who wants to reach down to pull Silco out of the muck. He, too, despite all he is, should deserve to live in a world where he could be at peace, and that hunger could be once and finally sated. But now, a very different part emerges. Something pettier, more vicious than he gives himself credit for. Silco gasps underneath him, a lovely little sound, and the thought is realized - he wants loss of control. He wants Silco to whine and howl and beg. It's also what he deserves, doesn't he? For all he's done? For what he did to him?]
[More, more, more. Silco's spindly fingers twist over his thighs, thick with muscle, and he's bowing to the order of them. He rocks into that grip, slowly but surely, as if to drive him down into the depths. His injury smarts, and his clothes are wet with blood, but who cares? His own breath comes ragged as his hands make more work of this pathetic clothing, tearing it this way and that. His scarred hands make a journey down below, cascading over this raw frame before he pushes the man's shoulders further back into the chair so he's practically enveloping him.]
[A bite of a kiss to his lips. And another. Even as the rhythm continues, the threat remains strong.]
[There's no escape.]
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There's nothing to grasp. Even with power that vampirism gives him, it's not enough. It's never enough, is it? He can't escape β does he want to, really? β and there's a frantic quality to his fingers at his thighs, somewhere between tugging him closer and pushing him away. Like a part of him wants to wrest back from him everything that he'd taken in one swift push of his hands. With his shirt open all the way β was it not just tattered at this point? β his fingers find that wound, a remnant of the last time he'd been with his back up against a hard surface and out of control. He did what he did last time, he made him hurt, because Silco had never been the type to give up a fight.
He feels like there's a point to be made here, maybe Verigilus is making one too, but Silco's lips curl against his, the threat of fangs scraping against his. Was this the monster he was looking for all along? Had it only taken forcing him into a corner to bring it out. His heart thudded in his chest, loud enough that the only sounds in the room are beating hearts, heavy breaths, and the creak and groan of the chair, fighting to stay solid while they poke at wounds and bite each other raw.
He bites him back, his fangs threaten to puncture his lip. Silco would always be a fight, he promises, there is no gentle acquiescence or fearful cowing β a fight for domination, and the smaller man still has tricks up his sleeve. He'll draw the monster out, even if he feels as much fear as pride at pulling it out, like he's reaching into his chest to dig out the horrible parts of him and put them on display. He wants to see it, no matter what it takes to get him there, and looming over him like this, he feels it. Fear, so sharp like a blade bubbling in his chest and threatening to spill over.
There's no room for fear. For a lack of conviction. He could not tempt the beast like this, and not expect it to bite.
His breath is shaky, bordering on a gasp against his lips. Just nearly there, he only needs to push him just a little more, doesn't he?
But Silco's fingers drift up from his thighs β thin, dextrous things, they move quick where he can't see, Silco's eyes focused on Vergilius's and his teeth snapping back against his with each kiss.
They scrape at the edge of his shirt, fingers looking for flesh to scrape against, and leave furrows from dull nails. Like he's trying to silently remind him who he's playing with β a reminder he's playing with fire, and that he'll burn him when he gets too close, if he's not careful. ]
nsfwish...
[His own scars are testament. He has received all the pain he could bear, and not a single thing has been able to break him.]
[Really, all it has is just made him worse.]
[Silco's hands move and tear over sinewy old skin. More attempts to hurt, to gain some control over what he wanted all along. Be careful what you wish for. He grins a little, finding it somehow funny in the heat and sound of this friction. Oh, he's hungry. This doesn't feel like its enough.]
[Will it ever be? Or is it too late, now?]
[He's sucking on the other's jaw now as he abandons his kisses for this short moment so he can growl against this ravaged skin. The man's sweat is mixing in with the metal smell of the blood already spilled.]
You asked for this. [One of his hands drops down between them, intentionally kneading down over Silco's groin as if to rudely punctuate his words.] I really should take you to the bed and make you see stars. Haaa. It might do you some good.
coughs probably... the rest...
He doesn't even get to the point where the words can form, in its place is another of those gasps, like it's yanked out of his throat before anything else escapes. Another little crack in that armor that is his control, but he swallows it back with tight-fisted grip, his fingers seeking weak spots that don't exist. There are no injuries to poke and prod at, more like dull scratches against his skin.
He'd invited him in, hadn't he? Asked him to hurry up? Could he say that he wasn't dancing with the monster under his skin, if he hadn't given as much as he'd gotten? Crushed up against the chair, he hadn't stopped him, when he bit down and ripped his shirt to tatters. Could he say that he hadn't asked for it when he was sprawled beneath him biting β kissing? β him back, and threatening to sink his teeth into his lip?
It was too late well before this, wasn't it? ]
Should?
[ He reached up to thread his fingers through that fringe of hair again, before he tugged it back forcefully to look him in the eyes. It gives him a good look at Silco, with his scar exposed and stringy, his lips bitten, his normally too-pale skin flushed. If he has any control left, it's hanging on by a thread. ]
You didn't strike me as the type to be all talk, are you?
closing my damn eyes. Anyways. here be nsfw and yaoi
[He doesn't want to be controlled. He wants to be controlled. How can it be, this paradox of his? He wants to be hated and he wants to be loved, he wants to destroy it all and he wants to be destroyed. All these years, he has kept the balance inside his wretched heart in check. It was easy to do in the City.]
[But Silco comes in, falls into his life, and that paradox reaches out with hungry arms to envelope him into the heart of this chaotic heart.]
[What a lovely flush. He memorizes it - a part of him realizes he was disappointed before, when Silco had turned him into a vampire, that he wondered if Silco enjoyed it to his core. Not simply experiencing victory, but pleasure.]
[His mouth shifts up, bloodied, into a smirk. And instantly, he's pulling back, slipping out of the man's lap - and he doesn't even give a second to breathe before he's pulling Silco up by the collar like he's a stuffed toy. He lifts him over as easy as anything, tossing him onto the bed before crawling in on top of him with vivid eyes and a mouth wanting to tear and kiss. Hands find the edge of the other's pants before yanking the belt off, tossing it against the wall, and pulling it all down up and over his knees.]
[Another kiss for you, Silco. But there's a hand to dive down between his legs as well to fondle over him before gripping him tight, solidly giving it a solid pump.]
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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?]
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[This is not a shared warmth between two people. This is a violent affair. A way to bring the other down to their level and use desire to string them up and crucify them to their heart's content. Why, Vergilius, despite his nature, finds pleasure in this. In the way the man's slender legs jerk against him as the fight in him has yet to die down. He will show the slightest amount of mercy to pull the rest of his pants and underwear off to leave him well and enough exposed.]
[And after mercy comes punishment. He dives his tongue past thin lips to tease the other to return the favor, still willing to bite in the midst of this fervor. He won't slack in his job down below, either - as he sighs into this vampire's mouth, his hand pumps as firmly as anything, trying to milk whatever reaction he can out of the man.]
[Silco wants to fight. So does he, in his own way.]
[He wants to break him into a million pieces.]
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His lips part almost automatically, his fangs are a sharp hazard, like everything else about him, and he's quick to drag them against his tongue, or his lips, whatever he can find, leaving a stinging cut against his skin wherever he can find purchase. It's half a kiss, half a biting, stinging response, snapping down against his lips when his hands sink downward, an automatic response that lacks whatever control he's managed to pull from his white knuckled grip on his side.
He fights back, not just biting kisses against his lips and tongue, or the tightly-dug grip against his sides β his legs now freed found place to rest, he pressed a knee against him digging in with just on the side of too much against his groin, pressing just too hard.
It was never going to be gentle, or warm. But there was something honest in that, the both of them were fighting, trying to break each other apart. What would happen if one of them broke?
He hissed out against his lips, that lack of control slipping out, escaping from that iron grip. His voice slipped out with it, soft, barely there, but the room is silent except for their shared breaths. It's hard to miss the edge of a groan into the quiet between them, while they try both try to pull each other apart piece by piece. ]
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[Well, is this a sin? To break down an awful man, get him to experience this deconstruction by his hand? Even his gasps are delicious, the painful press of his knee into his groin betraying some possible leverage. His own arousal strains heavy, still trapped behind fabric, but he ignores the discomfort. He flicks his wrist, and strokes over the head a little more insistently.]
[Silco must fall. He has to go over the edge. He wants to bring him there. See his face, hear his cries of a total loss of inhibition.]
[And so, he encourages - by smiling into the kisses as he takes them one and all. Silco's scar feels rough against his cheeks, and it reminds him of kissing over that beautiful scar in that dark dark hallway.]
...How pretty you are.
[He murmurs - something sincere, but also something to make him act even more than he already is doing. No, a few gasps isn't enough.]
[He's greedy that way, he thinks, as he sucks on the edge of his jawline.]
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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. ]
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[He latches onto it, in his fervor. What a beautiful sound. Its enough to send his heart into his spine with an electrifying beat, making him shiver out a groan of his own. Words start to spill out of his mouth, unfettered. The babble of a madman.]
Silco. Silco, Silco. Oh, I wish you came prepared. I would've ground you into the bed for that. I would. I would break you.
[A haggard, rough little noise, as he pulls back a hand to help the man, unzipping his pants before he returns to his task. The pumps of his hand, scars and all, are thorough, but put of rhythm, almost a little too needy.]
Hah. [And his other hand yanks the man's hand right over his groin, to do as he pleases. Another kiss, another, with a definite growl from the back of his throat.] Say my name. Say it.
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He swallowed into his lips, another soft gasp shared between them like shotgunning a smoke β it devolves into another of those lower groans, his mouth open and pressed to his β the sharp scrape of fangs ever-present. It makes kissing him dangerous, and he's not of a mind to concentrate where his fangs pierce or drag against skin. It hurts, even while he can't do anything but acquiesce to him. ]
You should β have planned for that β Vergilius β [ It's half a command, but his voice sounds raw and rough against his lips. It's only soft because the room is small, because Silco doesn't dare speak up, promising something like this. ] Next time β
[ His words come with a soft groan, and like it's a battle, he swept his hand up against him, to swipe his thumb against his head, before he drug it back down slowly. Next time, he promises, like this isn't just a one-off encounter. Perhaps he doesn't intend it to be. ] β Perhaps I'll let you.
[ His hips roll, to match his pace, completely uncontrolled and unbidden. His free hand reaches up to loop around his neck, pulling him back in close, against Silco's neck so he can hum in his ear, teasing him with fangs against his flesh, hips fucking into his hand. A soft gasp against his ear. ]
Maybe I'll let you break me, Vergilius.
[ They both knew it was a fight to see who broke first. ]
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[Oh, a next time. His brain is on fire. Brief glimpses of images. Silco's hips against his, completely. More sighs into his ears, more cute noises ro swallow one by one. Next time. The image of a headboard knocking against a wall. More of a flush in Silco's cheeks. Next time. His voice cracks at the weight of it, pouring through his being with a definite rush of heat and blood below.]
As if you would - gh - let me do that to you.
[Silco wouldn't lay flat and pretty. Even now, those fangs smart at his ear to make him jump and moan as the hum of the ear warms the flesh after. Vergilius starts to buck into his grip - shamelssly. A thrust, two thrusts, even as his own hand starts to try to time his own hips and their movement with the machinations of his fingers over Silco. More, more.]
Hrgh - Silco. [He bites over that beautiful slender neck, hums, and suddenly feels it, the tension about to snap like a taut wire.]. I'll do everything for -that-
[And he goes over, a wave to drown them both as he muffles a moan into the man's crook of his neck with the jerking shot of hot release. He lost the battle, perhaps. Or maybe he will win the war. So it shall be. They will sink together. Hand in unlovable hand.]
[In the sea of blood, stretched to eternity.]
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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 β 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 β the way they slip out unbidden, tickling against sweaty, sensitive skin; his fingers grip tight, riding him out β
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 β his fingers still moved against him, messy from him, slick. ]
I'll β [ his breath shuddered, his words rougher than before. ] β Aah β I'll make you β
[ 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 β louder this time β 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 β finally β
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 β
He didn't move β 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. ]
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[It was never like this with Malkuth. This feels like he, himself, has been reinvented. As his eyes start to register what's around him, he's more than conscious of his own body now, and the fang still buried in his shoulder.]
[He reaches up with a hand to yank the man off - only to chase him with his mouth to singe a kiss against his lips. He tastes good. His voice is raw, ragged, and yet he whispers for Silco and Silco alone.]
...I meant what I said earlier.
[Him being pretty? That he would break him? Any of that?]
[Why, he'll not even elaborate and let Silco pick up the pieces to give his own guess of an answer.]
no subject
It's all a bloody, ripe mess. He should hate it.
He doesn't mind it, shamefully.
Vergilius gets a soft squawk of surprise out of him when he pulled him off, his lips following it so that the sound is swallowed between them, shifting to something like a soft gasp against his lips.
He wants to know what he means by that β would knowing make it better? Or worse? Surely it can't be that he thinks he's pretty. Would he promise to break him? The near-memory of his desperate promise tipping him over β would it be that? The flush on his face β dusted across his shoulders too β They rise and fall with still too-heavy breaths, still coming down from the rush of seeing stars, just like he promised.
He pulled back to look him in the eyes β he refused to be the coward who looked away β unblinking eye staring into his. ]
Good.
[ His voice is hoarser than he wanted, uncontrolled. Does he know which thing? Did it matter? None of it had been... distasteful. ] I'll hold you to it.
[ He won't admit it; but he'll be thinking about it, and worrying over it, trying to put the puzzle together. ]