[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}
no subject
[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. ]