[Can the pot recognize when the kettle calls it black in return? Maybe. Maybe not. They say such things, and yet they still guard their cores like frightened little animals. As if they can keep playing their same games. Over and over and over again, refusing to look directly into the sun.]
[Silco's fingertips brush against his. His mouth quirks upward, almost a smile. His own hand brushes through Silco's hair, almost petting it as the man attempts his work on his jaw. A pleasurable tickle, but...no, he's getting frustrated, a little.]
[His hand grasps the back of Silco's head, a little tug to gather attention. His growl rumbles as he leans forward, his own teeth encircling the man's earlobe to give it a bip.]
[ What would they have, if they gave up the game? It would be something tangible. Something to...
No, it must remain intangible.
He's holding back, a little, taking his time. Like a little spider that sets the web, and lets the fly land in it, all that patient waiting manifests as hunger, settling beneath his skin. He's controlled it this long, nestled up against him, but that want threatens to spill forth, like a monster threatening to split his skin and crawl out, leaving bones and skin behind to some other Thing that wants nothing more than to consume him.
He calls him a coward, and Silco's fingers scrape against his skin again, a little sharper, a little meaner.
His laugh, though, is of course that, but there's... something else there. Pleased. Even though he tugs at his hair and bites at his ear. It sends another little shiver down his spine. ]
Don't complain later, then.
[ His nose brushes the space behind his jaw, a breath that's half a laugh, and half something more heated, he presses his lips there, his teeth, still those barely-there marks against his jaw, before there's a sharp inhale, the flood of a memory. Of blood in his mouth, and how good it had tasted then.
It's sharp, it's rough, it's a bite that comes with pressure, as if he were trying to suck his blood out from him, though he doesn't break skin. He almost seems to relax in his lap, when he stops holding back, as if the spider has finally pinned the fly down against the web. ]
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no subject
[Can the pot recognize when the kettle calls it black in return? Maybe. Maybe not. They say such things, and yet they still guard their cores like frightened little animals. As if they can keep playing their same games. Over and over and over again, refusing to look directly into the sun.]
[Silco's fingertips brush against his. His mouth quirks upward, almost a smile. His own hand brushes through Silco's hair, almost petting it as the man attempts his work on his jaw. A pleasurable tickle, but...no, he's getting frustrated, a little.]
[His hand grasps the back of Silco's head, a little tug to gather attention. His growl rumbles as he leans forward, his own teeth encircling the man's earlobe to give it a bip.]
Don't be a coward. Claim me.
no subject
No, it must remain intangible.
He's holding back, a little, taking his time. Like a little spider that sets the web, and lets the fly land in it, all that patient waiting manifests as hunger, settling beneath his skin. He's controlled it this long, nestled up against him, but that want threatens to spill forth, like a monster threatening to split his skin and crawl out, leaving bones and skin behind to some other Thing that wants nothing more than to consume him.
He calls him a coward, and Silco's fingers scrape against his skin again, a little sharper, a little meaner.
His laugh, though, is of course that, but there's... something else there. Pleased. Even though he tugs at his hair and bites at his ear. It sends another little shiver down his spine. ]
Don't complain later, then.
[ His nose brushes the space behind his jaw, a breath that's half a laugh, and half something more heated, he presses his lips there, his teeth, still those barely-there marks against his jaw, before there's a sharp inhale, the flood of a memory. Of blood in his mouth, and how good it had tasted then.
It's sharp, it's rough, it's a bite that comes with pressure, as if he were trying to suck his blood out from him, though he doesn't break skin. He almost seems to relax in his lap, when he stops holding back, as if the spider has finally pinned the fly down against the web. ]