[ Anticipation was a hell of a drug, his heart kicked up into overdrive, mouth still so dry, and the heat of...whatever it was β his brain kept hitting that brick wall over and over, like it's something it can't quite make it over or around, and he keeps getting caught, swept up in the cycle of heat and in staring at him, at the scars he wants to dig into, like he could bury in and pull out more and more of what he wants to see, like unraveling yarn before his very eyes.
He doesn't even try for something gentle, Silco stares into his eyes unblinking, both of them, and his fingers dig in where they can, into his head, tugging on his hair, but like this he can't hide from him either. He's already committed to staring him down, and Silco could do little more than plow forward, even it it meant every small, minute expression crossed his face was exposed.
Rather like the rest of him, wasn't it? There's too much heat to think about it, even when he swallows back a hiss at his hand touching him β it hadn't been that long had it? When he'd cornered him in his room and made so many half-keened promises while his fingers stroked him β but this was closer to a purposeful, perfunctory stroke. It left him too-keyed up, too wound up from the wait, but he already knew what was coming. Had known from the snap of the bottlecap.
It didn't make it easier, but it wasn't meant to be. This wasn't gentle, neither of them wanted that, right? If it's a show Vergilius wants to see, it's a show he gets, with the way his head tipped up, pressed against the wall, mouth open in a silent gasp, one hand relaxed his grip on his hair, to reach down and grip at his shoulder, spider-like fingers digging in deep. One eye was closed, brow knitted instinctively together from the first press into him β but the other... it stared at him, never wavering, his mouth still caught, but his teeth scraped against his β anything to add a touch of the pain.
What was it, to see pain and feel it, and know it was right, that it made all this heat sharpen and narrow in on itself; it made it better that it hurt, maybe.
Silco wouldn't want it, he knew that. The heat might cloud his mind, but he wouldn't want something soft, or gentle. It would feel wrong β expect something wrong. He wants to hurt right back, after all, dig his fingers in, cut Vergilius on his sharp edges. He could cut as much as the man could cut right back. ]
Don't β Worry β [ He hissed with another dig of his fingers; a tug of the hand in his hair. ] β I won't β
god when it happens and u realize after... π€ the worst
He doesn't even try for something gentle, Silco stares into his eyes unblinking, both of them, and his fingers dig in where they can, into his head, tugging on his hair, but like this he can't hide from him either. He's already committed to staring him down, and Silco could do little more than plow forward, even it it meant every small, minute expression crossed his face was exposed.
Rather like the rest of him, wasn't it? There's too much heat to think about it, even when he swallows back a hiss at his hand touching him β it hadn't been that long had it? When he'd cornered him in his room and made so many half-keened promises while his fingers stroked him β but this was closer to a purposeful, perfunctory stroke. It left him too-keyed up, too wound up from the wait, but he already knew what was coming. Had known from the snap of the bottlecap.
It didn't make it easier, but it wasn't meant to be. This wasn't gentle, neither of them wanted that, right? If it's a show Vergilius wants to see, it's a show he gets, with the way his head tipped up, pressed against the wall, mouth open in a silent gasp, one hand relaxed his grip on his hair, to reach down and grip at his shoulder, spider-like fingers digging in deep. One eye was closed, brow knitted instinctively together from the first press into him β but the other... it stared at him, never wavering, his mouth still caught, but his teeth scraped against his β anything to add a touch of the pain.
What was it, to see pain and feel it, and know it was right, that it made all this heat sharpen and narrow in on itself; it made it better that it hurt, maybe.
Silco wouldn't want it, he knew that. The heat might cloud his mind, but he wouldn't want something soft, or gentle. It would feel wrong β expect something wrong. He wants to hurt right back, after all, dig his fingers in, cut Vergilius on his sharp edges. He could cut as much as the man could cut right back. ]
Don't β Worry β [ He hissed with another dig of his fingers; a tug of the hand in his hair. ] β I won't β