[ It can't be anything but a chaotic symphony, his fingers at his ribs, no more controlled than a orchestra warming up, and maybe that's what he's doing to him now. Trying to draw him out bit by bit, making something from the noise. His fingers dig here -- the stray high sound of his own voice when he plunged in, taking him all the way in, like the roll of strings being drawn up and tightened.
His fingers dig there, lower, like he's trying to draw out a groan from the man, or maybe it's a sound of passion he wants to hear. It doesn't seem to matter what, his head tilted back, watching him while he's riding on top, not quite able to pull all the way up or separate them from skin to skin, but just enough that he can appraise him from above, one of he's eyes caught at that half-mast, the other... Always unmatched, always starting with that too-wide, too-knowing stare.
His lips tilt into something of a open smile; as if he'd been about to say something particularly biting, but he slides in just so, hits him just so and his whole body is taut like that violinists string. His eyes wide, and he makes that soft whine at the back of his throat that's far too revealing, far too vulnerable for comfort. His fingers find the spaces between Vergilius's ribs, corded muscle and he digs in as if on impulse.
As if he has no other choice but to hurt, lest he see and hear how much this makes his head spin. ]
Yes, that's -- Good -- [ For all intents and purposes, the word sounds a lot closer to something else, as if he's saying; mine, without daring to say the word out loud. Laying claim when he has no right, but he does anyway, when did Silco ask permission to take? ]
Show me -- [ he breathes it half like a challenge;] -- show me how; prove it to me.
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His fingers dig there, lower, like he's trying to draw out a groan from the man, or maybe it's a sound of passion he wants to hear. It doesn't seem to matter what, his head tilted back, watching him while he's riding on top, not quite able to pull all the way up or separate them from skin to skin, but just enough that he can appraise him from above, one of he's eyes caught at that half-mast, the other... Always unmatched, always starting with that too-wide, too-knowing stare.
His lips tilt into something of a open smile; as if he'd been about to say something particularly biting, but he slides in just so, hits him just so and his whole body is taut like that violinists string. His eyes wide, and he makes that soft whine at the back of his throat that's far too revealing, far too vulnerable for comfort. His fingers find the spaces between Vergilius's ribs, corded muscle and he digs in as if on impulse.
As if he has no other choice but to hurt, lest he see and hear how much this makes his head spin. ]
Yes, that's -- Good -- [ For all intents and purposes, the word sounds a lot closer to something else, as if he's saying; mine, without daring to say the word out loud. Laying claim when he has no right, but he does anyway, when did Silco ask permission to take? ]
Show me -- [ he breathes it half like a challenge;] -- show me how; prove it to me.