[ He can sense it, the anger, but how can he not? He knows Vergilius still blames him for the vampirism, and well β hah, he'd given up that fight, hadn't he? β but what problem did it create? He's not one for affection or one for kindness. Anger, resentment, those are emotions he understands, that he can whip up, can feel them taken out on his skin in aching bruises and cuts. It's honest, anger.
He doesn't think he could afford for it to fester. He knows the price of what festering anger does. He bears those scars most of all, doesn't he? The anger doesn't stop him, either, does it? He still opened his door to him, he still signed a contract, and most of all, he still wrapped his fingers around him, "circumstances" or not. There's no hiding it now. They've both laid their hands out on the table β a split pot for the both of them. ]
Giving me free reign, are you?
[ Compared to Silco, he's big, a with a network of scars that he's already started piecing together, remembering this and that, the way they lace over muscle. His fingers start where he does remember starting, at the scars on his neck. They're no longer something he can dig into, open wounds, but even still, he starts there. Pressing, scratching, on a place where it started. ]
I warned you before, didn't I? That I could be creative.
[ Another of those little cards they'd been keeping tucked up their sleeves. He leaned in, chipped teeth scraping against his neck just so β a sharp, sucking kiss against that point on his neck, before he drug it down, his fingers already taking the lead, finding a line to follow, nails diverting with an imaginary line, cutting as if he could already add more. ]
no subject
He doesn't think he could afford for it to fester. He knows the price of what festering anger does. He bears those scars most of all, doesn't he? The anger doesn't stop him, either, does it? He still opened his door to him, he still signed a contract, and most of all, he still wrapped his fingers around him, "circumstances" or not. There's no hiding it now. They've both laid their hands out on the table β a split pot for the both of them. ]
Giving me free reign, are you?
[ Compared to Silco, he's big, a with a network of scars that he's already started piecing together, remembering this and that, the way they lace over muscle. His fingers start where he does remember starting, at the scars on his neck. They're no longer something he can dig into, open wounds, but even still, he starts there. Pressing, scratching, on a place where it started. ]
I warned you before, didn't I? That I could be creative.
[ Another of those little cards they'd been keeping tucked up their sleeves. He leaned in, chipped teeth scraping against his neck just so β a sharp, sucking kiss against that point on his neck, before he drug it down, his fingers already taking the lead, finding a line to follow, nails diverting with an imaginary line, cutting as if he could already add more. ]