[ He misses the fanged promise of ripping through skin, and taking what he wanted. Being a vampire had been a reminder of that satisfaction, of taking it. How much he'd missed it β even now he would have taken it readily, and not just for the warm flush of blood in his mouth. He missed easily breaking through skin, but what was this if not more of a challenge?
He says he is old and tough, and that is true, but Silco's from the Undercity, and he knows how to break old tough things down, doesn't he? He's survived off of worse when he was a boy.
He has nothing too sharp to use, just teeth and manicured nails, but he was creative, and driven. Pressed up against him, slotted like they simply fit against one another, he bit again, and again, leaving angry welts and bite marks, his lips following them up with only half-apologetic strokes of his tongue or lips, before he worried at his skin again, breaking through only barely, but enough that it draws a pleased note out of his throat. His fingers dug in at his ribs, as if he could hold him there, locked in. As if by his own strength, he could keep him here.
He wanted to see more, hear more of those moans slipping out. It's not...necessarily affection, that drives it, but Silco is complicated, and affection is a word that means so little. What he has is that connection, a terrible man β bigger, stronger, faster β who lets him peel back his skin and look beneath β opening his mouth and sounding like that, from just his attentions.
It makes him want to do it again, and again, and again, like he's ripping them out from him, draining them, and keeping them hidden and safe just for him to pull out and admire whenever he wants to. Unending greed, perhaps, but he has never really been satisfied. ]
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He says he is old and tough, and that is true, but Silco's from the Undercity, and he knows how to break old tough things down, doesn't he? He's survived off of worse when he was a boy.
He has nothing too sharp to use, just teeth and manicured nails, but he was creative, and driven. Pressed up against him, slotted like they simply fit against one another, he bit again, and again, leaving angry welts and bite marks, his lips following them up with only half-apologetic strokes of his tongue or lips, before he worried at his skin again, breaking through only barely, but enough that it draws a pleased note out of his throat. His fingers dug in at his ribs, as if he could hold him there, locked in. As if by his own strength, he could keep him here.
He wanted to see more, hear more of those moans slipping out. It's not...necessarily affection, that drives it, but Silco is complicated, and affection is a word that means so little. What he has is that connection, a terrible man β bigger, stronger, faster β who lets him peel back his skin and look beneath β opening his mouth and sounding like that, from just his attentions.
It makes him want to do it again, and again, and again, like he's ripping them out from him, draining them, and keeping them hidden and safe just for him to pull out and admire whenever he wants to. Unending greed, perhaps, but he has never really been satisfied. ]