[ It's not a flood of blood, but the tang of it is still rife on his tongue, like metal, and he pursues it like it's water for a drowning man. Maybe it is, maybe just a scrap of something that he wants to take. He sucks yet another mark into him, leaving a trail of them along his neck, and Vergilius tries to bury the sound against his shoulder. He doesn't know what to make of that, of trying to hide it from him β he want to hear more of them, let them slip free.
He's opened himself up, by taking what he wants β such a dangerous thing, to even have it, such a dangerous thing to be alone with someone else, like this β that he wants these concessions too. He sucks another, just to the side, trying to draw him out, another prick of pain, another hard sharp bite against him. Is this punishment, or is it simply how monsters communicate? How they mark each other β a dark, insidious part of him wants it to be seen, for others to know that he had been taken.
Shifting, he opened up for him, gave him something to grind against, he was already stirring, a brush of friction drew a similar groan out from him, hot against exposed skin, his mouth moving down, aiming to find more, give him a pathway of marks that might not last (will not last) but he would remember just like Vergilius would remember his.
How much he wanted it, how much it was driving his thoughts into a spiral that he had it right now. Nothing lasted in his fingers, he knew that. But wasn't it good enough to leave these lasting, sharp marks. Was he leaving it just on his skin? How greedy, that he wanted to worm in. How lucky, that he was given a chance. ]
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He's opened himself up, by taking what he wants β such a dangerous thing, to even have it, such a dangerous thing to be alone with someone else, like this β that he wants these concessions too. He sucks another, just to the side, trying to draw him out, another prick of pain, another hard sharp bite against him. Is this punishment, or is it simply how monsters communicate? How they mark each other β a dark, insidious part of him wants it to be seen, for others to know that he had been taken.
Shifting, he opened up for him, gave him something to grind against, he was already stirring, a brush of friction drew a similar groan out from him, hot against exposed skin, his mouth moving down, aiming to find more, give him a pathway of marks that might not last (will not last) but he would remember just like Vergilius would remember his.
How much he wanted it, how much it was driving his thoughts into a spiral that he had it right now. Nothing lasted in his fingers, he knew that. But wasn't it good enough to leave these lasting, sharp marks. Was he leaving it just on his skin? How greedy, that he wanted to worm in. How lucky, that he was given a chance. ]