[ Was it the truth? Did he enjoy it that much? His fingers dig indents into his thighs, and his legs quiver from the effort of being held down, fighting up against it. He wants nothing more than to thrust deeper in his mouth β Can he go deeper? β does it matter? Logic fails him, and he wants what he can't have. Then again, when had he ever stopped with only what he wanted.
His hips fight against his hands, trying to do what he wants, though he's weak in comparison. It's like fighting against a heavy weight, something he can't fight against. ]
If you stop β [ He hissed, his voice like raw sandpaper, slurring out from this throat like it's coming ripped out involuntarily. ] β I'll put a knife in your back.
[ A little threat, for fun. Does he have a knife on him? Well, it is his bed. Does Vergilius dare figure out if he sleeps with one near? ]
no subject
His hips fight against his hands, trying to do what he wants, though he's weak in comparison. It's like fighting against a heavy weight, something he can't fight against. ]
If you stop β [ He hissed, his voice like raw sandpaper, slurring out from this throat like it's coming ripped out involuntarily. ] β I'll put a knife in your back.
[ A little threat, for fun. Does he have a knife on him? Well, it is his bed. Does Vergilius dare figure out if he sleeps with one near? ]