[ His lips send a shiver down his back, his fingers start searching for something, but like this he can't touch him like he normally does, grip him and dig in. ]
Of course n β [ ot β he protests, but his hand strokes him again, and yes, of course it feels good. It always feels good β large, scarred hand wrapped around him β but after being bereft, after keeping their little dance muted and hidden... He hisses out a breath, a gasp, his protest cut off.
Maybe he is addicted. He'd gone so long without it, anything like it β hell even touch β and he feels that little old beating in his heart quicken time after time, it leaves a trail of heated danger on his skin that he doesn't want to fight off. He welcomes it, his legs spread for him, and Vergilius rubs against him, leaves him throbbing in his fingers, while he palms at him. He doesn't want to fight him off, and the thought should be sobering, but maybe that fire is still infecting him too.
It couldn't be anything else. Couldn't be that he was feeling empty, needy, like he would welcome him again and again, if he just β ]
β Bag β [ His hands started reaching for the bag of the few belongings he'd brought with him. It's at least nearby, and he tugged it by the handle, shoved his hand in and fished; frantically, before he finally emerged victorious, before he handed it over his shoulder, turning to look at him. Maybe because he wanted to see his face when he did it, and maybe because he wanted to give him sight of him, already flushed β just because of him. He wanted to see it too, and maybe that was greedy of him, to want it. They'd whispered that in the campers, hadn't they? That it was a dirty little secret that only they were sharing. Only he could pull this indulgent part of Vergilius out, to draw him in, and offer this. This was his to see in that same way. ]
no subject
Of course n β [ ot β he protests, but his hand strokes him again, and yes, of course it feels good. It always feels good β large, scarred hand wrapped around him β but after being bereft, after keeping their little dance muted and hidden... He hisses out a breath, a gasp, his protest cut off.
Maybe he is addicted. He'd gone so long without it, anything like it β hell even touch β and he feels that little old beating in his heart quicken time after time, it leaves a trail of heated danger on his skin that he doesn't want to fight off. He welcomes it, his legs spread for him, and Vergilius rubs against him, leaves him throbbing in his fingers, while he palms at him. He doesn't want to fight him off, and the thought should be sobering, but maybe that fire is still infecting him too.
It couldn't be anything else. Couldn't be that he was feeling empty, needy, like he would welcome him again and again, if he just β ]
β Bag β [ His hands started reaching for the bag of the few belongings he'd brought with him. It's at least nearby, and he tugged it by the handle, shoved his hand in and fished; frantically, before he finally emerged victorious, before he handed it over his shoulder, turning to look at him. Maybe because he wanted to see his face when he did it, and maybe because he wanted to give him sight of him, already flushed β just because of him. He wanted to see it too, and maybe that was greedy of him, to want it. They'd whispered that in the campers, hadn't they? That it was a dirty little secret that only they were sharing. Only he could pull this indulgent part of Vergilius out, to draw him in, and offer this. This was his to see in that same way. ]