[Again, its hateful how none of this seems to help. Silco carresses him so, teases him, holds him like that, and its worse. Its all worse. Oh, of course, his body shivers for it all the same, but a parched man would scream at being offered a few sips of water and that alone.]
[What beautiful sounds. He's already going mad from them - they're so delicate coming from the twisted bony man currently situated on his lap. He asks how he is going to do it.]
[He answers with an action instead. Pulling back only to wrap an arm around the man to lift him up as he stands from his chair. A bit of fumbling and muttered cursing under his breath as he dislodges himself from his pants, only to now move towards the wall to press Silco right against it with his body. Its so easy. His hands are now making quick work of the other man's pants, grumbling the whole while.]
You don't deserve the bed. Maybe later.
[Definitely later. If his tone has anything to say about it. If Silco helps him, let him do so, but if not, Vergilius seems all too intent on overpowering this whole sitiation with what he desires.]
[ He wants — he doesn't know what he wants here. He wants everything, his skin itches with the heat and the flush, and though he's too-pale from a life lived mostly underground, and it just serves to leave the spaces where the heat takes him even more obvious. It's not that he doesn't have ideas — despite the fact that he often doesn't... tend to indulge — but something about the heat seems to put too many ideas in his head, like he has the choice of everything, and he can't even decide which one he wants the most.
Maybe later sends a short-circuit through his brain, or maybe it's that he's trapped against the wall — pressed up against it with Vergilius's crushing strength — could he even fight it if he wanted to? Would he? The soft 'ooph' was half an exclamation, and half a soft exhale, tinged with a groan.
His hands doing their best to aid him along on his path, help him with whatever he's trying to do, his pants, or... anything else. He needs — more. Skin to skin, maybe more than that. He brushed against his cock, two fingers that stroked the length of it, like he aims to walk his fingers along him, before he diverted — his fingers find his hips, to tug him closer, his thumbs try to dig in at the muscle and bone. He needed skin to skin — he needed more. He needed... something that even this wasn't satisfying — and the haze of it left his brain in an oddly single-minded haze, he just wanted...
This.
Going to make me earn it?
[ He asks, and his voice is...
more coy than he would have cared to admit, were he not overtaken by this haze. ]
[It feels like a frenzy. Sloppy, for sure, but intentional all the same. Silco moves in a chaotic manner he hasn't seem from him before, all spider fingers and tugging in for explicit closeness. The man who was almost placid to that moment in the hallway with a kiss to his scar seems so distanced from the man who he's pressing against a wall, now.]
[The clothes are off, dumped on the floor underneath them. They stand, fully bare, and the heat is making Vergilius especially break into a sweat at the sheer weight of that - his brain can't stop thinking. This isn't like him. Any fire he had like this before was sweeter, slower, smoother. Here, he's wild thing. He doesn't recognize himself.]
[His hand moves to the nearby nightstand hurriedly, pulling out - well. He wasn't prepared last time. He is, this time. Did he just have it? Did he get it specifically for him? He won't say, but he's indulging in a bit of a tease as he's simply holding it, leaning forward to mouth over Silco's throat with little sucks and bites greedily.]
Maybe. [Two can play at this coy game, as he groans a little into this pale flesh. His other hand traces a pressured, needy circle over the man's groin.] I might. If you play nice.
[Another beat, another haggard little noise.]
Last...call to leave. Ha. Before I make good on...all my promises.
[ This isn't like him either, Silco had never burned so bright or hot; he'd barely burned at all for all these years, and now twice he's found himself half (or fully) bare in front of this man, and his body moves more than his brain does. Like whatever possesses him knows it needs to quiet the spinning, rotating mind before it jumps in and intercedes and puts a stop to it, A part of his mind, beneath the heat and the everything certainly would rail at this — but he had no more stopped it the last time, had he?
It was like the fact that he'd been able to get the jump on him, take him down in his own way, had made the man less scary, even if he had wrapped his hand around his neck, and tried to choke the life out of him. Even if he had kissed his scar at the same time — what had possessed him to do that? He still didn't understand it — and he'd stabbed him with his knife, and the man had come back around. He'd cornered him in his room, and Silco couldn't say that he understood it, but between the blood and the bites, and... everything else... he'd been driven by his need to pull the man apart, pull something out of him. So how did this keep happening?
He didn't know. Right now... it didn't matter, did it? It was — It was —
Right now, stopping is the furthest thing on his mind, and his mouth goes dry, and a touch slack for a split second, his eyes locked on that for long enough that the implication is clear. He'd challenged him — Vergilius had promised him, hadn't he? He bites at his neck like they still have fangs, and there's a raw little surge of that heat at the rush of memory. It drives those spiderlike fingers to dig into his hip more, a rush of something that leaves his eyes trailing between what's in his hand, and his face. ]
Please, you don't want me to play nice, do you? [ He dug his fingers in, like hooks. ] I think you would be terribly disappointed.
[ He would, if it was anything short of this, of something raw, that hurt in places. Greedy bites that leave marks on his skin he'll have to cover later. His fingers drift, from his hips, to his hair, to tug it back and out of his face, so he can look down on him with a single, glowing eye. ]
And give you the opportunity to get out of them? [ A quirk of something that might be a smile, but it's too sharp, too much like that controlled little spider, even if his hands tremble, and he seems so flushed still. ] I think not.
me reading my tags missing like 100 words like don't tag late kids
[They are creatures who can't help but hurt. Part of him wants to see that scarred face contorted with more than just pleasure. It's revenge, of a sort. The pain and control that was leashed over him with vampirism, here it is again in a different form. Silco pulls his hair back, revealing his vibrant eyes.]
[He cracks open the little container of lube. The sound is as sharp as those nails that dig in, and he knows that Silco will want to leave marks any way possible. He doesn't just want to lord over him. He wants to burrow into him like a tick, to feed on his blood. He knows this, and yet he keeps returning. Why? Doesn't he know better?]
[Perhaps he knows nothing at all. A squirt into his other hand, before he palms downward, coating himself, coating Silco. He's just as comfortable here with the opposite hand - Silco might realize he is, indeed, ambidextrous - but he's not allowing him to sit pretty and think.]
[Another dab of that cool gel, and he's diving it around and below to search for that opening - and finding it, he's giving it a teasing rollaround so that he can feel that little shiver of chill compared with the blazing heat of his skin. How nice. What a contrast. Just like Silco stares at him with both something too human and barely human at all.]
You're right. You shouldn't play nice at all.
[Vergilius snags onto his lower lip with his own, sucking into it as he starts to press in his finger to the knuckle. His red eyes are glimmmering, fully exposed as they are- little jewels trying their best to capture the minute changes of the other's face. A memory to burn into the ridges of his brain.]
god when it happens and u realize after... 🤝 the worst
[ Anticipation was a hell of a drug, his heart kicked up into overdrive, mouth still so dry, and the heat of...whatever it was — his brain kept hitting that brick wall over and over, like it's something it can't quite make it over or around, and he keeps getting caught, swept up in the cycle of heat and in staring at him, at the scars he wants to dig into, like he could bury in and pull out more and more of what he wants to see, like unraveling yarn before his very eyes.
He doesn't even try for something gentle, Silco stares into his eyes unblinking, both of them, and his fingers dig in where they can, into his head, tugging on his hair, but like this he can't hide from him either. He's already committed to staring him down, and Silco could do little more than plow forward, even it it meant every small, minute expression crossed his face was exposed.
Rather like the rest of him, wasn't it? There's too much heat to think about it, even when he swallows back a hiss at his hand touching him — it hadn't been that long had it? When he'd cornered him in his room and made so many half-keened promises while his fingers stroked him — but this was closer to a purposeful, perfunctory stroke. It left him too-keyed up, too wound up from the wait, but he already knew what was coming. Had known from the snap of the bottlecap.
It didn't make it easier, but it wasn't meant to be. This wasn't gentle, neither of them wanted that, right? If it's a show Vergilius wants to see, it's a show he gets, with the way his head tipped up, pressed against the wall, mouth open in a silent gasp, one hand relaxed his grip on his hair, to reach down and grip at his shoulder, spider-like fingers digging in deep. One eye was closed, brow knitted instinctively together from the first press into him — but the other... it stared at him, never wavering, his mouth still caught, but his teeth scraped against his — anything to add a touch of the pain.
What was it, to see pain and feel it, and know it was right, that it made all this heat sharpen and narrow in on itself; it made it better that it hurt, maybe.
Silco wouldn't want it, he knew that. The heat might cloud his mind, but he wouldn't want something soft, or gentle. It would feel wrong — expect something wrong. He wants to hurt right back, after all, dig his fingers in, cut Vergilius on his sharp edges. He could cut as much as the man could cut right back. ]
Don't — Worry — [ He hissed with another dig of his fingers; a tug of the hand in his hair. ] — I won't —
[Just the way he wants. Just the way he likes it. A demure soft Silco is one who could scarcely exist at all - a complete antithesis for the sharp wreckage of a man he is. Silco is something that stands in the ocean and lets poor boats crash upon his ruins. He asks them too. Better for everyone to suffer like he has.]
[Oh, but this is different than merely pain, isn't it. That little gasp, the way his fingers try to dig into his hardened skin - see, if he simply wanted to cause pain, he would have just killed him outright. He wouldn't kill him.]
[He would give him a small death of a different sort just to see how much of himself he'd even think about relinquishing to Vergilius and his waiting hands.]
[A steady thrust of his finger holds the pace, before he adds his middle finger to drag deep into him. Silco tugs at his hair, and he grins - Vergilius might already be on the course to get cured, but his fangs are still a little too sharp to be comfortable.]
Good. Sing for me.
[Comes the rumble of the request, as he nips at the other's chin. A nasty little curl of his fingers, moving deeper, to really milk a reaction. How beautiful it is.]
[He feels like he's boiling in his own skin. He's so close that his cock is twitching heavily against his abdomen. He's ready. He needs this.]
[ It's not comfortable, but he adjusts to leaning against the wall, one of his legs moved to wrap around his thigh, giving him — more, more access, tugging him in closer, it didn't really matter. That heat thrumming down his spine. It made him want more of this, not just the good, but the searing pain of it all too. Silco didn't mind the pain, not really.
It was just how things went, wasn't it? Life was nothing without pain and suffering, and even something good hurt. Truly, he was an iceberg of a man, seeking to destroy and wreck everything around him. If they are strong enough to handle the destruction, surely they will persevere, right? Even Vergilius, he seeks to wrap up into this whole... everything. The trauma and hate and cause, it's all a cocktail for disaster against a man that wants to break him and see if he can find the pieces and put them back together. Especially when he wants to do the same.
They both have hammers, and they're trying to see what they can chip off from the surface. Like they're trying to find something deeper. Does he know the size of the shard he's chipping away at, to see this? How little he gives, but here and in this mad, too-hot moment, he gives it away readily when he knows that it is dangerous? Vulnerable?
Maybe there's a little victory for Vergilius here, when he added a second, biting at his chin with those slight remnants of fangs left over — Silco shuddered softly, the pain enough to make him want to lash back out. He does, tugging at his hair, trying to yank it out while he dug his fingers in. But oh — when he curled his fingers like that —
Ineffective fingernails dug into his skin, and there's a soft hitch of his breath, before he gasped. It isn't much, but for Silco, it's a so much, he leaned forward, to bite at his lip, no kind touches here. Maybe they didn't want them — or deserve them. He rocked his hips slightly against his finger, urging him on. Like he needed more of... Something, of This. This time — oh this time — his fingers hit just so
His head tipped back, and he does offer a louder, more authentic gasp, released to the open air, even if a part of him wants to swallow it or cut it off. He can't, it just devolves into a proper groan instead, breathed into the air like a secret. ]
[No kind touches here. He's mean with that finger curl, his lips pulled back with a brief wolf-like smile as the man groans. He told him he would break him. He needs to make good on his promises. He needs to see every single bit of that core he's chipping away to, even if he is being chopped up the same way. One can't break into a place without getting torn on the barbed wire.]
[Satisfied by the progression, he will bring one of the final acts in a little sooner. His hand pulls out, and his fingers find the man's hips to pull him up against the wall. He could care less for the friction. Instead, he's lining himself up with an electric shiver that goes through every ounce of his body-]
[And he's pressing in as far as he could go. This is greedy, to do a man who would fight tooth and nail to give him anything to return his own prying. But as he bottoms out into Silco, that greed is everything to him.]
[He allows the man to get used to the weight of him for a moment. Just one solitary moment, before he, impatient, starts the movement. Out, in, pressing deep with an insistent roll of his hips. Rinse, repeat. With grunting, gasping, and a more steady turning into desperate thrusts as he finds himself getting used to something he hasn't done quite like this in some time.
[ He can't miss a single expression on his face, even if he wanted to, he couldn't, but every little expression — that sharp flash of a smile that looks like it would be at home on a beast's — does more than even his fingers can, sending a sharp spike of something hungry and violent through him. He wants to rip it out of him again, and again, if he could.
He's light in his grip, comparatively — not that Verg would have much trouble regardless — and there's a certain weightlessness that comes with how he picked him up, pressed him to the wall, but his mouth was dry, and his gasp was silent this time, because he knew what he was doing — he could read it in the shiver that seems to transfer from Vergilius to him. Like that heat wasn't dissipating, but that the chill air against their skin, the anticipation of something else was almost too much.
He slides in, and it's an adjustment that's painful and raw; Silco doesn't spare a thought for how long it's been — it's been far too long — but he takes him like a drowning man does air. It's with another soft gasp, his fingers hunting for vulnerable spaces — against his neck and shoulders like he could dig into those scars left from his bites. Something, anything to dig in where he can, hurt where he can. Like a violent little urge, that thing in him that wants to lash out and dig in.
His fingers skid across his skin, uncoordinated once he starts moving. It's still so hot — something hungry like an open maw that can't get enough of whatever it is that Vergilius serves. That first roll of his hips devolves so quickly into something so much more desperate — he swallows back another half-choked, wet gasp, before he leaned forward — never content to just take it — he leans forward to bite at him, his own teeth (mostly) blunted, but still he aims to tear something out of his jaw, using his flesh between his teeth to stifle the louder groan that escaped him. ]
[Pain lances through his jaw - if he was of clear mind, he'd protest that the man was trying to eat him again. Vergilius's breath hitches with a groan of pain, which, like a whip to a horse, spurs him onward. The dreamy warmth of Malkuth seems like years in the past. This is raw, unfettered, and vicious.]
[He's pushing into him with a bit more added vigor and pettiness, trying to angle him against the wall to find that exact spot to make the man wail. Silco takes him so perfectly - the way his body feels so hot as he buries into him is intoxicating. The heat is not abating, no. It seems more awful now, rattled by the intensity of feeling that sucker punches him and sends his hips forward.]
[How wonderful. How amazing. He's muttering to himself, wordless between little cries and grunts, but pulling back, he can't help but nip at the man's ears as he moans:]
[ Maybe he does want to consume him, maybe that will satisfy this black maw of heat that seems too-hungry and driven to consume everything it can. His skin between his (mostly) blunted teeth feels good, half-satisfying just because he can hiss wetly against it, stifling the groans, leaving indents against his skin that are just shy of ripping and tearing.
He wants to hold on for dear life, for long enough to ride it out, but he angles himself and Silco has to let go of his jaw. He can't hold on like that when he angled him against the wall, his legs trying to find purchase around his hips, hands still digging where they can. He's losing all that perfectly held control, his softer gasps turning louder; rougher. Small exhales and sounds that can't be mistaken for anything other than pleasured cries.
It's easy to fall a little bit apart, with that heat rushing through him, that hungry maw insatiable, making him insatiable. It's such a rare thing, to feel so hungry like this, and his words at his ear, a shiver ripped through him. That didn't seem to satisfy either, but it made that roaring flame in the pit of his belly burst like an explosion, a louder, more raw cry slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He wanted to retort — say Something — maybe a compliment or maybe a cocky acceptance, but the moment he tried to open his mouth, it was just punctuated with another, louder gasp. Nothing more than uncontrolled sounds could slip free, it seemed. ]
[Silco like this - a mess, gasping and moaning and producing beautiful noise after noise that makes something rumble within him - pride, perhaps. Silco, usually so careful, now grasping onto him as if he's holding onto him for dear life. He said he would break him in two.]
[This is the start, his hunger says. Because no, he wouldn't be pleased with simply this moment. He wants to hear it again, and again, until this spider can no longer string a thought together for a day, a week. He wants to fill his head. Make him dream of him and his muscle-taut body overwhelming him over and over without end. By the Wings, he must be going insane. He's never wanted someone so badly before.]
[He's noticing his own mouth is no longer in control. It's just babble, punctuated by every thick, deep movement of his hips against the other man that now staggers and moves out of rhythm. Over and over again, he hisses the man's name.]
[Silco. Silco. Silco. Fuck. Silco.]
[Like a prayer. His twisted evil little god to make offering to. And only a few seconds more of that, and his fingers are gripping hard as he makes the man sink all the way down on his cock before it all bursts forward - his body shakes, mouth now filled with a moan that he mouths into the man's throat as if to sign it. It feels like it lasts forever. A moment to burn into history. Silco's so thin that Vergilius almost swears he can feel the hot drip of his cum dripping out as much as it comes, his body so feeling boneless that he's shivering against him the whole while.]
[And again, that prayer comes, as easy as anything.]
[ Each thrust gets punctuated by another sound, just as incoherent as Vergilius, his rise and fall from his thrusts, and it feels like he's splitting him wide open, like he's going to fracture into two pieces. He's so much smaller than him, he lifts and holds him against the wall like it's nothing, and that does something so odd to his head.
He doesn't even notice, those little racking sounds with each thrust, when the thrusts stutter, and lose rhythm, his fingers only trying to find something to hold — he finds his shoulders, holding onto his scarred skin for dear life, like if he lets go he may very well actually perish on him. He's so much bigger than him, like an indomitable, large weight. Bearing down on him, making him feel small, practically crushed up against the wall. Like he could just push him down and he would crumple from the force. It's so much, it's just too much — even more than when he'd had his hand on him — and it's maddening how much it is, and how it isn't enough. How he feels that heat flood from his head, how it pools in his belly and makes his cock twitch when he fucks into him just right.
How he pulls him out, before he slides all the way in, Silco's wet choking groan escaped unfettered, before he too started babbling — there it was; he'd promised to make him see stars and his vision blanks out for a moment, everything totally gone from him. His brain like white hot coals being stirred around in a stove, he can't think, he can't see, he can't even hear, all he can do is feel, and his whole body twitched around him, lean and trembling, and it's still — His whole body feels white hot and on the edge, like he's stuck there on the precipice, and it keeps getting further and further away.
He's uncontrolled, his voice finally finds words; I need — Vergilius — I need — it's less a promise, and more a demand. Always demands with this voracious creature, no veneration here. He can feel him leaking out of him, that burst of heat that's burning him up inside as much as it's keeping him suspended and half-mad. His throat practically vibrates against Vergilius's mouth, and he can feel him mouthing his name over and over into him. He needs more, just a little more, an offering to the fire that rages low in his gut, that burns him up. That insatiable maw demanding more, more, more. This isn't enough, it feels like nothing could quench that fire. No matter how much they feed it, it just demands more.
He's greedy, so greedy, He used his hands and legs to find leverage, still riding him through it, angling forward with his hips, pushing against him, greedy, so greedy. He needs more — friction, something, anything — even the barest brush of his cock, sandwiched between them —
Finally; he breathes out a low gasp, the slightest promise of friction is like a kick over the edge, hurtling him over it with such force he feels as if he's in freefall, suspended against the wall, his cock throbbing and spilling between them, leaving a mess, his hands still holding himself up, his hips still weakly trying to move — his breaths are shuddered and weak, and it's all gasps and groans through his twitches; slipping through between the spaces; Vergilius, more, more, more ]
[His mind is only starting to come to - it almost feels like they've been doing this for a hundred years. It also unexplicably feels like they've done this for only ten seconds. As the ecstatic delirium of orgasm starts to recede, he's conscious of those words spilling out of scarred lips.]
[More, more, more.]
[Silco is so small against him, trembling like a little wet animal caught in the rain. If he was even close to starting to come to his sense, that shiver and those words send a wave through him that almost bowls him over. He might have to allow his body to recuperate for a short moment, but the feeling twists into his gut with a fierce intensity. A violent one.]
....What a greedy, greedy, little nasty man you are.
[He murmurs into the man's skin, shaking his head as he continues.]
You...earned the right to the bed. Silco.
[His one. His only. His man to rip apart into a million pieces. And Silco is allowing that. He readjusts his grip as he starts to pull out, biting his lip as he is suddenly conscious of the thick, warm drainage and wet-sounding exit. Oh. He did a real number on him.]
[Doesn't stop him from carrying him over to immediately drop him to the bed, though. He's almost insane in how quickly he crawls over him, pressing teeth-filled, hungry kisses over neck, chest, jaw, shoulder.]
I will be nice. Decide, Silco. I can take you from behind. Suck your cock till its dry. [Another kiss to his chin.] Fuck you again and again and again till you pass out, and it may not even stop me then. [Another kiss and a ragged noise.] Maybe all of it. You want more? You can get more.
[ He barely hears him, his head still filled with that same insatiable ringing that keeps echoing through his head, his limbs felt shaky, like he had been melted down to near-nothing, like there was little left of him. He could say that it was the length of time since — anything, but it was not even close to that, the heat still thrumming through him, like it wanted more, more, more; and his lips finally stilled when he stared speaking, his breathing not evening out, but finally less frantic, like the heavy pulls of breath had finally slowed down. Still heavy gasps, his hands still dug into his shoulders, like he had to hold on for dear life, but —
He pulls free, and it's wet and Silco can feel it, lewdly leaking out of him. He suddenly feels chill and empty; but that hunger, it boils in his belly, burning up anything and everything, that insatiable maw, tearing through every lick of sense that he has.
Vergiius deposited him on to the bed, and he barely bounces on the surface — but he doesn't leave him alone for long, swooping in after him, blanketing him. He's larger than Silco by far, more solid — and the weight of him up against him leaves him feeling pinned like a spider caught on a board for study. It should leave him panicked, or trying to scramble out of his weight, but instead that insatiable heat bubbled uncontrollably, leaving him only writhing under his mouth following the weight.
How is he everywhere? Every single prick of his lips on skin feels like a searing brand, taking another piece and claiming it for himself, like a conqueror taking land, and Silco finds that he cedes it willingly, letting him take and take freely. His fingers slip up, and it looks like he is about to brush his bangs from his eyes again — but instead he reaches to his jaw, and those spider-thin fingers find the bite he'd left, digging into the little injury like it would ground them. Remind them. ]
Nice, is it? [ He would hate to see hateful, then. It feels hateful, to promise something like this, that roaring fire in him wants it, and more, and a part of him — that little logical creature that seems buried in the coals — knows that it will leave him unable to move. Like an extended, pleasurable attempt on his life, though Vergilius hardly needs this to kill him. ]
Again — [ He hissed out the demand, hunger that's just not quite like the bloodlust they'd shared, but it's close. Roaring through him, taking his logic and drowning it like everything else he'd once been. ] — Then I'll let you suck me off.
[ Demanding, horrid little man. Vergilius knew who was in his bed, this creature who demanded and took, and gave so little in return, but he was here, and maybe that was giving enough — more than any else — a hungry little spider trying to whisper in his ear and entangle them together even further. Like putting little hooks in him, trying to pull him in more.
Or maybe it was the other way around. Did these hooks go both ways? ]
[The fingers dig in as if to write his name in Vergilius's old skin. In his right mind, thinking coolly, he would've smacked him away. What gall the man has. Even now, in his position, acting like he had the reins here? It makes his nostrils flare, a shiver cascading from the base of his neck through his spine.]
Again. And you'll let me.
[He repeats the words from that order, that lofty command, almost disbelieving. His mouth cracks open in a rare sliver of a grin.]
You barely could construct a thought through the first time. And you want it again? Greedy.
[And yet, he must be greedy. Here they are in the midst of things, as if negotiating, but this talk masks the burning sensation that hasn't let up from the beginning. In reality? It's worse. The man has thrown down a gauntlet. The fire within him roars for more, as if he could send Silco up into smoke and ashes from the sheer effort of it.]
[He's pulling Silco's scrawny little insect legs up and over his shoulder, shifting as if to position himself, but he's not doing anything yet. Instead, he turns his head to bite lustfully over the inside of the right knee.]
We can go again, you masochist. But you have to get me there, right? I want to see how. I won't do all the work for you.
[ He'll regret this. He might not be put together enough, something hazy affecting him, but he'll regret it later, when he can't move without pain, because neither of them are young men, and Silco isn't exactly... used to such things these days. He'd had other things to think about — and perhaps he should consider that, but the heat redirects him to the man over him, pulling his thin legs up. he bites at his thigh, and it... does something to him. Like a flip-flop, heat that churns and yearns all in one. ]
Tired already?
[ He asked — goaded — and he swallowed back most of the chuff of air, too-sensitive skin leaving him shuddering while sweat cooled on his skin.
He was exposed, his brain supplied, a rare moment of clarity. He was exposed, and the man stared down at him through the fringe of his hair, negotiating terms of what they'll do to each other, what he wants. Silco goads because it's easier than sounding desperate, even if his voice is slightly rougher than it was before, because he'd used it too much already.
Would it be gone before the end?
he tells him he's on his own, that he won't even tell him. Cantankerous old man, he thinks to himself. There's a flash of something, half-annoyed, half... who knows. They're both ill-tempered and poorly socialized, stuck in their ways and mean, just in different ways.
Still, he bit at his knee, and it sent something like lightning to spark that fire yet again down his leg and through his spine. The fire isn't gone, but it doesn't ake away his breath, his mind. Not yet. He knows it will, though, there's a hunger still burning, still building.
Later, so much later, he'll view the clarity as a missed opportunity to run, flee before he lost all of his damn sense. ]
Very well, if you need help along the way. [ It's a gift, his tone says, that he would do this for him. He's nearly folded in half, like this, his legs over his shoulders, bent like he's prepared to truly crack him in two — but it brings him close, like he's ready to go again already, even though he says that he has to get him there.
So he does what he can think he can do.
Gain control, of course, with those insect legs, nudging him to the side, as if he's trying to push him over, to reverse their position. He wants to see how Silco will? Well. If he plays along, he'll have a knee to his chest pressing into his sternum, digging in, with what little weight he has. ]
[He'll regret this later. Not necessarily physically - this body has been operated on so many times that a marathon of this seems somewhat paltry in comparion, though the exhaustion will be there- but its about the feeling of it. This man, who twists into him and holds like a barbed harpoon, now being given an experience to almost die for. He doesn't deserve it. Silco doesn't deserve it either. And yet, here he is, caught underneath him and sweating.]
[This hunger he has for Silco, where does it come from? If he even thinks about it, it doesn't make sense, the pocky staying far away from his mind as possible. Maybe its normal to fuck an old druglord into oblivion. He should think about it more. Figure it out. He doesn't.]
[Silco presses at him with his legs to turn over. Ridiculous, but he's seeing this as another opportunity of sorts. He laughs against that knee, and then relents to his direction.]
[Here he is. All on his back for you.]
[He beckons him with his own gaze and curl of his hands, that rush of fire in his belly coming into a shimmer.]
[ He says with all the pride and confidence that he should not feel. Silco is aware of his...limitations. He is old now, and the nanite injection can only do so much for him, but it will work into overtime tonight. He is thin, and reedy, with spider-fingers and bones that stick out under flesh. That's discounting the eye, that meets his gaze, locking with it, holding it, before he looks away. Not out of shame, but to...look.
It's a pronounced difference next to the man. He's large, larger than Silco by far, and solid, with none of those delicate protruding bones, and instead weight and muscle to fill in the gaps. The heat keeps his mind on this, and he could be honest with himself in some tiny, barely honest way — he was good to look at — like this. If he were more honest, he would admit that the man's hands on him felt too good, given that they could toss him around like that, lift him against the wall like he was nothing.
His fingers started on scars, as they always did. Not gentle, never gentle, but he scraped at them like he was trying to find a pattern. Or maybe to memorize them. His knee on his sternum, he held him down, while he made his way through it.
Really, a part of him was trying to see if he could just drive him mad, from touch alone.
He flicked his nail against one, scraping against it, following the line lower. Bare patches of skin weren't safe either, his nails dug there, like he was trying to dig in, find a way to make new scars, while he found his way down solid muscle, and dipped closer to his abdomen, but he knew the value of patience. Especially when that heat forced his head to swim, and he felt...like trying to hold it off would do something. Drive him to desperation, maybe, or Vergilius. Wouldn't that be a sight?
His lips twitched at the thought, pleasantly. For once. ]
[The statement feels lighter than he expects it to. Silco settles, and Vergilius lets him. He's let Silco do a lot of things to him, lately.]
[He must like him. Or something.]
[The man is thorough - he explores the expanse of this skin as if it is a worn map of treasure. His nails scratch. X marks the spot here. And here. And here. Initially, he murmurs, but as he moves, Vergilius's face mildly flushes as his mouth opens with a sigh. Touch. One of the things that even he, in his right mind, would ruin himself for. He sinks into it, his fingers curling into the sheets with another low noise.]
[He looks up at Silco. Beholds him. Angles and scars and cracked lips, oh my. There's nobody like him. The man is carved as if he is a sculpture. Broken and bare and it tickles his brain in all the right way, somehow.]
[His hand reaches up to trail a finger down the man's neck.]
[ He hums, and whether it's an affirmation or thoughtful, he doesn't clarify. Or maybe he's too focused on the patchwork scars and marks on his skin, investing in learning the pieces and parts. He makes notes of where he shudders, reacts, and shakes. Memorizing them like they are weapons to use later — or tools, depending on the mood — but...
He reaches up for his neck, to touch it, does he know — ?
His throat bobbed with the force of it, the way it moved when he swallowed, moving against his fingers on his throat.
He feels truly exposed for the first time; the first time any shred of logic slips in, bare like this. Vulnerable. All exposed scars, his bones poking through skin. He feels watched, perceived, but Vergilius says something he doesn't expect.
He so often said things Silco doesn't expect.
He feels it, the flush on his cheek, uncontrolled, was it surprise, or embarrassment? He can't even tell.]
You think so?
[ It's mostly rhetorical. His voice rumbles under fingers, and still he touches his throat. How could he know? His breath still shudders every moment his fingers light on it. His eye closed to half-mast, like he was trying to put himself back together, before he leaned down, to scrape only half-sharpened teeth on his neck, maybe in retaliation for the touch, maybe because he remembered what it was like to bite him there, and drink.
Now, his nips barely break skin, but he still laps at the (pathetic) wound, as if the pebble of pooling blood was enough.]
[Even in this addled lavender haze, there's this understanding that is so apparent as to be in your face. Silco has some sort of complex with the neck. He drank blood from it before, and touches him now, and Silco's body stills like a deer in the dark.]
[The heat from his cheeks is something to obsess over. Silco bends down to scrape at his own neck, and a haggard sigh pushes past his lips as his other hand slides to his back and then - to seemingly keep it from getting too pure, he's squeezing whatever pitiful excuse Silco has for an ass.]
[His hunger still beats like a drum - he's grasping the back of Silco's neck, firm but soft, as he starts to slowly rock his hips up against the man's abdomen. He was half hard before from the touch of it all, but he will take what is his no matter what. Already, he's dreadfully missing being so buried deep into the man to the point of rupturing every little spider's web of control he can find.]
I know so.
[Comes his answer, pressed into a kiss above his carotid artery.]
[ He fits neatly up against him, straddling him with thin legs that spread too-wide to squeeze around him, giving him plenty of his (bony) skin to squeeze, though it hardly yields, given how little of it there is.
He is awkward, moving like this, sliding up against him, feeling at scars and muscle and all the things that he so rarely touches, but his fingers find spaces where they fit, where he can dig in, and Vergilius rocks against him, drawing out another shudder of a gasp, breathed against his neck, biting it again, leaving little puncture marks that barely break skin, they aren't enough to truly bite through, but they still again when he pressed a kiss aginst his neck — just a half second — before he bit again.
How the hell is he still this unsatisfied, this hungry? How is it that his cock pressed against him, still drooling from spending himself, and wanting more. Did he have any more left? He was hardly young, yet the energy came from somewhere, spurred him on him want to press them together — he angled his hips so his rocking served both of them, and he's still too sensitive because it made him shudder against him. ]
[It surprises Vergilius, too, that Silco is as needy as this. Back in that hallway, he had barely reacted to Vergilius and his first little kiss to his scar. Now, it feels like he wants to milk as he can from him to the point of destruction.]
[And see, the problem is, Vergilius doesn't mind. He has wanted that. A reaction, a sharing of feeling, even if the things that tie them together are nasty, twisted, awful little notions. Silco hates him in some way. And yet here he is, hands prying, teeth biting, and Vergilius so deeply needs him like this all the time. There's something about being desired so heavily that sends a tingle from his toes to the top of his head, making him suddenly break out in a pleasantly flushed sweat.]
[He doesn't ever want to let go of this man. He is his to break. His abdomen churns with the spike of feeling as Silco utters those words. A challenge. He grasps at those bony hips, prompts them upward as he shifts his body-]
[So that he can get in the right location to start to press into him once more. His hands tug to encourage him to move down, to sink fully. To let himself be claimed and filled and proven to be pretty.]
Haaaa. [Comes the sigh that edges into a whine - the pain at those pinprick bites only spurs him forward.] Oh. I'll show you, alright, pretty one.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thank u pocky
[What beautiful sounds. He's already going mad from them - they're so delicate coming from the twisted bony man currently situated on his lap. He asks how he is going to do it.]
[He answers with an action instead. Pulling back only to wrap an arm around the man to lift him up as he stands from his chair. A bit of fumbling and muttered cursing under his breath as he dislodges himself from his pants, only to now move towards the wall to press Silco right against it with his body. Its so easy. His hands are now making quick work of the other man's pants, grumbling the whole while.]
You don't deserve the bed. Maybe later.
[Definitely later. If his tone has anything to say about it. If Silco helps him, let him do so, but if not, Vergilius seems all too intent on overpowering this whole sitiation with what he desires.]
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Maybe later sends a short-circuit through his brain, or maybe it's that he's trapped against the wall — pressed up against it with Vergilius's crushing strength — could he even fight it if he wanted to? Would he? The soft 'ooph' was half an exclamation, and half a soft exhale, tinged with a groan.
His hands doing their best to aid him along on his path, help him with whatever he's trying to do, his pants, or... anything else. He needs — more. Skin to skin, maybe more than that. He brushed against his cock, two fingers that stroked the length of it, like he aims to walk his fingers along him, before he diverted — his fingers find his hips, to tug him closer, his thumbs try to dig in at the muscle and bone. He needed skin to skin — he needed more. He needed... something that even this wasn't satisfying — and the haze of it left his brain in an oddly single-minded haze, he just wanted...
This.
Going to make me earn it?
[ He asks, and his voice is...
more coy than he would have cared to admit, were he not overtaken by this haze. ]
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[The clothes are off, dumped on the floor underneath them. They stand, fully bare, and the heat is making Vergilius especially break into a sweat at the sheer weight of that - his brain can't stop thinking. This isn't like him. Any fire he had like this before was sweeter, slower, smoother. Here, he's wild thing. He doesn't recognize himself.]
[His hand moves to the nearby nightstand hurriedly, pulling out - well. He wasn't prepared last time. He is, this time. Did he just have it? Did he get it specifically for him? He won't say, but he's indulging in a bit of a tease as he's simply holding it, leaning forward to mouth over Silco's throat with little sucks and bites greedily.]
Maybe. [Two can play at this coy game, as he groans a little into this pale flesh. His other hand traces a pressured, needy circle over the man's groin.] I might. If you play nice.
[Another beat, another haggard little noise.]
Last...call to leave. Ha. Before I make good on...all my promises.
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It was like the fact that he'd been able to get the jump on him, take him down in his own way, had made the man less scary, even if he had wrapped his hand around his neck, and tried to choke the life out of him. Even if he had kissed his scar at the same time — what had possessed him to do that? He still didn't understand it — and he'd stabbed him with his knife, and the man had come back around. He'd cornered him in his room, and Silco couldn't say that he understood it, but between the blood and the bites, and... everything else... he'd been driven by his need to pull the man apart, pull something out of him. So how did this keep happening?
He didn't know. Right now... it didn't matter, did it? It was — It was —
Right now, stopping is the furthest thing on his mind, and his mouth goes dry, and a touch slack for a split second, his eyes locked on that for long enough that the implication is clear. He'd challenged him — Vergilius had promised him, hadn't he? He bites at his neck like they still have fangs, and there's a raw little surge of that heat at the rush of memory. It drives those spiderlike fingers to dig into his hip more, a rush of something that leaves his eyes trailing between what's in his hand, and his face. ]
Please, you don't want me to play nice, do you? [ He dug his fingers in, like hooks. ] I think you would be terribly disappointed.
[ He would, if it was anything short of this, of something raw, that hurt in places. Greedy bites that leave marks on his skin he'll have to cover later. His fingers drift, from his hips, to his hair, to tug it back and out of his face, so he can look down on him with a single, glowing eye. ]
And give you the opportunity to get out of them? [ A quirk of something that might be a smile, but it's too sharp, too much like that controlled little spider, even if his hands tremble, and he seems so flushed still. ] I think not.
me reading my tags missing like 100 words like don't tag late kids
[He cracks open the little container of lube. The sound is as sharp as those nails that dig in, and he knows that Silco will want to leave marks any way possible. He doesn't just want to lord over him. He wants to burrow into him like a tick, to feed on his blood. He knows this, and yet he keeps returning. Why? Doesn't he know better?]
[Perhaps he knows nothing at all. A squirt into his other hand, before he palms downward, coating himself, coating Silco. He's just as comfortable here with the opposite hand - Silco might realize he is, indeed, ambidextrous - but he's not allowing him to sit pretty and think.]
[Another dab of that cool gel, and he's diving it around and below to search for that opening - and finding it, he's giving it a teasing rollaround so that he can feel that little shiver of chill compared with the blazing heat of his skin. How nice. What a contrast. Just like Silco stares at him with both something too human and barely human at all.]
You're right. You shouldn't play nice at all.
[Vergilius snags onto his lower lip with his own, sucking into it as he starts to press in his finger to the knuckle. His red eyes are glimmmering, fully exposed as they are- little jewels trying their best to capture the minute changes of the other's face. A memory to burn into the ridges of his brain.]
god when it happens and u realize after... 🤝 the worst
He doesn't even try for something gentle, Silco stares into his eyes unblinking, both of them, and his fingers dig in where they can, into his head, tugging on his hair, but like this he can't hide from him either. He's already committed to staring him down, and Silco could do little more than plow forward, even it it meant every small, minute expression crossed his face was exposed.
Rather like the rest of him, wasn't it? There's too much heat to think about it, even when he swallows back a hiss at his hand touching him — it hadn't been that long had it? When he'd cornered him in his room and made so many half-keened promises while his fingers stroked him — but this was closer to a purposeful, perfunctory stroke. It left him too-keyed up, too wound up from the wait, but he already knew what was coming. Had known from the snap of the bottlecap.
It didn't make it easier, but it wasn't meant to be. This wasn't gentle, neither of them wanted that, right? If it's a show Vergilius wants to see, it's a show he gets, with the way his head tipped up, pressed against the wall, mouth open in a silent gasp, one hand relaxed his grip on his hair, to reach down and grip at his shoulder, spider-like fingers digging in deep. One eye was closed, brow knitted instinctively together from the first press into him — but the other... it stared at him, never wavering, his mouth still caught, but his teeth scraped against his — anything to add a touch of the pain.
What was it, to see pain and feel it, and know it was right, that it made all this heat sharpen and narrow in on itself; it made it better that it hurt, maybe.
Silco wouldn't want it, he knew that. The heat might cloud his mind, but he wouldn't want something soft, or gentle. It would feel wrong — expect something wrong. He wants to hurt right back, after all, dig his fingers in, cut Vergilius on his sharp edges. He could cut as much as the man could cut right back. ]
Don't — Worry — [ He hissed with another dig of his fingers; a tug of the hand in his hair. ] — I won't —
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[Oh, but this is different than merely pain, isn't it. That little gasp, the way his fingers try to dig into his hardened skin - see, if he simply wanted to cause pain, he would have just killed him outright. He wouldn't kill him.]
[He would give him a small death of a different sort just to see how much of himself he'd even think about relinquishing to Vergilius and his waiting hands.]
[A steady thrust of his finger holds the pace, before he adds his middle finger to drag deep into him. Silco tugs at his hair, and he grins - Vergilius might already be on the course to get cured, but his fangs are still a little too sharp to be comfortable.]
Good. Sing for me.
[Comes the rumble of the request, as he nips at the other's chin. A nasty little curl of his fingers, moving deeper, to really milk a reaction. How beautiful it is.]
[He feels like he's boiling in his own skin. He's so close that his cock is twitching heavily against his abdomen. He's ready. He needs this.]
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It was just how things went, wasn't it? Life was nothing without pain and suffering, and even something good hurt. Truly, he was an iceberg of a man, seeking to destroy and wreck everything around him. If they are strong enough to handle the destruction, surely they will persevere, right? Even Vergilius, he seeks to wrap up into this whole... everything. The trauma and hate and cause, it's all a cocktail for disaster against a man that wants to break him and see if he can find the pieces and put them back together. Especially when he wants to do the same.
They both have hammers, and they're trying to see what they can chip off from the surface. Like they're trying to find something deeper. Does he know the size of the shard he's chipping away at, to see this? How little he gives, but here and in this mad, too-hot moment, he gives it away readily when he knows that it is dangerous? Vulnerable?
Maybe there's a little victory for Vergilius here, when he added a second, biting at his chin with those slight remnants of fangs left over — Silco shuddered softly, the pain enough to make him want to lash back out. He does, tugging at his hair, trying to yank it out while he dug his fingers in. But oh — when he curled his fingers like that —
Ineffective fingernails dug into his skin, and there's a soft hitch of his breath, before he gasped. It isn't much, but for Silco, it's a so much, he leaned forward, to bite at his lip, no kind touches here. Maybe they didn't want them — or deserve them. He rocked his hips slightly against his finger, urging him on. Like he needed more of... Something, of This. This time — oh this time — his fingers hit just so
His head tipped back, and he does offer a louder, more authentic gasp, released to the open air, even if a part of him wants to swallow it or cut it off. He can't, it just devolves into a proper groan instead, breathed into the air like a secret. ]
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[Satisfied by the progression, he will bring one of the final acts in a little sooner. His hand pulls out, and his fingers find the man's hips to pull him up against the wall. He could care less for the friction. Instead, he's lining himself up with an electric shiver that goes through every ounce of his body-]
[And he's pressing in as far as he could go. This is greedy, to do a man who would fight tooth and nail to give him anything to return his own prying. But as he bottoms out into Silco, that greed is everything to him.]
[He allows the man to get used to the weight of him for a moment. Just one solitary moment, before he, impatient, starts the movement. Out, in, pressing deep with an insistent roll of his hips. Rinse, repeat. With grunting, gasping, and a more steady turning into desperate thrusts as he finds himself getting used to something he hasn't done quite like this in some time.
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He's light in his grip, comparatively — not that Verg would have much trouble regardless — and there's a certain weightlessness that comes with how he picked him up, pressed him to the wall, but his mouth was dry, and his gasp was silent this time, because he knew what he was doing — he could read it in the shiver that seems to transfer from Vergilius to him. Like that heat wasn't dissipating, but that the chill air against their skin, the anticipation of something else was almost too much.
He slides in, and it's an adjustment that's painful and raw; Silco doesn't spare a thought for how long it's been — it's been far too long — but he takes him like a drowning man does air. It's with another soft gasp, his fingers hunting for vulnerable spaces — against his neck and shoulders like he could dig into those scars left from his bites. Something, anything to dig in where he can, hurt where he can. Like a violent little urge, that thing in him that wants to lash out and dig in.
His fingers skid across his skin, uncoordinated once he starts moving. It's still so hot — something hungry like an open maw that can't get enough of whatever it is that Vergilius serves. That first roll of his hips devolves so quickly into something so much more desperate — he swallows back another half-choked, wet gasp, before he leaned forward — never content to just take it — he leans forward to bite at him, his own teeth (mostly) blunted, but still he aims to tear something out of his jaw, using his flesh between his teeth to stifle the louder groan that escaped him. ]
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[He's pushing into him with a bit more added vigor and pettiness, trying to angle him against the wall to find that exact spot to make the man wail. Silco takes him so perfectly - the way his body feels so hot as he buries into him is intoxicating. The heat is not abating, no. It seems more awful now, rattled by the intensity of feeling that sucker punches him and sends his hips forward.]
[How wonderful. How amazing. He's muttering to himself, wordless between little cries and grunts, but pulling back, he can't help but nip at the man's ears as he moans:]
You - agh - feel too good... Bastard.
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He wants to hold on for dear life, for long enough to ride it out, but he angles himself and Silco has to let go of his jaw. He can't hold on like that when he angled him against the wall, his legs trying to find purchase around his hips, hands still digging where they can. He's losing all that perfectly held control, his softer gasps turning louder; rougher. Small exhales and sounds that can't be mistaken for anything other than pleasured cries.
It's easy to fall a little bit apart, with that heat rushing through him, that hungry maw insatiable, making him insatiable. It's such a rare thing, to feel so hungry like this, and his words at his ear, a shiver ripped through him. That didn't seem to satisfy either, but it made that roaring flame in the pit of his belly burst like an explosion, a louder, more raw cry slipped from his lips before he could stop it. He wanted to retort — say Something — maybe a compliment or maybe a cocky acceptance, but the moment he tried to open his mouth, it was just punctuated with another, louder gasp. Nothing more than uncontrolled sounds could slip free, it seemed. ]
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[Silco like this - a mess, gasping and moaning and producing beautiful noise after noise that makes something rumble within him - pride, perhaps. Silco, usually so careful, now grasping onto him as if he's holding onto him for dear life. He said he would break him in two.]
[This is the start, his hunger says. Because no, he wouldn't be pleased with simply this moment. He wants to hear it again, and again, until this spider can no longer string a thought together for a day, a week. He wants to fill his head. Make him dream of him and his muscle-taut body overwhelming him over and over without end. By the Wings, he must be going insane. He's never wanted someone so badly before.]
[He's noticing his own mouth is no longer in control. It's just babble, punctuated by every thick, deep movement of his hips against the other man that now staggers and moves out of rhythm. Over and over again, he hisses the man's name.]
[Silco. Silco. Silco. Fuck. Silco.]
[Like a prayer. His twisted evil little god to make offering to. And only a few seconds more of that, and his fingers are gripping hard as he makes the man sink all the way down on his cock before it all bursts forward - his body shakes, mouth now filled with a moan that he mouths into the man's throat as if to sign it. It feels like it lasts forever. A moment to burn into history. Silco's so thin that Vergilius almost swears he can feel the hot drip of his cum dripping out as much as it comes, his body so feeling boneless that he's shivering against him the whole while.]
[And again, that prayer comes, as easy as anything.]
[Silcosilcosilcosilco... ]
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He doesn't even notice, those little racking sounds with each thrust, when the thrusts stutter, and lose rhythm, his fingers only trying to find something to hold — he finds his shoulders, holding onto his scarred skin for dear life, like if he lets go he may very well actually perish on him. He's so much bigger than him, like an indomitable, large weight. Bearing down on him, making him feel small, practically crushed up against the wall. Like he could just push him down and he would crumple from the force. It's so much, it's just too much — even more than when he'd had his hand on him — and it's maddening how much it is, and how it isn't enough. How he feels that heat flood from his head, how it pools in his belly and makes his cock twitch when he fucks into him just right.
How he pulls him out, before he slides all the way in, Silco's wet choking groan escaped unfettered, before he too started babbling — there it was; he'd promised to make him see stars and his vision blanks out for a moment, everything totally gone from him. His brain like white hot coals being stirred around in a stove, he can't think, he can't see, he can't even hear, all he can do is feel, and his whole body twitched around him, lean and trembling, and it's still — His whole body feels white hot and on the edge, like he's stuck there on the precipice, and it keeps getting further and further away.
He's uncontrolled, his voice finally finds words; I need — Vergilius — I need — it's less a promise, and more a demand. Always demands with this voracious creature, no veneration here. He can feel him leaking out of him, that burst of heat that's burning him up inside as much as it's keeping him suspended and half-mad. His throat practically vibrates against Vergilius's mouth, and he can feel him mouthing his name over and over into him. He needs more, just a little more, an offering to the fire that rages low in his gut, that burns him up. That insatiable maw demanding more, more, more. This isn't enough, it feels like nothing could quench that fire. No matter how much they feed it, it just demands more.
He's greedy, so greedy, He used his hands and legs to find leverage, still riding him through it, angling forward with his hips, pushing against him, greedy, so greedy. He needs more — friction, something, anything — even the barest brush of his cock, sandwiched between them —
Finally; he breathes out a low gasp, the slightest promise of friction is like a kick over the edge, hurtling him over it with such force he feels as if he's in freefall, suspended against the wall, his cock throbbing and spilling between them, leaving a mess, his hands still holding himself up, his hips still weakly trying to move — his breaths are shuddered and weak, and it's all gasps and groans through his twitches; slipping through between the spaces; Vergilius, more, more, more ]
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[His mind is only starting to come to - it almost feels like they've been doing this for a hundred years. It also unexplicably feels like they've done this for only ten seconds. As the ecstatic delirium of orgasm starts to recede, he's conscious of those words spilling out of scarred lips.]
[More, more, more.]
[Silco is so small against him, trembling like a little wet animal caught in the rain. If he was even close to starting to come to his sense, that shiver and those words send a wave through him that almost bowls him over. He might have to allow his body to recuperate for a short moment, but the feeling twists into his gut with a fierce intensity. A violent one.]
....What a greedy, greedy, little nasty man you are.
[He murmurs into the man's skin, shaking his head as he continues.]
You...earned the right to the bed. Silco.
[His one. His only. His man to rip apart into a million pieces. And Silco is allowing that. He readjusts his grip as he starts to pull out, biting his lip as he is suddenly conscious of the thick, warm drainage and wet-sounding exit. Oh. He did a real number on him.]
[Doesn't stop him from carrying him over to immediately drop him to the bed, though. He's almost insane in how quickly he crawls over him, pressing teeth-filled, hungry kisses over neck, chest, jaw, shoulder.]
I will be nice. Decide, Silco. I can take you from behind. Suck your cock till its dry. [Another kiss to his chin.] Fuck you again and again and again till you pass out, and it may not even stop me then. [Another kiss and a ragged noise.] Maybe all of it. You want more? You can get more.
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He pulls free, and it's wet and Silco can feel it, lewdly leaking out of him. He suddenly feels chill and empty; but that hunger, it boils in his belly, burning up anything and everything, that insatiable maw, tearing through every lick of sense that he has.
Vergiius deposited him on to the bed, and he barely bounces on the surface — but he doesn't leave him alone for long, swooping in after him, blanketing him. He's larger than Silco by far, more solid — and the weight of him up against him leaves him feeling pinned like a spider caught on a board for study. It should leave him panicked, or trying to scramble out of his weight, but instead that insatiable heat bubbled uncontrollably, leaving him only writhing under his mouth following the weight.
How is he everywhere? Every single prick of his lips on skin feels like a searing brand, taking another piece and claiming it for himself, like a conqueror taking land, and Silco finds that he cedes it willingly, letting him take and take freely. His fingers slip up, and it looks like he is about to brush his bangs from his eyes again — but instead he reaches to his jaw, and those spider-thin fingers find the bite he'd left, digging into the little injury like it would ground them. Remind them. ]
Nice, is it? [ He would hate to see hateful, then. It feels hateful, to promise something like this, that roaring fire in him wants it, and more, and a part of him — that little logical creature that seems buried in the coals — knows that it will leave him unable to move. Like an extended, pleasurable attempt on his life, though Vergilius hardly needs this to kill him. ]
Again — [ He hissed out the demand, hunger that's just not quite like the bloodlust they'd shared, but it's close. Roaring through him, taking his logic and drowning it like everything else he'd once been. ] — Then I'll let you suck me off.
[ Demanding, horrid little man. Vergilius knew who was in his bed, this creature who demanded and took, and gave so little in return, but he was here, and maybe that was giving enough — more than any else — a hungry little spider trying to whisper in his ear and entangle them together even further. Like putting little hooks in him, trying to pull him in more.
Or maybe it was the other way around. Did these hooks go both ways? ]
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Again. And you'll let me.
[He repeats the words from that order, that lofty command, almost disbelieving. His mouth cracks open in a rare sliver of a grin.]
You barely could construct a thought through the first time. And you want it again? Greedy.
[And yet, he must be greedy. Here they are in the midst of things, as if negotiating, but this talk masks the burning sensation that hasn't let up from the beginning. In reality? It's worse. The man has thrown down a gauntlet. The fire within him roars for more, as if he could send Silco up into smoke and ashes from the sheer effort of it.]
[He's pulling Silco's scrawny little insect legs up and over his shoulder, shifting as if to position himself, but he's not doing anything yet. Instead, he turns his head to bite lustfully over the inside of the right knee.]
We can go again, you masochist. But you have to get me there, right? I want to see how. I won't do all the work for you.
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Tired already?
[ He asked — goaded — and he swallowed back most of the chuff of air, too-sensitive skin leaving him shuddering while sweat cooled on his skin.
He was exposed, his brain supplied, a rare moment of clarity. He was exposed, and the man stared down at him through the fringe of his hair, negotiating terms of what they'll do to each other, what he wants. Silco goads because it's easier than sounding desperate, even if his voice is slightly rougher than it was before, because he'd used it too much already.
Would it be gone before the end?
he tells him he's on his own, that he won't even tell him. Cantankerous old man, he thinks to himself. There's a flash of something, half-annoyed, half... who knows. They're both ill-tempered and poorly socialized, stuck in their ways and mean, just in different ways.
Still, he bit at his knee, and it sent something like lightning to spark that fire yet again down his leg and through his spine. The fire isn't gone, but it doesn't ake away his breath, his mind. Not yet. He knows it will, though, there's a hunger still burning, still building.
Later, so much later, he'll view the clarity as a missed opportunity to run, flee before he lost all of his damn sense. ]
Very well, if you need help along the way. [ It's a gift, his tone says, that he would do this for him. He's nearly folded in half, like this, his legs over his shoulders, bent like he's prepared to truly crack him in two — but it brings him close, like he's ready to go again already, even though he says that he has to get him there.
So he does what he can think he can do.
Gain control, of course, with those insect legs, nudging him to the side, as if he's trying to push him over, to reverse their position. He wants to see how Silco will? Well. If he plays along, he'll have a knee to his chest pressing into his sternum, digging in, with what little weight he has. ]
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[This hunger he has for Silco, where does it come from? If he even thinks about it, it doesn't make sense, the pocky staying far away from his mind as possible. Maybe its normal to fuck an old druglord into oblivion. He should think about it more. Figure it out. He doesn't.]
[Silco presses at him with his legs to turn over. Ridiculous, but he's seeing this as another opportunity of sorts. He laughs against that knee, and then relents to his direction.]
[Here he is. All on his back for you.]
[He beckons him with his own gaze and curl of his hands, that rush of fire in his belly coming into a shimmer.]
Do your horrible work.
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[ He says with all the pride and confidence that he should not feel. Silco is aware of his...limitations. He is old now, and the nanite injection can only do so much for him, but it will work into overtime tonight. He is thin, and reedy, with spider-fingers and bones that stick out under flesh. That's discounting the eye, that meets his gaze, locking with it, holding it, before he looks away. Not out of shame, but to...look.
It's a pronounced difference next to the man. He's large, larger than Silco by far, and solid, with none of those delicate protruding bones, and instead weight and muscle to fill in the gaps. The heat keeps his mind on this, and he could be honest with himself in some tiny, barely honest way — he was good to look at — like this. If he were more honest, he would admit that the man's hands on him felt too good, given that they could toss him around like that, lift him against the wall like he was nothing.
His fingers started on scars, as they always did. Not gentle, never gentle, but he scraped at them like he was trying to find a pattern. Or maybe to memorize them. His knee on his sternum, he held him down, while he made his way through it.
Really, a part of him was trying to see if he could just drive him mad, from touch alone.
He flicked his nail against one, scraping against it, following the line lower. Bare patches of skin weren't safe either, his nails dug there, like he was trying to dig in, find a way to make new scars, while he found his way down solid muscle, and dipped closer to his abdomen, but he knew the value of patience. Especially when that heat forced his head to swim, and he felt...like trying to hold it off would do something. Drive him to desperation, maybe, or Vergilius. Wouldn't that be a sight?
His lips twitched at the thought, pleasantly. For once. ]
my HTMLLLLLL
[The statement feels lighter than he expects it to. Silco settles, and Vergilius lets him. He's let Silco do a lot of things to him, lately.]
[He must like him. Or something.]
[The man is thorough - he explores the expanse of this skin as if it is a worn map of treasure. His nails scratch. X marks the spot here. And here. And here. Initially, he murmurs, but as he moves, Vergilius's face mildly flushes as his mouth opens with a sigh. Touch. One of the things that even he, in his right mind, would ruin himself for. He sinks into it, his fingers curling into the sheets with another low noise.]
[He looks up at Silco. Beholds him. Angles and scars and cracked lips, oh my. There's nobody like him. The man is carved as if he is a sculpture. Broken and bare and it tickles his brain in all the right way, somehow.]
[His hand reaches up to trail a finger down the man's neck.]
...Pretty.
[Just that one word, breathed like a prayer.]
😔 i do not see it
[ He hums, and whether it's an affirmation or thoughtful, he doesn't clarify. Or maybe he's too focused on the patchwork scars and marks on his skin, investing in learning the pieces and parts. He makes notes of where he shudders, reacts, and shakes. Memorizing them like they are weapons to use later — or tools, depending on the mood — but...
He reaches up for his neck, to touch it, does he know — ?
His throat bobbed with the force of it, the way it moved when he swallowed, moving against his fingers on his throat.
He feels truly exposed for the first time; the first time any shred of logic slips in, bare like this. Vulnerable. All exposed scars, his bones poking through skin. He feels watched, perceived, but Vergilius says something he doesn't expect.
He so often said things Silco doesn't expect.
He feels it, the flush on his cheek, uncontrolled, was it surprise, or embarrassment? He can't even tell.]
You think so?
[ It's mostly rhetorical. His voice rumbles under fingers, and still he touches his throat. How could he know? His breath still shudders every moment his fingers light on it. His eye closed to half-mast, like he was trying to put himself back together, before he leaned down, to scrape only half-sharpened teeth on his neck, maybe in retaliation for the touch, maybe because he remembered what it was like to bite him there, and drink.
Now, his nips barely break skin, but he still laps at the (pathetic) wound, as if the pebble of pooling blood was enough.]
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[The heat from his cheeks is something to obsess over. Silco bends down to scrape at his own neck, and a haggard sigh pushes past his lips as his other hand slides to his back and then - to seemingly keep it from getting too pure, he's squeezing whatever pitiful excuse Silco has for an ass.]
[His hunger still beats like a drum - he's grasping the back of Silco's neck, firm but soft, as he starts to slowly rock his hips up against the man's abdomen. He was half hard before from the touch of it all, but he will take what is his no matter what. Already, he's dreadfully missing being so buried deep into the man to the point of rupturing every little spider's web of control he can find.]
I know so.
[Comes his answer, pressed into a kiss above his carotid artery.]
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He is awkward, moving like this, sliding up against him, feeling at scars and muscle and all the things that he so rarely touches, but his fingers find spaces where they fit, where he can dig in, and Vergilius rocks against him, drawing out another shudder of a gasp, breathed against his neck, biting it again, leaving little puncture marks that barely break skin, they aren't enough to truly bite through, but they still again when he pressed a kiss aginst his neck — just a half second — before he bit again.
How the hell is he still this unsatisfied, this hungry? How is it that his cock pressed against him, still drooling from spending himself, and wanting more. Did he have any more left? He was hardly young, yet the energy came from somewhere, spurred him on him want to press them together — he angled his hips so his rocking served both of them, and he's still too sensitive because it made him shudder against him. ]
Then show me, already.
[ He demands it like it's his due. ]
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[And see, the problem is, Vergilius doesn't mind. He has wanted that. A reaction, a sharing of feeling, even if the things that tie them together are nasty, twisted, awful little notions. Silco hates him in some way. And yet here he is, hands prying, teeth biting, and Vergilius so deeply needs him like this all the time. There's something about being desired so heavily that sends a tingle from his toes to the top of his head, making him suddenly break out in a pleasantly flushed sweat.]
[He doesn't ever want to let go of this man. He is his to break. His abdomen churns with the spike of feeling as Silco utters those words. A challenge. He grasps at those bony hips, prompts them upward as he shifts his body-]
[So that he can get in the right location to start to press into him once more. His hands tug to encourage him to move down, to sink fully. To let himself be claimed and filled and proven to be pretty.]
Haaaa. [Comes the sigh that edges into a whine - the pain at those pinprick bites only spurs him forward.] Oh. I'll show you, alright, pretty one.
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"little old me" verg you've got almost a foot on him
kinning himself as a short person
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