[ A living weapon, all for Silco to scrape thin fingers against, for him to mar and muck up as he so chooses. A weapon could stop him at any time, but Vergilius lets him do it, seeks him out like this, and Silco's fingers trail against the marks he made, as if he can hurt him more by pressing down on them. Maybe he can, but maybe he's used to the pain. They're both from such similar places, where pain is something one simply gets used to.
His good eye closed, a light shiver down his back. ]
Mm, most of the time, yes. [ He's right. Most people here don't understand it. Not like Zaunites did, or people from the City did. ] Even if we manage to slip free of the mistakes...
[ His fingers trail against his skin, scraping, scraping. He knows he has made them. Has Vergilius? The type that leave that stain that can never be washed out? That eye fixates on him, burning from a pitch surface. ] They leave their mark. Don't they?
[That's that, and this is this. It's the way things are. A man told him that, once. A man with a beautiful smile that later was hidden by a black mask, his voice darkened by bloodlust.]
[He doesn't answer for a moment - his gaze turns distant with the weight of memory. He told that man the phrase didn't suit him. He himself didn't want to believe nothing could be done - it was just his foolish dream that kept him going forward.]
[Vergilius rests his head against the other man again as his gaze moves away, his hand sliding down to slide around to his back to pull him close, almost an embrace. Comfort, perhaps.]
[ He scoops him close, Silco doesn't fight it — how damning — as if being closer will soothe the open festering wounds their worlds left on them. He reached around him, his arm curling around his back to puff at his cigar, but he reached around his shoulders all the same.
He thinks the statement is right, at least in part, but there is a part of him, as always, that rages against it. Wants to change it. Always, Silco tries, he makes it worse, because that is what he does, but he still persists. Unending. Inexorable.
Gripping so hard he breaks it in between his fingers, so that he can remake it as he wishes. ]
There is no escaping it, even here. [ Though it is better here, than where he was before — easier than the City or Zaun. He isn't strained to the end of his rope, he is not maddened and feral, gripping too tight onto the one tether he has to himself, watching himself spool outward into pieces as he flays himself bit by bit. He is different here, but he is also the same. The sum of the parts, his mistakes on his skin and worming through his brain. ]
Neither of us can. [ But is that not fine? They Understand this truth better than most. ] But at least that is something we are both used to.
[Silco's arm rests around him, his nose tickling at the smell of smoke. Silco, too, has a smell. Something a little acrid, with the heavy smoke of hard alcohol. It's become oddly soothing, despite its acidity that seems to want to eat into him.]
[His fingertips slide over ever prominent vertebrae, sighing into his skin. How did he get so thin? All bones and bare flesh, and he loves it. Wants to scoop him up and fill him up to the brim, in more ways than one.]
It's baked into us. But you and I...we recognize that. We have no room to judge.
[ Gooseflesh down his back, he tipped his head to blow a long plume of smoke into the air. His fingers trail down his spine, picking out the individual bones there, a long life of subsisting on cigars, liquor, and drug injections instead of anything remotely healthy.
His arm relaxed, his cigar found the ashtray, and he stamped it out, before he reached over to brush his sweaty bangs out of his face. He thinks too few people do that, but he'll keep doing it, as if he can memorize every little fleck of color or change in them. He likes seeing the way they shift, or alter. A twitch of his lips. ]
Maybe we don't... [ A soft scoff. ] But I've never been one to reserve my judgment. I don't think you do either.
[ A sharp scrape of nail on his bicep, almost teasing. He knows the man is as salty as he is. ]
[His eyes, exposed once more. He doesn't think he's ever had anyone look into his eyes as much as Silco does - no, he hunts for that gaze, finds ways to reveal them time and time again.]
[His eyes are vivid as ever, their hue like the hints of a crimson sunset - his mouth curls into a mild little smirk.]
Maybe there are some people who deserve a good whipping with a sharp tongue every now and then.
[His hand descends lower, lower, splaying on his tailbone as he pitches it slightly so that Silco slots even better against his pelvis, like a puzzle piece.]
[ There's something about it. Maybe it's the fact that it burns just like his does, or maybe it's because he hides it behind his bangs — a peek at the monster lurking beneath the fringe. It's like a challenge, that he cannot help but rise to meet it. ]
Some people, hm?
[ He lets him tug him close, lets him slot them together, like they fit. They shouldn't fit — but perhaps it was inevitable that they would. His leg brushed up against him, a thin thigh against his side, bumping up against it. ]
Well, next time morale starts to flag... perhaps it's best if I find you?
I said sometimes. Other times, I would eat morale for breakfast.
[.....It feels comfortable, like this. How very odd. Perhaps he really is that desperate. The warmth and carress of a lover would not be defined as this, but it feels like the ghost of it. Their bodies, intertwined.]
[ Silco leaned forward, to scrape his lips — a bite — onto his chin, again aiming to leave another mark there. The prospect of leaving something on his face, where someone can see... the thought thrills him, even though he knows it isn't likely. Particularly not when he doesn't even try to draw blood.
Well, maybe someday. ]
Ah.
[ He says, a soft rumble of sound against his chin. ]
[A little hiss at the bite, though its barely anything. Silco always likes trying to leave his own scars, his own marring of this already worn body. He knows what he means by it - if Silco had hooks, he'd be threading him up like a fish on a rod.]
[The remark makes his eyes tip up, a half roll in some vague annoyed yet affectionate movement, even as his finger slides behind Silco's ear to curl around it.]
Do you think I'd eat anyone else up like I would you? You're an easier morsel to swallow, anyhow. Skin and bones.
[ He would, if he could, hook into him just so, make sure that his mark is left behind, a stain that never quite washes out. ]
Hm, I'm starting to think you won't. Satisfied with just my skin and bones, are you? I can't imagine I go down easy.
[ Unpalatable as he is, old and tough. Maybe they both are, in their own ways. His fingers dig into his flesh, at his shoulder. Right where that bite mark was. ]
[The murmured little noise comes with the digging in of his fingers - to remind him. To let him see in his mind's eye what started this whole awful journey. This reckless path of uninhibited desire.]
[He's nipping at his nose for that one.]
But then again, isn't that the fun of me, too? You wouldn't like me if I just fell into your arms for nothing.
[ His lips peel into a little smile, at the way the fracture splits for him, letting him peek behind the curtain. His fingers relax, before they idly trail, nails scratching against where the wound had been. It's a little secret they share, the reason why they were already so intertwined, how wrought iron had wound around wrought iron, and made something jagged and unappealing.
To anyone but them, it seemed. ]
Of course, I wouldn't.
[ He says, that sharp smile still there. His eyes dart to his mouth, considering. ]
[His tone is lighter - he sees the way Silco's gaze moves to his lips, but he makes no move. Like a predator waiting for prey to twitch, to give itself away.]
[ He murmurs, low in his throat. His eyes can't help but chase the motion of his tongue on his lips, before it's back to his eyes. Slotted like they are together, it's hard to see anything but him right now.
Not that he minds. Is there anything else he wants to see right now? ]
Maybe it's to see more of you. [ He keeps his voice low, like this is a secret between them. ]
The real thing, underneath that pretense.
[ That monster that he knew existed. That violent beast slithering under his skin that still only reared its head when it caught the scent of blood. Drawing it out would keep him coming back, pushing him, and this heady... thing that existed was still a game of push and pull between them. Silco pushing, nudging, trying to tug him under with him.
Besides, I would hate to be made the fool for looking so closely, only to find you wanting.
[ Closer, closer. His nails dig into his shoulders like he could reach into him and draw him out. ]
[From what was an intrigued look from before recedes into something darker - bitter, thinking of a certain woman who stood above him, and claimed the children he helped were nothing more than a pretense, too.]
[As if by instinct, his hand reaches up, grasps a handful of the other's hair, and yanks backward. Punishment.]
[His eyes flare, like that of a hellhound.]
You really don't know, do you? You have your notions, but this is all they are. Perhaps I should call you a fool.
[ He hissed, his head yanked back, and Silco's lips peeled back into a sharper smile.
There it is. Is it punishment, if the man enjoys it? The spike of violence sends his adrenaline spiking, and his eye narrows, sharpening as he looks at him. ]
Should you?
[ He asked, watching him. When he did this? Did he really not see it? That violence, that slithering beast he could draw out with a few choice words? He leaned forward — tried to — his hair keeps him back, but he strained against his grip. ]
[His grip doesn't let up - in fact, it almost becomes tighter, like he's half ready to go the full mile, yank back, and rip off the man's head from his neck like he's pulling a flower off a stem.]
[ His breath catches from the force of it, and this time he actually winces. It's violent, it very nearly threatens to tug him under a flood of memories that he keeps trying to drown — even though it's all he can do to not think about it — his eyes look hazy, unfocused,for a half second. It's terrible, it burns at his scalp, and flutters down his spine.
Heartbeat racing, he finally focused on him, his lips peeled back into something between a grimace and a smile. It's ugly, it's sharp, it wants him to think about it. He can feel the rush of violence just as much as he can see it in his face.
He never looks away from his eyes. ]
Understanding. [ There's strain in his voice, he says it with a hiss. ] Freedom. How can you choose what you want, if you can't even see all of the options?
[ Nails digging into his shoulder, slotted against him — they're still spent, and naked — it's more intimate, to speak of this like this. Like they're already both flayed open, without pretense. ]
[It's similar to before. It's different than before. Here they are, completely well entangled mind, body, and spirit.]
[Even here, the rush to ruin is mixed with a heady, confusing heat - unable to extricate himself from this need to fight, to fuck. Silco smiles so naughtily, and he wants to shove it down his throat.]
I don't want all the options.
[Because what does freedom give him? Happiness? Hardly not.]
Besides. You just want to put me in another cage.
[He bends forward, nose pressed against the other's jawline. His breath is hot, his free hand that splays over the other's back even more so.]
[ He asks, his voice is a slithering little thing. Insidious in the way it coils, asks the question, challenges him in that. He's still strained, but Vergilius's nose is against his jaw, and it's hot and warm, his body against him, hand on his back, breath tickling his skin.
He rails against him, but surges forward. It's violent, but Silco knows nothing but violence. What would something else get him? He would crush it into pieces before even getting here. Vergilius is strong, hard, and angry — oh yes, so angry. ]
I wouldn't cage you.
[ Voice low, a tickle of it against his ear. Is it a promise, or a lie? Does he even know himself? Is it a cage that he offers, even if he doesn't hold the key? Perhaps, more honestly... ] Do you think I could?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His good eye closed, a light shiver down his back. ]
Mm, most of the time, yes. [ He's right. Most people here don't understand it. Not like Zaunites did, or people from the City did. ] Even if we manage to slip free of the mistakes...
[ His fingers trail against his skin, scraping, scraping. He knows he has made them. Has Vergilius? The type that leave that stain that can never be washed out? That eye fixates on him, burning from a pitch surface. ] They leave their mark. Don't they?
no subject
[He doesn't answer for a moment - his gaze turns distant with the weight of memory. He told that man the phrase didn't suit him. He himself didn't want to believe nothing could be done - it was just his foolish dream that kept him going forward.]
[Vergilius rests his head against the other man again as his gaze moves away, his hand sliding down to slide around to his back to pull him close, almost an embrace. Comfort, perhaps.]
They do. Alas. They do.
no subject
[ He scoops him close, Silco doesn't fight it — how damning — as if being closer will soothe the open festering wounds their worlds left on them. He reached around him, his arm curling around his back to puff at his cigar, but he reached around his shoulders all the same.
He thinks the statement is right, at least in part, but there is a part of him, as always, that rages against it. Wants to change it. Always, Silco tries, he makes it worse, because that is what he does, but he still persists. Unending. Inexorable.
Gripping so hard he breaks it in between his fingers, so that he can remake it as he wishes. ]
There is no escaping it, even here. [ Though it is better here, than where he was before — easier than the City or Zaun. He isn't strained to the end of his rope, he is not maddened and feral, gripping too tight onto the one tether he has to himself, watching himself spool outward into pieces as he flays himself bit by bit. He is different here, but he is also the same. The sum of the parts, his mistakes on his skin and worming through his brain. ]
Neither of us can. [ But is that not fine? They Understand this truth better than most. ] But at least that is something we are both used to.
no subject
[Silco's arm rests around him, his nose tickling at the smell of smoke. Silco, too, has a smell. Something a little acrid, with the heavy smoke of hard alcohol. It's become oddly soothing, despite its acidity that seems to want to eat into him.]
[His fingertips slide over ever prominent vertebrae, sighing into his skin. How did he get so thin? All bones and bare flesh, and he loves it. Wants to scoop him up and fill him up to the brim, in more ways than one.]
It's baked into us. But you and I...we recognize that. We have no room to judge.
no subject
[ Gooseflesh down his back, he tipped his head to blow a long plume of smoke into the air. His fingers trail down his spine, picking out the individual bones there, a long life of subsisting on cigars, liquor, and drug injections instead of anything remotely healthy.
His arm relaxed, his cigar found the ashtray, and he stamped it out, before he reached over to brush his sweaty bangs out of his face. He thinks too few people do that, but he'll keep doing it, as if he can memorize every little fleck of color or change in them. He likes seeing the way they shift, or alter. A twitch of his lips. ]
Maybe we don't... [ A soft scoff. ] But I've never been one to reserve my judgment. I don't think you do either.
[ A sharp scrape of nail on his bicep, almost teasing. He knows the man is as salty as he is. ]
no subject
[His eyes are vivid as ever, their hue like the hints of a crimson sunset - his mouth curls into a mild little smirk.]
Maybe there are some people who deserve a good whipping with a sharp tongue every now and then.
[His hand descends lower, lower, splaying on his tailbone as he pitches it slightly so that Silco slots even better against his pelvis, like a puzzle piece.]
It's good for morale. Sometimes.
no subject
Some people, hm?
[ He lets him tug him close, lets him slot them together, like they fit. They shouldn't fit — but perhaps it was inevitable that they would. His leg brushed up against him, a thin thigh against his side, bumping up against it. ]
Well, next time morale starts to flag... perhaps it's best if I find you?
no subject
[.....It feels comfortable, like this. How very odd. Perhaps he really is that desperate. The warmth and carress of a lover would not be defined as this, but it feels like the ghost of it. Their bodies, intertwined.]
[He presses his lips against the man's forehead.]
I could eat people up and leave no crumbs.
i close my eyes
Well, maybe someday. ]
Ah.
[ He says, a soft rumble of sound against his chin. ]
As you so thoroughly demonstrated.
no subject
[The remark makes his eyes tip up, a half roll in some vague annoyed yet affectionate movement, even as his finger slides behind Silco's ear to curl around it.]
Do you think I'd eat anyone else up like I would you? You're an easier morsel to swallow, anyhow. Skin and bones.
no subject
Hm, I'm starting to think you won't. Satisfied with just my skin and bones, are you? I can't imagine I go down easy.
[ Unpalatable as he is, old and tough. Maybe they both are, in their own ways. His fingers dig into his flesh, at his shoulder. Right where that bite mark was. ]
Perhaps that's what you want. Nothing easy.
no subject
[The murmured little noise comes with the digging in of his fingers - to remind him. To let him see in his mind's eye what started this whole awful journey. This reckless path of uninhibited desire.]
[He's nipping at his nose for that one.]
But then again, isn't that the fun of me, too? You wouldn't like me if I just fell into your arms for nothing.
no subject
To anyone but them, it seemed. ]
Of course, I wouldn't.
[ He says, that sharp smile still there. His eyes dart to his mouth, considering. ]
You wouldn't be worth the attention.
no subject
[His tone is lighter - he sees the way Silco's gaze moves to his lips, but he makes no move. Like a predator waiting for prey to twitch, to give itself away.]
[He smiles, ever faintly.]
To spite you.
no subject
[ He watches his lips. Considering. Maybe — ]
Maybe if you did, I'd take it as a challenge, to try and draw you back out, and I already know you aren't.
[ He leans forward, lips not-quite to his yet. ] I can be persistent, you know. Especially when motivated.
no subject
[Yes, that is a word that fits the other man well. Maybe stubborn. Arrogant. There's a lot of words to describe Silco.]
[Bad words. And yet, he doesn't seem to mind.]
[He can be described with a lot of bad words, too.]
[His tongue flicks out to whet his own lips.]
What motivates you, then?
no subject
[ He murmurs, low in his throat. His eyes can't help but chase the motion of his tongue on his lips, before it's back to his eyes. Slotted like they are together, it's hard to see anything but him right now.
Not that he minds. Is there anything else he wants to see right now? ]
Maybe it's to see more of you. [ He keeps his voice low, like this is a secret between them. ]
The real thing, underneath that pretense.
[ That monster that he knew existed. That violent beast slithering under his skin that still only reared its head when it caught the scent of blood. Drawing it out would keep him coming back, pushing him, and this heady... thing that existed was still a game of push and pull between them. Silco pushing, nudging, trying to tug him under with him.
Besides, I would hate to be made the fool for looking so closely, only to find you wanting.
[ Closer, closer. His nails dig into his shoulders like he could reach into him and draw him out. ]
no subject
[From what was an intrigued look from before recedes into something darker - bitter, thinking of a certain woman who stood above him, and claimed the children he helped were nothing more than a pretense, too.]
[As if by instinct, his hand reaches up, grasps a handful of the other's hair, and yanks backward. Punishment.]
[His eyes flare, like that of a hellhound.]
You really don't know, do you? You have your notions, but this is all they are. Perhaps I should call you a fool.
no subject
There it is. Is it punishment, if the man enjoys it? The spike of violence sends his adrenaline spiking, and his eye narrows, sharpening as he looks at him. ]
Should you?
[ He asked, watching him. When he did this? Did he really not see it? That violence, that slithering beast he could draw out with a few choice words? He leaned forward — tried to — his hair keeps him back, but he strained against his grip. ]
I want you to see what I see.
no subject
[His grip doesn't let up - in fact, it almost becomes tighter, like he's half ready to go the full mile, yank back, and rip off the man's head from his neck like he's pulling a flower off a stem.]
What does it give me?
no subject
Heartbeat racing, he finally focused on him, his lips peeled back into something between a grimace and a smile. It's ugly, it's sharp, it wants him to think about it. He can feel the rush of violence just as much as he can see it in his face.
He never looks away from his eyes. ]
Understanding. [ There's strain in his voice, he says it with a hiss. ] Freedom. How can you choose what you want, if you can't even see all of the options?
[ Nails digging into his shoulder, slotted against him — they're still spent, and naked — it's more intimate, to speak of this like this. Like they're already both flayed open, without pretense. ]
no subject
[Even here, the rush to ruin is mixed with a heady, confusing heat - unable to extricate himself from this need to fight, to fuck. Silco smiles so naughtily, and he wants to shove it down his throat.]
I don't want all the options.
[Because what does freedom give him? Happiness? Hardly not.]
Besides. You just want to put me in another cage.
[He bends forward, nose pressed against the other's jawline. His breath is hot, his free hand that splays over the other's back even more so.]
no subject
[ He asks, his voice is a slithering little thing. Insidious in the way it coils, asks the question, challenges him in that. He's still strained, but Vergilius's nose is against his jaw, and it's hot and warm, his body against him, hand on his back, breath tickling his skin.
He rails against him, but surges forward. It's violent, but Silco knows nothing but violence. What would something else get him? He would crush it into pieces before even getting here. Vergilius is strong, hard, and angry — oh yes, so angry. ]
I wouldn't cage you.
[ Voice low, a tickle of it against his ear. Is it a promise, or a lie? Does he even know himself? Is it a cage that he offers, even if he doesn't hold the key? Perhaps, more honestly... ] Do you think I could?