[ Vergilius promised him he's just a man, that they're both just men, but they're still more than that, aren't they? He's spread beneath him like a tableau for him to take his pound of flesh from, and what does he do? He takes. Silco knew there was violence under the man's skin, and he wants to drag it out of him, see it in full bloom over, and over, and over. As many times as he can.
Over his shoulder, he sees it, in the way he stares down at him, that look in his eyes that makes him want to turn around and stare at him, swallow his every word, and scrape his fingernails along each and every scar on him, find the places where there are new ones, excise from him his doubts and guilt, and keep him focused on taking from him, instead of flaying himself for his every sin. He was a monster too, didn't that fit?
He would crystalize this moment, if he could, the confession, but that look on his face, with lust heating his gaze, like it's burning him up inside, and he has no other outlet than him to take it out on him. He wants to capture that, he'll remember it, every time he looks at him, every time they're in the same space. Maybe he is addicted — obsessed — but that look on his face, the words he says...
Isn't he just as much as Silco? ]
I wanted — [ A hiss, when he slips inside, a bruise already blossoming against his back. His fingers want to find something to hold onto — him — but he won't let him. Maybe this really is punishment designed to make him go mad. He feels it, a little mad, a haze that makes him shudder against him, and he's barely started. ] — you. I thought you were doing it on purpose, driving me mad like that.
[ The accusation is heavy on his tongue, as if he hadn't been doing the same to him. How he would have liked to see that careful composure of his crumble just for him. Watch him be foolhardy, brash. Take a chance — all just for him. Because he couldn't hold back. ]
[Silco really wants to play that role in his life. The handcuffs around his wrists, the noose around his neck. He's quite good at the role. The way his voice sounds like a breathless little whine is enough to make him sigh loudly with a pleased grin. A downfall in human form.]
[He thinks himself strong. His will has shown as much that he is determined to drown himself at the end of his journey for his own sins. Silco tempts him with an alternative path.]
[A second finger is added, as he fucks him open with a light little sound, akin to a laugh.]
I was doing it on purpose.
[He really wants to have his way. Even now, to throw caution to the wind. To take what he needs, what he desires, to hear more sounds spill out.]
[A third joins its brothers, steady as anything in its thrusts.]
I should say the same thing about you, you little devil.
[ Wasn't it everything he wanted? To be his downfall, to keep his attention, to guide him down a different path, of survival, of looking away from the sins that pull him down under into that mire. He'd once told Silco that he wouldn't take anything for himself, that he couldn't, and yet, he's managed to tempt him to do so. It happens again and again.
He wants to see him be selfish. To take. He'd seen the monster he can be, the creature lurking under his skin. He's seen it, and he wants more of it. He wants him to indulge in those little impulses, the vices. He wants to see him fall further down with him.
Because it's such a terribly lonely place down here in the dark, isn't it? Maybe he wants him to take that alternate path, because he wants someone down in the dark with him. ]
Ah —
[ His fingers split him open. He hissed, his legs spread obediently so he can take what he wants. His fingers finally wind into the bed, forcing him to bend forward more, giving him whatever he wanted from him. He already aches to spin around, to put his fingers into his hair, and look at him. He always felt like that burning red gaze could sear down and into him. Maybe that's why he likes it. Feeling like he is seen. ]
Maybe I was. [ He teases, but his voice is breathless, a stutter of a moan around his words. ] I like seeing you fight for control. [ More importantly: he likes watching him lose control. Watching it slip from his fingertips like sand, and all at Silco's behest.
[He misses Silco's face, suddenly. This is a punishment, but he's got a bit of collateral damage here, doesn't here? He can't see the tension in his forehead, the gasping mouth, the sweat-stained cheeks.]
[...No, he must hold steady. Ge must be in control. He, the captain of a sinking boat. His cock throbs between his legs, as if begging for the warmth to come. He'll allow it. His fingers pull out, slick, before he winds them back to fully release himself with a tug of his underwear down.]
Control over you? How masochistic you are.
[The slick snap of the lube again, covering himself, before he tosses it back onto the bed. His strong hands meet firm hips to hold him steady, like a vice, as he positions himself.]
[It takes a moment, the entrance still tight. But as he adds the pressure, he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper. He wants to bottom out in him. Make him feel like nothing else belongs here, nothing else can fill him like this cock of his.]
Let's get started.
[Vergilius says between gritted teeth, before he starts the slow but meaningful movement, trying to push deeper with every thrust he makes. How warm it feels. How hot his cock throbs. He wants Silco to have it all.]
[ He doesn't have the chance to say anything witty, or clever. He almost tipped his head, to peer over at him, call him out for having that come to mind — as if all of this wasn't so often a fight for control between the two of them, as if they didn't normally come out somewhere in the middle — but he doesn't have the chance, does he? His rush of breath at the emptiness, the way he felt empty all of the sudden, but Vergilius doesn't leave him alone for long, does he? ]
— Hah —
[ Is about all he gets out, it devolves into a soft ruch of sound, his legs spread like they are, his head tipped down, one eye screwed shut. He's still tight — had they rushed it? Did it matter — and his fingers wind divots into the bed, a hiss of a soft word that might be 'yes'.
Did he know what this did? Every inch deeper makes him feel like he's burning up just a little bit more, inch by inch, he feels like he's being consumed by it. He already confessed to him, how much he wanted it, how much he'd wanted this the entire time they'd been unable to indulge in it. How much he already knows that. He'd told him, after all, in the van. That this was... singular. That nothing else could do this like he could.
He bit back another little gasp, it ends swallowed, as if he's holding it down, fighting to prevent giving him too much as a reward for his punches in. It's not a fight for dominance right now, it's a game. As if he could be silent after that vulnerable gasp at first, but he tries regardless. The way he trembles, the way his head dipped, his fingers in the sheets, they're all giveaways, but he fights letting his voice out, and maybe it's because he can't see him, he wants to hear him ask for it instead. ]
[Understanding. They had thrown down that word like a gauntlet. As if that encompasses every single little thing, and he wonders if this, too, can also be considered understanding. Silco's noises, his arched back, the way he accepts him as he rocks into him with a steady pace. Is that understanding?]
[Regardless, at least one thing is true. The way he slots into him feels like scratching a deathly terrible itch. It's warm and tight and feels like he's trapping him, further and furter until there's no end in sight.]
No sound for me? Hah. Ah. You really are such a critic.
[Comes the rumbling voice behind Silco, like a purr. No matter. He can fix that. He pulls himself out, his member throbbing with how much it aches, before he uses his hand to shift the hips back at a more drastic angle.]
[And that allows him a different option to fully slam into him at that very angle. Like a stab with a knife, aiming to hurt. He wants to hit that prostate, and force that cry out of this old man's tired throat. Again, again. By any means possible.]
[ Damn him, if there isn't a soft keen that escapes, when he pulls out, leaving him empty and bereft of him. He barely has time to protest, though he does try. A shift, a snap of his head to look at him over his shoulder, a curl of his lips, and his mouth opened, as if he was going to say something, before —
He doesn't get the chance. Vergilius hoists him, and pulls him up, he's forced at an angle and he swallows back the soft squack of surprise but he has to angle himself differently. His knees are spread his head pressed to the sheets, and he ——
Oh, he doesn't even wait, and Silco trembles from the force of him slamming in. A lewd sound of flesh on flesh as he slapped up against him. ]
You — Ah —
[ Not even a sentence, only half-muffled by the sheets — Vergilius strikes true, and it devolves into something louder and uncontrolled, and actual moan. He doesn't swallow it back, his mouth half-open and his blackened eye rolled upward, each punch drew out more, bit by bit, like he'd coaxed him out. It doesn't matter if it hurt — it does — it's so fleeting, with the way he punches in, his body angled awkwardly, like each pain comes coupled with pleasure too. It had never been about one or the other, he wants it all. ]
[He would have cringed at himself for a decision like this. As much as others saw him as some violent harbinger of doom, he never wanted to truly be as such, deep down. And yet, here and now, its like Silco has scratched open something raw. Something buried he didn't like to acknowledge. He still feels bad - a part of him always will - but Silco practically asked for this.]
[Besides, when he moves, he can feel the twinge of pain under the bandage on his side. Paying it forward. He can make it up to Silco lately, but...]
[Yes, maybe he does deserve it. He doesn't slacken on the pace, keeping up his thrusting with short, solid movements. He moves like he wants to knock the wind out of him. In the meantime, his forehead breaks into a sweat, but he's silent, listening for more of those wonderful little noises he can harvest.]
[Maybe he can get a rash to develop on Silco's face pressed on the sheets.]
[ Another one, just for you, Vergilius. And another, and another. He's at a sharp angle, pulled up and into place for his pleasure, all thin bones and awkward angles, and he thrusts into him like it's a mission, to make him ache and hurt and tremble. He doesn't sound displeased by it, each punctuated little moan or groan to match his relentless pace.
Fingers wound into the sheets, His face rubs against it — he might have a rash, in fact — the unmarred side of his face pressed into it, leaving a damp patch of spittle from every punctuated breath, every single time he has to open and close his mouth from the force of it. ]
Is that — [ His eye tries to catch sight of him, even if he can't. He still tries. His breath wheezed out, his sentence unfinished with a low moan. ] — All you have?
[ Maybe he doesn't mind the pain? Maybe he wants to see more of it — that monster — maybe he wants to really feel him.
After all, he had hurt him. Stabbed him. He knew he could handle it, but maybe a small part of him wants to see him lash out more; make them both sinners in this. Make sure he, too, hurts back. Just like with the bites, with the choking.
If neither is without sin, maybe he won't leave. ]
[Another jut of his hips, a wet slap of flesh against flesh.]
Greedy.
[He buries himself again, the force of his movement causing the frame of the bed to rattle.]
You're...so greedy.
[He won't last longer, he knows. He already feels the telltale sharp ache in his groin, coiling heat that only makes his heart go that much faster. Silco is a wreck. A beautiful wreck. And he did this, asked for it. All for that stupidly beautiful arrogance that thinks it can do whatever it wants.]
[No. Neither is without sin. And here they are, bathing in it.]
[He grunts, moving faster and faster, almost there. He can't even understand the words falling out of his own mouth. His nails dig in, his moans coat the air. Silco. Silco, Silco, Silco.]
[ Each condemnation comes with confirmation, he calls him greedy, and Silco accepts it, acknowledges it. His fingers wound in sheets, his mouth open, offering utterances, moans, gasps. His hair has already gone askew, normally kept so neat and tight; longer than one would think — he's come undone for Vergilius here, and now.
A gift for him, repayment for his knife in his side, he can see Silco fully open, like he's been flayed and split, the cavern of his greed open just for him, to roost in, or fill with what he wishes, fill him to the brim if he so chose.
He can't buck, or squirm, but he still tries, every time his flesh meets his, and he feels that snap of lightning down his spine, slamming into him, up against him, his limbs are like gelatin, and his eye rolls back, every confirmation more unintelligible than the last, breaking out into gasps, little attempts to say his name — Ve —; Please, please, Vergilius, please —
He's still greedy. He wants more. Of him, of his hands, his cock aches, abandoned for Vergilius's pleasure, and he can only beg for more, held up and in place like he is, gasping and trying to writhe beneath him, and able to do none of it. His head swims, with want, even though he has all of him right now, this selfish side of him that he wants to cultivate to take what he wants. Especially when it's him. ]
[Silco looks like a disaster. His usual prim proper appearance, now all askew. Hair tossled, face flushed, mouth gaping open with whines and moans and begging little utterances of his name. He burns it in his eyes as if he will never see it again. As if he can promise himself he will see it again.]
[He should see it again. He wants to see it again. His movements ragged, he finally feels that snap of something down below, and shoves himself forward like this is the last move he will ever make, his cock buried to its base, balls flux against the curve. He can barely hear his ragged, desperate moan coming from his own mouth as he spills over inside of him.]
[It lasts a good while, his moan now stuttering into little punctuated whines as he rides out his hot, choking stream - as if all this time with no activity between them was keeping it so repressed to the point of discomfort. But now, release has been found.]
[This is where he belongs.]
[He leans forward to place a kiss against the nape of his neck, indulgent to the point of sin.]
[ Yes, yes —; he's taut as a live wire, liable to snap or break with even the barest of touches. Like this, Vergilius has him where he wants him, he can't stop him, and he can barely think straight, listening to every whine, gasp, and moan he ejects like they're a shared promise just for him. He's pressed up against him fully, and each hot thread pounds into him. It feels lewd, and dirty, but he gasps at each one, his cock tight, as far into him as he can go, thundering up and into him. Vergilius's hips are pressed as tight as they can go, like there's no separation left. Like they're a monster of fury and lust all in one.
Silco shudders, still taut and still sloppy and demolished beneath him. He's just as hungry, he's been waiting just as long, and maybe there's a sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a whine, because he's still pent up. He still feels it, how desperate he is to have him. Over and over again if he'd let him.
It's almost worse, it aches almost as much as the rest of him. The rest from use, but his cock still feels like it could burst at any moment, still unattended and weeping. His mouth opens; his lips are at his neck and his whole body seems to tremble with repressed...need, or desire, or something else like it. Since when had he become so... desperate for his attentions, or his touch? His look? ]
I — need — [ It's supposed to sound like an order. It's anything but an order.
He's so greedy, after all. He wants more of him, he wants to ride this hazy wave as long as he can. Is it just this moment, or is it all of it?
He wants him to stay — wants to keep him — would he? Even now? Was that what this was? Like sealing that promise they had half-shared in the van, talking around it like they were both still too cautious to breach that line in the sand? ]
[He may be done, the last twitching spurts of his high finally adding to the pooled heat, but he's still rocking his hips, a rhythm he can't just break. He should be catching his breath. Instead, he feels somehow energized. Everything is awake, everything feels like it can't simply just slow down.]
[And of course, he hears that beautiful whine of a request. His scarfed hand snakes between them as he slides it down, down, scars prickling over his groin.]
Your wish is my command.
[And now, dutiful, he graps the man solidly. He pumps it, strokes it, brushes the tip with his thumb, desperate to have him find his own release. He tries to time it with the continued movement of his hips. Silco, Silco, Silco. To think before he would have been at his throat even for something like this. Now, it feels inevitable. Like this is where fate etched them to be.]
[ Exactly what he wanted — is this really punishment? He can't see him, of course, but his entire body is on fire, lit like its from the inside, every inch of him practically burning up from the inside in a way that isn't misery, but instead something that makes his hands wind into the sheets, and lose his head just enough. ]
— Hah — Ye —
[ His wish is his command — and doesn't that make him feel drunk on power? He could have come from that, he thinks, but his hand snakes down, grips him, and it makes him see stars. He's already sensitive, aching, his hips trying to fuck into his hand in time with his hips, it only takes one, two, three pumps of his hand before he shudders, his eyes rolling back, Vergilius still seated in him. He spills over his hand, his name on his lips, drawn out — Vergilius — thin body shuddering underneath him, uncontrolled, messy, spilling over his fingers and onto the bed.
Isn't this where he belongs? It's punishment — it's pleasure — he isn't the type to punish himself for his crimes, but he hurt him, and yet he is still here, he's spilling over his fingers, murmuring his name, and it's... odd.
It's odd that despite how they have hurt each other — communicating as monsters do — he doesn't fear it in this moment. He instead welcomes it, welcomes him. ]
[Where is his anger? Constantly there. Always present. Silco did a foolish thing to try to bring what he thought was a beast out. Any rational person would have maybe avoided him after, or if they were brave, they would have confronted him. Technically, he did the latter.]
[So what happened to bring him here, at this moment, with Silco crying out his name as hot fluid coats his hand with a full-body shudder? How did he end up in this position? Is he so weak as to cave to desire? He wouldn't have thought so. Even now, his wound stings. He should be angry. He is angry. He should be punishing Silco. He is punishing Silco.]
[And yet, his own name sounds so sweet on the air, murmured into it, gasped into it, moaned into it. His hand is sticky, now. He swipes it across the other's thin abdomen as he leans forward to kiss the nape of his neck again.]
A little reward for such a good show. [He shifts his hips, almost a afterthought of a motion, and lets the man be reminded of his presence.] You looked like you enjoyed it.
[ He shudders beneath him, he shifts inside of him. Isn't that hateful? Isn't it angry? He'd held him down and fucked him, and hadn't let him twist and dig his fingers into those spaces that he even now wants to dig into. He was left bereft and, if he was going to admit it, begging for more. Maybe that was his punishment, being forced into something like honesty, forced to give a little step forward up. Isn't that punishment, to wrench another one of those shards of armor down and dig around, claw in a little bit more?
His eye swivels to look at him, black and unyielding, and his mouth is open, still panting like he's trying to catch his breath. He gasps, when he shifts into him again. As if he could forget his presence.
Would he even want to? ]
Didn't you?
[ He rewarded him, despite everything. Despite the fact that he'd had his blade in his side. How terrible they are, that this is what they see, and they like. That he comes to him, that he shares secrets with him, despite this.
There's a flush across his ears, his mouth parted. His fingers haven't relaxed in the sheets, gripping them for dear life. He's a mess, spread out under him, still trembling from the force of it. He relaxes his fingers, unwinds them, and reaches for him. Thin fingers seek corded muscle, to touch him. Would he let him, now? Or is he still to be punished? ]
[Silco pulls back to grasp at him. He might allow a second or two of that, but he is running the show, here. He grasps the other's hips so he can pull himself out with a definite slow drag of intent. And then, now freed, he's leaning forward again to reach around the man underneath him to flip him around. Silco's back hits the mattress.]
[Vergilius straddles him, the weight of his hips solidly keeping him where he is. His red eyes shine vividly under his bangs, a smile playing on his lips.]
Do you want me to say yes?
[His punishment continues. Just in a different form this time. Silco can't move his hips up like this. He only can let Vergilius decide what to do.]
He should have slid away, like a slippery little eel when he had the chance. Vergilius has him pinned down, and his bulk is large enough that he has nowhere to go, as if he could push him off. As if he would want to. He's trapped, but what a sweet prison it is. His breath picks up — restrained, choked slightly from his weight — a different kind of choking.
His fingers still against his thighs, fingers halfway between scraping and digging in. Vergilius's fingers run through his hair, gentler than they should right now.
He's still being punished; he knows it. He could say no, it would be so easy. So easy. They would both know it's a lie. He's already trapped, and pink already dusts half his face, his ears, his chest. He stares up at him, at the smile on his lips, at his eeys peering at him from behind his bangs. ]
Would you... hold it against me if I did?
[ Would they? Could they? Should they? He was sick of them too, these words that said so little, but they were armor too. Could that be discarded? Maybe not fully, but... ]
[This could be crueler. It has been cruel, before. He thinks he is cruel now, with a reminder of how he pressed a foot into the man's chest. Now he can use his body. If he wanted, he could crush him here and now. Just like that.]
[He won't, of course. He stares down at him, takes it it, burns that lovely flush into his memory.]
[Honesty? Do either of them understand what it means? Do they want to? They hide behind layer, they worry for the consequences. But he doesn't think he has ever let anyone slip in this close. It's so unlike him.]
Fine, then.
[A murmur, as his hand slides down the man's chest, abdomen, groin, slowly, before grasping Silco's cock with a definite hand.]
[ He's still oversensitive, it very nearly hurts even while it sends another shockwave down his spine. His mouth opens to struggle to bite out some sort of protest, but he can only half-squirm under him, barely able to move, and his mouth opens with a retort that dies on his tongue, but instead an uncontrolled sound escapes, halfway between a moan and a hiss of pain.
It hurts, it's like fire down his spine, it's too-sweet pain that's too much, and his entire body trembles from the effort of it. His one eye closes from it, but his other, all it can do his stare out, rolled back slightly, can he even see him in this moment? When he grasps him like that?
Does it matter? Does he hate it?
No, like the foot on his chest, he liked it all. The little cruelties, the way he lashed out sometimes, the way his mouth is open, but there's the slightest curl of his lip in the corner — he enjoys it. How could he not? Things like this were just as sure an expression of this shared lust between them, odd as it was, because he wanted to see him contort and writhe for him, didn't he? he wanted to be the one to cause it, just like Silco did. He wanted to fight and gnash up against him just as much as he wanted to feel that strength shudder up against him like he had just moments before.
He'd hurt him. Why wouldn't he hurt back? They were men — they were still monsters.
He was greedy, wasn't he? He wanted it all. It was punishment. It was pleasure. Was any of it supposed to be anything but? Could Silco accept anything less? He would take all of it like this, if the man would find him, hunt him down, and take him after all of that. Wrought iron meeting wrought iron, winding around each other.
Another shudder, his voice more strained than it had any right to be. ]
Oh? Perhaps... I enjoy it too.
[ His fingers on his thighs. They threaten to dig in. How damning, that he enjoys him hovering over him like this. ]
[A lazy sort of accusation, if it even is one. He almost states it as casual fact, watching the contortion of the other's face with his hand so firmly on his cock. It still is sticky from before, thighs coated in his previous release. He aims to add more to that, though he thinks his alone will be enough to stain him.]
[That being said, he twists his wrist as to hold both of them in the same grip. He is still sensitive himself, hissing as they both touch.]
You want what can hurt you.
[There's a confident stare at the way spider fingers drift over his thighs, daring them to move. To dig in. To hurt.]
[ He says the word like they both aren't, or maybe like they both are. He grips both of them in his grip, and he hisses out another shuddering breath, it hurts, it doesn't hurt. It's everything in between, and he both wants to struggle out of his grip and buck into his hands over and over again to chase more of that pain, more of the pleasure that comes with it.
It hurts. It's good. His lips peel back — into a sharp smile. ]
Is that what you think I want?
[ He meets his gaze, watches him stare down at him, and his fingers dig in. Gripping into him, into solid muscle and scars. One of which he'd made himself. He can't break skin like this, but it doesn't seem to matter. He just wants to press in, as if he can dip his fingers into his muscle and flesh and wind his way deeper into him.
Make it so neither one of them can pull away.
Can they? They can't now. ]
I've never wanted anything but. [ He uses the leverage of his hands digging into his thighs to pull himself up, lean forward. Look him in the eye, all lean sinew and bone, his lips curled into the slightest of sharp, knowing smiles. ]
Don't you? [ His fingers tighten into his thighs. ] You wouldn't want me if I couldn't take all of you, would you?
[ Silco may be a mascochist, may enjoy the pain, and hurting; but doesn't he? Doesn't this go both ways? They started out with violence, and blood, and biting each other until they were draining each other dry. It started with stabbings and violence, both external and toward each other. It's more than that now — he has him, doesn't he? — but they are still men masquerading as monsters.
It's always there, that capacity for violence. That's what draws him in, even if it hurts, even when it doesn't. ]
[The capacity for violence. It's part and parcel of the City. You either kill or be killed. He has wrought too much blood with his hands. And here, underneath him, is a man who practically begs for more.]
[If Silco is a masochist, does this mean he's the opposite? Something twinges in his chest at that. It is painful, that deep wound constantly bleeding in his core. He hated the City for its constabt suffering.]
[Is it suffering, when he causes pain to a horrible man like this? Is it suffering when he enjoys it? When punishment is something to cherish?]
[Silco pushes himself forward, grip tightening over his thighs. It makes him murmur, eyes flickering even as he doesn't avert his gaze. Vergilius tilts his head, as if considering.]
...No. I wouldn't.
[Perhaps it is surprising, for a monster to lean forward to kiss the other so lightly. Softly.]
And that means. All of me.
[The good, the bad, the ugly, and the softer man underneath.]
Maybe that should scare him, with his capacity for violence, with the way anger flickers in his eyes when Silco caught them sometimes, with the way he can reach out and threaten to crush his windpipe, or pull his spine out without breaking a sweat. He knew he could. He knows he can, they aren't empty threats. That danger always makes something in his chest flutter, the promise of potential all it takes to draw his attention.
They're both from violent places. Had violence done to them. Had learned to adapt in the only way they could, by becoming violent in turn. He knows he holds it too, that violence in him. Vergilius though, has proven he can respond in kind. Time, after time, after time.
He wouldn't want him without it, but he also...
He leans down, and brushes lips against his.
It's softer than he expected.
He doesn't mind the good or the bad, or even the ugly. Those are what drew him in, after all. It's the soft man that he sees peeking out that surprises him every time. Not that he has it, oh no, Vergilius has that spot in him, Silco sees it peeking out, like in the way he speaks about those children he cares for, even as he lies to them. No, he's surprised when it's turned on him. He shows it to him. Let's him see it, and it's...
A vulnerability. A weakness. He exposes it to him, and Silco doesn't quite want to pull it to pieces. Does that make him weak in turn? ]
All of you... [ He murmurs, against his lips. He lets go of one of his thighs to reach up, and wind his thin fingers behind his head, brushing at his hair there. His thumb runs against the fine hairs, softer than the other hand that remains pressing into taut muscle. ]
I'll take it. [ Would he do the same in kind? Take everything that he was? Even down to the parts that he knew would — had — made him so easy to discard? ]
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[ Vergilius promised him he's just a man, that they're both just men, but they're still more than that, aren't they? He's spread beneath him like a tableau for him to take his pound of flesh from, and what does he do? He takes. Silco knew there was violence under the man's skin, and he wants to drag it out of him, see it in full bloom over, and over, and over. As many times as he can.
Over his shoulder, he sees it, in the way he stares down at him, that look in his eyes that makes him want to turn around and stare at him, swallow his every word, and scrape his fingernails along each and every scar on him, find the places where there are new ones, excise from him his doubts and guilt, and keep him focused on taking from him, instead of flaying himself for his every sin. He was a monster too, didn't that fit?
He would crystalize this moment, if he could, the confession, but that look on his face, with lust heating his gaze, like it's burning him up inside, and he has no other outlet than him to take it out on him. He wants to capture that, he'll remember it, every time he looks at him, every time they're in the same space. Maybe he is addicted — obsessed — but that look on his face, the words he says...
Isn't he just as much as Silco? ]
I wanted — [ A hiss, when he slips inside, a bruise already blossoming against his back. His fingers want to find something to hold onto — him — but he won't let him. Maybe this really is punishment designed to make him go mad. He feels it, a little mad, a haze that makes him shudder against him, and he's barely started. ] — you. I thought you were doing it on purpose, driving me mad like that.
[ The accusation is heavy on his tongue, as if he hadn't been doing the same to him. How he would have liked to see that careful composure of his crumble just for him. Watch him be foolhardy, brash. Take a chance — all just for him. Because he couldn't hold back. ]
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[Silco really wants to play that role in his life. The handcuffs around his wrists, the noose around his neck. He's quite good at the role. The way his voice sounds like a breathless little whine is enough to make him sigh loudly with a pleased grin. A downfall in human form.]
[He thinks himself strong. His will has shown as much that he is determined to drown himself at the end of his journey for his own sins. Silco tempts him with an alternative path.]
[A second finger is added, as he fucks him open with a light little sound, akin to a laugh.]
I was doing it on purpose.
[He really wants to have his way. Even now, to throw caution to the wind. To take what he needs, what he desires, to hear more sounds spill out.]
[A third joins its brothers, steady as anything in its thrusts.]
I should say the same thing about you, you little devil.
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He wants to see him be selfish. To take. He'd seen the monster he can be, the creature lurking under his skin. He's seen it, and he wants more of it. He wants him to indulge in those little impulses, the vices. He wants to see him fall further down with him.
Because it's such a terribly lonely place down here in the dark, isn't it? Maybe he wants him to take that alternate path, because he wants someone down in the dark with him. ]
Ah —
[ His fingers split him open. He hissed, his legs spread obediently so he can take what he wants. His fingers finally wind into the bed, forcing him to bend forward more, giving him whatever he wanted from him. He already aches to spin around, to put his fingers into his hair, and look at him. He always felt like that burning red gaze could sear down and into him. Maybe that's why he likes it. Feeling like he is seen. ]
Maybe I was. [ He teases, but his voice is breathless, a stutter of a moan around his words. ] I like seeing you fight for control. [ More importantly: he likes watching him lose control. Watching it slip from his fingertips like sand, and all at Silco's behest.
Especially like this. ]
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[...No, he must hold steady. Ge must be in control. He, the captain of a sinking boat. His cock throbs between his legs, as if begging for the warmth to come. He'll allow it. His fingers pull out, slick, before he winds them back to fully release himself with a tug of his underwear down.]
Control over you? How masochistic you are.
[The slick snap of the lube again, covering himself, before he tosses it back onto the bed. His strong hands meet firm hips to hold him steady, like a vice, as he positions himself.]
[It takes a moment, the entrance still tight. But as he adds the pressure, he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper. He wants to bottom out in him. Make him feel like nothing else belongs here, nothing else can fill him like this cock of his.]
Let's get started.
[Vergilius says between gritted teeth, before he starts the slow but meaningful movement, trying to push deeper with every thrust he makes. How warm it feels. How hot his cock throbs. He wants Silco to have it all.]
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— Hah —
[ Is about all he gets out, it devolves into a soft ruch of sound, his legs spread like they are, his head tipped down, one eye screwed shut. He's still tight — had they rushed it? Did it matter — and his fingers wind divots into the bed, a hiss of a soft word that might be 'yes'.
Did he know what this did? Every inch deeper makes him feel like he's burning up just a little bit more, inch by inch, he feels like he's being consumed by it. He already confessed to him, how much he wanted it, how much he'd wanted this the entire time they'd been unable to indulge in it. How much he already knows that. He'd told him, after all, in the van. That this was... singular. That nothing else could do this like he could.
He bit back another little gasp, it ends swallowed, as if he's holding it down, fighting to prevent giving him too much as a reward for his punches in. It's not a fight for dominance right now, it's a game. As if he could be silent after that vulnerable gasp at first, but he tries regardless. The way he trembles, the way his head dipped, his fingers in the sheets, they're all giveaways, but he fights letting his voice out, and maybe it's because he can't see him, he wants to hear him ask for it instead. ]
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[Regardless, at least one thing is true. The way he slots into him feels like scratching a deathly terrible itch. It's warm and tight and feels like he's trapping him, further and furter until there's no end in sight.]
No sound for me? Hah. Ah. You really are such a critic.
[Comes the rumbling voice behind Silco, like a purr. No matter. He can fix that. He pulls himself out, his member throbbing with how much it aches, before he uses his hand to shift the hips back at a more drastic angle.]
[And that allows him a different option to fully slam into him at that very angle. Like a stab with a knife, aiming to hurt. He wants to hit that prostate, and force that cry out of this old man's tired throat. Again, again. By any means possible.]
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He doesn't get the chance. Vergilius hoists him, and pulls him up, he's forced at an angle and he swallows back the soft squack of surprise but he has to angle himself differently. His knees are spread his head pressed to the sheets, and he ——
Oh, he doesn't even wait, and Silco trembles from the force of him slamming in. A lewd sound of flesh on flesh as he slapped up against him. ]
You — Ah —
[ Not even a sentence, only half-muffled by the sheets — Vergilius strikes true, and it devolves into something louder and uncontrolled, and actual moan. He doesn't swallow it back, his mouth half-open and his blackened eye rolled upward, each punch drew out more, bit by bit, like he'd coaxed him out. It doesn't matter if it hurt — it does — it's so fleeting, with the way he punches in, his body angled awkwardly, like each pain comes coupled with pleasure too. It had never been about one or the other, he wants it all. ]
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[He would have cringed at himself for a decision like this. As much as others saw him as some violent harbinger of doom, he never wanted to truly be as such, deep down. And yet, here and now, its like Silco has scratched open something raw. Something buried he didn't like to acknowledge. He still feels bad - a part of him always will - but Silco practically asked for this.]
[Besides, when he moves, he can feel the twinge of pain under the bandage on his side. Paying it forward. He can make it up to Silco lately, but...]
[Yes, maybe he does deserve it. He doesn't slacken on the pace, keeping up his thrusting with short, solid movements. He moves like he wants to knock the wind out of him. In the meantime, his forehead breaks into a sweat, but he's silent, listening for more of those wonderful little noises he can harvest.]
[Maybe he can get a rash to develop on Silco's face pressed on the sheets.]
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[ Another one, just for you, Vergilius. And another, and another. He's at a sharp angle, pulled up and into place for his pleasure, all thin bones and awkward angles, and he thrusts into him like it's a mission, to make him ache and hurt and tremble. He doesn't sound displeased by it, each punctuated little moan or groan to match his relentless pace.
Fingers wound into the sheets, His face rubs against it — he might have a rash, in fact — the unmarred side of his face pressed into it, leaving a damp patch of spittle from every punctuated breath, every single time he has to open and close his mouth from the force of it. ]
Is that — [ His eye tries to catch sight of him, even if he can't. He still tries. His breath wheezed out, his sentence unfinished with a low moan. ] — All you have?
[ Maybe he doesn't mind the pain? Maybe he wants to see more of it — that monster — maybe he wants to really feel him.
After all, he had hurt him. Stabbed him. He knew he could handle it, but maybe a small part of him wants to see him lash out more; make them both sinners in this. Make sure he, too, hurts back. Just like with the bites, with the choking.
If neither is without sin, maybe he won't leave. ]
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[Another jut of his hips, a wet slap of flesh against flesh.]
Greedy.
[He buries himself again, the force of his movement causing the frame of the bed to rattle.]
You're...so greedy.
[He won't last longer, he knows. He already feels the telltale sharp ache in his groin, coiling heat that only makes his heart go that much faster. Silco is a wreck. A beautiful wreck. And he did this, asked for it. All for that stupidly beautiful arrogance that thinks it can do whatever it wants.]
[No. Neither is without sin. And here they are, bathing in it.]
[He grunts, moving faster and faster, almost there. He can't even understand the words falling out of his own mouth. His nails dig in, his moans coat the air. Silco. Silco, Silco, Silco.]
[He's greedy, too.]
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[ Each condemnation comes with confirmation, he calls him greedy, and Silco accepts it, acknowledges it. His fingers wound in sheets, his mouth open, offering utterances, moans, gasps. His hair has already gone askew, normally kept so neat and tight; longer than one would think — he's come undone for Vergilius here, and now.
A gift for him, repayment for his knife in his side, he can see Silco fully open, like he's been flayed and split, the cavern of his greed open just for him, to roost in, or fill with what he wishes, fill him to the brim if he so chose.
He can't buck, or squirm, but he still tries, every time his flesh meets his, and he feels that snap of lightning down his spine, slamming into him, up against him, his limbs are like gelatin, and his eye rolls back, every confirmation more unintelligible than the last, breaking out into gasps, little attempts to say his name — Ve —; Please, please, Vergilius, please —
He's still greedy. He wants more. Of him, of his hands, his cock aches, abandoned for Vergilius's pleasure, and he can only beg for more, held up and in place like he is, gasping and trying to writhe beneath him, and able to do none of it. His head swims, with want, even though he has all of him right now, this selfish side of him that he wants to cultivate to take what he wants. Especially when it's him. ]
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[He should see it again. He wants to see it again. His movements ragged, he finally feels that snap of something down below, and shoves himself forward like this is the last move he will ever make, his cock buried to its base, balls flux against the curve. He can barely hear his ragged, desperate moan coming from his own mouth as he spills over inside of him.]
[It lasts a good while, his moan now stuttering into little punctuated whines as he rides out his hot, choking stream - as if all this time with no activity between them was keeping it so repressed to the point of discomfort. But now, release has been found.]
[This is where he belongs.]
[He leans forward to place a kiss against the nape of his neck, indulgent to the point of sin.]
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Silco shudders, still taut and still sloppy and demolished beneath him. He's just as hungry, he's been waiting just as long, and maybe there's a sound that's somewhere between a grunt and a whine, because he's still pent up. He still feels it, how desperate he is to have him. Over and over again if he'd let him.
It's almost worse, it aches almost as much as the rest of him. The rest from use, but his cock still feels like it could burst at any moment, still unattended and weeping. His mouth opens; his lips are at his neck and his whole body seems to tremble with repressed...need, or desire, or something else like it. Since when had he become so... desperate for his attentions, or his touch? His look? ]
I — need — [ It's supposed to sound like an order. It's anything but an order.
He's so greedy, after all. He wants more of him, he wants to ride this hazy wave as long as he can. Is it just this moment, or is it all of it?
He wants him to stay — wants to keep him — would he? Even now? Was that what this was? Like sealing that promise they had half-shared in the van, talking around it like they were both still too cautious to breach that line in the sand? ]
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[And of course, he hears that beautiful whine of a request. His scarfed hand snakes between them as he slides it down, down, scars prickling over his groin.]
Your wish is my command.
[And now, dutiful, he graps the man solidly. He pumps it, strokes it, brushes the tip with his thumb, desperate to have him find his own release. He tries to time it with the continued movement of his hips. Silco, Silco, Silco. To think before he would have been at his throat even for something like this. Now, it feels inevitable. Like this is where fate etched them to be.]
Come. Come. Pretty one. Come on.
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— Hah — Ye —
[ His wish is his command — and doesn't that make him feel drunk on power? He could have come from that, he thinks, but his hand snakes down, grips him, and it makes him see stars. He's already sensitive, aching, his hips trying to fuck into his hand in time with his hips, it only takes one, two, three pumps of his hand before he shudders, his eyes rolling back, Vergilius still seated in him. He spills over his hand, his name on his lips, drawn out — Vergilius — thin body shuddering underneath him, uncontrolled, messy, spilling over his fingers and onto the bed.
Isn't this where he belongs? It's punishment — it's pleasure — he isn't the type to punish himself for his crimes, but he hurt him, and yet he is still here, he's spilling over his fingers, murmuring his name, and it's... odd.
It's odd that despite how they have hurt each other — communicating as monsters do — he doesn't fear it in this moment. He instead welcomes it, welcomes him. ]
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[So what happened to bring him here, at this moment, with Silco crying out his name as hot fluid coats his hand with a full-body shudder? How did he end up in this position? Is he so weak as to cave to desire? He wouldn't have thought so. Even now, his wound stings. He should be angry. He is angry. He should be punishing Silco. He is punishing Silco.]
[And yet, his own name sounds so sweet on the air, murmured into it, gasped into it, moaned into it. His hand is sticky, now. He swipes it across the other's thin abdomen as he leans forward to kiss the nape of his neck again.]
A little reward for such a good show. [He shifts his hips, almost a afterthought of a motion, and lets the man be reminded of his presence.] You looked like you enjoyed it.
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His eye swivels to look at him, black and unyielding, and his mouth is open, still panting like he's trying to catch his breath. He gasps, when he shifts into him again. As if he could forget his presence.
Would he even want to? ]
Didn't you?
[ He rewarded him, despite everything. Despite the fact that he'd had his blade in his side. How terrible they are, that this is what they see, and they like. That he comes to him, that he shares secrets with him, despite this.
There's a flush across his ears, his mouth parted. His fingers haven't relaxed in the sheets, gripping them for dear life. He's a mess, spread out under him, still trembling from the force of it. He relaxes his fingers, unwinds them, and reaches for him. Thin fingers seek corded muscle, to touch him. Would he let him, now? Or is he still to be punished? ]
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[Did he enjoy it?]
[Silco pulls back to grasp at him. He might allow a second or two of that, but he is running the show, here. He grasps the other's hips so he can pull himself out with a definite slow drag of intent. And then, now freed, he's leaning forward again to reach around the man underneath him to flip him around. Silco's back hits the mattress.]
[Vergilius straddles him, the weight of his hips solidly keeping him where he is. His red eyes shine vividly under his bangs, a smile playing on his lips.]
Do you want me to say yes?
[His punishment continues. Just in a different form this time. Silco can't move his hips up like this. He only can let Vergilius decide what to do.]
[His hand cards through Silco's hair, gently.]
Would you want to hear me say it?
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He should have slid away, like a slippery little eel when he had the chance. Vergilius has him pinned down, and his bulk is large enough that he has nowhere to go, as if he could push him off. As if he would want to. He's trapped, but what a sweet prison it is. His breath picks up — restrained, choked slightly from his weight — a different kind of choking.
His fingers still against his thighs, fingers halfway between scraping and digging in. Vergilius's fingers run through his hair, gentler than they should right now.
He's still being punished; he knows it. He could say no, it would be so easy. So easy. They would both know it's a lie. He's already trapped, and pink already dusts half his face, his ears, his chest. He stares up at him, at the smile on his lips, at his eeys peering at him from behind his bangs. ]
Would you... hold it against me if I did?
[ Would they? Could they? Should they? He was sick of them too, these words that said so little, but they were armor too. Could that be discarded? Maybe not fully, but... ]
Perhaps I only want you to be honest, Vergilius.
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[He won't, of course. He stares down at him, takes it it, burns that lovely flush into his memory.]
[Honesty? Do either of them understand what it means? Do they want to? They hide behind layer, they worry for the consequences. But he doesn't think he has ever let anyone slip in this close. It's so unlike him.]
Fine, then.
[A murmur, as his hand slides down the man's chest, abdomen, groin, slowly, before grasping Silco's cock with a definite hand.]
I'm...enjoying putting you in this position.
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It hurts, it's like fire down his spine, it's too-sweet pain that's too much, and his entire body trembles from the effort of it. His one eye closes from it, but his other, all it can do his stare out, rolled back slightly, can he even see him in this moment? When he grasps him like that?
Does it matter? Does he hate it?
No, like the foot on his chest, he liked it all. The little cruelties, the way he lashed out sometimes, the way his mouth is open, but there's the slightest curl of his lip in the corner — he enjoys it. How could he not? Things like this were just as sure an expression of this shared lust between them, odd as it was, because he wanted to see him contort and writhe for him, didn't he? he wanted to be the one to cause it, just like Silco did. He wanted to fight and gnash up against him just as much as he wanted to feel that strength shudder up against him like he had just moments before.
He'd hurt him. Why wouldn't he hurt back? They were men — they were still monsters.
He was greedy, wasn't he? He wanted it all. It was punishment. It was pleasure. Was any of it supposed to be anything but? Could Silco accept anything less? He would take all of it like this, if the man would find him, hunt him down, and take him after all of that. Wrought iron meeting wrought iron, winding around each other.
Another shudder, his voice more strained than it had any right to be. ]
Oh? Perhaps... I enjoy it too.
[ His fingers on his thighs. They threaten to dig in. How damning, that he enjoys him hovering over him like this. ]
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[A lazy sort of accusation, if it even is one. He almost states it as casual fact, watching the contortion of the other's face with his hand so firmly on his cock. It still is sticky from before, thighs coated in his previous release. He aims to add more to that, though he thinks his alone will be enough to stain him.]
[That being said, he twists his wrist as to hold both of them in the same grip. He is still sensitive himself, hissing as they both touch.]
You want what can hurt you.
[There's a confident stare at the way spider fingers drift over his thighs, daring them to move. To dig in. To hurt.]
[Maybe be wants to be harmed, too.]
Isn't that right....?
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It hurts. It's good. His lips peel back — into a sharp smile. ]
Is that what you think I want?
[ He meets his gaze, watches him stare down at him, and his fingers dig in. Gripping into him, into solid muscle and scars. One of which he'd made himself. He can't break skin like this, but it doesn't seem to matter. He just wants to press in, as if he can dip his fingers into his muscle and flesh and wind his way deeper into him.
Make it so neither one of them can pull away.
Can they? They can't now. ]
I've never wanted anything but. [ He uses the leverage of his hands digging into his thighs to pull himself up, lean forward. Look him in the eye, all lean sinew and bone, his lips curled into the slightest of sharp, knowing smiles. ]
Don't you? [ His fingers tighten into his thighs. ] You wouldn't want me if I couldn't take all of you, would you?
[ Silco may be a mascochist, may enjoy the pain, and hurting; but doesn't he? Doesn't this go both ways? They started out with violence, and blood, and biting each other until they were draining each other dry. It started with stabbings and violence, both external and toward each other. It's more than that now — he has him, doesn't he? — but they are still men masquerading as monsters.
It's always there, that capacity for violence. That's what draws him in, even if it hurts, even when it doesn't. ]
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[If Silco is a masochist, does this mean he's the opposite? Something twinges in his chest at that. It is painful, that deep wound constantly bleeding in his core. He hated the City for its constabt suffering.]
[Is it suffering, when he causes pain to a horrible man like this? Is it suffering when he enjoys it? When punishment is something to cherish?]
[Silco pushes himself forward, grip tightening over his thighs. It makes him murmur, eyes flickering even as he doesn't avert his gaze. Vergilius tilts his head, as if considering.]
...No. I wouldn't.
[Perhaps it is surprising, for a monster to lean forward to kiss the other so lightly. Softly.]
And that means. All of me.
[The good, the bad, the ugly, and the softer man underneath.]
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Maybe that should scare him, with his capacity for violence, with the way anger flickers in his eyes when Silco caught them sometimes, with the way he can reach out and threaten to crush his windpipe, or pull his spine out without breaking a sweat. He knew he could. He knows he can, they aren't empty threats. That danger always makes something in his chest flutter, the promise of potential all it takes to draw his attention.
They're both from violent places. Had violence done to them. Had learned to adapt in the only way they could, by becoming violent in turn. He knows he holds it too, that violence in him. Vergilius though, has proven he can respond in kind. Time, after time, after time.
He wouldn't want him without it, but he also...
He leans down, and brushes lips against his.
It's softer than he expected.
He doesn't mind the good or the bad, or even the ugly. Those are what drew him in, after all. It's the soft man that he sees peeking out that surprises him every time. Not that he has it, oh no, Vergilius has that spot in him, Silco sees it peeking out, like in the way he speaks about those children he cares for, even as he lies to them. No, he's surprised when it's turned on him. He shows it to him. Let's him see it, and it's...
A vulnerability. A weakness. He exposes it to him, and Silco doesn't quite want to pull it to pieces. Does that make him weak in turn? ]
All of you... [ He murmurs, against his lips. He lets go of one of his thighs to reach up, and wind his thin fingers behind his head, brushing at his hair there. His thumb runs against the fine hairs, softer than the other hand that remains pressing into taut muscle. ]
I'll take it. [ Would he do the same in kind? Take everything that he was? Even down to the parts that he knew would — had — made him so easy to discard? ]
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HIT POST TOO EARLY WAGH
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