[ There's already a large, bruising welt on his neck, places where the skin tore, and abrasions that just barely don't go all the way through. Another vampire's blood doesn't taste quite as good as a human's but the scent of it to the nascent, growing poison in Vergilius's veins is likely just as tempting as anything else, his blunt teeth seem to have no difficulty breaking through skin where they need to. The hunger is already there, but how could anyone resist the temptation?
Silco would have called it a fool's errand, if he'd been able to articulate the struggle with instinct and id, in the same way he always had. He'd never made it a secret, or something to hide, that this truest version of him is what he'd wanted to see from the beginning. He'd never understood why anyone would even want to hide like that, pretend that there wasn't a beast slithering under the skin and threatening to lash out.
Is he enjoying this? Maybe even pleased that he hadn't fought him off, maybe a little more pleased when the heavy weight of his leg pressed against his, pinning him down in a similar way that he'd just done. Thin, bony fingers drift from pushing against his collarbone to pressing against the bruising skin by his mouth, as if he wants to remind him that he is right here β lest he becomes used to the latch of fangs and the slow drain of his blood.
His skin prickled with gooseflesh, raw under his teeth and tongue, and then there was that too familiar twin-prick of fangs against flesh. His lips parted against the wound he'd very nearly ripped from his flesh, and he exhaled a warm, jerky breath against the punctured, seeping wound. Grazing his thumb against abraised skin β uncharacteristically β he drug his lips against the pooling blood, before he dug his thumb into the flesh, as if trying to exsanguinate the rest of the blood from the wound so he could feast on what was left.
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Silco would have called it a fool's errand, if he'd been able to articulate the struggle with instinct and id, in the same way he always had. He'd never made it a secret, or something to hide, that this truest version of him is what he'd wanted to see from the beginning. He'd never understood why anyone would even want to hide like that, pretend that there wasn't a beast slithering under the skin and threatening to lash out.
Is he enjoying this? Maybe even pleased that he hadn't fought him off, maybe a little more pleased when the heavy weight of his leg pressed against his, pinning him down in a similar way that he'd just done. Thin, bony fingers drift from pushing against his collarbone to pressing against the bruising skin by his mouth, as if he wants to remind him that he is right here β lest he becomes used to the latch of fangs and the slow drain of his blood.
His skin prickled with gooseflesh, raw under his teeth and tongue, and then there was that too familiar twin-prick of fangs against flesh. His lips parted against the wound he'd very nearly ripped from his flesh, and he exhaled a warm, jerky breath against the punctured, seeping wound. Grazing his thumb against abraised skin β uncharacteristically β he drug his lips against the pooling blood, before he dug his thumb into the flesh, as if trying to exsanguinate the rest of the blood from the wound so he could feast on what was left.