[ Perhaps, if he had been left to his own devices, he would have been dead by now. He has never been good at kneeling to others, to turning his cheek when he could snap with his teeth. This is a trait that never quite left him, a visceral hatred of letting others lord over him.
But he learned, from the best. How to bottle it up when necessary, how to disarm with a smile and cut at the mind before the flesh. For the sake of his own survival. And yet, with a hand around his throat, he throws it all out the window.
Mishka could kill him at any time. He knows that, and has known it ever since he got picked off the street by the scruff- the softest press of a thumb to his pulse tells him that well enough. But he kept pushing, in an unrelenting effort to keep his individuality his own, like he pushes now. His brow furrows, bewildered by the softening of the other's face and his words, something confusing bubbling in the recesses of his chest.
Perhaps it was almost a sense of comfort. Ironic, to find it in someone who taught him how to kill and could have just disposed of him in turn. After all, he would never speak the way he does to anybody else in the Syndicate- he'd have have his tongue cut out, before all else.
The electric blue of his eyes peer straight into Mishka's face for a moment, still tentatively furious, before he dares to scoff. ]
And perhaps my elder should learn when to shut his mouth.
[ He doesn't really know what this is. It feels vicious and hostile, both hands inches away from being able to slit each other's throats, and yet it's not. They could, at any moment, straw steel...and yet they won't.
He didn't even realize how close he had leaned in when all the distance evaporates.
For a moment, he freezes. He wasn't sure where this was going, but it wasn't here- the other is so much warmer than he is, but it's the teeth sinking into his lips that drag him out of the stupor. The pain is mild, but it sparks his blood afresh, the taste of iron in his mouth pushing him further against the other man as he responds in kind.
The faint music playing over the roll of credits is merely a buzzing in his ears, hyperfocused on pressing his free hand flat against the other's chest to push him back somewhat, to make it easier to press himself into his lap. It's far more convenient, after all, to try and shove his tongue down his throat that way. If that's how Mishka wants to play it, then it's what he's going to get. ]
no subject
But he learned, from the best. How to bottle it up when necessary, how to disarm with a smile and cut at the mind before the flesh. For the sake of his own survival. And yet, with a hand around his throat, he throws it all out the window.
Mishka could kill him at any time. He knows that, and has known it ever since he got picked off the street by the scruff- the softest press of a thumb to his pulse tells him that well enough. But he kept pushing, in an unrelenting effort to keep his individuality his own, like he pushes now. His brow furrows, bewildered by the softening of the other's face and his words, something confusing bubbling in the recesses of his chest.
Perhaps it was almost a sense of comfort. Ironic, to find it in someone who taught him how to kill and could have just disposed of him in turn. After all, he would never speak the way he does to anybody else in the Syndicate- he'd have have his tongue cut out, before all else.
The electric blue of his eyes peer straight into Mishka's face for a moment, still tentatively furious, before he dares to scoff. ]
And perhaps my elder should learn when to shut his mouth.
[ He doesn't really know what this is. It feels vicious and hostile, both hands inches away from being able to slit each other's throats, and yet it's not. They could, at any moment, straw steel...and yet they won't.
He didn't even realize how close he had leaned in when all the distance evaporates.
For a moment, he freezes. He wasn't sure where this was going, but it wasn't here- the other is so much warmer than he is, but it's the teeth sinking into his lips that drag him out of the stupor. The pain is mild, but it sparks his blood afresh, the taste of iron in his mouth pushing him further against the other man as he responds in kind.
The faint music playing over the roll of credits is merely a buzzing in his ears, hyperfocused on pressing his free hand flat against the other's chest to push him back somewhat, to make it easier to press himself into his lap. It's far more convenient, after all, to try and shove his tongue down his throat that way. If that's how Mishka wants to play it, then it's what he's going to get. ]