[ Perhaps, in his youth, he thought about this. Not perhaps this specifically, nestled against the curve of something they could nary afford themselves, all tongue and teeth and the coppery taste of blood, but something similar. Not that he entertained the idea of it coming true in any way, different as they were.
He could have found other contacts. Worked with anyone else, after being introduced fully and slipping out on his own. It would not have been hard, with a tongue sharpened to silver and the skills he'd learned at the other's encouraging, brutal hand. But he kept going back to his old mentor, put up with his attitude and exchanged his barbs, for reasons he couldn't quite grasp.
Convenience, Adelis would argue. Perhaps familiarity. Not the vague urge to return in his chest to the one person who saw potential in him, who's recognition he found himself absentmindedly seeking.
It's a lonely existence, carving yourself off from everyone else. He tells himself he grew fine with it.
He'd expect no less from the other, for all he tends to put on a harmless act in front of everyone else. He tastes blood that's both his own and not as he leans into Mishka, arm coiling around his waist and keeping him flush against his chest. There's practically no space at all between them, and for a moment, part of him is glad the weather has divested them of some of their usual layers. He's not too sure he's got the patience to peel off piece after piece right now.
The grip is...tight. He knows it's not enough to kill him, knows what it would take to kill him, but it settles as a warning in his chest to accompany the burn from the lack of proper oxygen. For the lightest of shivers down his spine that it sparks, he doesn't pry the hand off, his own fingers busy coiling around to slide through black strands and grip. The sharp yank against Mishka's skull is only to accompany the hard press of his hips downward. ]
NSFW god is no longer watching
He could have found other contacts. Worked with anyone else, after being introduced fully and slipping out on his own. It would not have been hard, with a tongue sharpened to silver and the skills he'd learned at the other's encouraging, brutal hand. But he kept going back to his old mentor, put up with his attitude and exchanged his barbs, for reasons he couldn't quite grasp.
Convenience, Adelis would argue. Perhaps familiarity. Not the vague urge to return in his chest to the one person who saw potential in him, who's recognition he found himself absentmindedly seeking.
It's a lonely existence, carving yourself off from everyone else. He tells himself he grew fine with it.
He'd expect no less from the other, for all he tends to put on a harmless act in front of everyone else. He tastes blood that's both his own and not as he leans into Mishka, arm coiling around his waist and keeping him flush against his chest. There's practically no space at all between them, and for a moment, part of him is glad the weather has divested them of some of their usual layers. He's not too sure he's got the patience to peel off piece after piece right now.
The grip is...tight. He knows it's not enough to kill him, knows what it would take to kill him, but it settles as a warning in his chest to accompany the burn from the lack of proper oxygen. For the lightest of shivers down his spine that it sparks, he doesn't pry the hand off, his own fingers busy coiling around to slide through black strands and grip. The sharp yank against Mishka's skull is only to accompany the hard press of his hips downward. ]