[After all those memories, isn't this what fate should hand to him on a silver platter? Isn't pain simply a taste of the terrible things he has wrought upon others? Shouldn't something like this be necessary to flagellate that monster of a soul he has, as hypocritical as it comes?]
[.....No, its not what he wants.]
[What he wants is to be embraced. To feel warmth. To be caressed, and touched, and treated like a jewel. What he wants is too soft for the world where he comes from, where his every move dictates the necessity for violence. Where did such dreams come from? What sort of cruel god put such desires into a human weapon? Lobelia slams into him, and the pain is welcomed as it comes, loved and hated in paradoxical waves. He moans. He pants his name like a prayer. Please stop. Please keep going.]
[His answer comes in the form of a whine, his eyes almost clouded over as another thrust sends a shockwave up and down his spine.]
[...It's good, isn't it? This tight, burning friction. The dull ache that assails them both in waves. This is what Vergilius asked for, and Vergilius' every wish is Lobelia's command. Despite that, this doesn't feel as good as it should. This isn't fulfilling, isn't mutuality, isn't the way Lobelia envisions them whiling away their eternity together.]
...Désolé.
[An apology, but for what? The pain? The agony? No, Lobelia apologizes because he's decided to go against what Vergilius asked for to give him what he needs instead, slowing his thrusts to a crawl and dropping the man's legs from his shoulders so he can loop them around his hips instead.
He doesn't want to hear any complaints, nor anything so heart-rending as I deserve this a second time. Lobelia stops moving altogether in favor of leaning in to wrap his arms around Vergilius' shoulders, bringing their lips together to kiss him slowly, tenderly, the way he ought to be kissed. As if he could trust Vergilius to tell him what he needs. This man is the last man who will ever prioritize his own needs, so it's Lobelia's duty to prioritize them for him.
Vergilius deserves to be treated like a shining jewel, to be caressed and touched and embraced, and so he will be from now into eternity.]
[Comes the questioning noise, almost fragile in the air, before his lips are captured. Confusion resounds like an poorly placed chord in a song. It doesn't make sense. This is Lobelia. This is what he deserves. This is Lobelia, violent angel of little death, mad magician, eternal tormenter, personal devil. What is this, then? It defies logic.]
[Shouldn't you destroy me? I wanted...I wanted you to destroy me.]
[Even as his mind balks, his soul seems to react quite differently - though funny to think of having a soul in the first place. There's hesitation in his movement, like a child who isn't sure he's allowed to have a second helping, as he kisses him back gently, lovingly. The movements of his hips, once stuttering with pain, become more steady. A slow roll like a wave lapping up against the shore, covetous of being filled.]
[Ah. What else can be said in this moment? There's no two ways about it: Lobelia is defying Vergilius' orders and doing as he pleases, but he's willing to disobey him if it means giving he man what he truly needs.
Lobelia's laughter snakes out as an apologetic, almost plaintive thing, shivering breaths accompanying each kiss when the pleasure finally supersedes the pain. He's barely moving, giving them both the chance to acclimate that he hadn't earlier, but simply being inside of Vergilius is a heavenly feeling. It's more than he deserves, certainly, but that's the difference between them: Lobelia knows nothing of guilt. If this is what it feels like to be wrong, why would he ever desire to be right?
Humming, Lobelia brings a hand up to comb through Vergilius' bangs, brushing them into some semblance of orderliness so he can kiss his forehead and leave his lips to linger there.]
Punish me for disobeying however you like later. Right now, I'd like to act selfishly.
[Lobelia brings a hand down to jerk at Vergilius' cock, his touch indulgent and slow. There are ways to intertwine pleasure and pain much more effectively than slamming his hips into Vergilius, he's certain, but right now? Right now, none of that matters. Vergilius is going to get what he needs and nothing less.]
[It doesn't feel selfish. This feels like something else. Like someone coming across a thirsty man, and drowning him in a sea. He feels too full. His hands tremble to hold it all as he chokes on it, burning and searing throughout every inch of his body. And just like a thirsty man, he craves it all. Lobelia moves into him, and he feels himself squeeze to pull him in, keep him, as if to entertain the idea of being conjoined for eternity.]
[His breath comes hot and heavy, moaning at the touch to his cock, but the kiss on his forehead feeling somehow more potent of an experience. What is...this? This treatment? Ah. Ah, he thinks he understands.]
[His voice comes as a murmur, arousal stirring once more, but it feels different. Paradoxically not as intense as the pain from before, but enough to produce a restless sort of feeling as he peppers kisses in between words, over the man's face, neck, jawline.]
[Making love to him... Well, yes, he most certainly is, but Vergilius seems surprised by this revelation. Lobelia finds it a bit humorous, the man's body receptive to the idea of being handled with a tender touch while his mind is only now catching up. Still, Lobelia won't laugh. Seeing Vergilius like this makes it hard for him to breathe properly, let alone waste any precious air on something that might put the other on edge.]
Hm... I wonder...?
[Lobelia's odd sense of humor bleeds into his actions regardless, leaving Vergilius in want for an answer while he covets the tip of his cock and pays it special attention, touches as methodical as they are meandering, teasing. The series of kisses strung along his face, his neck, coaxes deep sighs from the depths of Lobelia's throat. Taking Vergilius this slowly might just set him on fire from the inside out, but this is what they both truly desire, and so he'll keep each arch of his hips moderate and purposeful.]
What does it feel like, Vergilius...?
[It feels like making love, so therefore it must be.]
[It feels like....a beach, and you're lapping up against me on the shore as a warm sea. You're a breeze caressing the petals of a barren tree. You're entwined with me like a knot that can never be separated. You've become me, and I've become you, and impossible to think that we'd ever continue on this path to life the same way again.]
[It feels like love.]
[He doesn't say anything like that. It feels like it's too much to say, corny to even think about it in such terms. His lips feel dry as he opens his mouth, tries to cobble together words above the rising heat between them both.]
It feels...........perfect.
[That's the only word he can grasp. He falls back into the sensation of it all, arms wrapped around the man as his breath comes steady, punctuated by little grunts and whines with every thrust as he does his best to match it with the roll of his hips to coax him further in.]
[What Lobelia wouldn't give to hear such sweet poetry, but it's enough for him to know that Vergilius is enjoying himself. Happy, even. This is love as most people know it, yet it doesn't feel ill-fitting at all to Lobelia. It feels natural. Warm. Inviting. It feels like this is where they were meant to be, puzzled together so seamlessly that he can no longer tell where one begins and the other ends.
This is happiness, Lobelia thinks. Feeling whole, feeling connected, his mind divorced from his worldly worries so long as their bodies and hearts are connected. Perfect, Vergilius calls it, and Lobelia is inclined to agree.
Still... perhaps it's a bit too perfect. Lobelia sighs, wracked by full-body shivers, and yet the heat that burns between them keeps him plenty warm. Steady, steady, steady. Lobelia tries to keep himself calm, tries to keep his pace even, but his desires get the better of him. His thrusts grow weighty and his demands of Vergilius' lips ever more desperate, seeking out one kiss, another, another, until he can't help but twine their tongues together.
He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to let go. So long as this continues to feel as perfect for Vergilius as it does for himself, Lobelia won't yield, driving them further and further towards the point of no return.]
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no subject
[Don't I deserve this?]
[After all those memories, isn't this what fate should hand to him on a silver platter? Isn't pain simply a taste of the terrible things he has wrought upon others? Shouldn't something like this be necessary to flagellate that monster of a soul he has, as hypocritical as it comes?]
[.....No, its not what he wants.]
[What he wants is to be embraced. To feel warmth. To be caressed, and touched, and treated like a jewel. What he wants is too soft for the world where he comes from, where his every move dictates the necessity for violence. Where did such dreams come from? What sort of cruel god put such desires into a human weapon? Lobelia slams into him, and the pain is welcomed as it comes, loved and hated in paradoxical waves. He moans. He pants his name like a prayer. Please stop. Please keep going.]
[His answer comes in the form of a whine, his eyes almost clouded over as another thrust sends a shockwave up and down his spine.]
Yes. Yes. I deserve it.
no subject
...Désolé.
[An apology, but for what? The pain? The agony? No, Lobelia apologizes because he's decided to go against what Vergilius asked for to give him what he needs instead, slowing his thrusts to a crawl and dropping the man's legs from his shoulders so he can loop them around his hips instead.
He doesn't want to hear any complaints, nor anything so heart-rending as I deserve this a second time. Lobelia stops moving altogether in favor of leaning in to wrap his arms around Vergilius' shoulders, bringing their lips together to kiss him slowly, tenderly, the way he ought to be kissed. As if he could trust Vergilius to tell him what he needs. This man is the last man who will ever prioritize his own needs, so it's Lobelia's duty to prioritize them for him.
Vergilius deserves to be treated like a shining jewel, to be caressed and touched and embraced, and so he will be from now into eternity.]
no subject
[Comes the questioning noise, almost fragile in the air, before his lips are captured. Confusion resounds like an poorly placed chord in a song. It doesn't make sense. This is Lobelia. This is what he deserves. This is Lobelia, violent angel of little death, mad magician, eternal tormenter, personal devil. What is this, then? It defies logic.]
[Shouldn't you destroy me? I wanted...I wanted you to destroy me.]
[Even as his mind balks, his soul seems to react quite differently - though funny to think of having a soul in the first place. There's hesitation in his movement, like a child who isn't sure he's allowed to have a second helping, as he kisses him back gently, lovingly. The movements of his hips, once stuttering with pain, become more steady. A slow roll like a wave lapping up against the shore, covetous of being filled.]
[Ah.]
Ah.
[So it goes.]
no subject
Lobelia's laughter snakes out as an apologetic, almost plaintive thing, shivering breaths accompanying each kiss when the pleasure finally supersedes the pain. He's barely moving, giving them both the chance to acclimate that he hadn't earlier, but simply being inside of Vergilius is a heavenly feeling. It's more than he deserves, certainly, but that's the difference between them: Lobelia knows nothing of guilt. If this is what it feels like to be wrong, why would he ever desire to be right?
Humming, Lobelia brings a hand up to comb through Vergilius' bangs, brushing them into some semblance of orderliness so he can kiss his forehead and leave his lips to linger there.]
Punish me for disobeying however you like later. Right now, I'd like to act selfishly.
[Lobelia brings a hand down to jerk at Vergilius' cock, his touch indulgent and slow. There are ways to intertwine pleasure and pain much more effectively than slamming his hips into Vergilius, he's certain, but right now? Right now, none of that matters. Vergilius is going to get what he needs and nothing less.]
no subject
[It doesn't feel selfish. This feels like something else. Like someone coming across a thirsty man, and drowning him in a sea. He feels too full. His hands tremble to hold it all as he chokes on it, burning and searing throughout every inch of his body. And just like a thirsty man, he craves it all. Lobelia moves into him, and he feels himself squeeze to pull him in, keep him, as if to entertain the idea of being conjoined for eternity.]
[His breath comes hot and heavy, moaning at the touch to his cock, but the kiss on his forehead feeling somehow more potent of an experience. What is...this? This treatment? Ah. Ah, he thinks he understands.]
[His voice comes as a murmur, arousal stirring once more, but it feels different. Paradoxically not as intense as the pain from before, but enough to produce a restless sort of feeling as he peppers kisses in between words, over the man's face, neck, jawline.]
Are you making love to me...?
no subject
Hm... I wonder...?
[Lobelia's odd sense of humor bleeds into his actions regardless, leaving Vergilius in want for an answer while he covets the tip of his cock and pays it special attention, touches as methodical as they are meandering, teasing. The series of kisses strung along his face, his neck, coaxes deep sighs from the depths of Lobelia's throat. Taking Vergilius this slowly might just set him on fire from the inside out, but this is what they both truly desire, and so he'll keep each arch of his hips moderate and purposeful.]
What does it feel like, Vergilius...?
[It feels like making love, so therefore it must be.]
no subject
[It feels like....a beach, and you're lapping up against me on the shore as a warm sea. You're a breeze caressing the petals of a barren tree. You're entwined with me like a knot that can never be separated. You've become me, and I've become you, and impossible to think that we'd ever continue on this path to life the same way again.]
[It feels like love.]
[He doesn't say anything like that. It feels like it's too much to say, corny to even think about it in such terms. His lips feel dry as he opens his mouth, tries to cobble together words above the rising heat between them both.]
It feels...........perfect.
[That's the only word he can grasp. He falls back into the sensation of it all, arms wrapped around the man as his breath comes steady, punctuated by little grunts and whines with every thrust as he does his best to match it with the roll of his hips to coax him further in.]
no subject
This is happiness, Lobelia thinks. Feeling whole, feeling connected, his mind divorced from his worldly worries so long as their bodies and hearts are connected. Perfect, Vergilius calls it, and Lobelia is inclined to agree.
Still... perhaps it's a bit too perfect. Lobelia sighs, wracked by full-body shivers, and yet the heat that burns between them keeps him plenty warm. Steady, steady, steady. Lobelia tries to keep himself calm, tries to keep his pace even, but his desires get the better of him. His thrusts grow weighty and his demands of Vergilius' lips ever more desperate, seeking out one kiss, another, another, until he can't help but twine their tongues together.
He doesn't want to stop. He doesn't want to let go. So long as this continues to feel as perfect for Vergilius as it does for himself, Lobelia won't yield, driving them further and further towards the point of no return.]