[It feels like a bitter taste at the back of his throat. Acid, burning through his chest, emotions prickling with nowhwre to go. He's known for his cold anger at home, of course. Nothing wild and unruly as some good-for-nothing Fixer, but as honed and sharpened like a blade. Hot anger makes one vulnerable, of course. Liable to making mistakes.]
[So why is everything he's doing here only tipping him forward into things like this? It's this damned scenario, of course (and his own decisions, giving Lobelia leeway when he should never have, taunting despite logic). The restlessness he has of a prisoner bound by chains is almost palpable - too used to punishment, too used to violence, too used to murder, as much as he loathes it. Lobelia could have been killed a hundred times over already. He has entertained many options.]
[And he's sure he would hear that annoying, grating laughter at each and every single one of them.]
[The kiss is stolen. Vergilius grits his teeth into it, caught by surprise - and after a excrutiatingly lasting second, he pulls out of it. The man is soft compared with his hardness, and it makes this all the more hateful.]
Are you happy?
[He finally says - he hasn't released his grip, his word almost harshly whispered with faces close in an attempt to try to hurt the man back in his own way, prodding on something he feels is soft, an underbelly.]
[Happy? Happy? How could this possibly fulfill me? What happiness is there to be found in the silence he's met with? No shouting, no yelling, no hissing at him through gritted teeth. Lobelia hasn't felt this crushing, empty feeling in years, yet every time he'd moved forward far enough to realize his actions weren't bringing him happiness, something greater came along to capture his interest.
Papa and Maman were the only ones who truly made him happy, but they're long gone now. Even their voices are beyond his reach now, his beloved archive stolen away from him, leaving him with nothing by way of comfort on this desolate island. Even the ominous rumbles of impending disaster could only fill the void in Lobelia for a brief moment in time, and just like that, the moment is gone.
Are you happy? No. How could he be? Perhaps he's simply incapable, a thought that elicits fear in a man who seldom feels much at all. Realizing that, Lobelia laughs, but there's no mirth behind his laughter. No warmth.
βUse that talent of yours, and youβre guaranteed to be happy! Youβre a genius, son, and youβre certain to succeed! Live a life of bliss, Lobelia!β If Papa saw him now, would he regret speaking those words?]
Non... but I haven't given up. You'll be the one to make me happy.
[There's a damning finality to Lobelia's words, but whether he's given up or begun down a path he can't be swayed from is up to Vergilius to decide. Allowing no room for a proper response, he takes him by the throat and mashes their lips together so roughly that their teeth briefly click. Unless Vergilius intends on stopping him or pushing away, Lobelia has no intention of letting up.]
[That's more of a joke than the kiss. The second kiss, technically, as the man has taken his chance to move and take more of what he thinks he deserves.]
[It's laughable, because when was the last time he gave anyone true happiness? Even what he gave before was always tainted, his own guilt and sins hanging above him like a cloud filled with blood ready to burst. This is a helpless endeavor. A fly struggling in a web. A man buried in the earth hallucinating light coming in from the surface.]
[He may have felt happiness in the past, but what he gives, made by his own hands, is nothing at all. At least this is what he thinks.]
[He could simply shove him away. That would be his first inclination. But on second thought, the man was insatiable. As much as he pretended to heed his words, Vergilius felt like he could keep coming and coming again like a hungry bottom feeder, eager for scraps.]
[So he's trying to get happiness from him? Let him open the dish in front of him, and try to feed on nothing at all. Let disappointment be his gift instead. He hopes he chokes on it.]
[And so, he doesn't break the kiss, but lets it move on, with his own movement of lips in a purposefully slow pace as the man tries to force roughness against him. The bare minimum. Almost chaste, even with how deep it is. Only a singular light sigh of a noise purrs through his chest, disappearing in an instant.]
[This isn't the shining jewel Vergilius spoke ofβ that happiness is long gone, but whatever remnants of it he can taste on Vergilius' lips is incentive enough to claw the rest out of him. Lobelia can't live with the notion that there's nothing to chase beyond the shadows of another man's happiness, but if he did, what would happen? Would he snap? Would he break? Would he destroy himself to get away from the pain of an empty existence?
That can't be what's waiting for him. Lobelia won't allow it, exhaling frustration through his nose when their kiss fails to yield anything of substance. It certainly doesn't satisfy him, much less make him happy... but that's the catch, isn't it?
Surely if he keeps going, he'll drag it right out of Vergilius. He's being difficult on purpose, as he has been from the start, but isn't that all the better? They say happiness is something to be earned, and were it that easy to rip and tear it out of Vergilius, that would be no fun at all.
Still... Lobelia isn't the one who needs incentive to escalate. Gradually growing worse and more destructive is all a man like Lobelia knows how to do, so he threads his tongue into Vergilius' mouth in search of his. It's an invasion the man didn't ask for, but Lobelia hasn't once asked Vergilius what he wants. Simply put, Lobelia doesn't care.]
[The light sound of exhaled air out of the other's nose is, perhaps, a little highlight out of all of this. As much as he is violent, it doesn't necessarily marry with pleasure. It's putting someone in their place that tries to challenge him where he stands that, he will admit, has a terrible sort of amusement to it. He's so used to being where he is, even if it is a grand role he never especially wanted, that any one who tries to step up will only get slapped down. A laughable thing.]
[So Lobelia attempting to push further is both amusing but also frustrating - but then again, what can he expect out of such a worm? It reminds him of Beel, in a way, but this hunger is a far worse sort. It feels like a void asking to be filled, and Vergilius refuses to. It is asking a ghost for an embrace and expecting warmth.]
[His own hand moves to thread through Lobelia's hair and finding purchase, not tugging or pulling. Far too gentle. He can't help but let out a little hiss of a gasp as that tongue snakes in, but Vergilius is as stubborn as anything. Not willing to give ground in this bizarre fight, he merely slides his side to side of the intrusion, barely opening his jaw to allow further movement.]
[Ah. If only he could bite the thing off. His teeth slightly press against the other's tongue. If only. It would be so easy.]
[Far, far too gentle. Those fingers in his hair should feel nice, and indeed, they have the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end... but there's nothing pleasurable about it. Not as Lobelia has come to understand pleasure. He might think otherwise were it not Vergilius' intention to deny him any sort of joy in this encounter, but alas.
It's a shame that Vergilius can't agree that a little bit of push and pull would go a long way for them both, but that's alright. Irritation is evident in the tension of Lobelia's muscles, one hand drifting to settle on Vergilius' thigh where he squeezes down far more forcefully than necessary. This is fine. He'll make this work.
This gradual pace, this tender touch, is stifling. Feeling the slight press of teeth against his tongue, Lobelia laughs quietly, the vibrations ebbing between their kiss. If Vergilius won't give into the urge to bite, Lobelia will, drawing out of the kiss just far enough to steal a breath and rake his teeth along Vergilius' bottom lip. If he draws blood, that's all the better.]
[As much as this is a fight to deny this man obtaining victory in his hideous little psychological war, its also a fight of self-denial. He's had a physical trust or two ever since everything happened that brought him to his current state at home, but it was just that. Physical. He denies himself the prospect of anything more.]
[He follows the flow, and nothing more. To allow himself even the semblance of emotional connection feels as wrong as giving a murderer a machete. He is not made for that. After everything, he doesn't deserve it. His sins are too heavy, the blood runs too thick.]
[So this is different, of course it is. He isn't connecting with Lobelia - he hardly wants to, as disgusting as the prospect makes him feel - but this is a battle to him. Denial on all sides. Lobelia can never get what he want. The jewel shards of happiness shall be far beyond his reach, if he has anything to say about it.]
[He does lose footing briefly in the battle, though, the teeth biting into his lip makes him let out a little low noise of pain. It's followed by a heavy breath, and a return to stability - (his hand in Lobelia's hair trembles for a moment, trying not to focus on the hand on his thigh) - and he's gritting his teeth. He won't chase that stinging bite with a kiss. He simply sits there, chest heaving, and stares, with vivid eyes, as if trying to tell him there's nothing more to gain. In fact, he'll just say it, his voice a whisper.]
[That note of pain in Vergilius' voice, fleeting as it is, lodges itself in Lobelia's head. Rings like a struck bell. He's recorded it within the conch nestled in his pocket, and with this, he can relive the moment he gained that minor foothold in this little sparring session of theirs. In lieu of Papa and Maman's destruction, he can lull himself to sleep with the sounds of Vergilius failing to remain entirely immovable.
They're both human, aren't they? Yes, that's one of the things Lobelia loves so much about the prospect of this man's destruction: he'll crumble in a heap of pained, agonized sounds, and Lobelia will be there to record them all. No matter how strong he thinks himself to be, no one goes up against death and wins.
Still... exposing Vergilius' frail, human vulnerabilities leaves his own exposed in turn. A ruddy pink flush has settled on Lobelia's cheeks, and while the uptick of his heart is nothing unusual, this isn't the sort of excitement he's used to savoring. This mincing of flesh and bone, the tortured screams of a life cut short... those are the things that excite him, the things that make Lobelia happy, and yet he feels much the same now as he does when snuffing out a life with a snap of his fingers. Why?]
Vous semblez magnifique. Even your fervent desire to leave me unsatisfied stirs something in me regardless. Heh... Was that your intention all along?
[Doubtful. Lobelia won't let him ignore the hand at his thigh, fingertips spidering up further to seize into his hip, dig crescent nails into his flesh.]
I would so love to see you tomber en morceaux beneath my fingertips. If you don't destroy me first, the pleasure will be all mine.
[To live in the City, to truly live in the City with all its vices and sins and mountains of dead bodies hidden under the guise of innovation...to borrow another's turn of phrase, one's mind really has to have a screw loose. Vergilius wouldn't doubt it about himself, even as reasonable as he can be. Lobelia, though, feels like even more of a shining example of the depravities of human nature, and he's not even from the City. What circumstances brought a horrible personality like this to life? What is responsible for this carcass of a flower blooming?]
[(Vergilius vaguely recalls reading about some giant flower with a smell made explicitly to attract flies, and seeing the rush of blood to the other's cheeks, he almost has a brief moment where it feels like he catches a whiff of rotten meat.)]
[The nails into his hip are more easily parried with stoicism, though it does come with a mild jolt from the nails digging in. A sigh moves through his chest, exhausted, angry as anything.]
Destroy me? Dream on.
[A growled sort of answer - the hand in Lobelia's hair is withdrawing, like an anchor being pulled out of dark waters of a sea. His eyes are flickering. Something moves through his body - a shiver he hates to feel.]
It's like you won't even listen to me. I'll deny you at every turn.
[His hand snakes around to grasp around the other's neck - but for such a threatening gesture, its again gentle, not even squeezing.]
This is futile. Your path will lead you nowhere. Give up.
[What is life if not a constant series of denials and challenges to overcome? Vergilius is just the newest of these, another stumbling block in need of a good and thorough trampling. Why idle and allow anyone else the pleasure?
Lobelia stares into those flickering eyes, his own unfathomably deep and dreadful to behold like a forest at night. It's not evident what he wants from Vergilius, not at a glance, but's clear Lobelia's arrived at some conclusion or another, made up his mind... but it's not as if he intends to leave Vergilius in the dark forever. When the time comes, he'll know what answer Lobelia has arrived at too.]
[His laughter buzzes against the hand at his throat, warmer for the contact, and his own lift to squeeze Vergilius' tight against his skin. With this, he's established a conduit between them, channeling his words not into the open air, but directly through the vibrations of his throat and into Vergilius' palms so he can feel the words Lobelia speaks echoing in his skull. All the while, Lobelia's lips remain poised in a smile.]
You're holding yourself back, Vergilius. If we're both bound for l'enfer, why hold yourself back? Sigh for me more! Let out your voix! Otherwise, you'll leave me with no choice but to tear it clean out of you... not that I would mind.
[A warm, gentle voice. A voice like an embrace, in auditory form. Not quite mother, or sister, or daughter. Maybe all at once. A kindly voice.]
[A voice that wanted him to indulge, and distort, and dive deep into a well of self-satisfaction, with a thirst that could never be sated.]
[Lobelia's voice ringing in his head through his hands is nothing like that voice. And yet, its similar in its own way. While the voice from before offered self-love, a cowardly, pointless solution, this man offers a hand into a sort of hell that digs into the depths of his well of anger. He's been angry for a long time. Angry at the City, angry at the ones who took the one's he's loved away from him. Angry at...himself. He is his own worse enemy.]
[Angry at....Lobelia, of course. (Or is it still himself, in the end?)]
[There's the scent of blood, somehow. There's no visible wound. No one has pulled a weapon. But there's something that twists in the air, a sharp, metallic smell. Something shimmers in one of Vergilius's vibrant eyes, a different sort of red than the crimson iris.]
You really don't know what you're dealing with. Nobody can tear anything out of me. Not you or anyone. Only me.
[The pressure of his fingers still hovers - his thumb moves to press under the other's chin to push his head up, but still not strangling, still wrestling with hard, cold control.]
...You really are pathetic. You'll suffocate at the bottom of your hell without ever experiencing happiness.
[The scent of blood... it's unmistakable, sharp and acrid and refreshing all at once. The scent of blood signals destruction, and while he can't see any open wounds on Vergilius, something in him must be aching if he's bleeding. Good. Lobelia hopes it hurts.
Is it his eyes, perhaps? Their brilliant red is a bit different, a bit off, though Lobelia is no less entranced by them. If he could only pluck them right out of his skull, wear them around his neck like good luck charms... oh, but if he did, Vergilius wouldn't be able to level him with those fierce, probing glares. What a shame that would be.
Lobelia's smile widens, at peace with the threat of violence pressing into his flesh, and continues speaking on a manner only Vergilius can hear.]
That sounds like a challenge, Vergilius. Perhaps you want to die? If happiness is long behind you, what reason do you have to remain here as a dead man walking?
[Another laugh, jovial and innocent.]
I will happily be your ange de la mort. After all, you'll be the one to make me happy no matter how much you refuse me.
[The unique red that appeared suddenly moves, trickles out of his eye, down his cheek.]
[The unmistakable trail of a drop of blood, like a mockery of a tear.]
...Because I have victory in my eyes.
[And he pulls back - the hand unlatches, and he's shaking his head, a low noise at the back of his throat. A little shudder, then breaking into ha-ha-ha-ha as a guttural, almost unnatural sound.]
[A laugh.]
I don't want to die. You understand me so little, Lobelia.
[The hand that was at his throat moves to brush through his own bangs, sliding them up and over his head. He tilts his head, mouth opening in a white streak of a smile.]
I have things on the horizon to focus on, even in my long walk through a hell of my own making. Do you? Or are you grasping for shadows, false angel?
[Ah, that laugh. That laugh. That laugh. Should he ever struggle to sleep at night in this foreign place, he'll simply lull himself to sleep with the sickening laughter that just spooled out of Vergilius' mouth. Hidden away in the depths of a conque, this may be his finest piece yet, but Lobelia isn't done recording the sounds of Vergilius' eternal rage. He's only just begun.
Sitting back, Lobelia straightens up, attention focused on the glint of that disconcerting smile. Oh no, oh dear, how sexy. Maybe he should fashion a necklace out of Vergilius' teeth to match his lucky eyeballs?]
Your words wound me, Vergilius! Do you really think me so incapable of pursuing that which I desire? I've spent the entirety of my life doing just that with much succès! Don't tell me those atroce eyes of yours haven't picked up on that fact.
[One killer can see through another's mask, can't they? Lobelia has met few who rival himself in terms of sheer destruction, but he wants to believe he's met his match in Vergilius. They call that love, don't they? How wonderful.]
[He raises his hand, his index and third finger moving to open apart, like scissors.]
I think you'll fly to reach me. [His fingers move shut. Snap.] But your wings will fail you. They'll be snipped away from your own failure. I don't even have to lift a finger to do it.
[Of course, Lobelia isn't simply just some man dreaming of death and violence and destruction on his lonesome. With the way he acts, he has to have made it happen firsthand. A dreadful mirror, as loathe as Vergilius is willing to admit. No, they can't be the same. Lobelia indulges. He does not. He can't. He's in a sea of blood by his own making, and he's never felt a thing, has he? Of course not. Of course. It was always just a job.]
[Job after job after job after job after job after-]
You don't desire me. Not really. You've fooled yourself.
[...He doesn't know what it means to be desired. Not like that. It feels fake.]
Or perhaps you're the one you were referencing? Do you want to die, Lobelia?
[Vergilius is such a joy to pick apart. That stern face hides much, but it only serves to amply what he allows to be seen: that potent anger, so severe as to be palpable. He strikes Lobelia as a man who would rather excuse his indulgence as necessary evils than properly revel in it and taste happiness in whatever doses he can.
It's not too late, not even for a man like Vergilius, Lobelia thinks. Why not be a little more honest? Why not live a little? Vergilius is about due for a midlife crisis and a change of heart, isn't he?
Listening to the insults fly from his lips, Lobelia can only smile, only giggle, rubbing the flush from his cheeks as it spreads anew. Truly, he's never met someone as insufferable as Vergilius, but the idea of returning every ounce of pain to this man that he's inflicted upon him is too satisfying to ignore.]
Non! Don't be foolish, Vergilius! If I desired the release of death, I would be long gone, and yet here I stand. Maybe you desire to kill me...? La petite mort by your hand might gratify us both.
[If I desired the release of death, I would be long gone, and yet here I stand.]
[Oh, how Vergilius wishes that wasn't the case. It would make things easier. And yet parasites really do seem to want to cling on where they're not wanted.]
[He opens his mouth to retort something - (of course he wants to kill him, he's run through every little scenario he could think of in his frustration at not actually being able, damned these rules he doesn't want to play by - kicking the man's spine out his back like he did to that one Docent is the most recent little fantasy) - but the last statement makes him blink. And blink again.]
[He knows enough of the words to translate it, but the way he uses it, is...]
... [Now he's aiming a disgruntled look at him.] Are you being real with me right now?
[(verg voice) DICK IS *NOT* GOING TO FIX ANYTHING]
[Well! That sure didn't sound like a no to Lobelia, but the look of confusion (mild disgust?) on Vergilius' face has him laughing out loud. Delightful!]
Heh-hahaha! Don't look so surprised! Do you really think I would jest about such a thing?
[Sure, dick fixes nothing, but Lobelia doesn't want to be fixed. Why would he want that when he's perfectly fine just as he is?]
[That disgruntled look is looking more and more like a full-on grimace at this point.]
I'm neither.
[His eyebrows are so furrowed they're almost blending in with each other, brow adding to the shadow above his eyes.]
Besides, big talk for someone who never even had anyone kiss him, before. You even had to steal your first kiss from me. How would you even survive one minute in the bedroom?
[That's RIGHT, VIRGIN. HE OVERHEARD THE NEVER HAVE I NEVER DEAL.]
[Oh, what an ugly scowl! Lobelia chuckles with delight, narrowly resisting the temptation to clap in approval. What a wonderful, horrid man...]
Heh! Hahaha! You jeer like a boy in a schoolyard!
[But Vergilius raises a proper point, probably. Lasting in bed... Right, he supposes that might be the sort of thing a man concerns themselves with, but Lobelia isn't a normal guy. He doesn't think he needs to explain that much to Vergilius, so he simply shrugs.]
Would it not be you putting on the performance? My stamina is of little concern in that case. Besides, the pursuit of plaisir is the point, is it not? Time spent in the act is unimportant by comparison.
[He is now briefly trying to temper his own irritation by allowing himself the mental image of lopping off Lobelia's limbs with his gladius. That would be nice. Anyways.]
[He's moving to stand up from where he's sitting.]
I'm not talking about this with you. [A performance? Another attempt to rope him in, get him to play to Lobelia's wills and whims? His annoyance rankles, feeling like its coming off of him in waves.] The last thing I'll find pleasure with is with you.
[Vergilius, you really need to watch your... everything around Lobelia. Getting angry? He likes that. Ignoring him? He'll fight to get his attention. In this constant tug of war over who has more control over the other, Lobelia hasn't the pride to resist bragging and boasting when he's the one on top.]
Besides, did I promise you a pleasurable experience? I would much rather listen to you cry out in pain, but I'll take what I can get! Je vais vous prendre tous.
[He stands there for a while. It does feel like an exercise in futility. The more he falls back on instinct, the more he falls back on being the intimidating power the City has labeled him as, the more Lobelia pulls himself in. To act otherwise feels like anathema. He's too far buried in his own role to dig himself out.]
[After the other has finished speaking, Vergilius reaches over to the bottle of the drink they were pouring from, and tips it over the other's head.]
[He sneers.]
You can take your choix and choke on it.
[He knows the other will be pleased by the rejection, regardless. But at this point, his displeasure has to have an outlet. There's not much at his hands besides simply tearing the man into pieces and being done with it.]
[There it is! Such anger! Vergilius knows he's been backed right into another corner, and while it's unfortunate that he's wasted such fine alcohol by dousing him in it, Lobelia's laughter is all the more raucous for it. What a delightful turn of events!
Rising from his chair, pulls something from his pocket β a single conch β and plays back the sound of Vergilius' latest failure: Choke on it. Choke on it. Choke on it.]
With pleasure.
[Tossing the conch at Vergilius, Lobelia turns his wrist, fingers poised to snap. Does Vergilius want to know what happens when he snaps his fingers? Does he know the difference between pleasure and pain?]
Laissez-moi vous apprendre.
[Snap. The sound of Lobelia's middle finger striking his palm cuts cleanly through the air, and along with it, a searing pain in Vergilius' legs. If he manages to remain upright, Lobelia will be impressed.]
[It said this much on his profile, didn't he? Of course, the conch is grabbed and tossed away in a blink, his speed augmented to horrifically inhuman proportions, but of course what comes next isn't a seen attack. The snap occurs.]
[Pain shoots into his legs, like a sword piercing through flesh.]
...........
[He's biting down on his lower lip with a shuddering, muffled exhale. Of course he can tolerate the pain, at least, for now. Aren't the scars crisscrossing his body evidence enough? Even when he was being sliced by the Purple Tear's attacks that day, he had barely uttered a noise.]
[Lobelia doesn't know what he's dealing with.]
[There's a snap and an unnatural crack that comes from the inside of his legs. Muscle fibers moving in place, thrumming with energy-]
[And its barely even a millisecond. Lobelia may feel the grasp of a hand over the front of his clothes before the lurch of movement at high speeds. The air rushes and roars in their ears before Vergilius lands and slams down the other directly into the sand, sending a rush of the stuff up in the air in a scattered mist. It's an impact that will smart, and smart hard, but its restrained enough not to break bone.]
[There's smoke wafting from the outside of his pants as he grits his teeth, staring down at the other under his grip. He almost looks like a ghoul, the angles of his face more evident in the shadow, eyes blazing trails in the air. His body is shaking. He still tries to resist the pain.]
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no subject
[So why is everything he's doing here only tipping him forward into things like this? It's this damned scenario, of course (and his own decisions, giving Lobelia leeway when he should never have, taunting despite logic). The restlessness he has of a prisoner bound by chains is almost palpable - too used to punishment, too used to violence, too used to murder, as much as he loathes it. Lobelia could have been killed a hundred times over already. He has entertained many options.]
[And he's sure he would hear that annoying, grating laughter at each and every single one of them.]
[The kiss is stolen. Vergilius grits his teeth into it, caught by surprise - and after a excrutiatingly lasting second, he pulls out of it. The man is soft compared with his hardness, and it makes this all the more hateful.]
Are you happy?
[He finally says - he hasn't released his grip, his word almost harshly whispered with faces close in an attempt to try to hurt the man back in his own way, prodding on something he feels is soft, an underbelly.]
[After all, you can't feel happiness, can you?]
no subject
Papa and Maman were the only ones who truly made him happy, but they're long gone now. Even their voices are beyond his reach now, his beloved archive stolen away from him, leaving him with nothing by way of comfort on this desolate island. Even the ominous rumbles of impending disaster could only fill the void in Lobelia for a brief moment in time, and just like that, the moment is gone.
Are you happy? No. How could he be? Perhaps he's simply incapable, a thought that elicits fear in a man who seldom feels much at all. Realizing that, Lobelia laughs, but there's no mirth behind his laughter. No warmth.
βUse that talent of yours, and youβre guaranteed to be happy! Youβre a genius, son, and youβre certain to succeed! Live a life of bliss, Lobelia!β If Papa saw him now, would he regret speaking those words?]
Non... but I haven't given up. You'll be the one to make me happy.
[There's a damning finality to Lobelia's words, but whether he's given up or begun down a path he can't be swayed from is up to Vergilius to decide. Allowing no room for a proper response, he takes him by the throat and mashes their lips together so roughly that their teeth briefly click. Unless Vergilius intends on stopping him or pushing away, Lobelia has no intention of letting up.]
no subject
[That's more of a joke than the kiss. The second kiss, technically, as the man has taken his chance to move and take more of what he thinks he deserves.]
[It's laughable, because when was the last time he gave anyone true happiness? Even what he gave before was always tainted, his own guilt and sins hanging above him like a cloud filled with blood ready to burst. This is a helpless endeavor. A fly struggling in a web. A man buried in the earth hallucinating light coming in from the surface.]
[He may have felt happiness in the past, but what he gives, made by his own hands, is nothing at all. At least this is what he thinks.]
[He could simply shove him away. That would be his first inclination. But on second thought, the man was insatiable. As much as he pretended to heed his words, Vergilius felt like he could keep coming and coming again like a hungry bottom feeder, eager for scraps.]
[So he's trying to get happiness from him? Let him open the dish in front of him, and try to feed on nothing at all. Let disappointment be his gift instead. He hopes he chokes on it.]
[And so, he doesn't break the kiss, but lets it move on, with his own movement of lips in a purposefully slow pace as the man tries to force roughness against him. The bare minimum. Almost chaste, even with how deep it is. Only a singular light sigh of a noise purrs through his chest, disappearing in an instant.]
no subject
That can't be what's waiting for him. Lobelia won't allow it, exhaling frustration through his nose when their kiss fails to yield anything of substance. It certainly doesn't satisfy him, much less make him happy... but that's the catch, isn't it?
Surely if he keeps going, he'll drag it right out of Vergilius. He's being difficult on purpose, as he has been from the start, but isn't that all the better? They say happiness is something to be earned, and were it that easy to rip and tear it out of Vergilius, that would be no fun at all.
Still... Lobelia isn't the one who needs incentive to escalate. Gradually growing worse and more destructive is all a man like Lobelia knows how to do, so he threads his tongue into Vergilius' mouth in search of his. It's an invasion the man didn't ask for, but Lobelia hasn't once asked Vergilius what he wants. Simply put, Lobelia doesn't care.]
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[So Lobelia attempting to push further is both amusing but also frustrating - but then again, what can he expect out of such a worm? It reminds him of Beel, in a way, but this hunger is a far worse sort. It feels like a void asking to be filled, and Vergilius refuses to. It is asking a ghost for an embrace and expecting warmth.]
[His own hand moves to thread through Lobelia's hair and finding purchase, not tugging or pulling. Far too gentle. He can't help but let out a little hiss of a gasp as that tongue snakes in, but Vergilius is as stubborn as anything. Not willing to give ground in this bizarre fight, he merely slides his side to side of the intrusion, barely opening his jaw to allow further movement.]
[Ah. If only he could bite the thing off. His teeth slightly press against the other's tongue. If only. It would be so easy.]
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It's a shame that Vergilius can't agree that a little bit of push and pull would go a long way for them both, but that's alright. Irritation is evident in the tension of Lobelia's muscles, one hand drifting to settle on Vergilius' thigh where he squeezes down far more forcefully than necessary. This is fine. He'll make this work.
This gradual pace, this tender touch, is stifling. Feeling the slight press of teeth against his tongue, Lobelia laughs quietly, the vibrations ebbing between their kiss. If Vergilius won't give into the urge to bite, Lobelia will, drawing out of the kiss just far enough to steal a breath and rake his teeth along Vergilius' bottom lip. If he draws blood, that's all the better.]
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[He follows the flow, and nothing more. To allow himself even the semblance of emotional connection feels as wrong as giving a murderer a machete. He is not made for that. After everything, he doesn't deserve it. His sins are too heavy, the blood runs too thick.]
[So this is different, of course it is. He isn't connecting with Lobelia - he hardly wants to, as disgusting as the prospect makes him feel - but this is a battle to him. Denial on all sides. Lobelia can never get what he want. The jewel shards of happiness shall be far beyond his reach, if he has anything to say about it.]
[He does lose footing briefly in the battle, though, the teeth biting into his lip makes him let out a little low noise of pain. It's followed by a heavy breath, and a return to stability - (his hand in Lobelia's hair trembles for a moment, trying not to focus on the hand on his thigh) - and he's gritting his teeth. He won't chase that stinging bite with a kiss. He simply sits there, chest heaving, and stares, with vivid eyes, as if trying to tell him there's nothing more to gain. In fact, he'll just say it, his voice a whisper.]
I won't give you what you want.
cw gore ment........... sighs
They're both human, aren't they? Yes, that's one of the things Lobelia loves so much about the prospect of this man's destruction: he'll crumble in a heap of pained, agonized sounds, and Lobelia will be there to record them all. No matter how strong he thinks himself to be, no one goes up against death and wins.
Still... exposing Vergilius' frail, human vulnerabilities leaves his own exposed in turn. A ruddy pink flush has settled on Lobelia's cheeks, and while the uptick of his heart is nothing unusual, this isn't the sort of excitement he's used to savoring. This mincing of flesh and bone, the tortured screams of a life cut short... those are the things that excite him, the things that make Lobelia happy, and yet he feels much the same now as he does when snuffing out a life with a snap of his fingers. Why?]
Vous semblez magnifique. Even your fervent desire to leave me unsatisfied stirs something in me regardless. Heh... Was that your intention all along?
[Doubtful. Lobelia won't let him ignore the hand at his thigh, fingertips spidering up further to seize into his hip, dig crescent nails into his flesh.]
I would so love to see you tomber en morceaux beneath my fingertips. If you don't destroy me first, the pleasure will be all mine.
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[(Vergilius vaguely recalls reading about some giant flower with a smell made explicitly to attract flies, and seeing the rush of blood to the other's cheeks, he almost has a brief moment where it feels like he catches a whiff of rotten meat.)]
[The nails into his hip are more easily parried with stoicism, though it does come with a mild jolt from the nails digging in. A sigh moves through his chest, exhausted, angry as anything.]
Destroy me? Dream on.
[A growled sort of answer - the hand in Lobelia's hair is withdrawing, like an anchor being pulled out of dark waters of a sea. His eyes are flickering. Something moves through his body - a shiver he hates to feel.]
It's like you won't even listen to me. I'll deny you at every turn.
[His hand snakes around to grasp around the other's neck - but for such a threatening gesture, its again gentle, not even squeezing.]
This is futile. Your path will lead you nowhere. Give up.
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Lobelia stares into those flickering eyes, his own unfathomably deep and dreadful to behold like a forest at night. It's not evident what he wants from Vergilius, not at a glance, but's clear Lobelia's arrived at some conclusion or another, made up his mind... but it's not as if he intends to leave Vergilius in the dark forever. When the time comes, he'll know what answer Lobelia has arrived at too.]
What a cruel man you are! And here I thought I'd found someone not too dissimilar to myself... someone au-delΓ de la rΓ©demption.
[His laughter buzzes against the hand at his throat, warmer for the contact, and his own lift to squeeze Vergilius' tight against his skin. With this, he's established a conduit between them, channeling his words not into the open air, but directly through the vibrations of his throat and into Vergilius' palms so he can feel the words Lobelia speaks echoing in his skull. All the while, Lobelia's lips remain poised in a smile.]
You're holding yourself back, Vergilius. If we're both bound for l'enfer, why hold yourself back? Sigh for me more! Let out your voix! Otherwise, you'll leave me with no choice but to tear it clean out of you... not that I would mind.
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[A warm, gentle voice. A voice like an embrace, in auditory form. Not quite mother, or sister, or daughter. Maybe all at once. A kindly voice.]
[A voice that wanted him to indulge, and distort, and dive deep into a well of self-satisfaction, with a thirst that could never be sated.]
[Lobelia's voice ringing in his head through his hands is nothing like that voice. And yet, its similar in its own way. While the voice from before offered self-love, a cowardly, pointless solution, this man offers a hand into a sort of hell that digs into the depths of his well of anger. He's been angry for a long time. Angry at the City, angry at the ones who took the one's he's loved away from him. Angry at...himself. He is his own worse enemy.]
[Angry at....Lobelia, of course. (Or is it still himself, in the end?)]
[There's the scent of blood, somehow. There's no visible wound. No one has pulled a weapon. But there's something that twists in the air, a sharp, metallic smell. Something shimmers in one of Vergilius's vibrant eyes, a different sort of red than the crimson iris.]
You really don't know what you're dealing with. Nobody can tear anything out of me. Not you or anyone. Only me.
[The pressure of his fingers still hovers - his thumb moves to press under the other's chin to push his head up, but still not strangling, still wrestling with hard, cold control.]
...You really are pathetic. You'll suffocate at the bottom of your hell without ever experiencing happiness.
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Is it his eyes, perhaps? Their brilliant red is a bit different, a bit off, though Lobelia is no less entranced by them. If he could only pluck them right out of his skull, wear them around his neck like good luck charms... oh, but if he did, Vergilius wouldn't be able to level him with those fierce, probing glares. What a shame that would be.
Lobelia's smile widens, at peace with the threat of violence pressing into his flesh, and continues speaking on a manner only Vergilius can hear.]
That sounds like a challenge, Vergilius. Perhaps you want to die? If happiness is long behind you, what reason do you have to remain here as a dead man walking?
[Another laugh, jovial and innocent.]
I will happily be your ange de la mort. After all, you'll be the one to make me happy no matter how much you refuse me.
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[The unmistakable trail of a drop of blood, like a mockery of a tear.]
...Because I have victory in my eyes.
[And he pulls back - the hand unlatches, and he's shaking his head, a low noise at the back of his throat. A little shudder, then breaking into ha-ha-ha-ha as a guttural, almost unnatural sound.]
[A laugh.]
I don't want to die. You understand me so little, Lobelia.
[The hand that was at his throat moves to brush through his own bangs, sliding them up and over his head. He tilts his head, mouth opening in a white streak of a smile.]
I have things on the horizon to focus on, even in my long walk through a hell of my own making. Do you? Or are you grasping for shadows, false angel?
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Sitting back, Lobelia straightens up, attention focused on the glint of that disconcerting smile. Oh no, oh dear, how sexy. Maybe he should fashion a necklace out of Vergilius' teeth to match his lucky eyeballs?]
Your words wound me, Vergilius! Do you really think me so incapable of pursuing that which I desire? I've spent the entirety of my life doing just that with much succès! Don't tell me those atroce eyes of yours haven't picked up on that fact.
[One killer can see through another's mask, can't they? Lobelia has met few who rival himself in terms of sheer destruction, but he wants to believe he's met his match in Vergilius. They call that love, don't they? How wonderful.]
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I think you'll fly to reach me. [His fingers move shut. Snap.] But your wings will fail you. They'll be snipped away from your own failure. I don't even have to lift a finger to do it.
[Of course, Lobelia isn't simply just some man dreaming of death and violence and destruction on his lonesome. With the way he acts, he has to have made it happen firsthand. A dreadful mirror, as loathe as Vergilius is willing to admit. No, they can't be the same. Lobelia indulges. He does not. He can't. He's in a sea of blood by his own making, and he's never felt a thing, has he? Of course not. Of course. It was always just a job.]
[Job after job after job after job after job after-]
You don't desire me. Not really. You've fooled yourself.
[...He doesn't know what it means to be desired. Not like that. It feels fake.]
Or perhaps you're the one you were referencing? Do you want to die, Lobelia?
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It's not too late, not even for a man like Vergilius, Lobelia thinks. Why not be a little more honest? Why not live a little? Vergilius is about due for a midlife crisis and a change of heart, isn't he?
Listening to the insults fly from his lips, Lobelia can only smile, only giggle, rubbing the flush from his cheeks as it spreads anew. Truly, he's never met someone as insufferable as Vergilius, but the idea of returning every ounce of pain to this man that he's inflicted upon him is too satisfying to ignore.]
Non! Don't be foolish, Vergilius! If I desired the release of death, I would be long gone, and yet here I stand. Maybe you desire to kill me...? La petite mort by your hand might gratify us both.
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[Oh, how Vergilius wishes that wasn't the case. It would make things easier. And yet parasites really do seem to want to cling on where they're not wanted.]
[He opens his mouth to retort something - (of course he wants to kill him, he's run through every little scenario he could think of in his frustration at not actually being able, damned these rules he doesn't want to play by - kicking the man's spine out his back like he did to that one Docent is the most recent little fantasy) - but the last statement makes him blink. And blink again.]
[He knows enough of the words to translate it, but the way he uses it, is...]
... [Now he's aiming a disgruntled look at him.] Are you being real with me right now?
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(verg voice) DICK IS *NOT* GOING TO FIX ANYTHING]no subject
Heh-hahaha! Don't look so surprised! Do you really think I would jest about such a thing?
[Sure, dick fixes nothing, but Lobelia doesn't want to be fixed. Why would he want that when he's perfectly fine just as he is?]
Are you that above a little stress relief? Or...
[Lobelia starts snickering again, considering another reason why Vergilius might refuse him.]
...Could it be that you're impotent? You are getting up there in years.
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I'm neither.
[His eyebrows are so furrowed they're almost blending in with each other, brow adding to the shadow above his eyes.]
Besides, big talk for someone who never even had anyone kiss him, before. You even had to steal your first kiss from me. How would you even survive one minute in the bedroom?
[That's RIGHT, VIRGIN. HE OVERHEARD THE NEVER HAVE I NEVER DEAL.]
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Heh! Hahaha! You jeer like a boy in a schoolyard!
[But Vergilius raises a proper point, probably. Lasting in bed... Right, he supposes that might be the sort of thing a man concerns themselves with, but Lobelia isn't a normal guy. He doesn't think he needs to explain that much to Vergilius, so he simply shrugs.]
Would it not be you putting on the performance? My stamina is of little concern in that case. Besides, the pursuit of plaisir is the point, is it not? Time spent in the act is unimportant by comparison.
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[He's moving to stand up from where he's sitting.]
I'm not talking about this with you. [A performance? Another attempt to rope him in, get him to play to Lobelia's wills and whims? His annoyance rankles, feeling like its coming off of him in waves.] The last thing I'll find pleasure with is with you.
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[Vergilius, you really need to watch your... everything around Lobelia. Getting angry? He likes that. Ignoring him? He'll fight to get his attention. In this constant tug of war over who has more control over the other, Lobelia hasn't the pride to resist bragging and boasting when he's the one on top.]
Besides, did I promise you a pleasurable experience? I would much rather listen to you cry out in pain, but I'll take what I can get! Je vais vous prendre tous.
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[After the other has finished speaking, Vergilius reaches over to the bottle of the drink they were pouring from, and tips it over the other's head.]
[He sneers.]
You can take your choix and choke on it.
[He knows the other will be pleased by the rejection, regardless. But at this point, his displeasure has to have an outlet. There's not much at his hands besides simply tearing the man into pieces and being done with it.]
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Rising from his chair, pulls something from his pocket β a single conch β and plays back the sound of Vergilius' latest failure: Choke on it. Choke on it. Choke on it.]
With pleasure.
[Tossing the conch at Vergilius, Lobelia turns his wrist, fingers poised to snap. Does Vergilius want to know what happens when he snaps his fingers? Does he know the difference between pleasure and pain?]
Laissez-moi vous apprendre.
[Snap. The sound of Lobelia's middle finger striking his palm cuts cleanly through the air, and along with it, a searing pain in Vergilius' legs. If he manages to remain upright, Lobelia will be impressed.]
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[Ah.]
[It said this much on his profile, didn't he? Of course, the conch is grabbed and tossed away in a blink, his speed augmented to horrifically inhuman proportions, but of course what comes next isn't a seen attack. The snap occurs.]
[Pain shoots into his legs, like a sword piercing through flesh.]
...........
[He's biting down on his lower lip with a shuddering, muffled exhale. Of course he can tolerate the pain, at least, for now. Aren't the scars crisscrossing his body evidence enough? Even when he was being sliced by the Purple Tear's attacks that day, he had barely uttered a noise.]
[Lobelia doesn't know what he's dealing with.]
[There's a snap and an unnatural crack that comes from the inside of his legs. Muscle fibers moving in place, thrumming with energy-]
[And its barely even a millisecond. Lobelia may feel the grasp of a hand over the front of his clothes before the lurch of movement at high speeds. The air rushes and roars in their ears before Vergilius lands and slams down the other directly into the sand, sending a rush of the stuff up in the air in a scattered mist. It's an impact that will smart, and smart hard, but its restrained enough not to break bone.]
[There's smoke wafting from the outside of his pants as he grits his teeth, staring down at the other under his grip. He almost looks like a ghoul, the angles of his face more evident in the shadow, eyes blazing trails in the air. His body is shaking. He still tries to resist the pain.]
Are you happy?
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