[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.]
[Oh... That crack. That's not what it sounds like when the muscles seize in a normal pair of human legs. Vergilius' legs have been augmented in some manner or another, haven't they? Tempted to take a look and find out for himself, Lobelia prepares to snap his fingers again and shred the flesh from his legs only to find himself slammed into the sand and grit, the air pressed out of his lungs in a startled, pained gasp.
What just happened? Just now, Vergilius moved incredibly fast, but Lobelia can't focus on piecing together the situation at hand when that sharp crack still rings in his ears. He can't even hear himself panting, laughing, elated when pain shoots up his spine and aches so badly that he's bitten his own lip bloody.]
Ah...!
[And then he hears it, an angry voice above all that cracking: Are you happy? Vision slowly swimming back into focus to blearily settle on the hellish glow of those red eyes. Has he died and gone to heaven? There's an angel bathing him in heavenly red light...]
Oui! I can feel happiness throughout my whole body...! I knew you would be the one to grant me peace, my petit ange de la mort!
[But this can't be the afterlife, can it? No, if it were, The Tower would be imparting his punishment upon him. Instead, it aches to destroy, Lobelia's pendant glowing blood red and oozing dread-inducing smoke. If the aching in his legs isn't enough to keep Vergilius grounded, perhaps the scent of unavoidable destruction and despair will.]
[He imagined his own end for some time. He practically saw it, when that power had come upon him, and made his eyes bleed with every sin he had made and would make with his own hands. It would be cold. Like sitting at the bottom of an ocean he would never be rescued from. It would be fitting. Karma, in its most excruciating form.]
[This is not cold.]
[This is not cold at all.]
[It feels like the fire of the Inferno.]
[It's a stifling, horrible feeling. Like one's flesh is being licked with flame and torn asunder, remade into something worse. As the pendant oozes, and the man's cackles alight in his ears like a cacophony of crows, Vergilius moves to straighten himself up to his full height, another trickle of blood blinking from his eye.]
...Call your thing off.
[He manages to breath, swallowing down air. Reminding himself that this place wants Lobelia, wants his blood, wants his power. That's something to hate more than the man writhing in rapturous joy below him. His legs are trembling. He still keeps standing. He has been through worse.]
[He really will tear this man apart if he doesn't settle down... and while he wouldn't mind that, killing Vergilius would mean parting with his happiness much too soon. Forcing himself to gulp down deep, steadying breaths, Lobelia tries to implore The Tower to calm down, but it isn't listening. Rather, it has demands of its own that Lobelia must answer to first.
Gazing up at his angel of death, Lobelia smiles. Through filmy breaths, he manages to calm himself long enough to chuckle out a response.]
If I do... What will you give me in exchange?
[Lobelia will meet the demands of The Tower as its pactbearer, but if his happiness must have an expiration date, he wants to squeeze as much juice out of it as he can. Just a little more...]
I'll let you leave, implore it to calm down, but not without incentive.
[Lobelia brings his fingers to his lips, ready to whistle and invite more harm upon Vergilius if he doesn't play nice.]
[Ah. There's something about all of this that sings with a sort of bitter familiarity, like an old string plucked to sing a note that never graced anyone's ears for some time. He stares at Lobelia for a moment, flushed and broken, gasping for more.]
I suppose you want your "dots" too, in a way.
[He murmurs under his breath, red gaze slitted between narrowed eyelids.]
[An infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that incident. This is a painting that immortalizes the carnage.]
[And then his voice had run out on that auction floor, as steady as anything.]
[I have something much more valuable. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. It's something of a counterfeit, produced only from someone's fading mind. However, what if I could complete it?]
[Of course, he really hadn't meant it. It was all just a plan to carry out. But the end of all that, with that man, that Jumsoon...]
[Well, he really did show him carnage, he supposes.]
[He moves to crouch down, even as the movement makes the pain spike all the more.]
[Vergilius reaches out with a hand to slide under the other's neck, pulling him upward. His own head bends in, now almost touching nose to nose, his breath hot over the other's mouth.]
I won't be so crass as to give you your one night stand. [A light huff exhales.] I'll simply give you another moment like this one. Take it or leave it.
[Has he ever known happiness like this? Vergilius wants to deny him the right, but it seems he can't help but indulge Lobelia without even intending to. It's blissful, the pain that sears through his body and throbs in his skull, and it's only a shame the rapid pulse of blood through his veins can't be recorded for posterity.
Lobelia doesn't want to forget the peerless bliss he's been shown by Vergilius, but even if the impact of this moment is doomed to dull over time, that won't dishearten him. There's much bliss Vergilius has left to give him, and whether he likes it or not, he's going to give it to him.
He expects this to be the end β fini β but then that angel descends. Vergilius could've left him like this, denied him anew, and yet he's chosen to descend into the inferno of his own volition. Tugged upward, Lobelia can only blink at him in surprise, but his answer to that question comes with the dissipation of that heavy black fog.
That ominous dread subsides, and while he could breach what little distance remains between them and claim his prize, he leaves the "honor" up to Vergilius. This was his decision, after all. The carrot he's dangled before his eyes. For once, it might not hurt to feel wanted, Lobelia thinks, even if what Vergilius offers him is a far cry from genuine affection.]
[The kiss had been stolen before. Here, it is given. It isn't a gift placed on a silver platter, though. It's like a prized item barely being wrested from the clenched hand of a fearsome statue that had been guarding it for centuries.]
[Not to say that kissing was some foreign affair, of course, but never had it been like this, so full of vitriol that he almost has the hope that somehow it will translate into something physical. As if it will drip out and burn the other's lips, tongue, and face to the point of no recognition. Ah, but this damned man, truly damned, this demon from hell, he'd just laugh the whole time, wouldn't he?]
[He could make it rough. Follow the other's lead, bite down, draw blood. A part of him wants to, like a wolf wanting to rough up a carcass.]
[Instead, the kiss he gives is almost tender. Almost. A restrained sort of thing, but soft all the same, even lingering a little as to leave an imprint of taste on the other's mouth. As Lobelia is thinking, there's no affection in it.]
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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.
no subject
[(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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[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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What just happened? Just now, Vergilius moved incredibly fast, but Lobelia can't focus on piecing together the situation at hand when that sharp crack still rings in his ears. He can't even hear himself panting, laughing, elated when pain shoots up his spine and aches so badly that he's bitten his own lip bloody.]
Ah...!
[And then he hears it, an angry voice above all that cracking: Are you happy? Vision slowly swimming back into focus to blearily settle on the hellish glow of those red eyes. Has he died and gone to heaven? There's an angel bathing him in heavenly red light...]
Oui! I can feel happiness throughout my whole body...! I knew you would be the one to grant me peace, my petit ange de la mort!
[But this can't be the afterlife, can it? No, if it were, The Tower would be imparting his punishment upon him. Instead, it aches to destroy, Lobelia's pendant glowing blood red and oozing dread-inducing smoke. If the aching in his legs isn't enough to keep Vergilius grounded, perhaps the scent of unavoidable destruction and despair will.]
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[This is not cold.]
[This is not cold at all.]
[It feels like the fire of the Inferno.]
[It's a stifling, horrible feeling. Like one's flesh is being licked with flame and torn asunder, remade into something worse. As the pendant oozes, and the man's cackles alight in his ears like a cacophony of crows, Vergilius moves to straighten himself up to his full height, another trickle of blood blinking from his eye.]
...Call your thing off.
[He manages to breath, swallowing down air. Reminding himself that this place wants Lobelia, wants his blood, wants his power. That's something to hate more than the man writhing in rapturous joy below him. His legs are trembling. He still keeps standing. He has been through worse.]
Let's call this a day.
[He's done. He's done with all of this.]
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Gazing up at his angel of death, Lobelia smiles. Through filmy breaths, he manages to calm himself long enough to chuckle out a response.]
If I do... What will you give me in exchange?
[Lobelia will meet the demands of The Tower as its pactbearer, but if his happiness must have an expiration date, he wants to squeeze as much juice out of it as he can. Just a little more...]
I'll let you leave, implore it to calm down, but not without incentive.
[Lobelia brings his fingers to his lips, ready to whistle and invite more harm upon Vergilius if he doesn't play nice.]
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I suppose you want your "dots" too, in a way.
[He murmurs under his breath, red gaze slitted between narrowed eyelids.]
[An infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that incident. This is a painting that immortalizes the carnage.]
[And then his voice had run out on that auction floor, as steady as anything.]
[I have something much more valuable. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. It's something of a counterfeit, produced only from someone's fading mind. However, what if I could complete it?]
[Of course, he really hadn't meant it. It was all just a plan to carry out. But the end of all that, with that man, that Jumsoon...]
[Well, he really did show him carnage, he supposes.]
[He moves to crouch down, even as the movement makes the pain spike all the more.]
[Vergilius reaches out with a hand to slide under the other's neck, pulling him upward. His own head bends in, now almost touching nose to nose, his breath hot over the other's mouth.]
I won't be so crass as to give you your one night stand. [A light huff exhales.] I'll simply give you another moment like this one. Take it or leave it.
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Lobelia doesn't want to forget the peerless bliss he's been shown by Vergilius, but even if the impact of this moment is doomed to dull over time, that won't dishearten him. There's much bliss Vergilius has left to give him, and whether he likes it or not, he's going to give it to him.
He expects this to be the end β fini β but then that angel descends. Vergilius could've left him like this, denied him anew, and yet he's chosen to descend into the inferno of his own volition. Tugged upward, Lobelia can only blink at him in surprise, but his answer to that question comes with the dissipation of that heavy black fog.
That ominous dread subsides, and while he could breach what little distance remains between them and claim his prize, he leaves the "honor" up to Vergilius. This was his decision, after all. The carrot he's dangled before his eyes. For once, it might not hurt to feel wanted, Lobelia thinks, even if what Vergilius offers him is a far cry from genuine affection.]
I'll take it, naturellement. Make it count.
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[Not to say that kissing was some foreign affair, of course, but never had it been like this, so full of vitriol that he almost has the hope that somehow it will translate into something physical. As if it will drip out and burn the other's lips, tongue, and face to the point of no recognition. Ah, but this damned man, truly damned, this demon from hell, he'd just laugh the whole time, wouldn't he?]
[He could make it rough. Follow the other's lead, bite down, draw blood. A part of him wants to, like a wolf wanting to rough up a carcass.]
[Instead, the kiss he gives is almost tender. Almost. A restrained sort of thing, but soft all the same, even lingering a little as to leave an imprint of taste on the other's mouth. As Lobelia is thinking, there's no affection in it.]
[The kiss of an angel of death.]
[As if it could be a promise.]
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