execution | and it's so easy when you're evil

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and it's so easy when you're evil

There’s the gurgle of wine as it flows from decanter to glass in a blood-red fall of the day’s bad decisions and Virus heaves a sigh of contemplation. There’s little time for rest even in Toue’s happy dystopia and some days Virus wishes that he can just have a little more time with Aoba-san lately. But no—it’s Trip’s turn tonight even if the evening’s winding down and in the windowless corner of his room Herrscher keeps himself in a thick coil, glassy blue eyes peering from lids half-closed, recumbent in sleep mode and awaiting his master’s whims as usual.

And Virus had precious little. The day exhausted him, and now he’d only just kicked off his shoes instead of placing them to the side like usual, and his suit jacket lay sprawled across his bed—tossed over there without its master’s usual care, the pink Morphine pin glinting under the wan light of his room.

He stares into the bottom of his glass, as if to divine from its vintage the means by which he can…alleviate his boredom. Then he hears footsteps—a shuffling, a click—and he takes a fortifying sip of Bordeaux and lets the bottom of his glass clink against the table louder than usual.

“You didn’t knock again.”

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He leaves their prize under Welter’s watchful eye, nestled against the lion’s dark-furred side almost like a cub with his father, rough tongue bathing Aoba’s body of the evening’s depravities. It’s hardly a kindness, given that whenever Aoba comes to again he’ll no doubt react in terror of the Allmate as he always does, but Welter wants to and Trip has no reason to forbid it. Still, all things considered, the night wasn’t as fun as it could have been, and he naturally gravitates towards Virus’s room afterwards.

After he’s opened the door, he meets the other man’s remark with as bland a look as ever, neither surprised nor offended, nor anything much at all really. Trip stands in the doorway for a moment, looking as unruffled and orderly as he ever does, with only certain scents of Aoba’s clinging to him to give away the vices he was practicing just minutes ago.

He flips a hand back at the door, briefly rapping the backs of his knuckles there, two sharp sounds in the dull quiet of Virus’s curtained room. “‘Scuse me for intruding,” he drawls, unapologetic, and already striding further into the room before he’s even finished the words.

But if he’s here early, it’s either he’s gotten bored for some odd reason or…

“Dealing roughly with him again?” A beat, and he doesn’t even want to think of how closely that Allmate of Trip’s can sometimes resemble a real lion, right down to, perhaps, those several Newtons of force of its muscles when taking down prey… “Never mind, I don’t want to know.” And he doesn’t even bother sparing Trip a look, though he can consider himself mildly surprised and even a little elated that his partner of sorts has dropped by.

Virus can’t hear the noises coming from Trip’s room after all—he’s made sure of it, made very clear boundaries to that effect, and said boundaries are at the moment being blatantly disregarded. And he’s too dispassionate to care, opting instead to lean back against his cough with another sip and sigh, watching the world around him blur at the edges just a tad.

Yep, he’s still bored.

Virus may not want to know but that’s not going to stop Trip from speaking if he feels like it. He crosses the room and drops gracelessly onto the other half of the small couch, kicking a booted foot up against the edge of Virus’s little glass table.

“He’s fine for your turn tomorrow,” he replies, but of course it’s an indifferent remark rather than intended as actual reassurance. They are equal in their possession of Aoba. No insecurity, no attempt at monopoly. Between the two of them, it’s just a topic of conversation.

As from the moment that they met, he’s gravitated to Virus’s side simply because he can. Not friends, not family, not lovers. Just complimentary.

“He just didn’t last as long as usual.” And it’s a little disappointing, but understandable too. Aoba hasn’t yet broken down all the way towards them. He can rest for the rest of tonight, and Virus will play more with him tomorrow.

They aren’t anything to each other, though Trip does still manage to annoy him, however inconsequential all those are in the grand scheme of things. For instance, his eye twitches as foot meets table and that thing is delicate in a way that Trip will probably never understand.

But it’s also replaceable in a way that Aoba-san isn’t, but he decides not to pursue the argument when Trip reassures him that all is well. For the most part. Though at least this means that he can feel a little more justified in pushing Aoba further the next day, and certain terrible plans begin to churn lazily in his brain as he empties his glass.

“And you have nothing better to do.” But to come here, apparently, but Trip can amuse himself if he so pleases, thanks. Not that Virus is particularly opposed to any kind of entertainment at this point, though he won’t even offer the other so much as a glass of wine for the evening. It’s still too early for bed, and…and…

He gets up, loosening his tie. “Do as you like, then.” But he’ll move over to his discarded jacket and at least try to set his room to rights in the meantime.

It’s not like Trip expects to be accommodated or entertained, either. He comes to Virus’s room at some point every day because it’s what he does. He’s the dog following the master that tolerates his presence and that’s just fine. “Fine” might not even be the word for it because that implies a sense of contentment, or needs being met.

Indeed, he’s just doing as he likes, and Virus lets him.

He stretches one arm over the back of the couch, propping his other elbow on the armrest and resting his chin on folded knuckles, making himself comfortable for the moment as he watches the other man drift around the room because he’s there to be watched. He watches Herrscher for a little while too for the same reason, because the dozing serpent is there in the corner to be considered, and then his attention meanders back to Virus again.

Then, to that bottle of wine left in its tilted rack upon the table. Virus told him to do as he likes, but it’s not like Trip needs his permission. He leans forward, grabs the neck of the bottle in hand, and leans back with it while dragging the cork out with just his fingers. It’s less a dexterous thing, more brute force, given the indelicacy of those large hands of his.

Bottle to mouth, and he takes a swig. If Virus has a problem with it, he can always get a new bottle later, or dump the rest of it over Aoba.

Hm.

“Are you bored?” He can’t really tell, to be honest. It’s just more conversation for the moment. Maybe a little consideration. Trip is. He’s not annoyed with Aoba’s weakness tonight, but it does leave a man feeling unsatisfied.

He’s mostly housebroken; Virus can live with that. That question comes inching into his thoughts as he folds up his jacket and well it’s…unsurprising. Aoba-san finishing early and all, there’s little else for them to do and since Toue’s subjugated all of Midorijima it’s not as if they can just take a stroll in the seedier places and beat people up on the pretext of clearing the riffraff on behalf of the yakuza. Toue’s having his fun, surely, and there may be a time when Virus might consider trying to oppose him but—eh.

They have Aoba-san, even if Virus hasn’t much of a chance at him tonight.

Dolls break too easily.

“Are you?” he counters, still not turning around, not even acknowledging his vintage being so glibly imbibed. He doesn’t care for the answer in the end—not when Trip’s perfectly capable of his own personal entertainment, but it’s…something to do too, anyway, even as he puts his clothing away and considers turning in early, maybe to usher in his turn with Aoba just a tad sooner. He’s not tired per se, not with so much energy left in him to burn off but no real fun way to expend them in.

Then his fingers snag into the knot of his tie and he stares back at Herrscher, as if his Allmate is the only other occupant in the room. It’s late, of course, but Toue’s a firm believer in all manner of interesting vices. Surely there’s a fairly decent brothel nearby, but he’s not entirely keen on the idea either. They’re all just…vapid, empty shells, subject only to the whims of a lucky few who hadn’t been relieved of their free will.

Being a drone could be worse. Being a drone certainly must be boring. At least Aoba-san still retains an element of the unpredictable about him, even if he’s well on his way to losing what little of himself he can keep on clinging on to.

He sits on the edge of his bed, his tie loose and dangling from either side of his neck as he bids his Allmate to come over with every intention of opening up a directory of various entertainment facilities around the island for some kind of inspiration.

Trip mulls it over idly, perhaps if he woke Aoba and brought him over here, between the two of them working on him again it would be more fun…but then again, he can’t really be bothered to fetch him right now. Might as well let their prize have the respite of a shorter night, knowing full well Virus won’t go any easier on him tomorrow.

He’s not even envious at the thought. His turn will come around again as always, unless it’s a night they decide to work on him together. That just won’t be tonight is all. But at the same time, he feels like he didn’t do as much as he wanted to this night, and just taking care of himself is boring compared to all the other depravities he could engage in instead.

Taking another mouthful of the wine, he looks at Virus and notes the tie draped over his neck, randomly reminded of the collar and chain he had made for Aoba. Of course he has no interest in putting such a thing on Virus, not when Aoba is their pet and their love and their plaything, but…maybe leaving the near-broken man out of the middle of things could still be fun? Compared to feeling frustrated at nothing at all, anyway. It wasn’t hard to be more fun than nothing.

Whatever Virus’s magnetism is that drew Trip in, it’s nothing so plain as physical or emotional. They love Aoba and nobody else, least of all each other. But even if they don’t go out of the way to touch each other more than what already happens as a consequence of having Aoba between them on certain nights, it’s not like the thought of Virus’s body repulses him. It doesn’t do anything at all. Except provide a thought of something.

“Yeah. Can’t even think of anything to do but you.”

It leaves his mouth as blandly as any other remark he could make, and why not? It’s not as if he’s the kind of guy that would feel ashamed or worry about being judged for making a comment like that out of the blue. He just sits there on the couch, drinking Virus’s alcohol, and says what’s on his mind.

That bored, huh? “You’re not making a mess in here.”

It’s only Aoba’s he cares to clean up, anyway. But he dismisses the map Herrscher had pulled up, fully aware that Trip is painfully sober despite all that alcohol he’d ingested. Only the sober can ever be bored.

He’ll always have a certain preference for Aoba-san, will always only tolerate Trip in comparison, but he’s begun to consider the alternative to a pretty boring evening. The thought doesn’t repulse him, doesn’t even annoy him and they already know each other quite well, besides—or at least, certain of their bedroom habits, especially those that had come to light whenever they shared Aoba on a single night. It’s…enough.

But he bids Herrscher to give them some room, and the Allmate obediently returns to its corner, leaving Virus with a neatened bed that’s still smelling in some way of Aoba and perhaps certain other interesting substances Virus had smothered him with at some point during the previous nights.

Whatever the case, it’s as close to an invitation as Trip can get. Just an empty bed with him on it, with no sense of anticipation other than that side of him that would crave some form of depraved respite before he meets another day.

Blink and you’ll miss it, but Trip’s caught by surprise. It’s in the little pause before the next mouth of wine he takes and a little sharpening of interest in his otherwise bored gaze. So maybe he expected Virus would brush the idea off. No matter if he did, it was just an idle flight of fancy given nothing else to do.

But instead, Herrscher is sent aside, and alone there on the bed Virus actually looks…not expectant, certainly not eager but…perhaps ‘open’ is the word. Not willing, as that implied positive emotion, and not resigned, as that implied negative emotion, so just…open. Bored enough to be open.

Huh.

Trip shoves the cork back down the neck of the wine bottle and sets it back into its rack—a poor combination of manners given how he chose to imbibe of it, but too late now. Still, it counts as a token display of cleaning up after himself, almost like an extended olive branch, except it’s not like he really cares if his mannerisms offend Virus.

(Except, he does. There’s nothing he likes about Virus, but the other man is still something white in a world of mud, and Trip’s followed him for years now.)

He pushes himself up from the couch and crosses the room, not shy, not hesitating. Trip took off his vest, tie, and suspenders while he was working with Aoba, so outside of a few of his topmost shirt buttons being undone, he’s still mostly dressed. The bedsprings creak under his plaid-patterned knees as he lets himself up on Virus’s canopied bed, his outward impression one of confident dominance.

(Co-dominance? How the fuck is this fuck even going to work. What a pain that he’s too unsated to ignore it and too used to other things to get off on his own.)

But he puts his hands to Virus’s shirt buttons anyway, straight down to business. It’s in his head that he’s got to get Virus off, too, and maybe he’s more interested than he’s letting on in sex with someone who doesn’t need to be broken in to depravity like Aoba does. Hey, it’s different. Maybe fun. Or maybe not. Either way, they’ll find out.

“Yeah, yeah, no mess.” It’s not like he wants to give Virus the kind of aftercare he gives Aoba, either.

What he really needs is to install Flappy Bird on the fucking robot snake from now on is what. Taking turns is hard.

And Virus had been in the process of removing his tie when he felt the mattress sink under the other’s weight and he’d barely even glanced in Trip’s direction even then. He lets go of that end of his tie—still hanging from his neck like it’s giving Trip the most polite raspberry in the world—and lays a hand on one of Trip’s wrists with something like a frown and something that might have even been resignation, but there’s plenty of warning there too. He still doesn’t feel altogether repulsed by this—doesn’t feel anything at all save, strictly, for the rising bubbles of heat effervescing on his skin where Trip ganders a touch with his fingers but there’s…something like a strange mix of emotions about him too.

Something that’s almost like affection for that stray dog he’d somehow just accepted into his life, but it’s really closer in definition to an enemy that isn’t worth the trouble to kill.

He’s sure it won’t feel as nice as it does with more than a lifetime of sickly-sweet love for the true object of his affections. With Aoba-san it has always been different, but he guesses that—with things as they are and with there being the chance that he might dislike whatever whore he would have ended up with—Trip will do just as well. At least he’s something, even if Virus can afford to be mildly amused at the surprise the other feels. It’s not as if he really minds in the end, it’s more like…he doesn’t mind him. At all.

Let’s be real he’d probably take any grievances he had with Trip out on Aoba anyway, so the former is perhaps in the safest position currently, at least in proximity to Virus.

“Just get on with it,” he says without feeling, even if his eyes are…curiously wide, wondering what will happen next, what doing it with Trip will be like and there might’ve even be a spark of interest in those tampered eyes of his. How awful can they be to each other in one night, anyway? Especially without Virus putting on his usual charms for Trip as he would for Aoba-san.

He pauses when Virus touches his wrist, attentive. Talk about something he (Trip, that is) wouldn’t do with Aoba. When he’s with their broken treasure, what he wants, he takes. If he seems to listen to any of Aoba’s pleas, it’s because they coincidentally coincide with his own desires at the moment. But for Virus? A cautionary gesture, and Trip waits to see what the older man means by it.

“Just get on with it.”

…And Virus thinks he’s doing what right now, exactly? Their Toue-given eyes are the only thing truly identical about them, and Trip meets that stare unblinkingly. It’s not questioning, however, nor is it challenging. He’s focused, intent on doing what he’s being allowed to do, and simply ascertaining that permission is still in place.

Oh what their sweet little Aoba wouldn’t give for even an ounce of such control over Trip’s intentions.

Blandly: “Then don’t interrupt me.”

But it’s not like he needs consent so much that he’s just going to sit and do nothing until Virus gives it. Trip shakes off the other man’s hand, a distracted flick of a gesture like shooing away a fly, making his way down the last of the buttons. Businesslike, he doesn’t linger with the little motions, but his hands aren’t rough either, not even when he grabs the sides of Virus’s shirt to pull the cloth up and out from his beltline, untucking it before moving on to the belt itself. The metal clinks softly as he undoes the buckle, reminding him of other things.

“…And don’t take your tie off.”

Order? Suggestion? Neither of those things, of course. Statement, conversation. You look bored, Virus. Maybe a little induced asphyxia will imitate a pleasant enough rush for you.

Dallying. He’s dallying. Or tripping. But not stalling, not worrying—he knows what Trip is capable of, knows with perhaps the closest thing he can muster to trust that Trip wouldn’t go quite so far with him. Virus is not as fun as Aoba, for starters.

And he is also not as helpless, which is why he refrains from making so much as an eyeroll at that comment, for whatever passes for sass in Trip’s case. This whole thing would be almost pathetic if they both gave half a damn about it but…it’s refreshing too. Definitely not as fun as doing it with Aoba because that entails real desire—but it’s a good enough of a cheap thrill in its own way.

Virus considers dragging his legs up on the bed and decides against it—Trip is in the way. And when his hand had been swatted free he merely put it to his tie instead, freezing in the act of dragging it off him. Trip would go for his belt but insist on the tie? Fine. Virus can imagine just why Trip would bother with such a request, and he finds that he doesn’t mind it either. There might’ve been a smidgen of interest to it, too—to see if his theories turn out right.

He nudges his glasses up instead, annoyed to find his face heating up into the bargain and he peers through them at Trip and watches him work and decides to rest his hand on the other’s arm instead, fingers clinging to a shirtsleeve though he won’t even bother to help with unbuckling his belt. It’s Trip’s own fun and while he isn’t particularly fond of the guy, he’s…not entirely keen on telling him to stop. That would be boring.

He’s still bored, for all the little surprises Trip has pulled on him—for how far they’re going and for how Virus can’t really bring himself to put an end to all of this. He thinks he should, out of principle, but with Trip being nothing to him and any sort of prudishness borne out of silly virginal ideals mean less than that even to him. This just is, in the same way that the sun rises and sets and that Fate’s wheels turn ever erratically—inefficiently, unlike a mind unoccupied by equally silly things like morality.

With his other hand he reaches forward to undo the rest of Trip’s shirt buttons, swiveling his legs around until otherwise interrupted by the edge of the bed to allow Trip further access and he pops button after button free, eyes slitting like a drowsy snake but that’s never quite how he feels.

And anyway, snakes appearing at their most harmless are often dangerous.

Oh, animal metaphors, is it? Trip might not appreciate them, if he cared about much to begin with. How the male lion is a creature of brute force, its lifestyle reliant on the lionesses it ostensibly protects. After all, Virus doesn’t need him and certainly doesn’t want him around. It just so happens theirs is a hateless, complimentary partnership.

No one needs to point out that it’s Trip and Trip only that changed so much to fit into a place near Virus’s side, now, do we?

He finishes undoing Virus’s belt, pulls its ends open, but leaves it dangling from the beltloops like an afterthought. Trip doesn’t need to get the other man all the way stripped, just expose aspects enough for him to work with. It seems appropriate, too, to start to play about at the very edge of the bed like this. It’s not really a place where he has a place, without Aoba giving him reason to be there, and that’s just how it is. Granted, you could blame Aoba some for him being here now as well…but the edge of the bed is fine. The edge of reason, the edge of the mattress. It’s fine.

Of course, a funny thing about “fun” is, you have to care a little in order to have it. A smile starts to touch the edge of his mouth, not For Virus, but because the little sensations of buttons being undone appeal to tense but unsatisfied nerves, and this will be a simple thrill if it’s one at all, but hey, he’ll take it.

He doesn’t expect Virus to help him along, either, so he takes a moment to unbuckle his own belt, then puts a palm to the other man’s exposed stomach. Trip slides his hand up the center line of that torso and pushes with the same gesture, to get Virus reclining. Doesn’t need to risk him falling over if he passes out. That’ll be a nuisance.

And no one ever asked Virus if he’d been okay with it to begin with. A guy stealing his look like that…he supposes he could’ve been more resentful about it. Might’ve even deigned to feel as much, but theirs has always been a curious kind of bond. A stray dog he doesn’t really want, a master the other doesn’t really need—and Virus finds himself in the odd position of looking up at Trip—not as a concession to his height (and how Trip had grown, from being that rambunctious little shrimp from their childhood), but as…as…

Not as equals, nor even as lovers. Friends, partners, or what have you. But something’s there and it sends a cold shudder deep into the pits of his soul where he thought no mere emotion ever dared to tread.

Is it fondness? Loathing? Resignation?

Virus complies, eyes to his work still, hand sliding down Trip’s arm and the other braces himself against the bed, and half-reclining, Virus registers the heat following the pressure of Trip’s palm. Even that smile perturbs him, for Virus can only know so much about that hollow shell he’s shared so much of his life with, albeit with Trip ever only at the fringes of it—at the edge of things, just within view but never too close. Never too far. The back of his skull knocks gently against the wall above the headboard and he grunts, ass to pillow and had he been more of the playful type he would’ve flung one in Trip’s face.

He might’ve, if he were with Aoba instead, but there’s no comparing. Trip is only taking up space, though not plenty enough for it to matter, and the bulk of him seems far closer now. But Virus doesn’t feel like reaching out, like reciprocating, neither does he feel like just taking whatever it is Trip dishes out at him, heaven forbid. So, with some odd form of compromise he drags a hand across his own bared chest, over the lapels of his shirt and snatches at his tie…slipping it off and letting it fall to the floor in a whisper of silk.

And then he smiles back.

And speaking of nuisances, Trip’s smile goes away with the appearance of Virus’s, or more specifically at the deliberate removal and drop of the tie. The younger man pauses entirely to watch it go, head turning downwards to regard the vibrantly plaid silk. It mocks him from a haphazard squiggle upon the monochrome floor, like a snakeskin Herrscher cast aside for being far too garish.

Anyone but Trip could be perturbed, even piqued. From anyone but Virus, it could be a rebellious kind of action, made in defiance of Trip’s words before. If either of them cared, it could even be a play of power, establishing who bends to the other’s whims more.

Between the two of them, well. Trip’s still staring down at the tie anyway, deciding what to do about it. Would a prideful man be insulted by an apparent slight? Would a milder one feel rebuked?

But he is just Trip and he decides what he decides because it is, ultimately, what he chooses to do. He slips off the bed and retrieves the tie because he wants it and has been told to do as he wishes. This little thing doesn’t stop him. It just makes him move a bit.

Just a moment’s fetching, crouching beside the bed to claim the length of silk in hand, and then he stands to return to it. This time, when he climbs onto it, he crawls over Virus as well and straddles his lap after shoving the other man’s thighs closer together again. Given his greater height and bulk, it’s neither the more comfortable nor the more logical position, but that’s exactly the point. He doesn’t want to be between Virus’s legs, nor does he want the other man between his.

With the tie still tangled between the fingers of one hand, he leans forward, palms spread over Virus’s chest. Soft silk, rough calluses, and he lets a deliberate portion of his weight fall forward with him, doing nothing more than pressing air from the other man’s lungs and limiting the space Virus has to replace it.

He’s smiling again, too. Just his usual smile, utterly without malice or offense. The fun’s starting.

That actually catches him by surprise, a pale blue gaze flickering for a moment before they narrow and he makes a little scoff of annoyance at something like a very large, unruly kitten suddenly claim his lap. And let’s be real that’s pretty much what Trip is, anyway, dog metaphors aside.

“You—” he begins, the rest cutting off as Trip presses in and he catches too little of his breath than he should have.

So the game’s still on. Huh. He’s not even sure if doing it with Trip really counts in the definition of fun but now that they’re here, he’s got nothing better to do than to see it through.

So he exhales, puffing out his chest so Trip can feel it for himself. Then he draws in another breath, eyes steady on the other’s, his elbow grinding against the headboard, a hand grasping at a pillow beneath them. Herrscher observes all this idly from his little corner, watching them impassively and its reptilian circuits once again long for its usual toy. Unlike its master, it would have no fun tonight.

Well Trip had got on it. Literally. And Virus would have been impressed, if he’d hated Trip or liked him or…anything at all, really, but other than that mild surprise he’s merely curious, wondering at his antics next, with or without some extra prodding from himself. The warmth at his nether regions feel stifling, a slow burn snaking its way through his thighs from the weight of the other and not for the first time in his life, he sees just how much of a bulk the other has.

Trip could crush him, if he’d had half a mind to. That’s what’s so useful about him.

Another exhale and his smile threatens to come back and tug at his lips, some unnatural feeling of mirth rising up from within him (or possibly squeezed out, who even knows), and he quirks an eyebrow at Trip. What next?

It’s…different, to bring the potential threat of his strength and size to bear and not be looked at with apprehension. Naturally, one of the potential outcomes of working Aoba so hard is for their little plaything to embrave his own depravity once again and then truly enjoy everything they do, but he’s not there yet, not close. Thus, to be given such an unbothered look as Virus’s is, is quite different, stirring a whole different set of…hindbrain instincts, or whatever it that drives them in the absence of emotion.

The chest that swells and breathes under his hands isn’t Aoba’s, but it’s not unpleasant. He still appreciates the warm, the feel of ribs and lungs straining under the limits he’s imposed. Dare we say, haha, a power trip?

He slides his tie-tangled hand higher up, to Virus’s throat. His thumb runs over column of ridges he can feel just under the skin at front, while the rest of his fingers stretch over the side of Virus’s neck, testing the line of his pulse, and exploring the soft place under his left ear. There’s no real pressure behind his hand just yet, but there’s no mistaking his ultimate intentions, either.

But not quite yet. This little introductory touch made, he pulls his hand back down to rest his palm over Virus’s collarbone for the moment, and leans all the way forward. Even more of his weight goes onto his hands as he clamps his mouth over the side of Virus’s throat, not a true bite but still a hard pressure of lips and teeth and tongue, as if he might taste the way breath and pulse change under the burden he imposes.

It dawns on Virus like sobriety itself—that he might possibly feel something about their relationship, even if it’s only some form of enjoyment. He doesn’t understand Trip and he doesn’t really care to; to entertain the notion that this tryst would somehow be a sort of bonding moment for the both of them would be laughable.

But Virus doesn’t flinch—wouldn’t even if Trip were playing at some dominance game with him. There’s no point in hurting each other because there’s nothing to hurt, but for all that they lavish their deepest affections on Aoba a bond still remains, however…tenuous. Curious, even.

His skin tingles and Trip’s teeth sinks not unpleasantly against his throat, warmth blossoming there too, though it’s only ever a purely physical sensation, and Virus turns his head around to regard Trip as idly as he would when confronted with a tie he doesn’t remember buying. It’s just there, a solid fact of life that he doesn’t really care to drive away, because there’s no point to it.

Except he’s not wearing that metaphorical tie now, it’s closing around his throat like a noose but one he likewise doesn’t mind suffering through. Because it isn’t suffering when it alleviates some boredom and there’s never been anything there to begin with.

Is there?

With no Aoba as an outlet for his usual chatter Virus finds himself eerily silent, only punctuating it with a breath here or a sigh there or, as Trip presses more fully against him, the beginnings of a moan. Purely physical. He doesn’t care if Trip thinks otherwise, too.

His skin still tingles from where Trip has…caressed is probably too strong a word but it’ll do—so Trip has caressed his neck and jaw. And Virus reaches up, fingering at the shell of Trip’s ear, feeling the weight of the earring against the pads of his fingers, knowing that they feel equally as heavy dangling from his own. They had been a mere fashion choice, much like his glasses and his hair and the plaid of his suits, but Trip had gone so far…it’s not like he hasn’t noticed. It’s still vexing that he does notice anyway.

Maybe talking about his favorite subject would help. “We should get Aoba-san a pair of these.” To match.

And he still has room to talk. Of course he would. As if Virus would be flustered by something as ordinary as compressed lung space.

A simple tingle goes down his nape at the touch of the other’s fingers, nothing to write home about, but pleasant enough. The vibrations from Virus’s speech fill his mouth and he grunts, curiosity only a little indulged as he pulls his lips back.

“His ears aren’t pierced,” he points out, an easy and natural response as if he isn’t performing a kind of brief, indifferent foreplay in the meanwhile. He untangles the tie from his fingers and loops it back around Virus’s throat, against skin directly rather than over his shirt collar. Trip’s fingers actually fumble it a little, since he’s doing the knot up in reverse to how he usually would (which is to say, on himself instead of another person), but he figures it out without undue trouble.

“But that’s easy to do ourselves.” Just a little needle, ear piercing is no big deal. It’s not a bad idea. Earrings would look nice on him. Especially against the contrast of wearing nothing else at all.

No reason to be jealous or bothered by speaking of Aoba in the middle of all this, is there? Of course not. They’re equidistant. Aoba fits comfortably between them. Trip feels the lack of him between them now, but this is just a distraction from boredom, nothing to have to get used to.

He pulls the knot up the tie a few degrees further than proper tie-knots should go with one hand, replacing the compression of Virus’s chest with a different kind, freeing his other hand to go between their groins and finish undoing their flies. He’s hard enough to matter and the pressure is an irritant. Then comes pulling Virus out of his pants, assessing the state of him.

It’s certainly not the first time he’s seen or felt Virus’s cock in some fashion, but it’s a first for holding it so directly. Not that it makes it a monumental occurrence. They’re just helping each other out because they decided to.

He’s talked his way out of worse things, Zan, and he can talk anyone’s ear off without necessarily having to tear them away. Maybe you can learn a thing or two from that.

Some would deem it an affectionate gesture even, when Virus had reached for his ear, but it’s only idle fancy, like everything else about this otherwise bizarre situation. A first time for seeing each other up close without Aoba in between, a first for touching and feeling and even tasting each other and still, Virus feels none of that passionate spark he’d so freely endowed on Aoba. Which is just as well.

His response stays trapped in his lungs this time around, and ah, there it is, the start of Trip’s little game that Virus had nearly wanted to foil for the simple pleasure of it. After all, it’s not as if he’d sent his tie for Herrscher to spirit away. Instead he tries taking in another breath, stubbornly refusing to simply nod his assent to Trip’s own, ducking his head low instinctively, to loosen up the base of his throat from the encroaching suffocation.

Honestly, the things Trip comes up with.

And he comes up hard—enough to count, anyway. Anything else will require a bit more prodding from both parties, which is…achievable enough even without the shared hole of Aoba’s ass to bring them together, right? His thighs feel uncomfortably sticky underneath his slacks and a rush of cool air greets his own cock and he’s even surprised—not for Trip’s actions, but for the fact that he hasn’t…felt this cold in a while. Has his room’s temperature always been that way? He’ll have to get Herrscher to pull up some records for him.

In the meantime, his legs tense up and his hands brace themselves against Trip’s shoulders for support—nothing more. He even allows himself a bored look at their exposed members, but raises no comment—wouldn’t have anyway, if he’d had the breath for it, and it’s just as well. He’s heard something about breathplay giving quite a rush to the recipient, and he supposes Aoba’s enjoyed it to some extent when Virus had made his foray into the kink, but for the most part…it still feels weird to be on the receiving end. For a given definition of “receiving,” anyway.

There’s all number of reasons he likes to play this way with Aoba. It’s fun to frighten him, fun to pleasure him, fun to exert control over him but at the same time never doing harm with it. (None of the physical kind, anyway. His emotional damages speak very much otherwise.) Aoba doesn’t trust him, but it’s a trust game, anyway. The very breath that keeps him alive comes and goes at Trip’s whims, but if there is one thing Trip has never done to their unwilling lover, that would be intentionally endangering his life.

Trip hardly has half as many motivations to play the same little game on Virus here. He doesn’t need to prove that he wouldn’t hurt him because that’s already a given, who cares? It’s not about control, because he has none, and it’s not about pain because he has no reason to cause it.

So why, then? Habit? Because he couldn’t play with Aoba as much as he wanted and Virus is permitting it instead? He doesn’t spare it any thought. His prehistoric hindbrain dictates what he wants here. (As the first wolf that recognized its first master in ancient man.)

He edges forward on Virus’s lap, pushing his hips closer to the other’s and taking them both in hand together. His hand might not be Aoba’s asshole but it’ll serve similar purpose well enough as he palms at the heads of their cocks together, encouraging precum to take the place of wine or icing or whatever the hell they decide to lubricate Aoba with on any given night.

Meanwhile his eyes are on Virus’s face, attentive to the flushes of color on the other man’s face and lips. “Take shallow breaths. You’re not supposed to pass out.”

Always the snarky one, our Trip, but he’s not unaware that receiving anything is not on the usual agenda for either of them. If Virus goes and faints on him, then where would he be? In the middle of a whole lot of nuisance, that’s what. So, better to remind the other man of the safe way to relieve their boredom this way. That’s all it is. Preferring to maintain a longstanding status quo is not the same as concern.

Of course it isn’t.

But it’s a game still, and they’re playing by some unspoken rules that are nevertheless there not to maintain the spirit of sportsmanship or even to keep the other, but merely to make things a little less boring. And Virus has placed his dick in far rougher places than Trip’s hands anyway.

He grunts—and that’s the only concession he’ll make to Trip’s oh so helpful advice. He’s already conserving his breath and his energies for the task at hand, his body responding to those idle ministrations even if his mind is on elsewhere. Nowhere particularly interesting, mind, though his thoughts do wander toward the earrings again.

Or maybe they’re dog tags, or markers—like those collars Toue had put on them ages ago. A mark of ownership, because like it or not he does have a part of Trip that he can call his own. As…a partner or something. It’s never really something he’s thought much about—he’s never really considered a lot of things in the nature of their relationship, and some unexpected physical intimacy shouldn’t have brought those idle thoughts to the fore. They’re still nothing, Trip’s still nothing, and his body’s stirrings are mere physical ones but…what if he cracks? What if there’s something human left in them after all?

Ha. Now there’s a sigh that sounds suspiciously like laughter, and even Virus doesn’t know where it came from. But he’s not going to waste time being perplexed about it, either. It’s happened because he’s given too much time to think and that means Trip hasn’t been entertaining enough.

He doesn’t play mind games with Trip. He doesn’t even know the guy well enough for that, even if he’d half a mind to. Even if he’s being strangled and Trip weighs heavily against him and his muscles begin to complain, his bones creak, and somewhere in the deep, cavernous maw of his mind the spark of something that threatens to be anything other than indifference begins its ponderous crawl out into the light.

Better nip that one in the bud.

Just a grunt and a sigh from the other, not that Trip expected much more than that in the first place. Fine, whatever…except maybe he feels a little cheated. Which is a stupid little twinge to have and he dismisses it automatically. If he wants to hear Virus hyperventilate he just needs to push him further, and that’s only because the fun in this case is two-sided. Trip doesn’t want to dominate Virus the way he would Aoba, because that kind of care belongs to Aoba. What that leaves for Virus is the more simple entertainment of making him come.

Trip is hot, hard, and swollen, his fingers growing a little more slippery as he spreads himself (and perhaps Virus too) up and down their shafts. Physical excitement rises and along with it, body heat, even if he’s hardly exerting himself yet. Virus’s hands on his shoulders are neither hot nor cold but he leans against their bracing pressure without giving it any real thought. Rather, he’s leaning in again because he’s plotting out how he wants to proceed.

The noose around Virus’s neck tightens another degree as Trip lifts the longer of its two trailing ends to his mouth and takes it in his teeth, leaning back again to keep it good and taut. It puts something like half a snarl on his lips, curling away from the cloth like a dog with a tattered chewtoy. Briefly freed, that hand touches Virus’s throat again, fingertips assessing pulse and breath, even briefly appreciating the way the tightness of the tie compresses skin and flesh.

Virus still has room to breathe, though he has to work for it.

Then something else takes Trip’s notice and he raises his hand higher to Virus’s face. Along with the flush and pallor of skin, eyes have important telltale signs, and there’s a certain obstacle in the way of the other man’s. Not a terribly inconvenient one, no, but still present.

With thumb and pointer finger only, Trip takes hold of Virus’s glasses by one of the hinge joints, but pauses with a moment’s thoughtful look (marred somewhat by the tie in his teeth). To remove, or not to remove?

It’s like sticking his dick inside a fridge, only less cool.

And he would protest if he could even talk—Trip’s effectively cut off his usual chattiness with that tie and he can feel it constricting around his neck like Herrscher with Aoba on a good day and his Adam’s apple bobs against the press of the tie and he swallows.

“Tch.” He’s not even sure if that’s a sound of frustration or simply…a sound for the sake of it. His breaths are shallow and his skin flushes and his fingers tense where they’ve gotten a hold of Trip and he doesn’t even want to think about the state of his own cock. Just as long as he comes—eventually. And it dawns on him that because he hasn’t gotten to know Trip a little better, he’s steadily losing control of whatever this situation is.

It’s not that he’s afraid. Or even…annoyed. Distracted might be the better word for it—distracted from boredom, plunging into something that’s…mildly more interesting than boredom. Probably up there with watching paint dry, but there’s a touch about him that wonders if he should be doing something about this, too. Trip’s still got his weight against him and there’s that uncomfortable smoldering of heat between them as less than gentle hands toy around with both their members and then—

He’s distracted again, when Trip reaches for his glasses and it’s like a fly’s landed in his field of vision. Kind of annoying, but altogether harmless. He doesn’t even feel like swatting at it—swatting at Trip’s hand away. There’s nothing for him to foil this time around with the necktie, even if a part of him wonders if this extra bit of pressure against his throat has something to do with Virus feeling a tad cheeky earlier on. Ah well, Trip will tell him if he’s curious, and he’s…well he is, really. But then that might go into the less than comfortable territory that is his private time with Aoba-san and…Virus doesn’t really want to know where he’s been getting all those bruises and lacerations and other fairly alarming injuries.

Took him days to clean out all of the cream from that mullet.

But his eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if he doesn’t care if Trip smashes the lens in—it’s not as if his vision is that bad, anyway. It’s not as if he even needs those glasses, other than as a fashion accessory. He has an image to present and all—Trip knows that. Much. And his hand slides down a shoulder to rest over the chest between them, and he half-expects not to feel anything in the way of a beating heart after all. Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Yet by all their standards, it should be equally unsurprising to feel Trip’s heart beating away, shouldn’t it? You couldn’t call it racing, but along with his breaths his pulse is somewhat elevated with arousal. Still, it doesn’t even lurch when Virus’s hand slips down over his exposed skin like that, though he does take a deeper breath that expands his chest against the other man’s palm for a moment. Aoba’s not much for doing any touching unless told to, and Trip would be lying if he said he didn’t like the feel of it.

Isn’t this all about having a bit of fun, anyway? It makes Trip wonder what he’s even taking his time for, like he’s fucking shy or something. With a grunt through his clenched teeth, he draws Virus’s glasses off and drops them over on the middle of the mattress. It’s not like he and Virus are going to start rolling around all of a sudden, so they’ll be safe there. Trip’s not one to damage things in a way they won’t recover from, not when they have some kind of value to him in their current state.

What he really needs to do is stop holding back so they can get off and over with.

It’s a bit of an oddity, how taking off Virus’s glasses changes the way his face looks. It’s just a trick of the mind, of course, but it keeps Trip staring at his face for longer than he would have expected to to absorb the altered look. Virus closing his eyes strikes his mind as something “new”, too, since he rarely-if-ever looks at Virus when they’re engaged with Aoba between them. He doesn’t really know what Virus looks like when he’s pleasured.

For no reason at all but whim, Trip’s palm touches the other man’s cheek before he wedges his hand down under the crook of Virus’s neck again, the ‘V’ of thumb and pointer finger shoved against his throat and pushing his head back. It’s too rough to be gentle, but far from violent, devoid of any malice.

He drops the tie from his teeth, which offers a few precious moments for air to pass easily back into Virus’s lungs before Trip cuts it off almost completely—by kissing him, hard and aggressive, and pumping them faster together.

In all honesty, kissing had been nowhere in his original intent. All of a sudden, though, it strikes him as an effective, maybe even necessary manner of leading Virus towards a literally breathless euphoria, and so he puts it to use.

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and it's so easy when you're evil

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