#sub deceit

Janus has been at this all day, hardly getting more than a scornful look for his efforts. But, he is nothing if not tenacious, someone like him has to be, after all. The effort to convince one to lie, to present that lie as truth, it all takes an awful lot of work, so yes, Janus is determined, but he is not patient. Perhaps that’s why he resorts to less refined tactics. . . not that Virgil is unused to any of that, either. 

The anxious side’s patience is about to snap, and along with it, a very unfortunate liar. But then, they both know that’s the backbone of this plan anyway, the final reward for this twisted game they indulge in. They’ve just indulged too much, someone a glutton for punishment and another a glutton for something. . .equally as damning. Neither of them will ever admit such a thing though, so they continue to dance around each other, pretending that glaring fact isn’t there, until they collide right into each other. . .full force.

Janus’s back hits the wall behind him, knocking the breath out of him with a sharp exhale. Virgil’s hands are like iron around his wrists, and he cracks open one eye to peer up at the other side, but he finds little amusement on Virgil’s face. Janus feels a smirk tug at his lips, and he allows the coy curve onto his mouth, if only to watch Virgil’s jaw tighten. “I swear to god,” Virgil starts, his voice low, dangerous, taking on that timbre that chases a shiver down Janus’s back. “I’ve had enough.”

“Oh?” Janus asks, only not really, just like he tugs on both his wrists, only not really. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m minding my own business,” Janus shoots a condescending glance up and down Virgil. “It’s not my problem you can’t control your own temper.” Janus feels that grip on his wrists tighten, ever so slightly, but that glitter of violet is in his Virgil’s eyes, a brief gleam; a knife unsheathing, just as cold and twice as sharp. It’s a warning, no words needed, Janus still hears the silent “Watch It” that’s spoken from that one look. 

“Why don’t I show you what I can control?” Virgil says, his voice dropping, much like his mouth as it hovers by Janus’s ear, a hint of cold, a hint of teeth. Virgil has been stretched terribly thin lately, it really hardly takes any work to rile him like this. Maybe Virgil thinks Janus doesn’t notice those fleeting glances, the curl of his lip that shows off a hint of fang, a hint of hunger. “Oh, I forgot, it’s not my problem you’re too desperate to ask for what you really want.” Virgil smiles coldly, watching Janus’s mismatched eyes widen a fraction, and it’s something Virgil loves so much—watching Deceit get caught, watching him tangle himself in his own lies. 

“Fuck you,” Janus hisses, Virgil’s words stealing his breath away just like the hit against the wall had. Virgil’s grin sharpens, darkens, and Janus’s heart is in his throat, the sound almost tangible. . .snap. Virgil descends on Janus’s mouth, the violent, angry action almost undeserving of even being called a kiss. Janus groans when fangs cut across his bottom lip, impatiently forcing entry, and as Virgil’s tongue snakes into his mouth, the tang of blood follows. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, hungry and messy. 

Janus tugs harder at his wrists this time, actually trying to get free so he can reach at Virgil, tug at his clothes. Virgil growls into the kiss, the sound rolling like thunder down Janus’s back and prompting him to arch forward, chest gluing to Virgil’s own. There’s a swish of wind, a swoop of his stomach, but Janus hasn’t opened his eyes to watch the rooms change; he can tell by the sudden darkness, the sudden chill, that Virgil has sunk them into his own room. The kiss is broken and they pant into each other’s mouths, the pause so brief, but when Janus blinks open his eyes to look at Virgil, it seems to last forever. 

Without warning, Virgil uses the grip he has on Janus’s wrists to yank, drawing a startled cry from the lying side as Virgil shoves him to the side and down onto the bed. Immediately, Janus tries to find his balance, tries to sit up, but Virgil is on him in seconds. His mouth finds Janus’s again, unrelenting as he snags a handful of Janus’s shirt, pulling him in close. Janus’s chest is tight already from trying to catch his breath, and he reaches up to tangle his fingers in Virgil’s hair, dark, darker than the rest. . .

Virgil is shoving clothes off and out of the way, and when Janus thinks he hears fabric ripping, he rolls his eyes. “Desperate loves company, or have you lost control already? Maybe you never even had it—” 

A hand wraps around Janus’s throat, cold but steady, and it squeezes. Janus’s voice cuts off with a cracked gasp, eyes fluttering shut as Virgil throws him back down to the mattress and pins him there. He slides off his jacket and shirt where they’re only hanging off him by a shoulder, and Janus lets his gaze drip down Virgil’s body as he prowls above him; he’s coming undone, Janus knows it, has known it. He can always sense it coming, always gets to Virgil first. He’s the only one who can take this side of Virgil, the only one to know this part of him…this part is his.

Virgil feels Janus swallow, throat bobbing beneath his palm where he keeps it clutched around the lying side’s neck, slowly scraping his nails down into green scales. Janus shudders, bucking up into Virgil as that shooting, odd sensation flares at his neck, that feeling Janus can never tell is good or bad, but what he can tell is that Virgil doesn’t care. With careless hands, Virgil twists Janus over onto his belly, keeping one hand on the back of his neck as he briefly stretches away, as if reaching for something. There’s a pause, only for Janus to regain some breath, before he feels Virgil move again. 

Virgil settles behind Janus, and with one knee slid between his thighs, forces Janus to spread his own knees far apart. Virgil brings a hand down hard on the pert ass presented to him, and the little yip it earns him makes his cock twitch, slick with the lubricant he reached for. “Bite the sheets,” Virgil growls the warning, far from the mood for bothering with flowery pleasantries. Janus takes it this way all the time, he likes it this way, it’s almost the only way it’s ever done. Nothing slow, nothing gentle, nothing pretty. 

Janus opens his mouth, just in time to sink his teeth into the bunched up sheets below him. That warning is the only one he gets before Virgil’s hand is on his hip, and then he’s shoving forward and yanking Janus backwards, forcing reluctant muscles to spread too fast and too rough. Janus screams, teeth grit into the sheets to muffle it, but that does little to ease the pain shooting up his back as Virgil forces himself inside. It aches, it aches hot and deep, and even Janus can feel himself quivering in a struggling bid to relax and try to loosen up. Virgil does still, just for a beat, smoothing one hand up Janus’s back, scratching his nails against scales and admiring black against green. “Always feel so good,” he hisses under his breath, almost to not be heard, perhaps not wanted to be heard.

Janus clings to the blankets when Virgil starts to move, too soon, but he’s not asking Janus. Virgil feels those hot muscles cling tight to his cock, and he shoves himself back inside, setting up for a brutal pace. Each slow pull out is countered with a hard thrust forward that buries his cock in one go, until bit by bit, Virgil is rutting into Janus almost wildly, scratching down the man’s back and not noticing when his nails catch on certain scales to draw blood. Janus does his best, his fucking best, to bite into the sheets and muffle his voice; but he can feel the blankets growing wetter beneath his face, though he tried to ignore his cheeks getting wet. 

Virgil hears a choked sob and glances up, panting for breath, but his lips still curve into that near predatory smile. “After making all that fuss to get fucked hard, you’re whining like this?” Virgil says, and neither of them miss the mocking croon to his voice. “You asked for it, this was all you were here for.” Virgil’s voice lowers into a growl again, and Janus flinches when he feels the hands clawing into his hips tighten. Virgil stills, hips shuddering just before Janus feels the other man reach his peak, spilling sticky heat inside. Fuck, Janus hates that feeling. He does.

Slowly, the only slowness of the night, Virgil withdraws, glancing down at Janus’s red and raw entrance as he leaves it a little gaped from the abuse. Virgil slides his hand off Janus’s back, off his hips, and straightens up, leaving the other side to roll carefully onto his side, trembling a bit in the aftermath. Janus winces, aching, sore, thighs closed tight to viciously ignore his own cock. He listens instead as Virgil cleans off, catches his breath, and redresses, all while never sparing Janus a look. “Be gone by the I come back,” Virgil says, and the door shutting punctuates his warning. 

It’s always like this. Janus scrubs the backs of his hands over his face, willfully ignoring the sink of his stomach, the throb of his body, ignoring all of it as he struggles to his own feet. It’s his shirt that had torn earlier, he discovers, but he dresses anyway. He can get to his room before anyone else sees; no one will question it, anyway. It’s always been like this. It’s how they do things. Janus doesn’t think either of them want to change it.