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It's pathetic.
Vanilla Ice has told himself time and time again that he is pathetic. When Lord Dio finally looks upon him and sees something worthy of loving, perhaps these feelings will go away; but even Vanilla, who is knee deep in a self pitying haze, knows that way of thinking will get him nowhere.
He knows, when he is fully intact and reasonable, that he really just needs to let this ache go. Dio has far too many people at his fingertips for Vanilla Ice to ever cross his mind. Vanilla is a good guard dog and little else, and he has always known this about himself. He's accepted this, too; he is accustomed to loving unconditionally and getting table scraps in return.
But he isn't used to it being rubbed in his face.
That's what it feels like, as he lays awake listening to the sounds. The mansion's walls are stone, but the sounds never fail to find their way into Vanilla's room. They seep through cracks, wandering through archways and splinters in the wood, and whomever Dio has bedded for the night is never a mystery to him. The sounds are like incessant ghosts, taunting him as if they don't remember what hell it already is to be alone.
Hell it is, indeed. Dio's voice is deep and smooth and rich, like silk or honey or any other fine, expensive thing. He isn't quiet, either, and Vanilla Ice feels conflicted hearing him moan. It pains him because he is not the cause, he is not there to hear those lovely sounds right in his ear. At the same time, they are just that: lovely. If only he were alone, if only Dio pleasured himself and Vanilla Ice could allow himself — however shamefully — to think that his Lord pictured him as he did it.
He is never alone, though.
There is always someone else.
Some damned whore that isn't Vanilla, some throwaway servant that will never show their face again. They are all the same to him, for they all set off sparks of fury and sadness within his gut.
They could never make Dio feel as good as Vanilla could, because they do not know him like he does. Vanilla knows that Dio likes his hair played with and knows that he loves to be praised a certain way. He knows that he likes to play games of power, just to feel what it's like to be a servant once in a while.
What do they know of him?
Vanilla has not even had the luxury of spending a night with him, so what could they know?
He has never felt a want so bone deep as when he listens to Dio. He tries to stop himself, but he simply can't. His Lord's voice is hypnotizing and it demands attention. Although Vanilla cannot see his beautiful face to go with it, he can imagine.
He likes that, too. He likes to fill those awful periods of time, when Dio's partner happens to talk, with thoughts of his one and only. He would look wonderful, his hair spread around him on his satin pillowcase. Vanilla's renditions of Dio are distinctly more human than the real man. A healthy flush colors the Imaginary Dio's cheeks, sweat rolls down his face, and his chest heaves with breaths that he doesn't have to take. It's a skill he's also honed to disregard any name Dio calls and replace it with his own name; such made up pants of Vanilla are music to his ears.
The real moans, the real noises of his Lord, send shocks through his spine. Vanilla could tune it out all he wanted to, but the numbered times that he tried, it was impossible to ignore his arousal. Like tonight, his clothes never seemed loose enough to be comfortable whenever Dio decided to have fun without him.
Vanilla is drifting off to sleep when he begins. The quiet sounds do not carry as well and often disguise themselves as the typical sounds of an old home, but the low groan is unmistakable. His eyes open, staring at the wall he faces in a mixture of sorrow and shyness. He isn't exactly a natural voyeur and it feels rather strange to listen to someone else having sex on purpose. He is too tired to admit to himself that, in this situation, he really means pathetic, and turns over onto his back.
Folding his hands over his stomach, Vanilla closes his eyes and waits. More comes, more groans and a playful laugh; oh, he wishes he could see Dio's face when he laughs. The glimpses he's gotten of his smile have been so handsome.
He cannot place where Dio seems to be, and so his mind defaults to picturing him on top. More than anything, Vanilla wants to see Dio's hair hanging in his face as he leans over him, messy and curly and almost sandy brown in the dim glow of candlelight; wants to see his charming little grin as he teases Vanilla, the grin that Vanilla always aches to kiss off of his face. His Lord would taste like perfection, he's sure of it.
With a particularly loud moan, Vanilla's face warms and his hands part. One grips himself through his boxers, the other sliding under his loose shirt to play with one of his piercings. Lord Dio would like them, he thinks, giving himself a gentle squeeze. Dio seems to be fond of jewelry, if all the pieces he's gifted Vanilla are anything to go by. He can only imagine how he'd like the little golden barbells through Vanilla's nipples.
Vanilla grows bored of waiting and his imagination takes over. It's Dio's hands on him, rubbing the tip of his cock through his shorts and making him twitch with want. When Vanilla grunts, the firm squeeze to his cock is his reward.
Nevermind that as his hands slips under his waist band, his fingers aren't quite as thick or as confident as Dio's. If he doesn't pay attention to it, it won't bother him. He rubs the frenulum with his thumb, drawing in a breath and letting it fade from his mind. Dio would like to tease, he believes, and so he teases his cockhead until he's panting and he cannot stand the stimulation any longer, his knees bending reflexively as if to stop it. In conjunction with Dio's voice, it drives him mad.
Pushing his blanket down and then his boxers, he traces his fingertips down his shaft. The air is cold and takes a moment to adjust to, the warmth of his hand a welcome one despite its teasing. It's the most Dio thing he can think to do, not giving Vanilla what he wants. Even as Vanilla closes his fist around himself and begins to stroke, it provokes a sigh but isn't quite fast enough to satisfy him.
The want makes it much easier to think of how deeply he wishes Dio were with him, every touch feeling inferior to what his love could offer him. Vanilla would do or give anything for Dio to say he loves him, too, the concept only serving to make him harder.
With his free hand, Vanilla explores his thighs and pelvis. He traces his fingernails lightly over the skin, sending pleasant tingles through the area. He continues until his hand wanders to his balls and begins to knead them gently. Vanilla turns his head towards his shoulder as if it will make his quickening breath less audible.
By the time Vanilla begins to feel too hot, Dio's voice picks up again, now constant and loud. Vanilla can't recall another voice ever joining him, but his mind is too fogged to remember. He only knows the shiver it sends through him to hear Dio. His toes curl, his hand faster without any conscious command.
It still is not enough. He fumbles to change his position and prep himself before pushing a finger into his asshole. Dio's voice occupies every bit of his mind, running through him and bringing him so close to finishing without even a touch. Another finger, another moan that sends shocks down his body. He doubts that he will have time to set a decent rhythm before he is done for.
Vanilla moves slowly, his free hand doing what it can to stimulate his cock. His focus is skewered. The fingers inside him curl and uncurl and try to find the spot he likes. He breathes out a soft groan when he does, massaging it. At first, he manages to remain slow and deliberate — but it quickly devolves into a mixture of trying to match the pace of Dio's voice and simply trying to bring himself to the edge. He grinds his hips down, desperate for more of the sensation as Dio seems to be drawing to a close.
Could they come together? Vanilla's pace seems to answer the question by itself. He teases his cock and fingers himself with a new fervor, focusing his thoughts on how rich Dio's voice is and how erotic it would be to watch him finish.
Vanilla's mouth parts, the exertion and mental image stealing his breath; how he'd love to make his Lord come, to prove yet again how dedicated and passionate he is to follow his every command. He presses harder into the spot inside himself, ignoring the beginnings of an ache in his wrist from the constant motion.
He almost doesn't want to hold back. Part of him wants to make Dio feel the way he does. Part of him wants make Dio wander who he is with and why he isn't with him. But the mere thought of anyone else hearing him sends heat to his cheeks and Vanilla bites his lip to keep his moans under some semblance of control.
He feels impossibly hard, impossibly sweaty, any desire to take things slow completely gone. As if his love knows, he hears Dio come, or what he believes may be that. It leaves Vanilla breathless and needier than he ever thought he could be every time he hears Dio come. Vanilla moans louder than he would like to admit, working himself through his orgasm despite the way his legs shake with the effort of keeping his pelvis lifted. The entire few seconds of bliss, he can only think of how beautiful Dio sounded — how beautiful he always sounds.
Feeling winded, Vanilla slows his pace until he can pull his fingers out, letting his hands fall to his sides. It crosses his mind how he would look to anyone else, covered in a layer of sweat with his own cum across his torso. As soon as he can, Vanilla begins to clean himself off.
One of these nights, he won't be alone anymore.