#GODDAMN THIS PAINTING. INFURIATES ME.

[lalunanymph]

ΉΣЯ & ƬΉΣ ƧΣΛ

༊ you ask rafayel how lemurians reproduce, and he can't wait to show you

✯ warnings; rafayel x fem!reader, established relationship, MONSTERFUCKING, switch!rafayel, switch!reader, rafayel's lemurian form, sex underwater, reader is coded to be feminine (wears a dress and lingerie), mentions of alien genitalia, rafayel calls reader 'master' once, petnames (my little conch shell, my queen, baby, my love, miss bodyguard), size kink (reader is obvs smaller than him, he's a goddamn mErmAID), OVIPOSITION, dirty talk, language, breeding, girl on top position, missionary, reader sucks his merman cock (lmao), dubious breathing underwater methods, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, slight spoilers for rafayel's myth if you squint, mild angst

✯ istg i am a zayne girlie but something about rafayel just makes me go feral

"𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒?"

The question stunned Rafayel from taking a bite of his souffle pancakes, his fork pausing from its journey into his now lax mouth. Sunlight continues streaming in past the French windows; the patrons of this cafe going about their day, oblivious to the malfunctioning celebrity artist amongst them.

A glob of whip cream freefalls off the metal tines and onto his plate. Those magnetic pink-blue eyes flash with a multitude of colors—like a sea-worn rock under the brilliant sun. 

However, as fast as your question hit him, he overcame it; no one could say that Mr. Rafayel, the art world's maverick and media-trained connoisseur, was slow in recovering his wits.

His signature teasing smile in place, Rafayel placed his fork back down onto the table.

Across from you, two friends were speaking in low tones and judging from their expression, unpacking their love lives with the sombreness of a priest reciting a divorce rite.

Rafayel blinked, tilting his head to the side. 

"Why would you ask, Miss Bodyguard?" 

He casually slung an arm over the back of his chair, a million dollar smile gleaming and ready. "Or, has something struck your most vivid imagination?" 

Laying it on thick, he couldn't even begin to disguise the gleam of his teeth—shining like the incisors of a great white after smelling fresh blood in the ocean. 

"I never thought you would be so sugges—ouch!"

Rafayel winced, and doubled over, rubbing his shin under the table. "What was that for?" 

You huffed, and fixed him a glare. "Don't embarrass me." 

"I was just joking."

"Wasn't funny." 

"Yeesh. You're really wound up about this, huh?" 

That infuriating smirk was plastered back onto his face; his boyish features making something in your chest squeeze. 

"Shut up and answer the question." 

He pretended to ponder on it for a moment. More color illuminates his stunning amethyst irises. Shining like jewels, only he knew the value of his true thoughts. 

Before you could retract your question and salvage this bright afternoon, Rafayel surprises you with his next words.

"Why don't I show you, my little conch shell?" 

You freeze. Scanning the area, you wondered if this was the right conversation to be having in such a brightly lit area. Granted, you and Rafayel were past the carnal stage —after being together for close to a year, your bodies were well-worn maps that lips and fingers could retrace and discover any time.

Fighting back a laugh, you shake your head.

"Is this another one of your racy propositions again?"

Rafayel merely smirked. "If that is how you wish to see it." 

Seriously now, you counter, "Will I have paint in my hair again?" 

Memories flash in your mind; of a large canvas, soft candlelight, and streaks of paint on the most random parts of your body found weeks after the deed was done. 

Your lover sits back, using one slender finger to cross over his heart. "I promise your hair won't go through such torment anymore." Despite your best efforts, your eyes trail to his broad chest, and the enticing V of his defined pecs.

As if sensing your eyes on him, Rafayel's mirth grows. "Looks like you can't resist much longer, I'll make you a deal—" 

He leaned in close—much too close—and you could smell the vanilla on his breath; the sunlight glinting off those purple irises softening with a look of warmth only he held for you.

"—come with me tonight to Whitesand Bay, and I promise you won't regret it." 

Muggy and balmy in the evening, Whitesand Bay wasn't exactly the ideal meet up spot for Rafayel to finally fulfill his promise and show you how mermaids reproduce. 

But, you showed up anyway.

Dressed in a light, silk dress to combat the heavy heat of the summer night, you cautiously made your way down to the docks, keeping your eyes and ears peeled for Rafayel. 

"You're here." He appeared a moment later, dashing as usual in his white button-down and pristine slacks. Dazzling under the half-light, you allowed him to take your hand and lead you right to a boat.

"We're not going for a to take a deep dive like last time, right?" Hearing the skepticism in your voice, he laughs.

"Of course, not. I paid Thomas a huge bonus last month and told him to buy a speedboat. For us to borrow, if you're curious." 

"Poor Thomas," you mused, letting him hold you close to his side as he helped you atop the board. "His boss is a tyrant... asking him to use his bonus for such lavish nonsense."

"Is it really a lavish nonsense if I get to have you here?" 

Rafayel's sincerity struck you mute. He breezed past your shocked figure, unaware of the effect he has on you. "Well? Are you going to continue mocking my methods of employment or are we going to do this?" 

Even though his chest was puffed and voice full of bravado, you could tell your sweet artist boyfriend was struggling with his nerves. The tips of his ears were bright red, a faint shadow of a pout on his lips. 

"Raffie," you whisper, taking his hand. He glanced at you, wide-eyed like a fish caught on the bait. "What're you so scared of? It's just you and me."

He lets you rub your thumb across his knuckles, tightening your hold on his fingers.

"I just..." he trails off. "... just don't want you to think I'm a freak. That's all."

Rafayel refused to look at you when he was this vulnerable, and you couldn't help the short giggle bursting past your defenses. He glared, and you quickly reached for his face, touching his cheek.

"Never," you emphasize. "I will never think you're weird. Ever. Besides, if you're a freak then I'm the weirdo in love with you."

Your dopey grin sets something aflutter in his chest, like ripples of ocean waves splashing across a strange shore. Rafayel smirks and takes your hand off his face, choosing to twine his fingers with yours. 

"Shall we make a move, then, my little conch shell?" 

"Rafayel..."

The sight before you stuns you with its splendor. Your beloved boyfriend had gone all out—picnic blankets, lighted candles, flutes of champagne, and spreads of seafood as far as the eye could see... arranged all across the flatbed of this hidden alcove where the sea kisses the land. 

In the distance, the gentle swishes of waves lapping at the shore greeted your ears, its waves illuminated faintly as if lit from within.

"Bioluminescent algae," Rafayel murmurs right behind you. His arms came to wrap around your waist, the heat of his breath fanning right across your exposed neck. "They only appear in the summer when the water is warm." You fight back a shiver, trying not to show how affected you were by his presence. 

"Oh." Dumbly, you weren't sure how to put your thoughts together, much less a coherent sentence. 

Sensing your speechlessness, Rafayel exhaled a laugh. "Come on. We should eat before the food gets cold."

There's a dip in his tone, something tinged with a darker emotion you barely had time to unravel before he was tugging you onto the picnic mat. The food was divine, his personal chefs going all out to satisfy both of your palettes. Conversation flowed easily like the champagne slipping down your throat, coaxing you to release the tightness in your chest in favor of bubbly giggles and flirty smiles.

Rafayel's cheeks were steadily growing pinker, and you were sure he would double over and pass out—forgetting about your brazen question—when you felt his hand on your thigh.

"Would you like to take a swim with me?" 

Memories of seaweed brushing your bare legs, Rafayel’s arms steadily around your waist as he led you past the shoreline fills your mind. Anything cool sounded like a blessing from this heat. 

Plus, he was a pretty good swimmer, as evident from what he truly was. Rafayel would never put you in harm’s way. 

Safe. That was the word. You always feel safe with him. 

“Yes.”

He takes your hand, gives it a squeeze and helps you stand.

Rafayel started to undress first. The hem of his expensive silk shirt reveals the fitted band of his equally expensive slacks—made by the best tailors in all of Linkon. Then, pale skin. It stretches, tightens over defined obliques, abs and then his impressively broad chest. 

Scattered across the sinew and muscle roping his torso were smatterings of moles and beauty marks. 

Someone once told you that these marks were spots past lovers used to love kissing. You idly trace your gaze over the one on his left pec, right over his heart. 

If Rafayel and you had been together in the past, you were sure that the spot over his heart would be your favorite spot to plant your lips on him. 

As furtively as you could, you tried not to gape at him, but completely failed.

Rafayel was a masterpiece made by the gods themselves, and you were the poor fool gaping at his altar; transfixed on the sharp V which led to a light dusting of his happy trail. 

His cock strains behind his slacks, bulging noticeably. You want to reach out and skim your fingers, eager to feel it twitch under your touch. 

"Well?" His gentle amusement tore your thoughts from their sinful vices. "Are you gonna just stare at me or are we going for a swim? Your pick, Miss Bodyguard." 

Showing that you were far braver than you felt, you stood up, shaky hands reaching for the straps of your dress. "Don't look at me." 

A surge of heat flooded your cheeks, your eyes resolutely turned to the side. Obediently, Rafayel followed your orders, though you could hear the cogs turning in his head. It's not like I haven't seen her naked before.  

But, this wasn’t the usual plotting, teasing and flirting you both would indulge in.

Something about the air tonight felt heavier. 

Intimate.

You swore Rafayel could pick up your heartbeat from where he stood. The heat on your cheeks spread down your chest, tingling on your fingertips.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

In nothing but in your lingerie, you shift from foot to foot, feeling too vulnerable and open.

The sky above yawns wide, inky black jaws lovingly unfurling like a spread of velvet sheets. His hand is warm in yours, and you squeeze it, trying to hide how you were trembling. 

“Hey.” Rafayel sweeps you into his arms. Try as you might to fight off the nerves, they bubble up in a short squeak when your face meets his chest. “Relax, baby. You’re shaking like a bubble in the sun… don’t pop just yet.”

You find comfort in his scent—oceanic and musky—breathing him in. 

Do you trust me? Rafayel once asked when you both were drunk on a night out. 

Of course, I do. You flick his nose. Why wouldn’t I trust you? 

Even if I’m different? He fixes you with a look, lucid for someone who had just downed an entire champagne bottle. And I can’t be normal for you? 

Especially because you aren’t normal in the sense of its word… I trust you even more because you trusted me, first. 

Waves lap at your toes, and you shiver at how cool the water is. 

“Easy,” Rafayel coaxes you. He takes the lead, sinking into the soft sand first, never releasing his hold on you. 

You do as he says, a sailor to his siren call, except you knew in your heart you would willingly follow him till the ends of the world.

Once the water was up to your waist, Rafayel exhaled. “Stay here. I’ll be back.” 

You don't have time to protest when he dives into the waves, barely kicking up a spray. Eyeing the softly luminated sea surface, you dip your fingers into the warm water, watching a blue orb float in between your loose fists. 

“Hey.”

Startling, you look up to find him grinning, lilac hair darkened with salt water; holding a bundle of what you thought was tangled hair in his grasp.

“I know you hate the taste of seaweed, but this’ll help when we… get into things.” 

He ends in an awkward note, and you wondered what happened to the once cocky, and sure Rafayel you knew. 

Unfurling his clenched fist, he hands you one single strand. “Eat this. It’ll help you breathe underwater temporarily.” 

“What is it?” you sniff at the strange vegetation. 

“Hydroweed. It gives humans the ability to breathe underwater for up to an hour.”

Putting your faith in his words, you nod. Opening your mouth, you bite into the Hydroweed. 

The briny taste was overwhelming, its tough fibers making it difficult for you to chew. But, you manage to swallow it down. 

Instantly, you felt your throat closing, the air choked out of your lungs. “Rafayel—!” 

Strong hands grab your waist, dragging you under the foamy waves. 

You gasp, about to scream at him to let you go, when you took in your first deep breath underwater.

The world suddenly came to life. Bright blue orbs floated right in front of your face, and you reached for them, in awe at how vivid they glowed now you could see them up close. 

Down in the depths, the waves became hushed murmurs in the background, filling your ears with a ringing silence. 

“Are you okay?” Rafayel’s voice shot through the floating calm like a shout, and you cringed back in shock. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, and pulls you to his side. “It’s way quieter down here than up above because sound travels differently. Strange, huh?” 

You nod, not entirely sure if you could use your voice. As if he read your thoughts, Rafayel chuckles.

“Go ahead and speak, my little conch shell. I can hear you just fine.” 

You take a deep breath. “O-okay.” Growing confident and more comfortable, you relax in his embrace. “It feels… strange. Like you said. But, at the same time, I don’t entirely hate it.”

“Mhm,” he rubs your back, smiling reassuringly and wide. “If there are other Lemurians within a few miles, they can most likely hear you scream.”

His double meaning didn’t register until you felt his palms tracing your hips, teasing down your body to give your ass a fond squeeze.

“Hey—!” 

You swat his hands away, mute with embarrassment. “I-is that why you all live so deep in the sea? For privacy?” 

Rafayel hums. It’s a little off putting how clear his voice sounds, like you were listening to him through a pair of high-grade earphones. 

“Usually, Lemurians mate deep in the trenches where the light can’t find us. It helps to keep things more private and intimate. If not, we travel to other seas uninhabited by our species. I used to know a guy who dragged his wife to the middle of the Atlantic when they were trying for a family.”

Rafayel’s focus ebbs into the distance, a tinge of sadness in his tone that appears whenever he speaks of his long lost people and home. 

You take his hands in yours and squeeze, trying to draw him back from the precipice of his ruined memories.

“We could try…” you trail off, unsure if this was the right thing to say. “...to repopulate it?” 

Like your words were a trigger, you found yourself planted right on the ocean floor, soft sand cushioning your body.

You squeak, quickly darting your eyes to his, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders.

Rafayel’s usual glimmering pink-blue eyes were shadowed by a darker emotion; reminding you of glinting shark teeth or a blade of moonlight slicing through choppy water. 

“Don’t say that, baby.” Was it you, or did his voice drop an octave? 

Your Lemurian lover’s low reprimand made a shudder run down your spine, his half-mast eyes causing your stomach to flip.

“You don’t know how those words make me feel… my kind used to reproduce by the dozens—I can’t wait to see you bulging with my babies.” 

Wait… babies? 

With a capital ‘S’?

His mouth lands on yours, hungry and seeking. You kiss him back with as much ardor, lost in the sensations that you almost forgot what he had said earlier.

“Raf… Rafayel—” you gasp when he starts to dig his teeth into your neck, nipping down your jaw and collarbone.

Deft hands unclip your bra, the motion fluid like he has done this a million times before. From the corner of your eye, you see every article of clothing he took off you floating right to the surface; moonlight bouncing off the fragmented surface, playing across the broad expanse of his back. 

Your head swims with fuzzy thoughts long discarded when he pushes the plush fat of your tits together, licking and nipping around your areolas, ignoring how your nipples were already circling with need. 

“Raffie…” You fist his hair, trying to push his mouth to where you need him the most. “Don’t tease me.”

He laughs at your soft whine. “I need to make sure you’re prepared, my love.”

My love. Rafayel only called you that term whenever he was in the thick of his passion; it seems like you were about to witness the cumulation of your innocent question coming true.

Strong hands held you firmly while he eased down your body, planting fleeting kisses on every inch of your skin his lips could touch. 

Down in the deep, gasps and screams weren’t sounds, but vibrations; the sounds escaping your mouth resounding around your entwined bodies.

“Fuck,” Rafayel cussed once he reached the apex of your thighs. “I can’t wait to finally taste you underwater.” 

Barely giving you time to brace yourself, the broad stroke of his tongue melted through your folds. 

Never would you have imagined you would be eaten out right on the ocean’s bed—going deeper and deeper into the neverending blue. 

Rafayel’s lips were wrapped around your nub, sucking and caressing it with his tongue exactly how you liked it. Your smaller fingers sank into his hair, the other entwining with his own above your heart; back arched to give him everything you have.

“S’good,” he murmurs, verging on the edge of slurring. “I love you.”

His name tumbles from your mouth like a primal echo, calling him right to the edge of a bottomless trench.

Rafayel wasn’t afraid; he would traverse the deep beyond for as many chances to be with you as he could.

“Put your legs around my waist,” he whispers in between sloppy kisses back up your body. 

If someone were to tell you that your sweet boyfriend was literally making love to you on the bottom of the ocean, you would tell them a Wanderer had infected their mind.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his body emanating a faint glow. A distant memory claws past the thin membrane of your barely held together thoughts; moonlight bouncing off pink-blue scales, his unbearable body heat and a pearly sheen misting his eyes.

“Rafayel—” 

The change was imperceptible. At first, you couldn’t feel anything but the sinful sinking of his cock stretching out your cunt. 

Then, it hit you like a freight train.

His waist felt like it was expanding, pushing your thighs further apart. But, when you glanced down the line of your bodies, the length of his legs was replaced by something longer. Bigger. It distinctly had two fins attached to the end, bent at an angle to accommodate the position he was fucking you in.

“R-Rafayel—!” 

“Fuck,” he strains, lining his forehead with yours. “I-I’m scared of hurting you.” 

“N-no,” you force your thick tongue to relinquish the words. “You'll never.”

His skin grew harder under your touch, inches of pale expanses replaced by shiny scales. Minus his face, his limbs, back, chest and torso were completely covered by the armor-like toughness of multiple hardened plates. Where the scales couldn’t touch, they were bonded together by thin layers of lamella, giving his entire body an otherworldly sheen. 

Mesmerized, you titled his face towards you, marveling at the scattering of scales adorning his throat and jaw. 

“Wow,” you murmur, touching them. They weren’t as hard or sharp as you imagined; his scales had a delightful give you couldn't stop pressing down on. 

In response, Rafayel grunts. “Baby… It’s happening.”

You were about to part your mouth and ask him what was, when your eyes shot wide open. 

The place where you both were connected suddenly grew tighter, as if something was pushing against your insides. Your muscles instinctively tried to expel the foreign intrusion, tensing and tightening—it was a shot of fear unlike any other you had ever tasted. 

Panicking, you cried out, “Rafayel, stop!”

Immediately, he ceased rutting into you, breathing heavily. Anguished, pastel eyes peel clapped onto yours, a pearly sheen filming over them.

“Shit… shit, I’m so sorry…”

“What’s happening?” you blurt out, a tremble of fear in your question. “Are you… are you putting e-eggs in me?” 

“Eggs?” he sounds bewildered, and that causes you to be perplexed in turn. Breathing hard, Rafayel’s forehead thumps onto your sternum. He doesn’t refute you or confirm your suspicions. Instead, he takes in a deep, ragged breath, like he was trying to tame down a cresting emotion. “Did you actually think, for a single second, that I was going to leave eggs in you?” 

Before you can even speak, his broad shoulders start to shake. Rafayel’s quiet laughter roused your confusion and indignation; your brows furrowing together because he wouldn’t stop laughing.

“Shut up,” it was your turn to be the whiner in this relationship. “You’re mean. It’s a valid question!” 

“Oh, baby,” he wheezes. One second, he was laughing, and the next, he lapsed into a quiet seriousness, the sudden mood change giving you whiplash. “I would never hurt you like that, my love. Trust me.”

Gently grasping your hand with his, he slips it down both your bodies, right to where you two were connected. “What I meant to show you, my little conch shell, is this.” 

He brings your hand between your own legs. You thought he was going to make you touch yourself, but when you feel something hard and distinctively not flesh-like bump your hand, you flinch back.

“Ssh, don’t be afraid,” he murmurs. “Go on and take a look, my love.”

Again with my love. 

Rafayel was either struck with nerves, or he was completely enamored with you at this moment. 

You licked your lips, tasting salt water on them and cautiously stretched your fingers to feel the strange object up. It was long and girthy, like a penis, except it wasn’t.

Steeling yourself, you risk a peek.

Gone was the smooth, veiny skin of Rafayel’s cock. His human one. 

In its place, was a thick length, riddled with ridges and bumps like an octopus’ tentacle. His very human appendage was always a stunner—slender (like his physique), veiny, with a hooked tip—but the sight before you (that strange and downright alien sight) blew your expectations out of the water. 

Your gasp reverberated around the pressing silence. Rafayel was quiet, waiting for you to speak. In turn, you couldn’t keep your eyes off his new genitalia. 

“Is that…” you struggle to piece together a coherent question. “Is that all… going inside of me?” 

Rafayel grunts. “Unless you don’t want me to, sweetheart.”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, staring past the crest of his shoulder towards the shimmering, seemingly impenetrable ceiling of a world beyond the bubble you both created.

“I do,” you finally whisper, your confession rippling around the both of you, suspending your forms in an endless wave of mutual ecstasy. “I want this. I want you.”

Rafayel doesn’t bother to waste his time replying. You brace yourself, heels digging into his hips, clinging onto him with all of your strength. 

The first breach of his otherworldly cock inside of you felt like a touch of electricity up your spine. You cried out, nails digging into his scaly shoulders.

“Relax,” he paces you through the sensations. “I need you to relax for me, my love. I can’t get in if you’re this tight.” 

You gulp in a few deep breaths with your eyes screwed shut, and eventually, your heartbeat slows down. Sluggishly cracking your lids open, you catch the gleam in his pink-blue irises; locks of his iridescent hair floating around his serene expression.

The strange sensation was back, easing past your ring of muscle. You choke on a moan, trying to swallow your fear. 

“Ssh,” Rafayel murmurs. To distract you, he leaves feathery kisses on your cheeks, jaw and then, your lips. 

If the bottom of the ocean wasn’t enough to drown you, his kiss would. 

Rafayel… you whisper into the water. 

His name was a prayer dedicated to the Sea Gods on your tongue, your body sprawled out beyond your comprehension. Every line of you was taut with tension, the achingly slow stretch of his appendage plunging deeper and deeper into your heat had your head spinning like a whirlpool was threatening to suck you in. 

“Almost,” his harsh whisper clashes with your breath. “So good for me; you’re doing so good for me, my love.”

“Rafayel,” you mewled, the sea taking your tears. Hiccuping his name, you shudder, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. 

Your fist clamped down on soft sand, your back arched, and finally—finally—you felt his hips clipping yours.

“Fuck.”

The both of you groan in unison. 

His kisses were still warm, flush on your parted lips. Rafayel shunted his hips forward, then back. Repeating the same motion. 

Again. Again. And again.

The sensation was unlike any other you had felt in this world. No cock could possibly compare to the ridges wrapped around his length, the blunt, elongated tip almost touching the deepest part of your body.

“Rafayel,” you cried in a thick voice, like your mouth was filled with cotton. “Oh, God…”

Your tits flushed to his chest, your fingers in his hair and his tongue twining with yours shook your inner world like a deep sea earthquake.

This wasn’t like your usual lovemaking sessions; everything was amplified, more sensitive and tangible.

God, was it all so tangible.

You could physically feel every scaly ridge under your fingertips. His modified cock dragging those ecstasy-inducing bumps across your walls. Even his taste was different underwater; like a briny, primal flavor which coated your tongue. 

“Y/N,” his moan more angelic than what you could handle. “I love you. I love you so, so much—” 

Rafayel choked, and you didn’t need to ask to know he was about to cum. 

The ecstasy of it all wrapped its tendrils around both your embracing bodies; a human and Lemurian entangled in a dance as old as time. 

“I love you,” you cry out, toes curling and your nails raking down his back. Rafayel grunts, and in the dim half-light of the ocean engulfing you, you swore you saw his frantic eyes shine like precious pearls.

The world was closing in, darkness seeping into the corners of your vision. 

You pushed on his shoulder, trying to get his attention; acutely aware that the ache in your lungs wasn’t because of his kisses, but of something else.

Something out of your control.

The call of the surface burned through your lungs, and you opened your mouth, about to scream for him to let you go, when it all slammed into you like a tidal wave.

Darkness exploded, splattering across your mind, and you heard his cry of your name, the sound now echoey and muggy.

There was movement. A sharp tug. What sounded like wind whistling through your ears. 

Through your snatches of consciousness, you were aware of the pushback both your bodies weathered through the wall of water; how the ocean was trying to hold you back.

As soon as the sensation appeared, it was shattered by a golden burst of fresh oxygen.

Gulping in mouthfuls of air, you yelled out in fright, blindly grappling across the writhing dark mess of endless ocean surrounding you. 

Rafayel! Rafayel!

You felt strong arms wrap around you, holding you in his embrace like how a father would cradle his child.

Close your eyes, you thought you heard him murmur in your ear. And don’t open them until I tell you it’s safe to.

Arms clamped around his shoulders and legs wrapped around his waist, your intrinsic fear of the ocean made you trust his word. 

Gently now, you were bobbing across the water, the cool currents rushing across your bare skin. It felt like gelatinous cold drafts constantly hitting every body part. Staying true to his promise, you kept your eyes shut until you felt rough sand on your back; the waves receding from your body to lap at your toes.

Gasping, you peel your eyes open, lid by lid.

The alcove where he took you tonight was back in front of you. 

Rolling onto your front, you tried to stand, but only succeeded in stumbling back onto the sand; losing your sense of balance from countless minutes spent suspended in the ocean's mass.

“Hey, hey. Easy there.”

Rafayel was still in his Lemurian form, and this time, under the dim, flickering lights of the bay’s lanterns, you were stunned into an awe-inspiring disquiet.

The flickering warmth casted shadows over his iridescent scales, those once tough and gray plates under the ocean’s darkness glowing from the inside out with a pink-blue flame.

Half of his tail was still submerged in the water, and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze across the stunning length.

Easily a few feet long, you couldn’t even begin to wrap your head around the mental image of how majestic his entire Lemurian form would look underwater. It was just too bad the Hydroweed’s effects were over before you could even get to the good part.

Your thighs were chafing, drawing attention to your gapingly empty cunt. 

Pulling yourself to your knees, you came chest to chest with him. 

Rafayel’s saltwater soaked fingers grasped your cheeks, titling it up to inspect you. 

Trickles of water seeped down his face, darkening the sand with droplets of wetness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, fraught and remorseful. “I lost track of time. I could’ve seriously injured you.”

“It’s okay.” The both of you flinched back from how hoarse your voice sounded. Clearing your throat, you struggled to put your mushy thoughts into words. “I… enjoyed it.”

Rafayel dropped his hands, his breathing growing ragged. “I should get back to normal—”

“No!” 

You stunned him with your vehemence, scrambling to grip his shoulders, clapping your crazed eyes onto his widened ones.

You’re acting like a mad woman. 

But, he didn’t say that to you. Rafayel grasped your hands, drawing them to his chest, pouring every drop of attention onto you. 

“I want to… try it… here.” 

You pieced together your incoherent request, and a part of you wondered—dreaded—if you had already lost your mind from the lack of oxygen and crushing deep sea pressure. 

Rafayel stared at you for a moment, unspeaking.

Then, he gently dragged you closer. Before you could even squeak, he had you straddling his waist. 

This time, it was your turn to peer down at him, curtains of your wet hair framing your face.

“Take me, then,” his voice was equally as hoarse as yours, though you suspected it wasn’t from ingesting enough saltwater to fill up your lungs. Trembling fingers touched your face, smoothing across your cheeks. “I’m all yours. I’ve been bound to you since the very beginning. You can take me, I won’t fight back. I told you I wouldn’t that night, don’t you remember? I’m keeping my word now.”

Something about the longing in his tone, how those pink-blue eyes yearned to swim in your soul, brought a lump to your throat. 

“Rafayel…”

Strong hands helped to guide your hips over his cock, easing you down with quiet praises and encouragement.

So good for me, baby. Look at you. Taking me so well. Wish I could paint this moment—you look so pretty. All for me. My love. My love. 

“R-Rafayel!” Thin red lines bloomed on his chest from your nails, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Without the sea’s buoyancy to support you, gravity took over, easing you down his bulbous cock.

Rafayel’s thumb circles your clit, rubbing it gently, soothingly, to get you wetter.

Your body felt like it was about to split cleanly into two—he was much too big for you. 

“C-can’t!” you whisper-cried. “I can’t take all of you—ngh.”

His mouth found your nipples, licking and sucking along the fleshy nubs until they were coated with his spit and tightening obscenely; an erotic outline lit by the bay's dim lantern lights.

“You can,” he mumbled in between your breasts. “I know you can.”

The rough strip of his tongue slid from your sternum towards your neck, pausing right at your pulse point. Sharp bites bloomed on your neck from his teeth, and you shiver from the throbbing pain going straight to your clit. 

That strange, heightening sensation was back. You felt much too sensitive, like a lightning rod trembling from an impending electrical storm.

One touch could’ve made you explode.

Rafayel brought your lips to his, tangling his tongue down your throat; stoppering your cries. 

Warm, smooth, distinctively human palms caressed your hips and thighs. 

Almost in, baby, he whispers in between kisses. I can feel every inch of you. 

You flit your eyes to where both your bodies meet, in mute shock from how deep he already was in you.

“You like it, baby?” he breathes warmly on your jaw. “Like watching yourself sit on my cock?” 

Fuck. Stop teasing me, you want to whine. But, the words won’t slip past your clenched teeth. 

His name bounces across the soft sand, the wind picking up and making you shiver. 

The warm glow of the lanterns spill across his sharp cheekbones, planes of his jaw. You’ve never seen someone look this beautiful under a hazy night sky before.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” you feel him murmur against your lips. “Say the word, baby. We’ll stop.”

You’re panting now, trying hard not to break your progress and having to start over. Rafayel was about halfway inside, and you forced your body to push and receive. 

Guh, you gasp, tossing your head back. 

“Love seeing you stretch yourself out on my cock, baby,” Rafayel mutters hoarsely—passionately. 

The implicit meaning in his words is clear: I love how you give yourself so willingly to me.

For Rafayel, you would do this ten times over until your body memorizes him. Willing your cunt to make a home for his monster cock even if it would break your spine.

“Almost,” he reassures in a low groan. “You feel s’good baby.”

He’s sweating as well, bullets of exertion not to break his composure and fuck into you mingling with the last of the seawater droplets rolling down his temples.

Rafayel, Rafayel, you whimper his name over and over. Oh God…

Something bubbles inside of you, thick and hot. You think you’re about to spill over, thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up. 

Your lover groans, low and lusty, his eyes trapped right in between your legs. “You’re so wet—look. Your little pussy loves me, baby.”

You glance to where he’s telling you to look, and nearly pass out from the embarrassment. 

Thick, pearly droplets are oozing down his merman length, and you would’ve thought it was from him had you not felt your walls start to twitch—more wetness gushing and trickling down to stain his pelvis.

The added lubrication made it easy enough for you to bottom out on his cock, and both your mutual cries of ecstasy reverberated into the dark night.

Shit, shit. Too big. You’re too big for me.

“You can take it,” he mouths your earlobe, kissing down your cheek. “Doing so well for me.”

Your breathing trembles, like a question hanging in thin air. Can you fuck me now? 

Rafayel scoffs and bumps his nose with yours gently. “Always making me do the hard work. You really are my spoiled, pretty princess, aren’t you? Or…” his voice drops, the heat in his eyes almost scorching you. “Do you want to be my good girl?”

You gasp: I do. I want to be your good girl.

He hisses when you start to shift your hips, the motion making your clit catch on his pelvis. You mewl, leaning forward to repeat the same motion; trying to chase after that spark of pleasure over and over again.

Those big, smooth palms cradle your face, pushing your hair back.

Rafayel’s jaw is tense, like he’s biting down on some inner demon you can’t see. 

That’s it. That’s my good girl. 

Your nails leave white crescent moons on his pale shoulders as you ride him, every bump and ridge of his cock brushing your sweet spot. He was so deep in you, almost plunging right past your cervix. 

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

An arm sweeps you right to his chest, your cheek pressed atop his heartbeat. Rafayel thrusts his hips up, meeting your sensual grinding.

Spit pools in the back of your throat, your eyes squeezed shut as you let your Lemurian lover have his way with you. You part your mouth, mellifluous moans touching the air and turning it golden to his reddened ears.

I love you. His whispers against your throat, the sting of his teeth soothed by the sweetness of his praise and adoration. I love you so much, my good girl.

“You fuck me so good,” the words tumble from your split mouth, recklessly thoughtful. “No one can fuck me like you.”

Yeah, he pants, mouthing your pulse point. Cream on this cock, baby. It’s all yours. His hands span across your lower back, traversing down to grip your ass and spreading you wider for him.

Give me everything you’ve got, Princess. 

His cock plunges so deep inside of you, and you were sure that if he came right now, he might’ve knocked you up in one try. 

All yours. Rafayel was all yours. 

You lean up, arms resting on either side of his head as the sand bites into your skin. 

Rafayel thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven. He watches, mesmerized, as your tits sway right in front of his face. You’re fucking him now, meeting each fluid thrust he had to give; bouncing on his lap like you were riding out a desperate heat.

His thighs tense, and he feels your pussy clench down on him. 

Fuck, you stutter, and so do your hips. I’m close. 

He squeezes your ass, smacks it with both palms.

Your breathing catches, and you ride him even harder. Faster.

“Fuck,” those pretty eyes were hooded, latched on your bouncing tits and stiff nipples. “Look so good fucking me—you love using me, don’t you, Master?” 

You gasp, and Rafayel feels your composure slip when you squeeze down on him. He almost cums right there and then. But, he fights it off, needing to see you lose control first.

The sight of your stickiness frothing at the base of his cock nearly makes him white out in pleasure, getting messier with every stroke of his non-human cock. 

He’s never had a human before in his Lemurian form, but it’s something straight out of a wild, wet dream.

Your skin was so, so soft in comparison to his hard scales that he’s almost afraid of hurting you with them.

But, you prove you’re made of tougher stuff when you lean back, bracing both hands on the girth of his tail. 

Showing off your puffy pussy and glistening hole taking every inch of him like it was made for this and only for this purpose.

He feels himself drowning in you. No one has ever taken him this deep. His mouth falls open, a low grunt touching your hot ears. Good girl… good fucking girl. His praises make you warm all over. You would do anything and everything to earn his devotion. But, Rafayel doesn’t make you do it—he gives it to you freely. One large hand smoothed over your belly, your tits, pinching your nipples and smirking inwardly when you gasp and groan. 

Breathy whimpers resound, his thumb on your clit rubbing out full body shudders. The sky above spins, like he’s being sucked into and about to be spat out of a whirlpool.

His eyes bounce from the softness of your belly, your tits jiggling, and then back down to your pretty pussy taking all of him in.

“Like what you see?” 

Rafayel flits his gaze back up. Your eyes were two pools of smoldering heat, about to burn him alive.

You grab his wandering hand, pressing it right over your stomach. “I can feel you here.” He twitches, and you gasp. “So, so deep.”

Sloppy sounds of your bodies meeting; you were so, so wet and perfect. Your pussy was gushing, fighting between squeezing him out or sucking him in. 

I’m gonna cum, baby, he grunts. The vein in his neck tightens, and your whimper almost sets him off.

Gonna cum so deep inside of you. Make you so round and perfect with my babies. You’re my Queen, aren’t you? My love. I’ll love you until the seas dry up. You’re mine forever. 

It’s that tinge of possessiveness which does you under. You were putty to his deep, gravelly voice; those words of unending devotion and sin.

His thick, dark lashes flutter, those pretty eyes rolling back into his head.

Fuck, baby. He grabs onto your hips, looking for something to steady him. “I need you… I’m gonna cum,” he whines, and it’s pathetic really—how much you’ve affected him.

If he was a lesser man, Rafayel might’ve called you his weakness. But, you were more than that.

You were the reason he woke up in the mornings. The reason he relentlessly pursued the passages of time and space to find you; you were the muse to his madness. 

“Do it for me, baby,” you pant, and fall back into his arms. Chest to chest, lips to lips, every breath you took was exhaled by his own. “Cum for me.”

Make me yours forever, Rafayel.

The world goes white, and your pussy quivers around him, an ending opera note suspended in mid-air.

It comes crashing down, slo-mo turned to a normal pace when time rushes back to engulf your sluggish shore.

His cum fills you up, thicker and running hotter than a human’s. It felt strange; pulsating inside of you, glob after glob. Your pussy shudders and breaks, physical and emotional walls all torn down for him; voice hoarse and edged with mania. Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel…

You mumble his name like a prayer while he drags your lips to his, kissing you like an oath.

He feels you shudder around him, growing weaker like a kitten. It would be so easy for him to pierce your neck with his teeth, cut through your jugular with his scales. 

But, Rafayel tames his primal, oceanic urge to destroy, reining it back in favor of nosing your hair.

“Felt so good,” he mumbles tiredly. “Are you okay, my little conch shell?”

You hum, shift your hips. The bulbous head of his cock brushes the opening of your cervix. “I can’t believe I took you so deep.” You drift off and in a few minutes, feel him go from soft to half-hard in you again. 

“Are you still turned on, baby?” you ask innocently, voice soft and frayed with exhaustion. Rafayel swivels his face away, trying to hide his red ears.

“N-no.”

You huff a laugh, using all the strength in your jelly-like limbs to sit up. Something catches your attention, and in the corner of your eye, you pick up the dark strands, fisting it close to your mouth.

Rafayel watches, unsure what you’re intending to do. He sits up, squints, and almost gasps.

That’s enough Hydroweed for you to last a night under the ocean. 

He’s about to stop you, when you ingest it all in one go.

The second you convulse, he pushes you back into the ocean, your gasp of relief second to only his bruising kiss completely devouring your mouth. 

Your legs wrap around his waist, and your back meets the ocean floor again. This time, you take the lead, rolling him off to straddle his waist again. 

Rafayel glances at you, gorgeous pastel eyes hooded. 

He notices how comfortable you’re getting underwater; how easy it is for you to scoot down his torso, your playful smirk making his cock and heartstrings throb. 

“Baby—” he mumbles, only to be cut off by the sight of you kissing his bulbous tip.

Rafayel isn’t a believer of god per say (coming from his own experience as a retired sea deity), but at the sight of your pretty lips skimming his merman tip, he thinks he could give religion another shot. 

What’re you doing? His whisper carries across the currents.

Ssh, you hush him, rimming the tip of your tongue around his flushed head. You don’t miss how his tail twitches, cock now painfully at full mast. 

Isn’t it obvious? You mumble, kissing the tip reverently. I want to taste my Lemurian's pretty cock.

He seizes, back arching, putty in your hands when you take him down as deep as your little throat allows. 

What else you couldn’t fit, you used your hands to jack up and down.

Soft hisses slip past his clenched teeth. “You’re driving me crazy, baby.”

Mhm, you slur, flickering your hazy, fucked out gaze to his flushed face. Tastes so good, you whisper, and Rafayel was glad the ocean didn’t show the line of drool that usually trickles down your jaw; your fucked out expression which would make his control snap instantly. 

You would need to consume at least three more mouthfuls of Hydroweed before he was fully done with you. 

Luckily, Thomas’ yacht came with some fluffy towels.

Rafayel had wrapped you in one while he laid the other under your back; content to curl his tail around you, still in his Lemurian form. The honeywood deck was warm to the touch, the balmy evening offering comfort and respite from hours underneath the cold, dark ocean. 

“So…” he quips, not one for stewing in silence. “Questions? Thoughts? Comments?” 

You fight back a smile. 

“Was there really eggs put up inside of me? Swore I felt a lot of round and hard things sloshing inside.”

“That… would be my tip.” Rafayel flicks your nose when you scoff. “On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out would you be if I said I did actually put some eggs up in your body and it had to be fertilized so the rest would start falling out of you like gelatinous goo until the only one takes?” 

You blink. “Pretty freaked out, if I’m being honest.”

“So… a nine?” 

“More like—” you lifted your hand and made a so-so motion. “—a six, at best. I’m kinda used to your bullshit by now, babe.” 

“Hey!” Rafayel tugs on the ends of your hair, making you laugh. Growing serious now, he murmurs, “So, you’re absolutely fine with being knocked up with a half-Lemurian kid?” 

“Depends,” you mumble mildly. “Am I the first one you’re doing this with?”

Barely missing a beat, he nodded. “The only one. Never had time to sleep around. Always busy running a kingdom. Blah-blah. Typical God of the Sea stuff. No biggie.”

“Aw,” you coo, “I’m so honored you waited for me.” 

You expected him to scoff or roll his eyes, not lapse into a serious quietness. Rafayel’s silence stretched on, and you perched your jaw on his shoulder.

“Hey. Penny for your thoughts?” 

“Hmm.” Rafayel tugs you closer, grabbing your hand and pressing it to his cheek. His lips are inches apart from yours, warm breath touching your parted mouth. You taste him on your tongue, invigorating yet comforting.

A well-worn sign of home. 

“Just that I would do it all over again. Wait for you, I mean. Even if it takes a long, long time.”

A few centimeters and 800 years stand between the two of you. 

But, for tonight, you breach the distance and kiss him, grateful that you had been given this cherished memory together with Rafayel.

— rbs and feedback are appreciated !!

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or translate my work across other platforms.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

"You dunno a goddamn thing bout it," he spat at you angrily, pacing across the cracked and uneven wood floor. You half expected his boot to go straight through a board the way he was stomping around. "You and me ain't the fuckin' same! 'M sure ya had a nice white bread and white picket fence life before everythin' went to shit. Hell, I can tell ya did just by lookin' at ya!" He flicked his fingers in your direction and then stalked back to the dingy window.

You'd had enough of his bullshit for one day. "Yeah, you're so fucking special, Daryl! So unknowable—the only one who has a fucking monopoly on misery! You think I don't know anything about you? Well, you don't know shit about me," you barked back. "And reality check, Dixon—anybody who is still alive out here knows fucking suffering and misery. And regardless of what you think, I knew it from before too. So do us both a favor, and shut the fuck up about who you think I am. Maybe you'll finally figure it out for real if you pay attention. We're stuck here together for a while and at this point silence seems like the best policy."

You'd said it to the back of his broad shoulders as he stood at the window and turned away to sink down on the grungy couch that was practically decomposing into the floor. Daryl fucking Dixon. God, what an infuriating hot-head... and even as you thought it, you wondered if that was true why you cared what he thought about you at all.

You didn't see the way he'd hazarded a covert glance over his shoulder at you, regret painted on his face.

Prompt: "You and I aren't the same."

[valscigarette]

Summary: How it all started for Vox and Val. (Inspired by this beautiful art by @evevsy!)

Tags: Vox/Valentino, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Canon-Typical Everything, PWP that's mostly plot, Repressed Vox, Power Plays, Background Val/Angel, Networking

Warnings: Drinking, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Background Val/Angel and all it entails, Smut.

See AO3 or DM me for more detailed tags/warnings!

WC: 9.7k | AO3

-

One thing Vox cannot be accused of is laziness. He’s given this business twenty years and counting of his afterlife. He brought television, technology, the goddamned golden age to Hell, but his era of growth has finally stalled, leaving his creativity as stagnant as the mosquito-riddled swamps Alastor adores so much.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vox?” 

If he has any hope of competing with radio, he has to come up with something. Soon. No amount of stage lights and sequins will overcome a lack of substance. For the better part of the last week, Vox has run from writer’s rooms to costume shops in a desperate search for any break to the monotony, but nothing has come to him, despite knowing he has the best eye for entertainment in Hell.

“Mr. Vox?” 

One of his assistants, newer but remarkably brave, edges into Vox's field of vision and waits to be acknowledged. As he drums his claws against his desk, their ears twitch with anxious agitation, but whatever courage allows their interruption isn’t enough for them to do more than tremble at the sight.  

“Sir?” They try again. 

“Don't bother me when I'm thinking,” Vox snaps, fully swiveling his chair to face them. “My schedule is clear until seven.”  

The assistant flinches, but takes no steps to leave. Vox flicks his hand in a shooing gesture, giving them an opportunity to rub their two braincells together and fuck off before he makes them. Nothing. Sighing, he turns fully in his chair.  

“Alright,” he sneers, electricity crackling down his antennae and through his hands, “what’s so important?” 

Holding out their clipboard like a shield, they stammer, “Your, um, schedule isn’t actually clear, sir? You’re late for the Rising Stars banquet.” When Vox stands up, they shuffle back. “Not too late, though! Fashionably late. You can definitely pull that off. Do you need a fresh suit?” 

Forgetting about the PR event of the year is almost as embarrassing as having a staff too incompetent to remind him. Tomorrow morning, Vox is going to paint the fucking floors with the blood of everyone except the demon before him.

“Of course I need a fresh fucking suit.” As they leap toward the door, Vox clears his throat. “Something nice, or I’ll feed you to my sharks.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. I- I'll be right back.” 

He waves them off before slumping back into his chair. Normally, Vox looks forward to the banquet; he gets to meet with overlords and demons looking for associates, while dumping the glitz and glamor on his audience. If he’s late, he’s already missed the red carpet. No one will ask him who designed his suit, shove a camera into his face for a soundbite, or get distracted by a prettier face mid-interview. Despite how exhausting the affair can be, it’s one of his biggest nights of the year, and he’s blown his entrance. All he has left are the one-on-one pitches, where Vox only has one objective at a time. He should be pissed, if not infuriated, by his own forgetfulness and his employees’ incompetence alike, but after countless hours of fruitless desperation for his next venture, he can barely muster a grimace. 

While he waits for the assistant’s return, he pulls up the guest list on one of his monitors to get an idea of how the evening will go. Most attendees this year are minor overlords with only a few souls under their belts, who should be too starstruck by VoxTek’s invitation to complain about his tardiness. Those who do are worth keeping an eye on. 

Only a few minutes later, the assistant shuffles back into his with a garment bag in their hands and a freshly polished pair of saddle shoes draped around their neck by the laces. At his desk, they unpack Vox’s clothes with practiced efficiency. At least they have taste; the suit they’ve chosen is adorned by reflective silver thread, complimenting the polished tie clip, diamond cufflinks, and starry lapel pin zipped into the accessory pouch of the garment bag. Subtle silver accents on the saddle shoes pull the entire look together.  

“That’s good,” Vox praises, shrugging off his blazer and tossing it toward the secretary. “Classy. You like fashion?” 

They fold and set aside the coat with practiced precision. “I read a lot of magazines.” 

“That's not the question I asked you.” Vox strips away his vest, button-down, and slacks too, careless about where they land in his haste to get redressed. “Do you like it?” Cool silk slides into place like a second skin. He only wears tailored, custom-made pieces these days, and it shows in the perfect fit of the collar to his neck. “Not everyone has the vision...?” Trailing off, Vox realizes he doesn’t know their name. He raises an eyebrow and holds his hand out for the next piece of his outfit, disguising the failure behind the dismissive mask they expect. “You’ll have to remind me, my dear.”

“Stanford. And I guess I’ve always been interested; you can tell a lot about someone from their clothes.” When Stanford hands Vox his tie, they gather the strength to look him in the eyes. “I love working for you, though, Mr. Vox, I promise.” 

The pin, tie-clip, and cufflinks are easy to affix while they bend to help Vox step into his new pair of shoes. “I know.” He glances at the top of Stanford’s head and considers whether the secretary would be worth fucking, if he wasn’t already late to the banquet. Getting some action could jumpstart his circuits enough to come up with an idea. “You’re more useful than the others.” They tie his shoes like it’s the most important task of the day and don’t complain when he uses their shoulder for balance. Vox appreciates the dedication. “If you’ve got dreams, I’ll make ‘em come true, Stanford. You just have to ask, you know?” 

Finally, he affixes his cufflinks and turns away from the secretary. Until he has their soul under contract, he cannot stop another overlord from worming their way into Stanford’s weak mind, and Vox needs someone he can rely on to keep a schedule,

“I’ve got to run,” he says. “Block out time in my calendar for us to talk.” 

At least the banquet is held on the fifth floor of Vox’s tower. Here, his guests enjoy the finest he can offer, from imported booze to five-star cuisine, as they cycle between schmoozing and sizing one another up for a fight. By the time he waltzes in, the social atmosphere is buzzing enough for his arrival to inspire no fanfare.  

Vox snatches a flute of champagne from a passing tray to occupy his hands as he surveys the crowd. Usually, he gives an opening speech to set the tone for the night, and he’s whisked from one conversation to another, but without announcing himself, he’s invisible in a sea of nobodies. He’s nothing.  

His invisibility shatters as a white-furred demon with one black eye—a contracted soul—glides up to Vox and taps their glasses together. “Mr. Vox? I’m a huge fan.” Startled by the squeaking Brooklyn accent, a stark contrast to the pink sweater and heart-stamped body before him, Vox doesn’t respond in time to stop the demon from excitedly shaking his hand. “The fantasies I’ve had about that desk of yours-” 

“And you would be?” Vox interrupts, subtly wiping his palm on his coat when it’s released. He has to play nice; this is a fan, after all. 

Grinning toothily, the demon places his lower set of hands on his hips and frames his face with the upper. “Angel Dust, at your service. I'm Valentino's plus-one.” Angel blows Vox a kiss, then cozies up against his side. “But we’re not exclusive or anything. Not a lotta folks compare to Val, but I bet a stud like you can.” 

“Charming,” Vox drawls. He remembers approving Valentino’s invitation: he owns several clubs and their affiliated brothels, as well as the bodies he fills them with. There’s no doubt in Vox’s mind that Angel is one of Valentino’s whores, sent to butter him up. If he had no standards, it might’ve worked. “Where’s your boss now?” 

Angel’s eyes crinkle at the edges, indiscernible between pleased and distraught. “I’ll introduce you. C’mon, handsome.”  

One of his right hands finds Vox’s waist to guide him through the crowd. At first, Vox thinks it’s part of the flirtation, but when Angel stumbles four times in under a minute, he realizes it’s for support. Ugh. If Valentino’s employee is shitfaced less than an hour into a public event, Vox has low expectations.   

They find Valentino on the balcony, smoking a long cigarette as he flirts with one of Vox’s servers. The overlord is tall, even sprawled out over a wire chair, with four toned arms, two feathery antennae, glittering red eyes, and mile long legs. For several long, humiliating seconds, Vox can’t drag his eyes off the crease of Valentino’s hip, shamelessly displayed by the high slit of his gown, and Vox’s fans spin faster to compensate for the images flashing through his imagination. Only the red smoke streaming from Val’s smirk breaks his flawless image.

“Mr. Vox, this is Valentino.” 

“Please, just Val,” Valentino corrects, cadence slow and smooth like honey. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to tonight; Angie and I love your work. Do you have a few minutes to sit and chat?” 

Vox slides into the seat opposite Valentino and takes a deep breath to collect himself. Saccharine scarlet smoke filtered through his fans still tastes sweeter than maraschino cherries on his tongue as he crosses his legs at the ankle. “Absolutely.” 

“Good. I was afraid you’d be too busy for me.” 

Humility doesn’t fit Val, but his honeyed tone smooths the dissonance almost beyond notice. There’s a performer here, wrapped in fishnet tights and glowing under the gentle golden gleam of the city beyond; Vox understands, for the first time in his afterlife, the appeal of signing over his sou with no pitch necessary. His imagination suffices.  

“Not tonight,” Vox assures. “I’m here to get to know you, your work, your business model-” he ignores Angel’s giggle, “-and find out whether we’d make a good team.” 

Val turns to blow smoke directly into Angel’s face and pat him on the head. “I brought my Angel Dust in case you wanted to sample the merchandise.” Without waiting for Vox’s response, Angel sinks down in the narrow space between Vox and Val’s knees, and turns his sultry gaze toward his boss. Valentino’s orders are the only ones that matter. “He headlines all my clubs, one each night of the week.” None of Vox’s underlings are that dedicated. “Or, if he’s not to your liking, I can call one of my girls?” 

“I’m not interested in your, ahem, dancers, Val.” 

“Right. My mistake,” Valentino hums. He flicks the toe of his boot into Angel’s ribs, sending him scuttering away from Vox’s personal space after the second rejection. “You’re old fashioned, Voxxy, I can respect that. I’ve got something for everyone though, you know.” 

The pet name should make Vox’s skin crawl, too diminutive and familiar for their first conversation, but all he can think about is how pretty it sounds in Val’s voice. “I’m familiar with your brand. Voxtek does your security cameras, as I recall, but we don’t have an official partnership on the books; was that your decision or mine?” 

“I was a small outfit at the time,” Val says by way of explanation, “but those cameras are what helped me grow.” He leans forward and whispers, “I’ve got an idea that could make us both richer than fucking Lucifer.” 

Judging by the pearls elegantly strung around Valentino’s throat and collarbone, he’s as rich as Vox already, if not more so. His power ought to feel more threatening than intoxicating. Perhaps he’s the answer. Val’s allure, beyond the souls he commands, could make for a formidable addition to the network’s cast. It would buy Vox time, if nothing else. 

“Tell me about this idea of yours.” 

“Now, I know your brand is squeaky clean, but we are in Hell.” 

“I try to reach as broad an audience as possible,” Vox defends. The less offensive, the more palatable, his content, the greater his viewership will be- a simple truth of television. “I’m the default, babe. Every television in this city comes with my channels included.” 

Val nods slowly. “Yes, I understand, but do you want to know how I bought six new clubs in the last month?” 

When Vox approved the invite list, he only owned three in total. His first thought is that Valentino has somehow contracted the previous owners and taken their businesses as spoils, but that wouldn’t be interesting; it wouldn’t warrant a question dangled like bait in front of Vox’s face.  

“By all means,” he says.  

“Hmm.” Val considers him, eyes narrowed as he ashes his cigarette over the balcony railing. “Promise your head won’t explode?” 

“I promise,” Vox answers, trying to place why he doesn’t find Valentino near as frustrating as he should, despite a more salacious demeanor than Angel Dust and a smile like he wants to eat Vox alive.   

Leaning in, Val glances to each side as if to ensure their conversation remains private. One of his antennae bends to brush Vox’s and stiffens with the static charge, but no pain distorts his expression. “Ever since you introduced playback to your cameras, I’ve been selling the tapes to my Johns. They’ll pay as much for the video as they do for ass.” 

Vox recoils. “You’re making porn.” 

“I’m making films.” His discomfort spurs Valentino on. “Imagine how much money we’d make with a real studio, your nice cameras, a couple billboards... sex sells, amor, and we could sell a lot.” 

When he tries to think about it, Vox pictures the feedback he’d get. Killjoy would resign the second he brings Valentino in, and half the girls in hair and makeup would follow her. Audience letters would pile to the ceilings in the mail room with complaints as his televisions are smashed and discarded in the streets. Alastor would eviscerate him. To attach himself to Valentino could take apart everything he’s built in a matter of days. 

“I’m just saying,” Val sing-songs, “you might be fucking celibate, but most of us need to get our rocks off somehow. If we mass-market my films, we can sell them at a lower price to the poor souls who can’t afford to touch.” 

“It’s still porn.” 

“What’s the big deal? You’ve never picked up a filthy magazine?” On his next drag, Valentino blows the smoke directly at Vox, clouding over his visual sensors before his fans absorb it and flood his mind with the sweet vapor’s taste again. “Follow the money.” 

Angel stumbles back inside for another drink, but in the seconds the door is open, a wave of warmth and noise from the banquet brings Vox back to his senses. As Val knows, it’s about the money, but he doesn’t realize how temperamental an audience the size of Vox’s can be when he fails to meet their standards. Clean is good; clean is marketable. Furrowed brows and subtle flinches follow Angel’s path through the party like an omen of the mess Valentino would make of the company, given a chance.  

“I’ll throw some funds at your project,” Vox concedes, “as long as you keep my name out of it. You can have better cameras for a twenty percent cut. Make it thirty, and I’ll give you mics and lights, too.” 

Val’s inviting grin sharpens, claws of one hand gouging the table as he clings to the flirtatious persona he arrived with. “You must be an idiot. Or you think I am.” 

“You can take or leave my offer, Valentino.” Vox’s head spins when he stands, despite only drinking half of his champagne, and he grips the back of his chair for balance lest he fall over the balcony with Val’s smoke. “Enjoy the rest of the banquet.” 

Slowly, Vox makes his way back inside without incident, and evades Angel’s sight line until he finds a new guest to evaluate. He peruses the crowd, shaking hands and making unmemorable pleasantries with those who don’t need any more persuasion than the night of luxury he’s provided. Their offers will roll into his inbox like the morning paper tomorrow. Really, the guests filled with excitement or ennui are the ones who need his attention the most, Valentino being the former; Vox finds the latter in an overlord spread out on his couch as she mutters complaints to a black-eyed frog demon. Target acquired. 

After straightening his tie, Vox sidles up to her and perches on the arm of the couch with a deep enough lean to brush her shiny pink hair. “Hello,” he coos. “Love the dress, darling, the red brings out your eye.” When she looks up at him, unimpressed, he holds out his hand. “I’m Vox.” 

“I know who you are, alright.” Her clipped accent is more irritating than Angel’s, and she doesn’t shake his hand, but he recognizes her name when she introduces herself as “Cherri Bomb.” 

“The seductress with the best explosives in Pentagram City—other than Carmilla’s, of course—what an honor to have you here.” When a quick once-over shows her glass to be empty, Vox snaps his fingers at the nearest server. “Can I get you anything?” 

“Does your fancy bar serve tequila?” 

The server scurries off without needing to be told. “While we wait for your drink, talk to me: tell me your story. What brought you here?” 

“Free food and booze,” she answers immediately, as though the answer has been on the tip of her tongue since he approached her, and rolls her eyes at Vox’s subsequent forced laugh. “Honestly didn’t think we’d talk. You seem a little... put together, compared to my kinda fun.” 

“So I keep hearing.” He spares a second to remember how Valentino had phrased it, with more affectionate condescension than open disdain, though it should irritate him as much. She isn’t entirely dissimilar to Val; both have made their names in sex, in being so irresistible that they collect souls in exchange for their touch, in leaving their property bruised by bite marks and their enemies blown to bits. Cherri, however, rotates through her boyfriends with little fanfare, discarding them aside from the occasional booty-call once another pursuit distracts her. As for those who betray her, threaten her harem, or provide any vaguely reasonable excuse, she decimates them with her namesake. Whether they work together or not, Vox gets the sense he would prefer to remain in her good graces. 

“What you should know about VoxTek, my dear Cherri, it’s that everyone loves us, and sinners don’t know how to love something without wanting to destroy it. Our security is great, but I like to stay on the cutting edge of innovation. Your talent with improvised weaponry interests me.” 

Right on time, the server arrives with a crystal glass of tequila, top shelf, for her. As she takes the first decadent sip, Vox delivers his offer.  

“Imagine what you could do with my resources,” he tells her. Cherri looks at him over her drink, which she’s not savoring so much as sipping between sighs, with her single eyebrow asymmetrically raised. He brightens his screen and allows the slightest swirl to creep into his magnified left eye. “You could have all the tequila you want, for starters. Trust me.” 

For a split second, he has her. She lowers the glass, mouth agape and pupil slowly spinning, but it clears the moment he stops speaking, and she punches his arm. “Don’t ever fucking try that with me again, you smarmy cunt,” she snaps as he fights to maintain his balance and keep the pain off his screen. He must fail, because she smirks triumphantly before adding, “I’m not working with a bitch like you.” 

Vox might kill her for that if they weren’t at a public event. He tucks the fantasy away as a background process, immaterial to his current goal of shoring up the company until he has an idea, to focus on the benefits of a business partner courageous enough to punch him on his own turf.  

“Surely there’s something you want?” he plies, rubbing the sting from his arm.  “Name your price.” 

After shooting the rest of her drink, Cherri nods toward the balcony. “You’ve met Val?” 

Vox cannot resist turning to look. Through the narrow windows, he can see one of Valentino’s hands gesticulating wildly, the shimmery brim of his hat, and a segment of his right calf. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough. When he looks to Cherri again, the excited sparks of his antennae reflecting from her eye, she huffs.  

“I’ll take that as a yes.” The sharp tone of her voice has Vox ordering another drink for them both. She drums her fingers against the outside of her glass impatiently as he does, but allows him to finish before continuing. “Listen. The only thing I want that I can’t get myself with enough elbow grease is his contract with Angel Dust.” 

“Huh.” If Vox considers Angel from an aesthetic viewpoint, he sees the appeal; in reality, the mere thought of intimacy with such a used soul makes him want to break out in hives. “Did Val steal him from you, or…?” he asks, disguising his curiosity under a blase tone.  

This time, he sees the blow coming, and dodges Cherri’s fist. “It’s not like that, dickhead. Angie’s my friend, and Val...” she hesitates for the first time. Vox stays silent, waiting for her to continue rather than upsetting the vulnerability he’s finally coaxed from her. “Valentino has the worst fucking vibes I’ve ever seen. I may not know for sure what goes on behind closed doors, but I have a pretty good idea. So.” When she goes for another sip of tequila and remembers her glass is empty, she tosses it onto the cushion next to her and fishes a tiny baggie of white powder from her cleavage. “If you want me to work with you, or whatever, that’s my condition.” 

“I can’t interfere in another Overlord’s affairs,” Vox hedges, watching her pour a jagged line on the back of her hand and snort it, “but if you were an associate of mine, I could put in a good word on your behalf. Maybe redirect Val’s temper to spare your friend?” He has a crisp salesman’s smile in place when she finishes her line. 

She laughs dryly. “Good luck trying to tell him what to do.”  

“Well then.” He stands smoothly, reaching for the server whose arrival he hadn’t noticed until his hand bumped their tray to get his fresh champagne. “If you’d like to talk realistic terms, darling, have your people contact mine.” 

He wins a scowl from her before leaving her side, a small victory, but once he’s sure she can no longer see him, he sighs and scrubs a hand down his screen. Two pitches into the night, and Vox has nothing to show for it besides a low-level buzz. Given how long it’s been since he made progress in any aspect of the business, the fear that he’s losing his touch grumbles through his gut. Time marches on without Hell on Earth, bringing new technology and slang and ideas, and no matter how well he understands the basic principles of entertainment, he finds himself floundering to keep up with the demands of the recently dead. How Alastor maintains such a strong audience without any variety to his programming, Vox will never know.  

Still, the banquet has hours to go, and he has countless other guests to speak with. He strikes a deal with a snuff photographer to join his magazine department, hires an assorted handful of overlords for additional security, contracts a puppy-like actress newly dead and still mourning her celebrity, and nurses his way through what likely amounts to an entire bottle of champagne over the course of the evening. Other small, petty conversations fill the gaps between his victories. Little by little, his guests filter out, until Vox’s underlings begin to rouse the over-intoxicated demons scattered across the room. 

Cherri Bomb is long gone, but when Vox takes inventory of the hall, he catches sight of Angel, surreptitiously sneaking a bottle of wine under his arm as he returns to the balcony. Vox shouldn’t be surprised Val and his pet haven’t left, but the idea that Valentino is waiting to speak to him again makes his heart skip in an otherwise inexplicable way. Picking his way over the trash and general mess left behind by the banquet, he runs his hands down his clothes to smooth away as many wrinkles as possible; his job for the night isn’t over yet.  

He steps onto the balcony with a megawatt grin. “Val! Glad you’re still here. Did you have time to think about my offer?” 

Over the course of the evening, what Vox assumed to be a red cloak has unfolded into a beautiful set of wings, spread behind Valentino like a velvety curtain. His immediate desire to touch them is so strong that his hand twitches at his side before he reigns himself in and meets Val’s bright gaze.  

“I did,” Val says. He takes a leisurely drag of his cigarette, and reaches to take the wine from Angel as smoke trails from his lips. “Run home now, Angel-baby; Daddy has some business to attend to.” 

Angel casts Vox a sidelong glance. “But-” 

“Angel.” The single hissed word drips with deadly sweetness. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

“Yeah, I uh, I’m sorry, Val.” As he speaks, Angel backs away from Valentino, reaching for the door with his upper hands, hugging himself with the lower; Cherri was right that Vox doesn’t need to see behind closed doors to know this song and dance like the back of his hand. His parents, his colleagues, his marriage, half of Hell, have lived out the cliche, and while Vox has moved beyond the need for such unsophisticated techniques, there’s an old-fashioned charm to Valentino’s brusque methodology. 

Now that Angel is gone, Vox realizes how much space Val takes up, whether he means to or not. Those lanky limbs occupy half the terrace in his sprawl, his wings cut off the area behind him, and his smoke carpets the ground in a thick layer. With one of Val’s feet propped up on the chair opposite him, Vox’s only option to sit is on the table, precariously close to the deep vee of Valentino’s neckline.  

“Sorry about him,” Val says dismissively, flicking one of his wrists toward the window, “I let his leash get too loose tonight.” 

Despite Val’s apparent hope, Vox hasn’t forgotten whose idea it was for Angel to come onto him. It was a stab in the dark. He can respect making a move, but the assumption he would sink so low still stings. “Hey, no problem. I know how contracts are.” He hops onto the table, gripping its edge when it wobbles as if it would help, should his seat tip. “Doesn’t help when he’s so fucked up, he can’t walk a straight line.” 

“His talents don’t require much walking.”  Val bites the cork off his wine bottle and spits it to the floor. Before drinking, his wily tongue cleans spillage from the neck with practiced ease, and his unbroken eye contact suggests the skill is useful in more situations than this.  

“I have an image to maintain,” Vox insists. When Val offers him the wine, he figures another drink won’t hurt. Sickly sweet remnants of Valentino’s spit coat the lip of the bottle like syrup, as rich in color as the smoke and impossible not to swallow, tingling down his throat and into his stomach. He passes the bottle back. “My days are long enough without cleaning up after your sluts.” 

“You wouldn’t have to. We can hire people for that, once my films make us filthy rich.” 

Valentino has a point there, but Vox can’t get past the idea; he kept his public persona clean in life and has done the same in death, with enough success to never want for material goods. His pursuit for more power, more fame, more money, just more, has yet to lead him astray, but this feels like the last line left uncrossed and Vox is surprisingly hesitant to traverse it.  

“Bottom line here, you’ve heard my offer. I’m not risking everything I’ve built on your word alone. Get me some real evidence a studio would succeed, and I’ll think about it,” he decides. The next time Val offers the wine, Vox barely notices the sultry taste when it burns the whole way down like a stronger liquor. “As we are,” he adds, “I think my terms are more than generous.” 

After drinking, he wipes his screen on the back of his hand and comes away sappy with Valentino’s drool. Lighter in color than blood but less reflective, it reminds him of the slick oil running through his own veins, and when he looks to Val again, more drips from the corner of his mouth in wildly alluring twin trails.  

“You’re thinking too big, baby,” Val simpers, reeling Vox in with a loose curl of two fingers. “God doesn’t care what you do in Hell. I’m sure you’ve done worse than bankroll a little filth, no?” 

Worse is subjective, but Vox doubts Val can be convinced as such. “It’s about ratings-” 

“Ratings? Your ratings will go through the roof if you-” 

“Val!” Vox snaps. As he closes the last couple inches between them, his screen flashes to full brightness and the hypnotic swirl of his eye reflects back in Valentino’s glassy gaze, shutting down the argument in its tracks. “Do not fucking interrupt me.” 

“Oh, Voxxy, I’m sorry,” he purrs, entirely unapologetic, “I just want you to see things my way.” The inch of hazy air between them is charged with Vox’s static and Val’s smoke in equal measure, already claustrophobic before Valentino raises his wings around them and takes the end of Vox’s tie in one hand, his waist in another, and his substances in the final two. “Can I make it up to you somehow?” He strokes the fine silk between two gloved fingers, angling the tie in a way that both tugs Vox's neck and turns his mirror-finished tie clip the same brilliant red as the sky.  

The moment Vox tries to stand, his legs nearly fold under him, and he has no choice but to throw an arm around Val’s shoulders for balance. “You don’t have anything I want,” he insists, despite the way his heart sings at the feel of lean muscle beneath downy purple fur. “Doesn’t matter how popular you think it'd be; I know my audience. Do you want my help or not?” 

“I want a partnership.” Their bodies are already so entangled that when Valentino draws him closer, his pearl necklaces press into Vox’s chest through his suit, on the verge of uncomfortable as they dig bruises in between his body and Val’s. “We could rule Hell, you know. The only demographic you haven’t cornered is mine, and all I need is your reach.” 

“My ex-wife already tried that pitch,” Vox grumbles, “and dying didn’t get me out of alimony.” 

 Val raises his cigarette again, nearly burning Vox’s suit on its smoldering end. “Who, Katie? If you’re worried about her, you shouldn’t be; she’s a regular already. Convincing her will be,” he takes a drag of his cigarette, “honestly, easier than you.” 

“Uh-huh.” The next wave of smoke makes Vox’s head spin. He notices too late it’s affecting him, but he needs a deal to buy him time, Val seems unrushed, and he has no reason to fear the overlord before him. Besides- he wants to know what Katie Killjoy is doing in a brothel. “And I suppose Lucifer is a customer as well?” 

“I’m not fucking with you--” Val takes the bait, “--she comes in once a week to peg the everloving shit out of my dancers. Puts ‘em out of commission for a day or two. She’s probably pent up from being married to a prude.” 

“I’m not-” Vox starts, then stops to collect himself. “Just because I’m protective of my brand doesn’t mean I never have sex, Valentino.” 

Silently, Val presses the wine into Vox’s free hand. He turns his head to find space to drink, sips from the bottle, realizes they’ve managed half of it between them already, and allows it to dangle loosely at his side. When he doesn’t look back fast enough, Val tugs his tie sharply to regain his attention.  

Vox’s entire world shrinks to Valentino, the rest of the overcrowded city left outside his soft wings and demanding hands, as Vox searches his slowed processors for a coherent thought. No one, nothing, else matters anymore. Val beats him to the punch, growling, “Do you want to prove it, gorgeous?” with the smugness of someone who’s been waiting all night to put their offer on the table, confident it will be accepted.

Well, Vox did figure an orgasm would help him think. As easy as it would be to refuse the obvious bait, he doesn’t want to jeopardize the sparks Val makes him feel, like he’s alive again for the first time since he died. This can be a one night stand; Vox can have Val without compromising his brand with an investment in porn. Maybe letting loose for one night will be enough.

“It won’t get you a studio,” Vox warns, the arm around Valentino’s shoulders retracting enough to trail his hand down Val’s exposed back. “You don’t get shit for this; I don’t fuck hookers.” 

“Whatever you say,” answers Val, and then he kisses him.  

In the decades since death, Vox has only been kissed a handful of times, and still hasn’t gotten the hang of it. His screen doesn’t allow for lips, but Val finds his mouth well enough and seems more interested in feeding Vox his sweet tasting saliva straight from the source than actually making out with him. He allows himself a fraction of a second to miss real kissing. Then Val relieves him of the wine bottle, which allows him to finally touch the tantalizing stretch of Val’s waist and pull his hips closer.  

On their feet like this, closing that distance breaks the kiss and reminds Vox he only comes up to Val’s shoulders. The disparity makes him feel queasy, alone as they are, but he shoves it down in favor of slipping his hand into the slit of Val’s dress and squeezes his bare ass. 

“The wings will cover us enough,” he murmurs, “so long as you can stay quiet.” 

“Worry about yourself.” Val nudges Vox’s coat off his shoulders, pausing to undo his cufflinks, then focuses on unbuckling his belt. His four hands mean he’s everywhere at once, touching in too many places for Vox to keep track of and slowly driving him insane. “You’re a top?” he asks, winding Vox’s tie around his hand like a slowly tightening leash.  

Although Vox manages a laugh, it comes out high and glitched. “I certainly don’t fucking bottom.” 

“I’ll fix that another time,” Val hisses, kissing Vox again to distract him from questioning the response, too overwhelming for him to process anything beyond the touch. Back to seductive, he strokes the side of Vox’s screen, thumbing red drool from its corner and reaching down the waistband of his boxers simultaneously. “How are we doing this?” 

Vox knows the tables and chairs won’t hold them both, nor are they sturdy enough not to tip over while he fucks Valentino. He considers the floor and has a moment of clarity in which he processes that he’s about to have sex on the very public balcony of his tower, on a floor low enough for passersby to see, if any sinners are still on their way out the door. 

“On your back, on the ground,” he decides, “and put out the damn cigarette.” 

“Boo,” Val whines coyly, but still opens his wings to grind it out on the railing. 

He takes two steps back, trailing his fingertips along Vox’s body until he can’t reach anymore in a display that makes Vox feel cold without him. Bastard. But as Val sinks to the floor, the performer in him shines through the slow drop to his knees, followed by a languid lean back. His wings flare out as his legs fall open enough for his obscenely short skirt to ride up his waist. Preening under Vox’s attention, Val cushions his head with one arm and begins to touch himself with his lower two hands. One strokes his cock, half-hard and pink at the tip, while the other disappears behind it and comes back glittering with slick.  

“I don’t do sloppy seconds, either,” Vox says, despite his feet staying rooted to the floor when he means to walk away. 

Val drags one leg up, bending at the knee to give him a better view. “Perk of being a sex demon: I don’t need help getting wet.” 

“Guess that makes it easier.” To buy himself a few extra seconds to gather his bearings, Vox rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and tugs his belt out of place. This, Val, is too easy for his liking, and yet here he is with any reservations relegated to his subconscious processing and an aching desire to fuck Val so hard, he takes the offer Vox made him earlier in the night. “You need anything,” he asks, lowering himself to the unforgiving concrete, “or are you good? Not gonna cry on me or some shit like that?” 

A dreamy chuckle escapes Val as he nudges Vox’s ribs with his knee. “Don’t flatter yourself, baby.” 

“Fuck you,” Vox bites back. “I’m trying to be nice,” 

Val licks his lips and says, “You really don’t have to.” 

When Vox unzips his fly and shucks down his slacks and boxers, the cold night air reminds him where they are, and he pinches the edge of Valentino’s wing between his thumb and forefinger. “Cover, Val,” he reminds dryly, I'm not an exhibitionist.” He lets go in time for Val to envelop them once more, silencing everything besides the two of them. The slightest touch to Val’s soft thighs guides them, up and out of the way for Vox to scoot into position before they wrap around his waist and stiletto heels bite into the small of Vox’s back.  

As soon as Vox gets a hand on himself, the first proper touch he’s had all evening, any remnants of his self-control dissipate with a sharp crackle between his antennae. Val makes a displeased sound and snatches his wrist away. His narrow fingers, still wrapped by gloves and damp with his own juices, give Vox a few perfunctory strokes before guiding him perfectly into place.  

Valentino is soaked for him, practically blooming for Vox’s touch, like they’re the original sinners realizing what their bodies are capable of for the first time. His pants are halfway down his legs, but he doesn’t need more to push into Val. A full body shudder rolls through Valentino’s body, culminating in a squeeze that short-circuits a couple minor connections in Vox’s processor and has him collapsing face-first into Val’s chest. 

“Fucking shit,” Vox hisses. “Do that again, Val.” 

“Give me a reason,” Val chuckles. There are at least two hands on Vox right now, possibly two hundred for how overwhelming he finds them, skimming his frame so thoroughly that he wonders whether Val is making a tactile mental map. “You can get to work anytime, amorcito, I don’t mind.” 

Vox doesn’t have the presence of mind to both retort and move. He chooses the latter. After a shaky inhale to steady himself, he braces himself with his hands on Valentino’s hips, and hopes Val won’t complain before he can bruise the imprint of his palms and discover how deep he has to dig his claws to draw blood. Truthfully, it’s been months since Vox has gotten to fuck something besides his hand, longer still since his last affair with another overlord, but this shouldn’t steal his tongue as it does. He sets a slow, steady rhythm for his own benefit rather than Val’s; his ego couldn’t take a premature finish, and if Val thinks anything of it, he’s kind enough not to criticize. 

Instead, he cups the corner of Vox’s screen in one hand to direct his gaze down at where they’re joined. “See how hard you make me? And how wet?” It's obscene, the way Vox disappears inside him over and over, each thrust spilling Valentino’s pink-tinted fluids between them. “You know, if you weren’t already so big, I’d hire you. No gag reflex, that slutty little waist-” 

“Shut up,” Vox groans, shuffling forward on his knees until he physically can’t get closer to Val, barely thrusting so much as shallowly grinding into him because it feels like anything more would fry his motherboard. “I’m already fucking you, you’re not getting- shit,” his lower stomach brushes against Val’s knuckles on the hand around his dick, and it shouldn’t make Vox stutter, “-you’re not getting anything else from me.” His ability to think, already compromised from the booze and Val’s smoke, is melting faster by the second. “Don’t have to flatter me.” 

Part of him hates how composed Valentino is in comparison, but some long-suppressed corner of Vox’s mind revels in finding someone who can hold it together when he’s unable, despite this entire situation being Val’s fault to begin with. The conflict crosses wires somewhere and turns from frustration to another reason he can’t get away from the decadent oasis that is Valentino spread out beneath him.  

“Would you rather have me degrade you? I can do that, easily,” Val says, “just let me know.” 

“I want you to be fucking quiet,” hisses Vox in return, the swirls in his eye competing with color-blocked interference on his screen. He can have his eyes and ears all over Pentagram City, but evidently, fucking another overlord while trying to hypnotize them is too much of a strain on his intoxicated system, and Valentino only laughs at his attempt. 

“Aww, poor thing,” Val teases, his voice as syrupy sweet as his kisses had been. “You know, this would be easier if you let me take care of you, Voxxy. I promise it’ll be worth it.” 

If Vox could reach Val’s throat, his face, he might have a fighting chance of shutting him up, but the longer Vox kneels between his legs, barely fucking him, the more he realizes that it doesn’t matter how they arrange themselves; Val has the upper hand. This is his specialty. Vox is out of his depth, has been since the moment he sat on the table, but it’s too late to back out now.  

“You are the expert,” he mutters to himself, not quietly enough to escape Val’s notice. 

“Exactly, amorcito, I’m the expert, and you...” Valentino pinches the side of his screen condescendingly, “are extremely repressed. Let Daddy handle it, hmm?” 

“I’m not calling you that.” 

“But you’re going to let me make you feel good?” Val presses. 

Vox knows better than to hand over what little control he still has of the situation, he really does, but something about Val makes it feel like the first time again: he’s out of his depth, virginal in comparison to a man whose job is sex. All the queasy nerves are the same. And here, trapped in Valentino’s grasp, he can practically taste how good it could be if he lets go of the reins. 

“Sure, whatever.” 

“Good.” As Valentino’s grin stretches so wide it splits his face in half, he seizes Vox with all four arms and flips them over effortlessly, tightening around him in a way that fully blues-out Vox’s screen and wrenches a distorted whine through his speakers. “You have security cameras out here, right, baby?” he purrs. Something that ought to be fear twists around Vox’s heart and makes his dick twitch inside Val. “In full color, I bet.” 

“Fucking- obviously,” Vox manages to grit out, struggling to pull words together when Val is over him, on top of him, all around him, like more of a god than he’s ever worshipped, “I have every inch of the tower covered. Why?” 

Val pins him in place with all four arms, bending until their faces are inches apart. “Because tomorrow, when you miss me, you can watch the tape back,” he sighs. Finally, he begins to move with both the leverage and the self-control to properly fuck himself on Vox’s cock. His rhythm is slow but punishing, dropping down hard enough to make a dull smack each time his ass hits Vox’s clothed thighs. “After you jerk off, you can get back to me about my proposal.” 

“So that’s your angle,” Vox accuses, barely able to form the words between the huffs of air punched out of him with every thrust.

Then, Val kisses the rest of Vox’s words from his lips, flooding his tongue with more drool that washes the thought from his mind. He’s sampling the product, as Valentino intended from the beginning, and though he loathes to admit it, Vox can’t recall sex feeling this good in the entirety of his life or death. Realizing it, processing how much better Val is than he could have imagined, makes his hips jerk uselessly under Valentino’s weight.  

He’s lost in the cherry perfume clinging to Val’s skin, utterly pinned like an insect beneath a demon who, earlier in the day, Vox would be recalcitrant to touch beyond formality’s demands. He’s weak. And he knows it, Val knows it, his employees would know it if they opened the balcony door, the world could know it if they’re not careful- it would be too easy for Vox’s pristine reputation to disintegrate. The stink of the streets is only four floors down and Val could cast him out with a snap of his fingers.  

“It’s a shame you won’t bottom, you know,” Val chatters on after breaking the kiss, indifferent to his effect on Vox. “I’d ruin every other cock for you, like how right now, I’m making sure no other pussy will ever compare.” 

His taste still lingers on Vox’s teeth when he asks, “D’you need to talk to get off? Is that it?” He tests the strength of Val’s hold, finding it absolute. “Full of yourself, huh, Val?” 

“Full of you.” The correction comes with a circle of Val’s hips, squealing feedback from his system and a humiliating urgency to the need building within him. “If you want to touch, all you have to do is ask, and-” Val licks his teeth, “I don’t care if you’re gentle.” 

“Fuck off,” Vox says, automatic like the electricity sparkling between his antenna, his heart pounding like he’s done a kilo of cocaine. “You wanted to do the work, fine. Do it.” He won’t beg.  

One of Val’s hands abandons Vox’s waist for his dick, curling around it picture-perfect, angled so Vox can imagine the beauty of a foreshortened camera shot. Between the marigold lights and their bounce off Val’s carmine wings, his cock is a work of art, and the corner of Vox’s mind that’s always thinking of business sees the marketability in an adonis like Valentino, especially when his slender, practiced fingers coax a pearly bead of precum from its rosy tip. He snaps a screenshot of the sight.  

“So, you like being held down. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” 

Val sets a rhythm that rocks him between his own hand and Vox’s dick, in turn causing him to almost pulse around Vox in a pattern better than any high-tech toy or two-buck slut, and the sticky mess between them begins to cling to his dress ruinously. He must know how stunning he looks, how intoxicating he feels, when he seems more smug than surprised by the continued stream of garbled, static sounds Vox hardly recognizes as his own.  He’d give anything for this feeling to never end—though he knows it will any minute—and for a single, sick, second, he imagines this to be how Valentino ensnares the souls under his command.  

“Are you going to come for me, baby?” Val asks, as if it’s written on Vox’s screen. “Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to last.”  

“I’m-” Vox’s protest dies before he speaks it, every wire crossed and capacitor sparking with the overwhelming combination of input. His soul is Valentino’s for the minute it takes him to orgasm. Everything is Val. His hands. His thighs. His tongue. His wings. His cock. His pussy. It’s all him, and Vox cannot fathom a more infinite bliss than filling him up with useless, compulsive thrusts that make Val gasp more than once. 

“That looked fun,” drawls Val, still riding with steady rocks of his hips despite the way it tips Vox past his peak, “but I’m not finished. Be good for Daddy a little longer, ‘kay?” 

Valentino seems aware that Vox is too fucked out to argue, perhaps prefers it, and doesn’t pause for a response before guiding one of Vox’s slack hands to his dick and grinding against it. The light above them shatters with the intensity of Vox’s overstimulation. His entire system devotes itself to differentiating pain and pleasure but still cannot make sense of it.  

“Almost there, amor, you’re perfect.” Val clenches so tightly around Vox that he bluescreens again, his muscles seizing with a zap of electricity that Val must feel, judging by the hiccoughed moan that rumbles from his throat and the subtle frizz of his short fur. “Fuck, we’re going to have fun together.” 

When Val finishes, his cum is the palest shade of rosy pink, exaggeratedly plentiful as it splashes up Vox’s shirt, neck, and screen. Vox doesn’t have the wherewithal to be upset, be anything besides overwhelmed, until Val gracefully stands and smiles down at him. Ten feet feels like a hundred; Vox is an ant, about to be crushed under Val’s shiny patent heels, and he can’t find it in himself to get out of the way. 

“Enjoy the tape, Vox. Call me.” 

Just like that, he’s gone, inside on his way back to street level, leaving Vox a mess on the floor with his fly down and his mind scattered. He solves the first problem immediately, then searches the walls for the telltale glint of a camera lens. It has to be somewhere. There are at least four on this balcony, and if Vox had half a mind, he wouldn’t need to hunt for them at all. By the time he figures it out, what he’s just done is beginning to sink in like a bad high.  

Disappearing into the circuits to reform in his command center saps the rest of Vox’s energy. He falls into his chair like a doll with its strings cut. The cool air refreshes his overheated systems even as it feels frigid to the warm ghosts of Valentino’s hands all over him. A hard reboot would shake the jitters, but he can’t leave footage of himself and Val in the archives for a moment longer than strictly necessary. There’s still work to be done. 

He pages the good assistant—Stanford—and prays that they haven’t gone home for the night yet. Vox doesn’t make the schedules himself anymore, nor does he care to keep track of the shifts so long as he has someone around the clock. They arrive in a record 96 seconds, out of breath but alert, eyes wide and focused on Vox like he’s the center of their universe.  

“You needed me, Mr. Vox?” they say, slowly lowering their clipboard when they realize how haphazardly he occupies his chair. “Are you- is everything okay?” 

“Fucking dandy, my dear. Listen, I’ve got a couple errands for you to run, discreetly if you can manage it.” 

They open their mouth as if to argue, but think the better of it when Vox raises an eyebrow at them. He tries not to imagine how he must look, a disaster with a few pesky errors still affecting his screen every so often and spit-stains all over his button-down from Val’s careless tongue. 

Vox lifts his index finger and begins, “First, I want the footage from the security cameras on the fifth floor. Every fucking one. Inside, outside, every corner of every room. Got that?” He pauses for Stanford to jot this down, nodding vigorously, before raising a second finger. “Then, get me a change of clothes, a pot of coffee, and a brick of cocaine, in no particular order.” Without stimulants he won’t be able to trudge through the tapes. 

“Yes sir, right away,” Stanford agrees, finishing the to-do list with a flourish of their ballpoint pen.  

Once they disappear, Vox folds his arms atop his desk and rests his screen on them. He’s woozy, sleepy, too fucked up to worry about much beyond making sure no one ever sees the recording of him and Val. It was stupid to sleep with him and Vox will hate himself for it in the morning, he knows, but he can’t find it in himself to regret his moment of weakness yet.  

He distracts himself with a rerun on one of the many screens at his terminal: a sitcom, the first he produced himself, still airing overnight to profit off its small but dedicated fanbase. Color television was new to Hell then, though the novelty had begun to wear off on Earth, and it shows in the garish shades Vox cringes at as much as the choppy writing. Nonetheless, it sucks him in with its simplicity for an episode and a half before his doors swish open with Stanford’s return. 

“Your coffee,” they place a full, steaming pot on his desk, alongside his favorite ‘Fuck Alastor’ mug, “and your coke.” As Vox pours his coffee, they unfold a pair of sweatpants and a striped tee shirt from the crook of their arm. “I brought you something comfortable, since it’s late; I’ll come back with a suit before breakfast.” The back of their hand brushes his arm as they reach into their pocket for a VCR tape. “And here’s today’s CCTV from the fifth floor. Is that everything?” 

Vox takes the tape. Its hard plastic digs into his fingertips and he realizes how easy it would be to simply destroy it. This is the only copy, and if he never watches it, he could pretend the whole evening never happened. Nothing has to change.  

“I want your opinion on something as a loyal VoxTek customer.”  From the corner of Vox’s vision, Stanford shifts their weight and glances back at the door. “No right or wrong answer here, don’t worry.” When they step back, Vox reels his trademark smile onto his face. He doesn’t know if he has the energy to force an answer. “Do you like our current image?” 

“I- uh, definitely, it- it’s perfect, Mr. Vox, I love it-” 

He sighs. “Yeah, I get that. Is it important, do you think, that we keep our broadcasts clean?” 

While they mull his question over, Vox ducks under his desk to find the VCR slot. The faint glow of his screen barely lights the way, but he finds it quickly enough to avoid making a fool of himself- not that his assistant would dare to comment.  

“I’m thinking about expanding our portfolio,” he explains as he returns to his chair. “Maybe a new channel, so it doesn’t interrupt regular programming.” Instead of clearing his mind, the caffeine just burns Valentino's imprint deeper into his servers; Vox needs to see him again, more than he needs air, and a partnership would guarantee it. “Any thoughts? Or is that too complicated for you?” 

Stanford pushes their glasses up their nose. “Our viewers are loyal, sir, and... I think they’d give anything a chance, if you made it. I know I would.” 

They toe the line between flattery and honesty well, enough of a tremor in their voice that Vox can almost taste their fear of having the wrong opinion. Life on earth was similarly filled with sycophants, but if he surrounds himself with yes-men, he’ll never have a wall to bounce the shitty ideas off of. In the back of his mind, he wonders whether Val would be honest: if he would send Vox back to the drawing board, or if he’d prop him up through the failures. Relying on someone could be nice.

Then Vox remembers he’s thinking about Val, the moth demon dripping aphrodisiacs from his lips as he spins promises equal parts invigorating and appalling, and he has to consciously remind himself not to make this into more than it is. He can align his business with Valentino, for profit alone, but it doesn’t mean he will ever experience Val’s manipulative, magnificent touch again.  

“Well, off you go,” Vox chirps, spinning his chair to the side. “Remember to clear space for us to talk, and oh-” he waits for the click of Stanford’s pen, “Get an appointment with that club owner, Valentino, on the books next week.” 

“Yes, Mr. Vox. Have a good night!” 

He listens to Stanford’s feet patter away and waits for his door to clang shut before he pulls the CCTV footage up on his screens, scattering the dozens of feeds so that he can see each grainy black and white image. He scans through them, from the hallways to the conference rooms to the bars, until he finds the three cameras from the balcony Val spent the evening on. From there, Vox jumps into the machinery long enough to wind the tapes faster, spinning through useless hours of setup and chitchat until the image displays him, balanced on the table, his shark-toothed grin not enough to mask how thoroughly Val ensnared him. He knows that once he watches, he won’t have it in himself to refuse Valentino’s proposition. This, more so than allowing Val to touch him in the first place, is the line Vox can never uncross. 

Still, he sparks back to his chair, and settles in against the comfortable leather in front of his screens. 

[wxnheart]

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐜 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 (𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲…)

note: this is for my friend and the rest of y'all Spider Simps outchea. enjoy.

You hummed around his dick again and it was all Miguel could do not to fuck your throat. But he didn't want to give you the satisfaction. Not ever. Or yet. Possibly. Yeah...

"What's the magic word, baby?" You whispered once you came up for air. You kissed Miguel's leaking head. You kissed one taut thigh. Felt the power underneath your lips. Fuck, was it amazing to see him like this. To know that he could rip you apart if he wanted but he was restraining himself. You were playing with fire and you knew it.

And for his part, Miguel didn't know what he hated more, you for doing this or himself for allowing you to do this to him. But he hated it. And you. And what you're doing to him. And the way you're fucking trying his patience. Stop fucking playing with him. He's already fucking wound up tight and you're just... Shit. Your mouth. God, your mouth, just... just let him—

"I'm waiting." There you fucking go again, demanding him with that singsong voice of yours. Demanding him and now you're stroking him, the wet sounds of your saliva and his precum messing with his head, messing his senses up. Miguel bites down on his lip, not wanting to give you the satisfaction. His eyes are clenched shut, brows furrowed. Like fuck he'll let you see him like this; like fuck you'll make him beg.

But two can play that game. You're stroking him urgently now, bringing him close, trying to coax anything from those sinful lips of his. You almost hear it, a groan from the deep recesses of his being that would've had you moaning had Miguel not stopped himself, had he not given in. Because fuck you, that's why.

Miguel who is close again. So. Fucking. Close. So close without giving you even the satisfaction of hearing the full extent of his pleasure. He wants to thrust into your hand, wants to paint your goddamn face with his cum—you stopped. Goddamit, you stopped. No, no... NO. Fuck. Fuck this. Fuck all of this. And fuck you.

Miguel who, pride be damned, opens his eyes and regards you. You and your smirk, leaving his dick weeping and God, he was so close—. But he's angry. He's so angry and you love it. Frustration emanated off of him in droves. Teeth bared for you to see. Madness, aggravation, pure fucking want. There you go, Miguel!

But nah, you're greedy as fuck. You wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear him. And so you try him again. "What's the magic word, sweetie?" Your sickeningly saccharine voice never infuriated him more. You enveloped his dick again in your hot mouth and FUCK—

God. Just... fuck. Shit. Miguel didn't... he didn't know what he was asking for. Didn't know if he was asking for release, for more, for both, but he was asking. And he hated himself. And you. But himself more. Hated himself for allowing you to get the best of him, for giving in, for giving you the satisfaction. Miguel hated himself... because he wanted it so fucking bad. And if he wasn't so far gone, he'd wince at how he sounded so damn desperate.

"Shit, just—Just let me—let me cum; just—FUCK! FUCK! Okay, just let me—give me... Please..." There we go, baby boy.

But not all games had to end. You come up for air again, lips glistening and you're fucking smirking again. And in your sickeningly saccharine voice, you answer and Miguel hates you (and himself) all over again: "No."

[givemea-dam-break]

Hello! I love your work!! If possible, could you do a Lockwoodxreader story where the reader has to rescue Lockwood from some peril and comfort him through the aftermath please?

a/n: ahhhhh yes absolutely! i'm so glad you like my writing, so i can only hope I've done your request justice!

warnings: minor injury detail gn reader

"I'm going to kill you. I'm going to take my rapier, and I'm going to run you through."

"No point in telling me your murder plans. Now I know exactly what you're going to do. And, might I ask why exactly you want to kill me?"

You mutter some very insulting things under your breath before saying, "Because we currently have two Type Twos waiting down the hall for us, when this was meant to be a simple Type One job, hence why Lucy and George are back at home, relaxing and probably drinking my tea."

Lockwood looks over his shoulder at you, offering up that infuriating smile. "We'll be fine. We've dealt with worse together. Remember the ghost of Eleanor Hart?"

"Eleanor Hart was a Visitor whose only purpose for haunting her old house was because her cat had died and she never buried it."

"And, yet, she still tried to kill us, but we defeated her."

"You're not helping your case, Lockwood," you growl. "We should postpone for tonight, come back tomorrow with Lucy and George."

"No," Lockwood says, keeping his rapier steady in front of him. "I'll distract them, and you find the source."

You want to scream at him, but you keep your voice light. The Visitors are already getting agitated. "And what are your ideas of what the source is? These are two murder victims, judging by the gunshot wounds in their chests, but I don't think the goddamn gun will be the source if it's even here."

"Well, it's your job to find that out. Ready?"

"No, Lockwood, let's take a minute to think about -"

Before you've even finished your sentence, Lockwood leaps out of the iron circle and sprints towards the ghosts, capturing their attention. He darts into one of the rooms - the massive lounge - and you can hear the banging of exploding salt bombs as you hurry over.

Your Sight isn't your greatest Talent, but it's enough for you to see faint deathglows in the study, just beside each other. As the sound of Lockwood's battle increases, you creep into the room, placing your hand on the ground between the glows.

Echoes of voices fill your ears, the words unintelligible, but the tones clear enough: anger, insecurity, rivalry. Something about a competition where something went wrong - one betrayed the other. A gunshot, followed immediately by another, so loud that it knocks you off your feet.

"They killed each other?" you murmur, frowning. "So what would the source be...?"

Lockwood yells in the other room, and you jump to your feet, clutching your rapier tightly. You need to figure out what the source is and fast.

"(name), hurry!"

Panic flares in your chest, but you bury it down.

You don't think, you just run through to the Lounge.

Lockwood is stumbling, holding his side as if in pain. His rapier is in his left hand rather than his right, which looks like it's bleeding. He throws a salt bomb - his last - at the spirit on the left, and it dissipates, reforming over to the side a little, and... there.

A portrait hangs on the wall, depicting a beautiful woman. It's not a modern painting by any standards, but it's no more than a few decades old, and it clicks.

The men, the Visitors, had been fighting over her and, in a fit of rage when one sabotaged their competition to win her heart, the other drew his gun. Both were armed, and both shot each other, killing the other instantly. You want to roll your eyes at the stupidity, but you have more pressing matters.

Lockwood slashes at one of the ghosts with his rapier, but he's weaker with his left hand. The spirit draws nearer, reaching out a spectral hand as the other circles around to the side.

"Lockwood, duck!" you shout.

You throw a salt bomb at the spectre on the right, momentarily getting rid of it, and leap forward, cutting through the other with your rapier. When you reach Lockwood, he's panting heavily and limping as he moves. There's a look in his eyes, a glimpse of doubt and regret, and it spurs you on. You toss him your remaining salt bombs.

"Watch my back. We left the silver net in the hall."

Without giving him a chance to respond, you slice through the newly formed ghosts and tear the portrait off the wall. It's heavier than you expected - probably because of its massive frame - but you know that your guess was right. The ghosts wail with rage, following you as you sprint away with the portrait.

The hall seems longer than you remember, and you're sure you would've been ghost touched if not for Lockwood throwing salt bombs to protect your retreat. Your heart is hammering in your chest, and it hurts a little to breathe, but you can't stop. Your feet slide, and you crash into the wall, cracking your head on the old brick, but you manage to make it to the iron circle and fish out the silver net from the duffle bag, wrapping the large portrait in it.

Immediately, the hall becomes silent, and the Visitors disappear. All you can hear is your gasps for breath and the limping footsteps of Lockwood before he slides to the ground beside you, leaning against the wall.

"You okay?" you ask, turning to look at him, shaking off the wave of dizziness that occurs.

"Always."

You frown at him, shuffling closer on your knees until you kneel beside him. Gently, you pry his hand off his left side, eternally grateful to find that there's no blood. His right arm is trembling in your grip, possibly overextended or whacked on something.

"This will hurt," you warn before pressing your hands onto his left side.

Lockwood grits his teeth as you feel around his ribs. They're swelling a little, and they're obviously sore, but nothing feels broken. It's a similar process for his arm, probably sprained, and you sit back on your heels, breathing a sigh of relief.

"You're alright," you say softly. "Nothing broken, but you'll be sore and probably bruised for a little while. What happened?

He takes a deep breath, shifting slightly. "Threw me across the room, whacked against the fireplace."

You try for a smile. "Well, you're okay. I'm okay, it's all good."

"You're bleeding," he says with a frown. "(name) -"

Gingerly, you touch the side of your head, fingers coming back red and sticky. You don't remember hitting the wall that hard.

"I'm alright," you say. "Just a scrape."

All of a sudden, his fingers are gently brushing your hairline just beside the cut, brows furrowed and lips parted. Something in your heart squeezes at the sight of his worry.

"Lockwood, I'm alright. I promise."

"I'm stupid," he says, his hand travelling down your face slowly, cautiously, until his hand cups your cheek. Instinctively, you lean into his touch, ignoring the warmth of your face. "You were right, we should've left and come back tomorrow."

Your hand grips his, intertwining fingers. "Hey, yeah, you were a bit stupid, and I'm still tempted to run you through, but we're alive. We've done it."

"You've done it."

"Okay, I might've secured the source, but I wouldn't have been able to do that without you lobbing salt bombs at the Visitors."

His eyes are angry, but not at you, at himself. In the dim lighting of the hallway, he's awfully pale, and the faint bags under his eyes seem so much darker. From the corner of your eye, you might've believed him to be a ghost himself.

"Listen," you say. "It's done. It's over. We're alive, yeah? We're alive, Lockwood."

He hesitates, looking up at you with eyes you could just fall into. "But, what if it had gone wrong? You're all I - I can't lose you."

You turn your head in his hand, pressing a light kiss to his palm. "It didn't go wrong. You haven't lost me, see? I'm alive, I'm breathing, and I'm going to take you home and make you a nice cup of tea, then I'll put you on bed rest for a couple of days."

His pulse beats fast in his palm, and you could probably chalk it down to the adrenaline rush you always feel during a case fading off, but some part of you feels triumphant - a little action on your part flustered him.

"Let's go home, yeah?" you say, squeezing his hand softly. "I'll get you all patched up and fed."

"And will you -" Vulnerability flashes in his eyes, something you've rarely ever seen from him before. "Will you stay with me?"

Your heart flutters in your chest. "As long as you want, Lockwood."

His hand moves from your cheek to brush through your salt-encrusted hair, and a little, slightly smug, smile plays at his lips.

"There's the Lockwood I love, eh?" you murmur before blanching. Did you just say...?

Lockwood has a similar reaction, his jaw becoming slack as he stares at you. Your face feels hot.

"Um." You stand abruptly. "Come on, let's get you home."

You grasp his arms gently, pulling him to his feet and looping one of his arms over your shoulders. As you begin walking, all you can hear is your heartbeat pounding in your chest, deafening.

"Did you mean that?" Lockwood says, free of his typical charming tone. No, now he sounds... nervous?

Trying to act nonchalant, you shrug. "Maybe."

"Maybe, huh?"

He laughs, and the tension writhing in your stomach eases. His laugh is contagious, and, soon, you're laughing together, shouldering your bags as you trudge out of the abandoned mansion.

Something in your chest feels at ease from the absence of Lockwood's rejection. Part of you wonders if he feels the same, but the other part waves it off. You're both injured and probably out of it, right?

"I feel the same, for what it's worth."

Those four words, god, they're enough to make your knees weak and set off fireworks in your blood. You can't help the grin that parts your lips.

"Good," is all you can say.

Maybe it's the head injury, but you swear you can feel the gentle press of lips on the top of your head as you step back out into the outside world.

[nandysparadox]

The State of Dreaming, Ch.4: Valley of the Dolls

Photo by Natalia Y. via Unsplash.

"Living with identities / That do not belong to me" - Valley of the Dolls, MARINA

Previous - Valley of the Dolls - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

Rated T - CW: swearing, imprisonment, non-consensual touching (on part of the vines) - WC: 4622

Virgil was going to strangle Remus.

His heart hadn’t stopped racing yet, even as they got far away from those guards. He had enough experience being chased in Remus’ side of the imagination for a lifetime, thank you very much. He’d thought he’d be spared from that at least.

Seriously, couldn’t Remus have shifted before? Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done it on purpose, the little shit.

They decided to take the shortcut from the alley to the edge of town, through what he imagined to be the seedier part of it. Shadows crept onto their path, and bit by bit they bathed the stone tiles in misery. The shift in atmosphere was jarring. Bricks crumbling from walls and suspicious puddles near taverns painted an unnerving picture, and look, Virgil was well-acquainted with shadows. Weird that it came from Roman, but he guessed it might be for suspense.

“Mood is vital in a scene,” Roman had explained to Virgil once, spinning from his chair to gesture widely. “It’s the color palette of your story. You pick up on it even if you don’t consciously notice it.”

Virgil had snorted in response, making himself comfortable in the mountain of pillows Roman kept on his bed. “I see, is that why you need 5 different candles, colorful lighting and a white noise soundtrack to write?”

“Whatever serves to bring me inspiration, my fabulous killjoy!”

They had laughed together at that. But now Virgil found himself resenting the concept of ‘mood’ more than anything, now that it served more to give him a goddamn heart attack. He heard scuttling on every dark corner, and knowing they very well could be magical creatures didn’t help him relax one bit.

As they came to the actual town, it became clear it was just as busy as the townsquare. People rushed through the daily routine, though never acknowledging their presence or interacting in any way. That settled strangely in his stomach. It was almost as if they were ghosts to the villagers.

Virgil pinched himself. What? He was just making sure.

Remus, cozily wrapped in Patton’s hoodie while sitting on his shoulder, had described the royal crest to them. Pretty much the same as Roman’s logo apparently, and he’d told them to search for it. Outside of decorations and flags, it was actually pretty scarce in the crowd.

There were villagers of all sorts around, and like in a classic fantasy story, magic-users apparently weren’t uncommon. He could spot various people carrying around staffs, potions, and sometimes heavy tomes, magical spells on their tongues. A kid dropped a potion near Logan’s feet and his expression was priceless. Virgil made to say a quip but held back when he saw the furrow in Logan’s brow. 

Best not to bother him, then.

He turned back to glance at the rest of their little group, finding them distracted already by — he squinted — a butterfly? It flew around them for a moment, shiny wings fluttering behind it, before landing right on Patton’s finger. The side’s awed expression bloomed into a huge, excited smile.

Poking out of Patton’s scarf, Remus stared at the butterfly with those wide, beady eyes that were, at best, disconcerting. And next to them, as usual, Janus held that familiar, infuriating smirk on his face while he spoke, as if he’d just said the cleverest thing in the world. Patton giggled in response, like he believed it.

Virgil curled his nails into his palms, hard.

Maybe they should’ve kept a closer eye on Remus, because before any of them could stop him, he reared up in his little hind legs and leaped, straight out of Patton’s shoulders, making him yelp in surprise. Virgil blinked as he watched Remus aim directly for the butterfly.

His little paws grabbed onto a wing, and it ripped like a sheet of paper.

Yup, that’s Remus. Virgil thought, a little hysterical. He really was something else, his brand of chaos hadn’t changed at all with time, at the core of it.

That… sounded way too fond for what it was. Remus was deranged, unhinged, whatever else he’d gladly say about himself. He didn’t hesitate to twist fears for fun. There was no universe where Virgil would ever remember that fondly.

Right.

Janus managed to catch him mid-fall, cupping Remus with his hands, and Patton chastised Janus after he lightly squeezed him. It somehow ended with the three of them back at playful comments towards each other. Virgil turned back around with a huff, eyes scanning over the crowd as he searched for a sign of the emblem.

He tried to just let their banter drone into the background as they walked, but it didn’t help much. Too familiar for its own good. He kicked a small rock, watching it jump one, two tiles before it rolled back. It was worse when he tuned it out, Virgil decided, worse when it was vague. Because then the conversation and easy laughter could map onto any of the memories he didn’t want to think about. Then their voices hung like a specter in his mind, and he had to set himself straight, to remind himself no matter the game nights, sleepovers and silly discussions, he’d left for a reason.

He pulled his hood up, burrowing into it the best he could. He didn’t have the patience for this today. Roman was still out there somewhere, they needed to get a move on or else—

Someone knocked into his shoulder and Virgil ducked on instinct, taking a step back. A woman seemed to be the culprit, holding a straw basket to her chest with an apologetic look.

“Sorr—” She began, and Virgil’s eyes widened when she started flickering, her image fading back and forth as her voice repeated like a broken record.

Then she disappeared.

“What the fuck?”

Patton didn't even comment on his language, staring at her previous spot, looking a bit green. He whimpered. 

“I don't think I like it here very much.”

“Hm,” Logan said, tilting his head. “None of the figments we’ve crossed by have reacted in this way. Or reacted at all, for that matter. Perhaps it’s because she spoke to you.” He turned to Remus with a questioning look.

“Damn,” Remus exclaimed, sounding almost a little impressed. “Uh, I think the imagination is having trouble with you being here as sides, it messes with how this world works. So when a figment tried to actually interact it just kinda—” He lifted his paws in what looked like it was supposed to be a shrug. “—lagged.”

“Great,” Virgil groaned. “So now we have to find Roman and we can’t even talk to anyone—”

A little chime echoed near them and their eyes all snapped to its direction. A small ball of light now floated in their midst, glowing with the colors of the rainbow.

Virgil barely even had time to react before Patton reached out a hand to touch it. Bright, white light flashed around Virgil’s vision and he shut his eyes.

A few seconds passed, a weird, tingly sensation passed through his body like a chill and suddenly it felt like something had weighed him down.

“Well, isn’t that plot-convenient,” Virgil heard Janus drawl, just as he opened his eyes.

He looked down.

It turned out, not only did his clothes change, Virgil was wearing full-blown armor. Metal breast-plate, pauldron, whatever else the other parts were called, the whole thing. No helmet, thankfully.

He staggered under the weight of it as he tried to move, the fact that he was holding a spear — yes, the joust kind of spear, striped and all — did not help in the balance factor in the slightest. Geez, he thought these things would be lighter.

“Oh for Newton’s sake,” Logan muttered. He was in a similar situation, a starry blue cloak wrapped around him and a bag strapped across his shoulder that looked entirely too heavy to be carried like that. Logan looked like some sort of mage — though Virgil did have to say those clothes kind of fit him, which he was sure the other would be chagrined about.

Patton and Janus’ clothes also shifted. Something like a baker’s uniform for Patton, white apron tied in a bow at his back and a cap on his head, and Janus — well, not even trying to insult him, but he looked like an aristocrat villain from a Barbie animated movie.

“Look at you!” Remus snickered, scurrying under Patton’s new scarf. Still a mouse, then. “Finished with a LARP session? Shoulda know you dorks were into roleplay.” He giggled, though it sounded more like high-pitched squeaking.

“Yes, very funny.” Janus deadpanned, then his eyes flitted to his outfit and he scrunched up his nose. He reached to pull down his cap. A large wide-brimmed hat replaced the old one, adorned by a huge, eyesore of a yellow feather. He sighed. “Well, isn’t this lovel— ack!”

Virgil bit his lip to hold back laughter as Deceit stumbled face first into a branch. Just as he stepped back, clutching his nose, the branch rose from its position, settling higher. Almost as if it had shifted specifically to hit him.

Forget anything bad Virgil ever said about the imagination.

They joined back in with the crowd, and apparently, the costumes made a hell of a difference. People waved and greeted them on the street as if they’d known each other for their entire lives. Someone even tried to hug Patton, which he happily returned, because of course he did. Their new roles fit right in with the bustling town of the imagination.

It really was something else. At least in contrast to Remus’ side. Virgil could remember a few fantasy locations over there, but most of it looked more like if you gave a toddler a blank canvas and ten buckets of paint. They used to go to town there, with all the creatures and horror possibilities.

The aftermath was never pretty.

With no longer a hoodie to burrow into, Virgil cast his eyes down as they walked past the townspeople. Despite the wide-eyed looks he got, not many tried to get close to him, some even clearing the way. Silver linings. Still, he stayed a bit behind the group, keeping an eye on them. You know, just in case.

“Wouldn’t it be wiser for us to look in the castle?” Logan asked. “Presumably, if Roman is the prince of this land, someone there should know his whereabouts.”

“There’s no way there’s not at least a servant around here, and trust me getting into the castle is way harder– eek!” Remus squeaked, hiding under Patton’s scarf as a guard approached them.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the guard, looking at Patton. “We’re searching for someone. I’m afraid the Duke has gotten into our borders once again, and we’ve spotted him in town. Have you seen him, perhaps? A mustachioed fellow, strange black outfit.”

“Um. I– uh—” Patton stammered, shooting the guard a nervous, unconvincing grin as he fidgeted with his hands. The guard narrowed their eyes at him. “Actually, I– uh.”

“Oh my, what a terrible thing,” Janus chimed in, wearing a sympathetic look, a hand pressed to his chest. “Well, I apologize, I’m afraid we haven’t seen anyone like that around. We just got here, you see, we must’ve missed the commotion.”

The guard turned their attention to Deceit, to which Patton slumped with relief. 

“Oh, I understand. If you do see him, don’t be afraid to seek out the royal guard.” They smiled. “I hope you have a good day— oh!”

Virgil cowered when the guard stared directly at him. Strangely though, they bowed their head. 

“Sir Virgil! I’m terribly sorry, I did not see you there. Are you on the search too?” they asked, sheepish.

“I— uh—” Baffled, Virgil held his spear tighter, eyes flitting between the guard and the other sides. 

Damnit, was he a knight or something? What was he supposed to do with that?

Remus poked his head out of Patton’s scarf, giving Virgil a pointed look. He motioned to the guard with his head. Virgil followed the movement, gaze landing on the guards uniform. The royal crest embroidered right on their chest. Duh.

Virgil cleared his throat. 

“Actually, I’m here to meet with Prince Roman. Do you know where he is?”

“The Prince?” The guard blinked. “He left the kingdom a few hours ago.”

A wave of dread hit Virgil, but before he could react, a voice caught the guard’s attention and with wide eyes they said: “I’m sorry, Sir Virgil! I need to go, but I’m sure the Prince will come back soon!”

Virgil watched as they ran off, gritting his teeth. 

“So he’s not here?”

“What? No, he has to be here somewhere,” Remus said, his voice just an edge nervous. “No, I know. We just need to ask the right person.”

Remus jumped from Patton’s shoulder, landing on the floor on four paws. “C’mon!”

They did their best to keep up with Remus as he darted across the streets, though Virgil resigned to simply follow Logan, who more easily managed to track a mouse rushing through the crowd.

“Well, that was close,” Patton chuckled nervously to Janus, lightly elbowing him. Virgil narrowed his eyes. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I don’t know just what I would’ve said to that guard.”

Before he could stop himself, really, he scoffed. “One thing you can trust a liar to do is lie.”

It came off just as harsh as Virgil had imagined in his head, but the venom in his voice still surprised him. Janus just had a way of bringing out the worst in him, he guessed.

Patton gave him one of those disappointed, chiding looks. Like Virgil was a child that needed to be told to get along, like he was somehow unreasonable for not trusting Deceit. Hah.

“Whatever,” Virgil cut Patton off before he could start, walking right past them.

Logan raised an eyebrow as he sidled up to him.

“He’ll be fine,” Virgil muttered.

Their destination wasn’t much farther away, it turned out, and soon enough they stood before what was probably the biggest shop around. ‘Fairy godmother’s potions’, the sign read. A few steps of stairs led to a huge wooden door, surrounded by stone brick walls that formed rooms left and right, windows dotted throughout. You couldn’t see anything from the inside, though, the curtains were pulled shut on every window. Virgil bit his lip. 

He didn’t like that one bit.

Remus scurried back to Patton, scratching at his feet, and was promptly picked up.

“Let’s go!”

When they reached the entrance, Logan was the one to knock . The response took only a few seconds. An older woman opened the door, dressed in sparkly blue robe with equally sparkly silver wings to match, her gray hair braided in a bun. Though something about her felt off. In a way different from other figments. Virgil couldn’t place it. Maybe it was the eyes, that stared blankly at them.

She said nothing, simply turning around and letting them in. As she did, Virgil spotted something strange wrapped around her ankle.

A rose?

Before he could give much thought to it, the store lit up. As if she’d hit a switch, colorful lamps placed all around the many shelves glowed at once, reflecting on the flasks and vials, and replacing the sunlight that should’ve come from the windows. Then, the woman — Fairy Godmother, apparently — started humming a simple tune, meandering around her own shop like she was lost.

“Um,” Patton started, approaching her. “Excuse us, ma’am—”

That made her freeze for a second, then she turned to face them almost mechanically.

“If you wish to know the answer you seek,” she sang. “Do not be so slow, at once you should speak.”

If Roman got them trapped in a world that works by musical logic, Virgil was going to kill him as soon as they found him.

"The dragon witch never told me she spoke in rhyme,” Remus said, doing the best pout a mouse could.

“She sure is direct,” Patton tittered, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “Um, okay, do you know where Ro- I mean, Prince Roman, is?”

Fairy Godmother tilted her head, flickering for a brief second. When she opened her mouth, her voice was just the edge of static. “To go on this journey and find your king. Beware, for four items you'll need to bring.

“One: the bell as white as milk;

Two: the gem as red as blood;

Three: the bag as yellow as corn;

Four: the mirror as pure as gold.”

Deceit raised an eyebrow. “Into the woods?”

“Roman is such a fucking nerd,” Remus sneered.

“The c- uh, bell as white as milk, the gem as red as blood, the bag as yellow as corn, the mirror as pure as gold!” Patton sang, following the tune of the song. He shrugged. “At least it won’t be hard to remember.”

“Frustratingly vague, however.” Logan sighed, turning to the Fairy Godmother. She paid him no mind. “What type of bell? A church bell, a handbell? Why would it be white in the first place? What are we supposed to do with these items?”

“Yeah, I don’t think she’s answering questions, L,” Virgil grimaced, she’d wordlessly skipped off to one of her shelves. “We’ll just have to figure it out.”

“Great,” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Virgil got it. It wasn’t like he was enthused by that either.

“So what’s the game plan?” he asked. “Because, for all we know, these things could be anywhere in the whole damn kingdom.”

Logan adjusted his tie. “For efficiency’s sake, I believe—”

“Let’s split! We’ll cover more ground that way.” Remus chirped, drawing Virgil’s attention to him. “Besides, there’s nothing actually dangerous around here.” He pouted, as if that was somehow a disappointment.

“And how will we know if it’s the item we’re looking for?” Janus crossed his arms. “It’s not like those are especially rare.”

“Pfft, it’s a fetch quest. If anything the stuff will probably glow or some shit. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“We could go in pairs!” Patton chimed in. “We’ll need a meet-up spot, though. How about the market?”

“Fine by me,” Virgil shrugged, turning to Logan, because hell if he was going to pair up with Deceit. “Hey, L—”

Only to find that spot empty.

“—Aaand Logan’s gone,” Virgil groaned.

Off to a great start.

Say what you will, but these sheets are absolutely divine. Roman thought as he ran his fingers across the careful embroidery that lined the downy edges.

After spending a good 15 minutes gazing out the balcony, searching for a weakness in the tower’s structure or even a stray woodland creature he could ask for help, to no avail, Roman had decided to check out the room instead. He was drawn to the bed immediately.

He’d sat on it, perplexed. The mattress was the kind of soft you could just sink into, relieving all the minor aches in his legs instantly. The sheets, cotton that neither scratched or itched, were impossibly warm and comfortable against his skin. Clearly whoever or whatever trapped him here cared for his comfort, for some reason. The tower was built to his exact tastes, so his “captor” knew him and knew him well. Roman didn’t know how to feel about it.

Though, something about the bed, like those displays at mattress stores, just compelled him to lie down, even though a small part of him warned against it. Helpless to resist, he followed that instinct, resting against the many pillows and blankets.

And just as he did so, he felt a heavy feeling settle on his body, his vision blurring out the sunlight into a cherry red. Roman’s eyes fluttered closed, and he fell under.

Something touched Roman's cheek, gently rousing him from sleep. He grumbled, clutching tighter at his pillow as he tried to fight awareness. The touch became more persistent, poking at him until he blearily opened his eyes.

He could make out green amongst his blurry vision. Ugh. The vines. Those wretched things were really getting on his nerves. He moved to lie back down, because this had been the best nap he’d taken in years and he wasn’t about to let go just yet.

Before he could even do that, though, vines wrapped around his wrists, and pulled him up and off the bed abruptly. He let out a yelp as he stumbled.

“Fine! I’m up! Get off me!” Roman shrieked, batting away at the plant until it retreated. “Geez.”

Roman stretched his arms over his head, and then his neck. It didn’t even crack. By Jove, that bed was magic. He made to step away, but startled when something blocked his way.

Clothes. The whole ensemble, in fact, neat and tidy in a hanger.

“Um,” Roman watched the vines warily as they presented the attire. He moved to the right, but when he tried to sidestep it, suddenly the outfit was pushed insistently into his chest. Roman sighed. “Fine, if you wanna play dress-up.”

The vines retreated as he began to change, which he was… relieved? by. He didn’t even know anymore. It’s not like they had eyes. This was already so goddamn strange.

In any case, the clothes were intricate. Endless ribbons and buttons that needed to be fastened, white and gold brocade tailored perfectly to his body. It managed to be more over the top than the outfits he’d normally pick for ceremonies, which was certainly a feat.

Though lacing up the back was a bit of a struggle, God so help him he would do it by himself — if the alternative was asking the vines for help. Those things were weird.

Speak of the devil, as soon as he finished changing, they burst from the ground again.

Roman glared at them. “What do you want now?”

The vines didn’t seem to be chastised by that. Instead, one of them poked his shoulder and pointed to the left, slithering towards a… vanity. A beautiful white affair stashed with bottles, drawers and tiny ornate boxes - A huge mirror front and center. Roman furrowed his brow. That wasn’t there before, or else he’d surely have noticed it. Then, the vines pulled back the chair and he felt a gentle push against his back.

Roman stared at the desk as he sat down, eyeing the variety of products laid out in front of him. Perfumes, jewel cases, accessories, creams and powders. He sneaked a look into the mirror. He didn’t look …too worse for wear, especially considering he’d just woken up. Better than he generally did in the mornings, anyway, his beauty routine was extensive for a reason. So as it stood, he had no clue what the damned things wanted him to do.

They got impatient, it seemed. All at once, the vines slithered up the desk, wrapping around brushes and opening the drawers. Roman barely had the chance to squirm away before they commenced with the attack.

He was pushed and pulled as they applied all sorts of products to his face and hair at an alarming speed, like he was a film star getting ready for a scene. It was like the vines came from all directions, spraying him with perfume and draping jewelry across his limbs. He nearly had a coughing fit when they came in with the makeup powder. Needless to say, it made him feel like some sort of dress-up doll.

Finally, after dropping a circlet on his head, they let go of him. Roman frowned, wondering what mess they made of his looks, and then he got a glimpse of the mirror.

He looked ethereal.

The gold necklaces and bracelets they put on him shone with sunlight and made him glow, a perfect contrast to the white finery he wore. The few freckles he had jumped out against the blush they’d swiped across his cheeks. Gently, he touched his lips. Usually, he didn’t put on lipstick when doing his make-up, but the combination of gloss and rose-petal red made his mouth look like temptation incarnate. An excited giggle bubbled out of him before he could help himself.

“You are some annoying, fickle things,” he said to the vines, words betrayed by the smile on his face. “But I have to admit, you have good taste.”

His mood lifted as he stepped away from the vanity, and he allowed himself to relax a little. Yes, the vines were kinda weird, and a bit creepy, but they didn’t seem malicious, per se. And frankly, looking around the tower, he could’ve scored way worse in terms of imprisonment. A sense of excitement bloomed in Roman’s chest as he observed the romantic decor that surrounded him, and he twirled across the room.

He settled upon the nook near a circular stained glass panel. Fluffed with pillows and blankets, it was very comfortable. Probably a good spot to read. Roman touched the window, arranged in different panels of red and pink to form a rose. He grinned.

Though it shifted into a frown as he remembered what he’d been doing before the whole tower business. Thomas had summoned him. Roman pulled his hand away. He shouldn’t be here dawdling — he was still trapped here, no matter the fancy makeover — he needed to find a way out, and soon. Granted, Thomas could’ve called him for whatever reason, but he’d summoned Roman so little in the past few weeks, anxiety about him being in trouble plagued Roman anyway.

But it’s not like he didn’t try to leave! The tower seemed stubborn in keeping him here, with its escape-proof structure and attentive vines as guards. Roman sighed. Unless a knight in shining armor decided to show up for rescue, it seemed like he was well and truly stuck.

Roman wrapped a blanket around himself, furrowing his brow. He wouldn’t be able to escape immediately, no, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t figure a way out. He needed to bide his time. Gather intel, if you will. And if getting in the vines’ good graces would help, he’d do it.

It wasn’t like it was a chore. He could have a little fun with this whole fairytale thing, maybe it’d give him some inspiration, for once. And maybe it was a convenient excuse to avoid the others for a little bit, get his mind off the mess that his life had become.

Roman was such a coward.

The other sides would likely think he was off adventuring. He’s gone questing on the imagination for days on end before. They probably wouldn’t mind too much.

Before he could dwell on that any further, Roman felt a poke at his side, when he turned a platter was pushed to his lap.

“Hm?” Roman eyed it curiously. It held a couple biscuits, a croissant, and what he assumed was tea, given the porcelain teacup, despite it being bright pink. “Thank… you?”

Roman wasn’t quite hungry, but a snack wouldn’t hurt. He took a bite of the biscuit and it crumbled into delicious jam in his mouth. Strawberry. It was divine. Seriously, Roman would even dare to say it rivaled Patton’s cookies, and that was a tall order. He hummed happily as he worked his way through the platter, though really, it was no work at all. Each sweet better than the last. Yes, this wasn’t bad at all.

Then he felt a push against the base of his spine, and he straightened up instinctively. The touch ceased. “Oh.”

It was unbecoming to slouch. He should be more mindful of his posture.

—

AN: I don't have Roman call the others nicknames nearly as often as I should, and that's because it's so difficult to come up with them 😭 'my fabulous killjoy' is a reference to danger days, MCR, you know the drill.

anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! let me know what you think in the comments ^^ unfortunately this one hasn't been beta-read, so I guess we just die like Roman's hopes and dreams </3

taglist: @thegoldenduckie @caruliaa @prince-rowan-of-the-forest

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

WIP Wednesday (freeform)

So I heard that some chaos has been caused by the completely innocent fic that @elvensorceress and I have conned ourselves into doing, so I am here to provide some sexy first kisses

“I just wanna do my job, man. We have to work together, so whatever issue you have with me, you need to do something about it.” The words are rough and coarse, more so than they have any right to be, and Buck swears he can see Eddie’s eyes dilating as Buck takes an involuntary step closer.

Dark pools of liquid flick down to Buck’s lips.

Oh.

Buck watches, transfixed as the most delicate shade of pink spreads across Eddie’s cheeks, mostly hidden by the scruff, but Buck notices it. Is this not just him then? An old, familiar thrill runs through him and an immediate flirty grin spreads across Buck’s face. The more he looks the more he sees it. Eddie wants him.

Buck shouldn’t play into it. He should walk away right now.

It would be stupid to flirt with Eddie. It would be stupid to start something like this with a coworker that he can’t stand.

But Buck isn’t the best at doing the smart thing, and he’s even worse at doing what is good for himself, so he takes that raging fire burning inside of him and plies it with the image of Eddie. He rakes his eyes over Eddie, his floppy hair, his dark brown eyes, his flushed cheeks, the stubble covering his jaw, the slick sweat sliding down his muscles, the way his chest starts to heave the closer Buck gets.

Eddie is infuriating and arrogant and confident and so damn gorgeous and he’s here. He’s right here and despite how much he is clearly exasperated with Buck, desire is painted across his face, stark and bright like the violent brushstroke of red against a white canvas. He’s looking at Buck like a drowning man looks at the shore and it strokes a soothing hand over the ugly, desperate creature lurking in his chest.

For the first time since Abby left, Buck feels. It’s something other than pain, something deliciously hot and vibrant and it settles within the hole of his chest all snug and comfortable. Buck has chased the feeling of being wanted his whole life and smug Eddie Diaz is right here unknowingly handing it to Buck and Buck has never been able to turn something like this down.

Besides, maybe, just maybe, he can kill two birds with one stone. Maybe he can flirt and fuck away even just a fragment of the permanent stinging strain in his soul while knocking Eddie down a peg or two. Buck can show him how good he is, he can show him that he deserves to be here and he’s not going to let Eddie take anything away from. Not anything he isn’t willing to give anyway.

“You want me to do something about it?” Buck croons. “You want me to do something about the way you’re so goddamn smug and arrogant. How about I fuck it out of you, huh?”

The words spill out of him without thought. It’s incredibly possible he might get a punch to the face for it, but if there is one thing Buck is good at, it’s reading people. And desire, no matter how reluctant or surprising it might be, is pouring out of Eddie in hot waves. Buck swears he can feel his nerve-endings vibrate with the intensity of it.

Eddie’s eyes darken further, which Buck honestly didn’t think was possible, and those plush pink lips fall open slightly, granting Buck a view inside. “Maybe you should,” Eddie murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

Buck exhales a harsh breath through his nose, his entire body jerking at the challenge.

Blown out brown eyes flick up to his and Eddie straightens, puffing out his chest so that it barely brushes against Buck’s. “You gonna do it? Put me in my place? You really think you’re capable of that?”

Oh, fuck yes.

Buck raises a hand to the center of Eddie’s chest and splays it out across the tank and exposed skin. Eddie is warm and shivering. His tremors travel into Buck’s skin and golden flames erupt in the pit of Buck’s stomach.

He presses against Eddie’s chest, pushing him back back back until he collides with the wall. A soft grunt falls from Eddie’s lips and before either of them can begin to question what the hell they are doing and why they are doing it, Buck takes Eddie’s mouth.

For a split second, Eddie doesn’t respond. Acid replaces the fire and Buck begins to pull back but then a hand lands on the back of his neck and locks him in place. Eddie kisses back and sweet jesus it’s good. His lips are soft and plump and slot perfectly in between Buck’s. Surprisingly, the kiss is almost–tender. They keep ferociously delving back into each other for more, but it’s still somehow slow and gentle.

Too gentle for what this is supposed to be. Buck doesn’t need gentle. He doesn’t deserve gentle. Gentle is for people who aren’t made of a million jagged pieces that do nothing but prod hard and violent into others until they can do nothing but back away. Gentle is for people who don’t have to beg and plead for others to stay. Gentle is for people who are easy to want and easier to love. And that will never be him and it sure as shit will never be anything between him and Eddie, so he takes his hand off Eddie’s chest and grabs Eddie’s chin between his fingers, pressing down with his thumb.

Eddie’s mouth falls open, easy and eager, exposing the dark cavern within. The swift compliance sends a shiver down Buck’s spine and he plunges inside, fucking into Eddie’s mouth the way he would with his cock if given the chance. The wet, velvety slide of their tongues is so unbelievably slick and hot and delicious. Stars burst into life and explode in death between the dueling thrusts of their tongues, so electric Buck thinks his blood has been infected with live wires.

[starssgalore]

Baby please come back; namor x fem!reader

A/N: alright y'all, this is the last part. You might be mad at how it ends but trust!! It's better than what I originally drafted out. But there are new things coming. But if you liked things like this PLEASE like and follow. I love writing and sharing stuff on here and I want to continue so please tell me or show me you like it too!!

warnings: brief mentions of drowning, very emotional, very angsty...

tags: @rose-bliss247 (sorry if this is not the right account!!), @caroldxnvxrs, @violet-19999, @omgsuperstarg, @deliciousfestsalad

part 2 playlist updated! taglist

'I fucking knew I should have come, this is what I get for messing with a mutant god for 3 years.' The only thing you could think of is how dumb you we're, "No wHeRe nOt GoIng To nAmOr'S BeAcH." Should have left when you could have. But here you are, tied to a chair in a room that is all too familiar.

He still has that goddamn painting of his quote on quote, "glorious and vicious" battle with the princess of Wakanda. But nothing else has changed, the table cloth, the blankets and lights haven't changed one bit since you left. It was actually the first thing that drew you in when you first got here. Maybe he didn't change them because he knew you liked them. You wished he changed his kidnapping approach, almost died getting dragged down here.

"Namor, what do you want? I'm not gonna sit here and be tied to a chair while you have your general point their spears at me." For the last 10 minutes he's had Namora in the same defensive position, whilst he paces back and forth. "Silence, you no longer have any sort of authority here anymore. You lost that privilege when you left two years ago." "Authority?! Are you crazy, your people did not care if I was your so-called "close friend." Two years ago you kept me basically a secret and then asked me why I was mad being kept a secret?!" You can't believe this man, so full of himself. All he can say is 'you no longer have authority here.' "Namora, you may leave, go back to patrolling." Namor's expression was a mixture of tiredness and somewhat relieved, as if he's happy you're back. Even after he made that huge argument, he's acting like nothing happened.

"Namor, what do you want?" Leaning down to reach your chair, "I want you back." He whispers, his voice flowing through your mind like a familiar symphony. "You lost me the day you threatened me." Hold your ground, the last thing you want to happen is him thinking you're dependent on him. "This isn't an option, I've already told my people that there will be a new queen soon. I can't let them down y/n." Namor's proposal is almost infuriating, you wait years for Namor to tell his people about you.

And now when you leave he tells them? Fucking ridiculous. "What makes you think that I would even willing agree if this was an option." "Well it's what you want right? You said you wanted the people to know about you. So here I am telling them about you." A god who doesn't understand the concept of the past can't be fixed, shocking almost. "Namor, that was 2 years ago. I've moved on. I'm dating people, I hope that you move on too." "Move on y/n, I can't just move on. You were one, and I was just blind I didn't realize how much I need you in my life. You made me feel human again." His words make it so tempting to go back, to fall into those arms again.

To kiss his lips as if there the only thing you need, to rule by his side. Be his one and only, again. But there comes a time to be real and wake up from your delusional dreams. "Namor, mí amor." You caress his face, the feeling of his stubble underneath your soft fingers tips send a shiver down your spine, "I can't just got back to loving you. I would love to forget what happened but I can't, what happened 2 years ago will stick with me forever. It's best if we're just friends." The last couple of words you let out send a ringing to Namor's ears, as if he's gone deaf on the spot.

Coldness is all he can feel throughout his body, numb to the words you spoke. A stage of grief hitting his body like a train, he's lost you. There's no way your coming back, your just "friends" now. "Oh... o-ok. I understand." The break in his voice makes you wanna give him the biggest hug Namor has ever felt in his life, but if you do you'll fall back into that trance. "Namor please, please don't cry. I still love you just not like I used too."

None of the comforting words you speak to him will make him feel warm again. To fall in love with a mortal is a dangerous thing is the only thought I his now empty head. The world spinning so fast around you, body feeling dry, as if he needs to dive, deep into the ocean to soothe it's hunger.

"Um y/n, I need to go. I'll have Namora come back and untie you. I'll see you sometime again, just not now..." And with those last words, Namor out of the room and into the ocean. Your heart aches, the amount of pain you feel is too large. You never meant to hurt him like that, it wasn't supposed to go like this. 'It's ok, just breathe. Namor is fine, he is ok, he will be fine. You did nothing wrong. He's ok, he just needs to clear his head.' Namora finally cuts the rope that holds you bond to your chair, and finally brings you back to your ship.

On the cruise

The walk back to your room was slow. Filled with the conversation you just had, thinking about if you fell back to him, if you gave in. How it could have gone better. But too be in love again with Namor is dangerous, a commitment you're not even sure about taking. Sadly, your in depth thought is broken up by Kira's drunken state.

"Y/N?! Where the hell were you?" Words slurred together, "Sorry Kira, I had gotten caught up-" "Caught up in what Y/N? We're on vacation, you can't just leave me like that.." "I know I'm sorry it's just I need to like be alone for a second. I'm gonna go sit on the deck if it's still open." All you need is a place for you to clear your mind.

On the deck

Maybe you should go back, what harm could be done. Well you could drown on the way back, but if you make it there what's the big issue. You could burn the world with him, rule with him, be Namor's one and only. Just swim back. The breeze is almost pushing you off the deck, as if it's trying to tell you to go back. Maybe the wind was right. It wouldn't hurt, like to be with what you thought was the love of your life.

The recliner was just at the guard rail, if you jumped now no one would see you. Plus you could always call Namor, or he would eventually come right? No. If you jump off now you'll be stranded in the water and Namor would be too depressed to get up and swim to the surface to grab you and rescue you to shore. And if you drowned, he wouldn't kiss you on the lips to start mouth to mouth because he's so sad about you. Maybe going to the deck was a bad idea.

The only way to resolve this is to get off the cruise and go back to the beach. The only way this "idea" will leave your mind is if you go back, which is physical impossible. You know what, there's nothing you can do, just sit down and relax, is the only thought running through your mind. How can you make it up to Namor, or if you should even make it up to him.

Well, I hope y'all are good with that cause this is the end! Not the end of my writing but I have more things along the way so don't unfollow me now!!! But as always...

xoxo,

hoshi 💫

[transingthoseformers]

I just have to share this because I am very excited about a two birds one stone plot solution for Transformers: Iconoclast.

So, I had to figure out why Orion Pax became Optimus Prime when Primes aren't a thing in this universe AND how to connect the Jazz & Prowl Plotline to MegOP.

So the basic premise of the first part of MegOP is they both recognize the mistreatment and even more that the current general is corrupt. They set out to speak to Ultra Magnus, who is a folk hero figure and famously a free Transformer, and Quintessa, who is Ruler For Life of the Quintessons and has a Cult of Personality with them and is considered genuinely divine by some Transformers.

They both still believe Quintessa would listen and help. Somewhat naively. She is known as one of the original Creators and who famously fought in battle with Transformers during a famous War that nearly destroyed the Quintessons and that she freed her soldiers granting them citizen status and who enabled laws for "fair treatment" and that allowed other freed Transformers some partial rights as citizens. Ultra Magnus was the most famous example of this and is, allegedly, Supreme Head of the Military, and gives yearly speeches and appearances.

Orion and Megatron have been left for dead by their superior officer who is involved in shady things with their contracts with Xetaxxis and Lanarq working both sides. They succeed and get to Ultra Magnus first who immediately clocks onto the fact their behavior regulation modules are busted. He tells them to run but before they can the guards arrest them and take them to Quintessa. They plead their case and offer evidence while Ultra Magnus stands silent and obedient. Quintessa nods and listens saying she believes them and is every inch the regal figure they imagined.

She summons the General, reads him the riot act with the evidence and then finishes coldly with, "I cannot stand incompetence." before shooting him point blank and telling the guards to clean up. This is when she drops the act and turns cold eyes to explain she can excuse a little skimming the top and ambition but sloppiness enough that products figure things out is inexcusable and compromises operations. She tells the guards to restrain them and Orion and Megatron fight back with Megatron firing at her and scarring her face which infuriates her. They are restrained and separated.

She is cruel and decides to use Orion as a "bait mech" on Velocitron which is the entertainment colony famous for both its gladiatorial pits and racing. The battle mask is actually a muzzle and Quintessa removes his ability to speak. Megatron, a gunformer, is mode locked as a trophy for her due to him saying something along the lines of rather dying so she decides he can "serve his betters". Orion survives his first fight and though the pit runners are told to kill him the decide to paint him bright red and blue and rebrand him as Optimus Prime.

Here Optimus starts a rebellion with Jazz's people and meets people like Drift, Lugnut, Arcee, etc.

Optimus is his Gladiator name and I am so excited about it!

Ooooo??? Megs and Oppy teaming up together?

why do I get the vibe quintessa won't help /j

Behavior regulation modules

hmm. interesting interesting, noted.

goddamn, quintessa, that's. damn

OWO on the "bait mech" detail and Orion eventually becoming a gladiator THAT way? I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about that concept for my plotlines before, and the battle mask being a muzzle? Damn.

And Megs getting altmode locked? wow

So this is cool as fuck, gladiator!Optimus is an idea that always fascinates me, yes yes yes

[mrsnancywheeler]

This kind of ties into the Anon that talked about reader if they where a music student, but I can totally imagine Billy hearing one of readers songs theyve composed for the class they're in and like practically copying it, most of the lyrics changing but like the melodies and harmonies are all pretty much the same. So like he brings it to the band where reader hears it and I feel like the rest of the band wouldn't realise whats going on because it's just a class project and nobody had actually heard it except for her teachers. And I can imagine reader just getting pissed at him one night over it and Billy claiming that it's justified because it's a 'good song' or whatever and claiming reader should be honoured he even considered getting 'inspiration' (even though its pretty much the EXACT SAME). Would be even better if reader didn't put up with his shit and that being the time she leaves whilst the project is happening.

Anyway sorry if this didn't make sense, haven't slept much so im gonna sleep, but also wanted to say that I really love your writing!

homicide, murder, acts of violence 🔪

I'm just kidding, but the things I would do if this man crossed me-

anyways, for our music student!reader, he plays the song and at first it takes her a second to realize. it's playing and she recognizes bits and pieces of it when it finally hits that she wrote this, billy never even talked to her about using some of her work, let alone asked if he could credit her in a song. and it's over, the band loves it and she's kind of sitting there in disbelief. when everyone goes for a break she's still in her seat and he's walked over, she just looks up and like she's not fully convinced what she heard says, "I wrote that"

"well bits of it you'd worked on, baby, I had to rework it, but you're my inspiration, like my muse" to him it's truly not a big deal, he's smiling, taking a drink of his water

"and you didn't want to talk to me about it first?"

he's taken aback by the more upset tone, "was trying to surprise you. do we have an issue?"

"were you gonna credit me?"

he's scoffing, rolling his eyes, she's becoming infuriated. "why would I..." he's trailing off, head shaking. "c'mon you're overthinking this, you didn't get much sleep last night, let's go smoke a joint, calm down"

and she has her answer. without directness she knows exactly where she stands, what he means. that she's a nobody and he can walk all over her, steal her art, paint her however he wants, he has the influence, the power, and he sees no issue with it. he has the narrative and she's had enough.

"billy, you're fucking unbelievable." she's up and out of her seat, headed to pack her stuff and leave forever. he's following behind, voice raised.

"what are you doing? this shit is ridiculous, you're a fucking nobody, you should be flattered that I liked parts of your song, let alone let you hang around."

she's turning for a second, "let me hang around? that's what you think this is? well, billy goddamn dunne, I don't want to fucking hang around, I don't want the credit on your stupid song, and I certainly don't want to ever hear from your disgusting mouth ever again" and she's truly gone with the wind, bags packed, disappeared until the breeze changes directions and suddenly her knew songs hitting the radio, and interviews that dig at someone stealing her work start to hit the circuit.

thank you pookie and it made perfect sense to me 💋

[teecupangel]

College is so stressful but anyway what if Desmond wears eyeliner or kohl and wear feminine and masculine clothes depending his mood because he seems androgynous to me and when he timetravels and just go "fuck gender roles" and kills templars while he grows his hair and wears jewellery and lace

I hope you get some time to relax soon! And the awesome thing about Desmond is that he changes face in every game that we can call him androgynous if we feel like it. Dude doesn’t really have a canon face anyway. And even if he doesn’t, this involves time traveling so we can just chalk the sudden androgynous look to some kind of Isu BS XD

Desmond will definitely be the bisexual awakening of a lot of people with his time hopping. Altaïr alone would be more confused than he was when he found out Maria was pretending to be Robert. If anything could be considered sorcery, it would be Desmond’s ability to confuse the hell out of people. They meet him wearing masculine clothes and think “Oh, he’s a dude” and then their next meeting with him, he’d be wearing feminine clothes and be like “??????” and BSOD.

Altaïr would try to push any confusion he might have and focus on gaining the information he needs from Desmond (who may or may not have killed someone to get the information, the Brotherhood can’t be sure) but, goddamn it, that’s hard to do when he’s just standing nearby, watching Desmond put on kohl on his eyes and painting his lips red just because he was ‘feeling pretty’ today, whatever the hell that means and he’s just draped in silk bedsheets because he hasn’t thought of what clothes he should wear today and Altaïr is pretty sure Desmond is doing this on purpose because there’s no fucking way that bedsheet coincidentally just slipped enough that Altaïr could see his collarbone. Then Desmond tells him to check his chest and pick a dress for him and holy shit, there are undergarments there that Altaïr had never seen before and his brain just gives up on him that way and all blood flowed downward after that.

Ezio would know Desmond as Leonardo’s favorite muse and he’d flirt with him, thinking he’s a woman at first. Ezio and Desmond would definitely have some fun and Ezio’s just going to be ‘oh, cool’ with anything Desmond does. Seeing Desmond assassinate someone will always be hot regardless of what clothes he decided to wear during that time. (The Borgias will definitely have a boner for him and it’s half hot-person-yummy and half he-can’t-be-more-beautiful/handsome-than-us, especially from Lucrezia). Ezio and Desmond definitely posed for one of Leonardo’s works (that doesn’t exist in the OG timeline) and it’s the steamiest painting Leonardo had ever done.

Haytham’s prudeness will definitely make him annoyed, both at Desmond himself and at his own attraction to seeing Desmond wearing those infuriating scandalous clothes. Ratonhnhaké:ton, on the other hand, would just think “white people weirdness” when he first sees Desmond. When he learns that other white people think Desmond is weird, at that point, Ratonhnhaké:ton wouldn’t even care anymore as he liked Desmond as a person and he likes seeing Desmond smiles. Desmond is also Ratonhnhaké:ton’s plus one for Myriam and Norris even though Ratonhnhaké:ton told him that he doesn’t understand what a ‘plus one’ even means. Ratonhnhaké:ton wouldn’t say it outloud but he thought Desmond outshone Myriam on her own wedding day.

Shay’s definitely going to be tongue-tied whenever he sees Desmond. Also, Desmond got a few fashion tips from Hope and he looks so good in female Assassin robes that he definitely outshines Hope. Liam likes to tease him about it but even he’s not immune to Desmond’s charm, especially when Desmond stares at him. Even when Shay defected, he could never raise his hand against Desmond and… maybe a part of him enjoyed being stepped on by Desmond’s heels, he’s trying not to think too deeply about it considering he can already see Haytham’s disapproving face.

Arno… Arno would find him strange, sure, and he’s definitely going to ignore his attraction to him because he’s in love with Élise, damn it. But it is becoming too hard to ignore it when Élise always finds ways to leave him behind while he will always see Desmond in the cafe, smiling at him as he welcomed him back. He doesn’t even know where he stands with Élise anymore and Desmond… Desmond confuses him so much but, at the same time, Desmond is the only person who makes so much sense right now that… fuck, Arno’s going to get drunk and just let his drunk self do whatever. He’ll deal with the consequences later.

It’s Jacob who sees Desmond first. Flirts with him ‘cause he thought he was a woman. Evie sees him next while he’s wearing masculine clothes… but Evie can’t be sure. There’s something about the way he moved and the way he looked that just makes Evie unable to fully conclude that she is seeing a man. Jacob and Evie never see him at the same time. Every time they see him, they see him as a woman for Jacob and a man for Evie. Then they finally see him together, wearing formless clothes that could worn by anyone and he’s talking to Ned and they’re both “ooooohhhhh” but they don’t really get it, they just think they do.

[citizen-sade]

The air in the saloon was already near suffocating, thick with smoke that gave it the dreamy, undulating quality of a Van Gogh painting. Sherriff Earp surveyed the crowd with his eagle eyes, his gaze lingering on his friend's ashen face from across the room. Wispy tendrils of smoke spiraled from the tip of the gambler’s cigarette.

Doc brought a small pewter mug to his lips and swigged the amber liquid. He savored the familiar burn that trailed a line of fire down his esophagus to bloom in his stomach. His keen eyes narrowed.

It had been a relatively slow evening in the establishment until the shimmering desert sun began to descend toward the horizon. That was when the nocturnal creatures began to filter in. Tensions rose as the liquor flowed.

The bejeweled woman at Doc's side caressed his thigh under the table, eyeing his cards beneath long, dark lashes with a feline smirk. A sharp hack like the bark of a pistol penetrated the silence of the dim corner where Doc Holliday sat staring his opponents down beneath the strategic tilt of his beaver felt hat, his back to the wall. Always, Wyatt mused.  

“Bah!” scowled Elijah Parson, flinging his cards down on the table, “I fold!” 

“And then there were two,” Holliday dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief and turned his attention to the remaining player. He fanned his cards out before him, “Full.”

“Whoo-hee!” the elder Parson displayed his cards and threw his hands in the air, leaning forward to excitedly gather his winnings, “Straight!”

“Hold it!” exclaimed Elijah as he brought a fist down on the table and snarled at Doc, “That ain’t a Full—that’s a goddamn Flush!” 

Earle’s face fell and he turned a slack-jawed gaze upon Doc’s hand.

“Well, well, well. Would you look at that?" the corner of his mouth curved up in a sly grin, “must be my lucky day.”

“Horseshit!” Earle’s chair clattered to the floor as he leapt up in a rage, “No-good crook! I’ve a mind to put you out of your misery myself!”

The good doctor took a languid, unfazed drag from his cigarette, “Why, Earle, didn’t your mama ever teach you not to make promises you don’t intend to keep?”

The grizzled Parson brother brandished his Colt and aimed it square at Doc, spitting like a viper, “You think I’m bluffin’, lunger?”  

Doc smiled bitterly and fixed the insolent old man with a penetrating stare as a shaft of clarity broke through his whiskey-induced haze.

“You lack the courage of your convictions, Sir,” he drawled and straightened his back, tearing open his shirt to expose his chest. He wasn't smiling now.

“Do it.”

The typical murmurings and goings-on within the establishment gradually stilled as every head swiveled in their direction, causing Earle to shift his weight uneasily. Across the room, something stirred uneasily in Wyatt. The bastard's personal concept of self-preservation was flimsy at best, and often left Wyatt between a rock and a hard place. He sighed as one long-suffering and hung his head. He moved to inch closer to the card table. Wyatt was not unfamiliar with the gamut of emotions Doc Holliday often roused by being a skilled gambler (re: cheater) and a pompous sonofabitch—an infuriating combination, to be sure. Anymore, it seemed that Doc had found his calling in antagonizing every hotheaded dingbat he came across.

The hammer clicked into place, eliciting a shriek from Kate, and instantly Wyatt was upon the man. He wrenched his arm behind his back, causing him to drop his weapon. Wyatt kicked the gun under the table. “Play nice, Earle, or I’ll have your ass behind bars faster’n you can say ‘hasenpfeffer’!”

“Call off your watchdog and face me like a man, Holliday!” the brother spat in Doc’s direction as he struggled in Wyatt's grasp.

“The au-dacity,” Doc clicked his tongue as he drained his whiskey.

He looked up to see Elijah lunge at Wyatt and hook an elbow around his neck. Doc flung the metal cup at the younger brother, smacking him in the ear. Dazed, the man released his friend and froze at the sudden presence at his side, cold metal pressed against his temple.

“Now, gentlemen, is that any way to behave in the presence of a lady?” Doc taunted, tipping his head towards his lovely companion.

“G'on!” Wyatt unceremoniously dragged Earle to the entrance of the bar and planted the heel of his boot square in his backside. With a hard shove, he ejected him into the dusty street, “Git! Before I decide to make good on puttin’ you behind bars!”

Elijah scowled, slurring curses over his shoulder as he tripped out the swinging doors and stumbled after his brother.

Wyatt smugly folded his arms over his chest, laughing as he watched the two boorish cowboys stagger into the distance. 

Somewhere behind him, Doc’s drunken giggle dissolved into a panicked, ragged coughing fit. He gasped for breath like a fish out of water and groped for purchase as his vision blurred and condensed. He blood pounded in his ears and the room began to spin. Kate’s gasp made Wyatt whirl around to see red-rimmed eyes roll back in Doc’s head as he crumpled into the table. 

“Doc!” the woman cried. Wyatt rushed over and ducked beneath Doc’s arm, lifting him to his feet with alarming ease.

“He’ll be alright,” Wyatt chuckled nervously, “Just had too much to drink—didn’t ya, Doc?” 

He felt Doc’s labored breath on his ear, followed by a weak and thready plea, “Take me home, Wyatt.”

“Okay, okay,” he replied gently, then with authority, “Can I get some help here?” 

A baby-faced onlooker who had been intent on the previous commotion shuffled to Doc’s other side to help carry him as Kate quickly gathered as many coins and valuables as she could funnel into her satchel. Together both men clumsily transported Doc to his room next door at the Grand Hotel.

When they arrived, Wyatt nudged the door open and dropped his friend onto the bed. Doc shuddered, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth as he curled into the fetal position.

Kate cooed and hurried to soothe him. Wyatt stared at the broken man, lost in the shallow heaving of his chest. He’d forgotten about the young man that accompanied them until he heard a sheepish but grim voice from the hallway,

“He doesn’t look so good, Sheriff.”

Wyatt turned and pressed a couple silver dollars into his hand with a mumbled dismissive thanks that may have been a tad colder than he’d intended. Wyatt then gently grasped Kate by the crook of her arm to shepherd her towards the door with the promise that the next time she saw her beau, he’d be right as rain.

After she’d gone, Wyatt moved to Doc’s side and coaxed him onto his back. He began to unfasten the remaining buttons of his shirt to allow more air on his inflamed skin when elegant fingers circled his wrist. 

“Doc—what're you—?” 

“Don’t start somethin’ yer not gonna finish,” Doc wheezed. Wyatt gazed at his sunken face, a familiar sparkle in his bloodshot eyes.  

“N—now, let me help you, dammit,” he stammered.

Doc weakly batted his hands away and strained to pull himself into a sitting position. The effort was enough to make him twist away from Wyatt as another spasm shook him and he pressed his handkerchief to his mouth. Wyatt glared at the delicate ivory cloth now stained crimson.

“Two whiskeys,” he croaked as his head fell back to rest against the headboard. 

Wyatt blinked and retrieved the decanter of honey colored liquid. His movements felt robotic, borne of months of accumulated muscle memory. He was abruptly, bleakly aware of the passage of time, and had to put forth the effort to steady his nerves as he poured the liquor, the bottle clinking against the rim of the first glass, then the second.

“Took you long enough,” Doc scolded, his voice weary but playful. He looked at the offered snifter, lifted a hand to accept it, and realized how violently he was shaking. He raised his eyes to Wyatt’s with an exasperated sigh, “Be a lamb...” 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Wyatt bent over him to wipe the blood from his mouth and chin before tipping the glass to his lips.

Doc swallowed, sputtered, and gulped the rest like it was water and he’d been lost in the desert for forty days and nights. Wyatt pulled up a chair and set the glass on the small bedside dresser.

A deep swig came from beside the bed and Doc imagined Wyatt cradling his glass, clutching it almost to the point of shattering. He winced at the burn in his throat and contemplated the flames from the alcohol mingling with the tar in his lungs, creating some unholy thing that fed exclusively on tissue and sinew. When he cracked an eyelid to glance at his companion, he noticed Wyatt’s knuckles, white against his glass. Doc chuckled.

“And just what in th' hell is so funny?”

“Oh... nothin’...” Doc drawled, cocking an eyebrow in Wyatt’s direction, “I forgot you were here.”

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed and he snapped, leaping from his chair, “Why, you son of a—!”

Doc glanced up, “Now is that any way to talk to a dying man, Sheriff?” 

Wyatt raised a hand to his hip and dug his fingers into his side to keep his temper in check. He ran a hand over his face before taking a measured breath and resumed his seat. Neither Doc nor his own mounting panic were gonna get the best of him here. 

“I’ll always be here, Doc,” he said finally, fingers knitting together in his lap, his tone awkward but comforting, then rising in defiance to break the tension, “whether you like it or not!”  

Doc chuckled again in something akin to relief. Wyatt hadn’t taken his bait. He didn't honestly think he would. 

“Ah know,” Doc sighed wearily, admitting defeat, his eyelids drooping.

When Doc fell silent, Wyatt feigned interest in the stuffy room. He studied the peeling wallpaper, the ornate headboard. He glanced out the window, as though there was anything to see out there.

The quiet made him anxious. Doc Holliday should be out chasing women and cheating stupid fuckers out of their money, not lying in a dingy hotel bed as his body shut down. Behind the mustache, his teeth worked his bottom lip as Doc’s labored breathing evened. Sweat glistened on his brow, soaked through the cotton shirt, and formed beads of moisture at his open collar.

After what seemed like an eternity, Wyatt shifted in his chair, which creaked under his weight and interrupted the eerie silence of the room. Doc stirred and blinked his eyes open. Wyatt opened his mouth to apologize for waking him but let the words dissolve on his tongue. Doc's gaze fixed on a corner of the room, as though seeing something only he could perceive. Something that troubled him. 

“Why are you here, Wyatt?” he whispered despondently, “You here to watch a man die?”

Wyatt dreaded the cold shift in his demeanor, but considered his friend’s words for a moment and shrugged, “I’ve seen plenty of men die, Doc.”

Doc’s throat worked to swallow another impending spasm, “But have you actually watched ‘em take their last breath—“ Wyatt clinched his jaw, “watched the light leave their eyes?” 

“What the hell—“ 

“‘Cause you’re about to.”

His attempts to dominate the looming attack made the fire in his chest angry, gave it teeth. He shuddered and lurched forward with a fit that shook his emaciated frame. The blood that seeped from his lips was dark, originating from deep within, and smelled of decay. 

Wyatt was at his side in an instant, one hand pressed to Doc’s back, “Now, breathe,” he encouraged, he splayed his other hand against Doc’s chest, moving it in and out with each shallow, rattling breath, coaching him to take it slow and easy, “Just breathe... there you go...”

A rivulet of blood mixed with saliva fell from Doc’s lips to Wyatt’s rolled-up shirt sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” came a strangled apology. Wyatt shushed him. 

“You’re just fine, Doc,” His palm moved in a stilted circular motion between his shoulder blades, trying to ignore the fact that he could make out the individual vertebrae of the man's spine.

Doc sniffed and emitted a bitter sound between a laugh and a sob, shrugging away from Wyatt’s hand, “No, I ain’t,” he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and fell quiet as his blood whirred between his ears, refusing to meet Wyatt's stormy eyes.

“Damnit, I—" Wyatt stuttered, swinging around to pound the wall with his fist, “I don’t know what to do here, Doc... What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? Tell me!”

When he turned back, he was startled to see his friend carefully maneuver both legs over the side of the bed, his shoulders squared against the pain and muscle fatigue, fingers gripping the bedpost. 

“Shit, Doc,” Wyatt sighed, preparing himself to react should he pitch forward.

The man opposite him trembled as he struggled to his feet, his face steely and pale. As he’d anticipated, Doc’s legs immediately buckled, and Wyatt leapt forward to grasp him by the biceps. Doc’s right hand gripped his shirt in turn, a sob ripping from his throat as the fingers of his left hand curled around the back of Wyatt’s neck. 

Wyatt chuckled awkwardly, desperate to keep the mood light, “Where do you think yer goin’? To bet on the ponies?”

Liquor, sweat and tobacco filled Wyatt’s nostrils. Panting, Doc pulled Wyatt’s forehead to his and spoke in a low, resigned voice,

“Say goodbye to me, Wyatt.”

Wyatt could have sworn he felt the earth beneath his feet screech to a halt, and for maybe the second time in his life, Wyatt Earp felt fear. Angry, helpless tears pricked his eyes, and once he felt the doctor get his feet under him, he shook his head and wrenched himself away.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Doc. I will do no such thing! Now get your ass back in that bed, you stubborn bastard.” 

He expected a scoff in response, or even a laugh—that nearly deranged giggle that made lesser men drop their weapons and turn tail. God, he’d give anything to hear Doc laugh again.

Instead, he was met with cold, unnatural silence, broken only by the dying man's strained breathing.

“You must," Doc straightened with a wince, "so I can be on my way.”

Wyatt dropped into his chair, his hands falling into his lap. His head rested against Doc’s hip.

He heard the clink of ice and glanced up to see his forgotten whiskey hovering in front of his face. His gaze trailed over the skeletal fingers that held the glass, up the forearm that protruded from Doc’s bloodied sleeve, and over the deep ‘v’ of flesh left exposed by the partially unbuttoned shirt. His eyes then ascended to the gaunt face.

By God, but he was handsome. No. Beautiful. Beautiful like the mythological figures in textbooks from his schoolboy days. Even now, ravaged by disease and withering away before Wyatt's eyes, Doc Holliday took on the visage of a fallen angel, cast from Paradise, but retaining a foreboding allure. Not even Death could take that away from him.

Shit, maybe he was the delirious one.

Wyatt took the glass, registering sorrow in the lines and deep shadows of the face that stared down at him with eyes the color of absinthe.

He’d heard once—in another life, perhaps—that if you drink enough absinthe, your eyes would turn bright green. Maybe that’s what happened to Doc Holliday to give him such striking green eyes? 

“Love me, Wyatt,” Doc grasped the brim of Wyatt’s hat to lift it from his head and drop it to the floor at his feet, “and let me go.”

The snifter slipped from Wyatt’s grasp and neither man so much as flinched as it shattered on the floor. Wyatt leapt to his feet as Doc’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Doc’s head swam, only vaguely aware that he was again supported by strong arms. He felt his heart flutter and lurch sharply. He hated that feeling. It made him gasp for breath, which in turn made him cough, which made the embers in his lungs flare to life and the vice on his brain tighten mercilessly. God, he was so tired, so sick of feeling himself fading. Each time he awoke from one of his drunken stupors was equal parts relief and disappointment. Every day the corners of his vision blackened further, like the edges of an old map. Soon he wouldn’t have the strength to leave his bed or hold up a pistol. He was pitiful. 

Doc Holliday didn’t like being pitied. 

But he found a bittersweet solace in Wyatt’s arms. In some shadowy nook of his subconscious it occurred to him how easy it would be to surrender to the pull of the void in the embrace of his only friend, his one equal on this harsh, unforgiving earth; lulled into the sleep of oblivion by the scent of aftershave and suede and gunpowder--instead of alone, with only the smell of dirty copper, dead tissue, and his body eroding from the inside out.

Wyatt was so warm.

And he was so cold.

No. He had to hold on, damnit; had to keep the siren’s song at bay a little longer. He couldn’t let his friend be the one to… to…

Suddenly Wyatt’s voice was reining him in from some distant plane and his eyes blinked open as he returned to what remained of his senses. Wyatt sighed with relief.

Doc shifted in his arms to press his lips to Wyatt’s jawbone, then the hollow of his throat, and he didn’t pull away. Weak fingers carded through his hair, and he could smell desperation on Doc Holliday’s lips. He eased his friend back to the bed and sat him on the edge of the mattress.

Oh, what the hell. It was just the two of them, after all.

Wyatt leaned forward to claim the doctor’s mouth, but froze when Doc flinched sharply away from him. He searched his friend’s face in confusion before it dawned on him how contagious this insidious disease was.

Wyatt caressed Doc’s hollow cheek with his thumb, “I am more an antique Roman than a Dane,” he teased, noting the familiar grin that tugged at the corner of Doc’s mouth. 

Contrary to popular belief, Doc Holliday was a highly cultured and educated man, and he liked to show off that fact—even, Wyatt guessed, on his deathbed.

And Hamlet had always been a favorite.

Wyatt delicately stroked the parted lips with his fingertips, “Here’s yet some liquor left.”

Doc cocked a brow at him and wheezed. Wyatt thought he heard a touch of laughter in it, but his stomach churned as Doc’s brow creased in pain and he exhaled a shuddering breath.

“O, God, Horatio,” the dying man whispered with a touch of irony, “What a wounded name… Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me...”

Wyatt inclined his head and Doc felt the coarse hairs of his mustache brush over his Adam’s apple. He tipped his head back with a sigh. 

“If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,” Doc’s hand settled on Wyatt’s chest and Wyatt withdrew to meet his feverish eyes, “absent thee from felicity a while... and in this harsh world, draw thy breath in pain... to tell my story.”

That reminded him. 

Wyatt carefully untangled himself from the embrace to retrieve his jacket. He reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a thin booklet. The elegant calligraphy that scrolled across the front page read My Friend Doc Holliday.

“Way ahead of you, Doc,” he smiled, his heart swelling as Doc eyed the title with curiosity and a little bit of wonder.

The moment splintered as the sick man pivoted away from Wyatt, his face and body contorting with a savage tremor that made him retch violently over the side of the bed. 

He felt something inside him rupture, dislodge, and claw its way out of his chest. Wyatt didn’t need to see the mess of blood and tissue to know it was there. When the fit finally subsided, Doc fell listlessly to the mattress with a feeble whimper. 

Wyatt’s heart bucked with dread and he sat slowly on the edge of the bed, “Doc?” 

The glassy eyes shifted in his direction, unfocused… and afraid.

“Wyatt—” he choked, his eyelids heavy as his strength waned, and he searched for Wyatt’s face through the blossoming darkness, “If you ever felt anything for me... please, go now...” 

Wyatt cursed the powers that be, and everything his puritanical Christian upbringing had beaten into him about good versus evil. Doc Holliday was as good as they come, in a sense—and yet, it seemed he was born for the sole purpose of suffering. Of all people. Everything he’d endured…

Where was the fairness in it all?

Wyatt raked his fingers through his hair, clenched them into a fist to suppress the urge to put his fist through the wall, or to pick up his forgotten whiskey glass and squeeze it until it shattered in his hand. Anything to distract him from the searing pain in his heart.

“It’s not fair,” he muttered. Hot tears threatened to fall as the excruciating powerlessness rained down upon him like a round of lead bullets. 

Take me instead, goddamnit! he begged whatever entity could hear his thoughts or would even listen to begin with. He smoothed Doc’s hair from his damp forehead, barely registering the gravelly whisper as he brushed his lips over Doc’s brow,

“There’s no such thing as fair.” 

Wyatt nodded and reluctantly got to his feet, the mattress squeaking in the otherwise stagnant room. He crossed to the door, bending to retrieve his hat, and hovered in the threshold. 

“Live for me,” the still form pleaded from the bed, stifling any protest he may have raised.

Wyatt dragged one hand through his mussed hair, the other gripping the doorframe for dear life, as though he might tumble right off the edge of the earth—if he didn't just jump. He stole a final glance over his shoulder at his friend. 

“Thanks for always being there, Doc.” 

The door creaked shut and latched behind him with soul-crushing finality. From the other side, he heard a muffled cough, followed by a heavy sigh of resolve, and the groan of the bed springs. Wyatt pressed both palms into his eyes to compose himself before taking off down the hallway. 

In the quiet street outside, with just the wind and crickets for company, Wyatt glanced up at Doc’s window. He thought he saw movement behind the threadbare curtain but wrote it off as a grief-and-whiskey-induced hallucination. 

Down the road, his stomach dropped as the bark of a revolver pierced the night. 

Goodnight, sweet prince. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

And Wyatt Earp wept.

[astromechs]

read all of the montague siblings books, had a breakdown, had to quickly sketch out the monty/percy reunion at the end of nobleman's guide that we didn't get to see.

also on ao3!

This goddamn path, Monty thinks, is somehow much more winding and treacherous than he remembers.

Has he been gone that long? It has felt like an age to him, of course — even five hours without being in Percy’s presence does, much less going on five months — but surely, in reality, it couldn’t have been so long that he’s forgotten his own walk home. Granted, going on five months ago, he hadn’t a bad leg and a cane to be negotiated against cobblestones, nor had he the infuriating tendency to become winded after short distances that only returning from the brink of death can bring. Nor had he regarded his younger brother as anything more than a relic from a past to be neglected, or settled into the shoes of what being a sibling means for the second time.

He’d told Adrian that journeys can change a person, that one returns a man different than the one he’d used to be.

Funny, he’d assumed himself too old for such drastic shifts in his own life. Then again, there is the whole bit regarding what happens when one assumes.

God, that’s not how he’d like to think about an ass. If he’s thinking about asses, there’s only one that he would like on his mind.

Speak of the devil —

As he rounds the corner, the small garden that Percy had insisted upon cultivating in front of their home comes into view, along with the man himself — and Monty’s entire world. For the moment, he has his back turned, absorbed in whatever one does with flowers; God knows Monty hasn’t the slightest inkling. It’s always been fascinating to watch him work, though, whether on this, or evaluating a piece of music, or even the damn numbers. There’s beauty in everything Percy does, but there’s especially beauty in this, in the way he can be so lovingly absorbed in even something so mundane.

Despite their separation, despite how his heart jumps into his throat and his breath catches there, despite how every inch of him is screaming for him to move as quickly as he’s able so that he can finally feel the touch of Percy’s skin upon his own once more, Monty doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him. Not yet. He can stand here for a few moments more, painting the sight before him into his mind should he ever need it again (he hopes not; he hopes he never has to be apart from Percy for more than a few hours at a time for the rest of their lives, but just in case, he’d like more in his mental arsenal).

He steps closer, just a little, for a better look — but then Percy tenses, lifts his head from the flowers he’s inspecting, and turns, eyes widening. Inwardly, Monty curses himself for the disturbance, for ruining what he’s had weeks to plan as the perfect reunion.

Then again, he supposes the days of quiet steps and sneaking up on people are officially behind him.

And what does it matter, anyway, when Percy has dropped everything to run straight for him, his long legs carrying him there in no time at all? What does it matter when the two of them collide with a force that almost knocks him off his feet, when strong arms wrap around him and prevent that from ever happening, and he clutches tightly in return? What does it matter when all he can hear out of his one good ear is the sound of Percy’s heartbeat, all he can feel is the rise and fall of his chest, and all he knows is Percy?

It doesn’t, Mony thinks. Nothing else goddamn matters.

“Darling,” Percy finally finds his voice. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“Never.” It’s said in a breath almost more than an actual word, this fierce resolve. This vow; the word sticks in his mind, burning like a brand. Maybe one day, he’ll be more receptive to such things being exchanged between them, but for now, pulling back a small distance, just enough so that they can look at one another: “You can’t imagine how difficult it was to be apart from your ass for so many months. Zounds, Perce, so many.” He heaves a sigh, only in part for dramatic effect. “It was so painful that I was lying awake at night, willing the masturbation demon to come for me. Can you imagine how bloody awful it’d be to have to toss off with a demon? All prickly, and not in the good way —”

“My ass?” Percy cuts off the thought, presumably before Monty can further careen down that runaway line of thought. Probably for the best; out of the two of them, Percy has always been closer to knowing it. They may have avoided at least half their sodding struggles on this… adventure had he accompanied them, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. And Monty would rather not think of it, in any case, not when the corners of Percy’s mouth are turned up in the most enchanting hint of a smile. “You only missed me for my ass?”

“In my defense,” Monty lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, a smirk beginning to tug on his own lips, “It is quite a notable part of you to miss.” For emphasis, the hand not clutching the top of his cane snakes around Percy’s waist, clumsily grabbing a finger-full of trousers.

Percy, in turn, lifts exactly one brow, just as he’s done well more than a thousand times, and in an instant, they both laugh. It’s easy; everything with Percy has always been easy, when it’s really mattered. Nothing could take that away — not time, not distance.

Not even the darkness that Monty will never quite be able to banish from his own mind.

There will have to be conversations, he knows; some will be more difficult than others, and some will be quite gravely serious. Just the mere thought of one in particular has his heart racing wildly in his chest for completely different reasons — but all will be had in time, without him running away from them. This he can solemnly promise.

For now, though, Monty is quite fine to simply be here, watching as the last rays of the setting sun seem to bring out the freckles under Percy’s eyes, seemingly making them dance. Every part of him has always been beautiful, of course, because anything that is Percy’s would have to be, but those, perhaps, take the ultimate prize.

Light-soaked days. His own words come to him again in this moment, settling over him like a cup of hot tea on a frigid evening, spreading warmth to the tips of him in a feeling that he can name without any difficulty at all. Contentment. Peace.

Whether or not he could possibly ever hope to deserve it, he wants to wrap himself in it for the rest of his days.

“Let’s go inside, my love.” After a time, Percy’s hand gives one last gentle squeeze before withdrawing. “I’ll put on a kettle, and you can —” His eyes drift down to the cane, widening as if he’s just now noticed it (and maybe he has, for all that they’ve been wrapped up in one another), and back up again. “You can tell me what in God’s name happened to your leg, for a start.”

“Oh, that?” There’s a light laugh tossed in with the question, deflection also as easy as breathing. “That was my dear sister. By which I mean that if we hadn’t found said dear sister….” He waves his free hand, vaguely, then clears his throat. “Can we save that story for after a shag? It’s all terribly gruesome, and, frankly, I’d rather not let anything get between me, you, and a bed. Bed optional.”

Percy nudges him in the shoulder, so lightly as not to knock him off balance; he’s careful to the last. “You cad.”

“Calling me a cad when I know you, Percy Newton.” The scoff, the big show of pretending to be affronted, is easy, too. “I know what filthy thoughts are lurking behind those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”

It’s Percy’s turn to shrug, to let the smile that’s been tugging at his mouth fully blossom. The setting sun is sparkling in his eyes now, and it’s all in all the most goddamn gorgeous sight that Monty has ever seen. He’s practically traveled half the world over at this point, he thinks, through one misadventure or another, and he’s seen sunsets over the sea and all sorts of things someone much more skilled than him would wax poetic about, but none of it, absolutely none of it has ever, or will ever, compare to the greatest man that this world has ever had the privilege of allowing to live in it.

The man that he has somehow been dealt a lucky enough hand to call his beloved — a hand that, by some miracle, he has somehow managed not to mess up.

No matter who may see, Monty is far from strong enough to resist rising on his toes and giving a kiss to Percy’s cheek, as he murmurs, “Let’s go inside.”

[miscellaneous-ruminations]

it feels so bad to talk to him. i feel so miserably ashamed of feeling bad talking to my own partner. the times we talk to each other and it goes well are diminishing in frequency, and i feel like he’s turning into another person before my eyes. i don’t know what to do with this person who dislikes me, dislikes spending time with me, or likes me but hates me? he treats me like a hated little sibling, always getting in his way. i’m not even treated like his friend. why does this happen to be how he does it. we need couples therapy. i need therapy. ive had the tome of my life without him. i dont know whats happening.

and yet he claims he needs me and clings to me whenever my negative reaction gets too obvious to ignore. he takes on this expecting to be punished attitude and im like am i even here to you? are you even experiencing my presence? it feels like he’s living in a monologue and is just talking with a version of me that he controls, and punishing me when i don’t adhere to it.

IVE FELT LIKE MYSELF WHILE HES BEEN GONE!!!! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO COPE WHEN HE COMES BACK WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO

and yet i love him and i miss him and i dont

i have been making excuses for him for three years. no if ands or buts. i have been making excuses to people whose opinions i care about more than his. i have lost my own good opinion.

why do i have to worry about the giant fight itll be when i get upset that all he can talk about is his fomo when i bring up my fun things.

i realized that i dont even really talk anymore. he dominates every conversation, and aside from literally just jokes and the occasional deep conversation that he treats like derailing his day, the expectation is that i will be there to be his everything and not have my own life. not have my own friends. not have my own interests. i cant go to anything without him. and he has the excuse of being my ride.

and oh, when hes at his best and functioning normally he can act rationally and be “generous” and “let” me go without him, but the second hes even a littleee insecure about ANYTHING and i can pry him off me wothout a fight where he paints me as a bigass overreactor while being the one who cant let the fucking thing go!!! what am i supposed to do!!!!!

we let outselves get really entangled really codependent at the beginning. i wont pretend it wasnt mutual. but in spite of that i feel like im the ONLY ONE TRYING TO GET US OUT OF THE DEATH SPIRAL

why am i the only one trying

why am i the only one trying

and he says im reading too much into this that im being unfair but you cant “its not that deep” your way out of this you bastard. because there is a point where it is that deep. where i leave the confines of this relationship and cant contribute to someone who wants to hear from me because im used to being the silent spaghetti wall. when im not contributing ideas because im worried about that GODDAMN CONDESCENDING “WELL YOU DONT GRASP THE SOCIAL ELEMENTS OF THIS” SMUG ASS FUCKING…… AOUGH

YOU WOULD NOT HAVE DATED ME IF I WAS NOT SOCIALLY ADEPT. I AM BEING HELD TO NEUROTYPICAL STANDARDS NOT ETHICAL AUTISTIC ONES AND I AM TIRED OF SUFFOCATING UNDER THE STANDARDS YOU HOLD YOURSELF TO BECAUSE THEYRE COMFORTABLE. THEYRE NOT FOR ME. IM NOT ENTERTAINING IT ANY LONGER

HE HAS GIVEN ME A SOCIAL ANXIETY DISORDER. I CANT STEP AWAY FROM IT!!! I HAVE NO FRIENDS THAT I CAN BE MYSELF WITH WITHOUT HIM INTERFERING AND INSERTING HIMSELF. AND HE SAYS HES FINE WITH IT HE SAYS HE IS AND THEN ILL NEED TO DO NOTHING BUT BE IN THE ROOM WOTH HIM WHILE HE SEWS AND WASTE MY EVENING BEING A SEXY LAMP!!!!! AND IF IM ANGRY OR FEEL USED OR ANYTHING ELSE IT TURNS INTO A FIGHT WHERE IM IGNORED IN FAVOR OF TALKING ABOUT HOW SAD IT IS THAT HE HAS THIS INFURIATING DEFENSIVENESS AND HOW HARD IT IS FOR HIM AND HOW MUCH HES TRYING. BULL SHIT! NOT FUCKING BUYING IT!!!! ARE YOU CHANGING? ARE YOU TRYING??? BECAUSE IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ARE SOENDING ZERO TIME AND ZERO CONSISTENT EFFORT ON CONSISTENTLY NOT BEING AN ASSHOLE TO ME

AND ANOTHER THING!!! HIS OCD RULES THIS FUCKING HOUSE!!!! THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO AVOID THE FACT THAT NO JOB I EVER DO IS ENOUGH HE WANTS TO BE MATRON WITH ME AS THE DELEGATE BUT I CANT FUCKING GET IN THERE BECAUSE WHAT HE ACTUALLY WANTS IS TO DO IT HIMSELF

I NEED HIM TO GET MEDICATED FOR HIS OCD AND PTSD IT IS FUCKING RUINING *MY* LIFE. AND I DONT THINK HE CARES. I DONT THINK HE CARES ENOUGH ABOUT HIS IMPACT ON ME TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. BECAUSE I THINK ON SOME LEVEL HES LIKE WHERE WOULD HE GO.

and thats so fucking dangerous. he can justify fucking anything with that. and i will not be a part of it. im building my own fucking life back and if i encounter resistance i dont like the shape of he can start taking a fucking backseat. if he wants to be my friend he can start acting like my fucking friend again. but until that time hes my mentally ill shithead boyfriend. who i love. god help me i love him. g-d, help me if i need to learn to leave him.

[virtual-macchine]

I've been getting into digital art these last few months because I missed oil painting and digital art is cheaper. But today I started thinking about why drawing musicians performing is so fascinating to me while working on my current piece.

I think there's something interesting about viewing someone from so close and from an angle you're not often in. As a musician, you spend a lot of time watching other musicians play and you can tell when someone is just at ease with their instrument. I love trying to capture that in a figure's form. But it's more than that also. For me, it's this idea that I'm not the only one watching this person and looking up to them in that moment, literally even.

I think I'm a little obsessed with the idea of idolatry, for many reasons including having been raised a muslim. If you don't know, idolatry is considered 'shirk', which is translated as polytheism, and it is a Big, Bad Sin. In fact, by drawing realistic figures with faces, plenty of muslim scholars would argue that what I am doing is haram. While that would have given me serious anxiety when I was younger, now I find a kind of glee in it to know that this inconsequential thing I find happiness in infuriates some people so much, especially when I sin in much worse ways (IM VISIBLY QUEER ASF AND I HAVE SOME SHIT TATTOOS). Like yes, get your knickers in a twist because I had fun trying to recreate the beauty God put on Earth -- seeing as I'm going to hell anyway, of course I'm going to have a good fucking time before I get there.

Oh yeah, being a musician is also haram, technically. Big No to one of the most important forms of human communication. Depending on interpretation and who you ask, that includes all of singing, guitar, piano, etc., and listening to music.

Yes, I spent my formative teenage years rebelling through plastic discs and headphones. I stressed out my mother because I liked the twang of an electric guitar.

Also, look at these homoerotic pictures:

While I'm definitely not a Harry Potter fan anymore, I think about that scene in All The Young Dudes a lot where Remus is watching Top of the Pops and he's secretly fascinated by this fleeting moment when David Bowie and another performer share a mic. That one little scene captured so much of what it felt like growing up as a repressed little queer boy in a violently homophobic environment where everything gay was completely banned. For a long time, this was the closest I got to consuming outright gay content because if I was caught, it was a lot more explainable and I know I wasn't alone in it. So yeah, it’s quite important to me and I have a lot of memories and feelings attached to the music.

And you know, if the day of judgement comes and I really am told to give life to my creations, so what? If God didn't want me to imitate his creations then He shouldn't have made them so goddamn beautiful and I stand by that, so help me God.

Or maybe I'm deeping it too much, let me know xxx

(side note - I have this memory of being told off for watching BBC Sherlock as a young teen because my mum heard the word 'gay'. It was the scene where Watson denies being gay. I find it funny that the arguably homophobic show was also banned in our household because even acknowledging the existence of gay people was too much.)

[kittydragondraws]

Magic schools infuriate me to no end because they all feel the goddamn same

like, even if you try to be original by making it look like an average high school it's still hogwarts with a new coat of paint