melancholymirth

[melancholymirth]

[melancholymirth]

V for @poisonivyys  🌙

[melancholymirth]

"You look like you're ready to have kittens, kitten." A deep, insinuating chuckle resounded in his chest, but how much of what he'd said did he intend as a joke? With the way he caressed Dex's flat belly, so innocent in keeping away from thighs that guarded against him, there wasn't a lot he left to imagination. And Dex was a smart boy: the cruel side to Sylus' character hoped he guessed it the first time. There was, sadly, nothing anyone could do about changing an incubus.

A long and - he wondered if it would be apt to say - earth-shattering evening had left him in shuddering, still-trembling shambles; He could scarcely breathe, his heartrate impossible to keep up with, lungs burning, hips twitching, teeth perhaps biting a little too hard into his lower lip, and he was exhausted, utterly spent. Half-tempted to succumb to the vague notions of pain settling into his lower back, nerves afrayed by the devil's fingertips then slowly, in some barely conscionable way, threading together loose ends with gentler hands this time. But he knew better than to trust Sylus' intentions were pure, as he'd proven time and time again for hours, searing himself into Dex's body as if...it would kill him not to.

Maybe a misreading, but, Dex thought it strange just how unreasonably insufferable Sylus had been. Not that he didn't enjoy it, rather the opposite was true. He wanted this - he wanted the devil all to himself, in some ways taking advantage of his insatiability, his nature as a devil. He was a lifeline, to him, in one sense or another, wh Sylus fed on. He wanted it to stay that way, for those hands, those eyes, that hungry mouth, and every bit of his attention on him, just like this. In the quiet of a private place, nestled together into silk sheets and down, unable to even pretend to fight the slow drag of Sylus' fingers across his belly - vividly recalling its temporary distension earlier in the mirror, arms too weak to push the devil away, voice all but whithering in his throat.

At the very least, Sylus had afforded him an opportunity to rest, besides - he kept his thighs pressed firmly together anyway, ignoring how feebly they shook.

"S-Sylus, give me- a-a moment," he managed, stammering softly. Arms crossing over his face, he heaved a handful of breaths, shielding himself from the devil's gaze in an attempt to make it easier on himself. This sort of thing, to be touched and attended to, seen as special despite being so unbearably human, special enough to single out and ravish so often and so thoroughly, as if there was no one else and could never be-- Maybe it went to his head, on occasion, but he didn't care if one such time had been then. Sylus' attention was his and his alone to take, bathe in, drink up, and suffer through. Hips jerked slightly, and, slowly, thighs carefully, achefully spread apart, allowing the devil some room to nestle into what some small, awful part of Dex was happy to call his rightful place. Nonsense, nonsense, how scrambled his brain, perhaps he had energy enough to entertain the notion of being split apart a second, third, or fourth time. So long as Sylus was focused on him, he may yet adapt to his storm.

Still, he winced as he moved, hips lifting off the bed some to twitch and readjust, a hand coming down to loop around Sylus' wrist, almost limply. "Y-You're awful," he groaned airily, "T-touch me here." And he dragged that large, forceful hand to his chest, his throat, and pulled, in some worthless attempt at urging him down, down, and into a kiss. Insistent, really, despite himself. If the devil wanted more, then he could grant him this, laced fingers, and some spare semblence of tenderness; He'd already gotten Dex to relent, give in- "K-Kiss me first, b-before anything." A wheeze, a whimper, but no less a command of his own.

"Or y-you get nothing."

[melancholymirth]

"I think we should recycle." // V for Garrett, Idk ksdjghf

The most accurate word to describe the crooked grin etched across Garrett's face, then, was smug. In all their years, he'd assumed it well and truly known by now that they already were avid recyclers, if not only because it saved them a few bucks and change when donating cans, glass taken with waste & recycle services each week, old cardboard broken down and folded to be taken alongside or to be stored in case they decide to move shop- he kept those in the back storage closet with their extra glass racks, and the fire extuinguisher, and the three chairs and-- He shrugged, shuffling that thought away. Even broken glass got recycled, kept in a dedicated bucket for the boys to deal with when it came time.

He had things covered already - maybe that's why V seemed to have forgotten about it entirely. It wasn't something Garrett ever made him do anyway, too careful as to prevent him from coming to bodily harm of any kind, better to have one of the boys see to it. They'd all worked something out between them in the spirit of teamwork, taking turns on the inconvenient tasks - he had to suppress a chuckle there, a little pleased with himself on that front; Little by little, those idiots were learning to temper themselves and live normally, rag-tag little crew of misfit demons and supernaturally inclined losers just like him and V. It took a steady hand - that is, a heavy one - and an ulterior motive, sure, but they were helping pick up the slack; Of course V didn't have to think about recycling anymore.

All accordin' t' keikaku, as th' dweebs say.

He'd been working his ass off to afford them a more comfortable life, to keep the water and electric on for not just the tavern arm of the Devil May Cry franchise, but the Devil May Cry - without Dante, who else was going to not pay the electric bill? Garrett had to pay that too, working over time on devil hunting and managing the bar to carry the burden when the kids were away, buy them a day off or two and relish the time spent awash in each other where no one else could see. Sometimes talking, napping, or otherwise doing all manners of things V once would never have indulged in with him. He was glad he did so now, especially given that they were married.

"Ya pretty funny sometimes, babe," he said, rolling the rag in his fist around the inside of the wet glass in the other, a chuckle rocking through him after all. "What d'ya mean ya forgot we recycle already? Been doin' it f' long time by now.

[melancholymirth]

Booty check // Vergil for Bianca LMAO

"Vergil, why do you want to know what I think about your ass? You've never asked before. This feels...out of character for you. Are you feeling insecure, my love? Do you want me to embrace you and tell you about all the things I find attractive about you? Silly, of course I will. Come, sit with me in the den."

On what fucking planet did Vergil care about her opinion on his ass? She was having a hard time wrapping her head around the subject, try as she might to smooth things over and guide him someplace else, someplace quieter with fewer acoustics than the kitchen. Warmer, more intimate in the sense they'd be more comfortable together in the same space, though that wasn't to say they weren't as a general rule. They were. Just- more so, in the cool calm of a more fitting nest to settle in than cold marble and hardwood.

"Unless...you'd rather we go to our bedroom instead?" A harmless suggestion, in truth, no ulterior motives to be had. But it would make it easier for him to remove his clothes and get the attention he seemed to want there...now that she thought about it. Ultimately, she didn't know what the right move was - she was just so utterly confused. Was he sincere? Or was she making a mountain out of a mole hill? "Vergil, please say something--"

[melancholymirth]

"You vampires aren't all that bad," Griffon, quite comfortable roosting close to he of silver hair and sharp little fangs, noted agreeably. "I met this guy once, a real eccentric—and I guess you gotta be if you're flush with cash—and a charmer, if you're the type—he had V over there glowing a few times"—and here he snickered subtly, clearly wishing to avoid the wrath of his master—"but we got along all right. Never tried to make a meal of me. One of the few people in this crummy world who didn't insult or harass me, either. And you're gettin' to be pretty chummy with V, too, ain'tcha? For once he ain't buddyin' up with some insufferable dirtbag! But, anyway, you seem like a nice enough guy. I'm kinda surprised, considering that grade A moron you hang around with who mouths off like he's trying to get arrested—" Griffon went on and on for a while, but he noticed Vayn was something of a chatterbox, too. That had to have been a good sign, right? That they tolerated one another? Something about vampires, he supposed.

And he most certainly was a chatterbox--

"Oh, do you mean Loux? That dirty little shapeshifter- I think he has something in common with V's beau, Garrett. Neither of them much care for the law, as I understand it - what's that cliche? Ah, yes, bad boys! Quite, Loux often attempts to provoke the sorciers and other nasty sorts that are after him, though he does so 'for fun', as he claims it. After everything that's happened in that man's life, I'm rather shocked he can continue to bear that awful crooked grin of his and trudge on; You'd think he'd have learned a vital lesson or two, but alas... He's part of the reason we move around as often as we do. Can't risk Deadeye or the sorciers actually catching up to us. Mischievous as he is, he's always thinking of me and Sortia, therefore always finding ways to weasel us out of trouble - and, perhaps, thinking twice before getting us into any.

"I must digress, however-- It gladdens me that you and V have had some positive experiences with my kind, though now I'm curious to know who it is you came across. There are many I once knew, plenty more who still hold public office or are otherwise famous for one reason or another... We are vain creatures, of course. You say this vampire was a charming sort? The type to make V blush? I wonder..." He thought for a time; It was but brief, ideas popping in his head, images of a few possibilities crossing his mind. "And this was a man, you say? Hmm... Was he tall? Did he have hair dark as roasted chestnuts fading into spun gold with a few braids dangling on the left side? Bright yellow eyes? Covered from the neck down in black leather? Did he run an art gallery? If any of that's correct, I know such a man! He was once a good friend of mine - awful, his fear of physical contact, though I shouldn't say it's a fear so much as it is a discomfort. He had a keen eye for the arts, built an empire for himself on that alone, becoming completely independent from his family. He gave us younger vampires a lot of hope for positive change; Alas, not all of us got to see our hopes fully realized, but such is the way of things. I wonder what he's doing now... It's been at least thirteen years since I've seen him last."

A somber note to leave off on, so he thought to add a little more.

"I have to say, Griffin, dear, I'm not sure what Garrett complains so much about. You've a mouth on you, no different than he, but I don't think he's stopped to hear you out, has he? Always so boorish, happy to throw his weight around like the big, silly man he is, yes? A familiar tale, but if he won't say it, then I shall! You've been a delight, keeping me company like this-" he interrupted himself if only to gently scratch Griffin's chin, dragging his fingers through bluish raven feathers, "-no hen-pecking required!" He couldn't help but chuckle to himself, grinning warmly. "V hasn't much time for me this visit, I'm afraid, but it's been lovely getting to speak with you properly. Shall we be friends too, darling?"

[melancholymirth]

It always started with a few kisses too many. A pet here, a squeeze there, but maybe Bianca smelled too sweet, and touched him all the sweeter; and maybe he finally listened. She wouldn't mind his arm around her waist, restraining both of her own as he pressed her back flush to his chest, biting tenderly under her jaw, a bare hand at home between her legs, fingers mingling with the warmth of her softest places and lovingly rubbing where she was most sensitive. The need in her voice stoked his fire along with the wetness of his fingers, and all that he could do about it was sink them in, just two, slowly and deeply, and stroke like he made love to her. And he still could, he still would. With the house dead silent and the library all to themselves, how could Vergil refuse?

She bet he thought he was a right and cheeky bastard for restraining her arms, keeping them anchored to her sides and body bent forward so she didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell against him. Fingers effortlessly slipping past the waistband of her jeans and finding, yes, quite, home curled over the bundle of nerves at her center, so cruelly weaseling inside as if to tease, keep her on the very tips of her toes shuddering and panting without hope for recourse or reprieve.

Her head lolled forward and she squirmed relentlessly in his grasp, feet just barely glancing across the plush rug lining the bookshelves, pushing against his knee, but the nibbles and bites of claim beneath her jaw - his, and his alone - robbed her of her will to fight. It was all for play, of course, to heighten the experience, a prey animal caught in the maw of a predator most frightening, her most beloved. Whose powerful hands clutched and stroked at her now, swiping over deepest sensitives, gummy and soft - nowhere else for his fingers to be than on her, in her, prying her apart and causing her to unwind, slick-wet in his palm. What bliss, what bliss to be so held, pampered and embraced, brought to the very edge as he sunk deep, deeper, then oh-so slowly out-- She balled her own into fists, nails digging little half-moons into her skin in tandem with the scrape of his teeth. Taken by him and leaving no room for doubt that a mere pair of long digits could guide her forth and give him every bit of satisfaction he wanted out of this.

Every gasp signified her defeat, the tenderest ache between her thighs as he pushed down her jeans, leaving her that much more exposed and make it easier for him to carry on, slowly yet firmly laying claim to her. Electrifying, shockwaves darting across her skin in a storm, a great plain struck by glass-forming lightning. Molding her in his grip - she couldn't hope to stand, too much of her trembling at once, euphoria rocking through her body down to her marrow. Her pants and squeals of delight broke through, echoing off the shelves and filling the library with all the little noises he commanded of her - she gave them so willingly. So obediently, surrendering to him in her entirety.

And all this, all of this, after a friendly chase around the house in desperation for his company, his attention. They'd had it to themselves, why not have her sing his praises at the top of her wheezy lungs, feel her tighten and gush at once with each new motion? She was his to take, and she was happy, so happy in this. Squeezing around his fingers, breathless moans belting out of her. He would have to forgive her flagrance, but she was sensitive, his breath in her ears and the gnaw of his teeth sending her reeling without much more effort; And as such, she threw her head back, exposing more of her neck to him, bumping into his shoulder, and his breaths were that much louder, everything else so much more intense.

Oh, what love - how sly, this dog of Hell.

[melancholymirth]

👀 + That you love me as ardently as you always have, that no bitterness haunts you, no grief nor regret keeps you shackled to your life on Earth; that you remember me with all the fondness and all the enduring loyalty of a soulmate after my final light has winked out, and that you follow not far behind to meet me in the hereafter; for your branches to mix with mine when we meet, our roots to join when we touch, and our souls to entwine completely, in the bed of stars that's cradled all great lovers long lost to time. Eternity, infinity—maybe a heaven in a wildflower. // Y'know.

send me your filth

"Y'know, pretty boy, sometimes, I think youse a much better poet than I could ever be. Ya say it so effortlessly, rolls right off the tongue, like ya been practicin' fer years - 'r at least long 'nough to prove ya can do it better, cheeky lil shit." But he's not coming from a place of jealousy, envy, nor irritation, but love - reverence, unerring loyalty and devotion pulling a crooked grin into place, lazy blue sweeping over so slender and beloved a form. Rough fingertips, ever so eager in their protective gathering, ease over hips he'd bitten, kissed, and run his tongue over a thousand times, appreciating the flesh there, gripping and squeezing with all the wanton fervor a lovesick teenager.

With all his Hell-blackened heart, there wasn't a single thing in this world or the next that could change how desperately he loved the warlock, how willingly he'd give himself to the flames of Hell if only to hear him speak sweet poetry one last time, to hear his voice in soothing low tones confess to him his secrets and loves as though he were worthy of the prayer. Oh, endlessly, in all things, in all places, there was no room in his heart for any at all but V; No matter how long he lived following his passing, he would persist long enough to see him and have him again, to belong to him, to love him, to kneel before him and kiss his fingers as a knight would his king-- Silly, to draw that comparison, but no less weighty in the modern era as they would've been in a bygone age. "Keep goin', swee'heart. Don't stop now. I wanna hear everythin' youse got goin' on up there, complete with all yer William Blake references, yeah? Mmmm, want kisses after too--"

[melancholymirth]

"I'm tired of walking… Carry me?" V stopped mid stride, quite physically putting his foot down, weight over his cane, with a huffy exhale, a bit of a whine to his voice and a bereft bend of his brow. Yes, he was being a bit of a damsel about it, but not at all dishonest about his weariness. // V demands of his husband.

At this, Garrett couldn't help but roll his eyes, crooked grin splitting his features. V could be so helpless at times, perhaps dependent, or needy, and he could only eat it up every chance he got - never mind the devilish flutter of his heart, nor the wolfish tweak to his smile.

He took another step or two forward before cocking his head over his shoulder, hands stuffed into his pockets, and looked at him. Eyes half-lidded, cocksure and arrogantly charming as usual, pivoting on his heel as to face his beloved.

Oh, yes, he knew he was a superior servant to him than that cane, though that wasn't to undercut it's usefulness. It was to say that V relied on him much more often and for far more things - after all, a cane couldn't ravage him in bed, balance a business account, make blackberry pancakes and bacon every Sunday morning, or yell at the litter of strays they'd taken in over the years for breaking a bottle or missing their mark when out on the hunt, dealing with an uppity customer poorly, fighting in the back office... They managed a lot of that together, but his internal monologue stood! Didn't it? He was giving himself a little too much credit, wasn't he? Ah, well - who the hell cared? That was one of the things V liked about him anyway, his unerring confidence (and the vulnerability that came afterwards).

He sucked in a breath, flesh beginning to harden, crackle, smoke and burn, flaking off into nothing more than bits of ash, rich in grayish-blackness, steadily revealing the gnarled volcanic Cerberus beneath. Noxious fume billowed out of his mouth, dark clouds hanging overhead, concealing his ever growing form, hands morphing into paws with razor-sharp claws, every bone in his body breaking and twisting and reorganizing until he'd fallen onto all-fours - wolfish head held high, crystal blue reflecting bloody crimson, hellfire burning between the cracks in patches of ashen black fur. A beast concealed in fog, he stepped free of human confines and ambled forward, unperturbed by the shift and wholly fixed on V. Already broken asphalt shattered under his weight, but even so, he continued until at last he'd come nose to nose with his mate.

The smoke had begun to clear, dissipating as a gust of wind blew through the parking lot, rolling through his fur. His gaze was expectant - if V wanted to be carried, then he was more than happy to give him a ride. Selfishly, perhaps, for the joy of being relied upon by the only person in the world he could love as intensely as he did - how he saw all the light in all the world in those eyes - being needed by him, summoned forth by unfathomable devotion and just a spoonful of pride. Yet, instead of lowering himself so V could climb onto his back, his jaws parted and he just couldn't help himself!

Garrett panted once, twice, and immediately began licking V all over, tongue lolling over his face, his neck, hair, and everything in between, tail wagging with mischievous glee. Then he lowered himself to the ground, effectively lying down on his belly to make it easier on V to make his climb, nosing at knobby knees and nibbling on the fabric of his pants. Denim? Igh. He was going to have to take him shopping for clothes again, wasn't he?

"C'mon, pretty boy, get on top~" came his purring bellow. "Else I'm gonna leave without you~"

[melancholymirth]

Always had to be something. A stuttering child should have been the least of his concerns; and in fact, a concern it should not have been at all. Sylus had to give it to himself, though: this was the shakiest he'd ever made anyone. The boy refused to give him any eye contact, which was a shame for a...couple of specific reasons. Sylus was not above employing his gifts to gain the edge he needed whilst cutting the time it took to reach it. His disappointment was far from bubbling up through the cracks, however, even when it looked like his prey was about ready to give him something—and then didn't, really, and brought the devil's hopes sinking back down.

Still not looking me in the eye. His mouth abandoned its smile.

Without the need for the boy to give very much away, Sylus suspected he was dealing with the sheltered type. Nothing else could explain so much avoidance, and he wasn't offended by it because he'd met far too many innocent souls he aided in corrupting, sometimes entirely alone, throughout his adult life. Several hundred years of experience made him well acquainted, and it never once got boring. How exciting, in fact, to take something so pure and so delicate into his rotten hands and imbue it with every sin he embodied. To defile and deflower was unlike anything else he could do, and not only did he take pride in it, but he gained immense pleasure from it. Of course, sitting on that barstool, he wasn't about to let his imagination run away with him; though he would silently admit that Dexter was looking like a sweet little snack, the longer he watched him under the dim tavern light, swathed in browns and grays all around. The only thing in this drab, dreary place that did not belong, being too cute for it—and he was made all the cuter for it.

The scent of fear was, as well, an intoxicating thing in its own right. Sylus was not a devil of his position for naught, however: he did not ascend the ladder as he so enviably had by being impetuous, uncontrollable, and a brute. Regarding Dexter now, he remained cool in his seat, cold toward the shifty eyes from elsewhere in the bar he could feel darting to and from him every so often. Even when the song changed to one of a romantic tone, he stared unflinchingly at eyes that refused to look back. Just as if they'd known some ill magic might come upon them were they to so much as glance at the devil's right eye.

"The city was destroyed, and you don't know anything about it?" he purred, the tone of his curiosity belying the dryness of his expression. He seemed to be teasing, though, for he quirked a single brow and added, a touch humorously, "Yes, I do recall it made international news. But I'm not clear on the details, myself. Something about swarms, and...a natural disaster that was cataclysmic? Locusts, do you suppose?" Partly teasing, partly sincere, and his amiable facade was restored. The Bible mentioned something about ten plagues set upon Egypt, devastating swarms of locusts being one. It was a tongue-in-cheek observation from him, but who could really say? Sylus hadn't lived that long.

"For a city ravaged, it's doing very well after just a handful of years. I guess that makes the people here a hardy bunch. I admire that." A point in Red Grave's favor, and though Sylus crossed his arms over the bartop while the boy went about fixing his brandy, he was no more interested in anything else and no less interested in the trembling figure that wanted away from him. He was giving that boy a lot of chances to say something, not only excuses, but when he finally had his drink in front of him, he wished very much in that moment to confront him directly. Of course, instead, he picked up the glass with his fingertips, and gave the liquid a swirl as he eyed it. He was, again, not smiling. "Do you think I'm going to bite?" He confronted anyway, just a mite.

Blazing eyes were returned to Dexter's, and Sylus shook his head gently. "If this is how you serve your customers, I recommend looking for a job that doesn't demand so much of you. Are all college students like this?" He didn't need to know, beforehand, to be aware of college students on the whole. The jungle was no environment for sensitive little mice! "Relax, sweetie. You'll choke, and no one wants to see that. Instead of trying to get rid of me, maybe you should make a better impression on me. I could put in a good word for your establishment if you're just...a little more friendly with me."

Saryn or Fait, he didn't care and he didn't want, and he made his position on the matter clear by refusing to mention, to even glance at, either one. All that Sylus wanted was before him, he only needed to play the right cards.

And so, he changed the subject entirely.

"Where are you from? I detect an American accent. That makes two of us," he said, purring again with a new smile born on his lips and an entrancing sort of smolder to his eyes. He finally took a sip from the glass, enjoying the heat washing down his throat, and set the half-emptied glass back down on the coaster. It wasn't bad, but he had expected a snifter. He preferred his brandy warmed.

Dex couldn't deny the creep of foreboding within him, brows furrowing as slender fingers rose to fix his glasses, tongue idly pressing to the roof of his mouth. He could never understand how Fait managed against men just like this, so often encouraging their advances in a bizarre reciprocal dance that was simply entirely alien to the anxious boy; Men like this were imposing, sinister, and predatory, and while he might've liked those qualities in his silly computer game characters, he wasn't so sure he enjoyed them in real-world applications. Intimidated, quite, to the point he could only stutter his way through conversation. Ordinarily, that would've been much more embarrassing than it'd been in the moment, but the fright dominated his emotions, and gray-hazel flickered just a centimeter higher from the spot on his cheek - still not quite looking him in the eye, but close enough.

What were his true intentions? It couldn't have just been for touristy nonsense... But Dex couldn't be sure one way or the other, fingers pushing the register closed in tandem with a thick swallow. There was no way in Hell Dex could ever do, barely enough to constitute as a young man and certainly not enough to suit whatever the other's purposes were in truth; He was a fresh immigrant here, just a boy from some rural town in Washington state, brought across the pond by the likes of V and Garrett following the... deaths of his parents and sister. They plucked him out of the dark of his basement, cornered by ghosts and devils of a kind, and offered him his one and only escape from the same fate. He stood, trembling somewhat before the man he didn't think he could trust at all, at the bar because of them, and he worked at Devil May Cry in his naive but genuine effort to repay their kindness. But he was no savior to himself, nor was he particularly useful in any regard, and his experience here and now had proved that well enough to him - as if it needed to be. He couldn't fathom why any of the patrons here, new or otherwise, would pick him out and talk to him. Tangential thoughts, mostly, amplifying existing distress.

He bit into his cheek then, and tried his best to cling to what scraps of normalcy that'd somehow remained, swallowing the knot in his throat. It didn't matter whether this man, whose energy he couldn't place but found sickeningly familiar - as if he'd known it well, had been around it so long it was almost instinctive by this point - was in for a spot of real estate shopping; There was something off about his intentions, the slimy sweet tone of his voice, and the intensity of his stare that stole the breath right out of him. He persisted even so, offering a tiny nod and, against his better judgment, relenting - the thought of incurring a negative review and the consequences thereafter... He didn't want to deal much with Garrett if he could avoid it; He had one devil of a temper.

"I-I don't know much about Red Grave. N-not from here, a-and I don't...really get out much," he admitted, stammering his way through it, taking this opportunity to scramble for a glass and a bottle of brandy about the shelves behind the bar - suddenly anxious to perform a task he didn't think he was qualified for. Anything was better than shaking like a shitting dog in front of man like that, especially not one that was so, so-- No, the moment he confessed as much to himself was the moment he'd have to flag down Fait or Saryn, and he found himself wanting to deal with them less. With his back turned and a fresh glass in hand, he ignored the burning of those eyes - or at least, he tried. "I-it was, um, destroyed. N-not entirely sure what happened, e-everyone says it was pretty bad, though. B-but...people are coming back, r-rebuilding." He wanted to escape, hide in the back office, still a mite too fearful for his own good it seemed. He poured enough brandy to cover about half the little glass, and carefully dropped an ice cube in the middle - hoping it was enough. "L-look, just because I work here, d-doesn't mean I know anything - a-and I don't really."

A brave face, he tried, and turned around to face the stranger, abandoning the bottle on the shelf and settling the glass just before him, on a Foster's coaster. Those eyes - it felt like they were eating him alive, searing into his skin something hidden and untennable yet charming nonetheless. This could only be ruinous, trecherous, but- Service was perhaps part of his job description...

"I-I told you, y-you're better off talking to Saryn o-or Fait," he went on, as yet still unwilling to look the man directly in the eyes, shoulders trembling right up into his ears. He hated how pathetic he must've appeared, caught like a fly in a spider's web, cocooned in pointless quivering. Was he not right to be afeared of such presence? "Th-those two get around, o-or I think there's a visitor's center nearby."

[melancholymirth]

Playing with other people's hands is more fun than playing with your own. I like it, too.

[melancholymirth]

Have you been working out? You're heavier now.

[melancholymirth]

"Don't t-touch me." Firmer, perhaps firmer than he'd ever been - at last drawing his line in the sand. Sort of. He was fed up with Sylus' incessant gnawing, so much of him, everywhere and all over, bitten raw and near bloody; He would tolerate no more, not when his hips and spine ached and slumped some, not when his jaw ached and insides had been turned upside-down, not when Sylus had already gotten his damned fill. How could he still be so hungry? Eager to swallow him whole, perhaps literally. Either way, Dex swatted those explorative, unwelcome hands away, nose wrinkling, brow furrowed, every muscle in his comparatively small body tense and ready to strike-- "I-I said don't, S-Sylus." So moody, so snippy, but he could feel his breath on his nape... He wondered if spritzing the devil with holy water would work as a mood stabilizer. "Sylus." But did he mean it? "I-I will gn-gnaw your fingers off b-before you ever g-get to put them inside me again." Only a little, but not really at all. Not when he was being so gentle, pressing his lips to an especially sore spot along the vertabrae; He...didn't notice before. And he had no further rebuttal.

The minute Sylus decided to be tame with him, pliant, sweet Dexter unsheathed his claws as if he'd wanted nothing to do with the man who'd just gotten through bathing him in attention and taking him on a small journey to the stars. Dex was so receptive then, which made it all the more a wonder why he turned right around and spurned Sylus as though he'd done harm. If it had been anyone else, they would have been insulted. Who would ever believe the ingratitude? But if the smile pulling at predatory lips was any indication, it was safe to assume Sylus wasn't in the slightest displeased by the fight Dex was pretending to put up. Rather, he laughed when smaller hands swatted at him, very much a cat in the way he was instantly prickly, cold, and naughty. Cute. It didn't matter, not when more attention, more affection happily washed over the squirming bundle of limbs. Sylus simply put his mouth everywhere, nibbling and kissing as deserved, pointedly ignoring most of the threats dished out.

"So fussy today," he said, his mirth obvious in his voice. His own hands were, this time, gentler, only groping and caressing wherever Dex wasn't guarding, beaten away only to sneak in elsewhere and make that boy even fussier. Sylus practically had him cocooned with his own body, pulling him in with his arms every time his kitten tried putting distance between them. Cuddling, traditionally, went smoother. And Sylus, of course, ignored him again, pressing kisses over his shoulder, the back of his neck, and down his spine.

And when Dex teased him about biting his fingers off, the devil could not resist barking out a laugh on his trip down the boy's shoulder blades. "My kitten has fangs now? You're growing too fast for me, Dex." He rested a hand over a sore hip, but only briefly, before he was forced off again. It was too amusing. The notion that anything would ever prevent Sylus from putting his fingers anywhere! Dexter was at the very top of his Things I Will Always Finger list.

Take now, for example, when Sylus moved his hands to the boy's thighs to turn him onto his stomach. He could have easily slid his fingers back in, but he didn't.

"Stay still."

His lips found the small of his back, and even though he held him still by his hips, he wasn't bruising, coaxing, or even stimulating. Only kisses, soft and...sweet. Soothing, even. Almost. Hopefully.

The mirth melted away, his commanding voice nary but a low whisper about as gentle as the touch of his otherwise hungry lips. He kissed in a circle, up and down, but never dropped below the hips. "You shouldn't be so rude to me, sweetie. Haven't I been giving? Aren't I always considerate?" Maybe he wasn't being considerate now, given that he was ignoring Dex's halfhearted pleas to stop touching him; but what real harm was there in comforting, soothing, trying to kiss it all better?

"Good boy."

Nothing, absolutely nothing, as a sudden spell of fresh silence had so well proven.

[melancholymirth]

There was something inherently suffocating about the way Sylus touched him; Like ceran wrap, or vacuum-seal, but not so inorganic as plastic, per se. No, no, it was real and it was true, tangible in the way those long fingers pawed at his hips, some flavor of -or whatever the devil thought constituted as- gentle as others clamped so tight around his jaw, uncomfortable, angling his head and anchoring it exactly where Sylus wanted. Suffocating, in the sense that Dex couldn't escape him, trapped, perhaps willingly so, in the devil's grasp, between flesh and bone with his eyes commanded upward, glasses somehow still on his face despite a thumbprint or two. And it didn't really hit him what he was looking at, didn't register, brain sluggish in its attempt to process what Sylus doing inside of him; Narrow hips jerked upward, jolting at the graze of sharp teeth, spine tingling, realization setting in. He could only grit his teeth and try his best not to show he'd already given in, glaring daggers at Sylus through the mirror and tearful eyes, pursing his lips into a thin, flat line. He clawed at the devil's arm, desperate to pry him away, ignoring the fact his nerves were on fire; Seeing his reflection, that smug tweak to sharper features - the way it coaxed his knees apart and beckoned his toes to curl. The friction, in and out, in and out, slow, fast, hard, gentle, so gentle, and so rough, as if to prove a point. To show him, prove to him, that he belonged to a devil, and not just any devil.

Poor, sweet little Dex. It was almost a pang in the black void in Sylus' chest to watch big, bleary eyes struggle to stay open, to observe so much conflict on a flushed face as though he hadn't been clear with himself on all of this—or maybe it was rebellion, just a small display of the smallest backbone in some paltry effort to prove to Sylus that he was not easy pickings. But, then, he wouldn't have come all the way here, climbed onto Sylus' bed, and consented to having himself ravished, would he?

What had made tonight so different? A mirror above the bed? Not the worst thing Dex has had to suffer at Hell's hands. Sylus was merciful by a mile, treating that boy with worth and adoration every time, tending to his every ache and woe right after—

"You're so cute, Dex." The growl in his ear sounded as if a threat, low and hot and heavy; oppressive like the air of the bog. Fingers enveloped his jaw with room to spare, possessively anchoring his head and line of sight so that he could see not only himself, but the devil who kept him here. As if a greedy dragon's hoarded treasure, a snack for now and for later: Dex was delectable, an obsession, impossible to ignore, impossible to keep out of Sylus' mind, stomach, and loins. The devil had his other hand like a clamp over Dex's hip, tugging the meat from the bone short of taking any off. Somehow, he maintained the composure to put words together; he held onto enough control to keep his kitten from bleeding.

How far that mercy extended, however, may not have applied entirely to how he stretched him wide and stuffed him full, alternating between hard, deep snaps of his hips against Dex's reddening bottom and gentler, longer strokes that gave the boy opportunities to breathe. Sometimes, the stimulation made his own hips shudder, throwing him off his rhythm; all only for him to double down, push as deeply as he could go, distend a few organs in the process. Sweat dripped down his back, beaded his forehead, mixed with Dex's where their bodies met. "Look at what you do to me," he hissed, making it clear as crystal the effect Dex's body had on Sylus', as if it were his fault that Sylus pushed so hard and so deep, so slow and so sweet, as if it were his fault that Sylus gave him a bulge that red eyes ate up in the mirror above them. The angry look Dex was giving him was akin to a tease to the devil, who responded by mouthing Dex's shoulder, renewing his grip over Dex's hip, letting his cock sit still inside of him as if to split him in two, cleanly down the middle, even when smaller hips bucked and tears rolled onto Sylus' fingertips.

He all but smirked at their reflections, watching Dex watch himself. "Do you get it now?" He sensed a contraction around him, the pressure inviting him to twitch where he fit so snugly. Such a pretty, young thing; poor, sweet little Dex, who felt like a furnace in his arms, struggling uselessly and, yet, not hard enough to mean it. Pressed flush to his chest, unsteady even on the bed on which he knelt, but Sylus held him fast and clumsily nudged his legs farther apart. Did he think he could dare to squeeze in even deeper?

Lips ghosted the boy's ear before teeth nibbled, and powerful hips began rocking again. "Look at yourself," he grunted out, a command, his pace faster but maintaining depth. Eye contact did not break, no matter how heavy his lids. "You're such a mess." Spoiling nothing, he released Dex's hip to give his ass a smack, and when his sweetie jerked forward, Sylus thrust him back against his body without concern. "I have this face burned in my memory, Dex." He was panting, kneading the hip in his hand while sneaking a finger on the other over Dex's pursed lips, nudging for entry. The poor thing was quivering in his arms, around him, whining, crying—and now he had the privilege of seeing what Sylus always saw, what made Sylus so damned hungry, what got him coming back for more, why he was insufferable, and smothering, and generous and kind and—

Dex did strange and wild things to him. He never thought he'd stay this faithful, and feel such fondness. But, he wouldn't give himself the food for thought now, while he fucked Dex as though they were both starving and very close to coming undone. "No one else, sweetie." Not for you or for me. "Come." Another command, whispered hotly, thickly, darkly. Red eyes held gray, finger between teeth, a brief touch for his little kitten's belly. "See what I do to you." Looking at him now, so helpless and welcoming and irresistible, the fiend wanted to breed him, see his wet eyes light up, feel his body tense and flush and shudder, hear him moan, squeak; to fuck his seed in even deeper as if he meant for it to take. The thought was a devilish one, maybe for later, when the shock of the mirror wore off. Besides, he wasn't about to pull out now, this despairingly near, to free himself of his latex prison for only a paltry few seconds of skin contact. Sylus would want more than that.

His thoughts, however, had him so hard, so far up Dex's ass, that he lost some sense when he bared teeth, dug his fingers into the boy's cheeks, squeezed his bruising hip as if to do away with the flesh. His voice changed, briefly, the demon rearing its diabolical head when he growled, "Fuck, just do it, kitten. Keep your eyes on us and come for me."

[melancholymirth]

Vayn talked a lot. He talked like an old man. He talked like V. Thinking about it, V was a lot like an old man, too, and he didn't skimp on the flowery words either. No wonder they got along swimmingly. Griffon prided himself on having the patience of (half) a saint to deal with those two. Still, he could only manage to piece together a quarter of what Vayn had explained just now, and according to the gist of it, a demon made a haunt of the premises and a habit of tormenting the residents. "We might be dealin' with some jackass, summoning demons as a prank; and it kinda tends to turn out that way." Griffon posited, watching his vampiric companion extend an arm as if to invite him upon it. Griffon was not yet keen to take it. That was sort of a privilege, for the raptor's master." Humans are such dumb little shits, playing with Ouija boards and black magic like it's just a game. Then they get themselves possessed and cry about it!"

A crude little beast, and he did not think for a moment to speak through a filter. True to demonic nature. He shuddered, loosening iridescent feathers which took on a darker hue in the night. He was almost black, almost blending against the navy-blue sky. Golden irises appeared prominent as consequence. In any event, he followed Vayn along the treetops, skillfully going from branch to branch as if he were more an arboreal creature than at home in the skies. "Why would some human need to be involved at all, though? If a demon's smart, it can slip into this world all on its own and do whatever it wants. This demon you're talkin' about sounds like it does some two-dimensional thinking. I'm gonna guess we're dealin' with a tough cookie." Because that's all the luck that ever seemed to follow him around: bad, tough luck.

Now, the idea of flying to get to their destination was like music to the raptor's ears when he heard it chuckling out of Vayn's mouth. He'd completely forgotten vampires could do that. "Hey, that's right. You fellas can go batty, can't ya? Well, what're you waiting for? Last one there's a rotten egg!" Not batting an eye, not even bothering to wait for a single "But," Griffon launched himself into the air and, with powerful beats of his wings, rose high and pulled far ahead. And it would have been a glorious moment for him, indeed, if he had only known where he was going. Direction slipped his mind. But, well, he could always smell death on the wind and guide himself accordingly.

Vayn couldn't help but snicker, once he'd caught himself up to the bitter creature half-lecturing, half-complaining about the devil he so seemed to despise. That grumpy, cerberal incubus did seem to have quite the temper on him, but he could only guess it was due to having to herd so wide and large a 'family' that behaved a mite like cats on even good days. Granted, it wasn't as if Vayn would so confidently profess his off-handed (and very limited) observations out loud, let alone hold onto them as if they were fact, rather instead straightening out his sweater.

Nevertheless, he understood the need for ground rules, and he was certainly no slouch when partied with Loux and Sortia, rare as it was they took him with them on any of their joint...er, operations. A support role was where he fit best, offering moderate healing and defense in combat as necessary, so he could pull his weight and keep pace with Griffin so long as they worked as a team. He was altogether unconcerned with the rest - Garrett and V could handle themselves just fine, without either of them, and they had Yami and Dexter with them, and that spitting-mad redhead who seemed more pained than truly angry and- They would be fine, and he and Griffin would be fine themselves. He had faith in that, perhaps foolishly - but why condemn their efforts to doubt and uncertainty before ever truly giving themselves a chance?

A wistful sigh, and a gentle breeze blew through lightly ruffled silvery strands. He supposed they'd just have to test their mettle if or when the time came - what a way to begin a friendship! How exciting.

"There's a certain element to it that just doesn't make any sense, dear. In what realm could an ordinary human get their hands on Hell, really and truly, however small the devil they conjured? As I understand, it's an altogether very rare occurrance, leaving aside the last handful of events in which the likes of Vergil and select others had their fun making a mess of things. Trusting that the stench of Hell is in fact a precursor to it is wise, and we should investigate it on principle even if the truth happens to be a bit stranger than that. It could be coincidence, traces of, perhaps, cultist or garden variety criminal activity. Either way, we ought to be able to get to the bottom of this mystery!"

The vampire smiled warmly and teetered on his toes, wracking his brain for a few more words that didn't fit snugly together in some benign but uninformative word salad. He took a step forward, then another and another, passing under Griffin on his way. Best they get started before they burnt the evening hours away!

"The last bit of information I heard was that, three days ago, a young woman was found quartered in her apartment - with half her body repurposed as a...grisly supper. Strange markings were seared into her walls, far too large for her to have done it herself and certainly not in a single moment. Whatever it is, my dear Griffin, seems to be slithering through the walls of that same apartment building, slowly but surely making its way through the complex, coveting the fear of the residents. Ah, I say this because someone else had dies before her, and another before them - in the same complex. The other deaths seemed to be more natural, unsuspicious, but a third? As they say, it comes in threes." He rolled his shoulders and held out his arm in offering as perch, softly whispering the incantation for weightlessness in tandem with the hum of his palmseal. "These poor folk could be in real danger, and while I'm quick to take much at face value, I think your skepticism will prove helpful here. We may yet manage on our own after all."

He continued on his path, walking through poorly manicured grass and making his way toward the street, not knowing the roads perfectly well but still having a good enough grasp on the area to know where he ought to be going. On the other side of town, a few hours' walk if they hurried-- Ah! Perhaps they could fly? Novel idea!

"Shall we make this go a bit quicker, darling? I can transform, you know- Perhaps we could fly together? Or would you prefer to dominate the airspace?" He chuckled sweetly. "It's up to you."

[melancholymirth]

An incubus...! And now it made sense: the sultry tones and petnames, the textbook wings and tail and human face, the inexplicably strong attraction felt toward him out of thin air—V wasn't sure what to think, except that he should be afraid of the power that so smugly watched from across the room. It didn't help matters that the demon decided to levitate like some...accursed thing straight out of a horror film. V had not seen something like that from someone who looked so human, and it left him with shallow breath, a fast-beating heart, and conjectures as to how much more powerful this demon was in reality than he, a mere sorcerer who could barely scratch the surface of the dark arts and who was, plainly, more human than the lingering traces of an infernal union from countless generations in the past; and were his body devoid of demonic attachments, his hair would be white now and speak very loudly to questionable roots. Would the incubus call him a hypocrite, then?

More distressing than even that, the devil knew what V did for a living, and he knew that the proverbial key home lay in V's hands. As long as V was reluctant, did nothing, he would not be ridding himself of the beast. A bitter pill to swallow, and yet he was swallowing dryly, unsure of what to do now, losing confidence in what he could possibly do with the athame he clutched as if it were a lifeline. Less and less, he wanted to use it. And, rather foolishly, he couldn't help blushing. Gasping for air, in bed...? His little mind went traveling in the span of a handful of seconds. So much talk of love, marrying, even; V didn't expect to hear any of that. Besides, wasn't Sparda just legend?

What was love to incubi had to have been lust to humans. But, hm, a small—or, perhaps, not small enough—part of him agreed that it was wrong to play into the hands of a common misconception, and he had living proof of that, watching from the black patterns on his skin and listening to the same drivel as he was. Griffon and Shadow may have been hostile at first, but they turned around. He hadn't (entirely) doubted them at the start, and now they were like family to him. In that same vein, there were so many more demons that craved tearing him to pieces. Before the incubus, he just couldn't be certain. "I..." His strength was wavering, he wondered if those burning crimson points had anything to do with it. Or those wings, or that jawline, or that figure. "I don't seek an enemy in you. But, so many demons have already tried taking my life, so how can I readily believe you?"

V was beginning to tire of his confinement in one circle, and he knew it for a fact that the demon wanted out of his. But if he could levitate above it, could he not simply move a handful of inches to place himself outside of it? That was probably a thought best left unspoken.

He didn't know what it was, truthfully—had to have been some wicked incubus magic—but he felt touched, warm in his chest, words of love and even commitment seared into his frontal lobe making him think and feel and decide like a sodding little fool. "How could you...give love when you don't really feel it? Don't tell me demons like you are always falling in love and then falling out of it. Aren't the lot of you masters at playing with emotions? I can't help but feel like you're playing with me now." Except, I'm curious. He's... I must be imagining it. There is something sweet in the way he speaks. I shouldn't fall for it. But he was looking at the salt around him, spared a glance at the devil's circle, and reminded himself that it was up to him and none other to re-open the rift to Hell. That devil would not leave without him!

It took an enormous amount of bravery for him to use the blade of his dagger to sweep the salt aside, create an opening through which he could pass and near the circle opposite. Sore legs were glad for it, at least, when he broke his protective circle against all sound judgment and closed the distance between himself and his guest. Loud and unforgiving, his heart in his chest and in his ears; but he was going to do demon and man alike a favor in attempting to open another door. V just...knew he didn't have enough resources for it right now, neither of the material or spiritual kind, and so he, with blade in hand, was left hesitant a few feet from the devil that watched him like a wolf that had eyes on a naive little lamb. V couldn't say he enjoyed the feeling—but he didn't hate it, either. "I..." Shallow breath, shaky resolve, face cold and warm at once. He dared. "What did you think you would do for me?"

Garrett was altogether unimpressed with the little warlock's outburst and flagrant self-denial, spaded tail lashing impatiently the longer the lonely, pathetic creature rambled on and on about oh, his mistake this and get out of my house that. An inability to commit to the proverbial bit proved disappointing; Was this what the devil rolled out of his hellish bed for? To merely poke his head in to lend a devilish hand to a man in need, only to be denied, shamed, and exiled before he could even utter his name? Then again, surely this was preferable to whipping another soul along the very lengthy Conga line of pain and suffering padding the river Styx in miles upon miles upon miles of screaming, twisting, bleeding bodies, fire and brimstone nipping at his nose, lulling him into a mindless state of entranced work, work, work. A shame, still, that he shouldn't be given a chance, a dog bereft of his day.

Wolfishly he crossed his arms in the air and leaned into them as if propping himself up against a wall, crossing his legs at the ankle and reversing the gravitic polarity in the room to his advantage, levitating in some classically convoluted and scientifically unfathomable way. Sapping the fantasy out of it for even himself, cheeky grin ever so stubbornly in place. He would give the boy on thing - some semblence of respect, for setting his boundaries and holding to them in the moment; Unfortunately for him, Garrett wasn't quite so willing to give in and depart, especially when the warlock still had him relatively locked-down to the spot in his ring of salt and candles. Again, he'd much rather fuck and glean from the decidedly edible warlock's body the life and spirit he so needed to live, than simply vacate the premises. How lame, he thought, the fickleness of humanity.

"My, my, seems we've got a live one," he crooned impishly, hovering in the air as if a threat, despite his truest of intentions. "But also like ya mighta forgotten one vitally important thing: I can't go home 'less youse reopen the door t' Hell, an' a know a devil hunter like ya ain't gonna let an incubus go so easily."

Garrett was perhaps a special case, or at least uncommon, though he couldn't be sure if that'd anything to do with his rank, station, or bloodline; He'd come from a fallen house, the sort deemed most traitorous of all and thusly, promptly stripped of its standing and disgraced, though not in the way humans or romantics would recognize as proper or fair. Mm, yes, Fumis was a traitor to devilkind, a man who laid most fervently with humans alongside the likes of Ophanim, and Sparda himself, angels and devils defying their nature, reaching across the aisle and loving, protecting these worthless, fragile creatures- Harsh judgments passed by devilry longstanding, legacy of the Betrayer no doubt burning in wrathful veins lusting for release. A hybrid in his own right, pieces of something old and primordial mingling with the vestiges of Cerberus and Succubus - mongrel among his own, oddity, anomaly, traitor's son.

How surprising, that devils and hive-minded lesser demons should value loyalty, if anything at all. Understandable, perhaps, of the denizens of the Circles of Treason and Wrath, if reduced to their basest of human understandings.

"Ya reach out t' me, pull me int' th' mortal plane, an' turn me away jus like tha'? Ya kiddin' me, swee'heart? Such a pity, tha' ya should deny yourself th' opportunity to lay awake in bed blissfully gasping f' air, all 'cause ya gotta misconception 'bout us demons. Ain't tha' offensive? Wouldn't you hate it if someone ripped ya outta bed, beggin' fer attention an' love, an' jus as youse boutta give it, they tell ya to hit th' road? C'mon, pretty boy, 'm more 'an jus a pretty face an' a devilishly handsome grin, an' not all o' us have it out fer ya humans. Some o' us even marry an' reproduce with y'all, an' not 'cause we want anythin' from ya - or, if we do, maybe sometime it's usually love, th' very same we give out. Ain'tcha ever heard o' Sparda?"

[melancholymirth]

How quickly a man forgets all things when he is in the presence of his lover. But with Garrett, "one thought fills immensity." V was one half of that thought, and behaving amorously was the other.

Asking for his attention was the easiest thing V could ever hope to do, and he was glad for the swift and faithful, and predictable, response. Garrett was fortunate: V didn't resist, not one little bit, but smiled more like the Cheshire Cat when Garrett busied his lips with V's face. The affection, the possessive fingers on his back, earned stronger pressure from hands resting against his chest, but it wasn't because V wanted away from him. If anything, he wanted to take in more. He could be as greedy as the wolf, greedier when the mood struck him. But this tenderness made his heart, and all his body, soft; it was akin to handing a cat a warm, plush blanket and the cat melting among its folds for a long nap. Unfortunately, no such nap lay in the cards. An idea for later, perhaps, if they still had time.

Leaning into the affection, V very calmly made his case (and with a little good-natured ribbing, because why not). "I can't help but think you're talking about the only thing you ever seem to have on your mind." The way he was being handled and purred to were fairly strong hints. "Actually, I was thinking that it would be nice to take a walk. You know the park with all the flowering shrubs. We can sit beneath the gazebo, enjoy the rain without getting wet. We'd have it all to ourselves; I doubt anyone else will be there in this weather." He finally did push against Garrett then, wanting only to see the look in his eyes to make certain that whatever he had to say would match his mood. V never liked the idea of sacrifices being made in his name, for his sake, and he could be entirely accommodating if things did not work out in his favor. He didn't believe he was an unreasonable man in the slightest.

But, he did wish to spend time with Garrett, and he wished to spend it in a specific sort of way. Wouldn't it be nice and romantic to walk beneath a gloomy English drizzle? V's smile was much milder now, as was the rest of him. "I know how much you dislike getting wet, but I'll let you hold dominion over the umbrella. What do you say?"

Garrett had been perfectly snug in his lazy sprawl on the sofa, one foot unceremoniously propped up on the coffee table and arm slung over the back of the sofa - slumped, head lolled off to the side, utterly and completely tuning out the white noise of a steady downpour. Haplessly scrolling through i.g. posts and adoring comments left under his and V's flattering thirst traps--

Or, so he was, the rectangular waste of glass and metal snatched right out of his hands and tossed aside. V's voice had done him no further favors, lending to particular smug mischief of the devilish kind Garrett sometimes forgot the warlock was capable of. How he moved with such ease as to grasp at his hand and pull at him, drag the would-be King off the sofa and away, into him. And he was naught but helpless to obey his master's whims, muscular arms gathering the slender mage and holding him tight against his chest - giving the poor dear no wiggle room with which to escape. If he wanted to do something, then of course Garrett was happy to oblige, but he wouldn't make it easy to back out, no matter what something ended up being in truth. If he were honest, he hoped it was sex.

He licked his lips as if a wolf drooling over an unsuspecting lamb, peppering angular cheeks with soft, affectionate kisses just shy of alluring, tempted to pry open his maw and clamp it tight around the column of his beloved's throat. Impulse he otherwise fought, but never once pretended not to have, finger tips gently needling along V's spine. His, near and so dear, held both selfishly and with consideration. At first, wordless in the bury of his nose into the shell of an ear and rich raven hair, then slowly, all at once, humming in acknowledgment.

"Anythin' ya wanna do, I wanna do, swee'heart, jus' name it an' we'll do it."